Reflection on Philosophy

    In modern philosophy since Descartes it has been a problem: where do you begin? What is the starting point? With a self-evident proposition about reality on the basis of which you can make further deductions? With axiomatic propositions about how we come to know anything? With propositions about the possibility of ‘making sense’ in language? From moral convictions? All are interconnected. If I think reality is a meaningless play of matter and energy, if I further think that all value is a human projection onto a blank screen, and if I think nothing is to count as knowledge unless it is empirically or otherwise scientifically verified, then a world follows, one in which I will not be interested in philosophy.

 

 

  I agree that all thinking starts from propositions taken as axiomatic, which however, unlike the propositions of mathematics, depend on ideas (concepts) that are interpretations of the beings of the phenomena and of being (existence) itself. So to illustrate, consider this proposition: “The early blossoming snow drops are beautiful.” The first term is clear. Is the proposition true or false? That depends on how you interpret the physical world and beauty. If you think the physical world possesses no inherently spiritual qualities like beauty, that beauty is something subjective that we project onto the indifferent screen of nature, is our construct only, our representation of something that itself is neither beautiful nor ugly, then you will deny the proposition. If your idea of the physical world is such that beauty can be a part of its being, you will affirm it. The truth of the proposition thus depends on the understanding of the idea – in this case, what a snow drop qua physical being really is and what beauty really is. Thus at its root philosophy is interpretative (hermeneutic).

       Conceptualization, the “seeing” of ideas of the phenomena (i.e. literally “that which appears to us”), is the “starting point”. We do this from childhood on. Language itself is thus and only thus made possible. It is a process that can be potentially infinitely deepened relative to our finite, conditioned, and fallible minds and hearts.

   To illustrate this ability to deepen an idea, an example. Imagine a child encountering fire for the first time. She sees the bright flickering flames and is curious. Reaching out, she feels heat and recoils – perhaps she even burns her fingers. From this experience, she begins to form ideas: "hot," "burning," "fire," "pain." She may not yet have the words for these, but the experience itself brings her to a first conceptual understanding. She has encountered a phenomenon – something that appears to her – and has already begun the process of basic interpretation.

    Now consider how this interpretation deepens over time. As she learns language, she translates what she has experienced – and all analogous experiences – into symbols, words. ( "That is fire. Fire is hot. Fire burns." These statements, which seem simple, actually involve deep conceptualization. They assume an underlying unity to the phenomenon – that this shifting, flickering thing is "one" fire. They assume continuity (universals): all fire will be hot and will burn, not just this particular instance. They assume causal relationships: touching fire leads to burning, and burning causes pain. She is already engaging in a fundamental act of philosophy, or rather, an act that philosophy is built on, one the stupidest human being can do. A kind of implicit ontology (study of what is real and what only seems to be real) and epistemology (study of the idea of knowledge, of what we can know, and what transcends us) – “folk metaphysics” – grow directly out of such primitive experiences. She is interpreting the nature of fire as something real and as something that causes certain effects. She is seeing beyond the raw experience to the meanings implicit in it. And this process is not merely psychological – it is conceptual. The moment she utters a word or forms a thought about fire, she is engaging in an interpretation of being.   

      As the child grows and engages more deeply with the culture around her, her primitive idea of fire begins to acquire metaphorical dimensions. The initial notion of "fire" – a phenomenon defined by heat, light, and potential danger – gradually intertwines with cultural narratives and symbolic systems. It’s role in the formation of humanity is part of this. In one cultural context, fire might be seen as a symbol of purification and renewal, embodying the cycle of destruction and rebirth, while in another, it could represent unbridled passion or the chaotic forces of nature – as in Robert Frost’s poem “Fire and Ice.”

 

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

 

Here fire is a metaphor for intense human emotions, particularly desire and passion, evoking their potential for destruction. While fire is universally recognized across cultures, its symbolic meanings can vary significantly, potentially influencing how different cultures interpret the poem's figurative language. In many cultures, fire holds spiritual and symbolic significance. For example, some Indigenous cultures view fire as a sacred element, integral to rituals, land management, and the maintenance of ecological balance. These practices demonstrate a deep respect for fire's life-sustaining properties and its role in cultural traditions. Thus individuals from such cultures might find Frost’s use of fire unintelligible.

 

   The metaphorical meanings of basic ideas flow as does water from a spring, expanding it beyond immediate sensory impressions to include layers of emotional, ethical, and existential significance. Thus, the child's original ideas about fire are not static; they evolve as they absorb cultural stories and symbols, which in turn shape and deepen the interpretative framework through which they understand the world.

   Scientific inquiry can further deepen the idea by shifting our focus from mere subjective experience to objective analysis and empirical validation. As the child grows and learns that the flickering flames result from specific chemical reactions, science unveils the underlying mechanisms that govern fire's behavior: e.g. combustion, energy transfer, and thermodynamic principles. This not only refines the initial sensory impression but also integrates it with a broader understanding of natural laws, offering predictive and explanatory models. By connecting the observable phenomenon with a rigorous framework of experimentation and theory, science enriches the concept of fire, bridging the gap between metaphorical symbolism and physical reality, and illustrating how our interpretations can be both culturally nuanced and empirically grounded.

 

. . .

      

Words can stand for ideas. The English “fire” and the German “Feuer” are two different words symbolizing the same idea. They logically express one concept, though the full range of meanings at some level may involve differences. The meaning of these two words is the idea/concept “fire.” Language thus opens up the world.

    This is why philosophy must begin with interpretation rather than mere logical deduction. Deduction requires premises, but premises are already interpretations of experience. The child does not start with a self-evident truth that "fire is hot"; she starts with experience and formulates the concept. But even this experience is never simply raw – it is always already meaningful. (A big part of the meaning comes from the fact that we are bodily creatures.) Our very ability to "see" fire as something, rather than as a meaningless blur of color and warmth, presupposes a conceptual and interpretative engagement with reality.

