 13. Knowledge, Error, and Probable Opinion. The question as to what we mean by truth and falsehood, which we consider in the preceding chapter, is of much less interest than the question as to how we can know what is true and what is false. This question will occupy us in the present chapter. There can be no doubt that some of our beliefs are erroneous. Thus we are led to inquire what certainty we can ever have that such and such a belief is not erroneous. In other words, can we ever know anything at all? Or do we merely sometimes by good luck believe what is true? Before we can attack this question, we must, however, first decide what we mean by knowing, and this question is not so easy as might be supposed. At first sight, we might imagine that knowledge could be defined as true belief. When what we believe is true, it might be supposed that we had achieved a knowledge of what we believe. But this would not accord with the way in which the word is commonly used. To take a very trivial instance, if a man believes that the late prime minister's last name began with a B, he believes what is true, since the late prime minister was Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman. But if he believes that Mr. Balfour was the late prime minister, he will still believe that the late prime minister's last name began with a B, yet this belief, though true, would not be thought to constitute knowledge. If a newspaper, by an intelligent anticipation, announces the result of a battle before any telegram giving the result has been received, it may, by good fortune, announce what afterwards turns out to be the right result, and it may produce belief in some of its less experienced readers. But in spite of the truth of their belief, they cannot be said to have knowledge. Thus it is clear that a true belief is not knowledge when it is deduced from a false belief. In like manner, a true belief cannot be called knowledge when it is deduced by a fallacious process of reasoning, even if the premises from which it is deduced are true. If I know that all Greeks are men, and that Socrates was a man, and I infer that Socrates was a Greek, I cannot be said to know that Socrates was a Greek, because although my premises and my conclusion are true, the conclusion does not follow from the premises. But are we to say that nothing is knowledge except what is validly deduced from true premises? Obviously, we cannot say this. Such a definition is at once too wide and too narrow. In the first place, it is too wide, because it is not enough that our premises should be true. They must also be known. The man who believes that Mr. Balfour was the late prime minister may proceed to draw valid deductions from the true premise that the late prime minister's name began with a B. But he cannot be said to know the conclusions reached by these deductions. Thus we shall have to amend our definition by saying that knowledge is what is validly deduced from known premises. This, however, is a circular definition. It assumes that we already know what is meant by known premises. It can, therefore, at best, define one sort of knowledge, the sort we call derivative, as opposed to intuitive knowledge. We may say, derivative knowledge is what is validly deduced from premises known intuitively. In this statement, there is no formal defect, but it leaves the definition of intuitive knowledge still to seek. Leaving on one side, for the moment, the question of intuitive knowledge let us consider the above suggested definition of derivative knowledge. The chief objection to it is that it unduly limits knowledge. It constantly happens that people entertain a true belief, which has grown up in them because of some piece of intuitive knowledge from which it is capable of being validly inferred, but from which it has not, as a matter of fact, been inferred by any logical process. Take, for example, the beliefs produced by reading. If the newspapers announce the death of the king, we are fairly well justified in believing that the king is dead, since this sort of announcement, which would not be made if it were false, and we are quite amply justified in believing that the newspaper asserts that the king is dead. But here, the intuitive knowledge upon which our belief is based is knowledge of the existence of sense data derived from looking at the print which gives the news. This knowledge scarcely rises into consciousness, except in a person who cannot read easily. A child may be aware of the shapes of the letters and pass gradually and painfully to a realization of their meaning, but anybody accustomed to reading passes it once to what the letters mean, and is not aware, except on reflection, that he has derived this knowledge from the sense data called seeing the printed letters. Thus, although a valid inference from the letters to their meaning is possible, and could be performed by the reader, it is not in fact performed, since he does not in fact perform any operation which can be called logical inference, yet it would be absurd to say that the reader does not know that the newspaper announces the king's death. We must, therefore, admit his derivative knowledge whatever is the result of intuitive knowledge, even if by mere association, provided there is a valid logical connection, and the person in question could become aware of this connection by reflection. There are, in fact, many ways, besides logical inference, by which we pass from one belief to another. The passage from the print to its meaning illustrates these ways. These ways may be called psychological inference. We shall, then, admit such psychological inference as a means of obtaining derivative knowledge, provided there is a discoverable logical inference, which runs parallel to the psychological inference. This renders our definition of derivative knowledge less precise than we could wish, since the word discoverable is vague. It does not tell us how much reflection may be needed in order to make the