Author Archives: Peter

how thinking about causality affects the inner life

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For many centuries, hugely influential thinkers in each of the Abrahamic faiths combined their foundational belief in an omnipotent deity with Aristotle’s framework of four kinds of causes. Many believers found solace when they discerned a divine role in the four causes.

Aristotle’s framework ran afoul of the Scientific Revolution. Today, there are still ways to be an Abrahamic believer who accepts science, and classical Indian thought offers some alternatives. Nevertheless the reduction of causes from Aristotle’s four to the two of modern science poses a spiritual and ethical challenge.

(This point is widely understood–and by no means my original contribution–but I thought the following summary might be useful for some readers.)

To illustrate Aristotle’s four causes, consider my hands, which are currently typing this blog post. Why are they doing that?

  • Efficient cause: Electric signals are passing along nerves and triggering muscles to contract or relax. In turn, prior electrical and mechanical events caused those signals to flow–and so on, back through time.
  • Material cause: My hand is made of muscles, nerves, skin, bones, and other materials, which, when so configured and stimulated, move. A statue’s hand that was made of marble would not move.
  • Formal cause: A hand is defined as “the terminal part of the vertebrate forelimb when modified (as in humans) as a grasping organ” (Webster’s dictionary). I do things like grasp, point, and touch with my hand because it is a hand. Some hands do not do these things–for instance, because of disabilities–but those are exceptions (caused by efficient causes) that interfere with the definitive form of a hand.
  • Final cause: I am typing in order to communicate certain points about Aristotle. I behave in this way because I see myself as a scholar and teacher whose words might educate others. In turn, educated people may live better. Therefore, I move my fingers for the end (telos, in Greek) of a good life.

Aristotle acknowledges that some events occur only because of efficient and material causes; these accidents lack ends. However, the four causes apply widely. For example, not only my hand but also the keyboard that I am using could be analyzed in terms of all four causes.

The Abrahamic thinkers who read Aristotle related the Creator to all the causes, but especially to the final cause (see Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed, 2:1 or Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I, Q44). In a well-ordered, divinely created universe, everything important ultimately happens for a purpose that is good. Dante concludes his Divine Comedy by invoking the final cause of everything, “the love that moves the sun and other stars.”

These Jewish and Christian thinkers follow the Muslim philosopher Avicenna, who even considers cases–like scratching one’s beard–that seem to have only efficient causes and not to happen for any end. “Against this objection, Avicenna maintains that apparently trivial human actions are motivated by unconscious desire for pleasure, the good of the animal soul” (Richardson 2020), which, in turn, is due to the creator.

However, writing in the early 1600s, Francis Bacon criticizes this whole tradition. He assigns efficient and material causes to physics, and formal and final causes to metaphysics. He gestures at the value of metaphysics for religion and ethics, but he doubts that knowledge can advance in those domains. His mission is to improve our understanding and control of the natural world. And for that purpose, he recommends that we keep formal and final causes out of our analysis and practice only what he calls “physics.”

It is rightly laid down that true knowledge is that which is deduced from causes. The division of four causes also is not amiss: matter, form, the efficient, and end or final cause. Of these, however, the latter is so far from being beneficial, that it even corrupts the sciences, except in the intercourse of man with man (Bacon, Novum Organum. P. F. Collier, 1620, II;2).

In this passage and others related to it, Bacon proved prescient. Although plenty of scientists after Bacon have believed in final causes, including divine ends, they only investigate efficient and material causes. Perhaps love moves all the stars, but in Newtonian physics, we strive to explain physical motion in terms of prior events and materials. This is a methodological commitment that yields what Bacon foresaw, the advancement of science.

The last redoubt of final causes was the biological world. My hand moves because of electrical signals, but it seemed that an object as complicated as a hand must have come into existence to serve an end. As Kant writes, “it is quite certain that in terms of purely mechanical principles of nature we cannot even adequately become familiar with, much less explain, organized beings and how they are internally possible.” Kant says that no Isaac Newton could ever arise who would be able to explain “how even a mere blade of grass is produced” using only “natural laws unordered by intention” (Critique of Judgment 74, Pluhar trans.). But then along came just such a Newton in the form of Charles Darwin, who showed that efficient and material explanations suffice in biology, too. A combination of random mutation plus natural selection ultimately yields objects like blades of grass and human hands.

A world without final causes–without ends–seems cold and pointless if one begins where Avicenna, Maimonides, and Aquinas did. One option is to follow Bacon (and Kant) by separating physics from metaphysics, aesthetics, and ethics and assigning the final causes to the latter subjects. Indeed, we see this distinction in the modern university, where the STEM departments deal with efficient causes, and final causes are discussed in some of the humanities. Plenty of scientists continue to use final-cause explanations when they think about religion, ethics, or beauty–they just don’t do that as part of their jobs.

However, Bacon’s warning still resonates. He suspects that progress is only possible when we analyze efficient and material causes. We may already know the final causes relevant to human life, but we cannot learn more about them. This is fine if everyone is convinced about the purpose of life. However, if we find ourselves disagreeing about ethics, religion, and aesthetics, then an inability to make progress becomes an inability to know what is right, and the result can be deep skepticism.

