Mahmoud asked:

“Socrates: So now I do not know what virtue is; perhaps once upon a time you knew, before you met me, but now you certainly look like someone who is ignorant. Nevertheless, I want to put my head together with yours, Meno, so that we can figure out what this thing is.

Meno: How will you look for it, Socrates, when you don’t have the slightest idea what it is? How can you go around looking for something when you don’t know what you are looking for? Even if it’s right in front of your nose, how will you know that’s the thing you didn’t know?” (Meno’s dialogue)

In this dialogue, Meno is presenting Socrates with a fundamental problem in Greek epistemology. Can you characterize the problem presented here? What was Plato’s solution to that problem? Critically discuss one contemporary solution for that paradox.

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

A widely accepted view of Meno’s paradox among Plato scholars is that the paradox concerns the acquisition of ‘a priori’ knowledge, that is to say knowledge gained through reasoning rather than through  empirical investigation. Plato encourages this view with his slave boy experiment, where a young lad, ignorant of geometry, is helped in following the steps of a simple geometrical proof. (The original influential article was by Gregory Vlastos — you can look it up.)

In recent times, the paradox has been taken as a challenge to the activity of philosophical analysis. How is it possible that one can give a philosophical analysis of some problematic concept — say ‘free will’ or ‘person’ or ‘knowledge’ — if we don’t already know in some sense what these are? How are you able to judge that the purported analysis is correct or incorrect?

One suggested solution is that we ‘implicitly know’ what a person or what knowledge is, or what it is to have free will. We know this because we are competent speakers of the language. The problem with that is that it assumes that our unexamined notions of these things are broadly correct — ruling out the possibility, say, that no-one has free will, or that there is no such thing as a ‘person’ (impossibility of giving a coherent definition of personal identity — e.g. the influential work of Derek Parfit), or that there is no ‘knowledge’ to be had: philosophical scepticism.

Plato had a different take: these ideas are implicit in us because our soul is ‘akin’ to the Forms (as he states in the Phaedo). As partners in Socratic dialogue, we are helping one another to ‘recollect’ the knowledge which our souls once possessed but have since forgotten.

What did he mean by this?

The idea that Plato had a ‘Theory of Recollection’ is a fairy tale, a travesty of his metaphysical view. Plato is using mythical language which he doesn’t intend to be taken as the strict literal truth. It completely ignores the very special nature of the subject under discussion in the Meno — the nature of virtue.

Virtue is the lynchpin not just of Socrates’ ethical teaching (‘virtue is knowledge’, the ‘unity of the virtues’) but of Plato’s metaphysics. This isn’t some homely discussion of ‘what it is to be a good person’, or how we judge this or that act or person as ‘virtuous’ or ‘unvirtuous’.

“… gods and men are held together by communion and friendship, by orderliness, temperance, and justice; and that is the reason, my friend, why they call the whole of this world by the name of order, not of disorder or dissoluteness. Now you, as it seems to me, do not give proper attention to this, for all your cleverness, but have failed to observe the great power of geometrical equality amongst both gods and men: you hold that self-advantage is what one ought to practice, because you neglect geometry.” (Gorgias 508a)

The question of human virtue is about nothing less than the order of the universe. The ‘cosmos’. Plato and Socrates were not the first to say this: the Presocratic philosopher Heraclitus claimed that the cosmos is ruled by Logos which is also the essence of the human soul. In investigating the universe we are investigating the nature of the geometrical relation between the cosmos and the soul. In investigating the soul, we are investigating the nature of the geometrical relation between the cosmos and the soul.

The two questions — about the cosmos and the soul — are ultimately one and the same.

To ask about virtue, from Plato’s philosophical standpoint, is to ask the biggest question that there is. There is nothing bigger or more important. How can we possibly hope to make progress, when there is so much that we don’t know? The young aristocrat Meno is quite justifiably baffled. Following the advice of Heraclitus, Socrates and Plato believed that the answer is to ‘look into yourself’. The clue to this whole conundrum is in me, it is in you. We just have to faith that an answer is there to be found through diligent inquiry.