      With philosophical ideas like real, true, good, and beautiful the process can take on new depth as these ideas, in a way, control all others. Consider the concept of the "real": initially, it might emerge from our direct sensory engagement with the world, e.g., the unmistakable presence of a tree, the sound of the wind, the solidity of the ground beneath our feet. I heard a child say: “If you can’t see it, it’s not real.” However, as our understanding deepens, this basic notion of the "real" begins to accumulate layers of meaning. Metaphorically, "real" comes to represent an ideal of authenticity and permanence against which all else is measured, serving as a criterion that distinguishes mere appearance from genuine substance. This criterion is not universal but is colored by cultural narratives: in some traditions, what is deemed "real" might be intertwined with spiritual or moral dimensions, while in others it is closely aligned with empirical evidence and rationality. Abstract entities such as numbers and geometric forms further complicate our conception of the real by revealing that existence includes abstract entities accessible only to the intellect.  Although not directly observable, mathematical and geometrical ideas provide the underlying structure to both our natural and conceptual worlds. Even imaginary beings have reality of a sort. The unicorn would never be confused with a troll. Some representations of unicorns are more real (authentic) than others. By what standard can we judge that if not an idea?

      Metaphorical language, by the way, is not merely ornamental – it actively discloses layers of reality by linking abstract ideas with concrete experiences. For instance, when we describe truth as a "light," the metaphor doesn't merely provide a poetic image; it suggests that truth, like light, has the power to expose and clarify, thus shaping our understanding of what is real. Thus the Book of John’s powerful use of this metaphor to help his readers understand the advent of Christ (the Incarnation):

 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

 

Plato’s use of the sun – sunlight – as his primary metaphor for the Idea of the Good is another example.  The metaphorical use of light discloses aspects of both the abstract concept of truth and the tangible experience of illumination in the physical world. These examples illustrate that metaphors bridge the gap between subjective experience and the objective: they reveal the internal structure of concepts while illuminating the inherent qualities of the realities they describe. This dual disclosure invites us to see that our interpretations of the world, far from being arbitrary, are deeply intertwined with the very fabric of reality itself.

     The idea of the "real" thus expands from a simple perceptual datum into a complex, interpretative framework that anchors our entire system of values and beliefs, controlling and giving context to our ideas of truth, goodness, and beauty. I will never forget my first experience of Red River Gorge in Daniel Boone National Forest through two contrasting ontological lenses – the feeling of beauty and wonder. I could only think of Tolkien’s forests in Lord of the Rings as a kind of analogy. My experience of joy and wonder opened me up to see the forest as an intimation of Creation, the idea of nature as the work of a sublime Creator.  It made me a bit of a Romantic.

         For unidimensional man who holds a dogmatic scientific ontology, however, the forest is primarily a repository of data—every rock, tree, and stream is an empirical testament to natural laws. This observer views reality as defined by what can be observed, measured, and quantified; the majestic arches and intricate rock formations are appreciated as physical phenomena that reveal geological time scales, ecological interactions, and the predictable order of nature. The forest, in this view, is experienced as a grand experiment where beauty arises from the inherent mathematical and physical structures of the world, leaving little room for interpretations beyond those that science can validate. Though he would consider the beauty a subjective reaction that disclosed nothing about the place itself.

    In stark contrast, a certain kind of Calvinist Christian who dogmatically sees nature as a fallen creation due to original sin might experience the same landscape as a deeply moral and symbolic realm. For this individual, the towering trees and rugged cliffs are not merely objects of empirical inquiry; they are imbued with spiritual significance that reflects divine intent and human frailty. The interplay of light filtering through the leaves might evoke biblical imagery of divine revelation while the chaotic growth and decay within the forest underscore the narrative of a world marred by sin. Here, the aesthetic qualities of nature are intertwined with moral lessons—the natural world becomes a living parable, where every aspect of the landscape speaks to both the original perfection of creation and its subsequent corruption. This dogmatic religious ontology conditions the observer to experience the forest not only as a physical environment but as an arena for spiritual reflection and moral reckoning, where abstract truths are made palpable through the symbols of nature.

      Later Calvinists such as the New England Puritans came to view forests and nature as a whole rather like Starbuck (himself a Quaker) in the film version of Melville’s Moby Dick viewed the great white whale.

 

It is our task in life to kill whales, to furnish oil for the lamps of the world. If we perform that task well and faithfully, we do a service to mankind that pleases Almighty God.

 

Supported in the novel by such passages:

 

I am game for his crooked jaw, and for the jaws of Death too, Captain Ahab, if it fairly comes in the way of the business we follow; but I came here to hunt whales, not my commander’s vengeance. How many barrels will thy vengeance yield thee even if thou gettest it, Captain Ahab? It will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market.

 

Vengeance on a dumb brute!" cried Starbuck, "that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.

      

Captain Ahab, in stark contrast, imbues Moby Dick with intense symbolic meaning. For him, the whale embodies all evil and is a personal nemesis. Ahab's obsession transforms the whale into an incarnation of the malevolent forces he believes govern the world. He is convinced that tangible objects are mere facades for deeper truths: "All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning thing puts forth the molding of their features."

Ahab's monomaniacal pursuit of Moby Dick reflects his belief that by conquering the whale, he can confront and overcome the underlying evil he perceives in the universe.

     In all my examples, how a person lives as well as his most significant words and actions are informed by what they take to be real – their interpretations of nature, the universe, reality. They are not philosophers working on metaphysics but life embodies an implicit metaphysics. I could multiply these examples of implicit ontology – what we think can be real – conditioning experience.  I think of the differences in ideas of reality as translations of the same poem. I believe all translations may reveal some aspect of the original – there is inevitably a lot of overlap. Some reveal much more than others. Some conceal or distort more than others. But this means that I think that dogmatism (meant in its pejorative sense) – the attempt to close the concept of the real in a theory or constrictive dogma – is incompatible with philosophy. It is trying to make a concept like literature, which is open to further exploration and discovery, into a concept like Greek tragedy, which is closed. Similarly, I see all great philosophers as revealing and/or concealing some aspect of the mystery of Being, some more than others. (I think of am writing in the spirit of Heidegger on this point, but also of Wittgenstein.)

