The Limits of Philosophy

Ethics and violence.

Recently, I asked a few people for an interview. I was unsuccessful. The rejection I received was somewhat predictable. Outside of a very narrow audience, what I have to say is either offensive or boring. This doesn’t mean my ideas are useless, but that most people are incapable of understanding their implications, or if they are, of suspending moral judgment.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. Had I been born in 1830, I would fanatically read the Republican papers of the day, agitating against king and church. The psychological profile of 19th century revolutions is extremely similar to my own. What has changed since the 19th century is that those people won. Their ideas were then reformulated, debased, watered down, made mediocre, and finally reduced to the lowest common denominator.

For years, I have objected to calling Nietzsche a “philosopher.” From a Platonist perspective, true philosophy is the investigation of metaphysical truths. Does reality exist? What relation does our perception have to reality? What is the nature of language? Can language ever truly represent truth, or simply approximate it, or does it only obscure the real truth, which is necessarily beyond mere words?

Nietzsche may touch on these subjects here and there, but his true passion and drive is exposing the resentment that the common man has for the higher man. In this sense, Nietzsche is a great sociologist and psychologist, much greater than Freud. However, in the past year, I have come to understand his central point in a new light.

Philosophy is the art of the higher man. In order for philosophy to emerge, it must first survive the fanatical attacks of moralism. Nietzsche’s psychological understanding, while not philosophy in itself, is a precondition for philosophy. Without such an understanding, the whole project is brought down by the violence of the mob.

Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. But this is actually an understatement — the confrontation with philosophy is operatic, titanic, Biblical, and apocalyptic. The problem is not that philosophers demand infinite flexibility and tolerance on the part of non-philosophers, but that non-philosophers cloak themselves in the guise of philosophy, but preach and defend pure dogma.

The Greeks who killed Socrates were honest and forthright. They killed him on religious grounds. They feared, as did their ancestors, blasphemy, and believed that Socrates could not be reasoned with because his error was not logical, but personal. That is, the Gods of Greece had all of the emotions of men, including vanity, jealousy, and wrath. Whether or not an argument was “logical” did not lessen the offense to the Gods. Therefore, Socrates must die.

What is more insidious and nihilistic is the modern “philosopher.” Rather than openly admitting their dogma, their religion, their “fear of the Gods,” instead they appeal to a series of vague, impersonal abstractions: ethics, human rights, common decency, harm avoidance, utilitarianism, empathy, kindness, love, tolerance, and so on. None of these things are bad in themselves. Every society has some concept of morality, how to treat foreigners and guests, a concept of selflessness, and prohibitions on assault. The problem is that these norms are not, and can never be, philosophy.

Philosophy, in the tradition of the pre-Socratics, is an attempt to understand the world using means outside of received tradition. Philosophy is not something received, memorized, passively consumed. It is the result of active thinking, challenging, escaping the mental prison of Plato’s cave. Philosophy is inherently violent, because it challenges existing norms. Without tradition, how do we know whether murder is wrong or not? For the non-philosopher, any attempt to think outside established norms is inexorably associated with all the worst possible violations of moral taboos: genocide and torture. The confrontation with philosophy produces an instantaneous fight-or-flight reaction.

Philosophy requires a higher man because it is only a particular type of person who can suspend this judgment long enough to engage in the art. Most cannot. For civilization to persist, most men cannot be philosophers. If every soldier in an army was a philosopher, who questioned every order and refused to be blindly obedient, the army would fall apart. Blind obedience is a necessary virtue of any large social organization, whether it be a corporation, a religion, or a state.

Yet, despite it all, philosophy emerged. Alamariu’s Selective Breeding and the Birth of Philosophy is one attempt to explain this inexplicable emergence. Alamariu implies that philosophy began with the Greeks, and specifically with a pastoralist warrior class of animal breeders. I disagree with this narrow hypothesis, and include the possibility that philosophy may have also have emerged independently among other groups such as the Iranians and Vedic tribes. There is also some indication that the practice of breeding plants, and specifically flowers, played some role.

Despite these disagreements, Alamariu, following Nietzsche, connects philosophy inextricably with a life of violence. For Nietzsche, the slave cannot conduct philosophy. This is because the process of enslavement is only possible when the fear of death can used to remove liberty. For free peoples, the motto is, “give me liberty, or give me death.”

There are two classes, primarily, which are willing to die rather than be enslaved. The first is those whose life is dedicated to war and the practice of violence, who willingly seek it out and encounter it. The second are the martyrs, Christian and otherwise, who fight a “spiritual battle” against lies and are willing to die for the sake of the truth. While both classes have the possibility of conducting philosophy, the second class is sometimes disadvantaged as a result of philosophy’s bold and active nature.

