Sometimes, I would maintain, a chalice is just a chalice. Similarly, a hydroelectric plant is just a hydroelectric plant.
Each are made, by humans. Each are examples of technology (Heidegger is I think quite correct to construe "technology" broadly; just about all we do constitutes technology of a sort). Each have a function.
Obviously, they like most everything else can be employed in the fashioning of metaphors. They may be used as examples. Their differences may be noted. They may be subjects of poetry. One might say a chalice, as a sacrificial vessel, and made as one, is in various respects different from a hydroelectric plant, made for quite another purpose. And one might even say that a chalice has a "higher" purpose than a hydroelectric plant (well, someone might). None of this should be surprising. I wonder whether this is, essentially, all that Heidegger is really doing in this essay.
The use of Aristotle's four kinds of causes is interesting. Their use is not explained, however. It appears that Heidegger merely assumes that these are to define our consideration of the question "what is technology?" I'm not so sure. I think it's clear, though, that his use of them serves to guide (or slant as would be said now) the analysis. So, too, with his insistence on defining "technology" and explaining it by reference to the origins of the word in ancient Greek. Why assume that the ancient Greek from which the word may be derived tells us anything regarding how it is used now, or what technology is (what its "essence" is as he insists on putting it)? Why assume that what the ancient Greeks may have thought on this issue is at all pertinent, let alone determinative? Heidegger seems even to acknowledge this, or at least to acknowledge that his technique can form the basis of an objection. But he forges on.
The "monstrous" hydroelectric plant, and apparently modern technology generally, "challenges" nature, it takes from it, according to Heidegger. The plant "commands" the Rhine. Modern technology "expedites" unlocks and exposes the energies of nature. But, he complains, this "expediting" is directed towards another purpose. Coal, he says, has been "hauled out" and stockpiled. Being stockpiled, it is "on call." Heidegger apparently finds this disturbing. Worse than being stockpiled, apparently, is the fact that it is converted to heat (challenging forth the sun's warmth, he says) and then "ordered" to deliver steam to turn wheels that keep a factory running (they must be some wheels).
He contrasts this with the work of the peasant, sowing the fields. This doesn't challenge the soil. The peasant in the sowing of the grain "places the seed in the keeping of the forces of growth and watches over its increase."
I tend to grow a bit suspicious when peasants are referred to this manner, sowing the fields and placing seeds in nature's generous soil, that sort of thing. I suspect the peasant is becoming the subject of a romantic fantasy. Regardless, though, I wonder if Heidegger realized that the happy peasant didn't live on whatever happened to have grown each day. Surely he understood that agricultural produce was regularly stockpiled (like that coal) well before the modern age? It had to be. Winter, most annoyingly, continued to arrive each year, and nothing could be grown then--the "forces of growth" took vacations.
Presumably, Heidegger also realized that sources of heat in addition to coal, such as wood and peat, were stockpiled for future use throughout history, waiting to be "ordered" to produce heat to warm people and their food. One also assumes he was aware of the fact that humans had employed irrigation for thousands of years, "commanding" the waters of rivers to go on unnatural detours.
Heidegger's negative characterizations of modern technology can be applied just as easily to ancient or medieval technology. So, I think he had a tendency to romanticize the past, and that this negatively effected his view of technology. Similarly, he has a tendency to attribute concepts we associate with humans to the objects he idealizes. The chalice is "indebted" to the silver from which it is made, and the silver is "co-responsible" for the chalice. This is most poetic, but that is all it is.
