In Praise of Thinking

Those of a certain age may remember Rodin's statute, The Thinker, primarily due to the appearance of its likeness on TV, looming over Dobie Gillis as he thought aloud; mostly regarding his many loves and their loss.  It was an effective narrative device, and one of the show's several charms, topped, of course, by Maynard G. Krebs.

I think much about thinking and its benefits.  I think most about what benefits it would have if it was more prevalent in our remarkably thoughtless times.

I think John Dewey was right, and that we only think when faced with a problem we wish to resolve, a situation we find undesirable and desire to "fix."  Dewey may have caused confusion in calling his theory of inquiry "Logic."  He certainly confused Bertrand Russell who, typically, could think of logic as nothing but the logic with which he was familiar and at which he excelled.  What I think Dewey had in mind was the description of what takes place when we think intelligently of problems we face and overcome.  Logic, insofar as it is instrumental, is a kind of inquiry devoted to that purpose.  It functions within the analysis of a question and in the consideration of a claim.

What seems striking about these times is that we have available to us a great deal of information, more information than has ever before been available and that information is easily accessed by almost all of us.  Yet, we seem less and less able to think about that information, or anything else, intelligently.  It may be that our ability to access information, almost instantly, has encouraged us not to think.  We need only employ our smart phones or tablets or personal computers to find answers.

The unfortunate thing about information is that it may be accurate or inaccurate.  It may be fact or fiction.  It may be mere opinion.  It may be dogma, doctrine, propaganda.  It may be anything at all and used for a number of undesirable purposes.

Sifting through information requires the ability to think clearly and critically, to assess and to judge intelligently.  Without that ability, we're subject to self-delusion or manipulation by others.  As Dewey noted, we only think when resolving problems.  The rest of the time, we're creatures of habit, or daydreamers.  We're at best observers, at worst believers in whatever information we access, uncritically, which we find satisfying.  We accept that information without bothering to confirm or question it in any sense.

This may account for the fact that we seem now more than ever to accept certain information and reject other information, unthinkingly and often it seems regardless of evidence.   For example, those who believe the world is about 6,000 years old do so regardless of evidence (information) establishing that it's much, much older.  They are instead convinced by other information issued by like believers which asserts that the evidence against their belief is incorrect or is motivated by a desire to confuse them.  They'll accept the belief they find most satisfying and reject evidence not only because they're already inclined to do so, but because they don't know how to make intelligent judgments.

The view that it is possible to judge intelligently and decide whether one claim or another is accurate or one course of conduct or another preferable has itself been subject to attack for some time, of course.  This attack has been all too successful, as there are those who believe the idea that we can make judgments or distinguish between right or wrong, correct or incorrect, to be absurd.  If that's the case, why bother to think at all?

The great problem to be solved to remedy these circumstances involves education.  How do we induce people to think critically?  That would seem to be something we should do as soon as possible during the process of education, but how do it?  How teach children to identify premises and assumptions and treat them with skepticism, require support for claims, test possible answers?  Would we even be allowed to do so?  Would parents object if the result would be that their children questioned their parents' cherished beliefs?

Probably not, unless it's possible to accomplish this without offending the sensibilities or sensitivities of parents by teaching a kind of elementary logic without reference to controversial or accepted beliefs.  Logic in the abstract, let's say.  True critical thinking may have to be deferred until college.

Unfortunately, though, it appears colleges have taken to purging certain unpopular views or prohibiting them even from being stated let alone criticized.   Left and Right, liberal and conservative seem to be united in the effort to encourage people not to think, not to consider.  To hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

Sometimes it seems, to this uninvolved spectator at least, that what we begin to see at colleges is a reversion to a kind of scholasticism, a tendency for learning to be based purely on dogma and doctrine and their extension or development subject to imposed limits enforced by faculty and students alike.  It would be appropriate, if this is true, that outside the Academy we see those features of a New Dark Age where thought and conduct is similarly narrow in focus.  But if so we can hope that history repeats itself and that another Renaissance awaits.

The Benefits of Uncertainty

I doubt that it's possible to be certain of anything.

I don't want to say I know it's not possible to be certain of anything, of course, because in that case I can be accused of claiming I'm certain that we can't be certain of anything, thus contradicting my own claim through the magic of language.  And, in fact, I'm not certain it's not possible to be certain of anything.  Unfortunately, I'm certain that I'm not certain it's not possible to be certain.

There are problems in the use of the word "certain," then.  There are also problems in the use of the word "true."  For that matter, there are problems with the use of the word "know."  These problems may be usefully addressed by philosophers--I'm not certain that's the case, however.  John Dewey, as we know, maintained that "truth" was problematic and so, being inclined to awkwardness in the use of language, substituted for it "warranted assertability."

The problems caused by the word "certain" and its synonyms are not merely those which may befuddle philosophers, because the problems of philosophers can also be problems in what certain of them delight in calling "ordinary, day-to-day life (or existence)."  At least they can if we let them.  And to a certain extent I think we have, as we have come to accept that it's desirable to be certain, and even that we must be certain.

Certain of what?--you might ask, and I do ask, rhetorically.  Certain of anything of importance to us or to others.

Dewey wrote of the difficulties resulting from the desire or need for certainty in The Quest for Certainty.  One of those difficulties is that we convince ourselves that only what is certain can be considered true, or good.  Having done so, we necessarily despair of or denigrate what takes place in our lives, because very little of what does or will take place is absolutely certain.  So, we come to believe that we, and the world, are defective in some way, and true certainty lies elsewhere.  Or we come to doubt our senses, our judgments, our actions.

Even in ancient times, there were skeptics (who are, unsurprisingly, called "the skeptics" or sometimes "sophists") and they apparently would wander about Greece annoying people with their skepticism.  They were so annoying that certain philosophers, such as Plato, felt it necessary to rebut them.  In Plato's case, he did so through his character called "Socrates" who may or may not have espoused arguments which were similar to those of the actual Socrates.  It was, and probably is, thought necessary to do so because certainty is thought essential by many.

Speaking only for myself (which is all that I can do in this case) skepticism doesn't trouble me.  I'm unimpressed by the fact that we cannot know most anything with absolute certainty.  I see no reason why we should.  And, I'm quite content to make judgments based on the best available evidence, even if that means I cannot be certain those judgments are absolutely true.

In fact, I question whether any of us really doubt when we're not absolutely certain.  If our conduct is any guide, I don't think we can reasonably maintain that we do.  Though it's true we don't know with absolute certainty the sun will rise tomorrow, we don't harbor any doubt that it will; the possibility that it won't rise doesn't cause any worry or concern.  There are many things we take for granted even when we know there is a possibility they won't take place.  It's how we live, and we have no reason to doubt unless something arises which causes us actual concern or worry, or creates a problem.  We don't normally require certainty in "ordinary day-to-day life."

So certainty as Dewey addressed it isn't quite the issue it is in life as it is in philosophy.  We like being certain of things in life as well, of course.  But we like to be uncertain, especially as far as people we dislike or positions with which we disagree are concerned.  That is to say, we're selective in our demand for certainty. 

The controversy, such as it is, regarding climate change is an example of the demand for certainty.  The questioning of the theory of evolution is another.  Those who deny climate change face a problem in doing so, because it appears that the vast majority of those knowledgeable in the area believe it exists.  There are, however, a handy few who disagree.  Thus, it can be claimed there is uncertainty--it isn't absolutely certain that climate change is taking place, or that humanity has caused or exacerbated it, so it may be discounted.  It may as well be claimed to be a hoax, a kind of fraud being perpetrated for some reason by someone (what would motivate the hoax is unclear to me).

As to the theory of evolution, merely because it is overwhelming accepted by those knowledgeable and there is ample evidence for it, it can't be established with certainty.  So, it can't be said to be true; therefore, it's appropriate for other theories to be taught, such as creationism.  Uncertainty can have its benefits, for creationists in any case.

There may well be a quest for certainty, as Dewey proposed.  However, the demand for certainty is something which doesn't universally apply.  We don't need certainty to live, we disregard it in most cases.  We demand it when we find it useful to do so.  We find it useful to do so when we disagree with each other.

In that manner, the fact that people we disagree with can't establish their claims with certainty, and positions with which we disagree with can't be established with certainty, is a benefit for some of us.  It allows them to hold untenable opinions and make unreasonable decisions serenely, secure in the knowledge (so to speak) that it doesn't matter whether they can't be certain of them because nobody can be absolutely certain of anything. 

