Against Knowledge

I hope everyone's doing well. I know that my posts have been intermittent (very intermittent) of late, but regardless, I'll get on with it. I'm going to Calvin College this coming fall, to study philosophy. I'm currently on the Calvin Campus at the 4th Annual Calvin College Undergraduate Philosophy Conference, and want to write after listening to a lecture by Jacob Heim. He wrote a paper on epistemology (theory of knowledge) and described knowledge in a traditional way. He defined it as "justified true belief," per Clifford's "Is Justified True Belief Knowledge?" Heim's argument wasn't anything particularly groundbreaking, but his discussion of several thought experiments (thanks to the help of another presenter, Alison Mirin) familiar to epistemologists brought a peculiar thought to the forefront of my brain. It is possible to have a belief (per Descartes), and it is possible to justify a belief with logic. Logic is believed because it works in what we believe to be our world and seems to be correct. Justified belief is not knowledge, but I believe that in any case, it is all that is necessary. We make decisions everyday based on justified belief. The truth of any matter is a different matter entirely. If I hold Proposition X (Px), such as "there is a computer in front of me," I can justify it and believe it. However, with my understanding of truth, I can not be sure I know it. You and I can both agree it is true, but it's possible we are in a shared delusion. The fact that such possibilities as hallucination always exist for any belief prevents me from believing anything with absolute rigor. My inability to hold a fixed belief also leads me to disbelieve my ability to know truth, or the "Way Things Are." I can't ever be sure of truth, and can never do more than guess that I believe truth, and so can never be sure that I have knowledge. I believe that my inability to be sure of my knowledge releases me from a responsibility to "know" anything. I should have justified belief- but that's all I can have, and so I shouldn't have to study truth to make decisions. Justified belief is not knowledge, but only a Good Guess, nor is it necessarily true. How can I believe it is good enough to have justified belief? I have no reason to believe I can take any more leaps than that.b

I always do my best writing (well, I do all my writing for this blog) late on a weekend night.

The past week, I have been questioning (thank you Brian, you know who you are) the role of emotion or religious experience in worship. I am starting to come to the conclusion that, because all things are from God, any emotion felt at any time is a form of religious experience if you use it to try and connect with God. Ultimately, every idea must be tested against scripture, but in the moment, the overpowering rush of any emotion should cause thanksgiving to God. I will confess to feeling a powerful wave of emotion listening to a secular song ("He was my Brother" - Simon and Garfunkel).It was such an overwhelming welling up of the chest that I felt it as a religious sensation-- God is in all the universe, and we diminish his presence if we say that only emotions felt from eight to noon on Sunday are valid experiences; every momentary feeling ought to reveal God to us, even if (to quote Brian) we "sin like pagans six days a week, then feel an unworthy sensation Sunday mornings."

Grace and peace.

Reevaluation

As to the topic of meta philosophy (2 posts down), I have come to the conclusion that the better way to imagine the chart is as a series of rings. The outer ring represents society and the universe, with an inner ring representing philosophy, a yet more inner ring representing meta philosophy, etc (as per the initial system).
What makes this a different diagram is that it better demonstrates the fact that philosophy operates within the system of the world, and meta philosophy operates within philosophy. Inner rings work to better outer rings (possibly by observing the whole system).
What does it mean to better it? Since philosophy seeks to understand, betterment relates to helping it to understand...
I think that's all I have to say.
Happy Ash Wednesday.

Splitting Hairs

It seems to me, that scientific and analytic philosophers are far too willing to split hairs. I note especially their questioning of definitions. Analytics are notorious for trying to overanalyze small words. I suppose that there isn't anything new under the sun... but philosophy strikes me more religiously, as a sort of felt understanding of the weight of the universe. Rather than overanalyze one idea, I'd rather flirt with a hundred ideas, and men with chests. The great existentialists-- you can feel their understanding of Man's condition. The great sages-- you can feel their words as well. The analytics seem too accountant-like. I am sure there is a place for having good definitions, especially of big ideas. However, a good definition of an uninteresting idea, does nothing to stimulate. Thinking big-picture: I feel that that is the point of philosophy, with definitions being the necessary evil, rather than the heart and soul.

Infinite Regressions, etc.

