Why Do Human Beings Have Dignity?
After finishing The Metaphysics of Morals, four themes struck me most deeply:
- The supreme dignity of human beings
- Know yourself
- Bitter merit
- Perfect friendship
Today, I’ll explore the first.
The Dignity of Man
Does any nobility really exist? Why can’t I see that?
This was a Weibo post I wrote thirteen years ago while working at a state-owned enterprise in Henan.
In a moral wasteland like Henan, it is, of course, exceedingly difficult to witness nobility in daily life.
When European friends ask me what I like about my homeland, after thinking long and hard, the only thing I can come up with is its “smoky, fiery air” (yan huo qi)—the power of life itself, the vitality of “living on, like an animal.”
But even ants try to cling to life; this instinct alone grants no special dignity to humanity.
So where does human nobility actually originate?
What makes us human? Are we really just a bundle of desires?
Why do we pursue knowledge? Why do we work so hard? Just to survive like insects?
In this world of sordid, meaningless struggles, what can our lives possibly add?
These questions drove me to abstract philosophy, to Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals.
Why do human beings have dignity?
Western political theory offers a ready answer: natural rights. But natural rights are too bound by history. They initially belonged only to white men, expanding gradually over centuries, and remain far from universal today. Does this mean that in countries with poor human rights records, like China, human dignity is somehow diminished? Are some lives simply worth less?
Such a theory cannot convince me. We must dig deeper for something unconditional—foundations that stand firm regardless of circumstance.
Kant’s answer is elegantly simple: human dignity springs from reason and our capacity for autonomy.
By “reason,” he doesn’t mean mere calculation or problem-solving, but our ability to recognize our own existence and distinguish ourselves from everything else. Reason reveals our dual nature: we are both animals driven by desire and rational beings capable of transcending those very desires.
“Autonomy” means more than self-control—it’s the power to create our own laws. While self-discipline often teaches us to constrain ourselves, autonomy can be expansive: we can establish our own principles, choose our beliefs, and pursue them relentlessly, holding fast to what we know is right.
As a Chinese person, I have zero interest in preaching those tired Confucian virtues of gentleness, kindness, and deference. What matters is this expansive autonomy, this radical freedom—the absolute sovereignty of the individual. This is the wellspring of human dignity. It’s not merely a right but an obligation.
I often recall a passage from The Godfather that perfectly captures this autonomy and dignity:
They were those rarities, men who refused to accept the rule of organized society, men who refused the dominion of other men. There was no force, no mortal man who could bend them to their will unless they wished it. They were men who guarded their free will with wiles and murder. Their wills could be subverted only by death. Or the utmost reasonableness.
—Mario Puzo, The Godfather
Setting aside the criminal methods, this iron will embodies exactly what Kant meant by autonomy. If everyone possessed this quality, we’d have Kant’s “kingdom of ends.”
On Dignity, Arrogance, Servility, and Humility
Dignity means recognizing the inherent worth of all people—including yourself—as rational beings. It’s universal, equal, and absolute.
Arrogance places you above others, demanding they diminish themselves while refusing to grant them equal respect. Servility does the opposite—placing yourself beneath others, reducing yourself to their instrument.
Both create hierarchies, which is why they’re often found together. The arrogant are frequently servile, and here’s why: When you call someone “trash,” you’re claiming human worth is conditional. If dignity has conditions, it becomes a commodity, not dignity at all. How you treat others becomes how you treat yourself. By your own logic, your dignity becomes precarious, dependent on circumstances, leaving you terrified of falling.
True dignity isn’t zero-sum. Mine doesn’t diminish yours.
Yet Chinese culture demands perpetual humility—I must lower myself to dust. Asserting my dignity becomes an offense. Why?
Chinese humility is a hierarchical game: I abase myself, you’re obligated to elevate me in return. Fail to play along, and you’re socially inept. Refuse to abase yourself, and you’re arrogant.
But human nature demands something else entirely: to stand tall without groveling or self-deprecation.
This explains my lifelong conflict with Chinese culture. I’ve never understood
whom, exactly, should I be humble?My social training was pure coercion—bow to power and status or be crushed. The nail that stands up gets hammered down. Society punishes those who won’t comply. But we never truly believed this garbage. High status doesn’t equal wisdom or virtue. I might bend temporarily under pressure, but I never truly submit.
Real humility bows only to higher principles—the knowledge that we’re always journeying toward, but never reaching, perfect reason and perfect good. This doesn’t mean anyone alive can make me surrender my autonomy.
When external laws—whether social norms, unwritten rules, or hierarchies—are themselves irrational, designed to degrade and instrumentalize people, what should someone pursuing true autonomy do?
I am the answer: Reject them. Find principles that genuinely convince you, then live by them unwaveringly.
That’s why I’ll always side with the rebels—they’re my people. Someone with real dignity helps the servile recognize their worth and forces the arrogant to check themselves.