 

   Our ideas of particular beings or Being as such may be superficial or profound, ideological or truthful, commonsensical, or counter-intuitive, concrete or abstract. We inherit a matrix of ideas from our families, communities, countries, and historically changing cultures – and go from there. The quality of one’s interpretations depends on the depth of one’s own life, education, and thinking. Whether they agree or disagree, it shouldn’t matter philosophically to someone who loves philosophy (truth) what opinions have the millions of people whose minds are not much more than a construct of some social media empire (the giant capitalist form of social media). It may matter a lot personally or politically.

     My last point is that philosophy cannot escape the interpretive dimension because all connection to reality starts with ideas, and we cannot just stipulate a definition of a term and thing we all share the same concept. We do share much of our ideas of things. In my example of “fire” much of the experience of the child is universally human. Our conceptual differences are like the visible iceberg and the conceptual agreements like the mass of ice below the surface that we take for granted but are not aware of. Our interpretations and conceptual disagreements cannot be free of this massive mountain of overlapping agreements (fire is hot, fire burns, fire gives off warmth and light, etc.). If philosophy has a foundation, it is this.

     Modern philosophy since Descartes – including contemporary analytic philosophy – has sought to build knowledge on clear, distinct, and seemingly objective premises – attempting to establish an indubitable ground for truth. This overlooks the interpretive process that underlies all human understanding. Although we might agree that fire is hot, burns, and gives off warmth and light, these commonalities are just the submerged mass of shared experience, much like the bulk of an iceberg hidden beneath the surface. The visible differences in how we articulate and interpret "fire" arise from individual and cultural nuances, yet they are invariably anchored in that vast, unspoken consensus of experiential understanding. Thus, rather than a sterile set of definitions, the true foundation of philosophy is this dynamic interplay of ideas – a continuous, interpretive engagement with the world that resists any attempt to be reduced to a single, universal definition. And yet all thinking presupposes axioms. Perhaps philosophy is the tension created by these axioms we live by, our life experience, and the world of philosophy and literature, if we are engaged in that.

    I love logic. Enjoy doing it and teaching it. But the implication for logic is that its effectiveness hinges on the shared, often tacit, agreements we have about the meanings of our terms (which represent concepts). Logic functions well when we operate under a consensus definition – a kind of common ground. However, when we recognize that these definitions arise from interpretative processes and are always open to further insight (or forgetfulness), then logic must be seen as a tool that works within the bounds of our current shared experience rather than as an absolute, immutable foundation of knowledge. In other words, while logical reasoning can rigorously structure our thoughts, it ultimately depends on the underlying, and sometimes fluid, agreements we hold about what our terms mean. We must therefore continually examine and negotiate our definitions, acknowledging that the precision of our logical conclusions is only as robust as the shared conceptual groundwork they rest upon.

 Epictetus Discourses, commentary (2)

CHAPTER 2 How a person on every occasion can maintain his proper character.

To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable; but that which is rational is tolerable. Blows are not naturally intolerable. "How is that?" See how the Lacedaemonians endure whipping when they have learned that whipping is consistent with reason. "To hang yourself is not intolerable." When, then, you have the opinion that it is rational, you go and hang yourself. In short, if we observe, we shall find that the animal man is pained by nothing so much as by that which is irrational; and, on the contrary, attracted to nothing so much as to that which is rational.

 

Comment:

   “Rational” here means justified in the circumstances, for a higher purpose. The Spartan warrior had to be harder than all others. Experience taught them that beatings made them harder, got them used to dealing with pain. The whipping was not intrinsically good but a means to something the Spartans thought was intrinsically good: being the best warrior. The despairing man – the man who has lost all hope – will see hanging as the means to end  life that has become meaningless and thus hateful. Of course, the higher standard is the Good (for the right-thinking/feeling Christian, whether it is consistent with God’s love for the world): Is being the best warrior good in itself or a means to a higher end – or both relatively good in itself and a means to a higher end.

. . .

But the rational and the irrational appear such in a different way to different persons, just as the good and the bad, the profitable and the unprofitable. For this reason, particularly, we need discipline, in order to learn how to adapt the preconception of the rational and the irrational to the several things conformably to nature.”

 

 

 

Comment

The Good judged all ends, and thus in Epictetus’s terms: The Rational is the Good, and the Good is the Natural. For us this can be confusing as we tend to equate “rational” with logical calculation, formal logical consistency. For Epictetus – he shares this with Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle – Reason is that capacity to align the mind and heart and will with reality (nature). He just has a different understanding of reality/nature, and thus human nature. Well, it does resemble Socrates of the Phaedo, but less extreme and without the immortality of the soul. He is between the Socrates of the Phaedo and Christianity somehow. What is “nature” that we ought to conform our mind-heart-will to it?

. . .

 

But in order to determine the rational and the irrational, we use not only the of external things, but we consider also what is appropriate to each person. For to one man it is consistent with reason to hold a chamber pot for another, and to look to this only, that if he does not hold it, he will receive stripes, and he will not receive his food: but if he shall hold the pot, he will not suffer anything hard or disagreeable. But to another man not only does the holding of a chamber pot appear intolerable for himself, but intolerable also for him to allow another to do this office for him. If, then, you ask me whether you should hold the chamber pot or not, I shall say to you that the receiving of food is worth more than the not receiving of it, and the being scourged is a greater indignity than not being scourged; so that if you measure your interests by these things, go and hold the chamber pot. "But this," you say, "would not be worthy of me." Well, then, it is you who must introduce this consideration into the inquiry, not I; for it is you who know yourself, how much you are worth to yourself, and at what price you sell yourself; for men sell themselves at various prices.

 

Comment

Is Epictetus really saying a man’s nature is relative to the individual man? That would be surprising. I expect he will introduce some “rational” and absolute standard according to “nature.” He did live as a slave. He certainly had to hold out to piss pot, or be starved or beaten for his disobedience. What a shitty world, Rome. Worse than Putin’s Russia (though perhaps not Stalin’s). He suggests a standard in the next passages.

. . .

