By Wallace Stevens. Currently listening to Michael Pisaro’s July Mountain (Three Versions) on Gravity Wave, inspired by the Stevens poem linked here, originally published in Atlantic Monthly, April 1955.
Then the question arises, Why are beggars despised? – for they are despised, universally. I believe it is for the simple reason that they fail to earn a decent living. In practice nobody cares whether work is useful or useless, productive or parasitic; the sole thing demanded is that it shall be profitable. In all the modern talk about energy, efficiency, social service and the rest of it, what meaning is there except ‘Get money, get it legally, and get a lot of it’? Money has become the grand test of virtue. By this test beggars fail, and for this they are despised. If one could earn even ten pounds a week at begging, it would become a respectable profession immediately.
A beggar, looked at realistically, is simply a businessman, getting his living, like other business men, in the way that comes to hand. He has not, more than most modern people, sold his honour; he has merely made the mistake of choosing a trade at which it is impossible to grow rich.
George Orwell, from Down and Out in Paris and London (1933)
Plenty of records get tagged with an experimental or exploratory label because they’re unconventional. Toss any combination of melody, rhythm or identifiable structure out the window, and you are bound to win a cocked eyebrow or two. Pound whatever’s left out on an old-fashioned synthesizer or slip some shred of musical theory into the mix and presto — you’ve earned yourself an investigator’s badge and maybe a bit more leeway than you might have otherwise had. Not that that is such a bad thing. Unusual instrumentation and perplexing performance strategies have led to many great and interesting places, but just as often they serve to mask fairly conventional and well-worn ideas, as loose and unfocused as they are open-ended.
Then there are records like Politiken der Frequenz, which asks numerous difficult questions and proceeds according to very particular — and potentially revolutionary — notions. Recorded by Marcus Schmickler and Julian Rohrhuber and released by Editions Mego and Tochnit Aleph, Politiken derives a good portion of its digital heat from the peculiar set of influences that burn beneath it. Philosophy, finance, politics, theoretical mathematics and history all meet in its liner notes and, at least to some extent, in the music itself, where prime integers, common denominators and set theory are all utilized as musical resources. The results run from pleasant computerized tones with ambient leanings to hard-edged noise driven by low resolution arcade sounds, number station test tones and glassy harmonies wiped clean by over-processing.
The brief essay that accompanies the record, and that serves as both the album’s artwork and its lyric book, references French philosopher Alain Badiou’s work with surreal numbers in Number and Numbers, German mathematician Julius Wilhelm Richard Dedekind’s theory concerning the nature of real numbers, and historical problems, both philosophical and musical, associated with Pythagorean ontology.
Henry David Thoreau, from The Maine Woods:
What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star’s surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one—that my body might— but I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries!—Think of our life in nature—daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it—rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?
This little passage caught me off guard. You can almost feel Thoreau trembling a little when he writes “Contact! Contact!” Almost as if his heart is breaking at the idea. Or maybe that’s just a modern reading of it—contact can sometimes feel like a miracle.
From The Gay Science, §334:
One must learn to love. This is our experience in music: we must first learn in general to hear, to hear fully, and to distinguish a theme or a melody, we have to isolate and limit it as a life by itself; then we need to exercise effort and good-will in order to endure it in spite of its strangeness we need patience towards its aspect and expression and indulgence towards what is odd in it: – in the end there comes a moment when we are accustomed to it, when we expect it, when it dawns upon us that we should miss it if it were lacking; and then it goes on to exercise its spell and charm more and more, and does not cease until we have become its humble and enraptured lovers, who want it and want it again, and ask for nothing better from the world.
– It is thus with us, however, not only in music: it is precisely thus that we have learned to love everything that we love. We are always finally recompensed for our good-will, our patience, reasonableness and gentleness towards what is unfamiliar, by the unfamiliar slowly throwing off its veil and presenting itself to us as a new, ineffable beauty: – that is its thanks for our hospitality. He also who loves himself must have learned it in this way: there is no other way. Love also has to be learned.
As Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the presidential inauguration coincide for just the second time in history, many people will sit down to hear or see clips from King’s legendary “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on 28 August 1963.
Due in part to its composition, King received the Nobel Peace Prize and Time magazine named him “Man of the Year.” It was so powerful and influential that it prompted the FBI to describe King as “the most dangerous Negro of the future in this Nation from the standpoint of communism, the Negro and national security.” Attended by over 200,000 civil rights protesters, it is rightly called “one of the defining moments of the American Civil Rights Movement” and regarded as one of the greatest speeches in American and world history.
But King wrote numerous sermons and delivered many more powerful speeches calling for justice and equality among men and nations, some of them even more revolutionary than “I Have a Dream.” Among these is “Why I Am Opposed to the War in Vietnam.” Delivered as a sermon to the Ebenezer Baptist Church on 30 April 1967, it continues a line of thought King began with “Beyond Vietnam/A Time to Break Silence,” a speech he gave just a few weeks earlier in New York City, on 4 April 1967. That speech, which calls the United States “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today,” did not meet with the universal applause that “I Have a Dream” enjoyed. According to Wikipedia:
King’s opposition [to Vietnam] cost him significant support among white allies, including President Johnson, union leaders and powerful publishers.”The press is being stacked against me”, King said, complaining of a double standard that applauded his non-violence at home, but deplored it when applied “toward little brown Vietnamese children.” Life magazine called the speech ‘demagogic slander that sounded like a script for Radio Hanoi‘ and The Washington Post declared that King had ‘diminished his usefulness to his cause, his country, his people.’
King recognized a connection between capitalism, war, and inequality that was too radical for the public to consider, much less accept. In “Why I Am Opposed” he reminds us of the economic dimensions of the war: “it is estimated that we spend $500,000 to kill each enemy soldier [in Vietnam], while we spend only fifty-three dollars for each person classified as poor, and much of that fifty-three dollars goes for salaries to people that are not poor. So I was increasingly compelled to see the war as an enemy of the poor, and attack it as such.” Accusations of communist sympathy were subsequently leveled against him.
Nearly 46 years later, this problem still runs rampant. The connections between capitalism, war, and poverty are perhaps stronger than ever. We could easily replace the word “Vietnam” in his speech with “Afghanistan” or “Iraq” and all meaning would be preserved. And so his speech remains a challenge to this country.
An edited version of “Why I Am Opposed to the War in Vietnam” was eventually released on album by Black Forum Records. At 22 minutes long, it is approximately half the length of the original sermon, but it preserves most—if not all—of King’s strongest points and most damning accusations. It also contains one of my favorite King quotes, which reminds us not to despair and that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
I’ve posted the edited and full-length versions of this speech below, via Youtube. You can read along by visiting Berkeley’s Library website, which contains a complete transcript. And since today is Inauguration Day, I’ve also posted a clip of Princeton professor Cornel West taken from C-SPAN’s coverage of the “Future without Poverty” panel at George Washington University. In it, West questions Obama’s use of King’s bible during his inauguration and reminds us of the revolutionary spirit King wielded. The same one that made him a target of the FBI and eventually cost him his life.
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. day.
Two weeks back I finished reading Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. As I read it, I was happy to find all the critical remarks Nietzsche makes about science, especially its relation to interpretation and truth. I’d forgotten about these comments in the nearly ten year break I’d taken from reading his work and the few memories I had left were of the “God is dead” variety. So it was with surprise that I found an already cleared path on which I could test some of my suspicions about the limits of science and its interpretive scope. My interest in this topic stems both from Nietzsche and from authors like Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, who I take to be very popular and of the opinion that scientific conclusions are both more true and more valuable than other truths, like those we find professed by various religions.
