Barry Allen

Indigenous cultures of North America confronted a problem of knowledge different from that of canonical European philosophy. The European problem is to identify and overcome obstacles to the perfection of knowledge as science, while the Indigenous problem is to conserve a legacy of practice fused with a territory. Complicating the difference is that one of these traditions violently colonized the other, and with colonization the Indigenous problem changes. The old problem of inter-generational stability cannot be separated from the post-colonial problem of sovereignty in the land where the knowledge makes sense. I differentiate the question of the value of knowledge (Part 1), and its content (Part 2). The qualities these epistemologies favor define what I callceremonial knowledge, that is, knowledge that sustains a ceremonial community. The question of content considers the interdisciplinary research of Indigenous and Traditional Ecological Knowledge, as well as the issue of epistemic decolonization.

A negative judgment (“S is not p”) says what is not the case, but since what is not the case is nothing and does not exist, a negative judgment says nothing, and is not a judgement at all. Wittgenstein called this “the mystery of negation.” By negation I can be right in what I say even though I say nothing at all. No less fastidious a logician than Rudolf Carnap sneered at philosophers who take such trifles seriously. Parmenides, the first of many who did, drew the conclusion that one simply cannot say or think what is not, admonishing followers, “Say and think only this, being is.” The challenge philosophers inherit from Parmenides is to explain an account of thought and being that liberates negation from its ontological prison and lets it loose into the world again. The price they usually pay for their explanation is metaphysical idealism. The truth of thinking (including thinking what is not) must depend on nothing but thinking itself, and the favorite way of explaining that is to identify being with thought. If I think it, truly think it, then it is. With Parmenides, Plato, Plotinus, and Hegel, this is also Kimhi’s position, though I find him too discreet about the idealistic quality of the philosophy he explains. To brutally summarize, the idea is that to think what is not is to think what is, with a self-consciousness of disagreement. There is no difference of content between “S” and “not-S”; the difference lies entirely in the self-consciousness we bring to it. That sounds fine until we ask, what is this self-consciousness, and what is happening when one becomes self-aware of agreement or disagreement? Is that a natural activity like respiration, or an evolved animal power like vision? Kimhi says the thinking in “S thinks that p” is an activity sui generis, without analogy in living nature, a conclusion that is not available to anyone who takes Darwin seriously. He says nature does not include thinkers or thinking, which places us somewhere beyond nature. Nature is a whole, but not the whole of being. And beyond nature is . . . what? We have to use our imagination. So much onto-psychology just for a puzzle about negation? Why not naturalize logic, and truth too? Kimhi acknowledges resistance to the putative uniqueness of thinking then sets it aside. He does not explain how his theory speaks to the reasons against idealism, rationalism, or androcentric human exceptionalness. These are serious challenges to philosophical practice that should not be ignored, not even by logicians.

Introducing the sixth and final installment of the Common Knowledge symposium “Apology for Quietism,” Allen looks at the symposium retrospectively and concludes that it has mainly concerned “sage knowledge,” defined as foresight into the development of situations. The sagacious knower sees the disposition of things in an early, incipient form and knows how to intervene with nearly effortless and undetectable (quiet) effectiveness. Whatever the circumstance, the sage handles it with finesse, never doing too much but also never leaving anything undone that must be accomplished. Quiet, when it is knowingly and effectively quiet (not pusillanimous or poor in spirit), is about what not to do, how not to approach a problem, what not to decide, what is not known, what will not work. Allen explains these principles in terms of traditional Chinese thought, Daoist and Confucian: wei we wei, or “doing-not-doing,” means effective inaction. What makes such wisdom possible is not mystical insight, he argues, but discipline in a certain kind of art. The sage has no need of reasons (let alone doctrines), only effectiveness; and he does not need truth or justice, only subtlety. The detachment of a quietist has little, if anything, to do with transcending perspectives. Detachment is good as a means to flexibility, and instead of transcending perspectives, a sage is skilled in the quiet art of never getting stuck in one. To be effectively quiet is not so much to be silent as to be inaudible, invisible; the sage “vanishes into things.”

Gilles Deleuze has a growing readership in English philosophy, where for long he was eclipsed by brilliant contemporaries like Derrida and Foucault. It is good that we are coming to appreciate his highly original and fascinatingly intricate philosophy. He worked with integrity and genius to do something different in philosophy from everything he was hearing in contemporaries. None of the familiar labels—structuralism, poststructuralism, deconstruction, phenomenology, existentialism, hermeneutics—apply to him. One thing he shares with all of these movements, however, is a conviction of Nietzsche’s importance, and his Nietzsche and Philosophy is second only to Heidegger in influencing how we understand Nietzsche’s accomplishment. The passion for Nietzsche sets Deleuze apart from another quasi-outsider whom he somewhat resembles—Alfred North Whitehead. Whitehead is another original, who wanted to do something new and different in philosophy, and not become mired in a polemic about “metaphysics” and whether it is finished. Shaviro thinks philosophy would be a lot different if Whitehead had enjoyed the attention the last century lavished on Heidegger and continues to lavish on Nietzsche. He epitomizes their difference in terms of their guiding question. Heidegger asks, What is the meaning of being? Whitehead asks, How is it that there is always something new? For Heidegger, metaphysics has always said the same, a monotonous litany of the names of Being. Whitehead is interested not in what metaphysics has always said, but what it has never yet said, even denied and rejected: the body, emotion, inconstancy, change, contingency, perspective. Deleuze writes appreciatively of Whitehead, but learns more from Bergson (whose current renaissance is largely his doing). Deleuze’s books are terrifically hard to read. There is nothing like them in our philosophical literature. He expects serious readers to struggle, and seems almost maliciously to exacerbate the encounter. Skeptics may wonder if it’s worth the trouble. Increasingly, though, an English readership is finding that it is. Shaviro’s book is more about Whitehead than Deleuze, but that is because he thinks that if we like Deleuze we should like Whitehead, too, and forget about Heidegger and Nietzsche. When he quotes Whitehead, saying “It is more important that a proposition be interesting than that it be true,” I wonder if he might not be half right.

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.

Andrew Saint is General Editor of the Survey of London. His book is a study of relations between these two professions since their modern emergence in Europe and the US. Relations between the two professions are complex and varied. Sometimes it is the Renaissance fantasy, where the architect designs a masterpiece, then hands it to the engineer to figure out how to make it. Sometimes engineers are part of the design process, working closely with architects from the beginning. Other times, engineers are doing the work we might expect architects to do, and producing buildings that continue to delight. The inventors of form may even belong to neither profession. Posterity remembers Eiffel as an engineer, though we more accurately think of him as a contractor-fabricator. There is more to the book than this descriptive history, though. Saint chronicles the rising tide of cant in the fond notion of the architect as Artist, with completely different skills and values from an engineer. An engineer is a technician, he makes things work. An architect is an artist, he make things beautiful. Any way you look at it, however, this dichotomy fails. In engineering, the invention of structure is, in part, aesthetic invention. Engineering forms are never calculated. There are calculations aplenty, but the form is not arrived at by calculation like a mathematical result. Engineering is a highly inventive practice, or can be. The invention of structure is just as “intuitive,” “irrational,” and “aesthetic” as anything in architecture. Then from the point of view of art, aesthetic accomplishment cannot be limited to design; it requires a work, and that it be well made. Le Corbusier tried to deny this and the result is revealing. For him the design is the architecturally important accomplish; the rest is just mechanics—an indifference to building that shows in all his work, which began to look shabby almost immediately. Inventive engineering has an aesthetic moment, and memorable architecture has a structural moment. Engineers must visualize and make aesthetic choices, and only architects who appreciate the work of engineering can take the invention of form to the limits of new technologies.

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.

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.

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.

This book tries to do two things that do not have much to do with each other. One is to excoriate the White Privilege that dominates academic philosophy in leading US university departments, and disallows the study of non-canonical philosophy, works from Chinese, Indian, Indigenous, or African traditions. “It is not real philosophy,” they say, with no apprehension about exposing blank ignorance of material they dismiss as unfit for their curricula. The other thing the book does is answer the blockheads of the US Republican Party, who mock higher education and see philosophy as the ultimate elitist improvidence, sometimes discreetly hiding their own graduate credentials, even in philosophy. Against academic philosophy’s White Privilege, Van Norden shows that non-canonical philosophy has arguments too, just like canonical texts, sometimes even better. Against Mario Rubio, Ben Carson, and their ilk, he argues that philosophy is good training, leads to good jobs, and is opposed only by hypocritical anti-elite elites who prefer the masses dumb and reserve elite education for their own.

The field of study we call Classics is an ideological construction. It assumes that the Greece and Rome of antiquity belong to the modern West in some singular, privileged way, as our antiquity, their works our classics, and that these civilizations were largely self-invented. In this antiquity there are no diaspora, no hybrids, no minorities, often no women or slaves. Democratic, philosophical Athens is the antitype of a cosmopolis: hermetic, autochthonous, owing nothing to the civilizations of Africa, India, or the Near East. But the classical lines of demarcation and exclusion have eroded under globalization. We are beginning to understand how antiquity was everywhere mixed and riven by difference. DuBois envisions a new classical studies, less insular, engaged with larger debates in the humanities. She brings a classical scholar’s expert knowledge on Alexander, Epimenides, Oedipus, Sparticus, and St. Paul to bear on questions in the work of Agamben, Badiou, Butler, Negri, and Rancière. She reads Sapho, and exposes the impulse of scholarship to efface the traces of the past, transfixed by an imaginary original. They might better study the forces of fragmentation and the genealogy of canons. She studies the politics and religion of dramatic tragedy in Athens, and finds resources to undermine a neoconservative account of the stability, superiority, and homogeneity of Western civilization.

Wikipedia currently exists in 270 languages, with more than 20 million articles. The English-language Wikipedia has 2.5 billion words, sixty times the size of Britannica. It may be the largest collaborative initiative in history, and influences what people the world over know or think they know. Wikipedia’s distinctive feature is the non-expert, non-professional, non-certified, non-formal production of knowledge with credible content. Academics like to sneer at that, even as more of us acknowledge Wikipedia, support it, and use it in teaching. And why should we not warm to it? The rules of Wikipedia discourse are modeled after an ideal academy. Arguments, not personal attacks or status, carry the day. It may be the most scientific encyclopedia ever; it is as self-correcting as anything in science. Purposeful, enduring bias, departing tendentiously from dominant beliefs of the academic community does not prevail. Peer control is high, procedures many and fanatically enforced. There are no back channels. Every editorial act is recorded and archived and remains on the record forever. Since its inception Wikipedia has promoted itself as an encyclopedia anyone can edit, and some three hundred thousand editors contribute each month. Some of them are not even human beings. In 2002, an algorithmic bot added thirty thousand articles in one week on US cities and towns. However, there is evidence that Wikipedia is not as welcoming of new editors as it once was and as its ideology still enjoins. Despite the policy of consensus, conflict fuels Wikipedia growth. Conscious collaboration is rare, most interaction among editors occurs when they disagree. Jemielniak, an editor and administrator with six years experience on both the English and Polish Wikipedia, has many tales about “edit wars,” when even the smallest inconsistency unleashes waves of uninhibited criticism. Why does Wikipedia work? In theory, it should not. In practice, it seems to be a new paradigm of organization, whose breezy anti-credentialism tosses traditional hierarchies of knowledge production to the wind.

José Ortega y Gasset (1883-1955) is the most original philosophical voice in modern Spanish history. This posthumous work comprises lectures and seminars held in Madrid, 1929-1934. While Ortega was meeting with students, Spain was in turmoil. In 1931 the King was deposed; within a year of the last lecture, Spain had descended into civil war. Ortega made his classroom a refuge where philosophy would continue to be taught despite the barbarism swelling around them. Throughout his argument there are echoes of Dewey's pragmatism, Bergson's vitalism, and Heidegger's existential ontology, with anticipations of Wittgenstein and Foucault. In the end, though, Ortega is completely on his own — a subtle, erudite, urbane, Socratic philosopher, whose newly translated lectures on knowledge are a dionysian epistemology with constant reference to Cervantes.

In this sweeping volume of comparative philosophy and intellectual history, Barry Allen reassesses the values of experience and experiment in European and world traditions. His work traces the history of empirical philosophy from its birth in Greek medicine to its emergence as a philosophy of modern science. He surveys medical empiricism, Aristotlean and Epicurean empiricism, the empiricism of Gassendi and Locke, logical empiricism, radical empiricism, transcendental empiricism, and varieties of anti-empiricism from Parmenides to Wilfrid Sellars. Throughout this extensive intellectual history, Allen builds an argument in three parts. A richly detailed account of history's empiricisms in Part One establishes a context in Part Two for reconsidering the work of the radical empiricists--William James, Henri Bergson, John Dewey, and Gilles Deleuze, each treated in a dedicated chapter. What is "radical" about them is their effort to return empiricism from epistemology to the ontology and natural philosophy where it began. In Part Three, Allen sets empirical philosophy in conversation with Chinese tradition, considering technological, scientific, medical, and alchemical sources, as well as selected Confucian, Daoist, and Mohist classics. The work shows how philosophical reflection on experience and a profound experimental practice coexist in traditional China with no interaction or even awareness of each other, slipping over each other instead of intertwining as they did in European history, a difference Allen attributes to a different understanding of the value of knowledge. Allen's book recovers empiricism's neglected, multi-textured contexts, and elucidates the enduring value of experience, to arrive at an idea of what is living and dead in philosophical empiricism.

This work by an accomplished and respected comparative philosopher criticizes the Western ideology of individualism from the perspective of a Confucian morality of the family. Individualism is a name for the Enlightenment era ideology of the autonomous individual. The philosophical pillars of this ideology are Locke and especially Kant, and it runs through practically all modern moral philosophy. It is the moral psychology of classical liberalism, no less than of its libertarian and communitarian critics. They are different politically, but ontologically of a piece. Individual selves—rational, calculating, selfish, autonomous—are what we are. Rosemont thinks this ideology is philosophically wrong, morally, politically, and ecologically destructive, but also optional. We sometimes feel painted into a corner where the only alternatives seem to be unrestrained freedom or totalitarian dictatorship. Moral philosophy still awaits the end of the Cold War. It would be good for people to understand that there are more options. Rosemont thinks Confucianism is one of them—a Confucianism for post-modern or even post-Western Westerners, with an ideology of the family that Rosemont thinks is more amenable than indigenous alternatives to our moral and ecological crises. “The vision of classical Confucianism can be reclaimed today with its integrity basically intact.” Rosemont advances two points. First, Confucian moral psychology conceives of the person as the bearer of roles. We are our roles as the onion is its leaves, without a an essential core self. Placing roles at the center of moral psychology eliminates the value of impersonal rules or universal principles. There are many ways to be a good father, teacher, friend, or son. Moral decency acquires an almost aesthetic quality, as our approach to roles (our own and those of others) expresses such qualities as zest, grace, or tenderness. His second point is that the moral center of Confucian philosophy is the family. The family is largely ignored in Western ethical tradition. Plato wanted to eliminate family life for his guardians. Kant, Bentham, and Mill have nothing useful to say about the family. For Rosemont the family is the first and best school for morality. It is there, if at all, that we learn to love, trust, cooperate, and obey. Rosemont’s best pages describe the important Confucian concept of family reverence (xiao). The gist is unswerving loyalty to parents, obligations extending even beyond death. It is easy for Western people to misunderstand that. Confucian tradition has a carefully worked out idea of filial reverence, and it should not be dismissed with a label (paternalistic, dogmatic, Asiatic). Obedience is expected, but not servility. In the inter-generational family, the child obeys the parents, but also sees parents obeying grandparents. Remonstrance is expected when appropriate. Deference motivated by gratitude can be genuinely appreciative without fawning, and dissent can remain respectful and polite. Rosemont believes that filial reverence is a way of life as open to anyone today as it was to Chinese two thousand years ago. Confucianism is a relentlessly secular philosophy. It entails practically no theological or metaphysical commitments, and contains little if anything to offend modern scientific sensibilities. This moral philosophy is at once remote (from individualism) and close, familiar, a fairly straightforward account of how we actually live our lives. Rosemont carefully argues that Confucian ideas of family are flexible enough to accommodate progressive ideals, and may even be our best hope against sexism, racism, homophobia, and other anti-humanistic altitudes and behaviors. He urges this version of Confucianism as a human-centered spirituality for a global civilization suspicious of discredited universalism. All cultures are made of families. How alien can they be? Respect for and accommodation with diversity begins in the family, when people learn from infancy to enjoy contributing to the well-being of others. While it would be wrong to expect Western people to abandon their Greek or Abrahamic heritage, those values might be reordered in light of Confucian thought, which deserves to be better understood in the West. A traditional Confucian might be baffled and dismayed by things that pass for normal in modern families, but our families could be better at what they have to be anyway by absorbing Confucian wisdom. There is a growing body of literature on Confucianism and virtue ethics. It is worth noting that Rosemont’s thought is probably the leading alternative to this paradigm in comparative moral philosophy. He takes an uncompromisingly critical attitude toward this particular effort to build a bridge from West to East by attributing to the Confucians a Western virtue ethics, which is, he thinks, objectionably individualistic in all its usual forms.

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.