An Engaging Rant by Edward St. Amant

I suppose his Atheism, Skepticism and Philosophy might also be described as a screed.  In any case, I downloaded it on my admirable Nook, and am currently reading it.  I find myself in sympathy with much that he writes.  He has the disconcerting habit of referring to "women and men" (instead of "men and women") which is not seriously objectionable, but has an annoying whiff of political correctness about it.  He also has a somewhat bewildering habit of citing the years of birth and death of the great figures of philosophy, and others, he more often than not denigrates.  Their respective life-spans do not seem of great importance generally or for purposes of his book.  More significantly for me, his only (passing) reference thus far to pragmatism as a philosophy seems uninformed--he is apparently among those who think, incorrectly, that it sanctions subjectivsim and cultural relativism, a view which I think is defensible only if one hasn't read the pragmatists, or has limited reading to Rorty, who was not one but periodically claimed he was, or James, who was an important figure in pragmatism but was a kind of extremist in certain things.

The Web tells me he's written a good deal, largely fiction it seems, but tells me little about his education or background.  I don't know if he's a professional philosopher; since he's critical of them, I doubt it.  I find him engaging, of course, because we agree that modern philosophy no longer seems concerned with the problems we encounter in life or, to the extent it is concerned, has abandoned reason as the most intelligent means by which to resolve those problems.  Of course, I'm no philosopher, as someone named "Anonymous" noted kindly in response to a prior post about Heidegger.  So the fact that St. Amant may not be one either doesn't in and of itself disturb me.

To summarize his points as I understand them:  Those who are generally referred to as Continental philosophers glorify the irrational and even indulge in mysticism, particularly the "Teutonic" philosophers such as Nietzsche, Hegel and Heidegger; those who are generally referred to as Analytic have narrowed the scope of philosophy to such an extent that it is essentially irrelevant, and can be said to have abandoned reason to the extent that they have accepted Hume's position that we just can't really know whether, e.g., the sun will rise tomorrow.  The Analytics due to the narrowness of their focus have abandoned philosophy as a guide to living and solving the problems of life, and have as a result abandoned the field to the irrationalists and the mystics. 

I'll be interested in where he takes this, but can't help but note that his criticisms of modern philosophy and views regarding what should be the concerns of a philosopher are similar to those of the pragmatists with whom I'm primarily familiar, such as Peirce, Dewey and Hook.  I think he may be too critical of religion qua religion, though think his criticisms of organized religion are apt.  The belief in a God need not be destructive or necessarily contra reason, even if it cannot be established by reason.  Being prejudiced in their favor, I'll note the stoics as representative of such a belief.

He's also clearly engaged in a defense of Western culture and democracy, from what I'd call a classical liberal perspective, and I find that engaging as well.  I suspect he may be a libertarian, although I hope not a Libertarian.  We shall see.  In any case, it's far more likely I'll finish reading his book than I'll finish reading Maimonides' Guide.

On Reason and Religious Belief

Well, Maimonides, whom I mentioned in the prior post, thus far seems content to guide the perplexed by such devices as noting that, based on his translation of the Hebrew, statements appearing in the Old Testament to the effect that various individuals saw God don't really mean that they saw him as a corporeal being.  God, after all, is not a corporeal being, and so cannot be seen.  Therefore, such statements mean that they discerned him in whatever fashion a non-corporeal being may be discerned.  I hope his Guide gets better, but will reluctantly put it aside for a time.

Yesterday while driving I heard courtesy of Book Radio (no, the pictures are not in your head, no matter what they say) one of Chesterton's Father Brown stories.  I've enjoyed reading some of them, but this particular one served only to remind me of his unsatisfyingly breezy, dismissive way of handling criticism of religion.  Father Brown's ministry, apparently, has exposed him to all the artifices of thieves and so he catches a notorious one in the story in question; such was its rather dubious point.  What caught my attention, though, was the good Father's statement that he knew someone pretending to be a priest was not one because he (the fake priest) spoke badly of reason and that is not good theology according to Father Brown.

I'm not sure I agree.  Ultimately reason, I think, is not good theology; instead, it shows us theology is not good (yes, I'm imitating Chesterton's relentlessly playful style).  Certainly reason may be employed in theology as it may be employed in any form of argument, but I know of no basis on which reason demonstrates the existence of God, let alone the God of Christianity.  I think Chesterton himself said as much, in fact.