The idea that no belief can be criticized because nothing is certain can be reassuring, in some cases. 

Reason and its Enemies

Richard Wolin, a professor of history and comparative literature at City University of New York, has written an interesting book entitled The Seduction of Unreason:  The Intellectual Romance with Fascism from Nietzsche to Postmodernism.  Although its title is cumbersome (it seems authors these days must include explanatory subtitles, as it were, following colons, in every book title) the writing is not.  It's a lengthy book, but unfortunately there's much to tell.

The title of the book is, shall we say, suggestive of its argument.  If it had been written by an American or English philosopher, continental philosophers and their followers here would likely ignore it.  But perhaps the author's status as a professor of comparative literature will lure them into reading at least summaries of the book, comparative literature buffs being far more capable philosophers than actual philosophers almost by definition as far as postmodernists are concerned.

It's not clear to me that the romance of intellectuals with autocracy began with Nietzsche.  I think certain philosophers have always had a fondness for "enlightened" despotism.  Even J.S. Mill in his more Romantic moments thought this would be beneficial, and under the influence of such as Coleridge dreamt up a kind of elite, a "clerisy", which would govern humanity wisely.  This pernicious view has been with us since Plato, at least.

But fascism is a peculiar, modern form of autocracy, a hodgepodge of political, racial, quasi-religious, quasi-philosophical and nationalistic mumbo-jumbo, and as such grew out of what I think can fairly be called the "unreason" which resulted from the reaction to the Enlightenment which has been called (not very creatively) the Counter-Enlightenment.  I personally prefer calling it the Un-Enlightenment.  Some thought that because reason, in and of itself, didn't produce a paradise here on Earth, it's opposite should be unleashed upon the world.

It turns out reason's opposite could be all kinds of things when considered by European intellectuals.  The emotions, the instincts, Jungian collective unconscious, the erotic, the spirit inherent in a particular race or purported race or nation.  Whatever was unreasonable in human beings was glorified at least as much as reason, or what was thought reason, was glorified by other European intellectuals during the Enlightenment.  This intellectual environment was ideal for the growth of fascism, a political/social/cultural philosophy dependent on the unreasonable, dismissive of moderation and tolerance, devoted to the irrational in humanity.

This led to what was extremely goofy in some cases, as Wolin points out.  There is Georges Bataille, for example, a follower of Nietzsche who was fascinated with human sacrifice.  He and others formed a little society which was devoted to the idea, if not the practice, of human sacrifice.  It seems its members were willing to be sacrificed but not inclined to perform the sacrifice, sadly.  Bataille was an influence on Foucault, who favored the Iranian revolution and the religious fascism of the Islamic clerics who took control after the Shah was overthrown, and others.  I'm not sure what was going on in the case of Bataille and sacrifice, but suspect he thought this was the sort of thing unreasonable people would and should do, which is undeniable, and that there was something mystic and pagan involved in it.

Goofiness aside, though, the emphasis on unreason motivated the endorsement of Hitler's Nazism and Mussolini's fascism by a number of thinkers dissatisfied with liberal democratic politics and values.  This is pretty well documented, and Wolin of course goes into some detail regarding famous Nazis and fellow travelers such as Heidegger and Paul de Man.

Mussolini's Italy and  Hitler's Germany were once considered models of efficiency and, it's hard to believe, physical and mental health.  It was thought that these nations had a vigor and intensity lacking in liberal democracies, for what may be considered spiritual reasons.  They were one, a people united, not chaotic in the manner of the democracies and especially the Weimer Republic.  Most importantly it seems to their intellectual devotees, they had abandoned liberal values as well; freedom, individuality, the conflict of ideas and worst of all, materialism.  Money and business have always been the subjects of contempt for the learned as well as the aristocratic.  Of course, the learned were also inclined to  associate them with Jews, themselves yet another subject of contempt.

It's quite possible to overestimate reason, and to impute too much importance to it.  It's also quite possible to underestimate the significance of the irrational in our lives.  Man cannot live by reason alone, and it may be said that the Enlightenment thinkers erred in their zealous emphasis and reliance on it to the exclusion of all else.  I think sometimes that those of the Enlightenment were drunk on their sudden freedom from the dominance of the Church.

But I find it impossible to blame the Enlightenment for the ills of our society, as it seems members of the Un-Enlightenment are inclined to do.  It isn't reason or science which motivated the Holocaust, for example.  Essential to that horror were concepts of the Volk and German Romanticism and mysticism.  They were also essential to German expansionism and sense of mastery and special  purpose; to rule the world and thereby save it.  Heidegger warned against technology but eagerly joined in the glorification of Hitler and in according him the status of a demigod.

We're at out best when we think, and as Dewey said we think when we're presented with problems.   Thinking involves problem solving and is essential to it.  We don't think when we rely on mysticism, our so-called inherent nature, our "being", our vigor, our unity, religion, our race in making decisions.  It's when we abandon reason as a means to solve problems that we produce monsters and follow them.  We become followers only, in fact, as we don't think but rather feel; followers only follow, some better than others.  Reason provides the best chance of understanding and solving the problems we face in life.

Unreason doesn't require justification.  There's no process by which those seduced by it test its results, no questions are asked as unreason isn't subject to question or for that matter definition.  Questioning, defining, testing have no place when reason isn't employed, but is instead shunned.  The result is certainty, but at a terrible price, as the certain are thoughtless, intolerant and cruel.

Homage to The Conch Republic

During the Reagan administration, inspired perhaps by a message conveyed to that President and his nay-saying wife by their favorite astrologer, the federal government implemented a very odd, very stupid policy (one of many, some would say).  It established a border-crossing where no border with another nation exists, where the Florida Keys meet the mainland, at or around Miami.

It was believed, apparently, that all kinds of naughty drugs and even naughtier immigrants crept into our Great Republic by way of the keys and that this traffic must be stopped.  And so a great traffic stop was duly created, and cars were backed up for miles and people spent hours while federal agents combed through their vehicles and belongings and required proof of citizenship.

In its zeal to protect us from the drugs some of us--declining to "just say 'no'" as helpfully suggested by the FLOTUS of the time--wanted to consume and from nasty foreigners, it seems that the Reagan administration forgot, if indeed it had ever known, that legal problems result when those privileged to be American citizens are subject to search and seizure merely for traveling from one place in the United States to another.  It also seems that administration either didn't know or didn't care that by establishing the equivalent of Checkpoint Charlie at such a place it would devastate the tourism-based economy of the wonderful islands that make up the Florida Keys.

The inhabitants of these islands knew very well that this would result, though, and could observe the devastation taking place.  The response of those in Key West was dramatic, witty and effective.  And so it came to pass that The Conch Republic was proclaimed on April 18, 1982 amid considerable ceremony and publicity, and Key West seceded from the Union because its people were being treated as second-class citizens or, worse yet, as foreigners.  They could indeed claim "Civis Americanus Sum" but had been deprived of the rights and dignity traditionally accorded those entitled to make that claim.

The border-crossing was removed within a matter of days.  Nonetheless, The Conch Republic lives on at least in the sense that one sees its name everywhere in Key West and its flag graces a number of buildings, hats and t-shirts.

I've visited Key West three times now, and find it charming and relaxing despite the many tourists to be encountered.  Most of them have disembarked for the day off one of the floating stews of bacteria called cruise ships which you'll find tied to the docks by Mallory Square.  I can understand why the likes of Wallace Stevens, Hemingway, Tennessee Williams and even John Dewey spent a good deal of time in the place.  Hemingway's home--a very handsome building and one of the oldest on the island--has become a kind of shrine to the writer, and is dignified by the presence of some fifty cats descended from his cat Snow White.  Wallace Stevens, it seems, lived in the Casa Marina when he was there, and he and Hemingway managed to come to blows one fine night for some reason; it hardly matters what.  John Dewey's house is now a bed and breakfast. 

It's remarkable, but even a few blocks from Duval Street, where most of the shopping, drinking and eating takes place, one can find streets and neighborhoods that are profoundly silent, and which when the sun has gone down are very dark and still but not at all in a frightening or disquieting way.  Tranquility can be found there, as well as beauty and order in the neat smallish homes festooned with bougainvillea and plants and trees of all kinds from all over the world.  Key West was once a thriving port, and its ship captains brought small parts of what they found and admired home with them on their return.