The diagram to the right is a little model I'm working through right now, in trying to categorize and simplify the universe. I have decided to set up this model, on something of a whim, so it will need refinement. Even now, looking at it, I see some flaws in my labeling. Regardless, I think this model can be a valuable asset for such categorization.
The model tries to explain the goals of philosophy. The two major goals are the explanation of the universe, and the critique of society. Philosophy is a system acting within the universe, trying to improve the world around it by explanation, systemazation, and critique. Meta(beyond)philosophy seeks to improve philosophy.
Examples of normal philosophy includes Kierkegaard's discussions of the Danish church and people. His critiques of Hegelian methodology are meta-philosophical, seeking to improve philosophy. The teaching of logic is meta-philosophical. "The Ethics of Belief" (Clifford) are double-meta-philosophical (in some ways), trying to improve the improvement of philosophy. Post-modernism tries to question philosophy and methodology.
Philosophy as a whole appears on every level of this spectrum-- the diagram can be drawn all the way down, if it is necessary. The improvement of society requires the improvement of philosophy, and that requires the improvement of meta-philosophy, etc. Although the idea seems rather ridiculous, and to me, hard to get a good handle on, it is necessary to realize that the ultimate goal of philosophy is this: to improve society and understand the universe.

Prophet: A Cautionary Tale

Behold! A prophet have we, that hath brought fire unto humanity!

The prophet walked slowly, over the land that was waxing red, in the coming of autumn. He carried nothing on his back as he walked along the road. He knew that the prophet had no need for anything, he knew that God would provide. He ate good meals on his journey, and he preached good words to the people he encountered. After he had spoken, though, they always forced him to leave; he never understood that they hated his words so much. Didn’t they all love God as much as he did? Still, he was not to care, since his journey was his own, no one else’s. Occasionally he would find a stray dog as he walked, and the dog would follow him a ways, eat with him, and would leave him satisfied. The dogs, at least, didn’t come to hate the prophet.
It was middle autumn when he entered the town of Isaiah. It was an odd town in the middle of Utah, with little to its name other than a church and a small store. The people all seemed so old, the prophet such a sharp contrast. The town was grim, and the smiling prophet knew what these people needed. It was odd that such a town still existed, he thought, but he was there with a job. He went to find shelter for him and Jeremiah, the dog he was travelling with. They found shelter at the church, welcomed as travelers. The priest, Stephen, simply listened to the young prophet, and agreed to allow him to preach the next Sunday.
Stephen was a jovial fellow, and, since he lived alone, agreed to have them for dinner. The prophet amused Stephen with his sharp wit, and the priest realized what had been missing from his town from the founding. The people had no sense of youth, and God was a laughing God. "Surely they will find truth on this young man’s face!" thought the priest.
The appointed time came, and that Sunday, the prophet rose to speak. No sooner had he and Jeremiah and Stephen reached the stage, than an outrage occurred in the town. “What man is this, that he should laugh in so Holy a place as this?” Everyone immediately left the church to consult as to what ought to be done.
The town gathered that Monday, and Saul the mayor came before all of them to speak. “We cannot find the boy, nor the priest, nor the dog anywhere. They have escaped into the night. Behold, we are rid of these accursed men who cannot fear. Look to the mountains, where does our help come from?”
The prophet and Jeremiah and Stephen looked down on the valley town, knowing that they should never return. No prophet is welcome who brings harsh words upon a deaf people.

Personality

I must first confess I am profoundly influenced by Kierkegaard- even when I don't realize that fact. Indeed, his whole manner amuses and inspires me. He was a deeply introspective thinker, and I try to be the same. The issue with introspection is finding the balance between sharing thoughts and keeping them secret. Especially meditations: I cannot fill this entire blog with meditations on loneliness. I would be thought desperate or needy. I might be, but I want my thoughts to be timely. Loneliness is not timely, inaction is. But however much one idea needs repeating, the world does not like repetition- I myself do not like repitition (and there again interferes the "I")- and it is best only to contradict the world when it is necessary.
When is it necessary to contradict the world? Practically all of the time. The world is some sort of antithesis to the spiritual, and as such must be corrected at every turn. But repetition is a stylistic flair, not a necessary need. Repitition is amoral, just as sleeping or money. The morality is in the user and use, not the thing itself.
But style is such a part of the world, that it must be contradicted not as a moral, but as an industrial matter. It is least efficient to write thoughtlessly. What people want is stories. What must be written are essays,- I am certain the essay is a dead art, since what is taught in schools is the rigidly inefficient five paragraph "essay"- essays concerning the individual. Men must be stung in the heels that they might run. Perhaps the stinging-essay is what these men need, to enter and conquer the race.

A Loss of Greatness

If a man writes a novel, yet does not move his reader to think, he has certainly written a bestseller. From that, we can derive the apathy of our age: we are a passive age. We cannot even lift up our cross, let alone carry it. Such a curse is prevalent; as with every age, we have no will to be great (nor do I want to be great. But I seek mediocrity as a form of transcendence, which I hope is higher than seeking it out of apathy), and spinelessly go about our days. Such a curse, yet who will do any more than speak against it? Who will DO at all?

What, No Humor?

