28. CONCLUSION: WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY? This course began with a discussion of the question "What is philosophy?" Some of you offered some interesting suggestions, demonstrating that even before taking this course you knew something about what philosophy is. That's because every thoughtful human being has a philosophy of one sort or another, even if it is not very precisely worked out. The problem is that most people never get beyond the stage of having "my philosophy". That is, although many, if not most, people have established for themselves a particular philosophical point of view, very few people seriously work at expanding that personal point of view in such a way that it can be regarded as having a legitimate range of application beyond their own personal opinions. Yet this step is crucial if we are ever to understand what philosophy really is. Philosophy must go beyond the stage of being "my philosophy" and must become philosophy before I can say "I am a philosopher". And that crucial step is one I hope you have begun to take while studying this course. In the first lecture I said I hoped by the end of this course you would know less about philosophy that you did at the beginning. Some of you laughed at this idea. Others seemed to be confused. Still others thought I was confused. Most of you probably thought it was a joke. But in fact, I was quite serious. At several points during this course I have argued against naive versions of relativism, on the grounds that certain boundary lines are absolute. More adequate versions of relativism always recognize that the very possibility of "relativity" depends on something which is, by comparison, "absolute". In physics, for example, the modern theory of relativity could recognize the relative character of events in our time-space world only after physicists agreed to treat the speed of light as a "constant" (i.e., as an absolute). I now want to add that the ultimate purpose of all philosophical inquiry is to become more and more aware of such absolutes; for the more we do so, the more fully we can appreciate the beauty of the "mystery" we have been talking so much about here in Part Four. Indeed, the final ontological paradox is that this mystery makes itself known first as my philosophy, but gradually reveals itself to be the source of philosophy itself. In other words, it is both absolute and yet the source of all relativity. To explain how this can be so, I like to compare philosophy to a huge diamond with many facets carved into it. At first, all I am aware of is that my own point of view, the only "facet" I can see clearly, is true. When I take a step back, I recognize other facets on the diamond--other legitimate points of view--which are equally true. This might seem to justify a belief in relativism: your facet is true for you and mine is true for me. However, when I step back far enough to see the whole diamond, I suddenly recognize that there is a pattern: each facet is related in such a way that the whole does, in fact, display an absolute (fixed) design, in spite of the great diversity of the individual facets. Those who continue to view philosophy as entirely a matter of subjective opinion, and fail to see its potential for bringing us to an objective truth, are merely chaining themselves to their particular facet of the diamond, much as the prisoners in Plato's cave can see nothing but the shadows on their particular section of the wall. But if you have begun to take the step from a philosophy that suits you to a philosophy that can be true for everyone, then I think you will have learned at least something of the importance of the principle of recognizing your ignorance: we can never see all the facets of the diamond at once, no matter how far back we step! When you have learned to distinguish between "my philosophy" and "philosophy", and when you have begun to transform the former into the latter, you will then be prepared to begin constructing a truly philosophical answer to the question "What is philosophy?" Since I have now finished my attempt to introduce you to philosophy in such a way that you can answer this question, I will take this opportunity to summarize the entire course by relating the myth of the tree of philosophy to the account of mystery given here in Part Four. We began this course by treating metaphysics as the roots of the philosophical tree; in so doing we found in Part One that, in order to study these roots without killing the tree, we had to recognize our ignorance. Without recognizing an area of necessary ignorance, nothing could be mysterious, since everything would have to be regarded as a "knowable object". There would be nothing hidden. No roots. In such a case we might think we understand the words we use, but we would inevitably commit one of two mistakes: we would conclude either that all mystery is nonsense (as does the skeptic), or that we could (or have) actually attain(ed) knowledge of that mystery (as does the dogmatist). Both skepticism and dogmatism result from a failure to gain a proper understanding of the logical trunk and the