Michael Rosen (2022) reads both Rousseau and Kant as “moral unanimists”–philosophers who believe that everyone already knows the right answer about moral issues. But today hardly anyone is a “moral unanimist,” because we are more aware of diversity. Nietzsche describes the outcome (here, in a discussion of history that has become a science):

Its noblest claim nowadays is that it is a mirror, it rejects all teleology, it does not want to ‘prove’ anything any more; it scorns playing the judge, and shows good taste there, – it affirms as little as it denies, it asserts and ‘describes’ . . . All this is ascetic to a high degree; but to an even higher degree it is nihilistic, make no mistake about it! You see a sad, hard but determined gaze, – an eye peers out, like a lone explorer at the North Pole (perhaps so as not to peer in? or peer back? . . .). Here there is snow, here life is silenced; the last crows heard here are called ‘what for?’, ‘in vain’, ‘nada’ (Genealogy of Morals, Kaufman trans. 2:26)

Earlier in the same book, Nietzsche recounts how, as a young man, he was shaped by Schopenhauer’s argument that life has no purpose or design. But Nietzsche says he detected a harmful psychological consequence:

Precisely here I saw the great danger to mankind, its most sublime temptation and seduction – temptation to what? to nothingness? – precisely here I saw the beginning of the end, standstill, mankind looking back wearily, turning its will against life, and the onset of the final sickness becoming gently, sadly manifest: I understood the morality of compassion [Mitleid], casting around ever wider to catch even philosophers and make them ill, as the most uncanny symptom of our European culture which has itself become uncanny, as its detour to a new Buddhism? to a new Euro-Buddhism? to – nihilism? (Genealogy of Morals, Preface:6)

After mentioning Buddhism, Nietzsche critically explores the recent popularity of the great Buddhist virtue–compassion–in Europe.

Indeed, one of the oldest and most widely shared philosophical premises in Buddhism is “dependent origination,” which is the idea that everything happens because of efficient causes alone and not for teleological reasons. (I think that formal causes persist in Theravada texts but are rejected in Mahayana.)

Dependent origination is taken as good news. By realizing that everything we believe and wish for is the automatic result of previous accidental events, we free ourselves from these mental states. And by believing the same about everyone else’s beliefs and desires, we gain unlimited compassion for those creatures. Calm benevolence fills the mind and excludes the desires that brought suffering while we still believed in their intrinsic value. A very ancient verse which goes by the short title ye dharma hetu says (roughly): “Of all the things that have causes, the enlightened one has shown what causes them, and thereby the great renouncer has shown how they cease.”

I mention this argument not necessarily to endorse it. Much classical Buddhist thought presumes that a total release from the world of causation is possible, whether instantly or over aeons. If one doubts that possibility, as I do, then the news that there are no final causes is no longer consoling.

Secondary sources: Richardson, Kara, “Causation in Arabic and Islamic Thought”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2020 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.); Michael Rosen, The Shadow of God: Kant, Hegel, and the Passage from Heaven to History, Harvard University Press, 2022. See also how we use Kant today; does skepticism promote a tranquil mind?; does doubting the existence of the self tame the will?; spirituality and science; and the progress of science.

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social class and political values in the 2024 election

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In the most recent New York Times national survey, Kamala Harris draws a majority (55%) of white voters with college degrees, and a larger majority (66%) of voters of color who have graduated from with college. She is ahead among non-college-educated people of color (61%), but 34 percentage points behind Trump among whites without college degrees.

Although race and class are both relevant, this survey and many others indicate that less education correlates with more support for conservative candidates in the USA and in many other countries.

I do not interpret this correlation to mean that schools and colleges change people’s political values, since evidence of such effects is limited. Rather, I see educational attainment as an indicator of social class, and I believe that class has reversed its postwar political significance in the USA and most of Europe. Current right-wing parties offer authoritarian and/or ethno-nationalist policies to working-class supporters, rather than libertarian policies for business owners. Meanwhile, center-left and even leftist parties have bourgeois supporters and so mostly offer symbolic policies. This combination threatens liberal democracy.

Several connected but distinct questions arise: What policies would promote a fair economy and society? What do working-class voters want? How can a party win an election if it begins with soft working-class support? And what combinations of policies, framings, and candidates appeal better to working-class voters?

As a very small contribution to this discussion, I show two graphs derived from the 2020 American National Election Study–i.e., our most recent presidential election. They trace levels of agreement with four propositions that might serve as proxies for political ideology: should government provide medical insurance, regulate businesses to protect the environment, assist blacks (that’s how the ANES words its question), and guarantee jobs and a standard of living.

A mean response of 4 would suggest as much support as opposition for these ideas, so the graph above shows that all four tend to be unpopular. However, support generally rises with education levels. It appears that bourgeois voters are the most tolerant of activist government, which is problematic.

The second graph, however, displays the notably high rates of refusal to respond. The ANES allows people to say “I have not thought much about this” instead of answering each item. People with more education are much more likely to have thought about all four ideas.

Again, I am not sure this pattern is causal, i.e., that schools and colleges encourage students to think about these issues. For one thing, the data come from the whole US population; and for many of us, college was a long time ago. Rather, people in white-collar jobs and communities probably think and talk more about this kind of issue.

The second graph hints at a possible solution: without trying to sell anyone on any political ideology, we should encourage more people to think and talk about policy by supporting the forums and settings where working-class people exchange ideas and make sense of the social world, such as grassroots movements, unions, music and spoken word performances, and religious congregations that are relatively diverse politically.

See also: previous posts on the social class inversion in elections; a way forward for high culture

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two discussions of civics during the 2024 campaign

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For the Yale Alumni Educators group, Mike Fishback moderated a recent conversation about navigating the 2024 election in schools. The guests were my friends Louise Dube, the Executive Director of iCivics, Jane Kamensky, the President of Monticello, and me. The video is below, and there’s also an audio-only file for people who might prefer that format.

Meanwhile, educators Michael Ralph and Laurence Woodruff regularly discuss research and drink carefully selected beer on their podcast, Two Pint PLC (PLC = professional learning community). Chris Carter joined them recently for a chat about my article entitled “Politics by other means: Civic education in a time of controversy,” The ANNALS of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 705(1), 24-38. The audio is here. I would have enjoyed tasting Nordic Jam lager from Two Pitchers Brewery and talking with these great teachers about the challenges of discussing controversial issues in a classroom during an election year.