 

For this reason, when Florus was deliberating whether he should go down to Nero's spectacles and also perform in them himself, Agrippinus said to him, "Go down": and when Florus asked Agrippinus, "Why do not you go down?" Agrippinus replied, "Because I do not even deliberate about the matter." For he who has once brought himself to deliberate about such matters, and to calculate the value of external things, comes very near to those who have forgotten their own character. For why do you ask me the question, whether death is preferable or life? I say "life." "Pain or pleasure?" I say "pleasure." But if I do not take a part in the tragic acting, I shall have my head struck off. Go then and take a part, but I will not. "Why?" Because you consider yourself to be only one thread of those which are in the tunic. Well then it was fitting for you to take care how you should be like the rest of men, just as the thread has no design to be anything superior to the other threads. But I wish to be purple, that small part which is bright, and makes all the rest appear graceful and beautiful. Why then do you tell me to make myself like the many? and if I do, how shall I still be purple? Priscus Helvidius also saw this, and acted conformably. For when Vespasian sent and commanded him not to go into the senate, he replied, "It is in your power not to allow me to be a member of the senate, but so long as I am, I must go in." "Well, go in then," says the emperor, "but say nothing." "Do not ask my opinion, and I will be silent." "But I must ask your opinion." "And I must say what I think right." "But if you do, I shall put you to death." "When then did I tell you that I am immortal? You will do your part, and I will do mine: it is your part to kill; it is mine to die, but not in fear: yours to banish me; mine to depart without sorrow." [emphasis mine]

 

Comment

  Our nature – our nature as rational, not bodily creatures – seem to come with a duty to “not sell ourselves” too cheaply. What “nature” seems to require is that we all have the “dignity” of a Socrates or a Cato of Utica. This seems to imply a criticism of his life as a slave, that suicide might have been a duty, or allowing himself to be killed for disobedience? In any case, there is a clear implication that to consider yourself “to be only one thread of those which are in the tunic” is a mistaken judgment, contrary to human nature as a rational animal; and that the desire to be “purple, that small part which is bright, and makes all the rest appear graceful and beautiful” is a duty imposed on us by human nature. Philosophy frees the mind to see this. Am I inferring too much? To hang on to life at the price of your dignity seems to be a principle teaching here. The Stoic Socrates of the Phaedo seems to be the paradigm of reason and virtue.

. . .

 

Some person asked, "How then shall every man among us perceive what is suitable to his character?" How, he replied, does the bull alone, when the lion has attacked, discover his own powers and put himself forward in defense of the whole herd? It is plain that with the powers the perception of having them is immediately conjoined; and, therefore, whoever of us has such powers will not be ignorant of them. Now a bull is not made suddenly, nor a brave man; but we must discipline ourselves in the winter for the summer campaign, and not rashly run upon that which does not concern us. Only consider at what price you sell your own will; if for no other reason, at least for this, that you sell it not for a small sum. But that which is great and superior perhaps belongs to Socrates and such as are like him. "Why then, if we are naturally such, are not a very great number of us like him?" Is it true then that all horses become swift, that all dogs are skilled in tracking footprints? "What, then, since I am naturally dull, shall I, for this reason, take no pains?" I hope not. Epictetus is not superior to Socrates; but if he is not inferior, this is enough for me; for I shall never be a Milo, and yet I do not neglect my body; nor shall I be a Croesus, and yet I do not neglect my property; nor, in a word, do we neglect looking after anything because we despair of reaching the highest degree.

 

Comment:

And even if we don’t have Socrates’ metal, we are obligated to do our best to become like him. To free ourselves from bodily attachments when duty/reason/dignity requires it.

 

 Epictetus, Discourses: A Commentary

                                                    Epictetus (55 - 135 A. D.)

 

I have read what writers and thinkers I trust wrote about the Stoics – Martha Nussbaum, for example – but I have never read the work of a Stoic philosopher. So I will remedy this by reading Epictetus’ Discourses (even though the Discourses are reported thoughts and sayings of Epictetus (50 – 135 A.D.) and not written by the man himself. I chose Epictetus because he was a slave and later a free man who was not far removed from the circles of power in Rome. I also chose him because he was Greek: I could thus avoid having to deal with my prejudice against the Romans.

 

Book I

“As then it was fit to be so, that which is best of all and supreme over all is the only thing which the gods have placed in our power, the right use of appearances; but all other things they have not placed in our power. Was it because they did not choose? I indeed think that, if they had been able, they would have put these other things also in our power, but they certainly could not. For as we exist on the earth, and are bound to such a body and to such companions, how was it possible for us not to be hindered as to these things by externals?

     But what says Zeus? "Epictetus, if it were possible, I would have made both your little body and your little property free and not exposed to hindrance. But now be not ignorant of this: this body is not yours, but it is clay finely tempered. And since I was not able to do for you what I have mentioned, I have given you a small portion of us, this faculty of pursuing an object and avoiding it, and the faculty of desire and aversion, and, in a word, the faculty of using the appearances of things; and if you will take care of this faculty and consider it your only possession, you will never be hindered, never meet with impediments; you will not lament, you will not blame, you will not flatter any person."

 

Will you not stretch out your neck as Lateranus did at Rome when Nero ordered him to be beheaded? For when he had stretched out his neck, and received a feeble blow, which made him draw it in for a moment, he stretched it out again…. What then should a man have in readiness in such circumstances? What else than "What is mine, and what is not mine; and permitted to me, and what is not permitted to me."

 

"Tell me the secret which you possess." I will not, for this is in my power. "But I will put you in chains." Man, what are you talking about? Me in chains? You may fetter my leg, but my will not even Zeus himself can overpower. "I will throw you into prison." My poor body, you mean. "I will cut your head off." When, then, have I told you that my head alone cannot be cut off?

 

Comment

  We cannot control what happens to us, only our attitude toward it. That which we cannot control has no value. That which we can control – our attitude – has absolute value relative to everything else.

   What struck me right away is his dualism between body and reason, with the body causing attachments to all those worldly things that make you vulnerable to fortune and the mind alone free to take up a bodily or detached attitude toward those apparent goods. Very much reminds me of Socrates of the Phaedo, though so far without any comforting thoughts of an afterlife.

