Reading Murray Rothbard can, in a sense, be comforting to someone with libertarian leanings. This is because Rothbard recognizes that the libertarian view has its origins in what was called classical liberalism, and is antipathetic to authoritarianism in all its forms, theocratic, feudal, aristocratic, collectivist, mercantile. This is comforting because Libertarianism has come to be associated with Conservatism (note the capital letters) and Conservatism, at least in these dark times, is unattractive in several respects.
This is not to say that what is now called Liberalism is particularly attractive, and certainly not when compared with classical liberalism. Both Liberalism and Conservatism as currently practised in what remains of our great republic seem overwhelming concerned with controlling us, in one way or another, for our own good, of course. And both seem intent on manipulating the government to do so, albeit in different ways.
Liberals have for some time thought that only government can save us from those who have the power to enslave us, and some of them appear to believe that we can only avoid this enslavement if most all aspects of our lives are regulated by the government. Conservatives, while claiming that we must have less government, seem sometimes to feel primarily that less government means less government authority to prevent us from acceding to certain social and religious standards. Federal government, and particularly the federal courts, should not have the power to prevent us from living as we feel appropriate, nor should it have the power to prevent us from requiring others to live as we feel appropriate, something it is believed can be achieved most readily through local government.
Rothbard notes that for those who prize liberty, there is little difference between the kind of collectivism associated with "communism" and the authoritarian government which arises through a partnership of the government with great business interests, sometimes associated with organized religion as a not very silent third partner. This may be called fascism by some, but I hesitate to use the term as it is used so commonly these days that I'm uncertain it is meaningful in any useful sense.
I view Liberalism and Conservatism (and other things as well) as ideologies disassociated from the practical in the sense that they're dependent on certain ideals which are unquestionable, notwithstanding facts or circumstances to the contrary. And it seems to me that the reliance on such ideals is the result, in part at least, of certain kinds of philosophical idealism.
John Dewey once gave a series of lectures at around the time of the First World War which were subsequently published under the name German Philosophy and Politics. In those lectures he opined, with many a caveat, on the relation between German Idealism and the German Politics (and it should be said militarism) of that time. It's an interesting read, if only because he is on occasion witty, indeed wry and sardonic at times, and at least in my reading of him this is unusual. That it should come at the expense of German Idealism is perhaps not surprising in a pragmatist, and is in any case enjoyable to me as I'm not fond of German Idealism and the German Romanticism I think comes with it almost necessarily.
As I understand him, he sees in this idealism a kind of substitution of Divine Providence with the a priori. Humans in a way impose on nature certain forms or categories, and these may include moral concepts such as duty. These do not result from experience, nor do they result from God. They are not of divine origin, but they are nonetheless supersensible, and it seems that certain German thinkers feel that Germans, whether due to their language or their unique aspects are particularly good at understanding them. Others tend to think empirically only; they base their judgments purely on consequences or utility, for example.
Even when the a priori is claimed to be rational in some sense, viewing such knowledge or morality as distinct from what we experience--as something which experience is formed by, something which facts are to fit within as necessary--can lead to the belief that they should be controlling regardless of facts, regardless of consequences. And therein lies the danger, as when we begin living our lives, or demanding that others live their lives, regardless of consequences according to certain unquestionable ideals which cannot be corrected or modified even if problems result in the "real world" we can be very dangerous indeed.
Making judgments based on reasonable methods shown to be successful rather than ideals, and allowing for modification of judgments based on circumstances and results, abjuring certainty, may not be inspiring or glorious, but it may be the only way we can live our lives freely, neither dominating nor dominated by others.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Perverse Philosophers
Someone may be called "perverse" according the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary when they are "obstinate in opposing what is right, reasonable or accepted." I think we can maintain that certain philosophers are perverse but not, as may be anticipated or believed by some, because they hold opinions relating to conduct which are perverse. Would that they did concern themselves with conduct, but it is uncertain they would do so without first concerning themselves with what I think is the origin of their perversion. Instead, they are perverse because of their extraordinary (un-ordinary?) beliefs regarding reality. I refer to those philosophers who contend that we cannot know just what reality is; that what is real is unknowable.
