Index: 421
30 April 2016
24 April 2016
On ‘No Explanation’
A new poem by Chengde Chen which also marks the occasion of the first ‘birthday’ of the blog
Note from the Editors
Today marks the first birthday of the re-launched Philosophical Investigations (affectionately known as Pi)
In this first year of blogging, Pi has established itself alongside the top-rated philosophy blogs worldwide, which represents a modest popularity – and attracted strong ideas and good writing. Pi has been fairly unique in its emphasis, too – in two respects. Firstly, it has widened the compass of philosophy, including reflection on issues made through philosophical poems and images. Secondly, it has sought philosophy, rather than philosophers.
In its first year, Pi has featured essays by thinkers from a wide variety of backgrounds, among them a judge, a monk, a CEO, an architect, a police chief, and many more. This has resulted in a rich mix of ideas: for instance, that inequality has to do with replication, that the 'will to power' is found in the ordinary moments of life, that political science may be controlled by experiences not our own, that the purpose of reason is to flag contradictions, and that strength is found in shared weakness.
As a radical project – that aspires to be not merely philosophical, not merely political, nor even just 'educational' - but to be entertaining – it is hoped that Pi will continue to growand provide an alternative, more democratic kind of blogging.‘No Explanation’
Not understanding a text, you ask the author to explain.
He refers to some other words, and you thank him.
But, if these words can deliver the meaning better,
shouldn’t they have been used in the first place?
If the author says, “Sorry, I don’t explain.
This, and only this, means what I mean,”
you may find it intolerably arrogant, but
why should what a clear expression is be polluted?
There are writings that are so proper and accurate
that only they themselves can represent themselves.
There are also needs for such precision, e.g.
putting a law in other words may deform justice.
Words can be precise because thoughts can.
Thoughts can be purified and purified like water.
When writing reaches the state of “no explanation”,
it is water that can’t be washed by water.
Chengde Chen is the author of Five Themes of Today: philosophical poems. Readers can find out more about Chengde and his poems here
23 April 2016
The Thing-in-Itself
Benjamin Lee Whorf, the American linguist, made a puzzling observation which, for no patent reason, has held our fascination for nearly eighty years. Whorf wrote it briefly, in simple language:
'Around a storage of what are called 'gasoline (petrol) drums', behavior will tend to a certain type, that is, great care will be exercised; while around a storage of what are called 'empty gasoline drums' it will tend to be different-careless, with little repression of smoking or of tossing cigarette stubs about. Yet the 'empty' drums are perhaps the more dangerous, since they contain explosive vapor.'Whorf, I here suggest, had stumbled upon the core problem of the thing-in-itself, and with that, the core problem of the thinking of our entire Western civilisation. The interpretation of the thing-in-itself is not critical here. It is sufficient to understand it most simply as any 'object of inquiry'. Let us begin at the beginning.
First, the Scottish philosopher David Hume observed that all knowledge may be subdivided into relations of ideas on the one hand, and matters of fact on the other. That is, one begins with a handful of facts (which includes objects), and these facts stand in a certain relation to one another.
This view has remained engraved on metaphysicians' minds ever since. Generations later, Bertrand Russell wrote that many philosophers, following Immanuel Kant, have maintained that relations are the work of the mind, and that things-in-themselves have no relations. While this is not to say exactly the same, the thought is not far from Hume's.
A marble is a thing. A house is a thing. Even gravity, ideology, taxonomy are things (we call them constructs), which may in turn be related to other things. In a sense, even a unicorn is a 'thing', although one is unlikely ever to find one. Of course, our 'things' may not be exactly the same as we perceive them – but the point will be clear.
Things-in-themselves are not, of course, facts. They first need to be involved in what we call truth conditions – which is, they need to be inserted into statements. Then one may affirm or deny such statements, which is an essential condition of facts. For example, we insert the thing 'marble' into a statement: 'A marble sinks' – or the thing 'unicorn': 'The Scots keep unicorns.'
