When people are being introduced to western philosophy, it is the common, if not ubiquitous method, to introduce them first to Plato. One reasons that it is best to begin with the beginning. Since tradition states that western philosophy began with Socrates, we must proceed from that ground which he cultivated. We must hearken back to the origin of western civilization if we are to discover how we have become grounded in the past.
What is a classic but something somehow timeless? There is a small group of undisputed classics in the arts: Homer's Odyssey, Shakespeare's Hamlet, Mozart's Don Giovanni. In philosophy too, there are several works that stand out above the rest: Plato's Republic, Augustine's City of God, Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. But is timelessness in the arts the same as timelessness in philosophy?
As long as human beings are human, anything that speaks to the truth of humanity will continue to resonate with the present. When we listen to Hamlet's soliloquy on death, we hear not only his voice, but also the silent outcry of our innermost despair. In just this way, literary and musical classics give voice to the intensely complex truth of the human experience. But do we have any analogous experience in reading the so-called classics of philosophy? If Plato's works are classics, in what way do they speak to the truth of humanity?
Considering Plato's exceptional place in western philosophy, we must ask whether or not it is deserved. Is all of western philosophy really just “a series of footnotes to Plato” (Whitehead)? And if so, how is it that Plato managed to get so much, so right – and so quickly? In the posthumously published book of remarks Culture and Value, Wittgenstein ruminated on this very subject. “I read: 'philosophers are no nearer to the meaning of reality than Plato got...'. What a strange situation. How extraordinary that Plato could have got even as far as he did! Or that we could not get any further! Was it because Plato was so extremely clever?” (p. 15e)
There is a long tradition in western philosophy of universal negation. Progress in philosophy has meant more often than not the denial of one's predecessors' beliefs and the negation of their arguments. If we favor the path the past has taken, we could optimistically call this process “dialectical” in the Hegelian sense. But were we not already predisposed to provide validation for the course of western thought, we might wish to discard the whole lot of it after observing how often it contradicts itself. If we are being objective, we must admit that it might just be prejudice which wishes to preserve and vindicate western philosophy. Indeed, if there is anything timeless in the philosophy of Socrates, it would be his rejection of sophistry and the mindless prattle of rhetoricians concerned more about winning an argument than reaching anything that might be called truth. And while western philosophy began with Socrates, how much more of it follows precisely in the footsteps of the sophists!
So, what disposes us to place Plato especially above the rest? What makes his work so timeless, but that it has been preserved and revered thus far? Are we merely “minding the house”, carrying on with the same tasks that our forebears practiced, trusting that someone along the line had good reason to do as they did? Or is there something in Plato that resonates with us, that presents itself as something quite timeless? If philosophy could speak to the truth of the human condition, does Plato's?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Contra Plato II
The oeuvre of Plato is too massive and his influence too vast to give an adequate assessment of it in these few short pages. And unfortunately, everything that we could have to say in defense of the legacy of Plato would be suspect, since western civilization has been so radically influenced by Plato that there is not even one westerner who can be trusted to speak objectively with his regard. Since Plato's death, entire civilizations have risen and fallen, and along with them, tongues have died, grown, and been reborn. What are we, modern men, but aware of our infinite capacity for self-deception, and implicitly distrustful of the languages that speak our lives?
If a man loses consciousness and his memories, upon awakening does he trust first the woman who claims to be his wife, of whom he has no recollection? Or does he distrust all except himself, and his own capacity for judgment? It is this way with our civilization. We are amnesiacs trying to regain a memory of the past, while still comporting ourselves toward the future. Where do we start? And who can we trust? It is this way with our philosophical heritage – with our capacity to think, and how willing we are to trust our thinking. We are amnesiacs trying to remember how to think. But how are we to relearn thinking except by forgetting what we have always known, that knowledge which has always skewed our thought? Having lost the past, we must willfully forget it. We must forget Plato.
Instead, we will begin as everyone does when they are born or awakened, with the present. The worst thing about Plato is that he is so clear, yet so incomprehensible. I read his dialogues and understand that humankind has always wondered what it means to be just, what it means to love, what it means to be beautiful and good. But do I understand anything else? How often does it seem that the lines of argumentation obfuscate more than they clarify? How often does it seem that Socrates is more interested in making other people look like fools than he is interested in reaching the truth? Indeed, Plato frustrates me because he seems so much more a sophist than the sophists themselves.
Yet everything I have just said is still just appearance. There is a clear meaning in every line of Plato – but to see it, one must spend years studying Greek and Greek civilization. The lie is the clarity concealing the truth. For Plato to be read, he must be rewritten. He must be destroyed and reborn, that something of the truth he loved so much could be made to live again. Instead what we have of him naught but a reanimated corpse haunting our universities and minds. He must be summarily destroyed and re-filtered through a brilliantly modern mind. But even this kind of radical salvaging would still be a forgetting.
