Let us consider the case of a man who is facing a difficult decision—a decision, let us say, which will affect me. This decision involves a matter of some importance, and so I am deeply concerned that the man should make the right decision—right, suitable, impartial, just. I am not certain that he will in fact make the right decision, for I do not know him well enough to judge. I do not know what he will decide. What conditions would I like to see this man fulfill in making his decision? What specifications should he meet? What are the prerequisites for a right, suitable, impartial, and just decision?

What qualities should a person possess who has the responsibility of making decisions? Clearly this is a question with far-reaching implications. For after all, everyone has to make decisions every day, has to choose between various alternatives—even if the choice involves nothing more than the manner in which we greet someone, whether our face should express approval or disapproval when we hear a bit of gossip, what information to give someone who asks us a question, whether to comply with or turn down a request, whether or not to criticize something, whether or not to participate in what others are doing, whether or not to indulge our inclinations, and so on. However, our judgment is less biased when we ourselves are not the ones who have to make the decision, when the matter in question does not concern what we “really” ought to do and be. Therefore let us turn back to that man I mentioned, who is facing an important and difficult decision which directly affects us. What qualities, what attitude do we consider it necessary and desirable for him to possess and adopt? What kind of person should he be if he is to arrive at a right and just decision?

Well, we would reply, first and foremost this man should have the ability—the ability and the inclination—to see things as they really are. He should possess a thorough, not a merely approximate knowledge of the facts, the circumstances, the situation which are important in this particular case. And it is equally important—indeed more important—that he should evaluate the situation accurately, i.e., that he should not allow his vision to be clouded by, let us say, some personal vested interest, some predilection or aversion, some weakness for money, position, pleasure, approval, and so on. But naturally—we would add—this alone is not enough. It is not enough that the man should see things as they are. He must also be capable of taking what he knows and, on this basis, actually arriving at a decision! For what use can it be to him to possess the most accurate and comprehensive information, if he is an indecisive and irresolute person or suffers from exaggerated scruples or if he is a rash and heedless person who, at the decisive moment, forgets what he knows or fails to take it into account and, as it were, blindly makes some decision, “Eyes closed and full speed ahead,” simply in order to get the matter over with? Moreover, naturally I consider it absolutely necessary that the man making a decision which involves me, should be a man “of good will.” In other words, above all he should be just, by which I mean that he should possess the will to do what is just. (This criterion is so obvious that it hardly bears mentioning.) And yet, obviously, just intentions are not enough to ensure that a person will actually do what is just. The best intentions and all the good will in the world do not guarantee a just decision, unless the person making the decision has previously made an impartial study of the case, knows the facts, and evaluates the situation objectively. For only by doing this can he learn what is just in this particular case, which in turn determines what must be done to bring about justice.

Clearly, what I have just said applies to other phenomena besides the just and justice. In every ethical decision—and by the way, there is no such thing as a decision which is not an “ethical” or moral decision, i.e., a decision arising from the fact of our freedom, which is subject to the standard of right and wrong, and for which we can be held accountable and responsible—regardless of whether the decision involves justice, the control of anger (or the failure to control it), the discipline exercised over ambition or the craving for pleasure, the exercise of courage or cowardice, the resistance of evil, the question of whether or not to “stake one’s life” for something, or a matter of prestige, reputation, winning approval: in all these cases, if one is to make a right and responsible decision, the act of making the decision must always follow upon the calm and totally impartial reflection on the situation, on the true facts and all their ramifications. If I am to make the right decision (regardless of what the decision may involve), I must be guided by the truth of things themselves, by the facts, by what is really the case. In other words, the realization of the good presupposes the knowledge of reality. “Good intentions” alone do not enable us to do what is good. Something else is also required: That we look at the reality of the actual world and that we make the assent or dissent of our will dependent on our knowledge of reality. An act is good if it conforms to the nature of things.… A person who is incapable of viewing things impartially, uninfluenced by the affirmations or negations of the will, a person who is incapable, for a time, of simply keeping silent and perceiving what is there, and then of converting what he has seen and learned into a decision, is incapable of achieving the good, or in other words is incapable of performing an ethical act in the full sense of the term.

This fact is precisely what is implied and stated in the ancient dictum, which at first may strike us extremely strange, that the “virtue” of prudence, which is listed as the first among the four cardinal virtues, is in fact supreme and preeminent among them. However, this statement of the superlative value of prudence does not express with sufficient precision the true meaning of this ancient concept. Its meaning is that prudence not only occupies the highest rank in the hierarchy (i.e., it has precedence over justice and fortitude and temperance), but also that it is, as it were, the mother of the other virtues, is that which, as a medieval summa states, “gives birth to” them. This is not meant in an “allegorical” sense. Instead what is claimed is that only a person who begins by being “prudent,” is capable of exhibiting justice, fortitude or temperance, and that the good person is good by virtue of his prudence. As I have stated, this notion is likely to raise some eyebrows. For to us prudence does not appear to be a prerequisite of the good as much as it is a way of getting around the good. After all, what is a prudent man? A prudent man is one who knows how to “look out for his own interests!” And is it not in fact often highly imprudent to be just—for example to tell the truth? And as far as fortitude is concerned, isn’t the man who exhibits fortitude or courage, the man who “sticks his neck out” by risking his life or his reputation or his money, in fact “dumb” rather than prudent? Isn’t it precisely the prudent man who knows how to avoid situations in which he is forced to exhibit fortitude, to be brave? We think of the prudent man as the shrewd tactician who knows how to avoid personal risk; and when someone wants to avoid exposing himself to some danger, he simply claims that he is being prudent (i.e., sensible or cautious).…

