Two people take turns trying to lift a large rock. One holds it above their head for a few moments. The other can barely get it an inch off the ground.
The third person, an observer, asks you: “Is the first person stronger? Or is the rock simply heavier to the second?”
It’s a silly question. The rock has mass, a physical, independent property. Obviously, the one who can lift it higher is stronger. If person three persists in their sophistry, just weigh the rock and shut them up.
But when we concern ourselves with mental weightlifting, with willpower rather than muscle power, the question turns relevant. Say two roommates are suffering from alcoholism. They drink the same daily amount and their lives suffer similarly for it. One morning, after a disastrous bender, they resolve to never touch the bottle again. One of them sticks to it, fights their addiction diligently, and goes sober. The other relapses after a week.
Does the first person possess greater willpower? Or is addiction simply heavier to the second?
It’s a surprisingly slippery riddle. You could say that, since the friends were in similar situations, their struggles are comparable. But addiction has no objective mass to refer to. One can measure the neurochemistry responsible for it, but the actual experience is intangible. How do we know the second person’s alcoholism isn’t a more formidable foe than their friend’s, one that takes more effort to vanquish? More effort than either friend could muster?
Or, if you’re scientifically minded: Which is the independent variable, alcoholism or the attempt to escape it?
Is it really viable, with this ambiguity in mind, to talk about willpower as a virtue unevenly distributed among men? Is it fair to blame people’s failures on its absence? I’m certainly not comfortable with it.
The more I think about willpower, the less useful it becomes as a concept. Perhaps difficulty is a more sympathetic – and measurable – object of analysis.