Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Leibniz & Voltaire

October 29, 2014
Brains, John Campbell was saying in his Berkeley interview, are a big asset. “It’s very important that we have brains. Their function is to reveal the world to us, not to generate a lot of random junk.”
 
Voltaire was an enemy of philosophical junk, too. One of the great Enlightenment salon wits, a Deist and foe of social injustice who railed against religious intolerance (“Ecrasez l’infame!”) and mercilessly parodied rationalist philosophers (especially Leibniz, aka Dr. Pangloss).

Pangloss was professor of metaphysico-theologico-cosmolo-nigology. He proved admirably that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of all possible worlds, the Baron’s castle was the most magnificent of castles, and his lady the best of all possible Baronesses… Candide

“There is a lot of pain in the world, and it does not seem well distributed.” [slides here]
William James called Leibniz’s theodicy “superficiality incarnate“:
Leibniz’s feeble grasp of reality is too obvious to need comment from me. It is evident that no realistic image of the experience of a damned soul had ever approached the portals of his mind… 

And James’s comments continue, in a similarly scathing vein. But if you like Leibniz’s defense of the ways of god, maybe you’d love his monadology. Maybe not. But if one substance is good, how good is an infinity of them?

 
Voltaire’s countryman Diderot offered a sharp rejoinder to those who said nonbelievers couldn’t be trusted. “An honest person is honest without threats…” [Voltaire @dawn...Leibniz@dawn... Spinoza Leibniz slides]
 

“Whatever is, is right.” I don’t care which Pope said that, it’s crazy. No way to live and think. “Everything happens from a cause, sure, but not “for a reason” if that’s code for “for the best.” Irremediably, irreedemably bad things happen. Regret is an appropriate first response. Of course we tshould ry to prevent recurrences of the worst (by our lights) that happens.
Voltaire’s Candide may be the most devastating parody ever penned. A “logical explanation for everything” leaves the world much as it found it, less than perfect and easy to improve. Feeding the hungry, curing the sick, educating the ignorant, saving the earth, etc., are obvious improvements to begin with. “All is well,” Miss Blue? I don’t think so. 
But the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 did nothing to block Voltaire’s “Pangloss” from continuing to insist that everything is the result of a pre-established harmony. What must it be like, to believe that?
After tornadoes, earthquakes, and other fatal natural disasters, people interviewed on television frequently thank god for sparing them. Is that a reasonable response? What should we say to the survivors of those who weren’t spared? If “acts of god” (as the insurance companies put it) take life randomly, and you happened to be one of the random survivors, would you feel grateful, lucky, or guilty?
Candide’s statement that “we must cultivate our garden” is a metaphor for not just talking about abstract philosophical questions but instead doing something for our species while we have the opportunity. It’s a plea for applied philosophy. I’m fresh from a philosophy conference where, I’m sorry to report, the old bias in favor of Grand Theory still has its champions. Spectators, not ameliorators.
Voltaire was a deist, a freethinker, a pre-Darwinian. He was not an atheist. But is that just an accident of history?
Maybe not. I have a feeling Bertrand Russell would have been one in any age. And he would still have marveled at nature’s universe. He’d have wondered at, not shrunk from, the stars. 

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Locke, Reid, and Berkeley

October 27, 2014
Today in CoPhi it’s John Locke (not the “Lost” one) and Thomas Reid on personal identity (and John Dunn on Locke’s concept of toleration), George Berkeley, and John Campbell on Berkeley’s Puzzle.

(Happy birthday Older Daughter – still the same unique person!)

John Locke has become a more difficult figure to research, ever since the Lost  television series pushed his namesake to the forefront of popular consciousness and search results. The fictional John Locke can walk, not back in civilization but on his freaky island. (But I can’t listen to this song.)

The real John Locke apparently had trouble walking  too.

He was naturally very active, and employed himself as much as his health would permit. Sometimes he diverted himself with working in the garden, which he well understood. He loved walking, but not being able to walk much, through the disorder of his lungs, he used to ride out after dinner…

[I have to keep reminding myself that these "riding" philosophers were on horseback, not bikes. Philosophy Rides, the sequel, will not be a historical survey.]