As an illustration of this, Socrates takes a young slave boy, the very last person whom you would expect to be able to conduct a geometrical proof. Even he can do it, he just needs to have the knowledge ‘brought out’. Plato isn’t saying that knowledge of virtue is similar to knowledge of geometry, although as we see in the Gorgias there is a respect in which he thought, like the Pythagoreans, that geometry had something to do with the philosophical question about the nature of the soul and the cosmos. As described in the Republic, the ‘mathematica’ — numbers, triangles etc. — are merely a clue to the nature of the Forms. Yet they remain fundamentally different. Dialectic does not work in the same way as mathematical proof.

The whole of Plato’s philosophy can be seen as a progressive working towards the solution to Socrates’ puzzle about virtue, a conundrum which he never succeeds in solving although of all the thinkers in Western philosophy, his work stands out as one of the greatest attempts to solve it.

Ruth asked:

I’ve been watching the Supreme Court Brexit case and after two days I’m completely confused by all the lawyer-speak. Can you help?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

From what we’ve seen so far, and ignoring all the complications and side issues, it’s safe to say that:

According to the ‘Appellant’ — the Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union — the European Union Referendum Act 2015 was intended to ‘hand over’ the decision of whether or not to leave the European Union to the British electorate, requiring no further Parliamentary debate on the question whether to formally commence the process of leaving.

According to the ‘Respondent’ — Miller and Dos Santos who originally won the case against HM Government in the High Court — the force of the Referendum Act could only have been ‘advisory’. A Minister of the Crown does not have the legal right to bring about the repeal of legislation which bears on the rights of British citizens without authorization from Parliament.

What both sides agree on is that the Act didn’t specifically say what should be done in the event of the country voting to leave the EU. This was a banana skin waiting to be stepped on. The Government were confident of winning the Referendum. On a charitable view, they wanted to keep the wording of the Act as simple as possible to avoid having to debate the question of exactly what the process of leaving would involve.

Meanwhile, many members of the public see the question in much simpler, starker terms. Forget about the precise nature of the British Constitution, or the respective roles of Parliament, the Crown and the Judiciary. These issues may be important to resolve but they don’t apply in this case.

Why? Because the European Referendum Act 2015 has a very simple and easy to understand structure, which can be represented in formal logic as a conditional statement:

If A then B.

If the outcome of the Referendum is a vote to Leave (A) then the UK leaves the European Union (B).

What happened? The Government lost the Referendum. The outcome was a vote to Leave.

1. If A then B.

2. A.

3. Therefore, B.

The name of this ancient rule of logic is Modus Ponens.

But how is this supposed to happen? There is a set procedure for leaving — ‘triggering Article 50’ — but the nature of the procedure isn’t important. It’s completely irrelevant. It could just have easily been pressing a red button on the Prime Minister Theresa May’s desk at Number 10 Downing Street. Click, and we’re gone. Any bargaining about future deals can come later. (That wouldn’t be a great idea, but again it isn’t a relevant consideration.)

Then, as both sides are agreed, it would be up to Parliament to pass a ‘Great Repeal Act’ removing EU law from the UK statute books, and clearing up the legislative mess which could possibly take a decade or more.

The excruciatingly simple point is that when Parliament passes an Act which is conditional in nature, it is the job of the executive to implement or not implement the consequence depending on whether the relevant condition is met. It’s got nothing to do with whether or not you think referendums are a good idea, or whether the wishes of the majority ought to be respected, or what should be the limits of the Crown Prerogative.

In passing the 2015 Act, Parliament has already made its decision. It has effectively removed itself from the decision making process in this particular case, regardless of how it may be involved in the future.

Is that the end of the story? Well, no. Because the other side can argue that on this analysis Parliament went wrong in passing this Act with this wording. They effectively surrendered a responsibility that according to the British Constitution they ought not to have surrendered, in the same way — to take an extreme case — as it would be against the British Constitution for Parliament to pass an Act making Theresa May Dictator and permanently dissolving itself.