  The loss of that which has no real value or meaning is no loss. Whatever fortune can take away is by definition of no real value, has no deep meaning. The only thing of value is the mind, and that no one can take away. (He should have read 1984.) That seems to be the thesis. Reminds me of children who when they want something and it is withheld from them reverse themselves and say they never wanted that worthless thing to begin with (sour grapes). Something like this:

Emma: Wow, look at Lily’s new bike! It’s so cool. I wish I had one like that.

Jack: Yeah, it’s alright, I guess.

Emma: Just alright? It’s got shiny red paint and those awesome gears! You said last week you wanted a bike just like that.

Jack: Well… it’s probably not that fun to ride anyway. And I bet it’s really heavy. My old bike is better because it’s lighter.

Emma: But you just said—

Jack: Whatever. I don’t even want a new bike. Bikes are dumb.

 

Jack really wants the bike but, realizing he can’t have it, dismisses its value to protect himself from disappointment. This reaction, this reshaping of our desires to fit our limitations, is exactly what Epictetus seems encourage. And instead of the bike, read bodily, worldly life itself.

  Epictetus’ attitude implies a radical renunciation—like the child who dismisses what he cannot have, except that for Epictetus, this isn’t a defense mechanism but a deliberate philosophical stance. He isn’t just saying, I didn’t want that anyway out of resentment; he’s saying, That was never worth wanting in the first place.

   The contrast to Aristotle is illuminating. Aristotle acknowledges that worldly goods – health, friendship, political life (I would add other things: natural beauty, philosophy, children, etc.) – have genuine value. But Epictetus posits that nothing worldly has real worth. He (like Socrates) sees through the illusion of external value and is unshaken by loss because he has trained himself never to desire what is beyond his control. This extends even to life in the body itself. The Stoic view on death is extreme: if life is no longer in accordance with reason, one should be willing to leave it behind without distress. Epictetus teaches a kind of preemptive detachment from everything – including one’s own existence.

     In moments of crisis – war, exile, severe illness – this kind of Stoic detachment might serve as a psychological refuge, a way to maintain dignity when all else is lost. But as a general philosophy of life, it can empty life of meaning, hollow out the loves that keep us attached to life. Aristotle’s approach, by contrast, assumes that engagement with the world, with relationships, with the body, is not just inevitable but good. He sees wisdom not in renunciation, but in ordering our desires rightly—valuing what should be valued, neither overindulging nor rejecting what is naturally fulfilling. The world is not totally a Cave of shadows pretending to a value they don’t have – like the good things Neo had to give up when he left the illusory world generated by the Matrix behind (he used to eat at a certain restaurant where the noodles were especially good). The world is dangerous, human beings can fail to become what they should be, making “a Hell in Heaven’s despite.” But for a person of any wisdom at all, a person who sees the world right, there are many wonderful things, many reason to love and thus attach oneself to that which is love-able.

  Epictetus is like Plato/Socrates in that they reject tragedy as based on an ungrounded and thus irrational valuing of worldly goods, goods that can only be external, of no intrinsic value. This includes family, art, home, nature, and one’s own life. Tragedy presupposes the loss of what is precious.

    For Epictetus, following Socrates and Plato, tragedy is based on a fundamental misunderstanding: the belief that external things—health, reputation, family, natural beauty, good art, even life itself—are truly good and worth grieving when lost. But if only virtue is good, then no real harm can befall the wise person, and tragedy becomes, at best, an illusion. Cf. Socrates: “The good man can’t be harmed.” Socrates was perhaps the first Stoic, though he made conceptual space for an afterlife.

  Again, contrast this to Aristotle, who sees tragedy as deeply educational. In the Poetics, he argues that tragedy allows us to experience catharsis, a purification of emotions like pity and fear. i.e. allows us to live with them by allowing us to experience them and deal with them vicariously; allows us to face the possible of bad fortune without necessarily being afflicted by it. Allows us to identify through compassion partly with those who are and yet do not lose their dignity. For Aristotle, these emotions are not irrational in themselves; they have a role in moral education. But for Epictetus, the wise person should not need catharsis because he should never be emotionally disturbed in the first place. (Christianity does not deny that loss and suffering are real, but it transforms their meaning. In this way, Christianity, and even Aristotle’s view, seem to take suffering and tragedy more seriously than Stoicism does – well, many Stoics showed real courage, and that is the ultimate proof of a philosophy.

. . .

   While no worldly good - not even life - has an absolute value (here I agree with Plato) many aspects of the world, many existing things in it are precious, can come to be seen as precious by people. This makes life liveable, meaningful, makes existence something one can say 'yes' too. If the body were nothing but “clay,” not a part of 'me', I would never choose to be born.

    My criticism of Epictetus’s view is thus: to secure invulnerability he risks making existence itself indifferent, even meaningless. If nothing outside of virtue is truly precious, then why would one affirm life at all?

   My convictions align more with Aristotle’s and perhaps with a Platonic-Christian view:  worldly goods are not absolute, yet they still have genuine, though dependent, value. Life is not the highest good: better die defending the innocent than live on in shame as a coward, for example. (I think of that man who died trying to save the two-year-old from the fanatic’s knife attack. Honor to him!) The body, relationships, and beauty in the world are not mere distractions but real aspects of a life worth affirming. This is what gives tragedy its depth: we grieve because something truly precious has been lost, even if it was not absolute.

    You cannot affirm life, life has no meaning, unless you love something or someone. As soon as you love you are vulnerable. There is no exit from this. You can make yourself invulnerable only by denying love, and thus the value of life.

. . .

