Incognitions (blog)

Once upon a time…

Odysseus

Though he [Nietzsche] discerned both the universal movement of sovereign Spirit (whose executor he felt himself to be) and a “nihilistic” anti-life forece of the enlightenement, his pre-Fascist followers retained only the second aspect and perverted it into an ideology”

Horkheimer and Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment (44)

As a grandfather sits down to begin to read a story to his grandson, the air is filled with excited anticipation, and as he starts reading, “Once upon a time…”, there is a clear break with reality, as in a dissolve sequence in a film, and with it the space for an alternate reality has been cleared. As Horkheimer and Adorno (H&A) understand the enlightenment there is a similar break at play, and one that transitions from a powerful, sovereign nature to a rational, autonomous, self-directing individual with the confidence to use their reason to control, manipulate, and ultimately dominate nature itself. As H&A read Nietzsche, and as the leading quote shows, Nietzsche was painfully aware of both the power of nature, the power of our instinctual, natural spirit to foster the conditions that will lead to a flourishing life, and he was aware of the sense of power one gains from subjecting this very nature and spirit to the yoke of one’s subjective will. The displays of this very power over nature, through vows to celibacy, etc. was one of the reasons why, as Nietzsche pointed out, the powerful nobles and aristocrats would be in awe of priests and the power and strength they must muster to control and dominate the nature they allowed themselves to get caught up with. The concern Nietzsche had, and one that H&A were able to see come to fruition, was that the second sense of power would win out over the first. This is the power of controlling nature, of controlling society and peoples as objects for mathematical, scientific, and industrial control. Unfortunately for society, as H&A read events in 1947, the “universal movement of sovereign Spirit” had been left behind in the march of enlightenment progress.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

PSR, Nihilism, and Dialectic of Enlightenment

The dualization of nature as appearance and sequnce, effort and power, which first makes possible both myth and science, originates in human fear, the expression of which becomes explanation. It is not the soul which is transposed to nature, as psychologism would have it; mana, the moving spirit, is no projection, but the echo of the real supremacy of nature in the weak souls of primitive men

Horkheimer and Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment (p. 15)

In the next few posts I want to begin exploring the relationship between the PSR (Principle of Sufficient Reason) and our effort to make sense of our lives. The latter concern may seem to be a subset of the former – after all, if the PSR calls for an explanation for why things are as they are and not otherwise, then this would also include, apparently, an explanation that accounts for and explains our lives. This could not be further from the truth, however, as became increasingly apparent to many 18th century philosophers who began to think thorugh the implications of Spinoza’s rationalism, and its attendant reliance upon the PSR. In particular, many saw in Spinoza a nihilism whereby nothing in our life means anything but is simply that which follows from the necessity of God’s nature, and it is God’s infinite nature that explains, in the end, our existence. This explanation, however, does nothing to give meaning to our existence, or so the critics of Spinoza argued, and thus Spinoza’s reliance upon the PSR is not, on this view, in line with our effort to make sense of, and find meaning in, our lives.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

Macro- and Microphilosophy

Art historians even nowadays still talk about a “Morellian method.” Let us see of what this method consisted. Museums, Morelli said, are full of paintings whose authorship has been attributed inaccurately. But to restore each painting to its real author is a difficult task: often these works are not signed, have been re-painted or are in bad condition. In such a situation it is indispensable to be able to distinguish between originals and copies. But to do this, Morelli said, one should not work (as is usually done) on the basis of the most striking features of paintings, which for this very reason are the easiest to imitate: the lifted-to-heaven eyes of Perugino’s figures, the smile of Leonardo’s, and so on. One should rather examine the most negligible details, those least influenced by the characteristics of the school the painter belongs to: the lobes of the ears, the fingernails, the shape of the fingers and toes. In this manner Morelli discovered, and painstakingly cataloged, the shape of ears typical of Botticelli, that of Cosmé Tura, and so on: these traits were present in originals, but not in copies.

