Ghadi asked:

Is the understanding process considered endless?

If so, does this give value to ”repetition” which may seem on the surface useless with no additions, but it is a chance of a better understanding, to level up?

Is it possible to understand the understanding process?

Answer by Hubertus Fremerey

Understanding in logic and maths usually is a flash event. So not endless. But with works of art it may be endless. You can encounter works of art a thousand times and always find them fresh and surprising as ever. So what does “understanding” a work of art come to?

Compare it to meeting a person dear to you or alien to you: When would you ever be sure to understand that person?

There is even “you really cannot understand me!” How could that be? You both use common words. Understanding should be easy then. But, surprise!, it isn’t, it can be impossible. You are both using common words but you frame them differently, and as long as you don’t agree on the hidden frame you will not understand each other.

Works of art are different. They are like puppets for the child: You speak to them and they seem to speak back. And you always speak differently. So they always speak back differently too. Because of that your talking is endless. As in any good interpersonal relation. But sometimes it dies and ends.

Ghadi asked:

Music — pure music — is abstract, in this case is it an abstract stimulation of another abstract?

Although music has meaning, it seems harder to catch than the meaning of a word, the language in general, so what is the difference between music and language? both transfer something, but the level of clarity differs!

That the transference is from an abstract to an abstract and here the issue relies, in determining the meaning, how does it happen?

If this considered as an issue in the first place…

All of a sudden, the idea came to my mind and now I really want to know about it.

Answer by Hubertus Fremerey

What do you call meaning?

I don’t think that music has meaning. If you get struck by the sight of a wonderful flower or a tree or a human or a cloud — do they have meaning?

Those views strike you as something exceptional. You may fall in love — as with a wonderful melody. But they are not messages. They do not “mean” something. They resonate with you.

Not everything that resonates with you is a message. Call it an encounter, maybe a confrontation.

You are confronted with works of art and music — and with persons and animals.
Persons and animals are special in that they have a consciousness as you do.
They reflect your awareness. Plants and landscapes do not.

But this does not imply that persons and animals have meaning. It may be but it need not be.

We humans tend to GIVE meaning to all sorts of objects, including music, but this is our gift reflected, not something in the music itself.

We often tend to read something as a message which is only our own projection and reflection. We think a music or a landscape is “speaking to us” — but it isn’t. It is an encounter.

The real problem seems to be that most of our daily surroundings go unnoticed. Only very few elements stand out as encounters.

This is what haunted Heidegger and phenomenology. What does it mean to be outstanding? What does it mean to become aware? — Perhaps have a look into phenomenology.

Charlotte asked:

Explain James’ three distinctions that relate to the question there is ever a case of moral, rational belief even when one doesn’t have the evidence.

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

James’ distinctions are prudential, intellectual and moral. The first is the pragmatic viewpoint, that occasions will arise when it is more or less unavoidable to hold a particular belief, even though the evidence in its favour is inadequate. The second refers to the human propensity for taking some things for granted because of trends, on the assumption that they mirror known trends or that sampling can establish a useful guideline. The moral category, however, is the problem child in this trinity, since moral issues tend to be a mix of rational, experiential and superstitious beliefs in which the last-named is rarely (if ever) demonstrable.

And so the first case, prudential, covers examples such as the operative treatment of a patient who is suffering from a diseased organ: it may not be a life-threatening condition in the short term, but definitely in the long term and likely to lead to a long painful death. Yet the operation itself may be life-threatening, so that the surgeon’s choice is dictated by all three of these motives — that it is prudent to operate, that intellectually it offers the patient a better chance of a calm survival, and that the moral inclination would urge intervention now rather than later, bearing in mind the probability of much future suffering. Even death under the knife could be excused, especially if postponing an operation takes account of the decreasing tolerance to surgery of an ageing patient’s body. James brings a further argument into the picture, namely that doing nothing is also a choice with the same level of ethical responsibility as doing something.

In this illustration it is obvious that evidence is unclear, yet the state of the patient demands a resolution. But this is pretty much the rule, not the exception. Overwhelmingly our decisions, though influenced by firm knowledge, tend to be governed by vague principles (belief criteria) of ‘sufficient evidence’ and ‘sufficient reason’ that are rarely sufficient to positively disbar accidents and failures. This is why in recent decades our lives have come to be dominated by statistics (probability), which are intellectually persuasive belief criteria.

Thus an intellectual belief on any act tends to orient itself on empirical knowledge, even though most human enterprises are based on insufficient knowledge — yet this is hardly ever a disincentive. A great deal of our explorative and inventive drive relies on mere hunches, ambiguous reports, the allure of success and the sampling of certain conditions that seem to allow extrapolation (e.g. sampling the oil reservoir under the sand of a desert). But strictly speaking, all these are cases where evidence is inadequate; what we do, therefore, is to pin our hopes on the little we know (and, by golly, the success rate especially in the last 100 years, has been spectacular!).

