Memory, of course, is not a trivial or isolated act, and therefore truth or falsity in descriptions of memory will have consequences for large reaches of our philosophical theory. Memory at least purports to give us our only direct knowledge of the past. And our only indirect knowledge of the past, through inference, must credit some memories somewhere. If then our knowledge of the past is vitiated, what remains of our knowledge of the present, or our expectations for the future? (...) But if memory lives up to its pretentions of acquainting us with the past, then what sort of world is it where an existent mind now can become directly acquainted with what is no more existent, but passed away? What in other words, are the ontological presuppositions of the act of memory? (shrink)

Heidegger, Sartre and the later existentialist philosophers inherited a world, it has been said, from which "God is absent". Contemporary philosophy begins in the momentous questioning of the Christian experience by such nineteenth-century figures as Nietzsche and Dosteyevsky. But if existentialism is in some respects a beginning-again, it is in other respects linked to the classical world out of which Christianity arose and to certain themes in the writings of ancient and medieval Christians. Renewal and innovation converge. Addressing themselves to (...) the general reader, the three author-philosophers consider both the contemporary and the perennial. [Book jacket]. (shrink)

Heidegger, Sartre and the later existentialist philosophers inherited a world, it has been said, from which "God is absent". Contemporary philosophy begins in the momentous questioning of the Christian experience by such nineteenth-century figures as Nietzsche and Dosteyevsky. But if existentialism is in some respects a beginning-again, it is in other respects linked to the classical world out of which Christianity arose and to certain themes in the writings of ancient and medieval Christians. Renewal and innovation converge. Addressing themselves to (...) the general reader, the three author-philosophers consider both the contemporary and the perennial. [Book jacket]. (shrink)

A noted professor at Northwestern University provides new insights into God, creation, the world, and human emotion.

On the other hand nothing could be more evident than that we have very few such fully explicit objects before our minds. It would be a fine point in metaphysics to determine whether any objects are fully explicit, so clear and distinct that there is nothing more to them than what appears, and, if there are any such objects, which ones they are. Obviously most of the things we know hover between clarity and obscurity; we know something of them, but (...) often only enough to know that there is much more to know. The problem of knowledge then for an existing mind consists not so much in reflecting upon what it does know and rejoicing in its clarity, as it does in making what it knows vaguely or implicitly as clear and explicit as the occasion requires. Theory of knowledge therefore must locate itself in the chiaroscuro of our actual situation. (shrink)

The I in the reflectively revealed "I think" has had, as we all know, a rather checkered career. For Descartes, it was a "thinking substance". For Kant it was a "transcendental unity of apperception," an empty, formal unifying function whose occupation was a priori synthesis, and which was sharply distinguished from anything which might be called a "soul." With Husserl the pure I was again an empty, formal source of all intentionalities, a pure transparency devoid of depth; at least this (...) was Husserl at the epoch of the Ideen I, although the Cartesian Meditations altered the matter in fundamental respects. But there has always been an opposing body of philosophers, empiricists, and now existentialists, for whom there is no I at all within consciousness; the Cartesian cogito ergo sum demonstrates, they maintain, only that "there is thinking," an impersonal stream of conscious acts which need no I as their source or support. And finally, there is a third group which holds that while there is most certainly an I, it is not formal, nor empty nor even fully transparent to itself; it has certain depths which are not accessible to its own direct reflection but can be "felt" or "touched" in certain experiences which engage the ego in its totality, or which shatter its own thin picture of itself. Jaspers and Marcel belong to this group. And so, while we began with a certitude, I think, we find at last that both the existence and character of this most certain of all things are questionable, or at least have been questioned. I propose then to reexamine the question, first briefly to ascertain that there is indeed an I or thinking subject; and then more extensively to follow certain clues as to its character in depth. (shrink)