His bad health was a disturbance to none but himself… his usual drink was nothing but water…

Good for him, I guess. He’s not the philosopher I’d most like to spend time in a pub with, though I admire his most pragmatic statement that “the actions of men [are] the best interpreters of their thought.”

His near-dying words were that we should regard this world and life as nothing but a vanity and “a state of preparation for a better.” Repugnant words, to a humanist. And yet, other words of his (“all mankind being equal and independent, none ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty”) inspired some of our greatest social and political experiments.

And some of our strangest television. Don’t tell me what I can’t do.


Locke said the key to personal identity is memory. Oh-oh! But Thomas Reid, Mr. Scottish Common Sense, helpfully said you can get there from here: if you remember  yourself in (say) 1998, and that Self remembers itself in 1980, and that one remembers version 1975, and so on… well, you’re the same person you were back in the day. Whew! That’s a relief. The Ship of Theseus may be seaworthy, after all. 

But Walter (“That’s the way it is”) Cronkite used to ask “Can the world be saved?” Honestly, it’s too soon to tell. But I think William James had it right when he wrote:
“The world may be saved, on condition that its parts shall do their best. But shipwreck in detail, or even on the whole, is among the open possibilities.”

Cesar Kuriyama told TED he intends to record, splice, and archive a second of every day of his life. He wants never to forget. What would Locke say? Or Nietzsche?
“Consider the herds that are feeding yonder: they know not the meaning of yesterday or today; they graze and ruminate, move or rest, from morning to night, from day to day, taken up with their little loves and hates and the mercy of the moment, feeling neither melancholy nor satiety. Man cannot see them without regret, for even in the pride of his humanity he looks enviously on the beast’s happiness. He wishes simply to live without satiety or pain, like the beast; yet it is all in vain, for he will not change places with it. He may ask the beast—“Why do you look at me and not speak to me of your happiness?” The beast wants to answer—“Because I always forget what I wished to say”; but he forgets this answer, too, and is silent; and the man is left to wonder.”


Gayatri Devi says if you want a better memory you must make yourself forget more. 

Locke is more familiar to Americans as the underwriter of our pursuit of life, liberty, and property. (Thomas Jefferson, we know, edited Locke on that last point.) He defended separation of church and state, and toleration. A very enlightened guy, for his time and place, but still not clear-sighted about freedom from worship for those who choose it.

And, we can blame him in large part for Bishop George Berkeley‘s (careful with that pronunciation) startling esse est percipi thesis, since Berkeley drove through the hole Locke’s representational realism had opened. Also today, John Campbell on Berkeley’s Puzzle.

Bishop Berkeley was one odd empiricist, insisting that we “know” only our ideas and not their referents. Here’s that famous scene with Dr. Dictionary:

After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley’s ingenious sophistry to prove the nonexistence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it — “I refute it thus.” Boswell’s Life of Johnson


The conventional judgment of philosophers, in relating this funny little story, is that Johnson missed Berkeley’s point. Mine is that Berkeley missed the point of Johnson’s demonstration: nobody really lives exclusively in his own (figurative or literal, res cogitans or res extensa) head. Not even distracted bishops or philosophers.

Berkeley gave his name (though not its pronunciation) to the California town and college campus where there’s lately been a revival of interest in him.

There’s a story that when George Berkeley, the future philosopher, was a student he decided to see what it was like to approach death. He hung himself, arranging to have a friend cut him down and revive him after he lost consciousness…Berkeley is now hung again, as large as life, but only in portrait form on the campus that is his namesake.


Well, the idea of him is now hung again anyway. If a portrait hangs in a gallery but nobody looks at it, does it make an impression? Its subject surely did, we always talk about him between Locke and Hume. Why is that? He was an empiricist only nominally, not temperamentally and (despite the extremity of his view) definitely not radicallyRadical Empiricists [wiki]who think like William James perceive the relations in experience that connect us and our sometimes-whacky ideas to the real “external” world.