I am reminded of Stevens' poem The Idea of Order at Key West while there, but not I think of the interpretations of it one typically encounters.  Stevens was certainly a philosophical poet (or perhaps it's better to say his poetry was philosophical), but I don't think the poem is a reflection on how we shape what we call reality.  Instead, I think it acknowledges that though we're part of the world, it is in fact something inhuman and it is an error to think of it as human or something having human characteristics, or merely as a construct of humans.  So, the woman in the poem sings beyond the genius of the sea.  When we sing, or act, we make something and it may be said we make it because of or out of our interaction with the inhuman.  But what we make is not the world or us, but a new part of the world.

That interaction may be rich and rewarding, though, and is particularly so in certain places.  Key West is one of those places, for me and its seems for some others.

Dewey's Remarkable Logic

I've gone back to perusing John Dewey's Logic: The Theory of Inquiry, and have cracked open a recent book of studies related to it.  I do so as I find myself agreeing with those who think that logic was always his first concern and his view of it most unusual and interesting.

He'd written on the subject for many years before he wrote this work in 1938, but his conception of it found its fullest expression at that time and in that book.  It baffled many, including Bertrand Russell, who must have thought he had a kind of proprietary interest in logic after Principia Mathematica (although he had to share the honor of authoring that tome with Whitehead, which it seems he did rather grudgingly).  And this confusion can't be entirely attributed to Dewey's often perplexing writing style, which is itself a kind of wonder.  He doesn't employ the obscure, almost mystical, jargon and hierophantic phrasing common (I think) to certain continental philosophers of his time and ours; he writes in good old English and uses words we read all the time, for the most part.  However, I find that in reading him, while I seem to know what he is saying, I'm not really sure I do until he has worked himself to a conclusion.  His style of writing seems to be indirect.

The confusion felt by his critics may also be attributed to the fact that while he addresses what would be deemed logic by most--Aristotelian, symbolic, mathematical--he doesn't think of them as being what others think them to be nor does he treat it as they do.  Logic to Dewey is something more than any logics.  If I understand him correctly, he sees logic as something which derives from our interaction with our environment and our need to meet and solve problems and disturbances as they arise due to that interaction.  Logic is, in other words, a method we employ in living, part of intelligent inquiry which includes the scientific or experimental method; or, perhaps, the theory underlying intelligent inquiry of all kinds.

Throughout his career, Dewey criticized what he thought was the tendency in philosophy since the time of the ancients to view the mind as separate from the body and from what we still like to call the "external world."  He thought this resulted in a "spectator" theory of knowledge and experience.  As a consequence of the prevalence of this view, logic was considered by some to be a kind of system or structure the mind imposes on the external world--something springing from the mind, as it were, possibly prompted by the external world which we experienced, if we did so at all, as sense impressions or some equivalent thought to intrude between the world and our minds.  Also as a result of this view, philosophers developed the various dualisms which plague us still, e.g. the mind/body distinction.

Russell it seems referred to Dewey's conception of logic as psychological, and it may be possible to describe it as such if we include within that characterization the view that our thought--including logic--derives from and indeed originates in our functioning as a living organism in the universe.  It is not writ into the structure of the universe or our mind, waiting to be discovered or applied.  Instead, it it is developed, used, perfected through use, subject to revision depending on how well it answers our needs.  This view of logic must have astonished if it did not enrage those who see it as something pristine and unsoiled by mere life.

It seems that Dewey is enjoying (an odd word for those dead) like pragmatism a kind of Renaissance or renewal of interest.  I think that's due not to some of the so-called neo-pragmatists like Rorty, who I think misunderstood him in a rather spectacular manner, but due instead to a recognition that Dewey's thought was in its way revolutionary and allows for a place for philosophy in life--in determining how to live and what to do--not merely in the classroom or in literary or cultural criticism.  Some have taken his willingness to think of "truth" as contingent and subject to revision as being indicative of relativism and as sanctioning a sort of postmodernism, but in doing so they ignore his constant insistence on the application of inquiry in the form of the scientific or experimental method, modified to address all issues, as intelligence.  Creative intelligence has a place in addressing the problems of the real world of which we are a part.

An Uncommon Faith

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.

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.

Differences that Make no Difference

"A difference that makes no difference is no difference at all."   This neat little sentence is one of many neat little sentences William James (I fondly call him "Wild Bill"), came up with while rampaging through philosophy and psychology.  He was a wordsmith, and also a great teacher, so it's said, and a popularizer (if there is such a word) of pragmatism and other things.  Not the most precise thinker, though, and that prompted C.S. Peirce to call his philosophy "pragmaticism" to distinguish it from that of James.  It also prompted, if it did not require, John Dewey to step in to tone down James' exuberance in response to criticism by such as Bertrand Russell.  Being a Lord, and British, Russell had no tolerance for exuberance of any kind.

But though rambunctious, James could be most insightful, and one of his insights was that purported differences, some of which have occupied great minds far too much, make no difference.  That is to say they do not result in any change to how we live.  They don't satisfy any desire or urge, they don't serve to solve any question or problem we encounter in living, they don't impact what we do, how we react.  They accomplish nothing, and cannot accomplish anything, unless perverted.

The perversion can result when a difference which makes no difference in itself is accepted as the fanciful grounds for or basis of a system or unwarranted inferences.  For example, because we can't know what the world really is, and what it seems to be to us is all that we can know and perhaps even all that really is, the world is ours to make or shape; we are the masters of the world and may do with it what we will.  This perversion is similar in some respects to religious beliefs; it breeds a kind of righteousness as it is founded on something which cannot be challenged. 

Unfortunately, we persist in considering that which makes no difference, practically speaking, to be of greater worth than that which does.  Too many feel truth and what is good are founded in something having an existence separate from the world, the world being fundamentally flawed.  A holdover from Plato, perhaps, or religious beliefs.  Whether or not there are ideal Forms or a transcendent divinity or absolute spirit, the world will be what it is and we will live in it as it is and we will be as we are, and so such creations of thought and belief make no difference themselves.  But some of us take such speculations and impose them on ourselves and others

Differences which make no difference seem peculiar to philosophy and religion.  Law has its share of fictions, but those fictions serve a purpose or at least make a difference in the sense that they must be treated or used in a certain fashion, may do certain things and not others.  It may be said that philosophy seeks to explain life or aspects of living, and in that sense is not concerned necessarily in making a difference to how we live.  That in itself is a noble and significant enterprise.  The function of explanation, though, is being preempted more and more by science, and given the fact that philosophical explanations never seem to be accepted by most philosophers, even, it is unclear that explanations will ever be forthcoming from philosophers.

Making a difference is significant because the failure to make a difference indicates that what is being touted as a difference is at best trivial and of no account, at worst subject to perversion or malicious manipulation.  Thus, while it may be the case that what we perceive as X is not what Kant would call the X in itself, we cannot know and have no reason to care whether it is or is not.  We will keep on perceiving X as we perceive X and will do or not do what we always have and always will do or not do regarding X.

The consideration of whether what is claimed a difference makes a difference is, I think, a most effective way of determining whether some idea or theory is worth any interest or concern.  If it makes no difference to how we live, then plainly we are best advised to devote real time and effort to something that does.  Something that makes no difference is also something that cannot be tested or observed, and in that sense will always be speculative.

Pragmatism's focus on consequences, on effects, is one of its most attractive aspects to me.  Although such as Russell insisted that it wrongly confuses what is true with what works, that seems to me a very simple-minded criticism.  It isn't a question of proposing that what works is true.  It's more an insistence that unless something has effects or consequences, i.e. makes a difference, it is not something which can be made use of, tested and judged as good or bad, right or wrong, useful or useless.  Most of all, it should not and cannot reasonably be used for any purpose.  Those who seize upon such things in making decisions make decisions for no good reason.

So it may well be that William James wrote philosophy like a novelist, and his brother Henry wrote novels like a philosopher.  I can't speak to Henry James, though, as I've never been able to read him.  I get the same impression reading him as I get when I read Henry Adams--the overwhelming impression of artifice, contrivance.  It may have been the style of the time.

However, William James must be respected as someone who, with Peirce and Dewey and others, sought to make philosophy pertinent to how we live by judging it by its effects on how we live and disregarding it when it has no effects.

