History of Philosophy as Philosophy

In my previous post, I talked about Socrates and what his style of philosophy meant to me. I started with this anecdote:

Socrates walks into a library and asks a historian, “has anyone ever asked this question?” The historian awaits for the question, becoming more dumbfounded as silence stretches on, until finally he asks, “what question?” Socrates replies, “haven’t you been listening?”

The introduction to this essay is here: Problems and Implications within "History of Philosophy"

HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY AS PHILOSOPHY

Let us examine this tautological wordplay before directly delving into the concept of history of philosophy as philosophy. What my fictionalized Socrates is trying to imply by the rhetorical question “haven’t you been listening?” could refer to two possible jokes. The first, and perhaps least obvious, is the personal attack to the historian that Socrates as the gadfly is not so much concerned with historical facts. His role as gadfly is to question, and so he leaves the task of providing empirical data to the historian. His role as gadfly is to do philosophy in the present time through verbal dialogue, as opposed to the historian’s role of recalling old facts and data. Hence the accusatory question alluding to the historian’s responsibility: “haven’t you been listening?” The second, and perhaps more apparent joke, is the fact that Socrates himself has asked the very question he was referring to, making the answer “you, Socrates, just asked that question” the most immediate one the historian could give. The historian, thinking that Socrates was referring to someone other than himself, was at a loss and expected another question to be stated, so that he could perhaps provide Socrates with a date, name, and context pertaining to that question being asked in the past. However, even if someone else had asked that very same question before, (which likely many have), the tautology of the question turns it into itself as soon as it is uttered. The one who utters the question owns it in the act of uttering, no matter if the question originated from another. The speaker thus undertakes the question himself, separately from the original questioner, both in time and space. Therefore whatever answer that proceeds from it is inexorably that of the most recent questioner’s, not to the original questioner(s) who asked the same or a similar question in the past.

I would like to draw a parallel between this anecdote and the attitude taken by some historians of philosophy. Hatfield aligns with the argument that “…one should seek to discover the problems that motivated his or her philosophizing. This is good advice: it suggests trying to ‘get inside’ the philosophical activity of a past author, to ‘rethink’ the problems that motivated him or her.”[1] and later “…recognition of the past philosopher’s overall aims and projects will aid interpretation.”[2] Hatfield insists that such an understanding of past philosophers is only possible with an ‘accurate’ historical context in mind. He even goes as far as saying that a contemporary historian may be able to identify Kant’s ‘true’ project of which Kant himself was perhaps not aware[3]. Although I do understand that historical context may illuminate some facts about the philosopher in his time, I vehemently disagree that a result of such examination and consideration will enable a philosopher to ‘get inside’ and ‘rethink’ the problems he or she had in mind. Perhaps if Hatfield were capable of jumping in a time machine to find the real Kant, at which point he could initiate a psychoanalytical interview with Kant about his life and work, I would deem this sort of presumptuousness to have at least some authority. However, ignoring the impossibility of time travel for a moment, even a psychoanalyst can only guess what the inner workings of his subject’s mind is, and this guess often takes many sessions of analysis. This leaves mind-reading capabilities, another science fiction, to be the only manner in which ‘getting inside’ Kant’s mind may be possible. And as if mind-reading through space wasn’t difficult enough, how about reading a dead man’s mind?

This is not to say that knowing a few historical facts that are relevant to the social context of the time, or knowing what Kant wrote in a previous separate work, what education he had, etc. is useless. What I am criticizing in Hatfield isn’t so much his preferred method, but the way in which he criticizes philosophers such as Strawson, Rorty, and Friedman for conducting their own philosophical experiments on past philosophers or philosophies without emphasis on historical context. Where Hatfield finds, through the illumination of history, limits to Strawson’s, Rorty’s, and Friedman’s philosophical experiments, one could just as easily find limits in a philosophical experiment which holds historical context as the most important factor.