Campbell (who, btw, speaks in the most charming Scots brogue) nonetheless describes Berkeley’s puzzle and its solution as radical, tearing at the roots of everyday common sense. “If all I’ve got to go on is this wall of sensation, how can I even frame the idea of something beyond that?” His solution is no solution: “You can’t, it’s just an illusion… All we have are our ideas.” That’s a really bad idea, Bishop B.

Campbell himself makes more sense. There are “different levels in the description of reality,” and everything we experience, from colors and smells and tastes (the so-called secondary qualities of experience) to quantum phenomena to observer-independent quantitative/”objective” features of the world, is “out there,” i.e., real… but appropriately described in different terms. James again clarifies:

Common sense is BETTER for one sphere of life, science for another, philosophic criticism for a third; but whether either be TRUER absolutely, Heaven only knows.

That last bit is purely rhetorical, James didn’t think heaven has a dog in this hunt. It’s up to us to decide when to speak the language of common sense and when to defer to some corrective scientific or critical or other specialized vocabulary. Levels. And brains, “it’s very important that we have brains. But their function is to reveal the world to us, not to generate a lot of random junk.”

This In Our Time is all about Berkeley.

Calvin, btw, seems to have taken the Bishop seriously.

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Plastic

October 24, 2014

The Peace Corps rep visited again yesterday, giving me an excuse to show an old promotional TV spot featuring the scene in The Graduate (which most of my students sadly do not know) in which young Ben (Dustin Hoffman) is told there’s money in law and plastic in our future.

“There’s time enough to start a good career. First find out about life. If you don’t, you may never learn that money isn’t the only thing in it.”

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Spinoza, and art

October 22, 2014
Today in CoPhi: Baruch (nee Benedict) Spinoza (and Susan James on his concept of the passions).

Spinoza (“Spinozer,” my old teacher from Brooklyn called him) believed in Einstein’s God (or would have), and vice versa. Gambling with your soul?  Einstein famously said God does not play dice with the universe. God doesn’t play at anything, or listen to anyone, or save or punish or forgive or do anything intentional and deliberate. No more than nature does, anyway. God just is. Paul Davies:
Sometimes (Einstein) was really using God as just a sort of convenient metaphor. But he did have, I think, a genuine cosmic religious feeling, a sense of admiration at the intellectual ingenuity of the universe. Not just its majesty, but its extraordinary subtlety and beauty and mathematical elegance. 

You could say the very same of Spinoza.

In HAP 101 last year we tried to make sense of the Buddhist-inspired statement that we’re not part of nature but all of it. Spinoza offers another take on that disorienting notion.

In so far as the mind sees things in their eternal aspect, it participates in eternity.

I do not attribute to nature either beauty or deformity, order or confusion. Only in relation to our imagination can things be called beautiful or ugly, well-ordered or confused.

I have made a ceaseless effort not to ridicule, not to bewail, not to scorn human actions, but to understand them. 

 Nothing in nature is by chance… Something appears to be chance only because of our lack of knowledge.

The passions of hatred, anger, envy, and so on, considered in themselves, follow from the necessity and efficacy of nature… I shall, therefore, treat the nature and strength of the emotion in exactly the same manner, as though I were concerned with lines, planes, and solids. 

They were pantheists, Spinoza and Einstein, a lot less tormented by the vast and starry universe than Pascal (“all these stars frighten me”) with his personal and possibly punitive God. As we noted  Jennifer Hecht noting, there’s a howling statistical error at the heart of Pascal’s specious reasoning: “We may be struck by lightning or not, but that doesn’t make it a fifty-fifty proposition.” This contrasts sharply with Spinoza’s view. “What Pascal decried as the misery of man without the Biblical God, was for Spinoza the liberation of the human spirit from the bonds of fear and superstition.


[Descartes to Deism... Tlumak on free will...Descartes before the horse (& Spinoza/Einstein slides)... Spinoza @dawn...Pantheism SEP...]

Spinoza, says Susan James, was interested in our capacity to maintain ourselves as ourselves, which he called our conatus. How do we do that? By breathing, sleeping, fighting, friending,… but ultimately he thought our best bet was to resign ourselves to an acceptance of rational necessity. 

