The Gibraltar
Dialogues: A Philosophy for the Space Age by John Blackmore (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1980). 239 pages.
Reviewed by William
B. Allen*
Man makes himself and never is anything but the
creature making himself. This is a premise which one may choose to question (as
I surely would). Nevertheless, I believe that it is the single critical and
unqualified premise of The Gibraltar
Dialogues. I intend by raising it here,
therefore, to discuss Dr. Blackmore’s book in the manner of a consideration of
that premise. Yet, at the very beginning, it is preferable to note the immense
value of the dialogues in a broader context.
Modern science, its spirit of mastery, emerged
partly out of frustration with the puerile search for a true Janus-cord, an
actual means of resolving heterogeneity into homogeneity without mediating
qualifications. Its spirit, for a time, was the mistaken spirit of lassitude
with the idea that to reduce nature to its principles was the same thing as to
render nature non-problematic. The spirit of modern science aimed to build on a
realistic, cold-blooded view of the human situation and the natural world. The
universe did not require to be hospitable to man. He could look out for
himself, so long as the universe was regular. The spirit of mastery originally
confronted a problematic if impotent nature, at least where man was concerned.
Just as modern science was frustrated by the spirit
of antiquity, Dr. Blackmore seems frustrated by the spirit of modern science.
That it jettisoned the idea that something might be right by nature—a right not
made by man, individuals or society—does not trouble him. The problem is that
the spirit of modern science could not resist turning its powerful tools
against itself, as it has turned them against every natural realm; it abandoned
not just natural right but right itself. And what is left? History, or less.
The spirit of modern science so qualifies every prospect of homogeneity in the
universe as to raise heterogeneity to a principle.
The Gibraltar Dialogues, then, offer to restore hope, to restore a spirit
of happy achievement—a pulling it all back together. The book must be praised
for its clear depiction of the stereotyped but too true characters of
contemporary philosophical postures. It must also be praised for suggesting a
new foundation of modern education, tutored by the spirit of antiquity if
dedicated to the future. Jiro, the hero, provides a special invention by means
of which we gain access to this possibility; that is volition. Before examining
it, however, we must also note that Blackmore’s education schema has merit
independent of its place within the drama. He retains the emphasis on action or
practice which characterizes the ancient spirit, but he simultaneously subjects
it to systematic methods of ultimate justification the very rigor of which lays
a foundation for the priority of philosophy. In short, he outlines an education
in which nothing is given and nothing is permitted short of full clarity but
which nevertheless intends to be grounds for action. As an ideal it could lead
to an understanding of an alternative for our world.
To
consider Jiro’s scheme of education within the context of the drama means
really to deal with his attempt to define philosophy and its ultimate reliance
upon the invention, volition. Volition, of course, is not new. It is an
invention in Jiro’s hands only because of its employment as a tool of
philosophical and epistemological distinction. Volitional reference is the
device that separates the “space age philosophy” from the lame philosophies of
phenomenalism, idealism, and versions of realism. Its power? It permits reference to what is neither
“empirical nor conscious.” It is, in
fact, the chief instrument for ferreting out “our most basic assumptions,” the
true work of philosophy—first order philosophy—for Jiro.
We will return to the philosophical question in a
moment. It must be noted, however, that volition is an invention in another
sense. Precisely because, for Jiro, philosophy is a guide for action, volition retains
its traditional reference to doing—the act of will. It is, in fact, the status
of volition as the source of thinking and doing which is critical. Thus,
Jiro’s “volition” is also the foundation for a new approximation to
“right”—acting on “our best understanding.”
Properly tutored, man may marshal his volition as the basis of ultimate
purpose and informed guidance for action. In this sense, volition is a faculty
beyond thinking or intellect and appetite. It is in that sense an invention
(Jiro never confuses it with soul or spirit)—a transconscious state of mind, an
undefined function—which organizes the mind for action (cf. pages 217-220
especially).
Having established this much, we are prepared to
consider the important premise of The
Gibraltar Dialogues: man
makes himself. I do not mean to seem
reductionist by focusing on this. I think that this approach is not
reductionist. It is legitimated by the poet himself, in the voice of his
principle character:
“Jiro: . . . Have your forgotten the qualifications
I put on ultimate purpose? Let me remind
you of some. Do I know what it is? No.