discovery. But, in fact, knowledge is not a precise conception. It merges into probable opinion, as we shall see more fully in the course of the present chapter. A very precise definition, therefore, should not be sought, since any such definition must be more or less misleading. The chief difficulty in regard to knowledge, however, does not arise over derivative knowledge, but over intuitive knowledge. So long as we are dealing with derivative knowledge, we have the test of intuitive knowledge to fall back upon. But, in regard to intuitive beliefs, it is by no means easy to discover any criterion by which to distinguish some as true and others as erroneous. In this question, it is scarcely possible to reach any very precise result. All our knowledge of truths is infected with some degree of doubt, and a theory which ignored this fact would be plainly wrong. Something may be done, however, to mitigate the difficulties of the question. Our theory of truth, to begin with, supplies the possibility of distinguishing certain truths as self-evident, in a sense which ensures infallibility. When a belief is true, we said, there is a corresponding fact in which the several objects of the belief form a single complex. The belief is said to constitute knowledge of this fact, provided it fulfills those further somewhat vague conditions which we have been considering in the present chapter. But, in regard to any fact, besides the knowledge constituted by belief, we may also have the kind of knowledge constituted by perception, taking this word in its widest possible sense. For example, if you know the hour of the sunset, you can, at that hour, know the fact that the sun is setting. This is knowledge of the fact by way of knowledge of truths. But you can also, if the weather is fine, look to the west and actually see the setting sun. You then know the same fact by the way of knowledge of things. Thus, in regard to any complex fact, there are, theoretically, two ways in which it may be known. One, by means of a judgment, in which its several parts are judged to be related, as they are in fact related. Two, by means of acquaintance, with the complex fact itself, which may, in a large sense, be called perception, though it is by no means confined to objects of the senses. Now, it will be observed that the second way of knowing a complex fact, the way of acquaintance, is only possible when there really is such a fact, while the first way, like all judgment, is liable to error. The second way gives us the complex whole, and is therefore only possible when its parts do actually have that relation, which makes them combine to form such a complex. The first way, on the contrary, gives us the parts and the relation separately, and demands only the reality of the parts and the relation. The relation may not relate those parts in that way, and yet the judgment may occur. It will be remembered that at the end of chapter 11, we suggested that there might be two kinds of self-evidence, one giving an absolute guarantee of truth, the other only a partial guarantee. These two kinds can now be distinguished. We may say that a truth is self-evident, in the first and most absolute sense, when we have acquaintance with the fact which corresponds to the truth. When Othello believes that Desdemona loves Casio, the corresponding fact, if his belief were true, would be Desdemona's love for Casio. This would be a fact with which no one could have acquaintance except Desdemona, hence in the sense of self-evidence that we are considering, the truth that Desdemona loves Casio, if it were a truth, could only be self-evident to Desdemona. All mental facts and all facts concerning sense data have the same privacy. If there is only one person to whom they can be self-evident in our present sense, since there is only one person who can be acquainted with the mental things or the sense data concerned. Thus, no fact about any particular existing thing can be self-evident to more than one person. On the other hand, facts about universals do not have this privacy. Many minds may be acquainted with the same universals, hence a relation between universals may be known by acquaintance to many different people. In all cases where we know by acquaintance a complex fact consisting of certain terms and a certain relation, we say that the truth that these terms are so related has the first or absolute kind of self-evidence, and in these cases the judgment that the terms are so related must be true. Thus, this sort of self-evidence is an absolute guarantee of truth. But although this sort of self-evidence is an absolute guarantee of truth, it does not enable us to be absolutely certain, in the case of any given judgment, that the judgment in question is true. Suppose we first perceive the sun shining, which is a complex fact, and then proceed to make the judgment, the sun is shining. In passing from the perception to the judgment, it is necessary to analyze the given complex fact. We have to separate out the sun and shining as constituents of the fact. In this process it is possible to commit an error. Hence, even where a fact has the first or absolute kind of self-evidence, a judgment believed to correspond to the fact is not absolutely infallible, because it may not really correspond to the fact. But if it does correspond, in the sense explained in the preceding chapter, then it must be true. The second sort of self-evidence will be that which belongs to judgments in the first instance, and is not derived from direct perception of a fact as a single complex whole. This second kind of self-evidence will have degrees, from the very highest degree down to a bare inclination in favor of the belief. Take, for example, the case of a horse trotting away from us along a hard road. At first our certainty that we hear the hooves is complete. Gradually, if we listen intently, there comes a moment when we think perhaps it was imagination, or the blind upstairs, or our own heartbeats. At last, we become