Being the kind of philosopher I am, I am sometimes accused of worshiping reason (or Reason?). I don't worship anything, which entails that I don't worship reason. I do rely on reason as the best guide for belief and action, but that does not make me a worshiper of reason. I rely on my five senses too, but I don't worship them either.
Why do I rely on reason as the best guide for belief and action? Because it works --- because I want my beliefs to be true and my actions right, and relying on reason helps me achieve that aim. Indeed, there is no way of achieving that aim that is more effective.
Those who accuse me of worshiping reason may point out that it is just my belief that relying on reason is the most effective way of acquiring true beliefs and making right decisions (and acting accordingly). How should I respond? Well, what else can I say other than that I have good reason for believing that. Does that mean there is no escaping the charge of worshiping reason? No. It means only that there is no escaping the need for justifying or giving reason for one's belief.
5/20/2011
4/30/2011
Charming jokes
Schopenhauer called the ontological argument for the existence of God a "charming joke". What a charming way of putting it!
Some may think being a charming joke is not that bad for a philosophical argument; at least it is not as bad as just being a joke. However, when a philosopher gets carried away by his cleverness and produces a philosophical argument that is nothing but a charming joke, he may never be able to see that it is nonetheless still a joke simply because it is charming and because the charm is a result of his cleverness. For this reason, a charming joke is worse.
Some may think being a charming joke is not that bad for a philosophical argument; at least it is not as bad as just being a joke. However, when a philosopher gets carried away by his cleverness and produces a philosophical argument that is nothing but a charming joke, he may never be able to see that it is nonetheless still a joke simply because it is charming and because the charm is a result of his cleverness. For this reason, a charming joke is worse.
4/11/2011
Knowing the limits of one's expertise
People who are experts in an area may be tempted to think and act as if their expertise is not limited to that area. A philosopher may expect others to take his view on arts as seriously as they take his philosophical view; a folklore expert may comment on politics in an authoritative tone even though he did not have any training in political theory or political analysis; a scientist may criticize a philosopher's argument because he does not understand how different are philosophical investigation and scientific investigation. Richard Feynman, for example, said this about Spinoza:
My son is taking a course in philosophy, and last night we were looking at something by Spinoza --- and there was the most childish reasoning! There were all these Attributes, and Substances, all this meaningless chewing around, and we started to laugh. Now, how could we do that? Here's this great Dutch philosopher, and we're laughing at him. It's because there was no excuse for it! In that same period there was Newton, there was Harvey studying the circulation of blood, there were people with methods of analysis by which progress was being made! You can take every one of Spinoza's propositions, and take the contrary propositions, and look at the world --- and you can't tell which is right. (The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, p.195)
Of course you can't tell which of Spinoza's propositions is true by looking at the world; you are not supposed to! Spinoza was not doing bad science; he was doing metaphysics.
However, Feynman was not unaware of the limits of his expertise. In another place he said this:
I believe that a scientist looking at nonscientific problems is just as dumb as the next guy --- and when he talks about a nonscientific matter, he will sound as naive as anyone untrained in the matter. (Ibid., p.142)
Here he was referring particularly to social problems, and he certainly knew that social problems are utterly different from scientific ones. He laughed at Spinoza presumably because he thought that both he and Spinoza were investigating the world, or , reality, and that Spinoza did it in a laughable way.
Feynman might not think he went beyond science when he criticized Spinoza's philosophy. If that was the case, he was not as arrogant as those experts who knowingly exceed the limits of their expertise. But some philosophers would insist that a scientist looking at philosophical problems is just as dumb as the next guy and will sound as naive as anyone untrained in the matter.
My son is taking a course in philosophy, and last night we were looking at something by Spinoza --- and there was the most childish reasoning! There were all these Attributes, and Substances, all this meaningless chewing around, and we started to laugh. Now, how could we do that? Here's this great Dutch philosopher, and we're laughing at him. It's because there was no excuse for it! In that same period there was Newton, there was Harvey studying the circulation of blood, there were people with methods of analysis by which progress was being made! You can take every one of Spinoza's propositions, and take the contrary propositions, and look at the world --- and you can't tell which is right. (The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, p.195)
Of course you can't tell which of Spinoza's propositions is true by looking at the world; you are not supposed to! Spinoza was not doing bad science; he was doing metaphysics.