Assuming this to be the case, what does that tell us about belief in God?  Reason is very useful in assisting us in various ways, in learning about things, in solving problems, in noting error and avoiding error.  It would seem that at the least it can be maintained that reason is not useful in ascertaining the existence of a God.  More specifically, the existence of God is not something amenable to reason; it can't be demonstrated or verified in the way things amenable to reason can be.  I think it's foolish to maintain it can be, even if one accepts such arguments as those of Aristotle.  Even if we assume that reason tells us there was a First Mover, what reason do we have to believe that First Mover is God as most believe God to be?

The religious should abandon any claim that reason establishes the existence of God, I think, together with the claim that religion has a rational basis.  The quest to provide a basis for religious belief of the same kind as that which supports scientific conclusions, or even those of logic, is foolish.  As well try to do so with our appreciation of poetry, or music, or beauty, or any feeling of transcendence.  Our feelings regarding such things are arational, as it were.  The existence of such feelings can be verified, but the bases for them can't--unless it can be established that we have them because we are "hardwired" to have them, which I think is the same as to say we've evolved in such a fashion as to experience them in certain circumstances.

If that's the case, however, we have them because it is our nature to have them.  If it's our nature to have them, though, why deny them, or why claim that they are improper or misguided?

Perplexed by Maimonides

I'm in the midst of reading his Guide to the Perplexed and am, thus far, perplexed rather than guided.

I can understand why he would feel that those who have studied philosophy, like his student to whom this is addressed, would find God as characterized in what even we lapsed Christians call the Old Testament to be a rather unsatisfactory deity.  The reader of Aristotle and Plato (addressing the philosophical greats of the time) would think the capricious, jealous, angry, sometimes joyous but more often relentlessly oppressive God of the Hebrews less than divine.

I suppose he really has no choice in attempting to defend that God but to maintain that metaphor is the answer, i.e. that much of what is written cannot be taken on its face, but is rather a series of parables.  He seems to claim that this is necessary because those always present and ever-dull common people (those not schooled in philosophy) could not comprehend what is really intended, and so must be led cheerfully by the nose, as it were, through the employment of this engaging artifice.  This is not an unexpected conceit on his part.  But he also seems to claim that the assorted metaphors, tales and parables--the careful effort made to avoid any direct, straightforward, clear statement of the attributes and intent of the deity--is necessary regardless; is needed even for the benefit of those trained in philosophy.

I find this sort of thing troubling.  Defending the unclear on the ground that it must be unclear seems rather weak, even evasive, though it can certainly be convenient.  But we shall see.  I suspect I'll never be satisfied by any defense of religion or religious belief, and it may simply be the case that there can be no reasonable defense.  Religion, in other words, may not be reasonable.  If it is not, the question to be addressed is--should it be reasonable?

Thoughts on the Limitations of Libertarianism

I have a certain sympathy for the libertarian view, as I've noted before on this blog.  That is to say, it troubles me when government acts to restrict our thought or conduct, when we don't harm others.  As to our thought, I see no basis on which government should restrict us at all.  When harm results from our conduct, then government may legitimately exercise its police power to regulate us; just how much it should do so is a complicated matter, and the extent of harm required to justify the restriction is not an easy issue to address either. 

Libertarianism is often justified by reference to natural or God-given rights.  Not being particularly religious, I'm not inclined to claim God as a basis for the unfettered exercise of conduct, or thought for that matter.  I'm not so opposed to reference to nature in these circumstances, though, if what is referred to is human nature, and the fact that we have certain characteristics and abilities in common, generally desire certain things, like happiness, peace and comfort and reasonably believe we should not be unnecessarily imposed on by government or others provided we do no harm.

Well and good.  Government should leave us alone, for the most part.  But if I think there is value in certain things, like happiness, peace and comfort, and that I should be allowed to achieve them, doesn't it follow that others should be allowed to do so as well?  What, then, if they can't, not because of restrictions imposed by government, but because of their circumstances?  Does the libertarian opposition to government restrictions entail opposition to government action to improve the circumstances of those who are not in the position to live in happiness, peace and comfort?

I would say no; this doesn't seem to follow.  But, to improve the circumstances of others, government needs resources, and it has none unless it taxes or imposes fees for government services.  When it imposes taxes or fees, it restricts the abilities of some to pursue what they think is appropriate or desirable.  Is it appropriate to oppose this kind of restriction?