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one supple line

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According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, more than a quarter of a million Americans work professionally as graphic designers. Each designer produces many images, many of which are reproduced widely. Of course, other countries also have designers and commercial artists. Thanks to them all, we are awash in billions of images: illustrations, logos, advertisements, cartoons, explanations, warnings, decorations, and more.

Coming after modernism, today’s designers often produce abstracted images of real-world objects, highly simplified for impact and legibility. I assume that we can interpret such images because of conventions that we learn, plus the natural inclination of the human eye and brain to match patterns to observed realities (Gombrich 1961).

I illustrate this post not with a contemporary graphic image but with a painting by the noble courtier Konoe Nobutada (1565-1614) entitled “Meditating Daruma.” Daruma is the Japanese name for Bodhidharma, who probably lived about one thousand years before Nobutada and is credited with introducing Chan Buddhism to China. In turn, Chan evolved into Japanese Zen.

One of the main stories about Bodhidharma tells that the Emperor Wu of Liang asked this barbarian monk how much merit he had earned for his generous support of Buddhism. Bodhidharma said “none,” because the emperor had acted with worldly intent. The monk then meditated in front of a wall for nine years. I assume this is what he is doing in this painting. The text says: “Quietness and emptiness are enough to pass through life without error.”

I would submit that this image is very fine. I tried copying it freehand, and every version that I made was worse than Nobutada’s. Thus the image passed Leon Batista Alberti’s test of beauty (“nothing may be added, taken away, or altered, but for the worse”). However, I was the one conducting the test. I can easily imagine that many of the professional graphic artists working today could reproduce it perfectly, or indeed rival it.

In the process of trying to copy this painting, I discovered that each of my outlines of a hooded figure looked like a person who was staring into the distance, albeit at a different distant point each time I drew it. Although Bodhidharma is often depicted as irascible, here we cannot see his expression, and his back conveys peace.

The design of a meditating monk is simple, and today we are surrounded with highly effective simplified designs; but I find this one far more moving that most others. The reason is its source. This is not a logo for some modern business. Instead, it is an object that is about four centuries old (from long before the deluge of mechanically reproducible images), made by an artist who pioneered a new form of Zen art. The simplification here is his invention, not a prevailing style.

In his discussion of Nobutada, Stephen Addiss writes, “Ignoring the colorful and delicate style of court artists of his day, he brushed simple ink paintings of Zen avatars on coarse, sometimes recycled paper. Like his new style of calligraphy, these paintings were revolutionary” (Addiss 1989, p. 23).

Furthermore, by representing Daruma in meditation, this artist presented an aspirational self-portrait. Although Nobutada was a rich courtier rather than a monk, he must have performed sitting meditation, or at least honored it. Thus the image is a trace of a real person’s life, which, in turn, was inspired by the person he depicts.

We might consider that art, in general, has these two dimensions. One is the form of the object as perceived by human beings, with our naturally evolved eyes and brains. We tend to match the form to objects in our environment. The other is the story of the object’s origin within a larger historical context. Here, for example, we see a single line that conjures the idea of person wrapped in a robe, and we also see also an artifact of Konoe Nobutada, of early 17th-century Japan, and of the Zen tradition extending back for a thousand years. The provenance of the painting not only raises its monetary value but also makes it more genuinely moving than a contemporary image would be.

This idea–an abstract and universal concept is also the outcome of a human act–seems resonant with Buddhism. Although Bodhidharma is quasi-mythical, he has long been associated with the Lankavatara Sutra. That text begins with the standard formula, “Thus I have heard,” and it purports to be a recollection of the actual Buddha by his disciple Ananda (he of the perfect memory). But it can’t possibly be historical, or told by Ananda, or written by Bodhidharma. Its authorship is a fiction excused by the thesis that it conveys: namely, that “There is no one who speaks, nor is there anyone who hears. Lord of Lanka, everything in the world is like an illusion.”

Sources: Gombrich, E. H. Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (1961); Stehen Addiss, The Art of Zen (Echo Point, 1989); The Lankavatara Sutra, translated by Red Pine (Counterpoint, 2013). The digital image and translation of the Chinese verse come from the Mountain Cloud Zen center. See also Verdant mountains usually walk; the sublime and other people; Ito Jakuchu at the National Gallery; on inhabiting earth with inaccessibly beautiful things; and (from 2004), aesthetics and history.

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Special Issue: Call for Manuscripts on Dialogue, Deliberation, and Community in Civic Life

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The Good Society: A Journal of Civic Studies is pleased to announce a special call for manuscripts for an upcoming issue focused on the theme: “Dialogue, Deliberation, and Community in Civic Life.” This special issue aligns with the 2024 Annual Civic Learning Symposium’s theme, which centers on the crucial role that dialogue, deliberation, and community play in our education system and our democracy.

Guest Editors:

  • Dr. David J. Roof, Ball State University
  • Dr. Sarah Surak, Salisbury University

(I am not directly involved, but these two are friends, and I am on the journal’s editorial board.)

Theme Overview: In an era marked by increasing polarization and division, fostering open, constructive dialogue and thoughtful deliberation is more essential than ever. This issue seeks to explore the multifaceted dimensions of dialogue, deliberation, and community within the context of civic education. We invite contributions that build bridges across diverse perspectives, promote understanding, and cultivate a culture of civic agency. Potential topics for submission include, but are not limited to:

  • Encouraging open and respectful dialogue among students, educators, and community members, regardless of ideological or cultural differences.
  • The importance of deliberation in shaping informed and thoughtful decision-making processes. How institutions and communities foster deliberative skills among students, educators, and community members?
  • The role of schools, educational institutions, and communities in preparing students and citizens to become active and engaged participants in democracy.
  • Exploring strategies for enhancing democratic practices within schools and/or communities. How do student-led forums, community dialogues, and participatory decision-making contribute to the strengthening of democratic values and community cohesion?
  • Highlighting successful initiatives and best practices for empowering individuals to become effective advocates for positive change in their communities. What role do educators, community organizers, and civic leaders play in promoting dialogue, deliberation, and community engagement?