On the surface of it, our world is filled with such facts: 'There's a car,' 'A bird has wings,' or 'The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.'
But there is a mistake. There are no things, there are no objects, and therefore there are no facts. Hume got it wrong, and so did every philosopher since. One finds only relations. The mind is incapable of comprehending anything else. No mind can ever settle on a 'thing' alone.
Someone might object: 'But this is a coffee cup, and that's a fact!' But is it really? Take away the table on which the coffee cup rests, and what does one have? One has a coffee cup which rests on nothing. If we ever found such a thing, we would marvel that it exists. One would have scientists queuing up at the door to see it. Further, the table, on which the coffee cup rests, stands on the floor, and this in turn rests on the earth, and so on.
The same is true if we down-scale our thinking as it were. Supposing that we should say, 'This coffee cup has a handle.' The same applies. We have to have a mind for a whole world of relations to be able to speak of a handle.
We never worried about this much – before the publication of Samuel Johnson's great dictionary of 1755. But since then, our 'things' have been defined, and they have been defined (if implicitly) as things-in-themselves. But this they are not, as we have seen.
This now promises to explain Benjamin Whorf's puzzlement over the dangerous way in which people went about with empty petrol drums, and our continuing fascination with the same today. We have come to see petrol drums today as things-in-themselves, without the obvious relations in which they are involved.
One might wonder at the possible significance of it all. Quite simply, when we speak of the world today, our language causes us to view it as people viewed Whorf's petrol drums, namely, as a profusion of things-in-themselves. Yet we deal with things far more dangerous than petrol drums.
17 April 2016
Is Political Science Science?
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| Leviathan frontispiece by Abraham Bosse |
Is political science science? The political philosophy of Thomas Hobbes would seem to present us with a test case par excellence. Claiming that his most influential work, Leviathan, was through and through scientific, Hobbes wrote, ‘Science is the knowledge of consequences, and dependence of one fact upon another.’ His work, he judged, was founded upon ‘geometrical and physical first principles of matter and motion’, combined with logical deductions of the human sciences, psychological and political.Through his scientific researches, Hobbes came to hold a pessimistic view of human nature, which he called the ‘state of nature’, the ‘Natural Condition of Mankind’: a ruinous state of conflict. Paradoxically, he considered that such conflict arose from equality and rationality. Possessing limited resources, a rational man would try to take as much as possible for himself. At the same time, others would need to do the same, as a defensive measure. The likeliest outcome was ‘war of every man against every man’, where law and justice have no place. Such a life, he famously wrote, would be ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’.
Hobbes proposed, therefore, a contract between the people and the Sovereign, as a means of creating peace by imposing a single, sovereign rule. It is the fear of punishment, he wrote, that preserves peace and unity, and ties people to the ‘performance of their Covenants’. Following his logic, individuals are likely to reach the conclusion that a social contract is the best alternative to their natural condition, so surrendering their liberties and rights.
On the surface of it, Hobbes' logic seems compelling, his deductions persuasive, his arguments admirable. Nonetheless, for a number of reasons, it is questionable that his analysis of human nature was truly scientific.
His 'state of nature' was not well founded in history. In Philosophical Rudiments, he wrote (much as he did more generally) that the existence of the American tribes was ‘fierce, short-lived, poor, nasty, and deprived of all that pleasure and beauty of life’. Yet rather than supporting his arguments, this appears to prove him wrong. Historians have generally claimed that the Indians were simple, peaceful, innocent, and uncorrupted by the evils of civilization. Hobbes, it seems, may have absorbed the Puritan tendency of separating the ‘natural’ as regressive, and the non-natural as progressive.
Furthermore, Hobbesian political philosophy becomes complicated when it comes to the fact that his work was both descriptive and prescriptive. The descriptive side is present in his analysis of the state of nature, while his idea of the Sovereign and the Social Contract as a universal solution is evidently prescriptive. Today we are keenly aware of the difficulty of passing from descriptive to prescriptive language. Not only that, but Hobbes' prescriptive language seems to be excessively strong – even emotional.
