Tavern keeper on the simpsons

Simpsons Philosophy Paper

“I recommend it to everyone, whether already a Simpsons fan or not. You’ll be surprised at what wisdom lurks in these pages.” ––TOM MORRIS, author of If Aristotle Ran General Motors

“Fans of The Simpsons are certain to find this book to be the perfect rebuttal for those who dismiss the show as a no-brainer.” ––PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“Not only is The Simpsons and Philosophy highly educational, it enhances the viewing and re-viewing of the Simpsons episodes, and sheds a new light on the series.”

––PROFESSOR PER BROMAN, Butler University, Indianapolis

“ The Simpsons and Philosophy is a great place to begin any program in Simpsons studies. A serious look at a funny subject.” ––MARK I. PINSKY, author of The Gospel According to The Simpsons

“The Simpsons and Philosophy is a terrific book. Philosophers and non-philosophers come together to show that some very interesting philosophical issues arise from the characters, the thoughts, and the plots of The Simpsons. The essays are well written, many times provocative, reflective, intelligent without being elitist and, perhaps most valuable, a lot of fun to read. Not a Simpsons love-fest by any stretch (for example, could Bart be a Nietzschean hero or Heideggerian thinker?), this book is serious philosophy applied to a sometimes serious (and seriously funny) television show.

“There are also papers devoted to more literary sorts of concerns, such as parody, allusion, and irony, with attempts to show how The Simpsons can be compared with other forms of art, such as cinema. There are some splendid comparisons of The Simpsons with numerous other television series, for instance Seinfeld, Leave It to Beaver, The Jack Benny Show, and MASH, as well as films such as Psycho, Pulp Fiction, Goodfellas, and The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“I recommend this book to anyone who’s ever been caught off guard by an example of Homer being logically challenged, or Bart pulling a “dirty trick,” or a poignant remark by Lisa. I recommend this book to anyone interested in using a provocative, and sometimes challenging text in an Introduction to Philosophy class.

“You can learn from this book (now hear Homer’s and Bart’s voices echoing), “but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” –––PROFESSOR MICHAEL F. GOODMAN, Humboldt State University

The Simpsons and Philosophy

Popular Culture and Philosophy General Editor: William Irwin VOLUME 1 Seinfeld and Philosophy: A Book about Everything and Nothing (2000) Edited by William Irwin

VOLUME 2 The Simpsons and Philosophy: The D’oh! of Homer (2001) Edited by William Irwin, Mark T. Conard, and Aeon J. Skoble

VOLUME 3 The Matrix and Philosophy (2002) Edited by William Irwin

The Simpsons and Philosophy The D’oh! of Homer

Edited by

WILLIAM IRWIN, MARK T. CONARD, and AEON J. SKOBLE

OPEN COURT Chicago and La Salle, Illinois

Dedicated to Lionel Hutz and Troy McClure

(whom you might remember from such TV shows as The Simpsons)

Contents Acknowledgments Introduction: Meditations on Springfield? Part I: The Characters 1. Homer and Aristotle RAJA HALWANI 2. Lisa and American Anti-intellectualism AEON J. SKOBLE 3. Why Maggie Matters: Sounds of Silence, East and West ERIC BRONSON 4. Marge’s Moral Motivation GERALD J. ERION and JOSEPH A. ZECCARDI 5. Thus Spake Bart: On Nietzsche and the Virtues of Being Bad MARK T. CONARD Part II: Simpsonian Themes 6. The Simpsons and Allusion: “Worst Essay Ever” WILLIAM IRWIN and J.R. LOMBARDO 7. Popular Parody: The Simpsons Meets the Crime Film DEBORAH KNIGHT 8. The Simpsons, Hyper-Irony, and the Meaning of Life CARL MATHESON 9. Simpsonian Sexual Politics DALE E. SNOW and JAMES J. SNOW Part III: I Didn’t Do It: Ethics and The Simpsons 10. The Moral World of the Simpson Family: A Kantian Perspective JAMES LAWLER 11. The Simpsons: Atomistic Politics and the Nuclear Family PAUL A. CANTOR 12. Springfield Hypocrisy JASON HOLT 13. Enjoying the so-called “Iced Cream”: Mr. Burns, Satan, and Happiness DANIEL BARWICK 14. Hey-diddily-ho, Neighboreenos: Ned Flanders and Neighborly Love DAVID VESSEY 15. The Function of Fiction: The Heuristic Value of Homer JENNIFER L. MCMAHON Part IV: The Simpsons and the Philosophers 16. A (Karl, not Groucho) Marxist in Springfield

JAMES M. WALLACE 17. “And the Rest Writes Itself”: Roland Barthes Watches The Simpsons DAVID L. G. ARNOLD 18. What Bart Calls Thinking KELLY DEAN JOLLEY

Episode List Based on Ideas By Featuring the Voices Of Notes Copyright Page

Acknowledgments The writing, editing, and other miscellaneous tasks involved in producing The Simpsons and Philosophy amounted to a fun and stimulating experience. We would like to thank the contributors for keeping both a sense of professionalism and a sense of humor throughout the project. We would sincerely like to thank the good folks at Open Court, particularly David Ramsay Steele and Jennifer Asmuth for their advice and assistance. And, last but not least, we would like to thank our friends, colleagues, and students with whom we discussed The Simpsons and philosophy, who helped make the work possible, and who offered valuable feedback on the work in progress. A list such as this is almost inevitably incomplete, but among those to whom we are indebted are: Trisha Allen, Lisa Bahnemann, Anthony Hartle, Megan Lloyd, Jennifer O’Neill, and Peter Stromberg.