What is immediately puzzling about these thinkers is that their conclusion appears to derive from what most would insist is real and which we rely on all the time, i.e. what is sometimes called "the evidence of our senses." They manage to twist "the evidence of our senses" into a basis for their conclusion by noting the unremarkable fact that we cannot always rely on our senses. Sometimes we experience illusions. Sometimes we see mirages. Sometimes we seem to hear things which cannot be heard by others. A pencil in a glass of water seems "bent." And so on and, regrettably, on.
The fact that we can rely on our senses in that they serve us well in acting and judging consequences in the great majority of cases, and have done so for hundreds of thousands of years, doesn't seem to impress these philosophers much. I think this fact impresses most of us, though, and that it does so for very good reasons. The only way we can reasonably judge their veracity is by testing the effectiveness of our senses, and the only way we can do that is by their successful employment in life. All in all, they work rather well.
When they don't work well, there are usually perfectly good explanations readily available, which need not be dependent on the belief that what is real is unknowable. We may be hallucinating because we're feverish. We may be mistaken, and find on further consideration (closer examination or investigation) that we were mistaken. We may not know or understand everything about the universe yet.
It requires a rather extreme disregard of the reliability of "the evidence of our senses", and otherwise plausible explanations for the instances when they "deceive" us ("deceive" is of course a very loaded word) to infer that we cannot know what is real. I think someone who comes to that conclusion may justly be considered obstinate in opposing what is right, reasonable and accepted and therefore perverse.
As always, I wonder what it is that causes this strikingly persistent perversity. Sceptics have been with us since ancient times, when philosophy as we know it first began, and there are famous examples of philosophers who have managed to convince themselves that what is real is unknowable, if not that there is no "real." They litter the history of thought.
They seem in their philosophy to be disconnected from life. We've no reason to believe that they lived differently from those simple folk who cheerfully felt that they were interacting with the real every moment of their lives, however. This makes one wonder whether, as philosophers, they were participating in a willful disconnection, deliberately separating their philosophy from their lives. If that's so, what would induce them to engage in such a futile task? Perhaps even more interesting is the question why we continue to study them, and even to follow them on such an impotent path?
Are our lives so dreadful? Is the task of bettering ourselves and our lives so daunting that we turn from it, convincing ourselves that we can't know what is the case?
What is immediately puzzling about these thinkers is that their conclusion appears to derive from what most would insist is real and which we rely on all the time, i.e. what is sometimes called "the evidence of our senses." They manage to twist "the evidence of our senses" into a basis for their conclusion by noting the unremarkable fact that we cannot always rely on our senses. Sometimes we experience illusions. Sometimes we see mirages. Sometimes we seem to hear things which cannot be heard by others. A pencil in a glass of water seems "bent." And so on and, regrettably, on.
The fact that we can rely on our senses in that they serve us well in acting and judging consequences in the great majority of cases, and have done so for hundreds of thousands of years, doesn't seem to impress these philosophers much. I think this fact impresses most of us, though, and that it does so for very good reasons. The only way we can reasonably judge their veracity is by testing the effectiveness of our senses, and the only way we can do that is by their successful employment in life. All in all, they work rather well.
When they don't work well, there are usually perfectly good explanations readily available, which need not be dependent on the belief that what is real is unknowable. We may be hallucinating because we're feverish. We may be mistaken, and find on further consideration (closer examination or investigation) that we were mistaken. We may not know or understand everything about the universe yet.
It requires a rather extreme disregard of the reliability of "the evidence of our senses", and otherwise plausible explanations for the instances when they "deceive" us ("deceive" is of course a very loaded word) to infer that we cannot know what is real. I think someone who comes to that conclusion may justly be considered obstinate in opposing what is right, reasonable and accepted and therefore perverse.
