Philosopher William MacAskill attributes his personal transformation to an undergraduate seminar at Cambridge University. Before this transition, McAskill liked to drink too many pints and frolic naked at night, climbing sloping roofs for a life-affirming washout. He was the saxophonist of the campus funk band that played the May Ball and was known as a hopeless romantic. But at the age of 18, when he first encountered a 1972 essay by radical utilitarian Peter Singer, “Famine, Affluence, and Morality,” McAskill felt a slight click because He was shunted on a strict and uncompromising track of moralism. Inspired by the prevalence and eradication of hunger in Bangladesh now, Singer proposes a simple thought experiment: If you’re walking around a drowning child, you probably won’t worry too much about getting your clothes dirty until you’re wading to help; consider It doesn’t matter where the child is – in an actual pond nearby or a metaphorical pond six thousand miles away – throwing resources into excess items is tantamount to drowning a child for the dry cleaner’s bill. For about four decades, Singer’s dissertation was largely assigned as a philosophical exercise: his moral theory was so onerous that it had to rest on a shaky foundation, and instructing bright students to find out what might save us from it Defects required. However, MacAskill found no problems.
When McAskill was a graduate student in philosophy at Oxford, Singer’s insight had become the organizing principle of his life. When he met friends at the bar, he just ordered a glass of water and then poured another can of 2% beer he bought on the corner. For dinner, he ate bread that he baked at home. The balance of his income is left to others. He tries not to be too showy or evangelical, but he’s also not timid about his reasons. It was a dark, lonely and moral time in his life. As he said to me recently, “I’m annoying.”
To shape a new social balance in which his commitments might not immediately be seen as mere contrived, he helped found a moral movement called “effective altruism.” Known by its practitioners as EA, and themselves known as EA, the movement is based on the premise that people should do good in the most visionary, ambitious and dispassionate ways possible. In other rough estimates, EA thinks a life in the developing world could be saved with about $4,000. Effective altruists tie themselves to a mast of a certain logical rigor, refusing to look away when it leads them to conclusions that are counterintuitive, confusing, and even seemingly objectionable. For a while, the campaign advised inspired young people to find jobs in finance and donate their earnings instead of working for charities. More recently, EA has become concerned about existential risks that could limit the future of humanity, period.
Effective altruism, once a loose, pro-internet coalition of like-minded people, is now a broad faction, especially in Silicon Valley, that controls some $30 billion in philanthropic resources. Although MacAskill was only one of the movement’s key leaders, his remarkable integrity and easy-going charisma made him a natural choice for the men’s team president. The transformation of the movement—from obscurity to power; from the needs of the contemporary global poor to the needs of our distant descendants—has not been smooth sailing. MacAskill, as the movement’s de facto conscience, feels increasing pressure to provide guidance and assistance. Once upon a time, almost all of his friends were EA, but now he’s trying to draw the line between public and private. He told me, “There was a time when EA business was no longer a social business — people would come to me and want to talk about their ethical priorities and I would say, ‘Man, it’s 10 afternoon. We are having a party! “
On a Saturday afternoon in Oxford this March, MacAskill texted me about an hour before we were scheduled to meet: “I don’t think so, given the jet lag, but would you like to go for a sunset swim? It’s going to be very, very cold! “I ran down the Thames once and replied, I hope he’ll appreciate it – MacAskill has a way of getting his approval greedily from those around him – I’m about eight-tenths of a mile from him. House, about five minutes and thirty seconds later to his door. “Oh wow that’s impressive!” he replied. “let’s do it!”
MacAskill limited his personal budget to around £26,000 a year and gave up everything else. He lives in a desolate townhouse south of Oxford with two flatmates, he warns me, even if it’s a nice coffee shop. He greeted me at his door, complimented my “action bias,” and led me down a low, dark hallway to a laundry room full of buckets to catch the upstairs bathroom. Permanent leak. McAskill is tall and stocky, with messy dark blonde hair that has grown to messianic lengths during the pandemic. To get himself back into savagery, he’s recently narrowed it down to a dimension more suitable for high society.
McAskill admitted with some embarrassment that the blockade was a welcome reprieve from the bondage of his previous life. He and some friends rented a house in the Buckinghamshire countryside. He meditates, works as a home-exercise coach, and at sunset. He once wore a jumper with a wolf print and wrote a book called “What We Owe the Future,” which was published this month. Now that the world is opening up, he has been called back to serve as the shepherd of the movement. He speaks as if the life he is ready to return to is not entirely his own—as if he is not a man of desires, but a tabulating machine through which a multitude of global imperatives can be assessed, ranked, and processed.
