After two decades of decline and indifference in the Anglo-American world, the subject of taxing inherited wealth has recently begun to resurface. In the past five years, the number of books and articles on the topic has shown a noticeable increase. And in Ontario, Canada’s most populous and industrialized province, the unexpected election of the New Democratic Party in September 1991, promising to reintroduce a provincial succession duty, has put the issue back on the political agenda.

In an interesting and thoughtful book The Economy of the Earth: Philosophy, Law and the Environment, Mark Sagoff provides us with a sustained critique of the methods used by economists to inform environmental policy and regulation. He debunks the relevance of the efficiency criterion in particular, even when it is supplemented with a concern for equity, and argues that environmental problems are better analyzed in moral, aesthetic, cultural, and political terms. To make this argument, Sagoff relies on four key distinctions. These distinctions, which overlapto some extent, are drawn between: (1) the citizen and the consumer, (2) values and preferences, (3) public and private interests, and (4) virtues and methods.

It is said that hard cases make bad law. But one of our tasks in jurisprudence is to consider the justification of legal institutions. If this enterprise is to be conducted in a spirit of argument rather than ideology, then hard cases—indeed the hardest cases—must be our primary point of reference. To undertake with any integrity to defend an institution, one must be willing to contemplate the existence of serious moral objections. In many cases, that involves confronting the possibility that the institution under discussion has an unacceptable impact on people’s lives—that it imposes unbearable costs, for example, or unacceptably constrains their freedom or their dignity. To defend an institution in an ideological way is to ignore or conceal such possibilities. Justification, by contrast, involves a willingness to confront the issue of unacceptable hardship. Its success (if indeed the institution is justified) turns on one’s ability to show that the hardship will not in fact occur, or that it is unavoidable or for some other reason not morally unacceptable in the circumstances.

The takings clause of the United States Constitution requires government to pay compensation when private property is taken for public use. When government regulates, but does not physically seize, property, the Supreme Court of the United States has had trouble defining when individuals have been deprived of property rights so as to give them a right to compensation. The takings clause serves “to bar Government from forcing some people alone to bear public burdens that, in all fairness and justice, should be borne by the public as a whole.” To determine when a regulation amounts to a “taking” of property requiring compensation, the Court has rightly stated that the ultimate question is whether the burden of regulation has been unfairly placed on a small class of individuals rather than the public at large. To answer this question, the Court has identified a variety of factors to consider, including the character of the governmental action, (whether the regulation effects a permanent physical invasion, destroys a core property right, or is intended to prevent public harm), whether the regulation interferes with reasonable investment-backed expectations, and the extent of the diminution in value of the property (particularly whether the regulation deprives the owner of any economically viable use of the property).

One of the assumptions of our legal system is that when a violation of law has occurred, we (society) should provide a remedy for individuals who were harmed. More specifically, we should provide them with corrective remedies—remedies that place them as nearly as possible in the position they would be in if no wrong had occurred. This principle is not universal. There are legal wrongs, usually statutory, for which only public officials can seek a judicial remedy. And where private remedies do apply, not all the effects of a legal wrong are covered. But in general, individuals who have suffered legal wrongs are entitled to remedies that relieve the effects of the wrong and return them to their “rightful position.”

There are many, purportedly competing, theories about law and about aspects of legal practice. H.L. A. Hart, in perhaps the most famous contemporary account, explains law in terms of primary and secondary rules. Writers within the American legal realist tradition believe rules cannot adequately explain legal practice and look instead to actual decisions. This view is reflected in Oliver Wendell Holmes’ famous definition of law as “the prophecies of what the courts will do in fact.” Ronald Dworkin theorizes that posited rules cannot account for the innumerable disputes about the law and argues that political morality plays an important role in conceptualizing law. These theories variously explain law in terms of (a) posited rules, (b) judicial decisions and not rules, and (c) legal rules and moral rights. This sampling of “rival” theories typifies the current state of jurisprudence: a plethora of apparently competing and seemingly endlessly debated theories about law. Ruth Gavison suggests that much jurisprudential discussion has been “sterile and barren” because theorists often have not appreciated the plurality of purposes for theorizing about law and, consequently, the extent to which putatively contradictory accounts of law are at cross purposes or complementary.

