It seems those modren
technologies of telecommunication continue to evade both myself
and the national telecoms provider. I do not, as they say in Dee
Local (not, I assure you, a made up name), have a
bit of the internet on me. Yet again, old Skin-the-Cat has come
through; this time by posing as a stag party bound for old
Königsberg. From there,
overland, by train and camel sledge (simultaneously) to Bishkek; and
then on to the Gorkhi Terelj National Park in Outer-feckin’-Mongolia,
where, I am told, they have no trouble whatsoever switching on a
feckin’ broadband line.
At least I’m getting
a grip on the language.
Once more, with a
deep and calming inhalation of fresh country air; very fresh, very
ripe. Talking about the point and purpose of philosophy, as
we were, set me thinking about some of the peculiarities of the discipline. One particular peculiarity, considering philosophy is supposed to help us grow up, is that, unlike most subjects, the more
one studies philosophy, the less one actually knows. Of course, one
of the great advantages of studying Philosophy is that one becomes
painfully aware of how little everyone else knows too.
At least we’re all
in the same boat.
I first realised this
a few years ago, when I was learning to drive. (I am a ‘late
developer’; hence the youthful bloom of my complexion and
idealistic sparkle in my eye). I remember telling my driving
instructor, Trevor, that by the time I was half way through my
D.Phil. I knew almost nothing. He was a bit surprised at this. After all, he pointed out, the University of Sussex was charging me
the better part of £4k a year for the privilege of expanding my
ignorance. Nevertheless, as long as I knew how to reverse around
corners and not to run over pedestrians, he would be reasonably
happy. And at £15 per hour, such knowledge was unquestionably a
bargain.
Given this, it
occurred to me that this re-beginning would be the perfect
opportunity to go back to basics likewise. I thought, that is, it
might worth our while to briefly consider some of the simpler things
in our philosophical lives, things which we – even, or especially,
such as we – tend to think we understand quite clearly. The
question is, do we really? The simple things I have in mind are
often not very carefully considered by philosophy as done in the
dominant rationalist-cum-realist mode; though they are written about
extensively for sure. More importantly, perhaps, it is in the basics
– if that is what these are – that personalist thinkers begin to
diverge most radically from that mode.
What simple things are
these, then? Let us see.
1) What do we actually
mean when we talk about ‘experience’?
John Locke and David Hume were
never, to my mind, entirely clear about what they meant,
despite all that complicated business with the ideas and the
impressions and so on. So what is experience? Does what happens in
the classroom count? I should say ‘yes’; but as what? Certainly
of personal interaction and the development of consciousness; of
doing philosophy too, if the teacher is any good. But what if
the topic under discussion is not consciousness and its extensions? (Though, in fact, whatever the ostensible topic, philosophy is always
about consciousness and its extensions, just as it is, perhaps,
always about God.) What, for example, if a class concerns the ‘real’
world and our knowledge of it? Does it count as experience then?
That, I suppose,
depends on what you believe reality is made of: rocks and trees and
other things, as most philosophers seem to believe, or persons
– people – and their interrelations. One might suppose
that there are, in fact, two kinds of experience: the kind
philosophers talk about, which, curiously, seems to be almost
purely theoretical, and the kind people have, which often
seems to be something else entirely.
Anyone who knows me
will also know that my view is influenced by pragmatic thinkers: Farrer, Feuerbach, William James, and the like. Thanks to a recent
suggestion by Tom Buford, I might tentatively add Bordon Parker
Bowne to the list.
Consequently, to say
what experience is not is quite straightforward. Experience
is not simply objective observation, as the expression is
commonly understood, or passive perception. By itself, perception is
too thin to take the experiencing individual very far. Perception
provides access to appearances, nothing more; it carries no criteria
by which fantasy may be distinguished from reality. You would not,
after all, believe what a politician said just because he or she said
it; why would you do so with any other bit of ‘reality’? Moreover, what something looks like, as Stuart Hampshire once
noted, is never conclusive evidence for what that thing really is. Never conclusive and, for anyone who has ever watched television or
patronised the kinema, frequently not even very good.
There are, as a matter of fact, relatively few bloodthirsty murders
in the English countryside, for example.
But now, perhaps, I am
confusing ‘experience’ with the knowledge gained from experience; or at least epistemically valuable experience with experience of
little epistemic use. For to see something is surely to have an
experience.
It is, of course.
The point, however, is
not that perception or observation are not forms of
experience, but rather, that they are neither passive nor objective
in the usual sense. Perceivers do not simply find themselves
perceiving things, whatever things happens to be in front of them. Locke’s flattened blank-slate psychology won’t do; experience is
not inscribed upon the unresisting mind. At the very least, we must
put ourselves in the position to perceive, arrange the circumstances
of our observations, as every inquiring mind knows perfectly well. The scientist – paradigm of experiencing agent – observes the
experiments, the active interferences, that he or she
undertakes.
In short, what we do
is the key; intentional action, or rather interaction, is the
truer measure of experience and its objects. Impact, conscious,
physical impact, is epistemically enriching; actually informative and
therefore the better and more genuine form of experience. Impact is
all; when dealing with politicians, this is doubly true.
And then, speaking of
scientists, there are the philosophical implications of Schrödinger’s
Cat.
–– Afraid of the
chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I
never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
–– Stupid
yourself, said the cat, blinking up out of her avid shameclosing
eyes. It’s the box with the photon emitter and and the poison gas
pellet that worries me.
As an approach to
pet-care, it may leave a lot to be desired; another good reason for
Schrödinger not following his first love in animal husbandry. It
does suggest, however, that observation may well change the thing
observed. So acts, as Charles Conti trenchantly puts it, become
facts.
I have hardly started
my list of ‘simple things’, but for the sake of him who is to
smuggle this missive out, tattooed across his inner thigh, I have
promised to keep it short. Under the shadow of the tattooist’s
bigly-bored needle, he will, I suppose, endeavour to do likewise.
For the moment, then,
we shall leave the subject there. I would, as ever, be pleased
indeed to have your views on what has gone before. Should you care
to communicate them, please feel free to do so.
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