TRANSCENDING SELF:

TAKING IDEAS SERIOUSLY: Can we distinguish political choices from philosophical truths? (Seyla Benhabib, Boston Review)

A recent article in the Chronicle of Higher Education notes that "since 1982, more than thirty biographies of philosophers have appeared. Of those, twenty have been published in the past decade, a dozen just since 1999." Among those whose lives have been subject to close scrutiny are Bertrand Russell and John Dewey, leading the group with three biographical works each; Martin Heidegger, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Michel Foucault, and Hannah Arendt follow with two titles to their names. In a culture in which philosophy has become "breathtakingly irrelevant," the study of philosophers' lives continues to hold some fascination.

This turn to biography presents unusual challenges. Philosophical theories make claims to truth that transcend historical and social context. From inside the discipline, the details of personal lives seem quite irrelevant to understanding or evaluating a thinker's views. Every student of philosophy learns to master the distinction between "genesis" and "validity," between the personal or historical circumstances that may have led thinkers to develop certain views and the correctness of these views. Studying philosophy in this country and Germany throughout the 1970s, for example, I do not recall a single seminar in which the biographical or historical details of thinkers' lives emerged as a theme.

The fixation on biography, particularly when it is mixed with interpretive suspicion, suggests a retreat from philosophy's aspiration to truth; we wallow in the particular and revel in salacious detail, whether it be Wittgenstein's homosexuality, A. J. Ayer's promiscuity, Foucault's "sadomasochistic" experimentations in the gay subculture, Dewey's sexual shyness, or Hannah Arendt's affair with Martin Heidegger. The ease with which moral judgments are passed on the lives and passions of others and the titillation derived from cutting intellectual giants down to size are indicative of our own culture. Citizens in a republic of voyeurs, we are intent on microscopic moralism, incapable of appreciating more gracefully the contradictions, tensions, and ragged edges of all lives and unwilling to take ideas seriously, as something more than bandages for personal wounds.

If we find something objectionable in a philosophical theory, we can, of course, always attribute it to a personal deficiency. Mill, the great defender of personal liberty and representative government, did not consider Indian people capable of self-rule or the people of the Balkans capable of entering the mainstream of human history. Kant teaches us that there is a universal faculty of human reason that lies at the foundation of moral agency. But his writings on history and anthropology reveal a belief that the distribution of rationality among the human race is not uniform: some human beings, because of cultural and even racial characteristics, are incapable of higher levels of abstraction. Faced with such contradictions, we can call Kant and Mill racists and treat their systems as gussied-up projects of group dominance or expressions of some form or other of heterophobia. But there is an alternative interpretive strategy. We can treat the troubling elements of their views as occasions to probe deeper and ask: What was their understanding of the relationship between reason and culture? Is education the key to the acquisition of human reason? What is culture? And when we do that, we link our efforts at historical interpretation and contextualization with our own efforts to join the debate and engage hard questions about morality, politics, and history, rather than using historical interpretation as a way to satisfy a suspicion, evade these questions, and pretend that we already know their answers.

Doesn't this really miss the point? We should look at the lives of such people to see if their ideas actually did rise above the personal. For instance, we had a History professor at Colgate who dismissed Karl Marx as a hemorrhoid-ridden failure in a capitalist society who decided that meant capitalism itself was flawed. That may be too glib, but it does raise a serious question. Alternatively, though Thomas Jefferson kept slaves, the Declaration that he wrote laid the groundwork for the eventual freeing of all the slaves. Need we not look at the way one man may have been intellectualy imprisoned by his life experiences while the other transcended his? Posted by Orrin Judd at December 30, 2002 9:58 PM