As always, I wonder what it is that causes this strikingly persistent perversity. Sceptics have been with us since ancient times, when philosophy as we know it first began, and there are famous examples of philosophers who have managed to convince themselves that what is real is unknowable, if not that there is no "real." They litter the history of thought.
They seem in their philosophy to be disconnected from life. We've no reason to believe that they lived differently from those simple folk who cheerfully felt that they were interacting with the real every moment of their lives, however. This makes one wonder whether, as philosophers, they were participating in a willful disconnection, deliberately separating their philosophy from their lives. If that's so, what would induce them to engage in such a futile task? Perhaps even more interesting is the question why we continue to study them, and even to follow them on such an impotent path?
Are our lives so dreadful? Is the task of bettering ourselves and our lives so daunting that we turn from it, convincing ourselves that we can't know what is the case?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Pragmatism and Personal Jurisdiction
In these glorious and (in certain respects in any case) united states--and perhaps even in less favored lands--a court can render judgment personally binding on a person only if it first obtains personal jurisdiction. It does so by the service of process on that unfortunate individual. Sadly for those so served, they need not necessarily reside or even be in the state in which the court is situated when presented with the papers, which act subjects them to the court's authority. This authority is nonetheless imposed on them through what are called "long arm" laws, after the fabled and often irritating long arm of the law, I think.
I was surprised to find this expanded version of legal jurisdiction being addressed in Experience and Nature by "Big John" Dewey. There was a time when jurisdiction was far more limited. In those simpler times, a court's jurisdiction was limited to its particular location or an area around its location, e.g. within a 100 mile radius (one still finds such limitations on a court's subpoena power). And the scope of the jurisdiction or authority of a state's laws were generally limited to those within the geographic area of the state.
This legal imperium grew, however, and Dewey is right I think in contending that it did so as a response by society in addressing a problem which required resolution. It was generally felt inappropriate that a manufacturer could produce and sell in a state products which when defective would injure persons and property in that state, but escape the reach of the courts in that state, thereby rendering the effort of those injured to seek compensation difficult if not impossible. Legislation was adopted to grant courts jurisdiction of these and others who by actions out of state caused injury in that state, at least in certain circumstances.
Dewey seems to use the expansion of legal jurisdiction in response to the development of commerce, society, technology and their impact to contrast the law favorably to philosophy, at least in that respect. He felt philosophy remained fixated on questions and concepts which had fascinated thinkers who lived in other and very different times, and still relied on the same kind of reasoning and method employed before the experimental method was created, largely despite philosophy. Jurisdiction had adapted to intelligently address problems which arose, expanding beyond geographical limitations when necessary; philosophers still spoke of ideas, perceptions, illusions as being "located" in the mind, as if displayed on some screen situated in the head or some less mundane location. Philosophers remained convinced that the mind, or perhaps the real, lay somehow apart from the "external world" and that this realm rather than the "external world" was philosophy's domain. The proper study of philosophers if not mankind was a mankind separate from the world instead of a part of it.
This contrast between the law and philosophy is pleasing to a lawyer, it must be admitted. But Dewey thought that philosophers (perhaps even like the wiser and more practical lawyers!) could and should deal with the world made up of people and the other constituents of nature and the many problems which result from their inevitable interaction. Although it is probably unreasonable to think that the achievements of philosophers will ever rival those of lawyers (yes, I'm trying to be amusing), even when philosophers turn their thoughts to what is "out there" in the world, I hope they'll do so more and more. I hope this because philosophy, or at least philosophy as I was taught it too long ago, is a great source of and instruction in critical, analytic thinking (as is the law) and that is something we can use more of in these increasingly unthinking times.
I was surprised to find this expanded version of legal jurisdiction being addressed in Experience and Nature by "Big John" Dewey. There was a time when jurisdiction was far more limited. In those simpler times, a court's jurisdiction was limited to its particular location or an area around its location, e.g. within a 100 mile radius (one still finds such limitations on a court's subpoena power). And the scope of the jurisdiction or authority of a state's laws were generally limited to those within the geographic area of the state.
