It's a curious fact: it is not easy for me to ponder over this topic without noticing the bearing of theories proposed by open religions or by disguised forms of religion like atheism.
However, once this influence has been detected and overcome, the answer to questions like: What is death? Why we die? What happens after death? appears to be surprisingly simple: I don’t know.
At our last gathering we mentioned our inner desire to draw conclusions about everything, to “reason our way through” in order to produce a “solution-in-a-phrase” to the issue being raised. This impulse, like many others, has its origin in a more primordial one: survival, although expressed this time through cognitive abilities that appeared in the course of evolution.
Nevertheless, while recognising its usefulness in many cases, we see that it might not be universal. In the same way that the need to eat is at the root of eating disorders such as bulimia or anorexia, the need to reach conclusions can be a major obstacle to certain issues, today’s for example. I remember the time when we discussed that life could be a joke, a solid hypothesis when one notices the stark contrast between the strong desire to live and the truth of death. It involved also some sort of conclusion though.
There is thus ground to make a couple of personal experiments. The first one has both the idea of death and “I don’t know” as a basis, and it involves a conscious and disciplined avoidance to draw conclusions other than incontrovertible ones: “I will die some day”, “The people I see every day will die someday”, “In the course of recorded history, 100,000 million humans have lost their lives”, “Life is the leading cause of death in people” and the likes.
What happens to a mind that feeds on facts about death instead of on speculation? To a mind kept silent when confronted to non-facts?
Even if there is no response in the short term, this first experiment brings about something surprising: a truly appreciation of the sensation of being alive. Once past the anguish caused by the instinct of survival, the presence of death and its mystery make life more intense. Knowing that I am going to die makes every day special and unique. By recognising the certainty of death, every event, just by pure contrast, acquires an unheard of character. Respect for life is thus naturally enhanced. For this alone is worth the try.
The second experiment is the generation of respect towards death. This may need some effort given the accumulated apprehension towards the issue. One can get help from the idea that death has always been there, that it has the quality of being immutable amidst universal change, that it partakes of the beauty inherent to natural processes.
Respect for both life and death curbs the polarisation between the two, and helps seeing more clearly what is happening here. Then the answers to the questions arrive, not as conclusions but as deep intuitions.
Showing posts with label essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essays. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Friday, September 30, 2011
Magic vs Science
For reasons that come next, rather than Magic vs. Science I’d like to write about Magic and Science. I’ll need for it this definition of the noun Magic, found in the Merriam-Webster dictionnary: “an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source”, slightly rephrased to: “an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from an unknown source”. This is necessary as “supernatural” is truly conflictive, especially when compared to “unknown”. If you admit this change it is more likely that you’ll share some of the ideas exposed here.
I see Science as coming from Magic: it is her daughter rather than her nemesis or oponent (the use of the feminine is intentional). We saw the reason for this in our past meeting: Science is unable to explain itself, or put in another words: the fact that Mighty Science works is mysterious, miraculous and ultimately magical, as it is an extraordinary power seemingly from an unknown source.
If one is familiar with Science, a conclusion will eventually become apparent: Science is the art of coincidence. You manipulate signs, do experiments, formulate hypothesis, make abundant mistakes and finally arrive to a theory, a linguistic construction made up of words and other signs. It has the power –if it is a sound one–, to accomplish this remarkable feat: when fed with some statements and logic, it will produce another statement that’ll match the same one you’d have used first to describe a phenomena. Newtonsʼ theory says that gravity pull at ground level is 9.8mts/sec2. Then you measure and find it to be 9.79. Fantastic, really: we have a procedure, a conceptual machine of sorts, that produces coincidences or quasi-coincidences: Science.
Science is very useful, as it provides economical ways to get many things we want: better crops, cell phones, drugs, efficient transportation, etc. Nevertheless, the fact seems to be that no one knows why it works, or equivalently: Science and its methods work by pure Magic.
You will find many attempts, performed by scientists and philosophers, to deny this. All are defective for a similar reason: once an explanation is there, how do you account for the explanation’s explanation? Magic again. One famous argument about the source of Science was given by Immanuel Kant. This is an extract of a comment on Kant's Philosophy of Science, as found in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (brace yourself...):
“The feature of Kant's conception of natural science proper that is most immediately striking is how restrictive it is. It requires that cognition (i) be systematically ordered (ii) according to rational principles and (iii) be known a priori with apodictic certainty, i.e., with “consciousness of their necessity” (4:468). Because properly scientific cognition must satisfy these strict conditions, it requires “a pure part on which the apodictic certainty that reason seeks can be based” (4:469). But since Kant identifies pure rational cognition that is generated from concepts with metaphysics, it follows that science proper requires a metaphysics of nature. He then specifies that such a metaphysics of nature could consist in either a “transcendental part,” which discusses the laws that make possible the concept of a nature in general — “even without relation to any determinate object of experience” (4:469) — or a “special metaphysical” part, which concerns a “particular nature of this or that kind of things” for which an empirical concept is given.”