Carlo Ginzburg, “Clues: Roots of a Scientific Paradigm” (1979)
Sandro Botticelli – self-portrait, from Adoration of the Magi (1475)

In the essay from which this passage is taken, Carlo Ginzburg lays out the theoretical underpinnings of what has come to be called, and largely thanks to Ginzburg’s efforts, microhistory. In particular, Ginzburg adopts what he calls a “semiotic paradigm” (284). As with the Morellian method described above, what this semiotic approach involves is a “deciphering of signs” (281). The earlobes as painted by Botticelli, the clues left behind at a crime scene, or the symptoms a patient presents to their doctor, each are a sign for something else, and something that is the real target of the investigation—determining whether the painting is an original or a forgery, identifying the criminal, or diagnosing the illness. In the context of doing history, Ginzburg has adopted a similar approach. In his book The Cheese and the Worms, for instance, Ginzburg takes up the heresy trial of a 16th century miller, Menocchio. As Ginzburg later describes the perspective one could take of this project, as one that “could have been a simple footnote in a hypothetical monograph on the Protestant Reformation in the Friuli,” and a footnote that Ginzburg transformed into a book” (Ginzburg 2012: 203). Now this footnote, or the “negligible details” of a simple 16th century miller could be taken, on the semiotic paradigm Ginzburg adopts, to be a sign for something else, and in this case the religious beliefs of peasants of the Friuli region. This approach to history has come to be called microhistory.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

Philosophy and Liberalism (HPS 1*)

In general, important civilizations start with a rigid and superstitious system, gradually relaxed, and leading, at a certain stage, to a period of brilliant genius, while the good of the old tradition remains and the inherent evil in its dissolution has not yet developed. But as the evil unfolds, it leads to anarchy, thence, inevitably, to a new tyranny, producing a new synthesis secured by a new system of dogma. The doctrine of liberalism is an attempt to escape from this endless oscillation. The essence of liberalism is an attempt to secure a social order not based on irrational dogma, and insuring stability without involving more restraints than are necessary for the preservation of the community. Whether this attempt can succeed only the future can determine.

Bertrand Russell, A History of Western of Western Philosophy (xxiii)
Bertrand Russell, 1936

As Russell draws his introduction to A History of Western Philosophy (HWP) to a close, his underlying intention becomes clear—in short, he seeks to be one of those who will be, by the judgment of those from some future time, one who successfully defended liberalism against the dual threats of “irrational dogma” and superstition on the one hand and “anarchy” on the other. If done well, philosophy will foster “a way of life” (24) that is able to escape from the “endless oscillation” between dogma and anarchy, but even the best of philosophers can pave the way to either dogma or anarchy. Descartes, for instance, set forth a philosophical approach that challenged the authority of Aristotle, an authority that had approached the status of a dogma by the late Middle Ages—he was, after all, simply referred to as the Philosopher—and turned instead to the authority of one’s own thoughts. It is for this reason that “Modern philosophy,” Russell argues, “begins with Descartes, whose fundamental certainty is the existence of himself and his thoughts, from which the external world is to be inferred” (xxi). Yet Descartes’ very challenge to the dogmatism deriving from Aristotle led in turn to the subjectivism of modern philosophy, whereby “everything is only an emanation of the ego,” and with this “subjectivism in philosophy, anarchism in politics goes hand in hand” (ibid.). It was in this context that liberalism emerged, but liberalism is not assured of continuing. As Russell well knew, given that he wrote A History of Western Philosophy during WWII (1940-3), the threats to liberalism were very real, and hence as he wrote this book there was a very real sense of urgency to Russell’s project. In short, Russell’s history of philosophy is a philosophical defense of liberalism.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

History of/is Philosophy Series

And this is a universal law: a living thing can be healthy, strong, and fruitful only when bounded by a horizon; if it is incapable of drawing a horizon around itself, and at the same time too self-centred to enclose its own view within that of another, it will pine away slowly or hasten to its timely end. Cheerfulness, the good conscience, the joyful deed, confidence in the future – all of them depend, in the case of the individual as of a nation, on the existence of a line dividing the bright and discernible from the unilluminable and dark; on one’s being just as able to forget at the right time as to remember at the right time; on the possession of a powerful instinct for sensing when it is necessary to feel historically and when unhistorically. This, precisely, is the proposition the reader is invited to meditate upon: the unhistorical and the historical are necessary in equal measure for the health of an individual, of a people and of a culture.” (emphasis in original)

Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Advantages and Disadvantages of History for Life”