This post is not meant to be a refutation of their positions, however, and it’s not necessarily an endorsement of Nietzsche’s views either. The following commentary is just a series of notes, clarifications, reactions, and various suspicions aroused by Nietzsche’s attacks on science in Beyond Good and Evil. I hope to write further posts like this one, probably in short installments that will focus on just a few sections at a time. My aims are to clarify his positions for myself and to test some of my own thoughts on the subject. For the record, I read this Cambridge University Press edition, translated by Judith Norman.
Nietzsche begins his book with a brief but striking—and infamous—introduction. “Suppose that truth is a woman — and why not? Aren’t there reasons for suspecting that all philosophers, to the extent that they have been dogmatists, have not really understood women?… What is certain is that she has spurned them…”
Philosophers seek the truth and are turned away again and again. This is the idea he wants you to consider from the start. No matter how passionate the pursuit, philosophy is doomed to a life of unrequited love. But Nietzsche’s not just having fun at our expense. He continues, questioning why we seek truth in the first place and not something else. Nietzsche asks, “What in us really wills the truth? … why not untruth instead? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the value of truth came before us, — or was it we who came before the problem?” (§1).
His answer is, in part, that individuals will a truth suitable to their own needs and personalities. In section five he writes, “[Philosophers] act as if they had discovered and arrived at their genuine convictions through the self-development of a cold, pure, divinely insouciant dialectic… while what essentially happens is that they take a conjecture, a whim, an ‘inspiration’ or, more typically, they take some fervent wish that they have sifted through and made properly abstract — and they defend it with rationalizations after the fact. They are all advocates who do not want to be seen as such.” We desire the truth in order to rationalize our beliefs, ideas, and actions. There’s none of the noble or heroic ideals about finding truth because it is the highest or best thing in life. At least, not here. What matters instead is the psychological element. Truth is a mutable thing, bent and sculpted into different shapes by different people with different purposes.
Nietzsche cuts even further into the idea of a firm and unchanging truth by attacking the idea of a “thing-in-itself”. First he considers what it means for there to be a “thing-in-itself,” then he makes an important distinction between the value of truth and the nature of truth. As far as the “thing-in-itself” goes, Nietzsche associates it with a tendency to divide the world into pairs of opposites. He states, “The fundamental belief of metaphysicians is the belief in oppositions of values. It has not occurred to them to start doubting right here at the threshold, where it is actually needed the most, even though they had vowed to themselves ‘de omnibus dubitandum’“ (§2).
What does he mean by opposition of values?
I’ll use moral values to help figure that out. If we jump ahead to section 44, we find Nietzsche proposing that humanity’s worst qualities—our disposition to violence, deception, even slavery—are valuable for human life. Maybe even more valuable than qualities like selflessness and honesty. Someone who isn’t too cynical might ask how that could be. Lying and selfishness are typically categorized as destructive or negative traits, selflessness and honesty as positive ones. Every kid knows that lying might help in a pinch, but that it can also come back to bite you in the ass. Selfishness is worse. We associate that with narcissism, parsimony, greed, and other reprehensible traits. So what could Nietzsche mean when he claims that even tyranny could be good for humanity?
We might think that he means “whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” and I think that’s at least partly right. But this isn’t just a matter of casting a positive light on difficult times. Nietzsche goes further.
In order to think of something as inherently good or inherently bad, in order for us to think of paired opposites—like self-interest/selflessness, deception/honesty—as opposite, it’s necessary for us to think of them as fixed concepts. If self-interest and selflessness were at all confused or muddled together, were we to find even the hint of one in the other, then the opposition they represent would fall apart. Think God’s laws as they appear in the Old Testament: they’re firm, clear, and distinct. They stand in clear opposition to other laws or rules we might formulate like “only the strong survive” or “jealousy is the sign of a healthy appetite.”
