Digressions&Impressions

The Letter against Derrida's Honorary Degree, re-examined.

The Times (London). Saturday, May 9, 1992

Sir, The University of Cambridge is to ballot on May 16 on whether M. Jacques Derrida should be allowed to go forward to receive an honorary degree. As philosophers and others who have taken a scholarly and professional interest in M. Derrida's remarkable career over the years, we believe the following might throw some needed light on the public debate that has arisen over this issue.

Derrida describes himself as a philosopher, and his writings do indeed bear some of the marks of writings in that discipline. Their influence, however, has been to a striking degree almost entirely in fields outside philosophy – in departments of film studies, for example, or of French and English literature.

In the eyes of philosophers, and certainly among those working in leading departments of philosophy throughout the world, M. Derrida's work does not meet accepted standards of clarity and rigour.

We submit that, if the works of a physicist (say) were similarly taken to be of merit primarily by those working in other disciplines, this would in itself be sufficient grounds for casting doubt upon the idea that the physicist in question was a suitable candidate for an honorary degree.

Derrida's career had its roots in the heady days of the 1960s and his writings continue to reveal their origins in that period. Many of them seem to consist in no small part of elaborate jokes and puns (‘logical phallusies’ and the like), and M. Derrida seems to us to have come close to making a career out of what we regard as translating into the academic sphere tricks and gimmicks similar to those of the Dadaists or of the concrete poets.

Certainly he has shown considerable originality in this respect. But again, we submit, such originality does not lend credence to the idea that he is a suitable candidate for an honorary degree.

Many French philosophers see in M. Derrida only cause for silent embarrassment, his antics having contributed significantly to the widespread impression that contemporary French philosophy is little more than an object of ridicule.

Derrida's voluminous writings in our view stretch the normal forms of academic scholarship beyond recognition. Above all – as every reader can very easily establish for himself (and for this purpose any page will do) – his works employ a written style that defies comprehension.

Many have been willing to give M. Derrida the benefit of the doubt, insisting that language of such depth and difficulty of interpretation must hide deep and subtle thoughts indeed.

When the effort is made to penetrate it, however, it becomes clear, to us at least, that, where coherent assertions are being made at all, these are either false or trivial.

Academic status based on what seems to us to be little more than semi-intelligible attacks upon the values of reason, truth, and scholarship is not, we submit, sufficient grounds for the awarding of an honorary degree in a distinguished university.

Yours sincerely,

Barry Smith
(Editor, The Monist)

Hans Albert (University of Mannheim)
David Armstrong (Sydney)
Ruth Barcan Marcus (Yale)
Keith Campbell (Sydney)
Richard Glauser (Neuchâtel)
Rudolf Haller (Graz)
Massimo Mugnai (Florence)
Kevin Mulligan (Geneva)
Lorenzo Peña (Madrid)
Willard van Orman Quine (Harvard)
Wolfgang Röd (Innsbruck)
Karl Schuhmann (Utrecht)
Daniel Schulthess (Neuchâtel)
Peter Simons (Salzburg)
René Thom (Burs-sur-Yvette)
Dallas Willard (Los Angeles)
Jan Wolenski (Cracow)

Internationale Akademie für Philosophie, Obergass 75, 9494S Schaan, Liechtenstein. [Quoted from here.]

Today, I presented a guest-lecture in which I mentioned my transformative experience, qua philosopher of economics, with a distinguished, mathematical economist who used themes from Derrida (and innovated with them) in order to explain and articulate a philosophy of mathematical economics and, thereby, also made feel what the, as it were, life-world of a mathematical economist qua theorist is like. This encounter -- in the years when I was an untenured professor -- made me revisit my conviction that Derrida is bullshit, and made me realize that my acquaintance with Derrida's writings could be charitably described as very indirect. I had accepted the epistemic authority of others (on Derrida) without much thought, and it made me examine how much of my intellectual self-understanding was handed down by others without my conscious mediation. In preparing the lecture I looked up the famous letter protesting the intention to award a honorary degree to Derrida by Cambridge University.

It is sometimes noted that it is extremely unlikely that most of the signers had read much more of Derrida than I had by the time I left graduate school. What is not noted is that it is extremely unlikely that these signers had read much of each other. (Obviously there are exceptions! [No need to remind me that Quine and Barcus Marcus were pretty familiar with each other's work.]) They are an eclectic mix of anglo-phone analytical philosophers, anglo-phone 'analytical' historians of 19th and 20th century philosophy, european and anglophone Husserlians, European 'Austrian' philosophers, European analytical philosophers, and a few whom I wouldn't know how to characterize. Moreover, the use of 'European' is in some sense an anachronism because in the early 1990s there was no shared philosophical space (of the technocratic sort familiar from ERC grant proposals and journal rankings). As it happens, according to Barry Smith's own testimony, the future of European philosophy in the years after the fall of the Berlin wall is one of the main issues at stake; Smith was worried that after the collapse of political Marxism there would be an embrace of Derrida style "nihilism" at the expense of other pre-Marxist (local) "traditions." Smith's letter failed to prevent the awarding of the honorary degree to Derrida. But from the vantage point of two decades, we can say that the take-over of European philosophy by Deconstruction did not happen. As philosophical politics go that's a victory for Smith.

What's striking about the letter is that it tacitly appeals to canons of normal science (hence the analogy with physics): the disciplinary experts drawn from "leading departments" decide merit based on "accepted standards." (Accepted by who? Well, of course, by the members of the leading departments at "distinguished" universities.) The self-serving and self-reinforcing, conservative nature of such reasoning -- and let's stipulate that the letter only expresses uncontroversial truth --  is by now obvious. Known "influence" outside leading departments counts for nothing. We have to remind ourselves that it is not too difficult to construe narratives in light of these norms of "merit," that Descartes, Locke, Hume, Thoreau, Nietzsche would have also fallen obviously short. Given that  professional philosophers operate in a zero-sum institutional environment (for jobs, status, time, appointments, funding, etc.) it is by no means obvious that they even have incentives to collect the kind of evidence that would allow them to offer such utterances in an epistemically reliable matter.

Even if one allows that "clarity and rigour" are the true touchstone of quality in the "eyes of philosophers" (and one ignores my reservations), it is, in fact, somewhat amusing that it's only very recent affair -- with the rise of meta-philosophy -- that the methods of at least some of the signers are being scrutinized with care and attention. Even the friend of clarity and rigour can recognize other criteria (truth, fruitfulness, social/moral utility, etc.) that may trump "clarity and rigour."

Another striking feature of the letter is the utter contempt for the "Dadaists or of the concrete poets" as contributions to philosophy. (What philosophy, if not nihilism? Well, I am no expert, of course, but it be useful to see these as a contribution to the experimental art of living.) Evidently, philosophy is a serious enterprise. Now one need not be friend of Žižek (who makes Derrida seem highminded), to recognize that one, thereby, is in no position to recognize that sometimes -- maybe all the time in our fallen world in which our hands are sullied with innocent blood everywhere -- the stance of the jokester is the only morally responsible stance; undoubtedly there are other more earnest stances that are worth exploring, too.  I am not claiming this is so, but ruling this out a priori is, well, a philosophical mistake.

As an aside, the important point -- lost on the signers -- is that since Socrates we know that all genuine (and ersatz) philosophy always runs the risk of "ridicule" and that such ridicule is unavoidable absent philosophers-kings.

Finally, it is a bit odd (even if indirectly very clear) to see in a letter devoted to defending the standards of clarity and rigour, the same writing characterized as defying "comprehension" -- there is universal consensus ("every reader") assumed over this --, yet also being, somehow, "semi-intelligible" and being "either false or trivial." (Yes, I am sure, that with considerable effort, you -- you are well-trained, after all -- can turn this into a consistent triplet with the help of elegant distinctions.)

Undoubtedly, the infelicities I have noted in the letter to the editor are the consequence of haste, consensus formation among an eclectic group of professional philosophers, and editorial interventions. The letter got polemical work done, and, I am open to the argument that Derrida's philosophical politics merited this kind of response. But in so far as I have had this letter and effort praised to me when I was a student (and heard claims like these marshaled against other philosophers that needed to be rejected), I note that it is more revealing about the commitments of the signers than either about Derrida or the politics of honorary award granting.

 

 

 

On Arguments from Authority by Historians of Philosophy

The problem with Anselm's Other Argument relates, rather, to the book's aim. The most generous course is to take the aim as to establish and assess a new Anselmian argument, one suggested by a passage in his Reply, the 'other' or the Metaphysical Ontological Argument. Smith does indeed succeed in this aim, but he could have accomplished it without writing most of the first two thirds of the book. Even the third of the book dedicated to the 'other' argument is leisurely and digressive. Smith could have made his point as or more effectively than he does here in a twenty-page article. And, although he has propounded a new argument, it resembles various versions of the Modal Ontological Argument in that it forces the atheists, not to accept that, given premises they would grant, it follows that God exists, but to accept, not merely that God does not exist, but that necessarily he does not exist -- hardly the sort of a concession they would make only through gritted teeth.

Alternatively, the aim of the book can be taken as being to say something about Anselm. Such a construal makes much more sense of the many pages devoted to showing that he did not propose a Modal Ontological Argument and the evident attention given to connecting the Metaphysical Ontological Argument to Anselm's text. Yet this approach would not be a generous one because in any ordinary, historical sense of what Anselm did, he quite clearly neither put forward a Modal Ontological Argument of any of the sorts discussed by contemporary philosophers nor the Metaphysical Ontological Argument as reconstructed by Smith. Smith, indeed, accepts that Anselm did not actually state this position, or various others he attributes to him, but he believes that the arguments are implied by the text. Smith works out what arguments are, and what are not, implied by Anselm's text by a process of seeing, through ingenious argument, what does or does not follow logically from various positions stated there. There may be some quasi-legal sense in which the distinctions he thus draws show what is or is not Anselm's property, but they throw no light at all on what interests an historian, i.e., what Anselm thought. Argument, of which Smith is clearly a master, is never sufficient to determine what someone, even so great an arguer as Anselm, thought. What is required is a sense of historical and biographical plausibility, nurtured by a concern for history -- for what actually took place. And, despite his learning and his scholarly punctiliousness, Smith seems to have no interest in history at all. Historical texts give him the opportunity for an ever-so-clever display of philosophical legerdemain, and Anselm himself slips through his fingers.--John Marenbon, 

I have quoted the final two paragraph's of Marenbon's review of A.D. Smith's Anselm's Other Argument. Before I get to analysis, three disclaimers: first, I have never met Marenbon (I think) and have had no professional interaction with him (although I have read some of his work on Abelard); second, I met A.D. Smith only once, and we disagreed fiercely (over the proper interpretation of Spinoza)--his criticism improved one of my papers (but we never managed to agree); third, I have not read Anselm's Other Argument. What follows is compatible with the possibility that Marenbon is entirely right about his criticism(s) and that I would have little sympathy for Smith's enterprise myself.

But it is worth noting that the last paragraph is entirely an ex cathedra, argument from authority (argumentum ad verecundiam). First, Marenbon offers no evidence for his claim that Smith's reconstruction is historically and biographically implausible. Such a claim would require considerable work because it always runs the risk of conflating the historian's lack of imagination or limitations for the subject matter's conceptual imagination. Even when we think there is an obvious risk of anachronism, it does not follow that there is, in fact, genuine anachronism. For example, Al-Farabi and Mill have very little in common, and wrote in very different intellectual contexts. So when somebody says that Al-Farabi anticipates some of the most characteristic Millian doctrines in his analysis of the democratic city, one may be not just surprised, but also suspicious of the claim. Yet, Al-Farabi and Mill are both very careful readers of Plato and that reminds us what is or is not plausible depends a lot on one's frame of reference.

Second, it is worth pausing at Marenbon's claim that what "interests an historian" is "what Anselm thought." Now, this is actually quite controversial. For to infer what X thought from what X wrote (the evidence) is no easy matter. For in general all one has is the text (with some biographical and historical/institutional detail provided by other texts). One need not accept that Marenbon's claim always involves the so-called intentional fallacy (Cf. Wimsatt and Beardsley), nor the Derridaean claim that there is only text, to recognize that it is by no means obvious we have access to what Anselm really thought on the basis of his writings. At best we have what Anselm wanted us to think he thought. Even authors friendly to Marenbon's claim (say Quentin Skinner 1969) recognize that Marenbon's is far too optimistic of what is historically possible; rather according to them, one has to imaginatively construct a kind of counter-factual audience from historical, contextual evidence to evaluate what it may have understood of the author's intentions. 

Third, Marenbon's claim involves a rather limited conception of what interests an historian--even if it is the kind of thing he heard when he was a student. The interests of historians have shifted dramatically over the centuries (if not millennia). But even the most methodologically conservative historians may also wish to learn how Anselm was understood by others or could have been understood by others. And, of course, there are lots of other purposes that a historian may have. (In fact, Marenbon seems not to have noticed that there has been quite a bit of methodological reflection on these issues by professional historians of philosophy during the past decade.)

Fourth, there is an odd inconsistency in Marenbon's position: for, on the one hand, he denies the legitimacy (as a species of history) of attributing to an author what is "implied by the text," presumably because it goes beyond the explicit evidence. That is, it requires some kind of inference to go from the text of X to the implication of that text. A strict positivist would indeed raise worries here. But as it happens, even Marenbon allows that we're dealing with logical inference, and it is not obvious what blocks such an inference; even if one rules out polysemy or esoteric techniques, all writers routinely imply more than they state. (If they didn't they would become unnecessarily detailed.) Yet, on the other hand, Marenbon thinks it is legitimate to infer from the text to an author's "thought." So, Marenbon has offered no resources to rule out A.D. Smith's aims (if they are his aims) and does so on grounds that would undercut his own purported aims.

As an aside, it's likely, of course, that many authors fail to notice "what does or does not follow logically from various positions stated," but on the whole scholarly communities do not end up studying those authors. And, while it is a plausible assumption that no human author sees all the logical entailments from her stated positions, one cannot assume she does not see any or few. In our age David Lewis was, in fact, legendary for the capacity to see implications (recall). Even lesser lights, like John Hawthorne and his teacher Jose Benardete, are quite capable of discerning (routinely) seven or eight 'moves' deep from a position. It does not follow, of course, that such authors expect all their readers to see all their intended moves; but, it is worth reminding ourselves, that authors, which have a strong sense of the divine presence, may have thereby sufficient audience for all their implied claims.

Finally, while it is touching that Marenbon channels his inner Von Ranke ("what actually took place") [although Marenbon's unwillingness to explore carefully and in detail logical entailments prevents him access to a powerful tool of discerning what might have happened in the past], it does not follow he exhibits much genuine "concern for history." In fact, it is his stance -- lacking generosity and an unwillingness to learn from others -- that is very damaging to the status of history of philosophy in the profession. For, rather than caring about what one might call, living history, Marenbon's preferred methodology entombs the past.

 

Why the Canon Fight is Different in Analytical Philosophy; on Heroworship

For a brief spell in the 80’s and 90’s, higher education was consumed by the canon wars. For those too young to remember, the canon wars were some earnest and intense battles among people who couldn’t agree on which authors needed to be taught for students to be considered properly educated.--Inside Higher Education (2013).

A year ago Nathaniel Adam Tobias Coleman succesfully managed to ignite discussion within professional philosophy about the status of the canon (recall my response).* Other humanists might think -- paraphrasing a quip falsely attributed to Heinrich Heine (which doesn't stop the Wall Street Journal from recycling it) -- that philosophy is the Netherlands of higher education, everything happens there three decades later. (Genuine humanists know that debates over the canon are as old as the canon itself.) While there are solid sociological-demographic reasons that help explain why philosophy remained aloof from the canon wars (the short version: professional anglophone philosophy is overwhelmingly white, male, change-averse and unreceptive toward unmasking narratives), there is also a key intellectual reason: within analytical philosophy the (Western) canon is largely irrelevant to disciplinary conversations.+ No command over the details of the text is ever presupposed. This is no surprise because analytical philosophy was founded -- self-consciously mimicking Descartes's dismissiveness toward book-knowledge -- as a revolt against historical approaches to philosophy.

While the days may be gone in which one could count on all literature professors to recite Shakespeare, Milton, Homer, Virgil, Goethe, Dante, and the other mighty dead, especially Middlemarch, from memory, to this day working knowledge of some such books provides a shared, contested frame of reference in literary and cultural studies even if nobody thinks that command of such books is a mark of civilization or even a signal of one's cultural capital. And while close reading persists in college courses, the idea that literature can replace Scripture has long been deconstructed, and De Man unmasked; I would not be surprised if it has had its brief, ironic revival prompted by a Simpsons episode.

By contrast even when I present on David Hume's Treatise to professional historians of philosophy, let alone generalist philosophical audiences, I make sure to prepare detailed excerpts of key passages. Hume is the fourth most admired philosopher in history (according to a recent poll); he is the highest ranked English language philosopher--his Treatise the acknowledged masterpiece.** Even the anti-historical logical empiricists would say nice things about Hume. My excerpts are not merely aids to memory; I know that the passages I am calling attention to are simply unknown. Professional philosophy is not a discipline in which texts from the past are internalized. (Yes, there are a few Hume scholars that have working knowledge of some texts, but even among that lovely crowd -- dominated by professional philosophers -- there are very few people that know Hume's major works really by heart.)

Even when working positions come to be known as Humean or Carnapian (etc.), odds are we are dealing with Hume* or Carnap*. It doesn't matter, really, if Hume is not a Humean. (The relationship between, say, Carnap and contemporary Carnapians is very interesting and illuminating.) While there are a few magisterial clubs within professional philosophy -- Kantians often really try to get Kant right (even at the price of introducing anachronism), Wittgensteinians even have a second-order debate whether it makes sense to get Wittgenstein right, etc. --, philosophical puzzles and controversies do not get settled by authoritative interpretation of major texts. Of course, interest in such puzzles can be started by way of some such interpretation. 

The above is not to deny that there is an image of philosophy prevalent within professional philosophy in which a limited number of historical, canonical figures are very prominent: starting with Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle through Descartes, Leibniz, Hume, and Kant (etc). These folk are often, indeed, implicated in subtle and not-so-subtle forms of ideological domination (or worse). It is worth serious reflection why Gorgias's Helen is unread; why even specialist scholars are unaware of the male feminism of Toland, Mandeville, and John Millar--all eighteenth century figures that were once extremely famous. (Even world class Nietzsche scholars tend to be ignorant on the genealogy of genealogy.) It is shocking that (the first) professional interest in early modern female philosophers only commenced less than a generation ago.  

If we abolish the canon in professional (analytic) philosophy, we just give folk another excuse not to read books. This trend may be unstoppable anyway: the textbook is beloved by university technocrats who hire cheap labor to teach pre-set curriculum with well-defined (achievable) goals.

For, in addition to the image of philosophy, there are classic works, often drawn from those canonical figures that figure in the image of philosophy, which are routinely but not exclusively used to introduce students to philosophy (e.g., an intro to ethics course with Aristotle, Hume, Kant, and Mill--hopefully Sophie de Grouchy before long, too) [recall, recall, and more if you use Google]. Arguably, Nietzsche has become canonical within professional philosophy because teachers could not resist the allure of assigning him in their courses. There could be quite a bit more experimentation and innovation in the pool of such classics. In preparing a course on Islamic philosophy, I encountered Ibn Tufayl (recall) and was certainly not the first to be struck by how easily he could fit in any text-based introductory course in epistemology, philosophy of religion, and political philosophy. 

What does exist in professional philosophy is a kind of hero-worship of living authority figures and the recently deceased.* Manifestly odd views can endure because they are associated with some such hero and, more importantly, because they put (often informal, but no less tight) conceptual and methodological constraints on what is acceptable within professional discussion. Williamson describes the mechanisms involved in a recent essay: he patiently explains the fear factor that surrounded Quine for a while [recall my post]. This is why in the overthrow of such heroes we find more than argument--there is also rhetoric; Williamson describes Lewis's metaphysics as "extreme" (9) and memorably, but unflatteringly, notes that Lewis is "also known as ‘the machine in the ghost’ for his eerie computational power, mechanical diction, faint air of detachment from ordinary life, and beard from another era." (8)

This hero-worship is associated with a lot of the worst features of the discipline; the common cruelty, the lack of respect for viewpoints associated with outsiders, the willful ignorance, and the awful systematic demographic patterns of exclusion. So, if we abolish the canon in professional philosophy without ending the hero-worship not much will change about the professional practice.

The Hebrew Bible in Spinoza's Ethics (with a joke about Kripke and Lewis)

According to Spinoza, "Euclid...wrote only about things which were quite simple and most intelligible." (Theological Political Treatise 7:67; [III/111]; hereafter TTP--I am using a draft of Curley's translation [res admodum simplices et maxime intelligibiles scripsit]--ES) One may wonder what's so "simple" about Euclid? Here Spinoza is relying on the thought that the essences of geometric objects lack power. (These essences are formal causes (see Hübner on the significance of formal causes in Spinoza.)) This means that their (necessary) consequences/effects are negligible in various ways. By contrast, from the essence of God or Substance "an infinite number of modes" follow "in infinite ways." So, on my reading of the Ethics, unlike in his earlier work, Spinoza does not embrace Divine simplicity (while he does embrace doctrines that are often related to it).

Now, Spinoza offers his remark on Euclid to offer a distinction between two kinds of interpretive practices: books that require no contextual knowledge of the author and those that do. To paraphrase Spinoza, books about simple natures can be read straight up and circumstances of composition are irrelevant; the author behind the text is irrelevant (even effaced by the text). To put it as a serious joke: the author of Euclid is a mere name and is rigidly so designated. But books about the most powerful (that is most complex) natures can only be interpreted in light of a lot of contextual knowledge about the author's life and the production of the book. If crucial details go missing, the author's name functions as a placeholder for possible counterparts of the authorial persona behind the text.

Given that Spinoza's Ethics is about the least simple, that is, the most powerful essence, Spinoza demands from his reader to be fully aware of his life and times. And, in fact, it is often forgotten that the Ethics was published in the Opera Posthuma at the completion of his life alongside a fully controlled presentation of the details deemed relevant to Spinoza's life--a carefully controlled selection of letters as well as showcasing his interest in Hebrew Grammar, his interest in political theory, the Tractatus Politicus (with its debts to Machiavelli) and his programmatic embrace of the emendation of the intellect (with its debts to Seneca). And from these documents the identity of the author of the TTP could also be inferred (so my appeal to it in reading the Ethics is not illicit).

My stage is set.

In the Ethics Spinoza informs his reader that his metaphysics of substance and his so-called parallelism doctrine(s), in particular, are sophisticated -- that is, properly emended -- versions of confused Jewish theology.  (As he writes "Some of the Hebrews seems to have seen this, as if through a cloud, when they maintained that God, God's intellect, and the things understood by him are one and the same."--Spinoza (E2P7S) [in Curley's translation]--recall my discussion back at NewAPPS).)

As I have argued at length elsewhere, it is easy to be dazzled by the geometric presentation of the Ethics and to overlook what I tend to call the 'holistic character' of the Ethics. Many of the scholia (as well as the corollaries and appendices/prefaces) are polemics with theologians (amongst the metaphysicians and, I note with heightened awareness, satirists so mentioned). But many are also a privileged commentary on the text (as is E2p7s). Outside a mathematical context, a scholium can also mean a discussion or commentary. Some of the commentaries are, in fact, dialogic (in Bakhtin's sense) in character where alternative interpretations are explored.

That is to say, Spinoza's Ethics is both in subject matter and in presentation closer to the Hebrew Bible than one might imagine at first glance. (No, I am not claiming it is identical.) So, in addition to offering arguments (and insights) he also leaves behind a document of alternative positions to his own familiar to anybody who has opened a Hebrew Bible with commentaries. I do not want to exagerate this claim, of course. (But then again, it may be worth experimenting with an edition of the Ethics that contains the most important commentaries on the Ethics in the margins--imagine Clarke, Toland, Hegel, Schelling, Joachim, etc. Mogens's Lærke's book on Leibniz's responses to Spinoza is very instructive exemple of the the gains of such an approach.)

In fact, Spinoza himself contributes to the commentary of the Hebrew Bible in the Ethics. Despite the fact that the TTP is one long argument that Moses ought not to be understood as the author of the Hebrew Bible (Spinoza argues that Ezra put the Hebrew Bible together at, and to constitute thereby, the re-founding of the Hebrew polity [recall]), in the Ethics he accepts the trope that "Moses" is the author of the "history of the first man." (Mose significari in illa primi hominis historia). This is one of several ways in which Spinoza is more pious (in Spinoza's sense) in the Ethics than he is in the TTP.

Later in the week, I'll address some of the details of Spinoza's  re-interpretation of the Fall. But I close by noting some remarkable features of E4p68. The official proposition is explicitly a false and inconceivable hypothesis (Huius propositionis hypothesin falsam esse, nec posse concipi). I am not sure what the status of an inconceivable claim is in Spinoza's machinery. But Spinoza immediately limits the claim by noting that it is true of the nature of (finite) man. And to talk of the essence of man is, according to Spinoza, just to talk of God as the cause of humanity existence.* Now, this raises complicated questions about the metaphysical-epistemic status of finite modes in Spinoza's metaphysics familiar since Hegel. Again, I set these aside.

Here I just note that Spinoza goes on to bring together (a) his elucidation (or reinterpretation) "Moses" account of cosmogony and creation. Spinoza is explicit that quite a bit of the Ethics bears on the re-reading of "Moses" account ("other matters which we have already proved,"). (b) Spinoza claims that the very "freedom" that was lost in the "Fall" was recovered by the patriarchs (that is Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob). From (a)-(b) alone we learn that suitably reinterpreted, Adam before the fall, as well as Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are free men in Spinoza's sense (that is, as the previous proposition suggests): "A free man is one who lives under the guidance of reason, who is not led by fear (IV. lxiii.), but who directly desires that which is good (IV. lxiii. Coroll.), in other words (IV. xxiv.), who strives to act, to live, and to preserve his being on the basis of seeking his own true advantage; wherefore such an one thinks of nothing less than of death, but his wisdom is a meditation of life." (I have used the Elwes translation here.) This is another sense in which the Ethics is more pious than the TTP. But that's  not the end of it. For (c) Spinoza reinterprets the narrative about the Patriarchs, too. These are said to exhibit the "spirit of Christ." That is to say, this spirit can exist before the historical Christ exists. As I have pointed out before, in the TTP Spinoza allows that a historically distant predecessor is a unique anticipation or exemplar (recall my analysis  and the role of the Quran in this). But he also allows a kind of backward projection of the exemplar onto earlier anticipations. And (d) what Spinoza means by "spirit of Christ" is not  intelligible from the Ethics alone, one needs to turn to the TTP for that (my PhD student Jo Van Cauter is working on this). So, here is a non-trivial sense in which the meaning of the Ethics relies on the TTP, that is, one needs to know something about the author. 

historically distant predecessor as a unique anticipation or exemplar, - See more at: http://digressionsnimpressions.typepad.com/digressionsimpressions/2014/07/spinoza-and-abraham.html#sthash.zofhpaHD.dpuf

 

Philosophy as a Barrier to the Virtuous Life; On a Reformed Protestant's Perspective

Platoʼs Socrates sometimes conveys the impression that one cannot be truly virtuous without being in possession of a philosophical theory about the nature of virtue, or goodness. From a Christian point of view, however, living well (morally and otherwise) does not depend so much on philosophical understanding as on life in the Church. Scripture enjoins us to cultivate the "fruits of the spirit"—love, peace, patience, and so on—and to be "transformed by the renewing of our minds", which is largely supposed to be a matter of learning to love God and neighbor in a way that emulates Christ. There is no indication that theorizing about these things will help us much in our efforts to accomplish them….[p.35]

One of the most important job skills of an analytic philosopher is strongly correlated with whatever skill is involved in successfully rationalizing bad behavior, deceiving oneself, putting a positive spin on bad circumstances, and so on. Also, there are certain modes of behavior—ways of being ambitious, or arrogant, or disrespectful to others, for example—that seem much easier to fall into in professions (like philosophy) where reputation, and having oneʼs own reputation elevated over the reputations of people with whom one works, is often correlated with promotions, job security, pay raises, and the like. To this extent, I find that being a philosopher (or being an academic generally) poses certain obstacles, or challenges, to my own moral and spiritual development as a Christian. Accordingly, I see a variety of ways in which being a Christian can, or should, enable one to achieve a degree of critical distance from certain kinds of widespread but dysfunctional norms and values in the profession. This is, of course, not to say that being a Christian is the only way of achieving such distance; but it is, or should be, a way of doing so. Michael Rea "Reformed Protestantism" [pp. 37-8; emphases in original--ES; HT: Helen de Cruz at Philosopherscocoon]

Helen de Cruz wrote a lovely post about Michael Rea's "programmatic" paper (p. 2). In it she quotes the last paragraph of the essay that I also reproduced above. That paragraph offers two claims that I paraphrase:

1. it is difficult to be moral (and spiritual) as a professional academic because of institutional factors in which certain success goods are zero-sum and the way to obtain these success goods is by way of behavior that hinders the practice of virtue (including collaboration, community and spiritual development);
2. Analytical philosophy generates habits of thought that exacerbates the problems diagnosed in (1).

In commenting on Ruth Chang's reflections on the discipline, I also noted that analytical philosophy disciplines habits of thought that generates deformed intellectual reflexes (so that our moral sentiments or reactive attitudes misfire); in particular, we are likely to withhold sympathy/comfort when we ought to extend it (recall). So, I agree with Rea's (2), although he emphasizes (and this is echoed by De Cruz) the role of intellectual skill in self-deception and rationalization of one's bad behavior.* I also agree with Rea's (1); as I note in the context of blogging about analytical egalitarianism, professional academics are offered a whole bunch of incentives and success goods that ought to be made transparent  and theorized about in how we reflect on ourselves (and, especially, the ways we try to improve the world). Ideally, we would help contribute to a better institutional design that would ameliorate and reduce the problems associated with (2) and, if possible (1). Rea himself seems to think that being a Christian may contribute to ameliorating (1). In the piece he is very cautious about linking "the relation between Christian faith and politics" (p. 36); he notes that "from the fact that Christians as such ought to be involved somehow in this sort of corporate work not much seems to follow about exactly what form that involvement ought to take." (Rea p. 36) So, we are not offered a Christian framework for institutional reform toward the good (yet).

But despite the cautious stance, it is still worth noting that Rea's programmatic piece offers a more profound challenge (one that De Cruz does not note in her piece). If you look at the very first passage quoted at the top of this post, Rea revives a version of the opposition between Athens ("Plato's Socrates") and Rome/Jerusalem ("life in the Church"/emulating "Christ"). In particular, Rea's stance is distinctly deflationary about the value of philosophical theorizing and its contribution toward living a moral life; to be clear, Rea falls short of Nietzsche's charge that (much) philosophy is a sickness. But in reading the paper as a whole, I came away thinking that for Rea philosophy plays a decidedly instrumental, subservient role in one's "life in the Church;" it is crucial in theology and in analyzing the relationship between reason and faith.** So, when, for example, Rea explains his version of sola scriptura, he recognizes constraints from "moral intuition" (pp. 13-14), but not moral philosophy as such. So, Rea is in some respects rejecting the post Spinoza-Adam Smith-Kant consensus here. As he puts it: "Moral theory is, at best, a secondary or tertiary aid." (p. 35) I say in 'some respects' not just to do justice to the tentative nature of Rea's piece, but also because Rea's position is compatible with (and perhaps subtly intended in this way) to let moral philosophy shape our 'moral intuitions' indirectly--after all, as reflection on his treatment of some of the more morally problematic literal claims in Scripture reveals, Rea wants to leave room for, shall we say, inspired moral progress over time. 

On Philosophy’s search for the ‘naturally articulate’ victim; ‘White men saving brown women from brown men.’

Our Indian government need not proselytize to offend the religious feelings of the people, for when confined to its most strictly civil functions it will do so equally. And so it has been found already in the few feeble efforts that have made to establish civil justice. Our mistake has lain, not in making these efforts, but in fearing to make them with a high hand. We have indeed been playing a double game. In our treatment of the Sepoys – first in raising them from the highest case, and allowing them (as well as the Zemindars) to ill-treat and oppress the people of lower caste, second in cherishing their idolatry – we have governed like heathens, while in abolishing the burning of widows, and allowing converts to inherit property, we have governed like Europeans, and have even sometimes let in a little Christianity by the back door. It is this appearance of two-facedness especially which conveys the notion of weakness to the native mind, while at the same time it evokes that murderous feeling of suspicion, which in conquered nations and Orientals is the parent of internecine war.—T.H. Green "British Rule and Policy in India" (undergraduate essay, ca 1857), in Miscellaneous Writings, Speeches and Letters" (edited by Peter Nicholson), p. 24.

Outside (though not completely so) the circuit of the international division of labor, there are people whose consciousness we cannot grasp if we close off our benevolence by constructing a homogeneous Other referring only to our own place in the same of the Same or the Self…It would also question the implicit demand, made by intellectuals who choose a 'naturally articulate' subject of oppression…This benevolent first-world appropriation and reinscription of the Third World as an Other is the founding characteristic of much third-worldism in the US human sciences today." Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak,(1988) "Can the Subaltern Speak?" 84 (see also: the "ferocious standardizing benevolence of most US and Western European human-scientific radicalism (recognition by assimilation.)" (90))+

Derrida is hard to read; his real object of investigation is classical philosophy. Yet he is less dangerous when understood than the first-world intellectual masquerading as the absent nonrepresenter who lets the oppressed speak for themselves."--Spivak (87)

A very youthful Green (recall yesterday's post) is writing in the context of the 1857 Indian Revolt.* While he is very critical of the manner of British Imperialism (the "double game" and "two-facedness"), which facilitates enhanced oppression of non-favored castes, in this youthful piece he does not question the fact of of British rule. On the contrary, there is an undeniable hierarchical ethnocentrism (European vs backward 'native' minds)—the "Orientals" seem to have essentially "murderous feeling of suspicion." If anything, the piece proposes better government for India by reforming it toward a "European" style of government with impartial rule of law and more room for Christian proselytizing (and, more offending of "the religious feelings of the people" and less "cherishing" of "idolatry"). If we only focus on Green's embrace of imperialism and ethnocentrism, we might miss the benevolent and humanitarian impulse; after all he takes great pride in "abolishing the burning of widows;" that is to say, we might easily imagine, if we could resurrect Green, him responding (anachronistically) that, perhaps, as things turned out British rule was all things considered bad, but that we should not ignore the ways in which the cause of, say, universal human rights (including freedom of religion) had been promoted by colonial attempts to spread 'civilization.' After all, Green is proudly calling attention to the ending of – and I turn to Spivak's description -- the practice in which the "Hindu widow ascends the pyre of the dead husband and immolates herself upon it…the abolition of this rite by the British has been generally understood as a case of 'White men saving brown women from brown men.'" (Spivak, (93)) Green's remarks are notable today, in part, because 'Western' intellectuals and governments have not lost their appetite to impose their 'benevolent' views on others, and, in part, that our governments, international organizations, and even many NGOs continue to support policies that, promote sometimes with the most noble intentions, the "double game" throughout the world (see this commentary by Saba Fatima on the Nobel award to Malala Yousafza).

Spivak's "Can the Subaltern Speak?" challenges, among many other things, the human and common philosophical impulse among the educated to take upon oneself the task of theorizing and speaking on behalf of others; to be an advocate is a noble task, of course. But it can easily slide into noxious paternalism, or 'the expert knows best,' where one's own incentives and complicity (in the division of labor) are happily obscured. This is a familiar enough to reflective people; yet, there continue to be impatient improvers who think that it is fine for others, especially, to pay some price of their humanitarianism as long as the net benefits work out nicely [by their chosen measure(s).] Since these are themes in my own analytical egalitarianism, it is no surprise to regular readers that I note Spivak as a fellow-traveler (she got there first)!

Spivak also diagnoses the danger of privileging what she calls "'a naturally articulate' subject of oppression." In what follows, I limit myself to a reflection on how (professional) philosophy is implicated in such a danger. While my self-limitation does not do full justice to Spivak's paper, this is also part of the point of her piece, which, notably, is also a defense of Derrida (and a sustained criticism of the "prophets" Deleuze and Foucault).

On Historical Necessity and Morality (Art & Propaganda in John Williams's Augustus)

In the matter of passion, whether of love or war, excess is inevitable. Yet I have always been bewildered when, in the ease of peace, men raise the questions of praise or blame. It seems to me now that both judgments are inappropriate, and equally so. For those who thus judge do not judge so much out of a concern for right or wrong as out of protest against the pitiless demands of necessity, or an approval of them. Necessity is simply what has happened.--Maecenas to Livy, in John Williams Augustus: A Novel (70)

You forget that I am artist myself, and know the necessity of asking what to ordinary people would seem the most insulting and presumptuous things. How could I take offense at that which I myself would do, without the slightest hesitation, for the sake of my art? I detect the odor of a moralist. And it seems to me that the moralist is the most useless and contemptible of creatures. He is useless in that he would expend his energies upon making judgments rather than gaining knowledge, for the reason that judgment is easy and knowledge is difficult. He is contemptible in that his judgments reflect a vision of himself which in his ignorance and pride he would impose upon the world I implore you, do not become a moralist; you will destroy your art and your mind. And it would be a heavy burden for even the deepest friendship to bear.—Maecenas to Livy (128)—John Williams Augustus: A novel

There was no possibility of virtue without the idea of virtue; and no effective idea of virtue that was not encoded in the law.--Octavius to Damascius (302), John Williams Augustus: A novel

If we allow ourselves the thought, we probably tend to think of propaganda as not-art or, perhaps, as bad art.+ Williams's clever novel reminds us that some of the greatest art (Virgil, Horace, etc.) is, in part, propaganda for what we might call, military dictatorship and empire. In addition, in the second quoted passage above, Williams portrays the chief artist-propagandist, Maecenas, not just as a Spinozistic-fatalist -- with his repeated invocation of necessity --, but as would-be-censor of the historian Livy. It is to Williams's credit that he makes us see both the case for benevolent, imperial dictatorship as well as the price the establishment this extracts not just on the protagonists themselves (notably Augustus and his daughter Julia – ultimate Augustus trades the daughter of flesh and blood for an "adoptive daughter" [the Roman empire], a trade that, in turn, is said to be made legitimate because "acknowledged" by "the adoptive daughter" [that is the laws] (306; as if all trade requires the sanction of law) -- ), but also on the arts (history, poetry, and philosophy).

Few professional historians would claim that they are in the business of judging. In so far as Historicism has won the day (see Beiser's majestic book), historians see themselves as scientists (if not akin to natural scientists than at least as practitioners of their very own special Geisteswissenschaft) and not as moral judges. Obviously, even those that advocate moralism in history would wish to see it consequent knowledge.* Williams's (1972) novel (recall this post) subtly invite us to see constraints and power in (or outside) the margins of works of art, history, and philosophy. Williams's readers were familiar with the McCarthy era, of course, so, perhaps, they need little such reminding. It is an open question to what degree some readers at the time thought the US was, itself, heading -- amidst major disagreements over civil rights and Vietnam war -- toward its own civil war (and to what degree they were tempted to follow the model of benevolent dictatorship). Perhaps, too, Williams makes the reader reflect on the nature of the post US-Civil War settlement (which, after all, is a key feature of Butcher's Crossing (recall my post)).

