Simon Gros

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Philosophy, in its ancient Greek articulation, was divided into three principal branches: physics, ethics, and logic. This tripartite schema is not arbitrary but corresponds intimately to the structure of human reason itself, and thus it remains a fitting and enduring classification. Little requires amendment in this scheme, save perhaps the addition of a unifying principle—one that would not only confirm the completeness of the division but also provide a rational foundation for the necessary articulation of its internal parts.

All rational cognition divides into two fundamental kinds: material and formal. Material philosophy concerns itself with determinate objects and the laws governing them; it seeks knowledge of things. Formal philosophy, by contrast, abstracts from all particular content and attends solely to the form and structure of understanding and reason itself—that is, to the general rules of thinking as such, irrespective of what is thought. This latter, purely formal discipline is known as Logic.

Material philosophy, having as its object not thought itself but the domain of beings and events, branches further into two domains, corresponding to the two fundamental kinds of law to which objects may be subject: the laws of nature and the laws of freedom. The science that investigates the former is called Physics, or the doctrine of nature; that which treats the latter is called Ethics, or the doctrine of morals.

Logic, by its very nature, can contain no empirical element. It cannot ground its universal and necessary rules of thinking on experience, for to do so would undermine its very function—as a pure doctrine of reason, it must serve as a canon valid for all thinking a priori, independent of contingent circumstances. It is concerned not with how we do think, but with how we must think, if we are to think at all.

By contrast, both natural and moral philosophy admit of an empirical component. Natural philosophy, or physics, must consult experience in order to discern the laws governing the phenomena of nature, for its object is nature as it appears. Moral philosophy, though grounded in principles of freedom, must also account for the human will as it is affected by natural impulses and inclinations—hence, it too includes an empirical aspect. Physics formulates laws in accordance with what happens; ethics, in accordance with what ought to happen—even as it remains aware that such ideals are often thwarted by actual conduct.

Philosophy, insofar as it derives its principles from experience, is termed empirical philosophy. Its conclusions are conditioned by observation and the contingencies of the sensible world. In contrast, that philosophy which grounds its doctrines solely in a priori principles—independent of all experience—is called pure philosophy.

When this pure philosophy concerns itself merely with the formal rules of thought, without relation to any particular object, it bears the name Logic. But when it extends its reach to specific objects of the understanding—examining the conditions and principles by which such objects may be known or determined a priori—it becomes Metaphysics, the systematic investigation of reason in its relation to possible experience and beyond.

From this distinction emerges the conception of a twofold metaphysics: one concerning nature, the other morals. Each corresponds to one of the two domains governed by laws—those of necessity and those of freedom—and each gives rise to a science that is both empirical and rational in character.

In the case of physics, the empirical part draws from observation and experiment, while the rational part formulates the a priori principles governing the behavior of natural phenomena. Ethics, too, contains this duality: its empirical side, concerned with how human beings do act under the influence of natural inclinations, is more properly termed practical anthropology. Its rational side, which determines how human beings ought to act under laws of freedom, is what properly constitutes morality.

It is a familiar truth that every art, craft, and technical occupation has advanced through the division of labor. This principle—that no individual undertakes every task, but each confines himself to a specific kind of work, characterized by a distinct method and execution—yields both greater precision and facility in performance. Through such specialization, each activity is cultivated to a higher degree of mastery.

Wherever such distinctions are lacking—where each person indiscriminately assumes all roles and responsibilities—the practice of the craft remains crude, undeveloped, and mired in the rawness of its beginnings. Without this differentiation, human endeavor stagnates in a condition of cultural immaturity and technical barbarism.

It would not be unreasonable to inquire whether pure philosophy, in all its domains, ought to be entrusted to distinct specialists—whether the general state of philosophical inquiry might not be improved were it freed from the confusion sown by those who indiscriminately blend empirical observation with rational principles, tailoring their mixture to suit public taste or conventions they scarcely comprehend. These self-styled freethinkers, who deal in this commerce of mixed elements, are often contrasted with those devoted solely to rational inquiry—labeled speculators or dreamers—whose efforts, though more austere, are no less misunderstood.

Given that these two forms of inquiry differ fundamentally in method, and may indeed demand wholly different aptitudes, it seems unwise to expect both from the same individual without risking a dilution of rigor and the production of philosophical mediocrity. Yet I do not pursue this broader question here.

Rather, I ask only whether the very nature of the sciences in question does not compel us to separate rigorously the empirical from the rational. Just as a metaphysics of nature must precede empirical physics, so too must a metaphysics of morals precede any practical anthropology. Both must be wholly purified of empirical admixture if we are to determine what pure reason—unaided by experience—is capable of accomplishing in each case, and to identify the origin of its a priori teachings.

