Conclusion

Inscribed on Karl Marx’s tombstone are the words: ‘The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways, the point is to change it.’ This slogan, the last of Marx’s Theses on Feuerbach (Marx 1975b [1845]), has been an inspiration to many people who think that philosophy should not be confined to the academy, but should get its hands dirty by engaging in the real world. And it is a stirring thought, aimed against the German philosophy of the 1840s. In our own time, though, as I have said before, and no doubt will say again, there is a sense in which this gets the problem backwards. On the whole moral and political philosophers have not been short of suggestions for how the world can be changed. Political philosophers compete with each other to come up with the best models of a good and just society. Moral philosophers tell us why or why not practices such as abortion, euthanasia and the eating of animals are right or wrong, and what we should do instead. Accordingly there is no shortage of philosophers who hope to change the world. But what they sometimes have failed to do is to interpret the world they live in. Often they fail to investigate why it is society does the things it does. What approach do we actually have to abortion or euthanasia? What does the law say? What do doctors actually do in practice? Do they find ways round laws that, they think, stand in the way of compassionate outcomes? Would changing the laws really lead to improvements, or would there be unwelcome side-effects? How would the courts interpret new laws in the light of existing legislation and common law? Would a hostile press wreck attempts

at law reform? And so on. Philosophers have been known to write as if the entire issue is an intellectual one, and once the best reasons are set out for the best policy the philosophers’ work is done. Of course no one thinks that somehow the world will miraculously conform itself to the intellectual ideal, but philosophers sometimes fall short of taking up the challenge of thinking hard about questions of the process and, even more importantly, consequences of implementation. The challenge is, of course, multifaceted. First of all, we need to

heed Bernard Williams’s advice. At least as far as applied moral and political philosophy is concerned, the important question is not ‘what is the best form of society?’ but rather, ‘what is the best form of society we can get to, starting from here?’ (Williams 2005, 23). This, in turn, leads to two constraints on ideal-building. First, given our history, it may simply be impossible to achieve a particular ideal. So, for example, much as some people would prefer to live in a world without nuclear weapons, or genetically modified organisms, there is no way of eliminating the accumulated knowledge. Second, and just as obviously, without understanding where we are we will not know what needs to be changed to bring about the world we seek. Blundering in, and trying to make improvements without as comprehensive an understanding as we can achieve of the situation, can lead to all sorts of problems. Change could be ineffective, or, in the worst cases, do unexpected harms. To take a case not discussed in this book, foreign aid is often said to lead to such problems. Consider the vast amounts of money currently being spent in subSaharan Africa in the attempt to mitigate HIV/AIDS infection by the use of antiretroviral therapy. A huge amount of benefit results from these projects, and hundreds of thousands of lives are being, or will be, extended as a result.Yet the programmes need medical staff to run them. Many of the project directors have an understandable, perhaps even commendable, goal of using local staff wherever possible. But it is not as if there is a surplus of trained medical staff in Africa – quite the reverse. This means that to employ a doctor or

nurse in an HIV programme is to take them away from whatever else it was they were doing: vaccinating children, or attending births, perhaps. An unintended consequence of pumping large amounts of money into HIV programmes appears to have been, paradoxically, to weaken health systems (Haacker 2010). And this is a consequence of appreciating only a small part of the picture before acting. Of course, it is easy to make such observations with the wisdom of hindsight, but it is a good lesson to try to acquire as much foresight as possible. Seeing cases like this may make one despair of being able to

recommend changes that are unreservedly to the good. What can a philosopher hope to understand about health systems in the developing world, or the complex economics of foreign aid? Without a comprehensive understanding of where we are, will we not act blindly, making recommendations that are dismissed as naïve, or, even worse, accepted and then found later to do more harm than good? Is the lesson of this book that philosophers should leave public policy to other people, and go back to safe topics like the metaphysics of value, or the nature of time? That, in fact, might be the right response for some philosophers, but I don’t think that is all we should do. At the end of this chapter I will make some suggestions about what I think is the right way for a philosopher to approach issues of public policy. But to build up to that point, we need to draw together the conclusions from the chapters of this book. The first lesson, we saw, was presented in the Introduction. Despite

