John Dewey did a series of lectures which were eventually published as a book called A Common Faith. George Santayana, who was inclined to give other philosophers a hard time now and then, gave Dewey a hard time over that title, maintaining (or so I've read) that the faith described in the book was not common at all, or perhaps altogether too common (Santayana himself could be as obscure in his writing as Dewey, sometimes, though Santayana was clearly the better writer). In any case, he thought the use of the word "common" inappropriate--perhaps even uncommon. The title of this post is an effort to escape this "common" problem.
I think Dewey may have intended in using "common" in this fashion to contend that the faith he described in his lectures could be a faith all could accept, if they would but abandon the supernaturalism characteristic of religious faith and treated as religious what he believed should be and would be the focus of religious feelings and ideals once the supernatural was discarded. He quoted Santayana on the similarity between poetry and religion (perhaps Santayana felt that to the extent Dewey extolled Santayana's idea as an example of the faith Dewey sought to instill, such faith must necessarily be uncommon as in "extraordinary"). Art, knowledge, wisdom and acceptance of our role as a part of the universe, not apart from it; these seem to be the "religious" ideals Dewey believed worthy of, or could be the result of, a common faith.
I have a certain sympathy with this view, this "faith", whether it be common or not. I think our tendency to believe in the supernatural--which in this context would be something transcending the universe, generally a transcendent God--is unwise and unfounded. The supernatural is something we cannot know and cannot establish. Indeed, it's something we can't even describe or intuit or feel, being "bounded" by what we are; that's to say living creatures in the universe, parts of nature. To the extent we purport to do so, we ascribe to the transcendent powers, thoughts, desires, intents all of which are things we experience and know of as creatures that are parts of nature, and are therefore natural themselves.
Of course, some of us also maintain that there is something transcendent about us as well, which presumably allows us to know the transcendent God if only dimly, imperfectly. That dimness and imperfection, plainly, results from the fact that we though somewhat transcendent are too much a part of nature. So we partake of original sin or are otherwise deficient, just as is nature itself.
This belief in the supernatural or transcendent thus brings with it a belief in our own uniqueness, as we necessarily cannot be merely creatures of the universe, parts of nature, in order to be saved. We fail when we are too much a part of nature in this view; we succumb to our animal nature.
Interestingly, Dewey seems to feel that this tendency on our part to believe ourselves unique and special is shared by those he describes as "militant atheists." He thinks that those who condemn not merely belief in God but religious feelings in general detach themselves from the rest of the universe as much as do theists, but in a different way. If I understand him correctly, this is because the refusal to acknowledge what Dewey considers to be religious ideals, to be entirely materialistic, disregards the connection with the universe we must partake in to be truly what we are, i.e. creatures of the universe. This is not clear to me, I'll admit, but I think I know what he meant by it.
Dewey seems to think that what he calls religious ideals as noted above are worthy of reverence. Here I part from him. Certainly they're worthy and are to be sought. But for me, that reverence should be accorded to the amazing universe we've come to know more than ever in the past 500 years or so, but which I think is so boundless and remarkable that we still know it very little. What we have considered supernatural may turn out to be natural (that would be a surprise). Our moments of transcendence, to the extent that means becoming aware of something greater than we are, may be entirely natural as well; a recognition of something that's also a part of nature.
The Stoics thought this to be the Universal Reason, the controlling principle of nature, a small part of which we carry with us as beings capable of reason. The Universal Reason was immanent in the universe, though, not beyond it, something which was material and could be such according to the physics of the time. C.S. Peirce felt that the universe, though chaotic in its inception, has a tendency towards reason, forming reasonable relations and even laws by virtue of the interaction of its parts.