What is a man without a country? For us, a hero. When Kurt Vonnegut gave the title to his autobiography, though there was an echo of the rogue and scoundrel, it was not a title of dejected remorse. He did not mourn for the country he lost – he rejoiced that he never had one to lose. These are not the sentiments of a Platonist. What did Socrates die for, except Athens? What did Socrates teach for, except Athens? We are, all of us, such scoundrels, rogues and romantics. How can we come to understand the truth of a man who could not conceive of life without his country?
We have absorbed Plato into our every pore. He has made us all – but we have forgotten how. We read him and can't help but admire and agree. But never did accord and admiration make a civilization great. In order to create anew, we must be rid of Plato. Living in his shadow, we can do nothing but recreate. Only if he dies, may we live once again.
If a man loses consciousness and his memories, upon awakening does he trust first the woman who claims to be his wife, of whom he has no recollection? Or does he distrust all except himself, and his own capacity for judgment? It is this way with our civilization. We are amnesiacs trying to regain a memory of the past, while still comporting ourselves toward the future. Where do we start? And who can we trust? It is this way with our philosophical heritage – with our capacity to think, and how willing we are to trust our thinking. We are amnesiacs trying to remember how to think. But how are we to relearn thinking except by forgetting what we have always known, that knowledge which has always skewed our thought? Having lost the past, we must willfully forget it. We must forget Plato.
Instead, we will begin as everyone does when they are born or awakened, with the present. The worst thing about Plato is that he is so clear, yet so incomprehensible. I read his dialogues and understand that humankind has always wondered what it means to be just, what it means to love, what it means to be beautiful and good. But do I understand anything else? How often does it seem that the lines of argumentation obfuscate more than they clarify? How often does it seem that Socrates is more interested in making other people look like fools than he is interested in reaching the truth? Indeed, Plato frustrates me because he seems so much more a sophist than the sophists themselves.
Yet everything I have just said is still just appearance. There is a clear meaning in every line of Plato – but to see it, one must spend years studying Greek and Greek civilization. The lie is the clarity concealing the truth. For Plato to be read, he must be rewritten. He must be destroyed and reborn, that something of the truth he loved so much could be made to live again. Instead what we have of him naught but a reanimated corpse haunting our universities and minds. He must be summarily destroyed and re-filtered through a brilliantly modern mind. But even this kind of radical salvaging would still be a forgetting.
What is a man without a country? For us, a hero. When Kurt Vonnegut gave the title to his autobiography, though there was an echo of the rogue and scoundrel, it was not a title of dejected remorse. He did not mourn for the country he lost – he rejoiced that he never had one to lose. These are not the sentiments of a Platonist. What did Socrates die for, except Athens? What did Socrates teach for, except Athens? We are, all of us, such scoundrels, rogues and romantics. How can we come to understand the truth of a man who could not conceive of life without his country?
We have absorbed Plato into our every pore. He has made us all – but we have forgotten how. We read him and can't help but admire and agree. But never did accord and admiration make a civilization great. In order to create anew, we must be rid of Plato. Living in his shadow, we can do nothing but recreate. Only if he dies, may we live once again.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Strength and Virtue
Our only consolation is to hope that the will to peace and reconciliation is stronger than the will to divide and dominate. For the will to destroy is essentially negative, and borne from but fear and hate, while the will to create comes from the goodness of spirit that is the heart of all virtue. Nevertheless, this is still just hope and no promise, for experience shows us that strength and virtue do not always coincide. Sometimes the vicious are mightier than the just, and sometimes virtue does naught but weaken.
What then, is strength? True strength is not mere physical ability, but force of will and the capacity to actualize intent. Here, both spirit and psyche are integral, for the power of one's will is a direct reflection of the health of one's spirit. Each of all of us has something of virtue and something of vice, and the portion of each determines our course in life. But the coincidence of virtue and vice in the same soul is divisive, and war is waged daily between these forces. The stake of this contest is nothing less than our very destinies – the destiny of the individual and of humankind itself. For most, this conflict is never settled, and so, much of humanity suffers constantly from despair, confusion, malaise, or some worse spiritual ailment.
That strength of will which is power itself comes as a symptom of spiritual vitality. The power of one's will grows in accord with the consolidation of the spirit. Strength and power are derived from emotional tranquility and peace of mind, when the war becomes settled for better or for worse. Herein lies the power to create or destroy, and the power to direct one's will with intention. Herein lies the possibility to actualize a future.
What then, is strength? True strength is not mere physical ability, but force of will and the capacity to actualize intent. Here, both spirit and psyche are integral, for the power of one's will is a direct reflection of the health of one's spirit. Each of all of us has something of virtue and something of vice, and the portion of each determines our course in life. But the coincidence of virtue and vice in the same soul is divisive, and war is waged daily between these forces. The stake of this contest is nothing less than our very destinies – the destiny of the individual and of humankind itself. For most, this conflict is never settled, and so, much of humanity suffers constantly from despair, confusion, malaise, or some worse spiritual ailment.
