4) The Failure of the Experimental Method
A third method, often employed without explicit conceptualisation, may plausibly be identified as the experimental method. It can be summarised as follows: we appear to discover the value of something by experiencing it firsthand. We must ask how effective this method really is: can the value of things be determined empirically? Is empirical method suited to this purpose?
To begin with, experience can clearly teach us a great deal about the nature of something that actually exists—how it works, what it looks like—but not about its value.
However many experiments I perform on a lamp—disassembling it, passing an electric current through it, shaking it in every direction—I do not appear able to discover its place in the hierarchy of values. I would, however, come to understand how it works, what it is made of, and so on.
Equally, would we determine the value of the human body by examining it, dissecting it, or studying it under an electron microscope? Clearly not.
It is true that experience might reveal that one engine is more efficient than another; but this concerns a quality rather than a hierarchy of values in the sense we intend. 'Efficiency' is a quality, not a value—and whether the quality 'efficiency' itself holds value remains an open question.
We might therefore propose the following: experience informs us about the nature of things, and perhaps about their qualities, but not about their value.
Conversely, were experiments able to determine value, they would inevitably be subject to bias. Consider the following example: it would be like attempting to determine whether music has value by listening to a single piece. Our conclusion would not be objective but would depend on contingent, arbitrary, and ultimately irrelevant factors—the choice of piece (if we dislike it, we may fail to recognise any value in music, even though music is not exhausted by that one work), the quality of the performance, and so on.
Furthermore, experience would prevent me from loving or hating anything I had not personally encountered. To be in a position to hate murder, I would have to experience it—that is, kill someone—in order to grasp the detestable nature of the act and hate it with good reason. Beyond that, I would need to experience all existing things before being able to love or hate any of them, which is plainly impossible. There are far too many things to experience in a single lifetime, and many lie beyond my reach owing to social, geographical, or physical circumstances. I shall in all likelihood never experience going into space, nor gain entry into certain exclusive circles reserved for the very wealthy, and so on.
Finally, if we could only determine the value of things accessible to experience—that is, of what exists—we would be unable to assess the value of any metaphysical object, or of anything belonging to the realm of dreams, imagination, or possibility. The value of countless things would remain beyond our reach. If experience were our sole means of determining value, we would go through life loving a very limited number of things.
5) The Failure of the Hedonistic Method
It seems, however, that we frequently rely on a particular kind of experience to gauge the value of things: the pleasure they provide. The underlying assumption is that when something brings me pleasure, it is deemed valuable, and the greater the pleasure, the greater the perceived value. What tells me, for instance, that a piece of music has value is the pleasure I feel when listening to it.
In response, three difficulties present themselves: first, what brings someone great pleasure one day may bring none the next, or even the following year; second, what yields considerable pleasure to one person may yield none to another; and third, anything—even what seems absurd or cruel (such as taking pleasure in the suffering of others)—can be a source of enjoyment for some.
The hedonistic method thus appears to lead logically to two conclusions: first, that values are in constant flux, and that an object may lose the value it held only moments before. Second, that since anything can bring pleasure, everything has value—including what appears absurd or cruel. Everything ought to be enjoyed, but human principles often blunt our awareness of these pleasures. On this view, wisdom consists in freeing ourselves from all moral and logical constraints, immersing ourselves fully in pleasure, and allowing it to lead us wherever it will. I call this approach 'eclectic' because it holds that everything—even violence and cruelty—possesses value.
The hedonistic approach is, in my view, insufficient, since it only answers the question of what is good for human beings. We might address this question by seeking what brings us pleasure; however, we cannot rely on pleasure alone to resolve the problem of values without introducing a dogmatic assumption: that what holds value must necessarily benefit us. As we noted in Chapter 2 in our analysis of Aristotle, it is inappropriate to introduce an anthropocentric postulate at the outset of our inquiry; it can only serve as a conclusion.