It is frequently argued that we live
in distinctly unphilosophical times: Our attention spans have been shortened by
the deluge of messages we receive 24 hours a day through our hyper-connected
existences, making it difficult to engage with the long (like really, really
long!) texts that dominate the field. Having been habituated to almost instant
gratification in most areas of life (from super tasty food to exercise
“regimes” where electro-stimulation supposedly does all the hard work so you
don’t have to exert yourself too much) we disdain any discipline that requires
many years of patient study to bear its fruits. Being reared in a dominantly
audiovisual culture we find it alien and uncomfortable to have to resort to
that quaint contraption, a written text, to find you bearings (I suppose you
can find the Nicomachean Ethic in audiobook
format, or have Siri read it to you if you are too lazy to do it yourself, but
I wonder how much mileage you may extract from that).
But the main problem seems to be the
utilitarian, pragmatic nature of our era, in which time has so many alternative
uses (the opportunity costs have grown so big) that we expect an immediate,
measurable payback from every activity we engage in, and in that department the
study of philosophy comes woefully short: you devote countless hours to read
abstruse books, and what do you have to show for it? A hunch that being… is? The revolutionary idea that you
shouldn’t do unto others what you don’t want done unto you? The nagging
suspicion that what you thought you knew is a social construction so you can
not be entirely sure of anything anymore? I can understand the potential
disappointment of parents that have invested a few thousand quids in the
education of their progeny (sorry mates, been in the UK these days, picked some
lingo, ya’ know) if they see those answers coming from their kid’s mouth after
a few years of grad school on their dime.
I will not enter in a more nuanced
discussion into the truth of the previous assertion, as I’m not entirely
convinced that these times are indeed more materialist, or obsessed with the
practicality of the endeavors it celebrates than other times in our history
(somehow, I can’t see wealthy parents in classical Greece being any less
disappointed with their children coming out of Socrates’ school and spouting
some gibberish not so distinct from the one I just spoofed… well, that probably
explains how good ol’ Socrates ended), but I leave such discussion to Pitirim
Sorokin and the like (latest iteration of the like being Peter Turchin and Sergey Nefedov, whose Secular Cycles I read this summer, and although mainly deals with
the correlations between the material aspects of agricultural societies quiet
nicely dovetails with my own construction of socioeconomic dimensions that in
turn determine the evolution of the ideological ones… like the amount of
idealism vs. materialism prevailing in a given society at a given time; but I
digress). The previous unusually long-winded sentence (even for my admittedly
ultra-lax own standards) was my way of saying that however our own epoch
compares with other past times regarding its distaste for abstract thinking, that
would be immaterial to the argument of it being distinctly unwelcoming of the
pursuit of philosophy.
A symptom of such lack of
congeniality would be the continuous and seemingly unstoppable diminution of
the time devoted to the study of the topic in most countries scholarly
curricula. A diminution, in turn, systematically and frequently decried by any
self-respecting member of the cultured classes and the ruling intelligentsia.
Every review of what we should teach the poor kids in the last half century has
seen a further extension of what could roughly be called STEM disciplines, at
the expense of the humanities, and typically philosophy (or history of Western
thought and its correlates) has been first in line for seeing the weekly hours
devoted to it reduced, and the number of courses on which it is taught at all
further shrunk. I can understand that the philosophy professors at every level
protest and complain of such societal choices: the work prospects of the kids’
teachers-to-be are significantly curtailed, and as forming teachers-to-be is
the main purpose of the university departments of philosophy, the mighty
professors join the chorus and decry the short-sightedness of the politicians that
are contributing to the nurturing of future generations of uncritical asses, oblivious
to the greatness of their own cultural tradition, which counts between its
biggest contributors the revered figures (Plato! Aristotle! Kant! Hegel! And lets
rather stop there, as when we reach more recent ages the subject becomes
irredeemably ideological and murky) that poor little children will have to grow
in abject ignorance of.