The problem is that the world we’re familiar with, the one made up of jobs and families, of social circles and private thoughts, is always in flux. Knowledge, on the other hand, is supposed to be fixed and unassailable. Because of this, a space opens up between the world and the knowledge that is supposed to help us move through it. Moral laws like “don’t kill,” or even physical descriptions, like general relativity, are the kinds of things we expect to stay the same no matter what the case. But when we look around the world we find that there isn’t much that’s standing still. Everything is constantly changing, from the global level right down to the atomic.
This is, I think, at the root of Nietzsche’s attack on both philosophy and science. Both hope to describe or explain the world in fixed terms and, what’s more, they hope to show that their descriptions and explanations constitute the truth, exclusive of other explanations.
But Nietzsche’s claim isn’t that these explanations and descriptions are just false; it’s not that we have the wrong moral laws or bad physical descriptions and need to change them. His claim is that all truths derive their strength from a lie about the existence of opposites. So what if selflessness turned out to be the product of a twisted self-interest? What if truth were possible only because of a lie? What if the philosopher and the scientist didn’t find truth so much as construct it with bits and pieces of fiction?
Nietzsche makes that claim in section four:
We do not consider the falsity of a judgement as itself an objection to a judgement; this is perhaps where our new language will sound most foreign. The question is how far the judgement promotes and preserves life, how well it preserves, and perhaps even cultivates, the type. And we are fundamentally inclined to claim that the falsest judgments (which include synthetic judgments a priori) are the most indispensable to us, and that without accepting the fictions of logic, without measuring reality against the wholly invented world of the unconditioned and self-identical, without a constant falsification of the world through numbers, people could not live—that a renunciation of false judgments would be a renunciation of life, a negation of life…
Just like most philosophy, science seeks absolute truth. Reproducible results, precise measurements, rigorous logic, the elimination of doubts and of superstitions, unconditional results—these are its hallmarks. Nietzsche seeks truth too, thinks truth is even necessary for life, but his contention is that no truth is unconditioned, which is to say that absolute truths are useful myths.
There’s a lot to unpack in that section, but what I notice first is the way Nietzsche frames his discussion. The promotion and preservation of life usurps everything else. If a perceived truth proves somehow fatal for life—a term Nietzsche will develop throughout the text—if it threatens the health of humanity as a species, then he will denounce it, preferring a falsification that yields vigor, strength, enthusiasm, originality. Nietzsche constantly elevates these kinds of athletic and artistic qualities above the more traditional ones, shifting the philosophical discourse from a desire for truth to a desire for cultivation, strength, and individuality.
This is a major shift, and it entails a deeper corollary: that all so-called truths are actually falsifications in disguise. So it’s not as if philosophers and scientists, through deeper thinking or scientific method, can discover more certain truths and discard the less certain ones. Re-read that section. All logic is a fiction. Apparently unconditioned truths are inventions—even numbers get tossed under the bus.
Consequently, calling any kind of information the truth is meaningless, because even if a particular truth is a functioning, life-affirming one, it’s still also a lie. Nietzsche’s suspicions about the “opposition of values” extends that far. True and false—no two things could appear more distinct, but here Nietzsche draws them closer, asking what if?
Well, what if all oppositions are illusions? What if all knowledge is built on a lie? What does that mean for philosophy and science?
One of science’s great seductions is that it works. It’s produced penicillin and manufactured jet engines, explained the motions of the stars and described the variety of life on this planet; it shot man into space and made photographing Saturn’s moons possible. How could something that so plainly works be the product of falsification and fabrication? Nietzsche’s contention that some truth could be unappealing or even life-defeating isn’t unusual and it isn’t contradictory. We’ve all heard that “the truth hurts” and anyone who thinks about it long enough might question whether science, as technology, has had a positive or a negative effect on humankind.
To think that Nietzsche would deny the practical results of good engineering, however, seems somehow crazier.
