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On Nature and the Artificial

A Philosophical Happy Hour against the Inversion of our Knowledge

What does it mean for something to be natural?  We find the word ubiquitous in today’s marketing: all natural bug spray, dog treats, body wash, shampoo, deodorant, laundry detergent, toothpaste, sunscreen.  Ironically, of course, none of these products occur by nature.  Each is a product of human agency, created through artifice.  Likewise, we will see food products advertise all natural flavors, while others admit their flavors to be artificial.  What, in truth, is the difference?  And why have we come to view nature vs. artifice through the lens of production?

Artificiality and the Operative Imperative

When was the last time you found yourself entirely removed from all products of human artifice?  In all likelihood: you never have.  Even trekking through the most-remote wilderness, it seems highly unlikely that you were entirely nude.  On the typical day, your activities—it seems highly likely—are positively saturated in the artificial, from the beds in which we sleep, to the computers and phones we use (all too often), to at-the-very-least the packaging containing our food, to the books we read: the “all natural” seems, in fact, something we never encounter.

This artificial saturation both shapes our own thinking and reflects the thinking that has become increasingly prevalent over the past several centuries: what Martin Heidegger called the “Enframing” (die Gestell) of technological thinking, or the technique of Jacques Ellul (“the totality of methods rationally arrived at and having absolute efficiency… in every field of human activity”).  Within these frames of thinking, nature disappears; the lens of technology or technique makes objects appear in terms of their productive potential, and obscures the beings themselves.

Edward Engelmann describes the emergence of this thinking as a shift away, begun in early modernity, from purely theoretical knowledge towards “operative knowledge”.  This form of knowledge principally takes on a kind of imperative mood: the knowability of an object is evaluated in terms of its operative functionality.  This inverts the relationship between our technical art (techne) and nature (physis).  As Engelmann writes:

with the rise of [the] operative imperative, the Aristotelian schema of techne and nature becomes, in a way, inverted: with operativism, it is nature that imitates techne.  Indeed, this was always a possibility, insofar as techne and nature are understood in terms of one another.  The theoretical inversion whereby techne becomes the schema for nature is not of course a simple substitution; rather, it is a transition involving fundamental changes in the very meanings of “techne” and “nature.” … With the artificial, the deep suppositions that nature is fundamentally operative and so knowledge of nature must also be so are revealed most fully.

Edward Engelmann 2017: Nature and the Artificial: Aristotelian Reflections on the Operative Imperative, 7 & 8.

Can we learn again to see the natural, in this age blinded by the operative imperative of artificial thinking?

The Meaning of Nature

It does not prove difficult to give an articulation of nature by which it may be contrasted against the artificial.  Nevertheless, it may prove difficult to understand (to which end, check out this upcoming seminar!).  Aristotle, the father of all Western science, writes the following:

Of the things that are, some are by nature, others through other causes: by nature are animals and their parts, plants, and the simple bodies, such as earth, fire, air, and water (for these things and such things we say to be by nature), and all of them obviously differ from the things not put together by nature.  For each of these has in itself a source of motion and rest, either in place, or by growth and shrinkage, or by alteration; but a bed or a cloak, or any other such kind of thing there is, in the respect in which it has happened upon each designation [i.e., that we call it a “bed” or a “cloak” instead of “wood” or “sheep’s wool”] and to the extent that it is from art, has no innate impulse of change at all.

Aristotle 330bc: Physics, II.1 (192b 8–20) in Sachs’ translation.

As often the case with Aristotle, what he writes makes a kind of obvious sense: we call natural those things having their own source of motion and rest, and artificial those which do not, but receive their proper ordination from an extrinsic source.  But many challenges have been and continue to be levelled against the common-sense answer of Aristotelian wisdom: what do we mean by motion and rest?  What are the causes by which things are?  Does it not, often, seem as though even natural things are by extrinsic causes?

We know and without needing rigorous discursive reflection that there exists a real difference between the natural and the artificial.  But the lines of their distinction have been blurred by the inverted thinking of the operative imperative.

Retrieving Knowledge

To bring clarity to the distinction, please join us this Wednesday (15 May 2024) for our Philosophical Happy Hour (5:45–7:15pm ET; latecomers welcome!) as we discuss the differences between the artificial and the natural!  For those wishing to dig a little deeper, we will be reading this article by Edward Engelmann—even if you cannot read the whole thing, it may help to orient our conversation.

Philosophical Happy Hour

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Come join us for drinks (adult or otherwise) and a meaningful conversation. Open to the public! Held every Wednesday from 5:45–7:15pm ET.

2024 Summer: A Thomistic Defense of Democracy

Can democracy be saved? Ours, on both the left and the right, seems to be a world viewed increasingly through post-liberal lenses.  Must we return to a strict hierarchy if we are to abandon the “liberal experiment” that has rendered increasing ailment in recent decades—if, that is, we are not to lapse into socialist totalitarianism?  These are not questions with simple or straightforward answers.  To answer them, we would be foolish both to ignore St. Thomas Aquinas and to caricaturize his thought to fit facile solutions.  Thankfully, though under the auspices of a somewhat different world, great Thomistic thinkers have already anticipated the question and can provide us guidance going forward. Consider these words of Jacques Maritain (1882—1973):

The famous saying of Aristotle that man is a political animal does not mean only that man is naturally made to live in society; it also means that man naturally asks to lead a political life and to participate actively in the life of the political community. It is upon this posulate of human nature that political liberties and political rights rest, and particularly the right of suffrage. Perhaps it is easier for men to renounce active participation in political life; in certain cases it may even have happened that they felt happier and freer from care while dwelling in the commonwealth as political slaves, or while passively handing over to the leaders all the care of the management of the community.  But in this case they gave up a privilege proper to their nature, one of those privileges which, in a sense, makes life more difficult and which brings with it a greater or lesser amount of labor, strain and suffering, but which corresponds to human dignity.