This legal imperium grew, however, and Dewey is right I think in contending that it did so as a response by society in addressing a problem which required resolution. It was generally felt inappropriate that a manufacturer could produce and sell in a state products which when defective would injure persons and property in that state, but escape the reach of the courts in that state, thereby rendering the effort of those injured to seek compensation difficult if not impossible. Legislation was adopted to grant courts jurisdiction of these and others who by actions out of state caused injury in that state, at least in certain circumstances.
Dewey seems to use the expansion of legal jurisdiction in response to the development of commerce, society, technology and their impact to contrast the law favorably to philosophy, at least in that respect. He felt philosophy remained fixated on questions and concepts which had fascinated thinkers who lived in other and very different times, and still relied on the same kind of reasoning and method employed before the experimental method was created, largely despite philosophy. Jurisdiction had adapted to intelligently address problems which arose, expanding beyond geographical limitations when necessary; philosophers still spoke of ideas, perceptions, illusions as being "located" in the mind, as if displayed on some screen situated in the head or some less mundane location. Philosophers remained convinced that the mind, or perhaps the real, lay somehow apart from the "external world" and that this realm rather than the "external world" was philosophy's domain. The proper study of philosophers if not mankind was a mankind separate from the world instead of a part of it.
This contrast between the law and philosophy is pleasing to a lawyer, it must be admitted. But Dewey thought that philosophers (perhaps even like the wiser and more practical lawyers!) could and should deal with the world made up of people and the other constituents of nature and the many problems which result from their inevitable interaction. Although it is probably unreasonable to think that the achievements of philosophers will ever rival those of lawyers (yes, I'm trying to be amusing), even when philosophers turn their thoughts to what is "out there" in the world, I hope they'll do so more and more. I hope this because philosophy, or at least philosophy as I was taught it too long ago, is a great source of and instruction in critical, analytic thinking (as is the law) and that is something we can use more of in these increasingly unthinking times.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Delight in and Problems with Instantly Laying Blame
The Fort Hood shootings prompted concerns among the politicians, pundits and preachers that infest us regarding the existence of anti-Muslim sentiment in America and in its foreign policy which, it was proclaimed, caused them in some unclearly defined sense. The shootings in Tuscon have prompted them to pronounce balefully on the violent and inflammatory tone of political discourse in our great republic, especially that of right-wing politicians, pundits and preachers, which, it is proclaimed, caused them in what I think is an equally undefined sense.
It may be that we are compelled by some irresistible tendency to loudly and insistently blame those we despise for tragedies. Scapegoats have been the focus of anger for events for a very long time. Now, when technology allows us to express our opinions on every subject on a world stage, scapegoating has become commonplace. Those invested in the media and those who otherwise benefit from its use may be especially disposed to lay blame, as they seem to feel that their purpose is to lay blame or they are in any case called upon to do so.
Unfortunately, our eagerness to lay blame leads us to do so in a very thoughtless and simplistic manner. Sarah Palin is a disturbing figure in certain senses, but it's unreasonable to blame her for the shootings. The killer in this case seems to have been incensed against the congresswoman he shot since 2007, some time before Ms. Palin came upon the scene. He also seems to be a very unstable person, who became particularly odd within the past few years.
Ms. Palin's response to those blaming her was largely ineffective, particularly as a result of her weird reference to the "blood libel", but also because it was generally an unintelligent, almost petulant, exercise in political theatre. Nevertheless there was buried in this inept performance a truth; that neither she nor right wing politicians generally nor the shriekers and pontificators who make their living on talk radio can reasonably be said to have caused these shootings.
While one may regret the atmosphere during the memorial attended by the President, his views regarding this tragedy as expressed in his speech are far more reasonable than those of the many others we've heard from, willingly or unwillingly. He rightly spoke against the efforts all too clearly being made to reap a political benefit from the shootings. He condemned the simple-mindedness of those who lay blame.