This semester I will take up Nietzsche’s call to the reader and meditate upon his proposition. In particular, I will explore the possibility that philosophy itself is something to be taken up in a way that is, as Nietzsche put it, “healthy, strong, and fruitful.” If we do this as Nietzsche suggests, moreover, then doing philosophy in this way entails having a feel for the unhistorical and the historical in philosophy, and for when one or the other are necessary or to be avoided. But what precisely is one discerning when they have this feel for the unhistorical and historical in philosophy? In Nietzsche’s essay the cattle grazing before us serve as an introduction to the unhistorical, for the cattle forget what happens immediately after it happens, like the main character in the film Memento. In the case of the cattle, they are incapable of creating new memories, and hence of being historical, and immediately forget what just happened. Leonard, the protagonist from Memento who suffers from anterograde amnesia is also, like the cattle, unable to form new memories or recall what just happened. For Nietzsche these would be examples of the unhistorical, but as he points out, and as is rather obvious for us I would think, being excessively or entirely unhistorical would not serve humans well for we need to find a way to balance the unhistorical with the historical, our capacity to forget and move on (like a goldfish as Ted Lasso would advise) with our capacity to remember and learn from the past.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

Analytic Philosophy’s Chess Paradigm

Analytic Philosophy has thus a double function: it provides quiet green pastures for intellectual analysis, wherein its practitioners can find refuge from a troubled world and cultivate their intellectual games with chess-like indifference to its course; and it is also a keen, shining sword helping to dispel irrational beliefs and to make evident the structure of ideas

Ernest Nagel, “Impressions and Appraisals of Analytic Philosophy in Europe” (1936)

I pass, finally, to the remaining Part of the Ethics, which concerns the means, or way, leading to Freedom. Here, then, I shall treat of the power of reason, showing what it can do against the affects, and what Freedom of Mind, or blessedness, is. From this we shall see how much more the wise man can do than the ignorant. But it does not pertain to this investigation to show how the intellect must be perfected, or in what way the Body must be cared for, so that it can perform its function properly. The former is the concern of Logic, and the latter of Medicine

Spinoza, Ethics 5 Preface
Fischer vs. Spassky in Reykjavik (1972)

Following in the spirit of Nagel’s “impressions” of analytic philosophy, let me begin with an impression I have long had about analytic philosophy—put simply, the hierarchical ladder of success for analytic philosophers seems to favor those who are good puzzle solvers, or more precisely those who were or are mathematical and/or chess prodigies who have turned their sights to doing philosophy instead. As an impression I am making no solid claims to the accuracy of my observation, but I decided to write this blog post after having recently read (admittedly late to it) Liam Kofi Bright’s blog post where he claims analytic philosophy is a degenerating research programme. This also brought to mind a number of blog posts from the NewAPPS days with Eric Schliesser (here, here, and here). With these caveats, I’ll throw out a few comments as to why I agree that analytic philosophy was destined to degenerate from the start, and precisely because it sought, as Nagel approvingly observed, “find refuge from a troubled world and cultivate their intellectual games with chess-like indifference to its course…”

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

Camus, Sartre, and Saint-Just

Saint-Just

If we are to take bad faith as living life in accordance with a solution to which there is no problem, or living a role as if that is who we are, like an inkwell is an inkwell, and where this bad faith is to be contrasted with good faith, then we find in Camus’ The Rebel a precise date for the emergence of this bad faith—1789. More precisely, Camus argues that ‘Seventeen eighty-nine is the starting-point of modern time,’ for with the French Revolution, Camus claims, humanity ‘overthrew the principle of divine right and…introduce[d] to the historical scene the forces of negation and rebellion…’ (Camus 2000 [1951], 64). Before the French Revolution, whether it be the ‘Inca and the pariah,’ or those who endorsed the principle of divine right monarchy, Camus believes that ‘the problem of revolt never arises, because for them it has been solved by tradition before they had time to raise it—the answer being that tradition is sacrosanct. If, in the sacrosanct world, the problem of revolt does not arise, it is because no real problems are to be found in it—all the answers having been given simultaneously’ (ibid., 8). It may seem that it is the sacrosanct tradition that characterizes a world of bad faith, of living life in accordance with solutions to which there is no problem, for indeed Camus does point out that ‘no real problems are to be found’ in the sacrosanct world. If this is indeed true, and it is debatable, then Camus’ point is that prior to 1789 living in good faith, or as a rebel, was not truly possible for only then could one live with the awareness of the problems inseparable from solutions (to put it in the terms being used here).