As bashing politicians is a nice and
almost risk-free activity, most self-appointed “public intellectuals” also join
enthusiastically in the denunciation, but in another sign of their own
diminishing relevance, as far as I know they have been pathetically ineffective
to stem the tide, and in one country after another (Germany, the UK, France,
the USA to name but a few) the curriculum has been more and more lightened of “classic”
humanities, substituted by some easy science and math, some pop sociology and
watered-down history and, in some cases, eve some more modern-sounding alternatives
which are truly the same stuff repackaged (so the International Baccalaureate
program does not offer philosophy as an option, but it does offer “theory of
knowledge”, which is but the old epistemology renamed as to be consumed without
alarming the picky parents that mostly want their boys and girls to be
well-prepared to pursue successful careers in economics in prestigious international
universities, and mostly do not have the slightest interest in them being
exposed to old, mushy stuff with Greek names).
As regular readers well know,
joining any kind of tribe or clique or group is not my cup of tea, so far from
my intention to extoll the virtues of old-fashioned philosophy, as it is taught
both at school and university level. Rather, I’ll play the contrarian again and
declare that most of the defenses I’ve seen in all of these years leave me
pretty cold. Before moving to the main subject of this post, I’ll briefly
recapitulate them (and spice them with some critique of my own, as critiquing
things is one of my most well-known weaknesses):
·
The
teaching of philosophy helps the children (or the young) to develop critical thinking
abilities, and is fundamental to them being well-rounded citizens, able to
rationally judge the actions of its government and thus collaborate in the construction
of a more perfect polity. Let us leave apart for a moment the fact that 99% of
the thinkers included in the typical philosophy course were a bunch of
scoundrels that devoted their best efforts to justify the society of their own
times, presenting it as the pinnacle of human perfection and the most
conductive to the happiness of its members. I just can’t see what social
interest (or individual interest, for what it’s worth) is served by enhancing
the capability for criticizing and judging harshly of the citizenry. That would
make sense if we conceded that the current social arrangement was somehow “wrong”
and needed urgently to be amended, which in theory is what the critiquing
ability should establish in the first place…
·
The
teaching of philosophy is distinctly “useful”, as in a “knowledge economy” our
reasoning ability and our capacity to manipulate symbols is more important than
our ability to perform mechanical, repetitive tasks (as such tasks will be
performed, supposedly, by robots or algorithms any day now). Such argument
probably presupposes that such ability and capacity are best trained by the
study of what (mostly) dead white males wrote a bunch of centuries ago, rather
than (say) by actually manipulating symbols (what mathematics teaches) or learning
and practicing the rules for communicating them (linguistic and presumably
literature). I’ll just dwell for a moment in the incompatibility of this
argument with the previous one. If philosophy succeeds in developing the
critical faculties of the alumni, they may very well realize that the
definition of a live well lived that society is presenting them with (earn as
much money as possible so you can rise in a social hierarchy determined exclusively
by how much of it you possess) is not that attractive to begin with, so
excelling at it (by mastering a “useful” ability) is meaningless.
·
The
teaching of philosophy is necessary so we can have a sufficiently big pool from
which to draw great thinkers that help us understand the human condition, as it
is particularly expressed in our peculiar historical circumstances, and that
can offer wise guidance on how to best deal with the hand we have been dealt. As
much as I would love, really, really love to sympathize with this one, it
reminds me of the old definition Einstein gave of insanity (doing the same
thing over and over again but somehow expecting to obtain a different result).
It is not as if in the last half century the old system has been very
successful at producing powerful, original, persuasive thinkers that have
helped steer society away from its current, destructive, dominant reason. So I’ve
just given up any hope that the current educational establishment, which has
been tasked to process a raw amount of potential talent unrivalled in all of
our species history (if only because the total number of pupils sent to school
and higher education has been the greater one, plus thanks to the Flynn effect
and the universal spread of literacy those pupils have been probably the
brightest ones ever), may able to somehow extract from that enormous pool even
a tiny fraction of the intellectual daring and verve and sheer energy you could
find in a tiny (for modern standards) town in Attica 2,500 years ago (What made Athens so great?)