Whether this task is taken up by the multitude of so-called moral philosophers or only by the few who recognize its true calling is a matter of no present concern.

Since my present inquiry is concerned solely with moral philosophy, I shall narrow the preceding question accordingly: Is it not of the highest necessity to establish—at least once—a pure moral philosophy, entirely freed from all empirical content and from everything that pertains merely to anthropology?

Such a demand is not arbitrary. The very concept of duty, and the universal form of moral law as it is ordinarily understood, already point unmistakably to the need for a doctrine grounded not in the contingent features of human nature, but in principles of pure reason. The necessity and universality we ascribe to moral obligation cannot arise from experience; they presuppose a foundation wholly a priori.

It must be universally acknowledged that a law can only be called moral—that is, capable of grounding an obligation—if it bears within itself absolute necessity. A command such as “you ought not to lie” cannot be understood as binding merely for human beings under specific conditions; it must hold for all rational beings as such. This same demand for unconditional validity applies to all truly moral laws.

Therefore, the source of moral obligation cannot lie in the contingent nature of the human being, nor in the empirical conditions of the world in which he finds himself. It must instead be sought a priori, grounded solely in the concepts of pure reason. Any rule based, even in part, on empirical considerations—no matter how broadly applicable or practical—may be a pragmatic maxim or a practical guideline, but it can never attain the status of a moral law. For such a law must owe its authority not to experience but to reason alone.

Thus, moral laws—and the principles from which they are derived—differ not merely in degree, but in kind, from all other forms of practical knowledge that admit any empirical content. Their distinctiveness lies not in their scope or force, but in their origin: they are grounded not in observation or psychological insight, but in reason alone.

In this respect, moral philosophy depends entirely on its pure component. When it concerns itself with the human being, it does not draw upon knowledge of his empirical character—that is, upon anthropology—but instead addresses him in his essential nature as a rational being. It does not infer laws from his behavior or circumstances; it gives him laws a priori, laws that bind precisely because he is capable of reason.

To be sure, these a priori moral laws do not render experience wholly superfluous. They require a faculty of judgment—one that is refined through experience—in order to accomplish two essential tasks: first, to recognize the particular situations in which the universal law applies; and second, to facilitate the law’s entry into the human will, endowing it with motivating force in practical life.

For although the human will, as a rational capacity, is capable of grasping the idea of a pure practical reason, it is also subject to a multitude of inclinations and contingent impulses. Thus, while the moral law may be intellectually apprehended, its realization in conduct—in concreto—is far from automatic. It demands the cultivation of moral sensitivity and inner strength to make reason effective amid the pressures of sensible life.

A metaphysics of morals is thus not merely desirable, but indispensably necessary. Its necessity does not arise solely from a speculative interest in tracing the origin of practical principles that reside a priori within our reason. Rather, it is demanded by the very preservation of morality itself.

So long as morality lacks a clear and universally valid rational foundation—a guiding thread, a supreme normative standard—its judgments remain vulnerable to distortion and corruption. Without such a foundation, moral principles are easily bent to suit inclination, custom, or convenience, and their authority collapses into mere opinion. Only through a pure moral philosophy can we safeguard the integrity of the moral law against such degeneration.

In determining what is morally good, mere conformity to the moral law is not sufficient. The action must be performed for the sake of the law itself—that is, out of reverence for the law as such, and not from ulterior motives or contingent incentives.

If an action merely happens to align with the moral law, but is motivated by inclination, self-interest, or external pressure, its moral worth is nullified. Such accidental conformity is inherently unstable: the same non-moral motive that happens to yield a lawful act in one instance may, and often does, lead to unlawful conduct in another. Only when the moral law serves as the sole and determining ground of action can we speak of true morality.

The moral law, in its purity and authenticity, is what matters above all in the domain of practical reason. Yet such purity can be found nowhere except in pure philosophy—that is, in a metaphysics of morals. It follows, then, that this pure philosophy must precede all moral inquiry; without it, no true moral philosophy is possible.

Any doctrine that attempts to ground morality by blending a priori principles with empirical considerations fails not only in method, but in purpose. Such a mixture does not deserve the name philosophy, for philosophy distinguishes itself from ordinary rational reflection precisely by articulating its principles with systematic clarity and separation, rather than in the confused and contingent manner of common understanding.

Still less can such a hybrid doctrine be called moral philosophy, for by contaminating the moral law with empirical elements, it compromises the very purity of morals and thus defeats the end it claims to serve.