More than anything, Leviathan reveals that fear was a core element in Hobbes' political study and life. This may be most explicit in his verse autobiography: 'For through the scattered towns a rumor ran / that our people's last day was coming in a fleet / and so much fear my mother conceived at that time / that she gave birth to twins: myself and Fear.' Happy is he, he wrote, quoting Virgil, 'who treads beneath his feet all fear of Fate'. Could it be, then, that Hobbes' political philosophy was born of his own personal history? That it was his own experience of fear which shaped his so-called 'science'? In fact, that his mother's fear of a fleet outweighed all subsequent thought?
If this should be true, what implications may this have for our understanding of political philosophy today? May our political philosophies be shaped by our emotional and historical heritage? May this be a survival mechanism – a memory of the past which cannot be erased through any 'scientific' theory? Were Plato, Aristotle, Machiavelli, Marx, Rawls and so many others with them – mere symptoms of their times – in fact, symptoms of the times which preceded them?
10 April 2016
Farmer Hogget, the Limited God
Posted by Eduardo Frajman
One beautiful autumn afternoon not too long ago, my daughters and I were coming home from an errand. They ran ahead of me, headed for our front yard to climb our knobby, twisted tree, or jump headfirst onto a leaf pile, or some other such wholesome activity that would add a tiny brick to the edifice of their innocent, golden childhoods.
As I reached them I saw my eldest had stopped. She was prodding at something with her foot, nudging it back and forth. Though half-buried, I immediately recognized it for what it was. “What is it?,” my freckled-faced cherub asked. I saw her little sister step towards us curiously, an expectant smile on her face. The thing was roundish, about the size of a plum. Two blade-like stalks protruded out of one end. Amid the black dirt, I could make out patches of fur and a rigid, unseeing eye. “It’s a rock,” I said. My daughter shot me an incredulous, accusatory look as she wailed “Then why does it have ears?!”
The aftermath of our encounter with the decapitated bunny head will be familiar to most parents. “What happened to it?,” was the first question, the easiest one to answer. “I don’t know. Maybe a dog killed it, or a fox. Maybe it got caught under a lawnmower.”
“That’s sad,” said my youngest. “Why did the bunny have to die?” That was the big one, the one most of us can’t satisfactorily answer to ourselves, let alone to the little children who are so ignorant as to believe that we know everything. Why do bad things happen? Why is there evil in the world?
Regardless of how I chose to tackle the issue among the fallen leaves that day, I don’t really remember, I indubitably cracked the foundation of their innocence with a brief but unavoidable lecture on The Way Things Are. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all of us, parents and children and bunnies, could frolic about, carelessly, eternally? But we can’t. That’s just not The Way Things Are. “But why not?,” my daughters insisted. That’s when I brought them inside, disinfected their hands, and slipped an old video about a lovable piglet called Babe (1996) into the DVD player.
In philosophical circles, the attempt to answer the question of evil is called “theodicy.” In its traditional Judeo-Christian form, theodicy aims to reconcile the existence of an all-powerful, loving, infinitely good God with the indisputable evidence that the world is awash with undeserved pain and suffering. This is what Babe is about. Yes, that Babe, the one about the talking pig. Babe, for those of you not in the know, is taken from among his brothers and sisters and becomes a prize at a county fair where he is won by Farmer Hogget. Babe meets the farm’s inhabitants: the sheepdogs Fly and Rex and their litter of puppies, Ferdinand the Duck, who is pretending to be a rooster to avoid being eaten, Duchess the evil cat (aren’t they all?), and the sheep, led by old and wise Maa. Babe gets into some low-key adventures until he is recruited by Farmer Hogget to help herd the sheep. This leads to some trouble with Rex, who besides being the alpha sheepdog is also the keeper of law and order among the animals.