About The Good Society: Civic studies is an interdisciplinary effort to understand and strengthen civic society, civic initiatives, civic capacity, civic learning, civic politics, and civic culture. Viewing citizenship as a distinctive civic ideal and set of practices involving creative agency and a commitment to civic-minded co-creation, civic studies is an emerging focus in many disciplines and fields of human endeavor. The Good Society draws from a wide array of academic disciplines, including political science, sociology, economics, communication, and adult education, focusing on:

  • The development of civic society
  • The role of the individual/citizen in society
  • The significance of lifelong learning in promoting democracy
  • The role of institutions in civic society development
  • The ethical foundations of civic issues in democratic societies

The Good Society is dedicated to publishing outstanding research and theory from all disciplinary traditions, addressing pressing contemporary issues. In today’s globalized world, effective civic perspectives demand that we not only bridge ideological divides within our own countries but also engage meaningfully with perspectives from around the world. This global orientation expands our vision, challenges our assumptions, and fosters dialogue beyond our own echo chambers. The journal maintains high standards of scholarly excellence and rigorous peer-review. It is indexed in the European Reference Index for the Humanities and Social Sciences (ERIH PLUS), IBZ, MLA International Bibliography, and SCOPUS.

Submission Guidelines: We invite scholars, educators, and practitioners from all relevant disciplines to submit manuscripts that offer fresh perspectives and rigorous analysis on these themes. Submissions should align with The Good Society’s commitment to interdisciplinary research and fostering dialogue across ideological, cultural, and international divides.

Important Dates

  • Call for Manuscripts: Open
  • Submission Deadline for Abstracts: 10-October-2024
  • Notification of Abstract Acceptance: 30-October-2024
  • Full Manuscript Submission Deadline: 15-Janurary-2024
  • Peer Review Decisions: 30-Feburary-2024
  • Final Revised Manuscript Due: 15-March-2024
  • Publication Date: April 2025

Submission Process: Please submit your abstracts and manuscripts through the submission portal at: https://www.editorialmanager.com/gs/default2.aspx. Or email directly to the editor at CECL@bsu.edu. Submissions will undergo a rigorous double-blind peer review process. Accepted manuscripts will be published in a special issue of The Good Society.

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varieties of skepticism

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If you are a skeptic–or tempted by skepticism–you might want to consider which varieties of skepticism appeal to you and why. Here is a list of types that differ in significant ways:

  • Pyrrhonian skepticism (named after Pyrro of Elis, ca. 300 BCE, who founded the Skeptical School): A cultivated habit of refusing to believe or disbelieve all important matters, including skepticism itself. Its purpose is to accomplish mental peace by abandoning troubling questions and commitments. It advises the regular use of techniques that reduce our anxiety about the things we might believe or about not knowing what is true. For example, we can rehearse arguments on both sides of important questions to teach ourselves to suspend judgment.
  • Academic skepticism (the position adopted by the Academy, which Plato founded, but roughly six centuries after his death): A method that employs the arguments invented by the Pyrrhonists to refute the views of other philosophical schools, without a goal of landing in permanent agnosticism or promoting mental health. The term “academic” is apt, because this kind of skepticism is more like a toolkit for specialists than a way of life.
  • Cartesian skepticism (named after Rene Descartes, although practiced by others before and after him): A philosophical method that begins by doubting everything that is possible to doubt, especially deep and general beliefs, in order to identify any indubitable beliefs, which then become the foundations of a more secure philosophy. Here, the psychological goal is to accomplish certainty, not to escape from belief.
  • Edmund Husserl’s epoche: A more radical form of Cartesian skepticism, in which the analyst drops all the categories and vocabulary developed in the history of philosophy and tries to describe experience itself without preconditions. Although Husserl’s motives seem academic, there are similarities with meditative techniques that aim to transcend various kinds of dualities; and Husserl admired the Buddhist Pali Canon. As with Cartesian skepticism, the goal is truth, not freedom from belief.
  • Fallibilism: A belief that I could be wrong, which accompanies my other beliefs. This ancillary belief reminds me to check for errors, hedge against uncertainty, plan cautiously, and revisit assumptions. The psychological goal is more like permanent disquiet than calmness, although it may be possible to enjoy the constant pursuit of truth.
  • Intellectual humility: If fallibilism is about beliefs, humility is about people. (At least, that is how the words ring for me.) It’s the attitude that people who disagree with me may be right and I may be wrong. Its consequences can include a genuine receptivity to other people’s claims, an investment in generous listening, and a tolerance for rival views. Humility can be uncomfortable if it means self-reproach; but if it means an appreciation for our fellow human beings, it can satisfying.
  • Organized skepticism (one of the definitive features of science, according to Robert K. Merton): A set of procedures and practices that guide interactions among people who pursue truth together. Examples include double-blind peer-review or replicating other people’s experiments. Many of these techniques are supposed to be proof against the mental state of the scientist. Scientific methods do not attempt to make people humble in their hearts, but rather convert doubt into procedures.
  • Liberalism as self-correction: This is a cluster of ideas about how to design institutions that begins with worries about our ability to understand, judge, and plan wisely and thus recommends constantly challenging and revising the status quo. Proponents differ in their enthusiasm for elections, adversarial trials, individual rights, debate and deliberation, and/or markets as mechanisms for self-correction. For myself, I prefer a mix of these tools, because then each can check the others.
  • Specific distrust: This is belief that a given belief, person, group, or institution is probably wrong. It can be warranted, based on evidence–such as a record of lying or incompetence–or it can itself be mistaken. Unlike doubt about a belief, which is about content, distrust focuses on the source. If I say P, and you think not-P, that is a disagreement. But if you think, “I doubt that guy Peter Levine would be right about P,” that is distrust.
  • Social distrust: This is a variable measured by social scientists, and one classic measure is a question about trusting other people that has been included on the General Social Survey for decades (see the graph below). Although the question is vague and does not distinguish among kinds of trust or categories of people, individuals’ responses predict many valuable outcomes. Thus the measure is conceptually vague yet empirically valid. Distrust is a character trait that can be affected by social circumstances.
  • Institutional distrust: In contrast to a view that a specific institution should not be trusted, this is a general stance of skepticism about the influential institutions of a society, or at least a wide swath of them. It does not accept that institutions exhibit organized skepticism or liberal self-correction but takes them to be self-interested or even hostile. Like social distrust, this is a character trait that relates to social circumstances.

