You Kant Make It Up - sample chapters

 
Here's the first part of my new book, You Kant Make It Up!: Strange Ideas from History's Greatest Philosophers.

If you like what you read, you can get the full book from any good bookstore.  It's available in paperback and e-book format.

Any and all comments welcome.

INTRODUCTION

Philosophers are clever folk. Some of them outrageously so. Yet they say the strangest things!

Take the German philosopher Gottfried Leibniz. He designed calculating machines; invented calculus independently of Isaac Newton; and made important contributions in physics, logic, history, librarianship and theology. He could hardly have been any cleverer. Yet he claimed that objects don’t really have shapes and sizes; and that the world couldn’t possibly be any better than it is.

Or consider the French philosopher, Blaise Pascal. He did groundbreaking work in vacuum physics; invented the syringe; gave the world ‘Pascal’s Triangle’; and was one of the founders of probability theory. Yet he said that you ought to believe in God even if you doubt His existence.

Why so strange?

Philosophy abounds with strange ideas. As you read this book, you’ll discover that history’s deepest thinkers have claimed that matter doesn’t exist; that unicorns do exist; that babies deserve Hell; and that your mind doesn’t influence your behaviour.

But why? What is it about philosophy that gives rise to so much weirdness? And how is it that such brilliant people can say such outrageous things? Is it because genius and craziness are so closely linked? Or is there some other reason?

Well, perhaps the main reason for all the weirdness lies in the nature of philosophy itself. Philosophy concerns itself with ultimate questions. This means that philosophers sometimes find themselves operating at the very limits of thought; at the very edge of what is thinkable. And this can be a very strange place.

Think of those cutting-edge physicists who try to figure out what goes on at the quantum level or at the centre of a black hole. They paint a picture of a world very much at odds with the world of common sense. A world where space and time get warped; where fundamental particles pop into and out of existence; and where multiple universes spring into being.

Philosophers are a bit like that. They too ask deep and difficult questions. The kinds of questions that stretch the understanding to its limits – and beyond. How are minds related to bodies? Can we ever be absolutely certain of anything? What, if anything, is the point of life? What makes some actions ‘right’ and others wrong? If there’s a God, what kind of being must God be?

In investigating these questions, philosophers take themselves outside the ordinary trammel of thought. So it is hardly surprising that they come up with some very strange-sounding ideas.

Ways of being weird

The ideas in this book are all strange. But they’re strange in a variety of ways. Some of them, like John Locke’s claim that oranges aren’t orange, seem plainly wrong. Others, like St Thomas Aquinas’s insistence that masturbation is worse than rape, are deeply shocking. Still others, like Pythagoras’ claim that ‘everything is number’, don’t even seem to make sense.

Some of the ideas seem strange when you first encounter them but not so strange once you stop and think about them. A number were considered outrageous when they were first proposed, but have since become quite mainstream (amongst philosophers, at any rate).

All of which brings us to an important point . . .

Strange but true?

Strange ideas aren’t necessarily wrong ideas.

As you read this book you’ll come across ideas that will surprise you, amuse you, offend you and confuse you. But you’ll also come across ideas that will convince you. Sometimes you’ll find yourself nodding in agreement, and accepting ideas you never thought you could accept.

So be warned. A couple of hundred pages from now you may have acquired a firm belief that oranges aren’t orange; that matter doesn’t exist; that Harry Potter does exist; and that this isn’t the real world.

Using this book

I’ve arranged this book into forty-three self-contained chapters, each one dealing with a single idea. The topics covered include ethics, logic, politics, metaphysics, psychology, sex and religion.

On balance, it’s probably best to read the chapters in order, and allow yourself time for reflection between each one. But that’s not essential. There’s nothing to stop you from hopping around, or reading the whole book in one splurge, if you prefer.

I’ve begun each chapter by introducing a strange idea and then giving some of the arguments that a famous philosopher has advanced in its favour. Wherever possible, I’ve done that in a way that’s fairly sympathetic to the philosopher’s views. After that, I’ve generally offered some criticisms; some arguments that cast doubt on the philosopher’s idea.