It is inherent in the position that we each have certain rights that others have such rights in addition to ourselves.  So, it can't be maintained that those who cannot exercise such rights don't have them.  It can only be maintained that they can't exercise them, because they're less fortunate than we are.

Should the response to this be "that's too bad" or (shudder) "that must be the way God wants it to be" or some variant?  This seems a mean, selfish, contemptible option.  What is the libertarian response?  Will the fabled "Invisible Hand" make all right eventually?  That seems just another kind of mysticism.

I just finished a book by Larry Hickman about John Dewey and his "pragmatic technology."  I may have more to say about this later.  But I was struck by his explanation of Dewey's response to those on the left and the right who maintained that he was naive to believe that we can remedy economic and other social problems through the exercise of intelligence and education.   Dewey was accused of being sentimental, and it was claimed pragmatism provided no justification for the betterment of others.

Dewey's response, according to Hickman, was that it was only reasonable to improve the condition of those who were poor, illiterate, unskilled, etc.  By doing so, we can avoid violence (through revolution and otherwise).  We can increase their contribution to society which will inevitably better our own position.  They can become investors and participants in the social enterprise rather than outcasts or parasites.

So there can be some pragmatic basis for social welfare (even in the common sense of "pragmatic").  There need be nothing of the charitable impulse involved, if that makes anyone uncomfortable.  The question then is how to go about it effectively.

On Romanticism and Technology; Heidegger's "Question Concerning Technology"

Sometimes, I would maintain, a chalice is just a chalice.  Similarly, a hydroelectric plant is just a hydroelectric plant. 

Each are made, by humans.  Each are examples of technology (Heidegger is I think quite correct to construe "technology" broadly; just about all we do constitutes technology of a sort).  Each have a function.

Obviously, they like most everything else can be employed in the fashioning of metaphors.  They may be used as examples.  Their differences may be noted.  They may be subjects of poetry.  One might say a chalice, as a sacrificial vessel, and made as one, is in various respects different from a hydroelectric plant, made for quite another purpose.  And one might even say that a chalice has a "higher" purpose than a hydroelectric plant (well, someone might).  None of this should be surprising.  I wonder whether this is, essentially, all that Heidegger is really doing in this essay.

The use of Aristotle's four kinds of causes is interesting.  Their use is not explained, however.  It appears that Heidegger merely assumes that these are to define our consideration of the question "what is technology?"  I'm not so sure.  I think it's clear, though, that his use of them serves to guide (or slant as would be said now) the analysis.  So, too, with his insistence on defining "technology" and explaining it by reference to the origins of the word in ancient Greek.  Why assume that the ancient Greek from which the word may be derived tells us anything regarding how it is used now, or what technology is (what its "essence" is as he insists on putting it)?  Why assume that what the ancient Greeks may have thought on this issue is at all pertinent, let alone determinative?  Heidegger seems even to acknowledge this, or at least to acknowledge that his technique can form the basis of an objection.  But he forges on.

The "monstrous" hydroelectric plant, and apparently modern technology generally, "challenges" nature, it takes from it, according to Heidegger.  The plant "commands" the Rhine.  Modern technology "expedites" unlocks and exposes the energies of nature.  But, he complains, this "expediting" is directed towards another purpose.  Coal, he says, has been "hauled out" and stockpiled.  Being stockpiled, it is "on call."  Heidegger apparently finds this disturbing.  Worse than being stockpiled, apparently, is the fact that it is converted to heat (challenging forth the sun's warmth, he says) and then "ordered" to deliver steam to turn wheels that keep a factory running (they must be some wheels).

He contrasts this with the work of the peasant, sowing the fields.  This doesn't challenge the soil.  The peasant in the sowing of the grain "places the seed in the keeping of the forces of growth and watches over its increase."

I tend to grow a bit suspicious when peasants are referred to this manner, sowing the fields and placing seeds in nature's generous soil, that sort of thing.  I suspect the peasant is becoming the subject of a romantic fantasy.  Regardless, though, I wonder if Heidegger realized that the happy peasant didn't live on whatever happened to have grown each day.  Surely he understood that agricultural produce was regularly stockpiled (like that coal) well before the modern age?  It had to be.  Winter, most annoyingly, continued to arrive each year, and nothing could be grown then--the "forces of growth" took vacations.

Presumably, Heidegger also realized that sources of heat in addition to coal, such as wood and peat, were stockpiled for future use throughout history, waiting to be "ordered" to produce heat to warm people and their food.  One also assumes he was aware of the fact that humans had employed irrigation for thousands of years, "commanding" the waters of rivers to go on unnatural detours.