Introduction: Meditations on Springfield? How many philosophers does it take to write a book about The Simpsons? Apparently, about 20 to write it and 3 to edit. But that’s not so bad, considering it takes 300 people 8 months, at a cost of 1.5 million dollars, to make a single episode of The Simpsons. Seriously, though, don’t we have other work to do besides writing about TV shows? The short answer is yes, we do, but we enjoyed writing these essays, and we hope you’ll enjoy reading them.

The seeds for this volume were sown a few years ago. When the popular comedy Seinfeld was going off the air, William Irwin had a quirky idea—a collection of philosophical essays on the “show about nothing.” He and his philosopher pals enjoyed the show and engaged in many humorous and stimulating discussions about it, so why not share the fun in the form of a book? The people at Open Court had the vision, fortitude, and sense of humor to take on the project, and so Irwin found himself editing Seinfeld and Philosophy: A Book about Everything and Nothing. The book was a true success, not only among academics, but among the general public as well.

Another television show Irwin and his friends enjoyed and had discussed is The Simpsons. They appreciated its irony, its irreverence, and they realized that—like Seinfeld—it was a rich and fertile ground for philosophical investigation and discussion. So Irwin decided to put together a second volume, this one on The Simpsons, and he asked two of the contributors to the Seinfeld book, Mark Conard and Aeon Skoble, to co-edit the work. Once again, Open Court applauded the idea, and if you’re reading this, you’re obviously at least a little interested in either philosophy, The Simpsons, or both. The concept is the same: the show has enough intelligence and depth to warrant some philosophical discussion, and as a popular show, can also serve as a vehicle for exploring a variety of philosophical issues for a general audience.

The Simpsons is rich in satire. Without question it is one of the most intelligent and literate comedies on television today. (We know that’s not saying much, but still . . .) It may seem incongruous to those who have dismissed it as a mere cartoon about an oaf and his family (and we’ve seen plenty of those) to say that the show is intelligent and literate, but attentive viewing reveals levels of comedy far beyond farce. We see layer upon layer of satire, double meanings, allusions to high as well as popular culture, sight gags, parody, and self-referential humor. In response to Homer’s criticism of a cartoon that his kids are watching, Lisa replies, “If cartoons were meant for adults, they’d be on in prime time!” Despite Lisa’s words, The Simpsons is clearly for adults, and it’s superficial to dismiss the show merely because it is popular and animated.

Matt Groening studied philosophy in college, but none of the contributors to this

book believes there is a deep underlying philosophy to Groening’s cartoon. This is not “the philosophy of The Simpsons” or “The Simpsons as philosophy”; it’s The Simpsons and Philosophy. We’re not attempting to convey the intended meaning of Groening and the legion of writers and artists who work on the show. Rather, we’re highlighting the philosophical significance of The Simpsons as we see it. Some of the essays in this book are the reflections of academics on a show they like and which they think says something about an aspect of philosophy. For example, Daniel Barwick looks to the miserly curmudgeon, Mr. Burns, to determine if we can learn something about the nature of happiness from Burns’s unhappiness. Others explore the thought of a philosopher by making use of one of the characters. For instance, Mark Conard raises the question, Can Nietzsche’s rejection of traditional morality justify Bart’s bad behavior? Still others use the show as a vehicle for developing philosophical themes in a way that is accessible to the non-specialist (an intelligent person who has some interest in philosophical reflection but who doesn’t make a living at it). For example, Jason Holt explores “Springfield Hypocrisy” to determine whether hypocrisy is always unethical.

This book is not an attempt to reduce philosophy to the lowest common denominator; we have no “dumbing-down” agenda. On the contrary, we hope to get our non-specialist readers to read more philosophy, the kind that doesn’t involve television shows. We also hope our colleagues who read these essays will find them both thought-provoking and entertaining.

Is it legitimate to write philosophical essays about popular culture? The standard response to that question is to point out that Sophocles and Shakespeare were popular culture in their day, and no one questions the validity of philosophical reflections on their work. But that won’t do in the case of The Simpsons. (D’oh!) Making that response invites the misperception that we think The Simpsons is the equivalent of history’s best works of literature, deeply profound in a way that illuminates the human condition as never before. We don’t. But it nevertheless is just deep enough, and certainly funny enough, to warrant serious attention. Furthermore, its popularity means that we can use The Simpsons as a means of illustrating traditional philosophical issues to effectively reach readers outside the academy.

And please keep in mind that even though we are occasionally charged with impiety and executed, philosophers are people too. Don’t have a cow, man.

Part I

The Characters

1 Homer and Aristotle RAJA HALWANI

[M]en, though they look, fail to see what is well-being, what is the good in life. — Aristotle, Eudemian Ethics, 1216a10 I can’t live the button-down life like you. I want it all! The terrifying lows, the dizzying highs, the creamy middles! Sure, I might offend a few of the blue-noses with my cocky stride and musky odors—Oh, I’ll never be the darling of the socalled “City Fathers” who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and talk about “What’s to be done with this Homer Simpson?” — Homer Simpson, “Lisa’s Rival”

Homer Simpson does not fare well when evaluated morally. This is especially true if the focus is on his character rather than on his acts (although he does not exactly shine in the latter category either). Yet, somehow, there is something that is still ethically admirable about Homer. This raises the following puzzle: If Homer Simpson fares badly morally, in what ways is he admirable? Let’s investigate this.