the obvious promise of moral and political philosophy as areas of thought with an important bearing on public policy, there is something, nevertheless, about the discipline of philosophy that makes the connection with public policy much more difficult than it would seem in advance. Philosophers, on the whole, are individualists and controversialists, who prize originality over agreement, which they tend to find dull and uninteresting. Compromise is not a concept familiar to philosophers. Philosophers don’t have to compromise because they are under no pressure to agree to produce a practical

outcome. This leads to a flowering of ideas and the pursuit of novelty. I used the Freudian notion of ‘narcissism of minor differences’ to bring out the difficulties. Philosophers are much more interested in the ways in which their views differ from that of others than what they have in common. Of course this is not an absolute bar on philosophers contributing to public policy discussions, but it does mean that they will need to guard against some of their natural tendencies in order to do so. The further point in a sense naturally follows from the first, in

that it indicates one way in which a philosophical approach to policy can go wrong. Taking a philosophical theory or dictum and then applying it ‘neat’ to problems in public policy typically leads to views that have little chance of adoption, and, indeed, may leave practical people incredulous. So, for example, Peter Singer’s argument that ‘all animals are equal’ has very radical consequences for how human beings should treat non-human animals. But it is a fantasy to think that policy makers might read Singer, realize that our practices are wrong, and then, on that basis, completely revise what we do, eliminating everything that on Singer’s view discriminates against non-humans. Similarly John Stuart Mill’s liberty principle, which states that the only justification for interfering with the liberty of any adult human being is to prevent harm, or risk of harm, to others, appears to recommend policies regarding the regulation of drugs and gambling that are far more liberal than any society has ever permitted, at least in the modern world. This is not to say that Singer and Mill are wrong, or that their work has no value. Quite the reverse. Their ideas provide very important contributions that help define the debates in which we are engaged. The point is simply that while such contributions help start the debate, and perhaps will influence others either to modify their positions or to take opposing views more seriously, they do not settle anything. If the philosopher insists that truth has been found and the debate is finished, he or she is likely to find the debate continuing without them. Some have said that the task of the philosopher is, in the

words of the old Quaker slogan, ‘to speak truth to power’. That’s all very well, but are you really so sure you have the truth, and the means to make those in power listen? One way of putting the general point is that we can distinguish

two roles for philosophical input into policy debate. At the sharp end of policy, when an issue is being discussed and a practical outcome is being sought, philosophers have to operate in a pragmatic mode. For if their recommendations do not respond to the values people actually hold, then they will be left out in the cold. But a longer-term project is also possible, and arguably more valuable: to set out arguments and visions of other ways of doing things that might hope to shape the values that people hold. If successful then for future generations the policy context, and the debate, will be different. We might, for example, see the contributions of thinkers such as Mary Wollstonecraft in this light. From a policy point of view, attempting to vindicate the rights of women in 1792 was a hopeless, laughable project. But in the long term, it has been of immeasurable value. She has helped shape the values behind public debate, so that, in the twentieth century women won many of the battles that Wollstonecraft and others fought for. My point here is not at all to disparage long-term contributions of this sort. It is rather to make clear if philosophers are to intervene successfully in short-term policy debates they need to understand how this sort of work differs from ideal theory. One difference between the philosophers’ context and the policy

context can be brought out by developing a point that has been only implicit in the earlier chapters, that of ‘moral realism’. This has been an important issue in moral philosophy in recent decades, and many philosophers now defend views that reject forms of moral relativism and subjectivism, arguing that there is truth, or at least some form of objectivity, in moral values (see for example Sayre-McCord 1988). But some philosophers go further and suggest not only that there can be true moral principles but that they, the philosopher in question, know what these principles are and

can tell you. Well, they might be able to tell you, but it is far less likely they can convince you. The attempt to suggest that public policy ought to be shaped a particular way because that follows from a true moral principle is likely to meet with the response ‘who says?’ More progress is likely by appealing to values that are widely shared, and in the public policy arena there seems little to be gained by asking whether values are ‘objective’ or ‘subjective’. If we can achieve intersubjective agreement then we have all we can reasonably hope for. Intersubjective agreement can be achieved in many cases. As we

