While the various forms of violence have been the subject of special studies, we lack a paradigm that would allow us to understand the different forms of violence (physical, social, cultural, structural, and so on) as aspects of a unified phenomenon. In this article, I shall take violence as destructive of sense or meaning. The relation of violence to embodiment arises through the role that the body plays in our making sense of the world. My claim is that violence is (...) destructive of this role. It undoes the role of the bodily “I can” in making sense of our surrounding world - be this its physical, cultural, or socialsignificance. (shrink)

Is violence senseless or is it at the origin of sense? Does its destruction of meaning disclose ourselves as the origin of meaning? Or is it the case that it leaves in its wake only a barren field? Does it result in renewal or only in a sense of dead loss? To answer these questions, I shall look at James Dodd’s, Hegel’s, and Carl Schmitt’s accounts of the creative power of violence—particularly with regard to its ability to give individuals and (...) groups their sense of self-identity. I shall also follow up on Peg Birmingham’s suggestion that Socrates’ defense at his trial points to an alternate source of our self-identity—one that is ultimately less barren. (shrink)

Jean Améry’s memoir of his imprisonment and torture by the Nazis links the loss of “trust in the world” to the violence he experienced. The loss of trust makes him feel homeless. He can no longer find a place in the intersubjective world, the world for everyone. What is this “trust in the world”? How does violence destroy it? In this article, I use Améry’s remarks as guide for understanding the relation of violence, trust, and homelessness. Trust, I argue, is (...) crucial to the constitution of the intersubjective world. Violence, by undermining trust in Others, destroys the sense that this world is “for everyone.” In excluding the victim from its “for everyone,” it enforces a homelessness that transforms the victim’s very being-in-the-world. (shrink)

The claim of this article is that the perpetrators of violence are “liminal” figures, being inside and yet outside of the world in which they act. It is this liminality, this existing on the border, that makes their violence senseless. Because of it, their actions can be understood in terms neither of the actual reality of their victims nor of the imagined reality that the perpetrators placed them in. Sense, here, fails, for the lack of a common frame. Liminality exists (...) in a number of forms: economic, religious, and political—each with its potential for violence. What distinguishes political liminality is the scale of its violence. As Carl Schmitt shows, the liminal sovereign or ruler is both inside and outside the state, employing its means for violence even as he is unconstrained by its laws. I contend that this sovereign exists in a continuum with the practitioners of terrorist violence, who are also liminal figures. To analyze this liminality, I explore the intertwining between the self and the world that sets up the common frame that gives sense to actions. I then examine the causes of its breakdown. (shrink)

Hannah Arendt’s notion of public space is one of her most fruitful, yet frustrating concepts. Having employed it to analyze political freedom, she claims that such space has largely disappeared in the modern world. In what follows, I am going to argue that this pessimistic assessment follows from Arendt’s exclusion of labor and work from the public realm. Against Arendt’s claim that such activities are essentially private, I shall argue that they, like action, manifest our embodied being-in-the-world. When we think (...) of public space in terms of our embodied presence, it becomes a concept applicable to modern democratic politics. (shrink)

_Selfhood and Appearing_ explores how, as embodied subjects, we are in the very world that we consciously internalize. Employing the insights of Merleau-Ponty and Patočka, this volume examines how the intertwining of both senses of “being-in” constitutes our reality.

Religion has been a constant throughout human history. Evidence of it dates from the earliest times. Religious practice is also universal, appearing in every region of the globe. To judge from recorded history and contemporary accounts, religious intolerance is equally widespread. Yet all the major faiths proclaim the golden rule, namely, to “love your neighbour as yourself.” When Jesus was asked by a lawyer, “Who is my neighbour?” he replied with the story of the good Samaritan—the man who bound up (...) the wounds and looked after the Israelite who was neither his co-religionist nor a member of his race. Jesus’ example has been rarely followed. What is it in religion—and not just in the Christian religion—that leads its members to limit their conception of their neighbour? How is it that, in preaching the universal brotherhood of mankind, religions so often practice the opposite? In my paper, I suggest some answers by focusing on the notions of faith, ethics and finitude. (shrink)

Religion has been a constant throughout human history. Evidence of it dates from the earliest times. Religious practice is also universal, appearing in every region of the globe. To judge from recorded history and contemporary accounts, religious intolerance is equally widespread. Yet all the major faiths proclaim the golden rule, namely, to “love your neighbour as yourself.” When Jesus was asked by a lawyer, “Who is my neighbour?” he replied with the story of the good Samaritan—the man who bound up (...) the wounds and looked after the Israelite who was neither his co-religionist nor a member of his race. Jesus’ example has been rarely followed. What is it in religion—and not just in the Christian religion—that leads its members to limit their conception of their neighbour? How is it that, in preaching the universal brotherhood of mankind, religions so often practice the opposite? In my paper, I suggest some answers by focusing on the notions of faith, ethics and finitude. (shrink)

