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Thoughts On Philosophizing And The Philosophical Process
by Si Hing Arthur Boyer
In this article, I’m going to express my ideas about philosophy, what I will throughout the course of this article refer to as “the philosophical process” and to what ends we philosophize. I don’t mean a philosophy, rather I mean to say philosophy of itself, in general. In other words, not only what the meaning of philosophy is, but the purpose of philosophy. I highly enjoy expressing my thoughts in writing, it helps me to organize and examine what I’ve learned throughout my studies, what I continue to learn—and of course, it allows me to share that learning with other people.
I’ll begin this article with a question: what is philosophy and who does it? Okay, so I stole that question from a book I browsed through at Barnes and Noble the other day, called “The Philosopher’s Handbook,” but only because it is an excellent question to bring up and one I’ve seen covered in more than just one book. First, though, a couple of definitions:
The Random House Dictionary defines philosophy as: “the rational investigation of the truths and principles of being, knowledge and conduct.”
The American Heritage Dictionary defines philosophy as: “love and pursuit of wisdom by intellectual means and moral self-discipline.”
The love of wisdom must certainly have something to do with its pursuit, especially in the ancient Greek sense of the word philosophy—which is itself derived from two Greek words: philos and sophia, philos meaning “love of” or “fondness for” and sophia meaning “wisdom.” Philosophy is therefore (in the Greek sense), literally, “the love of wisdom.” This is how the Greeks, who have laid the foundation for many of our Western ideas today (in such areas as Ethics, Religion, Epistemology, Physics and Metaphysics) understood philosophy. I’ve recently become very fascinated with the philosophies of the ancient Greeks, having spent the majority of my life so far exploring the realms of Eastern philosophy, and I will continue to do so, but considering what the ancient Greeks contributed to the world of philosophy, I think it would be almost criminal to overlook the meaning they gave to it.
Professor Barry D. Smith, articles by whom I discovered online (and they’re all extremely educational), says that although the first word, philos, in philosophy is easy enough to understand, to define sophia (wisdom) is not so simple. The problem, he says, is defining the term wisdom as the ancient Greeks would have understood it:
“What seems clear is that, since it was something to be loved and valued, the ancient Greeks believed that wisdom didn’t come naturally to human beings. Normally, the things that are commonplace and ubiquitous are taken for granted. Indeed, as will become evident, the ancient Greeks assumed that wisdom was inaccessible to all but the intellectually capable and determined, so that its possession was rare and highly prized.”
—Introduction to Greek Philosophy
This seems to go along with the second definition given above…”by intellectual means and moral self-discipline.” The message here is clearly that to obtain wisdom, humans must possess certain qualities: we have to be self-disciplined, we have to be determined, we have to be capable and we have to be intellectual. In retrospect, I think that the last one is not an innate ability but something that comes as a result of determination and discipline. Well now—these principles aren’t so very different from martial arts are they? Could I not say that anything in life worth pursuing requires determination, discipline, etc.?
Moving on, the etymology of the word philosophy is only one of two ways to examine what the ancient Greeks meant, says Professor Smith. The second approach is to define philosophy in terms of its phenomenological meaning—or in other words, to “determine its meaning by means of ascertaining the phenomenon or experience that people (in this case, ancient Greeks) are describing when they use the term” (Smith). Here’s more of what he has to say on that:
“[T]here was a core meaning of the term "philosophy," as used by ancient Greeks: philosophy was a knowledge of the way things really were as opposed to the way things appeared to be. Philosophy as a discipline invariably assumed that the "world" constructed uncritically and naturally from data derived from the five senses was ultimately illusory; one could call this the world of common sense. For the ancient Greek philosopher, Reality was uncommon, quite different from the world of common sense…. This knowledge was the wisdom philosophers loved.”
I think that anyone who has studied even a little of Eastern thought can agree that this is not unlike Eastern ideas—many schools of Buddhism and Hinduism, for instance, basically assert that the phenomenal universe experienced by human beings on an ordinary, day-to-day basis is illusory and that knowledge gained from sense-data alone is pretty much unreliable. Therefore, similar to what many ancient Greeks believed, the true nature of Reality is hidden—and can only be realized through intellectual reasoning, not via sense experience. Therefore:
“[T]o be a philosopher was to seek and obtain an all-inclusive knowledge, which one could describe as the knowledge of Being (what is). (Being is the most abstract of all terms, for it means everything that is; as such Reality is a synonym for Being.) Thus the philosopher, as the Greeks understood it, sought to understand the Whole (another synonym for Being). The goal was to know Being in its basic structure, not in all its multifarious detail, for it was assumed that the details of one’s existence become intelligible when one understood them in relation to the Whole.”