There isn't necessarily something bad about this essay, but there doesn't seem to be anything good about it, either. It's certainly not what I would call an analysis of technology. I don't think it is analytic in any sense. Heidegger clearly feels there's something wrong, or monstrous, with such things as hydroelectric plants that he doesn't feel is wrong with the back-breaking labor of peasants sowing fields by hand (perhaps a plow could be used; it's not clear). But it seems to me that he doesn't explain why he feels this way in any intelligent manner. He characterizes, but provides no justification for his characterizations.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Why I Hate Heidegger
I have a tendency to react somewhat strongly whenever Heidegger is mentioned. Anyone participating as I do in a philosophy forum is likely to encounter his name with some frequency. Almost as frequently as his name is mentioned, I strongly react (I've managed to control myself now and then). This has been noticed. Recently, I was challenged to explain my reactions. This is an effort, or the start of an effort, to do so.
As may be guessed my reactions, such as they have been on that forum, have been adverse. They have been strongly adverse. I have a tendency to dwell on his Nazi past. In all honesty, I've condemned him as loathsome, an anti-Semite, a worshipper of Hitler, a despicable Nazi toady, a cruel and incessant enforcer of racial exclusion laws while rector at Freiburg, a twisted romantic, an ungrateful friend. And I maintain he was all of these things! I think he would have been happy to take the place of Goebbels if he could have, or at least would have delighted in being the chief philosopher of the Nazi Way. But, sadly for him, his considerable efforts to endear himself to Hitler failed, and he was reduced to pouting, for the most part, during the balance of his Fuhrer's reign. Unrequited love eventually silenced his praises for the man he called the present and future of Germany, and its law. But he never seemed to get around to condemning Hitler or the Nazis, except in commenting that they just didn't go about things the right way.
Well, you see what happens.
I've been told that the fact he was a Nazi has nothing to do with his philosophy or his influence, which are claimed to be profound. There's no doubting his influence, of course. I have my doubts about his philosophy. But, I don't hate him for his philosophy, except to the extent it led him to act as he did. I hate him for the man he was, and deplore the fact that a philosopher was--and could be--such a man. Think of it; a philosopher not merely buying into Nazi doctrines, but enthusiastically spouting them--indeed, justifying them. And, worse yet, implementing them.
It may be that I have too romantic or idealized a view of philosophy and philosophers. In any case, I personally can't think of Heidegger the man as someone separate and distinct from Heidegger the philosopher. And, I rather doubt he would make such a distinction.
My attitude towards Heidegger the man probably impacts my view of him as a philosopher. We tend to be dismissive of the intelligence of those we hate. But, I'll try to relate some of my problems with philosopher Heidegger without indulging in comments about Heidegger the contemptible man (oops! Sorry).
I must confess immediately that I can't stand reading him. Nor do I enjoy reading such as Sartre, or Kierkegaard, or Schopenhauer (most of the time), or Foucault, or Hegel, or Nietzsche (most of the time). I grow impatient. I dislike the terminology (especially the many usages of the word "being"). I'm American, you see, and we know what Heidegger thought of Americans--I'm probably incapable of appreciating the finer and more significant aspects of life, and am technology mad and money-grubbing (actually, I'm rather lame when it comes to technology).
Also, I find his fear of science and technology to be disquieting. There's something of the romantic and even mystic in Heidegger, I think, but it is a bad sort of romanticism that he seemed to glorify, and not just when it comes to the mystical destiny of Germany. We can't return to gamboling about the forests, if we ever did so (I suspect we didn't much). There can be no question that we can (and have) posed a danger to our environment, and there are dangers we must avoid. But, we will continue to manipulate the environment, and we will continue to employ science and technology to achieve our desires, and we won't do so because of a mistaken conception of metaphysics. That's what we do, and it will not change. We must learn to do so intelligently. I don't think Heidegger believed this is possible. In any case, I don't think he showed us how to do so in any useful sense. And I'm big on useful--but so of course was Dewey, and Heidegger hated him as representative of "Americanism."
