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Dr. Adler's Briefing Room - 1 |
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Many of Dr. Adler's books are available through The Radical Academy Bookstore. Books
by Mortimer J.
Adler
The Center for the Study of The Great Ideas Click Here for New & Used College Textbooks at Discount Prices Click
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Index:
Ultimately there can be no disagreement between history, science, philosophy, and theology. Where there is disagreement, there is either ignorance or error. Each of these four major branches of seeking knowledge of reality have different OBJECTS of study, and different METHODS of inquiry. Even within the individual sciences for example; astronomy can answer questions and refute answers about the celestial bodies and their movements, but it cannot answer questions or refute answers about anthropology and vice versa. Only when one branch either becomes imperialistic or prejudicially ignores another branches findings do these problems arise. For example (in brief): HISTORY - Its OBJECT is the past. Its METHOD is research utilizing testimony, documents, and remains. SCIENCE - Its OBJECT is phenomena and their appearances. Its METHOD is observation, investigation and/or experimentation--reason serves the senses. It describes the facts. PHILOSOPHY - Its OBJECT is reality and causes. Its METHOD is reflective--senses serve reason. It provides an understanding of the facts. RELIGION - Its OBJECT is ultimate mysteries. Its METHOD is receptive--reason serves revelation. It accepts and believes. The knowledge we can derive from science and history, are limited to first-order knowledge by their investigative mode of inquiry. They are incapable of enlarging our understanding by the second-order work, or philosophical analysis, with respect to ideas and all branches of knowledge. Without the contributions made by philosophy, we would be left with voids that science and history cannot fill. Even in the one sphere in which the contributions of science and philosophy are comparable--our knowledge of reality- philosophy, because it is noninvestigative, can answer questions that are beyond the reach of investigative science--questions that are more profound and penetrating than any questions answerable by science. By virtue of its being investigative, science is limited to the experienceable world of physical nature. Philosophical thought can extend its inquiries into transempirical reality. It is philosophy, not science, that takes the overall view. Furthermore, when there is an apparent conflict between science and philosophy, it is to philosophy that we must turn for the resolution. Science cannot provide it. When scientists such as Einstein, Bohr, and Heisenberg become involved with mixed questions, they must philosophize. They cannot discuss these questions merely as scientists; the principles for the statement and solution of such problems come from philosophy, not from science. For all these reasons, I think we are compelled to regard the contributions of philosophy as having greater value for us than the contributions of science. I say this even though we must all gratefully acknowledge the benefits that science and its technological applications confer upon us. The power that science gives us over our environment, health, and lives can, as we all know, be either misused and misdirected, or used with good purpose and results. Without the prescriptive knowledge given us by ethical and political philosophy, we have no guidance in the use of that power, directing it to the ends of a good life and a good society. The more power science and technology confer upon us, the more dangerous and malevolent that power may become unless its use is checked and guided by moral obligations stemming from our philosophical knowledge of how we ought to conduct our lives and our society.