I feel they may have been on to something, but it's just a feeling and I recognize that it's just that. Feelings don't inspire respect though they're an essential part of us (perhaps a contempt for such feelings is something Dewey felt was a weakness of the militant atheists he refers to which separates them from nature). Perhaps if I thought I could do so without inciting ridicule or contentiousness I would venture to air this view in a certain forum I've frequented, but it is a very practical view and the practical seems to be something increasingly frowned on by those who participate in it. Theorists are an intolerant bunch, and philosophers are nothing if not theorists; nothing but theorists, I suppose. When one deals in contention as a job, it's no enjoyment to be exposed to it in one's free time. Such forums are tedious if they can't be enjoyed.
Perhaps religion is an intensely practical thing just as ancient philosophies such as Stoicism and Epicureanism were practical. Or at least religion can be and has been practical in the sense of being concerned with how we live in the universe. That practicality began to diminish as people focused on the transcendent and a next life instead of the one we actually live. Given social conditions in the later Roman Empire, it's likely that many were so miserable that the promise of some life other than that being lived made Christianity and the mystery religions quite enticing. One would think that this disregard of life would dissipate as life gets easier to live, but it seems life isn't easy enough yet, or that we're still seduced by our own dreams of transcendence.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
The Horrors of Certainty
Big John Dewey in his The Quest for Certainty was critical of philosophy and of certain philosophers for pursuing certainty as a goal. I think he may have underestimated the extent to which certainty is cause for dismay.
We're never more dangerous than when we are certain, particularly when we are certain something is true or good. Our certainty empowers us, renders us self-righteous, impatient of questions, even merciless. Extremism in the pursuit of the truth or the good appears somehow appropriate to us. Means, however dubious, are justified by the much desired, unchallengeable ends.
The 20th Century is seen by many to be characterized by mere relativism, but it seems to me to be one in which certainty was the cause of vast and unspeakable horrors. The Nazis and Soviets, spurred on by Hitler and Stalin, were certain of the need for the acts they took in pursuit of the goals they were certain must be sought. Millions died as a result, Jews, kulaks, Ukrainians, Roma.
I've recently read a book called Bloodlands, which is a detailed description of seemingly endless atrocities and massacres engaged in by the Germans and the Soviets, particularly after the commencement of the Second World War, but before and after it by Stalin in his cruel quest to industrialize the Soviet Union. Page after page reciting deaths by shooting, gassing, starvation, ceaseless labor. It was a numbing experience, but one I feel I must recommend, if only because it illustrates the evil of certainty.
We've been warlike and cruel throughout our history, but it seems to me that our wars for power, glory, empire, money are small things compared with the wars we've waged for religious reasons, or to fulfill our destiny, or bring about the workers paradise, secure in the knowledge that all we do is for truth and the good. The certainty that God wills it, or history or race or destiny require it, gives us carte blanche to do what must be done, whatever it may be.
Napoleon, Alexander, Caesar did a good deal of damage, as did England's wars of empire, but their quests for power, profit and personal glory are mere drops in the bucket of blood filled by such as Hitler, Stalin and Mao. The Roman Empire was a military dictatorship, sometimes viscious and savage, but it required the triumph of Christianity, exclusive and certain, and its usurpation of the empire to render it intolerant not only of rebellion and disorder but of thought and religious belief.
When we believe the state is the means by which we may bring about the moral perfection of its citizens, or the human race at large, we are inclined to do most anything through the state, or to forgive most anything done by the state (this is a lesson Plato's totalitarian republic should have taught us--better Sparta than Athens, according to Plato). There is therefore wisdom behind the view that the state should have limited power, as those on the Left and the Right are equally certain when it comes to what they feel is true or good, and are equally inclined to exercise power in their pursuit when they obtain power. Stupid and selfish as we are, we may do less damage to ourselves than would a government convinced it must do what is necessary, regardless of our wishes, for our own good.
We're still on the quest for certainty, unfortunately. We should teach ourselves to accept uncertainty, to feel comfortable with probability, respectful of the chance for error. It will make us humble, cautious; even wise. Not the most romantic or glorious point of view, but one which may allow us to live in peace. At least it may lessen the chance for mass murder. After the certain horrors of the 20th Century, that's no small thing.
