Philosophy/Science Contrasts

I've written several blogs on the contrasts between science and philosophy. Having been educated in science and having pursued a career in it, I find it to be more understandable than philosophy. My logical scientific mind has often struggled to comprehend the imprecise nature of philosophical reasoning and debate.

Long after retirement, I have drifted away from science's demands for exactness and increasingly into philosophy's realm of fuzziness. I have come to appreciate philosophy and its search for knowledge. I have come to understand that science and philosophy really have very similar goals—as seen by their similar etymological roots. The word science stems from the Latin word scientia, which means “to know.” The word philosophy stems from the Greek word philosophia, which means “love of wisdom.” So they both are about knowledge, learning, logic, understanding, and truth.

I believe that there are, however, several distinct differences between science and philosophy—differences that sometimes can be very significant, especially in the manner in which adherents of each discipline pursue knowledge; in fact, differences that even can create antagonisms between them. A few of these disparities have spoken to me in recent years, as I've come to be more comfortable with the philosophical approach to gaining insight and wisdom. Here are five differences—not a complete list by any means, but the salient ones that I've encountered.

First, while science is precise, philosophy tends to be indistinct and often inexact. While science is quantitative, philosophy is qualitative. Scientists want repeatability and they use procedures that many others can follow, importantly to obtain the same results. A scientific theory does not become widely accepted until many different scientists follow comparable paths and come to the same conclusions. Philosophers, however, often take very different paths, come to different conclusions, and vehemently disagree with each other. They love to engage in seemingly endless disputes.

Second, science deals with “what is,” while philosophy often considers “what ought to be.” Morality often is a central part of philosophy, while science is amoral—though not at all immoral. Science studies Nature, which just is. So being right or wrong in a moral sense is irrelevant.

Third, science is structured such that, step by step, researchers relentlessly close in on a definitive answer. It often is a cooperative effort, as scientific teams work in concert to merge to a solution. Although philosophers also seek solutions, they often work individually and think in very different ways from each other, so they will sometimes come to a conclusion that is viewed as essentially false by fellow philosophers. Hence, the source of endless debates.

Fourth, while science addresses the whole cosmos—thus we have countless scientific disciplines—philosophy is focused on the human mind. To science the human mind is but the tiniest sliver of its domain. This is a primary reason why philosophy tends to be so subjective: it's the human mind studying the human mind. It's bound to be a bit parochial, opinionated, and even prejudiced.

Fifth, while science relentlessly progresses over time—gradually seeking answers and building its knowledge base—philosophy seems to be wrestling with the same questions today that it faced two to three millennia ago. Has philosophy not progressed as much? Do the questions posed by philosophers have no definitive answers? Are the questions so complex and vague that conclusive answers may never come? Are philosophers asking unanswerable questions?

There's a little truth in all these questions, but I suspect there's another possibility why philosophers continue to ponder many of the same questions, century after century. I think that a major factor of philosophy's apparent sluggishness is due to that unique quality it has: its attention to morality. Philosophers—like prophets—often offer messages to the masses that the people do not want to hear. Uncomfortable truths—like scientists’ global-warming message—can be clearly laid out, but people (especially political leaders) often refuse to listen. Thus, while humanity could progress and change for the better, the cost is often regarded as too high to pay. We'd rather bask in our existing laziness, than put hard work into positive and necessary change. 

A philosopher once said that philosophy is “the right way to think about things.” In that statement right there we can see a big contrast between science and philosophy: science doesn't give a hoot if our thinking is the right way or not—its truths are independent of the human mind's rightness of thinking.

Scientific Strides

The knowledge and understanding of science has grown gradually and progressively—step by step—for millennia. Originally termed “natural philosophy” in ancient times, the term science first came and into use in the 17^th century, as human comprehension of the universe systematically and rapidly began to grow. Each step along the way was necessarily built upon the accomplishments of those who went before. This became increasingly the case, as scientific knowledge grew every larger and complex. There may have been polymaths in the ancient world—people whose scholarship extended across many fields of knowledge—but as the field of science grew larger and complicated, no one individual could be acquainted with more than a fraction of the whole.

Major figures in science’s history—such as Isaac Newton in the 17^th century—knew that their significant contributions depended heavily on those who made previous contributions. In fact, Newton is known for his statement that his accomplishments  were made possible only because he “stood on the shoulders of giants.” That metaphor exquisitely captures the stepwise growth of science. He was dependent on the findings of scientists before his time—just as many who followed him built upon his work.