To put my own cards on the table: I admire fallibilism, humility, and institutionalized skepticism, in both science and politics. I accept that they can promote disquiet, but discomfort may be necessary for responsible action.

I also think there is a limited wisdom in Pyrrhonism. Although radical skepticism encourages passivity and removes motivations to care about other people, Pyrrhonist techniques for promoting doubt can counter anxiety and what Keats called an "irritable reaching after fact and reason." We need to know when to pursue truth and when to let it go. Furthermore, recognizing that there are matters beyond our ability to know or to capture in language is (for me) a source of comfort.

Specific distrust can be warranted, although we should strive to replace doubt about the source of a given claim with justified doubt about the claim itself. Disbelieving something because of who said it is an ad hominem argument, which is a logical fallacy. It is better to consider whether the claim is valid or not. The problem in the modern world is that no individual can assess most important beliefs, because they depend on countless people's previous contributions. To a large extent, we must trust or distrust the messenger, such as a teacher, physician, or engineer. And, in turn, that messenger learned from other specialists, who learned from others. The whole structure depends on trust.

Distrusting other people and institutions is understandable. The solution is not to hector people that they should trust more. Nevertheless, general distrust is harmful. It robs people of the advantages of modernity, such as the results of science.

An optimist might hope that by making institutions actually more fallibilist and self-correcting, we can encourage wider trust. However, in a world of propaganda and ideology--and deep inequality--such solutions may fail, and people may continue to distrust ideas that merit their belief.

One more version of skepticism is my favorite:

  • Michel de Montaigne read the Skeptics, particularly a 1562 translation of Sextus. He remained an active participant in public life--indeed, much better respected as a statesman than a writer during his own lifetime. However, his moderate skepticism influenced his politics. "I am firmly attached to the sanest of the parties, but I do not desire to be particularly known as the enemy of the others beyond what is generally reasonable" (1145). "During the present confusion in this State of ours my own interest has not made me fail to recognize laudable qualities in our adversaries nor reprehensible ones among those whom I follow" (1114). He felt that he had generally done his civic duty (1115), yet he reserved most of his time for private reflection. And in that domain, he avoided trying to know what was true (or whether previous authors were right or wrong) but rather made a study of himself. "I would rather be an expert on myself than on Cicero" (1218). When he looked within, he found numerous inconsistencies and imperfections. Rather than making him dissatisfied or irritable, these explorations gave him some "peace of mind and happiness" (1153). His equanimity palpably improved between "To Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die" (before 1580) and "Of Experience" (ca. 1590).

I quote Montaigne from M.A. Screech's translation. See also: Foucault’s spiritual exercises; does skepticism promote a tranquil mind?; Montaigne and Buddhism; against the idea of viewpoint diversity; Cuttings version 2.0: a book about happiness; thinking both sides of the limits of human cognition

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Foucault the engaged scholar

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I admit that I had long understood Michel Foucault as a “universal intellectual” — a thinker who conveys an original and general stance to the public, the nation, or the masses, serving as their conscience. If this intellectual is radically critical of the status quo, and his audience is the whole public, then the implication is: Revolution! Examples of revolutionary universal intellectuals include Rousseau, Marx, and Sartre.

Placed in that tradition, Foucault can be frustrating. He held a distinctive and original (albeit evolving) stance, he participated in radical politics in Tunisia and France, and he reached a global audience, yet he eschewed recommendations and explicit moral judgments. He seemed to conceal his own views, to the extent that he held them.

My take on Foucault has been changed (and my appraisal has been much improved) by reading three interviews conducted between 1976 and 1981 that are included in Rabinow’s and Rose’s The Essential Foucault anthology. These conversations have also revised my understanding of his major works.

In the 1976 interview, Foucault describes “universal intellectuals” as I did at the start of this post, but he says that “some years have passed since the intellectual has been called upon to play this role” (1976, 312). A universal intellectual works alone and addresses everyone. In contrast, a “specific intellectual”–a type that emerges after World War II (1976, 313)–works within an institution where knowledge and power come together. Examples include nuclear physicists, psychiatrists, social workers, magistrates, administrators, planners, and educators. They possess genuine knowledge that gives them influence. Since the failed revolution of 1968, it has become clear that beneficial social change depends on them, not on revolutionaries who fight the state (1976, 305). Specific intellectuals are becoming politically conscious and connected across disciplines and national borders (1976, 313).

And Foucault works with them. He doesn’t go into much detail about his own activities in these interviews, but we know that psychiatrists have read his works about mental illness and sexuality, prison administrators have read his book on prisons, and people who train professionals have assigned his texts; and he acknowledges their influence on him. Thus his audience is not “the people,” and his contribution is not a philosophy. Instead, he is a professional historian who contributes information and insights to various conversations that are also informed by the behavioral and social sciences and law.