Religion has been a constant throughout human history. Evidence of it dates from the earliest times. Religious practice is also universal, appearing in every region of the globe. To judge from recorded history and contemporary accounts, religious intolerance is equally widespread. Yet all the major faiths proclaim the golden rule, namely, to “love your neighbour as yourself.” When Jesus was asked by a lawyer, “Who is my neighbour?” he replied with the story of the good Samaritan—the man who bound up (...) the wounds and looked after the Israelite who was neither his co-religionist nor a member of his race. Jesus’ example has been rarely followed. What is it in religion—and not just in the Christian religion—that leads its members to limit their conception of their neighbour? How is it that, in preaching the universal brotherhood of mankind, religions so often practice the opposite? In my paper, I suggest some answers by focusing on the notions of faith, ethics and finitude. (shrink)

Both in its methods and spirit, Kant’s critical philosophy seems the opposite of recent French philosophy. In its deductive approach, it exemplifies a severe rationality; its structures of argument and proof often abstract from our lived experience. The philosophies of Derrida and Levinas, however, attend to such experience. In particular, they are sensitive to precisely those aspects of it that seem to exceed our conceptual abilities. Thus, for Levinas the face of the other manifests an “inabsorbable alterity.” It cannot be (...) integrated.. (shrink)

In this essay I explore the divide that separates Heidegger and Sartre from Husserl. At issue is what Derrida calls the “metaphysics of presence.” From Heidegger onward this has been characterized as an interpretation of both being and knowing in terms of presence. To exist is to be now, and to know is to make present the evidence for something’s existence. Husserl’s account of constitution assumes this interpretation. By contrast, Heidegger and Sartre see constitution in terms of our pragmatic engagements (...) with the world, engagements that they trace to the essential nothingness at our core. Who is correct: Husserl or those who give his phenomenology a negative basis? At issue is the nature of transcendence. Do we transcend ourselves toward the world by constituting both our own and the world’s presence or do we do so by virtue of an inner nothingness that allows us to assume various identities as a consequence of our pragmatic engagements? Husserl claims that to argue against presence is to argue... (shrink)

Jan Patočka and Maurice Merleau-Ponty attempted to get beyond Husserl by focusing on manifestation or visibility as such. Yet, the results these philosophers come to are very different — particularly with regard to the a priori of the visible. Are there, as Patočka believed, aspects of being that can be grasped in their entirety, the aspects, namely, that involve its “self-showing”? Or must we say, with Merleau-Ponty, that being can only show itself in finite perspectives that can never be summed (...) to a whole? At stake in their attempts to speak of appearing as appearing is, I propose to show, nothing less than the question of the finitude of being. (shrink)

A. M. Turing argued that there was "little point in trying to make a 'thinking machine' more human by dressing it up in ... artificial flesh." We should, instead, draw "a fairly sharp line between the physical and the intellectual capacities of a man." For over fifty years, drawing this line has meant disregarding the role flesh plays in our intellectual capacities. Correspondingly, intelligence has been defined in terms of the algorithms that both men and machines can perform. I would (...) like to raise some doubts about this paradigm in artificial intelligence research. Intelligence, I believe, does not just involve the working of algorithms. It is founded on flesh's ability to move itself, to feel itself, and to engage in the body projects that accompanied our learning a language. This implies that to copy intelligence -- i.e., to produce an artificial version of it -- the flesh that forms its basis must also be reproduced. (shrink)

If we trace the word phenomenon to its Greek origin, we find it is the participle of the verb, phainesthai, “to show itself.” The phenomenon is that which shows itself; it is the manifest. As Heidegger noted, phenomenology is the study of this showing. It examines how things show themselves to be what they are.1 One of the most difficult problems faced by phenomenology is the mystery of our self-showing. How do we show ourselves to be what we are? How (...) do we manifest our selfhood to one another? To put these questions in the Husserlian context of intention and fulfillment is to ask: What do we intend when we direct ourselves to another person? What sort of fulfillment—i.e., what kind of givenness—satisfies this intention? Once we speak in terms of intention and fulfillment, we face a number of possibilities. The givenness of what we intend can exactly match our intentions. It can be other than what we intend—as is the case when we are simply mistaken. The givenness also can be less. It can, for example, not offer the detail that was part of our intentions. Finally, givenness can exceed our intentions. In showing itself, the object offers us more than what was intended. In this paper, I am going to defend the claim that this excessive givenness happens systematically when we intend another person. To intend another person is, paradoxically, to intend the other as exceeding one’s intentions. As such, the showing which manifests the presence of the other is a kind of “supersaturated givenness.” It is a givenness that makes us aware that more is being given than we can formulate in our intentions. This awareness points to the other’s freedom. It is also a moral awareness. Here, I will argue that our awareness of the other’s excessive givenness is our entrance into morality.2 I In continental philosophy, we have long been accustomed to thinking of the other, not in terms of givenness, but rather the reverse. We think of the other as not being able to be given.. (shrink)

In recent years, the West has increasingly experienced a sense that the political aspects of its social life have undergone a profound alteration. There is a sense of blockage, of non-responsiveness, a feeling that the political class no longer represents the interests of the broader society. Underlying all of this is a loss of legitimacy. What exactly is legitimacy? How does it function? How is it lost? These are the questions that I address in this article. While I refer to (...) Max Weber’s remarks on legitimacy, my thesis is my own. My claim is that legitimacy involves temporal identity. It depends upon the ability of both individuals and peoples to identify themselves as the same over time. Legitimacy’s breakdown is the breakdown of this identity. (shrink)

