Splitting the Difference

Compromise -- splitting the difference -- can be a good thing, but it can also be a bad thing; and it can also be utterly impossible to compromise.

For instance, suppose that I am criminally minded and I take it into my mind that it would be a good thing to murder you. You, on the other hand, are quite convinced that your death would not be such a good thing. So, how are you and I to compromise on this trivial issue? Perhaps I can be allowed to cut you in two at the waist (your really vital organs are above that point). That's a win-win compromise, isn't it?

Moreover, an uncompromising committment to compromise is a Very Bad Thing.

The person who foolishly imagines that compromise is the highest good will tend to insist that you are the trouble in the above scenario. For, you did adamantly refuse the proffered "compromise," did you not?


Just as it is impossible for you and me to compromise between my desire to murder you and your desire not to be murdered, it is likewise impossible to compromise between truth and non-truth. To put it bluntly: the world is black-and-white, after all.

It's quite popular these days to sing peans to relativism: to assert either that there is no such thing as objective truth -- especially in regard to morality -- or, that if there is, it cannot be known (and so, is unimportant). I refer to this "All The Pretty Shades Of Grey." Of course, the actual truth of the matter generally is not that people cannot distinguish black from white, but that they are disinclined to make the effort. After all, what is grey but unresolved black and white?


A few months ago I wrote a little parable about compromise and the sometime impossibility of compromise. Here is the context for which I wrote it (though, the idea has much wider applicability) -- on Victor Reppert's Dangerous Idea blog, as a comment to the No compromise on abortion? item:

Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe

One fine summer day, Wicktor Ruppert, as is his wont on fine summer days, was hiking in the Arizona desert. On this particular fine summer day, Wicktor was enjoying the hike in his favorite area of the desert, marvelling at all the dried-up scenery at which he'd marveled so many hundreds of times before.

Hike, hike, hike! Marvel, marvel, marvel!

In the early afternoon, Wicktor chanced to see a path he'd never seen before, branching off from the main trail. Now, Wicktor knew exactly what dried-up scenery he'd see if he continued on the main path, for, after all, he'd hiked this trail hundreds of times before. But this new path, what wonders of dried-up scenery might it not reveal?

And so, of course, on this particular fine summer day, Wicktor took the promising new path.

An hour later on the new path, and after much marvelling at fine new vistas of dried-up scenery, Wicktor was about to turn back. He'd long since eaten the food he'd brought (but was hungry again), he'd drunk much of the water he was carrying ... Wicktor knows better than to be out in the desert without water! It really was time to return to the comforts of the city.

Just then, Wicktor saw that just ahead the path entered a cleft. Now, this was much too promising of more marvels of dried-up scenery, so Wicktor decided to stick with the hike for fifteen minutes more.

Entering the defile and rounding a bend, Wicktor suddenly came upon the sight of a wonder indeed: -- a tidy little building bearing a sign reading: Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe.

Now, Wicktor was very curious and intrigued at this new wonder. And, as Wicktor was also hungry (and a great lover of new ice creams), naturally he entered the shoppe.

Noìli: Good afternoon! May I offer Sir some fine Custom Ice Cream?

Wicktor: That sound marvelous! What have you got?

Noìli: Anything you wish, Good Sir. At Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe, we are here to serve!

Wicktor: Ah. Hmmm, I see only one flavor listed on the board.

Noìli: Yes! 'The Streets of New York City;' for that is our custom offering, carefully custom blended to Sir's exact specifications.

Wicktor: I'm afraid I don't understand.

Noìli: Oh, I see. This is Sir's first visit to Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe?

Wicktor: Yes. In fact, I've never before encountered one.

Noìli: Well, one expects that -- we are a quite exclusive franchise.

Wicktor: I see many tubs of ice cream in the cooler, more than I can count.

Noìli: Yes, any flavor one wishes. At Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe, if we do not already have the flavor of ice cream Sir wishes, we can whip it up almost instantly.

Wicktor: But there's only one flavor listed on the board?

Noìli: Yes! 'The Streets of New York City;' our custom offering. This is what we serve at Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe.

Wicktor: I'm afraid I still don't understand.

Noìli: I'll try to explain.

Say that one wishes to patronize Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe (and I certainly encourage Sir to do so). Well, the first thing to do is to decide which flavor of ice cream Sir wishes.

Wicktor: Ummm ... vanilla?

Noìli: A fine, fine choice. And how many scoops?

Wicktor: Three. Two!