Let no one suppose, then, that the demand for a pure moral philosophy has already been satisfied by the preparatory work presented by the renowned Wolff under the title of universal practical philosophy. That effort, while systematic and influential, cannot serve as a substitute for the kind of inquiry undertaken here, nor does it render superfluous the need to open an entirely new field.

For precisely because Wolff’s doctrine was meant to be universal, it abstained from focusing on any specific kind of will—least of all a will determined entirely by a priori principles, uninfluenced by empirical motivations. It did not investigate the idea of a pure will, which alone is suitable as the subject of a metaphysics of morals.

Instead, his philosophy treated willing in general, encompassing all actions and their accompanying conditions as they occur in experience. In doing so, it remained at the level of empirical generality, not moral purity, and thus did not—and could not—fulfill the rigorous demands of pure ethics.

In this respect, Wolff’s universal practical philosophy stands in the same relation to a true metaphysics of morals as general logic does to transcendental philosophy. The former presents the general forms and rules of thinking as such, without regard to the origin or content of its concepts; the latter, by contrast, is concerned solely with the pure acts and principles of thought—those through which the understanding cognizes objects a priori, independently of all experience.

Likewise, a metaphysics of morals is not content to describe volition in general or to derive principles from observation; it seeks to identify the necessary laws of a pure will, which determines itself in accordance with reason alone. Just as transcendental philosophy isolates the conditions for a priori cognition, so too must a pure moral philosophy isolate the conditions for a priori determination of the will.

The metaphysics of morals is thus not concerned with human willing in its empirical variety, nor with the multitude of contingent conditions that psychology may enumerate. Its task is more fundamental: it seeks to examine the idea and the principles of a possible pure will—a will determined solely by reason, independent of all sensuous influences.

That universal practical philosophy has also addressed moral laws and duties does not undermine this claim—for it has done so without justification and in a manner consistent with its own limitations. Its authors do not distinguish, as they must, between motives that are given purely a priori by reason—motives that alone are genuinely moral—and those drawn from experience, which the understanding merely generalizes into rules through inductive comparison. Instead, they treat all such motives indiscriminately, without regard for their distinct origins, reducing them to a common metric and aggregating them as if they were homogeneous.

In doing so, they construct a conception of obligation that lacks the very essence of morality. It is a conception suitable, perhaps, for a practical philosophy that remains indifferent to the critical distinction between a priori and a posteriori grounds—but it is wholly inadequate for a philosophy that aspires to establish the pure moral law in its proper dignity and necessity.

With the aim of ultimately presenting a complete metaphysics of morals, I here offer, in advance, this groundwork—a preparatory investigation designed to lay bare the fundamental principles. Admittedly, the proper and definitive foundation for such a moral metaphysics can be found only in the Critique of Pure Practical Reason, just as the earlier Critique of Pure Speculative Reason provided the groundwork for metaphysics in general, by delimiting the scope and authority of theoretical reason.

Yet the Critique of Pure Practical Reason, though indispensable, does not bear the same urgency as its speculative counterpart. In moral matters, even the ordinary human understanding—unaided by philosophy—can be led with surprising ease to remarkable clarity and coherence. By contrast, the theoretical use of pure reason is riddled with dialectical illusion and requires strict critique to restrain its pretensions.

Moreover, for the Critique of Pure Practical Reason to be truly complete, it must ultimately reveal its unity with speculative reason under a single, shared principle. For it is one and the same reason that operates in both domains; only its mode of employment—whether directed toward what is, or toward what ought to be—differentiates its function.

However, to pursue that comprehensive unity between speculative and practical reason here would require venturing into an entirely different set of considerations—ones that would exceed the present scope and risk introducing confusion rather than clarity. Such an undertaking must be reserved for another occasion.

For this reason, I have refrained from entitling this work a Critique of Pure Practical Reason. Instead, I have designated it more modestly and appropriately as a Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals—a preliminary inquiry, whose purpose is not to construct the system itself, but to prepare its foundations with the requisite clarity and purity.

Thirdly, although the term metaphysics of morals may strike many as forbiddingly abstract, the subject itself—once its foundations are clearly established—is remarkably amenable to popular understanding. Morality, after all, speaks to reason in every human being, and its essential principles can be made accessible even to the common understanding, provided they are not obscured by unnecessary complexity.

It is therefore expedient to treat this foundational inquiry separately—to isolate the necessary subtlety of its conceptual groundwork from the more widely accessible teachings that may later be derived from it. In this way, the rigor of the foundation will not encumber the clarity of its practical application.