There was no predetermined plan for a Newton or an Einstein to enter the game. They were not necessary for the advancements that occurred. Every significant accomplishment in science was made by the person being at the right place and right time. Had Newton been born a few decades earlier, the scientific findings he built upon (those “shoulders of giants” waiting for him) would not have been there... he may not have made his renowned discoveries at all. Had he been born a few decades later, someone else would have previously had his insights. His timing was extremely fortunate. We are fortunate that his genius was primed to take on the challenge.

I find it fascinating that these advances did not exclusively depend on those who made them. The progression of science does not rest on the shoulders of any one individual... it's an impersonal advancement. History is not destined to play out as it has. It is very contingent.

So if Newton or Einstein had not appeared when they did, their discoveries would surely have been made by someone else. If so, would science have advanced more slowly? Would their breakthroughs have come later, by others… or maybe even sooner? How many brilliant people died before their time, or were kept from the path of discovery by external restraints?

History cannot be rerun, in order to play out other scenarios. We'll never know just how crucial were the contributions of famous scientists. We'll never know if our scientific knowledge today would be further advanced or set back, without their accomplishments. But I do think we can feel confident that science would have progressed (and will continue to progress), because it is in the nature of the human mind to be curious and to collaborate on ongoing projects such as teasing out Nature's secrets.

Learning Limits—Part 2

So, returning to the field of science—which is a case of collective knowledge, rather than individual belief: Are we able to describe boundaries to our scientific knowledge that may never be crossed? It may help first to address the difference between knowledge and understanding. My dictionary defines knowledge as “facts, information, and skills acquired by a person through experience or education.” Understanding, however, goes deeper; it involves a person's perception or judgment of a situation. Understanding implies that we perceive the significance of something. There are many scientists who acquire facts and information about a topic, but fail to comprehend their significance. For example, one may collect data on the geological characteristics of some location, without understanding how or why they came about, or what the future may bring.

So if we confine our attention to science, we may ask ourselves if Nature imposes some fundamental limit to what we can know about something. Before the invention of scientific tools such as telescopes and microscopes, we faced an impenetrable barrier to seeing the nature of stars or microorganisms. There seemed to be an absolute boundary to what we could learn. Those barriers were eventually largely surmounted. Today, science seems stumped about what dark matter and dark energy are—yet most scientists do not regard our ignorance in this area as an impenetrable barrier. More experiments and new or improved instruments may solve these quandaries. Better theories and models may point the way.

Cosmologists are posing some of the thorniest questions about the nature of the universe. Some of the questions seem to imply that there might be an outer limit to our knowledge. Does life exist elsewhere? The universe may be so vast and empty that we may never know. Our universe—according to current models—began, as it burst forth from an infinitesimal point, nearly 14 billion years ago. Was there a time before the Big Bang? Our universe—again, according to current theories—has been expanding ever since. Will it continue to expand? Is there anything “beyond” the universe that we inhabit? Some of these queries appear to some cosmologists as to be so fundamental and profound, that they may forever remain beyond the island of our knowledge.

Many of these questions are unanswerable from the perspective of today's knowledge, yet they are definitely worth setting forth. Should we frustratingly and doggedly pursue complex conundrums that are unsolvable? Should we step back, pause, and ask if we are even asking the right questions? Should we grasp at speculative explanations and refuse to acknowledge that we may be in over our heads? Or should we relax, live with the mystery, and let time and accrued wisdom point the way?

Learning Limits—Part 1 (7/5/21

The limits of human knowledge have ceaselessly been expanding, ever since our species came into existence. A major factor allowing that expansion is the fact that we discovered language and writing along the way. These unique human capabilities have taken us far beyond any other earthly creature, because they allow us to communicate and cooperate, so that our cultural accomplishments have escalated at an astounding rate. Each generation passes on its accumulated knowledge to the next.

Our accrued knowledge has been compared to the size of an island in a vast ocean of unknowing. As our erudition has grown, the island has expanded. What we've come to know today, in fact, is more like a continent than an island; yet the immense ocean of ignorance still surrounds us and still appears unlimited. The more we know—measured by the size of our continent and the length of its shoreline—the more we aware of all that we don't know.