We're never more dangerous than when we are certain, particularly when we are certain something is true or good. Our certainty empowers us, renders us self-righteous, impatient of questions, even merciless. Extremism in the pursuit of the truth or the good appears somehow appropriate to us. Means, however dubious, are justified by the much desired, unchallengeable ends.
The 20th Century is seen by many to be characterized by mere relativism, but it seems to me to be one in which certainty was the cause of vast and unspeakable horrors. The Nazis and Soviets, spurred on by Hitler and Stalin, were certain of the need for the acts they took in pursuit of the goals they were certain must be sought. Millions died as a result, Jews, kulaks, Ukrainians, Roma.
I've recently read a book called Bloodlands, which is a detailed description of seemingly endless atrocities and massacres engaged in by the Germans and the Soviets, particularly after the commencement of the Second World War, but before and after it by Stalin in his cruel quest to industrialize the Soviet Union. Page after page reciting deaths by shooting, gassing, starvation, ceaseless labor. It was a numbing experience, but one I feel I must recommend, if only because it illustrates the evil of certainty.
We've been warlike and cruel throughout our history, but it seems to me that our wars for power, glory, empire, money are small things compared with the wars we've waged for religious reasons, or to fulfill our destiny, or bring about the workers paradise, secure in the knowledge that all we do is for truth and the good. The certainty that God wills it, or history or race or destiny require it, gives us carte blanche to do what must be done, whatever it may be.
Napoleon, Alexander, Caesar did a good deal of damage, as did England's wars of empire, but their quests for power, profit and personal glory are mere drops in the bucket of blood filled by such as Hitler, Stalin and Mao. The Roman Empire was a military dictatorship, sometimes viscious and savage, but it required the triumph of Christianity, exclusive and certain, and its usurpation of the empire to render it intolerant not only of rebellion and disorder but of thought and religious belief.
When we believe the state is the means by which we may bring about the moral perfection of its citizens, or the human race at large, we are inclined to do most anything through the state, or to forgive most anything done by the state (this is a lesson Plato's totalitarian republic should have taught us--better Sparta than Athens, according to Plato). There is therefore wisdom behind the view that the state should have limited power, as those on the Left and the Right are equally certain when it comes to what they feel is true or good, and are equally inclined to exercise power in their pursuit when they obtain power. Stupid and selfish as we are, we may do less damage to ourselves than would a government convinced it must do what is necessary, regardless of our wishes, for our own good.
We're still on the quest for certainty, unfortunately. We should teach ourselves to accept uncertainty, to feel comfortable with probability, respectful of the chance for error. It will make us humble, cautious; even wise. Not the most romantic or glorious point of view, but one which may allow us to live in peace. At least it may lessen the chance for mass murder. After the certain horrors of the 20th Century, that's no small thing.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Naivete and Naive Realism
"Naivete" is lack of wisdom, judgment, sophistication, experience. "Naive realism" (a/k/a direct realism) is the view that those things we deal with every day, indeed every instant, taken for granted by all but philosophers and their students, are perceived by us immediately or directly. Naive realism is apparently referred to as "naive" disparagingly. It is, after all, the view typically taken by most of us, the untutored common folk, as a matter of common sense (I would maintain that it is for all practical purposes the view actually taken by those of us who consider themselves uncommon, as well). Being so very common, it perforce is invalid according to those sophisticated in theories of knowledge and perception.
I find myself wondering, though, whether those who disparage naive realism are themselves naive, and whether their disparagement of it is a result of their own naivete.
We began to insert (as it were) something between us and the "external world" some centuries ago, for reasons I find difficult to understand. It may all have begun with Descartes' insistence on the use of faux doubt to establish knowledge. It may have begun with Hume. It may have begun earlier, but I think not that much earlier at least as far as the modern forms of insertion as we know it are concerned. Since ancient times there has been a tendency among the wise to doubt the quality, worth and even in some cases the reality of the universe--especially those parts of it that are not human--and it's possible the more modern reliance on sense-data or qualia to separate ourselves from the non-human, and perhaps our fellow humans as well, is an outgrowth of this tendency. But if that is the case those who more recently doubt what the common folk believe are more specific in their doubt.