This quote is from a chapter on Philosophy's Past from Dr. Adler's book "The Four Dimensions of Philosophy." Hopefully it will shed light on some of the issues we have been discussed. "The second unfortunate result can, with equally good reason, be called "suicidal psychologizing." Like the first, it is also a retreat from reality. Where the first is a retreat from the reality of the knowledge that we actually do have, the second is a retreat from the reality of the world to be known. Modern idealism begins with Kant. It is the worst of the modern errors in philosophy. What I mean by "suicidal psychologizing" is sometimes less picturesquely described as "the way of ideas," fathered by Descartes, but given its most unfortunate effects by the so-called British empiricists--Locke, Berkeley, and Hume--who made the psychologizing of common experience the whole of philosophy and substituted that for the use of common experience as a test of the soundness of philosophical theories or conclusions about the experienced world. The psychologizing of common experience deserves to be called suicidal; for, in effect, it cuts away the very ground on which the philosopher stands. It makes experience subjective, rather than objective. I need not dwell here on the far-reaching consequences of this fundamental substantive error--the subjectivism and the solipsism that resulted from proceeding in this way, together with all the skeptical excesses that it led to, and the epistemological puzzles and paradoxes that confronted those who tried to hold onto the most obvious features of our experience after they had been psychologized into myths or illusions. Starting from Locke's fundamental error and carrying it to all its logical conclusions, later philosophers--first Berkeley and Hume, then the phenomenalists and logical empiricists of the twentieth century--reached results that they or others had enough common sense to recognize as absurd; but though many have deplored the resulting puzzles and paradoxes, no one seems to have recognized that the only remedy for the effects thus produced lies in removing the cause, by correcting Locke's original error, the error of treating ideas as "that which" we apprehend instead of "that by which". It is this error that makes our common experience subjective rather than objective--introspectively observable, which it is not. I turn now to the second major disorder of philosophy in modern times--the emulation of science and mathematics. This begins in the seventeenth century. It can be discerned in Francis Bacon and Thomas Hobbes, as well as in Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz. Beginning then, it runs through the following centuries right down to the present day. The philosophers of the seventeenth century, misled by their addiction to "episteme", looked upon mathematics as the most perfect achievement of knowledge, and tried to "perfect" philosophy by mathematicizing it. This was done in different ways by Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz, but the effect upon philosophy was the same--the frustration of trying to achieve a precision of terminology and a rigor of demonstration that are appropriate in mathematics, but inappropriate in philosophy as an attempt to answer first order questions about reality--about that which is and happens in the world or about what ought to be done and sought."
Let me begin by saying what seminar questioning and discussion is not. It is not a quiz session in which a moderator asks questions and says right or wrong to the answers. It is not a lecture in disguise in which the moderator asks questions and, after a brief pause or after listening to one or two unsatisfactory responses, then proceeds to answer his own questions at length, thus in effect giving a lecture that is punctuated by the questions asked. It is not a symposium or glorified "bull session" in which everyone feels equally free to express opinions on the level of personal prejudices or to recount experiences that the narrator of them regards as highly significant of something or other. None of the foregoing counterfeits of the seminar provides the kind of learning that a seminar should afford when it is properly conducted by questions and answers and by the discussion of their significance. Another prerequisite is the state of mind that the participants bring to the seminar. It should be both open and docile. The participants should be prepared to change their minds as a result of the discussion in which they engage. You should be open to views that are new to you. You should be docile in considering such new views, neither stubbornly resistant to something you have never thought of before nor passively submissive. The virtue of docility (teachability) which is the cardinal virtue in all forms of learning, should predispose you to examine new views before you adopt or reject them and also to be openly receptive of them for the sake of examining them. The task of the moderator is threefold: 1) to ask a series of questions that control the discussion and give it direction; 2) to examine the answers by trying to evoke the reasons for them or the implications they have; and 3) to engage the participants in two-way talk with one another when the views they have advanced appear to be in conflict. That kind of learning stems ultimately from the questions the moderator asks. They should be questions that raise issues; questions that raise further questions when first answers are given to them; questions that can seldom be answered simply by Yes or No; hypothetical questions that present suppositions the implications or consequences of which are to be examined; questions that are complex and have many related parts, to be taken up in an orderly manner. Above all, the moderator must make sure that the questions he asks are listened to and understood, that they are not merely taken as signals for the person who is queried to respond by saying whatever is on his or her mind, whether or not it is a relevant answer to the question asked. All this requires intense activity and great expenditure of energy on the part of both moderators and participants. It should go without saying that it also calls upon both moderators and participants to speak intently and to listen as clearly as possible. Neither should put up with half-minded listening. Neither should rest content with statements that appear to be generally acceptable without also seeking for the reasons that underlie them or the consequences that flow from their truth. The seminar serves the purpose of continued learning by mature persons, long after they have left school. Without this no one can expect to become an educated person no matter how much or how good the schooling he had while immature.