This Groundwork, however, has no other aim than to inquire into and establish the supreme principle of morality. That task, though limited in scope, constitutes a complete and self-contained undertaking—one pursued for its own sake, as the necessary first step in any truly philosophical treatment of ethics.

It must, therefore, be sharply distinguished from all other moral inquiries, whether they concern the application of principles to particular duties, the cultivation of virtue, or the empirical study of moral behavior. Before such questions can be meaningfully addressed, the principle that alone confers moral validity upon them must be made clear.

Admittedly, the claims I advance regarding this fundamental question—which is both of great importance and, until now, far from conclusively settled—would gain in both clarity and credibility were the supreme moral principle applied across the entire system of moral philosophy. Its validity and sufficiency would be further confirmed through its demonstrable adequacy in every domain to which it is properly applied.

Indeed, the principle exhibits a remarkable power of coherence and explanatory force wherever it is introduced—shedding light on diverse duties, resolving apparent conflicts, and providing a unified ground for moral judgment. Yet even without such systematic extension, the task of establishing the principle in its own right remains a decisive and independent contribution.

Nevertheless, I found it necessary to forego this advantage—an advantage which, upon closer inspection, would serve more to promote personal conviction than to advance universal understanding. For the apparent ease of application and the seeming adequacy of a principle in practice do not, by themselves, constitute a secure demonstration of its truth.

On the contrary, such convenience often fosters a subtle prejudice, encouraging one to accept the principle uncritically, and to neglect the more difficult task of subjecting it to a rigorous investigation—examining it not in light of its consequences, but solely in terms of its origin and intrinsic validity. It is this latter task, and this alone, that this Groundwork is meant to fulfill.

In composing this work, I have chosen the method which, in my judgment, best suits the task of uncovering the supreme principle of morality from within the resources of ordinary moral cognition. This method proceeds analytically—beginning with common moral understanding, and ascending from it to the determination of its implicit but unrecognized ground. Then, in a synthetic return, it descends once more—from the principle, once established, back to the realm of common moral experience—in order to show how this principle already operates there, albeit tacitly.

Accordingly, the structure of this inquiry unfolds in three successive stages:

First Section: A transition from common rational moral cognition—that is, the ordinary moral understanding possessed by all rational agents—to philosophical moral cognition, where this understanding is clarified, systematized, and traced to its underlying principles.

Second Section: A transition from popular moral philosophy, which remains mixed with empirical considerations, to a metaphysics of morals, in which the moral law is derived solely from pure reason and purified of all empirical admixture.

Third Section: A final step leading from the metaphysics of morals to the Critique of Pure Practical Reason, in which the authority, scope, and unity of practical reason are subjected to critical evaluation in light of its autonomy and its relation to speculative reason.

First Section

Transition from Common Rational Moral Cognition to Philosophical Moral Cognition

There exists nothing—either within the world or even beyond the bounds of conceivable reality—that can be called good without qualification, save only a good will.

Endowments of the intellect, such as understanding, wit, and judgment—likewise qualities of temperament such as courage, resoluteness, and steadfastness of purpose—are in many respects admirable and desirable. They are, to be sure, gifts of nature that enhance human capability and social value. Yet all these talents, however noble, are not unconditionally good. Their moral worth depends entirely on the will that governs their use.

Indeed, these very qualities may become immensely dangerous and morally perverse if they are wielded by a will that is not good. It is the inner disposition of the will—its character—that ultimately determines whether such capacities serve the cause of good or are instrumental in the execution of evil.

The same applies to gifts of fortune. Power, wealth, honor—even health, and the entire well-being and contentment with one’s condition, under the name of happiness—can produce boldness and, thereby, often also arrogance, unless a good will is present to correct their influence on the mind and to render the principles of action thereby affected universally purposeful.

Indeed, it must be added: a rational, impartial observer cannot possibly take pleasure in the uninterrupted prosperity of a being in whom there is no trace of a pure and good will. Thus, the good will appears to be the indispensable condition of being worthy of happiness itself.

There are, to be sure, certain traits—such as moderation in affections, self-control, and measured reflection—that may seem particularly suited to promote and support the exercise of a good will. They may even facilitate its realization and render its operation more effective in practice.

Yet even these qualities, however conducive they may be to moral conduct, possess no intrinsic or unconditional worth. Their value is always conditional upon the presence of a good will, which alone confers upon them their rightful measure of esteem. It is this good will that delimits their moral standing and prevents them from being regarded as good without qualification. Without the moral orientation provided by such a will, these traits may become instruments of vanity, self-interest, or manipulation.