—Smith, Introduction to Greek Philosophy
You’ll no doubt notice I’m quoting a lot for this article…well there’s no point in making up an excuse for you—I do it to compensate for my own lack of knowledge—for when it comes to the Greek philosophers, I’m still such an elementary student of them that I don’t dare to try and explain certain things myself. However, the title of this article does begin with “thoughts,” which of course implies my thoughts, which in turn gives me more freedom to make mistakes and say “Hey, I was just expressing some of my own biased, personal ideas—mm-kay?”
I don’t really talk like that. I’m kidding, obviously.
Now I know what you might be thinking: All of this sounds fascinating and all, but what does this have to do with me? Actually that question is aimed at anyone who doesn’t consider themselves a philosopher. After all, we don’t all sit and ponder the ultimate nature of the universe and seek to arrive at an all-inclusive, rational understanding of what this thing is we’re in (Being). This brings me to my second question: who “does” philosophy? Only philosophers? Not so, according to many philosophers. “[O]ne should not assume that one is not doing "philosophy" if one does not use the term to describe one’s activities,” says Professor Barry Smith. If you have pondered, even for a moment, as to the nature of right and wrong, God (most likely whether or not he exists), spiritual experiences, the correct method of reasoning or even if you have ever questioned any of your own beliefs or what you know (or think you know)—you were engaging in philosophy, or as we say, “philosophizing.” The first step of the philosophical process is inquiry, to question.
Have you ever observed the actions of someone you know, perhaps a friend, and considered whether or not those actions were right or wrong? Have you ever taken such consideration of your own actions? If so, then you were philosophizing, engaged in what philosophers call ethics. If you ever wondered what the best form of government is or if the government you live in now is good, you were engaged in political philosophy. Philosophy is not merely some far-out system of abstract ideas that have no bearing or application in the “real world.” One who considers oneself a philosopher is merely someone who is aware of their philosophizing and seeks to pursue it further, to the examination and scrutinizing of all the views we readily accept about our world. A philosopher doesn’t merely except answers because they are answers, as said by the authors of “Philosophy Made Simple” (what, you think that title’s funny?). They say that the philosopher is willing to subject all of our beliefs about ourselves or the world to intense scrutiny and examination—and this includes the world of human affairs. It can be said that philosophy is a continuous and ongoing investigation of what is, and all there is. Two words here I want to emphasize are continuous and ongoing, and I will explain why later.
“From this investigation, the philosopher has attempted to work out some general, systematic, coherent, and consistent picture of all that we know and think.”
—“Philosophy Made Simple,” Introduction pg. x.
What do you think about the universe? About yourself? About God? Are your ideas rationally defensible?
I wasn’t planning on it, but this line of thought inevitably lead me to a third question: Are you afraid to philosophize? I have come to the conclusion that many people in this world actually fear to philosophize, in a certain sense. The reason for this fear is the same as the Buddhist explanation for dukkha, often translated as “suffering” but which, according to Alan Watts might be better translated as something like “chronic frustration.” At the root of this frustration and suffering is attachment. Attachment to what, you ask? To the beliefs people hold, beliefs that help them make sense of Being. To dig inward and shake up the foundations of one’s own understanding can be pretty unnerving. And because philosophy is an ongoing and continuous process, this internal self-inquiry is continuous as well. But it is a crime of philosophy to allow one’s beliefs about Being to go uninspected, unexamined and unquestioned—to do this is to severely limit one’s capacity to learn and to continue growing.
As philosophers, we must understand that our quest is not conclusive—it is continuous. Remember that the flowing stream runs ever fresh, while stagnant waters go stale. Conclusive truths may be easier to accept, but they halt and render stale the philosophical process. This is what separates religion from philosophy. While philosophy is a continuous investigation, many religions are conclusive and base their assertions of reality or god upon pure “faith.” You believe it because you have faith—or because you “feel” it, and it becomes unnecessary to examine your own beliefs, therefore you do not subject any of these beliefs or feelings to rational, philosophical investigation. Beliefs founded upon faith alone have no place in philosophy. Faith is not enough for the philosopher to form a hypothesis or accept a theory about anything—metaphysics, epistemology, God, religion, or ethics. Answers aren’t enough just because they’re answers. When those answers are based on an authority that is claimed to be divine—most likely not by that authority itself, because we probably have no direct contact with it, but by the followers of this alleged authority—they are even easier to accept as truth. They are the end all, be alls. There is no need to question them—why do it?