Jacques Maritain, The Rights of Man and Natural Law.

Many are familiar with Jacques Maritain, great Thomist author and figure of the twentieth century: a man who wrote on topics far and wide, and strove most of his life to bring a living Thomism into a broader public.  Fewer are familiar with the thought of Yves Simon, scion of Maritain’s approach to understanding St. Thomas, and an adept thinker and careful author in his own right.

Among Simon’s many contributions is his Philosophy of Democratic Government, a work which presents the core insights of Maritain concerning the nature of democracy in a more deeply-rooted scholarly appraisal of St. Thomas, and rife with many additional insights of Simon’s own.  Using this text as our basis, this seminar, taught by Dr. Francisco Plaza, will revisit these twentieth-century thinkers and discern how their thought can help address the troubles of our own times. Registration closes June 6.

Schedule

Discussion Sessions

11:15pm ET

(World times)
Study Topics &
Readings


Week I
 
06/02–06/08
Lecture 1: Christianity and Democracy
Readings:
» Jacques Maritain, Christianity and Democracy, pages 3 to 63
Week II
 
06/09–06/15
Lecture 2: General Theory of Government
Reading:
» Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government, pages 1 to 71.
Week III
 
06/16–06/22
Lecture 3: Democratic Freedom
Reading:
» Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government, pages 72 to 143.
Week IV
 
06/23–06/29
Lecture 4: Sovereignty in Democracy
Reading:
» Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government, pages 144 to 194.

BREAK
Week V
 
07/07–07/13
Lecture 5: Democratic Equality
Reading:
» Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government, pages 195 to 259.
Week VI
 
07/14–07/20
Lecture 6: Democracy and Technology
Reading:
» Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government, pages 260 to 321.
Week VII
 
07/21–07/27
Lecture 7: The Failure of Liberalism
Readings:
» Patrick Deneen, Why Liberalism Failed, pages 1 to 42; pages to 179 to 198.
Week VIII
 
07/28–08/03
Lecture 8: Freedom, Nature, Community, and Democracy
Readings:
» Yves Simon Reader, pages 134 to 148; pages 267 to 284; pages 289 to 298; pages 399 to 414; pages 433 to 446.

Registration

Lyceum Institute seminar costs are structured on a principle of financial subsidiarity. There are three payment levels, priced according to likely levels of income. If you wish to take a seminar but cannot afford the suggested rate, it is acceptable to sign up at a less-expensive level. The idea is: pay what you can. Those who can pay more, should, so that those who cannot pay as much, need not. Lyceum Institute members receive a further discount (see here for details).

One payment covers all 8 weeks.

If you prefer an alternative payment method (i.e., not PayPal), use our contact form and state whether you prefer to pay as a Participant, Patron, or Benefactor, and an invoice will be emailed to you.

Pricing Comparison

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Enrollment
Advanced Lyceum EnrollmentPremium Lyceum Enrollment
Benefactor$200 per seminar$903 seminars included
$90 after
8 seminars included
$90 after
Patron$135 per seminar$653 seminars included
$65 after
8 seminars included
$65 after
Participant$60 per seminar$403 seminars included
$40 after
8 seminars included
$40 after

2024 Summer: Aristotle’s Physics

Join us on an intellectually rigorous journey through Aristotle’s conception of physics as a scientific discipline in our upcoming Lyceum Institute Seminar. Why study the physics of an ancient thinker? One might think (and many do) Aristotle’s scientific work obsolesced by the discoveries of modernity. In truth, while he may have been mistaken in particular conclusions, the insights produced by the Stagyrite pass the test of time; and persisting in ignorance of them undermines much thinking today. Through this seminar, we will demonstrate the perennial merits of the Physics and bring to light essential truths concerning the study and understanding of nature.

This study begins with a foundational examination of Aristotle’s logical methods, placing emphasis on discerning first principles, then turns to a structured analysis of pre-Socratic and Platonic challenges. With these preparations, participants will be primed to approach Aristotle’s Physics as proper hearers, equipped to grasp the profound depth of the Stagyrite’s scientific discourse in our rigorous examination of the scientific structure of the Physics.

It has often been a fault of philosophers—particularly in recent centuries, and sadly even among many who wish to retain the wisdom of tradition—that the natural world is not studied or understood, consigning its study to the sciences that investigate it through specialized means and instruments. But a philosophical grasp of nature is fruitful not only for the intellectual development of every individual: it is necessary for any scientist. Attaining insight into the meaning of natural phenomena cannot be achieved by the methods of modern science. Resolving their discovery into a coherent whole—seeing how the belong to the whole universe of experience—demands a higher study.

Challenge yourself. Registration closes June 6.

Registration

Lyceum Institute seminar costs are structured on a principle of financial subsidiarity. There are three payment levels, priced according to likely levels of income. If you wish to take a seminar but cannot afford the suggested rate, it is acceptable to sign up at a less-expensive level. The idea is: pay what you can. Those who can pay more, should, so that those who cannot pay as much, need not. Lyceum Institute members receive a further discount (see here for details).

One payment covers all 8 weeks.