In a 1981 interview, Didier Erihon suggests that “criticism carried about by intellectuals doesn’t lead to anything” (1981, 171). This is meant as a challenge to Foucault, whom Erihon assumes is an intellectual.

Foucault first notes that the previous twenty years have seen substantial changes–beneficial ones, I presume–in views of mental illness, imprisonment, and gender relations, issues on which he had worked intensively.

Next, he observes that progress does not result from political decisions alone; any policy requires implementation, and its impact depends on the people who implement it. At any rate, that is how I would gloss these words:

Furthermore, there are no reforms in themselves. Reforms do not come about in empty space, independently of those who make them. One cannot avoid considering those who will have to administer this transformation (1981, 171).

It follows that to influence the “assumptions” and “familiar notions” of practitioners is “utterly indispensable for any transformation” (172). (Compare my recent post on institutions).

Foucault concludes his response by criticizing the ways that universal intellectuals (whether famous or aspiring to fame) typically criticize society. He says, “A critique does not consist in saying that things aren’t good the way they are. …. Criticism consists in uncovering [everyday] thought and trying to change it” (1981, 172).

The key point, for me, is that “trying to change” something requires a strategy, and Foucault wants to abandon the strategy of changing everything all at once by telling The People that society is bad and should be different. His alternative strategy is to engage well-placed practitioners.

In the 1980 interview, Foucault elaborates his doubts about criticism that takes the form of denouncing existing things, ideas, or people:

It’s amazing how people like judging. Judgment is being passed everywhere, all the time. Perhaps its one of the simplest things mankind has been given to do. And you know very well that the last man, when radiation has finally reduced his last enemy to ashes, will sit down behind some rickety table and begin the trial of the individual responsible (1980, 176).

Foucault diagnoses Parisian intellectuals’ love of denouncing each other as a result of their “deep-seated anxiety that one will not be heard or read.” This anxiety motivates the “need to wage an ‘ideological struggle’ or to root out ‘dangerous thoughts'” (1980, 177).

The interviewer counters, “But don’t you think our period is really lacking in great writers and minds capable of dealing with its problems?” (1980, 177). Later, the same interviewer asks, “If everything is going badly, how do we make a start?” (1980, 178).

Foucault resists both pessimistic premises. “But everything isn’t going badly,” he exclaims (1980, 178). He describes a “plethora,” an “overabundance” of interesting ideas and people who have pent-up curiosity. The task, he proposes, is to “multiply the channels, the bridges, the means of information” so that more people with “thirst for knowledge” can learn from more other people (1980, 177).

In a passage that reminds me of Dewey’s The Public and its Problems (1924), Foucault describes his “dream of a new age of curiosity” (1980, 178). He says, “I like the word [curiosity]. It evokes ‘care’; it evokes the care one takes of what exists and what might exist.” (1980, 177). In the age of curiosity that he envisions, “people must be constantly able to plug into culture in as many ways as possible” (178-9).

Given Foucault’s understanding of his own role as a “specific intellectual,” he must have been at least somewhat concerned about his reputation. He was not only a historical specialist who helped fellow practitioners to become conscious of shared prejudices and to discover alternatives. He was also (and mainly) a world-famous French philosopher, a purported representative of movements like post-structuralism and postmodernism, whose public lectures on general subjects in venues like the Collège de France and UC-Berkeley were packed with aspiring philosophers, and whose interviews about the condition of the world were published in Le Monde and Libération.

I am not sure how he navigated this tension, not having read the biographies. But it’s clear that it worried him. In the 1980 interview, part of a series on major intellectuals in Le Monde, Foucault asks not to be named. The interview (still archived on Le Monde’s website), is headlined, “The Masked Philosopher.” It begins:

Here is a French writer of some renown. Author of several books whose success has been affirmed well beyond our borders, he is an independent thinker: he is not linked to any fashion, to any party. However, he only agreed to grant us an interview about the status of the intellectual and the place of culture and philosophy in society on one explicit condition: to remain anonymous. Why this discretion? Out of modesty, calculation or fear? The question deserved to be asked–even if, by the end of this conversation, the mystery will undoubtedly have dissipated for the most perceptive of our readers…

Foucault explains that he would like to try being anonymous “out of nostalgia for a time when, since I was quite unknown, what I said had some chance of being heard” (my translation). In other words, we cannot hear Foucault well unless we shake the model of a famous thinker who offers big ideas. He wants us, instead, to ask whether the claims about specific phenomena that we find in his works ring true or false and whether they are useful or not for our purposes.

Sources: Michel Foucault, “Truth and Power” (1976), “The Masked Philosopher” (1980), and “So is it Important to Think?” (1981), all in Paul Rabinow and Nikolas Rose, The Essential Foucault (The New Press, 2003), but I retranslated the 1980 interview myself because of a misplaced modifier in the anthology. See also: Vincent Colapietro, “Foucault’s Pragmatism and Dewey’s Genealogies: Mapping Our Historical Situations and Locating Our Philosophical Maps,” Cognitio, 13/2 (2012), p. 187-218; Foucault’s spiritual exercises; does skepticism promote a tranquil mind?; and Civically Engaged Research in Political Science

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civic themes at #APSA2024

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Anyone who is attending this year’s annual American Political Science Association meeting in Philadelphia and who is curious about engaged research might consider:

“Cutting Edge Community Empowerment through Civically Engaged Research: A Roundtable Discussion and Panel“

This session will include five original papers and 8 responses, almost all by people who have been part of our annual Institute for Civically Engaged Research (ICER) at Tufts’ Tisch College of Civic Life. There will also be an ICER reception on September 7 from 7:30-9:00 PM, which anyone at APSA can attend. ICER will continue in 2025 and beyond, so these are good opportunities if you think you might be interested.

