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On liberty of thought and discussion and f on liberty dedicated to freedom of discussion. From University of Hertfordshire.
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John Stuart Mill rests his argument against censorship on two plausible premises. The first is that humans are fallible. That is, we are always capable of getting things wrong and we can never be entirely sure that we have anything right. In the past, people have been convinced that the Earth does not move, that the pharaohs were gods and that Newton’s physics provides the final truth about gravity. We cannot know which of our present certainties future generations will reject. Mill’s second premise is that we are corrigible. Experience and critical discussion can improve our opinions. Being fallible, we can never be sure that any particular change of mind takes us closer to the truth— experience may have misled us, or we may have made some error of logic. But the only way to correct such mistakes is yet more experience and critical discussion. Our best hope of improving our opinions is to make them public, so that others may show us our errors.
Mill laid out his argument for freedom of expression in the second section of On Liberty (‘liberty of thought and discussion’). The core of his argument is that censorship prevents us from correcting errors by critical discussion. If a forbidden opinion is true, we lose the opportunity to learn of its truth. If a forbidden opinion is false, we lose the opportunity to remind ourselves why it is false. The role of his second premise (that we are corrigible) is obvious. If it were not possible to correct false opinions by discussion, there would be little point in insisting on the freedom to try. Note, Mill need not claim that free criticism will always lead towards the truth. All he needs to claim is that free discussion is our best hope of correcting error. He appeals to his first premise (that we are fallible) explicitly in the rest of this section, where he elaborates and defends his simple dilemma. For example, he considers the suggestion that freedom of expression is a good thing provided it does not extend to criticism of the fundamental orthodoxies on which society depends for its good order. Mill replies that the more important an orthodoxy is, the more vital is the need to test it. When legislators try to put a doctrine beyond criticism, they effectively claim to know, infallibly, that it is true. Since we are fallible, this cannot be justified. All silencing of discussion is, he says, an assumption of infallibility. A little later, Mill addresses the thought that an orthodoxy might be too useful to endanger with criticism, quite aside from whether it is true. No false belief, he insists, can be really useful. Therefore, to claim to know that a belief is useful without allowing it to be tested, is in effect to claim to know, infallibly, that it is true.
He adds a plausible development of the second horn of his dilemma: truths become stale for lack of opposition. In the early days of a religion (or any other movement), its teaching is vivid and urgent because the believers must defend it against the established powers and doctrines of the day. However, if the new religion joins the ranks of established powers and doctrines, it becomes something learned by rote and practised mechanically. Therefore, defenders of orthodoxies should welcome opposition, to keep their own creeds fresh and active.
Nowadays, those who wish to protect religious doctrines from criticism make an argument that has more to do with the tender feelings of the believer than the truth or falsity of the doctrine. The standard position among those who would limit our freedom to criticise religious doctrines and activities is that they welcome reasonable criticism. What they object to, and would like the law to prevent, is offensive or abusive mockery of their faith. This position was already familiar in Mill’s day. Mill argues against legal protection from offensive criticism on several grounds. First, he observes that any vigorous and effective criticism, when passionately put, will seem intemperate to its target. It is painful to have the logical deficiencies of one’s most cherished convictions publicly exposed. We cannot outlaw criticism merely because it hurts. (Notice: Mill’s ‘harm principle’ says that the government may interfere with one person’s liberty only to prevent harm to another. It does not say that the government must always intervene to prevent one from harming another.) Second, he claims that it is very difficult to prove that a case or a party has been misrepresented. Mill does not elaborate this point in On Liberty , but we can look to an earlier work on ‘Law of Libel and Liberty of the Press’ ( Westminster Review , III, 1825; On Liberty was published in 1859). There, he argues that all criticism is to some degree offensive. To make a criticism is to make some sort of accusation. Even the most temperate, scholarly criticism involves accusing someone of overlooking something important, getting some fact wrong or making a logical mistake. Therefore, to ban every criticism that includes some element of invective opens the way for a ban on all criticism. For this reason, Mill held that a law that tried to distinguish between temperate criticism and offensive abuse would be arbitrary, and that judges would exploit this arbitrariness in the service of the powerful. Returning to On Liberty , he argues, third, that a law against offensive criticism would favour the politically powerful against the weak. A member of a marginal group who vilifies an established orthodoxy would risk prosecution, while someone who vilifies the marginal group on behalf of the established opinion would receive praise for showing a proper zeal. In any case, intemperate language is unproductive for defenders of minority opinions, because they have to put on a show of reasonableness in order to get a hearing at all. Putting these last two points together: a law against offensive criticism would tell only against defenders of minority opinions, who are already motivated to appear moderate and reasonable. For these reasons, Mill argues that the law should not attempt to regulate controversies.
