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The paradox of fairness

Is the world a better place if the vicious suffer for their viciousness? And what exactly are just deserts?

For as far back as I can remember language, and uttered the very last time I saw her, one of my mother’s most repeated sentences was: “Every dog has its day.” She said it aloud to herself and to the knowing, listening universe, though, when I was in the room, her eyes might be pointing in my direction. It was an incantation, voiced in a low growl. There was something of a spell about it, but it was mainly an assertion of a fundamental and reassuring truth, a statement to vibrate and stand in the air against whatever injustice she had just suffered or remembered suffering. It was, I understood, a reiterated form of self-comfort to announce that justice, while taking its time, was inevitably to come; perhaps, too, a bit of a nudge for the lackadaisical force responsible for giving every dog its day.

Hers was an other-worldly view, of justice meted out from beyond the human sphere, held in this case by an uneducated non-observant Jewish woman with parents from the shtetl, but it is a foundational promise made by all three religions of the Book, and surely their most effective selling point. My mother’s recitation of her truth belonged with another, more impassioned phrase, which I recall her saying only when sitting in a chair, rocking back and forth, or in bed, rolling her head from side to side. “God! God! What have I done to deserve this?” Generally, unlike the harsh confidence of the first phrase, it was wept, sometimes screamed, mumbled madly, wailed, moaned, and usually repeated over and over again, whereas “Every dog has its day” needed saying only once, whenever the situation merited it. Both phrases were occasioned by my repeatedly philandering, disappearing, money-withholding conman father, and each marked opposite ends of the continuum of disappointment on which my mother lived.

I learned from this, in the first place, obviously, to sneak away so that I wouldn’t get dragged in to the conversation and end up (perhaps not unjustly) as a substitute accusee for my father’s failure to care. But I learned also that she had certain expectations of the world: that the world properly consisted of a normality, and that the world had peculiarly failed her in respect of it.

From a very early age I already knew about the norms of the world, what it was supposed to be like, from nursery rhymes, fairy tales, books, films, television and radio. I knew that the most basic of all the norms was that fairness was to be expected. I doubt that I needed to be taught that; it was inward to me, never unknown, and I would guess that I knew it in some way even before I got the hang of language. I would also guess that it was the same for you.

I suppose what I importantly learned from my cursing and keening mother was that grown-ups still knew it, too. That fairness was not just one of those always suspect childish expectations – like money in return for a tooth, or a man coming down the chimney – that one grew out of.

At the same time, I learned from her that fairness was not an infallible fact of the world and that the most apparently fundamental essentials failed, yet the idea I got from my mother about this was that she (and sometimes I was included) was the only person on the planet whom the arranger of fairness had let down. All other husbands and fathers were true and trustworthy, everyone else had enough money to pay the rent and buy food, everyone else had relatives or friends who rallied round, so my mother often explicitly said. Everyone except her (and me, as the appendage inside her circle of misfortune).

It did rather astonish me that we should be so unfortunate to have been singled out, but I was also impressed that we should have received such special treatment from the universe. The stories and nursery rhymes had told me that bad things were supposed to happen to people who had done something to merit it. But my mother had no doubt she had done nothing, had been a helpless victim, yet the world was bad to her, and therefore bafflingly unfair. When she wailed to her personal inattentive God, “What have I done to deserve this?” she meant that she had done nothing.

It seemed that there was a crack in the heart of fairness, and she had fallen into it. She was innocent and deserving of better in her adulthood than her emotionally and economically impoverished childhood had provided, and yet she was receiving punishment and unhappiness in the form of my father and his bad behaviour. He, not she, deserved her misery, and yet, having disappeared and left us behind, he was living an apparently untroubled, unpunished life.

So I understood that on the one hand there was a rule of universal fairness, and every dog had to have its day, even if it was late in coming, and on the other hand that it was possible for some people to be delivered into unhappiness for no reason at all (as I grew older I understood it wasn’t just her and me). What was odd was the way my mother kept calling, albeit reproachfully, on this God who had so let her down.

I grew up to ditch the notion of a structural fairness, of a god or a nature that rewarded and punished on a moral basis. What occurred in people’s lives was consequent on their choices, their lack of choice, and the interrelation between the two, as well as high-or-low-risk-taking or simple arbitrary happenstance. I settled for a universe where narratives and meanings were fractured rather than based on moral cause and effect.

Lives were fragmented, subject to chance, not a continuing stream of moral repercussions, and although chance did have consequences, those consequences, too, were subject to chance. I recognised it in the devil’s distorting mirror from The Snow Queen which accidentally fell and broke into millions of splinters – a random shard falling into Kay’s eye but not into the eye of his friend Gerda. The story starts and takes its shape from a shrug of fate that knows nothing of you or what you deserve, but quite by accident or because of how our story-craving minds work, life could look as if it was conforming to moral judgement. I built a way to pass and describe my time around the rejection of the expectation of fairness, playing with the sharp edges of deconstructed fairy stories and tales children and adults are easily told. And I shook my head against those I came across who echoed my mother, such as, 30 years later, my mother-in-law, who contracted breast cancer at the age of 75 and asked, over and over, whenever I visited her: “How could this have happened to me? I’ve never done anything to deserve cancer.”