Qualities such as moderation in one’s affections, restraint over passions, and the capacity for calm, deliberate judgment are not merely instrumentally useful; they are often taken to signify something of the inner worth of the person. Indeed, they have been lauded throughout antiquity as components of virtue in the fullest sense.

Yet despite such high praise, they cannot be regarded as unconditionally good. Their value is always dependent upon their orientation by a good will. Severed from this moral grounding, these traits may serve the most depraved ends. The composed, calculating self-mastery of a cold-blooded scoundrel, for example, does not render him admirable—it renders him far more dangerous, and more morally repugnant than he would appear without such inner control.

Without the guidance of a will determined by duty, even the most disciplined character becomes a vehicle for greater wrongdoing.

The good will is not good by virtue of what it produces, nor because of any success it may have in achieving particular ends. Its goodness does not lie in its usefulness, its effectiveness, or its consequences. Rather, the good will is good in itself—solely through the act of willing in accordance with the moral law.

When we consider the good will in isolation, abstracted from all external outcomes or accomplishments, it commands a dignity that is incomparably higher than anything that might be achieved by it in service to inclination—even the entire sum of all human inclinations, desires, or pleasures combined. No empirical benefit or gratification can rival the worth of a will that acts purely from duty.

Its moral value is intrinsic and unalterable, independent of success, and it shines even in failure.

Even if, by some cruel turn of fate or through the stinginess of a nature more stepmother than mother, a good will were entirely deprived of the capacity to realize its ends—if, despite the most strenuous exertion, it achieved nothing—so long as the will itself remained morally determined, it would retain its full worth.

By “good will” is meant not a vague wish or passive inclination toward the right, but the complete and deliberate effort to act according to duty, employing all means within one’s power. Even should this effort prove ultimately ineffective, the will would still shine with its own inner light, like a jewel whose value lies not in its use, but in its intrinsic brilliance.

Its worth is not measured by external achievement, but by its moral intention—which remains inviolable.

The usefulness or fruitlessness of the good will can neither enhance nor diminish its value in the slightest. These external outcomes are like the setting of a jewel: they may make it easier to handle in the everyday commerce of human affairs, or render it more attractive to those unaccustomed to discerning true worth. But they do not alter the jewel’s intrinsic value, nor do they recommend it to those who are genuine judges of what is morally precious.

For those attuned to the inner dignity of the will, such superficial embellishments are irrelevant. The moral worth of the will lies entirely in its principle of determination—not in what it accomplishes by chance or through favorable conditions.

Yet there is something undeniably paradoxical—even unsettling—in the claim that a mere will, entirely apart from its usefulness or success, possesses absolute value. This assertion runs so counter to the usual way of assessing worth—where consequences and utility dominate—that, despite its seeming agreement with the common moral consciousness, it inevitably provokes suspicion.

One is tempted to ask whether this noble idea is not perhaps the product of moral idealism or exalted fantasy—a dignified illusion rather than a genuine insight. Might we, in affirming the unconditional value of the good will, have misunderstood the function of reason and its proper role in governing human volition?

Such doubts must be confronted directly—especially if we are to establish whether reason truly serves, not as an instrument for achieving happiness, but as a legislator of moral law.

For this reason, let us subject this idea to examination from that point of view.

In examining the natural endowments of an organized being—that is, a being whose constitution is purposefully adapted for life—we presuppose a fundamental principle of teleological design: namely, that no faculty or organ is present except for a purpose to which it is also the most fitting and aptly suited means.

Nature, we assume, does not act in vain. Every capacity implanted in a living creature is presumed to be functionally oriented toward the end for which it is best equipped.

Now, if in a being endowed with reason and will the true end intended by nature were simply self-preservation, well-being, or—in a word—happiness, then nature would appear to have made a singularly ill-suited choice in assigning reason as the faculty to govern this being’s conduct.

For all actions necessary to secure such ends, and the principles guiding them, would have been far more reliably entrusted to instinct. Instinct acts with precision, immediacy, and certainty—whereas reason is slow, fallible, and prone to misdirection. Thus, if happiness were nature’s final aim, reason would be a clumsy and inadequate instrument, and its role in our constitution would be not just unnecessary, but obstructive.

And even if reason were granted to this favored creature in addition to instinct, its proper function would then be limited to contemplation—to reflect upon the harmonious constitution of its nature, to admire the efficiency with which its instincts achieve happiness, and to rejoice in the beneficence of the cause that so wisely ordered its being.