scientific branches of the philosophical tree. For as we learned in Part Two, logic teaches us that, instead of giving up the mystery by treating it as either meaningless or knowable, the mystery itself has its own kind of logic. Having distinguished between knowledge and ignorance, we learned how to use analytic logic to understand words describing the former and synthetic logic to understand words describing the latter. In this way we clearly defined the boundary between knowledge and ignorance. Just as the branches of a tree show us, as it were, the natural purpose or implications of the trunk, so also logic remains abstract and meaningless unless we use it to gain knowledge ("science"); in so doing, as we found in Part Three, we can discover some of the implications the mystery has for what is not mysterious. The latter is the task of wisdom, and can be fulfilled only if we know where to place the boundary lines around different kinds of knowledge, and when it is appropriate to break through those boundary lines. In other words, only by learning to love wisdom can we honor the mystery for what it is, while at the same time allowing it to enlighten that which need not be mysterious. Finally, by treating our meaning-filled experiences as the leaves of the philosophical tree, we have learned in Part Four how we can actually become personally acquainted with this mystery, through opening ourselves to experiencing the wonder of silence. By allowing the mystery to invade us rather than trying to take it by storm, by allowing it to grasp and possess us rather than trying to grasp and possess it, the diversity of our knowledge can be unified by the power of the mystery. The paradoxes of life then cease to be so troublesome. They are still paradoxes, for the reality of our ignorance is not diminished but intensified by our experience of the mystery. The difference is that we now have within us an ultimate concern enabling us to cope with the fact that there are some things we can never hope to know. Kant aptly expressed this ability to cope with ignorance when he wrote (in Critique of Practical Reason, p.148): "the inscrutable wisdom through which we exist is not less worthy of veneration in respect to what it denies us than in [respect to] what it has granted." The capacity to wonder in spite of, or even because of, our ignorance is actually one of the main characteristics distinguishing a good philosopher from a bad one. Wonder is childlike, which is why some philosophers, wishing to appear "mature", shun the temptation to wonder. This is also why children so often make such profoundly philosophical statements. The difference between a child and a full-grown, childlike philosopher is that the latter has added self- consciousness to the original instinct to wonder. The problem is that self- consciousness tends to negate the instinct to wonder: self-consciousness puts up with ignorance in its search for the unity of the "I", whereas wonder wants to achieve knowledge in response to its apprehension of the diversity of the world. The bad philosopher, as we have seen, is the one who limits the philosophical task to only one of these two opposite goals. The good philosopher, by contrast, will continually seek after the best way of resolving (or at least coping with) the tension between these two forces. One of the best ways of doing this, I believe, is to direct our self-consciousness to the higher goal of self-understanding. For the never-ending task of coming to "know thyself", which Socrates rightly recognized as the ultimate goal of doing philosophy, requires us to reach ever-increasing levels of both self- consciousness and wonder. With this in mind, I would like us to consider a passage from a book that encourages us to hear the wonder of silence throughout the busyness of our everyday life. Anne Morrow Lindbergh's little book, Gift from the Sea, is a series of meditations on her holidays at an island beach, focusing especially on the symbolism of the activity of collecting sea shells. As you consider the following summary of her reflections on the prospects of returning home (from pp.113-116,119-120), let's interpret the "island" as a metaphor for studying philosophy, and the "shells" as a metaphor for insights. As she packs her bags to leave the island, Lindbergh asks herself what she has gained from all her meditative efforts: "What answers or solutions have I found for my life? I have a few shells in my pocket, a few clues, only a few." She thinks back to her first days on the island, and realizes how greedily she collected the shells at first: "My pockets bulged with wet shells ... The beach was covered with beautiful shells and I could not let one go by unnoticed. I couldn't even walk head up looking out to sea, for fear of missing something precious at my feet." The problem with this way of collecting shells (or having insights) is that "the acquisitive instinct is incompatible with true appreciation of beauty." But after all her pockets were stretched to the limit with damp shells, she found it necessary to become less acquisitive: "I began to discard my