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

King Omicron

…the idiom of war between king and people draws on and is expressive of an even deeper structural reality—the ability to step outside the moral order so as to partake of the kind of power capable of creating such an order is always y definition an act of violence, and can only be maintained as such…This is not just war; it is total war. Insofar as the sovereign intends to apply such compulsion to an entire population within a given territory, it ultimately must always be. (The only limitation on such total war is that the sovereign cannot wipe out the entire population, or his sovereignty would itself cease to exist.) Hence…the tendency for modern states to frame their greatest projects in terms of some sort of unwinnable war: the war on poverty, crime, drugs, terror, and so forth

David Graeber, “Notes on the politics of divine kingship”
COVID-19 virus SARS-COV-2 OMICRON strain, covid-19 South African variant B.1.1.529 omicron 3d rendering

With the omicron variant spreading rapidly throughout the world, quickly overtaking the delta variant as the dominant strain infecting people now, the media coverage of omicron has highlighted a key motivation behind biopower, to use Foucault’s term. Namely, the health of a population becomes the justification for policies and powers that rely on the perpetuation of the very fears that lend legitimacy to the powers in the first place. These fears, however, are at the heart of sovereignty itself in that its power involves the power to kill, or it is a power at war with the very people over whom the power is wielded. Drawing from Carl Schmitt, Graeber points out that Schmitt reminds us, appearing “like some embarrassing uncle,” that “sovereignty…consists above all in the ability to set the law aside” (458). Moreover, Graeber adds, and with recurrent events no doubt in mind, when the “police regularly get away with murder [they] are simply exercising that small–but lethal–bit of royal power that has been delegated to hem by its current holder, an entity we refer to as ‘the people'” (ibid.). But such powers only emerge intermittently, and the war between sovereign power and those over whom it is exercised settles, Graeber argues, into an uneasy truce that takes on various forms including, for instance, the modern state’s unwinnable wars on ‘poverty, crime, drugs, terror,’ and omicron.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

The Necessity of Lies

The Nazis would have been unthinkable without the First World War, and here, right at the beginning of the story, we see something else: the trauma of defeat left millions of Germans believing a particular narrative about the war not because it was demonstrably true, but because it was emotionally necessary. The nation had been gloriously unified in the sunshine of August 1914, or so most Germans thought. Yet, in the cold rain of November 1918, betrayal and cowardice at home–the “stab in the back”–had brought defeat on the battlefield. Neither part of this narrative was accurate, but the contrast between August and November allowed the Nazis to promise that they would bring back the unity of August once they had defeated the treason of November. What a nation believes about its past is at least as important as what that past actually was.

The Death of Democracy, Benjamin Carter Hett
Reichstag fire, February 27, 1933

In Benjamin Hett’s book on the fall of the Weimar Republic, The Death of Democracy: Hitler’s Rise to Power and the Fall of the Weimar Republic, there are eerily familiar echoes between 1930s Germany and the contemporary rise of autocratic power throughout the world, the United States in particular. Hett explicitly acknowledges these similarities, pointing out that in contrast to the “glow” that came with “the end of the Cold War,” he claims that “our time [meaning the time when this book was published, or 2017] more closely resembles the 1930s than it does the 1990s.” Although it is almost a cliche to draw parallels between 1930s Germany and the aspirations of Trump and many of extremists on the far right that Trump encourages, there was a a comment that stood out for me in Hett’s analysis. This is the necessity of lies, or as the pull quote above argued for, the role that lies played in the processes that made it possible for the Nazis to come to power and undermine democracy in the process. At the very basis of Nazi power was a big lie, or at the very least a narrative that strays far from the truth but was nonetheless “emotionally necessary.”

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

Problematic Ideas

The first principle of philosophy is that Universals explain nothing but must themselves be explained.

Deleuze and Guattari – What is Philosophy (p. 7)
Plato and Hume

This brief quote from the introduction to What is Philosophy? encapsulates an important theme that runs throughout not only Deleuze and Guattari’s collaborative works, but also Deleuze’s own works. This should perhaps be obvious if, as the quote makes clear, it is a first principle of philosophy that Universals do not explain but need to be explained. How are we to explain and account for Universals? Are we to offer a nominalist account, bringing into play the writings of David Lewis, among others, to fine tune the argument? We certainly could, and I do touch upon these types of arguments in An Inquiry into Analytic-Continental Metaphysics (forthcoming), where I compare and contrast Lewis’s and D.M. Armstrong’s approaches to understanding, or explaining, the nature of universals. Rather than rehearse those arguments here, however, I want to return to Deleuze, and in particular to two sources of an explanation of universals that Deleuze draws from–namely, Plato and Hume. These two sources come together, I argue, in the concept of problematic Ideas, and it is here where universals come to be explained; or it is to problematic Ideas that we are to turn in acting upon the first principle of philosophy.

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By Jeffrey Bell, ago

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