Overall, I’ve tried to stay impartial so that you can decide for yourself what you make of it all.

At the end of each chapter I’ve provided pointers to related chapters. These are for the benefit of those of you who like to hop around where your interests lead you. At the end of the book I’ve offered some suggestions for further reading. So if you find a particular philosopher or a particular idea especially interesting, you’ll be able to find out more.

1 NOT BAD. JUST MISGUIDED

The Greek philosopher Socrates (c.469–399 BC) placed great faith in the power of human reason. He believed that reason, properly cultivated, will make us virtuous and happy; that once we truly know what is good we will do it; and that anyone who acts wrongly does so only through ignorance.

The sceptics among us might well wonder what planet Socrates was living on. We know from bitter experience just how impotent reason can be, and what an immense gulf there is between knowing what’s right and actually doing it.

The voice of reason

Of course, we wouldn’t expect a philosopher of Socrates’ stature to make such an outrageous-sounding claim without having his reasons. And, indeed, he did have his reasons. His

supporting argument runs as follows.

We are all hedonists. That is, everything we do is prompted by the desire to experience pleasure or to avoid pain. This means that all talk of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ ultimately boils down to considerations of pleasure and pain. Whatever leads to pleasure we call ‘good’; and whatever leads to pain we call ‘bad’.

Clearly, no one knowingly chooses pain over pleasure. But this is equivalent to saying that no one knowingly chooses the bad over the good (since the terms are interchangeable).

Therefore, anyone who does choose the bad in preference to the good must do so in error: because he mistakes it for the good.

Sound reasoners, then, will always do what is good for themselves. But will their wisdom also make them virtuous? Will it lead them to treat others well too? Socrates thought so. Here’s why. Acting unjustly, he said, is harmful not only to those we wrong but also to ourselves. When we act unjustly we damage our own souls. So doing what is right toward others is doing the right thing for ourselves too.

The voice of experience

Socrates claimed, then, that when we truly know what is good we will do it; that knowledge is virtue. The obvious rejoinder is that his argument cannot be sound since its conclusion is palpably false. People do very often choose the bad – even when they know it to be bad.

For example, a morbidly obese person may be in no doubt that his high-fat, high-sugar diet is ruining his health, making him unattractive and damaging his self-esteem. But his knowledge is impotent. Time after time, he finds himself knowingly choosing the bad in preference to the good.

Socrates’ response

Socrates anticipated this objection. He said: ‘[Most people] suppose that though present in a man, often not knowledge but something else is in control – now high spirits, now pleasure, now pain, sometimes sexual desire, and often fear.’ But, he insisted, the problem in such cases is not that knowledge is impotent, but rather that what appears to be knowledge isn’t really knowledge at all. Anyone who chooses a wrong course of action does so only because he is not truly convinced that it is the wrong course of action.

How could Socrates know this? Well, because we are all hedonists and will therefore always choose the greatest quantity of pleasure and the least quantity of pain – provided we do our

calculations correctly. It is simply absurd to suppose that anyone will knowingly choose the lesser pleasure or the greater pain. Therefore wrong choices simply must be the result of miscalculation.

If the morbidly obese man truly understood the nature of his choice, and was skilful enough in calculating its consequences, he would choose the seafood salad in preference to the burger and chips every time.

No true Scotsman

Socrates here seems guilty of using the No-True-Scotsman Move: an intellectual dodge designed to protect one’s claims from being falsified by counter-example. The No-True-Scotsman Move was identified and labelled by the British philosopher Antony Flew (1923–2010) in his 1977 book, Thinking Straight. A simple example goes like this:

   John: No Scotsman puts sugar on his porridge.

   Jane: But Angus McSporran’s a Scotsman, and he puts sugar on his    porridge.

   John: Maybe so. But no true Scotsman puts sugar on his porridge!

Isn’t this pretty much what Socrates does?

   Socrates: Anyone who knows the good will choose it.

