Beyond Rights: Imagining an Ethical Covenant with Animals Through Drucilla Cornell

So, I’ve been diving into this really interesting piece that explores the work of Drucilla Cornell, a philosopher known for her deep dives into feminist theory and critical thought. But what caught my eye here is her focus on something we often grapple with: our relationship with animals. It turns out Cornell has some pretty unique ideas, sparked by another philosopher, Ernst Cassirer, about how we should think about and interact with the non-human creatures we share the planet with.

The big idea that kicks things off is Cassirer’s notion that humans aren’t just *animal rationale* (rational animals), but *animal symbolicum* (symbolic animals). And here’s the twist: Cornell argues that animals are *also* symbolic creatures. This isn’t just some abstract philosophical point; she believes it has some seriously radical ethical implications for how we treat them.

This article I read suggests that Cornell’s reflections, particularly in her essay “Imagining a World Without the Violation of Animals,” open up three fascinating avenues that aren’t always front and center in animal ethics discussions. Let’s unpack them, shall we?

Why Just Giving Animals “Rights” Might Not Be Enough

Okay, so the first thing Cornell makes us think about is the common approach of trying to get legal rights for animals. It seems like a straightforward path to protection, right? If they have rights, they can’t be treated just like objects. But the text, drawing on Derrida, points out a potential snag.

The argument goes that our legal systems, and the whole concept of “rights” as we know them, are built on a very human-centric foundation. They were designed by and for humans, often defining the human subject in opposition to the animal. Think about it – the idea of the ‘Subject’ has historically been constructed by excluding others, including animals, based on some supposed lack (like reason, language, or the ability to fear, depending on which old philosopher you ask!).

Trying to fit animals into this existing legal box, this “philosophy of right and of human rights,” might actually reinforce the very system that has historically marginalized and oppressed them. Derrida calls this a “disastrous contradiction.” It’s like trying to fix a fundamentally flawed machine by just adding a new part designed for the old flaws. We might end up just solidifying an anthropocentric way of regulating the world.

The text reminds us that legal personhood isn’t some natural thing tied to being human or having specific capacities. Corporations, which definitely don’t have feelings or thoughts, have legal personhood! So, technically, we *could* give animals legal personhood. But the fact that when we *do* extend rights, it’s often only to a select few animals most “like” us (like great apes), highlights the problem. It shows how the underlying human-centric structure is still calling the shots, creating a hierarchy even within the group of animals deemed worthy of consideration.

Cornell, following Derrida, isn’t saying a covenant with animals is impossible. Far from it! She’s suggesting that maybe the language of rights, within our current legal framework, isn’t the *best* or most effective way to get there. It requires critical reflection. Instead of focusing solely on what capacities animals need to qualify for *our* rights, she urges us to think more broadly about the kind of covenant we *should* have with animals, and the obligations that flow from *that*, rather than from a rights framework.

Other scholars mentioned in the text, like Ed Mussawir and Yoriko Otomo, also question the law’s ability to truly serve animals. Mussawir points out how, in law, the animal itself can disappear, subsumed under general concepts like negligence rather than being recognized for its own specific “juridical signification.” Otomo shows how even environmental law terms like “common heritage of mankind” can end up re-appropriating non-human life as a resource for humans. It seems the legal path, while perhaps offering some incremental changes, is fraught with the risk of reinforcing the very anthropocentrism we need to move beyond.

This critique isn’t about dismissing the suffering of animals or the need for action. It’s about recognizing that simply reforming systems built on exclusion might not lead to true liberation. As Matthew Calarco notes, focusing only on reforming existing legal and moral discourses, while understandable, might reflect a “failure of imagination.” And that brings us to Cornell’s second big point.

The Ethical Power of Imagination and Utopianism

This is where things get really cool. Cornell talks about the power of imagination and the importance of “utopianism” – and not in a fluffy, unrealistic way. In animal liberation discussions, “utopian” is sometimes used as a put-down for ideas considered too radical or impossible (like total abolition). But Cornell flips this.

She argues that imagining a world *without* the violation of animals isn’t just a nice thought; it’s an ethical *obligation*. Why? Because we, as humans, are the animals who *can* imagine a different possible world. She uses the example of the BP oil spill – we can imagine a world where that doesn’t happen, where species aren’t wiped out. This obligation, she points out, is *non-reciprocal*. Whales aren’t building oil rigs; *we* are. So, the responsibility to imagine and work towards a world without such disasters falls squarely on us.

Cornell’s work, drawing on Derrida’s deconstruction, suggests that the very limits of our current understanding and language create a space for this kind of utopian thinking. Deconstruction, or the “philosophy of the limit,” shows us that when we try to define the boundaries of our world or our concepts (like “human” vs. “animal”), the limit recedes. We can’t fully grasp where the field of meaning ends. This “unknowability of the limit” isn’t scary; it’s an “unerasable moment of utopianism.” It means there’s always more space to dream and reimagine our form of life.

What Cornell calls “the beyond within” isn’t some faraway fantasy land. It’s the possibility for a different world that exists *within* the cracks and limits of our current one. It’s the space where we can challenge the systems that have confined animals (and others) to subordinate positions. By imagining this “beyond,” we are ethically challenged to confront what “is,” because what “is” is never fixed or complete. It’s a call to build a new way of seeing animals and our obligations to them, moving beyond the anthropocentric system that has trapped them as merely the “other” of man.

So, for Cornell, utopianism isn’t just dreaming; it’s an active, ethical stance. It’s about using our unique capacity for imagination to envision a future where animals are not violated, and recognizing that the very act of imagining creates an obligation to work towards that future.