Are my approximations infallible?
No. Would I force them on
anyone? No. Do I believe in censorship?
No. . .”
What, then, is the foundation of this adaptation of
Vaihinger’s “as if” apparatus? Just this: As man makes himself, he might just
as well adopt the rule of reason, “his best understanding,” and act as if he
were or were going to be something worth making. Within the hard core of a certain
but perhaps indifferent universe man is the uncertain being straining to ground
himself in eternity.
This is a paradoxical and perhaps ironic result of
Jiro’s philosophy. The reason for “as if” is the uncertainty of the universe,
an uncertainty modern science broke away from by splintering scientia
into fragments of understanding and disguising the void under forms of certainty. Jiro, on
the other hand, deals with the same uncertainty by proposing a new wedding of
what was originally only the supposed division of understanding into
metaphysics, ontology, and epistemology: moral philosophy or ethics, and
political philosophy: empiricism, and psychology. But Jiro does not promise the
salvation itself. How could he, given the qualifications noted above? What he
does ultimately seek is that all should have “the freedom to become
overwhelmingly absorbed in long or sustained spiritual concern . . .
freedom from emotional dependence on everything unworthy, be it personal,
social, political, economic, or anything else . . . What is most spiritual? . .
. Wonder, curiosity, and the search for truth.” (page 210).
Does one wonder how the search for truth acquires
any value in an uncertain universe? Naturally. The end, therefore, is less the
truth than the test of truth which, for Jiro, is still the method of science,
albeit purged of suicidal tendencies. Like the modern science whose desiccated
spirit of positivism Jiro abhors, his own theory proposes a test of public
acceptability which alone can justify his efforts. No mountain top philosophy
is this. That makes it in reality a political philosophy. And Jiro is a most
political man. Still, and again like
modern science, he does not concede the power of genuine political decision,
holding fast to the faith that agreed upon methods of scientific appraisal can
provide all needed authority (page 203). This but begs the question whether
science is compatible with the human good. A science which denies that that is
a meaningful question may succeed in stifling discussion; it
can never advance the cause of truth.
Only consider the traditional case of modern
positivism, which has insisted that mathematical expression alone raises a
question subject to serious (verifiable or falsifiable, it makes no real
difference) response. Kojève captured it fully:
Il n’est pas scientifique d’admettre l’existence du
savoir (discursif) absolu que la prétendue philosophie non ou pré-scientifique recherchait sous le nom de “sagesse.” Quant à la philosophie véritable or scientifique, elle n’est rien d’autre ni
de plus que l’affirmation (rigoureusement, c’est à dire scientifiquement or mathématiquement démonstrée) que la soi-disant philosophie non scientifique
(ou “naïve”) est partout et toujours impossible, vu qu’elle n’est qu’une
recherché ou une quête de quelque chose qui ne se trouve et ne s’acquiert nulle part ni
jamais.” (page 48 of the “Introduction”
to Essai d’une histoire raisonnée de la philosophie paienne.)
Jiro,
to be sure, opposes this spirit of modern science but, and here is
the key, continues to rely on the same foundation, at least as far as I can
discern. We
may better capture the source of Jiro’s dilemma—that he needs but does not wish
to renounce modern science—if we reformulate that dilemma as a confrontation
between the recalcitrant and the orthodox, borrowing the informality or
language authorized by the dialogues.
The point is that
philosophy understood as mere science is alienated from political life—the true
ground of human hope. This may be revealed even in considering the most
technical of questions, since only a matter of definition separates the
scientific speech from all other (including some true) speech. Presumably, this
observation might be mathematized. But I choose not to do so, and I submit that
no one can present any compelling reason that I should do so.
Now
here is the point. If I fail to make my observation in mathematical terms, what
is risked—barring the possibility that I have some specific purpose other than
to be understood? Nothing at all, if my risk is meant. As for my auditor, his
refusal to accept my observation entails by definition the possibility that he
may refuse to believe what, in fact, he ought to have believed. The risk is his
alone, not that of the speaker who claims some knowledge. The speaker need not
doubt his worth or existence, so long as he does not depend on the
“intersubjective transmissibility of knowledge”—the mathematization of observation—to confirm his own grasp of truth.