I do not judge Epictetus. Had I lived in ancient Rome, I would have been either a Stoic or a Spartacus. A horrible, loveless world based on oppression and violence. The sense of a common humanity, the reality of love, beauty, goodness - unknown. It was Hell on earth. If you live in Hell and know nothing else, you will think that "nature." I agree with Epictetus that the Roman world has no genuine value. I disagree with him that the Roman world is the essence of all worlds, of nature. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Recalling My Reading of Tolstoy's Confession

Leo Tolstoy was a great writer and a profound thinker. I am neither. Yet I have something in common with him. For whatever reason – perhaps my time at the hospital among other things – death became more real to me than our psyches are wired to process. The understanding that transience and mortality threaten meaning; the feeling that love longs for permanence; that only what is permanent truly has being – that once we love anything and thus are joyful at its very existence, death, nothingness negates it – these things I felt long before I could consciously articulate them. Reading Tolstoy’s A Confession brought these inchoate feelings to full consciousness. The book will not speak to anyone not already haunted by these inchoate feelings.

    Like Tolstoy, I studied many great books containing much human wisdom, trying to find something to hold on to. I was once inspired by the premise of the Enlightenment: only through the use of a thoroughly secularized, presuppositionless version of reason could people see through superstition and see the world right. But reading A Confession spoke to my heart: the meaning of life does not reveal itself to purely secularized reason; you cannot construct a rational proof evident to anyone that life is meaningful. The ultimate lesson I took from A Confession was this: that the meaning of life is only revealed to those who already have faith in it. Rather like the meaning of the painfully beautiful Bach song Die Schafe können sicher weiden can only reveal itself to those who have become part of a certain tradition. You probably already have to be in this tradition to be able to hear the beauty. You can make it your own with a little effort.

 

Link to the performance of the Bach song that I love:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xt3DEuw0wjM

 If I were a Marxist...

If I were a Marxist, I would be tempted to interpret liberal-democracy as the superstructure that corresponded to the stage of consumer capitalism, and "pop Fascism" (autocratically led plutocracy with populist constructions of reality) as corresponding to the newest stage of capitalism, which is becoming more like neo-feudalism with key corporations and billionaires defining what used to be the market. This stage of capitalism squeezes out the middle class and concentrates wealth ever more firmly in the hands of a small financial elite, whereas liberal representative democracy - which capital could largely control through influence over government (except in crisis, like the Great Depression) - lived from a fairly broad middle class that was contented by relative prosperity and consumption. But the current concentration of capital and its technological changes shrink that class dramatically, making it necessary to have firmer control and an ideology (a distorted picture of reality) to keep the masses at bay. Primitive nationalism seems to work best for this purpose. 

 "Latin is boring!"

There are two reasons for something to be experienced as boring. 1) it is boring, e.g. vacuuming, taking down the garbage i.e. repetitive, mindless tasks you have to do as a means to an end (clean apartment) but which no sane person would do for their own sake. 2) it is interesting - many people love it - but something in you blocks you from seeing it. Latin is inherently interesting. Tolkien, for example, who loved languages and loved Latin. He was not projecting subjective fantasies on something objectively boring. But not everyone is able to see the interesting aspects of it just as most adults have lost the capacity to wonder at all. Good teachers are able to open the doors to their subjects, usually by way of the imagination. A big reason some people find certain things boring is the work you have to put in to master it - Latin, like math, piano, or basketball requires work, thus the virtues of self-discipline and perseverance. But my point: whenever a person find something other than washing dishes boring, the answer probably lies in themself rather than the subject they claim is boring. That doesn’t necessarily have to be a criticism: we are finite, mortal creatures and there is not world enough and time to pursue everything that is worth pursuing. We have to choose. Just don’t act like the subject – Latin, for example – is responsible for your boredom. And above all a person who can't find anything interesting outside of TikTok is condemned to never actualizing their real humanity. 

 Sketch of Human Nature and a World Honoring Human Nature

I believe human nature limits the possible benevolent and sustainable forms of polity.  This is just a crude sketch of this belief.  

   A polity best suited to human nature must begin where human nature itself begins: in the necessary condition of living with others. Solitude—real, complete solitude—would be inhuman, not in the sense of being cruel or unnatural but in the sense of being pre-human, incapable of giving rise to the distinctly human faculties. Without others, there would be no language, no stories, no traditions, no shared world in which a self could recognize itself. Even the most introspective life, the life turned inward, depends on the inherited structures of meaning given by the presence of others before it.

     From this foundation arises not only speech but world-making itself. A human world is not just the physical environment we inhabit but the space of meaning we construct together—through work, art, memory, ritual. What makes human life bearable, even beautiful, is this web of shared reality: the stories that orient us, the arts that elevate us, the labor that dignifies, the roots that bind us to a past and to a people. These are not distractions from a raw, individual life; they are the very substance of what it means to live fully humanly.

   And then, the highest things: virtue, love, heroism, beauty, philosophy. These do not float above common life like distant ideals; they are cultivated through it, drawn out in the particular forms a culture makes possible. The truly great acts—acts of love, of sacrifice, of courage—are intelligible only within a human world that can recognize and name them as such. Even the solitary mystic, reaching toward God, does so through words and images formed in the common historical life of a people. The goods most worth pursuing are not solitary achievements but fulfillments of a shared life. So I agree with Aristotle: we are beings that cannot realize our potential – cannot become fully human – outside some form of polity. And the telos – the ultimate reason-for-being of a polity – is to make it possible for us to become fully human.

     This is why the question of polity is not merely a question of governance but of the conditions necessary for a full human life. The best political order must preserve and nurture what makes life meaningful: not merely security, but a world in which human capacities can be realized. It must not only allow but sustain the moral and cultural conditions in which love, beauty, and virtue can take root. A polity that reduces life to material survival or procedural fairness alone is not neutral—it is already a deformation, already an abstraction from what human beings actually are.

    The fundamental error of modern political thought is to treat human beings as if they were solitary, as if political life were a contract between self-sufficient individuals rather than the natural unfolding of shared existence. But to be human is to be born into a world already rich with meaning, shaped by those who came before, and to inherit obligations to those who will come after. A just polity, then, must not merely govern individuals but cultivate a common life in which the highest human potentials—love, wisdom, virtue—can be realized.

. . .