In such a case, reason would serve a merely theoretical or aesthetic role, not a practical one. It would never have been intended to govern the creature’s faculty of desire, let alone supplant instinct as the guide of life. To entrust the pursuit of happiness to the guidance of reason—a faculty so vulnerable to error and illusion—would be to undermine the very ends that nature, through instinct, could have achieved with far greater certainty and economy.

In short, reason would have been barred altogether from practical use—restrained from presuming, with its limited and uncertain foresight, to devise a plan for happiness or to determine the means by which that happiness might be secured. Its role would have been purely speculative, not directive.

Had nature truly intended happiness as the supreme end of such a being, she would have retained for instinct not only the selection of ends, but also the prescription of means—entrusting both entirely to a faculty that acts with unerring immediacy. Such a course would have displayed far greater wisdom, ensuring that the creature achieved its natural aims efficiently and without the inner conflict and error that reason inevitably introduces.

Indeed, experience itself confirms that the more human beings cultivate and exercise reason with the express aim of enjoying life and achieving happiness, the further they often stray from any true or lasting satisfaction. Rather than bringing clarity or contentment, the pursuit of happiness through reason frequently leads to disillusionment and restlessness.

It is for this reason that many—especially those most practiced in rational reflection, and honest enough to confront its results—come to feel a subtle misology, a kind of hatred of reason. They come to suspect that, after weighing all the supposed benefits of rational advancement—not only in the invention of new luxuries, but even in the cultivation of science and intellectual refinement—they have, in truth, only added burden to life, not joy. The sciences themselves begin to appear as another form of sophisticated indulgence, adding complexity without contributing to genuine happiness.

Reason, in this light, seems less a guide to fulfillment than a source of conflict, anxiety, and ultimately dissatisfaction.

Consequently, such individuals often find themselves envying, rather than despising, those more ordinary people who live closer to the guidance of natural instinct. These simpler souls do not burden themselves with the complexities of reasoned calculation, nor do they permit reason to exercise an overwhelming influence on their daily conduct.

In their apparent ease and contentment, these less reflective individuals exemplify a mode of living untroubled by the incessant doubts and conflicts that accompany the overuse of reason in the pursuit of happiness. The cultivated rationalist, weighed down by intellectual toil, cannot help but regard this instinct-guided existence with a mixture of envy and longing.

To this extent, we must acknowledge that the judgment of those who temper or moderate the extravagant claims regarding the benefits reason is said to bestow upon human happiness is neither bitter nor ungrateful toward the wise governance of nature. Their critique is not born of cynicism or ingratitude, but rather rests tacitly upon a conception of a higher and nobler end to human existence—one for which reason is truly destined.

This superior end transcends the private and contingent aims of individual happiness, and demands that such aims be largely subordinated to the dictates of reason as the highest condition of a worthy life. In other words, these moderate voices recognize that reason’s proper role lies not in the pursuit of pleasure or satisfaction, but in the governance of the will in accordance with an objective moral purpose.

Given that reason is insufficiently equipped to guide the will securely in relation to its objects and to the fulfillment of all our desires—which reason itself often multiplies—and recognizing that natural instinct would have directed us far more reliably in these practical matters, one might wonder why reason was bestowed upon us at all as a practical faculty.

Yet, since reason has been granted to influence the will, its true vocation cannot be to serve merely as a means toward contingent ends, such as happiness or satisfaction. Rather, reason’s highest and proper task must be to produce a will that is good in itself—a will whose goodness is intrinsic, unconditional, and independent of any external aims or consequences.

And for this sole purpose reason was absolutely necessary—assuming, of course, that nature acts with purpose and intent in the allocation of faculties to its creatures. The will thus produced need not constitute the only good, nor exhaust the full range of goods; rather, it must be the highest good, the foundation upon which all other goods rest, including every desire for happiness.

In this way, the good will serves as the condition of possibility for the moral worth of all other ends, subordinating even the pursuit of happiness to the primacy of moral law.

Viewed in this light, it accords entirely with the wisdom of nature that the cultivation of reason—essential for realizing the first and unconditioned purpose of the will—may impede the pursuit of the second purpose, which is always conditional and contingent: namely, happiness. Indeed, reason’s development may even diminish or negate happiness in this life, without implying that nature’s design is flawed or purposeless.

For reason, discerning its highest practical vocation in the establishment of a good will, attains a form of satisfaction unique to itself—a satisfaction that flows from fulfilling a self-imposed purpose. This satisfaction is distinct from the pleasures of happiness; it is a contentment grounded in the autonomy and moral law that reason enacts within the will.

This commitment may entail the sacrifice of many ends rooted in inclination and desire. Yet such sacrifices do not undermine the purposiveness of nature’s design. For reason derives its contentment not from pleasure or sensory gratification, but from acting in accordance with principles it has autonomously legislated.

