Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent actions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. — David Hume
Today in history is David Hume’s birthday. Hume was a 18th century Scottish philosopher who’s writings have gotten more attention lately because modern psychologists, notably Jonathan Haidt, have been praising parts of Hume’s moral philosophy. Haidt sees the core of Hume’s moral philosophy as anticipating Haidt’s researchconclusions about how people reach moral judgements.
In short, Hume & Haidt both argue that moral judgements aren’t something we reach through a process of reflective reasoning. That’s a rationalist delusion. Our moral judgements are primarily the product of our intuitions, or in the Humian sense, our passions. Reason is simply the ex post facto lawyer who’s primary job is to defend your moral intuitions. Haidt’s social intuitionism model says, “Moral intuitions come first, strategic reasoning comes second.”
As David Hume wrote: “Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” Reason serves our passions, our emotions, our non-rational intuitions.
Of course the down side of Hume’s & Haidt’s idea is that logic and good arguments are not likely to persuade anybody of anything when people’s beliefs or moral convictions are set. Haidt would argue, and I think rightly, that it’s not that reason can’t persuade at all, it’s just that until emotional barriers are soften or lowered Reason cannot make much headway in influencing our morals, politics, religion or football.
As Jonathan Swift wrote: “Reasoning will never make a man correct an ill opinion, which by reasoning he never acquired…”
I think an honest observer of people and human nature would think Hume’s & Haidt’s idea a confirmation of the obvious. I mean watch people at election time…like now in the US.
Politics, which is very moral, is a good example. Facts, evidence, and sound argument are not what typically guides most people’s decisions about issues and who to vote for. Now, I don’t think that’s true with everyone. Certainly there are people who can be persuaded by logic, evidence, and good arguments. There are people who are aware of their emotional barriers and who do want to get at the truth or what’s best for themselves or the society. But that persuadable group is relatively small, unfortunately.
The saving grace for our society is that this group of Independent voters and thinkers have a big impact in the outcome of close elections. They’re willing to go either way and are weighing the reasons and arguments for each candidate—or so I’d like to believe.
One of the most fascinating figures in the history of literature is Leo Tolstoy. Unlike most people, who discover Tolstoy through his novels and short stories, I was introduced to Tolstoy through his religious writings.
Many years ago I remember reading William James’s book, The Varieties of Religious Experience. As I recall, I was fascinated by James’s analysis and commentary on some of Tolstoy’s religious writings. (James’s book was perspective altering and left a big impression on me. I hope to read it again some day. I highly recommend you give it a go if you enjoy philosophical psychology and religious studies.)
So I picked up a Penguin Classic of Tolstoy’s writings called A Confession and Other Religious Writings. This book, the imagines and ideas, still haunt my memory. After reading this book, I started dipping into the rest of Tolstoy’s works. It was, like Tolstoy’s Russia, a vast and consuming experience. Tolstoy is not just a writer or moralist with something to say, he’s more like the yogi who wants to change your consciousness and reveal a world hidden from your view. This is Tolstoy’s mission in life.
Tolstoy’s deeply philosophical and religious mind get full range in his greatest novel, War and Peace, a large—and seemingly endless—canvas where Tolstoy paints his ideas about determinism and contingency in history, which he brilliantly elaborates on in an essay at the end of the novel.
Tolstoy’s writings and ideas have been highly influential. Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. were both influenced by Tolstoy’s principle of non-violent resistance. The great 20th century philosophical genius Ludwig Wittgenstein was highly influenced by Tolstoy’s religious book, The Gospel in Brief. The popular historian and biographer, Niall Ferguson, credited Tolstoy, specifically War and Peace, with making him a historian. And who can forget the tragic story of Chris McCandless, the young idealist who appears to have been influenced to go hiking alone in the Alaskan wilderness (see Into the Wild) to commune with nature after reading Tolstoy’s Family Happiness.
Now, when it comes to novels, Tolstoy is not your casual read. If you’re use to reading popular novelists then you’re probably going to find Tolstoy, at times, difficult to follow. Tolstoy is not looking to just entertain, though he does, but to impart wisdom through the medium of art. Tolstoy is using words and story to cast the mind’s eye upon what Rudyard Kipling called “the impenetrable plinth of things.” Immersion in Tolstoy’s work has the real potential to alter your perspective on life.
But most people, other than for work, don’t have time for reading much at all, especially a large book like War and Peace or a book of Tolstoy’s religious writings. And Tolstoy understood this.
So in the mid 1880s Tolstoy came up with the idea for A Calendar of Wisdom: “A wise thought for every day of the year, from the greatest philosophers of all times and all peoples.” He added, “I have to create a circle of reading for myself: Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, Lao-Tzu, Buddha, Pascal, The New Testament. This is also necessary for all people . . . I would like to create a book . . . in which I could tell a person about his life, and about the Good Way of Life.”
Instead of a big novel or philosophical treatise on the meaning of life, Tolstoy decided one of his last works (he updated and edited the book in the last years of his life) would be a book of daily thoughts to nourish the soul:
The difference between real material poison and intellectual poison is that most material poison is disgusting to the taste, but intellectual poison, which takes the form of cheap newspapers or bad books, can unfortunately sometimes be attractive.
Knowledge is real knowledge only when it is acquired by the efforts of your intellect, not by memory.
Only when we forget what we were taught do we start to have real knowledge.
(Henry David Thoreau, January 9)
A constant flow of thoughts expressed by other people can stop and deaden your own thought and your own initiative…. That is why constant learning softens your brain…. Stopping the creation of your own thoughts to give room for the thoughts from other books reminds me of Shakespeare’s remark about his contemporaries who sold their land in order to see other countries.
(Arthur Schopenhauer, January 9)
Real wisdom is not the knowledge of everything, but the knowledge of which things in life are necessary, which are less necessary, and which are completely unnecessary to know. Among the most necessary knowledge is the knowledge of how to live well, that is, how to produce the least possible evil and the greatest goodness in one’s life. At present, people study useless sciences, but forget to study this, the most important knowledge.
(Jean Jaques Rousseau, March 16)
There is only one real knowledge: that which helps us to be free. Every other type of knowledge is mere amusement.
(Vishnu Purana, Indian Wisdom, June 23)
The way to true knowledge does not go through soft grass covered with flowers. To find it, a person must climb steep mountains.
(Josh Ruskin, September 20)
Intellect is the quality that makes us different from animals.
Buddha said: “In meditation, in speech, in life, in studies, I never forget about the most important thing: the requirements of the intellect.”
The moral and the intellectual are always in harmony.
Each morning, for the past few months, I’ve started my day by opening to the current date in Tolstoy’s Calendar of Wisdom. It has helped put my mind in the right frame, or for lack of a better word, rhythm for the day.
“I cannot understand,” Tolstoy wrote, “how some people can live without communicating with the wisest people who ever lived on earth . . . I feel very happy every day, because I read this book.”
In this busy world we rarely have time to dedicate to our spiritual an intellectual growth. Regardless of where you’re at in life or what’s going on, it’s important to imbibe the nourishing water of wisdom.
Tolstoy has provided a cup. I recommend you take those brief moments and drink daily.
Is the study of philosophy about truth seeking or therapy for the soul? This is the gist of a discussion between Nigel Warburton and Jules Evans on Aeon.
My thoughts are that philosophy is really about both. I was originally drawn to reading philosophers like Søren Kierkegaard because his writings were both about truth seeking and therapy for the soul. Not that what I read in Kierkegaard’s books always calmed my soul! To the contrary. In this case, the potential therapeutic cure was often on the other side of a journey through Fear and Trembling or Either/Or or The Concept of Dread or The Sickness unto Death. Yes, very inspiring titles I know. But philosophers like Kierkegaard and Nietzsche used a sort of philosophical shock treatment on the patient.
And then there are the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers. Many of the ancient writers were moralists and philosophical self-improvement specialists. Like Plato, they were in an active dialogue with the reader about the nature of man, his society and how to live the good life. For this reason, these ancient writers were my favorite over all philosophers. The writings of philosophers like Cicero, Plutarch and the Seneca, at least in translation, were easy to understand and aesthetically pleasing. Their insights still strike at the core of the human predicament. The basic human struggles have not changed over the centuries. Man is still the same pitiful clay.
I’ve always felt that reading Plutarch or Seneca or Marcus Aurelius improved me and helped me get a better perspective on life and its struggles. I still return to them periodically, especially the stoic musings of Marcus Aurelius, probably the closest thing we have in history to the Platonic ideal of the Philosopher King:
How to act: Never under compulsion, out of selfishness, without forethought, with misgivings . . . Let the spirit in you represent a man, an adult, a citizen, a Roman, a ruler. Taking up his post like a solider and patiently waiting his recall from life. Needing no oath or witness. Cheerfulness. Without requiring other people’s help. Or serenity supplied by others. To stand up straight–no straightened.
In fact, the argument that Jules Evans makes is that stoics like Marcus Aurelius, Seneca and Epictetus developed successful psychological techniques for coping with emotional suffering. Some of these philosophical techniques have turned out to have scientific validity. Jules Evans actually wrote a book about what you can learn and internalize from these ancient teachings.
I remember giving my mom a copy of the Art of Living. She carried this gem of a book around with her for years and referred to the teachings of Epictetus regularly in conversation.
True happiness is a verb. It’s the ongoing dynamic performance of worthy deeds. The flourishing life, whose foundation is virtuous intention, is something we continually improvise, and in doing so our souls mature. Our life has usefulness to ourselves and to the people we touch.
There’s little doubt stoicism helped my mother cope with some of the deeply saddening things in her life at that time. I’m positive millions of readers over the centuries have found solace in the writings of these ancient philosophical psychologists.
On the other side of the Aeon discussion is Nigel Warburton, who sees philosophy as mostly just an exercise in critical thinking. This is demonstrably true in some sense. Philosophy is mental activity in clarification and elucidation. As Ludwig Wittgenstein might have said with an air of humor, “My aim is: to teach you to pass from a piece of disguised nonsense to something that is patent nonsense,” it’s to find out “where the shoe pinches.” But even Wittgenstein the great logician, in his letters and unpublished writings, was always offering philosophical advice about life and how to live it.
Philosophy began with Socrates and his attempts to educate the youth of Athens. But he wasn’t just attempting to educate them in how to think, he was also trying to teach them how to live. While Socrates used math and geometry–the linear and analytical side of philosophy–in many of his arguments, the larger point was always about improving the soul of the individual. In the Socratic view the city is like the man, the improving of the individual is also about improving the polis, the state, the collective body. Philosophy’s roots have always been about improving the individual through improving his soul. And so philosophy will always be about both the science of understanding and the art of living.
One of the best parts of the discussion between Warburton and Evans is an exchange over how Evans “sees philosophy.”:
I approach philosophy as a sort of pragmatism – I have a set of values and an idea of how the world is, and I try it out and see if I can live by it, if it fits reality, if it leads to an expanded sense of flourishing. And reality (including other people) feeds back to me, lets me know if I’m living wisely or foolishly. That two-way process is always changing, you’re always adapting and revisiting assumptions.
That nicely sums up how I’d like to think I approach philosophy: pragmatically. Philosophy is about putting ideas to the test and learning and adapting from the results. The ultimate goal is about flourishing. If we have the right mindset, and are open to learning, we can find that “reflective equilibrium between ideas and lived experience.”
One early winter’s morning, before anyone was awake, I went for a walk in the snow. For me, the wintery wonderland provides a unique chance to be alone with my thoughts and to do some deep reflecting and communing with nature. It’s a good time to just be. Henry David Thoreau would surely have approved.
I quietly put on my cold weather clothes, slipped on my snow boots, and gently opened the front door. My face was immediately flushed by the icy air and the prickly like chilly tingle of blowing snow. As I stepped off the porch into the snow, the sun was just starting to peer over the horizon. Its gentle caressing light pierced the air and shimmered the pale blue dawn with shades of soft amber. I could hear the wind gusts roaring through the tree tops. As I turned toward the woods, I could hear each of my footsteps as I tramped through the virgin white powdery snow. The air was sharp and crisp with the faint smell of wood from fireplaces.
I walked into the woods and made way toward the stream. The snow was deep enough to keep my pace slow and deliberate. It was at this time, along this path to the stream, that I slipped into a semi-meditative state. My mind cleared. I began paying precise, nonjudgmental attention to the steady stream of impressions coming from all around me. It was calming and peaceful. I had drifted into a state of heightened self-awareness and total absorption in the present moment.
I briefly lingered at the stream and listened to the gentle flow of the water over the rocks. I then began walking toward the road. My mind was quiet, relaxed, and clear; yet focused and engaged. I began to think about life and the meaning of it all. A philosophical mind like mine can wander across a vast landscape of ideas trying to find some kind of coherent and satisfying answer. But sometimes the best answers come from just being in the moment, from just letting go. After reaching the unplowed road I stood and took a deep breath of the cool moist air and looked up at the morning sky through the mists of my exhale.
Thoughts and ideas flashed across my mind. The environment invoked awe and a sense of amazement and wonder. I thought of how many millions of other people over the centuries must have had similar thoughts while out on a quiet morning walk in the snow. Looking up at the millions of fading stars in the morning light made me think of just how mysterious it all is. I thought of just how impossible it seems that we (Man) will ever truly understand it all.
An old philosophical argument sprung into my mind. How can a finite mind understand the infinite? The very concept of something being infinite in nature, always existing, never having a beginning, whether you believe it’s God or the universe or just matter, is almost impossible to conceptualize or understand for a finite, limited being who resides on a tiny little planet, amongst a sea of planets, in one universe amongst thousands of other universes. Man’s presence on this planet has so far been a mere blip in time. Vast infinite time existed before us and vast infinite time lies ahead when we’re all gone. Are we, as Conrad Aiken said, “Cosmic Mariners, destination unknown?” Or is this short journey of ours somehow the plan of some divine providence?
Of course the simple truth is we don’t know with certainty either way. We know many small “t” truths about life and things. These can be answered mostly by science and reason. But we don’t have any sure answers for the big “T” truths about existence and the universe. Exactly how did conscious beings come to exist in a universe of lifeless atoms in the void? Having a scientific turn of mind, I can hypothesize and attempt to scientifically explain how this could have happened based on our current scientific understanding. But each possible answer I could give would only generate a number of philosophical and scientific questions that would cast some doubt on my scientific explanation.
And so it is with every big “T” truth in life, we live and believe by faith, religious or otherwise. The secular-materialist may shudder at the idea, but they’re as much a faith community as religious believers are when it comes to the big “T” truths about existence. The great question of existence asked by Gottfried Leibniz still remains unanswered: “Why is there something rather than nothing?” Which brings me to an important understanding about faith. Genuine faith is always based on doubt. One commits oneself to an idea after having processed it, after having raised and analyzed doubts about it, after having applied it in the front trenches of life and found that the idea still lives and breaths. One rightfully has faith in such ideas. It has worked. It may not be “proven” true. More evidence may be needed to determine its truth. But despite these hesitations and doubts, one continues to live by the idea. That, my dear reader, is faith. “If doubt appears,” said Paul Tillich, “it should not be considered as the negation of faith, but as an element which was always and will always be present in the act of faith.” In the general sense, faith is that courage that allows us to live by possibilities rather than certainties.
My thoughts were broken by the sound of a snowplow off in the distance. It was time to head back to the house. My wife and children would be getting up soon. I had enjoyed these brief moments of meditation and reflection and the chance to commune, Waldenesque like, with nature and the mystery. I cherish moments like these. We all need time to clear our heads and momentarily cast ourselves adrift in the flow of our thoughts.
We all have debts, and most of them aren’t financial either. I realized one recently while I was reading Gregory Hays’s translation of Marcus Aurelius’s ancient philosophical journal, the Meditations. Book one of the Meditations begins with a section entitled “Debts and Lessons.” In this section Marcus briefly summarizes the positive things he learned from various people in his life while growing up, and this got me to thinking about a debt I have from an earlier time in my life.
I went to college like so many high school graduates because I wanted to “get an education” and then get a job. At the time, of course, I really wasn’t sure what I wanted to do in life; most of us aren’t at that age. And I wasn’t sure exactly what getting educated really meant. So I began college by signing up for a number of general education courses at the local community college. One of the courses was Philosophy 101. At the time, I didn’t know much about philosophy and didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I did know that “Phil 101” was available and it fulfilled my general education requirements. The course description also made taking philosophy seem like a no brainer. The course catalog described the study of philosophy something like this:
The study of philosophy serves to develop intellectual abilities important for life as a whole, beyond the knowledge and skills required for any particular profession. Properly pursued, it enhances analytical, critical, and interpretive capacities that are applicable to any subject-matter, and in any human context. It cultivates the capacities and appetite for self-expression and reflection, for exchange and debate of ideas, for life-long learning, and for dealing with problems for which there are no easy answers. It also helps to prepare one for the tasks of citizenship. Participation in political and community affairs today is all too often insufficiently informed, manipulable and vulnerable to demagoguery. A good philosophical education enhances the capacity to participate responsibly and intelligently in public life. — The American Philosophical Association (APA)
After reading a course description like this I was sold. It sounded like what getting educated was all about. (To this day I would say the description above is the best and most accurate way of describing the benefits of a philosophical education.) Philosophy 101 was an introductory course, but I suspect it might have been the only philosophy course some of my unsuspecting classmates completed. Philosophy isn’t easy, even at the introductory level. You have to do something a lot of people at that young age aren’t always ready to do, and that involves thinking deeply and critically. It’s mental work of the highest order. You don’t take Philosophy “for fun” or an “easy three credits.” Those who did were quickly disabused of the notion. You stayed in the class either out of genuine intellectual interest, necessity, or sheer determination. Ultimately, if you stayed and pushed yourself it was very rewarding.