My attempt to grow up and away from the childishness of just deserts was, it goes without saying, no more than a position I took. It was necessary and useful, and allowed me to construct narratives that were more interesting to me than the most expected ones, but naturally I never did manage to do away with the sense of outrage against unfairness that I conclude is at the heart of self- and other-conscious life. I have to acknowledge the fundamental human desire for fairness, which, turned inwards, hampered my mother and which, turned outwards, causes people to work in danger and discomfort in places of war and hunger to improve imbalances of fortune.

Desert, the noun deriving from the verb “to deserve”, appears to be an essential human dynamic. It is at least a central anxiety that provides the plot for so many novels and films that depend on our sense that there is or should be such a thing. Like Kafka and Poe, Hitchcock repeatedly returns to the individual who is singled out, wrongly accused, an innocent suffering an injustice. Yet consider Montgomery Clift’s priest in I Confess, Henry Fonda in The Wrong Man, Blaney, the real killer’s friend played by Jon Finch in Frenzy, James Stewart in The Man Who Knew Too Much and Cary Grant in North by Northwest; none of them is – or could be according to Hitchcock’s Catholic upbringing – truly innocent of everything, and often their moral failings give some cause for the suspicion that falls on them. There is always a faint tang of consequence about their troubles.

We worry about people not getting what they deserve, but, due to religion or some essential guilt we carry with us, we are also concerned that there might be a deeper, less obvious basis for guilt that our everyday, human sense of justice doesn’t take into account. In Victorian fiction, Dickens and Hardy are masters of just and unjust deserts, as innocents such as Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure become engulfed by persecutory institutions and struggle, only sometimes with success, to find the life they ought, in a fair world, to have.

In Dickens, readers get a joyful reassurance after evil intent almost overcomes goodness but justice finally, though at the last moment, wins out by decency and coincidence. Hardy, in his covert modernism, offers no reassurance at all that his innocents’ day will come; his victims’ hopes and lives are snuffed out by forces such as nature and class that have no concern at all with the worth of individual lives and hopes. For both writers, however, the morally just or unjust result is usually an accident that works in or against the protagonist’s favour.

Every child ever born has at some time or other wailed, “It’s not fair.” To which the adults answer, “Life isn’t fair,” and always, surely, with a sense of sorrow and a vague feeling of betrayal, but also an understanding that a vital lesson is being imparted.

Fairness and desert are not exactly the same, I suppose; we might have a basic requirement for a generalised fairness – equality of opportunity, say – that has nothing to do with what anyone deserves, but our strangely inbuilt earliest sense of fairness provides our first encounter with the complexity of justice and injustice. Perhaps it arose even earlier than human consciousness. There are those who, like the primatologist Frans de Waal, suggest that a sense of fairness is an inherent emotion in monkeys:

An experiment with capuchin monkeys by Sarah Brosnan, of Georgia State University’s CEBUS Lab, and myself illuminated this emotional basis. These monkeys will happily perform a task for cucumber slices until they see other getting grapes, which taste so much better. They become agitated, throw down their measly cucumbers, and go on strike.

I’m not sure if this is exactly a sense of fairness. If so, it is a limited, unidirectional sense. Perhaps a sense of unfairness precedes the more general idea. I imagine a full sense of fairness would be demonstrated by a capuchin throwing her grapes down when she sees her fellow worker receiving cucumber. All for one and one for all. I couldn’t find any experiment that showed this.

A sense of personal unfairness may be all that is experienced by small children, too. It is always easy enough to come up with the idea that we have been morally mistreated. We manage to do it from a very young age and, like my mother-in-law, continue to the end of our lives. That others might deserve something is a more sophisticated thought. Usually, before any egalitarian fervour has a chance to emerge on its own, we have introduced the children, if not the monkeys, to the concept of desert. You get the grape for good behaviour, or helping with the washing-up, or not hitting your baby brother when he hits you, and you don’t get a grape if you throw a tantrum, or refuse to put on your socks. In this way, you and your brother get different amounts of goodness according to some very general rule that you are not much in a position to question, and the inherent problems of universal fairness are put into abeyance, except in the deepest dungeon of our consciousness.

There’s a revival of the childish sense of unfairness in adolescence when they/we cry, “I didn’t ask to be born.” To which we/they reply, again with an implication of just des - erts: “The world doesn’t owe you a living.” But neither party explains how either statement asks or answers the difficulty of unfairness in the world.

I dare say all this harks back to our earliest desperation – the battle for the breast – with the helpless infant demanding that her hunger be assuaged and demanding comfort for her discomfort, the formerly helpless infant now in charge and having the capacity to deny it. It starts in a milky muddle and goes on to just des(s)erts. It is astonishing, actually, that the word for pudding in English is not, as it plainly ought to be, related to the desert that is getting what you deserve.