saw in the chapter on disability, it may be much easier to gain agreement on policies – in this case policies to change the material and social world to make it more accommodating to people with disabilities – than it is to get agreement on the philosophical justifications for such policies. For another example, the working party of the Nuffield Council on Bioethics was able to derive a ‘consensus statement’ on desirable further policies for animal experimentation despite the very deep philosophical disagreements held by the members who drew up the report. A philosophical approach to public policy analysis, I believe, will

be very likely to go wrong if it starts from the announcement of a set of principles or values claimed to be true. Where should it start then? Well, not all public policy areas need philosophical input. The ones that do are those that are beset by a problem. There is reason for taking an interest because of some sort of dispute or disagreement. Philosophers arrive on the scene rather like a (very slow moving) emergency service. There is a problem that needs resolution, if possible. Obviously, therefore, no progress can be made unless the problem is understood. If, for example, you want to make a contribution to the formulation of better regulations for animal experimentation or gambling or recreational drugs, then the first thing to do is to find out about the policy area. At least four types of investigation are likely to be needed, or at least helpful. First, and most obviously, you need to know about current practice,

which might require attending to official statistics, books and papers describing activities, in all their varieties. Recall how important it was, in the chapters on safety and disability, to consider a range of empirical cases in the policy area, to avoid inappropriate generalization. Second, you will need to know about current regulations, and also what might be needed to make changes. I haven’t discussed this in the main chapters of this book, but if you are really serious about proposing changes then you will have to learn about parliamentary procedure, the difference between primary legislation and other forms of state action, and the possibility of change given the many procedural difficulties you are likely to face. So, for example, committees I have worked with have rushed to complete a report in order not to miss a vital window of opportunity when the report had more chance of influencing debate. Third, it is often highly beneficial to understand the history of how current practice and regulation arose; not only to understand why we are where we are, but to observe how things once were different, and why changes were made in the past. And finally, most obviously, you need to understand what people currently disagree about. All of this together is hard work, or at least very time-consuming. And once more it can be enough to make one wonder whether all this work will have much of a pay-off. Often it won’t, of course. Such are the frustrations of daring to stray across disciplinary boundaries. A further frustration, we noted in connection with the regulation

of drugs, is that in public policy the philosophers’ weapon of choice is unavailable. It seems that there are no knock-down arguments in public policy, not even pointing out that a position is inconsistent. Of course, as we noted, if a position in public policy is baldly contradictory in the sense that it requires individuals both to do something and not do it, then there is a problem that needs urgent resolution. But showing that the government’s treatment of, say, alcohol and ecstasy is inconsistent is an interesting curiosity, rather than the devastating objection that it would be in a philosophy seminar. Given that legislation is passed by different governments

for different purposes at different times, one could hardly expect it to be consistent. Specialists in many areas can list inconsistencies, just as certain types of critics of religion delight in finding biblical contradictions. And in both cases the objections fail to have the power in the debate for which the critics hoped. While consistency is obviously a virtue it is not obvious that a consistent set of policies is always to be preferred to an inconsistent set. Most members of the British public seem happier with a policy that legalizes alcohol but not ecstasy, inconsistent though it seems, than they would be with a consistent policy that treats them both the same way. To the philosophical mind this is infuriating, but it is the everyday world of public policy. And, indeed, as I argued in the chapter on public safety, we can find that even within ourselves there are inconsistent, or at least conflicting, views. Many people, I conjectured, will be sympathetic both to the consequentialist idea that there is a limit to how much society should pay for safety improvements, and the absolutist view that it is wrong to put a value on life. That example provides further reasons for the philosophically

inclined to feel very uncomfortable. Current policies can indeed be represented as putting a price on life. Everyone, not only philosophers, will find this a difficult notion, and, as a first, and deep, instinct, will want to resist. Indeed, it is very easy to say the words ‘it is immoral to put a price on life’. The answer, of course, is ‘fine: tell us what else we should do’. In some cases philosophers have refused to take the next step, suggesting that it is legitimate to be a critic but without proposing an alternative. I sometimes have a good deal of sympathy for this reaction, but, once more, it is a way of resigning from the public policy debate. A policy is needed. Often we already have one, however imperfect. The urgent question is not whether there are objections to the existing policy, for there always are. Rather, is there an alternative that is an improvement on the current situation, and meets other criteria such as being widely acceptable and possible to implement given other constraints on the policy process? But as a first contribution to answering that