This situation raises an interesting question: Is there a limit to the size of our island of knowledge? Will our shoreline some day bump up against a formidable ocean barrier that brings a halt to what we can know? Are there some fundamental limits to our learning?

Questions like these are often asked in the context of science, rather than theology, philosophy, or history. In theology, for example, many people have wrestled with the question of whether or not God exists. Some (theists) are convinced God is real, others (atheists) “know” there is no God, and yet others (agnostics) stake out a position that we can't know, or will never know; so they clearly feel that there is a limit to our knowledge in this realm of theology.

Some of the more thorny questions of philosophy seem to be beyond our capability to ever answer. We have struggled with them for millennia, without making much headway. There seem—so far—to be no final answers to questions such as, What is the good life? What is beauty? What is truth?

And what about history? Short of time travel, will we ever know why some events happened, but not others? Why did Alexander the Great decide to engage in some battles, but not others? What would have happened, had he made another decision? How would events have turned out differently, had Jack Kennedy chosen not to take the route that his procession took that fateful day in Dallas, November 1963? These kinds of questions can go on indefinitely, and their answers—as is often expressed—are “lost to history.” So there does seem to be a limit to our knowledge, in the context of history. There are some things we'll never know.

The limits to our knowledge in the arenas of theology and philosophy are not necessarily the same for each of us. It's more a case of relative or individual knowing. What one person knows—or believes they know—may be quite different from another person. We often are in the realm of opinion, rather than knowledge. It can be difficult—if not impossible—to characterize what the collective knowledge may be. In fact, when we ask questions about the limits of human knowledge in these fields, we even often find ourselves asking the wrong question. It may be more a matter of exploring ways to ask better questions, than struggling with the limits of the wrong question.

Next time” returning to science…

Self-Correcting Science

Science's core robustness is the fact that its practice is self-correcting. We humans are imperfect in many ways, so our ideas and opinions are usually off target or often simply wrong. Even when we try to be accurate, our incomplete knowledge prevents us from hitting the nail on the head and so we manage to bend more than a few nails in our attempts to comprehend our world.

Unfortunately, many of our mistaken human ideas and explanations can quickly get cast in concrete and so our errors persist through time. Rigid institutions like governments and some religions tend to cling to their fallacious views—often digging in their ideological heels and persisting in their beliefs, long after overwhelming evidence proves them wrong.

The scientific process is quite different. Scientists are no less likely to be mistaken than any other human, but they operate in a manner that is very effective at highlighting misunderstandings and subsequently rectifying them. Part of the self-correcting process is due to having scientific cohorts looking over one's shoulder and spotting errors. Scientists are often quite eager to identify inaccuracies in their colleagues.

Another crucial part of the self-correcting process is the manner in which scientific statements are presented: they must be framed in such a way that other scientists can easily put them to the test. And testing is what science is all about. If a scientific proposition cannot be evaluated by experiment, it's pretty much regarded as useless.

Thus science has relentlessly and steadily advanced toward improved knowledge and truth, as teams of scientists check each other and collaborate. The differing perspectives of individual scientists can create an ongoing dialog that counteracts both the propensity for one person to become overly attached to their pet idea or allowing the stature of any one individual to dominate and thus override opposing views.

Sometimes, however, we are presented with an example of science's self-correcting process in the form of just one individual acting alone—a special person who comes to an insight pretty much on their own. It calls for that individual to be both persistent and honest. Einstein was such a person. He wrestled pretty much alone for years with the conundrum of conflicting perspectives—and after a decade or more of mostly isolated contemplation, arrived at his startling conclusions about relativity.

Another favorite of mine is Johannes Kepler—born in 16^th century Germany. Surmounting numerous obstacles that threatened to confine him to a destitute life of poverty and ill health, Kepler eventually arrived at the truth of the orbital properties of our solar system's planets. Through a fortunate series of circumstances, he found himself able to put attention for three decades to the dynamics of planetary motion. Humanity—but especially Newton and other scientists who followed him—took a giant step forward in discovering the truth about how planets orbit the sun...thanks to Kepler.

What I find fascinating about Kepler is that he entered his 30-year struggle with wrong ideas. He had had a revelation that God had planned our planetary system such that the planets all obeyed simple and elegant mathematical interdependencies that were patterned after relationships between such perfect geometric shapes as spheres, cubes, and pyramids. He took his ideas even further by coming to believe that the planets' orbits were related to each other in the manner of musical harmonic intervals. These notions were so compelling to him because it was so elegant, and seemed to him to be so close to the truth.