doubtful whether there was any noise at all. Then, we think we no longer hear anything. And at last, we know we no longer hear anything. In this process, there is a continual gradation of self-evidence, from the highest degree to the least, not in the sense dated themselves, but in the judgments based on them. Or again, suppose we are comparing two shades of color, one blue, and one green. We can be quite sure they are different shades of color, but if the green color is gradually altered to be more and more like the blue, becoming first a blue-green, then a green-y blue, then blue, there will come a moment when we are doubtful whether we can see any difference, and then a moment when we know that we cannot see any difference. The same thing happens in tuning a musical instrument, or in any other case, where there is a continuous gradation. Thus, self-evidence of this sort is a matter of degree, and it seems plain that the higher degrees are more to be trusted than the lower degrees. In derivative knowledge, our ultimate premises must have some degree of self-evidence, and so must their connection with the conclusions deduced from them. Take, for example, a piece of reasoning in geometry. It is not enough that the axioms from which we start should be self-evident. It is necessary also that, at each step in the reasoning, the connection of the premise and conclusion should be self-evident. In difficult reasoning, this connection has often only a small degree of self-evidence. Hence, errors of reasoning are not improbable where the difficulty is great. From what has been said, it is evident that, both as regards intuitive knowledge and as regards derivative knowledge, if we assume that intuitive knowledge is trustworthy in proportion to the degree of its self-evidence, there will be a gradation in trustworthiness from the existence of noteworthy sense data and the simpler truths of logic and arithmetic, which may be taken as quite certain, down to judgments which seem only just more probable than their opposites. What we firmly believe, if it is true, is called knowledge, provided it is either intuitive or inferred, logically or psychologically, from intuitive knowledge from which it follows logically. What we firmly believe, if it is not true, is called error. What we firmly believe, if it is neither knowledge nor error, and also what we believe hesitatingly because it is or is derived from something which has not the highest degree of self-evidence may be called probable opinion. Thus, the greater part of what would commonly pass as knowledge is more or less probable opinion. In regard to probable opinion, we can derive great assistance from coherence, which we rejected as the definition of truth, but may often use as a criterion. A body of individually probable opinions, if they are mutually coherent, become more probable than any one of them would be individually. It is in this way that many scientific hypotheses acquire their probability. They fit into a coherent system of probable opinions, and thus become more probable than they would be in isolation. The same thing applies to general philosophical hypotheses. Often, in a single case, such hypotheses may seem highly doubtful, while yet, when we consider the order and coherence which they introduce into a massive probable opinion, they become pretty nearly certain. This applies, in particular, to such matters as the distinction between dreams and waking life. If our dreams, night after night, were as coherent one with another as our days, we should hardly know whether to believe the dreams or the waking life. As it is, the test of coherence condemns the dreams and confirms the waking life. But this test, though it increases probability where it is successful, never gives absolute certainty, unless there is certainty already at some point in the coherent system. Thus, the mere organization of probable opinion will never, by itself, transform it into indubitable knowledge. End of Chapter 13. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Problems of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell Chapter 14. The Limits of Philosophical Knowledge Read by Jacob Miller And all that we have said hitherto concerning philosophy was scarcely touched on many matters that occupy great space in the writings of most philosophers. Most philosophers, or at any rate, very many, profess to be able to prove, by a priori metaphysical reasoning, such things as the fundamental dogmas of religion, the essential rationality of the universe, the illusoriness of matter, the unreality of all evil, and so on. There can be no doubt that the hope of finding reason to believe such theses as these has been the chief inspiration of many lifelong students of philosophy. This hope, I believe, is vain. It would seem that knowledge concerning the universe as a whole is not to be obtained by metaphysics, and that the proposed proofs that, in virtue of the laws of logic, such and such things must exist, and such and such others cannot, are not capable of surviving a critical scrutiny. In this chapter we shall briefly consider the kind of way in which such reasoning is attempted, with a view to discovering whether we can hope that it may be valid. The great representative in modern times of this kind of view, which we wish to examine, was Hegel, 1770-1831. Hegel's philosophy is very difficult, and commentators differ as to the true interpretation of it. According to the interpretation I shall adopt, which is that of many, if not most, of the commentators, and has the merit of giving an interesting and important type of philosophy, his main thesis is that everything short of the whole is obviously fragmentary, and obviously incapable of existing without the complement supplied by the rest of the world. Just as a comparative anatomist, from a single bone, sees what kind of animal the whole must have been, so the metaphysician, according to Hegel, sees, from any one piece of reality, what the