Heidegger's negative characterizations of modern technology can be applied just as easily to ancient or medieval technology.  So, I think he had a tendency to romanticize the past, and that this negatively effected his view of technology.  Similarly, he has a tendency to attribute concepts we associate with humans to the objects he idealizes.  The chalice is "indebted" to the silver from which it is made, and the silver is "co-responsible" for the chalice.  This is most poetic, but that is all it is.

There isn't necessarily something bad about this essay, but there doesn't seem to be anything good about it, either. It's certainly not what I would call an analysis of technology.  I don't think it is analytic in any sense.  Heidegger clearly feels there's something wrong, or monstrous, with such things as hydroelectric plants that he doesn't feel is wrong with the back-breaking labor of  peasants sowing fields by hand (perhaps a plow could be used; it's not clear).  But it seems to me that he doesn't explain why he feels this way in any intelligent manner.  He characterizes, but provides no justification for his characterizations.

Why I Hate Heidegger

I have a tendency to react somewhat strongly whenever Heidegger is mentioned.  Anyone participating as I do in a philosophy forum is likely to encounter his name with some frequency.  Almost as frequently as his name is mentioned, I strongly react (I've managed to control myself now and then).  This has been noticed.  Recently, I was challenged to explain my reactions.  This is an effort, or the start of an effort, to do so.

As may be guessed my reactions, such as they have been on that forum, have been adverse.  They have been strongly adverse.  I have a tendency to dwell on his Nazi past.  In all honesty, I've condemned him as loathsome, an anti-Semite, a worshipper of Hitler, a despicable Nazi toady, a cruel and incessant enforcer of racial exclusion laws while rector at Freiburg, a twisted romantic, an ungrateful friend.  And I maintain he was all of these things!  I think he would have been happy to take the place of Goebbels if he could have, or at least would have delighted in being the chief philosopher of the Nazi Way.  But, sadly for him, his considerable efforts to endear himself to Hitler failed, and he was reduced to pouting, for the most part, during the balance of his Fuhrer's reign.  Unrequited love eventually silenced his praises for the man he called the present and future of Germany, and its law.  But he never seemed to get around to condemning Hitler or the Nazis, except in commenting that they just didn't go about things the right way. 

Well, you see what happens.

I've been told that the fact he was a Nazi has nothing to do with his philosophy or his influence, which are claimed to be profound.  There's no doubting his influence, of course.  I have my doubts about his philosophy.  But, I don't hate him for his philosophy, except to the extent it led him to act as he did.  I hate him for the man he was, and deplore the fact that a philosopher was--and could be--such a man.  Think of it; a philosopher not merely buying into Nazi doctrines, but enthusiastically spouting them--indeed, justifying them.  And, worse yet, implementing them.

It may be that I have too romantic or idealized a view of philosophy and philosophers.  In any case, I personally can't think of Heidegger the man as someone separate and distinct from Heidegger the philosopher.  And, I rather doubt he would make such a distinction.

My attitude towards Heidegger the man probably impacts my view of him as a philosopher.  We tend to be dismissive of the intelligence of those we hate.  But, I'll try to relate some of my problems with philosopher Heidegger without indulging in comments about Heidegger the contemptible man (oops! Sorry).

I must confess immediately that I can't stand reading him.  Nor do I enjoy reading such as Sartre, or Kierkegaard, or Schopenhauer (most of the time), or Foucault, or Hegel, or Nietzsche (most of the time).  I grow impatient.  I dislike the terminology (especially the many usages of the word "being").  I'm American, you see, and we know what Heidegger thought of Americans--I'm probably incapable of appreciating the finer and more significant aspects of life, and am technology mad and money-grubbing (actually, I'm rather lame when it comes to technology).

Also, I find his fear of science and technology to be disquieting.  There's something of the romantic and even mystic in Heidegger, I think, but it is a bad sort of romanticism that he seemed to glorify, and not just when it comes to the mystical destiny of Germany.  We can't return to gamboling about the forests, if we ever did so (I suspect we didn't much).  There can be no question that we can (and have) posed a danger to our environment, and there are dangers we must avoid.  But, we will continue to manipulate the environment, and we will continue to employ science and technology to achieve our desires, and we won't do so because of a mistaken conception of metaphysics.  That's what we do, and it will not change.  We must learn to do so intelligently.  I  don't think Heidegger believed this is possible.  In any case, I don't think he showed us how to do so in any useful sense.  And I'm big on useful--but so of course was Dewey, and Heidegger hated him as representative of "Americanism."