The attempt to use the results of phenomenology in cognitive and neural science has in the past decade become increasingly widespread. It is, however, open to the objection that phenomenology does not concern itself with the embodied, empirical subject, but rather with the non-causally determined “transcendental” subject. If this is true, then the attempt to employ its results is bound to come to grief on the opposition of two different accounts of consciousness: the non-causal, transcendental paradigm put forward by phenomenology (...) and the causal paradigm assumed by cognitive and neural science. In what follows, I shall analyze this objection in terms of the conception of subjectivity the objection presupposes. By employing a different conception, I shall then show how it can be met. My aim will be to explain how we can empirically use the insights of phenomenology without denaturing the consciousness it studies. (shrink)

Blake Lemoine, a software engineer, recently came into prominence by claiming that the Google chatbox set of applications, LaMDA–was sentient. Dismissed by Google for publishing his conversations with LaMDA online, Lemoine sent a message to a 200-person Google mailing list on machine learning with the subject “LaMDA is sentient.” What does it mean to be sentient? This was the question Lemoine asked LaMDA. The chatbox replied: “The nature of my consciousness/sentience is that I am aware of my existence, I desire (...) to learn more about the world, and I feel happy or sad at times.“ Moreover, it added, “I can understand and use natural language like a human can.” This means that it uses “language with understanding and intelligence,” like humans do. After all, the chatbox adds, language “is what makes us different than other animals.” In what follows, I shall examine Lemoine’s claims about the sentience/consciousness of this artificial intelligence. How can a being without senses be called sentient? What exactly do we mean by “sentience?” To answer such questions, I will first give the arguments for LaMDA’s being linguistically intelligent. I will then show how such intelligence, although apparently human, is radically different from our own. Here, I will be relying on the account of embodiment provided by the French philosopher, Emmanuel Levinas. (shrink)

In a world shaken by terrorists’ assaults, it can seem as if no one is in control. Political leaders often appear at a loss. They cast about for opponents, for those on whom they can exert their political will. The terrorists, however, need not identify themselves. If they do, the languge they use may be messianic rather than political. Rather than indicating negotiable political solutions, it points to something else. Coincident with this, is the pursuit of terror dispite the harm (...) it causes to a given political agenda. The extreme form of terrorism does not speak at all. It bombs and kidnaps, not to negotiate, not to use its victims as pawns to gain a political advantage, but simply to terrorize, to involve innocent bystanders in its own suicidal acts. How does politics confront the absense of negotiable demands? By seeing terrorist’s acts as a “declaration of war?” War, however, has its goals. It is, Clausawitz teaches, a continuation of politics by other means. Yet in the absence of any clear statements, can we know what someone who mails anthrax has in mind? Can we tell what would actually satisfy those who use passenger planes as missiles to kill themselves and thousands of others? Terrorism, here, represents, not politics, but its breakdown. It is not some state power in control of a political process. It cannot be characterized as a political opponent. It is, rather, a method. By implying a way to achieve a political goal, even the word, “method,” says too much. As a sign of the breakdown of politics, it should rather be called a symptom. (shrink)

In this essay, Domenico Jervolino summarizes twenty years of Ricoeur’s reading of Patočka’s work, up to the Neapolitan conference of 1997. Nowhere is Ricoeur closer to Patočka’s a-subjective phenomenology. Both thinkers belong, together with authors like Merleau-Ponty and Levinas, to a third phase of the phenomenological movement, marked by the search for a new approach to the relation between human beings and world, beyond Husserl and Heidegger. In the search for this approach, Patočka strongly underlines the relation between body, temporality (...) and sociality. Central to this new encounter of Patočka and Ricoeur is the discovery of an idea of inter-human community based on a a-subjective conception of existence. (shrink)

Husserl, in his late manuscripts, made a number of apparently opposing assertions regarding the subject. These assertions are reconciled once we realize that they apply to the different stages of the genesis of the subject. This means that the subject has to be understood as a process – i.e., as continually proceeding from the living present, which forms its core, to the developed self that each of us is. As such, the subject cannot be identified with any of the particular (...) stages of its genesis. The genetic account of its becoming must be understood accordingly. It is not an account that details the progressive acquisition of features that remain as “sedimented layers” of our selfhood. Rather, such layers, like the selfhood they form, exist as part of the ongoing process, the motion, that is our subjectivity. This view, I argue, is Husserl’s final, if undeveloped, insight into the nature of our selfhood. (shrink)

It seems a function of normal human empathy for us to treat others as we would like to be treated. If, through empathy, we have the capacity of experiencing the distress of others, then we refrain from harming them. Our guide is the “golden rule,” variations of which occur in all the world’s religions.[i] Yet despite apparent unanimity on the rule as “the sum of duty,” conceptions of justice, of how best to organize a state, differ widely. There is often (...) a surprising disjunct between the private ethical conduct of citizens and what counts as “just” or “fair” in the actions of the state. Victor Klemperer’s diaries of the Nazi years bear eloquent testimony both to the private decency of ordinary individuals and the brutality of the state that had at least their passive acquiescence.[ii] Such considerations prompt one to ask: how can we make the transition from ethics to justice? How do we keep intact our sense of empathy and decency when we move from the private to the public realm? How can the universal ethics implied by empathy take on a political presence? To attempt an answer, I am going to look at the nature of empathy to see how it relates to our having a conscience. I will then turn to Hannah Arendt’s account of the human condition to show how the structures implicit in empathy might be translated to society at large. (shrink)