In summary, my thought until very
recently is that philosophy is almost entirely useless, both from the
individual perspective and from the societal one. Just to make things clear,
that doesn’t mean it lacks any value. Rather the opposite, it is precisely
because it has no use that its value is not only unmeasurable, but also
extremely high. So high, indeed, that I would concur with Socrates that the
non-reflective life is not worth living, and to properly reflect on it (i.e. to
be able to have a life worth living) it is absolutely essential to have a quite
extensive exposure to philosophy. But, but… such exposure doesn’t necessarily
has to happen at the earliest age, and almost certainly there are better ways
to make it fruitful than to have it unenthusiastically explained to you by a
poorly paid, unmotivated teacher that would like to do almost any other thing
rather than droning about Aristotle’s works in front of a class of uninterested
children. Which is an again probably unnecessarily long and circuitous way of
saying that I’m perfectly OK with philosophy being entirely taken out of
education, and all the faculties and schools of philosophy being closed
(remember I already proposed the same fate, albeit for entirely different
reasons, for the schools of Economics: Modest proposal
), and its learning, its research and its development being entirely left in
the hands of private citizens so inclined, unaffiliated with any formal
institution.
But, for the sake of honesty, I have
to confess to my readers that I’ve recently found a (totally unexpected, as I
openly declared in the title) practical, utilitarian, honest-to-God useful
application of the study of philosophy, which somehow shames me, as it
tarnishes the selflessness and just-doin’-it-for-the-heck-of-it shtick of the
whole endeavor. It is an application that helps explain why so many noted
philosophers were polymaths, and spoke a multitude of languages: what
philosophy really enables you to do is to read unbelievable amounts of
crapload, and retain substantial amounts of it. Let me explain: any student of
humanistic disciplines will develop good, sophisticated reading skills. In
fields like history, law, or literature you have to read many, many pages, but
they normally… make sense. Not so in philosophy,
when you may discover long after the fact that whole tracts you have duly
digested and mulled over for a good long time (and that you considered very
thoughtful and deep and profound at the time of reading them) doesn’t really
make any sense at all.
Now I recognize that this may sound
a tad extreme, a bit nonchalant and surprising (although I claim no originality,
this line of thought was awakened in me by a reporter in the Spanish journal “El
País”), so I’ll expand a bit, with a dab of personal experience. I’ve always
been quite a bookish person, and I read more than my share of history and
philosophy when young, but after my (first) university career, finding my
bearings in a very demanding job and founding a family I really eased off for
some years. I tried to sneak one or two “serious” books every now and then, but
it was difficult to give them the attention span they required, so although I
always had six or seven books I was reading more or less simultaneously
(poetry, fiction, politics, history, some social commentary… what I’ve never
been a fan of were “management” and “self-help” books, then as now I avoided
them like the plague), the more abstruse ones could sit in the table besides my
bed for months on end until I found the willpower to have a go at them.
However, the tug of devoting more
time to philosophical pursuits was definitely there, the impetus to put my
thoughts on paper to clarify them and sharpen them and see where they took me
never entirely dried, and the satisfaction every time I managed to finish a more
philosophically bent text was so marked (the mental equivalent to finishing a
grueling workout… you feel you are a better person for having put yourself
through such an ordeal and having survived) that I never entirely stopped
buying that kind of books. I remember having a breakthrough (but I would only
recognize it as such many years later) reading the Critique of Cynical Reason by Peter Sloterdijk: I was working
something like 100 hours a week, my wife and very young kid had just moved with
me into Brasilia (where we knew absolutely nobody) and all the strength I could
muster allowed me to read something like ten minutes per day, just before going
to sleep, normally at about 1:00 or 2:00 AM, knowing I had to wake up in 5 or 6
hours to go back to work, Saturdays and Sundays included. You may guess I was
not in top intellectual form, and my eyes typically glazed over in the second
or third word (I had originally
written in the second or third sentence
but Sloterdijk style is not that different from my own, and his sentences may
go no for one or two pages, so it was not uncommon for me not to be able to
finish a single one). I usually fell asleep in the middle of long-winded,
