In the novel Hard Times, Charles Dickens presents a retired hardware merchant, Mr. Thomas Gradgrind, as a rationalist and disarmingly naïve utilitarian. He seeks to banish emotion from all decision-making and has tried to raise his five children to do the same, naming each after prominent utilitarians. The list of characters in my edition[1] labels his youngest son – his namesake, Thomas without the “Mr.” – as “a selfish, ill-natured whelp.” The opening chapter starts with Mr. Gradgrind haranguing a schoolmaster:
“Now, what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!”
The philosopher Martha Nussbaum uses this novel and a few others, as well as the poetry of Walt Whitman, to address a question I puzzle over almost every day. Why do we bother with fiction?
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