   In all human doing, there is an absolute limit that may never be crossed. We may not break any eggs (human beings) to make the omelet (a good polity). (This principle of Lenin’s was evil and condemned the attempt to build a socialist society in the former USSR.) Nothing good can come of evil. Every action, every polity must answer the question: “Is it good?” For a polity to be truly just and desirable, its foundation must be an unwavering commitment to what is good and, by extension, a rejection of what is evil. This means that the equality of moral worth and the embrace of human dignity (a common humanity) are not relative or negotiable in the pursuit of political or social goals. Instead, they are absolute standards that every action or policy must meet. In other words, if an action or policy fails to meet the standard of goodness, if it involves any element of evil, it cannot be justified, regardless of the intended positive outcomes. Thus I think the first principle of any constitution must be that of the Federal Republic of Germany: die Würde des Menschen ist unantastbar; the dignity of Man (i.e. every human being) is inviolable.

      The idea that “being equal in dignity is the basis for justice” underscores that every human being holds an intrinsic worth that is not contingent on their utility or their contribution to the polity. Justice, then, is not merely a procedural or distributive mechanism; it is fundamentally about honoring and safeguarding the inherent value of each person. A just society recognizes and protects this equality of dignity, ensuring that no individual's rights or worth are compromised for collective gain. Aristotle’s Athens was radically unjust because it was a slave society and did not consider women or children to be of equal moral worth. Justice is the very condition that renders any polity desirable. A political order that respects absolute moral values and the equal dignity of its citizens is inherently just, and it is this justice that confers legitimacy and desirability upon it. Conversely, if a polity is built on methods or principles that involve moral compromises, if it employs evil means to achieve a so-called good (exploitation, oppression), it loses its claim to be truly good or just. No matter how efficient or orderly such a society might appear, it remains fundamentally flawed if it undermines the intrinsic worth of its members.

   Where does the idea of human dignity come from? From being able to see other imaginatively as we see our children: as love-able, as intelligible objects of love, as someone's child. (Or pity when a human being was deprived of this existential, empowering love that lets us be.) I will develop that thought now.

. . .

     Within these limits, the goal of a polity must be to promote the highest realization of humanity – the highest human potential.  A polity is only as good as its people – only as just, self-restrained, courageous, wise, and loving as its people. Which is just the foundation for the fullest realization of our nature. Just, self-restrained, courageous, wise, and loving is what we are meant to be, or become; and we only become fully human (actualize our humanity) when we actualize these virtues or perfections.

   We cannot become what we ought to become – or only through a difficult rebellion – unless we were loved as children. We are born incomplete. No one can find themselves love-able who has not received the gift of love from others – and above all from mother and father. Much more than a feeling, love is the conviction that it is “good, very good” that the loved one is, that they exist, that they have been brought into the world. Love is affirmation, an affirmation that no person can grant themselves. It is like giving us permission to be. Great thinkers like Hegel understood that we can only understand ourselves as self-conscious creatures possessing dignity once this dignity has been recognized by others. Deeper than that is the power that love has to activate our journey to becoming fully human. Love is the root of our being “social animals,” as Aristotle defined us.

    The family is thus part of human nature. A child needs the love of both mother and father. Children raised without one parent often face a range of interlinked challenges that affect their emotional, psychological, and social well-being. The absence of a consistent parental figure can disrupt the development of secure attachment bonds, leading to feelings of abandonment, low self-esteem, and chronic insecurity. Without the dual influence of both nurturing and guiding presences, children may miss out on the balanced role models that help them integrate vulnerability with strength, often resulting in difficulties establishing healthy boundaries and managing emotions. This imbalance can manifest as heightened anxiety, depression, and behavioral issues, as the child struggles to regulate stress without the support of both parents. These children often find it harder to cope with setbacks and form trusting relationships, further isolating them and exacerbating emotional challenges. While many children in single-parent households show resilience – especially when supported by extended family – the absence of one parent's influence can create vulnerabilities that impact their ability to fulfill their true nature. I also think the extended family – grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins are very important for a child’s ability to feel grounded.

     Moreover, families cannot thrive in isolation but require communities that uphold and honor them. The family is not a self-sufficient unit but part of a larger web of relationships—neighbors, extended kin, and local institutions—that sustain it. Without such a community, families are left vulnerable to economic pressures, cultural fragmentation, and a loss of purpose. The modern, industrial economy is responsible for eroding these communal bonds, isolating individuals, and reducing human relationships to mere transactions. Families need a culture that values fidelity, stewardship, good work, and responsibility – virtues that only a well-ordered community can cultivate.

     Just as a child needs both parents to flourish, families need a moral and economic order that reinforces their stability and purpose. A culture that devalues marriage, rewards transience, and isolates individuals in pursuit of self-interest ultimately weakens the very foundation of family life and must be considered contrary to human nature. In contrast, communities structured around virtues create the conditions in which families can truly thrive. Thus, human nature is not merely familial but also communal; the good life is not lived in radical autonomy but in relationships of duty and love, woven together in a shared moral order.

    Genuine politics – the kind that enables human flourishing – a is rooted in the small-scale, participatory community rather than in vast, impersonal states or empires. For Aristotle, the polis is the natural framework for human life because it allows for self-governance, meaningful participation, and the cultivation of virtue. He argues in the Politics that man is a politikon zōon (a political animal), meaning that human beings are not meant to live in isolation or under despotism but in a community where they can deliberate about justice, the common good, and the best way to live. A true polis is small enough that citizens know one another and can engage in this shared pursuit of the good. Large empires, by contrast, reduce governance to mere administration, severing the connection between individual action and collective responsibility.

     Hannah Arendt, building on this classical vision, argues in The Human Condition that authentic politics requires a public space where individuals can engage in speech and action—not as private individuals driven by necessity, but as citizens shaping their common world. In mass societies, individuals become alienated, reduced to laborers and consumers rather than active participants in political life. Bureaucratic states and empires, which centralize power and erode local autonomy, deny people the ability to meaningfully shape their own communities. They are thus blocks to human thriving. A thriving human life is not possible without a polis-like political realm—a space where human beings live not merely under laws but in communities that foster responsibility, deliberation, and shared purpose. Vast nations and empires, by concentrating power at an unaccountable distance, ultimately negate the conditions for human flourishing by reducing citizens to passive subjects rather than active participants in a shared moral and political life.