Aristotle’s Character Types

Aristotle gave us a logical categorization of four types of character.1 Roughly speaking, and putting aside the two extreme types of the superhuman and the bestial characters, we have the virtuous, the continent, the incontinent, and the vicious character. To best understand each type, let’s contrast them with one another in terms of how each character manifests itself in actions, decisions, and desires. Let’s also consider one situation as an example and see how each character would respond to it.

Suppose someone, let’s call her “Lisa,” were walking down the street and found a wallet with a substantial amount of money in it. Now if Lisa were virtuous, she would not only make the decision to turn in the wallet to the proper authorities, she would gladly do so. Lisa’s desires would be in accordance with her right decision and action. Consider now Lenny, who is continent: if Lenny were to find the wallet, he would be able to make the right decision—to return the wallet intact—and he would be able to act on his decision to do so, but he would have to go against his desires to not do so. This is the mark of the continent person: he has to struggle against his desires to be able do the right thing.

With the incontinent and the vicious types, things get worse. The incontinent person is able to reach the right decision about what to do but would suffer from weakness of will. In the wallet case, and supposing Bart is our incontinent character,

he would succumb to his desire to keep the wallet and so fail to act properly, even though he knows that keeping it is wrong. With the vicious person, there is no struggle against one’s desires and there is no weakness of will. The reason, however, is that the vicious person’s decision is morally wrong, and his desires are fully co- operative with it. If Nelson were vicious, he would decide to keep the money (and either throw away the rest of the wallet, or return it but lie about its original contents), would fully desire to do so, and would actually do so.

Let’s take a closer look at what it is that constitutes a virtuous character. A virtuous person is one who has and exercises the virtues. The virtues, moreover, are states (or traits) of character that dispose their possessor to act in the right ways and to react emotionally in the right ways also. Given this, we see why Aristotle insisted that the virtues are states of character concerned with both action and feeling (Ethics, Book II, especially 1106b15–35). For example, if one has the virtue of benevolence, then one will be disposed to be charitable to the right people under the right circumstances. One would not give money to just anyone who asked for it. The virtuous person must perceive that his recipient is in need of the money, and that he will use it properly. Furthermore, the virtuous person’s emotional reaction is appropriate to the situation. This means that the benevolent person in our example would give the money gladly, not regret giving it, and would be moved to give it by the plight of his recipient. By contrast, a continent person would not easily part with his money, and this is so not because he needs it and cannot spare it, but because he is disposed to be greedy, or to over-estimate how much he might need the money in the future.

But notice that, given the above account, reason has a crucial role to play. For, if to be virtuous one needs to have perceptive abilities regarding the situations one is faced with, then the virtuous person cannot be stupid or naive. He must have critical reasoning abilities that would allow him to notice differences in situations and so be able to respond accordingly. Indeed, this is one reason why Aristotle emphasized the idea that the subject-matter of ethics does not admit of rigorous precision (Ethics, 1094b13–19). The role of practical reason (phronesis) is something that Aristotle insisted upon: if one were virtuous by, so to speak, impulse, one would not possess “full” virtue but at most “natural” virtue (Ethics, 1144b3–15), and to possess natural virtue is to be inclined to do the right thing by accident, to put it loosely.2

If we now bring in Aristotle’s conditions for right action, we will be in a position to round out our account. Aristotle states, “First [the agent] must know that he is doing virtuous actions; second, he must decide on them, and decide on them for themselves; and, third, he must also do them from a firm and unchanging character” (Ethics, 1105a30–1105b). Briefly, what Aristotle had in mind here is the following. First, the agent must, when acting virtuously know that his action is virtuous; he acts under the description that “such-and-such an action is just (or generous, or honest).”

The second condition seems to embody two, and not one, conditions. The agent must act voluntarily, and he must do so because the action is virtuous. So even if one were to act under the description that “this action is fair,” one’s action would not be virtuous unless one also acted because the action is fair. The third stated condition is crucial, and it brings us to the start of this discussion: a virtuous person acts virtuously not only when the action is fair and because it is so, but he acts virtuously because he is a fair person. He is the type of person who is disposed to behave morally correctly when the situation requires it. This is (part of) what it means to have a “firm and unchanging” character.