“Spinoza thinks that, in so far as you’re passionate,” subject to external influence, “you’re in bondage and unfree.” How to free yourself? Become mentally active, get “a better understanding of yourself and the world,” and experience his version of cosmic bliss or supreme happiness. And what does this maximal understanding come to, in a word? Pantheism

In Spinoza’s vision, there is no ultimate distinction between different individuals. We are all part of the same single substance, which is also God. This means that our sense of isolation from and opposition to one another is an illusion, and it also means that our sense of distance from God is mistaken… Given that the universe is God, we can therefore be confident that whatever happens to us happens for a reasonPassion for Wisdom

And still they called him heretic and atheist, and excommunicated him despite his “intellectual love of God,” which he said was “the highest felicity.” God only knew why.

He’s still a good guy to follow on Twitter, btw.

  1. “[True & blessedness does not consist in enjoying wellbeing not shared by others or in being more fortunate than others].” (TTP)
  2. “It is the of reason to conceive things under a form of eternity.” (E5p29pr)

Also today: art. We’ll try to discern the artfulness of Duchamp’s Fountain, Dewey’s ballplayer, maybe even Mapplethorpe’s transgressive iconoclastic work. We’ll introduce Wittgenstein’s family resemblance, the Institutional Theory, and more.

And then we’ll be done with Philosophy: The Basics.

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Pascal, and the mind

October 20, 2014

There’s much more to Blaise Pascal than his famous Wager [SEP], which we’ve already encountered in CoPhi.

Besides his mathematics and “Pascaline,” his proto-computer, there are all those thoughts (Pensees) and there’s also his antipathy for his fellow  philosophe FrancaisMontaigne. I usually compare-&-contrast Montaigne and Descartes, so this makes for a nice new menage a trois. Blaise is hostile to both Rene and Michel but is a cautious gambler, finding Descartes’ God too antiseptic and too, well, philosophical. And he finds Montaigne a self-absorbed, trivia-mongering potty-mouth.

Voltaire, whom we’ll soon meet, intervened in the Pascal-Montaigne conflict. He called Pascal a “sublime misanthropist” whose vision of humanity as imprisoned and terrorized by the immensity and uncertainty of the cosmos was “fanatic.” (Bakewell)

But Montaigne would not at all disagree that “the heart has its reasons which reason knows not.” And isn’t it funny to think of Descartes philosophizing in his hypothetical armchair, asking if his fire and his body (etc.) are real, pretending to speculate that all the world and its philosophical problems might be figments of his solipsistic or dreamy or demon-instigated imagination? And then funnier still to come across this quote from Pascal: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”  But look what happens when a philosopher sits quietly in a room alone: you get the Meditations!
Pascal also said

“Truth is so obscure in these times, and falsehood so established, that, unless we love the truth, we cannot know it.” And “It is man’s natural sickness to believe that he possesses the Truth.”

And

“There are two equally dangerous extremes: to exclude reason, to admit nothing but reason.”

And

“The nature of man is wholly natural, omne animal. There is nothing he may not make natural; there is nothing natural he may not lose.”*

And

“The weather and my mood have little connection. I have my foggy and my fine days within me…” [Or as Jimmy Buffett says, carry the weather with you.]

And all military veterans especially should appreciate this one:

“Can anything be stupider than that a man has the right to kill me because he lives on the other side of a river and his ruler has a quarrel with mine, though I have not quarrelled with him?”

And this will be an epigraph for my Philosophy Walks (or its sequel Philosophy Rides):

“Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.”


But Pascal does finally blow the big game of life, for betting too heavily on self-interest. He’s obsessed with “saving [his] own soul at all costs.” That’s a losing proposition.

[*That statement about us being "omne animal" sounded flattering, to me, being a philosophical naturalist and a friend to animals. But later epigraphs indicate Pascal's platonist perfectionism and his derogatory attitude towards humanity and its natural condition. Without God's grace, he writes, we are "like unto the brute beasts." He doesn't seem pleased about that, but I'm with Walt Whitman: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid and self contain'd... They do not sweat and whine about their condition... They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God..."]