question, a broader issue needs to be addressed: what, even at the level of pure theory, are the alternatives to current policy? Whether one feels the need to take this question seriously is the test of whether one is suited to philosophical engagement in public policy. A refusal to get one’s hands dirty is admirable, but unlikely to be sustainable in public policy. Furthermore, policy failure is always a threat. A policy introduced

for the best of intentions may or may not achieve its aims. One reason for this can be that policies are advanced on the basis of insufficiently examined empirical assumptions. We have seen a couple of examples where assumptions about the consequences of change have proven unfounded. A relatively minor case occurred in relation to the discussion of gambling, where it was widely assumed that widening opportunities for people to gamble would enlarge the proportion of the population who became problem gamblers. But at least in the current UK context this does not appear to be so, although of course things could change. More importantly we saw that one of the reasons for health-care reform in the UK in the 1940s was to improve the health of those who did not have access to health care. It seems obvious that the introduction of a national health service would have this effect. But, according to some analysts, it did not. And we are in danger of making the same discovery in the US. In this case, however, I do not take the empirical evidence as a reason for not introducing wider access to health care, but rather for becoming more reflective about the reasons why widening access is a desirable policy. Another reason for policy failure is to make a false empirical

assumption of a different kind, an assumption about human motivation. Here, in fact, we noticed two opposing errors. In one type of case the problem is that philosophers, and indeed members of the public, can be too ready to think that the answer to a problem in public policy is to pass a law. But, as we saw in the case of both drug and gambling legislation, if we try to solve a problem by passing a law, but the law is not generally obeyed, then we now have two

problems. In the UK we are learning this lesson again with legislation against fox hunting, which is turning out to be exceptionally difficult to enforce. To take the most extreme case I have seen, Primo Levi’s autobiographical account of life in a concentration camp, If This Is A Man, contains various examples of the ways in which camp inmates broke rules in order to make their lives slightly more tolerable, knowing that they faced summary execution if found out (Levi 1958 [1947]). But if it is impossible generally to enforce rules in a concentration camp, where can they be enforced? The mistake here is to assume that people will treat laws as providing an absolute constraint on action, rather than changing the cost and risk profile of various forms of action. However, if the rewards of breaking the law are high enough, then the risks could be worth taking. The cost-benefit analysis can be in favour of breaking the law. One mistake, then, is to forget that at least some human beings

will approach the law in this cost-benefit manner at least some of the time. The opposite mistake is to overstate the degree to which human beings will do this; this mistake lies behind the assumption that increasing prison sentences will reduce crime. Our discussion of crime and punishment suggested that although this can be true for some people, on the whole length of sentences will have a very marginal effect on deterrence – a conjecture apparently supported by empirical studies, which also suggest that detection rates have a much greater effect (von Hirsch et al. 1999). The reason for this is that what counts as a cost and a benefit is a subtle matter and may be different for different people. But furthermore human motivation is highly complex in that there are differences between people, and over time. To the degree this is possible, policy makers will need to take human variation into account. Finally, on the topic of motivation, or at least of human response, it seems clear that there are important connections between different areas. The example in this book that best illustrates this rather banal point is the discussion of crime and punishment, where I suggested it will be difficult to understand our practices of punishment

without first understanding why people find the prospect and experience of crime so problematic. And we must not forget a further point about motivation, this

time about the power of moral argument. In the discussion of experimentation on animals I pointed out that, at least in my own case, I often find that moral arguments have more power to make me feel guilty about my behaviour than to change that behaviour. Perhaps I am alone in this, but I suspect not. This suggests a dual lesson for philosophy and public policy: that moral argument, even when convincing, is not enough. We must also seek changes in the external conditions to allow people to continue to get what they want, but with a clean conscience. Structural change is needed to facilitate behavioural change. So, for example, although worried about climate change, and while prepared to make some financial sacrifices, few people will make a substantial change to their lifestyles unless there are acceptable alternatives. Many people would like to drive less, but they will not do so unless there are safe cycle routes or reliable and quick forms of public transport. Progress in this area, as in so many others, requires social and material change to accompany moral argument. These methodological observations raise perhaps our central ques-