He avoids the ego split—the trap of modern rationalism. What?
It
is entirely the speaker’s option to express his observation in mathematics or
words (e.g., Plato’s Timaeus). In
either case the expression will
be understood (presupposing its rejection as non-scientific by this hearer),
and it may or may not be the speaker’s concern whether it is accepted. Insofar
as he feels it must be accepted before he can think or know himself to have
said something, the validation of his worth or existence depends on his hearer.
The so-called ego is split apart from being. The scientist, that is, the being,
which clearly is, cannot be conscious that it is, and certainly not in the only
meaningful sense, that it is as it ought to be. The two senses comprise the
so-called ego.
No
scientist, mathematically speaking, can be sure of his worth or existence as
such except insofar as it is confirmed by others (whether in truth or in
error). It is not, then, an accident that no man qua scientist can maintain his every thought and action in a
scientific manner: whether for positivism, whether for Jiro. That is radical
ego separation. That is to be totally without consciousness of being. Neither
is it surprising that there are so many positivists and so few existentialists.
Radical ego separation is the logical conclusion of positivism. Few are capable
of thinking so well as to achieve radical ego separation. For most it is the
very inability to become existentialist that permits the notion that an ego
split in some areas has even the appearance of value or utility.
That is the spirit of modern morality. Such men
maintain their doctrine only because they cannot wholly practice it. They are
incapable of thinking beyond it. They choose only because they cannot not
choose. Their choice is not rational choice, Jiro, it is rationalism,
determinism. Rationalism is existentialism pulled up short, in-determinism
abandoned half-way. It is not rational.
It is a mistake to consider the important question
to be, how best to represent nature. The important question is how best to
represent man. He, then, who refuses to accept an observation about man merely
because it is not mathematized rationalistically runs the unreasonable risk of
never believing what he ought perhaps to believe because true. The observer as
such runs no risk at all, save that of not convincing his auditor—which really
is no risk unless his aim is to convince. But such an aim has no compelling
rational status; for purposes of mere persuasion truth, in itself, is not
necessary.
The necessity to represent man as the being capable
of and requiring to be persuaded by reason cannot be generated by hypothetical
reasoning. This accounts for the peculiar status of political philosophy as the
mother of knowledges. Establishing the relevance of truth is ever a derivative
phenomenon, dependent upon political authorization. The problem, then, is to
know politics, while all the time being subject to it. Every other truth is
subsequent to this. It seems to me that philosophy in the space age must
encounter precisely the identical conditions of philosophy in the prior age.
Consider, then, the way we look upon politics. We
take it as problematic—some of us from the habit of thinking that way, others
from the habit of not thinking. Rarely, a man might actually understand
politics as problematic; that is, might fully understand and convey the nature
of politics. When we commonly try to understand the non-problematic, the
intrinsic or the necessary, we shortly discover—when looking at man—how
politics shades everything, including the apparently non-problematic (procreation,
or the activity or the DNA molecule is another good example).
Then we say that we must understand these things in
political terms, because politics deals with them (When does life begin?). But
this is an error. This is to see politics grafted onto or shading a world of
otherwise simple and clear verities. According to Aristotle, that which is
simple and clear (what occurs without the necessity of choice or decision) is
precisely the non-political, the necessary in the sense of will happen because
it must happen. There is also a sense of the necessary which ought to happen
but may not happen. Hence, procreation may be necessary in the first sense,
while a certain kind of procreation (let us say that kind associated with
eugenics) may be necessary in the second sense. Only the latter is political—a
result of deliberation, reasoning and choice with respect to the good and the
bad. The choice may well affect what appears a wholly non-political impulse.
What it truly affects is the end. That is the difference between the base and
the noble. Politics rationalizes the irrational.
