Leaving Others Alone

Imagine a world in which there is only one sort of fruit, say, apples. There are, of course, several types of apples, Yellow and Red Delicious, Jonathan and Granny Smith; occasionally one even encounters a bad apple. The people in this world learn to appreciate apples, eating them raw and baking them, flavoring them, juicing them, turning them into sauce and making them into filling for wonderful pies. As a result of their cultivation, apples become available in a surprising variety of flavors and as ingredients in a bewildering array of dishes.

What should we say of these people? First, that they took advantage of the possibilities of their raw material, creating something fine out of what, left to itself, would be common and boring. Should we feel sorry for them because they were impoverished, never having enjoyed the glory of a pear? Such feelings seem appropriate when we contemplate our good fortune in having a hundred different types of fruit available year round. But if the apple people lead impoverished lives, so do we because we must get by without another hundred fruits whose names we don't know and whose flavors we cannot even imagine. Just as we can say to the apple people that they would be better off if they could get some grapes, so people from a richer planet could lecture us that our lives without their favorite fruit must be sadly hollow.

What we should tell the apple people is that we are impressed by how much they made of what they had. Their attitude is surely right: we must use what is at hand, enhancing it intelligently to make life a little better. Notice that enhancement consists of diversification; humans tend not to be like cats happy with dry food morning and night. As Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz knew, variety is a great good—so great, in fact, that without a measure of it life becomes unbearable. Sensory deprivation, solitary confinement, and isolation in the dark of polar winter can drive people berserk.

Variety in the form of diverse experiences can make existence satisfying, perhaps even exciting. People generally agree that a world in which there are many different sorts of cuisine is better than one in which we have only goulash to eat. The reason for this is twofold. Different tastes add to the modalities of our satisfaction, enabling us to experience surprising delights. Further, the spread of alternatives gives play to choice, so we can enjoy the satisfactions not only of savoring unforeseen textures and tastes, but also of freely deciding what to eat. In such a world, one can still eat goulash every day, but only if one so chooses.

Who could take offense at seeing French, Chinese, and Ethiopian restaurants opening their doors side by side? The more the better, I am inclined to say, even though I cannot imagine ever wanting to visit some of them. Normally, we are happy to let such harmless competitions play out and consider ourselves fortunate to have a choice of where to eat. Plurality does not bother us in such contexts, and we show a commendable readiness to leave others alone. We are simply indifferent in these matters, and that indifference serves as the condition of others pursuing their goals in their own ways.

Not only do I fail to be bothered by the variety of restaurants in the neighborhood, but I also have little concern about what they do in their kitchens. The secrets of kitchens are like the secrets of bedrooms; sensible people do not want to know how their strange neighbors prepare food or for love. Such wholesome distance makes for good relations, enabling us to enjoy fine meals and our neighbors' satisfied smiles. The resultant relationships permit people to flourish on the basis of their own efforts and the voluntary cooperation of others.

Distressingly, when it comes to some matters, this distance is difficult to keep. Some people cannot abide seeing young men with long hair or earrings; others call the police to stop lovers kissing in the park. Individuals dressed in a way deemed tasteless or unkempt earn social censure...