Thus, the will guided by reason finds its fulfillment in moral self-governance—a form of satisfaction distinct from, and often opposed to, the fleeting enjoyments of inclination.

To advance the concept of a will that is esteemed in itself—one that is good without reference to any further end—we must clarify an idea already present within natural, sound understanding. This concept need not be introduced anew, but brought into sharper focus. It occupies the highest place in the hierarchy of moral worth, serving as the condition of possibility for all other moral evaluations.

To this end, we turn our attention to the concept of duty—the formal expression of the moral law as it commands the will to act from pure respect for that law alone.

The concept of duty inherently includes the notion of a good will, though it is presented here under certain subjective limitations and obstacles. These hindrances do not diminish or obscure the idea of the good will; rather, they serve to illuminate and emphasize its character by contrast.

Through the experience of conflict, restraint, and moral struggle—conditions captured by the concept of duty—the purity and indispensability of the good will become all the more evident.

At this stage, I shall exclude from consideration all actions already universally recognized as contrary to duty, regardless of any usefulness or benefit they might incidentally produce. In such cases, the question of whether they could have been performed from duty does not even arise, since their nature is fundamentally opposed to duty.

By setting these actions aside, the focus remains on those acts whose moral worth is genuinely in question, allowing a clearer analysis of what it means to act from duty itself.

I shall further exclude from our present inquiry those actions that indeed conform to duty, but which individuals undertake without any immediate inclination toward them, instead being impelled by some alternative motive or self-serving interest.

In such cases, it is comparatively straightforward to discern whether the action was performed from duty proper, or merely in conformity with duty as a means to satisfy other ends. This distinction, though important, falls outside the present focus, which is to examine actions whose moral worth hinges explicitly on their motivation by duty itself.

The distinction, however, becomes considerably more subtle and challenging when the action not only conforms to duty but is also performed by a subject who has an immediate inclination toward it. In such cases, discerning whether the action is done from duty or merely in accordance with duty—motivated by natural desire rather than moral principle—requires a more refined examination.

This complexity highlights the critical importance of understanding the motive behind actions, rather than simply their external conformity to moral law.

For example: It is unquestionably a duty that a shopkeeper should not overcharge an inexperienced customer. In busy commercial settings, a prudent and intelligent merchant will typically maintain a fixed, uniform price for all customers—so that even a child can purchase goods on the same terms as anyone else. In this way, honest service is rendered.

However, this external conformity to duty is by no means sufficient to conclude that the merchant acts from duty or from the principle of honesty. The merchant’s motivation may well stem from prudence, self-interest, or concern for reputation, rather than from an internal recognition of duty as a moral imperative.

The merchant’s conduct is primarily dictated by self-interest; maintaining fixed prices serves his own advantage by fostering trust and repeat business. While it is conceivable that he might also feel an immediate inclination—a genuine benevolence or affection toward his customers—that leads him to treat all equally and refrain from favoritism in pricing, such a motive cannot be readily assumed in this context.

Therefore, the merchant’s action, though outwardly in accordance with duty, lacks the internal moral motivation that would qualify it as done from duty proper.

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Thus, the merchant’s action is neither performed from duty nor from any immediate inclination toward honesty or fairness; rather, it is motivated solely by self-interested considerations. The external conformity to moral law masks a fundamentally different, non-moral source of motivation.

By contrast, the preservation of one’s own life is undoubtedly a duty, and, moreover, it is accompanied by a strong immediate inclination in every person to secure that end.

Yet precisely because this inclination is so natural and universal, the often anxious and vigorous care with which most individuals attend to their own survival lacks inner moral worth. The maxim guiding such conduct, though conforming to duty, is devoid of moral content—for it arises from self-preservation rather than from respect for moral law.

Indeed, these individuals act in conformity with duty when they preserve their lives; however, their actions are not performed from duty. The underlying motivation remains rooted in natural inclination and self-interest, rather than in the recognition and respect for duty as a moral imperative.

Conversely, consider the case in which adversity and hopeless grief have extinguished all desire for life; where the afflicted individual, though unyielding in spirit and indignant at his fate rather than cowardly or defeated, chooses death yet nevertheless preserves his life—not out of love for it, nor from fear, but from duty.

It is in such circumstances—and only then—that the maxim underlying his conduct possesses genuine moral worth. Here, the action arises not from inclination or self-preservation, but from a conscious commitment to duty that transcends personal desire.

