Barry Allen

Henri Bergson and William James were great admirers of each other, and James seemed to think he got valuable ideas from Bergson. But early critics were right to see in Bergson the antithesis of pragmatism. Unfolding this antithesis is a convenient way to study important concepts and innovations in Bergson's philosophy. I concentrate on his ideas of duration and intuition, and show how they prove the necessity of going beyond pragmatism. The reason is because knowledge itself goes beyond the utilitarian limitations in which pragmatism confines it. Knowledge is more than utility, more than adaptation, more than pragmatism, because our cognitive powers prove capable of more than any naturally selected service to survival.

The book collects seventeen new research papers on themes in Indian philosophy, contributed by contemporary scholars from around the world. The principal themes are knowledge and logic, consciousness, existence, and the self. The editor explains that the studies discuss Indian sources in their own context, rather than trying to be comparative or make connections to other traditions. This unfortunate directive is fortunately ignored by the strongest papers. Claus Oetke shows that despite their investigations of inference and syntax, Indian analysts had little interest in formal structure per se. They investigated ways to exploit the formal structure in ordinary cases for the establishment of metaphysical tenets. Metaphysical aspirations rather than sheer formal analysis were the overriding concern. Another contributor describes Indian thought as “relentlessly empiricist in orientation.” Scripture is acknowledged for transcendent things like Dharma and Brahman, “but it is the senses that hold sway over the natural world.” Logic is not enough for inference, which must be grounded in perception. The fourth-century Buddhist Vasubandhu defines inference in terms of perception. The basis of inference is the observation of an object not occurring without the inferred object for one who knows the connection. Eli Franco explains how skepticism invaded Indian thought with the Madhyamaka movement in latter Buddhism, beginning with the great founder Nagarjuna. He denies any means to knowledge, using arguments that often resemble those of Western skepticism. Skepticism about means to knowledge became associated with the later materialist Lokayata school, from ninth century. Indian materialism is an anomaly somewhat like the Chinese rationalism of the Mohists. Pradeep Gokhale provides an overview of the school, which he describes as “a rationalist philosophical movement which attempted to solve individual and social issues merely on empirical, rational, and practical grounds without taking recourse to religion.” Like Epicurus, this materialism is a physical theory demystifying traditional morality and religion, which are replaced by hedonism. Consciousness originates in body and does not exist independent of matter. It is not originally in the elements but arises from them, as intoxication, not originally in molasses, arises by fermentation. Religion is a human creation. Other worlds do not exist. Nothing that we do makes a difference to future lives, which do not exist. Fallacious ideas like life after death vitiate sacrifice and morality. The path to liberation is to follow natural pleasure. Joel Feldman discusses the Buddhist doctrine of momentariness. Things do not endure. The experience of enduring things is a delusive result of imagining things to have a universal character when actually they are merely grouped together according to our desires by means of their exclusion from things that do not fulfill our purposes. We impose this vast delusion on what are in truth momentary self-characterized particulars, each with its own self-nature, producing an effect and then annihilating in a moment by that very self-nature. Destruction is never the work of an external cause. If a thing can self-destruct, then it must be destroyed immediately by its own self-nature as soon as it begins to exist. Papers by Alex Watson and Roy Tzohar survey the spectrum of Indian views on the self. Consciousness as light is an ancient image in Indian thought described in a contribution by Matthew MacKenzie. Isabelle Ratié explains the metaphor of the mirror in Indian thought about consciousness. For Brahminical tradition mirror images are sheer illusion. For the later Buddhists the perceived universe is comparable to an optical refection. The characteristic of reflecting entities like a mirror is the capacity to manifest themselves as something else while remaining what they are, and this is exactly like consciousness, which manifests itself in all the images of phenomenal nature. In all of these papers Indian ideas are repeatedly compared with ideas in Sartre, McGinn, Dretske, Searle, Husserl, Merleau-Ponty, Heidegger, Wittgenstein, and Sellars.

This is a book in the series Re-Reading the Canon from the Pennsylvania State University Press. The general editor explains that the series offers "feminist interpretations of the writings of major figures in the Western philosophical tradition," with attention to the ways in which philosophers' assumptions about gender figure in their work. Volumes have already appeared on Plato, Hegel, Wollstonecraft, De Beauvoir, and Arendt. Feminist Interpretations of Michel Foucault collects twelve articles, four previously published. Reprinted authors include Nancy Fraser and Nancy Hartsock, with new papers by Judith Butler, Jana Sawicki, Jon Simons, and others.

