Who better represents the quality of mercilessness than Ming the Mercilessness? The quality is even a part of his name. Seen here is Ming as played by Charles Middleton, who was the Emperor in the three Flash Gordon series cranked out in the late 30s, early 40s of the last century. Flash (played by Buster Crabbe) flew about in spark-emitting spaceships suspended by wires, foiling Ming's plans. I don't remember Ming as twirling his mustache like Snidley Whiplash, but he cleary could have done so if he wished. Perhaps those younger than I am (an increasingly large group) will remember Ming as played by Max von Sydow in the 1980 movie. He had enormous fun with the role, it seemed to me, though the movie was predictably characterized as discriminatory in later years, like so much else. Like us, in fact.
All, or most at least, know the part of Act IV of Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice in which the quality of mercy is extolled by Portia, or at least its first line: "The quality of mercy is not strained." Portia is "disguised" as a lawyer, as indeed are some who call themselves such. The quality of mercy may be an "attribute of God himself" as the disguised Portia says. The quality of mercilessness, though, is an attribute of we his creatures, if indeed we are his creation, in which case one must wonder regarding the implications of the claim that we are made in his image.
But rather than speculate on God and God's attributes, let's instead consider the undoubted mercilessness of we humans.
Our curious history supports the view that we're merciless far more often than we're Merciful. In fact, we seldom have mercy for anyone or anything--unless it's to our own benefit, or at least does us no Harm or requires no significant effort. We're an inordinately selfish species. It's not possible to claim otherwise with any degree of reasonableness.
It's been said that we're at our best when things are at the worst. It's been pointed out that in times of crises we act unselfishly. That may be the case. But consider how infrequently these mercy-motivating crises take place. Hurricanes, tornados, fires, earthquakes--natural disasters--certainly occur, and it would be incorrect to say they're so unusual as to be of no account. However, when we take into account the time we live and have lived without them, our method of responding to them can hardly be said to be representative of our nature. Crises are crises precisely because they're infrequent. In most cases, in the usual course of our lives, we're indifferent to the plight of others at most times at best.
At other times, we seem to actually take satisfaction in the misfortune of others. This may simply be the kind of satisfaction which we feel due to the fact that their misfortune is not ours. Or it may be the satisfaction we feel when we believe that their misfortune is caused by their own misconduct, or by their failure to do what's appropriate, or what we would do or have done in their place. We're smug.
Sometimes, of course, we're actually responsible for the misfortune of others, by intent or without intent. When we intend harm we're not inclined to be merciful to those we harm. When we don't intend to harm, we look on the harm we do as being justified as we're looking out for ourselves.
I've felt and may have expressed for some time that philosophies and religions that espouse Love and mercy don't actually motivate us in any important respect. That is to say, though we pay them lip service, we don't truly love our neighbors as ourselves, nor are we charitable if it requires us to take any more than casual action, nor are we merciful unless shamed into being merciful or overwhelmed by sudden, extreme fellow-feeling we experience in moments of crisis when directly confronted with misery of the kind we cannot ignore. Those we love are few in number, and are our intimates. It's disingenuous and hypocritical to maintain otherwise, and in urging us to love one another and be merciful to all these philosophies and religions betray a spectacular misconception of human nature.
A more honest and effective stab at being moral and merciful would be one that encourages not love, but respect, and discourages selfishness and self-regard. It would not raise as a standard or ideal a conception of human nature based on the occasional moral highs we experience in remarkable circumstances or our feelings normally limited to those close to us.
I've made no attempt to disguise the fact I have a high regard for Stoicism, so it won't come as a great surprise that I think that a more reasonable ethics is found in the first few paragraphs of the Enchiridion of Epictetus (or if you prefer of his student Arrian modeled on the teachings of Epictetus). It is simple and easily understood, and doesn't require that we be saints or heroes. It's a common sense guide to limiting our selfishness and desire for things and power over others which is at the basis of our misdeeds.
We can't be merciless when we don't concern or disturb ourselves with things which are not in our control, as we'll not in that case act in a way which will harm others.
