The Grey Man
το φως εν τη σκοτια φαινει
Unity and multiplicity.
Throughout all periods and places of human history, one question has never failed to vex philosophers, for it is as intimate to them as their very selves: what is the relation between the one and the many, between the multiplicity of natural phenomena and the unity of self-consciousness that combines them?
Here in the West, philosophy has scarcely ever been free to even ask the question properly. Down to around 1800 A.D., it was relegated to the role of a mere "handmaiden to theology" under the domineering influence of Church doctrine, and since the subsequent emergence of philosophy as a bona fide professional academic discipline, it has been suffocated by the hardly less restrictive influence of the roughly contemporaneous accession of the industrial system to govern our economic life.
Reports of the death of God are greatly exaggerated; He has not died, though His devotees have tried to turn Him inside out. Instead of loving Him in their souls, they try to control and possess Him with their bodies; emboldened by our predecessors' unprecedented success in charting the connections between things in the external world (which is preeminently embodied by Newton's Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica), we bend our will towards harnessing these natural forces and thereby achieving manifold advantages over other creatures at the expense of our own internal salvation. Like Faust, the West has sacrificed its soul to its lust for power; the God of the industrial age is not the personal Creator of scholastic times, but an impersonal creation that man would make his servant—matter.
This transition from the salvation of the soul by the grace of God to the exploitation of materials in the world as our dominant religious theme has influenced the development of academic philosophy no less than it has our industrial practises; just as our increased material productivity has been made possible by the coordination of large numbers of people with diverse skillsets, so have we sought to maximize our intellectual productivity by bringing about a diversification of thought. Instead of philosophers, we now have specialists in a number of sub-disciplines of philosophy and natural science which are individuated by their different fields of study: philosophers of the mind, of language, of history, of religion, of science, ethicists, aestheticians, and political philosophers on the one hand; physicists, chemists, biologists, anthropologists, psychologists, sociologists, geologists, and astronomers on the other—and these are in turn divided and hybridized into too many sub-sub-disciplines to name here.
This diversification is a favourable development for philosophy insofar as it is concerned only with the representation of natural phenomena, for the world is vast and far beyond the compass of any one mind to understand in full detail, but it is quite inappropriate for philosophers in the strict sense to admit any boundaries to their field of study, for it is precisely the character of philosophy that it does not share space with any other discipline—it is concerned with nothing but everything. It may be argued that the sub-disciplines of philosophy apply the principles of philosophy to particular objects, just as the scientific discipline of entomology applies the principles of the higher-ranking discipline of zoology to insects, and should be admitted on these grounds. My counter-argument: that while the principles of natural science can be demonstrated by means of insect specimens, so that the lower-ranking disciplines support and confirm the higher, the principles of philosophy cannot be demonstrated by means of any object; in its mission to represent everything, philosophy must take into consideration not only the relations between the multiplicity of natural phenomena, but also that between the multiplicity itself and the unity of self-consciousness that combines it. Thus does it encounter its central problem, the union of the opposing principles of individuation and integration that is the world.
Throughout all periods and places of human history, one question has never failed to vex philosophers, for it is as intimate to them as their very selves: what is the relation between the one and the many, between the multiplicity of natural phenomena and the unity of self-consciousness that combines them?
Here in the West, philosophy has scarcely ever been free to even ask the question properly. Down to around 1800 A.D., it was relegated to the role of a mere "handmaiden to theology" under the domineering influence of Church doctrine, and since the subsequent emergence of philosophy as a bona fide professional academic discipline, it has been suffocated by the hardly less restrictive influence of the roughly contemporaneous accession of the industrial system to govern our economic life.
Reports of the death of God are greatly exaggerated; He has not died, though His devotees have tried to turn Him inside out. Instead of loving Him in their souls, they try to control and possess Him with their bodies; emboldened by our predecessors' unprecedented success in charting the connections between things in the external world (which is preeminently embodied by Newton's Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica), we bend our will towards harnessing these natural forces and thereby achieving manifold advantages over other creatures at the expense of our own internal salvation. Like Faust, the West has sacrificed its soul to its lust for power; the God of the industrial age is not the personal Creator of scholastic times, but an impersonal creation that man would make his servant—matter.
This transition from the salvation of the soul by the grace of God to the exploitation of materials in the world as our dominant religious theme has influenced the development of academic philosophy no less than it has our industrial practises; just as our increased material productivity has been made possible by the coordination of large numbers of people with diverse skillsets, so have we sought to maximize our intellectual productivity by bringing about a diversification of thought. Instead of philosophers, we now have specialists in a number of sub-disciplines of philosophy and natural science which are individuated by their different fields of study: philosophers of the mind, of language, of history, of religion, of science, ethicists, aestheticians, and political philosophers on the one hand; physicists, chemists, biologists, anthropologists, psychologists, sociologists, geologists, and astronomers on the other—and these are in turn divided and hybridized into too many sub-sub-disciplines to name here.
This diversification is a favourable development for philosophy insofar as it is concerned only with the representation of natural phenomena, for the world is vast and far beyond the compass of any one mind to understand in full detail, but it is quite inappropriate for philosophers in the strict sense to admit any boundaries to their field of study, for it is precisely the character of philosophy that it does not share space with any other discipline—it is concerned with nothing but everything. It may be argued that the sub-disciplines of philosophy apply the principles of philosophy to particular objects, just as the scientific discipline of entomology applies the principles of the higher-ranking discipline of zoology to insects, and should be admitted on these grounds. My counter-argument: that while the principles of natural science can be demonstrated by means of insect specimens, so that the lower-ranking disciplines support and confirm the higher, the principles of philosophy cannot be demonstrated by means of any object; in its mission to represent everything, philosophy must take into consideration not only the relations between the multiplicity of natural phenomena, but also that between the multiplicity itself and the unity of self-consciousness that combines it. Thus does it encounter its central problem, the union of the opposing principles of individuation and integration that is the world.