Homer’s Character: D’oh!, D’oh!, and Double D’oh! Given Aristotle’s account of virtue, things look quite dim for Homer Simpson (and I will not later rescind this judgment; so don’t expect some ingenious distinction that will overhaul this claim). Consider, as a start, the virtue of temperance (moderation) which, basically though somewhat contentiously, covers the ability to moderate our bodily appetites. It does not require astute observation to realize that Homer is far from being a temperate man. Not only is he not virtuous with respect to his bodily appetites, but he is quite vicious. This is particularly true with regard to Homer’s consumption of food and drink, rather than sexual activity. His desires impel him to constantly gorge himself, and he succumbs willingly to these desires. For instance, in “Homer’s Enemy,”3 he wholeheartedly ate half of a sandwich that belonged to his temporary co-worker Frank Grimes—or “Grimey”—even though the sandwich bag was clearly marked to the effect that it belonged to the latter. Still worse, even after Grimes pointed this out to him, Homer managed to take two extra bites out of the sandwich before putting it back in the bag. Homer’s desire for food also leads him to create some interesting recipes. Witness, for example, his wrapping a half-cooked waffle around a whole stick of butter and, of course, eating it (“Homer the Heretic”). Homer’s health was jeopardized by bad eating habits, to the point where he had to undergo a bypass operation (“Homer’s Triple Bypass”), but he has not relented. Indeed, even when enduring immediate and obvious physical pain, Homer does not relent. Witness his eating bad meat at the Kwik-E-Mart, getting sick, and being rushed to the hospital. Instead of pursuing his complaint against Apu, he was immediately appeased (“Woo-hoo!”) by Apu’s offer of ten free pounds of rancid shrimp. Homer knew that the shrimp smelled “funny,” ate it anyway, and was then rushed again to the hospital (“Homer and Apu”). Homer’s gluttony is so much a part of his character, that he consumes food even while half-asleep. In “Rosebud,” Homer, half asleep, walks into the kitchen, opens the door of the fridge, comments, “Mmm . . . 64 slices of American cheese,” and proceeds to eat them for the duration of the night. The point about Homer’s intemperance needs no further explanation; his name has come to be

synonymous with his love of food and (Duff) beer. Homer is also a habitual liar; he lacks honesty. In “Duffless,” he lied to his

family about his plans for the day, telling them that he was going to work when he was actually planning to go take the Duff Brewery tour. To catalogue some of Homer’s other fibs: He lied to Marge about the fact that he never graduated from high school (“The Front”), he lied to her about his financial losses in investments (“Homer vs. Patty and Selma”), and he consistently lied to Marge about getting rid of the gun he bought (“The Cartridge Family”). Homer also once involved Apu in a large web of lies to the latter’s mother, telling her that he was already married to Marge, thus also forcing Marge to go along with the scheme (“The Two Mrs. Nahasapeemapetilons”).

Homer also lacks sensitivity to the needs and claims of others; he seems to lack both benevolence and justice. In “When Flanders Failed,” he continuously pushed Ned Flanders to sell him his furniture for dirt-cheap prices, even though he knew that Ned was broke and desperately needed money. In “Bart the Lover,” he advised Bart, in his alias as Woodrow (Mrs. Krabappel’s secret pen-lover), to break up with Mrs. Krabappel by writing her a note saying, “Dear Baby, Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you” (he prefaces this by saying to Bart that sensitive love letters are his specialty). He’s not inclined towards generosity, either; he once said to Bart, “You gave both dogs away? You know how I feel about giving!” (“The Canine Mutiny”). And Homer decided not to vote guilty on Freddy Quimby’s assault charges, not because he thought that Quimby was innocent, but because he realized that if he did so, the jury would be deadlocked and he would get to stay for free at the Springfield Palace Hotel (“The Boy Who Knew Too Much”).

Homer has a number of buddies, but he does not have friends. Aristotle emphasized the importance of friendship due to his beliefs that without friends we cannot exercise virtue and that without friends we cannot lead full, flourishing lives. Homer does not have a single genuine friend. At most he has drinking buddies (Barney, Lenny, and Carl), but he has no one with whom he shares his goals, activities, joys, and sorrows.4 Indeed, it is something of a problem even to claim that Homer has goals and activities, other than drinking, that is.

Homer’s marital and parenting skills also leave much to be desired (Aristotle seemed to have included spouses and children within the purview of friendship; see Ethics 1158b9–16). Let’s consider some of Homer’s blunders. He tried to win Lisa’s love by buying her a pony (“Lisa’s Pony”). He resented Bart for getting a “Bigger Brother” and so became a Bigger Brother himself to Pepi (whom he called “Pepsi”) (“Brother from the Same Planet”). He sent Bart to work at a burlesque salon as a form of punishment (“Bart After Dark”). Homer fueled the fire of sibling rivalry when Lisa found out she had a knack for ice hockey: “This Friday Lisa’s team is playing Bart’s team. You’re in direct competition. And don’t go easy on each other just because you’re brother and sister. I want to see you both fighting for your parents’ love” (“Lisa

on Ice”). Let’s not forget his numerous throttlings of Bart, preceded by, “Why you little . . . !” (although once, in “Mother Simpson,” it was, “I’ll Kwanza you . . . !”). Last, but certainly not least, Homer continuously forgets that Maggie exists.5

Homer’s marital skills are no better. He’s either unsupportive of or indifferent to Marge’s projects; he professed as much to Marge in “A Streetcar Named Marge.” His refusal to go to artistic shows and exhibits once led Marge to seek the companionship of Ruth Powers; their friendship landed both women in a police chase à la Thelma and Louise. Homer did apologize to Marge, but his apology is quite revealing: “Look, Marge, I’m sorry I haven’t been a better husband, I’m sorry about the time I tried to make gravy in the bathtub, I’m sorry I used your wedding dress to wax the car, and I’m sorry—oh well, let’s just say I’m sorry for the whole marriage up to this point” (“Marge on the Lam”). In “Secrets of a Successful Marriage,” Homer reached a new peak. He realized what it was that he could uniquely offer Marge, and that is “complete and utter dependency.” Indeed, even when he tries to be supportive, he ends up bungling things: Homer once tried to help Marge’s pretzel business by going to the Springfield mafia for help, thus landing Marge in the position of having to deal with Fat Tony and his cohorts (“The Twisted World of Marge Simpson”).