Notice that Mill argues for the freedom to express opinions. His case depends on the fact that opinions may be true or false. What then of art? If we think that a work of art is a roundabout way of saying something, then works of art fall within the scope of Mill’s argument. However, this is a rather crude and implausible view of art. Works of art do not normally have clear messages that we can treat as statements and examine like opinions. Nevertheless, those works of art that have attracted violent attempts at suppression in recent years do seem to have had something to say. The Satanic Verses is (amongst other things) a meditation on geographical displacement and cultural hybridisation; Behzti is about power relations in the Sikh community; Theo van Gogh’s film Submission makes a similar point about Islam; the Danish cartoon that caused the most fuss was the one that suggested a connection between Islam and suicide terrorism; Jerry Springer the Opera seems to argue for the contemporary relevance of Biblical
guaranteed. This tension is not Mill’s alone. For example, on the one hand the laws of libel as they currently operate in England make it easy for rich people to bully newspapers and magazines. But if the libel laws were weakened, editors would print even more salacious distortions and lies than they currently do. On the other hand, the Press Complaints Commission is an industry body and does nothing to check the natural preference of newspapers for profit over responsible reporting. But if a government agency (Off-Hack?) took over the job, it would come under pressure to force newspapers to report on the government as the government would wish to be reported on.
We might hope to take refuge in another of Mill’s principles: variety. Mill favoured variety in all things for two reasons. First, the greater the variety of experience and opinion can be brought to bear on a question, the more likely we are to find the correct answer. Second, Mill valued individuality for its own sake, and a culture that encourages diversity in lifestyles is less likely to stifle or crush individuality. Mill united these two thoughts in his phrase ‘experiments in living’. We might take inspiration from the example of academia, where there are many forums, presided over by many (largely benign) despots. An academic who finds himself excluded as a crank from one forum can take his thoughts to another, where they might find constructive criticism. In fact, this differentiation of academia into many sub-sub-specialisms tends to reduce confrontations between opposing world-views and in the worst cases produces conclaves of true believers. The real problem, however, is that to ensure a diversity of forums in society at large, the government would have to take powers that it would inevitably abuse. If, for example, it took powers to prevent a single company or individual from controlling too many of the major news outlets, it (or a successor administration) would inevitably use those powers with an eye on its own benefit. A large media group that criticised the government severely might find itself judged to be too large. In any case, increasing the number of media companies does not necessarily increase the diversity of perspectives.
In the final paragraph of the section of On Liberty dedicated to freedom of discussion, having argued that the government should not attempt to regulate public debate, Mill expresses his confidence that there are many controversialists who try to deal fairly with their opponents. Before we considered the alternatives, this might have seemed like a feeble piety. Mill’s argument for liberty of discussion suggests that we have a right to express our opinions in a well-regulated forum. When we have a right to something, we usually demand that there be a robust mechanism to ensure that we get whatever it is. We do not expect to rely on the willingness of others to respect our right. Indeed, the chief point of a right is that you still have it even if you have made yourself so unpopular that the majority would prefer not to give you whatever it is that your right guarantees. However, a robust mechanism to ensure our right to free discussion would put greater, perhaps excessive, power into the hands of government. For this good Millean reason, the goodwill of controversialists may be our best, indeed our only hope for true liberty of discussion.