Nevertheless, eventually the hard-learned reward and punishment system becomes social glue and enters into the world as law and civic organisation, as a clumsy attempt to solve the insoluble. The legislation starts early, in the family, and is a necessity in the community and the state, because, in any unlegislated situation, goodness and altruism are not necessarily rewarded on an individual level. Payback, positive and negative, is rarely found in the wild, and only sometimes in what we call civilisation. Cheats very often prosper and an eye for an eye is a brutal, primitive formulation that advanced cultures (us, as we like to think of ourselves) reject as a kind of exact justice that lacks all mature consideration of circumstances. Yahweh hardly applied fairness when he repaid Job’s devotion with vastly incommensurate loss just to win a bet with Satan. And certainly the knotted family romance that is the basis for Judaism, Christianity and Islam, involving Abram, Sara, Isaac, Hagar, Ishmael and Yahweh, is resolved only by Abram’s adultery with Hagar, then Hagar’s expulsion with her son, nearly ending in their death, and the near-filicide of Isaac. All the victims are as completely innocent as human beings and God can be.

In an attempt properly to get to grips with the idea of fairness, justice and desert, I have recently been struggling with the story of Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey. They are the protagonists in a drama plotted by Shelly Kagan in his new book, The Geometry of Desert. To simplify, but only slightly, all four of them are injured by an explosion at work. A fifth person, You, comes along with a syringe containing a single dose of painkiller, while they wait in agony for the ambulance.

There is no point in giving everybody a little bit; it won’t help any of them enough. Whom do you give the single useful dose to? At this point, the devastation fades into the background and we learn that Amos was hurt as he happened to walk past an explosion from a device planted by the disgruntled or revolutionary Boris, who failed to get away in time, and that Claire, who instigated the bomb attack and set off the detonator, stood too close and was also injured by the blast, while Zoey came on the horrible scene and was wounded by a second blast as she was trying to go to the aid of the other three. The carnage can now return to the forefront of your mind and you have to choose whom to help with your exiguous morphine supply.

The first thing that should become clear before you start mulling over whom to assist is that you are, in fact, in the middle of a philosophical thought experiment. If you are, like me, a novelist with a resistance (as well as a –probably related –hopelessly inept attraction) to this kind of theoretical reasoning, you might reject the entire scenario, because it never happened and your plot is as good as anyone else’s. No, you think, as if you were back in school rebelling against the insistence that all lines meeting at infinity is a given, I don’t have to make any choice at all.

The bomb at the factory didn’t go off. It was never set in the first place. Boris and Claire are gentle vegans who have no animus that would impel them to set a bomb, and no one is hurt. Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey can continue their ordinary daily business, perhaps never even meeting, or, if they do, knowing nothing about the drama that never happened and which they all failed to be involved in. Or perhaps each of them becomes the protagonist of his or her own novel of which You, and not Shelly Kagan, are the author – the A, B, C, Z Quartet.

In my version, You’s choices are broadened infinitely, there is no given, and I can simply refuse the parameters of the thought experiment because I am not a philosopher, I do not wish to be restricted to the terms set by someone else for their own didactic purposes, and likely I’ve got several deadlines that don’t depend on figuring out how much or how little guilt deserves the morphine and why. And so, once again, I fail to get to grips with academic philosophy.

The Geometry of Desert considers both the fundamental and the complex nature of deserving. Kagan poses familiar questions initially (what makes one person more deserving than another?; what is it that the more deserving deserve more of?; does anyone deserve anything at all?) and then puts them aside in order to examine the underlying complexity of desert by means of graphs that represent his elaborately anatomised notion of desert and all the possible implications and interactions between its teased-apart elements. This graphical representation of desert is, he says, the most important and original part, and the point, of his book.

Which I dare say it is, but I got no further than my enjoyment and childish rejection of the initial elementary narrative. If I were Alice, the Wonderland in which I find myself wandering, enchanted but fearful and utterly baffled, would be geometry, algebra and (as Alice also encounters) formal logic. I am, if it is possible, spatially challenged. Maps and reality completely fail to come together in my brain. My eyes tear up and the trauma of school maths lessons returns to me as Kagan translates away from situation to number and algebraic representation to devise graphs whose plotted lines meander across their grid in a, to me, mysterious arithmetical relation to each other. I’m rubbish at all things numerical and graphical and, with all the will in the world, which I started off with, I could no more have read the greater part of Kagan’s book with comprehension than I could read the Bhaga­vadgita in Sanskrit.

And yet and yet, I can’t get away from the foothills of desert. I can’t shake off the elementary problems that Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey create, lying there, waiting for that ambulance, me with a hypodermic full of morphine still in my pocket. Amos and Zoey innocent as lambs, but perhaps Zoey more innocent, having put herself in harm’s way in order to help the others? Boris and Claire guilty, for sure, but is Claire, the initiator of the harmful event, more guilty than Boris the foot soldier? Does it go without saying that I should perform a moral triage in order to decide which sufferer to give the morphine, based on the hierarchy of guilt and innocence? Kagan calls it “Fault Forfeits First”, so that Zoey would be first in line for the morphine and Claire and Boris at the back of the queue. But he points out a basic division in Fault Forfeits First, between the “retributionists” and “moderates” who subscribe to that belief.

The retributionists would not give Claire or Boris any morphine even if some were left over after soothing Zoey’s pain, because they deserve to suffer, having caused suffering. The moderates believe that no one should suffer, but that the innocent Amos and Zoey should be helped first if a choice has to be made. The world, the moderates believe, I believe and perhaps you believe, is improved by an improvement in everyone’s well-being. The retributionists think that the world is a better place if the vicious suffer for their viciousness.