Pretty intimidating isn’t it? Notice the word apodictic. Sometimes –I won’t say it’s the case here–, fancy wording points to an inability to provide conclusive arguments: it is one of the many tricks with which Language dazzles and thrills us. “Apodictic” stands for something that has the nature of absolute certainty. Kant says that, to do Science, mind should have the power to know things in such a way. Then he embarks on a search for the source of this power and eventually he thinks he finds it.
Without elaborating on the soundness of his argument, the list of magical items at work here is by no means short:
It is so unthinkable that we go to great lengths to hide and deny it, so that we can have some sense of control and familiarity. We have devised amazing (i.e.: magical) tools for the task, all sharing a common trait: they are truly useful for some limited job, but thru self-deception they are believed to work also outside their nominal range.
The most conspicuous of them all is Language. With its undeniable usefulness here and there, Language beguiles us into thinking that it is equally useful everywhere. The modest and obedient go-between, the one that helped us everyday to represent objects with other, more affordable ones (words) has mutated into a juggernaut that stealthly rules over us. It has taking away from us the freshness of pure experience, making us believe that once we know the name we control the named object. The usurper has sent to oblivion the speechless contemplation of Magic.
Built up on this core tool, other, more elaborate ones, eventually appeared: Reason, Logic, Philosophy, Science, Religion and Political theory. All are children of Language, with their own stock of fancy words. They share with it all its useful powers, but also his fundamental flaw: the tendency to rule outside its scope, which again cripples the host’s ability to recognize that he lives in a sea of Magic.
A series of words in the form of a scientific explanation may produce a useful coincidence, but not much more. To extrapolate this and try to rule out Magic with the same trick is not only logically unjustified, it closes the door to a world of wonder and amazement.
To shake off the grip of Language and wake up from the dream of Reason is not easy. This can be verified with a little experiment. Some time ago, I shared with some friends this sonnet that seems to be written in Spanish. Please read it carefully and take note of your reactions:
What did it inspired you? Did some distinct images came to your mind? Some of my friends thought of flowers, some of landscapes, I myself thought it had an ancient scent... But none of us, none, said: “nothing”. The fact is, that to make more apparent the grip of Language, the sonet was designed to have no meaning, or just the minimum one.
And there it was the grip: even in the presence of meaningless words, each of us had been inspired and prodded to produce even more words! Imagine then the effect of words with so called meaning, the ones we use in our everyday life, a life in which everything is draped by a thick coat of words, uttered or thought, a life that is second hand, linguistic rather than magical...
I see Science as coming from Magic: it is her daughter rather than her nemesis or oponent (the use of the feminine is intentional). We saw the reason for this in our past meeting: Science is unable to explain itself, or put in another words: the fact that Mighty Science works is mysterious, miraculous and ultimately magical, as it is an extraordinary power seemingly from an unknown source.
If one is familiar with Science, a conclusion will eventually become apparent: Science is the art of coincidence. You manipulate signs, do experiments, formulate hypothesis, make abundant mistakes and finally arrive to a theory, a linguistic construction made up of words and other signs. It has the power –if it is a sound one–, to accomplish this remarkable feat: when fed with some statements and logic, it will produce another statement that’ll match the same one you’d have used first to describe a phenomena. Newtonsʼ theory says that gravity pull at ground level is 9.8mts/sec2. Then you measure and find it to be 9.79. Fantastic, really: we have a procedure, a conceptual machine of sorts, that produces coincidences or quasi-coincidences: Science.
Science is very useful, as it provides economical ways to get many things we want: better crops, cell phones, drugs, efficient transportation, etc. Nevertheless, the fact seems to be that no one knows why it works, or equivalently: Science and its methods work by pure Magic.