Eventually, Farmer Hogget decides Babe is such a good sheep-pig that he enters him into a sheep dog competition, which of course he wins as everyone cheers deliriously. Everyone loves Babe, though it is often dismissed as just another flick selling the well-worn bill of goods to kids and their parents: “follow your star,” “be yourself,” “there is no secret ingredient.” It’s easy to see why this happens. The film follows the eponymous hero as he comes to understand the rules of Hogget Farm and, seemingly, challenges them by becoming a “sheep-pig.” But this is a misunderstanding based on inattentive watching. Babe never chooses to become a sheep-pig. The choice is made for him by Farmer Hogget – “The Boss,” as he is known to the farm animals. Babe is not a story about a young pig finding agency and thereby finding happiness. It is an allegory about the nature of God’s relationship with His creatures.
That the film is a theological parable is suggested in numerous details throughout. The young runt who will become Babe is “chosen” from among “thousands of pigs.” When Farmer Hogget and Babe first lay eyes on each other, they are said to share “a faint sense of some common destiny.” Later Farmer Hogget’s idea to turn Babe into a sheep pig becomes “the stuff of destiny” and Babe becomes the “pig of destiny.” The narration is inflected with Bible-like pronouncements – “a great flood came to the valley,” “there was only one fate for a creature that took the life of a sheep” – and the ancestry of both sheepdogs and sheep is treated as a marker of atavistic significance. On the night before the sheepdog trials, Hogget is shown watching a choir of children dressed as angels singing on television. And there is, of course, the matter of Babe’s parentage. The little pig, who seemingly has no father, boasts no fewer than three mothers: his biological pig mother, Fly the sheepdog who adopts him, and Maa the sheep who imbues him with moral sense.
This is not to say that Babe is a proselytizing work, looking to turn children into believing, unthinking Christians, along the lines of far inferior films such as the recent Little Boy (2015) or God’s Not Dead (2014). Far from it. Babe means instead to problematize belief, to highlight the very difficult questions raised by existing in a world with God in it. The pigs depicted at the start of the movie, for example, are shown lounging in their stys, waiting to be taken to the slaughterhouse. As they walk towards their deaths, they are said to believe they are headed for “pig paradise,” which is a “world of endless pleasures.” In other words, their religious beliefs serve them as consolation for the unavoidable fate that awaits them. There are plenty of followers of the Judeo-Christian tradition who use religion in this way. After all, God states in both the Old and New Testaments that He will reward those who follow His commandments:
“I will give the rain for your land in its season” (Deuteronomy 11:14)
and “rejoice and be glad, for great is your reward in Heaven” (Matthew 5:11)
- promising that the sufferers in this world will be eternally rewarded in the next.
But the Bible also warns its readers not to accept this message uncritically, most explicitly in the Book of Job, its own stab at theodicy. Job is a good man, a blameless man, and thus deservedly prosperous and happy. Responding to a challenge, God allows Satan to make Job suffer, for no evident reason other than to see what happens. Satan takes away Job’s possessions, he kills Job’s children, he causes Job to endure great physical pain. Taken to his breaking point, Job lashes out against God. Why do I suffer?, asks Job. I don’t deserve to suffer.
God’s answer is meant to give pause to uncritical believers:
“Who is this who darkens my plans with words without knowledge?” (Job 38:1).
How do you know why I do anything?, asks God. Who are you to question Me? Who are you to pretend you understand how the world works, how anything works? You are nobody, says God to Job. You don’t know anything and you never will. And so, can I tell my daughters that it’s okay the bunny lost its head because it’s now hopping in the never-ending fields of bunny heaven? The Book of Job says no. It says that it is not in our capacity to understand why bunnies lose their heads, why pain and suffering pervade the world. It says only God knows the whys of The Way Things Are.
