Abstract

When I was young, I read Major Barbara by George Bernard Shaw, and there was one scene that left a great impression on me. The industrial magnate Andrew Undershaft meets his son Stephen, whom he has not seen for many years, and asks him what he is interested in. The young man has no talent for science, the arts or law, but says there is one thing he is good at, and that is telling right from wrong. Undershaft pours scorn on his son, and wants to know how, if he is unable to do anything else, he can possibly do something that has baffled all the scientists, politicians and philosophers, and distinguish right from wrong. I was only about twenty when I read this, and at once I made the major decision that it did not matter what I did in my life, but I must not become a person who is capable of nothing but telling right from wrong. For that reason, I became a member of the silent majority. The people I saw when I was young had grasped only a few superficial principles and thought they knew it all. They made wild judgments about the world, and the result was that the whole world was badly damaged. It was not until I was about forty that I realized Shaw's view was rather biased; but that came later—any-how, these comments of Shaw's acted as an antidote to all those shallow, arrogant people