22. WHAT IS SILENCE? In the first three parts of this course we have encountered a variety of different philosophical theories, which have been proposed by philosophers attempting to solve a diversity of problems. This very diversity, compounded by the variety of approaches we have at our disposal, is one of the most serious threats to the health of the tree of philosophy. For if nothing can unify the diversity that naturally arises out of our human experience and out of our reflection upon it, then we are in danger of meeting the same fate as Nietzsche. As we saw in Lecture 19, Nietzsche uprooted the tree of philosophy in an attempt to awaken modern man from our self-satisfied slumber under the shade of Socrates' philosophical tree. But, just as the first sign of impending death in an uprooted plant is that its leaves go limp, so also Nietzsche's attempt to philosophize without grounding his reasoning in an ultimate reality ended when his own experience went limp in the unceasing noise of insanity. The person whose quest for wisdom ends in insanity has completely lost touch with the reality that makes the quest worthwhile. Fortunately, this tragic fate is not inevitable, provided we learn to respond to the diversity of thought and life by replacing the noise generated by the virtually endless choices at our disposal with a silence which can lend unity and purpose to our fragmented existence. For this reason, I want to begin this final part of our course by asking you to suggest some answers to the question, "What is silence?" As you think about this question, let me remind you that the part of the tree of philosophy which best represents our need for a unifying principle in our thinking and a unifying power in our lives is the leaves. For when we look at a tree with no leaves, the distinction between its branches stands out clearly; yet when the same tree has a full set of leaves, the branches actually appear to be connected, as if the leaves have resolved the tension between the branches by holding them together in a higher unity. The leaves of a tree, more than any other part, give us the impression that the tree is a unit: especially when viewing a tree from a distance, the leaves lose their distinctness and blur into each other. Moreover, a tree is often more difficult to distinguish from other types of tree if it has no leaves. For the leaf is the part of a tree botanists normally use to identify and classify a given type of tree. This analogy suggests one of the most important principles which we will come across here in Part Four: just as a tree's leaves give the tree both its distinctiveness and its unity, so also the part of the tree of philosophy we shall now begin examining operates according to the principle of "unity in diversity". Since "unity" and "diversity" are opposites, this principle clearly requires us to think in terms of synthetic logic if we are to make any sense out of it. But before we begin looking at some examples of how this principle works, does anyone have any ideas about how we can define silence? Student V. "Silence refers to an environment where there is no sound--or at least, very little." I was hoping someone would give this kind of answer, because it gives me the opportunity to clarify the question I am really asking. Your answer is correct as far as it goes; but it defines silence in a merely superficial way. On the surface, silence is indeed just the absence of sound. Thus, for example, if a group of you starts talking while I am trying to give my lecture, I might say "Silence please!", which would mean something like "Please stop making those sounds!" However, the word "silence" normally suggests much more than this. For aren't there some kinds of sound that do not disturb our silence? And what about the popular song that talks about the "Sound of Silence"? If silence is the absence of sound, then how could silence itself have a sound? In any case, does anyone have a suggestion as to how we could go a little deeper into the meaning of silence? What is silence? Student W. "No noise." I think this is a much more helpful definition, especially if we define "noise" as a "disturbing sound". We can then see why some kinds of sound actually promote silence rather than disturbing it. For instance, those birds chirping away in the tree just outside the classroom window are probably making more sound than that made by two or three students talking to each other out of turn while I am lecturing. Yet I don't think any of us would say those birds are making noise, as long as they are not competing with me for your attention. In the same way, the background music in a film makes lots of sound; yet it can actually promote a sense of silence in the film if it is used in the right way. But if the music detracts our attention from what is happening on the screen, then it begins to function more like noise. Likewise, music can enhance the conversation between a group of friends; but if the same music is playing while one of them is trying to tune a guitar, it would probably function more like noise. What do these examples tell us about silence? Student X. "It's quite subjective. What is silence for me might be noise for you." That depends on what you mean by "subjective". So let's press your idea a bit deeper. When you say silence is "subjective", does this merely mean