whole of reality must be, at least in its large outlines. Every apparently separate piece of reality has, as it were, hooks, which grapple it to the next piece. The next piece, in turn, has fresh hooks, and so on, until the whole universe is reconstructed. This essential incompleteness appears, according to Hegel, equally in the world of thought, and in the world of things. In the world of thought, if we take any idea which is abstract or incomplete, we find on examination that if we forget its incompleteness, we become involved in contradictions. These contradictions turn the idea and question into its opposite, or antithesis, and in order to escape we have to find new, less incomplete idea, which is the synthesis of our original idea and its antithesis. This new idea, though less incomplete than the idea we started with, will be found, nevertheless, to be still not wholly complete, but to pass into its antithesis, with which it must be combined in a new synthesis. In this way, Hegel advances until he reaches the absolute idea, which, according to him, has no incompleteness, no opposite, and no need for the development. The absolute idea, therefore, is adequate to describe absolute reality, but all lower ideas only describe reality as it appears to a partial view, not as it is to one who simultaneously surveys the whole. Thus, Hegel reaches the conclusion that absolute reality forms one single harmonious system, not in space or time, not in any degree evil, wholly rational, and wholly spiritual. Any appearance, to the contrary, in the world we know, can be proved logically, so he believes, to be entirely due to our fragmentary piecemeal view of the universe. If we saw the universe whole, as we may suppose God sees it, space and time and matter and evil and all striving and struggling would disappear, and we would see instead an eternal, perfect, unchanging spiritual unity. In this conception there is undeniably something sublime, something to which we could wish to yield ascent. Nevertheless, when the arguments and support of it are carefully examined, they appear to involve much confusion and many unwarrantable assumptions. The fundamental tenet upon which the system is built up is that what is incomplete must be not self-subsistent, but must need the support of other things before it can exist. It is held that whatever has relations to things outside itself must contain some reference to those outside things in its own nature, and could not therefore be what it is if those outside things did not exist. A man's nature, for example, is constituted by his memories and the rest of his knowledge, by his loves and hatred, and so on. Thus, but for the objects which he knows or loves or hates, he could not be what he is. He is essentially and obviously a fragment. Taken as the sum total of reality, he would be self-contradictory. This whole point of view, however, turns upon the notion of the nature of a thing, which seems to mean all the truths about the thing. It is, of course, the case that a truth, which connects one thing with another thing, could not subsist if the other thing did not subsist. But a truth about a thing is not part of the thing itself, although it must, according to the above usage, be part of the nature of the thing. If we mean by a thing's nature, all the truths about the thing, then plainly we cannot know a thing's nature, unless we know all the thing's relations to all other things in the universe. But if the word nature is used in this sense, we shall have to hold that the thing may be known when its nature is not known, or at any rate is not known completely. There is a confusion when this use of the word nature is employed between knowledge of things and knowledge of truths. We may have knowledge of a thing by acquaintance, even if we know very few propositions about it. Theoretically, we need not know any propositions about it. Thus, acquaintance with a thing does not involve knowledge of its nature in the above sense. And although acquaintance with a thing is involved in our knowing any one proposition about a thing, knowledge of its nature in the above sense is not involved. Hence, one, acquaintance with a thing does not logically involve a knowledge of its relations, and two, a knowledge of some of its relations does not involve a knowledge of all of its relations, nor a knowledge of its nature in the above sense. I may be acquainted, for example, with my toothache, and this knowledge may be as complete as knowledge by acquaintance ever can be, without knowing all that the dentist, who is not acquainted with it, can tell me about its cause, and without, therefore, knowing its nature in the above sense. Thus the fact that a thing has relations does not prove that its relations are logically necessary. That is to say, from the mere fact that it is the thing it is, we cannot deduce that it must have the various relations, which in fact it has. This only seems to follow, because we know it already. It follows that we cannot prove that the universe as a whole forms a single, harmonious system, such as Hegel believes that it forms. And if we cannot prove this, we also cannot prove the unreality of space and time, and matter, and evil, for this is deduced by Hegel from the fragmentary and relational character of these things. Thus we are left to the piecemeal investigation of the world, and are unable to know the characters of those parts of the universe that are remote from our experience. This result, disappointing as it is to those whose hopes have been raised by the systems of philosophers, is in harmony with the inductive and scientific temper of our age, and is borne out by the whole examination of human knowledge which has occupied our previous chapters. Most of the great ambitious attempts of metaphysicians have proceeded by the attempt to prove that such and such apparent features of the actual world were self-contradictory, and therefore could not be real. The whole tendency of modern