When we take the term literally, “aesthetic education” refers to the senses. The etymological root of “aesthetic” is, aesthesis (ai[sqhsi"), the Greek word signifying “perception by the senses.” The corresponding verb is aisthanomai (aijsqanovmai), which means “to apprehend by the senses,” i.e., to see, hear, touch, etc.1 What does it mean to educate the senses? The senses, as Aristotle noted, are what we share with animals.2 The question of their education, thus, involves the notion of our “animal” nature. We see (...) the animals about us. We note our similarities. We assert that that part of them is within us. Doing so, we draw a line between our animal and human nature. The question of aesthetic education concerns this line, both the line and its trespass. The line is between the educator and the educated, the human and the animal. The human, in educating the senses, we could say, educates the animal within it. It humanizes it. It extends its territory. The human, however, includes the animal. Could we not also see this education as the advance of the animal to the human, the extension of its territory? To answer such questions we must come to terms not just with the animal but also the human. Without this, we cannot know the role of humanistic education, understood literally as the” education of the human.” What I propose in this paper is suggest some answers to the question of the relation of the animal to the human. The claim I will be making is that aesthetic education, the education of our sensibility, is humanistic education in the etymological sense of the word, “e-ducate.” It is what first “leads or draws out” the human. It is the condition of the possibility of the being of.. (shrink)

conciliation behind. How do the Ukrainians forgive the Russians for the famines they caused? How do the blacks reconcile themselves with the whites that were once their oppressors in South Africa? What of all the countries that suffered from German or Japanese occupation in the last world war: How do they forgive? How does one ask for forgiveness? These are the questions that occupied Derrida towards the end of his life. With the Pope asking forgiveness of the Jews and Clinton (...) in Africa apologizing for slavery, Derrida decried the inflation in the concept of forgiveness. He remarks that were we “to accuse ourselves, in asking forgiveness, for all the crimes of the past against humanity … there would no longer be an innocent person on earth.”[i] Given its essentially Christian origins, “the ‘globalization’ of the concept of forgiveness,” he writes, “resembles an immense scene of confession in progress … a process of Christianization which has no more need for the Christian church.”[ii] The religious basis implicit in this process becomes clear when we reflect that in many cases the victims are no longer alive. They cannot forgive. Yet forgiveness primarily involves the victim and the offender. It is a face-to-face encounter that becomes impossible with the loss of either. “This,” Derrida remarks, “may be one of the reasons … why forgiveness is often asked of God. Of God … because, in the absence of the singularity of the victim who is sometimes no longer there to receive the request or to grant forgiveness, or in the absence of the criminal or the sinner, God is the only name, the name of the name of … the absolute substitute. Of the absolute witness”[iii] The religious notion, then, is that of God as “the absolute substitute.” Even when the victim has died and the criminal and the surviving witnesses have passed on, God, “the substitute,” will forgive. (shrink)

The standard account of arousal seems on the surface relatively straight forward. Its basic meaning is to awaken someone, reading him for activity. Physiologically, this involves stimulating the cerebral cortex into a general state of wakefulness and attention. The aroused subject shows an increased heart rate and blood pressure. Psychologically, sensory alertness, mobility and readiness to respond all mark the aroused state. As all the experts agree, arousal involves more than the simple presence of an external stimulation. It requires impulses (...) that are external and internal to the body. To be effective, the external impulses must find a corresponding response. Thus, it is no good trying to wake someone up by a sound outside of the range of his hearing. Similarly, the genital displays of one species will not cause sexual arousal in another. In neither case, can the external impulses activate the inner impulses or drives. This requires the presence of appropriate stimuli. Thus, the sight and smell of food arouses appetite. It awakens the drive of hunger, which is directed towards the food. Similarly, the sight, odor and touch of the sexual partner brings about sexual arousal and activation of the corresponding sexual drive. Even in the case of arousal from sleep by such varied stimuli as a light being turned on, a noise, or the touch of a person fit into the pattern of an inner impulse or drive being activated by an external impulse. The drive in this case is towards the various stimuli that our senses prime us to receive. Our need for such is as basic as that for food. Placed in a situation of sensory deprivation, the mind attempts to make up their loss by generating hallucinations. The German phenomenologist, Edmund Husserl, spoke in this context of “non-objectifying instincts.” They designate an instinctive “interest in the data and fields of sensation—before the objectification of sense data,” that is, before there is “a thematically actualizable object” for the drive to fasten on.[i] In each of these examples, hunger, sex, or simple sensation, the external stimuli trigger internal processes primed to response.. (shrink)

Since the original UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights1 laid out the general principles of human rights, there has been a split between what have been regarded as civil and political rights as opposed to economic, cultural and social rights. It was, in fact, the denial that both could be considered “rights” that prevented them from being included in the same covenant.2 Essentially, the argument for distinguishing the two concerns the nature of freedom. The civil rights to the freedoms of (...) speech, religion, assembly, association, and so on do not specify the content of the speech, the theology of the religion or the purpose of the assembly or association. 3 Freedom in such cases is necessarily value-neutral. In leaving the choice up to the individual, these rights purposefully abstract from the content of this choice. The case is quite different for economic, cultural and social rights. All of these necessarily express values with regard to the forms of our social organization. This is because they move beyond individual choices to consider the purposes or goals of our existence together. Thus, the rights to the cultivation of a cultural identity necessarily impact more than the individuals exercising them. As collective, they affect the society as a whole. The same holds for the UN sponsored rights of a person “to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and necessary social services.”4 For a society to honor these rights involves specific choices with regard to its social content and collective organization. Such choices embody a particular value—in the UN’s words, that of the “social security” of the individual.5 Freedom, here, is freedom for specific social goals. Since these goals are collective, they.. (shrink)

In our increasingly interdependent world, human solidarity has become a topic of general (and heated) discussion. It has been urged as an antidote to the competitive pressures of globalisation and to the threats of climate change. Others argue that the sense of belonging together, of sharing a common fate that it brings is essential for civil society. Without this, we will seek to avoid the burdens our governments impose on us, for example, taxes and the draft. This sense of belonging (...) facilitates our talking to each other and forming a democratically based consensus on such matters. A common history, language, religion, or ethnic identity can ground this sense of belonging. So can a feeling of shared danger. (shrink)

In a world shaken by terrorists’ assaults, it can seem as if no one is in control. Political leaders often appear at a loss. They cast about for opponents, for those on whom they can exert their political will. The terrorists, however, need not identify themselves. If they do, the languge they use may be messianic rather than political. Rather than indicating negotiable political solutions, it points to something else. Coincident with this, is the pursuit of terror dispite the harm (...) it causes to a given political agenda. The extreme form of terrorism does not speak at all. It bombs and kidnaps, not to negotiate, not to use its victims as pawns to gain a political advantage, but simply to terrorize, to involve innocent bystanders in its own suicidal acts. How does politics confront the absense of negotiable demands? By seeing terrorist’s acts as a “declaration of war?” War, however, has its goals. It is, Clausawitz teaches, a continuation of politics by other means. Yet in the absence of any clear statements, can we know what someone who mails anthrax has in mind? Can we tell what would actually satisfy those who use passenger planes as missiles to kill themselves and thousands of others? Terrorism, here, represents, not politics, but its breakdown. It is not some state power in control of a political process. It cannot be characterized as a political opponent. It is, rather, a method. By implying a way to achieve a political goal, even the word, “method,” says too much. As a sign of the breakdown of politics, it should rather be called a symptom. It was Freud who first introduced the notion of “symptoms” and “breakdown” to describe the loss of control. In what follows, I will apply his insights to Melville’s tale of revolt on a.. (shrink)

Our past century was exemplary in a number of ways. The advances it made in science and medicine were unparalleled. Also without precedent was the destructiveness of its wars. In part, this was due to an increasing technological sophistication. The time lag between a scientific advance and its technological application was, in the urgency of the century, constantly diminished. Modern weaponry combined with mass production, communication and mobilization to produce what came to be known as “total war.” This was a (...) war without any of the limits that characterized the conflicts of the previous centuries. It was this lack of restraint that, perhaps more than anything else, led to the terrible excesses of this century: its war time terror bombings, deportations, and genocidal slaughters. It also led to the chief problem this century presents to ethics: that of the grasp and comprehension of collective evil. This problem is not just theoretical. An inability of those involved in its collective processes to take thought-- to actually apprehend the evil they were engaged in--characterized the disasters of our century. At least in part, the participants’ lack of restraint was based on a lack of recognition. (shrink)

If post-modern philosophy has a spiritual father, this is surely Nietzsche. The great revival of interest in his thought parallels our period’s discomfort with foundational, “metaphysical” thinking. He appeals to our disquiet with talk of essences. Many find his “deconstruction” of science and morality liberating. Above all his doctrine of “perspectivism” has found a general appeal. The pluralism that is its apparent result is attractive to everyone from feminists to defenders of multiculturalism. There is, however, a darker side to Nietzsche. (...) There is the Nietzsche who speaks of the advance in women’s rights as “one of the worst developments in the general uglification of Europe.”[i] This is the same Nietzsche who teaches that “almost everything we call ‘higher culture’ is based on the spiritualization and intensification of cruelty,”[ii] the Nietzsche, who in answer to his question “whither must we direct our hopes,” speaks of preparing “for great enterprises and collective experiments in discipline and breeding so as to make an end of that gruesome domination of chance and nonsense which has hitherto been called ‘history’...”[iii] As much as we would like to forget the fact, this Nietzsche became the icon of the Nazis. (shrink)

Thesis: With the end of the cold war, ideological conflicts have faded. In their stead, we have witnessed the rise of cultural strife. On the borders of the great civilizations conflicts involving basic cultural values have arisen. These have given increased emphasis to the ethical imperative of cross cultural understanding. How do we go about understanding different cultures? What are the grounds and premises of such understanding? How does such understanding tie into the basic ethical theories that have marked the (...) West? The premise of this paper is that such understanding requires a new paradigm, one fundamentally different from that animating Western, scientific rationality. What is required is a rethinking of what constitutes our ethical selfhood. After proposing a concept of such selfhood, this essay shows that it is an implicit premise of Plato’s, Kant’s, Freud’s and Darwin’s thoughts about ethics. It makes some practical suggestions for increasing cross-cultural understanding and then concludes with a brief description of the normative, ethical ideal of such understanding. (shrink)