You will find many attempts, performed by scientists and philosophers, to deny this. All are defective for a similar reason: once an explanation is there, how do you account for the explanation’s explanation? Magic again. One famous argument about the source of Science was given by Immanuel Kant. This is an extract of a comment on Kant's Philosophy of Science, as found in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (brace yourself...):
“The feature of Kant's conception of natural science proper that is most immediately striking is how restrictive it is. It requires that cognition (i) be systematically ordered (ii) according to rational principles and (iii) be known a priori with apodictic certainty, i.e., with “consciousness of their necessity” (4:468). Because properly scientific cognition must satisfy these strict conditions, it requires “a pure part on which the apodictic certainty that reason seeks can be based” (4:469). But since Kant identifies pure rational cognition that is generated from concepts with metaphysics, it follows that science proper requires a metaphysics of nature. He then specifies that such a metaphysics of nature could consist in either a “transcendental part,” which discusses the laws that make possible the concept of a nature in general — “even without relation to any determinate object of experience” (4:469) — or a “special metaphysical” part, which concerns a “particular nature of this or that kind of things” for which an empirical concept is given.”
Pretty intimidating isn’t it? Notice the word apodictic. Sometimes –I won’t say it’s the case here–, fancy wording points to an inability to provide conclusive arguments: it is one of the many tricks with which Language dazzles and thrills us. “Apodictic” stands for something that has the nature of absolute certainty. Kant says that, to do Science, mind should have the power to know things in such a way. Then he embarks on a search for the source of this power and eventually he thinks he finds it.
Without elaborating on the soundness of his argument, the list of magical items at work here is by no means short:
- Kant’s brain ability and his commentator’s to devise such involved statements
- the formation of ideas in the mind, in general
- the nature of the relationship between ideas and words
- the existence of Language itself
- etcetera
It is so unthinkable that we go to great lengths to hide and deny it, so that we can have some sense of control and familiarity. We have devised amazing (i.e.: magical) tools for the task, all sharing a common trait: they are truly useful for some limited job, but thru self-deception they are believed to work also outside their nominal range.
The most conspicuous of them all is Language. With its undeniable usefulness here and there, Language beguiles us into thinking that it is equally useful everywhere. The modest and obedient go-between, the one that helped us everyday to represent objects with other, more affordable ones (words) has mutated into a juggernaut that stealthly rules over us. It has taking away from us the freshness of pure experience, making us believe that once we know the name we control the named object. The usurper has sent to oblivion the speechless contemplation of Magic.
Built up on this core tool, other, more elaborate ones, eventually appeared: Reason, Logic, Philosophy, Science, Religion and Political theory. All are children of Language, with their own stock of fancy words. They share with it all its useful powers, but also his fundamental flaw: the tendency to rule outside its scope, which again cripples the host’s ability to recognize that he lives in a sea of Magic.
A series of words in the form of a scientific explanation may produce a useful coincidence, but not much more. To extrapolate this and try to rule out Magic with the same trick is not only logically unjustified, it closes the door to a world of wonder and amazement.
To shake off the grip of Language and wake up from the dream of Reason is not easy. This can be verified with a little experiment. Some time ago, I shared with some friends this sonnet that seems to be written in Spanish. Please read it carefully and take note of your reactions:
Bardindos
No he calpeado jamás un tedillo
Ni he garbellado nunca un pelote
Sin embargo bardindos en yusote
Enseforé tranquilo en los puntillos
Bardindos de coljores acrepidos
Bardindos de corte bortegado
Bardindos que crupían seferidos
Sin que nadie zigueriera sus comandos
Con la diepra que da la mersinga
En corteles de porma antigados
Cafo un bardindo demidorido
Lo perco, lo damo, lo entretago
Aferio sus placias de Coringa
Y sormo ¡bardindo!, ¡bardindo tado!
What did it inspired you? Did some distinct images came to your mind? Some of my friends thought of flowers, some of landscapes, I myself thought it had an ancient scent... But none of us, none, said: “nothing”. The fact is, that to make more apparent the grip of Language, the sonet was designed to have no meaning, or just the minimum one.
And there it was the grip: even in the presence of meaningless words, each of us had been inspired and prodded to produce even more words! Imagine then the effect of words with so called meaning, the ones we use in our everyday life, a life in which everything is draped by a thick coat of words, uttered or thought, a life that is second hand, linguistic rather than magical...
To pit Science against Magic is like pitting the foam against the entire ocean
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Educación
Me pregunto qué es conveniente enseñar en los centros educativos. Pienso que podría ser una combinación de hechos por un lado, de estímulos para que la otra parte llegue a sus propias conclusiones... y de más estímulos para que cuestione estas mismas conclusiones por otro.
Una y otra vez a lo largo de la historia se comprueba que lo que se tenía por seguro en realidad no lo era. Esto ha sucedido con asuntos que parecían evidentes: el carácter absoluto del tiempo, la posibilidad de medir algo con cualquier precisión, la posición central de la Tierra en el cosmos, la supuesta gran diferencia entre un hombre y un simio… ¿No es esto una buena razón para cuestionar lo que hoy da uno por seguro?