Furthermore, any hope for Homer that he might acquire the moral virtues would be dashed by the recognition that he lacks the one intellectual virtue necessary for an ethical character, namely, that of practical wisdom (phronesis). Phronesis is not theoretical knowledge, although Homer certainly lacks this, too.

Nor is it the knowledge of facts, although Homer certainly lacks this as well. Practical wisdom is the ability to steer one’s way through the world intelligently, morally, and in a goal-oriented way. A few examples will suffice. First, Homer subscribes to some highly dubious nuggets of wisdom. In “There’s No Disgrace Like Home,” he states, “When will I learn? The answers to life’s problems aren’t at the bottom of a bottle. They’re on TV!” And—while on the topic of bottles—he once famously toasted, “To alcohol! The cause of—and solution to—all of life’s problems” (“Homer vs. the Eighteenth Amendment”). In “The Otto Show,” he told Bart that “If something’s hard to do, then it’s not worth doing.” And in “Realty Bites,” he told Marge that “Trying is the first step towards failure.”

Second, Homer seems to lack minimal powers of inference. He once inferred that Timmy O’Toole (the fictitious boy whom Bart claimed fell down a well) was a real hero from the mere “fact” that he had fallen down a well and couldn’t get out (“Radio Bart”). He once inferred that Mayor Quimby’s policy of having a Bear Patrol was successful from the mere fact that there were no bears roaming the streets of Springfield! When Lisa pointed out that his reasoning was specious, he thought she was complimenting him (“Much Apu About Nothing”). Homer once reasoned against Lisa’s claim that stealing cable is wrong by “arguing” that Lisa is a thief, given that she herself does not pay for her meals at home and for the clothes she wears (“Homer

vs. Lisa and the 8th Commandment”). Third, Homer lacks one of the most crucial aspects of practical reasoning: the

ability to organize one’s life around important and worthy goals, and to pursue them responsibly and morally. He does have many life-long dreams, such as becoming a monorail conductor (“Marge vs. the Monorail”) and owning the Dallas Cowboys (“You Only Move Twice”), but dreams are not goals, and Homer does not have any of the latter. In any event, he certainly does not have any goals that are worthy of pursuit. He seems to be content with being an incompetent safety inspector, working in sector 7G in Burns’s power plant, watching some of his underlings being promoted ahead of him. Indeed, he was willing (“King-Size Homer”) to fatten himself so that he could be on disability and work from home. If Homer has one goal in life, it is that of the worthless life of eating, drinking, and being lazy. Add to all of this Homer’s supreme gullibility (just consider how many times Bart is able to con him), and you emerge with someone having minimal reasoning capacities.

Homer’s Character: The Glimmer of a Few Woo-hoos We should not, however, be too hard on Homer, for he does sometimes act admirably. Paradoxically, for example, even though he forgets that Maggie exists, his work station is covered with pictures of her, pictures which he himself hung up out of love for her (“And Maggie Makes Three”). Homer has also never knowingly committed adultery, even though he could have on a few occasions (“Colonel Homer” and “The Last Temptation of Homer”).6 Also, he is often affectionate and loving towards Marge: he re-married her (after divorcing her) in order to make up for their original, “crummy” wedding (“A Milhouse Divided”). Homer also has some success bonding with Lisa. Consider the following: his support of her plan to unveil the web of lies surrounding Jebediah Springfield’s origins (“Lisa the Iconclast”), supporting her confidence by entering her in the Little Miss Springfield Pageant (“Lisa the Beauty Queen”), twice sacrificing buying an air conditioner so as to get her a saxophone— twice (“Lisa’s Sax”), and taking her stealthily into the Springsonian Museum so that she can finally get to see the “Treasures of Isis” exhibit (“Lost Our Lisa”).

On occasion Homer exhibits courage. Consider the following: he lashed out at Mr. Burns for demanding too much of him (“Homer the Smithers”) and for not remembering his name (“Who Shot Mr. Burns?”), and he pummeled George Bush (his real reasons for doing so are not clear; they’re not because of party allegiances, since he befriends Gerald Ford who is also a Republican) (“Two Bad Neighbors”). Homer also exhibits acts of kindness, even for people he usually hates. In “When Flanders Failed,” he helped Ned by boosting sales at the latter’s Leftorium; in “Homer Loves Flanders,” he stood up for Ned in church (“. . . this man has turned every cheek on his body”); and in “Homer vs. Patty and Selma,” he pretended that he was the one

smoking so that Patty and Selma would not get fired for smoking at their workplace. Homer sometimes even displays intelligence and theoretical wisdom. As

examples of the former, he concocted an elaborate scheme to bring bootleg alcohol to Springfield and became the famous “Beer Baron” (“Homer vs. the Eighteenth Amendment”), and he devised a scheme to make money off of the skeleton of an “angel” (“Lisa the Skeptic”). As an example of the latter, Homer displayed rare insights on the nature of religion by deciding to stop going to church, since—as he reasoned—God is everywhere. He even cited, though without remembering his name, Jesus as someone who went against orthodox practices and yet was right to do so (“Homer the Heretic”). Homer even displays rare moments in which he seems to know his own limitations. He once asked Marge, “You’re here to see me, right?” when she showed up at the plant, thus revealing his belief that since he was a man of humble properties, he needed to make sure that Marge was there to see him (“Life on the Fast Lane”). And he double—and triple—checked Lurleen Lumpkin’s flirting with him to make sure that she really was sexually interested in him (“Colonel Homer”).