Copleston accurately observed the problem of historical construction, stating that “…at what point the historian of philosophy in a certain area or nation or culture should begin is a question which, within limits, must be left to his personal judgment in regard to relevance.”[4] For Copleston, then, a historian’s reconstruction of the past is a subjective one, and therefore one that may change from person to person. To cite historical anecdotes as evidence for what Kant may have thought can offer only a rough guide at best, one that tunnel-visions into history as opposed to philosophy as the inspiration for philosophizing. Further, depending on which historical facts a historian wishes to give relevance to, varying sets of intentions or historically important influences which affected Kant’s philosophy could be construed, thus making the practice even more questionable. To emphasize the importance on historical context over pure philosophical inquiry, then, is purely a personal standard of Hatfield’s; a fault that Hatfield himself criticizes Strawson for committing.

And so Hatfield, through criticizing Strawson’s method of analyzing Kant, fell into the very same pitfall he saw Strawson fall into. “[Strawson] want to interpret the doctrines in a way that emphasizes what can be made ‘acceptable’ while jettisoning what cannot be repaired. Acceptable by what standard? By the standards of philosophy as Strawson sees them, indeed, by standards of argument such as those exhibited in his previous book…”[5] Hatfield repeatedly accuses Strawson of applying his own schema to understanding Kant as opposed to understanding Kant on his own terms. In emphasizing the importance of a text’s historical context over what it may mean to a present day philosopher, Hatfield is merely preferring his own academic background, that of history of philosophy, over Strawson’s preferred method which largely ignores this field.

Therefore when a historian of philosophy such as Hatfield and Ayers, criticize other analytics (eg. Hatfield on Strawson and Kant, and Ayers on Russell and Leibniz), citing mistakes in historical context as opposed to logical mistakes in language and reason, which is the arena such philosophers choose to play in, they fail accurate criticism. Instead of acknowledging the voice of the current author as the one producing new knowledge, as producing philosophy, they are judging him or her on the false pretense that he or she is attempting to align themselves historically with the philosopher they are analyzing. What should be criticized, in other words, is not the method which philosophers adopt when thinking about past philosophers, but the results benefited from the thought experiment they took on when analyzing historical texts. Are these results useful or not to present day philosophy? Are there viable results from Rorty’s analysis of Western Philosophy, or is he shooting in the dark with his ideas of pragmatism? Is Strawson contributing to the discussion about Kant usefully in a philosophical sense? These should be the starting points in critique.

And so as philosophy occurs as questioning in the present, so should the critique of other philosophies operate in this way. By putting too much emphasis on historical context, a philosopher risks taking on, as Hatfield suggests, the past philosopher’s project as opposed to his own. Today’s philosopher should not wander in another’s park, pointing at errant trees he failed to cut down as the problems he left behind, at problems that may house some truth. Instead of barking up at the trees that were left behind, trying to scare the squirrel out of the tree which may never get cut down (or the problem never solved), today’s philosopher should be on the outskirts, cutting down his own trees so as to make the park larger, giving it more room to wander. In others words (in an attempt to take away the ambiguity of my extended metaphor), to identify another’s problems accurately may be useful, but only where it helps in advancing one’s own philosophy. Or else, one is merely doing history, and so the sub-discipline is not longer one of philosophy.

Problems and Implications in "History of Philosophy"

Hey whoever-reads-this-thang

Here is the first part of a recent essay I wrote. Comments appreciated.

Problems and Implications Within “History of Philosophy”

Socrates walks into a library and asks a historian, “has anyone ever asked this question?” The historian awaits for the question, becoming more dumbfounded as silence stretches on, until finally he asks, “what question?” Socrates replies, “haven’t you been listening?”

I must apologize to my reader for starting this essay with a joke I conceived using Socratic irony. I will expound upon it and link it to my essay more directly later in the essay. For my introduction, however, I would like to, as many who have discussed the history of philosophy before me, give my own idea of what it is to do philosophy.

The reason I have Socrates as my hero in the anecdote is due to what he represents to me in the discipline of philosophy. Socrates himself never wrote any of philosophical texts, and thus no historical records of his thought are canonized, except through the writings of other philosophers; cheifly,that of Plato. Due to the authorship concerning Socrates, therefore, it is difficult to pin down what were Socrates’ actual thoughts and that of Plato’s, especially in later writings. However this uncertainty itself gives us an idea of what philosophy meant to Socrates.