It's claimed philosophers frequently ask why we should believe what we believe. Lawyers are known to ask why we do as well, but in my case and in this post I ask why philosophers (some of them, in any case) disparage naive realism. For me, the old claims that we have reason to doubt the veracity of our senses because of hallucinations, sticks in water and such, are unimpressive. J.L. Austin pretty well laid waste to those claims, as far as I am concerned; but there is also the fact that our senses seem to serve us very well in most cases. Not being committed to a need for absolute certainty, I think our successful interaction with the rest of the world in most cases indicates our senses function quite well in perceiving the various "external objects" we cannot exist without. Then again, the fact that, e.g., the perceptions of people who are distant from something may differ from those close to it is something I find unsurprising. I'm inclined to believe that such differences are more the result of distance than anything else.
But I suppose it is the fact that we cannot exist without that portion of the rest of the universe with which we interact which makes me wonder why we're inclined to separate ourselves from the rest of the universe in this fashion and in other respects. We're living organisms and like other living organisms we've been formed by our interaction with each other and the rest of the world over time. As we are part of the world, the idea that we are incapable of knowing what other parts of it really are doesn't make much sense. If we didn't have that knowledge, we wouldn't exist. Of course, there's much about the universe we don't know, and our knowledge in some cases is based on instruments we create or inferences we make. But it doesn't follow from these facts that we in all cases cannot experience the rest of the world as it exists apart from us.
Perhaps those who disparage naive realism suffer from their own lack of knowledge and wisdom. They seem to believe that we are in some sense detached from the rest of the world, different from or superior to a living creature in the world. They fail to recognize our dependence on the world, being convinced that the world is dependent on us, an astonishingly unsophisticated, parochial view given the vastness of the universe.
It isn't necessary to posit the existence of sense data or some kind of "representation" of what's out there to explain or justify perception or knowledge. It is necessary, however, to recognize what we are as creatures of the universe. We have our limitations, but such is to be expected; to expect otherwise is to claim and seek for a godlike ideal of perception or knowledge. We perceive and know just as human beings, formed over time through evolution, are equipped to see and know. The fact we don't perceive and know as other creatures do merely means we're human and they are not. It doesn't mean that there is something between us and the rest of the universe on which we're fated to rely.
If there is such a thing as sense data (or whatever) which is what we experience directly, it would seem that is the case for other creatures as well. So presumably other creatures are similarly incapable of experiencing the world directly, perhaps even less capable than humans, being less sophisticated organisms. All living things incapable of immediate experience of the universe, yet living in it. It's a remarkable belief indeed.
Of course, the claim is sometimes made that we can know enough about the rest of the world, or can rely on our perception, just enough to survive and function, but even so we cannot know fully what "external objects" are or what characteristics they really have (or if they are?), being limited to that something or other, the insertion, which is all we can experience. But that is to say that there is a difference which doesn't make a difference, and so is no difference at all as William James said as noted in a different post.
We test the precision with which our senses function as we must test everything, by judging the results of our interaction with the rest of the world. There is no other justification for our knowledge and perception. But our interaction with the rest of the world establishes that our perception of it
is valid enough for there to be no concern, except perhaps for those who are naive enough to think otherwise.
I find myself wondering, though, whether those who disparage naive realism are themselves naive, and whether their disparagement of it is a result of their own naivete.
We began to insert (as it were) something between us and the "external world" some centuries ago, for reasons I find difficult to understand. It may all have begun with Descartes' insistence on the use of faux doubt to establish knowledge. It may have begun with Hume. It may have begun earlier, but I think not that much earlier at least as far as the modern forms of insertion as we know it are concerned. Since ancient times there has been a tendency among the wise to doubt the quality, worth and even in some cases the reality of the universe--especially those parts of it that are not human--and it's possible the more modern reliance on sense-data or qualia to separate ourselves from the non-human, and perhaps our fellow humans as well, is an outgrowth of this tendency. But if that is the case those who more recently doubt what the common folk believe are more specific in their doubt.