Another aspect of this year’s meeting is a mini-conference on “Civic Learning on Campus” (part 1 and part 2). One of my contributions to that strand will be a talk about Elinor Ostrom’s 1997 APSA presidential address. In that talk, she defined civic education as learning to address problems of collective action at all scales, not as studying the national government.

Finally, the Civic Studies Group brings you a panel on Innovations and Theories for Public Engagement, with papers on forms of self-governance at the community level.

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a collective model of the ethics of AI in higher education

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Hannah Cox, James Fisher, and I have published a short piece in an outlet called eCampus News. The whole text is here, and I’ll paste the beginning here:

AI is difficult to understand, and its future is even harder to predict. Whenever we face complex and uncertain change, we need mental models to make preliminary sense of what is happening.

So far, many of the models that people are using for AI are metaphors, referring to things that we understand better, such as talking birds, the printing press, a monster, conventional corporations, or the Industrial Revolution. Such metaphors are really shorthand for elaborate models that incorporate factual assumptions, predictions, and value-judgments. No one can be sure which model is wisest, but we should be forming explicit models so that we can share them with other people, test them against new information, and revise them accordingly.

“Forming models” may not be exactly how a group of Tufts undergraduates understood their task when they chose to hold discussions of AI in education, but they certainly believed that they should form and exchange ideas about this topic. For an hour, these students considered the implications of using AI as a research and educational tool, academic dishonesty, big tech companies, attempts to regulate AI, and related issues. They allowed us to observe and record their discussion, and we derived a visual model from what they said.

We present this model [see above] as a starting point for anyone else’s reflections on AI in education. The Tufts students are not necessarily representative of college students in general, nor are they exceptionally expert on AI. But they are thoughtful people active in higher education who can help others to enter a critical conversation.

Our method for deriving a diagram from their discussion is unusual and requires an explanation. In almost every comment that a student made, at least two ideas were linked together. For instance, one student said: “If not regulated correctly, AI tools might lead students to abuse the technology in dishonest ways.” We interpret that comment as a link between two ideas: lack of regulation and academic dishonesty. When the three of us analyzed their whole conversation, we found 32 such ideas and 175 connections among them.

The graphic shows the 12 ideas that were most commonly mentioned and linked to others. The size of each dot reflects the number of times each idea was linked to another. The direction of the arrow indicated which factor caused or explained another.

The rest of the published article explores the content and meaning of the diagram a bit.

I am interested in the methodology that we employed here, for two reasons.

First, it’s a form of qualitative research–drawing on Epistemic Network Analysis (ENA) and related methods. As such, it yields a representation of a body of text and a description of what the participants said.

Second, it’s a way for a group to co-create a shared framework for understanding any issue. The graphic doesn’t represent their agreement but rather a common space for disagreement and dialogue. As such, it resembles forms of participatory modeling (Voinov et al, 2018). These techniques can be practically useful for groups that discuss what to do.

Our method was not dramatically innovative, but we did something a bit novel by coding ideas as nodes and the relationships between pairs of ideas as links.

Source: Alexey Voinov et al, “Tools and methods in participatory modeling: Selecting the right tool for the job,” Environmental Modelling & Software, vol 19 (2018), pp. 232-255. See also: what I would advise students about ChatGPT; People are not Points in Space; different kinds of social models; social education as learning to improve models

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phenomenology of nostalgia

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The other day, I saw on social media that my 40th high-school reunion will happen next spring. I felt a pang. This sensation passed, and while it lasted, it offered some sweetness along with a sense of loss. I would not swallow a pill that prevented similar reactions in the future. Still, it was an interesting feeling that might tell me something about my personality or even about the nature of time and identity.

I suspect that my nostalgia reflected a mistake: a desire for something impossible (backward time-travel) or a failure to appreciate the living present sufficiently. Although I would refuse a cure, I might want to assess my response critically and direct my mind differently.

Marshawn Brewer offers a brilliant “Sketch for a Phenomenology of Nostalgia” (Brewer 2023) that has influenced the following thoughts, but I’ll concentrate on exploring my own experiences and won’t try to compare my first-person account to his broader (and better informed) study.

First, I notice that nostalgia focuses me on one period from my distant past, and the rest of my life seems to vanish, in a mildly distressing fashion. When we middle-aged people think, “High school seems like yesterday!”, it feels as if there weren’t many days between then and now. This is because we cannot think about many times at once. I could make myself nostalgic about virtually any intervening year–but only one at a time. I have the momentary sensation that I’ve thrown away the intervening years; they are somehow gone.

We might assume that experiences and settings are harder to recollect the longer ago they happened, much as objects tend to be smaller and fuzzier the further they are located from our eyes. But that analogy doesn’t hold. Distant memories often come back more forcefully than recent ones. Indeed, “middle-aged and elderly people [tend] to access more personal memories from approximately 10–30 years of age” than from other times in their past (Munawar, Kuhn, and Haque 2018). From my perspective, the decades of the 30s and 40s have a disproportionate tendency to fade away.

If I pause to focus on my teenage years, a certain scene comes into my mind. The first image happens to be a meeting of the Latin Club in the cafeteria after school. This is probably a composite or partial invention, but it is based on memories. I can move from that image to innumerable others from the same period in my life, but (as Brewer notes), nostalgia quickly adopts one setting or another–a physical location that is suffused with a certain atmosphere. It would be hard to feel nostalgic without this sense of place, which connects the word to its etymology (nostos plus alpos = home-pain). Insofar as the feeling is bitter-sweet, the bitterness is a sense that one cannot go back to a place that one recalls. And if I were to return to the high school cafeteria, it would not seem to be the place that I remember.