However, Feynman was not unaware of the limits of his expertise. In another place he said this:
I believe that a scientist looking at nonscientific problems is just as dumb as the next guy --- and when he talks about a nonscientific matter, he will sound as naive as anyone untrained in the matter. (Ibid., p.142)
Here he was referring particularly to social problems, and he certainly knew that social problems are utterly different from scientific ones. He laughed at Spinoza presumably because he thought that both he and Spinoza were investigating the world, or , reality, and that Spinoza did it in a laughable way.
Feynman might not think he went beyond science when he criticized Spinoza's philosophy. If that was the case, he was not as arrogant as those experts who knowingly exceed the limits of their expertise. But some philosophers would insist that a scientist looking at philosophical problems is just as dumb as the next guy and will sound as naive as anyone untrained in the matter.
3/31/2011
WWJD
A simple proof that the correct answer to "What would Jesus do?" is "I don’t know":
1. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
2. When X works in mysterious ways, the correct answer to "What would X do?" is "I don't know".
3. Jesus is the Lord.
From 1 & 3, it follows that
4. Jesus works in mysterious ways.
From 2 & 4, it follows that
5. The correct answer to "What would Jesus do?" is "I don't know".
1. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
2. When X works in mysterious ways, the correct answer to "What would X do?" is "I don't know".
3. Jesus is the Lord.
From 1 & 3, it follows that
4. Jesus works in mysterious ways.
From 2 & 4, it follows that
5. The correct answer to "What would Jesus do?" is "I don't know".
3/25/2011
Christian techniques of the self
According to Foucault, in all societies there is a kind of technique that he calls "techniques of the self" (or "technologies of the self"); these are "techniques that permit individuals to effect, by their own means, a certain number of operations on their own bodies, their own souls, their own thoughts, their own conduct, and this in a manner so as to transform themselves, modify themselves, and to attain state of perfection, happiness, purity, supernatural power" (from his short essay "Sexuality and Solitude"; he elaborates the notion in a much longer essay entitled "Technologies of the Self". Both essays are collected in Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth).
The notion of techniques of the self is interesting enough, but what I find even more interesting is Foucault's application of the notion to Christianity. He first points out that each technique of the self implies some truth obligations such as telling the truth, discovering the truth, and being enlightened by the truth. These obligations are either instrumental to or constitutive of the transformation of the self. He then describes the truth obligations implied by Christian techniques of the self:
Everyone in Christianity has the duty to explore who he is, what is happening within himself, the faults he may have committed, the temptations to which he is exposed. Moreover, everyone is obliged to tell these things to other people, and thus to bear witness against himself... First, there is the task of clearing up all the illusions, temptations, and seductions that can occur in the mind, and of discovering the reality of what is going on within ourselves.
I think most Christians would not disagree with this description. But this is not the interesting part yet. As Foucault goes on:
Second, one must get free from attachment to the self, not because the self is an illusion but because the self is much too real. The more we discover the truth about ourselves, the more we must renounce ourselves; and the more we want to renounce ourselves, the more we need to bring to light the reality of ourselves. This is what we would call the spiral of truth formulation and reality renouncement which is at the heart of Christian techniques of the self.
It is not clear that most Christians would accept these words. They may not see themselves as renouncing their selves, for they, like most human beings, do care about their selves.
What Foucault's characterization of Christian techniques of the self captures is precisely Christians' ambivalence towards their selves --- they both care about and renounce their selves. There is such ambivalence because Christianity is both a salvation religion and a confession religion: one has to care about one's self enough to see the need of salvation, but one also has to renounce one's self as a result of confession. In most cases the psychological condition is just ambivalence, but in some cases it may become so severe that it would not be much of an exaggeration to call it a form of schizophrenia.