The tone of our political discourse is inflammatory. Some truly hateful things are being said by certain people. Responding to this by blaming them as accessories to murder, however, doesn't exactly raise the level of discourse.
It seems that one thing we are not inclined to do much anymore is "stop and think." Where instant responses are eagerly made and sought, not much in the way of thought takes place. Very few of us can think rapidly and well. Yet (almost) the first thing we do when something bad happens is place blame on someone or something. This is stupid, and useless.
The sensible reaction to such events is to take steps to prevent them from happening in the future. We won't achieve this by silencing those with whom we disagree, however strongly. There is much more involved. Thinking and planning is called for; unfortunately, it seems our willingness to engage in the kind of effort required to do what is needed appears to be waning as we rush to judgment in a world where we believe our thoughts should be expressed as quickly and simply as possible, and are subject to the views of others expressed in the same unreflecting manner
It may be that we are compelled by some irresistible tendency to loudly and insistently blame those we despise for tragedies. Scapegoats have been the focus of anger for events for a very long time. Now, when technology allows us to express our opinions on every subject on a world stage, scapegoating has become commonplace. Those invested in the media and those who otherwise benefit from its use may be especially disposed to lay blame, as they seem to feel that their purpose is to lay blame or they are in any case called upon to do so.
Unfortunately, our eagerness to lay blame leads us to do so in a very thoughtless and simplistic manner. Sarah Palin is a disturbing figure in certain senses, but it's unreasonable to blame her for the shootings. The killer in this case seems to have been incensed against the congresswoman he shot since 2007, some time before Ms. Palin came upon the scene. He also seems to be a very unstable person, who became particularly odd within the past few years.
Ms. Palin's response to those blaming her was largely ineffective, particularly as a result of her weird reference to the "blood libel", but also because it was generally an unintelligent, almost petulant, exercise in political theatre. Nevertheless there was buried in this inept performance a truth; that neither she nor right wing politicians generally nor the shriekers and pontificators who make their living on talk radio can reasonably be said to have caused these shootings.
While one may regret the atmosphere during the memorial attended by the President, his views regarding this tragedy as expressed in his speech are far more reasonable than those of the many others we've heard from, willingly or unwillingly. He rightly spoke against the efforts all too clearly being made to reap a political benefit from the shootings. He condemned the simple-mindedness of those who lay blame.
The tone of our political discourse is inflammatory. Some truly hateful things are being said by certain people. Responding to this by blaming them as accessories to murder, however, doesn't exactly raise the level of discourse.
It seems that one thing we are not inclined to do much anymore is "stop and think." Where instant responses are eagerly made and sought, not much in the way of thought takes place. Very few of us can think rapidly and well. Yet (almost) the first thing we do when something bad happens is place blame on someone or something. This is stupid, and useless.
The sensible reaction to such events is to take steps to prevent them from happening in the future. We won't achieve this by silencing those with whom we disagree, however strongly. There is much more involved. Thinking and planning is called for; unfortunately, it seems our willingness to engage in the kind of effort required to do what is needed appears to be waning as we rush to judgment in a world where we believe our thoughts should be expressed as quickly and simply as possible, and are subject to the views of others expressed in the same unreflecting manner
Sunday, January 9, 2011
On the Pretensions of Art
Somewhere in Anthony Burgess' wonderfully entertaining novel Earthly Powers the narrator, Kenneth Toomey, observes in some exotic location a bird carefully painting something, a nest I think, using a kind of stick or twig or brush it holds in its beak. "So much for the pretensions of art" is Toomey's comment on the scene.
Non-human animals can and are apparently being encouraged in some cases to "do art." Cats, I know, are making paintings, some of which seem colorful and interesting. I'm not sure just what this is supposed to mean beyond the fact that non-human animals can in some cases create what we humans would call "art" which sometimes, if we be honest, is more attractive than items created by humans which they and other humans claim is art. This in and of itself doesn't suffice to establish that there is nothing peculiar or special about human art, but it does lead one to wonder about the sometimes extraordinary claims made regarding human art by human artists and others.