This does not require that men are equally rational
or that each can be brought to live rationally (the life according to reason as
his own reason discloses it). It does require that the optimal political order
be rational, and that all men might be brought to live rationally in the sense
of participating in the rational order by virtue of being trained to the good
life. Now, here we can see that those firstly necessary impulses are made yet more necessary by receiving the
secondly necessary order that organizes them. Look at it in that unnatural sex
for pleasure—granting nature, as it is now seen, as the status of things
unaffected by man. If, on the other hand, nature inheres in things, in
particular the specific end of specific things, then replacing random procreation
(Does procreation intend to produce that best fitted to survive, which is to
say, to survive well?) by selective procreation may well be seen as very
natural. And the elimination of the random by-product of sexual intercourse
(limiting sex to pleasure—the specific by-product) may well be the way of
achieving this most natural end. But that is not what we mean by nature today.
All these reflections, Jiro, point to the radical
position of the body. It is here, simply, by nature; that is very clear.
Politics is necessarily concerned with it. This, too, by nature. But the
concern of politics with the body is only secondary; the status or condition of
the body affects the human possibility of happiness. Now happiness is sensible
only to the soul, and it is the soul that makes the body a particular body
rather than just any or everybody. Hence, the soul’s sensibility is radically
connected with the condition of the body (which means the body’s
sensibilities or impulses), so that the body’s condition cannot be allowed to
be determined randomly, if it is true that there is some specific condition of
the soul that is aimed for. This is easy to understand if we think of the cat
eating ground beef (cow) and yet, remaining a cat. It is because there is a
soul that aims at a specific condition that this body is not one day a cat,
another, a cow, and still another, a fish. We can all agree that politics
presupposes some such specific condition, whether we agree with Aristotle that
there is a soul or not. Thus, we must also agree that a randomized condition of
the body is not only non-political (which it would be), but anti-political,
which we cannot permit it to be. Our
problem, of course, is that governing the body (as you choose the emotions) is
frequently indistinguishable to sight from being governed by the body.
For
politics truly to reflect deliberation and decision, then, it must be capable
of taking that which is sub-political or non-political or random or
non-deliberative or non-chosen and submitting it to the rule of reason.
Politics cannot create the impulses or call them into existence, but it can
govern them. This is the reason one learns nothing to study the sub-political impulses.
It is how they are governed that makes the difference—and the fact that they
can be that makes politics possible. Need I say, too, that this alone makes the
question of the way in which man represents nature and himself germane? It is
here, then, that we see that the study of politics or human affairs differs
from the study of all other things (but nonetheless establishes the foundation
of all other studies). It is one thing to know that man engages in sexual
intercourse; it is quite another to know how he ought to do so and even how he
thinks he ought to do so.
The
latter puzzle, the principal question and, therefore, the great problem, is the
question whether these two studies differ in form as well as in subject. It is
a further complication, that all study commences by virtue of politics (and, in
a sense, in behalf of politics). So we ask whether, in fact, any knowledge, qua
knowledge (that is, independent of politics) is at all and if so, whether only
in conflict or tension with the realm of opinion—the realm of politics. Our
answer to this query will determine the fate of The Gibraltar Dialogues.
I could summarize the import of these remarks by
reminding the reader that the dialogues pose no lesser objective for themselves
than to establish reason within the temple of unreason. The philosopher-king is
no less their recourse than Plato’s Republic. The problem, too, is the same. The impotence of truth is not
merely a malady of the many. The king-philosopher achieved its absolute
expression in Marx, the philosopher so much earnest for the truth that he was
literally unable to distinguish truth and falsehood, as he could not
distinguish thinking and doing. Might not the “transconscious state of mind”
err in the same direction?
Philosophers lie—deceive—in order to bring
reluctant humans to truths they least wish to know. Philosophers—above all,
lying philosophers—are earnest for truth and optimistic about its benefit for
mankind. This is already a sufficient indictment of their insufficiency as philosophers.
Jiro was not unmindful of Nietzsche. But did he understand that Nietzsche loved
truth as much as he? Nietzsche tried valiantly never to lie—always to tell the
truth—but finally fell into line behind the lie that the truth could bring
humans to an era of superheroes. Make no mistake: This means, in the end, that
Nietzsche was an optimist, no less than Jiro. People are not interested in
knowing the truth; that has been known, or at least knowable, for a long time
now. Nor is there any advantage for human in truth. If one wants to hide this,
he need only declare it openly. Man will avoid to see it.
Claremont,
CA 91711