But, as John Rawls claimed early in his career, unless you completely accept free will in people’s behaviour, unclouded by fortune or misfortune in birth, education or life experience, it is possible that no one deserves anything as a result of his actions, good or bad. The first instinct is to give Zoey the pain­killer, other things being equal. Other things being equal is the problem. Why, when you come to think of it, does Zoey deserve less pain or more well-being on account of her good will? Did she have a particularly fortunate upbringing or, indeed, an unfortunate one that inclined her to acts of benevolence? No one is culturally, genetically free of influence. In any case, she had no intention of being injured when she went to help. And who knows why Claire, who conceived a bomb and detonated it, became the person she did?

How do we know (butterfly wings beating in the rainforest, and all that) if there might not be something we are not aware of that would make it more beneficial to give Claire the morphine? What if she has information about other bombs that have been planted? And what if, given an “undeserved” benefit, she came to rethink her viciousness? There may be more purely angelic joy in heaven over such a change of heart, but there are also very good practical reasons to rejoice far more, here on earth, over the redemption of one sinner than over 99 people who do not need to repent.

The retributionists and the moderates believe as they do for the same complicated reasons as the good and the vicious. In the practical world, getting just deserts is enshrined in legislation, and justice is separated from fairness, precisely to avoid the endless entailments of the philosophy of desert. It isn’t so surprising that there have been 20 seasons of Law and Order, which in every episode neatly segments and plays out the uncertainties of policing wrongdoing and providing justice. Finally, I suppose, we have to settle for the muddle of “good enough” fairness, while thinking and trying for something better. But don’t try telling that to my mother.

Jenny Diski’s most recent book is “What I Don’t Know About Animals” (Virago, £9.99)

This article first appeared in the 01 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Special Issue

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“Never be afraid of stridency”: Richard Dawkins’ interview with Christopher Hitchens

Is America heading for theocracy? How worrying is the rise of the Tea Party? Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins discuss God and US politics.

The 2011 Christmas issue of the New Statesman was guest edited by Richard Dawkins. This is his interview with Christopher Hitchens from that issue. It was to be Hitchens' final interview; he died as it was published. A sensation at the time, it is now available to read online for the first time.

Richard Dawkins (left) and Christopher Hitchens in conversation

Richard Dawkins Do you have any memories of life at the New Statesman?

Christopher Hitchens Not that I want to impart. It seems like a different world and a different magazine and it happened to a different person. I’d love them to interview me one day about it, for an edition about the role of the Statesman, but I’d really rather you and I focus on the pulse of the issue, which is obviously our common cause.

RD I’ve been reading some of your recent collections of essays – I’m astounded by your sheer erudition. You seem to have read absolutely everything. I can’t think of anybody since Aldous Huxley who’s so well read.

CH It may strike some people as being broad but it’s possibly at the cost of being a bit shallow. I became a journalist because one didn’t have to specialise. I remember once going to an evening with Umberto Eco talking to Susan Sontag and the definition of the word “polymath” came up. Eco said it was his ambition to be a polymath; Sontag challenged him and said the definition of a polymath is someone who’s interested in everything and nothing else. I was encouraged in my training to read widely – to flit and sip, as Bertie [Wooster] puts it – and I think I’ve got good memory retention. I retain what’s interesting to me, but I don’t have a lot of strategic depth. A lot of reviewers have said, to the point of embarrassing me, that I’m in the class of Edmund Wilson or even George Orwell. It really does remind me that I’m not. But it’s something to at least have had the comparison made – it’s better than I expected when I started.

RD As an Orwell scholar, you must have a particular view of North Korea, Stalin, the Soviet Union, and you must get irritated – perhaps even more than I do – by the constant refrain we hear: “Stalin was an atheist.”

CH We don’t know for sure that he was. Hitler definitely wasn’t. There is a possibility that Himmler was. It’s very unlikely but it wouldn’t make any difference, either way. There’s no mandate in atheism for any particular kind of politics, anyway.

RD The people who did Hitler’s dirty work were almost all religious.

CH I’m afraid the SS’s relationship with the Catholic Church is something the Church still has to deal with and does not deny.

RD Can you talk a bit about that – the relationship of Nazism with the Catholic Church?

CH The way I put it is this: if you’re writing about the history of the 1930s and the rise of totalitarianism, you can take out the word “fascist”, if you want, for Italy, Portugal, Spain, Czechoslovakia and Austria and replace it with “extremeright Catholic party”. Almost all of those regimes were in place with the help of the Vatican and with understandings from the Holy See. It’s not denied. These understandings quite often persisted after the Second World War was over and extended to comparable regimes in Argentina and elsewhere.

RD But there were individual priests who did good things.

CH Not very many. You would know their names if there were more of them. When it comes to National Socialism, there’s no question there’s a mutation, a big one – the Nazis wanted their own form of worship. Just as they thought they were a separate race, they wanted their own religion. They dug out the Norse gods, all kinds of extraordinary myths and legends from the old sagas. They wanted to control the churches. They were willing to make a deal with them. The first deal Hitler made with the Catholic Church was the Konkordat. The Church agreed to dissolve its political party and he got control over German education, which was a pretty good deal. Celebrations of his birthday were actually by order from the pulpit. When Hitler survived an assassination attempt, prayers were said, and so forth. But there’s no doubt about it, [the Nazis] wanted control – and they were willing to clash with the churches to get it. There’s another example. You swore on Almighty God that you would never break your oath to the Führer. This is not even secular, let alone atheist.