Noìli: An excellent decision, I must say!

Wicktor: And then what?

Noìli: And then, Discerning Sir, I will transform the vanilla ice cream which you have chosen into our custom offering: 'The Streets of New York City.'

Wicktor: Which is?

Noìli: Which is somewhat like 'Rocky Road' or 'Denali Moose Tracks.' At least in concept.

Wicktor: Ah, I see. Well, no I don't. Aside from being your custom offering, what, exactly, is 'The Streets of New York City?' What is the concept which makes it like 'Rocky Road' or 'Denali Moose Tracks?' If it is not a trade secret to tell me so, just how will you transform the vanilla ice cream which I have chosen into 'The Streets of New York City?'

Noìli: Sir is indeed discerning!

Wicktor: Oh! Well, thank you!

Noìli: It is like this. I will take these two scoops of the vanilla ice cream, which is the flavor Sir has selected, and I then will carefully and tenderly, lovingly almost, blend it with these two scoops of dog shit.

Wicktor: That's disgusting!

Noìli: But, Discerning Sir! This is highest quality dog shit, carefully harvest in the most exclusive neighborhoods of New York City and only of known provenance. This is pedigreed dog shit!

Wicktor: But it's dog shit!

Noìli: Yes, indeed. Did I not state that Sir is most discerning?

Wicktor: But I don't want dog shit in my ice cream!

Noìli: One does understand the emotion. But consider: when I have completed the blend, there will be no dog shit in Sir's ice cream -- there will be only the ice cream Sir has ordered: 'The Streets of New York City!'

Wicktor: That's disgusting! That's not ice cream, that's dog shit!

Noìli: *sigh* I had such high hopes for one so discerning as yourself, Sir. *sigh* Please, allow me to explain: yes, there *was* some dog shit, but now we see before us only the 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream. Here, enjoy!

Wicktor: That's not ice cream, that's dog shit!

Noìli: Sir is being most narrow-minded. May we not compromise on this?

Wicktor: ... How?

Noìli: I will throw out this batch of 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream, which is clearly not what Sir wants -- please, do not concern yourself at the waste! At Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe, we are a stable enough organization that we are able to eat such a minor loss.

Wicktor: ... And then?

Noìli: And then I will whip up for Sir a fresh serving 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream. But this time, I shall use the two scoops of vanilla ice cream and only *one* scoop of dog shit! This is, of course, Sir's loss, for I cannot discount the price for Sir.

Wicktor: No! That's disgusting! That's not ice cream, that's dog shit!

Noìli: Ah, sir is still not satisfied?

Wicktor: No! I don't want dog shit in my ice cream!

Noìli: As I've carefully explained to Sir: here at Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe, we would never *think* to put dog shit in Sir's ice cream. In our fine establishment, we offer only the finest 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream!

Wicktor: I don't want dog shit in my ice cream!

Noìli: *sigh* I shall mix up a new batch of 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream. Say, two scoops of vanilla ice cream and one half scoop of dog shit?

Wicktor: No!

Noìli: Two scoops of vanilla ice cream and one quarter scoop of dog shit?

Wicktor: No!

Noìli: Two scoops of vanilla ice cream and an ounce or two of dog shit?

Wicktor: How may times must I say this: I don't want *any* dog shit in my ice cream!

Noìli: Two scoops of vanilla ice cream and I just wave the dog shit over it for a moment?

Wicktor: No! No! NO! I don't want any dog shit anywhere *near* my ice cream!

Noìli: Sir! Did we not agree to compromise? Whence comes this hateful, and quite frankly, bigoted stubbornness? Whence this binary, black-and-white, close-mindedness? Whence this irrational fanaticism on the matter?

*sigh* One becomes increasingly disappointed at the dimming prospects for men of good-will to compromise! *sigh*

Wicktor: I want pure ice cream!

Noìli: Sir, at Noìli's Custom Ice Cream Shoppe, we offer only the purest and finest of ice creams.

Wicktor: With dog shit in it!

Noìli: No, not at all, Sir! As I have so carefully explained to Sir, numerous times, when the blending is done, there is no longer any dog shit. Rather, there is only the finest 'The Streets of New York City' ice cream.

Wicktor: With dog shit in it!

Noìli: *sigh* Clearly, I was mistaken; Sir is not so discerning, after all.

Vanilla ice cream! Indeed!

(Colorizing the above text was second choice. Applying a blockquote to it also italicized it all, and I couldn't find a way to unitalicize it.)