At least, crazier at first glance. When I think about it, I can imagine a scientific explanation that produces practical results, but does not produce an unconditional, universal truth. Modern medicine, for instance, has made it possible to treat illnesses that were once impossible to treat, and this because it has access to more information about what causes illness, how chemicals react in the body, how cells mutate, and so on. Treat the right cause and the effect disappears.
But does this mean that the practice of medicine—and all the associated research—has unearthed some fundamental and unconditional truth?—about biology, chemistry, compounds, atomic elements? Or has it added just another descriptive level to an already complex nexus of data and events that includes everything from feelings of illness to social stigmas about the sick? That one cure works and another doesn’t… that anything works while another doesn’t—is that enough to claim sole ownership of the truth?
The more I consider that possibility, the more ludicrous it becomes. That view reduces truth to a game of identifying causes and predicting effects. We take the predictive power of science to be an indication that we’ve understood something fundamental about a particular subject, which may be true. But then we extrapolate on that indication and apply the lessons we’ve learned in one subject to numerous other subjects. By that means, we make conclusions about the existence of God using the laws of physics, or we model our understanding of societies on models of the atom. And by this I don’t just mean that we use images from one field to help describe ideas in another. I mean that we take the physical description of the universe as being the fundamental, all-encompassing description over and above all others merely because the physical description produces empirical results that we can measure and use for our own satisfaction.
And satisfaction is exactly where this post started. “They are all advocates who do not want to be seen as such.” They might be philosophers, artists, or scientists. No matter who proposes it, we can see here how a truth might be built on a lie. Why should we presume that the physical model of the universe is sufficient for describing all phenomena? What rationale do we have for applying the lessons of one science to the questions of another? Is it a lie that such a leap is even possible? Could cause and effect itself be a lie? As a side note, that something good and true could be founded on a lie isn’t an idea original to Nietzsche. Plato either wrote or recorded such an idea roughly 2000 years earlier, in Book Three of The Republic.
I can hear someone asking, “What other kinds of truth, beside the scientific, might there be?” Religious and cultural truths are the first that come to mind. They are not without their own rationale, and some are even based on simplistic empirical observations. Philosophy produces its own truth too. Within it there are many different perspectives about what constitutes truth and even some dispute about whether or not the truth—along with virtue—is something we can learn.
In my next post I plan to look at section 21 and the way it connects with Nietzsche’s view of nature, which is basically that it is unlawful and without order. He calls it “profligate without measure.” His contention in that section, that the notion of cause and effect is itself a convenient fiction, tosses science, along with philosophy, into an even deeper mire.
(Please leave comments if you’ve found this even remotely helpful, or if you think I’ve gotten something terribly wrong. My intent in writing these is not to pontificate, but to work through the book actively.)
The difference between scientific and philosophical explanations is something I’ve been thinking a lot about in the last couple of years. The popularity of authors like Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens is partially responsible, but I’m also interested in the limits of scientific and philosophic inquiry. Is it possible for neuroscience to tell us something about free will that philosophy can’t? Do the laws of physics tell us more about reality than the study of language or metaphysics?
To answer these questions, we might first ask what philosophical inquiry does that’s different from scientific inquiry. To that end, I’d like to point everyone to The Partially Examined Life—one of the best podcasts on the Internet and a great place to explore different philosophical ideas. Anyone that hasn’t checked it out should change that now.
About this time last year, Wes Alwan wrote a small essay called What Is a Philosophical Explanation? Sounds like a simple enough question, but appearances can be deceiving. Wes does a great job of distinguishing between philosophical explanation and scientific investigation, which is helpful if you’re wondering whether, for instance, physics can tell us more about human behavior than theology. His remarks about conceptual clarity are especially helpful:
In the case of the scientific model the phenomena are clear: Bohr’s atomic model, for instance, explains the frequencies of light produced by hydrogen gas after it has been heated and subsequently loses energy during cooling. The phenomena being explained are not themselves conceptually unclear: if we were unclear as working scientists about what “emissions spectrums” meant or looked like, we’d have to clear that up in order to do our work successfully…
Further: when we develop an atomic theory, we do not have to query atoms about what spectra they’re giving off and wait for them to report back to us; nor do we have to know what it’s like to be an atom or give off spectra. The situation is radically different for psychology and philosophy. My concept “light” does not implicate me in it to the same degree as my concept “sadness.” If I had to get another human being to understand the former, our joint attention to a few cases would be sufficient. But in the case of sadness, pointing to someone crying, or crying myself, would not in itself be a demonstration unless the person to whom I were demonstrating it a) had already experienced sadness and b) knew how to interpret the outward behaviors of others in terms of that experience (i.e., to empathize).