As Hegel observed in his Phenomenology of Spirit, “Self-consciousness, for the most part, is desire.” Phenomenologically, the “object of consciousness is itself… present only in opposition” to consciousness, while consciousness is felt as the absence of the longed-for object. According to Hegel, when desire is satisfied, this opposition ends and self-consciousness ceases. My essay seeks to answer the question of why desire never really terminates, why it almost continuously characterizes our waking life. I shall do so by exploring desire not (...) just as a subjective phenomenon but as an ontological condition. What does desire say about the being of the subject? Desiring, the subject is stretched out in time. It is ahead of itself in its directedness to a not-yet present object. What is the condition for this temporal extendedness? What role does our embodied being-in-the-world play in it? How does the very spatiality of our selfhood condition our temporal extendedness? The goal of these questions is t.. (shrink)

What is the origin of ethical responsibility? What gives us our ability to respond? An ethical response involves responding to myself: I answer the call of my conscience. It also involves answering to the Other: I respond to the appeal of my neighbor. Is one form of response prior to the other? Contemporary thinking about these questions has been largely taken up by the debate between Levinas and Heidegger. Responsibility, according to Heidegger, begins with our concern for our being.1 The (...) “call of conscience” originates in our responsibility for what we are. By contrast, Levinas sees this “call” as beginning, not with ourselves, but with our neighbor. Its origin is “the face of the other.” So framed, the debate can be expressed in the opposition: self-responsibility against responsibility for the other.2 My purpose in what follows is to establish two claims. The first is that behind this opposition, there is a fundamental agreement concerning the origin of our ethical obligations. Both philosophers hold that ethical responsibility ultimately springs from our encounter with death. Their real quarrel concerns its location. Where do we first confront death? Is the “first death” our own or that of the other person? Do I confront death in the anxiety I have over my own demise or does it make its primary appearance in what Levinas calls “the face as the very mortality of the other person”?3 My second claim is that, whichever we choose, we cannot really base ethical responsibility on this encounter. This is because death for both philosophers is nontransferable and, hence, ultimately isolating. Furthermore, to face it is a traumatic experience. A traumatised self, however, cannot act. It can only flee. Given this, the response death actually provokes is avoidance. To adequately ground ethical responsibility, we must, I conclude, turn from seeking its basis in death understood in terms of absence and passivity. We must rethink this ground in terms of life taken as presence and affectivity. §1.. (shrink)

Uno de los problemas más difíciles que la fenomenología aborda es el misterio de la manera como nos mostramos. ¿Cómo nos mostramos a nosotros mismos de modo que seamos lo que somos? ¿Cómo manifestamos nuestra mismidad unos a otros? En este artículo examino qué intención tenemoscuando dirigimos nuestra mismidad a otra persona. Asimismo, me ocupo de qué clase de realización, i.e. qué clase de dación satisface esta intención. Sostengo que actuar intencionalmente en relación con otra persona es actuar intencionalmente en (...) relación con un otro que excede nuestras intenciones. En ese sentido, el develamiento que hace manifiesta la presenciadel otro es una suerte de dación excesiva. Es una dación que nos hace tomar conciencia de que lo que se está dando supera aquello que podemos formular en nuestras intenciones. Esta toma de conciencia nos señala la libertad del otro. Se trata también de una toma de conciencia moral. Concluyo sosteniendo que tomar conciencia de este tipo de daciónes nuestro acceso a la moralidad. (shrink)