The instructor was Tom Hilton. As I recall, he was relatively new to the college (As of this writing he is still teaching there.). He was a soft spoken man with an easy manner and a gentle approach to teaching. He had a genuine love for philosophy and was a natural teacher. He made the class interesting and engaged us intellectually. He made us think in ways many of us hadn’t even vaguely reckoned at that age. Using the Socratic Method, he forced us to stretch our minds—to examine, to question, to think, to learn, and most of all, to grow. The English word “education” is a derivation of the Latin verb educes, which means “to draw forth from within.” Mr. Hilton was indeed educating us, he was prodding us to engage and exercise our critical abilities. At least that’s how I felt in his class. The very best teachers are those who can get you to engage the subject and think deeply about ideas. That’s how you grow intellectually. It has the potential to change your life. It certainly had an affect on mine.
I took two more philosophy classes from Mr. Hilton. I took Philosophy 102 and a class called Practical Reasoning. Philosophy 102 covered the existentialists. It was a very interesting and very challenging intellectually. I actually still have the text book. Existentialism is very deep, it took some real effort to understand the thoughts of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Sartre, Buber, and Heidegger. As with all theoretical philosophy, you had to follow extended lines of reasoning and conceptual complexity. You had to sweat, mentally.I remember being particularly fascinated by Kierkegaard and Nietzsche. At first I struggled to see through the words to the ideas, but slowly the mental fog evaporated and I began to recognize (I believe) the deep meaning and genius of their work.
Practical Reasoning class was another awakening experience. Mr. Hilton taught us the structure of a good argument and how to detect a bad one. We learned basic logic and how to recognize the vast array of logical fallacies most people bring into everyday discussions and arguments. Mr. Hilton usually began the class with having individual students read articles from The Virginian Pilot newspaper. He would then lead the class in anatomizing the statements and arguments made by the author to determine if they were logically sound and, well, reasonable. The course made me realize just how illogical, and at times totally unreasonable, most of us can be in our everyday thinking; a realization that has been sadly confirmed—tragically and humorously—over and over throughout the years since. The theoretical philosophy I’d learned so far was interesting, but it was this course that really brought philosophy down to earth. All of us, every day, must navigate arguments. These arguments come in many forms, from TV commercial, to newspapers, the political discussion at lunch, to an employee’s explanation (or spin) of an event or problem. All of them are laced with arguments. By “argument” I mean attempts to persuade you. TV commercials about buying a product are, rhetorically, an argument for you to buy something. Our daily life is filled with arguments of some type, situations that require us (if we’re conscious) to reason effectively and decide.
Philosophy is a hard subject to define. In ancient Greek philosophia simply meant “a love of wisdom.” The ancient Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle philosophized on just about everything. No set of ideas or inquiry was off limits, all domains of knowledge were open to inquiry. I still see the task of philosophy as Aristotle did: a synoptic vision of reality. There’s no exact, settled modern definition of philosophy. Over the centuries philosophy bracketed into various sub disciplines and schools of thought. Look at this Wiki page and you’ll see just why philosophy was once called the “Queen of all Sciences.” Philosophy is really about everything.
After Mr. Hilton’s class I began reading philosophy on my own. I spent years reading through various works of Philosophy. I didn’t end up with a degree in philosophy if you’re wondering. My graduate and undergraduate degrees are actually in management. Both of my degree programs, however, were Liberal Arts based and did contain courses in ethics. Of course I really enjoyed those courses because the discussions centered on philosophical theories and the philosophers who constructed them. I was also fortunate in graduate school to have some very fine professors for those courses. (My hat’s off to Professors Stephen Vicchio and Christopher “Aristotle is the man” Dreisbach of Johns Hopkins University, two exceptional human beings, teachers, and mentors.)
I don’t read very much pure (or theoretical) philosophy now. The truth is, as Moses Mendelssohn once said about one of Immanuel Kant’s books, it “consumes the fluid of the nerves.” You have to be in a certain mindset for that type of reading and thinking. I’m talking primarily about epistemology and logic. I still read and enjoy the practical philosophers like Aristotle, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius & Cicero, along with the many modern philosophers. Practical philosophers are generally interested in politics, ethics, society, personal development, and many other practical affairs. It’s reading that has a direct impact on my thinking. And of course my interest in philosophy naturally led me into many other areas of the humanities, especially history.
So it was Mr. Hilton, in that community college class room (circa 1987), who first sparked my interest in philosophy, ideas, and great thinkers. It hasn’t provided me with any professional status or fame, but it has shaped my perspective in many positive ways and enriched my life. It was, as Mark Twain said, a “conspicuous link” in the chain of my being and for that I’m very thankful to Tom Hilton.