Likewise, it is not the animals’ place on Hogget Farm to question, let alone challenge, The Way Things Are. The only one who tries, Ferdinand the duck, finds only failure and frustration (though not, notably, punishment). Only The Boss can alter the rules. The film, of course, does not mean for Farmer Hogget to be seen literally as God. He and his wife are normal humans among many: they go to church and celebrate Christmas, they have children and grandchildren, she is the “assistant general secretary of the northeast region” for the Women’s Country Guild, he has “a long and honorable association” with the National Sheepdog Association. On the other hand, the beginning of the film goes out of its way to underline the couple’s specialness. Mrs. Hogget’s victory in a cooking competition is deemed “not a matter of luck” (she is later seen placing her trophy in a shelf stuffed with them). As the couple walk around the county fair, the image fades to black except for a small circle, which follows them around for a few additional moments, indicating their chosen status. Their power, such as it is, is mundane and earthbound, not supernatural. It is only in their own domains that each one of them lords. Inside the house, as made clear by Duchess the cat, it is Mrs. Hogget who is rules, while the farmer deserves only the status of “The Boss’ husband.”
To the farm animals, however, Farmer Hogget is god. His rule is unchallenged, and the animals all understand that their function in the world is to serve and obey him; even Ferdinand the duck, who doesn’t want to be eaten but still knows he must find a way to make himself useful. Hogget is a creator god. He is shown making a dollhouse for his granddaughter, a new gate for the farm, building the obstacles to train Babe for the sheepdog trials, lovingly placing the wool of a recently-shorn sheep on his wagon. He is a patient, loving god. He always has a kind word for his animals, “good dog,” “that’ll do,” and never ever loses his temper. He is a just but merciful god, as is shown by his actions after Maa is killed by a wild dog. The evidence points to Babe, and the Boss makes ready to execute the sentence he deems appropriate, but when he learns of his mistake he changes his planned course of action, like God does towards the city of Nineveh in the Book of Jonah.
Hogget is also a wise god. He is truthful, but is not beyond using slight subterfuge when it suits his aims. He follows his intuition because he knows “that little ideas can turn into the stuff of destiny,” as when he decides to spare Babe from becoming roast pork and turn him into the pig of destiny, but is willing to learn new things, as when he uses the fax machine he initially mistrusted. He realizes that Rex the dog, the Old-Testament prophet of the farm and the keeper of its laws, attacks Babe, the New Testament prophet of love, out of jealousy and fear of being replaced. It’s worth remembering that the only character with any stake in the outcome of the climactic sheepdog trials is Hogget himself. Fly articulates the most awful possible outcome: “The Boss will look like an idiot!” After Babe triumphs in the trials, after the animals in the farm and the crowd in the stands erupt in celebration, the camera shows the two of them standing alone, a ray of sunshine emerging from the clouds and shining down on the two chosen ones. It then shows Hogget’s face from Babe’s perspective, a halo of sunlight around his head, projecting gentleness and pride and love. “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
And so, Babe’s happiest state manifests itself in a moment of service to his god. And yet, just the night before, Babe had sunk into a deep crisis of faith. In preparation for the trials the Boss had modified The Ways Things Are. While hitherto only dogs and cats had been allowed in the house, Babe was invited in to partake in the best food and the warmth of the fireplace. Duchess the cat was livid at this unwanted invasion onto her turf. She tried to scratch at Babe, but this only earned her temporary banishment. On her second try, she went for the more subtle approach. “Why do you think you’re here?,” she asked the pig. “Why are any of us here?,” he parried. All creatures have a purpose, Duchess told Babe. The dogs herd the sheep, the cow gives milk, the cat looks beautiful. “What do you think your purpose is?” Babe didn’t know, so Duchess told him the truth, that a pig’s purpose is to be eaten. Babe could not believe it. He ran to his adoptive mother Fly and asked her whether humans ate his biological mother, the rest of his family. “Yes, dear,” said Fly. “Even The Boss?” “Yes, dear.” Babe was inconsolable. He wouldn’t eat or move. The other animals were heartbroken. Babe had lost his innocence. He had learned the awful implications of The Way Things Are. Even Rex, his former nemesis, could not stand to see him like that. “The Boss needs you!,” he pleaded.