It's claimed philosophers frequently ask why we should believe what we believe. Lawyers are known to ask why we do as well, but in my case and in this post I ask why philosophers (some of them, in any case) disparage naive realism. For me, the old claims that we have reason to doubt the veracity of our senses because of hallucinations, sticks in water and such, are unimpressive. J.L. Austin pretty well laid waste to those claims, as far as I am concerned; but there is also the fact that our senses seem to serve us very well in most cases. Not being committed to a need for absolute certainty, I think our successful interaction with the rest of the world in most cases indicates our senses function quite well in perceiving the various "external objects" we cannot exist without. Then again, the fact that, e.g., the perceptions of people who are distant from something may differ from those close to it is something I find unsurprising. I'm inclined to believe that such differences are more the result of distance than anything else.
But I suppose it is the fact that we cannot exist without that portion of the rest of the universe with which we interact which makes me wonder why we're inclined to separate ourselves from the rest of the universe in this fashion and in other respects. We're living organisms and like other living organisms we've been formed by our interaction with each other and the rest of the world over time. As we are part of the world, the idea that we are incapable of knowing what other parts of it really are doesn't make much sense. If we didn't have that knowledge, we wouldn't exist. Of course, there's much about the universe we don't know, and our knowledge in some cases is based on instruments we create or inferences we make. But it doesn't follow from these facts that we in all cases cannot experience the rest of the world as it exists apart from us.
Perhaps those who disparage naive realism suffer from their own lack of knowledge and wisdom. They seem to believe that we are in some sense detached from the rest of the world, different from or superior to a living creature in the world. They fail to recognize our dependence on the world, being convinced that the world is dependent on us, an astonishingly unsophisticated, parochial view given the vastness of the universe.
It isn't necessary to posit the existence of sense data or some kind of "representation" of what's out there to explain or justify perception or knowledge. It is necessary, however, to recognize what we are as creatures of the universe. We have our limitations, but such is to be expected; to expect otherwise is to claim and seek for a godlike ideal of perception or knowledge. We perceive and know just as human beings, formed over time through evolution, are equipped to see and know. The fact we don't perceive and know as other creatures do merely means we're human and they are not. It doesn't mean that there is something between us and the rest of the universe on which we're fated to rely.
If there is such a thing as sense data (or whatever) which is what we experience directly, it would seem that is the case for other creatures as well. So presumably other creatures are similarly incapable of experiencing the world directly, perhaps even less capable than humans, being less sophisticated organisms. All living things incapable of immediate experience of the universe, yet living in it. It's a remarkable belief indeed.
Of course, the claim is sometimes made that we can know enough about the rest of the world, or can rely on our perception, just enough to survive and function, but even so we cannot know fully what "external objects" are or what characteristics they really have (or if they are?), being limited to that something or other, the insertion, which is all we can experience. But that is to say that there is a difference which doesn't make a difference, and so is no difference at all as William James said as noted in a different post.
We test the precision with which our senses function as we must test everything, by judging the results of our interaction with the rest of the world. There is no other justification for our knowledge and perception. But our interaction with the rest of the world establishes that our perception of it
is valid enough for there to be no concern, except perhaps for those who are naive enough to think otherwise.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Homage to Diocletian
Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus effectively ruled the Roman Empire in the late 3rd century and the very early 4th century A.D. (or C.E., depending on the date of the work you read about him). He did so for about 20 years, though he shared power with an Augustus of the West along with two Caesars, one of the West and one of the East, through his creation of the Tetrarchy, or the Roman version of it at least--a system by which the Empire was administered by 4 individuals.
You can still see the Tetrarchs. They are huddled together, hugging each other rather uncomfortably it seems, in a stone sculpture snatched from a Byzantine palace by the Venetians and now in place in Venice at St. Mark's Basilica.