Pesic writes a nontechnical, agreeably philosophical introduction to the strange world of Quantum Mechanics. He uses the idea of individuality to explain the perplexing difference between the world of experience and what physics sees. Individuals are known by their difference from others. A world without variation is a world without individuality. The living world is never like that. The whole evolution of life from earliest times depends entirely on small differences distinguishing one organism from another. Step from the simplest single-cell organism to its lifeless atoms and their parts, and you’re in a different world. A world without individuality. Tests accurate to one part in 1034 find no difference between one electron and another. Electrons carry no scars. They have neither trajectory nor history, ideas that presuppose we could differentiate one from another and follow its vicissitudes—exactly what we cannot do. It is only when vast numbers of electrons are organized into a complex system (like an organism) that we can speak of individuality, which is a luxury of the complicated, and comes at the price of death.

Confucius is finally rehabilitated. Party dignitaries kneel at his ancestral shrine. The benevolent Confucian is a new image of China for the outside, and for Chinese dealing with the collapse of ideology and the moral fabric of their society. The word tianxia is usually translated “all under Heaven.” It has a complicated history and a complicated contemporary appropriation in a desperate ideology-cum-PR campaign. The tianxia-idea is that China has for millennia been a government of all under heaven. It was such a government in the past, is one today, and offers the whole world its benevolent alternative to liberalism and democracy. More than one contributor to this strong collection of interesting essays suspects that the Confucian revival is an act of desperation. As soft power, Confucianism may be no match for global capitalism. Soft power is not readily synthesized by official campaign. Its genuine source is in everyday life, and the life of ordinary Chinese is without much resonance beyond its borders. The whole world uses Chinese electronics, though almost none but the Chinese read their books, watch their television, or listen to their music. The world’s love affair with China is fixated on the economic numbers and is no less capricious. It has never been clear whether tianxia means a cultural realm without political boundaries, as is urged by modern ideologists, or is just another word for China, which is how modern Chinese dictionaries explain it. On the official account, membership in “all under Heaven” is a matter of shared culture, sustained by affective ties rather than coercion, but it is a culture that values order over freedom, ethics over law, and authority over democracy and human rights. Outsiders worry that tianxia is the cloak of a rising hegemon. However, the important audience for lofty talk of tianxia may be internal. Whether foreigners really trust it may be less urgent than for the Chinese to believe it about themselves. Postsocialist China has no unifying vision and has yet to honestly scrutinize official socialism. The new discourse of tianxia speaks to their need for a vision of their place in the world. The image of a tianxia government of benevolent authority may be more useful for identity within China than for offering the world a viable alternative to democracy and human rights.

In theory, sovereignty makes a state. In practice, few states possess all its attributes, and little is governed by its norms. That's no recent development, but as old as the idea of the "sovereign state." Nor is it surprising. The politics of sovereignty is an exercise in organized hypocrisy: Espouse its norms, generously disburse its recognition, and violate it all when convenient. Hypocrisy is the norm because unlike a game of chess, international politics has no constitutive rules — rules you have to follow as the price of playing the game. Parties do anything they can get away with. All is fair in war and war.

In Ophir’s account, evil is not an absence, nor a diabolic supernatural intervention. It is instead a regular part of the world. We produce evil somewhat as we produce smog, as a byproduct of our economy. Reversing business as usual in moral theory, Ophir recognizes evil as a more important moral category than the Good. It is more important, morally, to prevent or limit superfluous evils—preventable suffering or loss—than to worry about the Right and the Good. Justice, fairness, equality, and autonomy are displaced from the center of moral thought and practice, replaced by compassion, solidarity, gift, and sacrifice. This is a deep and deeply moving book, a masterpiece of philosophy, undoubtedly the best work ever written about evil.

Juxtaposing two dates in human evolution poses a mystery. Anatomically modern people (with our bodies, brains, and genes) apparently first appear in Africa 100,000 years ago. Yet there is no evidence of them behaving like us — no evidence of modern human culture — until 50,000 years ago. For the first 50,000 years of our existence we were archaeologically indistinct from Neanderthal or erectus. Then everything quickly changed, forever. Why this gap? What were we waiting for? Klein, a leading American paleoanthropologist, denies that these facts are complete. There had to be more biological evolution, right up to the moment people started behaving like modern humans, which he attributes to a relatively recent genetic mutation. Yet it is biologically possible that "the dawn of culture" is not a biological event at all. It could be a cascade of consequences following the delayed expression of what Steven Jay Gould calls an evolutionary spandrel, a coincidental side-consequence of evolved structures, not directly shaped by natural selection. Modern culture would have been potential from the biological beginning, but waited on an expression it took time and circumstance to discover.