The notion of techniques of the self is interesting enough, but what I find even more interesting is Foucault's application of the notion to Christianity. He first points out that each technique of the self implies some truth obligations such as telling the truth, discovering the truth, and being enlightened by the truth. These obligations are either instrumental to or constitutive of the transformation of the self. He then describes the truth obligations implied by Christian techniques of the self:
Everyone in Christianity has the duty to explore who he is, what is happening within himself, the faults he may have committed, the temptations to which he is exposed. Moreover, everyone is obliged to tell these things to other people, and thus to bear witness against himself... First, there is the task of clearing up all the illusions, temptations, and seductions that can occur in the mind, and of discovering the reality of what is going on within ourselves.
I think most Christians would not disagree with this description. But this is not the interesting part yet. As Foucault goes on:
Second, one must get free from attachment to the self, not because the self is an illusion but because the self is much too real. The more we discover the truth about ourselves, the more we must renounce ourselves; and the more we want to renounce ourselves, the more we need to bring to light the reality of ourselves. This is what we would call the spiral of truth formulation and reality renouncement which is at the heart of Christian techniques of the self.
It is not clear that most Christians would accept these words. They may not see themselves as renouncing their selves, for they, like most human beings, do care about their selves.
What Foucault's characterization of Christian techniques of the self captures is precisely Christians' ambivalence towards their selves --- they both care about and renounce their selves. There is such ambivalence because Christianity is both a salvation religion and a confession religion: one has to care about one's self enough to see the need of salvation, but one also has to renounce one's self as a result of confession. In most cases the psychological condition is just ambivalence, but in some cases it may become so severe that it would not be much of an exaggeration to call it a form of schizophrenia.
3/10/2011
Self-ignorance and self-misunderstanding
The lack of self-knowledge may just be self-ignorance, but it can also be self-misunderstanding. If, for example, you are a stingy person but are not aware that you are --- you don't know that you are stingy, nor do you believe that you are not stingy, then you are just self-ignorant. But if you have the false belief that you are a generous person, then you have self-misunderstanding. This is an important distinction because which form your lack of self-knowledge takes makes some difference to how difficult it will be for you to gain the relevant self-knowledge.
It may appear that self-misunderstanding is a greater hurdle for self-knowledge, for you have to get rid of the false belief as well as acquiring the true one. The false belief stands in the way, and it seems to take more effort to acquire the true belief than in the case of mere self-ignorance.
There is, however, reason to think that self-misunderstanding is, at least in some cases, less of a hurdle for self-knowledge. If you have a false belief about yourself (such as the belief that are a generous person, when in fact you are stingy), it may sooner or later come into conflict with what happens around you (such as your repeatedly refusing to help your friends even when you can easily help them). The conflict, or rather your experience of it, can prompt you to consider the possibility that your belief is false and to see what happens around you as evidence for the opposite belief, that is, the true one.
By contrast, if you are merely self-ignorant, then even if what happens around you is evidence for a certain belief about yourself, you may not even pay attention to it. When this is the case, it is not that you dismiss the evidence; you simply don't see the import of what happens around you --- you don't see it as evidence for or against anything.
It may appear that self-misunderstanding is a greater hurdle for self-knowledge, for you have to get rid of the false belief as well as acquiring the true one. The false belief stands in the way, and it seems to take more effort to acquire the true belief than in the case of mere self-ignorance.
There is, however, reason to think that self-misunderstanding is, at least in some cases, less of a hurdle for self-knowledge. If you have a false belief about yourself (such as the belief that are a generous person, when in fact you are stingy), it may sooner or later come into conflict with what happens around you (such as your repeatedly refusing to help your friends even when you can easily help them). The conflict, or rather your experience of it, can prompt you to consider the possibility that your belief is false and to see what happens around you as evidence for the opposite belief, that is, the true one.
By contrast, if you are merely self-ignorant, then even if what happens around you is evidence for a certain belief about yourself, you may not even pay attention to it. When this is the case, it is not that you dismiss the evidence; you simply don't see the import of what happens around you --- you don't see it as evidence for or against anything.