Personally, this is what I think makes people more likely to follow religious or cult-like lifestyles over the path of inquiry (philosophy). It is easier to know what you know and know that you know it, than to admit, like Socrates, all you know is that you know nothing. This is sometimes called Socratic Ignorance, but it really only refers to the recognition of his own ignorance. If I am wiser than anyone else, he said, it is because I know that I do not know—when everyone else thinks they DO know.
Many of Plato’s Socratic dialogues show Socrates systematically dismantling another philosopher’s claims or assertions. Being “Socratically Ignorant”, which is really just an acknowledgement of the limitations of human understanding, opens the door for constant inquiry without a spiritual or psychological need to “arrive” anywhere, thereby ending your quest. You see, this is what the majority of people seek. They are all seeking something, and what they seek most of all is the end of their search—that which will end the seeking. From this philosophical standpoint I must say that anyone who does “arrive” at the truth which ultimately ends their search, has not discovered any true end, they’ve just stopped.
Inquiry can be tiresome and very taxing on one’s intellect. For this reason, I think it is important to always maintain, somewhere in the back or our minds, that Socratic Ignorance—that acknowledgement that there are certain things we do not and may not ever know in our lifetime. If this is true, we must be content with that. We must acquire an ability to accept the unknown. I call it an ability, because I really do think that it is a skill. It doesn’t come naturally to us to embrace the unknown, but I think that to a certain extent, a philosopher must, unless s/he arrogantly assumes s/he knows all there is to know.
I can hear the criticism already: “If you are claiming that we cannot ultimately know anything, then you yourself are making that assertion and you are therefore claiming to KNOW something. You must be contradicting yourself.” And here is why I must beg to differ on that: I am not claiming that we cannot ultimately know anything about anything—I may assume it, but I am not asserting it. To be “Socratically Ignorant,” if I may, is not an assertion about anything. It is an acknowledgement, an acceptance of the limitations of knowledge, of that which I, as of this moment, do not know. Will there always be something that is unknown? My thoughts are yes, but I will not claim even this. To be sure, there are certain things I can say with a certain amount of confidence, even arrogance perhaps, but I will not say that “I know what I know, ultimately and conclusively.” There ARE certain premises we must simply take for granted if we are to be able to philosophize about anything. We must, for example, take for granted Parmenides’ axioms that “What is, is” and “what is not, cannot be.” If we didn’t, there would be nothing at all to think about. But the point is that the door is always open for refutation. In the background, I always have my mental Socrates, who ruthlessly and sometimes pesteringly asks the questions that need to be asked, even if I myself don’t wish to ask them.
My position should not be mistaken for indecision. I am not advocating a form of philosophical skepticism in saying that there is always something we do not know. The skeptic doubts that there can be anything at all to philosophize about—he takes his doubt so far he doubts absolutely everything and despairs of the possibility of having any real knowledge about anything. Proper inquiry, in my view, does not lead to skepticism. There are two reasons for this: acceptance and necessary presumptions.
We cannot be skeptical of the possibility of any real knowledge, otherwise science would not be possible and neither would philosophy. We must necessarily presume that there are certain things we know. We know that what is, is. To dispute that is to dispute your very existence, which is indisputable. Acceptance comes into play for that which we, at the moment, do not know. This does not mean we will NEVER know it, just that we have determined, for whatever reason, that at this moment we do not have sufficient evidence and/or reason to claim that we know it.
This kind of acceptance is necessary for the philosopher. Failure to accept what is unknown leads easily to denial. For example, if I don’t believe in God, but I don’t have any real or good REASONS not to believe in God, essentially what my position amounts to is just that—denial. I’m denying that god exists, but I’m not competent enough to explain WHY I am doing so. Instead of being irrational, it would be truer to my integrity to admit that I don’t know if God exists or not. If my reasons WERE sufficient enough, tested against the criticisms of other ideas and still held to be true then I would have no choice but to conclude that God truly does not exist. Sure, this conclusion can change, of course. There is always the possibility for evidence or reason to arise that contradicts a conclusion, and it should always be considered.
The philosopher has to follow two things: the evidence and the path of reason to truth wherever it leads, regardless of his or her predispositions.