    Aristotle and Hannah Arendt both argue that human beings are not fully themselves in isolation or under centralized, bureaucratic rule; rather, they reveal who they truly are through action and speech within a real political community. Aristotle’s polis is not merely a structure for survival but the arena in which human beings can pursue the good life through virtuous action and meaningful participation. Arendt expands on this in The Human Condition, arguing that it is through speech and action—undertaken in the presence of others—that individuals disclose who they are, rather than merely what they are. In contrast to labor and necessity, which reduce people to their biological or economic functions, political life in a true polis allows for the full emergence of personal identity. This is a fruit of human nature actualized.

    In small-scale, participatory communities, people engage in genuine deliberation and action, making their unique perspectives and values visible to others. This is not possible in mass societies or empires, where individuals are reduced to anonymous, interchangeable roles within vast systems of power. In such large-scale structures, one’s identity is often defined by impersonal categories—worker, taxpayer, subject—rather than by one's unique contributions and personal commitments. Without a polis in which speech and action matter, human life is diminished, and individuals are deprived of the space where they can truly reveal themselves, forging meaningful relationships and shaping their shared world. Thus, the polis is not merely a political necessity; it is an existential one, providing the only real context in which human beings can fully appear as persons rather than as mere functions within an impersonal system.

. . .

   An economy oriented toward actualizing our most human potentials would be one rooted in the dignity of work, the integrity of local communities, and the cultivation of virtues necessary for a good life. This requires that technology support the community; not the community beings dissolved for the sake of more powerful and profitable technology. 

  A good economy remains embedded in the land, local knowledge, and the mutual responsibilities of a community. It values small-scale, diversified farming and artisanal work as essential to sustaining both the earth and human dignity. Work should be meaningful and done with love, rejecting the dehumanization of mass production. Industrial economies that prioritize efficiency over craftsmanship strip both work and art of their integrity, making labor a mere means to an end rather than a fulfilling practice. In a well-ordered society, work is pursued for its intrinsic excellence rather than for profit alone, and people are connected to the fruits of their labor.

     In contrast, a corporate capitalist economy, with exceptions, prioritizes efficiency, scalability, and profit over the well-being of workers, the health of communities, and the integrity of work itself. It alienates people from the meaning of their labor, reduces work to a means of consumption, and fosters a culture of disposability—both in products and in human relationships. Where a virtuous economy fosters responsibility, skill, and connection, a profit-driven economy often creates dependence, superficiality, and detachment from place and purpose. The best economy, then, is one that allows people to cultivate their highest human potentials, ensuring that work, production, and community life serve not just material survival but the full flourishing of the human soul.

     Work can either be alienating or non-alienating, depending on whether it allows the worker to actualize human nature through excellence. Alienating work reduces labor to a mere means to an end—typically survival or profit—separating the worker from the purpose, process, and product of their labor. When labor is fragmented, repetitive, or disconnected from the worker’s creative agency, it becomes dehumanizing, preventing the full exercise of skill, judgment, and personal investment. Non-alienating work, by contrast, is the kind that engages the worker as a whole person, allowing for craftsmanship, responsibility, and the pursuit of excellence. It fosters habits of care, patience, and mastery, cultivating the virtues that lead to human flourishing. In such work, there is an intrinsic satisfaction in making something well, in contributing meaningfully to a community, and in seeing the fruit of one’s labor. A society that values non-alienating work recognizes that labor is not merely about economic exchange but about forming the kind of persons we become. It understands that human dignity is best preserved when work is structured not around maximizing efficiency but around developing the intellect, virtues, and creativity that fulfill our nature.

   Christianity deepens this vision of the economy by rooting it in the doctrines of Creation and the theological virtues. If the world is created by God and declared good, then human work is not merely a means of survival or self-expression but a participation in the divine order, a way of cultivating and caring for creation. Labor, when rightly ordered, reflects both the creativity of the Creator and the stewardship entrusted to mankind. The theological virtues—faith, hope, and charity—transform economic life by orienting it beyond mere material concerns toward love of neighbor and the Creation. There is a vision of work as service rather than mere production. A society shaped by these virtues values relationships over efficiency, responsibility over exploitation, and generosity over accumulation. When faith and love inform labor and exchange, economic life becomes not a site of competition and alienation but of community, gratitude, and mutual support. In contrast, an economy severed from these transcendent goods falls into disorder, turning work into drudgery, wealth into an idol, and relationships into transactions. A truly human economy must therefore be more than sustainable—it must be sacramental, reflecting the divine order and the call to love, in which every act of making, giving, and tending to the world is a participation in the greater good.

     Christianity transforms the relationship of the community to outsiders by expanding the ordo amoris—the order of love—to include not just fellow believers or members of one’s immediate community, but also strangers, enemies, and those outside one’s social or cultural group. The command to "love thy neighbor" is radicalized in the parable of the Good Samaritan, where Jesus illustrates that true love transcends societal boundaries, inviting individuals to extend compassion and care to those whom others may consider "outsiders" or "undeserving." In this vision, the Christian community is called to love not out of obligation or self-interest, but out of a commitment to the inherent dignity of all human beings, regardless of their background or status. The ordo amoris thus becomes a more expansive and inclusive framework, one that challenges the tribalism and exclusion that often define human societies. A community shaped by this vision of love sees the well-being of the outsider as integral to its own flourishing and understands that its true strength lies not in the preservation of its own boundaries, but in the extension of mercy, justice, and care beyond them. This broader view of neighborliness transforms not only individual hearts but the very structure of social and economic relationships, creating a society that is more just, compassionate, and oriented toward the common good.  This brings me back to the beginning: love is a judgment that the beloved is “good, very good” – a granting of the claim to be. The love parents show their baby is thus connected to a love of the world and all the people in it – in the sense of affirming their existence and willing their good. Without the latter the possibility of the former is endangered.

. . .

I am trying to sketch the outlines of an Idea. The facts of the fallen world that make the even distant realization of this Idea practically impossible are condemned by the Idea.