John C. McCarthy

If modern natural science were to be our guide, the truth of cosmology ought to be fully expressible in the abstruse but concise language of mathematics. As an account of the genesis of the universe as a whole and in its every part, however, a truly completed cosmology would culminate in an understanding of its own coming to be, and thereby provide both a recapitulation of the many past attempts human beings have made to understand themselves and their place, and an explanation of the genesis of that which is true and false in each such attempt. For this and for other reasons one might well doubt whether a genuinely comprehensive cosmogenesis is possible for us, to say nothing of one set forth in exclusively mathematical terms. It seems fair to say, in any case, that that part of a conjectural history of the universe devoted to “the history of the human experience of the universe” would easily dwarf all of its other parts in size, and not only in size.

AMONG THE BEINGS KNOWN TO US, the human being is, so far as we are aware, the only one to trouble himself about his origins. Mountains have no more care for such matters than it is in their power to leap like rams. As for the rams, they have perhaps some mute memory of their parents, and some abiding affection for them, yet they clearly lack all ambition to retrace the steps of their ovine past. We alone desire to know whence we came. It is true that some among us manifest this desire in an obsession about “ethnic origins,” for example, but this need not signify that our interest in our predecessors must be a purely parochial affair. While a concern for our past seems to be peculiar to our species, and while it necessarily finds its initial expression in questions about our immediate precursors, origins being what they are, we cannot long wonder about our own without soon having to consider the origins of the whole human race, and of everything else besides.

The bulk of the writings Husserl himself saw through to publication were, in one way or another, successive attempts at an "introduction" to phenomenology. That not a single one of these works is of easy access to those for whom phenomenology is something novel in no way contravenes the use of the term 'introduction" to name them. After all, to the end of his days Husserl spoke of himself as a philosophical beginner, and not from any false modesty, but because he knew that the philosopher has access to the archai or old beginnings only if, by his persistent questioning, he is always ready to make a new beginning. "Introduction" amounts, then, to a term of art in his philosophy, describing as much a work in progress as an invitation to the dance.

It is, if not a happy accident, then surely a pleasing peripety that despite Pascal's intention to complete an Apology for the Christian Religion, the fragmentary character of his Pensées should, by its very incompleteness, so well have served his purpose, as the vitality of the torso he left us attests. Yet there is ample evidence in the Pensées themselves that the book's orderless order captures both the rhetorical problem Pascal confronted and the solution he envisaged. More broadly stated, the literary form of the work, such as it is, mirrors its substance, namely, the fragmentary character of the created whole and the human part of that whole. In short, the last thing Pascal wished to do was to make things easy for his reader, and in this respect the Pensées he left us serve his intentions admirably. While Kolakowski's study of "Pascal's religion" ultimately denies that the rigors of Pascal's argument are compatible with human happiness or reason, God Owes Us Nothing does honor Pascal's purpose by refusing to ease our way by making things simple.

From an etymological standpoint the word "interest" is well suited to phenomenological investigations, lnteresse, to be among, 1 or as Husserl sometimes translates, Dabeisein, 2 succinctly expresses the sense ofHusserl's more usual term, "intentionality." Mind, he never tired or saying, is not at all another thing alongside the various things of the world; it is already outside itself, and in the company of the things it thinks. Yet despite the appropriateness of "interest" to name this fact of psychic life, only gradually does the word assume a place in the phenomenological vocabulary. The reason is not hard to find. Husserl's early work treats intentional achievements statically and hence rather thinly. Once he secured the transcendental or properly phenomenological stance he was free to move beyond his initial "Platonism" to a more truly Platonic position, which attempts to think the forms in motion. That is to say, Husserl discovered genetic phenomenology. 3 Mind is now considered in light of its purposiveness: genetic phenomenology highlights the teleological character of our thinking engagement with the world. "Interest," accordingly, may be said to name the history of our readiness to take up with things in their intelligibility. Alternately stated, Husserl's account of interest displays the drawing power of the real in virtue of its being thinkable or ideal. It is perhaps not too grave an injustice to read interest as the Husserlian analogue to the "idea of the good" proposed by Socrates to Glaucon and Adeimantus as that which lights the mind's way.

It is now a commonplace that premodern reflection, whether mythical, philosophical, or theological, was terminally “anthropomorphic,” given to the erroneous supposition that the human shape offers genuine insight into the shape of everything else.1 It is also commonly assumed that modern philosophy distinguishes itself from its precursors by placing the human being at the center of its concerns. Thus Kant, for example, claimed that the question “what is man?” recapitulates the whole of systematic philosophical inquiry.2 First impressions notwithstanding, these two convictions are not really at odds. For it is precisely through their “turn to the subject” that modern thinkers…

“Scholasticism” has not always been a term of opprobrium. Strictly speaking, the word simply targets a “school of thought,” and schools, like thoughts, can be good, bad, or indifferent. Francis Bacon did much to foster common derision of scholasticism. As he observed, “it is scarcely possible at once to admire authors and to surpass them, knowledge being like water, which will not rise above the level from which it fell.” Insofar as great thinkers do not reliably engender their equals, much less set the cause of truth in motion by logarithmic progression, Bacon has a point. Yet the premise of the best schools of philosophy has always been the modest one that by standing on a giant’s shoulders one is sometimes able to see what would otherwise have lain hidden in the distance. In any case, Bacon did little to stem the scholastic tide. Despite all the antischolastic vitriol of the last several centuries, philosophical schools have multiplied profusely. Neo-Kantianism, logical positivism, existentialism, structuralism, feminism, and postmodernism represent only a small sample of recent possibilities. One can safely conclude from this list that as long as there is thinking, there will be schools of thought. A corollary suggests itself: the most antischolastic forms of thinking usually engender the most rigidly scholastic forms of thought.

For biblical or more precisely Christian theology the way up and the way down are not one and the same. Christian theology could attempt to avoid this potentially embarrassing impasse and, refusing to speak to the philosophers, retreat to a comfortable interiority were it not for the fact that the founder of Christianity and indeed the theologians' own humanity demand otherwise. Philosophy in turn might have chosen to disregard the claims of a theology emboldened by reason and Revelation were it not for its own desire to be comprehensive. Accordingly, no major philosopher of the last millennium has passed over the Bible in silence. Admittedly, the theologians have been reticent of late, yet it is by no means clear that the philosophers have succeeded in restoring thought to its former state of Greek "innocence." It is no surprise, then, that the crisis it is the fashion to call "postmodernism" should have reawakened the old question, Quid sit deus? Marion's short, demanding, and at times repetitive book, written "at the border between philosophy and theology," meets this question in a provocative way. This careful translation will surely win him both theologically and philosophically minded readers, as did the French original. His formation points to his currency: among his "teachers" we may mention Derrida; Levinas and Balthasar number among his "masters"; and as he himself admits, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, and Heidegger form his "horizon".

Metaphysics, the most concrete of human inquiries, cannot rightly leave anything out, not even or especially its own history. At the very least, a consideration of the history of metaphysical investigation is necessary in order to recover the peculiar naivete proper to the discipline, for any language at our immediate disposal comes to us already stamped by the thinking of our predecessors. Nor may we rule out of hand the possibility that metaphysics is itself in some way subject to "physics" or time. Finally, only arrogance could keep us from admitting that the "history" of metaphysics might hold answers to our most pressing questions, and indeed put questions to us we had not thought to ask. Metaphysics is, in short, an archeological science in a double sense.