As may be guessed my reactions, such as they have been on that forum, have been adverse. They have been strongly adverse. I have a tendency to dwell on his Nazi past. In all honesty, I've condemned him as loathsome, an anti-Semite, a worshipper of Hitler, a despicable Nazi toady, a cruel and incessant enforcer of racial exclusion laws while rector at Freiburg, a twisted romantic, an ungrateful friend. And I maintain he was all of these things! I think he would have been happy to take the place of Goebbels if he could have, or at least would have delighted in being the chief philosopher of the Nazi Way. But, sadly for him, his considerable efforts to endear himself to Hitler failed, and he was reduced to pouting, for the most part, during the balance of his Fuhrer's reign. Unrequited love eventually silenced his praises for the man he called the present and future of Germany, and its law. But he never seemed to get around to condemning Hitler or the Nazis, except in commenting that they just didn't go about things the right way.
Well, you see what happens.
I've been told that the fact he was a Nazi has nothing to do with his philosophy or his influence, which are claimed to be profound. There's no doubting his influence, of course. I have my doubts about his philosophy. But, I don't hate him for his philosophy, except to the extent it led him to act as he did. I hate him for the man he was, and deplore the fact that a philosopher was--and could be--such a man. Think of it; a philosopher not merely buying into Nazi doctrines, but enthusiastically spouting them--indeed, justifying them. And, worse yet, implementing them.
It may be that I have too romantic or idealized a view of philosophy and philosophers. In any case, I personally can't think of Heidegger the man as someone separate and distinct from Heidegger the philosopher. And, I rather doubt he would make such a distinction.
My attitude towards Heidegger the man probably impacts my view of him as a philosopher. We tend to be dismissive of the intelligence of those we hate. But, I'll try to relate some of my problems with philosopher Heidegger without indulging in comments about Heidegger the contemptible man (oops! Sorry).
I must confess immediately that I can't stand reading him. Nor do I enjoy reading such as Sartre, or Kierkegaard, or Schopenhauer (most of the time), or Foucault, or Hegel, or Nietzsche (most of the time). I grow impatient. I dislike the terminology (especially the many usages of the word "being"). I'm American, you see, and we know what Heidegger thought of Americans--I'm probably incapable of appreciating the finer and more significant aspects of life, and am technology mad and money-grubbing (actually, I'm rather lame when it comes to technology).
Also, I find his fear of science and technology to be disquieting. There's something of the romantic and even mystic in Heidegger, I think, but it is a bad sort of romanticism that he seemed to glorify, and not just when it comes to the mystical destiny of Germany. We can't return to gamboling about the forests, if we ever did so (I suspect we didn't much). There can be no question that we can (and have) posed a danger to our environment, and there are dangers we must avoid. But, we will continue to manipulate the environment, and we will continue to employ science and technology to achieve our desires, and we won't do so because of a mistaken conception of metaphysics. That's what we do, and it will not change. We must learn to do so intelligently. I don't think Heidegger believed this is possible. In any case, I don't think he showed us how to do so in any useful sense. And I'm big on useful--but so of course was Dewey, and Heidegger hated him as representative of "Americanism."
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Where does the A Priori Come From?
The claim that there is such a thing (I use the word advisedly) as a priori knowledge has always puzzled me. It seems clear that before we come into existence, we have no kind of knowledge at all, or that if we had any knowledge we have no knowledge of it, as it were. It would seem to follow that what we know is then in a very basic sense contingent on our existing. We exist, therefore we know. Because we exist, we do--eat, sleep, think; we interact with others and the world. We're not dormant. Much as some of us may want to be, we're not mere observers of our environment, wax on which things make an impression. We learn by experiencing.
All unmarried men are bachelors, true. But, we don't know what it is to be married, or what men are for that matter, a priori. We come to do so by living. Men who are not married are called "bachelors" in the English language. Language is something we come to know and use by living. We similarly come to know that X is X, and Y is not X, by living. We encounter X and Y and recognize they're different. There seems to me to be no question of this. It is apparent that life is a condition precedent (as we lawyers say) to knowing anything.
Presumably, the proponents of a priori knowledge are quite aware of this very mundane fact. What, then, do they mean by maintaining that we have a priori knowledge?