Otra razón para hacerlo es la posibilidad de que muchos de los problemas con los que hoy nos enfrentamos se deriven precisamente de la aplicación de principios erróneos que no se han reconocido como tales, principios que además no se investigan ni se cuestionan.
Una persona necesita conocimientos para vivir, y quizá también creencias. Además de proporcionar los primeros, la educación debería servir también para invitar a ser muy consciente de las fronteras entre unos y otras, a saber reconocer qué son hechos y qué no, y a extraer las consecuencias. Sería una tragedia que muchos de los sufrimientos de los hombres vinieran por mantener creencias que ninguno de ellos ha comprobado ni comprendido, creencias que se convierten en regentes de muchos aspectos de la vida cuando quizá paradójicamente ni siquiera se correspondan con los hechos.
Cualquiera puede comprender la utilidad inmediata del conocimiento de hechos frente a las creencias, y por tanto habrá que buscar en ciertas necesidades psicológicas el origen del fomento de las mismas. La necesidad de suprimir el miedo a lo desconocido es una de ellas. Ahora bien, si el miedo desapareciera sin intervención de las creencias, también desaparecería la necesidad de éstas para evitarlo, y con ello también el riesgo de introducir un desorden esencial en la vida.
Considero por ahora que el análisis de estas cuestiones es fundamental en la educación de los hombres.
Una y otra vez a lo largo de la historia se comprueba que lo que se tenía por seguro en realidad no lo era. Esto ha sucedido con asuntos que parecían evidentes: el carácter absoluto del tiempo, la posibilidad de medir algo con cualquier precisión, la posición central de la Tierra en el cosmos, la supuesta gran diferencia entre un hombre y un simio… ¿No es esto una buena razón para cuestionar lo que hoy da uno por seguro?
Otra razón para hacerlo es la posibilidad de que muchos de los problemas con los que hoy nos enfrentamos se deriven precisamente de la aplicación de principios erróneos que no se han reconocido como tales, principios que además no se investigan ni se cuestionan.
Una persona necesita conocimientos para vivir, y quizá también creencias. Además de proporcionar los primeros, la educación debería servir también para invitar a ser muy consciente de las fronteras entre unos y otras, a saber reconocer qué son hechos y qué no, y a extraer las consecuencias. Sería una tragedia que muchos de los sufrimientos de los hombres vinieran por mantener creencias que ninguno de ellos ha comprobado ni comprendido, creencias que se convierten en regentes de muchos aspectos de la vida cuando quizá paradójicamente ni siquiera se correspondan con los hechos.
Cualquiera puede comprender la utilidad inmediata del conocimiento de hechos frente a las creencias, y por tanto habrá que buscar en ciertas necesidades psicológicas el origen del fomento de las mismas. La necesidad de suprimir el miedo a lo desconocido es una de ellas. Ahora bien, si el miedo desapareciera sin intervención de las creencias, también desaparecería la necesidad de éstas para evitarlo, y con ello también el riesgo de introducir un desorden esencial en la vida.
Considero por ahora que el análisis de estas cuestiones es fundamental en la educación de los hombres.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
El Andamio
No he cambiado todavía el andamio que levanté para hacerme la casa. Es verdad que todavía no está terminada, en parte porque el plan inicial se ha ido modificando con el tiempo: ahora somos más de familia, y también he pensado en hacer un pequeño taller quitándole espacio a una habitación. El caso es que no he adaptado el andamio a estas nuevas necesidades, y aunque he pasado mucho tiempo sin plantearme esta cuestión, las molestias de todo tipo acumuladas a lo largo de los años por algo ya inútil me han forzado a pensar un poco sobre el asunto.
Creo que mi resistencia a cambiar las partes innecesarias del andamio viene de la gran inversión emocional que hice en su día, cuando pensé en lo bonita y cómoda que iba a ser mi casa, lo feliz que iba a ser en ella con mi familia y la sensación de plenitud que me embargaría. Luego, con la naturalidad de estas cosas, uní sin pensar esa felicidad imaginada al andamio, que era lo que tenía entre manos en ese momento. Esta asociación emocional ha sido tan fuerte que me ha llevado a rechazar siempre cualquier consejo para modificar el andamio.
Ahora que lo he considerado un poco me sorprenden mis reacciones, que más o menos se pueden desglosar así: al escuchar una crítica primero me embarga una gran desazón, y luego replico de forma más o menos automática defendiendo mi andamio. La primera fase es tan corta que ha estado pasando desapercibida todo este tiempo.