Julia Sweeney, donning her no-god glasses, gets to the nub of what’s wrong with Pascal’s Wager:

So how can I come up against this biggest question, the ultimate question, “Do I really believe in a personal God,” and then turn away from the evidence? How can I believe, just because I want to? How will I have any respect for myself if I did that?

I thought of Pascal’s Wager. Pascal argued that it’s better to bet there is a God, because if you’re wrong there’s nothing to lose, but if there is, you win an eternity in heaven. But I can’t force myself to believe, just in case it turns out to be true. The God I’ve been praying to knows what I think, he doesn’t just make sure I show up for church. How could I possibly pretend to believe? I might convince other people, but surely not God.


And probably not Richard Rorty, for whom philosophy is not about nailing down the unequivocal Truth but rather continuing the never-concluding Conversation of humankind. 
Rorty was the most controversial philosopher on the scene back when I began grad school, having just published his brilliantly and infuriatingly iconoclastic Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. Everybody had to have a view on it, and on his view that philosophy’s long quest to represent “external reality” accurately was a waste of time we were free to give up. We could ditch our “comic” efforts “to guarantee this and clarify that.” 

Philosophers get attention only when they appear to be doing something sinister–corrupting the youth, undermining the foundations of civilization, sneering at all we hold dear. The rest of the time everybody assumes that they are hard at work somewhere down in the sub-basement, keeping those foundations in good repair. Nobody much cares what brand of intellectual duct tape is being used.

My current position, after several oscillations, has settled at last into the earnest wish that more philosophers wrote as wittily and as well as he did. Almost none do. Did he get pragmatism and truth right? I guess that’s what he’d call a duct tape question.

Rorty, with his metaphor of mind as (cloudy) mirror, is a good segue to the discussion of philosophy of mind, also on tap today.

Dualism gets us ghosts and spirits and other non-physical entities. Scary! But not for most students, I’ve found, so deeply have most of them drunk from the holy communion trough. It’s not a question of evidence but of familiarity and fear, in many cases – fear of the alternative. A student expressed that just the other day, asking with incredulity and contempt how anyone could possibly ponder facing the end of mortal existence without an immortal safety net firmly in place (in mind).

Why do they think the evolution of mind so closely parallels that of the brain? They don’t think about it, mostly.

Nor  do most think much about the possibility of mind and body being on parallel but never-converging tracks, pre-arranged to keep a synchronous schedule and never throw up a discordant discrepant “occasion.” And forget too about epiphenomenalism (which Sam Harris seems to be trying hard to revive).

If neuroscientists ever succeed in mapping the brain and modeling the causal neurological events correlated with thinking, will that solve the mystery of consciousness? Is there a gap between the explanation and the experience of pain, pleasure, happiness, etc.? I say no and yes, respectively. But let’s try and draw that map, it may take us to interesting places none of us have thought about.

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Reductionism and the science of love

October 17, 2014

Trying to distract myself this morning from the outcome of last night’s ballgame. The red tie I wore to class did not help my team. The upside, though, is that now I can root for Cinderella in the World Series. She’ll be wearing blue this year.

Speaking of red…

Good reports yesterday in CoPhi, on mental illness, Karl Marx, and love. The last segued perfectly from our text’s contention that novelists and poets do a much better job than scientists of explaining love. And yet, much light is shed by biochemistry, neuroscience, and psychology. The reporters showed us this:

One of my discussion questions to the class yesterday was whether anything ought not to be studied scientifically. I say no. But I also say, keep those poems and novels coming. We should feel good about every opportunity to glean insight into our amazing brains. It’s not scientism to seek understanding, so long as we leave room in our science for ourselves. 
And that reminds me of the interesting bar conversation we had night before last on reductionism. Most scientists are methodological reductionists, seeking the ultimate causal conditions of phenomena. Nothing wrong with that, so long as we resist the explanatory reductionism that would dispatch and dismiss every other approach including poetry and fiction and (as we also discussed in class yesterday) the rambling self-seeking sort of essay (“attempt”) that Montaigne patented.
And that reminds me to pick up E.O. Wilson’s latest book, humbly titled The Meaning of Human Existence. He’s been widely panned as the worst sort of reductionist, ever since “sociobiology” got him a pie in the face – or was it a dash of cold water? But he was saying nice, non-reductionist-sounding things about the humanities on the radio the other day. Science needs us humanists, he seemed to be saying, as much as humanists need the reality as limned by science. Beware talk of “replacing” one genre with another; but be open to mutually-instructive “colonization.”