tion. What is the role of philosophers in public policy discussions? I have argued against a naïve model in which philosophers formulate moral and political theories that are then applied to particular policy areas. I have also indicated a number of other difficulties that philosophers will encounter in trying to make a contribution to public policy debates. So what is left? Well, philosophers can do what philosophers do. Make distinctions. Work out what follows from what. Ask awkward questions. But still, it can fairly be asked, why would you need philosophers for that? Any intelligent person, surely, is just as well equipped? To a point this is correct, but as philosophers our life’s work is to develop skills of analysis and argument, informed by a study of the history of the subject and the best contemporary work. We know about patterns of argument,

with standard objections, and thoughtful replies. We are used to challenging and being challenged. We know how to depersonalize arguments and consider them on their merits rather than on the authority of the person that uttered them. There is work for us to do, but not necessarily the work we thought. Public policy needs philosophers more than it needs philosophy. One important task for philosophers is illustrated in the chapter

on animal experimentation. There I argued that the best way of understanding the position of people engaged in the debate is not as disagreeing on the classical philosophical question of what property makes a creature a member of the moral community. Rather there is an implicit acknowledgement that all sorts of features of animals are morally relevant, but disagreement about what weight they each should be given: do they provide an absolute constraint on action, or are they simply factors to be put in the balance against other factors? Whether or not animals have rights is not the best way to approach the issues. Perhaps an even better example comes from the work of Ronald Dworkin on abortion (Dworkin 1993). The debate on abortion is often posed as ‘a woman’s right to choose’ pitted against ‘the fetus’s right to life’. These make good campaigning slogans, but, as Dworkin argues, they are not good statements of the positions people hold. For example, those who believe in a woman’s right to choose, typically limit the right to the first two trimesters of pregnancy. But if a woman has a right to choose how can it be restricted? Why shouldn’t a woman have a right to an abortion all the way up to the moment of birth? Clearly few people, if any, would accept such a practice, and this seems to go to show that the claimed right to choose is much more limited than appears on badges and T-shirts. Similarly many, although admittedly not all, opponents of abortion accept that abortion can be permissible in cases of rape or incest. But what has the fetus done to forfeit the right to life? How can the fetus’s origin make such a difference? In fact, Dworkin argues, all sides in the debate give great concern to the interests both of the mother and of

the fetus. Where they differ is how exactly to strike the balance. However, for campaigning purposes all sides present their position in an oversimplified, and strictly speaking, false way. But – and here is where there is work for the philosopher – the intellectual debate will suffer from frustrating unclarity if it proceeds along campaignslogan lines. The philosopher is in a position – after hard work – to expose the core of the disagreement. Once the disagreement is exposed, what next? The philosophical

impulse is to try to work out which position in the debate is correct, by considering arguments, counterexamples and anything else that might usefully come to hand. But, as explained above, what matters in public policy debate is not convincing yourself that you have the best position, but carrying others with you. This is not so much a matter of pragmatic compromise, but of working out how people can get much of what they want without taking too much away from others. To illustrate using an example from road safety, as is well known, cars are extremely dangerous. Each year hundreds of thousands of people throughout the world die in car accidents. Yet stopping people from driving, although it would save many lives, would generally be considered a hugely disproportionate response. So what should we do? Well, what we in fact do is allow people to drive but not in the most dangerous ways. We put speed limits on driving, especially in highly populated areas. We have limits to how much people can drink before driving. We make cars pass safety tests. We try to build safe road systems. By such means we ‘soften’ the moral dilemma. We remove the most difficult cases, and thereby allow people to gain most of the advantages of driving while taking away at least some of the risks. Although we can always quibble about the details of such policies there is a chance of giving everyone much of what they want. Of course the dilemma about driving is not one that has grabbed

the attention of philosophers. Perhaps it is because the solution is rather obvious. But I would suggest that for some cases, though of course not all, it provides a model of how to make progress. We