that different people experience silence in different ways (which is quite obvious), or does it also tell us something about where silence is actually located? In other words, what makes the difference between a person who can experience silence in a certain situation and another person who cannot? Student X. "It must be something inside the person. Yes, I think that's what I meant by 'subjective'! Real silence is inner silence." Good! This is precisely the point of my original question: What is inner silence? What can we do to cultivate within ourselves a disposition that enables us to experience silence when other people are being disturbed by the sounds all around us? How can what is noise to other people become like music to our ears? Is this just a basic difference between different people's personalities, or is there anything we can do to improve our capacity for hearing the sound of silence? Student Y. "I find that getting away from everyone and being alone for awhile often helps me to regain an inner peace, and to cope with the disturbances that come from my relationships with other people." The kind of experience you are referring to is sometimes called "solitude". I too enjoy being by myself sometimes; and I agree that it can help to encourage the development of a sense of inner silence. But the strange thing about solitude is that some people don't like it, because they are afraid of becoming lonely. What's the difference, then, between "being alone" and "being lonely"? Student Z. "Some people can be alone for long periods of time without feeling lonely at all; others will feel lonely even when they are with a group of friends." So what is it that makes these two types of people so different? Student Z. "The lonely person seems to have something missing inside. Could we call it silence?" That's a good suggestion, although we should be aware of the fact that we are now reasoning in a circle: solitude helps us develop inner silence; inner silence helps us experience solitude without feeling lonely. So this still doesn't help us very much if we happen to be lonely and/or lack inner silence right now. Nevertheless, it is a good suggestion because it emphasizes the close connection between solitude and silence. Solitude and silence normally go together: either we have both or we have neither. In fact, experiencing one without the other is usually a sign of mental and/or spiritual disintegration: silence without solitude breeds dread; solitude without silence breeds insanity. In Lecture 26 we will look more closely at the paradoxical insights we can gain from these all-too-common human experiences. People who spend much of their time in solitude and silence are sometimes called "contemplatives". Contemplatives in virtually every major religious tradition have worked hard to explain what silence and solitude are and how we can go about nurturing the potential for such experiences. In ancient China, Lao Tzu is a good example of such a contemplative. His poetic account of how to follow the "Tao" that "cannot be expressed" is full of practical advice--though often couched in terms of synthetic logic--as to how we can live a life of humility, solitude, and silence, even amidst the apparent busyness of everyday life. The Buddha would, of course, be another good example. And numerous others could be cited from Hinduism, Islam, and various other religions. The Jewish and Christian religious traditions also have a long line of such contemplatives. In this century one of the most influential of these from the Christian tradition has been Thomas Merton, whose writings have inspired many to deepen their own inner experiences. An extended quote from his little book, Thoughts in Solitude (Chapter XV, pp.147-149), can help us understand how solitude and silence work together in our experience of the "reality" which religious people call "God": As soon as you are really alone you are with God. Some people live for God, some people live with God, some live in God. Those who live for God, live with other people and live in the activities of their community. Their life is what they do. Those who live with God also live for Him, but they do not live in what they do for Him, they live in what they are before Him. Their life is to reflect Him by their own simplicity and by the perfection of His being reflected in their poverty. Those who live in God do not live with other men or in themselves still less in what they do, for He does all things in them. Sitting under this tree I can live for God, or with Him, or in Him.... To live with Him it is necessary to refrain constantly from speech and to moderate our desires of communication with men, even about God. Yet it is not hard to commune with other men and with Him, as long as we find them in Him. Solitary life--essentially the most simple. Common life prepares for it in so far as we find God in the simplicity of common life--then seek Him more and find Him better in the greater simplicity of solitude. But if our community life is intensely complicated--(through our own fault)- -we are likely to become even more complicated in solitude. Do not flee to solitude from the community. Find God first in the community, then He will lead you to solitude. A man cannot understand the true value of silence unless he has a real respect for the validity of language: for the