Can it be that what they mean is simply that we humans have certain characteristics or features which, when we interact with others and our environment, have certain results? We have a brain, for example, and the brain functions in a particular way, and that because it functions in a particular way when we interact with others and the world we do things like act, and think, and feel as we do?
If that's what they mean, though, just what is it that is a priori? Are we a priori, then? Is the a priori knowledge just a description of a kind of thinking, or knowledge, we come to possess through living?
All unmarried men are bachelors, true. But, we don't know what it is to be married, or what men are for that matter, a priori. We come to do so by living. Men who are not married are called "bachelors" in the English language. Language is something we come to know and use by living. We similarly come to know that X is X, and Y is not X, by living. We encounter X and Y and recognize they're different. There seems to me to be no question of this. It is apparent that life is a condition precedent (as we lawyers say) to knowing anything.
Presumably, the proponents of a priori knowledge are quite aware of this very mundane fact. What, then, do they mean by maintaining that we have a priori knowledge?
Can it be that what they mean is simply that we humans have certain characteristics or features which, when we interact with others and our environment, have certain results? We have a brain, for example, and the brain functions in a particular way, and that because it functions in a particular way when we interact with others and the world we do things like act, and think, and feel as we do?
If that's what they mean, though, just what is it that is a priori? Are we a priori, then? Is the a priori knowledge just a description of a kind of thinking, or knowledge, we come to possess through living?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
More on Chesterton and Disappointment
Having read Orthodoxy, and being most of the way through Heretics, I find myself more and more puzzled why Chesterton is believed by some at least to be a profound thinker. He was certainly clever and could be witty, but if these particular books are any indication his was not a rigorous mind, and his treatment of positions he opposed seems breezy and even careless.
His sentences are almost all declarative. He states; he neither argues nor explains. Rhetorically, he seems to have been something of a one-trick-pony. He sets forth an idea or makes a statement, and then, thoughtfully, repeats it--at least three times, in my experience--for our benefit but in different ways. This becomes grating. Reading him is somewhat like listening to a speech by the Reverend Jesse Jackson.
I find myself sympathizing with his view that ancient paganism was misunderstood and romaticized by many. I think he is correct in maintaining that the pagans of the west were not the joyous, care-free exponents of life they were made out to be by some, and that they were in certain respects more sensible than we are today. His belief that we are unable to be as sensible as they were, though, stikes me as odd, and his claim that we cannot be because of Christianity seems even odder. He appears to maintain that there was no real joy in life until Christianity arrived on the scene, and that since its arrival and because of it we can now, finally, be joyous; in fact, we are or at least should be so joyous that we cannot be sensible. As usual, he doesn't bother to explain this view in anything resembling detail. An example or two would be useful. In all honesty, the Church I grew up in was not particularly fun-loving. And, Christ as portrayed in the Gospels can be described in many different ways, but "jolly" isn't one of them. When the Church began to preach Happy Jesus, as it were, in the 1960s instead of fiendishly-tortured-and-killed-because-of-our-sins Jesus, it was hard not to think that it was engaged in some kind of involved practical joke.
I know monks and priests were often described by some authors in the past as being roguish and delighting in drink and women, but I suspect this isn't the sort of thing Chesteron intends to reference in his claim that Christians are a much happier group generally than non-Christians. Just what he intends is unclear. He contrasts what he claims are pagan virtues, such as justice, with what he claims are Christian virtues which turn out to be, unsurprisingly, faith, hope and charity. His description of these Christian virtues, however, is rather extreme. Christian hope is a hope which exists only when things are hopeless; Christian charity is foregiveness of that which cannot be foregiven. Pagans, apparently, were too sensible to go to such extremes. I think I must be as well.
Reading him, I can't help but get the feeling that he felt he was writing only for other Chestertons, or at least for those he believed would know already what he sought to convey. It's difficult to otherwise understand such a cavalier approach to disputation. This doesn't make much sense, though, in one who felt he was engaged in a contest with the increasing popularity of materialistic modernism, and one expects more from him--at least, I do.