Epicurus, though popularly and indeed nominally associated with a doctrine advocating the procurement of rather expensive pleasure, lived very simply in his garden with a circle of friends. The 14th of his Sovran Maxims or Cardinal Tenets (kuriai doxai), as collected by Diogenes Laertius, reads: ‘When tolerable security against our fellowmen is attained, then on a basis of power sufficient to afford support and of material prosperity arises in most genuine form the security of a quiet private life withdrawn from (...) the multitude’ R. D. Hicks, the translator, gives, as an alternative to ‘power sufficient to afford support’, ‘power to expel’, but on either reading, we are to think of Epicurus's garden, both the real place and the conceptualized, or tropologized, topos of wisdom and earthly felicity, as enclosed and exclusive. This enclosure, exclusivity, and—what is also implied—abstention of its inmates from participation in the affairs of state are given apophthegmatic expression in ‘Live hidden!’ We contemplate this adage, or slogan, from an enormous cultural distance and, for most of us, ‘Live hidden!’ is much more likely to trigger secondary reflections about the relations between ethics and politics, private and public, perfection of self and improvement of the world, than it is to constitute an actual, or potential, piece of advice we might think about whether, and how, to follow. (shrink)

Epicurus, though popularly and indeed nominally associated with a doctrine advocating the procurement of rather expensive pleasure, lived very simply in his garden with a circle of friends. The 14th of his Sovran Maxims or Cardinal Tenets , as collected by Diogenes Laertius, reads: ‘When tolerable security against our fellowmen is attained, then on a basis of power sufficient to afford support and of material prosperity arises in most genuine form the security of a quiet private life withdrawn from the (...) multitude’ R. D. Hicks, the translator, gives, as an alternative to ‘power sufficient to afford support’, ‘power to expel’, but on either reading, we are to think of Epicurus's garden, both the real place and the conceptualized, or tropologized, topos of wisdom and earthly felicity, as enclosed and exclusive. This enclosure, exclusivity, and—what is also implied—abstention of its inmates from participation in the affairs of state are given apophthegmatic expression in ‘Live hidden!’ We contemplate this adage, or slogan, from an enormous cultural distance and, for most of us, ‘Live hidden!’ is much more likely to trigger secondary reflections about the relations between ethics and politics, private and public, perfection of self and improvement of the world, than it is to constitute an actual, or potential, piece of advice we might think about whether , and how , to follow. (shrink)

An examination of late Rorty shows that he does not abandon belief in an external world about which we can, and indeed must, acquire knowledge. His disapproval of the correspondence theory of truth does not involve the idea that anything other than local weather, for example, could falsify remarks about local weather. It is just that once we get done looking out the window or, if we are outside, feeling the right kind of drops make contact with our skin, there (...) is nothing else we can do, nothing better, to make ourselves more certain, more cognitively secure. One can see this in the detailed work that enables scientific progress. Science improves itself by doing more of the same. G. E. Moore's famous open question stays open only as a reminder that our fallibility never disappears and that our cognitive security is never better than pro tem. Rorty, as a faithful pragmatist and undogmatic meliorist, thinks this is perfectly O.K. (shrink)