Would the humanities care to colonize the sciences? Maybe use a little help doing that? How about replacing science fiction, the imagining of fantasy by a single mind, with new worlds of far greater diversity based on real science from many minds? Might poets and visual artists consider searching in the real world outside the range of ordinary dreams for unexplored dimensions, depth, and meaning? Would they be interested in finding the truth of what Nietzsche called, in Human, All Too Human, the rainbow colors around the outer edges of knowledge and imagination? That is where meaning is to be found.

Bridge the “two cultures” at last, without eliminating either? Contrary to my more “robust physicalist” friends, I would love that. 

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Montaigne

October 15, 2014
We’re back from Fall Break today, in CoPhi, with Montaigne (& Bakewell on How to Live acc’ing to M). One good way to live, he thought, was by writing and reflecting on our many uncertainties. Embracing and celebrating them, in fact. That makes him an anti-Descartes, a happy and humane modern skeptic.

One thing we know for sure is the historical timelineMontaigne comes first, but since I always introduce him as the anti-Descartes he rarely gets top billing. The late Robert Solomon did the same thing. Not fair, for a guy who gave us the essay and (as Sarah Bakewell says) is so much “fun” to read. Unlike Descartes he was a true skeptic (again though, not so far over the cliff as Pyrrho) and “quite happy to live with that.” His slogan was Que sçais-je?

Montaigne retired in his mid-30s to think and write, and ponder what must have felt to him (ever since his unplanned equine-dismounting event) like ever-looming mortality. He inscribed the beams of his study with many of his favorite quotes, including “nothing human is foreign to me” and “the only certainty is that nothing is certain.”


Some of Montaigne’s life-lessons and rules for how to live, as decoded by Sarah Bakewell: Don’t worry about death; Pay attention; Question everything; Be convivial; Reflect on everything, regret nothing; Give up control; Be ordinary and imperfect; Let life be its own answer.

 [Montaigne @dawn... M on Self-esteem (deB)... M quotes... M's beam inscriptions... M "In Our Time" (BBC)...M's tower...M's Essays]


Also today, we’ll consider the philosophical status of science. Montaigne the fallible skeptic actually had a better handle on it than Descartes, the self-appointed defender of scientific certainty. That’s because science is a trial-and-error affair, making “essays” or attempts at evidence/-based understanding through observation, prediction, and test, but always retreating happily to the drawing board when conjectures meet refutation.

Some DQs:

Are there any “authorities” (personal, textual, political, religious, institutional, traditional…) to whom you always and automatically defer? Can you justify this, intellectually or ethically?

Can you give an example of something you believe on the basis of probability, something else you believe because it has to be true (= follows necessarily from other premises you accept as true), and something you believe because you think it’s the “best explanation”)? Do you think most of your beliefs conform to one or another of these kinds of explanation?

Do you think science makes genuine progress? Does it gradually give us a better, richer account of the natural world and our place in it? Is there a definite correlation between technology and scientific understanding? Do you think there is anything that cannot or should not be studied scientifically? Why?

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Smile, it’s Fall Break!

October 10, 2014

Fall Break’s about to begin at our school. In the holiday spirit, and in the wake of yesterday’s tag-team midterm report presentation in CoPhi #10 on philosophy and comedy, here are two of my favorite George Carlin routines.

Here he is on his religious upbringing. 
And while I’m having fun here, a Python clip from #14. “Philosophy – is that a sport?” Sure is. “Would you like to talk about the meaning of life, darling?”
I still stand with Carlin Romano and his America the Philosophical thesis that, in the aggregate, we’re a much more reflective people than these two. But we all know know-nothings like these, don’t we? Bless their incurious souls. 