I’ve been meaning to link to this forever, but now that I’m thinking about the difference between science and philosophy, and specifically about the proper limits of the sciences, it is especially relevant. This idea of being “implicated in a concept” applies, I think, to the test I posted about a few days ago, in which scientists hope to discover whether or not the universe is in fact a simulation. Built into that question are all kinds of concepts—like consciousness, reality, and simulation—that may or may not be describable via mathematical means. And yet, I encounter this belief again and again, that science—especially math and physics—gets us closer to reality than, for instance, philosophy or religion. I don’t doubt the value of science, but I do wonder at its application and misuse.
I’ll be writing more about this, but I wanted to get these initial thoughts on the page, and to point everyone to one of my favorite websites. I encourage everyone to check it out.
I don’t know how seriously other scientists will take this, but according to this article at Phys.org, physicists at the University of Bonn believe they can develop a test that will accurately measure whether or not we are a bunch of brains in a vat. Or just one one brain in a vat. The test would depend upon our understanding of something called quantum chromodynamics, a field of study concerned with the way elementary particles are bound together by different forces.
Anyone with a thorough understanding of high energy physics can check the paper out on the arXiv website. If you can make anything of it, please don’t be afraid to leave a comment. In the meantime, I have to wonder at the idea that this is testable at all. As the Phys.org article notes,
… any conclusions resulting from such work would be limited by the possibility that everything we think we understand about quantum chromodynamics, or simulations for that matter, could be flawed.
The data this test would return would have to be checked against a simulation, unless I’m missing an important fact and there’s something else to check the data against. If that’s the case, we run into the same problem everybody else has run into when pondering this question: how do I know my experiences or my data adequately represent whatever “reality” is “out there?” And if the answer is something like “we have mathematical models that tells us what we should find,” how do we test whether those mathematical models are accurate or reliable?
If all I’ve experienced is this thing that we’re calling a simulation, what can I know about an existence that isn’t a simulation? These are pretty elementary philosophical questions—but none of them have been answered, which is why this article had me raising my eyebrows.
The conceptual setup here is another reason I’m skeptical. It’s not that I don’t understand the concepts (I think I do to a small degree), it’s that I don’t think they’re very clear. That may be the article’s fault more than the scientist’s, but I’m still left wondering how they’d get around some pretty fundamental problems. For instance, what are the simulations they are using simulations of? If I devise a simulation for reality that demands particular results, and then I find that those results match what I see in reality, why should I conclude that reality is a simulation? Why not conclude the opposite and say that I’ve devised a very good simulation of what’s “real?” I get the feeling a lot of this could be cleared up by someone who understands the kinds of simulations they’re talking about, but until I can get a grasp on that, I’m left to wonder.
There’s also a problem of consciousness. My existence is so caught up in the concepts of reality and simulation that I can’t imagine a way to untangle the two. What I mean is that the idea of simulation only seems meaningful from a conscious subject’s point of view. Is it possible this test somehow accounts for consciousness? Is it even possible to think about the difference between reality and simulation without a clear sense of what a conscious subject is?
I know I’m jumping all over the place, but this little article brought up all sorts of questions, and I haven’t thought about these kinds of problems in a long time. As it stands, I can’t help but be skeptical. Not about my existence, but about that test.