Is there, then, no standard here beyond opinion? It is impossible surely that things most necessary among men should be beyond discovery and beyond proof?
There is a standard then. Then, why do we not seek it and find it, and having found it use it hereafter without fail, never so much as stretching out our finger without it?
For it is this standard, I suppose, the discovery of which relieves from madness those who wrongly use personal opinion as their only measure, and enables us thereafter to start from known principles, clearly defined, and so to apply our conceptions to particulars in definite and articulate form.
There is a standard then. Then, why do we not seek it and find it, and having found it use it hereafter without fail, never so much as stretching out our finger without it?
For it is this standard, I suppose, the discovery of which relieves from madness those who wrongly use personal opinion as their only measure, and enables us thereafter to start from known principles, clearly defined, and so to apply our conceptions to particulars in definite and articulate form.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.11
But where do I look to find this elusive measure? What can I ever know beyond how I feel at the moment? How am I expected to distinguish black from white in a world so full of grey? Why am I worrying about problems that obviously have no solutions?
While the philosophers should busy themselves with a pursuit of the true, the good, and the beautiful, however imperfect our perceptions might be, the sophists will assure us that we have no need for such abstractions. In the most refined manner, they offer us an excuse for dodging our responsibilities, by drawing into question the very contrast between right and wrong.
Wherever you find relativism, you will also find skepticism, for a rejection of objective meaning relies upon denying a knowledge of what is real. But while we should always be wary of hasty absolutes, and carefully develop a healthy sense of doubt, there is a grave danger of throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
In almost every case I have encountered, subjectivism, so prevalent in modernity, is a form of psychological escape, not an argument of philosophical discipline. Observe the blatant contradictions in the usual platitudes: How can I know that nothing can be known? How can everything be relative, if there no absolute by which it is judged? How can I make a supposedly objective claim that all awareness is merely subjective?
Despite the pedantic objections, there is no profound mystery, no metaphysical complexity, in establishing a measure for life. Any sort of proof is built upon self-evident first principles, the immediate facts presented to us in every act of experience. From the moment I am conscious, it is not only apparent that I am a being who thinks, but also that there is content to the world I am thinking about. The effect of an appearance proceeds from a cause within nature.
I don’t need to be a rocket scientist, or even a phenomenologist, to make some sense of this. Who I am, and what I am meant for, are inherent in my human identity. How odd it would be to say that the meaning of life is to have no meaning! It makes for inscrutable poetry, but not for sober philosophy.
If it is my purpose to understand, then let me roll up my sleeves and get to work; the task is for each and every moment, in the most commonplace situations, not just for putting on a splendid show at the podium. What shall be my rules for daily living? How am I to treat my neighbor? When do I know if my efforts have been successful?
The intellectual is inclined to wind himself up, and to get all tied up in knots, which really is a sort of madness, a frenzy of wishing for the reality to conform to his preferences and moods. We are made to be in harmony with Nature, not to hide away in the narcissism of our opinions.
But where do I look to find this elusive measure? What can I ever know beyond how I feel at the moment? How am I expected to distinguish black from white in a world so full of grey? Why am I worrying about problems that obviously have no solutions?
While the philosophers should busy themselves with a pursuit of the true, the good, and the beautiful, however imperfect our perceptions might be, the sophists will assure us that we have no need for such abstractions. In the most refined manner, they offer us an excuse for dodging our responsibilities, by drawing into question the very contrast between right and wrong.
Wherever you find relativism, you will also find skepticism, for a rejection of objective meaning relies upon denying a knowledge of what is real. But while we should always be wary of hasty absolutes, and carefully develop a healthy sense of doubt, there is a grave danger of throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
In almost every case I have encountered, subjectivism, so prevalent in modernity, is a form of psychological escape, not an argument of philosophical discipline. Observe the blatant contradictions in the usual platitudes: How can I know that nothing can be known? How can everything be relative, if there no absolute by which it is judged? How can I make a supposedly objective claim that all awareness is merely subjective?
Despite the pedantic objections, there is no profound mystery, no metaphysical complexity, in establishing a measure for life. Any sort of proof is built upon self-evident first principles, the immediate facts presented to us in every act of experience. From the moment I am conscious, it is not only apparent that I am a being who thinks, but also that there is content to the world I am thinking about. The effect of an appearance proceeds from a cause within nature.
I don’t need to be a rocket scientist, or even a phenomenologist, to make some sense of this. Who I am, and what I am meant for, are inherent in my human identity. How odd it would be to say that the meaning of life is to have no meaning! It makes for inscrutable poetry, but not for sober philosophy.
If it is my purpose to understand, then let me roll up my sleeves and get to work; the task is for each and every moment, in the most commonplace situations, not just for putting on a splendid show at the podium. What shall be my rules for daily living? How am I to treat my neighbor? When do I know if my efforts have been successful?
The intellectual is inclined to wind himself up, and to get all tied up in knots, which really is a sort of madness, a frenzy of wishing for the reality to conform to his preferences and moods. We are made to be in harmony with Nature, not to hide away in the narcissism of our opinions.
—Reflection written in 8/2001
IMAGE" Albrecht Dürer, The Doubting Thomas (c. 1510)
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