Today Redux

“No matter what happens tomorrow, or for the rest of my life, I am happy now, because I am in love with you.”  This is the line that releases Phil Conners (Bill Murray) from his apparently endless string of Groundhog Days.  Why does it have this power, how does it liberate him?  Because he finally finds a way to be present to the present, to deserve it.  And isn’t his desert a matter of his finally risking himself, finally becoming more than a visitor in Punxsutawny, in his own life, tethering himself and his happiness to the town and to Rita?  When he says to Rita, at the end of the movie, “Let’s live here!”  he expresses a decision he has, without realizing it, already made.  By choosing to stay, he earns the freedom to leave.

Phil’s problem is not that he is trapped in today, but that he has constantly withheld himself from today, never had a today.  He lives Groundhog Day over and over and over; but not today.  His first today precedes his first tomorrow in a very, very long time.  Phil abandoned today long before he got to Punxsutawny.  The only way to have a tomorrow is to have a today.

How (Long Ago or) Soon is Now?

What is it to live, to think, in the present?  How do I manage to be present to the present?  How do I avoid experiencing now either as déjà vu or as the future past?  Part of the answer is risk, I think.  I have to stake myself wholly in the moment, not holding back a bit either backwards or forwards, so that what I was or what I will be somehow prevents my present exposure to the present.  Johannes Climacus says–in effect–“No risk, no faith.”  Why not, here, “No risk, no now”?  Today is the day of salvation–or of damnation.  Holding back now may save me from damnation, but it also dams me from salvation.  Eventually, a life bereft of todays damns itself.

Preaching to X from X: Relating to Philosophy’s History

I was thinking this morning about a phrase in James Ward’s Naturalism and Agnositicism.  Ward describes himself at one point as preaching to Kant from Kant.  I find the phrase worth thinking about because it concisely captures a way of relating to philosophy’s history I care deeply about.  That way is–put in a very general slogan–the way of understanding a philosopher better than the philosopher understands himself.  As I mentioned in a post some time ago, Otto Bollnow has an interesting essay on this way of relating to philosophy’s history, and I want to comment on that essay.  Part of the reason I want to do so is that I take it that this way of relating to philosophy’s history typifies the self-understanding of continental philosophers more than that of analytic philosophers; so commenting on the essay is a way of measuring something of the difference between the two traditions.

‘Typifies’–of course there are exceptions.  And ‘self-understanding’–because of course not everyone who understands his relation to the philosophy’s history this way realizes that self-understanding.  Nor of course does everyone who in fact relates to philosophy’s history in this way understand himself as so doing.

I had intended to get back to this topic for a while, but it took a visit from Jean-Philippe Narboux (and a little conversation with him) to get me back to it.  (My thanks to him.)  –I plan to work at it slowly during the holidays.

On the Study of Philosophers (Mother Maria)

While in Preles, I swallowed the whole of Descartes, so to speak–in one go, and now I am chewing him.  It is always the same, I simply have to give myself to a philosopher with my whole being, without any reserve, and slowly creep away from him again.  Not a bad way, but certainly somewhat exhausting.

The Transcendental Way with Solipsism

A favorite passage from my teacher, Lewis White Beck.  It is from his book, The Actor and The Spectator.

Only A. C. Ewing, I think, has indicated a possible transcendental argument against solipsism.  He said, “If solipsism is true, there are no solipsists, since I am not one.”  This short way with solipsism, almost a throwaway that Ewing consigned to a footnote, seems to me to be profoundly important.

The solipsist position has never been maintained if it is true, because if it is true I alone could have maintained it, and I have not done so…

I believe this argument, invented by Ewing, is likewise usable by others and not discountable when extended to others.  This argument will carry no weight, of course, with another person if he is a genuine solipsist who knows his business.  But, if there is such a person, I know that solipsism is false since that person is not I.

Teaching The Blue Book

I’ve been teaching The Blue Book in my Intro to Philosophy class.  Not an easy sell.  I’ve been trying to get the students to orient on the inceptive question:  “What is the meaning of a word?”  And I am trying to get them to see that when Wittgenstein says he is going to attack that question, that is what he means–attack it.  Not answer it.  Wittgenstein takes the question to be suspect.  Part of his attempt to show that is his attack on what he takes to be the favored answer to the question:  the meaning of a word is a mental image.

Although it required sailing our little skiff onto still deeper water, I worked to get the students to see that the opening sections of the book, from the inceptive question through the red flower example and to the commentary on it, are structured by Frege’s Three Principles (in Foundations).  Frege’s second principle, The Context Principle (Never ask for the meaning of a word in isolation but only in the context of a proposition), is openly transgressed by the inceptive question of The Blue Book.  The favored answer to that question is itself the answer Frege forecasts being given by anyone who violates The Context Principle.  (It is itself an answer that violates Frege’s first principle, Always sharply to separate the logical from the psychological, the objective from the subjective.)  The details of the red flower example capitalize on Frege’s observation that the fact that we cannot form any idea of its content is no reason for denying all meaning to a word.  And so on.

Recognizing the Fregean structure of the opening makes tracking the sometimes nearly trackless discussions of book easier, since the structure extends past the opening deep into the rest of the book.  But that is a topic for another post.

Religion and Philosophy: The Tension

Philosophy at the Gnu's Room

A brief presentation for a philosophy club meeting at AU tonight.

Resolute Reading–New Paper Intro (Draft)

Below is the draft intro of my new paper, “Resolute Reading”.  I will post more as I finish the draft.

The Resolute Reading of TLP exerts a willy-nilly but mesmeric fascination. Its fans try to substantialize it; its opponents try to prevent its substantialization. We all know about food fights. But this is a recipe fight. Before the cake has been baked, indeed before the batter battered, the bakers fall on each other, rending and tearing.

Well, ok, so it is not quite as bad as all that. But it is bad, bad enough. Perhaps the worst of it is the seemingly interminable character of the debate. How is it to end? What are the (are there?) conditions of winning? What kind of debate is it, really?

I want to provide an answer to that last question. I hope that doing so will allow me to shed some light on the previous two. –When I say I want to provide an answer, I do not mean to say that I want to dogmatize about the answer. I want instead to suggest an answer that strikes me as helpful. If it turns out not to be the final answer, that is fine with me, so long as it helps us to the final answer.

Here is how I want to reach my suggestion of a helpful answer: I want to backtrack to a debate about Philosophical Investigations between O. K. Bouwsma and Gilbert Ryle. After reconstructing that debate, I will talk a bit about why it seems hopeless, why it is that Bouwsma and Ryle resemble two blindfolded fencers back-to-back, each lunging to deliver the final blow to his opponent, but each stabbing nothing but air. –Well, ok, so it is not quite as bad as all that. But it is bad, bad enough.

Merleau-Ponty on Perception

Nothing is more foreign to perception therefore than the idea of a universe which would produce in us representations which are distinct from it by means of a causal action. To speak Kantian language, the realism of naïve consciousness is an empirical realism—the assurance of an external experience in which there is no doubt about escaping ‘states of consciousness’ and acceding to solid objects—and not a transcendental realism which, as a philosophical thesis, would posit these objects as the ungraspable causes of ‘representations’ which alone are given.