reality which is expressible in language is found, face to face and without any medium, in silence. Nor would we find this reality in itself, that is to say in its own silence, unless we were first brought there by language. The final paragraph corresponds closely to Wittgenstein's idea of language as a "ladder", which must be thrown away when we begin to see things as they "manifest themselves" to us (see Figure 13.1). In the same way, this passage explains that we must learn to be with people before we gain benefit from being alone. Solitude and silence benefit us only to the extent that we have already met the reality which holds together the diversity of our lives in an underlying unity. An even more recent example from the Christian tradition comes in a popular book, entitled Celebration of Discipline, by Richard Foster. This book is written primarily for ordinary Christian believers, so some of the language might be difficult for some non-Christians to read; nevertheless, I believe it contains insights that can benefit anyone. Foster's book describes twelve different types of "disciplines" (arranged, significantly enough, into four groups of three!), each of which works together to promote the kind of inner disposition we have been discussing today. Chapter 7, on the close relationship between solitude and silence, is especially relevant to today's discussion. In that chapter Foster distinguishes in a helpful way between solitude and loneliness (p.84): "Loneliness is inner emptiness. Solitude is inner fulfillment. Solitude is not first a place but a state of mind and heart." In the same way we could add that "noise" is inner chaos, while "silence" is "inner peace". But such inner peace and fulfillment cannot be attained merely by fighting against their opposites (chaos and loneliness). Rather, Foster argues, they develop slowly as a result of continuous self- discipline. Thus, after quoting the old proverb, "the man who opens his mouth, closes his eyes!", Foster explains (p.86): "The purpose of silence and solitude is to be able to see and hear. Control rather than no noise is the key to silence." Those who emphasize such contemplative control over our inner disposition are sometimes called "mystics". Mystics, I believe, are those who experience a power that unifies the diversity of their everyday experiences, and in response, change their way of life accordingly. For the mystic, silence is not just a convenient tool used to develop the skill of having insights, or to reduce the level of stress in a busy life; rather, it is in its deepest sense a way of life. Thus, the mystic "vision", as we read in Silent Fire (p.9), sees all of life as a "a supreme gift for which the most appropriate posture is the giving of thanks.... To acknowledge life as a supreme gift is to sense that the underlying mystery ... is nevertheless benevolent. To receive it as a mystery is to respect the beauty of its pathos." We have no right to possess a gift, but must patiently wait for it to be given, and then accept or reject it when and as it comes. The disciplines of a mystical way of life are intended to prepare us to receive the mysterious gifts of silence and solitude when they do come. This mystical vision can also help us understand the nature of insights. We can prepare ourselves to receive insights; but cannot control exactly when or how they will come to us. All we can do is to stand, as it were, under the tree, waiting for the fruit to drop into our open hands, just like the little boy pictured on the cover of The Giving Tree. The "control" that comes from spiritual discipline is not control over the mysterious reality which gives insights; rather, it is control over our own hands (and minds), which are usually too busy (filled with "noise") to receive what is being offered. When the boy's hands are full of his own selfish interests, he is unable to receive the nourishment the tree offers him all along. This is why I have asked you to spend some time quietly meditating before you begin the process of actually writing your insight papers. For it is during these times of silence that we prepare our minds (or indeed, our hearts) for receiving insights. The most important insight might not come during the time of silence; but without that time of preparation, our minds would be too full of other things to receive any real insights. Once an insight "comes" to us, we should not, of course, merely let it sit there collecting dust. Rather, the proper response, as suggested in Lecture 14 (see p.97) is to criticize it. Such criticism does not require us to deny the validity of the original insight (though such a denial might be appropriate sometimes), but should always help us separate what can be known to be true from what is false or unknowable. A good philosopher always tries to balance the tasks of insight and criticism, so that the two work together: when new insights break through into old ways of thinking, the old ways are not merely rejected, but an effort should be made to synthesize the old and the new to form a consistent whole. The best insight papers are always those utilizing both of these complementary activities, as suggested by the map introduced in Figure 14.2. By comparing that map with those given in Figures 19.2 and 21.1, we find that there are, in fact, two quite distinct types of philosophical "breakthrough". The first is the one I have described above, in which a mystery manifests itself through some insight (see Figure 22.1a). But the mysterious origin of the insight is only fully apparent when we try to comprehend it with our critical powers. The second type of breakthrough is the one exemplified by Nietzsche's "transvaluation of values", in which we reach out to the transcendent reality by using our own powers of reason and/or will (see Figure 22.1b). But whenever we do this, we end up with paradoxical statements that shatter our usual, analytic ways of thinking. Hence, we can say "mystery" is the best word to describe what happens when our synthetic powers enable us to experience the wonder of silence, while "paradox" is the best word to describe what happens when we use our analytic powers in hopes of comprehending that mystery. (a) Mystery (b) Paradox [Figure 22.1: The Two Kinds of Breakthrough] These two types of breakthrough actually work together as complementary processes, for they are as closely intertwined in our experiences as analytic and synthetic logic are in our thinking. Nevertheless, in the remaining lectures we will artificially separate them by looking first at several examples of how we experience "mystery" and then at several examples of how we experience "paradox". In so doing we should not forget that in each case the opposite form of breakthrough is also operating in a covert way. Words like "mystery" and "paradox" might give the impression that the insights arising out of such breakthroughs are unclear. This is, indeed, a complaint I have heard on a number of occasions from beginning philosophy students. Although it is, of course, entirely possible that my explanation of an idea is unclear, or that a given student's understanding of a clear explanation might be clouded in various ways, we should beware of thinking philosophical ideas themselves are necessarily unclear. On the contrary, once we recognize the difference between two kinds of clarity, we will see that philosophical ideas are the clearest of all ideas! Consider the difference between a cloudy day and a sunny day. On a cloudy day the sunlight is blocked, so that the things we look at outside are not as distinct as they are on a sunny day. Even if you've never noticed that things look "duller" on a cloudy day, I'm sure you've noticed that the shadows of things (if any) are not very clearly visible, whereas they become crisp and sharp when the sun comes out. This is one type of clarity. But what about our ability to look at the sun itself? On a clear day the sun is difficult to look at--indeed, if we look at it for very long we could go blind! However, on a cloudy day we can look in the direction of the sun for a long time without difficulty. This second type of clarity is different from the first, because the clearer it is, the harder it is for us to see it! In other words, on a clear day, the source of light cannot be looked at, because it is too clear; yet the things it illuminates can be seen more clearly. Philosophical clarity is often not like the things the sun enables us to see, but like the sun itself. For our deepest and most profound insights are the ones that will appear to be the most clear, and whose certainty we will therefore be the least likely to doubt. Yet if asked to express such insights in words, we are often unable to do so without great pain. For it is actually easier to describe a deep insight when it is not very clear in our mind. The true test of the clarity of a deep insight, therefore, is not how well we can express the insight itself, but how well we can use that insight to illuminate other aspects of our thought and experience. Take as an example the idea that the "recognition of ignorance" is the starting-point of all philosophy. My hope is that at some point during the first part of this course you were suddenly struck with the truth of this idea: whereas before you had not understood what it means, now (once it became an insight for you) you were certain it can illuminate your understanding of what philosophy is. Yet if someone asked you at that point to explain just how it is that you can recognize your ignorance, you would probably have remained speechless. On the one hand you could see clearly the results of the insight; yet on the other hand, you were unable to state exactly what it is that enables you to have this gift of vision. My point here is that this is typical of philosophical ideas in general: they are so clear that their brightness often makes them unbearable to look at directly. QUESTIONS FOR FURTHER THOUGHT 1. What does it mean to say unity exists "in diversity"? 2. Does silence have a sound? 3. What does it mean to "live in God"? 4. Can insights be controlled? RECOMMENDED READINGS 1. Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude (New York: Dell Publishing, 1956), especially Part Two, "The Love of Solitude", pp.99-160. 2. Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline (New York: Harper & Row, 1978), especially Chapter 7, "The Discipline of Solitude", pp.84-95. 3. Walter Holden Capps and Wendy M. Wright, Silent Fire: An invitation to western mysticism (New York: Harper & Row, 1978), especially the Introduction, "The Mystic Mode", pp.1-9. 4. James P. Carse, The Silence of God: Meditations on prayer (New York: Macmillan, 1985).