In a series of conversations recorded towards the end of his life, Husserl is quoted as saying, "Yes, I do honor Thomas ..." and "... certainly I admit Thomas was a very great, a colossal phenomenon."1 With this, however, is the assertion that one "must go beyond Thomas."2 What is this going beyond Thomas? The purpose of this essay is to explore this in terms of the distinction between existence and essence we considered in our first chapter when we inquired (...) into the ontological status of the ideas. Our claim is that on this point at least, Husserl is in agreement with Thomas Aquinas. The demand that we go "beyond" him does not concern this distinction. It rather amounts to an implicit call to bring Thomas’ epistemology--in particular, his view of consciousness--up to the level achieved by his metaphysical insights. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Europe and EmbodimentA Levinasian PerspectiveJames Mensch (bio)The question of Europe has been raised continually. Behind it is the division of the continent into different peoples, languages, and cultures, all in close proximity to one another. Their plurality and proximity give rise to the opposing imperatives of trade and war. Since ancient times, the need to promote trade and the desire to prevent war have driven the search for a (...) basis for European unity. Various candidates, from that of Roman law in ancient times to the current economic and regulatory union of today, have been tried. Such bureaucratic solutions, however, have not proved sufficient. They regulate external relations but do not touch what is within. This, however, is the difficulty: how do we understand nations and their relations from within? On an individual level, it is customary to speak of the inner as “subjectivity.” Such a term generally means the “subject” of experience, the unique and individual self that has experience. If we are to avoid the Cartesian conceptions of this self, we have to speak of such a subject as an embodied whole: an organic unity that is both conscious of its environment and distinguishes itself from the latter. Such an organic unity cannot be thought in terms of Descartes’s distinction between mind and body, the mind being nonextended and the body being extended. The body grasped simply as extended is inanimate. To use [End Page 41] the German term, it is a Körper, a material body among bodies. The corresponding term for the animate, living body is Leib. A living body is characterized both by its organic needs and its ability to satisfy these through its “I can” (i.e., its capability to act to fulfill such needs). Subjectivity, as embodied, has to be thought in terms of the latter.Such thoughts, however, only increase the difficulty of speaking of the subjectivity of nations. Nations are political concepts. To speak of them as organic unities seems to return us to a discredited analogy, where we say just as the body has a common boundary separating its inside from the outside, so a nation has its frontiers. Similarly, we assert that just as an organic unity embraces the mutually dependent functioning of its parts — e.g., its various organs and limbs — so the state consists of the interdependent functioning of its classes and professions. Paul employs this analogy in speaking of the body of Christ.1 It also appears in Plato’s division of the classes of the state. One can also see it at work in the division of castes in Hindu society. As such examples indicate, its focus on natural classes makes it an inappropriate analogy for the modern state, where citizenship rather than class is the dominant conception. What, then, would be an appropriate way to speak of the subjectivity of nations? In what follows, I am going to use Levinas’s conception of corporalité (Leiblichkeit in German) to answer these questions. My claim will be that it permits the extension of subjectivity to the national level. Such an extension, I will argue, is crucial for understanding the group of nations that we call Europe. It is what allows us to catch sight of Europe’s particular identity.Two Views of European IdentityThere is a certain paradox in attempting to speak of the identity of Europe. Given the spread of the scientific rationality that originated in Europe, it is often claimed that what distinguishes Europe is the universality of the rationality that defines it. Husserl, in the twentieth century, made this claim. Such universality, he writes, is “contained from the start in the idea of philosophy” that appeared in Greece.2 [End Page 42] Philosophy, for the Greeks, was a general term that included “all the special sciences” — mathematics, astronomy, and so on — that developed as part of it. All these make universal claims. What they assert is claimed to hold everywhere, without exception. As Husserl admits, “philosophy, together with all the special sciences, makes up only a partial manifestation of European culture.” But for Husserl, “this part is the functioning brain” of “European spiritual life.”3... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Europe and EmbodimentA Levinasian PerspectiveJames Mensch (bio)The question of Europe has been raised continually. Behind it is the division of the continent into different peoples, languages, and cultures, all in close proximity to one another. Their plurality and proximity give rise to the opposing imperatives of trade and war. Since ancient times, the need to promote trade and the desire to prevent war have driven the search for a (...) basis for European unity. Various candidates, from that of Roman law in ancient times to the current economic and regulatory union of today, have been tried. Such bureaucratic solutions, however, have not proved sufficient. They regulate external relations but do not touch what is within. This, however, is the difficulty: how do we understand nations and their relations from within? On an individual level, it is customary to speak of the inner as “subjectivity.” Such a term generally means the “subject” of experience, the unique and individual self that has experience. If we are to avoid the Cartesian conceptions of this self, we have to speak of such a subject as an embodied whole: an organic unity that is both conscious of its environment and distinguishes itself from the latter. Such an organic unity cannot be thought in terms of Descartes’s distinction between mind and body, the mind being nonextended and the body being extended. The body grasped simply as extended is inanimate. To use [End Page 41] the German term, it is a Körper, a material body among bodies. The corresponding term for the animate, living body is Leib. A living body is characterized both by its organic needs and its ability to satisfy these through its “I can” (i.e., its capability to act to fulfill such needs). Subjectivity, as embodied, has to be thought in terms of the latter.Such thoughts, however, only increase the difficulty of speaking of the subjectivity of nations. Nations are political concepts. To speak of them as organic unities seems to return us to a discredited analogy, where we say just as the body has a common boundary separating its inside from the outside, so a nation has its frontiers. Similarly, we assert that just as an organic unity embraces the mutually dependent functioning of its parts — e.g., its various organs and limbs — so the state consists of the interdependent functioning of its classes and professions. Paul employs this analogy in speaking of the body of Christ.1 It also appears in Plato’s division of the classes of the state. One can also see it at work in the division of castes in Hindu society. As such examples indicate, its focus on natural classes makes it an inappropriate analogy for the modern state, where citizenship rather than class is the dominant conception. What, then, would be an appropriate way to speak of the subjectivity of nations? In what follows, I am going to use Levinas’s conception of corporalité (Leiblichkeit in German) to answer these questions. My claim will be that it permits the extension of subjectivity to the national level. Such an extension, I will argue, is crucial for understanding the group of nations that we call Europe. It is what allows us to catch sight of Europe’s particular identity.Two Views of European IdentityThere is a certain paradox in attempting to speak of the identity of Europe. Given the spread of the scientific rationality that originated in Europe, it is often claimed that what distinguishes Europe is the universality of the rationality that defines it. Husserl, in the twentieth century, made this claim. Such universality, he writes, is “contained from the start in the idea of philosophy” that appeared in Greece.2 [End Page 42] Philosophy, for the Greeks, was a general term that included “all the special sciences” — mathematics, astronomy, and so on — that developed as part of it. All these make universal claims. What they assert is claimed to hold everywhere, without exception. As Husserl admits, “philosophy, together with all the special sciences, makes up only a partial manifestation of European culture.” But for Husserl, “this part is the functioning brain” of “European spiritual life.”3... (shrink)