Allan Bloom, Old Fogey

In the late 1980s, Allan Bloom wrote a book entitled The Closing of the American Mind, which made quite a stir back then and still is a subject of some controversy.  It is a broad and somewhat ponderous critique of higher education here in our Great Republic, from his perspective as a professor.  It was latched onto by conservatives and lashed at by liberals.  Bloom denied being a conservative, and to do him credit he is now and then careful to qualify his assertions which seem on their face to be consistently critical of what are considered positions favored by the political left.

I find myself sympathetic with certain of his claims, though I must admit it's been quite some time since I lurked in the halls of the Academy.  But I can't help but disagree with most of them.  I don't think, though, that my disagreement arises from the fact that he is or should be considered a conservative.  For all I know, his statements he was not a conservative were earnest and true.  This book does not establish he was a conservative, in my opinion.  Instead, it establishes he was an old fogey; someone with a fussy and excessive regard for what and how things were done in the past, to and by them.

What strikes me about the book is the hostility to the modern which informs, if it does not inflame, Bloom's many complaints.  Bloom has a genuine fondness for the good old days when the classics were read, classical music was listened to, the family was the fundamental unit of society and politics, love and sex were romantic.  The father was a paterfamilias, the mother through the clever employment of feminine charm and "wiles" (a word he uses with some frequency) assured that the father, as a male constantly subject to his brutish needs, remained a provider to the children she instinctively produced and loved. 

But Bloom at the time he wrote his book found his students (he refers to them as "kids" all too often) to be orphans of a sort.  Largely the children of divorced parents, they lacked grounding in the dutiful and secure ambiance of the family.  They did not read the classics; indeed, they had been taught to despise or at best disregard them.  Sex was, to them, merely a pleasure.  They listened to rock music.

According to Bloom, this sad state of affairs was the result of the Enlightenment.  Divines like Hobbes and Locke opined that conduct was based on individual self-interest, and from this premise derived systems based on individual freedom.  Society and the family were no longer of real concern.  Things just got worse from there.  Soon people like Mill and Dewey appeared.  Bloom seems to think that these two were proponents of relativism (this is news to me, and would have been to them, I think).  They and others came to convince us that it is not possible to make critical judgments of claims or people, resulting in "openness" of a kind Bloom finds objectionable in his students.

Neither philosophy nor religion provides guidance to the kids any longer.  Modern philosophy is unconcerned with how to live, with the great questions which were addressed by philosophers in the past.  Nobody reads anymore, so the kids are not prompted to consider those questions through the influence of great writers.

To the extent Bloom takes the position that relativism and the view that critical judgments cannot or should not be made are adversely affecting our society and education, I am in agreement with him.  I'm uncertain where Mill and Dewey fit in, though.  Mill would seem to be the least objectionable of the Utilitarians from the perspective of an old fogey.  Dewey seems to have been a very unassuming person but has become a sort of boogie man to those of the right of the so-called culture wars. 

Bloom at one point acknowledges that Dewey sought to apply scientific method to addressing problems which were not traditionally scientific (political and social problems).  Given that fact, I think it's difficult to maintain Dewey supported relativism.  But it may be that what Bloom objected to was the application of that method outside of the sciences--though he doesn't seem particularly fond of science, either.  Dewey was an adherent of the use of creative intelligence and inquiry which requires the making of judgments and a consideration of their consequences in determining conduct; how does this amount to the rejection of standards by which judgments can be made?

Bloom frequently refers to Rousseau, and seems to think highly of him and his thoughts on education and love.  But Rousseau is an odd choice, I think, given Bloom's thesis.  If students are adrift due to their failure to read the appropriate works, what are we to say of Rousseau?  He relegated his own children to virtually certain death by consigning them to what passed as orphanages in his time, all the while writing of the proper way to raise and educate the children of others.  If Rousseau wrote admirably about children while casually disposing of his own, why claim it is necessary to read Rousseau in order to know how to go about educating and raising children?  Writing about this issue as he did didn't serve to induce him to act properly.  Why should reading him induce others to act properly?

Bloom was not a fool.  He didn't claim that the old ways were best except by implication, which is to say that he wrote that he didn't mean to maintain they were perfect, or the best guides to living and learning.  Instead, he states that since they are gone, and since they gave students the grounding they so clearly need, they must be replaced by something which will serve the same purpose.  Now, though, there is nothing, according to Bloom.

Of course, if there is nothing now, and if something is better than nothing and the old ways were something, then it would seem to follow that we are better off reinstating and following the old ways.  So it is difficult to contend that Bloom was not an advocate of the old ways of doing things, I believe.

What seems to pervade the book is the belief that the students, the "kids", must be led along the path of life in the Academy, as they receive no appropriate guidance from their families or friends or the declining culture and society in which they live.  There is a kind of elitism generating Bloom's complaints.  Accepting that it is at least possible there are no absolute truths (and it seems that Bloom accepted this possibility, or at least did not commit himself to propounding absolute truths exist) it doesn't follow that it is impossible to make reasonable judgments, i.e. to be open to anything, without objection.  On the contrary, we make judgments without relying on absolute truths or absolute certainty frequently; we must do so.  Bloom doesn't object to skepticism or the questioning of norms in itself.  He does seem to object to students as they are now (without education and enlightment courtesy of our relativistic and materialistic society) being skeptical and questioning, however.  He thinks that is something they are ill-equipped to do.

For Bloom, I think, the common herd is incapable of making the right decisions, and especially so the progeny of that herd.  It is for those who are truly educated to educate them so they can make those decisions.  Those who are truly educated are not modern.  They are, like Bloom, old fogeys.

Fear of Technology

I've just read a book with the portentous title The End of Ethics in a Technological Society by Lawrence Schmidt, "with Scott Marrotto" (I wonder what "with" means here; usually we see this with books by athletes and celebrities who have problems writing, don't we?).  It's a worthy book I believe, but I think it representative of a school of thought I find disturbing, in that it portrays technology as something apart from humanity and in some sense controlling it, resulting in...."the end of ethics."

This is not to say that the authors think we have no part in creating technology, of course.  However, they seem to think that technology, once created, effects us in ways which diminish us as ethical creatures, leading us to engage in conduct driven by the technology itself and the desire to create more technology.  They claim that the liberal ethical tradition of rights and duties is not adequate to combat the nihilism which has resulted from technology.  They seem to advocate a return to transcendental, steady, uniform values, possibly of a supernatural nature although they also appear to acknowledge that the idea of natural law, which was abandoned in the Enlightenment, need not have a supernatural basis.

I say they "seem" to advocate this because they claim they are not making any proposal of any kind, but are merely pointing out that other ways of combating this nihilism don't work.  This is one of the annoying aspects of the book, the employment of the "I'm not saying what I believe is right is, in fact, right, but everything else is wrong" approach to critical study. 

To me, the book is far more persuasive than the criticism of technology one sees in Heidegger, which seems sentimental and romantic.  Schmidt (with Scott Marrotto!) doesn't invoke joyous peasants placing seeds in the bosom of nature, or chalices, or monstrous hydro-electric plants, which I think is fortunate for us all.  But like Heidegger they take a passive approach to the "problem" of technology.   Heidegger thought only a god can save us (unsurprising I think for someone who thought that Hitler was the "future of Germany and its law"), and they evidently believe a return to a God-sanctioned morality is required to "stop" technology and its effects. 

The Enlightenment no doubt fostered an unrealistic belief in the perfection of humanity, although I think the excitement generated when thought slipped the surly bonds of ancient and medieval conceptions of "science" was understandable.  And I think it's quite correct that technology can and does present a danger.  But I think it's a mistake to think that technology does so as something unnatural to humanity, that turns us away from the spiritual or the higher concerns which should guide us.  Technology is entirely natural in humans and is something we do quite naturally.  As a result, we do it sometimes without thought.  But it is a result of our desire to make life more comfortable and less of a challenge to us, and is used for the satisfaction of other desires as well.  Those desires have always been with us.

Technology has not ended ethics of any kind, as ethics itself is a kind of technology; it is a way of resolving problems, a guide for better living.   What it can do, though, is to eliminate what has stood in the way of the satisfaction of certain desires in the past, and provided reasons for not indulging those desires.  A large portion of the book is devoted to a discussion of the ways in which technology has facilitated warfare.  The authors point out that drones, for example, leave us detached from the harm they cause.  That may well be, but the reasons for war are the same as they have even been, e.g., a desire to dominate other peoples, a need for resources of one kind or another, fear, hatred, etc. 