thought, however, is more and more in the direction of showing that the supposed contradictions were illusory, and that very little can be proved a priori from considerations of what must be. A good illustration of this is afforded by space and time. Space and time appear to be infinite in extent, and infinitely divisible. If we travel along a straight line in either direction, it is difficult to believe that we shall finally reach a last point, beyond which there is nothing not even empty space. Similarly, if in imagination we travel backwards or forwards in time, it is difficult to believe that we shall reach a first or last time, with not even empty time beyond it. Thus space and time appear to be infinite in extent. Again, if we take any two points on a line, it seems evident that there must be other points between them, however small the distance between them may be. Every distance can be halved, and the halves can be halved again, and so on at infinitum. In time, similarly, however little time may elapse between two moments, it seems evident that there will be other moments between them. Thus space and time appear to be infinitely divisible. But as against these apparent facts, infinite extent and infinite divisibility, philosophers have advanced arguments tending to show that there could be no infinite collections of things, and that therefore the number of points in space, or of instance in time, must be finite. Thus a contradiction emerged between the apparent nature of space and time, and the supposed impossibility of infinite collections. Kant, who first emphasized this contradiction, deduced the impossibility of space and time, which he declared to be merely subjective, and since his time, very many philosophers have believed that space and time are mere appearance, not characteristic of the world as it really is. Now, however, owing to the labors of the mathematicians, notably Georg Kantor, it has appeared that the impossibility of infinite collections was a mistake. They are not, in fact, self-contradictory, but only contradictory of certain rather obstinate mental prejudices. Hence the reason for regarding space and time as unreal have become inoperative, and one of the great sources of metaphysical constructions is dried up. The mathematicians, however, have not been content with showing that space as it is commonly supposed to be is possible. They have shown also that many other forms of space are equally possible, so far as logic can show. Some of Euclid's axioms, which appear to common sense to be necessary, and were formerly supposed to be necessary by philosophers, are now known to derive their appearance of necessity from our mere familiarity with actual space, and not from any a priori logical foundation. By imagining worlds in which these axioms are false, the mathematicians have used logic to loosen the prejudices of common sense, and to show the possibility of spaces differing, some more, some less, from that in which we live. And some of these spaces differ so little from Euclidean space, or distances such as we can measure are concerned, that it is impossible to discover by observation whether our actual space is strictly Euclidean, or one of these other kinds. Thus the position is completely reversed. Formally it appeared that experience left only one kind of space to logic, and logic showed this one kind to be impossible. Now logic presents many kinds of space as possible apart from experience, and experience only partially decides between them. Thus, while our knowledge of what is has become less than it was formerly supposed to be, our knowledge of what may be is enormously increased. Instead of being shut in within narrow walls of which every nook and cranny could be explored, we find ourselves in an open world of free possibilities, where much remains unknown because there is so much to know. What has happened in the case of space and time has happened to some extent in other directions as well. The attempt to prescribe to the universe by means of a priori principles has broken down. Logic, instead of being as formally the bar to possibilities, has become the great liberator of the imagination, presenting innumerable alternatives which are closed to unreflective common sense, and leaving to experience the task of deciding where decision is possible, between the many worlds which logic offers for our choice. Thus knowledge as to what exists becomes limited to what we can learn from experience, not to what we can actually experience. For as we have seen, there is much knowledge by description concerning things of which we have no direct experience, but in all cases of knowledge by description, we need some connection of universals enabling us from such and such a datum to infer an object of a certain sort as implied by our datum. Thus in regard to physical objects, for example, the principle that since data are signs of physical objects is itself a connection of universals, and it is only in virtue of this principle that experience enables us to acquire knowledge concerning physical objects. The same applies to the law of causality, or to descend to what is less general, to such principles as the law of gravitation. Principles such as the law of gravitation are proved, or rather are rendered highly probable, by a combination of experience with some wholly a priori principle, such as the principle of induction. Thus our intuitive knowledge, which is the source of all our other knowledge of truth, is of two sorts, pure empirical knowledge, which tells us of the existence of some of the properties of particular things with which we are acquainted, and pure a priori knowledge, which gives us connections between universals, and enables us to draw inferences from the particular facts given in empirical knowledge. Our derivative knowledge always depends upon some pure a priori knowledge, and usually also depends upon some pure empirical knowledge. Philosophical knowledge, if what has been said above is true, does