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Nietzsche’s Platonism II

2013/03/19 1 comment

Perhaps the most precise method of gauging Nietzsche’s respect for another human be­ing is to determine how often and how savagely Nietzsche critiques him. Nietzsche took as his lasting opponents only those who he felt were worthy of him—most prominently, Jesus and Socrates. Hence, when Nietzsche critiques someone, it is nearly always fruitful to ask, “yes, but what have you learned from him?” In that spirit, I want to explore a connection between the “The Problem of Socrates” section of Twilight of the Idols, in which Nietzsche asks after the cause of Socrates’ “bizarrest of equations,” and two of Zarathustra’s speeches in the first part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra (supplemented by a passage in The Gay Science). I will be relying on the Hollingdale translation of Twilight (Penguin Classics), the Del Caro translation of Zarathustra (Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy), and the Nauckhoff translation of The Gay Science (Cambridge Texts, again). Context should suffice to make it clear to which works my page citations refer.

The second section of Twilight of the Idols is titled “The Problem of Socrates”, and after some meandering, Nietzsche approaches Socrates directly, portraying him as “exaggerated, buffo, caricature” and suggesting that he was décadent, here indicating the “dissoluteness and anarchy of his instincts” (41). This raises the central question of the section: Nietzsche seeks “to understand out of what idiosyncrasy that Socratic equation reason = virtue = happiness derives: that bizarrest of equations and one which has in particular all the instincts of the older Hellenes against it” (41). Nietzsche makes several suggestions as to what idiosyncrasy is the cause of that equation—recall that Nietzsche, of course, is not interested in the arguments for the position, but in the underlying physiology that would bring it about. (In the sections of Thus Spoke Zarathustra I will explore, he explicitly calls conscious reasoning merely one tool of the body’s “great reason” (23)—I will return to this thought later.) One suggestion is that it is a form of revenge; another is that is that it is a form of Socratic eroticism (consider Plato’s Symposium). The last suggestion, however, is the most important: it is a defense mechanism against the aforementioned dissoluteness of his instincts. Socrates “was in peril” and “had only one choice: either to perish or – be absurdly rational…” (43). This weakening and disharmony of the instincts could only be combatted in one way: by having reason fight and control the instincts. And thus there is Socrates’ formula: reason = virtue = happiness.

There is the critique: Socrates’ formula arose from his sickness, the disunity of his instincts. In the healthy nature, on the contrary, Nietzsche claims, “happiness and instinct are one” (45). But, keeping in mind that Nietzsche respected few if any people more than Socrates, we must ask what Nietzsche learned from him. I suggest he learned a great deal from Socrates’ bizarre equation. To elucidate just what he learned, I turn first to two speeches from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: “On the Despisers of the Body” and “On the Passions of Pleasure and Pain”.

In the former speech, Nietzsche asserts the primacy of the body: “But the awakened, the knowing one says: body am I through and through, and nothing besides; and soul is just a word for something on the body” (23). The theory this claim embodies is that the source of human action is not some overarching soul, but a collection of possibly competing, possibly unified drives (or instincts). The “soul” as we use the term refers simply to that aspect of our bodies that is conscious, but this aspect is not the shepherd of the drives. Rather it is “a tool of your body” (23). “The body is a great reason,” and the soul or spirit is a “plaything of your great reason.” Hence Nietzsche’s emphasis on physiology over arguments: the arguments of our reasoning soul are ultimately mere playthings, tools serving the interests of our body. Nietzsche calls conscious reasoning, what Socrates so vociferously praised, as “small reason,” whereas “The body is a great reason, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, one herd and one shepherd” (23) The small reason “says I,” i.e. conceives itself as a controlling unity, whereas the great reason “does not say I, but does I” (23). And the body is rational: it employs the small reason, which is “A detour to my [the body’s] purpose” (23).

In the next speech, “On the Passions of Pleasure and Pain,” Nietzsche discusses virtue. This virtue is a private virtue, ineffable and nameless—“Unspeakable and nameless is that which causes my soul agony and sweetness and is even the hunger of my entrails” (24). The virtue must be nameless, for once it is named, “you have her name in common with the people and have become the people and the herd with your virtue” (24). (Tangent: Nietzsche here seems to foreshadow Wittgenstein’s private language argument—he recognizes that what is named is thereby made public. Right angle. Return to circle.) How does this private virtue arise? “Once you had passions and named them evil. But now you have only your virtues: they grew out of your passions” (25). In short, this virtue is something that arises from the body. It is fundamentally of the body: it is an “earthly virtue” (25), and not a “divine law” or a “human statute and requirement” (24). Regarding virtue, Nietzsche has learned something from Socrates. Socrates makes much of the fact that one could be tortured and denied all earthly pleasures, yet, so long as he is virtuous, he would be happier than the richest, fattest, most content king. This is integral to his formula reason = virtue = happiness. For Nietzsche, too, virtue is imprudent: “there is little prudence in it and least of all the reason of the many” (25). What is left then, besides that this ineffable virtue is its own reward? So Nietzsche agrees at least that far with Socrates.