If you prefer an alternative payment method (i.e., not PayPal), use our contact form and state whether you prefer to pay as a Participant, Patron, or Benefactor, and an invoice will be emailed to you.

Pricing Comparison

Standard priceBasic Lyceum
Enrollment
Advanced Lyceum EnrollmentPremium Lyceum Enrollment
Benefactor$200 per seminar$903 seminars included
$90 after
8 seminars included
$90 after
Patron$135 per seminar$653 seminars included
$65 after
8 seminars included
$65 after
Participant$60 per seminar$403 seminars included
$40 after
8 seminars included
$40 after

On Arguing God’s Existence

A Philosophical Happy Hour on the Unseriousness of Modern Objectors

It has become fashionable for analytic philosophers in recent years[1] to attack arguments for the existence of God.  These attacks, though their permutations are quite numerous, ordinarily attempt to show that the conception of God somehow entails a contradiction.  These might include some form of the problem of evil: namely, that if there is an infinitely good God, how can there be evil—or at least, “gratuitous” evils?  Another popular claim is that God’s omnipotence would contradict our freedom.  Others still might say that arguments for God fail because they presume a premise which is unproven or indemonstrable, against which some alternative can or might be proposed.

But are these objections serious?

To clarify the question, by “serious” I mean: consistently seeking an understanding of the truth in a way befitting our capacities as human beings.

Thus, to answer the question: no, I do not think so.  Why not?

Serious Inquiry

What makes an inquiry serious?  For a difficult and important question—one where belief in the answer not only has significant consequences for our behavior but which lacks an easy resolution—seriousness begins in humility.  To undertake an inquiry with humility requires a recognition of what one does not know and that it might influence the arguments at stake.

For instance, take the average person of today and ask him or her to read St. Thomas Aquinas’ five ways arguing for the existence of God.  Even most skeptics will doubtless admit that, absent prior extensive experience in philosophy and terminological clarifications, the arguments are not likely to be understood very well.  But just what does one have to know in order rightly to interpret Aquinas’ arguments?  Is it merely a matter of reading all of Aquinas’ works (no small feat)?  Of all of Aristotle’s works?  Augustine’s?  Albertus Magnus’?  Do we need the disputations of Scotus, the clarifications of Cajetan, the Iberian schools?  What of 20th century Thomism?

The point here is not that one need to read all of these thinkers to take seriously Aquinas’ arguments—but it is to say that the seriousness of the argument is manifestly indicated by the wide range of thinkers who have engaged with Aquinas’ thought.  These engagements, further—if examined closely in themselves—reveal that interpretation of Aquinas himself seldom proves straightforward.  Time, language, circumstance, and myriad other factors alter one’s interpretive disposition.  Absent careful and thoughtful consideration of these factors, we invariably import meanings into the argument that the argument does not itself contain and thereby turn it into a strawman.

No serious inquiry does this. 

Unserious Arguments

That modern objectors to the existence of God commonly (which is not to say universally) lack the requisite humility and therefore seriousness to undertake a serious inquiry can be seen through some common characteristics of these arguments.  Allow me to draw attention to five of these.

First, it does seem almost universally the case that modern analytic philosophers, to attempt handling such arguments, always translate them not only into anachronistic language (i.e., using modern terms with modern meanings for ancient or scholastic concepts) but further translate these into the artificial languages of symbolic logic.  While symbolic logic proves very useful for grasping the form and validity of arguments, it actively detracts from grasping the soundness and the significance of the terms.

Second, it is common for these arguments to rely upon presuppositions concerning time, matter, and causality, often deflecting responsibility for answering these questions onto idioscopic science or simply ignoring the necessity of their explicit investigation.  These presuppositions, being erroneous, lead naturally to erroneous conclusions.  This becomes doubly-problematic when these erroneous presuppositions are used to interpret arguments from antiquity—torturing their meaning by a Procrustean framework.

Third, many of the arguments against the necessity of a first cause affect their conclusions by subtly shifting claims’ intended significance—a kind of equivocation—to focus on parts rather than wholes.  For instance, in objecting to the first way, Schmid and Linford (2023: Existential Inertia and Classical Theistic Proofs, 22) read “everything” (or “whatever”; in Latin, omne) in Aquinas’ first way to signify “each and every single thing”, when it is said that everything moved is moved by another and that, since this cannot go on to infinity, there must be some first mover.  But had Aquinas intended “each and every single thing”, he would not have used the word omne, but, rather, quodcumque, quilibet, or the like, as he does seemingly everywhere.  Put otherwise, omne is not here used distributively but collectively.[2]

This leads to the fourth point of unseriousness: the objectors seem, by and large, not to themselves ask with intent to answer the questions put forward by defenders of God’s existence, but, rather, only to find possible refutations of them.  Subsequently, their intent seems not to be conviction but rather persuasion, whether or not conviction is a part of that persuasion.  Thus, one will often find a kind of moral outrage—“how dare your God commit such atrocities!”—without any consideration that it could be our understanding which is wrong, and not God.

Fifth and finally, though hard to notice or accurately summarize them, certain noetic presuppositions stand behind and shape the objections.  Because the objectors themselves do not state explicitly their presuppositions (and perhaps are not even consciously aware of them), they make themselves known primarily by a kind of absence.  Nominalism,[3] for example, or an effete empiricism[4] being quite common.  By such presuppositions, and by maintaining them as necessary conditions for any debate, a skeptical objector establishes the impossibility of any argument for God’s existence.