When we are less likely to suffer harm, when we risk less, we're more inclined to do things, good or bad.  In that sense, technology can impact our moral conduct.  But this doesn't make technology bad in itself (if it can even be thought of as distinct from us). 

If this has a rather Deweyian sound to it, it should (also it should sound like Dewey's interpreter as to technology, Larry Hickman).  Dewey of course would be (and was) subject to criticism as a proponent of Enlightenment thinking, a "progressive" who believed nature should be dominated by humanity.  But I think this is incorrect because Dewey, unlike his critics, didn't distinguish humanity and nature, technology and ethics or spirituality, philosophical problems and the problems of day to day life as they did.  Nor did he think of technology as an end in itself, as he thought means and ends formed a continuum.

The problem of technology must be addressed actively, by requiring the intelligent use of technology--not use in a short-sited fashion, or in the satisfaction of short-term desires.  Intelligence establishes our resources are limited, and that certain technologies destroy our environment.  Intelligence should tell us that we are parts of nature, not superior to it or that our true life is waiting for us beyond it.

There will be no god to save us, nor need there be.  Waiting for that god or any god is a good way of either achieving nothing or sanctioning absolutism and fanaticism when someone appearing to be that god or a precursor to that god comes on the scene, as one would think Heidegger should have known by the time he allowed himself to be interviewed by Der Spiegel.  Either we will save ourselves or we won't.

But we won't save ourselves by becoming Luddites, or ascetics, or monks, or peasants, or little Buddhas, or nature-loving neo-pagans and Wiccans, though--simply because we won't become them.  We will always be technological.

Pragmatic Stoicism

A few months ago I mentioned John Lach's book Stoic Pragmatism.  I've been describing myself as a stoic and a pragmatist in this blog for quite some time, and welcome his book as part of a resurgence of both schools of philosophy.  But what I think about their merger differs somewhat from Lach's view.  Hence the title of this post and the reason for it as well.

The pragmatism I find admirable is that of John Dewey.  His instrumentalism, his notion of inquiry and creative intelligence and his devotion to the scientific method appeal to me.  So does his creed that philosophy should be devoted to the "problems of men" rather than to the problems of philosophers.

The stoicism I find admirable is that of Epictetus and, to a lesser extent, that of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius (the later or Roman stoics as they've been called).  There is wisdom in their focus on things in our control and in abjuring things and events not in our control, particularly given our increasingly interesting world.  Also, their recognition of the fellowship of human beings and emphasis on the divine or semi-divine status of nature is appealing.

Deweyan pragmatism and stoicism are similar in their recognition of the fact that humans are parts of nature, an organism among organisms in a vast universe.  We are unique in some respects (we may learn we're not as unique as we think), but the universe was not made for us--it is not our dominion.  Pragmatism probably contemplates that we take and should take a more active role in shaping our environment than does stoicism, but stoicism recognizes a duty to act in such a manner (according to nature) as to benefit our fellow human beings, at least, as we are by nature social.

Dewey's pragmatism takes what might be called a psychological approach to philosophical problems, in that he seems to address in all his works which I've read the manner in which we interact with our environment and others and uses this as a basis on which to theorize regarding knowledge, logic, ethics and metaphysics.  Although he rejects absolutes of all kinds, this seems to me to be not all that different from the stoic manner of drawing conclusions or making inferences from human nature and our place in the universe, which resulted in the concept of natural law.  Now that I think of it, there are indications natural law theory may be reviving as well.

Perhaps these revivals may be the result of a reaction against nihilism, existentialism and postmodernism--the intellectualization of futility.  Pragmatism has often been criticized as relativistic, but this seems to me to disregard Dewey's emphasis and reliance on the method of inquiry and the use of intelligence and the scientific method or versions of it in resolving problems.  Certain philosophers called neo-pragmatists purport to be disciples of Dewey but they appear to ignore the central role intelligence and problem-solving plays in his philosophy. 

There may be a place in our world for Pragmatic Stoicism.  Philosophers and others are becoming more and more concerned regarding technology these days.  The concern is legitimate, but I'm not convinced the despairing and melodramatic responses of some are either merited or useful.  The claim that technology is somehow alienating us from our own humanity strikes me as particularly misguided, if taken literally, in any case.  Virtually all we do and are involves technology; we wouldn't be humans without it.  Pragmatic stoicism may be a guide in how to control it, as it would necessitate the recognition of dwindling resources and a new emphasis on duties owed to each other and to nature in general, and use this as a basis on which to seek solutions. 

Intelligent involvement in a world full of problems, seeking solutions with respect for nature and our fellow creatures with the wisdom not to be overwhelmed (or obsessed) by things which are beyond our control but instead to seek to improve what is in our control.  It seems a worthy path, to me.

The Fascination of Games of Skill

There are certain of us who are fascinated by such games, and that fascination and the availability of these games given our technology fascinate me, and are the subjects of this post.  By "games" I do not mean sports, which doubtless involve skill but are not my topic today.

I should acknowledge what expertise, or lack of expertise, I have in these games.  I can only pretend to a real knowledge of one of them in particular, and that is chess.  That knowledge is somewhat beyond that of a casual or recreational player, although I'm purely a recreational player at this time.  But in the past I've been a competitive scholastic and club player, which I think earns me a different status in some respects.

I'm not sure whether chess is typical of games of skill or whether it is peculiar.  I do know, however, sometimes from personal experience and sometimes not, that very good chess players can be very peculiar indeed.  Bobby Fischer is the best modern example of this peculiarity I can think of; arguably the best chess player ever, but also at times malicious and seemingly delusional.  Paul Morphy is a good example of chess' peculiar past.  But there are very good chess players who can be described as normal, more or less, but for their concern with chess, which can be their primary concern in life.

The complexity of chess in a sense requires such concern.  If one wants to be a very good chess player, a great deal of study is required, and much over-the-board experience is needed is well, particularly in tournaments.  That is quite time consuming.  But what is it about chess, or about a person, which motivates the desire to be a very good player?

To a certain extent, I think chess' complexity is fascinating in and of itself.  We are problem solvers by nature; that is what we must do to survive and thrive.  John Dewey claimed that we only really think when we encounter a problem and I think he was right in a sense.  Complex problems challenge us, and there is a very real satisfaction we feel when we solve such problems.

That satisfaction is increased, though, when in solving such problems we do so better than others and by doing so defeat them in what is considered a contest of skill.  So, our conceit and self-love is very much involved, and our desire for status in a community.  Fischer as I recall claimed to delight in psychologically crushing his opponents.  Perhaps there is a kind of malice or ruthlessness that is needed in order to be a predominate player of such games.

Do these considerations apply to other games of skill?  Assuming poker involves skill (and I think it does), are these factors relevant to good play?  Or is the monetary component primary?  They actually televise poker, for reasons I confess I don't understand, but that may be simply because poker doesn't really interest me.  That seems to indicate it is fascinating in a certain way, but is that fascination a fascination with poker itself, or a function of the fact that certain of us enjoy being spectators to people winning or losing large sums of money?  What about contract bridge?  What about wei chi, also known as go or goh?

Our technology now allows us to experience various games of skill, some of them which may be considered exotic.  There are applications, for example, by which those who download them may be challenged not merely in chess, but in wei chi, or senet (an ancient Egyptian game) or ludus lantrunculorum, a game played in ancient Rome and Greece.  There are also "games of skill" applications which seem to involve finding things, and running silly looking figures through mazes; the applications themselves are emblazoned by garish and cartoonish logos which I avoid instinctively, so I don't know whether or not skill is actually involved.

I know of wei chi through Edward Lasker's book on it (a chess player who became interested in it) and by reputation as a game requiring great skill indeed.  An enjoyment of history makes me interested in ancient games of skill.  As I result, I've downloaded applications for those games and others, those whose logos are subdued, and am enjoying them, though I don't know whether those applications are "good" in the sense I know certain chess applications are (the rules governing the ancient games are not known for certain, so those applications are to an extent speculative).

It seems wonderful that our technology now gives so many of us access to such games, which would not have been available even a short time ago.  But will this merely feed our fascination with these games, and result in more and more of us succumbing to that fascination to the exclusion of more pressing concerns?  More Bobby Fischers would not necessarily be "optimal" as our President would say.

"According to Nature"

This may be considered the ultimate directive of Stoicism, its answer to the question:  "How should we live?"  Taken in itself it seems rather vague guidance, however.

