
Is Denmark Socialist?

John Fante, Full of Life, HarperCollins 2002, pp. 86-87. Originally published in 1952.
I liked an atheistic wife. Her position made matters easy for me. It simplified a planned family. We had no scruples about contraceptives. Ours had been a civil marriage. We were not chained by religious tenets. Divorce was there, any time we wanted it. If she became a Catholic there would be all manner of complications. It was hard to be a good Catholic, very hard, and that was why I had left the Church. To be a good Catholic you had to break through the crowd and help Him pack the cross. I was saving the break through for later. If she broke through I might have to follow, for she was my wife.
It was indeed hard to be a good Catholic in the 'fifties and earlier. You had to do this and refrain from that. It put you at odds with the secular. But then, in the 'sixties, the Church decided to become 'relevant' to use a prominent buzzword of the era. The effect of the pursuit of 'relevance,' however, was to render itself irrelevant. A Church that is just another pile of secular leftist junk is of no use to anyone. Not to true leftists who have no need for a superannuated substitute. The true hipster scorns the oldster trying to be hip. Not to the young who seek order and structure and transcendent guidance. Such seekers are nowadays drawn to Islam. One such was John Walker 'Jihad Johhny' Lindh. He was baptized and raised 'Catholic' but ran off to join the Taliban.
A more recent example is Jacob Williams, Why I Became Muslim.
Related: The Day Bukowski Discovered John Fante
This is the third in a series. Part I here; Part II here.
On the principle of bivalence, every proposition is either true, or if not true, then false. Given that bivalence holds for what presently exists, it is difficult to see how it could fail to hold for what did exist. Why should the present, which is wholly determinate, become less than wholly determinate when it becomes past? However things stand with the future, one reasonably views the past as a realm of reality and thus as wholly determinate. Our knowledge of the past is spotty, but not the past itself. It WAS, and I would add: it ACTUALLY was. When a thing passes away it does not pass from actuality to mere possibility; it remains actual, though no longer temporally present. Or so it would seem if we are realists about the past. The historian studies past actualities, not past possibilities. Compare Kierkegaard's engagement to Regine Olsen to his marriage to her. There is a sense in which both events belong to the past. The crucial difference is that the first event actually occurred while the second was a mere possibility. This is a difference that an adequate philosophy of time must be able to accommodate.
One point to keep in mind is that if the past is wholly determinate, as determinate as the present, this is the case whether or not determinism is true. The determinate is not to be confused with the determined. Consider the proposition that my grandfather Alfonso drank a glass of 'dago red' on New Year's Day, 1940. Bivalence ensures that the proposition is either true or false but not both. If the proposition is true and the event occurred, it doesn't matter whether the event was caused by prior events under the aegis of the laws of nature, or not. To say that the past is determinate is not to say that past events are determined; it is to say that, e.g., the past individual Alfonso V. cannot be such that he neither drank nor did not drink red wine on the date in question. It had to be one or the other if bivalence holds for the past.
Of course, no one now remembers whether or not this event occurred, and there is no written record or other evidence of the event's having occurred. If the event occurred, nothing in the present points back to it as to its cause. Some past events, states, individuals, and property-instantiations leave causal traces in the present, but not all do. My grandfather's gravestone and the dessicated bones lying beneath it are causal traces in the present of a long-dead and wholly past individual. But there is nothing in the present that bears upon the truth of the proposition that Alfonso drank a glass of red wine on New Year's Day, 1940, assuming it is true. If true, it is true now but lacks a present truth-maker.
Now if one were to hold both that there are truth-makers for all past-tensed truths, and that presentism is true, then one would have to hold that the past is not wholly determinate. For if presentism is true, all existing truth-makers must exist at present. (I assume, and I think Feser does as well, that there are no nonexistent or 'Meinongian' truth-makers.) But then there wouldn't be enough truth-makers for all the past-tensed truths. The following quartet of propositions is collectively inconsistent:
a) The past is wholly determinate: bivalence holds for every proposition about the past.
b) Presentism is true: only present items exist.
c) Contingent truths have (existing) truth-makers.
d) Not every contingent truth about the past has a presently existing truth-maker.
The members of the quartet are individually plausible but collectively inconsistent. The first three propositions, taken together, entail that every contingent truth about the past has a presently existing truth-maker. But this contradicts the fourth member, (d). (d) is well-nigh self-evident as I have already established with the example of Alfonso and his wine. There is nothing that exists in the present that could make true the proposition in question, if it is true. With how many men did Caesar cross the Rubicon? Were any of them barefoot? And when he met his end on the Ides of March, what was the exact size and shape and length and composition of the blade that entered his body?