convoluted and highly self-referential paragraphs, and if the next morning you
asked me to summarize what what I had read the night before was about, I would
have been grossly unable to give even a hint of an explanation. So I wondered
why on God’s green earth I was putting myself through such a misery, and if
there could not be some less absurd way of passing my preciously few leisure
minutes. I can’t say I had an epiphany, or I came to some sort of redemptive
answer, I just trundled along until I finished the danged book, after which I
picked another one of a similar tone…
If you are waiting for some clear-cut
moral I’m sorry to disappoint (but bear with me a bit longer -although certainly
much less than a full-Sloterdijk length, do not panic! and I still think you
may draw some useful lesson). The thing is, by dutifully, stubbornly, joylessly
reading almost unintelligible books (without expecting to obtain any utility
from them), I slowly developed an ability to, wait for this… read almost
unintelligible books. Indeed, I ended up enjoying them so much that they become
my almost only source of reading material. I abandoned my old habit of reading
six or seven books simultaneously. I started one and didn’t start the next one
until I had finished it. And finished meant finished: footnotes, notes at the
end, bibliography (I still spare myself the index when there is one, though). I
allowed myself to order a new batch from Amazon only when I cracked the spine
and started the first page of the last exemplar of the previous batch. Now, I
know what some of you are thinking: “nothing new here. Pierre Bourdieu already
described it. The poor guy was just accruing tons of symbolic power which he
then could translate into an enhanced status within his social milieu. The old
trick of acquiring high culture as a surefire status-marker”. Bollocks. I was
working in a consulting firm, so the amount of status I got from telling my
peers I had read Hegel was exactly zilch. It is not just they could care less
(they could not), it’s that such conceit was actively frowned upon, as the time
devoted to such patently fruitless pursuit was time detracted from more useful
applications, like playing golf with would-be clients or, if some reading had
to be involved, memorizing the WSJ, “Forbes” and, for some extra intellectual
stimulation, who ate my cheese.
But again, it was strangely fulfilling
to be able to read what I knew nobody else around me would be able to read, and
to see how it more or less helped create a complex, sophisticated, reasonably
coherent understanding of what this thing called life was about in a “deep”
sense. I know a lot of people don’t need to read much philosophy to reach that
point, just a chapter by Paulo Coelho takes them to the same point. Good for
them (for the record, I hate Paulo Coelho, but that is besides our current argument).
However, what I was able to extract from so much idiosyncratic reading is beside
the point, what I discovered is that reading without much understanding,
without much seeing the point of it (without caring if there is a point to it after all) is in itself
a skill that, through constant practice, can be improved. And man, did I
practice and improve it! OK, so at this point you may legitimately wonder: so
what? So philosophy is likely to help develop the skill to read boring books
that nobody cares a rat’s ass about… how is that supposed to be useful at all?
We’ll get to it in a moment.
But before I have to continue with
my little story. Just for funsies I decided that knowing so much philosophy I
may as well get some official recognition for it, and I embarked in a doctoral
program to obtain a PhD. I thought I could be done with the mandatory credits
in a year, and have a dissertation written in two more. It finally took me
seven in all, which was a superb enticement to amp up my reading habits even
more, as suddenly all that seemingly pointless exposure to the thoughts of
long-dead guys may had a use after all (to be regurgitated in a document -the
PhD dissertation- that most likely not even the members of the tribunal tasked
with judging it would read in its entirety). So the dissertation was written,
defended and lauded, and it all was great fun. After having completed that
milestone I wanted to do other things, and something that weighed on me was
having to rely on translation for so many of the works I was interested in. So
having a bit more time learning additional languages seemed a sensible
investment, and that’s what I did. At the beginning of 2016 I could fluently
speak Spanish, English and Portuguese, and had the joyful experience of having
devoted all of four weeks to learn French (plus read the collected works of St.
John Persee in a bilingual edition), so French seemed a reasonably easy place
to start expanding my language base.
So I just started buying books in
French (heeeeello Amazon.fr! a new compulsive client has arrived!) and reading
them. The first ones were somewhat disappointing, as I didn’t understand much.
