Descartes' Denial

I have written before about how Aristotle's teachings in philosophy set a supreme standard that still holds today—2500 years later. His reputation is so firm and strong that he is often referred to as simply “The Philosopher.” His teachings on science (called “natural philosophy” in his time), however, were subsequently shown to be mostly wrong. Unfortunately, his status was so towering that his errors prevailed for two millennia. The fact that the Catholic Church's teachings aligned with Aristotle's ideas helped to extend his theories over that long period of time.

Rene Descartes, in the 17^th century, began to speak out against Aristotle's scientific opinions. He was joined by the Irish scientist Robert Boyle, as well as several others. Both of them especially rebelled against the complex (and confusing) concept of “form,” which was championed by both Aristotle and Plato. Form, they believed, is the essential nature of something—a very abstract idea that says little about its particular qualities, and says nothing about what caused that something’s form.

Descartes and Boyle argued that the ancient concept of form is too vague and offers little help for allowing one to understand the important, causal physical properties of something, as well as how it behaves. They put forth instead what they called a corpuscular view of matter, proposing that all matter is constituted of tiny particles called corpuscles—a couple of centuries before the existence of atoms was proven.

They maintained that corpuscles move, bounce against, and connect to each other, and that their behavior is governed by the laws of motion—laws which had been expressed a few years earlier by Galileo Galilei. The Church tried one last shot at promoting Aristotle’s notion of forms, when a Jesuit, Francisco Sucrez, proposed that every object has a soul. Just as the human soul guides people from the inside, the soul of a tree guides its qualities from within and causes its form. It was a supernatural, not a scientific, explanation, however.

Descartes rejected this idea as even worse than Aristotle's teaching, because he was sure that inanimate objects could not have a soul. His—and Boyle's—idea was that the corpuscular theory provided a simple, mechanical world view. The activity of corpuscles drove the behavior of the parts of an object; it behaved like a machine. In fact, Descartes said that the body of living creatures is also like a machine, and does not require a soul.

Descartes soon displaced Aristotle, regarding the nature of matter. His and Boyle's ideas played a huge role in the scientific advances that occurred during the Enlightenment (late 17^th, into 18^th centuries). Nobody is perfect, however, and Descartes later expanded upon his views; saying that animals are machine-like and possess no soul, as humans do. He maintained that animals—being like machines—have no feelings, and do not therefore experience pain. It was another couple of hundred years before this concept was debunked—a period of time when physical harm to animals was deemed acceptable. As a result, we are finally beginning to treat animals with appropriate respect... well, except those we raise for meat.

Privileged Presumption—Part 2

What began this blog posting on privileged presumption was an occasion in which I recently caught myself exhibiting a dose of hubris, when I caught myself looking upon the ancient Greeks a bit disdainfully. I have recently taken a couple of online courses on ancient Greece and am currently reading a book on ancient Greek philosophy. I often find it a struggle to grasp the dense thinking and teachings of Greek philosophers from 2500 years ago, such as Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, and others. Their era was very different, in so many ways. It is a big challenge for scholars to translate early Greek prose into an understandable style of English that faithfully captures the intentions of those ancient philosophers. In addition, I sometimes struggle comprehending the mores and beliefs of those ancient societies.

Many of the Greeks whose writings we have from that period were well-to-do and lived a life of leisure, which gave them lots of time to sit around and ponder the mysteries of the human mind, as well as the nature of the universe. It was a time when the first Greek (and thus western) scientists appeared, although they didn't call themselves that, since the word “science” didn't really come into use until the 17^th century. If anything, they called themselves natural philosophers, because they were seeking a better understanding of the natural world, and scientific experimentation was virtually unknown, so they philosophized. Their crucial offering to human knowledge was to usher in an era which replaced the antics of the gods in people's minds with the actions of Mother Nature.