Between March 21,1992 and April 14,1992 Canadians witnessed a remarkable proliferation of controversy on the pages of The Globe and Mail. The issue was “cultural appropriation” or “appropriation of voice” in fictional and nonfictional writing. Articles, editorials, and letters to the editor considered the propriety of depicting a culture other than one’s own, telling “someone else’s story”, and whether it was possible to “steal the culture of another.” The debate was remarkable because of its emotional intensity, the absurdity of the analogies drawn in support of the respective arguments, and the inability of the protagonists to recognize each other’s terms of reference. Especially striking were the rhetorical tropes of possessive individualism adopted by all participants in the discussion.

In Law’s Empire, Ronald Dworkin combines his role as a legal theorist with his role as a political theorist. He sets forth a view of jurisprudence and law as modes or fields of interpretation, and he likewise propounds the notion that our current law can best be interpreted as a system pointing to the ideal of equality-of-resources. Nowhere does Dworkin’s combination of views emerge more piquantly than within his chapter entitled “The Common Law.” There Dworkin grants that much of English and American common law has had the effect of simulating markets—in other words, the effect of allocating productive forces in ways that would have come about via costless bargains among all relevant people. But he disputes the added thesis that the judicial simulation should be interpreted as the maximizing of wealth. Pitting himself against the economic approach to legal matters, Dworkin holds that we can best understand market-simulation as the achievement or pursuit of equality.

It is often assumed that there is an important conflict, perhaps even a contradiction, between claims to private property in land, on the one hand, and claims of public access to it, on the other. The conflict is manifest in the dispute, common to many industrialised countries, between those who have private property in land and those who claim access rights to that land for recreational purposes. The first aim of this essay is to clarify what is involved if this conflict is to be understood as taking place at the level of normative justification. Our focus is therefore narrow because we ignore other grounds which, though they need not necessarily ignore normative justification, do not regard it as central to an account of the genesis and existence of the conflict. So, for example, the conflict might be solely or mainly a product of self-interested pressure group politics or ideological dispute.

A “human being,” Kant writes, “is not entitled to sell his limbs for money, even if he were offered ten thousand thalers for a single finger” (LE 124). This arresting statement is part of a broader position of Kant’s according to which persons lack property rights in parts of their own bodies. One can find in his work at least three arguments in support of this position. One is an argument from human freedom. It is riddled with difficulties. The second is an argument from humanity and dignity. It has general appeal but does little to justify Kant’s verdict on some of his own examples. The last is an argument from self-respect. It has some force. Yet, unless one tempers the Kant of moral opinion with the Kant of moral theory, this argument sometimes delivers unacceptable answers to casuistical questions.

In the past half century most legal philosophy has been limited to a fairly narrow range of traditional topics such as adjudication, legal reasoning, interpretation, legal persons, obligation and authority, the possibility of legal knowledge, the relationship of law to power, morality, economics and class struggle, and positivism vs. natural law. For those of us comfortable in the tradition, the range of questions appeared to outline an intellectually and politically adequate domain. The basic problems fell neatly into the major philosophical departments of epistemology, logic, value theory and, in some cases, metaphysics, and allowed participation by everyone along the political spectrum from the radical Marxist left through the liberal center to the fascist right.

The problem of what property is or should be can take many different forms. The debate can focus on what kinds of powers or entitlements should flow from defining an object as someone’s property, or what the grounds are for limitations on those powers and entitlements. One can ask whether the right to property is the sort of right that should be treated as a constitutional right. One can focus on how to define the contours of a particular kind of property, like land or copyright. Or one can ask what sorts of things should be treated as property. And in fact a legalregime of property rights cannot avoid at least some of these questions; they are entailed in the task of defining and subtly redefining property that is inherent in the ongoing process of adjudication.

The few remarks on property that are found in the Essays on the Active Powers of the Human Mind of the eighteenth century Scottish “Common Sense” philosopher, Thomas Reid, have led at least one commentator to treat him as a fairly traditional advocate of the natural right to (private) property, albeit one with a concern for the very poor. In an article on William Paley and the rights of the poor, Thomas Home remarks in passing that Reid’s (and Adam Ferguson's)