Too much philosophy?

Saleh asked:

How to stop thinking philosophically about everything? I feel that instead of enjoying life and the things around me I put so much energy and time analyzing them and looking for explanations like thinking in terms of Aristotle’s causes or in terms of parts-whole relations and so many ‘why’ and ‘how’ questions. So how to lose interest in that or at least how to learn not to put so much energy and time on it?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

Philosophy is good and you can never have too much of a good thing. It is fine, totally OK, to spend all your time on studying philosophy. Obviously, I’m talking about the time you have available. You need to allocate time for sleeping, eating, brushing your teeth etc. But there’s no need to waste time on those things. Do the necessary and then get back to your studies!

What about a balanced life? you say. Rubbish. No-one has yet formulated the rule for a ‘balanced life’, for any human being. We are all different. And that is the point. Do what you’ve got to do, never mind the others. You don’t have to justify yourself to anyone. To be motivated — to do anything at all — is great. Not everyone has that gift, I’m talking about the gift of motivation. There are those who drift through life, who never get to answer the question, ‘Why I am here,’ not even a provisional answer. They don’t know why they are here, the world doesn’t need them and nor do other people. To be in that state is far, far worse than material poverty.

To be motivated to study philosophy and the great philosophers — now, that’s something special. It’s a gift. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Give yourself up to it, study as much and as hard as you can. You will not be here for ever, and even a long life is not enough to fully get to grips with this amazing subject.

Which is not to say that you shouldn’t allow yourself to be interested in other things. I once wrote, ‘Philosophers should know lots of things besides philosophy.’ I knew a philosopher once, talented, sharp logical mind, who didn’t know what stars are. I’d made some remark about ‘other suns’, and this person didn’t grasp what I was talking about. ‘What other suns?’ What do you think stars are? ‘I’ve never asked myself that question.’ — It was Immanuel Kant who wrote that the two things that most filled him with wonder were the starry heavens above and the moral law within. (As it happens, Kant made original contributions to cosmology.) My friend knew all about the moral law but the starry heavens were a mystery. Or not even that because ‘the question didn’t occur’.

Just for the record, I am fascinated by science, the arts, geography, history, and every other subject you could name. Without going deeply into all of them, or indeed any of them. I know enough. I would do well on a general knowledge quiz. Or, at least, passably well. And I have my enthusiastic interests, that admittedly come and go — like photography, chess, guitar. I am happy to throw myself into any one of these for a while. But there is one interest, just one, that has me for life, no matter what I do or where life takes me. You already know what that is.

— You’re doing well, Saleh. Keep it up!

Death of Socrates

Stephanie asks:

  1. Pick a famous death.
  2. Pick a philosopher: either Camus, Locke, Epicurus or Plato.
  3. Why did you choose the philosopher you did? What is you initial feeling about what they would say about the famous death.

Answer by Craig Skinner

I’ll be brief, and quick since you ask for my initial (not my considered) feelings.

1. Socrates.

2. Plato.

3 (a) most famous and greatest of the four and pupil of Socrates.

(b) Camus: would say it was an admirable death. Socrates was authentic (existentialists like this); and Camus liked suicide as an option.

 Locke: disagreed with Socrates’ implicit social contract and elite rulers, preferring his own explicit contract and majority rule. Would have said Socrates should have taken the chance when he had it to escape death, go abroad and keep his head down.

 Epicurus: agreed with Socrates that death was not to be feared, although Epicurus thought death was annihilation, Socrates thought it a blessing.

 Plato: the death was pretty much murder by the state (Socrates was outspoken and made enemies), plus Socrates was honourable, accepting the city’s judgment, but refusing to stop his philosophical dialogues in public places.

Things and their properties

Saleh asks:

Aristotle said matter is the ultimate subject of predicates but it cannot exist on its own without any predicate or form for it would be nothing but still we need it as the substratum for predication. My question is why cannot there be a pure subject without any predicate?

Or alternatively why cannot we have a predicate existing as thing without any substratum? Why subject and predicate must go hand in hand?

Answer by Craig Skinner

We agree that the everyday physical world consists of things + properties (subjects+predicates in your terminology; substances+ accidents in Aristotle’s).

So your first question is why cant we have a thing with no properties? If we say a thing is the bearer of its properties, and strip away all the properties, we are left with a bare particular as the substratum. But what kind of entity could this be? If the substratum has no properties whatsoever, we could exchange the substrata of a dog and a stone say, and add all the properties back in. But now the entity with all the dog properties is really a stone. Absurd. An alternative view is the bundle theory which says that a thing just is all of its properties: take these away and there is nothing left. But, in that case, what is it that binds these properties together to make a particular thing? I think the substratum theory and the bundle theory are incoherent. No, the bearer of the properties is the thing itself, which is prime matter (potential) taking the form of that particular thing, as Aristotle says.