So how do we solve this bad boy? I suspect that it is insoluble, but to argue this out goes well beyond the scope of a mere blog post. Some will solve it by abandoning presentism. This is precisely what Ed Feser will not do. But before discussing his suggestion, let me say just a little in support of (a).
Bivalence, as a principle of logic, strikes me as pretty solid. But now consider: could the applicability of a principle of logic depend on when it is applied? Could the passage of time restrict its application? Take identity: for any x, x = x. Everything is self-identical. If this is true for temporally present values of 'x,' I should think it would be true also for past values of 'x.' I am self-identical, but so is Alfonso, who is wholly past. When he ceased to exist, he didn't cease to be self-identical. When I refer to him now, I refer to the same man I referred to when I referred to him when he was alive. And when I cease to exist, I won't cease to be self-identical. I won't become self-diverse, or neither self-identical nor self-diverse. The mere passage of time cannot bring it about that a principle of logic that applies to a thing in the present ceases to apply to that thing when it become past.
Likewise, when I cease to exist, I won't go from being a completely determinate individual to an incomplete object.
Define a completely determinate, or complete, individual x as one such that, for any pair of predicates, one the complement of the other, one member of the pair must be true of x, but not both, and not neither. For example, 'non-smoker' is the complement of the predicate 'smoker.' If neither of these predicates is true of Peter, then Peter is an incomplete object. Since Peter exists at present, he is one or the other. As it happens, he is a smoker. When he dies, it will become true that he was a smoker, not that he was neither a smoker nor a non-smoker.
A Question for Feser
Feser is clearly a presentist: ". . . what actually exists in the strict sense is what exists now." (Aristotle's Revenge, 239) What then of the past and the future? It is trivially true, and mere fallout from ordinary language, that the (wholly) past is no longer. But it does not follow that the past is nothing or does not exist at all or has no reality. Feser appreciates the reality of the past. The question is whether he can adequately account for it.
The past and future exist now only in the loose sense that they are, as it were, causally contained in what exists now . . . . Future entities, states, and events are contained within the present as potentials which might be actualized. Past entities, states, and events are contained within the present insofar as their effects on the present remain. The present points forward to a range of things which might yet be caused to exist. The present also points backward toward formerly existing things qua causes proportionate to the effects that now exist. But again, what actually exists in the strict sense is what exists now. (Aristotle's Revenge, 239, italics in original.)
We are being told that wholly past items exist in that their effects in the present exist. Here is an example, mine, not Feser's. Tom stood outside of Sally's window a few days ago. That event on presentism does not exist. It is not just that it does not exist now — which is trivially true — it does not exist period. For on presentism, only what exists now exists period or simpliciter. And yet Tom's standing outside of Sally's window is not nothing: it actually occurred. The evidence that it occurred are Tom's distinctive footprints. On the causal trace theory, a version of which Feser is promoting, the reality of the past event is adequately accounted for by the footprints Tom left. The theory is ontological, not epistemological. The footprints are not merely evidence of what occurred in the recent past; the footprints are the reality of what occurred in the recent past.
Now one objection to this scheme is that there are not enough present items to represent all past items. There are not enough truth-makers in the present for all past-tensed truths. Big Al drank a glass of dago red on New Year's Day, 1940. That event left no trace in the present. And yet it occurred.
So if the past is wholly determinate and if past-tensed truths need truth-makers, then presentism is in trouble. There are other objections to the causal trace theory. I may consider them later.
Dr. Vito Caiati occasioned in me a new thought the other day: that divine omniscience might require divine incarnation. The gist of the thought is as follows. If God is all-knowing, then he possesses not only all knowledge by description, but also all knowledge by acquaintance. But it is not easy to see how God in his disincarnate state could have all or any knowledge by acquaintance of beings whose subjectivity is realized in matter. And this for the simple reason that if God is a pure spirit then his subjectivity is real without being realized in matter.
One could know everything there is to know objectively about bats but still not know subjectively, 'from the inside,' what it is like to be a bat in Thomas Nagel's sense. Objective omniscience is compatible with subjective nescience. To know what it is like to be a bat I would have to be one: I would have to have the physiological constitution of a bat. And so for God to know what it is like to be a man dying on a cross God would have to be a man dying on a cross. To have objective knowledge of every aspect of dying on a cross is not to experience dying on a cross. That's the rough idea. It has interesting and troubling consequences which I didn't pursue on Saturday night. So I am pleased to hear from Jacques.
Jacques writes,
I agree that God has to become a human being in order to know everything. But, as you say, this seems to lead to further problems. Here are two things that come to mind.
First, there would be the same problem with respect to every sentient being. God has to be one of us in order to know certain perspectival or subjective facts about us. But God also has to be a bat or a beetle, for the same reason, if God is to be truly omniscient.