For over 30 years Kepler pursued his revelation, trying to prove that his ideas were true—that it was all God's sublime plan. Yet he was wrong. The planet's orbits do not relate to each other in any such perfect harmonic or geometric ways. The beauty of it was that Kepler was a scientist. He possessed an integrity and a tenacity that kept him going for all those years; slowly revising his theories. Because he adhered to the self-correcting scientific process, he gradually let go of his erroneous thinking and arrived at the truth of planetary behavior. He discovered three elegant laws of planetary motion that proved to be far more profound than his earlier harmonic image. His work was so beautiful and genuine that Newton could come along a few years later and formulate his theory of universal gravity, which took our understanding to the next level, and the next step toward the truth of planetary motion.

Science, Philosophy, and Religion

I have blogged a few times about the differences between science and philosophy. I was educated and trained as a scientist, and have found it a struggle to comprehend the philosopher's way of thinking. Since retiring to the country to follow a simpler life, I no longer professionally practice science, so it's given me an opportunity to turn to philosophy to work at trying to grasp some of its concepts. It ain't been easy! It's like moving to another country as an adult—after your inherent language-learning skills have drastically declined from when you were two years old—and struggling with a very different language in a very different culture. But thanks to several online courses in philosophy, I'm beginning to be a bit conversant with it.

Just as a little background (and to remind myself of the contrast), here are the dictionary definitions of the two disciplines:

• Science: “the intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the natural world, through observation and experiment” Root meaning: “to know.”
• Philosophy: “the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence.” Root meaning: “love of wisdom.”

So science is an activity, while philosophy is a study. Science is an objective examination of the natural world (which includes humans), while philosophy is a subjective examination of what we humans know or can come to know. While the ancient thinkers believed that we can arrive at truth and knowledge through sheer reasoning, science conducts experiments to develop knowledge. The difference is sort of like the study of the properties of the external world (science) versus the study of the internal world or of our mind's ability to grasp the external world (philosophy).

While today's science is partitioned into many disciplines, philosophy has also grown to be categorized into several branches. One of my online courses defined four subdisciplines in philosophy:

1. Metaphysics—What is there? What's it like?
2. Epistemology—What can we know? How do we know?
3. Value theory—What's good/bad? How can we be good/bad?
4. Logic—Which links it all together. (I quickly become swamped when reading logic. It's yet beyond me.)

When we delve into these four branches, we find ourselves facing moral, aesthetic, and value questions. We get into questions of what we should do, and what is right or wrong.

Science, on the other hand, is amoral (not immoral, as some people would say)—it is by and large unconcerned with the rightness or wrongness of what it studies. Thus, for example, many scientists engaged in the development of the atomic bomb in World War II, with little moral examination. That is not to say that scientists ignored the moral questions. For example, even though he had a hand in initiating the US's atomic bomb program, Einstein later came to regret his role. The point is that science does not include moral evaluations as part of its activities. That's philosophy's business.

I find it interesting how differently many religions approach and interpret these scientific and philosophical questions about the nature of the world and the nature of human knowledge. Religions have a very different perspective. Yes, humans can reason, religions say, but truth comes from the gods, or the one God. Thus, truth (as well as morality and values) is found in scripture or possibly through mystical insight, but not through human reasoning.

This religious perspective is often taken to an extreme by religious fundamentalists, who contend that everything known or worth knowing can be found in scripture. This approach does not really seek understanding through the gradual acquisition of knowledge, but by locating finality (fixed and complete answers) in scripture. This difference is a source of most of the conflict between religion and the disciplines of science and philosophy. This conflict is largely absent, however, with nonfundamentalist religious people—people who may revere scripture, but do not contend that it is the sole repository of knowledge and wisdom.

With every online course I take, my appreciation for both science and philosophy grows. I also gain better understanding of the basis of conflict between how these two cognitive ways of looking at reality clash with religious fundamentalism—and realize that there need not be conflict with all religious belief.

Science Struggles—Part 2

There's a related struggle that is going on—primarily in academia—that illustrates another misunderstanding that the public has about science. It also stems from too many science educators teaching science as a simple sequential series of facts. I believe this is why so many students dislike and even dread the most basic science subject: physics.