possessions, to select." She then realized it would be impossible to collect all the beautiful shells she saw: "One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few." Can we say the same for philosophical insights? Perhaps so. For Lindbergh herself generalizes the lesson she learned by saying "it is only framed in space that beauty blooms. Only in space are events and objects and people unique and significant--and therefore beautiful." This insight, that beauty requires space and selectivity, prompted Lindbergh to reconsider the reasons why her life at home tends to lack the qualities of significance and beauty, so characteristic of her time on the island. Perhaps life seems insignificant not because it is empty, but because it is too full: "there is so little empty space.... Too many worthy activities, valuable things, and interesting people.... We can have ... an excess of shells, where one or two would be significant." Being on the island, by contrast, had given her the space and time to look at life in a new way--as I hope this philosophy class has done for you. "Paradoxically, ... space has been forced upon me.... Here there is time; time to be quiet; time to work without pressure; time to think ... Time to look at the stars ... Time, even, not to talk." The problem in going home is that in many ways the island had selected what was significant for her (as this course of lectures may have done for you) "better than I do myself at home." She therefore asks herself: "When I go back will I be submerged again ...? ... Values weighed in quantity, not quality; in speed, not stillness; in noise, not silence; in words, not thoughts; in acquisitiveness, not beauty. How shall I resist the onslaught?" She answers by suggesting that, in place of the island's natural selectivity, she will need to adopt "a conscious selectivity based on another set of values-- a sense of values I have become more aware of here.... Simplicity of living .. Space for significance and beauty. Time for solitude and sharing.... A few shells." In the end Lindbergh discards most of the shells she had collected on her island holiday, and takes with her only a few of the most special ones. Her experiences on the island, she explains, will now serve as "a lens" that she can take home with her in order to examine her own life more effectively: "I must remember to see with island eyes. The shells will remind me; they must be my island eyes." In the same way, I hope this course has provided you with a new way of seeing yourself and the world. For the real reason the university requires you to take a philosophy course is not to train you to participate in academic debates on technical issues, but to enlarge your capacity to experience the unifying beauty of life--that is, to enable you to "see with island eyes", even when the examination is over and you have returned home, to the ordinary world of your infinitely diverse personal concerns. In Shel Silverstein's story of The Giving Tree, the little boy does not learn this lesson until the very end of his life. During his life he forgets all about the carefree days of his childhood, when the tree was almost like part of his own self. Instead he goes off on his own, in search of happiness and fortune. The boy simply ignores the silent screams of the tree as she allowed herself to be torn to pieces by the boy's selfish desires. Only as an old man is the little boy once again able to sit and rest with the tree, enjoying with her the wonder of silence. To some extent this process of leaving the tree, venturing out on our own, and finally returning to it in the end, describes the paradoxical steps through which each of us must inevitably pass in our search for a suitable philosophy of life. The tragedy of that story is that, unlike the story of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the main character virtually destroys the source of his wisdom in the process of looking for a meaningful life, leaving only a stump in the end. My hope is that this course will have supplied each of you with "a few shells" to help you avoid such a fate. With these in hand, I hope each of you, even those who will never study any more philosophy in a formal way, will be able to live with a continuous, silent awareness of the mysterious tree of philosophy and will always respectfully wait to receive from the endless supply of gifts she has to offer. QUESTIONS FOR FURTHER THOUGHT 1. How is philosophy like a tree? 2. How is a philosopher different from a person who has some philosophical ideas? 3. What is a question, and why are they so important in philosophy? 4. What is philosophy? RECOMMENDED READINGS 1. Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree (New York: Harper & Row, 1964). 2. Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea2 (New York: Pantheon Books, 1975 [1955]), especially Chapter VII, "A Few Shells", pp.111-120. 3. Max Picard, The World of Silence (South Bend: Gateway Editions, 1952). 4. Stephen Palmquist, The Tree of Philosophy: A course of introductory lectures for beginning students of philosophy2 (Hong Kong: Philopsychy Press, 1993[1992]).