It seems so.
But in addition, it's not enough for omniscience that God has been incarnated once as a certain type of being. After all, that would mean only that God knows what it's like to have been that human being–a male one, living in the Roman empire, etc. Surely God also needs to know what it's like to be a woman, or a Mayan, or whatever. And also needs to know what it's like to be me as opposed to you, and you as opposed to me. Does this mean that believing in an omniscient God rationally supports some kind of Hindu-ish or pantheistic theory over Christianity? (Or does it mean that Christianity properly understood implies that God is every single one of us, and every bat and beetle?)
This is much less clear. You and I are two numerically different human beings, but I don't need to be you in order to know what it is like to be you. Despite the privacy of experience, most if not all of our sensory qualia are similar if not qualitatively identical. Lacking the special powers of Bill Clinton, I can't feel your pain: I cannot live through numerically the same pain experiences you live though when you are in some definite kind of pain, such as non-migraine headache. Your experiencings are in your psyche; mine are in mine. But I know what it is like when you have a headache since the subjective qualitative features of the experiencings are the same or very similar. What makes this possible is that we are animals of very similar physiological constitution. I suspect that sensory qualia are universals of a sort.
I am not a woman and I so I don't quite know what it is like to experience menstrual cramps. But I know what muscle cramps are like, and so I have some basis for empathy with the distaff contingent of child-bearing years.
And so I would not go so far as to say that for God to know what it is like to be a human, he must be or become every human. It suffices for him to become a human. Nor is it necessary that he become a woman for him to know what it is like to be a woman.
But then there is this consideration:
Is there something it is like to be me, this particular person, numerically different from every other person? Sometimes I have the strong sense that there is. Call it one's irreducible haecceity (thisness) or ipseity (selfness). It is irreducible in that it cannot be reduced to anything repeatable or multiply exemplifiable or anything constructed out of repeatable or multiply exemplifiable elements. This is a sort of quale that I alone have and experience and that no one distinct from me could have or experience. We are all unique, but each of us has his own uniqueness 'incommunicable to any other' as a scholastic might say. I sometimes have the sense that each of us is uniquely unique as a person, as a subject in the innermost core of his subjectivity. And sometimes it seems that I know what it is like to be this uniquely unique person, absolutely irreplaceable and (therefore?) infinitely precious and of absolute worth.
If God exists, he is super-eminently uniquely unique and we, who are made in his image and likeness, are derivatively uniquely unique.
Trouble is, this notion of a uniquely unique haecceity tapers off into the mystical. For my thisness or your's or anything's is ineffable. It cannot be conceptually articulated or put into language. Individuum ineffabile est as a medieval Aristotelian might say. Is the ineffable nonexistent because ineffable? That was Hegel's view. Or is the ineffable existent despite being ineffable? That was the Tractarian Wittgenstein's view: Es gibt allerdings das Unaussprechliche. One cannot eff the ineffable. Does this mean that it is not there to be effed? Or does it mean that effing is not the proper mode of access to the existent ineffable? I incline in the latter direction.
Now suppose that each person at the base of his subjectivity is uniquely unique and is acquainted with his own irreducible haecceity and ipseity. How could God know anyone's haecceity? He can't know it objectively, and to know my haecceity subjectively, as I know it, God would have to be me. This leads on to the heretical thought that for God to be all-knowing, he would have to be every sentient being, as Jacques appreciates.
Second, it seems that having all objective knowledge precludes subjectivity and vice versa. While incarnated as a particular man, with a perspective and personality, God was not simultaneously aware of all objective facts. That kind of awareness would seem to make it impossible to have a perspective and a personality. So is true omniscience impossible? Either you know everything objective, or you know only something objective and only something subjective. I don't mind this result too much. I have no strong intuition that omniscience is possible. But then what should a Christian or other theist believe about God's knowledge?
A God's eye view is a View from Nowhere (to allude to a title of one of T. Nagel's books.) An incarnate God would have to have a definite perspective and personality. But then he could not be objectively omniscient. If, on the other hand, he were objectively omniscient, then he could not be incarnate. That seems to be what Jacques is saying.
It might be replied that that Jesus qua God is objectively omnisicent but subjectively nescient, but qua man is objectively limited in knowledge but has knowledge of qualia. If that makes sense, then we could say that an incarnate God knows more than the same God aloof from matter. For then the incarnate God knows everything the disincarnate God knows plus what it is like to be a man, and by analogy what it is like to be a cat or a dog or any sentient being sufficiently similar in physiological make-up to a man.
Is true omniscience possible? If true omniscience requires knowing everything there is to know, both objectively (by description) and subjectively (by acquaintance), then true or full omniscience is impossible, i.e., no one person could be fully omniscient. What then should a Christian theologian say?