Navigating Difference: Why the Human/Animal Distinction Still Matters (Ethically)

Alright, buckle up, because this part gets philosophical. The text brings up another debate in animal studies: how important is the distinction between humans and animals? Some thinkers (the “Identity” folks) say animals are like us in ethically relevant ways (sentience, etc.), so they should have similar rights. Others (the “Indistinction” folks) suggest we should collapse the distinction altogether, recognizing a fundamental shared identity (like our shared vulnerability as “meat,” as Val Plumwood’s terrifying crocodile encounter illustrates).

Cornell, along with Derrida, falls into the “Difference” camp. They focus on the radical singularity of each individual being, human or animal. While they critique the *traditional* human/animal binary for being overly simplistic and used for oppression, they don’t advocate for collapsing the distinction entirely. Why?

Cornell’s concern is that a total collapse of the human/animal difference could actually disavow the absolute singularity of the Other. More importantly, she worries it could obscure the *unique ethical responsibilities* that fall upon us precisely *because* of our unique capacities and differences. This ties back to her idea of ethical asymmetry and phenomenological symmetry – recognizing the Other as an “I” just like me (symmetry), while also respecting their absolute particularity and difference (asymmetry).

Think about the crocodile example again. Plumwood’s horrifying experience highlights our shared vulnerability as embodied beings – we can *both* become “meat.” But Cornell’s framework reminds us of the difference: we, as humans, have the capacity to choose not to eat meat; a carnivorous crocodile does not. Our capacity to imagine and choose creates a different ethical responsibility towards animals than the crocodile has towards its prey. Our obligation to refrain from cruelty (like factory farming) stems from our unique capacity to live differently and imagine a world without such practices.

So, for Cornell, maintaining a sense of difference, not as a basis for hierarchy, but as a recognition of unique capacities and individual singularity, is crucial for grounding our specific ethical responsibilities towards animals. It’s about respecting the animal in its particularity, not just seeing it as fundamentally “the same” as us in some abstract sense.

Connecting the Dots: Oppression of Women and Animals

Here’s another powerful angle the text brings up: the connection Cornell sees between the oppression of women and animals. This isn’t about saying women *are* like animals, but about recognizing how the *logic* of oppression often overlaps.

Cornell uses the term “carno-phallogocentrism.” Sounds complicated, but break it down: “carno” (meat/flesh), “phallo” (male/masculine), “logo” (language/reason), “centrism” (at the center). It’s a critical term suggesting that the dominant Western way of defining the ‘Subject’ (the fully human, rational, speaking, male, meat-eating individual) has been constructed by excluding and subordinating anything seen as its ‘other’ – including animals and the feminine.

Both animals and the feminine have historically been cast as relational, secondary, and defined by lack in relation to the dominant masculine subject. This system denies their distinctive subjectivities. Cornell’s work has long challenged the idea of the feminine as a symmetrical Other, simply the opposite of the masculine within a pre-existing system. She seeks an “affirmation” of the feminine (and animality) that doesn’t just appropriate them into the old categories.

By critiquing carno-phallogocentrism, Cornell exposes how the power structures that objectify women and animals are distinct but interconnected. They reinforce each other. The text argues that feminist scholars concerned with gender inequality and pro-animal theorists should draw on each other’s work because their struggles contest overlapping logics and power structures. It’s an explicitly intersectional approach, recognizing that forms of violence and oppression are often mutually reinforcing.

Disrupting the “phallic” discourse that defines subjectivity in this exclusionary way is necessary for the liberation of both. Without this disruption, we just keep playing the “old games of domination.”

Sketching the Covenant: What Does This Mean in Practice?

So, if we move beyond just demanding rights and embrace the ethical call to imagine a world without violation, what does that look like on the ground? Cornell offers a sketch of three manifestations of the “special obligations” we have towards animals. Remember, these are special because they are non-reciprocal, stemming from our unique capacity to imagine and act.

• Refrain from Cruelty: This seems obvious, but it means actively avoiding the horrific abuse animals face daily, like in slaughterhouses. On my reading, and as the text implies, this would practically require adopting a vegan orientation, as humans can thrive without consuming animal products, unlike carnivorous animals who need to hunt.
• Respect Animal Domains and Rituals: We need to acknowledge that animals have their own communities, practices, and relationships. Our obligation is to respect these domains and allow animals the space to exercise control over their lives without our interference driven by greed or self-interest. This requires us to *learn* about what those domains and practices are.
• Protect Habitats: Related to the last point, we must consider the broader ecosystems animals inhabit and actively avoid destroying or trampling upon them. Violating animals, as Cornell uses the term, means disrespecting that they have domains of life that we are obligated to respect.

These aren’t exhaustive rules, but reflections on the ways animals can be violated and the obligations that arise from recognizing them as symbolic creatures immersed in their own worlds. It’s about waking up to an ethic of responsibility that includes animals, dismantling the anthropocentric hierarchy, and understanding what animals “have to say to us” by observing and learning about their lives.

The Never-Ending Horizon of Imagination

Ultimately, what I take away from this exploration of Cornell’s work is that the ethical responsibility towards animals is deeply tied to our capacity to imagine. Because the world where animals are not treated as sub-human, where they are not violated, isn’t fully here yet, the process of reimagining our relationship with them is ongoing. It doesn’t have a neat endpoint.

Cornell’s sketch of obligations is just that – a sketch. The very act of trying to philosophically capture an ideal state of human-animal relationality shows us that we’re operating in an ever-expanding field of meaning. We can’t know where that field ends. There’s always more to imagine, more to learn about the diverse symbolic lives of animals, and more to do.

The ethical call, then, is to keep imagining that world, to keep pushing the boundaries of what we think is possible, and to convert yesterday’s utopian vision into today’s reality. It’s a continuous process of challenging the old ways, respecting the singularity of each being, and striving for a non-violent relation with all the Others with whom we share this amazing, complex planet.

Source: Springer