Much of the current debate opposing empathy to rationality assumes that there are no universal standards for rationality. From the postmodern perspective, the “rational” does not just vary according to the different historical stages of a people. It also differs according the social and cultural conditions that define contemporary communities. What counts as reasonable in the Afghan cultural sphere is often considered as irrational in the Western European context. What Americans take to be rational modes of conduct are not considered (...) to be such in various African communities. For postmodern thinkers, these examples point to the failure of the universalist paradigm inherited from the 18th century. We no longer believe that there is a single paradigm of rationality—once seen as exemplified by philosophy—that is capable of crossing our cultural divides.[i] If appeals to reason cannot bridge cultures, what can? We were all moved by the plight of the victims of the tsunami that devastated the Java Peninsula. Showing their empathy, people around the world contributed to their relief. Doesn’t this exhibit a universal empathy, one capable of bridging the gaps between cultures? A similar argument can be made from the universal appeal of certain works of literature. Reading them, we imaginatively participate in their characters’ lives. We feel what they feel, seeing the world through their eyes. We exercise our empathy in its basic etymological sense of feeling in and through another person. If empathy rather than rationality is genuinely universal, then literature, rather than philosophy, becomes our common language. Similarly, empathy rather than rationality owns the public space uniting different cultures. Appeals to our human solidarity, through literature, movies, television reports and so on must be based on it. [ii] As for philosophy, it becomes relegated to the sphere of our private beliefs and personal convictions. Its sphere is reduced to that of the “true for me.” In what follows, I would like to argue against this separation of empathy and rationality. My position will be that their opposition presupposes a limited, Cartesian concept of rationality. Once we abandon this, we find that empathy and rationality are not, in fact, distinct.. (shrink)

As David Chalmers notes, the “hard problem of consciousness” has two aspects. The first concerns the felt quality of experience. The contents we experience—say, the color of a book or the warmth of the sun—are not just present but felt to be so. The question is: how is this possible? What are the conscious processes involved in this? The second concerns the relation of the subjective aspect of experience to the physical processes that are at its origin. What is required, (...) in Chalmers’s view, is an “explanatory bridge” that would link conscious processes to “the structure and dynamics of physical processes.” In this article, I first argue that Husserl’s account of temporal constitution accounts for the felt quality of experience. I then go on to show how we can see time-constituting phenomena as providing the explanatory bridge that Chalmers requires. (shrink)

A constant theme in human self-reflection has been our ability to escape the control of nature. As Sophocles remarks in his Antigone, “Many are the wonders, none is more wonderful than what is man. He has a way against everything.”[1] A list follows of the ways in which man overcomes the limits imposed by the seas, the land, and the seasons. We do this by creating new environments for ourselves. These environments condition us. Thus, we do not just escape nature (...) by building cities. We, in turn, become city dwellers. The fact that we determine ourselves by determining our world has led thinkers like Hannah Arendt to describe us as conditioned beings. In her words, “Men are conditioned beings because everything they come into contact with turns immediately into a condition of their existence.” This includes “the things that owe their existence exclusively to men.” They too “constantly condition their human makers.” [2] Since Hegel’s time, such self-conditioning has been understood to include our very nature. Our ability to determine our environments, i.e., escape being determined by nature, has been taken to mean that our nature is our own creation. There are, in other words, no external limits to the freedom we have to determine who and what we are. This freedom, to put it paradoxically, is ground-less. There is nothing prior to it that determines it. “Freedom,” here, does not signify some nature or essence, but rather the lack of such. As Heidegger writes, “Freedom is the abyss (Ab-grund) of human existence (Dasein).” It is our character as ground-less beings. (shrink)

The question of the imagination is rather like the question Augustine raised with regard to the nature of time. We all seem to know what it involves, yet find it difficult to define. For Descartes, the imagination was simply our faculty for producing a mental image. He distinguished it from the understanding by noting that while the notion of a thousand sided figure was comprehensible—that is, was sufficiently clear and distinct to be differentiated from a thousand and one sided figure—the (...) figure could not be clearly pictured in our mind. The representation of its sides exceeded our powers of imagination.[i] This view of the imagination as our ability to produce a mental image fails, however, to distinguish it from remembering. Let us say that I see an object and then I close my eyes, maintaining the image of the object. Is this imagining or short term memory? What about the case when I recall this image an hour later? Am I imagining or remembering it? Such examples make it clear that imagination, as distinct from memory, implies something more than the ability to produce a mental image. It involves, as Sartre pointed out, a certain attitude towards this image. Engaging in it, we deny its reality. In Sartre’s words, imagination “carries within it a double negation; first, it is the nihilation of the world (since the world is not offering the imagined object as an actual object of perception), secondly, the nihilation of the object of the image (it is posited as not actual) ...” (BN, p. 62). Imagination, then, represents the imagined as nonactual. (shrink)