But the important thing is that, despite the ceaseless flowing of language and the ceaseless transformation of its meaning, we nevertheless find a way to keep alive our awareness of the original meaning attributed to certain fundamental states of affairs. One of the special tasks of those who deal with words is to ensure the preservation, in an undiluted form, of our ability to name reality and the principles by which man governs his behavior. But how is it possible for them to ensure this? Unfortunately we have no ready-made formulas! Sometimes we are forced to sacrifice a word. For example, who today speaks of a “virtuous” man—even though we still encounter the reality signified by this word? Perhaps the word “virtue” itself is dead; at least it almost seems so. However, obviously the fact signified by the word “virtue”—the fact that there exists an ultimate ideal which man must realize within himself, an ultimate degree of self-realization—must be expressed over and over again in new and different ways if we are to prevent it from losing its clear definition and its power to move our hearts, and indeed if we are to prevent men from losing sight of it altogether.

But, one may ask, do not the things which I have said concerning the virtue of prudence imply that only a highly educated and intelligent person is capable of doing what is good, and that an ordinary person cannot be a good person in the full sense of the word—and isn’t this notion simply nonsense? Of course it’s nonsense! And of course I did not mean anything of the sort. To be sure, it is true that no one can become a good human being unless he possesses a certain kind of wisdom. Medieval thinkers, including those who lived as late as Thomas à Kempis, defined this wisdom as a condition in which all things possess the savor of what they really are. “Education” and “knowledge” are not as essential to this kind of wisdom as one might believe—assuming that by “knowledge” one means direct, personal knowledge of things. A medieval summa states: “With regard to prudence, no one is self-sufficient in all respects.” Thus the willingness to learn plays an essential role in prudence, not only for simple, ordinary people, but for everyone. The willingness to learn—docilitas—is not at all the same thing as the “teachability” and the unreflecting zeal of the model pupil. Docilitas implies the willingness to be instructed by others—an ability based not on some indeterminate sense of modesty, but simply on the desire to acquire true knowledge (which, to be sure, does involve true humility). The refusal to learn, a “know-it-all” attitude, at bottom represents an act of resistance to the truth, a failure to silence oneself and one’s “vested interests”—a failure to achieve that silence which is the precondition of hearing, i.e., of learning anything at all. The ancient doctrine of the virtue of prudence also speaks of the need for a “good memory,” memoria. At first glance this idea may appear somewhat odd. Naturally the memory referred to here has nothing whatever to do with mnemotechnical skills, with tricks one can use to avoid forgetting things, with techniques of memorization. Instead a “good” memory means that memory is a prerequisite of the virtue of prudence, a prerequisite of the ability to make the right decisions. Why is this so? It is so because the only way (if there is a way) to preserve the truth, the actuality of things, the truth about the past, the actual behavior of a person we have encountered, is to “store it up” inside a memory faithful to the true nature of things! For the worst corruption which can befall the memory is not mere forgetfulness, not the simple loss of clarity about what happened in the past, but the falsification of what we remember by the assent or dissent of the will. The bad thing about such a falsification is the fact that it completely destroys, from the very outset, all hope of making an authentic decision. What makes this act of destruction virtually irreparable is, above all, the fact that the threat it presents remains imperceptible. For it is more difficult to detect, and thus to prevent, the triumph of personal bias and “unjust” self-interest when it is effected through the falsification of memory, than when it is achieved by any other means. After all, all that is required to effect such a falsification is a slight “touch-up job,” a minor displacement, discoloration, shift of emphasis, or omission. As a rule one cannot detect such adulterations of memory merely by “examining one’s conscience.” The only remedy is a disinterestedness capable of penetrating to the most secret roots of the will—a disinterestedness which might perhaps be most accurately designated by the biblical term “simplicity” or “oneness”—simplicitas. The New Testament says concerning simplicitas: “If thine eye be single [simplex, simple, unbiased, impartial], thy whole body shall be full of light” (Mt. 6:22).…

At the median point between incontinence and avarice, is a narrow and precious plot of ground. Only here, rooted in a self-preservation which is nonetheless unselfish, can man make thrive his ability to make appropriate decisions. It is this, in a quite special sense, human ability which the ancients call the virtue of prudence.

This essay is taken from from The Weight of Belief. Republished with gracious permission from Cluny Media.

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The featured image is “William Wordsworth” (1842), by Benjamin Haydon, and is in the public domain, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.