not differ essentially from scientific knowledge. There is no special source of wisdom, which is open to philosophy, but not to science, and the results obtained by philosophy are not radically different from those obtained from science. The essential characteristic of philosophy, which makes it a study distinct from science, is criticism. It examines critically the principles employed in science and in daily life, and searches out any inconsistencies there may be in these principles, and it only accepts them when, as a result of a critical inquiry, no reason for rejecting them has appeared. If, as many philosophers have believed, the principles underlying the sciences were capable, when disengaged from irrelevant detail, of giving us knowledge concerning the universe as a whole, such knowledge would have the same claim on our belief as scientific knowledge has. But our inquiry has not revealed any such knowledge, and therefore as regards the special doctrines of the bolder metaphysicians, has had a mainly negative result. But as regards what would be commonly accepted as knowledge, our result is in the main positive. We have seldom found reason to reject such knowledge as the result of our criticism, and we have seen no reason to suppose man incapable of the kind of knowledge which he has generally believed to possess. When, however, we speak of philosophy as a criticism of knowledge, it is necessary to impose a certain limitation. If we adopt the attitude of the complete skeptic, placing ourselves wholly outside all knowledge, and asking from this outside position to be compelled to return within the circle of knowledge, we are demanding what is impossible, and our skepticism can never be refuted. For all refutation must begin with some piece of knowledge which the disputants share. From blank doubt no argument can begin. Hence the criticism of knowledge, which philosophy employs, must not be of this destructive kind, if any result has to be achieved. Against this absolute skepticism no logical argument can be advanced. But it is not difficult to see that skepticism of this kind is unreasonable. Descartes' methodical doubt, with which modern philosophy began, is not of this kind, but is rather the kind of criticism which we are asserting to be the essence of philosophy. His methodical doubt consisted in doubting whatever seemed doubtful, in pausing with each apparent piece of knowledge to ask himself whether, on reflection, he could feel certain that he really knew it. This is the kind of criticism which constitutes philosophy. Some knowledge, such as the knowledge of the existence of our sense data, appears quite indubitable, however calmly and thoroughly we reflect upon it. In regard to such knowledge, philosophical criticism does not require that we should abstain from belief. But there are beliefs, such for example, as the belief that physical objects exactly resemble our sense data, which are entertained until we begin to reflect, but are found to melt away when subjected to a close inquiry. Such beliefs philosophy will bid us reject unless some new line of argument is found to support them. But to reject the beliefs which do not appear open to any objections, however closely we examine them, is not reasonable and is not what philosophy advocates. The criticism aimed at, in a word, is not that which, without reason, determines to reject, but that which considers each piece of apparent knowledge on its merits and retains whatever still appears to be knowledge when this consideration is completed. That some risk of error remains must be admitted since human beings are fallible. Philosophy may claim justly that it diminishes the risk of error, and that in some cases it renders the risk so small as to be practically negligible. To do more than this is not possible in a world where mistakes must occur, and more than this no prudent advocate of philosophy would claim to have performed. End of Chapter 14 of The Problems of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell Having now come to the end of our brief and very incomplete review of The Problems of Philosophy, it will be well to consider, in conclusion, what is the value of philosophy and why it ought to be studied. It is the more necessary to consider this question in view of the fact that many men, under the influence of science or of practical affairs, are inclined to doubt whether philosophy is anything better than innocent but useless trifling, hair splitting distinctions, and controversies on matters concerning which knowledge is impossible. This view of philosophy appears to result partly from a wrong conception of the ends of life, partly from a wrong conception of the kinds of goods which philosophy strives to achieve. Physical science, through the medium of inventions, is useful to innumerable people who are wholly ignorant of it. Thus the study of physical science is to be recommended, not only or primarily, because of the effect on the student, but rather because of the effect on mankind in general. Thus utility does not belong to philosophy. If the study of philosophy has any value at all for others, than students of philosophy, it must be only indirectly, through its effects upon the lives of those who study it. It is in these effects, therefore, if anywhere, that the value of philosophy must be primarily sought. But further, if we are not to fail in our endeavor to determine the value of philosophy, we must first free our minds from the prejudices of what are wrongly called practical men. The practical men, as this word is often used, is one who recognizes only material needs, who realizes that men must have food for the body, but is oblivious of the necessity of providing food for the mind. If all men were well off, if poverty and disease had been reduced to their lowest possible point, there would still remain much to be done to produce a valuable society, and even in the existing world, the goods of the mind are at least as important as