There are some systems or theories of ethics that purport to set forth a single rule to govern us in moral conduct or making moral judgments.  The quasi-hermit Kant, who seemed (naturally enough, perhaps, given his very limited experience of the world) to think it necessary to develop such a rule to avoid the horror of having to make judgments on a case-by-case basis, came up with his categorical imperative.  The Utilitarians manufactured (it seems an appropriate word) the principle of utility.  It would certainly be convenient if we had one rule on which we could rely whenever decisions are to be made.  Then we could avoid thinking, which is such a chore for us all.  It in any case seems that we have, throughout our history, sought for single rules and explanations for those things, questions and problems that concern us.

This seems a hopeless quest in most cases, though.  The classical Pragmatists thought there can be no single rule where moral judgments are concerned.  They valued thinking and the application of intelligence, which Dewey called "inquiry."  Rules such as the categorical imperative, the principle of utility, the Golden Rule, may all provide guidance to us in our decision making, but they should be considered guidelines, not rules or laws to be relentlessly and absolutely applied in all cases regardless of the circumstances.  Moral judgments are practical decisions; they should not be based on some absolute law or injunction.  Each ethical problem we encounter will be unique, as we will not encounter exactly the same circumstances in each case.  We consider the situation in the context of our history, various norms cultural and otherwise, our desires, means and ends, past decisions and their consequences, we employ our intelligence, make a decision and take the results into consideration in making future decisions.

Does Stoicism make the same attempt to establish one rule to be employed in all cases?  "Live according to nature" seems vague indeed, but some clarification is provided by the Stoics, and it will be seen this directive can be very broad.  Living according to nature apparently includes discerning things in our control and things out of our control, focusing on what we can control and remaining indifferent to what is not.  It requires the employment and development of our reason, which is peculiar to human nature (and traditionally said to be the part of the divine in which we share).  It mandates that we recognize ourselves as citizens of the world, that we honor the "brotherhood of man."  It teaches us not to be acquisitive or selfish, i.e. to seek and obtain mere things.

By living in accordance with nature, we perceive ourselves to be parts of nature, parts of the universe, and rather small parts at that.  Wealth, glory, power, popularity, domination all appear insignificant in that context.  Our acknowledgment we are parts of the universe encourages us not to see other parts of the universe as subject to our exploitation, i.e. as there exclusively for our use and enjoyment.

The dictum "live according to nature" may most sensibly be seen not as a single rule, but as encompassing various guides to living--not only to achieve personal tranquility but to beneficially interact with other parts of the universe, not merely humans but other creatures and things.  The criticism sometimes made of Stoicism, that it is essentially selfish, is unfounded as Stoicism is based on considering life from a universal perspective, and such a perspective renders selfishness infantile.

Schubert and Mindfulness

I was listening again to Schubert's Quintet in C, which has always had a profound effect on me, and which may especially have one now given recent events.  His Death and the Maiden does so as well.  I respond in the same fashion to Beethoven's later string quartets.  There is something about them that supersedes our lives, perhaps even transcends them.  They take us out of the mundane, ever so briefly.  It is an effect which for me usually accompanies great chamber music of a sober, somber character.  Symphonies are too cluttered; they lack the simplicity required to evoke reflection.  Such works give one an appreciation of existence on something of a cosmic scale, albeit it is an appreciation one obtains not through reason but through something else which seems more significant than a mere feeling.

The works of Schubert I've mentioned were composed shortly before his very early death, which may have been due to syphilis, that bane of many artists of the 19th century (or perhaps it was the mercury with which it was treated).  That's what you get for being human though you have a divine talent; there is a kind of irony attached to such a death of such a person.  It must be admitted there is something about human nature which encourages dualism.

What I find impressive about Schubert, who I think represents the last gasp, as it were, of classical music before it succumbed like so much else to  Romanticism, is that he managed to excel at "lighter" music, particularly lieder, and can even sometimes be said to be sentimental, but at the same time was capable to composing music of real majesty.  This could not have been easy.  And yet it would seem to be natural enough for one who feels things with immediacy.  Someone who has the focus or mindfulness to accept and understand what is transpiring now may be best able to portray that moment.  Some moments we are happy, some we are not.

That focus is something I lack, except perhaps when called on to criticize or create an argument.  My mind is too chaotic until it is required not to be.  Perhaps this is what Dewey meant when he wrote that we only truly think when confronted with problems.  Otherwise there is no need to think, and necessity is of course the mother of invention.

Regrettably, we are at our best when we think.  This is sad as we do not think often enough.  Thinking is hard.  It is far easier not to think, but instead to drift along.

Is there some inconsistency here, though?  If we should be mindful of the present moment, does that not require that we give up thinking?  When we are mindful, focused on what is transpiring now, do we cease thinking?  There would seem to be no problem being addressed.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say no "problem" as typically defined.  Because there is a problem of a kind that presents itself, and that we seek to solve, and that is the problem of living in a tranquil, rational manner.

Living in such a manner would appear to require a certain detachment from considerations which distract us from what is being experienced, i.e. from what we call "worries."  I wonder if this is a kind of detachment which can be obtained by artists more easily than others.  It wouldn't seem to necessitate a complete detachment; nirvana is not necessarily desirable for an artist, I would think, as for an artist there is something to be created and it would seem creation is an act which requires a certain involvement and even desire.

Complete detachment may be an attribute of the wholly self-sufficient, of a god or God.  This makes me wonder whether the wholly self-sufficient can be a God we would be inclined to worship.  Regardless, though, we are social animals, and there is necessarily a limit to which we can be detached.

Intelligent appreciation of the moment would seem to be a reasonable goal; it may even be achievable, with practice.  Now I only have to determine what it consists of, and hope I can do so shortly.

The Appeal of Santayana

I'm given to speculate regarding just what it is that attracts me to this philosopher, this man who was, I think, more than a philosopher--a kind of Renaissance Man to the extent someone who lived most of his life in the 20th Century can be considered such.  Not "just" a philosopher, but a noted poet and novelist.  I wonder sometimes if there is something of the old Catholic in him which speaks to the old Catholic in me, or something of the Latin in him that speaks to the Latin in me.

He writes so well and in such a fashion I think it's sometimes difficult to think of him as writing philosophy.  He doesn't seem to write of things as a philosopher would, though it is clear that he is engaged in a most piercing analysis of the subject matter he addresses.  Perhaps that in itself is the basis for his appeal.  He seems both rigorous and artful, even artistic, in his approach to things.

In certain ways it seems that his concerns and assertions are contradictory, but I think this is part of a universalism which perhaps may be said to have characterized Catholicism at one point, paganism as well, at one point; that can even be said to have been pretended to by Rome, or dreamt of by it's more noble exponents, like Virgil, who wrote of the skill of the Roman being that of ruling the various and dissimilar nations in peace.  He respects and acknowledges the place of ritual, ceremony, art, mysticism in human life, but he also subjects them to analysis--and thereby elucidates their flaws and limitations--even while honoring them and although he seems to believe that they are necessary aspects of the way we live.  He does the same, I think, to science and philosophy.  He is a proponent of reason but speaks of its limitations as well, and accepts them.

As should be apparent, I find it hard to think of him without thinking of Wallace Stevens' poem about him, To an Old Philosopher in Rome.  In that poem we see glimpses of the Catholic and the Roman, sometimes as day to day appearances and perhaps sometimes more than that.  "Total grandeur of total edifice, Chosen by an inquisitor of structures, For himself...."  It amazes me that such a man should have been so completely devoted to naturalism and yet devoted to those characteristics of humanity and those works of humanity which evoke seemingly the desire if not the claim that there is something more, something greater, than nature.  One feels as if he noted and painstakingly studied what it is to be human in all respects, without bias and even coldly and with no illusions, and yet at the same time appreciative of a certain grandeur or at least the capacity for grandeur.

There is something of the stoic in him, I think, that comes with the acknowledgement of limitations and even to a certain extent the inevitability if not appropriateness of those limitations.  Something of the pragmatist as well, though it seems a very individual pragmatism, more like Peirce than James or Dewey.  Dewey's philosophy was a very social philosophy, and Santayana does not strike me as a social thinker.

But there's something else as well, and I think that something may well be the better, or at least the singular, part of him  I'm finding it very hard to define let alone describe just what that is, though I suspect that if I ever do so I'll have discovered what it is that makes him such a unique and--to me at least--fascinating figure.