Ruling the Empire for 20 years at that time was most impressive in itself, as the 3rd century was something of a mess. One emperor followed another with amazing rapidity. Even those sanctioned by the increasingly irrelevant and no doubt bewildered Senate were many, and those declared Augustus, unsuccessfully, by one legion or another were many as well. Diocletian was a relative unknown from the province of Dalmatia who rose up through the legions. Though he shared power he was without question the senior Augustus, primus inter pares, though that phrase was even less applicable to Diocletian than to the first Augustus who coined it or had it coined for him to help lessen the appearance of regal autocracy 300 years before.
Perhaps even more impressive is the fact that Diocletian actually abdicated, retiring to his huge palace at what is now Split. That palace resembles a Roman military encampment, called a castrum, which was typically laid out in the form of a playing-card with four major streets. Perhaps he had spent so many years overseeing the creation of castra that he wasn't certain it was possible to build anything else. He lived on for 8 years after his abdication, tending his garden, which is said to have been made up mostly of cabbages.
He's remembered most by us barbarians for his effort to impose price controls and the so-called "Great Persecution" of the Christians, policies which were failures. Price controls continue to be debated and poor Diocletian's edict is generally held up as the first example of their use or misuse as the case may be. The failure of the "Great Persecution" was trumpeted by Christian apologists at the time and has been ever since as evidence Christianity was/is divinely sanctioned, but recorded deaths of martyrs are actually very few, relatively speaking. The Christians were known to have exaggerated the severity of persecution in that case and other cases. In fact, the Christians were by that time so firmly in place among the bureaucracy and the military that there could be no extirpation of the religion even then let alone during the reign of Julian the Apostate.
Diocletian was most impressive, though, in his reformation if not reconstruction of the Roman State as a much more efficient (and large) bureaucracy. He also transformed the status of the emperor, rending that position even more autocratic and sacrosanct in some ways, but less omnipotent. His reforms of the military were impressive and effective as well. He's been considered a kind of second Augustus, restorer if not creator of the Empire, and his achievement was such as to assure its continuance in one form or another for a thousand years, in the East.
Why do homage to such a man? There is a disturbing tendency among some of us to treat as heroes or as truly great those who are, at the end of the day, great autocrats, dictators, rulers, generals. Alexander, Julius Caesar, Napoleon for example. These were men who were responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of thousands, however, and the oppression of even more. It's unclear to me why they are selected for honor, but it is difficult for me to believe that the fact they are honored by us is honorable. Is Diocletian different?
Diocletian was a cruel ruler in a cruel time, a ruthless organizer and administrator who imposed order where there had been chaos through the relentless imposition of absolute policies which sometimes worked and sometimes did not, but overall worked to prevent the Empire from dissolving. It's probable the preservation of the Empire was more desirable than the alternative.
Constantine is sometimes given the credit for the preservation of the Empire, but he merely perpetuated the reforms Diocletian imposed, and didn't obtain power in similarly chaotic circumstances. It may be that he came to be thought of in this way because of his rather ambiguous acceptance of Christianity, which sufficed to make Constantine almost holy as far as the Church and its chroniclers were concerned.
But beyond that, the preservation of the Empire and its restoration in a new form, however autocratic, was a colossal achievement, and the fact that it was accomplished by someone who started so low and was raised so high is impressive in itself, to me at least. It is also representative of one of the truly odd aspects of the Empire. Although it grew out of an oligarchy, it came eventually to allow for if it did not contemplate the acquisition of real power, even ultimate power, by certain individuals who were not aristocrats, not wealthy, not privileged in any real sense. There is something I find fascinating about such a society and such a people.
Perhaps it was a society where power was more naked, that is to say that power was less influenced by other factors traditionally recognized as bringing power. Roman imperium may have been authority "pure and simple" which could be exercised in and of itself, by anyone regardless of lineage, origin or economic status. As far as power is concerned, the more honest and simple its use and creation the more respect it should be accorded.
You can still see the Tetrarchs. They are huddled together, hugging each other rather uncomfortably it seems, in a stone sculpture snatched from a Byzantine palace by the Venetians and now in place in Venice at St. Mark's Basilica.