saw this, for example, in the chapter on gambling. In the UK it is permitted in restricted forms, so that the most potentially addictive forms of gambling are more difficult to access than they might have been. Another example, we saw, is that both defenders and critics of animal experimentation can accept, in a limited way, the doctrine of the three Rs – refinement, reduction and replacement. Both sides will be happy to reduce the number of animals used and to reduce the suffering of animals, especially where this does not compromise the science. But those who advocate experimenting on animals may well also be prepared to replace some of these experiments with procedures on tissue samples, even if the quality of information obtained is not as high. What is so encouraging about this type of example is that progress in public policy can come about through relatively small changes that amount to a large step forward for one group, but only a minimal concession for another. For example, it is now not possible to obtain a licence in the UK to test cosmetic products on animals as the aims are considered too trivial to justify the suffering. This was a triumph for animal welfare campaigners, but barely a loss at all to cosmetic companies. In some cases it may have been to their benefit for marketing purposes. The limit to how far we might be able to go in policy areas,

however, is illustrated again by the issue of disability. There, I noted, that although campaigners for disability rights argue for equality of opportunity, in practice their goals are not as comprehensive as this campaign slogan would suggest. Rather their goal is for disability no longer to be a special or further burden in ‘life’s race’. But this campaign pays no attention to the possible unfairness in the workplace that rewards high IQ or other talents. Rather, at least in some cases, campaigners want people with disabilities to be able to reap the full advantages of their abilities and skills. This is a worthy project – and it is mirrored in other campaigns for gender or racial justice – but it is not quite what it appears to be. Philosophy can clearly help clarify these issues, but the argument

of this book is that the benefit is mutual. For example, the

discussion of animal experimentation shows that there is also a pay-off for philosophy in engaging in policy areas. I argued that by looking at our practices with regard to animals we can see that the debate about what makes a person or animal a member of the moral community is misguided. It seems that our attitudes are that it is not an ‘all or nothing’ thing, and how a person or animal should be treated depends, to a great extent, on its possession of morally relevant properties. Although derived from reflection on practices in a policy area, this is a conclusion of philosophical importance, and could, potentially, have an impact on purely philosophical debates. In my view, of course, it would considerably improve such debates. Even more telling, I believe, is the discussion of disability. Here looking at the concerns of disability activists and theorists one learns that much of the philosophical discussion of disability in relation to distributive justice is entirely irrelevant to the concerns of activists, and, if followed, would be a backward step. Making the appropriate adjustments to political philosophy so that it can engage with issues of disability pays dividends. Not only does it allow political philosophers to enter into the policy debates regarding disability, it also, in my view, enriches political philosophy to provide a better account of human well-being, and of the possibilities of political and public action. In this case, both sides benefit from the encounter. I should also repeat a cautionary point I have made before. In

trying to work out how moral and political philosophers can engage with, contribute to, and learn from policy debates, I am not at all suggesting that this is all philosophers in these areas should do. We continue to need a wide variety of approaches, methodologies and interests. This includes what has become known as ‘ideal theory’, where philosophers set out visions of how things should be, without worrying about the practicalities of implementation. As I have said, debate needs ideal theory. Without it, discussions would be limp and unimaginative. If a highly intelligent theorist has thought about an issue long and hard, and has come up with a systematic,

elegant, imaginative or thorough proposal, then it needs to be taken seriously. It is unlikely that it will be completely wrong. On the other hand it is also unlikely that it will be completely right. Possibly the most common mistake in philosophy is to think one has the whole of the truth when one only has part. Some may worry that the approach recommended here – essentially

looking for small changes that will be seen as broadly beneficial – is too conservative. Large change, it will be said, is necessary from time to time and has happened. Think of, say, changes in the law in the direction of equality, regarding gender, race and sexual orientation. Massive progress has been made in a relatively short time, as a result of uncompromising advocacy of theories of justice. The status quo has been broken time and time again. How can that have happened, if I am right that there is an inevitable bias in favour of the status quo? To consider this question it is worth looking at one of the most