Conversation and Disputation

In describing why thinkers may adopt an absurd conclusion (and specifically in this case, those who deny the principle of non-contradiction), Aquinas writes the following:[5]

Some of these thinkers lapse into this position on account of doubt: for, since certain sophistical rationales occur to them, from which the aforesaid positions seem to follow, and they do not know how to solve these, they concede the conclusions.  Hence their ignorance is easily cured.  For one must not strive to meet or attack the rationales which they posit, but rather make appeal to their minds, so as to resolve the doubts through which their minds have fallen into such opinions.  And thus, from this, they will withdraw from those positions.

Others, however, pursue the aforesaid positions not because some doubt induces them to these opinions, but only for the sake of expression, that is, from a certain impudence, wishing to sustain these impossible arguments on account of their own sakes—because the contraries of these positions cannot be demonstrated.  And the treatment for these thinkers is argumentation or rejection of that which is expressed in speech and in words, that is, from the fact that the expressions of speech signify something.  For the signification of speech depends upon the signification of words.  And thus it is necessary to have recourse to the principle that words signify something.

Thomas Aquinas 1270/71: Super Sententiam Metaphysicae, lib.4, lec.10, n.663-664. Translation my own.

Now… I do not mean to suggest that the objectors here being identified are as sophistical and egotistical as those who would deny the principle of non-contradiction.  Nonetheless, it bears asking: what is it that truly they are expressing in speech and words?  Do they maintain their objections from a certain impudence?  Are they befuddled by sophistical rationalizations?

Join us this Wednesday to think and discuss (not to debate) how one seriously inquires into the existence of God. [Note: this Happy Hour will be recorded, but this recording will be kept strictly within the Lyceum Institute.]

Philosophical Happy Hour

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Come join us for drinks (adult or otherwise) and a meaningful conversation. Open to the public! Held every Wednesday from 5:45–7:15pm ET.


[1] I suppose this is true in much of the history of analytic philosophy, but the internet has renewed the trend’s interest and vigor.

[2] Oppy 2023: “Validity and Soundness in the First Way” in Revista Portuguesa de Filosofia, 79.1-2: 148-49 makes precisely the same mistake.  To be fair to Schmid and Linford, they are responding more directly to an interpretation of Aquinas—that by McNabb and DeVito—than to Aquinas himself.  But this in itself is a problem.  Reliance upon interpretations of translations (in this case, by those of Fr. Lawrence Shapcote OP and Anton Pegis), rather than directly addressing the proper signification of the Latin as used by Aquinas, will always be like fighting a shadow with a flashlight.

[3] We can identify both a positive and a negative form of nominalism: positively, as the belief that only individuals exist; negatively, as the denial that mind-independent relations exist or, what is functionally the same, that they can be known by us.

[4] That is, the belief that for a statement to be meaningful there has to be a concrete empirical object which fully instantiates that statement’s meaning.

[5] 1270/71: Super Sententiam Metaphysicae, lib.4, lec.10, n.663-664: “Quidam enim [aliqui incidunt in praedicas positiones] ex dubitatione.  Cum enim eis occurrunt aliquae sophisticae rationes, ex quibus videantur sequi praedictae positiones, et eas nesciunt solvere, concedunt conclusionem.  Unde eorum ignorantia est facile curabilis.  Non enim obviandum est eis vel occurrendum ad rationes quas ponunt, sed ad mentem, ut scilicet solvatur dubitatio de mentibus, per quam in huiusmodi opinions inciderunt.  Et tunc ab istis positionibus recedunt.

“Alii vero praedictas positiones prosequuntur non protper aliquam dubitatoinem eos ad hiuismodi inducentm, sed solum causa orationis, idest ex quaedam protervia, volentes huiusmodi rationes impossibiles sustinere propter seipsa, quia contraria earum demonstrari non possunt.  Et horum medela est argumentatio vel arguitio quae est in voce orationis et in nominibus, idest per hoc quod ipsa vox orationis aliquid significat.  Significatio autem orationis a significatione nomun dependet.  Et sic oportet ad hoc principium redire, quod nomina aliquid significant”.

Where Philosophy and Sacred Theology Meet

On 20 May at 10am ET (see times around the world here), Dr. Victor Salas (Sacred Heart Major Seminary, Detroit MI) will present on “Where Philosophy and Sacred Theology Meet: The Case of John of St. Thomas (Poinsot)”. This presentation will be accessible via Zoom (details on recording availability forthcoming). Add it to your calendars!

This event is organized by our affiliates at the Institute for Philosophical Studies of the Faculty of Arts and Humanities of the University of Coimbra.

On Listening

What immediate irony!  Reading about listening.  Indeed, we all tend to do far more reading, I suspect, than we do listening.  That often we read poorly does not take away from the fact that we read continually.  For a great many of us, the nature of work, study, and even distraction often involves a discernment of visual signs, and for most of that “great many”, the visual signs are written words.  We live primarily through our eyes—evidenced, even by the very fact of your reading this, and my announcing it to you in the written word, rather than my speaking and your listening.  As Aristotle writes in his Metaphysics, “even if we are not going to do anything else, we prefer, as one might say, seeing to the other sensations.” (980a 25-26).  He adds that sight, more so than the other senses, makes know “in the highest degree and makes clear many differences in things.”

But though sight truly is a wonderful gift, it may in a world of endless stimuli be greedily indulged.  We may see countless things, at truly mind-numbing speed.  In the words of Cardinal Sarah, “Images are drugs that we can no longer do without, because they are present everywhere and at every moment.”[1]  Rapacious addiction to visual novelty degrades our vision itself.