A word about myself as an author. I spent about thirty years in universities, teaching experimental psychology at Columbia University and philosophy at the University of Chicago, as well as conducting seminars on the great books that are central to philosophical thought. Both before and after leaving academia, I have written a large number of philosophical books. With one exception, those written up through 1976 were still to a certain extent academic. Though my intention was to deal with difficult philosophical questions in a manner that was thoroughly accessible to the general reader, I did not learn how to do that effectively until after 1976. In addition, I must confess that until that time I still thought I could manage to write books that would be not only intelligible to the general reader, but also might win the attention and respect of my former academic colleagues--professors of philosophy in our universities. Through painful experience, I finally came to realize that that double-barreled aim was impossible to achieve. Beginning with a book entitled "Aristotle for Everybody", all the philosophical books I have written since 1977 have been aimed only at the general reader, with no concern whatsoever for the academic audience. I am not at all dismayed to report that my lack of interest in gaining the attention and respect of professors of philosophy has been met by an equal lack of attention on their part to the books I have written. At the same time, I am pleased to report that those books have managed to attract an ever-widening circle of general readers who are interested in basic ideas and fundamental issues. I have succeeded in writing about difficult subjects and thorny problems in a manner intelligible to them. Though none has become a best-seller to the extent achieved by "How to Read a Book" in 1940, most of them have reached a substantial audience.
Dr. Adler often speaks of "common sense" . . . How does common sense compare to wisdom? Can a man have wisdom and lack common sense? Could you point me in the right direction? Response: Your letter affords us the opportunity to clarify a common misunderstanding about common sense. And no, we do not believe that it is possible for one to be wise and lack common sense. Wisdom is the goal, and the utilization of common sense is a crucial means towards that end. In our everyday conversations, we say or hear someone say, "that person just does not have any common sense" or "that young woman really has a lot of common sense." This use of the term, common sense, refers to the sound or unsound judgments or actions of particular individuals. However, this is not the same "sense" that is meant when it is used by philosophers. When philosophers use the compound "common sense," the word common is used as "communal" meaning shared by all men everywhere at all times and places regardless of their backgrounds; the word sense is used as "experiences" and/or "opinions" commonly shared by mankind. Here are two quotes that should shed further light on this matter. The first quote is from Harvard University Professor George Santayana's book, "Skepticism and Animal Faith" (1923): "I think that common sense, in a rough dogged way, is technically sounder than the special schools of philosophy, each of which squints and overlooks half the facts and half the difficulties in its eagerness to find in some detail the key to the whole. I am animated by distrust of all high guesses, and by sympathy with the old prejudices and workaday opinions of mankind: they are ill expressed, but they are well grounded." The second quote is from Dr. Adler, from his book entitled "The Time of Our Lives: The Ethics of Common Sense" (1970): "The distinctive method of philosophical inquiry involves reliance on the common experience of mankind, and an appeal to it as the test of the validity of philosophical theories, either about what is and happens in the world or about what men ought to seek and do. It also involves an assessment of the validity of commonsense answers to the kind of questions for answering for which common experience by itself is adequate, no additional empirical evidence or investigation being needed. Philosophy thus conceived is a development of the insights already possessed by the man of common sense in the light of common experience; it is a development that adds clarifying analytical distinctions, the precise definition of terms, the reinforcement of systematic reasoning, and the critical exploration of problems to which no satisfactory solution is yet available. The philosophical knowledge achieved by these additions confirms, even as it elaborates, the commonsense wisdom one need not be a philosopher to possess.
Since the object of your efforts seems to be involving more people in "The Great Conversation," here is a philosophical question that pertains to our elected officials: in our Republic, we as citizens elect our representatives. Should those representatives enact policies that reflect the opinions of their constituents or their own conscience? Response: This vexing question has been the concern of citizens and philosophers alike. Due to the growth in size and population of our Republic, the direct participation by citizens has become too cumbrous. These historical and political developments have given rise to this issue, which as your letter indicates, is still with us. On the one hand, it has been suggested that elected representatives should use their own judgment in voting on the issues. On the other hand, it has been thought that they should follow the will of the majority of their constituents. Neither view seems satisfactory -- one gives them total independence from their constituents and the other makes them mere emissaries. A compromise between these two extremes seems in order: representatives should exercise their own judgment, as their election to office ought to be based on their competence, their ability to get things done and their understanding of the issues, while at the same time taking the views held by their constituents into consideration. While the representatives have the freedom of choice in deciding what is best under the circumstances, they must remain aware that their constituents are ultimately empowered to remove them from office if their grievances are persistently ignored.