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“Success” and the Walrus

October 9, 2014

The Almanac, celebrating what should have been John Lennon’s 74th birthday today, outs his walrus as a greedy capitalist. John didn’t know that himself, even though his mostly-nonsensical-seeming lyrics clearly include a line about the ubiquitous “corporation tee-shirt” we’ve let ourselves billboard for the walrus for free.

John just knew the walrus as Lewis Carroll’s poetic subject in “The Walrus and the Carpenter.”

“To me, it was a beautiful poem. It never occurred to me that Lewis Carroll was commenting on the capitalist and social system. I never went into that bit about what it really meant, like people are doing with Beatles work. Later I went back and looked at it and realized that the walrus was the bad guy… I thought, Oh, shit, I picked the wrong guy. I should have said, ‘I am the carpenter.’ But that wouldn’t have been the same, would it?”

“I never went into that bit about what it really meant, like people are doing with the Beatles…”

We do that in philosophy too, to a fault sometimes. But this little walrus tale nicely complements the discussion we had in CoPhi yesterday about happiness, hard work, goals, and “success.” What if you work hard, discover your passion in life (poetry, say, or music, or philosophy), become really good at it, and end up a “failure”?

Well, as one student succinctly put it, “that sucks.”

It does. But it sucks less for us (and more for them) when we remind ourselves that unexamined, conventional notions of success probably leave most “successful” people less than happily fulfilled. They are not Aristotle’s flourishing eudaimons. We still can be, regardless of monetary reward or deprivation.

Or as William James wrote to H.G. Wells in 1906,

“The moral flabbiness born of the exclusive worship of the bitch-goddess SUCCESS. That -with the squalid cash interpretation put on the word ‘success’ – is our national disease.”

Don’t be the walrus. Be the carpenter.

 

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Descartes

October 6, 2014

Rene Descartes, not at all (Pythons notwithstanding) a “drunken fart,” simply wanted to know what he could know for certain. His skepticism was methodological, his goal was indubitable certainty. This, he thought, would serve the new science well. He misunderstood the self-correcting, probabilistic, fallibilistic nature of empirical reasoning. But most philosophers still think it’s worth wondering: how do you know you’re not dreaming, not being deceived by a demon or by your senses, not mistaking your own essential nature?


Still, cogito ergo sum overrates intellect. You don’t have to think, to demonstrate your existence. You just have to do something… even, as an old grad school pal used to say, if it’s wrong.

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I usually think of Charles Sanders Peirce as Descartes’ most practical critic, and I agree with him that a contrived and methodological doubt is not the best starting place in philosophy.

But it occurs to me that an even more practical alternative to what I consider the misguided Cartesian quest for certainty is old Ben Franklin’s Poore RichardHis is not armchair wisdom, it comes straight from the accumulated experience of the folk. Some of that “common sense” is too common, but plenty is dead-on. “Early to bed, early to rise…” has definitely worked for me.

Still, says Grayling, “we may disagree with Descartes that the right place to start is with the private data of consciousness” rather than the shared world of language and common experience; but even if he was wrong he was “powerfully, interestingly, and importantly wrong.”

Is there anything we know or believe that we could not possibly be mistaken about, or cannot reasonably doubt? Certainly not, speaking at least for myself. But I’m next to certain that I’m more-or-less awake, at this hour, as the coffee drains.

I’m also pretty darn sure that I am (and do not “have”) a body/brain. When I think of who, what, and where I am, though, the answer is interestingly complicated by all my relations (I don’t just mean my extended family): I am inclusive of a past and a future (though it keeps shrinking), and of wherever my influence (for better or worse) manages to stretch. I am vitally related by experience (actual, virtual, vicarious, possible, personal, interpersonal) to points far and wide. And, to physical object. I’m not trapped in my skin, and we’re definitely not alone in a solipsistic universe. Like Dr. Johnson, I find the pain in my toes (or hips) definitely more substantial than an idea. 

I don’t believe in ghosts, except metaphorically. (I am haunted by opportunities missed, and possibilities unnnoticed.) But most of my metaphorical spooks are Casperishly friendly. This is true of most people who read and think a lot, isn’t it? We’re in constant, happy communion with the dead. Books transport us to their realm, and to the great undiscovered country of the future as well.

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