Despite not having authored any books, Socrates is revered as one of the most, if not the most, important figure in Western philosophy. This was due to his questioning nature, and the dialogue which his questions generated. Socrates was a gadfly, but as a gadfly he could only question others in real time, with the addressee listening and able to respond, to which he could continue his questioning. Socrates could thus only truly contribute to philosophy during the course of his life, in what he called the present, whereas most philosophers after him (the ones we know of, since they actually wrote), attempted to immortalize their philosophy for all time through the written word. Those who were successful at doing this are now called the classics. However, the written accounts of Socrates’ philosophizing, as transmuted through Plato, can never be considered to be fully his. He engaged philosophically with others and never sought for himself to be understood completely through a written expose of his knowledge. Instead, through questioning, he urged others around him to understand concepts for themselves. A good example of this is in Plato’s Republic, where Socrates asks the question “What is Justice?”, which begins a deluge of argument and conflicting ideas to which, in the end, Socrates declares that he does not know what justice is. But of course, this is Socratic irony; Socrates does know what justice is. He simply is stating, through pretended ignorance, that in order to know, you must figure it out for yourself as opposed to taking the idea from someone else.[1] It is with this sentiment of philosophy that I will engage with two different ways of conceiving “history of philosophy”; history of philosophy as philosophy, and history of philosophy as a narrative.

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[1] As discussed by Dr. R. Maundrell in RB 3051, March 24^th 2011 at Lakehead University.

Next: History of Philosophy as Philosophy....

A God named Reason

I've been in the wilderness. I've fought forest fires, I've made money, I've traveled, I've spent my money. I came back to philosophy. I've been reading Hegel lately, and it's making me want to go back to reality.

I must say that it has been a humbling experience. Apparently, philosophy has very stringent rules it must adhere to in order to be called philosophy. Rules that are governed by the almighty, irreducible, unforgiving, objective, and universal Reason. But first, philosophy must be defined; an explication Hegel delivers expertly and sharply before doing anything else. In effect, he points to the horizon and says "that's where I'm going," and proceeds to clear the brush in order to lay down his iron tracks.

I will not quote Hegel in this post, although I will strongly recommend you to read some of his work. He says some enlightening things, logical things, fantastic things. You could call him spiritual about his Reason, which to some may appear to be a contradiction of sorts. They would be right in thinking so.

No, instead of quoting Hegel, I will quote Kierkegaard; his counterpart, or "antithesis" (if I were to quote Hegel after all). "I am not a philosopher", said Kierkegaard. "I am not part of the system."

Here is what I believe: I claim no objective truth, and will not bar my thoughts to that which may be irrational or subjective. For if truth could be pointed to in the horizon, we would be there already, and after thousands of year of philosophy we have never agreed that we're "there." No, I'd rather wander, and marvel at whatever I might find on the way, lest it be a fragment of truth, lest it lead to a greater one. Why should Truth be bound by such established rules of thought? Rules imply limits and restrictions. Thoughts urged on by limits and restrictions bind them to a finitude of potentialities, of ideas. The dog tied to a post in the ground can only explore as far as his leash will let him.

I could write a book about truth and reason, but I have to finish reading a large chunk of Hegel's History of Philosophy before tomorrow afternoon. I'll post more about this in the future.

Writing

This is my first post, so I thought about my first topic for a while before I started writing. From intermittent brainstorms in my day, I thought that a discussion about writing itself could satisfy as a first post. It’s general, it can easily be philosophical, and it relates directly to the process that allows this blog to exist. I’ll try to keep my post tight, but that’s not a promise.

Derrida argued that speaking, as opposed to writing, is closer to our intent, will, or consciousness. He reasons that because speaking is an immediate action of communication--that our thoughts are expressed as they happen--they are therefore a more accurate presentation of our thought process. Writing, on the other hand, is merely a representation of speech. Moreover, it is a process that can be “fixed” and calculated over longer periods of time, thus escaping our immediate will the more we mull it over, the more we edit and doctor it. Speaking, then, is a more accurate portrayal of our mode of thinking whereas writing is a more detached process.