I taught physics at the university level for a few years and was taken aback by the fact that many students were very anxious and were fretting over a subject that I loved. I soon realized that the physics text that the college had selected before I arrived was filled with intimidating equations and expected students to memorize those equations and their associated facts, with little emphasis on gaining any insight into their meaning. The second year of teaching I switched to a delightful physics text that stressed the concepts behind the equations, while minimizing their manipulation. I was delighted to see that many students now responded with far more receptivity to this most basic science. Class time now included lively discussions that had not been there before.

Without realizing it at the time, I was introducing a little of the philosophy of physics to my students. I have since become much more aware of the relevance of the philosophy of science—a subject that is even more misunderstood than science itself. Many people—particularly college students—are resistant to including a philosophical perspective to science. After all, isn't science a very tangible and concrete subject, while philosophy is fuzzy and mostly a matter of opinion?

It is a mistake to treat science mostly as a dry, objective study of the nature of things. Unfortunately, many scientists seem to encourage that kind of thinking, but it can lead to the perception that science has nothing to do with emotions, ethics, and moral choices. This may be partly why the public looks upon scientists as self-involved, introspective, and out of touch with the real world—and possibly even contributes to public distrust of science.

There is a lively field of study called the “philosophy of science,” that too many people—including a fair number of scientists—are either unaware of or distrust. But this field asks crucial questions that we all should be asking. It addresses questions that mere facts alone can't. It probes the understanding of science, rather than just its knowledge. It asks how we know these things, and are there some things we can't know? Is our understanding valid? Can our scientific knowledge guide us ethically or not? When we feel that we've improved our knowledge about a subject, how do we know that? How do we evaluate the improvement? What are the limitations of science? How do we discern true science from pseudoscience? These are important philosophical questions to be asking. If scientists were more open to them, it's possible that the disconnect between scientists and the public could be repaired some.

So there are many reasons why science is struggling in the eyes of the public. At a time when scientific discoveries are coming at a speedy pace and technology (the application of science) is rushing onward, this is not the time for poor communication between scientists and citizens; let alone mistrust and misunderstanding. The near future will be bringing many serious challenges to humanity. Those challenges need to be met by a robust science community working with a scientifically literary populace.

Science Struggles—Part 1

Having had a career in science a few decades ago, I continue to find that I am very interested in news about science and often read books on the subject. This field of discipline is critically important to humanity today, as it brings an increasing understanding of the world around us and our place in it. But science is struggling... particularly in the US. Americans are becoming progressively illiterate about science, and I find that worrisome.

Our educational system—both secondary schools and universities—do not do a very good job of either educating scientists or the general public. Our elected politicians and public policy makers do not understand science, and are even often hostile to it. The most egregious example of this is Washington's current war on the science of global warming. In addition, an anti-science bias frequently creeps into much of society's discourse on subjects such as vaccinations, space research, antibiotic use, energy use, nutrition, etc. It is sadly ironic, because the public enjoys and benefits from the developments of science, as people simultaneously denigrate it.

Tania Lombrozo recently wrote about this struggle in her science blog on National Public Radio. She makes the point that many researchers are working hard to increase the public's scientific literacy. In doing so, however, there is often confusion on their part over the difference between the public's knowledge of science and their understanding of it. Not only are many Americans uninformed about science—if not biased against it—but many who do try to acquaint themselves with the subject simply come to know a few facts, but really don't understand science.

What is the difference between knowledge and understanding? I may know that photosynthesis is the process of plants using sunlight to synthesize foods from carbon dioxide and water, but if I understand the process I can appreciate why plants are the source of oxygen and how they help to combat global warming. Thus I'll be more likely to advocate for halting the warming process, because plants can't keep up. I may know that NASA has sent several spacecraft to our solar system's planets, but if I understand a little of the science of the space program, I will be more supportive of these missions, not just for the cool pictures that they radio back, but for the gathering of crucial scientific information that will help scientists comprehend similar natural processes here on Earth; maybe even to better combat global warming.

Scientists know that they need to help the public to become more scientifically literate, but even they often fail to appreciate the important difference between scientific knowledge and understanding. Science educators know that they need to do a better job at countering the public's uninformed and biased opinions. Given the current struggles, there's a lot of work to do.

More on the struggle next time...

Science Versus Mystery—Part 2

But I don't see the science-versus-mystery game as a dualistic, exclusive choice that I must make. If I go for science's story and facts, I don't necessarily have to abandon mystery and wonder. If I want to retain some mystery about the situation, I don't have to ignore what science can tell me about it.