RD There was also grace before meals, personally thanking Adolf Hitler.

CH I believe there was. Certainly, you can hear the oath being taken – there are recordings of it – but this, Richard, is a red herring. It’s not even secular. They’re changing the subject.

RD But it comes up over and over again.

CH You mentioned North Korea. It is, in every sense, a theocratic state. It’s almost supernatural, in that the births of the [ruling] Kim family are considered to be mysterious and accompanied by happenings. It’s a necrocracy or mausolocracy, but there’s no possible way you could say it’s a secular state, let alone an atheist one. Attempts to found new religions should attract our scorn just as much as the alliances with the old ones do. All they’re saying is that you can’t claim Hitler was distinctively or specifically Christian: “Maybe if he had gone on much longer, he would have de-Christianised a bit more.” This is all a complete fog of nonsense. It’s bad history and it’s bad propaganda.

RD And bad logic, because there’s no connection between atheism and doing horrible things, whereas there easily can be a connection in the case of religion, as we see with modern Islam.

CH To the extent that they are new religions – Stalin worship and Kim Il-sungism – we, like all atheists, regard them with horror.

RD You debated with Tony Blair. I’m not sure I watched that. I love listening to you [but] I can’t bear listening to . . . Well, I mustn’t say that. I think he did come over as rather nice on that evening.

CH He was charming, that evening. And during the day, as well.

RD What was your impression of him?

CH You can only have one aim per debate. I had two in debating with Tony Blair. The first one was to get him to admit that it was not done – the stuff we complain of – in only the name of religion. That’s a cop-out. The authority is in the text. Second, I wanted to get him to admit, if possible, that giving money to a charity or organising a charity does not vindicate a cause. I got him to the first one and I admired his honesty. He was asked by the interlocutor at about half-time: “Which of Christopher’s points strikes you as the best?” He said: “I have to admit, he’s made his case, he’s right. This stuff, there is authority for it in the canonical texts, in Islam, Judaism.” At that point, I’m ready to fold – I’ve done what I want for the evening. We did debate whether Catholic charities and so on were a good thing and I said: “They are but they don’t prove any point and some of them are only making up for damage done.” For example, the Church had better spend a lot of money doing repair work on its Aids policy in Africa, [to make up for preaching] that condoms don’t prevent disease or, in some cases, that they spread it. It is iniquitous. It has led to a lot of people dying, horribly. Also, I’ve never looked at some of the ground operations of these charities – apart from Mother Teresa – but they do involve a lot of proselytising, a lot of propaganda. They’re not just giving out free stuff. They’re doing work to recruit.

RD And Mother Teresa was one of the worst offenders?

CH She preached that poverty was a gift from God. And she believed that women should not be given control over the reproductive cycle. Mother Teresa spent her whole life making sure that the one cure for poverty we know is sound was not implemented. So Tony Blair knows this but he doesn’t have an answer. If I say, “Your Church preaches against the one cure for poverty,” he doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t affirm it either. But remember, I did start with a text and I asked him to comment on it first, but he never did. Cardinal Newman said he would rather the whole world and everyone in it be painfully destroyed and condemned for ever to eternal torture than one sinner go unrebuked for the stealing of a sixpence. It’s right there in the centre of the Apologia. The man whose canonisation Tony had been campaigning for. You put these discrepancies in front of him and he’s like all the others. He keeps two sets of books. And this is also, even in an honest person, shady.

RD It’s like two minds, really. One notices this with some scientists.

CH I think we all do it a bit.

RD Do we?

CH We’re all great self-persuaders.

RD But do we hold such extreme contradictions in our heads?

CH We like to think our colleagues would point them out, in our group, anyway. No one’s pointed out to me in reviewing my God book God Is Not Great that there’s a flat discrepancy between the affirmation he makes on page X and the affirmation he makes on page Y.

RD But they do accuse you of being a contrarian, which you’ve called yourself . . .

CH Well, no, I haven’t. I’ve disowned it. I was asked to address the idea of it and I began by saying it’s got grave shortcomings as an idea, but I am a bit saddled with it.

RD I’ve always been very suspicious of the leftright dimension in politics.

CH Yes; it’s broken down with me.

RD It’s astonishing how much traction the left-right continuum [has] . . . If you know what someone thinks about the death penalty or abortion, then you generally know what they think about everything else. But you clearly break that rule.

CH I have one consistency, which is [being] against the totalitarian – on the left and on the right. The totalitarian, to me, is the enemy – the one that’s absolute, the one that wants control over the inside of your head, not just your actions and your taxes. And the origins of that are theocratic, obviously. The beginning of that is the idea that there is a supreme leader, or infallible pope, or a chief rabbi, or whatever, who can ventriloquise the divine and tell us what to do. That has secular forms with gurus and dictators, of course, but it’s essentially the same. There have been some thinkers – Orwell is pre-eminent – who understood that, unfortunately, there is innate in humans a strong tendency to worship, to become abject. So we’re not just fighting the dictators. We’re criticising our fellow humans for trying to short-cut, to make their lives simpler, by surrendering and saying, “[If] you offer me bliss, of course I’m going to give up some of my mental freedom for that.” We say it’s a false bargain: you’ll get nothing. You’re a fool.