Issac asked:

What does philosophy say about finding a significant other? Is there such a concept as a soul mate? Is romance something of high priority we should pursue? How does one go about finding a soul mate?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

Well, Issac, if you haven’t read it, Plato’s magnificent dialogue Symposium would be a good starting point. You’ve heard of the term ‘Platonic love’? This is where the concept was coined. A man and a woman can enjoy romance and sex, but your truly ‘significant other’ is one with whom you share higher ideals. For the Greeks, it would be another man.

The idea of a ‘soul mate’ derives from Plato’s Symposium.

The reason for reading Plato’s dialogue isn’t anything like ‘Let’s do it like the Greeks,’ although one can totally understand why someone who didn’t know better would see it that way.

For Plato, the highest love is for Sophia. Philo-sophy. The desire for the Truth and the Good (they are ultimately one and the same) is also a desire that you and your beloved can come to see and grasp the ultimate reality of the ‘Forms’.

How does this translate into a modern context? Pair bonding is a natural instinct which human beings have placed on a pinnacle of human achievement. Those who are unlucky never to find their soul mate, or who are prevented by natural circumstance from pursuing romantic love, are pushed towards the margins of society regardless of whatever else they may achieve in life.

And how does this process work out in reality? Badly, in many cases. That in itself is not a reason for deprecating the search for a romantic significant other, but even for those who have a chance to play the mating game, many remain frustrated or disappointed, settling for a domestic arrangement that isn’t too unbearable, or alternatively moving from one partner to the next in the hope of one day finding their ‘one true love’.

The Judeo-Christian tradition, not the Greeks, is to blame for promoting the idea that the highest form of human relationship is a man and a woman who come together in order to procreate and raise a family. The notion that your wife — or your husband — is your one and only ‘significant other’ is a mashup, some would say a grotesque mashup, of Plato and the Bible.

Making the notion of ‘significant other’ gender neutral, liberating though that may be, does nothing to untangle the confusion.

I would argue that the two ideas — Platonic and romantic love — should be kept separate and not confused with one another. Each has its own rewards and satisfactions. Human beings should be able to pursue both, separately, without strain or difficulty.

Your romantic significant other need not be your Platonic significant other.

Roy asked:

I’m writing this in hopes of getting a response, over the past few years I’ve grown increasingly interested in philosophy. Books from Socrates and Plato have captured my imagination, along with leaving me with more questions than I already had. As I dive down deeper into philosophy I find myself wanted to know more, wanting to read more into philosophy. My question is where should I start, how can I become more infatuated with philosophy?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

You remind me of myself, Roy. Around 1971. I’d just left my job as a photographer’s assistant. I think the first book I picked up from the local library was ‘Volume something’ of the collected dialogues of Plato translated by Benjamin Jowett. As I wrote back in 1999,

“I discovered that philosophy and I were made for one another. It was a whirlwind romance. I revered Kant and idolized Plato. I went on endless philosophical walks. Instead of my beloved camera, I carried a notebook. In October 1972, I enrolled as an undergraduate at Birkbeck College London. From day one, I had set my heart on becoming an academic philosopher.” (My Philosophical Life).

Things didn’t turn out quite the way I’d planned, but that is another story. If you are very bright, then maybe a life in academia might suit you. But it can also be a recipe for heartbreak. A recent message posted to the Philos-L list described the suicide of a mid-40s member of the ‘academic precariat’ in Australia:

“John had worked as a casual university tutor since finishing his PhD in philosophy 15 years ago. Passed over a few times for tenured jobs, he was a long-term member of the academic reserve army, the members of which perform around half of the undergraduate teaching in Australia’s universities.”

Where to start? It actually doesn’t matter too much. Follow up leads. Follow your nose. The Pathways Introductory Book List has some suggestions for reading. Or you could join Pathways to Philosophy and have the opportunity to have up to 30 essays reviewed — and shared with other Pathways students if they are up to the required standard.