Works of art can be inspiring and the skill required to create them can inspire a kind of awe, as well. Great paintings and music, poetry and novels, films, are among the most remarkable artifacts of our species. They can mean a great deal to people, because their effect can be profound. They can therefore influence human conduct profoundly. This much is clear, I think.
But does (or should) art have some kind of special status? It's obviously something humans do, and humans do many things. Certain humans do certain things better, even much better, than others. Should art's status be similar to the status accorded to other things humans can do which require a great deal of skill, e.g. commanding armies or nations? We often call those who are particularly skilled in doing something we don't normally consider art an "artist" in that particular field.
Unless we accord art a kind of inherent value, we must judge it by its consequences--what it does to and for us. To the extent it has consequences which render it special to us, we are justified in considering it special in that respect. I'm not inclined to ascribe to a class of things inherent value, as I think when we value something we do so based upon a consideration of it in particular circumstances. We may learn from experience that certain things having a resemblance to each other generally do things to or for us we find valuable, of course.
Perhaps art is a certain kind of conduct or the result of a certain kind of conduct which effects us in a special way; a way different from the effect resulting from other conduct. Or, perhaps art doesn't create a special effect, but is a special kind of conduct which creates remarkable effects, or effects similar to those created by other kinds of conduct but more intense, or somehow different.
We tend to romanticize art and artists, like we romanticize heroes (artists in a sense can be heroes, of course). There is nothing necessarily wrong in doing this, but it can be useful to remember now and then that even great artists are humans engaged in human conduct. They may be extraordinarily skilled, and we may find their work extraordinarily rewarding, and it is on these bases that artists and their work may reasonably be judged.
Non-human animals can and are apparently being encouraged in some cases to "do art." Cats, I know, are making paintings, some of which seem colorful and interesting. I'm not sure just what this is supposed to mean beyond the fact that non-human animals can in some cases create what we humans would call "art" which sometimes, if we be honest, is more attractive than items created by humans which they and other humans claim is art. This in and of itself doesn't suffice to establish that there is nothing peculiar or special about human art, but it does lead one to wonder about the sometimes extraordinary claims made regarding human art by human artists and others.
Works of art can be inspiring and the skill required to create them can inspire a kind of awe, as well. Great paintings and music, poetry and novels, films, are among the most remarkable artifacts of our species. They can mean a great deal to people, because their effect can be profound. They can therefore influence human conduct profoundly. This much is clear, I think.
But does (or should) art have some kind of special status? It's obviously something humans do, and humans do many things. Certain humans do certain things better, even much better, than others. Should art's status be similar to the status accorded to other things humans can do which require a great deal of skill, e.g. commanding armies or nations? We often call those who are particularly skilled in doing something we don't normally consider art an "artist" in that particular field.
Unless we accord art a kind of inherent value, we must judge it by its consequences--what it does to and for us. To the extent it has consequences which render it special to us, we are justified in considering it special in that respect. I'm not inclined to ascribe to a class of things inherent value, as I think when we value something we do so based upon a consideration of it in particular circumstances. We may learn from experience that certain things having a resemblance to each other generally do things to or for us we find valuable, of course.
Perhaps art is a certain kind of conduct or the result of a certain kind of conduct which effects us in a special way; a way different from the effect resulting from other conduct. Or, perhaps art doesn't create a special effect, but is a special kind of conduct which creates remarkable effects, or effects similar to those created by other kinds of conduct but more intense, or somehow different.
We tend to romanticize art and artists, like we romanticize heroes (artists in a sense can be heroes, of course). There is nothing necessarily wrong in doing this, but it can be useful to remember now and then that even great artists are humans engaged in human conduct. They may be extraordinarily skilled, and we may find their work extraordinarily rewarding, and it is on these bases that artists and their work may reasonably be judged.
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