   Phaedo: But Jonathan McGreedy knows the good, and he doesn’t choose it.

   Socrates: Ah, but if he truly knew the good he would    certainly choose it.

2 COULDN’T BE BETTER

Any reasonable person must concede that in many respects the world is a bit rubbish. Joy and beauty there may be; but there is also ugliness, anguish and pain. This poses a problem for theists (those who believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing, wholly benevolent God) since if God is all He’s cracked up to be, why has He created such a second-rate world?

The German philosopher and mathematician Gottfried Leibniz (1646–1716), a theist through and through, was acutely aware of this problem and addressed it in his 1710 work, the Theodicy. He presented the anti-theist’s challenge along the following lines:

   1. If God were all-powerful, all-knowing and wholly    benevolent then He would create the best of all possible worlds.

   2. But this is no way the best of all possible worlds.

   3. Therefore God isn’t all-powerful, all-knowing and wholly benevolent.

Possible worlds

What is meant by all this talk of ‘possible worlds’? Well, there are an infinite number of ways the world might conceivably have been. Each of these worlds is possible, and therefore God might have created it, provided that it is logically consistent. (Not even an all-powerful God can create a logically inconsistent world: for example, one in which two plus two equals five; or one identical to ours in every respect, including pig-physiology and the laws of physics, in which pigs fly.)

One way to think about this is to visualise some of the ways our world might have been. For example, this book might have had an extra chapter; the 2010 Haiti earthquake might never have happened; pigs might fly; and so on. These worlds of the imagination are all (provided they pass the test of logical consistency) possible worlds. In addition, there are any number of possible worlds so different from ours that the imagination balks at them.

Best possible world

Having cleared that up, we can now examine Leibniz’s response to the anti-theistic argument stated above. God’s reputation survives unscathed, Leibniz said, because this world, the one we inhabit, is the most perfect there can be. This is the best of all possible worlds!

This seems outrageous. Can Leibniz seriously have claimed that no world could possibly be any better than this one? How about a world with less pain, disease and suffering? How about,

to take a specific example, a world in which a 2010 earthquake doesn’t lead to hundreds of thousands of deaths and untold misery in Haiti?

In the Theodicy, Leibniz responded to this objection in two ways. First, he pointed out that although we can conceive, easily enough, of individual aspects of the world that might be improved, we are incapable of judging what the knock-on effects might be. Changes that appear to be for the better may, in fact, make things worse overall. God, on the other hand, sees everything, and, taking everything into account, creates the world with the highest possible ratio of good to bad.

Take mankind’s capacity to do evil, for example. There’s no doubt that this is the cause of much misery and suffering. God could, it seems, have created a world without moral evil but only by depriving us of free will. And since free will is, in Leibniz’s view, a superlative good, such a world would be inferior to the world we inhabit.

Second, Leibniz said that the standards we use to judge the merits of possible worlds are too parochial. We tend to judge purely in terms of human happiness whereas God applies other, richer, criteria. One of Leibniz’s suggestions is that from God’s perspective the best possible world would be the one in which the maximum variety of phenomena are produced by the simplest set of natural laws.

Fair enough. Let’s allow that for argument’s sake. But even so, how could Leibniz be sure that this world, with its precise ratio of phenomena and laws, and its precise admixture of good and evil, is the best there can possibly be?

This must be the best

This is his reply: ‘I do not believe that a world without evil, preferable in order to ours, is possible; otherwise it would have been preferred. It is necessary to believe that the mixture of evil has produced the greatest possible good: otherwise the evil would not have been permitted.’

In other words:

   1. If God were all-powerful, all-knowing and wholly benevolent then he would create the best of all possible worlds.

   2. But God is all-powerful, all-knowing and wholly benevolent.

   3. Therefore this is the best of all possible worlds.

Leibniz turned the anti-theistic argument on its head: a piece of metaphysical manoeuvring so audacious that it brings to mind the story of the girl who murdered her parents and then asked the judge to have pity on a poor orphan.