To begin with, science is rarely certain. This is a mistake people often make. (Or worse yet, people reject science's story, because it isn't certain. Hey, it's only a theory, right? So let's reject the Theory of Evolution. Let's reject the theory of global warming. Our culture is inclined, out of naivety, to spurn science.) Scientists are clear that their theories are never the last word. They never reach certainty on much of anything—instead, it's at best a provisional understanding. Further study will uncover new data and information, so a revised understanding will emerge... a little closer to the truth, but never exactly spot on. The only certainty in the human realm occurs with dogma—either from religious sources or from people who consider themselves to be an unmitigated authority.

Thus, while I perceive science as not offering me anything certain and final, I nonetheless very often turn to it, when I encounter something in nature that I don't understand; something that is mysterious. My experience has been that once I do delve into science in order to learn what's going on, the knowledge I gain inevitably leads me to deeper wonderings; to more mystery.

For example, if I were to go seek what science has to say about how Young's wasp builds its nest—once that question is answered—I am confident that I would find a host of additional questions popping out. What's more, these questions would never have come to me, without that additional knowledge that science brought me. For example, How did evolution bring about this process? Why does the wasp use the specific materials that it does? Why has it chosen that particular location to build its nest—to avoid predators; to be closer to prey? Do wasps over in the next state use the same construction process, and why? Hmm, now that I know more about its nest—and maybe the fact this species of wasp rarely stings—let me get my magnifying glass and close in for a better view. What details am I now missing, that I'd then see?

So I don't see mystery and certainty as being at odds with each other—forcing me to choose one and lose the other. Science does not close me down, or erase the wonder. Think of Carl Sagan (those of you who might remember his “Cosmos” series on TV in the early 80s). He was an eminent scientist who described the universe with poetic awe. That's no certainty; it's flat out wonder and reverence.

Science Versus Mystery—Part 1

In the recent issue of Orion Magazine is a beautiful poem by C. Dale Young, titled “At Issue.” It's a paean to wasps. He wonders how a simple solitary wasp accomplishes the complex architectural task of building its nest. Obviously enthralled with nature's ways, Young writes, “I would like to research exactly how a wasp builds its nest, but I know this will only make it more difficult for me to ever again regard this act of the wasp as mysterious. There you have it: despite my love of science, I still, at times, prefer mystery over certainty.”

I have had similar thoughts over the years that I have lived in this wooded area, as I've observed the natural world around me, and found myself wondering about some critter I'm observing, or come upon a strikingly beautiful plant while wandering in the woods. Puzzled, I yearn to know what's going on. Why does that critter do that? What is the name of the wild flower? Why does it grow there and not up on the hill? What is that bird I hear singing off in the woods? What kind of hawk is soaring up there, and what is it trying to do?

These questions want answers. I would like to understand this wild world around me much better. I too often feel a stranger, when I wish to feel a comrade. I am amazed by the natural world and I'd love to really understand it, and even be a part of it. But as Young writes, would I lose some of my awe and wonder, if I turned to science for answers? I know there are legions of naturalists who have collected a treasure trove of data—just waiting for me to find. Would the certainty of all this knowledge erase the mystery? Would I become a little jaded and blasé, if I knew these things? Would I apathetically and unconsciously identify the bird that just called and then turn back to the mundane task at hand, without a pause to listen and appreciate? Would dry knowing replace the wonder?

There's a similar sentiment expressed by Iris Dement in a song, “Let the Mystery Be.” She's singing about wanting answers to the big questions of life:

Everybody's wonderin' what and where they they all came from
Everybody's worryin' 'bout where they're gonna go
When the whole thing's done
But no one knows for certain
And so it's all the same to me
I think I'll just let the mystery be.

She's asking questions like, What's it all about? What happens after I die? Is there a God? Why am I here? These are questions unlike: What is the name of that bird?, because they have no answers that we'll ever find anytime soon. But they are questions we are driven to pose—questions we'd really like answers to. Some people claim they have the answers. Dement feels otherwise. She's comfortable living with the mystery. As the Beatles sang, “Let it be.”

There are, however, other deep questions, the answers to which we readily turn to science. How did life begin? How did the universe begin? Was there anything before the Big Bang? What is the far future of the universe? Can humanity change its ways and avoid environmental disaster? These types of questions do have answers—answers we may someday come to know. Science points the way toward the answers, and, if we keep plugging away, they will come in time.

