Love of All Wisdom

The question at the heart of my dissertation work, on the Buddhist thinker ??ntideva, is one I don’t feel I’ve resolved: the question of external goods. I took this term from Martha Nussbaum, who in turn got it from Aristotle: external goods (and bads) are things in life that lie largely beyond our control. Wealth, personal relationships, good health: we have some control over all these things, but in the end they can all be taken from us through no fault of our own. The question is: how should we react to gains and losses of external goods, to the vagaries of fortune?

Nussbaum tends to embrace the most commonsense position: our losses of external goods are real losses, and our strong reactions to such losses are expressing the truth that our lives are poorer. She contrasts this view to the Stoics, who say that we should remain calm and unshaken, confident in our own virtue.

I have a strong sympathy for the Stoic side; it’s been my experience that if one becomes unhappy whenever misfortune strikes, one will never be happy. The most extreme logical conclusion of their view seems to be a single-minded devotion to virtue and inner peace, best expressed in a monasticism like ??ntideva’s; but something does seem to me lost in such a life, a loss that could outweigh the misery from being struck by external losses.

There is a third position on the question, though, which has come to interest me more after the dissertation. Thinkers as far apart as Mencius and Nietzsche tend to support a view that losses do matter, but actually benefit us by strengthening us: “whatever does not kill me makes me stronger.” In some respects ??ntideva is closer to this position than he is to the Stoics; and I’m wondering whether it might be the most sensible position to take.

People concerned with the big questions of philosophy, or with cross-cultural philosophy, often reach a quick disillusionment with analytic philosophy – the standard approach of academic philosophy departments. The name is apt, as the approach is typically more concerned with analysis than synthesis; the characteristic method is to divide our fuzzy, vague everyday concepts into ever more precise and specific concepts, referring more and more exactly to smaller and smaller things. Analytic philosophers have typically seen the history of philosophy (Western or otherwise) as interesting but not important. The analytic philosopher W.V.O. Quine once quipped that there are two kinds of philosophers: those who do philosophy, and those who do the history of philosophy.

There is value in the analytic approach, best seen when compared to its main opponent, the French “continental” tradition (especially postmodernism). A “continental” philosophy department typically pays much more attention to the great questions, to the history of philosophy, and even to non-Western traditions. (Full disclosure: continental philosophy departments have generally shown considerably more interest in hiring me than analytic ones have.)

What you will find far less of in “continental” philosophy, however, is any discussion of truth. Continental philosophers’ writings tend to work in an exegetical mode: Heidegger said this, Lévinas said that, Foucault said the other thing. But was Heidegger or Foucault right? Much Continental work seems to shy away from such questions, sometimes acting merely as a mouthpiece for the philosopher being explained. Often the reasoning given, based on thinkers like Jacques Derrida, is that truth doesn’t exist in the first place; all that’s left is text and more text. But such an approach makes one see why Quine made his quip.

My own quip: analytic philosophy is truth without significance, continental philosophy is significance without truth. I would like to look for both.