Ruling the Empire for 20 years at that time was most impressive in itself, as the 3rd century was something of a mess. One emperor followed another with amazing rapidity. Even those sanctioned by the increasingly irrelevant and no doubt bewildered Senate were many, and those declared Augustus, unsuccessfully, by one legion or another were many as well. Diocletian was a relative unknown from the province of Dalmatia who rose up through the legions. Though he shared power he was without question the senior Augustus, primus inter pares, though that phrase was even less applicable to Diocletian than to the first Augustus who coined it or had it coined for him to help lessen the appearance of regal autocracy 300 years before.
Perhaps even more impressive is the fact that Diocletian actually abdicated, retiring to his huge palace at what is now Split. That palace resembles a Roman military encampment, called a castrum, which was typically laid out in the form of a playing-card with four major streets. Perhaps he had spent so many years overseeing the creation of castra that he wasn't certain it was possible to build anything else. He lived on for 8 years after his abdication, tending his garden, which is said to have been made up mostly of cabbages.
He's remembered most by us barbarians for his effort to impose price controls and the so-called "Great Persecution" of the Christians, policies which were failures. Price controls continue to be debated and poor Diocletian's edict is generally held up as the first example of their use or misuse as the case may be. The failure of the "Great Persecution" was trumpeted by Christian apologists at the time and has been ever since as evidence Christianity was/is divinely sanctioned, but recorded deaths of martyrs are actually very few, relatively speaking. The Christians were known to have exaggerated the severity of persecution in that case and other cases. In fact, the Christians were by that time so firmly in place among the bureaucracy and the military that there could be no extirpation of the religion even then let alone during the reign of Julian the Apostate.
Diocletian was most impressive, though, in his reformation if not reconstruction of the Roman State as a much more efficient (and large) bureaucracy. He also transformed the status of the emperor, rending that position even more autocratic and sacrosanct in some ways, but less omnipotent. His reforms of the military were impressive and effective as well. He's been considered a kind of second Augustus, restorer if not creator of the Empire, and his achievement was such as to assure its continuance in one form or another for a thousand years, in the East.
Why do homage to such a man? There is a disturbing tendency among some of us to treat as heroes or as truly great those who are, at the end of the day, great autocrats, dictators, rulers, generals. Alexander, Julius Caesar, Napoleon for example. These were men who were responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of thousands, however, and the oppression of even more. It's unclear to me why they are selected for honor, but it is difficult for me to believe that the fact they are honored by us is honorable. Is Diocletian different?
Diocletian was a cruel ruler in a cruel time, a ruthless organizer and administrator who imposed order where there had been chaos through the relentless imposition of absolute policies which sometimes worked and sometimes did not, but overall worked to prevent the Empire from dissolving. It's probable the preservation of the Empire was more desirable than the alternative.
Constantine is sometimes given the credit for the preservation of the Empire, but he merely perpetuated the reforms Diocletian imposed, and didn't obtain power in similarly chaotic circumstances. It may be that he came to be thought of in this way because of his rather ambiguous acceptance of Christianity, which sufficed to make Constantine almost holy as far as the Church and its chroniclers were concerned.
But beyond that, the preservation of the Empire and its restoration in a new form, however autocratic, was a colossal achievement, and the fact that it was accomplished by someone who started so low and was raised so high is impressive in itself, to me at least. It is also representative of one of the truly odd aspects of the Empire. Although it grew out of an oligarchy, it came eventually to allow for if it did not contemplate the acquisition of real power, even ultimate power, by certain individuals who were not aristocrats, not wealthy, not privileged in any real sense. There is something I find fascinating about such a society and such a people.
Perhaps it was a society where power was more naked, that is to say that power was less influenced by other factors traditionally recognized as bringing power. Roman imperium may have been authority "pure and simple" which could be exercised in and of itself, by anyone regardless of lineage, origin or economic status. As far as power is concerned, the more honest and simple its use and creation the more respect it should be accorded.
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