the goods of the body. It is exclusively among the goods of the mind that the value of philosophy is to be found, and only those who are not indifferent to these goods can be persuaded that the study of philosophy is not a waste of time. Philosophy, like all other studies, aims primarily at knowledge. The knowledge it aims at is the kind of knowledge which gives unity and system to the body of the sciences, and the kind which results from a critical examination of the grounds of our convictions, prejudices, and beliefs. But it cannot be maintained that philosophy has had any very great measure of success in its attempts to provide definite answers to its questions. If you ask a mathematician, a mineralogist, a historian, or any other man of learning what definite body of truths has been ascertained by his science, his answer will last as long as you are willing to listen. But if you put the same question to a philosopher, he will, if he is candid, have to confess that his study has not achieved positive results such as have been achieved by other sciences. It is true that this is partly accounted for by the fact that, as soon as definite knowledge concerning any subject becomes possible, this subject ceases to be called philosophy, and becomes a separate science. The whole study of the heavens, which now belongs to astronomy, was once included in philosophy. Newton's great work was called the Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. Similarly, the study of the human mind, which was a part of philosophy, has now become separated from philosophy and has become the science of psychology. Thus, to a great extent, the uncertainty of philosophy is more apparent than real. Those questions which are already capable of definite answers are placed in the sciences, while those only to which, at present, no definite answer can be given, remain to form the residue which is called philosophy. This is, however, only a part of the truth concerning the uncertainty of philosophy. There are many questions, and among them, those that are the profoundest interest to our spiritual life, which, so far as we can see, must remain insoluble to the human intellect unless its powers become of a quite different order from what they are now. Has the universe any unity of plan or purpose, or is it a fortuitous concourse of atoms? Is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, giving hope of indefinite growth and wisdom? Or is it a transitory accident on a small planet on which life must ultimately become impossible? Are good and evil of importance to the universe or only to man? Such questions are asked by philosophy, and variously answered by various philosophers. But it would seem that, whether answers be otherwise discoverable or not, the answers suggested by philosophy are none of them demonstrably true. Yet, however slight may be the hope of discovering an answer, it is part of the business of philosophy to continue the consideration of such questions, to make us aware of their importance, to examine all the approaches to them, and to keep alive that speculative interest in the universe, which is apt to be killed by confining ourselves to definitely ascertainable knowledge. Many philosophers, it is true, have held that philosophy could establish the truth of certain answers to such fundamental questions. They have supposed that what is of most importance in religious beliefs could be proved by strict demonstration to be true. In order to judge of such attempts, it is necessary to take a survey of human knowledge, and to form an opinion as to its methods and its limitations. On such a subject it would be unwise to pronounce dogmatically. But if the investigations of our previous chapters have not led us astray, we shall be compelled to renounce the hope of finding philosophical proofs of religious beliefs. We cannot, therefore, include as part of the value of philosophy any definite set of answers to such questions. Hence, once more, the value of philosophy must not depend upon any supposed body of definitely ascertainable knowledge to be acquired by those who study it. The value of philosophy is, in fact, to be sought largely in its very uncertainty. The man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned, in the prejudices derived from common sins, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the cooperation or consent of his deliberate reason. To such a man the world tends to become definite, finite, obvious. Common objects rouse no questions, and unfamiliar possibilities are contemptuously rejected. As soon as we begin to philosophize, on the contrary, we find, as we saw in our opening chapters, that even the most everyday things lead to problems to which only very incomplete answers can be given. Philosophy, though unable to tell us with certainty what is the true answer to the doubts which it raises, is able to suggest many possibilities which enlarge in our thoughts and free them from the tyranny of custom. Thus, while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, it greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be. It removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never traveled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar aspect. Apart from its utility in showing unsuspected possibilities, philosophy has a value, perhaps its chief value, through the greatness of the objects which it contemplates, and the freedom from narrow and personal aims resulting from this contemplation. The life of the instinctive man is shut up within the circle of its private interests. Family and friends may be included, but the outer world is not regarded, except as it may help or hinder what comes within the circle of instinctive wishes. In such a life there is something feverish and confined, in comparison with which the philosophic life is calm and free. The private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. Unless we can so enlarge our interests, as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleaguered fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. In such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of will. In one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife. One way of escape is by philosophic contemplation. Philosophic contemplation does not, in its widest survey, divide the universe into two hostile camps, friends and foes, helpful and hostile, good and bad. It views the whole impartially. Philosophic contemplation, when it is unalloyed, does not aim at proving that the rest of the universe is akin to man. All acquisition of knowledge is an enlargement of the self, but this enlargement is best attained when it is not directly sought. It is obtained when the desire for knowledge is alone operative, by a study which does not wish in advance that its objects should have this or that character, but adapts a self to the characters which it finds in its objects. This enlargement of self is not obtained when, taking the self as it is, we try to show that the world is so similar to the self that knowledge of it is possible without any admission of what seems alien. The desire to prove this is a form of self-assertion, and, like all self-assertion, it is an obstacle to the growth of self which it desires, and of which the self knows that it is capable. Views the world as a means to its own ends. Thus it makes the world of less account than self, and the self sets boundaries to the greatness of its goods. In contemplation on the contrary, we start from the not-self, and through its greatness the boundaries of self are enlarged. Through the infinity of the universe, the mind which contemplates it achieves some share in infinity. For this reason, greatness of soul is not fostered by those philosophies which assimilate the universe to man. Knowledge is a form of union of self and not-self. Like all union, it is impaired by dominion, and therefore by any attempt to force the universe into conformity with what we find in ourselves. There is a widespread philosophical tendency towards the view which tells us that man is the measure of all things, that truth is man-made, that space and time and the world of universals are properties of the mind, and that if there be anything not created by the mind, it is unknowable and of no account for us. This view, if our previous discussions are correct, is untrue, but in addition to being untrue, it has the effect of robbing philosophical contemplation of all that gives it value, since it fetters contemplation to self. What it calls knowledge is not a union with the not-self, but a set of prejudices, habits and desires, making an impenetrable veil between us and the world beyond. The man who finds pleasure in such a theory of knowledge is like the man who never leaves the domestic circle for fear his word might not be law. The true philosophical contemplation, on the contrary, finds its satisfaction in every enlargement of the not-self, in everything that magnifies the objects contemplated, and thereby the subject contemplating. Everything in contemplation that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. By thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, and the soul and exclusive desire of knowledge, knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain. Hence also the free intellect will value more the abstract and universal knowledge into which the accidents of private history do not enter, then the knowledge brought by the senses, and dependent, as such knowledge must be, upon an exclusive and personal point of view, and a body whose sense organs distort as much as they reveal. The mind which has become accustomed to the freedom and impartiality of philosophic contemplation will preserve something of the same freedom and impartiality in the world of action and emotion. It will view its purposes and desires as parts of the whole, with the absence of insistence that results from seeing them as infinitesimal fragments and a world of which all the rest is unaffected by any one man's deeds. The impartiality which, in contemplation, is the unalloyed desire for truth, is the very same quality of mind which, in action, is justice, and in emotion is that universal love which can be given to all, and not only to those who are judged useful or admirable. The contemplation enlarges not only the objects of our thoughts, but also the objects of our actions and our affections. It makes us citizens of the universe, not only of one walled city at war with all the rest. And this citizenship of the universe consists man's true freedom, and his liberation from the thralldom of narrow hopes and fears. Thus, to some upper discussion, the value of philosophy. Philosophy is to be studied, not for the sake of any definite answers to its questions, since no definite answers can, as a rule, be known to be true, but rather for the sake of the questions themselves, because these questions enlarge our conception of what is possible, enrich our intellectual imagination, and diminish the dogmatic assurance which closes the mind against speculation. But above all, because, through the greatness of the universe which philosophy contemplates, the mind also is rendered great, and becomes capable of that union with the universe which constitutes its highest good. Biblia Graphical Note The student who wishes to acquire an elementary knowledge of philosophy will find it both easier and more profitable to read some of the works of the great philosophers than to attempt to derive an all-round view from handbooks. The following are specially recommended. Plato. The Republic, especially books 6 and 7. Descartes. Meditations. Spinoza. Ethics. Leipnitz. The Monodology. Berkeley. Three Dialogues Between Hylus and Philonoas. Hume. Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding. Kant. Her Legomena to Any Future Metaphysic. End of Chapter 15. This concludes the reading of The Problems of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell.