Digressions&Impressions

RIP: Rob Brouwer 1938-2022

In a few weeks, Neglected Classics of Philosophy 2 (OUP, 2022) will appear. As you can see at books.google, it's dedicated to "Anneke Luger-Veenstra, Jan Stronk, and Rob Brower, my learned high school teachers, who encouraged a love of the classics." Two days ago my high school classmate, Jorine Lamsma, called my attention to an announcement in the newspaper that Rob had died June 1, 2022. The memorial service and funeral are today.

Rob was my high school Latin teacher for four years at Amsterdam's Vossius Gymnasium. My class (1c, 2c, 3c) was known to be 'trouble' and quite a few teachers fought trench warfare with us, as we found ever more creative ways to prank and be disruptive. But not in Rob's classroom. We called him "Mijnheer Brouwer," of course. He was not on first name basis with his charges.

Rob commanded our instant respect not because he was strict (which he was) and unperturbable (which he was), but because he somehow managed to convey that he instantiated the promise of bildung (without having to say so); he wasn't aiming to reach some learning target decomposed in weekly grammar, vocabulary, and syntax acquired. But rather he always made clear that whatever task of memorization and repetition we were assigned was in the service of our introduction to the classics and, without veneration, their wider cultural significance. As another classmate, Max Rosenberg, put it, each class was part of a much broader whole. And as the years passed, I slowly grasped -- hence my use of 'bildung'  --, these classics in turn would be good friends accompanying me in a life-time of imperfect self-cultivation.

Once, I was fourteen or so, a classmate pushed his button, and the unfathomable happened: the boy (no, not me) got sent out of class, with the archaic, 'gaat heen' and Rob, visibly steadying himself, pointing a finger at the door. For years we could get a good laugh trying to mimic that 'gaat heen,' but we had to acknowledge simultaneously that we were in awe of him. 

Not just because of his formal language and dress, Rob seemed like a character from a different age -- his classroom had the surprisingly bittersweet smell of his pipe --, he was the subject of myths: his son had died tragically (which turned out to be true), he suffered from Leukemia (which turned out to be true), he had studied to be a Jesuit (possible), and he was dating the German teacher, Erika Langbroek (which also turned out to be true). 

I had a very checkered high school career; I should have flunked out at the end of my third and fourth years (ninth and tenth grade). Mevrouw Luger played a big role in bending the rules my way each year. But I always passed my Latin, and to this day, I recognize that I have built a scholarly career on the years Rob put into me. (And I often regretted he was not my Greek teacher.) 

I forget if it was my junior or senior year, but I got wind that Rob was doing a reading group in philosophy with some interested class-mates at his home not far from the school in an apartment on the Beethovenstraat. (At this point he wasn't my teacher anymore, but it was before he moved into a different apartment with Erika also on the Beethovenstraat.) I invited myself along for the wine and the mystique. They were reading Die Kritik der reinen Vernunft (in German). I would like to say it got me excited about philosophy, but I suspect the main effect of the reading group was to make me excessively and irresponsibly fearless in the face of any text. 

Some time after college, I got back in touch with Rob. I suspect in order to brag to him that I had been taking philosophy classes with Dan Dennett (he was underwhelmed) and Martha Nussbaum. Rob, it turned out, was a real fan-boy of Nussbaum who, in graduate school, was one of my supervisors of my qualifying paper on the puppet image in Plato's Laws. Alongside E.B. England's commentary, Rob's wisdom became instrumental in helping me figure out the nuances of Plato's Greek and thought.

But perhaps I had simply bumped into him with Erika at the kleine zaal at Concertgebouw. Even long after he was struck by an increasingly visible Parkinson, he was a transfixed presence in the little balcony. I didn't share his love for nineteenth century Lieder, but we often discovered that we (or, in my case, my mum) had acquired season tickets for the same chamber music series.

We started to see other more frequently during my Summer visits back home while I was in graduate school. I am also unsure of the exact sequence of events that led to our first reading group with Martin Claes, then a Jesuit getting a PhD (now a pastor and a scholar), on Augustine's De Magistro. I  never asked Rob if he identified with Augustine's loss of his son. He never spoke of him to me, but he often expressed pride in his daughter (a lawyer). It was the start of numerous partially overlapping, reading groups with Rob in varying combinations with people from his life -- often people who adored Dante or choir (or both) -- or my own circle of Dutch academics and friends. 

Meanwhile, we started corresponding and as I look through our letters, I see that he never stopped trying to broaden my horizon. His letters reflect his curiosity, even an excessive strain of enthusiasm; he offered a never ending stream of suggested novels or works of scholarship. While in his own work, he had an exacting low tolerance for minute error, in his reading habits he was primarily searching for bold and expansive interpretations. As I advanced in academia he relished keeping me informed of scholarly fashion that had somehow captured the imaginations of the culture and book sections even editorial pages of the Dutch broadsides.

In addition to being a teacher, Rob was a scholar, translator, and poet. His translations of Dante's Divine Comedy, Statius' The Thebaid, Lucan's Bellum Civile, Virgil's Bucolica/The Eclogues combine vast erudition with linguistic and poetic sensitivity. He also translated Epictetus. He would probably be very amused to hear me claim modest credit for triggering his renewed interest into Lucan just as he was completing his stupendous Dante translation. But it's true: while teaching the Treatise in my first seminar at Wesleyan in 2002, I was confused by the way the motto of book 3 of Hume's Treatise had been translated in the then new 'student edition' published by OUP. (The motto is from Lucan.) We started a correspondence about it, and I date to it the start of my interest into Seneca.

When I heard Rob had died, I looked at our correspondence to see when we last had written. I noticed to my horror he had never acknowledged my word that I had dedicated the forthcoming Neglected Classics volume to him. I had not registered this silence at all during the depths of my own illness.

Before I close, I don't want to suggest Rob was an ethereal personality only. He was happy whenever he could talk about Erika or Sabine. And our reading groups were carefully planned around not just his choir practices, but also his cycling holidays.

I also don't mean to suggest he was above name-dropping. Once he asked me slyly if I knew who Henny Vrienten was. They had met swimming their laps in de Zuiderbad. Later Vrienten became involved in the recording of Rob's Dante.

Near the end of De Magistro, Augustine suggests that when we praise a teacher, we're really praising ourselves and this never seems to me more true than in the Academy during the many, lovely ritual practices of acknowledging the roles of supervisors in one's education. Self-praise does not strike me as a sin, but I have to admit that all of these academic practices (fests, collections, memorial conferences, etc.) seem, however sincerely felt and expressed, a bit tainted by the multiplicity of self-advancing roles they play in our prestige hierarchies and zero-sum political economy. (Perhaps this also accounts for the sincerity.)

We encounter our high school teachers through their words, their curriculum, their classroom, and features of their personality as well as the school yards myths about them. The older, and more experienced I get in the classroom, the more it seems to me they -- I mean all true teachers -- use a feature of their personality, perhaps made excessively visible to the student, to find a way to connect with the longings and desires, perhaps vanity even (as Adam Smith claims), of their students, and turn this connection, however tenuous, into the engines of shared enquiry. This also means that not every teacher is the right fit for each student.

The reason why when we praise a teacher, we're really praising ourselves according to the closing lines of De Magistro is that teachers are kind of puppets or actors speaking thoughts of others and that it's the student's reason or intuition that is doing the real work of understanding even if the words of the official teacher trigger or guide such understanding. The Platonic idea with which De Magistro closes, that nobody teaches another anything, has, thus, generated learned philosophical commentary that betrays non-trivial professional anxiety.

Augustine does make an exception to this quite general claim at the start of De Magistro, which I doubt is retracted during the dialogue. He suggests that when we ask questions we're really teaching something about our needs or our plans. The latter includes, of course, the path of inquiry, as Augustine explicitly notes. Rob was magisterial in asking questions that directed our gaze to the inner, guiding light that we need on life's path.

 

 

J.E. Ted McGuire RIP (pt 1.)

Nearly everything that's written, even by highly accomplished philosophers, about canonical historical figures is a weird kind of functional garbage. I call it 'functional' because often the disfigurations can be explained by the role the canonical figure plays in some grand narrative about the past, in undergraduate or graduate education, as a bit-player in some more recent partisan debates, and so on. I don't want to claim that Newton fared much worse than most canonical figures, but ever since the Leibniz-Clarke debate, through Kant, Mach, and the reception of Einstein's revolution very impoverished images of Newton displaced whatever nuance one can find in Newton's own writings. Even the one exception, Koyré, is more informative on other figures of the scientific revolution than he is on Newton.

Now, as history of science became a professionalized field, Newton studies helped constitute it. This is associated with names such I.B. Cohen, Westfall, Whiteside, Hesse, Dobbs, the Halls, Herrivel, Dijksterhuis,  Sabra, and so. (And Kuhn, of course.) To the best of my knowledge, Ted McGuire was the first philosopher, or one of the first ones, to pick up on the opportunity to harvest the fruits of this historiographic revolution, or professionalization. And in a series of papers, he reintroduced a complex, messy and endlessly fascinating philosophical figure, Isaac Newton, to his peers and later readers. I have these papers in mind: 

• McGuire, James E., and Piyo M. Rattansi. "Newton and the ‘Pipes of Pan’." Notes and records of the Royal Society of London 21.2 (1966): 108-143.
• McGuire, James E. "Force, active principles, and Newton's invisible realm." Ambix 15.3 (1968): 154-208.
• McGuire, J. E. "Atoms and the ‘analogy of nature’: Newton's third rule of philosophizing." Studies in History and Philosophy of Science Part A 1.1 (1970): 3-58.
• McGuire, James E. "Body and void and Newton's De Mundi systemate: Some new sources." Archive for history of exact sciences 3.3 (1966): 206-248.

I put the full citations in because each of these papers are lengthy, complex affairs in their own right. Often I cite one paper Y (on topic X). And then years later, I rediscover that X is one of the minor gems in Y, and that there is whole lot more to (say) McGuire 1966b. All these papers were written while he was at Leeds before he helped found the Pittsburgh HPS program (together with Larry Laudan) in 1971. When Ted and I first started corresponding, he once mentioned that he had been "pushing Newton as a philosopher, epistemologist and an ontologist" for most of his career. I was born in 1971, and Pitt HPS has been the dominant HPS program for most of my life. (Yes, Indiana and Madison gave it a run for its money, and for some periods my own Chicago could compete in a number of areas, and now, perhaps, Irvine LPS has taken over the torch. Time will tell.) And so Ted helped train in some fashion or another a whose who in HPS, including a whole number of people who are now shaping Newton scholarship, and who I hope will share their memories of life in daily company of Ted.

Now, most obituaries are more informative about the author than the deceased. In this case more than usual because I came late to Ted in my academic development and so I don't have a lot of anecdotes of him as (say) dissertation supervisor. But I hope what follows is also instructive about Ted, too.

I came to Newton scholarship through George E. Smith's now legendary two-semester year-long undergraduate course on Newton's Principia. And George had a habit of roping his undergraduate students into discrete research projects. Many of these projects developed what's known as the research frontier in Newton (and Huygens) studies (see, for example, this paper). We didn't know any better. George's main focus is evidential arguments, and he ignores issues most other professional philosophers want to talk about when they discuss Newton (or history of science more generally). So, I rarely heard of Ted.

I went to Chicago, to work with Howard Stein. And Stein also did a three-quarters year-long space-time course in which Newton figures heavily. And it was very clear that George and Howard were part of a mutual admiration society (mediated by Bill Harper up in Western Ontario, I believe). Howard also taught a lot of Newton in his empiricism course (where obliquely Newton was pretty much presented as superior not just to Descartes, but also to Locke and Hume). 

Now, Howard had also written a number of astonishing papers on Newton in the late 1960s:

• Stein, Howard. "On the notion of field in Newton, Maxwell, and beyond." (1970). 
• Stein, Howard. "Newtonian space-time." Texas Quarterly 10.3 (1967). 174--200

The second of these didn't just shape a new philosophical Newton, it also influenced contemporary space-time studies.

I mention this because to the best of my knowledge McGuire and Stein never cite or mention each other in print then and since. (If this turns out to be poetic exaggeration, I apologize.) I know they were aware of each other! When I came out of Chicago, with a PhD primarily on the reception of Newton, I knew of McGuire's existence, but it  was more as a distinct orbital body on the horizon than an important influence. But action at a distance, even joint action, is a funny concept.

A few years later, together with Andrew Janiak, I hosted a conference on Newton and/as Philosophy, and I met there some of McGuire's great students including Zvi Biener and Chris Smeenk (both of which I have since collaborated with in co-authored papers and edited volumes). I also met Doreen Fraser and David Miller in that period. Some of his other Pitt students include Brian Hepburn and I think Peter Harman (who I never met). He was also John Henry's supervisor at Leeds. (I am sure I am missing folk.) Ted himself had been one of the first people I invited to keynote in Leiden; he had accepted enthusiastically and I used his name in the call for papers. But at the last minute, he had to withdraw due to a hip replacement.

The conference was an important few days in my life because I met so many people who have become lifelong friends and important interlocuters. In addition, I realized that I had been wrong to think 'all the action was in the reception of Newton because Stein, McGuire, Harper, Smith, Ernan McMullin, Mary Hesse, and Domenico Bertoloni Meli had exhausted the topic.' In front of me the students of Stein, McGuire, Harper, Arthur Fine, Harvey Brown, and Michael Friedman were reading each other's teachers and each other's papers, and just beginning to ask some tough questions. McGuire himself kept learning from the youngsters, engaging with us in print and in private correspondence, and when he couldn't beat us he joined up with some of us (especially Ed Slowik).

After the conference, I returned to Ted's early papers in earnest. And also started pestering him with letters like this, "I am about to write a paper on Newton's Fourth Rule of Reasoning; other than George Smith's work, the most helpful thing I encountered was your long footnote 8 in your 1970 paper on the third rule." The answer was a sweet, "I did consider writing a paper on the fortuna of the rule up to the time of Darwin but never got around to it."

Once you see the footnote, you can see why that's not an empty boast. Here's that eight footnote:

See, for instance: Henry Pemberton, A View of Sir Isaac Newton's Philosophy (London, x728), 24-5; Colin Maclaurin, An Account of Sir Isaac Newton's Philosophical Discoveries (London, 174B), 22; Gowin Knight, An Attempt to demonstrate that all the Phenomena of nature may be explained by two simple active Principles Attraction and Repulsion (London, 1748), 7; George Cheyne, Philosophical Principles of Religion : Natural and Revealed (London, 1715), 36; Willem Jacob Storm-van 's Gravesande, Physices Elementa Mathematica...sive Introductio ad Philosophiam Newtoniam (Editio Secunda, Lugduni Batavorum, 1725), Praefatio, and Liber I, Caput I, I-7; Benjamin Martin, Philosophia Britannica: or a New and Comprehensive System of the Newtonian Philosophy (Reading, 1747) , 1-42. In his first lecture, Martin discusses Newton's four rules in some detail. Thus when 'we take survey of the visible world', we conclude that all bodies 'consist of one and the same sort of Matter or Substance'. He concludes that 'Matter, thus variously modified and configurated, constitutes an infinite variety of bodies, all of which are found to have the following common Properties...'. Thomas Rutherforth, A System of Natural Philosophy (Cambridge, i748), Introduction. The first three rules are discussed as the only means of making 'knowledge real and universal'. Rule Three is seen primarily as an inductive rule. Richard Helsham, A Course of Lectures in Natural Philosophy, published by Bryan Robinson, 5th edition (London, 1777). The four rules are quoted in full in the Preface. Robinson notes that 'This method and these rules, have been carefully observed by our author in these Lectures...' (viii). George Adams, Lectures on Natural and Experimental Philosophy (London, t794) , vol. II. In a lengthy lecture entitled 'In the method of Reasoning in Natural Philosophy' Adams concludes his discussion of the history of analogy to extend our conclusion to all other bodies, and thus make it universal: a way of reasoning, that is agreeable to the harmony of things, and to the old maxim, ascribed to Hermes... (p. 34). For this maxim see note 38 below, on Maclaurin. Adams is drawing on Maclaurin's treatise. Tiberius Cavallo, The Elements of Natural or Experimental Philosophy (London, 18o3), vol. I, 7. Quotes Newton's four rules and connects them with the generality of the three laws. William Nicholson, An Introduction to Natural Philosophy (London, 18o5) , vol. I. In his introduction he discusses intuition, demonstration, and probabilistic knowledge, saying of natural philosophy that it is based on analogy: 'To give stability to this science, it is necessary to admit no probabilities, as first principles of analogy, but those which possess the strongest and most incontrovertible resemblance to truth. For this purpose, the following rules are adopted': the first three rules are then quoted without comment. Joseph Priestley, Disquisitions Relating to Matter and Spirit, 2nd edition (Birmingham, 1782), sections I and II; Etienne Bormot de Condillac, OEuvres Completes de Condillac, tome troisieme (Paris, i8o3) , chapitre XII, 327-58; Petrus van Musschenbroek, Elementa physicae (Lugduni Batavorum, 1734), 6, and Introductio ad philosophiam naturalem (Lugdunl Batavorum, 1764), vol. I, 14; Roger Joseph Boscovich, A Theory of Natural Philosophy (Latin-English Edition, London, x 922), sections 4o-2. Boscovich is critical of the third rule on the grounds that induction does not support the transference of many physical properties to the parts of phenomena. The Theory was first published in 1758. Brian Higgins, A Philosophical Essay Concerning Light (London, 1776), 18--19; James Hutton, Dissertations on Different Subjects in Natural Philosophy (Edinburgh, 1790), part III, 279-3o0; William Whewell, On the Philosophy of Discovery (London, 186o), chapter XVIII, 181-2oo, section 14. Whewell is mainly concerned in this chapter with the notion of vera causa as discussed in Newton's first rule. He points out, however, that the third rule's conception of universal laws is inconsistent with the stricture of the fourth rule that a 'law may be inaccurate'. See also Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences (London, 184o ), vol I, 4-6, where Whewell observes that the third rule is circular. James Challis, 'On Newton's "Foundations of all Philosophy" ', Phil. Mag., 26 (1863), 28o-92. In this particular article Challis is attempting to base a theory of science on Newton's third rule.
These discussions are the most interesting in the literature I have examined. Most of these writers are concerned with the problem of generalizing properties of matter, rather than with Newton's criterion for deciding essential qualities. Many other writers such as Halley, Sterling, Ferguson, Desaguliers, Wright and Worster mention or refer to the rule; these with the above references are more than sufficient to establish the widespread influence of this aspect of Newton's methodology throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.  I am grateful to Laurens Laudan for the references to Condillac and Musschenbroek, and to Peter Heimann for calling attention to Higgins.

So, that footnote was constructed decades before the internet. It's an astonishing synthesis that basically tells future grad students where to look. I am sometimes disparagingly called 'widely read' or broad. But I am still busy tracking down some of Ted's leads in this note! (I had some pride in my dissertation because McGuire misses Adam Smith's and Diderot's treatment.) At the time, the idea to put any scholar in historical context was still radical. But even more innovative was the idea that this context included lots of now forgotten people. In addition, that material not thought of as 'scientific' like Newton's theology and angelology was crucial to understanding his more 'philosophical' views. 

Our correspondence took off after he read a draft of my paper on gravity as a relational quality in Newton. He discerned at once that I was defending (and updating) a version of his position against Stein and Janiak. He suggested some improvements including a thought experiment that when a while later I ran it past Bill Harper at an airport, Harper just sat there and said (at least according to my self-serving memory), in awe, 'you have battled Stein to a draw.' (And I noted quietly 'with the help of McGuire.') After that, our correspondence took on a more chatty and more equal flavor. (Ted had that capacity to make you forget he had heard it all before.) And he would read and improve many of the Newton papers I wrote in the next decade.

In a recent self-serving "introduction" to my collection Newton's Metaphysics: Essays (OUP 2022), I added a note qualifying my own claim to originality, "Obviously that diagnosis does no justice to Ted McGuire's contribution to Newton scholarship. McGuire's work anticipates most of my own efforts."

I finally met Ted at an APA session in Chicago organised by Geoff Gorham, February 2010. I don't want to claim we hit it off at once. But I was impressed by his kindness, his wit, and his sharpness (he was already in his late 70s). He was a much abler drinker than I am, too. But shortly thereafter we got chance to deepen our connection. My then new Ghent colleagues, Maarten Van Dyck and Steffen Ducheyne, had nominated Ted for a special Sarton Chair at the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the Sarton Chair, and Ted came to Ghent for a few fantastic days, where I got to enjoy his witty stories and to pick his brain on lots of arcane knowledge. (One of the highlights of my intellectual life is to witness the logician Dirk Batens and Ted debate Descartes' alleged Spinozism.)

After that Ghent visit he always greeted me with a clear fondness as we kept crossing paths on the Newton circuit. He helped sponsor and put together a conference on Newton and Empiricism that Zvi Biener and I hosted at Pitt. I finally got to see the Cathedral of Learning inside, as well as some terrific bars. And I kept sending my draft Newton papers to him for comments. Since he was often in Poland with his partner Barbara Tuchanska at Lodz University (where Ted also did some teaching--I hope the lecture notes show up some day), it was easy for him to come over to Belgium or Holland and I enjoyed sparring with him.

Since this post is already long, and I realize I have not told you anything yet about Ted's many substantive contributions to Newton scholarship (other than that my own work is greatly indebted to it), I'll start doing a series of Ted-mania posts in the next few weeks to invite some of you to join in the fun that is scholarship, but also to appreciate some of Ted's towering contributions to it. He will be missed. A giant has passed.*

 

*HT James Lennox for sharing the news of Ted's passing away a few days ago.

Gil Harman (RIP 1938-2021): On Adam Smith, Kuhn-Loss and Historiography

One important type of ethical theory treats moral properties as analogous in certain respects to "secondary qualities" like colors. According to this sort of theory, whether something is right or wrong depends on how impartial spectators would react to it. In the 18th Century, the Scottish philosophers Francis Hutcheson, David Hume, and Adam Smith explored theories of this type.1 In the 20th Century this sort of theory has sometimes been discussed under the name "ideal observer theory."2 Recently, especially in England, there has been renewed interest in this sort of ethical theory and its comparison between moral properties and secondary qualities.3

One possible objection to an impartial spectator theory is that it seems to require an -overly aesthetic conception of morality to take the primary point of view in ethics to be that of a spectator rather than that of the agent.4 If the spectator is taken to be primary, then the agent's aim would seem to be to produce something that will or would please the spectator. But that is just wrong. Such an aim is too "outer directed" to count as a moral motive. Morality is more agent-centered than that. It is much more plausible to take the agent's point of view as primary. In the first instance morality is a matter of the moral reasons an agent has to act in one way or another, where these reasons derive from the relevant moral rules rather than from a desire to gain the approval of spectators.
A few years ago, I pressed this objection myself when I discussed the ideal observer theory in a textbook of ethics.5 But I was too hasty. In reading Adam Smith's Theory of the Moral Sentiments, I discovered that Smith explicitly considers this issue and provides a plausible reply to the objection.
Because 20th Century discussions have tended not to consider such "psychological" questions as why agents might be motivated to act in ways that impartial spectators would approve (or, for that matter, why impartial spectators would care about anything), I will in this paper ignore recent discussion and return to the three great versions of the theory that were developed in the 18th Century by Hutcheson, Hume, and Smith, indicating why I think Smith's version of the theory is superior to the others.--Gilbert Harman (1986) "Moral Agent and the Impartial Spectator" The Lindley Lecture, The University of Kansas, p. 1. [HT: David M. Levy]

For many years, I heard a story about the late Gilbert Harman, who by all accounts was a supportive mentor, that he put up a sign on his door that said, ‘History of Philosophy: Just Say No!’ And I heard the story from folk, who approvingly treated Harman as an authority within the profession, and those (mostly historians of philosophy) that were horrified by the message this sent about the value of their work and the development of curricula across the profession. The story always puzzled me because thanks to my outside reader on my PhD, the economist David M. Levy, I was familiar with Harman's Lindley Lecture, which is a major contribution to the study of Adam Smith (and his relationship to Hutcheson and Hume).

I quietly wondered whether Harman subscribed to the view -- that I am familiar with from (recall) reading, say,  Samuelson's obituary of Viner -- that only disciplinary royalty should work in history of the discipline, while the rest are worker-bees solving particular, localized problems (including puzzles in the presentation of historical works relevant to the undergrad education of the discipline). And I mused on the fact to what degree his colleagues and students even knew about the Lindley Lecture, which was, in fact, very hard to acquire in the early-internet days when I was a PhD student in Chicago in the 1990s. 

And so I always quietly assumed that Harman was on party 'team progress' (familiar from Kuhn): we need a division of labor within philosophy, and with text-book driven education sufficiently shared background commitments as a baseline that will make, just like the practice of the natural sciences, such progress, or the illusion of progress, possible. And that requires a kind of domestication of the past (and, as Michael Della Rocca has argued the rest of philosophy, too). 

At some point, I became aware of Tom Sorrell's correspondence with Harman on this very topic. But I never tried to figure out its contents. Helpfully, the Princeton website records (a good chunk) of the exchange here. And it suggests the sign was put up in the context of a controversy over the undergrad curriculum. In addition, it quotes Harman's own views on the matter:

I believe my views about the history of philosophy are mostly orthodox nowadays. The history of philosophy is not easy. It is very important to consider the historical context of a text and not just try to read it all by itself. One should be careful not to read one’s own views (or other recent views) into a historical text. It is unwise to treat historical texts as sacred documents that contain important wisdom. In particular, it is important to avoid what Walter Kaufmann calls ‘exegetical thinking’: reading one’s views into a sacred text so one can read them back out endowed with authority. For the most part the problems that historical writers were concerned with are different from the problems that current philosophers face. There are no perennial philosophical problems.

On the whole, these views about the history of philosophy are quite close to those of my late friend Margaret Wilson.

For reasons I do not fully understand, I have sometimes upset people by distinguishing between philosophy and the history of philosophy or by noting that philosophy is what the history of philosophy is the history of.

I also think as an empirical matter that students of philosophy need not be required to study the history of philosophy and that a study of the history of philosophy tends not to be useful to students of philosophy. (Note ‘tends’.) Similarly, it is not particularly helpful to students of physics, chemistry, or biology to study the history of physics, chemistry, or biology.

Of course, it may be helpful for students of physics to start with classical Newtonian physics before taking up relativity theory and quantum mechanics. But it tends not to be helpful for them to read Newton.

The playful sign that was once on my office door, ‘History of Philosophy: Just Say No!’ was concerned with whether our students should be required to do work in the history of philosophy.

That is not to say that I have anything against the study of the history of philosophy. I do not discourage students or others from studying the history of philosophy. I am myself quite interested in the history of moral philosophy for example and have occasionally taught graduate seminars in Kant. I have done a certain amount of work on Adam Smith’s relation to Hume and others.

These remarks suggest I was mostly right about Harman. I have spent a good chunk of my blogging here and previously (sometimes in debates with Mohan Matthen) at NewAPPS, explaining why I think the Kuhnian team progress picture is a bad idea for philosophy (and the historians of philosophy), so won't repeat it here. But as Harman himself stresses his adherence to it is only partial; he recognizes and accepts explicitly that sometimes the history of philosophy is useful to the philosopher. And he reminds his interlocuter that he himself teaches history, and has done it.

As an aside, the denial of perennial philosophy is a self-aware form of the Kuhnian picture of team progress. Within the sciences, the textbooks will treat the pre-paradigmatic states of the discipline as immature babblings about the same topic. Within philosophy, the status quo will treat much of the pre-paradigmatic states as very imperfect expressions on our topics, or material irrelevant to our concerns. After all, so much was packed into philosophy once that we now ignore (for various reasons).

Okay, and returning to main thread, what's left obscure by the exchange reported on the Princeton website is when it is useful according to Harman to do history. As it happens the introductory material in The Lindley Lecture articulates this: the past can be a source of information on moves that are missed in present professional discussions.

This is especially so, when a particular view or theory is re-discovered or renewed without -- one may add -- much attention to prior discussions. In such circumstances an argument or objection can be taken as decisive by a particular, localized professional community and the argumentative (ahh) dialectic is halted prematurely. And while one can discover this in the armchair, too, this is much harder if one is a partisan to the debate (or swayed by local authority). In those latter cases, a careful, sympathetic engagement with the past, without reading the present status quo back into the past, can help those on top of contemporary discussions discern that one has missed an argumentative turn.  Notice, that this suggests another, related use to history. When discussions on particular topics are renewed/revived, it might be helpful to do a careful survey of previous episodes.

Of course, the uses discussed in the previous paragraph -- let's call them 'The Useful Retrieval Task(s)' or 'TURT' -- require the availability of material/texts and specialist knowledge of where to find such episodes. That is to say, what we may call contextual historians of philosophy are a collective good to the profession that it pays to have a large enough pool to have around. Somewhat amusingly, the more antiquarian and bookish these historians of philosophy are the more useful they might possibly be on the rare occasion that retrieval of a missed distinction or argument can be useful. The same argument applies to historians of philosophy that specialize in (so-called) non-Western philosophy. (I once quoted a plea by David Chalmers to that effect, and discussed it critically in an engagement with Amy Olberding here.) Much of such philosophy will be about different matters (again no perennial philosophy), but that does not prevent multiple discoveries of the same problem at different times and locations far apart.

Now, at this point I wanted to discuss Harman's treatment of Hutcheson, Hume, and Smith as an illustration and examination of what I take to be the practice that he preaches. This is also worth doing because I think I can show some of the limitations of that approach. But since this digression has gone longer than it ought, I won't do that now, and hopefully can return to it some other time. 

So, let me close on another detail of Harman's Lindley Lecture. Near the end of his lecture, he writes that "Smith works this theory out with a mass of detail which I cannot try to summarize. I believe that the book in which he works this out, his Theory of the Moral Sentiments, is one of the great works of moral philosophy." (p. 13). And then he adds a remark (labelled postscript 2):

Finally, it is perplexing that Adam Smith's ethics should be so relatively unread as compared with Hume's ethics when there is so much of value in Smith. What I have talked about here only scratches the surface. Why should Smith's ethics be so neglected? Is it that Hume also had a metaphysics and an epistemology and that Smith did not? Or is it that Smith was a more important economist than Hume? And why should that matter? I do not know.19--Harman (p. 14)

Footnote 19 starts with "I am indebted to David Levy for getting me interested in this project." The older I get the more this footnote amuses me because it turns out that TURT can be outsourced to different disciplines. Of course, since professional economists have actively tried to eliminate professional historians of economics from professional economics (on grounds that look like the party of progress familiarized by Kuhn, and, as I have shown [here and here], actively promoted within professional economics before and after Kuhn), there is a real risk (tragedy of the commons) that no discipline will curate the possibility of TURT.

I am also amused because at my dissertation defense, David Levy asked me Harman's questions. At the time (almost twenty years ago), I already knew that Smith's ethics was constantly forgotten and rediscovered in philosophy. My favorite example of this can be found in C.D. Broad's (1950) review in Mind of A.N. Prior's Logic and the Basis of Ethics. Although, I don't think I realized then, as I do now, that this is itself an older, recurring trope. Levy himself thinks that Harman's use of the trope is distinctive because he is rare in thinking that Smith's ethics is in some key respects superior to Hume's (recall the quote at the top of this post).

In my (2017) book I show that Smith does have a metaphysics and epistemology (one that also crucially deviates from Hume), but they are mostly submerged in The Theory of Moral Sentiments. I reconstructed them primarily (note!) from other texts collected in Essays on Philosophical Subjects. To be sure, I did not write my book to address Harman's questions! And I am unsure if having showed this we can make (ahh) progress on Harman's last three questions in postscript 2.

But if we take a step back, we can see that postscript 2 asks the reader to consider the grounds of what Harman takes to be (what has come to be known as) "a Kuhn-loss." And here Harman clearly recognizes that he is on unsure grounds. He plausibly suggests that Smith's TMS got written out of the discipline (philosophy) in virtue of the fact that Smith became part of economics. And I have noted, these two disciplines became conceptualized as non-overlapping complements in the late nineteenth and twentieth century (see especially this article).

But I do think the answer to Harman's Kuhn-loss question is relatively simple. Sidgwick, who is (recall this post on the effect on Rawls) partially responsible for developing the party-of-progress conception in philosophy, wrote textbooks, including Sidgwick's Outlines of the History of Ethics, in which Smith was clearly presented as a lesser (proto-Utilitarian) Hume.

This happens in two ways, when in the Introduction of that influential book, Smith is first introduced, alongside Hume and Hartley, only Hume's views are briefly summarized and Hume's views are treated as not especially significant for ethical matters. They are treated as psychologically significant. (Sidgwick is here developing and anticipating the manner in which the empirical-normative contrast turns out to prefigure disciplinary salience). So, a natural effect of Sidgwick's introduction is that it looks like there is little in Smith for those interested in ethical affairs.

That Sidgwick actually does not intend this implicature about Smith only becomes clear obliquely. When discussing J.S. Mill, Sidwick notes that Mill's treatment of justice is very indebted to Adam Smith (p. 241 in the 1886 edition). 

But that point itself may not be noticed by those readers especially interested in Sidwick's views on Smith. For earlier, he treats Dugald Steward as a (superior) synthesis of the insights of Shaftesbury and Smith (note 2 on p. 221 in the 1886 edition).

Of course, if one reads the section devoted to Smith in Sidgwick's Outlines, one may well come accross two important features. First, that according to Sidgwick, Smith clearly improves on Hume on what Sidgwick calls the "quality of the moral sentiment" (205). But, this, too, is treated more as a contribution to psychology and the "analysis" of its phenomena (206), than to ethics. 

Crucially, for Sidgwick (p. 207), Hume and Smith jointly anticipate the view of the origin of the moral sentiments "current in the utilitarian school." (A point, as noted above, he clarifies on p. 241 in the context of Mill.) But he goes on to say that jointly their "methods of explanation compare unfavorably with that of Hartley," (pp. 207-208). So, at this point there is really no reason for a reader of Sidgwick's Outlines to come away thinking they should read The Theory of Moral Sentiments (TMS). And when he summarizes his view of Hartley, he (Sidgwick) observes that:

Hartley is obviously in earnest in his attempt to determine the rule of life, the systematic vigour which still gives an interest to his psychology, in spite of his defects of style and treatment, is not applied by him to the question of the criterion or standard of right conduct; on this point his exposition is blurred by a vague and shallow. optimism that prevents him from facing the difficulties of the problem. A somewhat similar inferiority appears in Adam Smith's work, when he passes from psychological analysis to ethical construction. He takes care to assure us that the general rules of morality impressed on us by the complicated play of sympathy which he analyzes are "justly to be regarded as the laws of the Deity;" but it can hardly be said that his theory affords any cogent arguments for this conclusion, or in any way establishes these rules as objectively valid. It would seem that the intellectual energy of this period of English [sic] ethical thought had a general tendency to take a psychological rather than a strictly ethical turn. In Hume's case, indeed, the absorption of ethics into psychology is sometimes so complete as to lead him to a confusing use of language.--Sidgwick, Outlines, pp. 211-212.

Again, a natural effect of Sidgwick's treatment is that in so far as Smith's account in TMS is interesting at all, it is primarily as a moral phenomenology or psychology of empirical affairs. But that even in that area, Hartley is more interesting. I think Sidgwick's conclusion is, in part, the result of projecting backwards a particular (anachronistic) version of the fact-value distinction onto Hume and Smith. One that become part of the professional DNA of both economics and philosophy such that a mutual, agreeable division of labor is possible (and in context Sidgwick and Marshall accepted this division).

So, I hope to have answered here Harman's postscript 2 questions (at least in provisional manner). But I also want to note that my answer illustrates one of the dangers of relying on authoritative textbook traditions (which is required by the party of progress). These can shape the self-conception of even advanced students, that even once important and famous books are mistakenly neglected. So, even the party of progress must leave room, as Liam Kofi Bright has suggested to me, for arbitrage opportunities and allow the development of seemingly epiphenomenal intellectual activities (such as history of philosophy and/or economics) that make it possible. 

RIP: Noel Swerdlow (1941-2021)

My graduate school classmate at The University of Chicago, Matt Kerrigan Frank, alerted me to the fact that Noel Swerdlow recently passed away. (See this obit.)

I met Noel on one of the first days in graduate school back in September 1995. The seminar room was busy filling up with faculty and graduate students from philosophy and history of science for one of the many, weekly joint seminars I would attend during the next seven years. I was trying to impress David Malament with my knowledge of the Huygens/Newton debate which I had been researching under the guidance of George Smith (one of my undergrad gurus). An old crank -- I now realize he was then barely older than I am now-- interrupted my narrative to tell me that Huygens' objections to Newton's inverse law were primarily metaphysical. I tried to explain to the guy that Koyré's view had been refuted (by George and me). I never get a chance. I asked David, "who is that old man?" and he informed me it was Noel Swerdlow.

Over the next few years I saw Noel in action at the various joint seminars: often abrasive and impatient, but at times quite brilliant. Some of his exchanges with visiting scholars could be quite spirited. (His exchange with Motti Feingold was legendary, but they were or became close friends.)

My relationship with Noel evolved once he spent some time away at Dibner (where George had become director). After we met again on campus, he told me with a big smile "you could have told me about all the archival research that went into the Huygens paper [see here]. I thought you were just bluffing. It's really marvelous work--I love the argument with the maps." I meekly tried to say, "i tried." But something had changed, I was now on his good side. And to receive a compliment from Noel (or anyone in graduate school) was one of the highlights of my graduate career.

He was famous for his work on Babylonian astronomy (he was a student of the legendary Otto Neugebauer), but I have to admit that as a PhD student I loved learning about Copernicus and his (obscure to me) peers from Noel. I also have a memory of him playing piano, but I have not seen this mentioned in any obituary so maybe I am confused. We discovered our shared love for opera at the Lyric, and I always looked forward to seeing him there. (He was very learned on opera.)

When I was nearly done with my PhD, I had the luminous idea to ask him to read Adam Smith's posthumous "History of Astronomy" with me. This piece was central to my dissertation. I was delighted he agreed, and even more that he had never read it before. (I always assumed Noel pretty much had read everything.) I expected that Noel would be extremely critical of Smith as a historian (as the editors of the Oxford edition are). But Noel was, in fact, quite impressed with Smith's historical acumen and, more importantly, gave me a graduate seminar on all the possible sources Smith could have consulted during the 18th century. He also flattered my vanity in assuming that I was intimately familiar with all the works of Regiomantus, Riccioli, and Peuerbach. Often after our reading group at The Medici I had to go to special collections to figure out what he was saying. (This was before the age of google.books!)

Later, when I realized I had bombed out on the job-market first time around, he even helped me apply (and wrote a letter) for a project on Smith as historian of astronomy. But that was not funded.

At the time, i assumed it was normal for historians of astronomy to have a position in an astronomy department.  So, I later used that as an argument for my paper on "philosophy and a scientific future of the history of economics" But I have learned it is much less common (although archeoastronomy is sometimes practices by professional astronomers). 

That paper was part of a rather contentious symposium. organized by Paola Tubaro & Erik Angner. To be clear the symposium was lovely but our audience of established historians were underwhelmed. I think referees managed to prevent bublication of some of the papers.
Anyway, my core idea was that the history of economy theories could play an evidential role in present day economics as the custodians of the theories and data of the past. This was not well received at all. But it let to an invitation by Bertram Schefold to reflect on the possibilities and significance of economic history. I did not know much about the practice of economic history. But as I was musing about the invite, I wondered what the oldest economic data might be. The hunch being that if you have data very far apart this might help you to calibrate important measures.  So on a lark I googled (!) "Babylonian economics" and I was directed to Alice Louise Slotsky The Bourse of Babylon Market Quotations in the Astronomical Diaries of Babylonia, which I read and loved.

I was astonished to learn that the very clay tablets with astronomical data Noel had studied also had economic data on them! I started drafting one of the craziest and fun papers I ever wrote, "Prophecy, eclipses and whole-sale markets: A case study on why data driven economic history requires history of economics, a philosopher’s reflection." [published in Jahrbuch für Wirtschaftsgeschichte/Economic History Yearbook 50.1 (2009): 195-206.]

With some trepidation I sent an early draft to Noel. Rather than scolding me for my amateurishness (this was the initial response of some of my Leiden colleagues who were experts on ancient Mesopatamia--I think they really thought I was crazy), he wrote lengthy letters on the quality of the data that I wanted to use. (The published version of the paper includes excerpts from his letters to me. ) Nobody seems to have read this paper, but it was good enough for me that Noel (who called my attention to relevant other scholars) took it seriously enough to try to help me improve it.

In later years, Noel would always read works I sent him. Sometimes even my blog. Even when I relied on impeccable scholarship of others, he would correct mistakes that had crept into now famous scholarly works. My favorite letter, however, is this one-liner, "Take it down; it's nonsense!--Noel."

Covid Diaries Continued...

Last week I conveyed progress about my symptoms  (recall here; here; here; here; here; here; and last week). Inevitably (one of my two favorite jokes, Q: “Are you happy?” A: “Yes, I am happy, aber glücklich bin ich nicht…”),* that was followed by a horrid week-end of headaches. (To be sure the headaches are not as painful as six to eight weeks ago.) It was horrid because now accompanied by a weird nausea. 

So, while I was receiving all kinds of encouraging and optimistic well wishes, I was in no mood to project optimism. Luckily the headaches dissipated again and the start of this week (Monday-Wednesday) was pain free, mildly marred by the by now familiar fatigue (and accompanying hunger). Unfortunately, the last two days the headaches have returned. In both cases I awake in the middle of the night confused why I can't fall back to sleep, eventually I realize that I have a strange pain (which has moved, again, now to the back of my skull). But despite my insomnia, I did not want to skip this update.

As it happens, and perhaps not unrelated, I was shocked and deeply saddened by the news that Dr. Rachelle Dyanne “Dara” Bascara has passed away. (HT: her colleague Nick Cowen). I feel frustrated that my illness prevents me from writing a detailed appreciation now. Heidi Howkins Lockwood has a touching memorial on her facebook page, but I am not sure it is public.

Long before #MeToo was mainstream, Dara was one of the people who bravely broke the conspiracy of silence in the philosophy profession about the predatory culture of sexual harassments that was being tolerated. The shock at what she revealed, as well as the fact that some senior philosophers also criticized her for her actions, convinced me that the magnificent work of (recall) feministphilosophers crew had not yet ended this culture in our time. Her example and our correspondence going back to 2014 nudged me into a series of digressions that have remained among the most read (and friendship ending) pieces I published. Her example got me thinking anew about how to conceptualize the nature of philosophical integrity, the coherence between a philosophical life and thought (which I also digressed upon). 

 

When my family moved to London we got to know each other a bit in person. She was able to combine genuine activism, intellectual profundity, humor, perseverance in the face of much hardship and indifference, and more than a touch of glamour. She always made a point to attend my talks.

 

She was proud of her PhD thesis "Towards a Unified Theory of Oppression," at Birkbeck, and in our last quick chat she told me she was pleased to have a position at Lincoln. But since the Covid lockdowns our interactions had been much reduced. I always silently assumed Dara would have the last laugh. Dara and her family had already overcome shocking circumstances, including (if I recall correctly) a lengthy cover-up of a brutal police murder of her father.+ My sincere condolences to her loved ones, friends, and colleagues.

 

This week we had a Dutch election, and surprisingly my post from four years ago on the topic has held up exceedingly well (recall here). This time around the election campaign was even more focused on values. And foreign affairs barely figured into the campaign. The historic collapse of Social democracy and Christian democracy continued, but now all left-wing parties collapsed along with them. (In fairness, none run an impressive campaign.) Simultaneously, as a group the rise of neo-fascist parties continued, despite splintering and scandal, apace.

 

Democratic left and neo-fascist right (some of which clearly not paying even lip-service to minimal norms of democracy anymore) both have a fifth of the seats in parliament now. (That's not unprecedented: for most of the 1930s Holland was ruled by Colijn, who was not just a war criminal, imperialist and racist, but practically invented 'austerity'; see also this shocking episode on the fate of Chinese living in Holland). But oddly -- it was a year of pandemic mismanagement, unprecedented riots, long simmering exposés on institutional racism and perversion of the rule of law in so-called toeslagenaffaire (childcare benefits scandal) that reached all the way to the most important state actors and prompted a merely symbolic government collapse-- the ruling bourgeois quasi-liberal center (divided in a cosmopolitan and a more conservative branch) came out strengthened and will surely rule again.

 

Since I am a bourgeois liberal the result is probably the best I could hope for given the circumstances. One problem with Dutch multi-party representative democracy is that, despite its many virtues, it lacks good rituals for cleansing of the stalls. Even when a resignation is not just symbolic, the consequence is that many failed politicians get kicked upstairs (into quasi-judicial roles in the council of state) or are parked (as part of a spoils system) as mayors (in Holland these are appointed) and so can still influence people's lives in non-trivial ways. The effect is to give the appearance that nothing changes. My spleen about the election was lessened because my excellent direct departmental colleagues in "Challenges" were all over the media (including TV) as expert commentators.

 

I am always amused that Marx and Engels thought that Holland was a likely place to initiate socialist revolution. I now think that if the Nazis had allowed the Dutch government to continue as before after defeat in May 1940, De Geer would have been reelected. 

 

Hopefully, with Spring sunshine, next week my digression will be more upbeat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Covid Limbo

Nearly 70,000 cases of covid infection were reported yesterday, 8th January. Of course that’s officially confirmed cases and the real number of infections will be much higher. A small but significant proportion of those people will go on to be hospitalised and a small but significant proportion of them will die in the next few days. As we are often reminded, as if to reassure us, most of these victims will be over 60 and/or have various ‘underlying medical conditions’, but there are at least a couple of important ways in which this narrative of reassurance is both troubling and misleading. First, this narrative, intentionally or not (and I think it often is intentional when seized upon by various covid deniers and ‘lockdown sceptics’) effectively relegates people over 60 and those with ‘underlying conditions’ (and the list of these conditions is much more extensive than people normally realise) to more or less sub-human status: those whose deaths and lives are apparently relatively unimportant. Secondly, the fact is that you just don’t know if you are ‘vulnerable’ or not to this virus – no one can be sure that they are ‘safe’ from it. Indeed it’s currently thought that one in 20 people who develop symptoms on infection might suffer symptoms lasting more than eight weeks and, further, a significant number of those people remain unwell for several months (at least) after infection. This isn’t ‘just’ elderly people or those with ‘pre-existing health conditions’, but includes relatively young, relatively fit and active people like me – I’m 45 and before I became very ill with long covid last summer I used to weight-train in a serious and focused way at least 3 to 4 times a week. There are many, many people in more or less the same position as me currently and, given the rates of infection at the moment, many more will find themselves in a similar place over the next few weeks and months. Those who think – selfishly and incorrectly – that the pandemic is of little concern to them personally really ought to think again.--Ed Rooksby, January 9, 2021 "Nine months in the long limbo of long covid." [HT Chris Brooke]

Last week, I was too depressed to pen a digression. This despite the fact that my very kind and supportive, university's occupational physician suggested that a diary in which I record my progress might be helpful. And there is progress to report: Saturday, nine days ago, was the last truly horrid day of intense headaches. Since, I have barely had any dizziness (the most recurring symptom), much more manageable bouts of insomnia, and much reduced spells of headaches. In addition, on several days I lacked the general sense of fatigue I have tried to describe before (recall here; here; here). In the post quoted at the top of my own, Rooksby, whose symptoms were considerably worse than my own, writes, "it felt like my brain was encased in cotton wool and that I was somehow removed from reality, like I was watching everything – including my own activity – from behind thick glass."  

Even so, even minor walks or an hour responding to emails can still induce a strange fatigue and irritability toward any kind of noise or disturbance (which helps me recognize the fatigue). And the depression was caused not just by my ongoing inability to read books, but also a sense that every sign of progress is quickly followed by a rude reminder that I am nowhere near recovered. Part of me wonders if the sense of despair isn't itself a by-product of covid given how many other weird (and mostly minor) intermittent neurological/cognitive symptoms I experience.

The university's occupational physician convinced me that I need to take my sick leave seriously. And so I have let go of most of my work related activities. As I decline requests to do tenure files, referee, blurb; postpone research activities related to a number of edited volumes and grants; postpone or cancel public lectures and interviews; withdraw from dissertation defenses; I accept intra-departmental political defeats, and I also register how much stuff I pack into my ordinary self days. 

Perhaps the depression was induced by the following uncanny experience. I watched myself lecture on video last week. The recording of the lecture series is used to substitute for my presence this semester. It's a huge lecture course (400-500 students). And while I am no Sandel, I enjoy and take pride in, allowing my lectures to be interrupted by Q&A throughout.  In watching myself -- and my ridiculously chaotic slides -- I realized that I was not so much explaining the material, but sharing what I found interesting or exciting and tried to explain the grounds of interest, while smuggling in concepts and arguments I am supposed to expose them to. I took a childish pleasure into watching myself lecture.

But my responses to student questions were different altogether. I suddenly realized, as I was watching the recording, that I often had no idea what I would answer then, or could answer now, and I would marvel at how my recorded self would quickly and sometimes humorously manage to process and incorporate the questions into the lecture. He could think much faster, much subtler than I can now!* 

When I mentioned this to the university's occupational physician, she laughed a bit. And said that I should not underestimate the skill with which I could handle complex thought when I was not incapacitated. I did not put quote marks around that because I don't recall the exact wording, but that's because she did use 'incapacitated' (in Dutch: arbeidsongeschikt). 

Rooksby (an accomplished blogger and writer), who I knew from a far distance, seems to have died yesterday (here). And that gives his words a special poignance. It's interesting to me that he has tracked the social implicature of 'underlying conditions' as sub-human-status. Back in the day (March 2020), I registered 'herd-immunity' as code for 'culling' or 'dispensable.' And I even satirized that our pseudo-Darwinian age would be followed by a religious revival that would refer to our era as the 'great culling.' When I feel a bit stronger, I want to collect my thoughts on being an incapacitated, philosopher. 

But I am lucky that I don't feel a stigma that I am incapacitated for work; and grateful for hard-earned victories of earlier generations, that I can draw a salary while being pampered at home by my very busy, hardworking spouse. I do find it frustrating and embarrassing that my already overworked and more junior colleagues have additional work because of my disease. The Dutch government has opened the purse-strings, but not for our underfunded universities. I know better, but can't shake the thought am letting down those that count on my help in their career/professional advancement.

Even so, I spent most of my days watching netflix and daydreaming about invited research leaves in lovely climes. With gradual recovery I am willing to hope that I will be able to read and teach again...although last week I could not quiet altogether my simmering panic I may not. When I was a teenager I saw a documentary about Willem de Kooning's late art, which was so much sparser than his exuberant and overflowing earlier work. Later I learned that he suffered from Alzheimer's. I wonder if my post-covid work will have such clean and elegiac quality.

 

 

 

RIP: Arthur Wijnschenk (1971-2020); On Caravan Camp Sollicitude

This morning my sister informed me that she had learned from Maureen Wijnschenk (his sister) that my distant distant cousin, classmate, and friend, Arthur Wijnschenk died. I have known Arthur, and his family, my whole life. Before his coming out he dated my oldest living friend, Liora the youngest daughter of my father's best friend (Chaim), in high school. (I sat next to Arthur at her wedding.) We were not mates in high school, but each in our own way, we tried to escape our childhood environment by fleeing into the wider world--Arthur more boldly and with more panache. But despite cultivating a bad-boy, go-happy, work hard, party harder image, he was loyal to his roots and kept in touch. From my distant perspective, he was one of the early hackers; then let himself be paid by financial firms to protect them from attack; serial entrepreneur (including his favorite, Barcelona Car Tours), moving among Rotterdam, Los Angeles, Madrid,  Barcelona, and even our Amsterdam in restless fashion celebrating each trip with a champagne toast in first class. Even so, he would always track me down all over the world and, when I was broke or trying to make ends meet on an academic salary, would treat me to lavish meals in fancy restaurants always just before they were to become famous.  Often at the end of a night, as I went home, the night would start for him. Sometimes I saw pictures of his adventures in the clubs on social media the next day before he went to the gym.

When my family moved to London a few years, I learned I was not his only regular on his itinerary. There were other distant relatives he kept track off, happily being drawn into their family milestones--giving and accepting nurture along the way. 

I tell you about Arthur, dear readers, not just because I can't think of anything else right now, but because he is one of the proximate causes for my blogging. A decade ago, when I was trying to turn myself into a Dutch public intellectual, I mentioned to him I couldn't get a piece published by any of the main newspapers. Arthur asked to read it. Then told me he had created a website and started advertising the piece on Google up to €50 per day. The effect was shocking: I got an endless stream of hate mail, threats, including death threats, and for many years you could find my name denounced on far-right websites.* To me this was eye-opening because I recognized that one didn't need mainstream media to find an audience; and this helped me reconcile myself to my failure as a public intellectual and develop into this different kind of authorial persona. 

You can read a translation (by his friend Brian Gross) of the piece on NewAPPS. If you look at the NewAPPS archive, you'll see it is one of the very first pieces I published at NewAPPS when it was just a week old (and we had a few dozen daily readers).  Arthur read nearly all of my blogs, always welcoming the pieces in which I dropped my scholarly guard and shared my views in forthright manner. Sometimes, he would send me a quick note thanking me for the occasional, lucid paragraph in the middle of a digressions. 

Eventually Arthur stopped advertising my piece, and discontinued the webserver that hosted it. The right-wing websites that polemicized against it mostly disappeared (today I could only locate one that notes its existence).

Recently, after I won a grant to study debt, just before the corona-lockdown, I was contacted by a leading Dutch banker to come meet with her and discuss. I thought she had read about the grant in the newspaper, but it turned out Arthur had nudged her into meeting me. During our last dinner, a few weeks ago on the back balcony at “Bickers a/d Werf” during one of the endless corona-Summer days, he told me he knew her since his membership of the JOVD, the youth wing of the Dutch main right wing party, and that they had stayed in touch. 

To my delight I found a splendid essay by him (1993) in the JOVDs zine, railing against the internal shenanigans and lack of internal democracy at the JOVD's annual conference -- the article makes clear he was a regular --, and in it he unmasks self-serving careerism and opportunism and he pleads for one-man-one-vote. Anyway, behind the bad boy, there was true engagement. I dont think Arthur had much formal education, or that he was especially bookish, but, not unlike our classmate Arnon Grunberg, he had the gift of an excellent polemicist.+

I mention Arnon not just to name-drop; as it turns out that for a few years we had an intense three-way email correspondence, which started with a note by Arthur to Arnon in September 2000.**  The note congratulates Arnon on his literary success and implies that Arthur is earning money as a porno-producer.*** In our letters we recognized ourselves as prisoners/wardens of 'caravan camp sollicitude' (woonwagenkamp de eenzaamheid).

Because Arthur and I traveled a lot, we started talking about Corona in January. We were both mystified, even outraged by the utter lack of care and reaction by national authorities. We found the role of the WHO mysterious. I tried to nudge him into developing mobile and airport testing capacity. Corona has been very tough for him. It hurt his businesses and undermined his life-style. He was (quite rightly) angered by the ways governments supported better connected businesses than his own. But most importantly it threw him back onto himself.

In response, while he tried to keep his businesses afloat, he checked in almost daily, including with my mom--they both would express concern for the other to me. (Early in the lock-down with PPE shortages everywhere, he surprised her with state of the art face-mask.) I found their mode of contact reassuring, perhaps too re-assuring. 

Arthur and I came from families shaped by the Holocaust, by betrayal and by great acts of compassion and rectitude. It would be tempting here to write something about our shared sense that all of that was not an aberration, that we're sleepwalking into more disaster. So often he would ask me what we could do.

I wish I were better at capturing the cocktail of survivor guilt, perseverance, love, and hardness of those we grew up with; the focus on money-making, the impatience with official delusion; the moving between many different worlds at once; the sense of connection with distant relatives who had to stand in for never-born cousins and uncles/aunts. But we rarely talked about the past; we were immersed in a present haunted by omissions and ellipses. Adult friendship is the art of tactful silence. And during the last few years, after my dad died, and as he quietly become a more regular fixture in my life, I learned from him to be more accepting of good fortune as our lives glide too closely alongside the precipice.   

Arthur's mom, (like my own) youthful when she had her first child, died early at the age of 45 from cancer. My heart goes out to his dad, and Maureen. 

 

Popper, Schmitt, and Friend & Foe

It cannot, of course, be denied that human individuals are, like all other things in our world, in very many respects very unequal. Nor can it be doubted that this inequality is of great importance and even in many respects highly desirable.12 (The fear that the development of mass production and collectivization may react upon men by destroying their inequality or individuality is one of the nightmares13 of our times.) But all this simply has no bearing upon the question whether or not we should decide to treat men, especially in political issues, as equals, or as much like equals as is possible; that is to say, as possessing equal rights, and equal claims to equal treatment; and it has no bearing upon the question whether we ought to construct political institutions accordingly. ‘Equality before the law’ is not a fact but a political demand based upon a moral decision; and it is quite independent of the theory—which is probably false—that ‘all men are born equal’. Now I do not intend to say that the adoption of this humanitarian attitude of impartiality is a direct consequence of a decision in favour of rationalism. But a tendency towards impartiality is closely related to rationalism, and can hardly be excluded from the rationalist creed. Again, I do not intend to say that an irrationalist could not consistently adopt an equalitarian or impartial attitude; and even if he could not do so consistently, he is not bound to be consistent. But I do wish to stress the fact that the irrationalist attitude can hardly avoid becoming entangled with the attitude that is opposed to equalitarianism. This fact is connected with its emphasis upon emotions and passions; for we cannot feel the same emotions towards everybody. Emotionally, we all divide men into those who are near to us, and those who are far from us. The division of mankind into friend and foe is a most obvious emotional division; and this division is even recognized in the Christian commandment, ‘Love thy enemies!’ Even the best Christian who really lives up to this commandment (there are not many, as is shown by the attitude of the average good Christian towards ‘materialists’ and ‘atheists’), even he cannot feel equal love for all men. We cannot really love ‘in the abstract’; we can love only those whom we know. Thus the appeal even to our best emotions, love and compassion, can only tend to divide mankind into different categories. And this will be more true if the appeal is made to lesser emotions and passions. Our ‘natural’ reaction will be to divide mankind into friend and foe; into those who belong to our tribe, to our emotional community, and those who stand outside it; into believers and unbelievers; into compatriots and aliens; into class comrades and class enemies; and into leaders and led.---Karl Popper The Open Society and its Enemies (one volume edition), 439-440 (emphasis in original)

Yesterday Jerry Gaus (1952-2020), who was the greatest theorist of the open society in our life-time, died. This post is an imperfect homage to his memory. 

Nearly every word in the passage quoted above is a response to Schmitt's Concept of the Political (perhaps mediated by Strauss' commentary). This is easy to miss because in a rare moment of self-command, Popper does not name the target nor attaches a lengthy discursive footnote.* My present interest is to discuss the significance of this, rather than to offer complete proof of the claims in the first sentence of the present paragraph. The quoted passage occurs in chapter 24 of The Open Society. And it helps clarify Popper's decision to call the critics and alternatives to liberalism/Open Society -- which he describes and criticizes with a mixture of polemics and admiration -- 'enemies.' 

In the Concept of the Political, Schmitt claims (recall) that "there is a specific political distinction to which political actions and motives can be reduced is that between friend and enemy.'" In German it is 'feind' which can be translated as 'enemy' and as 'foe.' There is some debate among readers of Schmitt, no doubt encouraged by writings by Schmitt after the war, that there is an important distinction between enemy and foe in Schmitt. But such a distinction is unavailable to Popper in 1943. 

In the quoted passage, Popper twice echoes Schmitt's distinction between friend and foe, and he treats the genesis of the distinction in our emotions ("the division of mankind into friend and foe is a most obvious emotional division.")  That he has Schmitt in mind is clear from the second use of 'friend and foe' which marks those recognized to "belong to our tribe" (compatriots) and not to those outside of it, or as Schmitt would put it, "the other, the stranger."

For Popper the embraces of the Schmittian distinction facilitates the emotional rejection of what Popper calls equalitarianism. Because from the vantage point of our emotions, our differences are highly salient. As Schmitt puts it, "emotionally the enemy is easily treated as being evil and ugly," (emphasis added).