To act benevolently wherever one is able is a clear duty. Beyond this moral requirement, there exist many individuals endowed with a compassionate nature who derive genuine inner pleasure from spreading joy to others. This delight is authentic and free from any hidden motives of vanity or self-interest.

Such persons take satisfaction not merely in the happiness of others, but in the knowledge that this happiness is the direct result of their own benevolent actions.

Yet I maintain that even in such cases—however dutiful and amiable the action appears—it still lacks genuine moral worth. Such actions remain on the same plane as other natural inclinations. Consider, for example, the desire for honor: when it coincides with actions that are indeed beneficial and conform to duty, it may rightly be praised and encouraged. However, it does not thereby attain moral esteem.

The fundamental deficiency in the maxim lies in its lack of moral content—specifically, that actions must be done not from inclination, but from duty. Only then can they possess true moral value.

Suppose, then, that the philanthropist’s mind is shrouded in sorrow, so profound that it extinguishes all sensitivity to the suffering of others. Though he still possesses the capacity and means to aid those in need, the plight of others fails to move him, overwhelmed as he is by his own burdens.

Yet, if in this state of emotional numbness he rouses himself from such indifference and performs the charitable act—not out of natural inclination, but from duty—then, and only then, does the action possess genuine moral worth. The moral value resides precisely in the will’s resistance to inclination and its obedience to duty in spite of it.

Moreover, consider the case where nature has endowed an individual with little or no natural sympathy—a person who, though otherwise honest, is by temperament cold and indifferent to the sufferings of others. Perhaps this arises because he possesses a special capacity for patience and endurance in the face of his own misfortunes, and accordingly expects the same resilience from others.

Though nature has not made him a born philanthropist—which in itself is no diminishment of his worth—would he not still be capable of discovering within himself a source of moral motivation far surpassing the value of mere kindness of temperament?

Such a source would confer upon his actions a higher moral worth, rooted not in natural feeling, but in the exercise of duty.

Certainly! It is precisely at this point that the value of character emerges—the highest moral value, incomparable in its dignity: namely, that the individual performs good actions not from inclination, but from duty.

This marks the true moral excellence of character, where conduct is governed not by fleeting feelings or natural predispositions, but by steadfast adherence to moral law.

The pursuit of one’s own happiness constitutes a duty—albeit an indirect one—since a persistent discontent with one’s condition, amid numerous cares and unmet needs, readily becomes a potent temptation to transgress duty.

Maintaining a reasonable degree of satisfaction is therefore necessary, not merely for personal well-being, but to uphold the moral integrity of one’s will against the allure of self-serving deviation.

Even setting aside considerations of duty, all human beings inherently possess a powerful and intimate inclination toward happiness. This is because, within the concept of happiness, all individual inclinations converge and combine into a unified whole—a comprehensive end that synthesizes the diverse desires of the human heart.

Thus, the pursuit of happiness is a natural and universal drive, deeply embedded in our nature.

The difficulty, however, lies in the fact that the prescriptions for attaining happiness often conflict with many individual inclinations. Moreover, no one can form a definite or secure conception of total satisfaction encompassing all desires under the broad ideal of happiness.

Consequently, it is unsurprising that a single, well-defined inclination—offering clear and immediate gratification—may outweigh this vague, overarching idea. For example, a man afflicted with gout might choose to indulge in what pleases him in the moment, accepting the inevitable consequences, because, in his judgment, he is unwilling to forgo present enjoyment based on uncertain hopes of future health and well-being.

Yet even in such cases—where the general inclination toward happiness fails to govern the will, and where considerations of health are absent from the calculation—there still remains a moral law: namely, that one ought to promote one’s own happiness not from inclination, but from duty.

This law commands that the pursuit of happiness be regulated by reason and moral principle, rather than left to the arbitrary sway of immediate desires.

And it is only under such conditions—as in all others—that an individual’s conduct possesses genuine moral worth. The moral value of actions arises not from their conformity to duty alone, but from their being motivated by duty, independent of inclination.

Thus, without question, this understanding aligns with the scriptural injunctions commanding us to love our neighbor, even our enemy. Such love, to be truly moral, must spring not from feeling or natural affection, but from the resolute commitment of the will to act according to moral law.

Love as mere inclination cannot be commanded; it arises spontaneously and cannot be subjected to the authority of reason. In contrast, beneficence performed from duty—even when no natural inclination urges us, and indeed when a strong and persistent aversion actively resists—is practical love, not pathological.

This love is rooted in the will, grounded in principles of action, rather than in the mutable susceptibility of feeling or transient sympathy. It is a resolute commitment to moral law, independent of emotional disposition.

And it is precisely this kind of love—practical love—that alone can be commanded.