Aristotle correctly called a thing (substance) a “being in itself”, a self-standing item which cant be predicated (or be a property) of anything else. A property (predicate, accident, quality), on the other hand, can only be “present in another” i.e. as a feature of a thing. By definition a property is not, and cant be, a thing. Thus you never come across a big or a black or an old, there always has to be a big, black or old something. Plato, by the way, thought that properties in the everyday world were instances of universals which exist in another heavenly world of Forms. So the black in my cat instantiates the Form of the Black (blackness). Even if every black thing in the world were destroyed, the Form of the Black would remain, just uninstantiated. But Aristotle thought blackness existed only as and in its instances. “Goodbye to the Forms, for they are nonsense” he said. I’m with Aristotle — properties exist in things, not prior to them, in rebus rather than ante rem, as the philosophers of old put it.

Finally, Aristotle’s metaphysics of potentiality/ actuality, substance/ accidents, matter/ form, essence/ existence, and four causes/ causal powers is increasingly recognized as the framework underlying physics and biology, after a long period of misrepresentation and neglect beginning with early moderns such as Hobbes, Descartes and Locke, and I’m pleased you’re interested in it.

Nietzsche on truths and untruths

Shermika asked:

I don’t know if I’ve popped up in the right place… but I’m desperate. There is a Nietzsche quote, I read it years ago. It is about how humanity is meaningful only to itself. In it he gives a short summary of the human race evolving into existence and then ending, all to the unseeing eyes of an indifferent universe. I remember it as extremely beautiful and hopeful, even if it’s a tad nihilistic. I may be mis-attributing it to Nietzsche. It would be deeply appreciated if you could help me.

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

The quote is hard to find, because it is not indexed among Nietzsche’s “official” works, but published posthumously by his sister. Shortly after WWII, when a new complete edition appeared, the editor (Karl Schlechter) ripped all of Elisabeth Forster’s forgeries out, including those which appeared in the faked Will to Power, bundling them all together in chronological order at the end of Vol. III under “Miscellaneous Writings”. At least this way we know when it was written — in 1873, in the vicinity of his Birth of Tragedy; and this explains why it is not connected to the Nazi-sponsored edition.

Anyway, the text reads:

“In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the haughtiest and most mendacious minute of “world history” — yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die.”

Contained in Taylor Carman’s collection of miscellanies, On Truth and Untruth.

Answer by Hubertus Fremerey

Maybe it is this one:

This text is finished in June 1873, thus it is an early work.

The problem with searching in translation is:  No two translations are the same, while the original always is.  Thus I have “truth and falsity” or “truth and lie” or “falsity and truth” and “extra-moral sense” or “ultra-moral sense” — that alone makes six different translations of the same German text.

Pitfalls of Young Earth creationism

Mike asked:

I am currently having a discussion with a Young Earth Creationist who posits that the whole question of science is a philosophical one and that the view on evidence is purely philosophical. I don’t know how to respond to (what I think) is an absurd argument. Do you have any tips?

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

Okay: Let’s leave science and philosophy to one side — we don’t need them anyway for a surefire case against creationist notions. As it happens, one of the fundamental features of humanness is our unquenchable thirst for stories; therefore humans are inveterate story tellers, and this happens in so many forms and guises that we can hardly keep a tally of them all. We look over humanity’s output from Gilgamesh to the latest novel, and a clear trend emerges. Whatever bothers us, whatever gives us pleasure — adventures, uncommon experiences, mysteries, challenges, riddles, heroism, discovery, love, situations of conflict and high emotion — all are grist to the mill.

But in our reactions to literature, whether dramas, novels, comedies, movies etc., we “suspend disbelief” while it lasts in order to enjoy the story, fully aware that stories are not the “real thing”, but either a reflection or an analogue of reality. This pertains even to such fanciful impositions as Ariosto’s sorcerors and flying horses or Shakespeare’s ghosts and witches. Suspended disbelief allows us to go along with the story if otherwise it captures our imagination. And so we find plenty of it in myths, legends, fairy tales and science fiction stories as well.

In other words: story telling is an almost universal currency for the communication of human predilections, serving to lighten up the boring routines of daily life for a few hours, after which we return to them refreshed and, sometimes, with our consciousness of the human condition deepened by the experience, more ready for authentic rather than merely humdrum pursuits. The devices of story telling have that potential, which is precisely the reason why we cultivate them.

Coming now to religions, it is hardly surprising that they also begin with stories. But the message they project tends to carry more radical implications — as if Ariosto or Shakespeare, Little Red Riding Hood and Blade Runner were suddenly revealed as purveying the literal truth, rather than merely stimulating the imagination. Logically this implies a demand to suspend the suspended disbelief and accept the existence of a supernatural realm beyond the human sphere, whose denizens are spiritual beings with superhuman powers which nonetheless have purely physical effects in the world. Objectively regarded, however, these story tellers are still humans, like the rest of us — prone to errors, false information, hallucinations etc. Therefore it is a pretty tall order to demand from us an implicit belief in the credibility of their stories. This is not sticking to the rules of the game. So we are reduced to asking, who are the authors of these tales and who can vouch for their “truths”?