Why does God allow for such things to happen? Why does Babe have to lose his family so we can put bacon in our burgers? If God is all-powerful, why doesn’t He just create some bacon trees, or make bacon taste like dirt for that matter? One of the most famous answers to the question was proposed by Leibniz in 1710, in the only book that he published in his lifetime, called the Essays on Theodicy, in the process introducing the new term.
It’s obvious, according to Leibniz, that God is all-powerful, as well as infinitely good. It stands to reason that if evil exists, it does so because God decided that a world with evil in it is better than a world without evil since God, being all-powerful, could only create “the best of all possible worlds.” Imagine a painting that contains all the possible colors. Some colors are gorgeous and pleasing to the eye, others are dreary or unpleasant to look at. Would the most beautiful painting use only the most beautiful colors? Or is it possible that, by judiciously using the ugly colors, one could enhance the impact of the beautiful colors and thereby achieve an even greater result? For example, anybody would agree that compassion is a great thing, and that a world where compassion exists is better than a world in which it doesn’t. But, in order to feel compassion, a person needs to witness someone else suffering. No suffering, no compassion. The same is probably true of most positive emotions, many of which are magnified by being preceded by bad emotions. Consider the pleasure of eating something after an extended period of fasting.
Leibniz’s “best of all possible worlds” theory was criticized by many for being, at best, too naïve and, at worst, willingly blind to the mind-shattering levels of bad things that actually exist in the world. Voltaire famously satirized Leibniz in Candide (1759), a novel in which a young man’s suffering of tragedy upon tragedy is played for laughs not unlike those elicited by Willie E. Coyote’s travails in Looney Tunes films. Imagine that, early on in your life, you discover that your parents, siblings, everyone like you, is being raised as food for a “superior” species. Imagine that, any day, you could be killed and eaten by your “owner.” Would you conclude from this knowledge that the world you live in is the best possible world?
As David Hume put it in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, you can only get to Leibniz’s conclusion if you start out by assuming an infinitely good, all-powerful God exists. If you start by looking at the evidence, however, you might conclude something else entirely. You might conclude that God doesn’t exist, that the world is just the random consequence of an immeasurably complex series of natural laws and events that led us to a state of affairs in which I love my daughters so much that I find it necessary to shield them from grief by explaining away a decapitated bunny head. Or perhaps, as some have argued, God does exist but He’s just plain nasty. Hume didn’t find this likely, since just as there are plenty of terrible things in the world, there are plenty of wonderful things in it as well. Perhaps God is just like us, only more so. This is essentially what the ancient Greeks believed.
In the film, though, Babe chooses a different option. The same one that, curiously, Rabbi Harold Kushner proposes in his now-mostly-forgotten bestseller When Bad Things Happen to Good People. Kushner begins with the problem of evil as seen by Job as well as Babe. Since there is no doubt that evil exists, how can it be that an all-good, all-powerful God also exists? He then examines the evidence available to him, in defiance of God’s admonition at the end of the Book of Job. Kushner rejects the idea that God does not exist, and he cannot bring himself to suggest that God might be evil. It follows, therefore, that God must not be all-powerful. God is in charge, but not fully in charge.
The same is true of Farmer Hogget. He has all the qualities one wants in a god: he is capable, wise, merciful, full of grace. But he is not fully in charge of what happens. He cannot prevent his sheep from being stolen, or Fly to lose her puppies, or Maa from being mauled by a wild dog. He cannot make a world in which pigs and ducks are not eaten. And so, when Babe the pig is lying in his house, refusing to eat or to budge, about to die of dehydration, Farmer Hogget can do nothing but sing the plaintive song of the limited god:
“If I had words to make a day for you/I’d sing you a morning golden and new/I would make this day last for all time/Give you a night deep in moonshine.”
“I love you”, says Farmer Hogget to Babe with his song, but certain things even I can’t make happen. “I can’t make a perfect world. I can’t take away your pain. Are you still with me?”
03 April 2016
Picture Post No. 11 The Playground
Posted by Tessa den Uyl and Martin Cohen
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| 'Playing'. Original photo, title and date unknown, by Alexsandr Malin |
We enter the paradox of pick and choose.