He could perhaps say this: God is omniscient in that he knows everything that it is possible for any one person to know. Now it is not possible that any one person know everything both objectively and subjectively. Therefore, it is no restriction of God's omniscience that he does not know everything.
Could an eternal God know what time it is? Presumably not. Could God be both omniscient and ignorant with respect to future contingents? Why not? God knows whatever it it possible to know; future contingents, however, are impossible for anyone to know.
It is like the situation with respect to omnipotence. It is no restriction of God's omnipotence that he can do only what it is logically possible to do. God is powerless to restore a virgin. But that's nothing against the divine omnipotence.
Vows make for stability of life in a changeful world. But change is sometimes improvement, and this includes change in belief. The vows that stabilized can come to cramp and confine. Doubt sets in and commitment wanes. Fervent belief becomes lukewarm. A monk like Merton can come to wonder whether he has thrown his life away in world-flight.
And so we bang up against another 'interesting ' problem. To live well one must have firm beliefs and fixed commitments. But one must also avoid rigidity and dogmatism. One must see to it that rigor mentis does not become rigor mortis. One must find the middle course between rudderless drift on the high seas of uncertainty and blinkered fixation on a 'safe harbor' the attainment of which would be shipwreck on a reef.
40 in Roman numerals is XL.
The ratio of sentences to thoughts in Kierkegaard's writing is quite poor. Compare the title of Concluding Scientific Postscript with the monstrous 'postscript' itself.
'Central focus'
I can't decide.
It is ironic that Nietzsche, an ascetic of sorts, died of the disease of a libertine.
All gratuitous suffering is evil, but not all evil involves suffering. The wanton destruction of an anaesthetized healthy but ownerless cat or dog is evil but causes no suffering.
Our most refined pleasures grow from the soil of conquered aversions.
Not all drugs are narcotics; some are stimulants. Philosophers of religion take note.
. . . at deriving so much intellectual stimulation from the events of the day. It is fascinating to watch the country fall apart. What is a calamity for the citizen, however, is grist for the philosopher's mill. Before he is a citizen, the philosopher is a "spectator of all time and existence" in a marvellous phrase that comes down to us from Plato's Republic (486a). And if the philosopher is an old Platonist who has nearly had his fill of the Cave and its chiaroscuro, he is ever looking beyond this life, and while in no rush to bid it a bittersweet adieu, he is not affrighted at the coming transition either. The owl of Minerva spreads its wings at dusk. The old Platonist owl lives by the hope that the dusk of death will lead to the Light, a light unmixed with darkness.
National decline is not just grist for the philosopher's mill, however; it is also perhaps a condition of understanding as Hegel suggests in the penultimate paragraph of the preface to The Philosophy of Right:
When philosophy paints its grey on grey, then has a shape of life grown old. By philosophy's grey on grey it cannot be rejuvenated but only understood. The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only at the falling of the dusk.
Daughter of Jupiter, Minerva in the mythology of the Greeks is the goddess of wisdom. And the nocturnal owl is one of its ancient symbols. The meaning of the Hegelian trope is that understanding, insight, wisdom arise when the object to be understood has played itself out, when it has actualized and thus exhausted its potentialities, and now faces only decline.
When a shape of life has grown old, philosophy paints its grey on grey. The allusion is to Goethe's Faust wherein Mephisto says
Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie,
Und grün des Lebens goldner Baum.Grey, dear friend, is all theory
And green the golden tree of life.
Philosophy is grey, a "bloodless ballet of categories" (F. H. Bradley) and its object is grey — no longer green and full of life. And so philosophy paints its grey concepts on the grey object, in this case America on the wane. The object must be either dead or moribund before it can be fully understood. Hegel in his famous saying re-animates and gives a new meaning to the Platonic "To philosophize is to learn how to die."
In these waning days of a great republic, the owl of Minerva takes flight. What we lose in vitality we gain in wisdom.
The consolations of philosophy are many.
On the other hand, it ain't over 'til it's over, and as citizens we must fight on, lest our spectatorship of all time and existence suffer a premature earthly termination. The joys if not the consolations of philosophy are possible only in certain political conditions. We are not made of the stern stuff of Boethius though we are inspired by his example.
And so, as citizens we arm ourselves in every sense of the phrase, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.
Merriam-Webster: "continuation of something (such as repetition of a word) usually to an exceptional degree or beyond a desired point."
Now the media and other anti-Trump partisans are going to perseverate on whether or not Trump obstructed justice during the Mueller probe. They should leave this alone. Having bet so heavily on the collusion narrative, and lost, nobody wants to listen to them bang on about collusion for two more years.
Filed under: Vocabulary