Which brings us to another criterion: “Omniscient author”. When you read (say) D.H. Lawrence, the author knows everything about the lives of his protagonists, including their thoughts and feelings. To say the obvious: This is not possible in reality, but in fiction it is the most common narrative device. Now, who authored the Old and New Testaments? Obviously its writers, most of whom are remarkably anonymous. And these writers claim, just as Lawrence did, insider access to the souls of their subjects and occasional privileged audition of God’s own words. However, neither the Bible nor the Gospels were authored by God, nor did any of the authors claim divine inspiration for their text. This was done subsequently, by preachers who found plenty of gullible subjects willing to believe them. But the logic of this situation is plainly, that all these stories are just stories. None of them wore a label in their inception, that can be traced directly to the divinity of which they wrote. The writers themselves are the only authorities vouching for their truth (disregarding later proselytisers) and yet the stories of the Gospels do not fit together at any point to make one story.

But we might well ask: Who cares about these discrepancies? For which the answer is plain: those with a vested interest in representing them as sacred scriptures. But if they are the highest authority to vouch for the truth content of these tales, then we are in trouble. Then we are legitimately entitled to question the justification for their label “The Word of God.”

The moral is: With any story, whatever its intent or purpose, our discretionary suspension of disbelief should not be enacted until the truth content of the story is established “beyond reasonable doubt”. This applies to history as well, and even the news bulletins on TV. How many of them are subsequently convicted of being mere allegations, prejudicial accounts or plain fibs!

Summing up: There is no higher authority than human judges on the truth content of any story whatever. No such truth can be shown to exist outside of the human domain; and this is interesting from another angle too. Namely, that the truths associated with divinities do not belong into our world because they have no opposite (i.e. falsehood). But without this foil to truth, how can we know what truth is?

Music and meaning (contd.)

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 Jürgen Lawrenz

You wouldn’t want to believe it, but so many wise men and women across 2500 years have wanted answers to your question! There is obviously a capital mystery about music, so don’t mind me if I start by saying that your use of the term “meaning” is far too indiscriminate to serve here. However, I can hardly do more than suggest a few aspects that you can pursue further, on your own, without expecting a definitive solution to the problem.

First, consider that music-as-such is not a fact in the world — it exists solely because some creatures have the capacity to mould and resolve streams of molecules floating in the air into a form of communication. E.g. crickets, birds, fish, mammals make sounds which other creatures can discern and interpret. Thus humans intuit very well the menace of a dog’s growl or the love song of a nightingale. But to extract meaning from a growl, we must put it into words, such as “this dog is warning me that it will bite if I make moves to take away its bone”. That’s a lot of words to denote a simple sound! So for convenience let me define the growl as carrying an import and my words as denoting. It is an all-important differentiation.

These two disparate forms of communication are handled by different cortices. When speech is transmitted, the audio cortex recognises the form of molecular transport as an explicit message and refers it to the conceptual faculty, whose memory stores the denotations of all verbal signals known to me. The forms of musical signals, however, are recognised as an implicit communication and referred to the aesthetic faculty, which is concerned with feelings, emotions, imagination and the like. Hence the differentiation between “meaning” (explicit) and “import” (implicit); and the upshot is that two different kinds of reaction are involved.

How then can we explain a song with words? This is in fact the crucial component in the meaning vs import debate. Let’s say a girl’s lover died in a war and she sings “I will treasure the memory of our love forever.” Try to work out in how many different ways she could say this. Maybe five or ten, no more. Yet this motive recurs in music hundreds of times over centuries and each time, the same sentiment provokes different kinds of musical articulation from composers. This is because vocabulary and syntax are a limited resource for the expression of emotional states — so many times we are “lost for words” to bring out our inner turmoil — whereas music has an almost infinite repertoire. More music has been written for Romeo and Juliet than Shakespeare could ever have dreamed of!

I cannot resist another example. Millions of people around the world express their faith by mumbling the same words day after day in their prayers, presumably expecting God to be listening. But is it not more likely that sincere emotion must sooner or later be corrupted to an habitual performance? I suggest it is inevitable; and this was precisely the motivation for Pope Gregory I to encourage singing these texts, which in due course encouraged innumerable musicians to supply a steady stream of new music for singing the same words. It must have sunk into the consciousness of religious authorities that not the words, but the tone of voice wafts up into the divine realm. Communications with God do not need words; God can discern the emotions of faith plainly enough. And so, in principle, the musical phrases articulating the various parts of the text of prayers could be sounded while lips and tongue remain mute, as the words automatically cling to the minds of the faithful through constant association.

What I have just described is the inception of music as an autonomous representation of the human soul. The most suggestive way of understanding the import of music is therefore, that it produces in our aesthetic consciousness a kind of mirror image of the relevant emotional states that are lodged in memory and that our perceptual faculties take this up as a trigger for retrieving analogous states of feeling from memory.

I must stop here, as my point was to clear up the error of thinking about music in terms of meaning. I could add, the soul needs no meanings either; it needs “soul food”; and this is really the heart of the matter. We are creatures of feeling and emotion, imagination and creativity. Intellect is another issue, but scarcely ever in touch with the inner self. Music, however, has that power — the capacity of connecting you with, and igniting, your authentic self.

Understanding understanding

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.