2/19/2011
Proust's insight
In his famous article "Personal Identity", Derek Parfit quotes Proust:
We are incapable, while we are in love, of acting as fit predecessors of the next persons who, when we are in love no longer, we shall presently have become . . . . (Parfit's translation)
Parfit is interested in the notion of successive selves, which he thinks Proust employs, at least implicitly ("the next persons"), in this sentence. I am more interested in the insight about love that Proust expresses in it. In fact, Proust's insight does not have to be put in terms of the notion of a person or the self. What he seems to mean is that when we are in love, we are incapable of acting in such a way that we are prepared not to be in love any more. It is not just that we do not act that way; we are simply incapable of doing so, for the incapability is part of what it is to be in love.
We are incapable, while we are in love, of acting as fit predecessors of the next persons who, when we are in love no longer, we shall presently have become . . . . (Parfit's translation)
Parfit is interested in the notion of successive selves, which he thinks Proust employs, at least implicitly ("the next persons"), in this sentence. I am more interested in the insight about love that Proust expresses in it. In fact, Proust's insight does not have to be put in terms of the notion of a person or the self. What he seems to mean is that when we are in love, we are incapable of acting in such a way that we are prepared not to be in love any more. It is not just that we do not act that way; we are simply incapable of doing so, for the incapability is part of what it is to be in love.
2/12/2011
Derrida and bullshit
John Searle famously remarked that Derrida's work is the kind of stuff that gives bullshit a bad name. I have never read a single word by Derrida, and I would generally refrain from commenting on any philosopher whose work I have not read. Besides, there are philosophers I take seriously (such as Stanley Cavell) who take Derrida seriously, so I have never joined in when some of my friends trashed Derrida.
Today, however, I came across a book that may be evidence that Derrida was quite capable of bullshitting. The book includes an interview with Derrida a few weeks after the 9/11 attack, and here is the first five hundred words or so of Derrida's response to the question "Do you consider what we now tend to call 'September 11' an unprecedented event, one that radically alters the way we see ourselves?":
Le 11 septembre, as you say, or, since we have agreed to speak two languages, "September 11." We will have to return later to this question of language. As well as to this act of naming: a date and nothing more. When you say "September 11" you are already citing, are you not? You are inviting me to speak here by recalling, as if in quotation marks, a date or a dating that has taken over our public space and our private lives for five weeks now. Something fait date, I would say in a French idiom, something marks a date, a date in history; that is always what's most striking, the very impact of what is at least felt, in an apparently immediate way, to be an event that truly marks, that truly makes its mark, a singular and, as they say here, "unprecedented" event. I say "apparently immediate" because this "feeling" is actually less spontaneous than it appears: it is to a large extent conditioned, constituted, if not actually constructed, circulated at any rate through the media by means of a prodigious techno-socio-political machine. "To mark a date in history" presupposes, in any case, that "something" comes or happens for the first and last time, "something" that we do not yet really know how to identify, determine, recognize, or analyze but that should remain from here on in unforgettable: an ineffaceable event in the shared archive of a universal calendar, that is, a supposedly universal calendar, for these are—and I want to insist on this at the outset—only suppositions and presuppositions. Unrefined and dogmatic, or else carefully considered, organized, calculated, strategic—or all of these at once. For the index pointing toward this date, the bare act, the minimal deictic, the minimalist aim of this dating, also marks something else. Namely, the fact that we perhaps have no concept and no meaning available to us to name in any other way this "thing" that has just happened, this supposed "event." An act of "international terrorism," for example, and we will return to this, is anything but a rigorous concept that would help us grasp the singularity of what we will be trying to discuss. "Something" took place, we have the feeling of not having seen it coming, and certain consequences undeniably follow upon the "thing." But this very thing, the place and meaning of this "event," remains ineffable, like an intuition without concept, like a unicity with no generality on the horizon or with no horizon at all, out of range for a language that admits its powerlessness and so is reduced to pronouncing mechanically a date, repeating it endlessly, as a kind of ritual incantation, a conjuring poem, a journalistic litany or rhetorical refrain that admits to not knowing what it's talking about. We do not in fact know what we are saying or naming in this way: September 11, le 11 septembre, September 11. The brevity of the appellation (September 11, 9/11) stems not only from an economic or rhetorical necessity. The telegram of this metonymy—a name, a number—points out the unqualifiable by recognizing that we do not recognize or even cognize that we do not yet know how to qualify, that we do not know what we are talking about.