Sacco, Vanzetti and Dewey

Reading Dewey's Characters and Events (his so-called "popular" essays, for journals like The New Republic) continues to fascinate me.  One sees in them a wit that is not evident in his philosophical works.  His understated response to Bertrand Russell's rather simple-minded comments about pragmatism being a natural result of American commercialism is devastating, I think.  Also, and far more interesting, is that one sees how a professional philosopher considered the events which crowded Dewey's long life.  He witnessed a great deal of history.

Being a lawyer, I particularly enjoyed reading an article he wrote commenting on the report of the Lowell committee concerning the trial of Sacco and Vanzetti.  As most know, these Italian immigrants had been convicted of murder in the course of an armed robbery.  They were proud radicals and acknowledged this, and were prosecuted during one of the "Red scares" which popped up now and then in those times (the 1920s) and later in the history of this Glorious Republic.  The trial and subsequent appeals were matters of some controversy at the time and many of the famous players of that world weighed in on one side or the other.  Whether they were guilty is apparently still a matter of controversy among historians, or so I glean from a quick Web search.  Governor Dukakis more or less apologized for their execution by the State of Massachusetts some time before his ill-fated campaign for the presidency.  I recall watching a movie about the matter in the days of my increasingly distant youth, when I lived in the Boston area.

Appeals having been exhausted, they were scheduled for execution when Dukakis' predecessor as governor sought to assuage public outrage by appointing a committee made up of the renowned President of Harvard, Lowell, the President of MIT and, rather curiously, a probate judge, ostensibly to report to him on their views of the propriety of the execution.  The committee did an investigation and submitted a report, which can be read on the Internet by those interested.

Dewey addressed the report in one of his articles of the time, and seemingly tears it to pieces, very thoroughly and systematically.  Starting from the premise that the committee's function must be considered extra-judicial, as judicial review had been exhausted and a governor has no judicial authority in our legal system, he demonstrates remorselessly that when so considered the committee was a failure, and its report not only inadequate but even gratuitous.

Having read the report, I have some sympathy for the committee members, because if the report is accurate regarding the issues they were intended to address, those issues seem to be legal ones, or such as to give the impression they were to be addressed from a legal perspective.  Surprisingly, one of the questions they were to answer for the governor was whether they believed that Sacco and Vanzetti were guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.  I'm not sure how anyone could make such a determination without being a member of the jury and witness to the trial itself, but the committee after reviewing the trial transcript and interviewing various and sundry concluded that they were.

The committee's report does, in fact, read as though its members felt they were engaged in a kind of judicial review, as it's conclusions seem based overwhelming on a determination whether there was adequate evidence to overturn the jury's verdict, or hold a new trial, something the appellate courts had already ruled on.  In the law, appellate courts accord a great deal of deference to a jury's verdict.  The testimony of new witnesses and new evidence brought up after the trial is dismissed as being "cumulative", i.e. similar to exculpatory evidence which was admitted at trial.  The presiding judge was apparently one of those judges lawyers dread, a loudmouth who made his contempt for the defendants and his conviction of their guilt well known, though he apparently did so for the most part out of the courtroom.  The committee acknowledges his conduct was contrary to judicial decorum, but decided the fact he had himself judged guilt did not come across in the trial proceedings.  The committee acknowledges that the prosecutor made much of the defendants radical background and that this could have worked to prejudice the jury, but evidently thought the defendants had "opened the door" to such questioning by their own statements.  The members of the committee seemed reassured by the very unsurprising fact the jurors they interviewed felt they had made the appropriate decision.

So, if the governor was looking for something that would have advised him regarding the propriety of the executions that was not, in effect, a legal analysis of the prior proceedings, he did not get it from the committee.

The committee itself has been attacked as being made up of three Boston Brahmans would could be expected to be in favor of execution merely due to the fact that a couple of Italian immigrant anarchists were involved.  That may have been the case, and the defendants may well have been unjustly convicted.

For purposes of this blog post, though, I find two things interesting.  The first is that when clemency is being considered, it would certainly seem appropriate to consider whether there had been a fair trial, but that need not be the only consideration, and as that is ultimately a legal issue it is questionable to what extent that can be determined after appeals have been exhausted.  It is in any case unlikely that when a matter has been considered through the Supreme Court, a committee made up of two academics and a probate judge will find that the reviewing courts made errors of law.

The second is that there was a time when professional philosophers contributed to "popular" journals regarding significant social and political issues, and did so I think intelligently.  I don't do all the reading I should, but I don't think this takes place today in any significant sense, at least in this country.  I wonder why it does not, and wish it did.  Perhaps philosophers are commenting on political and social issues somewhere in cyberspace, though.  If so, I wish they had more of an audience.

Nothing New under the Sun: Dewey's Popular Essays

I'm reading Characters and Events, a collection of John Dewey's articles written for magazines such as The New Republic, and am struck by two things.  First, he writes much better in these "popular" essays than he does in his philosophical works, which I must admit is a relief--and also interesting in its own right.  Second, that much of what he wrote many decades ago is sadly familiar.  Very sadly, in fact.

He writes, for example, of the influence of fundamentalism in American society, and how the conflict of religion and science in the United States is a subject of wonder and amusement in Europe.  In Dewey's time, of course, the greatest conflict was over Darwin's theory of evolution.

He writes also of concerns over the vast number of immigrants entering the nation through Ellis Island, and how they are to be assimilated into American society.  Apparently, General Woods and others were proposing that this be achieved through a system of universal conscription.  All would be assimilated through military service, though there was, at the time, no war to be fought.  A war would be provided soon enough, of course.  Dewey was concerned about American society becoming militarized along the European model, and not unsurprisingly felt that if assimilation was to be achieved, or imposed, through the federal government it would be better achieved through a system of national education.

We haven't come very far, it seems.  We have the same concerns now, and are debating the same debates.  So little have we learned, apparently, that the players may as well be the same.  We may as well have William Jennings Bryan thundering away portentously.  As for General Woods, I haven't heard much about universal conscription as the cure for the "disease" of immigration, but perhaps that is because our military is already rather busy at this time; busy enough not to take on the additional burden of assimilation.

Our system of national education hasn't done much to to alleviate such concerns.  Dewey might be inclined to blame this on the fact that our system remains in many respects localized.  Our school districts are locally controlled, with school boards being selected through local elections.  So we have some boards in some states insisting that schools teach what is deemed appropriate by local electors, and certain local electors, or those actually interested in voting for members of school boards in some cases, continue to have doubts as their ancestors had doubts regarding evolution, and perhaps immigrants as well.

What accounts for this?  Why is it that we are, apparently, incapable of learning, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say inclined to conduct ourselves as we have always conducted ourselves regardless of what is learned?

We may simply be creatures of habit and routine so entirely that we will not think intelligently unless compelled to do so.  We feel compelled to do so when we perceive there will be an immediate benefit to us, or when the failure to do so will result in a direct harm.  When we are relatively content, we prefer not to think at all, thinking being difficult.

There is a problem, though, and that is that thinking is so difficult we resort to it only when other options have been exhausted.  If we are seriously discontent, we may prefer to act without thinking if it seems that by acting we will achieve what might be achieved by thinking.

If we are creatures of habit, one wonders if it would be possible to develop a habit of thinking.  I think this is one of the things Dewey sought to propose in his works on education.  But thinking often demonstrates that habits are bad, and perhaps we would rather maintain those habits we have than develop new ones.

Santayana and Life in the Middle

Judgment Day not having taken place as predicted (yet again), I'm free to continue my musings without being interrupted by the reign of the Antichrist or whatever it is that is supposed to happen after the elect are "raptured" (I take it for granted I will not be among them).  I've been reading Santayana again.  He intrigues me.

He probably writes better than any philosopher who writes or has written in English--he certainly writes better than any I've read, and I've read a few.  Reading him is therefore a delight, and it may be that this in itself makes him attractive as a thinker.  But what I find particularly interesting is that though he was ultimately committed to naturalism, much like Dewey and others of the pragmatists, he seems to have managed somehow to combine it with aspects of thought which one might describe as spiritual and artistic which are not normally associated with naturalism as such.