Where does the A Priori Come From?

The claim that there is such a thing (I use the word advisedly) as a priori knowledge has always puzzled me.  It seems clear that before we come into existence, we have no kind of knowledge at all, or that if we had any knowledge we have no knowledge of it, as it were.  It would seem to follow that what we know is then in a very basic sense contingent on our existing.  We exist, therefore we know.  Because we exist, we do--eat, sleep, think; we interact with others and the world.  We're not dormant.  Much as some of us may want to be, we're not mere observers of our environment, wax on which things make an impression.  We learn by experiencing.

All unmarried men are bachelors, true.  But, we don't know what it is to be married, or what men are for that matter, a priori.  We come to do so by living.  Men who are not married are called "bachelors" in the English language. Language is something we come to know and use by living.  We similarly come to know that X is X, and Y is not X, by living.  We encounter X and Y and recognize they're different.  There seems to me to be no question of this.  It is apparent that life is a condition precedent (as we lawyers say) to knowing anything.

Presumably, the proponents of a priori knowledge are quite aware of this very mundane fact.  What, then, do they mean by maintaining that we have a priori knowledge?

Can it be that what they mean is simply that we humans have certain characteristics or features which, when we interact with others and our environment, have certain results?  We have a brain, for example, and the brain functions in a particular way, and that because it functions in a particular way when we interact with others and the world we do things like act, and think, and feel as we do?

If that's what they mean, though, just what is it that is a priori?  Are we a priori, then?  Is the a priori knowledge just a description of a kind of thinking, or knowledge, we come to possess through living?

More on Chesterton and Disappointment

Having read Orthodoxy, and being most of the way through Heretics, I find myself more and more puzzled why Chesterton is believed by some at least to be a profound thinker.  He was certainly clever and could be witty, but if these particular books are any indication his was not a rigorous mind, and his treatment of positions he opposed seems breezy and even careless. 

His sentences are almost all declarative.  He states; he neither argues nor explains.  Rhetorically, he seems to have been something of a one-trick-pony.  He sets forth an idea or makes a statement, and then, thoughtfully, repeats it--at least three times, in my experience--for our benefit but in different ways.  This becomes grating.  Reading him is somewhat like listening to a speech by the Reverend Jesse Jackson.

I find myself sympathizing with his view that ancient paganism was misunderstood and romaticized by many.  I think he is correct in maintaining that the pagans of the west were not the joyous, care-free exponents of life they were made out to be by some, and that they were in certain respects more sensible than we are today.  His belief that we are unable to be as sensible as they were, though, stikes me as odd, and his claim that we cannot be because of Christianity seems even odder.  He appears to maintain that there was no real joy in life until Christianity arrived on the scene, and that since its arrival and because of it we can now, finally, be joyous; in fact, we are or at least should be so joyous that we cannot be sensible.  As usual, he doesn't bother to explain this view in anything resembling detail.  An example or two would be useful.  In all honesty, the Church I grew up in was not particularly fun-loving.  And, Christ as portrayed in the Gospels can be described in many different ways, but "jolly" isn't one of them.  When the Church began to preach Happy Jesus, as it were, in the 1960s instead of fiendishly-tortured-and-killed-because-of-our-sins Jesus, it was hard not to think that it was engaged in some kind of involved practical joke. 

I know monks and priests were often described by some authors in the past as being roguish and delighting in drink and women, but I suspect this isn't the sort of thing Chesteron intends to reference in his claim that Christians are a much happier group generally than non-Christians.  Just what he intends is unclear.  He contrasts what he claims are pagan virtues, such as justice, with what he claims are Christian virtues which turn out to be, unsurprisingly, faith, hope and charity.  His description of these Christian virtues, however, is rather extreme.  Christian hope is a hope which exists only when things are hopeless; Christian charity is foregiveness of that which cannot be foregiven.  Pagans, apparently, were too sensible to go to such extremes.  I think I must be as well.

Reading him, I can't help but get the feeling that he felt he was writing only for other Chestertons, or at least for those he believed would know already what he sought to convey.  It's difficult to otherwise understand such a cavalier approach to disputation.  This doesn't make much sense, though, in one who felt he was engaged in a contest with the increasing popularity of materialistic modernism, and one expects more from him--at least, I do.