Simultaneously, I believe, it has atrophied our capacity for listening.

What is Listening?

Perhaps because we have adopted poor, mechanical metaphors, I believe we often misunderstand our senses: we tend to think of them as sensing or not; as “on” or “off”.  A little reflection, however, shows that our senses are, in fact, always active, so long as the organs are intact.  Right now, doubtless, you are touching several objects: clothing, the floor, your chair, your phone—and even if you were somehow to be suspended, floating naked in midair, you’d still be in contact with that air itself, even if the ambient temperature is so perfectly attuned to your own that you cannot detect it.  So too, you may shut your eyes, but even then, you have succeeded only in removing the object, light; you have not “turned off” the sense.

Hearing, too, is always present.  So common, in fact, are the ubiquitous noises of our world today that we remark mostly on their absence—“it’s so [too] quiet in here”.  But even in the quietest of rooms, in the quietest of homes, on the most noiseless property in all the world, one is very likely to hear something; even if naught else but one’s own breathing.  The volume of small noises (inhale-exhale; a ticking watch; a light breeze) grows conspicuous against the lack of anything louder.  It was just this point—the omnipresence of sound—that motivated John Cage’s (in)famous piece of “music”, 4’33”, during which a pianist sits at his piano and plays not a single note.  In the absence of music, one hears countless other sounds: creaks of chairs, rustling of clothes, passing vehicles, gusts of wind, yelling on the street—and so on.  We hear such things all the time.  Many, Cage included, have interpreted this to mean there is no such thing as silence.

Just as images have become drugs without which we cannot do, so too, for many, has sound: endlessly filling one’s ears with music as naught but background, or the dialogue of a television show, or a podcast, or anything which might keep our minds from roaming too far from whatever menial tasks we have before us.[2]  Oftener than not, such blasé auditory stimulation, rather than informing our minds of meaningful distinctions, provides us only an uncritical emotional response.  We listen to music to get into (or out of) moods.  The television show comforts us with its familiarity and lack of personal threat.  The podcast alleviates the boredom of a humdrum daily task.

That is, we do not listen because we do not attend to the objects signified through sound but acknowledge (or ignore) them only as received into (or rejected by) our own egotistical subjectivity.  And this egotism, I believe, reflects the noise of our own hearts and minds more than the ambient sounds of our environments.

Silence and Music

“Uncontrollable rivers flow through the heart,” says Cardinal Sarah, “and it is all a man can do to find interior silence.”[3]  We might believe these auditory stimuli, which “speak to us”, to calm the uncontrollable rivers.  In truth, they are naught but anesthetics, numbing us to the torrent.  We drown our ears and flood our hearts with noise: “Noise,” writes C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape, “the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile—Noise which alone defends us from silly qualms, despairing scruples and impossible desires.  We will make the whole universe a noise in the end.  We have already made great stride in this direction as regards the Earth.”[4]

Conversely, truly listening to anything requires that we first attain silence.  Indeed, the necessity of silence grows the more abundant noise has become.  In the words of Pope Benedict XVI:[5]

Silence is an integral element of communication; in its absence, words rich in content cannot exist… When messages and information are plentiful, silence becomes essential if we are to distinguish what is important from what is insignificant or secondary.  Deeper reflection helps us to discover the links between events that at first sight seem unconnected, to make evaluations, to analyze messages; this makes it possible to share thoughtful and relevant opinions, giving rise to an authentic body of shared knowledge.  For this to happen, it is necessary to develop an appropriate environment, a kind of ‘eco-system’ that maintains a just equilibrium between silence, words, images, and sounds.

How do we develop and maintain this “equilibrium”—that interior silence?  The corollary to the peace of silence is the joy of music—true music, that is, heard not as background but to which we listen and in which we move beyond and outside ourselves into something more.  It is a Scholastic adage that nihil est in intellectu quin prius fuerit in sensu: nothing is in the intellect that was not first in the senses.  Perhaps that our hearts have music and silence, we need first to unblock our ears.

Recovering the Art of Listening

That is, listening is a kind of work, an art, and one that we have lost.  We lack the cognitive endurance today, it seems, for the art of truly listening—as Christopher Blum and Joshua Hochschild note in their Mind at Peace: “The eye can take in a vast scene almost at once, but one must have patience to receive the fullness of a song or of a speech.”[6]  What then are the practical steps that we can take to recover this art?

I would challenge you all, before attending our Philosophical Happy Hour this Wednesday (1 May 2024) to listen to something—a symphony, an album, a lengthy speech—without other distraction.  Do naught but listen.  What do you find in the experience?  How did you attend differently to the songs or sounds, the words or thoughts?  What merit do you see in this focused listening?

Philosophical Happy Hour

« »

Come join us for drinks (adult or otherwise) and a meaningful conversation. Open to the public! Held every Wednesday from 5:45–7:15pm ET.



[1] 2016: The Power of Silence: Against the Dictatorship of Noise, §46.

[2] This accusation is not meant to be strictly universal, but to help us recognize a trend, whether one present in ourselves or those we know.

[3] 2016: Power of Silence, §48.

[4] 1942: Screwtape Letters, 120 (Letter 23).

[5] 20 May 2012: “Silence and Word: Path of Evangelization”.  The whole message is worth contemplation.

[6] 2017: A Mind at Peace: Reclaiming an Ordered Soul in the Age of Distraction, 72.

The Thomistic Concept of Truth

The Lyceum Institute will be co-hosting an inaugural X.com (formerly Twitter) Space, this Thursday (25 April 2024) at 2pm ET, with @Aquinas_Quotes. We will be discussing the Thomistic Concept of Truth. Anyone with an account can listen in! Link below. To facilitate our discussion, we will be considering Thomas Aquinas’ Summa contra Gentiles, 1.61 and De veritate, q.1, a.1, as well as an excerpt from Josef Pieper.

Here is a PDF of the two texts from St. Thomas. Texts from Pieper are attached below.

Science and Philosophy: In Dialogue?

Positivism and Science

A difficult and complex question in philosophy today concerns the discussion regarding the intersection and “boundaries” of the harder empirical sciences and the distinct activity of philosophical enquiry.  Given the success of scientific discovery, one temptation in the early 20th century was to claim that disciplines such as biology, chemistry, physics, and the like were (or would eventually become) exhaustive for understanding the world and nature.  This position, known as “positivism”, claimed that genuine inquiry into the world of nature either had to be reducible to empirical testing and measuring or was known to be true tautologically.[1]  Anything that did not conform to these modes of inquiry, such as classical metaphysics and theology, were considered pseudo-scientific in their mode of enquiry.  

Standing in contrast to this reductive position, the French Thomist philosopher Jacques Maritain argues in his Degrees of Knowledge that a bifurcation can be made between sciences as affirmative, to which he ascribes the empirical “hard” sciences and studies, and the more deductive science of proper “explication” or knowledge of and from first principles:[2]

Briefly, we can say that science in general deals with the necessities immanent in natures, with the universal essences realized in individuals in the concrete and sensible world.  The distinction has been drawn between the explicatory or deductive sciences, which attain to these natures by discovery (constructively in mathematics, and from without to what is within in the case of philosophy), and the affirmative or inductive sciences, which only attain these natures as signs and substitutes, blindly so to say.  These latter have assuredly a certain explicative value, without which they would not be sciences, but which consists in indicating the necessities of things by way of sensible experiment, not by assigning their intelligible reasons.

Maritain’s distinction between the two sciences of the “explicatory” and the “affirmative” does not distinguish entities as they exist in the world, but rather between different ways of grasping entities in the world.  It is this distinction that forms the basis of Maritain’s own investigation and his defense against positivism: namely, the three degrees of abstraction (by which we attain the natures of physical objects, mathematical objects, and metaphysical objects).  Even so, if all Maritain has done here is provide room for a study of metaphysics or a natural philosophy based upon principles, there remains the question as to how the two modes of enquiry interact with one another—if at all.  Are the affirmative sciences corrective of the explicatory?  Do the explicatory sciences have their own interpretive autonomy in relation to what can be measured and analyzed empirically?

The Cenoscopic and Idioscopic

Another distinction made in philosophy, taken first from Jeremy Bentham, but developed by C. S. Peirce is the distinction between cenoscopic and idioscopic sciences. The cenoscopic sciences are characterized by their study of what is common among the many and divergent, and the idioscopic is characterized by the specializing or the breaking apart of inquiry:[3]

In cenoscopy, things escape the eye not by being hidden by virtue of their tininess or hugeness, or their extension over eons of time or involvement in hyper-complexities of culture, but simply by their commonness. Their very obviousness requires a conscious direction of our attention, like that needed to notice the ticking of a clock that your ears were hearing all the while you conversed with someone, but which remained unperceived because you were otherwise occupied…The “idioscopic,” by contrast, is a “look” that is idios – “singular, special(ized)” – and that began to be cultivated in earnest only in modern times. It has become the very glory of modern science, and has brought countless blessings and maledictions into our contemporary biosphere.

Whereas cenoscopy offers us a “grand theory of everything” and seeks to unite the divergent modes of enquiry, idioscopic enquiry by its nature seeks to break apart, to isolate, to experiment upon, and to measure.  Neither science is necessarily wrongheaded in what it seeks to inquire, but both are deficient with regards to understanding the world and how we relate to it:[4]

In summary, these four areas of human knowing – the astronomically big and the microscopically small, the biologically compounded and the culturally complex – invite idioscopic science to don its instruments, mount its experiments, measure and hypothesize about the objects in question, and finally to fashion technologies that will hopefully more deeply integrate humankind with its environment, solve problems and cure diseases.  Still, the great ideal at the heart of all knowledge, namely, the desire to unify data and bring synthesis to multiplicity, floats temptingly over these four areas as it does over the divisions within each of them.  Knowledge by definition tends toward unity.

What philosophy offers the idioscopic (here I’m grafting roughly onto Maritain’s affirmative as roughly equivalent) is a unified whole of the diversity in the hard sciences.  While idioscopic science by its nature compartmentalizes and divides the study of the world, rightfully so within its respective subject-matter, it is at a loss in attempting to find unity within the multitude.  By contrast, the cenoscopic, in providing its own accounts and studies of the world based upon shared commonness, oftentimes misses the mark in its enquiry—one could think of the Eleatic philosophers and their cenoscopic inquiry concluding the impossibility of change and mutation and the eternal permanence to being.

A Habit Formed

Famously in the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle quipped that among the commonly identified virtutes, many of them go unnamed.  A virtue famously for Aristotle is taken to be a mean between two vicious extremes, being informed by the goods sought after deficiently or in excess in both vices:[5]

So, virtue, is a purposive disposition, lying in a mean that is relative to us and determined by a rational principle, and by that which a prudent man would use to determine it.  It is a mean between two kinds of vices, one of excess and the other of deficiency; and also, for this reason, that whereas these vices fall short of or exceeding the right measure in both feelings and actions, virtue discovers the mean and chooses it.