RD That part of you that was, or is, of the radical left is always against the totalitarian dictators.

CH Yes. I was a member of the Trotskyist group – for us, the socialist movement could only be revived if it was purged of Stalinism . . . It’s very much a point for our view that Stalinism was a theocracy.

RD One of my main beefs with religion is the way they label children as a “Catholic child” or a “Muslim child”. I’ve become a bit of a bore about it.

CH You must never be afraid of that charge, any more than stridency.

RD I will remember that.

CH If I was strident, it doesn’t matter – I was a jobbing hack, I bang my drum. You have a discipline in which you are very distinguished. You’ve educated a lot of people; nobody denies that, not even your worst enemies. You see your discipline being attacked and defamed and attempts made to drive it out.

Stridency is the least you should muster . . . It’s the shame of your colleagues that they don’t form ranks and say, “Listen, we’re going to defend our colleagues from these appalling and obfuscating elements.” If you go on about something, the worst thing the English will say about you, as we both know – as we can say of them, by the way – is that they’re boring.

RD Indeed. Only this morning, I was sent a copy of [advice from] a British government website, called something like “The Responsibilities of Parents”. One of these responsibilities was “determine the child’s religion”. Literally, determine. It means establish, cause . . . I couldn’t ask for a clearer illustration, because, sometimes, when I make my complaint about this, I’m told nobody actually does label children Catholic children or Muslim children.

CH Well, the government does. It’s borrowed, as far as I can see, in part from British imperial policy, in turn borrowed from Ottoman and previous empires – you classify your new subjects according to their faith. You can be an Ottoman citizen but you’re a Jewish one or an Armenian Christian one. And some of these faiths tell their children that the children of other faiths are going to hell. I think we can’t ban that, nor can we call it “hate speech”, which I’m dubious about anyway, but there should be a wrinkle of disapproval.

RD I would call it mental child abuse.

CH I can’t find a way, as a libertarian, of saying that people can’t raise their children, as they say, according to their rights. But the child has rights and society does, too. We don’t allow female – and I don’t think we should countenance male – genital mutilation.

Now, it would be very hard to say that you can’t tell your child that they are lucky and they have joined the one true faith. I don’t see how you stop it. I only think the rest of society should look at it with a bit of disapproval, which it doesn’t. If you’re a Mormon and you run for office and say, “Do you believe in the golden plates that were dug up by Joseph Smith?” – which [Mitt] Romney hasn’t been asked yet – sorry, you’re going to get mocked. You’re going to get laughed at.

RD There is a tendency among liberals to feel that religion should be off the table.

CH Or even that there’s anti-religious racism, which I think is a terrible limitation.

RD Romney has questions to answer.

CH Certainly, he does. The question of Mormon racism did come up, to be fair, and the Church did very belatedly make amends for saying what, in effect, it had been saying: that black people’s souls weren’t human, quite. They timed it suspiciously for the passage of legislation. Well, OK, then they grant the right of society to amend [the legislation]. To that extent, they’re opportunists.

RD But what about the daftness of Mormonism? The fact that Joseph Smith was clearly a charlatan –

CH I know, it’s extraordinary.

RD I think there is a convention in America that you don’t tackle somebody about their religion.

CH Yes, and in a way it’s attributed to pluralism. And so, to that extent, one wants to respect it, but I think it can be exploited. By many people, including splinter-group Mormons who still do things like plural marriage and, very repulsively, compulsory dowries – they basically give away their daughters, often to blood relatives. And also kinship marriages that are too close. This actually won’t quite do. When it is important, they tend to take refuge in: “You’re attacking my fundamental right.” I don’t think they really should be allowed that.

RD Do you think America is in danger of becoming a theocracy?

CH No, I don’t. The people who we mean when we talk about that – maybe the extreme Protestant evangelicals, who do want a God-run America and believe it was founded on essentially fundamentalist Protestant principles – I think they may be the most overrated threat in the country.

RD Oh, good.

CH They’ve been defeated everywhere. Why is this? In the 1920s, they had a string of victories. They banned the sale, manufacture and distribution and consumption of alcohol. They made it the constitution. They more or less managed to ban immigration from countries that had non-Protestant, non-white majorities. From these victories, they have never recovered. They’ll never recover from [the failure of] Prohibition. It was their biggest defeat. They’ll never recover from the Scopes trial. Every time they’ve tried [to introduce the teaching of creationism], the local school board or the parents or the courts have thrown it out and it’s usually because of the work of people like you, who have shown that it’s nonsense. They try to make a free speech question out of it but they will fail with that, also. People don’t want to come from the town or the state or the county that gets laughed at.

RD Yes.

CH In all my tours around the South, it’s amazing how many people – Christians as well – want to disprove the idea that they’re all in thrall to people like [the fundamentalist preacher Jerry] Falwell. They don’t want to be a laughing stock.

RD Yes.

CH And if they passed an ordinance saying there will be prayer in school every morning from now on, one of two things would happen: it would be overthrown in no time by all the courts, with barrels of laughter heaped over it, or people would say: “Very well, we’re starting with Hindu prayer on Monday.” They would regret it so bitterly that there are days when I wish they would have their own way for a short time.