Just like with Sloterdijk’s Critique
back in Brazil, I told myself. I googled the declinations of 20-30 common
verbs, plus some adverbs and prepositions (so I could get an inkling of how the
elements of meaning I could gleam connected with one another) and I just
trundled along. After having read 10 books it all was easier and clearer (let’s
say I felt I understood 85-90% of what the writer was trying to convey). After
20 books (that’s more or less where I’m now) It really doesn’t make a
difference if the book I’m reading is in English, in Spanish, in Portuguese or
in French, and it doesn’t matter how abstruse or abstract it is (I just
finished L’art de penser, a treatise
on logic by XVIIIth century Antoine Arnauld, and am currently reading Matière et mémoire by Bergson… both a
piece of cake). Seeing how easy it was to “learn” French (I still have to get
practice in writing it to consider myself truly tetralingual, but I’ll get
there soon) I started in January this year applying the same approach to
Italian. With similar results, although the learning curve was steeper (Italian
is really very close to Spanish, and the few words that are more different are
normally very similar to a French one, so you can pick it up really fast knowing
already another three Romance languages). Almost pentalingual then.
Time, then, to push it a little
further, and go for a non-Romance tongue. German was the almost unavoidable
option, as I have always wanted to master the German language to be able to read
Kant’s works in its original form. So I’ve started reading in German, and am
pretty stoked by how easy it seems to pick it up.
Only a couple books so far, and I’ve
tweaked my method a bit: with French and Italian I focused on reading
philosophical work, and that has created certain lacunae in my vocabulary. I
can draw on an ample panoply of words to describe mental events (memories,
opinions, intentions, emotions and the like) but I’m at a loss if I have to describe
everyday objects like clothes, furniture, foodstuffs and the like. With Romance
languages that is not an unsurmountable problem, as the words are normally very
similar to the Spanish equivalent, but with German that’s not the case. So
instead of jumping directly into philosophy (and man, do they have a rich
philosophical tradition to draw from!) I’ll read some fiction, starting with
children books (I’ve found that many of the books I read translated as a kid
were from German authors, so am delighted to revisit them in their original
form), then up to YA, and finally some hefty XIX and XX century classics (Hesse,
Mann, Gräss -all of which I’ve read in translation, but also Döblin, Kraus and
Müsil, and Holderlin, Rilke and Trakl). I intend to spend a little more time
consolidating the German language acquisition (2-3 years, and about 50-60 books
read before I finally order Kant’s Gesammelte
Werke… the Academia version, if I can, although I’ll need to sell a kidney
and an eye to afford it), but after that the sky is the limit (my current plan:
who cares about living languages? Next three are Latin, Classical Greek and
Hebrew).
So there you are: without the
ability to read through books I barely understood (but keep on reading anyway,
and retaining more of them than what initially meets the eye) I’m sure I wouldn’t
have been able to apply this idiosyncratic method of learning, and this is the
only method, given my time commitments, that I can afford. And I owe that
ability entirely to my training in philosophy, as I’m also pretty sure there
isn’t any other subject that forces its practitioners to go through such unappetizing
reads. But, Alas! That is not what the current academic climate prepares you
for. The way philosophy is currently taught it has to be pre-masticated,
pre-digested so it “easy” for the poor fellas that have to learn it. It has to
be presented excitingly and energetically so it seems attractive and “fun”.
Well, you know what? I don’t think the Nicomachean
Ethic can ever be made exciting, or fun, ditto for the Critique of Pure Reason, as much as I have enjoyed reading both
(and for what it’s worth, if I were asked if I would rather read the Critique for the first time again or relive
the most pleasurable orgasm I’ve ever experienced, I would go with the Critique without hesitation, but please
don’t tell my wife). That’s why most standard arguments for teaching philosophy
ring hollow to me, as the single real benefit I can see coming from the
conscientious pursuit of the field can only come from doing it in isolation,
and requires a certain level of seclusion that the current aversion to
demanding effort from the students can only curtail, rather than incentivize.
And yes, I know in a few years we
will have AI’s translating online any text in any language directly in our
ears, so learning another language is a big waste of time and effort (but if
you believe that is really going to happen, and that the jumbled translations
of Google, as much as they may improve, somehow compare with understanding a
foreign text or foreign speech yourself, I still have my proverbial bridge in Brooklyn
which I’m willing to sell).
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