That Popper is shadowing even trolling Schmitt is obvious from his next move -- which one can only describe as chutzpah -- in which he points out that the distinction is recognized by the Christian commandment. Schmitt by contrast had insisted that the Christian love in the commandment is not reserved for the "political enemy."+ 

It is important for Schmitt to make his distinction compatible with Christianity because for Schmitt his rejection of liberal universalism, ultimately rests on his submission to a providential (Christian) faith opposed to the liberal's "anthropological profession of faith."** Strikingly, and as a good Kantian, Popper grants Schmitt the claim that at bottom the choice, for or against liberalism, rests on a species of faith (this is crucial to Strauss' interpretation of Schmitt and Strauss subsequent  historiography).

As Popper puts it, "the choice with which we are confronted is between a faith in reason and in human individuals and a faith in the mystical faculties of man by which he is united to a collective." (450) The second option is the Schmittian outlook. The former option, the "right kind of faith" is Popper's liberalism, which "frankly admits its origin in an irrational decision." (437; emphasis added.) That Popper thinks that there is a faith in individuals as an alternative to a faith in the collective begs the question against Schmitt's insistence that always, a "collectivity of people confronts a similar collectivity," (which begs the question, too). 

I do not mean to claim that for Popper, the choice between himself and Schmittian is reducible to such an existential Kierkegaardian leap (while rejecting any belief in providence). He also thinks the consequence of the Schmittian choice is that it "must lead to an appeal to violence and brutal force as the ultimate arbiter in any dispute." (440)*** That is to say, Popper claims (and here he echoes Strauss again) that Schmitt returns us to a kind of state of nature not worth having. 

Now, the significance of all of this is that it allows us to raise the question how the open society should treat its enemies? In fact, I already noted that Popper thinks a kind of defensive violence, even tyrannicide, is permitted (recall), even obliged, in order and only in order to restore democracy. But the more challenging question is, how should the open society treat its enemies before they have succeeded in overthrowing it? And part of Popper's answer is: make sure you can (conceptually) recognize that there are enemies. What follows from this recognition I explore before long. 

RIP: Richard "Red" Allan Watson (February 23, 1931 - September 18, 2019)

I have been exploring caves in the Mammoth Cave region of Kentucky for over fifty years. The Mammoth Cave System is now more than 365 miles long, and will probably reach 500 miles.

THE LONGEST CAVE (written with Roger W. Brucker, published in 1976 by Alfred A. Knopf) has never been out of print. Roger and I fancy that it never will be out of print as long as there are people who read adventure books.

My novels and, as far as that goes, all my books, are grounded in obsessions. UNDER PLOWMAN'S FLOOR is about caving; THE RUNNER running; and NIAGARA the passion to do something no one else has ever done: to be the first to walk across Niagara Falls on a high wire, and the first to go over the Falls in a barrel. These are philosophical novels, but they are absolutely non-didactic.

The translation of NIAGARA into French led to my being invited to the Saint-Malo Etonnants Voyageurs Festival International du Livre in 1997, where an award was given to its French translator, Jacques Chabert. That was year the Montana writers were invited to the festival, and I rode on the train from Paris to Saint-Malo in a seat beside William Kittredge, who told me what a fine place Missoula, Montana is for writers. The result of that conversation is that Pat and I now live and write in a passive solar earth house bordering the Lolo National Forest on a mountain slope above Missoula.--Richard "Red" Watson, "Autobiography"

Eric Brown informed me that Red Watson died September 19, 2019.

Red Watson taught me to write. In the Summer of 2003, I arrived, with a freshly minted PhD, in St. Louis after a glorious year at Wesleyan. I was struggling on the job market and with journal editors and their referees. I spent two unhappy years in St. Louis.

While there, I learned from Larry May that it might help to 'situate' my papers 'in the literature' in the first footnote(s). I learned from Red to cut 30% of the word-count and improve clarity. I arrived in town with one publication. I left with eight acceptances, and a tenure track job in a wonderful department (Syracuse).  Red insisted I should keep sending him my draft papers. He would use his pencil simply deleting sentences and sentence fragments, revealing, like a sculptor chipping away marble, the underlying thought to my astonished eyes.

Once, he felt I needed an extra scolding:

Remind me to attack you for your picking up contemporary misuse of the word 'share'. A share is like a piece of pie. Keep this story in mind. A woman of my acquaintance was asked if she would like to share her telephone number. "Why I'd be delighted," she said. "Which digit would you like to have?"

At one point, long after we stopped expecting to see each other again, he complained that I had stopped sending him draft chapters. (By that time I was a father and a research professor.) I explained I had stopped because he had made such a point of complaining about the email connection in the library. (This was 2010.) He responded by sending me his (snail) mail address in Missoula. 

Red was proud of his wife (Patty Jo Watson, a world class scientist) and daughter, his writing (fiction and philosophical), and his students--in that order. He was the first professional philosopher I met who presented himself as a writer. For many years, he tried to enlist me as an agent to get his quirky Descartes biography translated and published into Dutch. No professional failure has weighted more on me.  

When he was not talking about spelunking or his better half, Red understood himself as a student of Popkin, and he belonged to that pioneering group of historians of philosophy who used archives to help shape philosophical understanding. I didn't think of him of as analytic philosopher, although at times I thought of him as the last living logical positivist. He helped contribute to the polemical atmosphere in the WashU department. 

In 2005, Red authored (with Harry Bracken) a "few paragraphs" which "are meant to be neither an obituary nor an adequate memorial. We were Dick's first two PhDs, and we were barely five years his junior. He treated us from the beginning as colleagues and he became a lifelong friend. He changed our lives, as he did the lives of many other aspiring scholars. We miss him." In 463 words they were able to convey the significance of Richard Popkin's life and scholarship. 

One of our last exchanges (in 2010) was about the title of a book manuscript, Descartes and Pascal: Faith And Reason. I expressed surprise at the coupling. He explained:

Descartes is the man of faith (so unworried) and Pascal is the man of reason (so worried to death). 

 

RiP: Myles Burnyeat (1939-2019)

Michael Morris informed me that Myles Burnyeat has died (see also Leiterreports). Burnyeat was a visiting scholar at The University of Chicago* in 2001 (or so) and gave a most memorable seminar on the Republic. (He also gave some eventful public lectures.) I was struck by his ability to make the Republic seem completely relevant to our age (we spent quite some time on advertising and the welfare state )--and have been marked forever by this. During the seminar, there  was amusement (recall) that this great anti-Straussian+ could seem so close to Bloom (then dead only a few years) in many of his interpretations.

During his stay in Hyde Park he made himself available for lengthy discussions with graduate students (at Jimmy's), snorting his tobacco snuff while engaged in sustained argument and sharing stories about other scholars/philosophers. He could also be very kind: I told him I was sad I had never met Isaiah Berlin before he died. He looked at me for a moment and said slowly, you would have liked listening to him.

At Chicago he treated our own (recall) Ian Mueller with great deference. But he had a tendency to treat Ian primarily as an expert on Greek mathematics (and so, simultaneously, not quite important on a lot of other stuff). I mention it not because I think there was any personal animosity or a sense of ill will (or to start a polemic of my own). But because it was also emblematic for a wider limitation of that generation of analytic, 'ancient' philosophers to have overly firm, and in part merely fashionable, views about what mattered. Stephen Menn has made the point in more sophisticated fashion (see here).

He was, among his generation of analytic ancient scholars, unusual for his deep interest in the evolution of views about and canon-formation of ancient philosophy. I remember once an exchange with him about the impact of Plato's Laws (a text I was then obsessed with) on early modern. To burden shift, but also from genuine curiosity, he asked me for a list of references. This was pre-google era, so it took me a while to compile it. When I handed it to him -- without making a copy for myself, I now regret! -- he was genuinely pleased. I then learned about his immense knowledge of Plato reception, and we spent quite some time discussing the impact of Plato on Berkeley's Siris (the subject of a famous paper of his).   

Others can judge better the lasting influence of his scholarship. Burnyeat was a great scholar, a polemicist, and à personality.  He was also a terrific stylist; I always enjoy checking out his papers when i am researching a topic he has written on.

I close with one of my favorite paragraphs:

Plato’s ability to move between two worlds, giving each its due, is evident on every page of his writing. James Mill, like Cicero, remains firmly down here on earth. Plotinus is constantly eager to get away to a better place. Plato, inspiration for all three, illuminates both poles of the universe into which he draws his readers. That is why he is altogether larger, more imaginative, richer in ideas, more amusing and more inspiring (even to those who are not philosophically minded), more fruitful to think with, more challenging, more outrageous—in short, more philosophical—than any of the diverse followings that came after him. Plato remains a powerful presence because he opens our mind to thoughts it was not aware it needed.