Back to Young's poem and his pondering whether to seek the certainty of science about the wasp's construction skills and technique, or dwell with the mystery: Do I have to choose between science's authoritative description or live with the wonder of my ignorance? Is ignorance bliss, in this case? I love to ponder the mystery of a natural observation I've made. I enjoy making up stories or speculating about what's going on. Admit my ignorance! Thrill over what I can see.

More on the mystery next time...

Philosophical Reflections

I have come rather late in life (in my mid 70s) to the study of philosophy. I have written several times in this blog about my struggles with trying to wrap my head around philosophy and its manner of looking at our world and our human place in it. In so many ways philosophy and science (the latter is my academic training and career field) view the world quite differently and thus employ quite different language. Science is empirical—it's concerned with measurement and objective observation. Philosophy is about logic—it's concerned with reasoning and argument. Science is about what is. Philosophy is more about why and what ought (to be).

So having retired long ago from a career of scientific pursuits, I've been free to try to explore philosophy. It ain't been easy for me. It's like learning a new language after reaching adulthood: not only is it new, but one has to unlearn a few ways of perceiving the world, in order to think in unaccustomed manners.

What has helped my mission is several free online courses (MOOCs, Massive Online Open Courses) that are being offered these days... wonderful resources. A recent course that I have begun is offered by FutureLearn, out of the UK. This course, “Introduction to Philosophy,” comes from the University of Edinburgh. Right out of the starting gate, the philosophy professor gave a definition of philosophy that I could relate to: “Philosophy is the activity of working out the right way to think about things.” This interpretation has two aspects to it that appeal to me: (1) philosophy is an activity—not just a process of mental gymnastics and (2) it's about “working out the right way to think about things.” Thus, when philosophically involved, one is both animated and engaged in an ongoing process: figuring things out. The latter aspect suggests that philosophy is not necessarily about solving problems and reaching answers, but about asking open-ended questions.

The lecturer went on to say that there are many disciplines that people may engage in, such as science, law, medicine, etc. Then there are the philosophies of each of these subjects: philosophy of science, philosophy of law, and philosophy of medicine. What's the difference? The disciplines themselves involve people doing things, while their respective philosophies take a step back and ask “why?” Why do we do those things? Are we doing them appropriately and morally? Should we be changing how we do them? What ought we to be doing?

The lecturer likens philosophy to something children naturally do: when they persistently ask “why?” But philosophy is also an adult activity, in that the one who asks questions is also (like the child's parents) seeking answers. So the adult philosophical task becomes, What do we need to do, to find those answers?

The lecturer also spoke to my personal struggles with philosophy, when he acknowledged that philosophy is difficult. Why? Because it challenges our usual way of thinking about and looking at the world. Philosophy demands that we let go of our customary (and comfortable) paradigms and venture into uncertainty. It demands that we admit to our ignorance of the world and dive into the unknown. That's not easy for us to do.

It's a struggle, but I think I'm beginning to get a handle on it. These kinds of questions are important to ask. The answers may not be forthcoming for some time, but the process keeps us evaluating and weighing what we do and why. That's a crucial process, and probably why philosophy is one of the oldest disciplines (excuse me... activities) of our species. Has it not brought us significant moral progress?

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.

Philosophy or Science?—Part 2

In ancient Greece—where the foundations of Western knowledge were laid—there was initially just the discipline of philosophy. Science had yet to arise. (You might say that the old Greek philosophers sat around and thought, rather than got off their duffs and went out to run experiments—and you’d not be far off the truth.) 

In the pre-Socratic period (roughly 6^th to 3^rd centuries BCE) the philosophic aim of thinkers was to understand the basic character of the world; what was referred to as “natural philosophy.” Those ancient Greeks later turned their main attention from the natural world toward humans. When Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato came along, they were definitely interested more in ethics and politics. The branch of philosophy that addressed the natural world morphed into what we know as science, splitting from human-centered philosophy. The science-versus-philosophy rift had begun. 

Aristotle and his cohorts felt that anything one needed to know about anything could be discovered through reason alone. The breach between philosophy and science widened in the growing realization by natural philosophers (scientists) that knowledge of the world needed to be verified by physical experiments. Human reasoning and logic alone can sometimes veer away from reality; they need to be kept in check by empirical observation. 