Ahora empiezo a ver, cuando estoy solo y sereno, que estoy condicionado por el temor a que se rompa mi querida dependencia emocional, construida y cultivada durante años. Veo también que el andamio es un símbolo de esta dependencia, y que soy por tanto doblemente dependiente: de la emoción y de su símbolo. Así, en vez de escuchar sin prejuicios a los que me hablan del asunto, el andamio se pone delante y activa mi respuesta. Claro, yo no admito todo esto delante de ellos, y siempre encuentro muchas razones putativas para rebatirlos.
Me doy cuenta ahora de la bondad de sus argumentos, pero también de que no puedo deshacerme fácilmente del andamio y de lo que representa, incluso cuando me dicen cómo ese apego innecesario me dificulta la vida, sea porque me topo con él al salir, sea porque me hace ser víctima fácil de una cohorte de aprovechados que se benefician de mi adicción: pintores de andamios, fabricantes de barras planchas y anclajes, montadores y sobre todo, hombres de publicidad que me arengan sobre las bondades intrínsecas de los andamios.
Como primer paso para recobrar mi libertad de actuación tendría que mirar de frente a mi dependencia. Pero debo reconocer que prefiero escuchar los mensajes que la refuerzan, y rodearme de personas proclives a atribuir perennidad a los andamios, y leer los libros escritos por ellas.
Además, con el paso de los días me he acostumbrado a ver el andamio a través de las ventanas, con esa manera tan especial que tiene de dividir las vistas en cuadraditos y de ocultar ciertas cosas, y ello aunque no sea natural ver el paisaje fragmentado.
Y es que construir una casa no es fácil ni rápido, y por eso su disfrute completo se ve lejano. Dejo así que el andamio me anticipe entonces un poco de esa felicidad futura, aunque tropiece con él de vez en cuando...
Creo que mi resistencia a cambiar las partes innecesarias del andamio viene de la gran inversión emocional que hice en su día, cuando pensé en lo bonita y cómoda que iba a ser mi casa, lo feliz que iba a ser en ella con mi familia y la sensación de plenitud que me embargaría. Luego, con la naturalidad de estas cosas, uní sin pensar esa felicidad imaginada al andamio, que era lo que tenía entre manos en ese momento. Esta asociación emocional ha sido tan fuerte que me ha llevado a rechazar siempre cualquier consejo para modificar el andamio.
Ahora que lo he considerado un poco me sorprenden mis reacciones, que más o menos se pueden desglosar así: al escuchar una crítica primero me embarga una gran desazón, y luego replico de forma más o menos automática defendiendo mi andamio. La primera fase es tan corta que ha estado pasando desapercibida todo este tiempo.
Ahora empiezo a ver, cuando estoy solo y sereno, que estoy condicionado por el temor a que se rompa mi querida dependencia emocional, construida y cultivada durante años. Veo también que el andamio es un símbolo de esta dependencia, y que soy por tanto doblemente dependiente: de la emoción y de su símbolo. Así, en vez de escuchar sin prejuicios a los que me hablan del asunto, el andamio se pone delante y activa mi respuesta. Claro, yo no admito todo esto delante de ellos, y siempre encuentro muchas razones putativas para rebatirlos.
Me doy cuenta ahora de la bondad de sus argumentos, pero también de que no puedo deshacerme fácilmente del andamio y de lo que representa, incluso cuando me dicen cómo ese apego innecesario me dificulta la vida, sea porque me topo con él al salir, sea porque me hace ser víctima fácil de una cohorte de aprovechados que se benefician de mi adicción: pintores de andamios, fabricantes de barras planchas y anclajes, montadores y sobre todo, hombres de publicidad que me arengan sobre las bondades intrínsecas de los andamios.
Como primer paso para recobrar mi libertad de actuación tendría que mirar de frente a mi dependencia. Pero debo reconocer que prefiero escuchar los mensajes que la refuerzan, y rodearme de personas proclives a atribuir perennidad a los andamios, y leer los libros escritos por ellas.
Además, con el paso de los días me he acostumbrado a ver el andamio a través de las ventanas, con esa manera tan especial que tiene de dividir las vistas en cuadraditos y de ocultar ciertas cosas, y ello aunque no sea natural ver el paisaje fragmentado.
Y es que construir una casa no es fácil ni rápido, y por eso su disfrute completo se ve lejano. Dejo así que el andamio me anticipe entonces un poco de esa felicidad futura, aunque tropiece con él de vez en cuando...
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