The most important thing is to sort out your motivation. I once wrote:

“You can philosophize for sheer enjoyment. Or because you want to change the world. Or to develop and hone your mental powers. Or out of insatiable, childlike curiosity. Or because your very life depends upon it” (Pathways to Philosophy: Seven Years On).

Each of these alternatives (they are not mutually exclusive) will determine the approach you take to study. Infatuation is a great thing but will it last? How will you feel about this after four decades? The best advice I can give is don’t let your other interests fall by the wayside. Keep up a lively interest in the world around you. Don’t neglect your friends and your relationships. In other words, be as Normal as you can be — in a world where many of the good people you will meet don’t care too much about the ultimate questions of philosophy.

Makheu asked:

Discuss the claim that what historians of philosophy do is not philosophy, and that contemporary philosophers can learn little if anything from the history of their subject. Philosophers should concern themselves with real problems not with history.

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

This is a nice question. From my own experience of study, the heyday for the attitude you describe was the 50s, during the period of so-called ‘ordinary language philosophy’. There may well have been other times when this attitude was prevalent.

Inspired the later work of Wittgenstein in Cambridge, a parallel movement in Oxford headed by J.L. Austin saw the job of the philosopher as untangling the knots (for Wittgenstein, ‘therapy’) which our thinking gets into because we misunderstand our own language. We repeatedly fall victim to illusions generated by idiom and grammar.

On this view, the history of philosophy is the history of error. Undergraduates studied Locke or Berkeley, Descartes or Leibniz in order to learn to identify the points where misunderstanding of language led these thinkers astray. It was not considered important to understand historical context (as Russell had sought, brilliantly, to do in his History of Western Philosophy). Social milieu and history were irrelevant. The value of the study of history was as a source of useful examples for the philosopher to learn from.

This was a philosophy more radical that Marx, who believed in the importance of the history of philosophy, even though according to his ’11th thesis on Feuerbach’ all previous philosophers in his view had erred. The young Marx’s doctoral thesis on the Greek philosophers Democritus and Epicurus was a model of scholarship.

As it happens, I subscribe to the Philos-L e-list for professional philosophy. From the constant stream of posts on the list, one gets the impression that every obscure aspect of the history of philosophy is now an object of intense study. There aren’t enough topics to go round, in contemporary philosophy or history of philosophy, to satisfy academic philosophers labouring to meet publishing requirements for tenure — not to mention the constant flow of new PhD students looking for original thesis topics.

Real problems? Ask a professional philosopher and they will tell you that all the problems they study are real. If some, or most of the problems seem too obscure to the layperson that is only because without the benefit of a doctorate one lacks the discernment necessary to see them. — Of course, they would say that, wouldn’t they?!

After forty plus years of study, I would be hesitant in identifying the ‘real’ problems of philosophy. My supervisor in my Oxford days, John McDowell, once told me that the main source of his motivation to philosophize was the things other philosophers said. (A few decades earlier, G.E. Moore had said something similar.) It’s a view and an approach that I can understand, even though my motivation is different. I find myself gripped by problems: that is the source of my impulse to philosophize.

On either of these two views, McDowell’s or mine, it isn’t necessary to be disrespectful to the history of the subject. For that one needs to be in the grip of an ideology, for example the ideology of ‘ordinary language philosophy’.

As a physicist, you can study the history of physics if that aspect of the subject interests you. There are always lessons to learn from the past. But you don’t do physics by studying what Newton or Rutherford said. You design and perform experiments, put questions to nature.

By contrast, there’s no equivalent in philosophy to the Large Hadron Collider. You have to look into your own mind. What philosophers said in the past is important because you don’t want to repeat their mistakes. On the other hand, any progress they did make with a problem that grips you is something you can build on. It’s not necessary to start from scratch. That’s pretty valuable, provided that you are not blinded by ideology.

As a postscript I would like to insert a plug. Our own Philosophical Connections on the philosophos.org site authored by Dr Anthony Harrison-Barbet gives a very good overview of the interconnections of 100 plus philosophers in the Western tradition, using a unique hyperlinked index. Look up your favourite philosopher and try it out for yourself. I warn you, it’s addictive!