Seems my fourth anniversary fighting anti-democracy fascism, theocratism, and anarchism by addressing the differences between neoclassical welfare economics and bad economics in the conservative style has rolled around. Let’s do a fun one this week. I generally like to share stories from my life in the mountains on my anniversary. Did I tell you about the time I met bad economics and one of his little minions on a particularly windy path in the foothills one day, not long ago? It was funny. No? Fine. I’ll tell it.
Yes, I remember it well, ’twas in the merry month of May, or maybe June, I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I had ventured down the mountain to view the flowers and a young man approached unexpectedly and began to speak. He was a rather excessively well-nourished young fellow with shiny skin and flowing golden locks that cascaded from under a bright red cap and over the collar and shoulders of his richly appointed orange robe with trim that looked to be of pure gold. A remarkable sight.
“I say there! Are you the one they call the Old Man of the Mountain Paths?” he shouted at me.
“Yes. And other things.”
He surveyed my shabby attire. “The Hobo at the Gate, is it? But it’s the paths I’m concerned about, not the gates. Do you know which way is up? Or rather down?”
I grew concerned. “Should you be here with no prior study, no knowledge? These mountains can be treacherous. Some paths turn suddenly slippery, sloping downward toward dangerous cliffs, others become steep, rocky, difficult to scale. You should respect the mountain.”
“Is that so?” the young man scoffed. “Rest easy, old man. Have no care. I see no real difference between positive and normative and believe just whatever I like. Others may believe whatever they like. It makes no difference to me,” he declared smugly, beaming at me. At that, I grew wary, looked about. As I suspected, bad economics, adorned with the bones of those who have died from hunger and want amid plenty, was sitting on its haunches a short distance away, perfectly still, inert, unmoving, blending into the background, all but invisible.
“Surely you accept some facts are distinct from your preferences about them,” I ventured.
“Not a bit of it,” the youngster replied, excitedly. “For all I know, I’m a figment of the brain of a butterfly in a vat dreaming of a cave in which you are but a mere shadow on the wall!”
“Indeed, but do you propose what you seem to perceive has no significance because of it? You may safely take any path you prefer? Whatever seems right, good, and proper to you just now? Because I recommend most earnestly you take the path bending gently to the left ahead. That path leads to stable ground and on to the pleasant valley, a warm hearth, a good drink, a hearty meal. The paths that veer sharply to the right and left are treacherous. Many have perished on those paths, never seen again by friend nor family. I hope you may choose wisely.”
At that, the young man grinned and strode off confidently to his fate. I watched to see which path he took and was satisfied to see it the correct one. Awkward if he had developed a preference for one of the others, and I faced an awkward dilemma because of it. Would I have boldly stood by, in the name of liberty, freedom, while the young man under some delusion marched off to his certain demise? Would I have tried to intercede, if successful ensuring him a chance to think it through another day? What would you have done? Concerned it might be difficult, even dangerous to intervene? Not necessarily, but it might be. Why? Does it matter? Not sure why one would even ever consider it? Difficult to say. More so for some than others, of course. Common human sentiment, perhaps? The moral sense? As it was, I had no call to evaluate his state of mind, rationality, level of knowledge, intentions. No awkward interpersonal conflict of preferences nor questions of respective ethical responsibility marred that sunny afternoon and all was well for us two in the moment.
I looked to bad economics, sitting inert as ever, unmoving, unmoved, but now glaring at me in sullen disapprobation. The hair on its sinewy body and forelimbs bristled. “Droll,” I said. It appeared to speak but made only a low sound in some old and arcane tongue. I stepped toward it, but it vanished straightaway in a cloud of fog and mist. Back to the Fairy Land, I supposed. I keep watch now also for lost boys and girls on the mountain, but I’m only one man and the mountain vast. As long as bad economics is free to roam, danger lurks.
Maybe one day you’ll choose to join me here. Take the Way of Philosophy through the low foothills, find the hidden gate to the high mountain paths, look for signs, portents, and you might catch a glimpse of bad economics, grasp it, say the words, end its reign of terror.