I would have no better response to this than: Was talking about the 9/11 attack that complicated? Give me a break!
Today, however, I came across a book that may be evidence that Derrida was quite capable of bullshitting. The book includes an interview with Derrida a few weeks after the 9/11 attack, and here is the first five hundred words or so of Derrida's response to the question "Do you consider what we now tend to call 'September 11' an unprecedented event, one that radically alters the way we see ourselves?":
Le 11 septembre, as you say, or, since we have agreed to speak two languages, "September 11." We will have to return later to this question of language. As well as to this act of naming: a date and nothing more. When you say "September 11" you are already citing, are you not? You are inviting me to speak here by recalling, as if in quotation marks, a date or a dating that has taken over our public space and our private lives for five weeks now. Something fait date, I would say in a French idiom, something marks a date, a date in history; that is always what's most striking, the very impact of what is at least felt, in an apparently immediate way, to be an event that truly marks, that truly makes its mark, a singular and, as they say here, "unprecedented" event. I say "apparently immediate" because this "feeling" is actually less spontaneous than it appears: it is to a large extent conditioned, constituted, if not actually constructed, circulated at any rate through the media by means of a prodigious techno-socio-political machine. "To mark a date in history" presupposes, in any case, that "something" comes or happens for the first and last time, "something" that we do not yet really know how to identify, determine, recognize, or analyze but that should remain from here on in unforgettable: an ineffaceable event in the shared archive of a universal calendar, that is, a supposedly universal calendar, for these are—and I want to insist on this at the outset—only suppositions and presuppositions. Unrefined and dogmatic, or else carefully considered, organized, calculated, strategic—or all of these at once. For the index pointing toward this date, the bare act, the minimal deictic, the minimalist aim of this dating, also marks something else. Namely, the fact that we perhaps have no concept and no meaning available to us to name in any other way this "thing" that has just happened, this supposed "event." An act of "international terrorism," for example, and we will return to this, is anything but a rigorous concept that would help us grasp the singularity of what we will be trying to discuss. "Something" took place, we have the feeling of not having seen it coming, and certain consequences undeniably follow upon the "thing." But this very thing, the place and meaning of this "event," remains ineffable, like an intuition without concept, like a unicity with no generality on the horizon or with no horizon at all, out of range for a language that admits its powerlessness and so is reduced to pronouncing mechanically a date, repeating it endlessly, as a kind of ritual incantation, a conjuring poem, a journalistic litany or rhetorical refrain that admits to not knowing what it's talking about. We do not in fact know what we are saying or naming in this way: September 11, le 11 septembre, September 11. The brevity of the appellation (September 11, 9/11) stems not only from an economic or rhetorical necessity. The telegram of this metonymy—a name, a number—points out the unqualifiable by recognizing that we do not recognize or even cognize that we do not yet know how to qualify, that we do not know what we are talking about.
I would have no better response to this than: Was talking about the 9/11 attack that complicated? Give me a break!
1/06/2011
Can you love the whole world?
Alva Noë has written a short piece on love for NPR, which ends with the question "Can you love the whole world?". What is interesting is not the question itself, but what he compares the question to:
Can you love the whole world? I suppose this is like the question, Is there a God?
My answer to both questions is "No" (if "the whole world" refers to every human being in the world and if "God" refers to a personal God who listens to and answers prayers). There are, however, many people who would answer "No" to the first question but "Yes" to the second. But even for these people, the two questions are alike in the respect that both require us to look beyond ourselves and our immediate concerns. Both are in this sense demanding questions and should not be answered lightly.
Can you love the whole world? I suppose this is like the question, Is there a God?
My answer to both questions is "No" (if "the whole world" refers to every human being in the world and if "God" refers to a personal God who listens to and answers prayers). There are, however, many people who would answer "No" to the first question but "Yes" to the second. But even for these people, the two questions are alike in the respect that both require us to look beyond ourselves and our immediate concerns. Both are in this sense demanding questions and should not be answered lightly.
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