His sentences are almost all declarative. He states; he neither argues nor explains. Rhetorically, he seems to have been something of a one-trick-pony. He sets forth an idea or makes a statement, and then, thoughtfully, repeats it--at least three times, in my experience--for our benefit but in different ways. This becomes grating. Reading him is somewhat like listening to a speech by the Reverend Jesse Jackson.
I find myself sympathizing with his view that ancient paganism was misunderstood and romaticized by many. I think he is correct in maintaining that the pagans of the west were not the joyous, care-free exponents of life they were made out to be by some, and that they were in certain respects more sensible than we are today. His belief that we are unable to be as sensible as they were, though, stikes me as odd, and his claim that we cannot be because of Christianity seems even odder. He appears to maintain that there was no real joy in life until Christianity arrived on the scene, and that since its arrival and because of it we can now, finally, be joyous; in fact, we are or at least should be so joyous that we cannot be sensible. As usual, he doesn't bother to explain this view in anything resembling detail. An example or two would be useful. In all honesty, the Church I grew up in was not particularly fun-loving. And, Christ as portrayed in the Gospels can be described in many different ways, but "jolly" isn't one of them. When the Church began to preach Happy Jesus, as it were, in the 1960s instead of fiendishly-tortured-and-killed-because-of-our-sins Jesus, it was hard not to think that it was engaged in some kind of involved practical joke.
I know monks and priests were often described by some authors in the past as being roguish and delighting in drink and women, but I suspect this isn't the sort of thing Chesteron intends to reference in his claim that Christians are a much happier group generally than non-Christians. Just what he intends is unclear. He contrasts what he claims are pagan virtues, such as justice, with what he claims are Christian virtues which turn out to be, unsurprisingly, faith, hope and charity. His description of these Christian virtues, however, is rather extreme. Christian hope is a hope which exists only when things are hopeless; Christian charity is foregiveness of that which cannot be foregiven. Pagans, apparently, were too sensible to go to such extremes. I think I must be as well.
Reading him, I can't help but get the feeling that he felt he was writing only for other Chestertons, or at least for those he believed would know already what he sought to convey. It's difficult to otherwise understand such a cavalier approach to disputation. This doesn't make much sense, though, in one who felt he was engaged in a contest with the increasing popularity of materialistic modernism, and one expects more from him--at least, I do.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Ethics and the Dead: Some Thoughts
Another Memorial Day in this republic.
I recently encountered the view that the dead have no rights. Therefore, goes the argument, it's improper to assert that their rights are somehow violated if some lunatic does things to them like desecrate their graves, or other--even worse--things. Egyptologists and othe archaeologists, who have been merrily descrating graves for some time now, are generally mentioned in this connection. If the dead have no rights, it would seem to follow that we have no obligations to them, either.
I'm one who thinks it is proper to honor the dead, and to respect them. I don't think I'm alone; in fact, I think most humans feel this way, and have felt this way for a very long time. Does the claim that the dead have no rights then constitute yet another example of certain of us denying or doubting for no clear reason that which most of us don't deny or doubt, coupled with the assertion that there is nothing wrong about doing that which most of us wouldn't do or think of doing?
Perhaps. But, there is no question that the dead are no longer aware; they can't feel pain; they can't protest; they no longer exist as we do. There is some difference then between desecrating a grave, for example, and burying someone in one while they are alive. Certainly the consequences of acts against the dead are different from acts against the living.
So it can be maintained reasonably enough that we don't honor the dead or respect the dead, or refrain from defiling them or their graves, due to some expected consequences to them we find desirable or undesirable or think they would find desirable or undesirable (or don't anymore for the most part, in any case).