The moral aspect is the most vulnerable to rebuttal. Humans subscribe to all sorts of belief systems that are not supported by clear evidence. Examples are unnecessary; just think of the many wars that have been fought on behalf of supernatural powers. It is difficult to rationalise this behaviour; but even here it is the case that whole cultures have staked their rise to power, or their survival against adversity, on faith that their gods are behind them. It can generate a self-reinforcing positive incentive. However, the flipside of faith is bigotry and intolerance, for which no excuse can be found under any canons of rationality, even though (alas) they always wear the apparel of moral rectitude. Therefore it could well be argued that James’ criterion of a “supernatural domain [that is] accessible to human subjects” cannot stand up as evidence of anything. For on one hand, human morals tend to arise from a strongly developed sense of justice; but inasmuch as they are thoroughly bound to tempus et locus, arguments on their behalf are nearly always grounded in some form of prejudice that could be strenuously opposed by contradictory codes. Meanwhile no quantity of evidence could ever suffice to clinch the point.

In sum, two of James’ distinctions seem to hold up pretty well, when we take the facts of human history into account. But on the issue of morality vs evidence, we have to tread much more judiciously, since a deep cleft of ambiguity opens up whenever we try to judge a course of action on its tenets. James’ surmise concerning the supernatural domain therefore has no leg to stand on; it is a private opinion, not a philosophical principle, and cannot be counted as a valid distinction on the same terms as the other two.

Phil asked:

A “more is better” relationship with food made sense in the long era when we typically lived near the edge of starvation. Today food is plentiful in much of the world, and where that’s true more people die of obesity related diseases than starvation. A “more is better” relationship with food that once was rational now seems simplistic, outdated and dangerous.

Question: Does the analysis above also apply to our relationship with knowledge?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

I want to share a couple of movie moments with you, both, as it happens, from detective thrillers but as far apart in style and substance as you can imagine.

The first is from Alan Parker’s 1987 supernatural thriller ‘Angel Heart’ starring Mickey O’Rourke as Private Detective Harold Angel, hired by a Mr Louis Cyphre, played by Robert De Niro, who is looking for a missing person, ‘Johnny Favourite’. As Harold pursues the case, the bodies mount up. In two mesmerizing final scenes, the truth is revealed (which I won’t reveal here):

Cyphre: Alas, how terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the wise.

Harry: Louis Cyphre. Even your name’s a dime store joke.

Cyphre: Mephistopheles is such a mouthful in Manhattan…

And that’s when he, and we the audience find out. The clues are all there to see. The memories of the terrible things he has done come back, in brief flashes that Harry still refuses to believe. The final scene delivers the coup de grace. And Harry knows where he is headed:

Det. Sterne: You’ll burn for this, Angel.

Harry: I know. In hell…

It’s an ending you will never forget.

The other movie is Robert Aldrich’s 1955 film version of Mickey Spillane’s novel, ‘Kiss Me Deadly’. The plot revolves around a mysterious box containing, ‘The Great Whatsit’, as Private Eye Mike Hammer’s secretary cum concubine Velda calls it. Again, the bodies pile up. In the spectacular final scene, the contents of the box are revealed:

Gabrielle: What’s in the box?

Dr Soberin: Curiosity killed a cat. And it certainly would have if you’d opened it. You did well to call me when you did.

Gabrielle: Yes, I know. But what’s in it?

Dr Soberin: You have been misnamed, Gabrielle. You should have been called Pandora. She was curious about a box and opened it and let loose all the evil in the world.

Gabrielle: Never mind about the evil. What’s in it?

Dr Soberin: Did you ever hear of Lot’s wife?

Gabrielle: No.

Dr Soberin: She was told not to look back. But she disobeyed and she was changed into a pillar of salt.

Gabrielle: I just want to know what it is.

Dr Soberin: Would you believe me if I told you? Would you be satisfied?

Gabrielle: Maybe.

Dr Soberin: The head of the Medusa. That’s what’s in the box. And whoever looks on her will be changed not into stone, but into brimstone and ashes. But you wouldn’t believe me. You’d have to see for yourself, wouldn’t you?

[…]

Gabrielle: Whatever is in that box, it must be very precious. So many people have died for it.

Dr Soberin: Yes, it is very precious.

Gabrielle: I want half.

Dr Soberin: I agree with you. You should have at least half. You deserve it, for all the creature comforts you’ve given me. But unfortunately the object in this box cannot be divided.

Gabrielle: Then I’ll take it all. If you don’t mind.

She shoots him.

Dr Soberin: Gabrielle! Listen to me — as if I were Cerberus barking with all his heads at the gates of Hell. I will tell you where to take it. But don’t, don’t open the box!

— She opens the box. Maybe you can guess what happens next. (The date of the movie is a clue.)

Other things being equal, knowledge is a good. But it is not an unalloyed good. Things are not always equal. Sometimes, along with knowledge, bad things come that you didn’t expect. And sometimes the bad totally eclipses the good. Or the price of that knowledge was much higher than you thought it would be.

The problem is that not knowing what you don’t yet know, you are never in a position to judge until it is too late. And once you do know, you can’t turn the clock back.

One doesn’t need to study philosophy to appreciate this home truth.

Kyle asked:

Gorgias explains that it’s not the teacher’s fault if the student misuse the power they acquire from oratory of from his teachings. Socrates says this is an inconsistency in his argument regarding oratory. What exactly is the inconsistency? What does Socrates think about the inconsistency and how would he fix it, or what statements would he change to correct it?

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

Let’s say I am a gun smith; I make revolvers, pistols, rifles etc. Am I responsible for people who buy my wares and go out and shoot other people dead in a fit of anger? They are supposed to use these weapons responsibly, i.e. for self-protection or hunting, not for murder and terrorism. Moreover, I am licensed to make and sell firearms and the law keeps a pretty stringent eye on my adherence to the legal requirements involved in my trade.

The predicament is, however, whether I am engaged in an intrinsically immoral trade. Well, extend the argument to people who use a kitchen knife or the belt of their trousers for criminal purposes. Can the makers of these implements be blamed for this alienation of purpose on the part of their owners?

That’s pretty much the gist of the fuss around rhetoric in the Gorgias. It is true that swords and daggers are never mentioned, but the enquiry treats rhetoric in an analogous way, as an instrument of discourse capable of being used for good as well as bad intentions. The debate arose from Gorgias’ absolution of the purveyors, which now tempts Socrates, in search of an either/or formula, to reify rhetoric — i.e. to debate its merits as an objective phenomenon rather than as an attribute of persons. This is the “inconsistency”; but it turns out to be an evasion, for in itself rhetoric is simply the collective name of an assortment of loquacious devices of which some speakers have more and others less, so that any definition of it remains arbitrary. In fact, it escapes Socrates throughout this dialogue that he is actually dealing with language use, which means that lying and cheating are not unique to rhetoric, but are common to everyone who knows how to speak. I don’t think I’m alone in my negative interpretation of the dialogue, namely that in any such context we are forcibly referred to the subjects of intercourse, not to the language. It is the speaker who draws attention to himself if he avails himself of rhetorical devices; and in such a situation we do not evince amazement at the virtuosity of the rhetoric, but of the speaker.

Accordingly Socrates, quite unnecessarily, drew a blank with his endeavour. He should have looked to himself and acknowledged that his own verbal virtuosity was the fruit of studies with Prodicus, a sophist like Gorgias. Then, instead of his flapdoodle with objectivity, he might have recognised in good time that the oratorical skills taught by the sophists handed their students a double-edged sword. Accordingly his reification is as questionable a rhetorical device as he castigates in others; but no-one in the dialogue is alert to this trick. Therefore his conclusion from sundry comparisons including truth and falsehood, knowledge and ignorance, cookery and medicine etc. serve only to draw attention to his earnest, but misguided effort and the ludicrous suggestion that the one good use for rhetoric is to punish evil doers for all eternity, by using their name and deeds to hold up their shame to all posterity.

In any case, the consummate riposte to this dialogue is inadvertently given by its author. Plato himself was the living exemplification of rhetorical power even during Socrates’ own life time and the perfect specimen against himself as Socrates’ mouthpiece. To be fair, he was always on the side of the angels and proselytising for “the good of the cause”. But he does not credit the reified rhetoric with it, because he knows better.

And so back to the beginning. I don’t recall Socrates’ judgement on swordmakers, but I feel sure he would not castigate them as war mongers. We in turn feel that a gun in the hands of Wyatt Earp is a good thing, as a foil to those who have, but should not have, guns in their hands. Likewise we feel that rhetoric is a good thing coming from the mouth of Martin Luther King, as opposed to the trashy prattle we have to endure from political candidates during election campaigns. In all cases of speech being used in persuasion it is not, therefore, the rhetoric that is in question, but the person who speaks. It is his/her mind, character, veracity and acumen that is on exhibit in those moments. But this slant on the investigation is missing, by and large, from the dialogue; which is precisely the reason that Socrates can find no way of “fixing” the problem other than his aforesaid conclusion.

Ritzy asked:

How is Cicero’s understanding of the Gods in ‘De Natura Deorum’ different from that of Seneca’s idea of God? I am primarily concerned with Cicero.

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

If you read Cicero’s book, then you would know that it is simply a literary colloquy, in which a Stoic, a Skeptic and an Epicurean each present their views, mostly in conventional perspectives; and we may suppose that Cicero wrote this down initially for self-clarification, maybe with eventual publication with an added commentary at the back of his mind. But as it stands, the book tells us practically nothing about his own beliefs, because he doesn’t offer any personal comments. He is throughout a silent auditor, not a referee as one might have expected.

There is a fourth part of the book that differs significantly from the other three and is generally taken as the intrusion of an anonymous imitator; best forget it.

The case of Seneca is different. He was a busy writer of “consolatory epistles”, all dripping with moral sentiments derived from his Stoic allegiance. Concerning the gods, he shows a leaning towards a monotheistic conception, as some of his phrases on Jupiter reveal, e.g. “God is everything we can see and everything we cannot see. His magnitude is greater than we can conceive”, and so on. Some of the early Christian theologian saw in these utterances a premonition of the one and only God, and inevitably this resulted in a faked correspondence between him and St. Paul being manufactured.

But you said you preferred Cicero, and I can’t think of anything useful to add except that the book is still a good, though impersonal round-up of the general views of educated Romans in his time.