Ian Tattersall is curator emeritus of the Spitzer Hall of Human Origins at the American Museum of Natural History, and an authoritative voice on the subject of human origins. The book offers anyone a chance to catch up on the current state of the art. One thing we learn is that the comparison with apes is misleading. None of our ancestors were much like an ape. Hominid forebears have been evolving rapidly and dramatically away from apes for more than two million years. Hunting is another red herring. We did not evolve to be hunters, or under conditions where hunting success was crucial to survival. Technology also does not drive our evolution. New stone technologies never emerge with new species. In each case, old kinds of hominids begin to do new things with stone and other material. What most differentiates early hominids from chimpanzees, and disqualifies emphasis on hunting, is that coming down from the trees to walk on two legs made hominids opportunistic generalists. As Tattersall tells it, the acquisition of modern human qualities was not a gradual, progressive accumulation of adaptations, nor is the emergence of our species predictable from earlier trends, or a threshold effect of gradually rising brain size. It was an abrupt and recent event, primarily in response to deteriorating (increasingly dry and cold) climate. We did not adapt genetically to the changed conditions, but accommodated to them through culture, creating a lifestyle with a new level of freedom from the environment, which might change without making people unable to cope. Maybe that is why many today remain indifferent to the threat of climate change. We are accustomed not to worry about such things. We have always pulled through. Such optimism is bred in the bone. But it was only right in the past, and this comfortable habit may be our doom.

Knowledge and Civilization advances detailed criticism of philosophy's usual approach to knowledge and describes a redirection, away from textbook problems of epistemology, toward an ecological philosophy of technology and civilization. Rejecting theories that confine knowledge to language or discourse, Allen situates knowledge in the greater field of artifacts, technical performance, and human evolution. His wide ranging considerations draw on ideas from evolutionary biology, archaeology, anthropology, and the history of cities, art, and technology.

Solipsism is the strangest creature in philosophy’s menagerie. It seems just that its defense should be so simple and reasonable. As similarity or difference in the length of things presuppose their commensurability in respect of spatial extension, so similarity and difference between conscious subjects presuppose the commensurability of their experience. But comparing what I feel with what I fail to feel seems worse than inconvenient. Like location and duration or color and quantity, these seem strictly incommensurable. Yet just as a fact of the matter about things’ length presupposes their commensurability, so a fact of the matter about others’ experience presupposes intersubjective commensurability. If, then, it is not merely difficult but a priori impossible to compare experiences, there seems but one explanation: the grand and solitary thought that I alone am the unique subject of experience.

Cavell reads Nietzsche’s reference to Übermorgan, the day after tomorrow (the day after the crisis of nihilism), on the model of Übermensch, as a surpassing dawn, elucidated with examples from Emerson and Thoreau. These philosophers may not be Dionysian pessimists on the other side of Western nihilism, but they are as untimely as a midday dawn. In Cavell’s Emersonian terms, they are perfectionists, assuming “the right to seek a step toward an unattained possibility of the self, to want a world closer to the heart’s desire.” Cavell, too, is an untimely perfectionist in American philosophy. He spent his career comfortably close to the center of the Analytic establishment, feeling answerable, he says, to their judgment, yet he consistently refused to follow their lead in defining his questions. Instead of abandoning the Analytic audience he seems destined to disappoint, he has endured as the aesthetic conscience of their otherwise pretty philistine approach to philosophy. Cavell does not have an aesthetic theory as such. Instead, he has an art of philosophy whose engagement with art—the films of Fred Astaire, the voices of opera, characters in Shakespeare—is a method unlike any other for enacting philosophical engagement.

The forms and specific situations of the government of men by one another in a given society are multiple; they are superimposed, they cross, impose their own limits, sometimes cancel one another out, sometimes reinforce one another. According to a commonplace in the critical discussion of Foucault's later work, he is supposed to have decided to take up Nietzsche's interpretation of power as Wille zur Macht, ‘will to power.’ For instance, Habermas believes he has criticized Foucault when he says, ‘Nietzsche’s authority, from which this [Foucault’s] utterly unsociological concept of power is borrowed, is not enough to justify its systematic usage.’ Charles Taylor finds in Nietzsche ‘a doctrine which Foucault seems to have made his own,’ viz., that ‘there is no order of human life, or way we are, or human nature, that one can appeal to in order to judge or evaluate between ways of life.