The Ethics Before Existence: Levinas and the Primacy of Responsibility

By Bracha L. Ettinger, CC BY-SA 2.5

My old IBM Model M is clacking with defiance as I am typing this piece, a cup of cold coffee to my left and a dwindling cigar to my right.

Emmanuel Levinas’ question echoes in my mind: Is it righteous to be? Not “Is life worth living?”

That’s a Camusian cocktail party question.

Levinas aims deeper, where the roots of our existence tangle with the lives of others.

If every breath you take robs another of air, what justification do you have for being at all?

Levinas doesn’t pull punches, and neither will I.

This article isn’t a pat-on-the-back celebration of human existence; it’s an interrogation room with a single swinging lightbulb, and we are all suspects.

The Crime of Being

Imagine you’re at a party. You’re holding a plate piled high with hors d’oeuvres—shrimp, mini quiches, whatever suits your taste.

Across the room, someone’s holding an empty plate, eyeing the buffet you’ve just emptied.

That’s the human condition, according to Levinas.

By simply existing, you’ve taken something—space, resources, opportunity—that someone else could have used.

Spinoza called it the conatus essendi, the drive to persevere in being or in other words to survive.

We don’t just live; we claw, hoard, and defend.

Pascal saw this egotistical scramble and called it detestable: “The self is hateful,” he claimed.

Levinas agrees.

“It is as if by the fact of being there, I deprived someone of his vital space,” he writes.

Every claim to life, every assertion of “this is my place in the sun,” carries the shadow of violence.

Think about Ebenezer Scrooge, alone in his cold mansion while Tiny Tim shivers in poverty.

Scrooge’s wealth isn’t neutral; it’s an active deprivation.

Levinas takes it further: all existence is Scrooge-like. Even without malice, just by occupying space, we trespass.

The Face That Judges

Levinas’ trump card is the face of the other.

Not just any face—it’s the metaphorical and literal embodiment of vulnerability. Think of Frodo’s conflicted pity for Gollum, the creature who once was a man.

That’s the essence of what Levinas means by the face: it’s a demand, silent but unyielding.

When you encounter the face, Levinas says, it disrupts your self-centered universe.

Suddenly, your concerns about your mortgage or your next meal seem secondary.

You’re arrested, like a deer in headlights, but instead of fear, it’s responsibility that freezes you.

You are responsible for this person—completely, irrevocably, unconditionally.

Ethics vs. Ontology

Levinas doesn’t merely add ethics to the philosophical toolkit; he puts it at the top of the hierarchy, above ontology.

To clarify, ontology is the study of being—what it means to exist.

Heidegger famously explored Dasein, or “being-there,” as the foundation of existence. Levinas, however, counters with being-for-the-other.

Let’s break it down with a table:

OntologyEthics
Asks, “What is existence?”Asks, “What is responsibility?”
Prioritizes self-preservationPrioritizes the needs of others
Anchored in individual identityAnchored in relational accountability
Heidegger: “being-there”Levinas: “being-for-the-other”

For Heidegger, you’re thrown into existence—life is about grappling with your own being.

Levinas calls this self-centeredness into question, suggesting that existence itself is already ethically suspect.

The face of the other interrupts the ego’s soliloquy (an introspective monologue where the ego reflects on its own existence), demanding a duet of care and responsibility.

Explaining Levinas to an Apprentice

Now, imagine me explaining this to my 18-year-old apprentice, who’s more interested in TikTok than 20th-century French philosophy.

Here’s how I’d put it:

“Kid,” I say, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke, “think about life as a game of musical chairs.

There are fewer chairs than players, and you’re sitting comfortably. Someone else—maybe a friend, maybe a stranger—is left standing.

Now, here’s the question: Do you give up your seat?”

They blink, confused. “But… if I do that, I lose.”

“Exactly,” I reply. “But maybe life isn’t about winning.”

Levinas’ philosophy, at its core, is this: The ethical life starts when you stop worrying about your own chair and start worrying about the person left standing.

The Dark Side of Responsibility

Levinas doesn’t sugarcoat responsibility.

It’s not a feel-good Hallmark card. It’s a burden, an obligation that doesn’t ask for your consent.

When you encounter the face of the other, you don’t get to say, “Sorry, not my problem.”

Their vulnerability indicts you, whether you like it or not.

This is where Levinas breaks with feel-good pop ethics.

Responsibility isn’t reciprocal. It’s asymmetrical. Think of Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, stealing bread to save a child.

The law says he’s a criminal, but Levinas might argue he’s the only one acting ethically. Responsibility doesn’t balance the scales; it tips them toward the other person, no matter the cost to you.

Empathy = Savior?

Levinas paints a picture of existence that’s more guilt than grace.

But he also gives us a way forward: empathy.

Not the Instagram-worthy kind, but the gut-level awareness that another’s suffering is your responsibility.

Let’s compare Levinasian empathy with the more digestible pop-culture version:

Levinasian EmpathyPop-Culture Empathy
Guilt-driven care for the otherFeel-good solidarity
Demands personal sacrificeEncourages mutual benefits
Stark awareness of privilegeGeneral “we’re all in this together”

Levinas’ empathy is brutal, unyielding. It doesn’t ask, “What’s convenient for you?” It asks, “What’s necessary for them?”

Popular Culture Meets Levinas

Levinas’ ideas echo through literature and film, often unintentionally.

Take Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings. Sam doesn’t carry the Ring or lead the quest, but he bears Frodo’s burden without question.

He embodies being-for-the-other, sacrificing his own comfort and safety for someone else’s journey.

Contrast this with Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, where the ethos of self-preservation reigns supreme.

Levinas would see Rand’s characters as the epitome of what’s wrong with ontology-first thinking.

When every man is an island, the sea of suffering rises unchecked.

The Grim Conclusion

Levinas doesn’t promise a happy ending.

His philosophy suggests that life is a zero-sum game of existence, where every gain is someone else’s loss.

Camus said the only serious philosophical question is suicide, but Levinas raises a harder one: What do you do after realizing your very existence is theft?

The world today seems to validate Levinas’ fears. Wealth inequality, and mass displacement are all symptoms of a species obsessed with its own survival at any cost.

The face of the other is everywhere—on the news, in refugee camps, at the edges of our cities—but we look away.

And yet, Levinas doesn’t leave us without hope. If the future is dark, it’s not because we’re doomed but because we haven’t made the right choice yet.

Responsibility might feel like a burden, but it’s also an opportunity. Every encounter with the other is a chance to shift the balance, to give up your chair in the cosmic game of musical chairs.

As Frodo says, “I wish the Ring had never come to me.” Gandalf replies, “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

Levinas would agree. Ethics may not save us, but it gives us something to strive for.

The choice is ours, and the stakes are everything.

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