I find myself attracted to Kierkegaard, the more I read of him. But of course, I must also go-beyond him, or attack him. He is not faultless, but I can qualify him. Perhaps he was just a timely prophet, but then I cannot attack him. Nor should I emulate his prophesy, which is his alone. I can steal his ideas- that I had the courage to pawn them off as my own, perhaps I would be called original!- but that would do nothing for me. I am not satisfied till I have found the wellspring from which he drank. That same fruit is that which Adam ate (in his eating, we sinned, in our eating, we become great), that of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
But because I have only one truth that I know and preach (that certainly all of life is a chasing after the wind), and that truth is so sobering, I find myself unable to laugh. I can laugh the nervous laugh of the melancholy man- but never the jovial laugh of Bacchus (although a sinner, he was so carefree). Why do I yet insist that God has a sense of humor? Because I don't believe to have myself reached humor. I can do anything but really laugh, because I do not know enough to laugh. The saint can laugh, but the damned cannot (even though the latter think they can). The damned do not know enough of truth to be able to laugh, so here I sit with them in our shared melancholy (I am not the transcended Christian).

Concerning Marital Love

People, I think, have a misconception that marriage requires an erotic or philic love. Although I am unmarried, I think it requires much less than love, and much more (And I promise I'm not trying to be difficult in using such a paradox). Certainly marriage is a keystone of the Church. Without it, an element of Christian companionship would be lost. Still, the lower loves are not necessary for marriage. Too often people insist, that falling "out of love" is a reason to fall out of marriage. I insist in marriage that there is no need for being in love. Certainly it is wonderful to have such a feeling-- but feeling means nothing. True marriage is a duty (hopefully enjoyable) regardless of feeling.
My theory is contrary to the cultural sentiment of today- the sentiment that insists on finding "true" love, or such.

Stepping-Over and Into

I enjoy playing with words- though that is a common enough sin among every writer- but I am certain that I at time lose even myself in the utter desire to fill up the written page.

Regardless, my meditation here finds root in the three transcendences I look at and see. The first is the Ascetic Transcendence: that of the Buddha or a martyr. This transcendence is characterized by denying the self in order to transcend the world. The second I derive from Nietzsche: the Aesthetic Transcendence: In this, a man transcends by fulfilling his purpose, which he makes for himself. The third I call the Christian Transcendence: a man denies himself, but also works towards one goal. It is not a dialectical result of the former two, but a separate ideal altogether.
The third form is not realized by action, but by spiritual wholeness. In fact, it is the utter Christian ideal. Very few people realize this transcendence (or any, for that matter. People prefer to stay in the dark.), but those that realize it are truly the over-comers of this earth and life.
Transcendence interests me because it seems to be a goal for every great philosopher to step-beyond something. The Christian is in the hardest state; He can step beyond himself, but he himself is still himself. He steps beyond without actually leaving himself, that is.

A Prophet for this Age

I do suppose this age needs a prophet, though I know not who. Certainly I am too late to be a prophet for my age; I believe myself too old to be a prophet to the young (and certainly I am too vain). But I shall herald the prophet, if I am not too frail. Who shall this prophet be? What shall he preach? He will not reach love-- this age has had enough talk of love-- but rather wrath. Or perhaps he will not even know of wrath; perhaps all he will know will be the despair of life, a man too old for his time (so I am not excused when God drafts this prophet). His age will be his vigor, his wisdom his killing-stroke. He shall hate the world, just as Christ loved the Church. This prophet will not come to be loved, but to be scorned, so that the world-lovers shall read their hypocrisy on his brow. He will die a martyr- must die a martyr- in order that they may be awakened to their folly.
This is my prophet, but perhaps he is not God's prophet. Perhaps God's prophet will be a man acting love, and being convicted by the hate that plagues the world.
The question is whether all this talk of love that surrounds us in this day and age, is spoken by men who do as they preach, and love as they know how, or whether it is spoken by men who secretly hate the world deep in their hearts.

The prophet will not be welcome here.

A Meditation: Existentialism and the Art of the Essay

I am intererested in philosophical essys, and how Nietzsche and Kierkegaard incorporate the techniques of the essay into their stories. It interests me the way in which the two really use essays as the meat of their works; Namely, the essays propel the story. in fact, the story is little more than a nicely framed thought. I speak of Nietzsche's Zarathustra and Kierkegaards's Either/Or , the works with which I am most familiar according to each. The form of these treatises is much simpler than the more literary forms found in Dostoevsky, Sartre, and Camus' works. The novels and plays of the latter three, though in content similiar to Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, find as much merit as literature (perhaps more) as they do philosophy. Nietzsche and Kierkegaard have definite literary trends in their works, but they don't stand seperate from the philosophy. Their isn't enough plot present.
The short story can never be a mode for these essayists, as they can never compress their thoughts. All they can do is write as much as they did. But here I stand with the benefit of hindsight, the benefit of seeing and holding their greatest works. Perhaps they can write stories just as well- but in fact, I respect Nietzsche and Kierkegaard for not being novelists: it was not their art- and I am glad they instead chose to be essayists, pamphleteers, polemicizing their age, a thorn in the side of every individual who ever had the misfortune to read these prophets (although prophets for the Devil or for God: who can know?).