***edit: I just re-read some Derrida today, and found that what he says is quite different than this previous chapter. He claims that writing, in being a representation of speech, puts "death" to the language in making it a more detached sign. Speech is immediate, so it is alive. When something is uttered, it streams out of you in the moment as opposed to writing which is an engraved symbol of the spoken word...or something like that... to be honest, I find him extremely difficult to read. He uses so much terminology, like all lit. theorists, that I'm starting to believe that they are all talking absolute nonsense. So my discussion doesn't really have much to do with Derrida, but I'll leave it up anyway***

I have one issue with this claim. Namely, it doesn’t take into consideration what stream of consciousness writing is capable of. Who’s to say that I can’t type as fast as I think? Couldn’t I achieve the same immediacy in writing as I do in speaking, as long as I type fast enough and with no restraint from my thoughts?

Of course, you could say that in writing, there is a strong visual cue going on in your thought process. In speech, our expression and our perception of it is purely auditory. Any visual rendition of your thoughts has to be created abstractedly in the mind, whether it is a textual or imaginary visualization.

Even so, it would be absurd to claim that I have never taken a few seconds, or even minutes, before formulating a spoken comment or statement. I’m sure that anyone can agree with this. That moment right before we say something thoughtful in a discussion: we fix our eyes on an indeterminate spot in space, frown, open our mouth to say something, stop, repeat, and finally say whatever it is we choose to say. Are we not detaching ourselves from our immediate thoughts then? Could I not edit my own thoughts by hearing them in my mind before I speak them?

At times we are unconscious of our own line of thought. We simply speak and communicate without an editor present; no censorship, no “fixing”, and no outside tools, such as a dictionary, or some other text to help us. Surely though, this doesn’t encompass all speech, especially when an important discussion is taking place (a good example would be the Press Secretary taking questions from an army of reporters on one of the government’s most recent blunders). At times, especially when we know that what we say will have a significant impact on our surroundings, we take our time and “choose our words wisely”, or something to that “editing” effect. Does speech in this instance take on a similar process as writing? The same kind of question could be asked about sign language. Sign language is more akin to speech due to its immediate nature, except that it is purely visual, this time in hand gestures and shapes.

Writing is, after all, merely another form of communication (one of many). Like all forms of communication, it is bound by laws that both restrict its freedom and grant it sense. In English, there are only 26 letters in the alphabet. There are also many grammatical guidelines to consider, many of which are ingrained into us from early age. Our language is at once simple in its foundational building blocks, and complicated in its syntactical and contextual potentials. We are therefore able to master our language in a way that allows us to convey (seemingly) free and original meaning on paper or in speech. But in another sense, we are slaves to language--bound by the same laws that allow it to make sense. You can’t express yourself with absolute originality and accuracy to your own individual thoughts unless you make up your own language to do it, and then, what would be the point in saying it? No one would understand you, and to be fair, it would be impossible for you to understand yourself unless you grew in complete isolation of any culture or society. Further, you would be speaking gibberish, because language can't even develop or exist without a culture or society to house it.

But I am digressing too much into language itself. Writing is a visual adaptation of our language that allows us to see it from a different perspective, that allows us to store it away, play with it and modify it. It is a documentation that can be used personally for future use, or for it to be available to a wider audience over space and time.

One difference between the linear aspects of writing and the linear aspect of speech is in our ability to map out writing. Already, I have erased, gone back and added in, re-read, and put aside thoughts on my clip board in case I find use for them later. Writing wasn’t always so flexible as it is in today’s age of computers. I imagine that Descartes’ meditations took a lot of effort, energy, and resources to write even one essay. He must have sensed a sense of permanence for each word inscribed as he dipped his quill in ink and legibly scratched it into the limited paper in his possession. To erase or edit was an arduous and inconvenient process, and I suspect that his line of thought could easily be influenced by this reality. Today’s writing in comparison is lazy and extremely convenient. I can afford to be disorganized and sporadic in my writing and editing, therefore my thought process can afford to be disorganized and sporadic.

I find my post to be wandering. Fortunately no promises were made in this respect. My original question on Derrida’s claim that speech was a closer reflection on one’s thoughts still holds some water though. Merely because speech has immediate broadcasting doesn’t mean that the speaker can’t edit his linguistic thoughts before they are let loose. Although I must admit that by writing this very post I have fallen into the trap he pointed out. The more I wrote about what I thought, the more detached I became from that original bit of consciousness which started it all; the greater grew that gap between my consciousness and what eventually came about in this post.