The question I would like to ask is: what sort of “unnamed” virtue must a person be formed in today if both the cenoscopic and ideoscopic sciences are to be retained?  Is it healthy to siphon off one habit of cognizing the world in the absence of the other?  Are there points where both scientific inquiries intersect, or one ought to claim priority, and if so, is there a habit needed to secure this intersection?  If there can be found such a habit, what kind of vicious extremes could be seen to impede the exercise of such a virtuous inquiry?

Join the Conversation!

We’ll be discussing these and more conversations in our Philosophical Happy Hour this Wednesday (17 April 2024) and we’d love for you to join. Use the links below!

Philosophical Happy Hour

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Come join us for drinks (adult or otherwise) and a meaningful conversation. Open to the public! Held every Wednesday from 5:45–7:15pm ET.


[1] Creath 2022: “Logical Empiricism”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2023 Edition), Edward N. Zalta & Uri Nodelman (eds.).

[2] Maritain 1937: Distinguer pour unir ou Les degrés du savoir. Reference to the English translation by Bernard Wall, Degrees of Knowledge, 43

[3] Paine 2021: “On the Cenoscopic and Idioscopic and Why They Matter”, in Reality: a journal for philosophical discourse, online [PDF]: 5-6.

[4] Ibid, 12.

[5] c.335/34bc: Ἠθικὰ nικοάχεια in the English translation by J. Thomson, The Nicomachean Ethics, 42.

The World as Sign: The Semiotic Metaphysics of St. Bonaventure

Our friends from the Deely Project at Saint Vincent College announce that Fr. Christopher Cullen, SJ (Fordham University) will present the 2024 annual John Deely Lecture on April 20 at 7pm, ET, entitled: “The World as Sign: The Semiotic Metaphysics of St. Bonaventure”. Members of the public are free to attend the lecture or watch via Zoom (link below).

Watch this lecture live via Zoom

Deely Project

The Deely Project provides a site where leading figures foster exploration of the semiotic perspective for the coming generations. Faculty and students, undergraduate and graduate, drawn from across the disciplines, engage each other in vigorous, critical and fertile dialogue. The lively interchange in colloquia, seminars and tutorials intrinsically integrates knowledge across methodologies that have perennially taken themselves to be essential.

To date, the Deely Project ahs established its annual lecture series, a reading room in the Dale P. Latimer Library at Saint Vincent College, the Endowed John Deely/Jacques Maritain Academic Chair, and participated in the International Open Seminar on Semiotics: a Tribute to John Deely on the Fifth Anniversary of His Passing.

Walls of Glass

Metaphors of Personal Identity in Derek Parfit and Teresa of Ávila

Personal identity over time is an idea derided by analytic philosophy.  Hume began the process of debunking the person, or self, as “nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions.”[1]  The demolition job concluded in 1984, with the publication of Derek Parfit’s Reasons and Persons.  Parfit (1942–2017) found liberation in dispensing with personal identity—shattering the “glass tunnel” that kept him apart from life.  Parfit uses the metaphor of glass walls to express personal identity as a constraint.  Four hundred years earlier, by contrast, St. Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582) used glass walls to express personal identity as a luminous, faceted beauty—an interior crystal castle where God lives within us.  The difference between the philosophers and their vitreous metaphors is that Parfit’s person is a self, and Teresa’s is a soul.

Parfit: Under a Dark Glass

In Reasons and Persons, Parfit conducts thought experiments like teleportation and brain switching to show that personal identity over time could only be true if there were a “further fact” beyond our psychological states, which “owns” or “holds” those states.  But there is no further fact beyond the psychological states, nothing beyond the Humean bundles of perceptions, memories, and the like.  Therefore, there is no personal identity, no self, over time.  As a consolation, Parfit shows us that personal identity doesn’t matter anyway, because all we really care about is surviving in some way or other.  To render Parfit’s meticulous examples crudely but briefly: if the cross-galaxy teleporter was buggy one day, and only deposited a very close replica of my body, brain, and brain states—not my original, self-same molecules and brain states—I could learn to live with it.  I might even enjoy it, as Parfit enjoyed life once he stopped worrying about personal identity:[2]

When I believed my existence was such a further fact, I seemed imprisoned in myself.  My life seemed like a glass tunnel through which I was moving faster and faster, and at the end of which was darkness.  When I changed my view, the walls of my glass tunnel disappeared.  I now live in the open air.  There is still a difference between my life and the lives of other people.  But the difference is less.

Parfit did not dismiss the human concern for personal identity.  In an interview, he recognized that people want a “guaranteed identity,” a way to exist as ourselves over time.  He also noted that this desired identity “would be true if what each of us really was, was a soul.”[3] But Parfit dismissed the existence of souls, which he called a type of “further fact” beyond our immediate and verifiable sense experience.  Without a soul, we do not have clearcut individual identities over time.

Obviously, Parfit thought “soul” had huge explanatory power: It could explain personal identity over time.  But access to this power required a leap of faith, something Parfit felt unprepared to do.  In contrast, Teresa of Ávila leapt without hesitation.  She didn’t rejoice over the shards of a broken self, but built a lasting identity—a soul—from the most brilliant glass.