Dear Dr. Adler: At best, it seems like we only ever have partial knowledge. How then, or when, can we ever consider ourselves to have sufficient knowledge to get, or shape a conclusion? How can just a "part" ever grasp a portion of the "whole?" Response: The word "knowledge" has the connotation of truth; in fact, it is inseparable from it. There cannot be false knowledge, as there can be false opinions and beliefs. The phrase "true knowledge" is redundant; the phrase "false knowledge" is self-contradictory. With this in mind, the pursuit of truth in all branches of organized knowledge involves (1) the addition of new truths to the body of settled or established truths already achieved, (2) the replacement of less accurate or less comprehensive formulations by better ones, (3) the discovery of errors or inadequacies together with the rectification of judgments found erroneous or otherwise at fault, and (4) the discarding of generalizations--or of hypotheses and theories -- that have been falsified by negative instances. By all such steps, singly or together, the sphere of truths agreed upon enlarges and comes closer to being the whole truth. We may have to live for a long time with disagreements that cannot be easily resolved. That should not cause us to regard them as permanently tolerable. Unanimous agreement is the appropriate condition of the human mind with regard to anything that is a matter of truth.
The most important rule about reading is one that I have told at my great books seminars again and again: In reading a difficult book for the first time, read the book through without stopping. Pay attention to what you can understand, and don't be stopped by what you can't immediately grasp on this way. Read the book through undeterred by the paragraphs, footnotes, arguments, and references that escape you. If you stop at any of these stumbling blocks, if you let yourself get stalled, you are lost. In most cases you won't be able to puzzle the thing out by sticking to it. You have better chance of understanding it on a second reading, but that requires you to read the book through for the first time. This is the most practical method I know to break the crust of a book, to get the feel and general sense of it, and to come to terms with its structure as quickly and as easily as possible. The longer you delay in getting some sense of the over-all plan of a book, the longer you are in understanding it. You simply must have some grasp of the whole before you can see the parts in their true perspective -- or often in any perspective at all. Shakespeare was spoiled for generations of high-school students who were forced to go through Julius Caesar, Hamlet, or Macbeth scene by scene, to look up all the words that were new to them, and to study all the scholarly footnotes. As a result, they never actually read the play. Instead they were dragged through it, bit by bit, over a period of many weeks. By the time they got to the end of the play, they had surely forgotten the beginning. They should have been encouraged to read the play in one sitting. Only then would they have understood enough of it to make it possible for them to understand more. What you understand by reading a book through to the end -- even if it is only fifty per cent or less will help you later in making the additional effort to go back to places you passed by on your first reading. Actually you will be proceeding like any traveler in unknown parts. Having been over the terrain once, you will be able to explore it again from points you could not have known about before. You will be less likely to mistake the side roads for the main highway. You won't be deceived by the shadows at high noon because you will remember how they looked at sunset. And the mental map you have fashioned will show better how the valleys and mountains are all part of one landscape. There is nothing magical about a first quick reading. It cannot work wonders and should certainly never be thought of as a substitute for the careful reading that a good book deserves. But a first quick reading makes the careful study much easier. This practice helps you to keep alert in going at a book. How many times have you daydreamed your way through pages and pages only to wake up with no idea of the ground you have been over? That can't help happening if you let yourself drift passively through a book. No one even understands much that way. You must have a way of getting a general thread to hold onto. A good reader is active in his efforts to understand. Any book is a problem, a puzzle. The reader's attitude is that of a detective looking for clues to its basic ideas and alert for anything that will make them clearer. The rule about a first quick reading helps to sustain this attitude. If you follow it, you will be surprised how much time you will save, how much more you will grasp, and how much easier it will be.
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The Adler Archive Index |
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