My late father used to say that no quality of human life was more important than dignity. That wisdom came to mind the night when I sat with my wife watching CNN as the exhausted passengers finally began debarking from the cruise ship Carnival Triumph.
The ship had been adrift for five days in the Gulf of Mexico. A fire cut the power, and that meant no propulsion, no air conditioning, no communications, no sanitation.
Think of that, in the modern world: no sanitation. Social historians tell us that no inventions have been more vital to extending human life than the flush toilet and the closed sewer. In the United States, we can scarcely imagine life without them. But the passengers on the Carnival Triumph had no choice. The CNN anchor, commenting on the ordeal, said in passing that she was sure those leaving the ship were looking forward to a little dignity.
The word isn't much used today, perhaps because it conjures images of stuffiness, an old-fashioned sense of how one should behave. That's too bad, because my father was right. Dignity is crucial to human flourishing. We need more of it.
Alas, we live in an era largely bereft of dignity. We inhabit instead a world of shabby entertainment, of nasty and unserious politics. (I assume that I need cite no examples.)
To be sure, entertainers and politicians, along with their apologists, will tell you that they are limited by the public's taste. We've all heard it, and most of us have said it: "If our guy ran the kind of campaign you're suggesting, he'd lose."
This feeble excuse is nothing new and hasn't improved with age. Thus we find a critic writing in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine in 1836: "It is undignified to pander to a weak and depraved taste, and then querulously to lament that it is no higher."
Dignity in this sense comes into English from French, but its ultimate root is the Latin dignus, meaning "worthy." Thus the Oxford English Dictionary, as its top-line definition, offers the following: "The quality of being worthy or honourable; worthiness, worth, nobleness, excellence."
Let us take it for granted that dignity in this sense can be earned.
This notion of dignity of manner -- dignity of behaviour, of style, even of dress -- is what historians have in mind when they tell us, for example, that Abraham Lincoln grew his beard in the fall of 1860 because some of his supporters found his craggy, backwoods features undignified.
Nowadays I suppose there would be some criticism of this act of inauthenticity, but Lincoln's decision gave America the most iconic face in its history. Lincoln's visage drips dignity.
Alas, this sense of the word dignity is the one that has largely faded. But there is another sense of the word dignity, popularized by philosophers, that ought still to engage our interest. That is the notion of dignity as attaching not to a particular mode of behaviour but to our very humanity.
All of which brings us to the great legal theorist Ronald Dworkin, who died last week of leukemia at age 81. In his final book, Justice for Hedgehogs, he called for a closer attention to the ethics of dignity. Our search for the good life, he argued, should always be governed by an important constraint: "Acts are wrong if they insult the dignity of others."
My father would have agreed. He spent his career, as lawyer, activist and government functionary, battling against the ravages of poverty -- because poverty was an insult to dignity. He often explained his lifelong opposition to the death penalty by pointing to the indignity: the helplessness, the weeping, even the loss of control of bodily functions.
The argument has become a standard one. Wrote Pope John Paul II: "Not even a murderer loses his human dignity." And U.S. Supreme Court Justice William Brennan, in both concurring and dissenting opinions, contended that capital punishment was inconsistent with the Eighth Amendment's premise "that even the vilest criminal remains a human being possessed of common human dignity."
I don't mean to suggest that all who care about dignity will reach the same conclusions, whether on capital punishment or anything else. So, for example, in his book For Capital Punishment, the political philosopher Walter Berns wrote in a much-quoted reply to Brennan that the justice's argument ignored important moral differences between, on the one hand, men such as Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King Jr. and, on the other, those such as Charles Manson and Adolf Eichmann: "To say that these men, some great and some unspeakably vile, equally possess human dignity is to demonstrate an inability to make a moral judgment derived from or based on the idea of human dignity."
Notice that Berns is using the word in the OED sense of an aspect of character that is earned; whereas Brennan is using it in Dworkin's sense of an aspect of personhood. But they aren't really talking past each other. The two senses of the word converge -- and that convergence is important for politics.
Consider again the passengers suffering for those five dreary days aboard the Carnival Triumph. They lacked dignity in both senses of the word. They were forced by the conditions aboard ship to behave in a manner that was undignified, and the conditions themselves constituted an affront to their human dignity.
Dignity isn't stuffy. Dignity isn't old-fashioned. Dignity is crucial to the idea of civilization. Dworkin worried that we have corrupted the word by allowing it to slip into every party platform or international covenant. But the basic concept, in both of its senses, should nevertheless be the centrepiece of political and ethical conversation.
This shouldn't be a left-right issue. A closer attention to the concept of dignity would change only the terms of debates, not necessarily the outcomes: Does abortion protect the dignity of the pregnant woman or invade the dignity of the unborn child? Do union seniority rules preserve the dignity of those who have put in long careers or curtail the dignity of those who are starting out?
A politics centred on dignity would mark a vast improvement over the kindergarten babble that passes for serious argument these days. Indeed, we could do a lot worse than choosing our leaders based on who carries himself or herself with the greatest degree of dignity. And we could do a lot worse than making policy based on its effect on the dignity of those whose lives and futures it would affect.
That, at least, is the world my father would have wanted. And I think it could be a pretty great one.
Stephen L. Carter is a Bloomberg View columnist and a professor of law at Yale University. He is the author of The Violence of Peace: America's Wars in the Age of Obama, and the novel The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln.
-- Bloomberg News