Galileo (17^th century CE) was one of the first true scientists; he advanced the science of mechanics by verifying his ideas through experiment, thereby trashing many of the ancient Greeks’ philosophic ideas about the natural world.

The disagreements between philosophy and science were kept to a minimum by the later rise of a discipline that has come to be called “philosophy of science.” Scientists, of course, cannot be absolutely objective, even if they try to be. They are human, after all, and make assumptions, have beliefs, and form opinions—some of them rather whacky at times. Thus, philosophy of science attempts to keep scientists on track by asking questions like: Can science be expected to lead to certainty and truth? What is the so-called scientific method and what are its limitations? Is a new or updated scientific theory/experiment closer to the truth than the old one? How do we know? How do we tell true science from pseudoscience?

By the middle of the 20^th century, however, science became increasingly specialized and partitioned itself into countless narrow areas of specialization. A person could spend a whole career in one of these restricted fields and become so steeped in its esoteric knowledge that she would be quite unable to converse in any depth with a scientist in what could be presumed to be a closely-related field. For example, a biologist studying the mating characteristics of a butterfly in Panama might not be able to understand a biologist researching a caterpillar-caused disease in oak trees in North America.

Specialization continued to add to fragmentation and compartmentalization of the growing number of scientific disciplines. If different scientists could not communicate very well with each other, what is to be said about those individuals pursuing the study of the philosophy of science in those arcane specialties? What appeared to be happening is that these “scientific” philosophers were neither able to keep up with the increasingly specialized scientists, nor maintain their connections to traditional philosophers. They seem to have been drawn into a kind of no-man's land, where they find themselves separated from both “pure” scientists and “pure” philosophers.

Where is this struggle going? I don't think anyone can predict. It's a 2,000-year-old conundrum that has been wrestled with by countless learned people. It appears to me that the current tussle is just the latest facet of an enduring struggle between philosophers and scientists. The fact that I can relate better to one camp (scientists) than the other, is just a measure of the bias of my education and my personal predilections. I think it's useful to try to understand the other camp, if only to widen one's otherwise narrow perspective. In a fundamental way, we're all philosophers and scientists.

Philosophy or Science?—Part 1

Having been educated in physics, I find myself relating more easily to an article on science than one on philosophy. When I encounter something written on a scientific topic, I find myself drawn to it—even if it's a branch of science that is over my head. At least I can pretty much follow the argument presented by the writer, though I may drop out part way through, because it's not a specialty that interests me (or that I can really comprehend).
 

When I read an article on philosophy, however, I often find myself quickly lost in a forest of philosophical jargon that soon abandons me to the depths of expressions and ideas that seem so foreign, that I get left behind. Things seem so squishy and ungrounded that I get lost among the glut of philosophical trees and completely lose any comprehension of the philosophical forest. I often give up, just after starting.

Now, I know that philosophy has an honored and deserved position in the pantheon of human ideas and has been life’s focus for many astute sages, so it makes sense for me to try to understand it. I also have read that in today's culture, scientists and philosophers sometimes lock horns with each other. Furthermore, I'm aware that during the ancient Greek period, science and philosophy were pretty much one in the same. These seem like conflicting thoughts that make it hard to wrap my head around, so I’m compelled to keep trying.

So what's going on? As someone with a scientific background, must I choose sides and therefore reject the teachings of philosophy, as some of today's leading scientists have done, or do I delve into the struggle and try to get a better understanding of philosophy, so that I might embrace it better than I currently am able to do?

Faced with a quandary such as this, I often turn to the dictionary, in an attempt to clarify my grasp of the central terms that I'm pondering. Here are the definitions of philosophy and science that I found:

·         Philosophy: the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence. Its root: love of wisdom.

·         Science: the intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world, through observation and experiment. Its root: to know.

This tells me that philosophy might ask questions like: What's going on? What's the nature of things? How do we know that our understanding is valid? How can this knowledge guide us ethically? How do we improve our knowledge and how do we measure that improvement?

In contrast, while I see science asking some of the same questions, science does not necessarily address ethics. Science studies the “how” but not necessarily the “why.” While philosophy is primarily concerned with the human mind and its ability to comprehend reality, science is primarily concerned with the nature of the universe—independent of how the human mind might perceive it. 

More on science and philosophy next time...