The shift between figure and background position produces contradictory responses. The object - the car being used as a kind of toy - transforms and breaks the coherence between the object and ourselves. Evidently, one value must have another value.
We can be flexible: the playground is free to enter. Humour has the capacity to reveal ‘our will of absence’ - to guide things beyond their ascribed function. We laugh alongside our own rigidity.
Picture Post No. 11 The Playground
Posted by Tessa den Uyl and Martin Cohen
|
| 'Playing'. Original photo, title and date unknown, by Alexsandr Malin |
We enter the paradox of pick and choose.
The shift between figure and background position produces contradictory responses. The object - the car being used as a kind of toy - transforms and breaks the coherence between the object and ourselves. Evidently, one value must have another value.
We can be flexible: the playground is free to enter. Humour has the capacity to reveal ‘our will of absence’ - to guide things beyond their ascribed function. We laugh alongside our own rigidity.
02 April 2016
How the Body Keeps Human Nature in Check
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| From Bauentwurfslehre, 1936, by Ernst Neufert |
One of the greatest problems of our time is the problem as to how ethics may be incorporated into metaphysics. The problem was first brought to the fore by David Hume, and became acute with Ludwig Wittgenstein, who famously wrote, 'Whereof we cannot speak, we must remain silent.' He was referring to ethics.Yet beyond Hume and Wittgenstein – beyond Plato, Immanuel Kant, George Moore, and many others – beyond ethical naturalism, objectivism, rationalism – beyond all philosophy and all theory – it may be as simple as the human body.
Imagine, with me, a man (or a woman) who is dropped into this world from the sky – not knowing anything at all.
He would very quickly discover that his body needs to be fed every five hours, and put to sleep every sixteen. His skin, he would notice, is sensitive to cold, heat, and many kinds of pain. He would find that food is not readily available – that it is dangerous to have to fight for it with other people and animals. He would find that it is helpful to cultivate plants and domesticate animals – and counter-productive to wantonly destroy them.
He would find that blankets need to be of a certain size and thickness – being predicted, too, by the size and function of his body. He would find that door handles need to be mounted at a certain height, and made for fingers such as his. He would find that his body predicts the dimensions of many things: the size of a soccer ball, the shape of a boat – even the location of a university, or the power of rocket boosters.
He would find that it is troublesome to anger others – and to find a new shelter every night, to evade them. He would soon guess that it is more energy efficient to get into a peaceful exchange with others, where he could trade for food something of his own – a thing or a service, or even a promise to be fulfilled in future. He would find that his own body, with its vulnerabilities and frequent needs, force him to cooperate with others rather than destroy them.
He would find that, even if he were the biggest and strongest of all, he could not be big and strong twenty-four hours a day. For some eight hours daily he would be as defenseless as a baby, and would have to have someone trusted next to him not to get hurt. Even the meanest tyrant with the worst kind of human nature could not be bad all the time under these circumstances. The vulnerability of his own body in sleep and its dependence on non-poisonous food would make him be good at least to his closest circle.
In short, personal ethics, social ethics, political ethics, aesthetic values – building codes, agricultural norms, communications networks, and everything under the sun – would be governed by the body in which this man found himself at the start. And not only that, but whatever his nature may be – whether 'good' or 'bad' – he would find that his needy body kept it under control.
It is not a new idea. Theologians proposed it many centuries ago – namely, that a person is designed for certain ends – of whom Thomas Aquinas was the pre-eminent proponent. Yet it may be precisely because it was a theological idea that it did not gain much traction. The theology – whether true or false – may be set aside, yet the situation of this man remains the same, who fell from the sky.
We make no moral prescriptions here – no judgements, no commands, no commitments. We simply leave a description of what a man (or a woman) is. And whatever it may mean that he has a body or a soul, it finally comes down to this: 'Don't be too cocky', says the body, 'or you will get hurt.'
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