That initiation of scientific thought was a foundational development in the progress of Homo sapiens. Prior to the time of these first natural philosophers coming onto the scene, the accepted explanation for many events that occurred was that the gods did it. An earthquake or flood or tornado? It must be that the gods are pissed off at people and were punishing them. Have a good food crop or experience victory in battle? It must be that the gods liked us and graced us with favor. The Jewish Bible (Old Testament) is full of these kind of happenings which are attributed to God. Similarly, all sorts of personal tragedy or good fortune—disease, death, good health, wealth—were attributed to the gods. The deities either were upset with me and punished me, or thought I deserved a favor and rewarded me.

Then came those first Greek scientists: Thales, Anaximander, Anaximenes, Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Parmenides, etc., beginning around 600 BCE. They all contended that no, the gods did not act to harm or help us; the gods had better things to do. Moreover, events were neither supernatural nor inexplicable—they were natural. It is how the world unfolds, and furthermore, it is possible even to learn how these events happen. For example, if you're sick, maybe you ate something nasty. If your child died, maybe a disease caused it. If your army won the war, maybe it was because of superior battle plans. No rain for the last month? Weather patterns must have caused it.

The main point of these ancient scientists was that there is a perfectly natural cause for these things. So the natural philosopher's job is to do some deep thinking—and maybe even run a few primitive experiments—and see if those causes can't be discovered. We should put effort into ferreting out the causes, rather than trying to appease the gods, they taught.

And that's just what they did; they investigated. They were breaking new ground; exploring new territory—without the benefit of much prior knowledge of the natural world. They invented new ideas and derived new hypotheses. It is to be expected that they stumbled a few times. They certainly disagreed with each other and engaged in endless debates. But they began the process of scientific thought.

So let's get back to my own case of recently falling prey to elitist hubristic thinking. Many years ago, while in middle school, I learned that those ancient Greeks, in their attempt to understand the natural world, decided that everything in the universe was constituted of four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. Even as an adolescent I knew that this was wrong. Hey, there are actually over 100 elements, and the periodic table exquisitely and logically lays it all out. In fact, those four Greek elements aren't elements at all, since they really are chemical compounds or molecules made up of several kinds of basic elements.

Without realizing it, I had slowly developed a slightly aloof attitude towards those Greeks of yore. It's such an easy trap to fall into. In fact, we need to put effort into avoiding feeling superior to ancient peoples or to those in the contemporary world who are “less developed” than we are. As I've pondered our propensity to look down upon those less knowledgeable than we are, I think about how folks in the future will look back at our follies and wonder how we could have been so foolish. How harsh will they someday be judging us?

I think there are numerous areas in which our future offspring will be inclined to disdain who we were, what we believed, and what we did. Causing climate change will undoubtedly top the list. But they'll also be scratching their heads over other foolish actions and beliefs of ours, such as racism, great wealth inequality, nuclear weapons, rampant capitalism, pollution, over population, habitat destruction, nationalism, and others. They will wonder why it was that the 20^th and 21^st century humans could have been so muddle headed and blind.

One of the most astute ideas introduced by those ancient Greek scientists was that we humans are, like all animals, part of nature. We are not separate from and perched atop all the world's critters, like the gods may be. We are not removed from all those animals, or fundamentally superior to them, despite the power of our minds. We may be capable of godlike behavior, and our potential is amazing, but even the ancient Greeks understood that we emerged from the natural world and were an integral part of it. Some 2500 years later, it'd be cause for celebration if we elitist, hubristic moderns understood that simple truth. Let's climb down from our privileged presumptive pedestal and exhibit a little well-deserved humility.

Philosophy's Foreignness

I have written a few blogs about the differences between philosophy and science. I chose science as my career path, because my inherent tendencies leaned in that direction. With a science background, however, I have struggled to parse the writings of philosophers, as they are rather foreign to the thinking of a scientist. That is a fascinating fact to me, since both science and philosophy are about knowledge and understanding; you'd think they might be more similar. In fact, a couple of millennia ago they were considered to be the same. Science arose out of the discipline of natural philosophy, but like close family members, after they go their own way, they have had many family squabbles ever since.

By definition, philosophy is, at its etymological root, the “love of wisdom”. Those who immerse themselves in philosophy are constantly examining and evaluating the nature of human ability to know. Philosophers explore the big, general questions that we often cannot answer, given our present state of knowledge.