significant law reforms, from a moral point of view, in recent times: the change in legal status of homosexuality. In the UK, for example, forms of male homosexuality had been illegal since the sixteenth century, yet in 1967 the law changed so that homosexual acts, performed in private between consenting adults aged twenty-one or over, were no longer a criminal offence. The reform is usually thought to have been a result of the recommendations of the Wolfenden report, the Report of the Committee on Homosexual Offences and Prostitution (Home Office 1957), which made exactly this recommendation. How, then, was the Wolfenden report able to overturn the status quo in such a dramatic fashion? It may help to make a distinction between two understandings of

the status quo. One is the status quo of current laws and regulations. The other is the status quo of public opinion or values. Over time, as public views shift, there can be a tension between status quo laws and status quo values, and in this respect law can seem out of date and obstructive. At this point it may be possible to make a radical change in the laws, but underlying values cannot be

ignored. As the Wolfenden report put the point: ‘We clearly recognise that the laws of any society must be acceptable to the general moral sense of the community if they are to be respected and enforced. … Certainly it is clear that if any legal enactment is markedly out of tune with public opinion it will quickly fall into disrepute’ (Home Office 1957, 9, 10). And so what was public opinion on the desirability of decriminalization of homosexuality in the 1950s? Interestingly, the committee didn’t seem to feel the need to explore this question in detail, commenting ‘on the matters with which we are called upon to deal we have not succeeded in discovering an unequivocal “public opinion”, and we have felt bound to try to reach conclusions for ourselves rather than to base them on what is often transient and seldom precisely ascertainable’ (Home Office 1957, 10). Yet this comment stands in contrast with a remark made in the same

very short chapter, where the report’s authors set out their view of the function of the law, or rather what its function is not: ‘It is not, in our view, the function of the law to intervene in the private lives of citizens’ (Home Office 1957, 10). Much later in the report, when discussing prostitution rather than homosexuality, the report quotes the earlier (1928) ‘Street Offences Committee’ in the following terms: ‘We cannot do better than quote the words of the Street Offences Committee – “As a general proposition it will be universally accepted that the law is not concerned with private morals or with ethical standards. On the other hand, the law is plainly concerned with the outward conduct of citizens in so far as that conduct injuriously affects the rights of other citizens”’(Home Office 1957, 80). It seems that the committee felt that it could not be shown that

there was a clear, univocal public opinion on whether or not homosexual acts should remain illegal, although they did nothing to demonstrate this claim. At the same time, they set out a view of the purpose of the law that they thought was near-universally accepted, and argued that on this understanding the law needed to be changed. In this way, the report can be read as drawing on what

they took to be an important public value, regarding the proper purpose of law, to argue that the law should retreat from criminalization of homosexual behaviour. Arguably, then, the authors were drawing on one strand of status quo values to challenge status quo regulation. It seems quite likely, however, that in 1957 a significant proportion of the general population had no desire to see the law changed.Yet there was enough tension here to put the possibility of radical change on the agenda. We should note, though, that there was a period of ten years between report and legal change, partly because of the lack of enthusiasm of successive governments to sponsor the bill. During this time pressure built up for change, highly influenced by the Wolfenden report, to a point where it became possible to say the laws and public values were no longer aligned. This created a climate in which a change of law could be publicly acceptable. Broadly, then, if large change is to take place, the world needs to

be ready for it. To illustrate further, it is said that the ‘greenhouse effect’ was first posited by a Swedish scientist Svante Arrhenius in the late nineteenth century. However it was not until the 1960s that his idea was taken up by other scientists and not until the end of the twentieth century that it became scientific orthodoxy (see for example Maslin 2008). Some draw the lesson that we may have been able to predict and mitigate global warming if only people had listened to Arrhenius. But in the year Arrhenius published his speculations no doubt there were many dozens or hundreds of new theories, potentially of great significance if true, that have subsequently turned out to be without merit. How could people have picked Arrhenius as providing the one theory of which we should all take note? To make any large-scale change we need many people, from different backgrounds and with different interests, arguing for similar conclusions, perhaps even for different reasons. The lone philosopher can contribute to this process, but few of us will ever be any more than one straw in the wind. But without such contributions there would be no change at all.