He was doing his best to keep his grip on spontaneity and we started walking to the lake. Once we arrived, MacAskill climbed through a locked door to a small floating dock, where he placed a Bluetooth speaker playing a slow-paced house mix of the 1974 hit “Magic.” According to a bath toy thermometer, the water temperature is about 50 degrees. He put on a pair of orange sunglasses with tinted lenses to bring out the afterglow of the setting sun, and took off his shirt, revealing a long abdominal scar, the result of falling from the skylight when he was a teenager. He assured me, “If all you do is get in and out, that’s great.” I quickly completed my duties and threw myself back on the dock with blue fingers. McAskill took a powerful breaststroke in the middle of the lake, where he floated, icy, solitary, barely visible in the polarized buttercream sunset. Then he slowly swam back to continue his duty.
Born in 1987 as William Crouch, MacAskill grew up in Glasgow and attended a proud private school. He’s great in almost every way, but he’s the first to make fun of himself singing out of tune, juggling, and falling out of a tree house. Although his mother grew up in poor conditions in rural Wales, his family was barely political – as a child he was told all the newspapers were right-leaning tabloids. However, he displayed a precocious moral zeal from an early age.At fifteen, when he learned how many people had died AIDS, he started out as a successful novelist and donated half of his income. He volunteered with a disabled Boy Scout group and worked in a nursing home, to the baffled nature of his parents. In his environment, the brightest graduates were expected to study medicine in Edinburgh, but McAskill, as Dukes or valedictorian of the class, earned a place in philosophy at Cambridge. Robbie Kerr, one of MacAskill’s closest classmates, told me, “Glasgow’s attitude is best summed up by the parents of a school friend who looked at Will and said, ‘Philosophy. What a waste. That boy could have been cured of cancer.'”
MacAskill finds Cambridge intellectually and socially satisfying: he discusses metaethics on shirtless walks and vacations at friends’ houses in the south of France. But he also remembers being adrift, “searching for meaning.” “There are not many opportunities for moral activism,” he told me. He spent a summer volunteering at a rehabilitation center in Ethiopia, and after graduation, another as a street lobbyist for “chugger,” paying to turn pedestrians into charities. “We used to say it was 20p to save a life from polio, and a lot of other things were wrong,” he said, shaking his head. Still, he continued, “Just sitting in extreme poverty for two months, I felt like everyone else just didn’t get it.” In graduate school, “I started giving away 3 percent of my income, then 5 percent,” he said. Say. It wasn’t much—he was living off college grants at the time. “I think I can tell you this: I supplement my income with nude models for life drawing classes.” The poses allow him to philosophize freely. Later, he went on to attend bachelorette parties, where he could make twice as much money, “with simpler poses”.
He told me, “I got into the game because I believed in my cause and did a bunch of things that are more typical of the far left. I went to climate justice protests, pro-Palestinian protests, and Socialist Workers Party conferences.” None of the reasons for efficacy or intellectual coherence pass through the set. “I realized that climate protests are be opposed to Limit and trade, I am for. The Socialist Workers Party is just eight men with long hair in the basement talking about the glory of the Russian Revolution. He surveyed working philosophers and found that none felt they did anything of real significance. George Marshall, a friend from Cambridge, told me, “He was having dinner at Oxford — some kind of practical ethics conference — and he Shocked that almost none of the attendees were vegetarians, as he saw it as an application of the most basic ethical thinking. “
When McAskill was 22, his advisor suggested that he meet an Australian philosopher named Toby Ord. MacAskill found that in activism circles, “people’s focus on the problem — the climate is terrible! — is accompanied by a strong sense of anxiety, and a lack of real perception of what a person can actually do. But Toby plans to focus on Field donations and trying to get other people to do the same – I was like, “Oh, this is taking action. ” ” At the time, Ord was earning £15,000 a year and was ready to donate a quarter of that. “He only had two and a half pints when he was in Oxford,” McAskill said. “It’s really hardcore.” Unlike, say, someone who donates to cystic fibrosis research because a friend has the disease — in my own case — Ord thinks it’s important for him to distribute his funds fairly. important. There is no point in giving it to anyone in developed countries. The difference you can make elsewhere is at least two orders of magnitude larger. The ideal beneficiary of Ord is the Fred Hollows Foundation, which treats blindness in poor countries for $25 per person.
MacAskill signed on immediately, giving up as permanently as possible: “I agreed with the idea of restraining my future self – I had a lot of youthful energy, and I feared that over time I would become more conservative.” He recalls proving his new A joy when a mentor’s donation isn’t ideal. “My first big win was convincing him of deworming charities.” Comparing the elimination of blindness to elimination of intestinal parasites may seem impossible, but health economists have developed crude methods. MacAskill estimates the remission of intestinal parasites when measured in “quality-adjusted life years”, or quality assurances, will save a hundred times more than eye surgery to protect vision. Ord reassignment.