This inability to currently know what the nature of the universe is, is in direct contrast to science's task: to describe what we do know. Science is practical and systematic. Scientists want to describe precisely what we know about our world. Philosophers often ask the questions about what we don't know. Science is more about today. Philosophy is more about what we might someday come to understand.

I just finished an online course on philosophy, presented by a professor at MIT. What drew me to try this course was its being offered by what many people consider to be the premier technical university in the world. So I hoped to learn better how to understand philosophy from someone teaching in a technical environment... maybe it'd be less foreign to me.

One beneficial result of my struggling through this course of introductory philosophy was finally arriving at the professor's last lecture. With my head spinning from the foreign (to me) way that philosophers express their ideas, he pointed out one of the major functions of philosophy: to be asking and pondering the big questions about knowledge that cannot be answered by what we currently understand. In other words, to ruminate on those questions that science cannot yet answer.

His example was to look back at the ancient Greek philosophers of two millennia ago. One of the central questions for them was, What are things made of? What is the fundamental essence of matter? Some suggested water, some air, some fire. A few prescient individuals (Democritus was one of them) suggested that there existed fundamental building blocks, which they called “atoms”—meaning individual entities that could never be further split. The insight into which of those alternative answers were correct required nearly another 2,000 years for humanity to generate—as science came into its own and was finally able to demonstrate the existence of atoms.

So philosophers today are often raising questions that we cannot answer today. Is there a God? What is knowledge? What does it mean to know? What is consciousness? What is free will? Science—let alone philosophers—cannot yet provide answers... maybe some day. In the meantime philosophers will debate and discuss.

I think that a crucial role that philosophy plays in civilization is to ask these and other unanswerable questions. Moreover, with today's understanding we often don't even know how to properly ask the questions. So maybe it's the job of philosophers to debate the issues, if only to frame good questions. If so, philosophy and science need not lock horns, but recognize that their disciplines are complementary and collaborative.

A Physics Digest

Over two millennia ago the Greeks founded the study of philosophy—fundamentally defined as the love or pursuit of wisdom. It is the search for underlying causes and principles of reality. That love of wisdom soon divided itself into two fields of study: (1) discerning the truth of existence as we humans perceive it (what is today’s philosophy) and (2) seeking to understand the reality of the universe, independent of human perception (i.e., not filtered through human senses). The latter branch of philosophy became known as natural philosophy: the study of natural phenomenon. Today we call it physics—the most basic of the modern sciences. (Other physical sciences: chemistry and astronomy. Life sciences: biology, botany, and zoology.)

Some 25 years ago I had the opportunity of teaching physics at the local college. Physics had been one of my stronger subjects when I was in school, so I looked forward to passing on the insights of this most basic of sciences. I love physics, but I also know that it intimidates most people. It needn’t. It scares people mostly because it’s usually taught by constantly throwing equations at students and then making them mindlessly crank out solutions, with minimal understanding of the concepts. So I made it my mission to get students excited about physics—rather than becoming frightened of it. My success was uneven, but I had fun at it for a few years.

I love physics because it is so basic. It’s the foundation of all other sciences. It’s also the most elegant science; the most graceful and simple. Now, I never used the word simple with students who considered physics to be devilishly hard, but it is simple, in the manner of being unadorned. Physics shows us the “how” of this universe—not necessarily the “why”. That’s the province of metaphysics.

To me, physics is the study of nature’s fundamental behavior—often expressed in elegant equations. I think it is beautiful and wonderful that the natural world behaves in such a straightforward, dependable, and honest manner. God doesn’t play capricious games with creation; the basic truths and beauty are constant and await anyone who puts attention to them.

I believe that as we develop an understanding of our world, we cannot have anything other than awe and a reverential attitude towards it all. The loveliness and harmony of nature are exquisitely expressed in the so-called laws of physics. Physicists do not create these laws; they are nature’s rules of conduct. They ain’t just equations; they’re sacred rules.

Over the next several posts I will attempt to provide a very brief digest of a year’s physics course. It won’t provide anyone a detailed comprehension of natural philosophy, but it will touch most of the bases of what the study of physics encompasses: the basic structure of this divine creation.