The Monk and the Tiger a dialog on metaethics

Scene: a jungle clearing in India, in the age of myths. From the left, light streams in from a path leading to cultivated fields. On the right, dark bushes make a bower in which there lies a very large male tiger. He is looking placid, and licking his paws.
Enter, from the left, a Monk. He is a middle-aged brown man in a saffron robe. He sees the tiger, and stops, looking interested but not alarmed. He coughs.

MONK:  Respected Master Tiger! Good morning.

TIGER [looking up]: Ah, a human! Well, this is nice. I am seldom in a situation where I can have a conversation with one of you. What’s your name?

MONK:  Ananda, Respected Tiger. And may I enquire also your honorable name?

TIGER:  Well, some humans call me by one name, some by another. Not always very nice names. I prefer, however, to be called Felix.

ANANDA:  Master Felix, I hope you are well?

FELIX:  Oh yes, thank you. Also, at present, not hungry. So we are able to talk calmly.

AN:  What if you were hungry, Mr Felix?

FE:  I would probably eat you. I actually prefer the taste and size of cattle, but I don’t turn up my nose at a human for the odd snack. It’s a misconception that only old decrepit tigers eat humans. I am in the prime of life and in good condition, but I assure you I do, from time to time, eat humans.

AN:  Ah, I had heard so. That is why I have come to talk to you, Mr Felix. The villagers have been complaining to the king, and the king, who is a pious man, suggested I go on this mission to you. So here I am. And I would like to question you a little—if you do not mind.

FE:  Not a bit. Go ahead.

AN:  My first question is this: don’t you think it is wrong, to kill and eat people?

FE:  Not really. Why should it be? I have to eat something, something alive. And if cattle, why not people?

AN:  Indeed, I do not claim any special privilege for humans. All life is sacred, all is One. You should not kill cattle, either.

FE:  Should not? Where does this “should” come from?

AN:  Er…well, it is the principle of universal benevolence.

FE:  I am none the wiser. Where does this “principle” come from?

AN: Universal benevolence is entailed on us because all life is One. Since everything is our brother or sister, our sibling, everything must be loved.

FE:  Sibling? I have no sibling. Oh, I once had a brother, when I was a cub. We used to fight. Once he nearly scratched my eye out. After that, we went separate ways. I’ve never seen him since. Just as well: if we did meet now, we’d probably fight.

AN:  Why should you fight? Why should tigers not love each other?

FE:  Because every tiger needs his own territory in which to hunt. If I came across any other male tiger, I’d drive him off my territory.

AN:  What about a female tiger, Mr Felix?

FE:  I’d drive her off too. She’d be another hunting rival. Unless…unless she smelt sexy. In that case, I’d mount her—and then drive her off afterwards.

AN:  I presume the lady tiger would be willing to be—er—mounted?

FE:  Usually she is. But who cares about that?

AN:  If she were not—

FE:  I’d still mount her. I’m stronger than a female.

AN:  And you do not feel any love for this lady tiger?

FE:  Love? What’s that? I like her shape and smell—that’s all—when I’m in the mood. When I’ve enjoyed her, I kick her away.

AN:  I suppose, Mr Felix, you had a mother?

FE:  Well, that’s usual. I suppose I did.

AN:  And I suppose she loved you, and you loved her?

FE:  I can hardly remember. I’ve noticed that females like their cubs—when they are small. And the cubs hang on to their mother, when they are small. Just as well for them: they wouldn’t survive otherwise. Something bigger would eat them if they strayed. When they get bigger, the mother-tiger kicks them out—because they’d be rivals on her hunting ground. Now you mention it, I do have a memory of being kicked out like that. I was a bit angry at the time. But I soon forgot all that, and quickly became very interested in my hunting.

AN:  Sir, Mr Felix—am I to understand, then, that you never feel love for any other being?

FE:  Love? Well, I love a nice fat cow when I’m hungry.

AN:  I do not mean that. You have a pleasure in eating her flesh. But you feel no benevolence, you do not wish well to the cow?

FE:  I wish her well and quickly dead, so I can eat her!

AN:  You feel no love, no benevolence toward any other being? Not to cows, not to humans, not to tigers, not to birds, not to insects?

FE:  No. Some of those I eat, most of the others I ignore. Insects can be a nuisance, but it’s a waste of effort to try and kill them. The ones that sting you get away too fast. Except ants…but I take care not to step on the stinging kinds.

AN:  Ants would give you fine examples of benevolence. They do love each other. They sacrifice their lives for the well-being of other ants.

FE:  Well, they’re funny creatures, ants. They sacrifice themselves, I’d say, because they have no real selves. They do all for the gang. Tigers are the opposite: we have no gang.

AN:  Humans, you know, do feel benevolence. I have been taught, by enlightened masters, to love all beings.

FE:  You humans are funny creatures, too. You’re a bit like ants, and a bit like tigers. I’ve seen, sometimes, two crowds of humans killing each other. A bit like two ants’ nests fighting. Each human in one crowd tries to kill a human in the other crowd, even though he may get killed himself. What do you call that sort of happening?

AN:  It is called War. It is most evil. All humans, all beings, should love one another, and especially avoid killing.

FE:  Should. There’s that funny word again. I wonder, do ants feel “should”?

AN:  Certainly. They are admirable, ethical creatures. They love each other, as they should do.

FE:  No, I don’t think ants feel “should”. They just have to die for their nest—and they always do. No “should” about it. On the other hand, I don’t die for anyone or anything. No “should” for me either. It’s you humans, maybe you alone, who have this “should”—because you’re partly like ants, partly like tigers. You sometimes want to kill each other—and sometimes to die for each other. Perhaps the same human, at different times, wants to do both. It must be confusing. Am I right about this, Mr Ananda? Do you feel opposite impulses toward your fellow men?

AN:  Yes. But I must reject the evil impulse to hate, and I must choose the good impulse to love. I should always love, always act with benevolence. We humans call this ethics.

FE:  “Ethics”—is that this “should” business?

AN:  Yes.

FE:  Well, I’m glad I have no ethics.

AN:  But you must have—

FE:  No: I’m not a social animal. Only social animals have ethics.

AN:  Ethics applies to all beings. Evil impulses should be resisted. You should not destroy other beings, Mr Felix. I, now—I also used to eat animal flesh, in my unenlightened days. Now I abstain from all killing, and from the products of killing. I eat only vegetables. I am sure you could train yourself to do the same.

FE:  What? Rubbish! I once tried eating grass and a few other greens, just for a whim. It all tasted awful. Also, it disagreed with me, violently: my guts can’t digest that stuff. I am a flesh eater. That is my nature. Nature is not ethical at all. Maybe you humans have ethics because you’re not quite natural. Or mixed up: you eat both flesh and grass. I am simpler: I can eat only meat… And now, as a matter of fact, this long conversation has made me hungry. I feel like a snack. So I will now solve your ethical problems for you, Mr Ananda!

[He eats him]

FE:  Not as good as cow. But a tiger’s gotta do what a tiger’s gotta do…