RD Oh, that’s very cheering.

CH I’m a bit more worried about the extreme, reactionary nature of the papacy now. But that again doesn’t seem to command very big allegiance among the American congregation. They are disobedient on contraception, flagrantly; on divorce; on gay marriage, to an extraordinary degree that I wouldn’t have predicted; and they’re only holding firm on abortion, which, in my opinion, is actually a very strong moral question and shouldn’t be decided lightly. I feel very squeamish about it. I believe that the unborn child is a real concept, in other words. We needn’t go there, but I’m not a complete abortion-on-demand fanatic. I think it requires a bit of reflection. But anyway, even on that, the Catholic Communion is very agonised. And also, [when] you go and debate with them, very few of them could tell you very much about what the catechism really is. It’s increasingly cultural Catholicism.

RD That is true, of course.

CH So, really, the only threat from religious force in America is the same as it is, I’m afraid, in many other countries – from outside. And it’s jihadism, some of it home-grown, but some of that is so weak and so self-discrediting.

RD It’s more of a problem in Britain.

CH And many other European countries, where its alleged root causes are being allowed slightly too friendly an interrogation, I think. Make that much too friendly.

RD Some of our friends are so worried about Islam that they’re prepared to lend support to Christianity as a kind of bulwark against it.

CH I know many Muslims who, in leaving the faith, have opted to go . . . to Christianity or via it to non-belief. Some of them say it’s the personality of Jesus of Nazareth. The mild and meek one, as compared to the rather farouche, physical, martial, rather greedy . . .

RD Warlord.

CH . . . Muhammad. I can see that that might have an effect.

RD Do you ever worry that if we win and, so to speak, destroy Christianity, that vacuum would be filled by Islam?

CH No, in a funny way, I don’t worry that we’ll win. All that we can do is make absolutely sure that people know there’s a much more wonderful and interesting and beautiful alternative. No, I don’t think that Europe would fill up with Muslims as it emptied of Christians. Christianity has defeated itself in that it has become a cultural thing. There really aren’t believing Christians in the way there were generations ago.

RD Certainly in Europe that’s true – but in America?

CH There are revivals, of course, and among Jews as well. But I think there’s a very longrunning tendency in the developed world and in large areas elsewhere for people to see the virtue of secularism, the separation of church and state, because they’ve tried the alternatives . . . Every time something like a jihad or a sharia movement has taken over any country – admittedly they’ve only been able to do it in very primitive cases – it’s a smouldering wreck with no productivity.

RD Total failure. If you look at religiosity across countries of the world and, indeed, across the states of the US, you find that religiosity tends to correlate with poverty and with various other indices of social deprivation.

CH Yes. That’s also what it feeds on. But I don’t want to condescend about that. I know a lot of very educated, very prosperous, very thoughtful people who believe.

RD Do you think [Thomas] Jefferson and [James] Madison were deists, as is often said?

CH I think they fluctuated, one by one. Jefferson is the one I’m more happy to pronounce on. The furthest he would go in public was to incline to a theistic enlightened view but, in his private correspondence, he goes much further. He says he wishes we could return to the wisdom of more than 2,000 years ago. That’s in his discussion of his own Jefferson Bible, where he cuts out everything supernatural relating to Jesus. But also, very importantly, he says to his nephew Peter Carr in a private letter [on the subject of belief]: “Do not be frightened from this inquiry by any fear of its consequences. If it ends in a belief that there is no God, you will find incitements to virtue in the comfort and pleasantness you feel in its exercise and the love of others which it will procure you.” Now, that can only be written by someone who’s had that experience.

RD It’s very good, isn’t it?

CH In my judgement, it’s an internal reading, but I think it’s a close one. There was certainly no priest at his bedside. But he did violate a rule of C S Lewis’s and here I’m on Lewis’s side. Lewis says it is a cop-out to say Jesus was a great moralist. He said it’s the one thing we must not say; it is a wicked thing to say. If he wasn’t the Son of God, he was a very evil impostor and his teachings were vain and fraudulent. You may not take the easy route here and say: “He may not have been the Son of God and he may not have been the Redeemer, but he was a wonderful moralist.” Lewis is more honest than Jefferson in this point. I admire Lewis for saying that. Rick Perry said it the other day.

RD Jesus could just have been mistaken.

CH He could. It’s not unknown for people to have the illusion that they’re God or the Son. It’s a common delusion but, again, I don’t think we need to condescend. Rick Perry once said: “Not only do I believe that Jesus is my personal saviour but I believe that those who don’t are going to eternal punishment.” He was challenged at least on the last bit and he said, “I don’t have the right to alter the doctrine. I can’t say it’s fine for me and not for others.”

RD So we ought to be on the side of these fundamentalists?

CH Not “on the side”, but I think we should say that there’s something about their honesty that we wish we could find.

RD Which we don’t get in bishops . . .

CH Our soft-centred bishops at Oxford and other people, yes.

RD I’m often asked why it is that this republic [of America], founded in secularism, is so much more religious than those western European countries that have an official state religion, like Scandinavia and Britain.

CH [Alexis] de Tocqueville has it exactly right. If you want a church in America, you have to build it by the sweat of your own brow and many have. That’s why they’re attached to them.