St. Teresa: Luminous Walls

Teresa began her masterwork, Interior Castle, by sharing her vision of the soul as a castle made of “very clear crystal” or “a single diamond,” in which there are “many rooms, just as in heaven there are many mansions.”[4]  Teresa identifies seven rooms or abodes (moradas), each with its own ethical and spiritual significance, with God fully present and experienced in the seventh.  The crystal castle is the soul—the place where God abides.  But soul also enters and travels though the rooms of the castle. Teresa expressed this duality throughout Interior Castle.  She also put it in one of her poems, “Alma buscarte” (“Soul, Seek Yourself”).  In this poem, God calls the soul “my chamber, my dwelling, and my house” (soul as castle), but also gives counsel to the soul if it “gets lost inside my tinted caverns” (soul entering and traveling through the castle).[5]

This is an apparent, rather Parmenidean contradiction—how can a soul both be a thing and enter that thing?  Teresa directly addresses the contradiction as the very nature of what we might call the search within—a feature of human self-consciousness also integral to prayer and meditation:[6]

Now let us return to our beautiful and delightful castle and see how we can enter it.  I seem rather to be talking nonsense, for, if this castle is the soul there can clearly be no question of our entering it.  For we ourselves are the castle: and it would be absurd to tell someone to enter a room when he was in it already. But you must understand that there are many ways of “being” in a place…You will have read certain books on prayer which advise the soul to enter within itself: and that is exactly what this means.

This passage suggests Teresa’s concept of personal identity over time.  Identity is a function of one’s soul being a durable, beautiful, and complex edifice, which also possesses the unusual quality of being able to search itself and, in so doing, meet God.  The soul is the structure that owns or holds consciousness (a further fact, per Parfit).  Self-consciousness provides a two-fold proof of persistence over time: first, the continuity of inner experience in the temporal sequence of entering and traveling through the soul; second,  the experience of an everlasting, indwelling God. As Teresa wrote in her poem, “Hermosura de Dios” (“God’s Beauty”), God has the astounding ability to bind the eternal to the mortal: “What a knot you tie from two unequal things…you join the mortal—what need not be, with that must be—Eternal.”[7] Discovering God within shows all seekers that we connect to the immortal, and so we endure.

Teresa, like Parfit, imagines darkness as well as clear glass.  But unlike Parfit’s tunnel of glass leading to darkness, Teresa’s darkness is the muck full of venomous creatures outside the crystal castle.  This is the state of sin.  Before the soul enters itself, it lives outside itself in sin; to enter the crystal castle is to start renouncing sin and embarking on the search within.  There is comfort in Teresa’s metaphors, because they suggest our identity is not obliterated by sin.  We always have the soul as structure, the castle within us, with God in residence.  In sin, the soul has not yet entered its own lovely dwelling—but the option is always there, beckoning with its brightness.

Sorrowful Self, Delighted Soul

Of course, history, circumstance, and religious practice enabled Teresa to think about the soul in ways that Parfit found impossible.  In unpacking personal identity, the most Parfit could seriously contemplate was the self, defined by such things as bodily continuity, memory, or psychological connectedness.  All of these failed to pan out when mined for the “further fact” of personal identity, as would be expected, per Hume, from mere collections of sense data, impressions, and ideas.  But Parfit knew what Teresa knew: the optimal further fact of personal identity is not the self, but the soul.  The difference is that Parfit rejected the soul, while Teresa embraced it.

It is fascinating to consider that Parfit and Teresa, separated by four centuries, both chose glass as metaphor to express personal identity.  The sense that a transparent barrier individuates me from others is a common modern feeling, and perhaps it was in Teresa’s day also.  The key point is that Parfit and Teresa lent opposing meanings to the metaphor: Parfit’s glass tunnel defines personal identity as the miserable prison of self, best demolished; Teresa’s crystal castle defines personal identity as our glorious, protective home—the soul.  That again is the difference between self and soul.  One is sorrow, the other, delight.


Author Bio

Dana Delibovi is a poet, essayist, and translator who started out as a philosopher.  Her new book of translations and essays, Sweet Hunter: The Complete Poems of St. Teresa of Ávila, will be published on St. Teresa’s feast day, October 15, 2024, by Monkfish Books.  Delibovi’s work has appeared in After the Art, Noon, Presence, Salamander, U.S. Catholic, and many other journals.  She is a 2020 Best American Essays notable essayist and a consulting editor at the e-zine, Cable Street.  Delibovi holds a BA in philosophy from Barnard College and an MA in philosophy from New York University, where she studied with Peter Unger.


[1] David Hume 1740: A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. P.H. Nidditch (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press), 252.

[2] Derek Parfit 1984: Reasons and Persons (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press), 281.

[3] 1996: “Derek Parfit on Personal Identity.” Available at https://youtu.be/d7asDhjj7Xk?si=vntx-TXL9VHtwDWb.  Accessed 11 March 2024.

[4] St. Teresa of Ávila 1577: Interior Castle, ed. and trans. E. Allison Peers (New York, NY: Image Books, 1961), 28.

[5] St. Teresa of Ávila, 1576: “Alma, buscarte has en mí” / “Soul Seek Yourself in Me,” trans. Dana Delibovi, U.S. Catholic 87, no. 9 (2022): 15.

[6] Teresa 1577: Interior, 31.

[7] St. Teresa of Ávila 1577: “Hermosura de Dios” / “God’s Beauty”, trans. Dana Delibovi, U.S. Catholic 87, no. 3 (2022): 21.