Some Meditations on the Prodigal Son

What caused the prodigal son to leave? Was it that he wanted to be independent, or merely free from his family, or merely free from the law? I've been contemplating his character for some time now- he may be some sort of existential hero, I think, if seen in the right light. In the original story, of course, the father is the hero. Still, the son has a certain boldness to him, a desire for change, that is far more honest than his brother.
The son practically wishes his father dead; rude, of course, but not pretentious. He blatantly shows who he is, how decadent, how degraded. The older brother has the same base desire as the younger. A good portion of the story details what a hypocrite he is, how painfully hateful. The older brother is the hateful hypocrite, without the either the brutal honesty of the prodigal nor the love of the father.
The father is the happy medium- the Christian medium- both loving, and just, and honest. Which he should be, since he allegorizes God according to the traditional interpretation. The prodigal has some redeeming value in his own right, I feel, and he ought to be praised for his boldness, his acceptance of life. He is closer to the hero, flawed but persistent, seeking to repay what he owes on every count. He is saved by mercy- but he would have settled for less as a consequence of his actions. He is a sort of hero, because he is consistent. He would have been the same man if his father had only made him a servant in the house.
The father is highlighted in the parable. But the prodigal deserves some recognition for his existential essence.

A Brief and Mostly Fictional Story

I hope my readers will forgive my story. I promise that the events are fictional. It is just a diary of the soul, really. Specifics weigh things down.

It’s long and bony, and attached to an even thinner branch of bone. I just sit down and look at my hand. It looks like my arm is too small, more than that my hand is too big. Wearing a too-big jacket doesn’t help at all. The sleeves drape over my arm. It’s wasting away. I’m wasting away. Not like tuberculosis, or anorexia, or leprosy. Those things are diseases of the body. A soul disease, man, but who has ever had one of those? Either everybody or nobody. A soul disease, man.
It’s not even like my body reflects my spirit. Probably just my mind reflects my spirit onto my body. My eyes see through a wasting-away lens. That’s about right. I can feel and see my own decay.
It’s peculiar-like, turning into a skeleton. The thing about a skeleton is that you can add meat to it, shape it how you like. This is different. You can’t control it. The skeleton is the created thing, the end, not the foundation. You build your skeleton as the rest of you burns. The skeleton is you.
This skeleton is me. It has long bony fingers and too small arms. Too thin arms. It is gangly and tall and cannot convince anyone that it is tough. It knows it is all askew, but hates to accept it. The skin is filled with pallor, and the too long hair is the only thing growing on it. Everything else pulls taut on the gaunt frame.
I have perfect vision, but it’s blurred like a funhouse mirror when I look at myself. I see shadows of myself, or half a man, or some such illusions. Maybe I read too much, and all these books around me fill themselves on my soul, giving me vampiric ideas. Over here is “The Seducer’s Diary,” and here is Werther. All of the books are so terribly beautiful. I tremble when I read them, out of excitement to melt my flesh the way Dr. Faustus did. Dorian Gray, too, although his is just a retelling of Faust. The way Adam and Eve found knowledge was by fruit. My knowledge comes from aesthetic experience. It is wonderful, really.
I mean, the other night, I was wandering the streets. It was raining, so that this story can have a little atmosphere. That light misty rain that darkens the streets, without really making you miserable by soaking your bones. The blood on my hands warmed them a little. But it wasn’t really blood. Metaphorical blood, maybe. A young girl who trusted me, who I even convinced to love me. I ruined her entirely. Her blood, or body, or heart, was hot with a passion I could not understand. That is what it means, I thought, to be an aesthetic. To give in, as she did, to the desires of the soul.
She was wiser than me, even though she woke up colder, and more alone, and without comprehension as to where her lover had been spirited away. I didn’t try to make her suffer. But I didn’t mind enough to change anything. That there is hate, a really terrible hate, not to care enough about someone to even desire their suffering. A man who kills another man, is not guilty of hate. He is guilty of love. He loves the man so much that he changes the man. A man who does nothing to benefit or suffer another, he is a hater, in his apathy worse than any man of the passions.
The seducer has no real feel for art. Or should I say, I have no feel for art. Art is felt. Emotion doesn’t have to be suppressed to never love. Art is love. Art is passion. Emotion, fun, happy, these things are not art. I am not an artist.
I am the seducer, but I can never really make it an art.