RD Yes.

CH [Look at] the Greek Orthodox community in Brooklyn. What’s the first thing it will do? It will build itself a little shrine. The Jews – not all of them – remarkably abandoned their religion very soon after arriving from the shtetl.

RD Are you saying that most Jews have abandoned their religion?

CH Increasingly in America. When you came to escape religious persecution and you didn’t want to replicate it, that’s a strong memory. The Jews very quickly secularised when they came. American Jews must be the most secular force on the planet now, as a collective. If they are a collective –which they’re not, really.

RD While not being religious, they often still observe the Sabbath and that kind of thing.

CH There’s got to be something cultural. I go to Passover every year. Sometimes, even I have a seder, because I want my child to know that she does come very distantly from another tradition. It would explain if she met her greatgrandfather why he spoke Yiddish. It’s cultural, but the Passover seder is also the Socratic forum. It’s dialectical. It’s accompanied by wine. It’s got the bones of quite a good discussion in it. And then there is manifest destiny. People feel America is just so lucky. It’s between two oceans, filled with minerals, wealth, beauty. It does seem providential to many people.

RD Promised land, city on a hill.

CH All that and the desire for another Eden. Some secular utopians came here with the same idea. Thomas Paine and others all thought of America as a great new start for the species.

RD But that was all secular.

CH A lot of it was, but you can’t get away from the liturgy: it’s too powerful. You will end up saying things like “promised land” and it can be mobilised for sinister purposes. But in a lot of cases, it’s a mild belief. It’s just: “We should share our good luck.”

RD I’ve heard another theory that, America being a country of immigrants, people coming from Europe, where they left their extended family and left their support system, were alone and they needed something.

CH Surely that was contained in what I just . . .

RD Maybe it was.

CH The reason why most of my friends are non-believers is not particularly that they were engaged in the arguments you and I have been having, but they were made indifferent by compulsory religion at school.

RD They got bored by it.

CH They’d had enough of it. They took from it occasionally whatever they needed – if you needed to get married, you knew where to go. Some of them, of course, are religious and some of them like the music but, generally speaking, the British people are benignly indifferent to religion.

RD And the fact that there is an established church increases that effect. Churches should not be tax-free the way that they are. Not automatically, anyway.

CH No, certainly not. If the Church has demanded that equal time be given to creationist or pseudo-creationist speculations . . . any Church that teaches that in its school and is in receipt of federal money from the faith-based initiative must, by law, also teach Darwinism and alternative teachings, in order that the debate is being taught. I don’t think they want this.

RD No.

CH Tell them if they want equal time, we’ll jolly well have it. That’s why they’ve always been against comparative religion.

RD Comparative religion would be one of the best weapons, I suspect.

CH It’s got so insipid in parts of America now that a lot of children are brought up – as their parents aren’t doing it and leave it to the schools and the schools are afraid of it – with no knowledge of any religion of any kind. I would like children to know what religion is about because [otherwise] some guru or cult or revivalists will sweep them up.

RD They’re vulnerable. I also would like them to know the Bible for literary reasons.

CH Precisely. We both, I was pleased to see, have written pieces about the King James Bible. The AV [Authorised Version], as it was called in my boyhood. A huge amount of English literature would be opaque if people didn’t know it.

RD Absolutely, yes. Have you read some of the modern translations? “Futile, said the preacher. Utterly futile.”

CH He doesn’t!

RD He does, honestly. “Futile, futile said the priest. It’s all futile.”

CH That’s Lamentations.

RD No, it’s Ecclesiastes. “Vanity, vanity.”

CH “Vanity, vanity.” Good God. That’s the least religious book in the Bible. That’s the one that Orwell wanted at his funeral.

RD I bet he did. I sometimes think the poetry comes from the intriguing obscurity of mistranslation. “When the sound of the grinding is low, the grasshopper is heard in the land . . . The grasshopper shall be a burden.” What the hell?

CH The Book of Job is the other great non-religious one, I always feel. “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.” Try to do without that. No, I’m glad we’re on the same page there. People tell me that the recitation of the Quran can have the same effect if you understand the original language. I wish I did. Some of the Catholic liturgy is attractive.

RD I don’t know enough Latin to judge that.

CH Sometimes one has just enough to be irritated.

RD Yes [laughs]. Can you say anything about Christmas?

CH Yes. There was going to be a winter solstice holiday for sure. The dominant religion was going to take it over and that would have happened without Dickens and without others.

RD The Christmas tree comes from Prince Albert; the shepherds and the wise men are all made up.

CH Cyrenius wasn’t governor of Syria, all of that. Increasingly, it’s secularised itself. This “Happy Holidays” – I don’t particularly like that, either.

RD Horrible, isn’t it? “Happy holiday season.”

CH I prefer our stuff about the cosmos.

***

The day after this interview, I was honoured to present an award to Christopher Hitchens in the presence of a large audience in Texas that gave him a standing ovation, first as he entered the hall and again at the end of his deeply moving speech. My own presentation speech ended with a tribute, in which I said that every day he demonstrates the falsehood of the lie that there are no atheists in foxholes: “Hitch is in a foxhole, and he is dealing with it with a courage, an honesty and a dignity that any of us would be, and should be, proud to muster.”