Assessment: Judging Homer What are we to make of all of this? How exactly does Homer stand up to ethical evaluation? Homer is not an evil person. While he is not a paradigm of virtue, he certainly is not malicious. The harshest reaction we can have towards him is pity. There are at least two reasons for this. The first reason is that Homer’s upbringing leaves much to be desired. To begin with, he grew up mostly in Springfield, a town whose inhabitants— with the rare exception of Lisa—have serious and severe character flaws, ranging from stupidity to malice, to being simply incompetent and clueless in the ways of the world (even Marge, who is a good candidate for being another exception to the inhabitants of Springfield, is very conventional and often lacks critical abilities7). Consider that even when the members of the Springfield chapter of Mensa governed the town (after Mayor Quimby fled), they managed to propose unfair, restrictive, and highly idealistic rules. Needless to say, chaos ensued (“They Saved Lisa’s Brain”).8

The effect of being raised in such an environment could be detrimental to one’s future character formation and intellectual abilities. Furthermore, being raised in a healthy environment is one of the main claims that grounds Aristotle’s project in the Politics: “Our purpose is to consider what form of political community is best of all for those who are most able to realize their ideal of life” (1260b25). Indeed, Aristotle’s Ethics is also aimed at the statesman who is to think of what the best ethical character is, so as to design a political community able to produce such a character. If this is correct, then one reason why we tend to pity Homer is because we

think that this aspect of his upbringing, namely, Springfield, is beyond his control. In addition, Homer’s rearing at home leaves much to be desired. His mother left

him when he was young, and his father never encouraged him to become anything of worth; when Homer did have some aspirations, his father shot them down (“Mother Simpson” and “Bart Star”). Moreover, one quality about Homer that he certainly could not control is the Simpson gene, which apparently causes a Simpson to grow more stupid as he ages. It “is defective only on the Y-chromosome” and not on the X one, and that is why Lisa and other Simpson women have been smart and successful (“Lisa the Simpson”). If so, then there is little that Homer could do to better himself. And these factors explain why we tend to look at Homer with pity rather than with disdain or hatred.

The second reason why our judgment of Homer’s character is not harsh, even though he is not virtuous, is that he is not generally a malicious person. He is selfish, he is a glutton, he is greedy, and he can be quite dumb, but he is rarely one of those people who are envious of others and who wish them ill-will. It is true that he often acts with deliberate intent to harm some people, but we think that these people somehow are not worthy of better treatment. The scorn, for example, which Homer heaps on Selma and Patty seems to be appropriate, given the way they treat him and given their scornful attitude towards him. Homer also dislikes (though he also fears) Mr. Burns. And whatever else can be said about Burns, he is the paradigm case of a greedy, evil, and ruthless capitalist who is willing to walk on a path of corpses to attain his ends.9 Lastly, Homer treats Flanders in indecent ways, ranging from indifference to disdain. But then again, Flanders is an over-bearing, naive, ever- preaching person.10 This is not to say that Homer’s treatment of him is justified, but it is to say that it is understandable. With these exceptions in mind, Homer is generally not an evil person and he does not treat people with malice. This is another reason why, though he falls short of having an ethical character, Homer does not provoke negative reactions in us.

We can, then, make a qualified judgment to the effect that Homer is not a vicious person in the sense of being ruled by vice. I say “qualified” because there is one exception to this judgment: when it comes to bodily appetites for food and drink, Homer is vicious. He does not take pleasure in eating and drinking moderately, and this rules out virtue in this domain. He rarely, if ever, has the belief to the effect that he should refrain from excessive eating and drinking, and this rules out continence and incontinence. In addition, he does not seem to think there’s anything wrong (other than occasional immediate health considerations) with indulging in food and drink, even in inappropriate venues; thus he once said to Marge, “If God didn’t want us to eat in church, He would’ve made gluttony a sin” (“King of the Hill”). These considerations should allow us to safely conclude that Homer exhibits vice in the domain of bodily appetites for food and drink.

Given the abundance of evidence and examples, we can arrive at the following judgment: Homer is not a virtuous person. A number of factors allow us to reach this conclusion, but perhaps the most salient one is that Homer does not have the stability of character that marks the virtuous person. One simply cannot count on him to do the right thing, not even with respect to actions towards his family members. Furthermore, the judgment that Homer is not virtuous is, unlike the one that he is not vicious, not qualified. For even though Homer sometimes acts correctly, his reasons for doing so are usually skewed, or at best ambiguous (his acts of courage are a prime example of this). And, as far as his family is concerned, even when Homer does what we think a good father or husband would do, there are simply too many examples which illustrate otherwise. Homer simply lacks the kind of stable character that is necessary for being virtuous.

We must also remember that in many of the cases in which Homer does do the right thing, especially as far as his family is concerned, he has to struggle against his desires to not do otherwise. Both times when he bought Lisa her saxophones, he had to struggle against his desire to buy an air-conditioner (“Lisa’s Sax”). Sometimes, despite his knowledge of what ought to be done, he chooses to do the wrong thing, thus exhibiting what the Greeks called akrasia, or “weakness of will.” For example, in “The War of the Simpsons,” he chooses to go fishing during his retreat at Catfish Lake even though he knew that his attention should be focused on Marge and on their marriage.

Homer is not a virtuous person. He exhibits vice when it comes to appetites for food and drink, and as for the other spheres of life, he shuttles back and forth between continence and incontinence. This, of course, does not show that Aristotle’s division of character types was too tidy or unrealistic or simplistic, because Aristotle’s division was a logical one, not a description of what types of people there actually are. Homer instantiates different character types, depending on the area of life with respect to which the question is raised.

Conclusion: The Importance of Being Homer At the beginning of this essay, I claimed that there is something ethically admirable about Homer Simpson. But this claim poses a problem: How can it be true if Homer is not virtuous? For if the paradigm of an ethically admirable character is being virtuous, and if Homer falls short of this standard, then the claim that he is ethically admirable seems patently false. Furthermore, even if we do not think that Homer is malicious, and even if we think that his character formation was—at least mostly—beyond his control, these factors are not enough to make him ethically admirable. For this last claim to be at least plausible, something else must be at work. And this something else cannot be the fact that Homer sometimes does the right thing, because the claim

is about him, his character, and not about a subset of his actions. In “Scenes from the Class Struggle in Springfield,” Marge realizes her error in

trying to pressure her family to conform to an elitist social circle she has recently joined. In accepting her family members for who they are, she enumerates the qualities that she likes about them (she couldn’t, though, find one for Bart). The quality she mentions of Homer is his “in-your-face humanity,” and this quality, if understood broadly enough, is not only true of him, but also goes a long way in explaining in what ways he is ethically admirable.

This quality does not just encompass those traits that lead Homer to do things in public that many of us would, to different degrees, shy away from doing, such as belching, releasing flatulence, scratching our behinds, and eating and drinking to the point of losing our senses. If it were just that, Homer would simply be a boor. Rather, it covers Homer’s love and enjoyment of life, in its most basic elements, while at the same time not giving much, if any, attention to what people think. Homer generally does not care about etiquette or about what people think of him. He is set on enjoying life—or his version of it—to the fullest. This zest for life is not calculated on his part, nor is he even necessarily conscious of it. But it manifests itself in his actions, in his attitudes, in his lack of malice, and in his childlike (maybe even childish) behavior, and, indeed, it can be found in most of the examples cited in this essay. When we add to this the fact that Homer is a struggling, “upper-lower-middleclass” citizen, working in a factory under the tyranny of a ruthless capitalist, and when we also add the fact that Homer lives in Springfield, a town which should make one stop and think before one decides that life is worth being loved, we arrive at a person who has much to be admired.

This quality that explains Homer’s admirability––let’s call it “love of life,” following Ned Flanders’s labeling of it as Homer’s “intoxicating lust for life” (“Viva Ned Flanders”)—is not a virtue as such. This is so not because it does not appear on Aristotle’s list, but because, as we well know, such a quality, if unharnessed, can be dangerous both to others and to its possessor (as, I think, it is in Homer’s case). Much like ambition, it is a positive quality, and an admirable one at that. It is also an ethical quality. It enhances, if properly possessed, the life of the person who has it by making his life more pleasurable, and it makes the rest of us want to be in this person’s company, not just so that some of it may rub off on us, but also because it is simply pleasurable to be around such people. If those qualities which contribute to a person’s happiness and overall flourishing are plausibly construed as ethical, then a quality such as love of life would fit this bill, if used and regulated by practical reason. In Homer’s case, the quality does not come harnessed by reason and it does come with other traits that make its possession dangerous. But we nevertheless do admire Homer for having it, and for having it against all of his odds.11

In addition, this quality, and especially because it comes unharnessed in Homer,

leads him to be bluntly honest about his desires and his wants—even to a fault. Where others scheme and connive while also pretending to be socially conformist, Homer is open, honest, and even blunt about who he is, what he wants, and what he thinks of others. He knows his limitations, he loves his family—in his own morally attenuated ways—and he is an in-your-face type of person.

However, I do not wish to be misunderstood. I am not arguing that Homer is, as such, an admirable person, but only that he has an admirable trait. It is tempting to slide from the latter claim to the former one, because, first, while Homer is not virtuous, he is also neither malicious nor, except for bodily appetites, vicious; second, the fact that Homer loves life despite his financially and economically modest means, and despite his growing up and living in a town such as Springfield (which is not conducive to a good life), might make us think that he is admirable for retaining his love of life in the face of these difficult situations. But the temptation must be resisted, and this is so for three reasons.

First, and as I already emphasized, the quality of love of life in Homer’s case is unregulated by reason, and this could make having it morally dangerous. Second, enjoying life is not the same as living a flourishing one. A person could indeed enjoy life to the fullest yet not lead a flourishing life. Think of someone who is fully happy spending his life counting blades of grass or collecting bottle-caps, yet who is capable of pursuing worthier goals. No matter how happy that person is, no matter how much he is enjoying his life, we surely do not want to say of his life that it is well-lived. Given the examples mentioned in the third section above, Homer is clearly capable of living a better life than the one he leads. Third, there is a logical reason: having an admirable trait does not, as such, entail that its possessor is admirable. Villains often have the trait of overcoming fear in the face of risk, and while this trait is admirable, we do not usually think of villains as admirable. Indeed, that is why we sometimes say of a ruthless person, “Well, at least he’s being consistent,” thus recognizing consistency as an admirable trait while also recognizing that it is not sufficient to make its possessor an admirable person.

Furthermore, a moment’s reflection should tell us that Homer is, indeed, not an admirable person as such. He is not virtuous, and this fact alone is enough to undermine any serious attempt to ascribe admirability to him as an overall judgment. However, sometimes non-virtuous people are nevertheless called admirable if they compensate for their lack of virtue, by, for example, giving the world artistic masterpieces. The traditional example given in this regard is of the artist Gauguin, who left his family to fend for itself while he pursued making art in Tahiti. Such extenuating factors, however, do not apply to Homer: What lasting contribution has he given the world by way of compensating for his lack of virtue so as to deserve the description “admirable”?

But Homer’s love of life is nevertheless a highly admirable trait, and this

conclusion is not trivial, for many people are tempted to see in Homer nothing but buffoonery and immorality. Moreover, Homer’s love of life stands out as an important quality especially in our age, an age in which political correctness, over-politeness, lack of willingness to judge others, inflated obsession with physical health, and pessimism about what is good and enjoyable about life reign more or less supreme. In this age, Homer Simpson—whose bumper sticker says “Single ’n’ Sassy”—shines as someone who flouts these “truths.” He is not politically correct, he is more than happy to judge others, and he certainly does not seem to be obsessed with his health. These qualities might not make Homer an admirable person, but they do make him admirable in some ways, and, more importantly, make us crave him and the Homer Simpsons of this world.12

2 Lisa and American Anti-intellectualism AEON J. SKOBLE American society has generally had a love-hate relationship with the notion of the intellectual. On the one hand, there is a sense of respect for the professor or the scientist, but at the same time there is great resentment of the “ivory tower” or the “bookish”; a defensiveness about intelligent or learned people. The republican ideals of the Founders presuppose an enlightened citizenry, yet today, the introduction of even remotely sophisticated analysis of political topics is decried as “elitism.” Everyone respects a historian, yet a historian’s opinion may be disregarded on the grounds that it is “no more valid” than that of the “working man.” Populist commentators and politicians frequently exploit this resentment of expertise while relying on it as it suits them, for example when a candidate attacks his opponent for being an “Ivy League elitist” while in fact being a product of (or relying on advisers from) a similar educational background.

Similarly, a hospital may consult a bioethicist, or it may reject the counsel of bioethicists, on the grounds that they are too abstract and unconnected to the realities of medicine. Indeed, it seems as though most people like being able to support their positions by citing experts, but then invoke populist sentiment when the experts don’t support their view. For instance, I may lend support to my argument by citing an expert who agrees with me, but if an expert disagrees, I may respond “what does he know?” or “I’m entitled to my opinion too.” Oddly, we see anti-intellectualism even among intellectuals. For example, at many universities today, both among the student body and the faculty, the role of the classics, and humanities generally, has been greatly diminished. The trend has clearly been to develop pre-professional programs and emphasize “relevance”; whereas traditional humanities classes are regarded as a luxury or an enhancement, but not truly necessary features of a college education. At best they are seen as vehicles for developing “transferable skills” such as composition or critical thinking.

There seem to be periodic pendulum swings: in the 1950s and early 1960s, there was tremendous respect for scientists, as the nation found itself competing against the Soviets in such areas as space exploration. Today, it seems the pendulum has reversed swing, as the current Zeitgeist holds all opinions to be equally valid. But at the same time, people still seem interested in what alleged experts have to say. A cursory review of TV talk shows or newspaper letters-to-the-editor reveals this ambivalence. The talk show will book an expert because, presumably, people will be interested in that person’s analysis or opinion. But the panelists or audience members who disagree with the expert will argue that their opinions, their perspectives, are just as worthwhile. A newspaper will run an opinion column by a specialist, whose analysis

on a situation may be better informed than the average person’s, but the letters from people who disagree will often be based on the underlying (if unstated) premise that “No one really knows anything” or “It’s all a matter of opinion, and mine counts too.” This last rationale is particularly insidious: in fact, if it were true that everything were merely a matter of opinion, then it actually would follow that mine is as relevant as the expert’s; indeed there would be no such thing as expertise.

So, it is fair to say that American society is conflicted about intellectuals. Respect for them seems virtually to go hand in hand with resentment. This is a puzzling social problem, and also one of great importance, for we seem to be on the verge of a new “dark ages,” where not only the notion of expertise, but all standards of rationality are being challenged. This clearly has significant social consequences. As a vehicle for exploring this issue, it may be surprising to choose a TV show which, at first glance, seems devoted to the idea that dumber is better; but actually, of the many things that The Simpsons skillfully illustrates about society, the American ambivalence about expertise and rationality is clearly one of them.1

On The Simpsons, Homer is a classic example of an anti-intellectual dolt, as are most of his acquaintances, and his son. But his daughter, Lisa, is not only pro- intellectual, she is smart beyond her years. She is extremely intelligent and sophisticated, and is often seen out-thinking those around her. Naturally, for this she is mocked by the other children at school and generally ignored by the adults. On the other hand, her favorite TV show is the same one as her brother’s: a mindlessly violent cartoon. Her treatment on the show, I argue, captures the love-hate relationship American society has with intellectuals.2 Before turning to the ways in which it does this, let’s have a closer look at the problem.