By the way, I don’t see myself in the cafeteria; I see that room from my perspective, as if I inhabited my 17-year-old body again. I think my recollection is mostly visual, although I wonder if I am also summoning other senses. Certainly, a sound or smell can trigger nostalgia.

I was enrolled in high school for the standard four years, a brief period. However, Brewer notes that nostalgia has “an aeonic temporality” (from the word “aeon,” meaning an indefinite or very long period of time). Here Brewer cites J.G. Hart, who is worth quoting:

the time of my nostalgic past does not know a passing or fleeting character. Nostalgia is not about passing time but about eras, seasons or aeons. It is not about dates but about “times” (which in actual historical fact might have been quite long or quite short) which are enshrined in a kind of atemporal (i.e., non-fleeting) dimension : “the three days vacation with you in Wisconsin,” “our time at college,” etc. This “aeonic” character of the nostalgic world resembles the time of the mythic world. … In the nostalgic having of a non-fleeting aeon the themes of death, aging and illness are out of place (Hart 1973, pp. 406-7).

Childhood seems to have this aeonic character, perhaps in part because we gradually emerge into full awareness and the ability to use language. We cannot remember the beginning of our own childhoods. Regular events, such as birthdays, feel as if they recurred endlessly, even though we can actually celebrate no more than a dozen of our own birthdays between the onset of memory and adulthood. Parents and siblings take on an outsized and permanent or recurrent (once-upon-a-time) character. Like the gods in myths, these relatives have “back-stories” about how they came to be, but while our own story unfolds, they do not seem to change (cf. Hart, 414-15).

I write here of “we,” but I realize that experiences vary. I happen to have had a stable childhood, which would encourage my feelings of timelessness. Later, I had the opportunity to be a parent; and since then, we have watched the years when we raised our children recede–in turn–into memory. While I was a young parent, my own childhood seemed like the template or baseline reality, and I self-consciously inhabited my new role of fatherhood. At that time, my childhood seemed “aeonic,” while parenthood was a matter of specific events and changes that we adults planned or dealt with. But now that second wave of life increasingly has the same character as the first, echoing it. It is another once-upon-a-time.

Indeed, the things that I recall and miss are often my identities. At one time, I was a young guy, a novice at everything, a learner. Later, I was the dad of young kids, someone who played with Legos and read bedtime stories. I am not entitled to think of myself as either of those things anymore.

A Victorian house on a stately street,
Formal, ornate. The bell breaks the silence.
Would a gift have been wise--something to eat? 
When to shift from pleasantries to science?
A ticking clock, long rows of serious books,
China, polished wood, a distant dog barks.
Pay attention, this might have some value.
It's rude to seek help without taking advice.
Now say what you've really come for, shall you?
Then: time to go? Did our talking suffice?
Not for years now have I been the visitor.
This is my parlor and I am the grey one,
The host, the ear, the kindly inquisitor.
How can it be that it's my turn to play one?
    ("The Student," 2021)

For me, nostalgia is not really a feeling that things were better in the past. My life has tended to improve. Rather, it’s the feeling that I used to have one set of identities in one context–for instance, as a graduate student–and those are now gone.

I agree with Brewer that nostalgia involves regret for a whole situation that feels harmonious or integrated, which suggests some alienation from the present. But I can remind myself that I was mildly alienated in the past–and frequently already nostalgic in those days–and I would guess that I am more comfortable in my current identities than in my previous ones. It’s just that I can’t inhabit the old roles as well. I cannot be both the deferential but ambitious graduate student and the avuncular advisor, and I should learn to accept that reality.

We can even be nostalgic about the present. I take that to be the meaning of Basho’s lines (as translated here by Jane Hirshfield):

In Kyoto,
hearing the cuckoo,
I long for Kyoto.

This is an example of mono no aware, that cultivated sense that the present is sublime and also transitory. It is a sad longing to experience what one is (in fact) experiencing.

Perhaps nostalgia-for-now is a desire to see the present in the simplified, comprehensive way that we recollect our own distant pasts. I feel that I know what it was like to be 17 years old: that identity comes to me in an instant. But what is it like to be me, now? I perceive a whole set of changing experiences, emotions, moods, and beliefs, and I’m not sure what they add up to. I want my “now” to resemble how I (falsely) imagine my past–as coherent. Hart writes:

Nostalgia is an instance of one of these unique moments of “gathering.” In it the dispersed projects of life find their unity …. We do not thematically have ourselves together; we are not perpetually in possession of ourselves. But there is a “synthesis in the making” and there are especial moments when I come to grasp my life more or less as a whole (Hart 1973, p. 405).

Nostalgia-for-the-present is a temptation for me, and I am not sure whether to accept (or even nurture) it or to learn to avoid it. Is it a way of appreciating the living moment, as Basho seems to? Or is it a neurotic distancing from the only thing that’s real–the now?

A final point of self-criticism: I believe that my pang of regret at the passing of 40 years is not only nostalgia for the past. At least as significant is my alarm that the future is shortening. Nostalgia looks backward, but one motivation (I believe–at least in my own case) is a desire to travel back to those times so that the end of my life would be further in the future. The ambitious graduate student has more years ahead than the kindly old mentor. To regret that difference is a kind of greediness, an unwise stinginess about time.

See: Marshawn Brewer, “Sketch for a Phenomenology of Nostalgia,” Human Studies 46.3 (2023): 547-563; K. Munawar, S.K, Kuhn, and S. Haque, “Understanding the reminiscence bump: A systematic review,” PLoS One. 2018 Dec 11;13(12); J.G. Hart, “Toward a phenomenology of nostalgia,” Man and World 6, 397–420 (1973). See also: “nostalgia for now,” “there are tears of things,” “the student,” “Midlife,” “when the lotus bloomed,” “to whom it may concern,” and “echoes.”

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