There are, though, certain characteristics and acts most of us humans have admired and honored throughout our history, with good reason. Among these are courage, wisdom, self-sacrifice, duty. And there is also certain conduct which we have found contemptible and improper throughout our history--conduct which we feel degrades us when we engage in it, which we feel is wrong. I think such things are involved in explaining why we honor and respect the dead.
Now of course some will ask why we do so, and more specifically why such feelings are appropriate or good. Well, we've been around for some time now. We've been interacting with each other and our environment all the time we've been around. In the course of that interaction most of us have come to value certain conduct and to deplore other conduct. This all seems undeniable, and even objectively verifiable. Doesn't the fact that most humans have felt this way and acted this way for such a long time tell us something regarding our nature and what we have found to be a viable way to live among one another over a great period of time? It would seem more appropriate under the circumstances to respond to those who ask why we do so why they feel there is no basis for us doing so, or why they feel we should do otherwise. Do they maintain we should act otherwise? If that's the case, they should explain why they feel that way. If they can't provide a reasonable explanation, they can't, and we should judge their position accordingly. If they respond they don't feel we should do otherwise, they're just wondering why we act as we do, and what our justification is for doing so, then wouldn't it seem reasonable to respond as to the first inquiry--well, that's an interesting speculation, here's why I think we do, and then go on with life; as to the second inquiry--why do you feel there must be something more in the way of justification?
I recently encountered the view that the dead have no rights. Therefore, goes the argument, it's improper to assert that their rights are somehow violated if some lunatic does things to them like desecrate their graves, or other--even worse--things. Egyptologists and othe archaeologists, who have been merrily descrating graves for some time now, are generally mentioned in this connection. If the dead have no rights, it would seem to follow that we have no obligations to them, either.
I'm one who thinks it is proper to honor the dead, and to respect them. I don't think I'm alone; in fact, I think most humans feel this way, and have felt this way for a very long time. Does the claim that the dead have no rights then constitute yet another example of certain of us denying or doubting for no clear reason that which most of us don't deny or doubt, coupled with the assertion that there is nothing wrong about doing that which most of us wouldn't do or think of doing?
Perhaps. But, there is no question that the dead are no longer aware; they can't feel pain; they can't protest; they no longer exist as we do. There is some difference then between desecrating a grave, for example, and burying someone in one while they are alive. Certainly the consequences of acts against the dead are different from acts against the living.
So it can be maintained reasonably enough that we don't honor the dead or respect the dead, or refrain from defiling them or their graves, due to some expected consequences to them we find desirable or undesirable or think they would find desirable or undesirable (or don't anymore for the most part, in any case).
There are, though, certain characteristics and acts most of us humans have admired and honored throughout our history, with good reason. Among these are courage, wisdom, self-sacrifice, duty. And there is also certain conduct which we have found contemptible and improper throughout our history--conduct which we feel degrades us when we engage in it, which we feel is wrong. I think such things are involved in explaining why we honor and respect the dead.
Now of course some will ask why we do so, and more specifically why such feelings are appropriate or good. Well, we've been around for some time now. We've been interacting with each other and our environment all the time we've been around. In the course of that interaction most of us have come to value certain conduct and to deplore other conduct. This all seems undeniable, and even objectively verifiable. Doesn't the fact that most humans have felt this way and acted this way for such a long time tell us something regarding our nature and what we have found to be a viable way to live among one another over a great period of time? It would seem more appropriate under the circumstances to respond to those who ask why we do so why they feel there is no basis for us doing so, or why they feel we should do otherwise. Do they maintain we should act otherwise? If that's the case, they should explain why they feel that way. If they can't provide a reasonable explanation, they can't, and we should judge their position accordingly. If they respond they don't feel we should do otherwise, they're just wondering why we act as we do, and what our justification is for doing so, then wouldn't it seem reasonable to respond as to the first inquiry--well, that's an interesting speculation, here's why I think we do, and then go on with life; as to the second inquiry--why do you feel there must be something more in the way of justification?
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