The arts were created from an appeal to freedom. There can be no general aesthetic that defines how that freedom must express itself. Movies offer a seductive example. Of all the major arts, cinema is the only one that was invented during the lifetime of some who are now living. From this perspective, Earle argues that filmmakers were far more inventive in their early days than now, when commercial film has settled into a realist routine with occasional and timid forays (...) into the personal and imaginative. Earle suggests that unsympathetic readers should look again at the possible sources of film poetry, sources that have almost dried up in the flood of boredom experienced nightly in theaters throughout the world. Surrealism in Film is largely a manifesto against realism; it ends in a clash of sensibilities. The book encourages new exploration of absolute poetry. The intention of these essays is to destroy the absolute authority of the realist sensibility. Within that sensibility is everything thought necessary to "sense": narrative plot, recognizable and nameable passions, continuity and integration within the film, a gist or moral for the whole affair, social commentary, and psychoanalytic depth-meanings. Earle argues for a self-critique that should be performed if movies are not to remain encapsulated within its own delusions. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Selected Letters by William, Henry JamesWilliam James EarleWilliam and Henry James. Selected Letters. Edited by Ignas K. Skrupskelis and Elizabeth M. Berkeley. Introduction by John J. McDermott. Charlottesville VA: University Press of Virginia, 1997. Pp. xxxi + 570. $ 39.95.Almost fifty years of letters to and from the very diversely brilliant James brothers: in this volume a generous, and probably ample, selection of 216 from a total of (...) 740 surviving letters or postcards, from an original total, according to the present editors, of twice as many. This volume of correspondence reflects the deep, unquestioned, unshakable familial (and virtually statutory) closeness of William and Henry who happened, as adults, to be seldom in the same place. There is, it must be said, very little explicit philosophy, narrowly or broadly defined, in these letters, but the philosophical reader will—or ought to—find much raw material for philosophical reflection. For example, a reasonable historicist thesis of how brotherhood, or family connection generally, plays itself out is supported by these documents. The nineteenth century is not the same as the twentieth. For example, here is William’s comment on the will of his sister, Alice, who left more to her companion and care-giver, Katherine Loring, a [End Page 479] women of extraordinary virtue and burden, than to her brother Robertson: “I can well sympathize with Alice’s desire to leave her something handsome; but I must say that her own consent (being apparently privy to the will) strikes me as tant soit peu lacking in delicacy. Surely no one of us would like to be in such a position in her family or any other” (271). This would be, in 1998, a rather unenlightened and ungenerous attitude, but is natural enough in 1892, even if not quite inevitable, not being shared by Alice herself. There is, incidentally, much discussion of wills and bequests, for the Jameses were of the genteel class, people with small family money and modest private incomes for whom the wherewithal to maintain homes with servants and to provide themselves with country houses and recuperative European vacations was always a faintly embarrassing, and occasionally a pressing, problem.It is probably also true that the much-discussed question of Henry’s homosexuality has, somehow, to be recast in historically relative terms. Here is an early report—1869—of Henry’s from Oxford: “As I walked along the river I saw hundreds of the mighty lads of England, clad in white flannel & blue, immense, fair-haired, magnificent in their youth, lounging down the stream in their punts or pulling in straining crews & rejoicing in their godlike strength” (41). This could not, the point is, be said by anyone, gay or straight, in 1998. Yet Henry is neither generally naive nor uncritically anglophile. He says of the Warwickshire scenery, which in a way he likes, that it is “too monotonously sweet & smooth—too comfortable, too ovine, too bovine, too English in a word.” And he adds, a little surprisingly: “It seems like a vast show region kept up at the expense of the poor” (41). This is only one of many appealing comments not sparsely scattered, but unpredictably, in letters of more ordinary news. Here’s one I liked occasioned by seeing theater in Paris: “We talk about it & write about it & criticize & dogmatize & analyse to the end of time: but those brave players stand forth & exemplify it & act—create—produce!” (66).Of course the “wit and wisdom” are not the monopoly of Henry. Here is William being wise: “We all learn sooner or later that we must gather ourselves up and more or less arbitrarily concentrate our interests, throw much overboard to save any” (55–56). Again: “It is a sweet world, in the interstices of its bedevilment & brutality” (321). And William being funny: “Boils are surely the most slowly evolving things in nature—Christian doctrine is nothing to them” (393). He is talking about his own boils and was subject, at every period, to ailments and infirmities: “Since writing to you, I have been swimming in deep seas of influenza, gout and Erysipelas of the face” (443). Or as he, in 1900, sums it up: “My... (shrink)

The Philosophical Forum, Volume 52, Issue 3, Page 263-272, Fall 2021.

A philosophical consideration of political affairs has the disadvantage of being incapable, in and of itself, of implying any specific practical action or policy. It would, then, seem useless except for the accompanying reflection that specific policy undertaken without any attention to principles, is mindless; and mindless action can have no expectation either of practical effect or of intellectual defense. No doubt the relation of principles to action is complex indeed; but at least it can be said that practical principles (...) without reference to possible action are vacuous, and action which can not be clarified by principle is aimless commotion. Principled action offers us then the best that can be hoped for. That, however, is the work not of philosophy but of statesmanship, a faculty which is as theoretically clear as it need be but also skilled by experience in reading the existing political scene. Accordingly my present remarks aim only at some principles involved in the understanding of war, focusing on those which seem conspicuously absent in contemporary discussion, and not at defending any specific judgments about the current war. Examples of incoherent principles will be drawn from present discussions; but any other war might have served equally well. No judgment about the present war can be derived from these remarks on principles; and if most of the false principles are quoted from the antiwar side, it is only because that side has been more vocal. (shrink)