Santayana seems to have had little patience with metaphysics, particularly as he matured as a thinker, and as a critic of the "Quest for Certainty" he seems at times much more severe than Dewey (or perhaps I should say more sardonic--Santayana was a witty man, and his wit was ironic and sardonic; Dewey surprises me sometimes with his wit, but is at all times in his writings extremely earnest).  We are animals, says Santayana, and we know things as animals know things.  We are not apart from life, we know and we act as creatures in the middle of life.

And yet having minds, we have imaginations, and it seems that he found in our imaginations something which he found lacking in pragmatism and other philosophical "schools" of his time, like positivism and its offspring.  Humans are not merely tool-users and problem-solvers to Santayana.  He had a kind of aristocratic distaste for the pursuit of wealth, for the more materialistic aspects of American culture in particular.  He sees in religion and art expressions of human imagination which are themselves natural in the sense of being consequences of existing as human animals.

Naturalism seems reasonable.  It's difficult even to conceive of the supernatural, if we're honest with ourselves.  Humans refer to supernatural beings which seem to have characteristics, desires, intentions we are familiar with only through our existence in and participation in nature.  We may claim to believe in a transcendent being, but cannot really conceive of what it would be like to exist "outside of nature" as nature, or at least a small part of it, is all we know.

Is it possible to accept naturalism and yet still accept the spiritual, even the religious?  Some seem to have done so--the Stoics, Spinoza, and Santayana as well, I think.  But they have done so in ways foreign to those accepted by those considered religious typically, in the West at least.  Which is to their credit, I think. 

Enthusiasm and Analysis; Fatuity and Focus

I find myself becoming more and more convinced that we only think when we are faced with a problem that is capable of resolution, and that when we are not engaged in such a task, we simply stop thinking, or perhaps defer thought until we are once more faced with something useful to do.  When we're not busy with an actual task, we tend to occupy ourselves with fancies of various sorts, and suffer as a result--unless we understand and accept that we are doing something different from what we do when we think.

I should note that here I'm using "think" in a sense some might consider narrow.  I'm not contending that there is no brain activity involved in anything but problem-solving or decision-making.  Obviously, we dream, we imagine, we meditate, we do things which don't require the application of intelligence with some frequency, even most of the time.  I mean "think" rationally, judging which means are appropriate to result in certain ends, for example, or seeking explanations for phenomena based on an assessment of circumstances and causes and effects.  I mean it, in other words, in the way Dewey did in philosophy, and as I think most people involved in completing tasks in ordinary, day-to-day life mean it.

Two things in particular have made me speculate along these line.  One is reading the Memoirs of General U. S. Grant (I use his military title as they are memoirs of his military career).  His presidency most of us remember as notable for its corruption and its especially haphazard nature.  He himself was considered by many to be sullen, morose and given to drink.  His Memoirs, however, are very well written.  I'm apparently not the first to be impressed by his clear, simple, intelligent style, or to wonder at it given his reputation.  He is precise in his narrative, and has a dry, understated wit.  He is straightforward; what he deplores (like the Mexican War) he deplores flatly and without qualification; he addresses what he admires in much the same way.  It is an admirable book.

He wrote it while dying of cancer, and deeply in debt.  He wrote it in the hope its sale would provide for his family when he was gone.  He finished it shortly before he died and it sold well, achieving his purpose.

His actions during the Civil War seem also to have been the result of a focused analysis of how to achieve the defeat of the Confederacy in the shortest possible period of time.  He did so through the relentless, savage application of superior resources and by the acceptance of the doctrine of "total war" ably assisted by his friend Sherman, who seems to have been intent on demonstrating the truth of his comment that war is all hell.

Given a task to perform or a problem to solve, Grant seems to have thought quite well.

But a greater motivation to ponder this possibility resulted from watching (portions of) a remarkable series on the History Channel entitled Ancient Aliens.  It constitutes basically a review (I won't say study) of various ancient ruins and interviews of several sadly well-known advocates of the view that the Earth was visited long ago by extraterrestrials who if they did not themselves create these wondrous monuments assisted or inspired our dull, ignorant ancestors sufficiently enough to assure their creation.  I'm something of an archaeology buff, and am ashamed to report it was through this series that I first became familiar with the site of Pumapunku (or Puma Punku or Puma Punka, it seems) in Bolivia, which those luminaries interviewed contend is incredibly old (15,000 years) and could only have been built through use of machines and only planned by people who had a system of writing, although it seems there was no such system.  I will assume the gentleman making this claim is aware that the Incas were very accomplished builders although they had no writing, but communicated through knotted rope, and either does not believe it or thinks their construction skills were not all they've been made out to be.

It's difficult to find anything about these ruins written by actual archaeologists on the Internet, although those who favor the alien explanation abound, but suffice it to say that when you encounter their writing claims regarding the age and construction of the site are much more tempered.

What is it that makes people see such ruins and think the only explanation for them is alien intervention?  I think this results at least in part from the fact that we cannot be sure just how and why they were made, as they were made long ago and no records were kept.  We don't often encounter people who maintain that the ancient Greeks or Romans were beneficiaries of well-meaning alien super-intelligences, although their achievements were remarkable, because we have records regarding their construction.  But in the absence of any clear evidence that will actually resolve the question many of us tend to stop thinking and start--dreaming.

The Motionless Mind

Dualism may be the fundamental error in Western thought--in our assessment of the universe and our place in it, and therefore in what we do in it.  There are problems with viewing the mind as something distinct from the body.  The mind becomes a kind of receiver of transmissions from the external world; it is passive.  Or a citadel; where we are protected from the world.  Or our only access to that which is said to be beyond the universe.  Or what sets us apart from the rest of the universe, i.e. those creatures which have the misfortune of being something other than human, and gives us a kind of dominion over it.  Sometimes we maintain that our minds are the only means by which we can ascertain what is really true.  Sometimes we come to consider our thoughts and feelings as existing apart from the universe--they are private, subjective, relative, they cannot be considered objective.

Perhaps this dualism enters into Eastern thought as well.  There seems in some instances to be a desire to detach the mind from the body, not to mention the rest of the world, in pursuit of the ultimate.

For a time, one can "detach" oneself from the "rest of the world" in a certain sense.  One can sit motionless and do nothing, or stay in one's room, or meditate, or pray.  There may be benefits in doing so in certain cases.  But these are peculiarly selfish activities, if one can use that word.  They may be dangerous activities in some cases.  Chances are excellent that we would in any case act soon enough, as we'll become hungry or thirsty, at least.    That damn body keeps interrupting our contemplation, or self-absorption.  Worse yet, other people or things do, as well.

The view that the mind is somehow distinct from all else strikes me as puzzling.  There doesn't seem to me to be anything particularly dismal about being a living organism which necessarily interacts with its environment and other organisms.  It seems quite natural, in fact.  Unless, I suppose, one hates the environment with which one must necessarily interact or others which inhabit it.  But that is something I think could properly be called unnatural--or at least futile.

This dualism pervades traditional philosophy.  The "problems" of the external world and other minds seem to follow from this view as a matter of logic.  So, in strangely similar ways, do the views that morality is a matter of absolutes or is completely subjective.

But it seems clear that the mind is not something separate.  We act and react.  Our thoughts, feelings and desires are not private, as they result from our involvement in the world and have consequences in the world.  They don't simply "exist" somewhere in the mind.  They are, as Dewey maintains, part of our conduct, part of what we do as living creatures.

The stoics and some of the other ancients realized this as well, I think.  It was part of their conception of humanity as a functioning part of the universe, albeit a special part.  Those who maintain the stoics were supremely selfish misconstrue them.  Recognizing that there are things beyond our control which we should not allow to influence us--especially to dismay us--was a kind of practical wisdom.  It wasn't intended to be a means by which we separate ourselves from the universe and our fellow creatures, as it is essential to Stoicism that we honor and respect the universe and others.

Somehow, we came to believe that we are apart from not only the world, but our own bodies.  It would be interesting to explore how this happened.  Do we blame Plato and other Greek thinkers, because of their view that what can change is inferior?  Do we blame religion and its focus on a presumed other world, much more important than this one?  Yeats wrote of our neglect of "monuments of unaging intellect."  But why assume change, a necessary condition of growth, is inappropriate? 

I think it would be useful to rid ourselves of this fantasy.  Assume, arguendo, that that we're merely transients in this world, on our way to another, which may be either heaven or hell; assume even that this is the only world.  In what sense do either of these views mean that we should not live better lives, and better ourselves and others?  The mind is not something unchanging, unmoving, or a mere observer; it's simply a part of us, as we are parts of the universe.