By this, I mean that the philosopher actively pursues the truth, like a hunter or predator, not unlike the rider on his chariot. There exists in philosophy a sublimation of the sexual instinct. The pursuit of Daphne by Apollo provides a metaphor for the pursuit of Sophia by the philosopher. Meanwhile, the martyrs who willingly die for their beliefs are more passive, less aggressive, less driven to explore new vistas. The picture of Socrates attempts to unite both archetypes into a single man.

Philosophy is “spiritual but not religious.” Despite the active, predatory nature of philosophy, it also has a component of “revelation.” The truth is what it is, and cannot be bent to human will. The horror of the truth is akin to the “fear of God.” Like the face of God, it drives men mad. Compare this revelation to the face of the Medusa, representing the ancient serpent and dragon cults of the middle east — the Medusa petrifies, stultifies, calcifies. “Return to tradition,” return to stone!

Philosophy, as the ancestor of science, has the power of the Gods. Tolkien’s “ring of power” was not just industrialism, but science as a whole, and therefore philosophy. Tolkien was obsessed with reconstructing the past, living locally, and preserving traditions. Saruman is a scientist who creates new races through selective breeding. Throughout the Lord of the Rings, as in the story of Genesis, Faustian knowledge is evil. The scrying orbs, the palantír, are portrayed as dangerous. It seemed that Tolkien predicted IVF and iPhones.

Tolkien, of course, was right. Philosophy, science, and technology all threaten traditional ways of life. For the average person, these innovations fracture one’s sense of normalcy and led to a general feeling of insanity. It’s the end of the world as we know it. “But I feel fine,” because apathy results from the coping mechanism of learned helplessness.

Vacillations between feelings of anxiety and apathy are, in a biological framework, attributed to a chemical imbalance. Your genes are bad, and they make you crazy. As a result prescriptions for SSRIs, anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, and much more are being pushed on children at an alarming rate. It should serve as no surprise that children report these symptoms at a much higher rate than adults. 18 years ago was 2006. These kids can’t imagine a time before Facebook, before Instagram, before Youtube, before TikTok. They have no nostalgia for a better time to immerse themselves in, to forget the maelstrom which forces itself on them.

For some, a return to nature is the solution. Off-grid life is described as difficult, but more accurately, it is physically uncomfortable and laborious. For the mentally ill, this is a small price to pay to restore sanity. However, the cancer of “learned helplessness” is usually too advanced for any individual to willingly re-enter a life of primitive agriculture.

There is an even smaller number for whom it is impossible to “turn back the clock.” They have internalized the problems of philosophy. In the same way that the cutting words of a parent can have an affect, even after their death, the problems of society can cut so deeply that there is no escape, because the enemy is within.

For such individuals, the problems of society and the individual identity have fused together, macrocosm to microcosm. There is no “local community” to return to, no middle ground, no grass to touch. The billions of stars always shine above us, but only those stranded in the middle of no where can see all of them. It is terrifying and spectacular. Such an expanse is limitless.

Three years ago, I found myself alone in the middle of the ocean. I realized that no one would come to help me or save me if I got hypothermia, lost consciousness, and began to drown. I thought of all the Gods and heroes, the powerful entities, real or imaginary, which I could appeal to for help. But in my moment of loneliness and weakness, I realize that my appeal carried no weight. I was in a sorry condition, useless and disposable. What significance did I have in comparison to the greatness of the infinite ocean?

I heard a voice, which told me, “I love you.” I could not have deserved it or done anything to earn it. In my state, I had nothing to offer or to barter. I could barely help myself, let alone anyone else. Why would anyone care about such a helpless creature?

I looked up at the sky, and I saw a shooting star. I had been counting, and at this moment, the number I landed on was “1945,” year zero. It was hope and a new beginning. As I swam back, fear did occasionally creep upon me, and the moment faded as I drove away and went to sleep that night.

Such an experience, either divine or hallucinatory, could be called delusional. Certainly, since then, I have struggled with cynicism, pessimism, and discouragement. But somethings keeps bringing me back to this experience as my point of light in a sea of blackness.

Stanislav Grof relates this picture — of the light at the end of the tunnel — to the perinatal experience of the infant finally emerging out of the painful birth canal into the light. Women complain that birth is the most painful possible experience, but what about the pain of the infant?

Whatever the origins of this picture, of the light in the darkness, it transcends the personal life experience of the individual. Grof calls this “transpersonal.” Whether it is culturally imbued in the collective unconscious, a memory of our birth, or something else, I do not know. But as much as some degree of skepticism is necessary for the impetus to philosophy, this leads to nihilism and endless doubting. Mysticism, a hope which transcends all skepticism, is the only force which can sustain philosophy.

Carel Willink, Evenwicht der krachten.