In Williams's portrayal of Maecenas, art (poetic and historical) is (amongst other things) supposed to be useful. In context, it is entailed that if political circumstances had been different some other art would be useful. The moralist is said to be useless because he can't contribute to knowledge-generation and, less explicitly, change what's happened. Meacenas's argument presupposes not just the Hobbesian idea that within the context of state of nature, there is no justice, but a distinction between two kinds of judges (moralists/artists). Those that judge appropriately with authority (and force) and those that judge – for lack of a better word -- frivolously. By 'frivolous' (recall) I do not mean consequent-free; the novel is very clear that death (Cicero) and exile (Ovid) may well await frivolousness.

When did Wittgenstein become a Continental Philosopher?

"You are doing sociology not philosophy."

• That was not intended as a compliment

"I am from Brazil, and I never understand continental philosophy, but I found your paper clear."

• That was intended as a compliment.

"What's your relationship to Feyerabend? You seem very influenced by him."

• That was also intended as a compliment.

"You know, of course, you have been anticipated by Neurath in many ways."

• That was meant as an encouragement and a scholarly correction to do my homework.

This is a sampling of remarks I received during the last six weeks at talks I have delivered. The first, very hostile comment was offered in private by a senior figure I had never met before. The second was an attempt to get an open-minded conversation going. (I had to fess up that I was not a Continental philosopher, so that dialogue was cut short.)  The third was a remark by a student. The fourth by a senior scholar that I admire, and who has always been encouraging.

A few years ago, I wrote a methodological paper (on philosophical prophecy) that overlapped with Continental themes. While writing it, I became aware of this, and I was not surprised when one or two friends mentioned a variety of French and German thinkers that I had echoed. I acknowledged the point in a footnote, but decided that I lacked the skill to try to thematize it in the paper.

It's true -- as a biographical fact -- that by analytical standards I have read a considerable amount of continental philosophy and I have some sense of its internal dialectic. (The best bit of evidence for this claim is probably this blog post.) I taught Fanon more than a decade ago; I have recently taught some Deleuze in a seminar; a half decade ago I also taught some Feyerabend, who always had been frowned upon by my teachers, in another seminar. I also think Searle was utterly out of his depth in his engagement with Derrida, so maybe I have fallen into some deep philosophical abyss. But I also adore analytical metaphysics, I still read formal philosophy for insight, and I am still capable of writing with great joy and appreciation about the greatest achievements of science.

Immersed in Play (or Of Philosophy and Playgrounds)

A four-year-old can be immersed in play.

When my son meets school-friends at playgrounds, they often play tag.* As seasoned tag players know, there are many variations. One striking feature of the game is that they sometimes change variants in mid play just in virtue of somebody calling out a new rule. Rather than seeing this as a violation of fair play (my spectatorial reaction), the other kids adjust quickly often seamlessly and with mental agility, but not always--sometimes there is resistance and the game halts. In principle, whole new rules can be introduced in mid play, but if there are more than a few kids this tends to stop the flow of the game. There are, of course, games of tag that have ultimate winners, and that approximate war-games, but the four to five year olds that play with my son favor the indefinite type of game of tag. The point of tag is to stay in that joyful flow. (That's compatible with momentary anguish and fear, of course.) 

As an aside, the moralists and humanitarians are right that there is too much injustice and cruelty in the world. But at the risk of giving offense, the most damning thing that can be said about our political and economic orders is that even among the privileged, we do not cultivate joyful flow, which would be self-justifying, and encourage the substitution of practices that facilitate delusion about this. Among the saddest sights is to see otherwise capable adults embrace escapist activity that they claim generates joy, but that produces loneliness and anxiety. (Fill in your favorite exemplars.) Sometimes it takes a novelist to show us this sight, and then turn it into comedy. 

At the playground, when new rules are introduced in mid-play, the game may halt for 'discussion.' This is a fragile moment--things can as easily devolve into mutual recrimination or into a cascading laughing fit.  It's not to deny that 'discussion' can restore the game, but it never appears to be a foregone conclusion.

On Teaching Slow Reading of Books and People [Paul de Man, Hobbes and Spinoza]

This [Paul de Man--ES] learned in part from Reuben Brower, as teaching assistant in Hum 6, a course in what Brower called “reading in slow motion.”...Brower, an independent “new critic,” himself a student of I.A. Richards, believed that students should learn to analyze texts using only the information provided by the texts themselves—without the baggage of biography or literary history or premade assumptions about meaning and significance.--Peter Brooks, NYRB, "The Strange Case of Paul de Man.  [HT: Mohan Matthen]

[A] kingdom divided in itself cannot stand: for unless this division precede, division into opposite armies can never happen. If there had not first been an opinion received of the greatest part of England that these powers were divided between the King and the Lords and the House of Commons, the people had never been divided and fallen into this Civil War; first between those that disagreed in politics, and after between the dissenters about the liberty of religion, which have so instructed men in this point of sovereign right that there be few now in England that do not see that these rights are inseparable, and will be so generally acknowledged at the next return of peace; and so continue, till their miseries are forgotten, and no longer, except the vulgar be better taught than they have hitherto been.--Hobbes, Leviathan, Ch. 18.

Much of Leviathan reads like an abstract text written for eternity. But in the quoted passage from chapter 18, Hobbes lets the present, if I may say so, violently intrude on the argument. He is writing during a "civil war." But it does not follow that he is not also addressing, at least in part, future audiences; he makes it clear that his imagined audience is reading him in the future, after the "return of peace." But it is worth noting that the point of the quoted paragraph transcends context: it is a clear statement of Hobbes's view that some ideas are a matter of life and death. In particular, constitutional ideas matter a great deal both in political and in religious life, especially because people are willing to take up arms over such matters.