That strength of will which is power itself comes as a symptom of spiritual vitality. The power of one's will grows in accord with the consolidation of the spirit. Strength and power are derived from emotional tranquility and peace of mind, when the war becomes settled for better or for worse. Herein lies the power to create or destroy, and the power to direct one's will with intention. Herein lies the possibility to actualize a future.
System Building
All the world lives under one guiding system or another. These systems may be religious or political, cultural or familial. Regardless, they determine the course of our lives and the constitution of our spirits. For many born in our cross-cultural world, these guiding systems seem senseless and arbitrary. It looks as if we could easily be something or someone entirely different from who we are, if we were just born somewhere else, with a different family, culture and community. Learning that our beliefs are determined by our environment, we become disillusioned and search for something higher, more reliable and more concrete – something, namely true. We come to see all guiding systems as systems of control, borne of the will to dominate. We despair that there is not even one system that can be trusted. But though all systems systematize, very few were created to stifle and oppress. Most were guided by a more innocent intent.
True creators do not wish to harm others with their creation, but rather to free them from something else by way of their creation. Such systems are best seen not as an invention and something essentially new, but rather as the re-imagining and newborn manifestation of that good spirit which has grown hungry through long neglect and suppression. And that good spirit had been there all along, though it dwelt quietly unexpressed, obstructed by the inadequacy of a system which had lived past its usefulness. Living within such a dying system, one is presented with the unique opportunity to do good by doing ill. Here, to create one must first tear down. Here, one must destroy to make free.
These good destroyers are liberators. They free captives from the oppression of dying systems, thought they fall short for they offer no alternative. They release the captives from constraint and comfort into a boundless anarchy. They destroy the jail, but whence go the captives?
It is here that the captives, freed, become captors, building safe havens that shall become the prisons of their children. Confronted with true boundlessness, they discover that freedom is less a promise than a challenge, less a consolation than a difficulty. So they set out to build strongholds against the radical violence of liberty, the harsh reality that once was their only hope.
But he who builds well does not safeguard against jailbreaks. Rather he promotes the creation of a prosperous utopia in which the captives may live free, should they come to escape their prisons, should they find the utopia more alluring than the desert of anarchy. The good creator does not constrain but rather frees. He frees the spirit and mind to a world of its own choosing. He opens the space to a chosen world, a world that is both revelation and necessity, a free world both chosen and true.
True creators do not wish to harm others with their creation, but rather to free them from something else by way of their creation. Such systems are best seen not as an invention and something essentially new, but rather as the re-imagining and newborn manifestation of that good spirit which has grown hungry through long neglect and suppression. And that good spirit had been there all along, though it dwelt quietly unexpressed, obstructed by the inadequacy of a system which had lived past its usefulness. Living within such a dying system, one is presented with the unique opportunity to do good by doing ill. Here, to create one must first tear down. Here, one must destroy to make free.
These good destroyers are liberators. They free captives from the oppression of dying systems, thought they fall short for they offer no alternative. They release the captives from constraint and comfort into a boundless anarchy. They destroy the jail, but whence go the captives?
It is here that the captives, freed, become captors, building safe havens that shall become the prisons of their children. Confronted with true boundlessness, they discover that freedom is less a promise than a challenge, less a consolation than a difficulty. So they set out to build strongholds against the radical violence of liberty, the harsh reality that once was their only hope.
But he who builds well does not safeguard against jailbreaks. Rather he promotes the creation of a prosperous utopia in which the captives may live free, should they come to escape their prisons, should they find the utopia more alluring than the desert of anarchy. The good creator does not constrain but rather frees. He frees the spirit and mind to a world of its own choosing. He opens the space to a chosen world, a world that is both revelation and necessity, a free world both chosen and true.
More System Building
A system is created after it is born. It originates as a byway, a path from constraint to freedom. As it frees, the number of the freed grows and becomes a community. Dwelling in its newfound freedom, the people comes to know that openness also means emptiness, that by leaving the oppression of a system they also lost their security. Boundless faith becomes too great a demand, for they are completely unprepared to practice such a radical emptiness. Longing to reclaim a sense of security, they come together and rebuild. So freed, they cannot return - instead they recreate. After all, it was not Christ who founded Christianity but Paul. While Christ preached the kingdom of heaven and eternal salvation, Paul offered a present security by building the church.
The Dialectic of Reconciliation Redux
What is required to achieve unity, peace and reconciliation of the most disparate views? Many things, but one thing – the will to do so. It requires a certain attitude: that of open-mindedness and understanding. One must have the will to hear what one does not think, and just be willing to listen. For if you will not listen, I cannot speak with you but only to or at you, as with an uncompromising wall. And if you are such a wall, that wall is your strength and cannot be breached by anyone. Your wall only falls if it desires to fall, only crumbles if it desires dust instead. That is also to say, the barriers that make us deaf to each other are only broken when we would rather have no belief at all than only own belief, when we would rather be filled with the emptiness of the desert than be fortified within a castle. And unless we are willing to endure that stark and lonely desert expanse, we will never find the oasis of true belief, the paradise which flows boundlessly back into the desert, whose residents dwell transitively between perfection and nothingness.
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