But that is a relatively small lesson to have learned, and I am after a larger fish. At this point it may be clear where I am heading—if it is, you will be aware that only one step remains. For this, I need to turn away from Thus Spoke Zarathustra and to The Gay Science. In the final passage of book one, in one of Nietzsche’s most striking passages, Nietzsche diagnoses those people who “have a yearning to suffer something in order to make their suffering a likely reason for action, for deeds” (64). These “distress-addicts”, Nietzsche suggests, do not “feel within themselves the power to do themselves good from within”—if they did, “they would know how to create their very own distress,” and hence their very own reasons for action (65). Nietzsche contrasts himself with these people: “Pardon me, my friends, I have ventured to paint my happiness on the wall” (65). Nauckhoff notes about this passage that it plays on a German expression, “Don’t paint the devil on the wall’—because by doing so you will cause him to appear. So Nietzsche, by painting his happiness on the wall, has caused that happiness to appear. Because of the connection with the need for suffering as the goad to deeds, we should see Nietzsche’s painting as being done by his actions. In keeping with the thought that the body is a great reason (that “does I”) possessing an ineffable virtue, this painting of happiness must spring from that great reason, from that virtue.

From this, a Nietzschean equation emerges: reason = virtue = happiness! What Nietzsche learned from Socrates’ equation is no less than the equation itself. Socrates mistake was not the equation itself, but the distortions his sickness forced upon it. Socrates emphasized the small reason over the great reason, and since the small reason deals in words, with consciousness (which Nietzsche elsewhere, I forget where, analyzes as having arisen solely for the sake of communication), it deals with what is named and public, and so rules out the possibility of ineffable virtue. The result is, of course, a very different sort of happiness than Nietzsche’s. We could gloss the formulas, then:

Socrates: small reason = public virtue = (Socratic) happiness

Nietzsche: great reason = private virtue = (Nietzschean) happiness

Nonetheless, I think it is clear that Nietzsche is nonetheless clearly being quite Socratic when he discusses reason, virtue, and happiness, and their relation. Nietzsche is a Socrates-figure, and the question central to his philosophical project might be written: What if Socrates had been healthy?…

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Does Plato see his Republic as detailing a utopian society?

I intend this (rather briefer) post to be a companion to my discussion of book I of Plato’s Republic, part of an ongoing attempt to read the work with an eye to its dramatic structure and not just its explicit philosophical content. My answer to the title question is simple: no. My purpose here is primarily the negative purpose of establishing that negative conclusion. I will make some attempt at a positive account of what Plato is doing, if not setting out a utopia, but I confess in advance that it will be terribly partial and unsatisfying. My only defense is that I have not yet finished Republic—this post and the last are both reports of my interpretation of Republic as I read it, and they do not consider the whole work. I am using the Waterfield translation (published by Oxford in their World’s Classics series), and I will be focusing on what Waterfield designates as chapter 4 of the work.

My argument that Plato does not intend us to treat Republic as simply a vision of a utopian society has three prongs. First, we should consider how Socrates justifies his attempt to construct an ideal society. After Thrasymachus leaves, Socrates begins a discussion with Glaucon and Adeimantus, who explicitly play devil’s advocate by giving an extended defense of Thrasymachus’ position. They are (rightly) dissatisfied with Socrates’ rebuttal of Thrasymachus, and so try to goad him into a better response. Chapter 2 consists of this challenge. At the start of chapter 3, Socrates sets about responding, and his first move is to suggest, “morality can be a property of whole communities as well as of individuals” (368e). Socrates’ intent is to explore morality in a community as if it is a larger (and hence more easily discernable) example of morality than morality in an individual, on the assumption that both are by and large the same. So, throughout the discussion, we need to keep in mind that Socrates is describing the republic with an eye toward the moral individual. This by itself does not indicate that Plato does not intend Republic to be a portrait of a legitimate utopia, but it does imply that Plato is constructing this utopia for some other purpose—it is a means to an end. This allows us to see that even if we do not take it seriously as a utopia, it may still have some other purpose. The ultimate value of the book does not lie in the tenability of Socrates’ utopia as an actual way of organizing society. Thus I can turn to my second and third reasons confident that I will not be undermining the worth of Republic as a whole.

These other two reasons, which do the real work, take the form of a double dissociation: (a) Plato has Socrates dissociate himself from the community he is detailing, and (b) Plato dissociates himself from this community. In this way Plato twice places himself at a remove from the utopia he has Socrates describe, and, as readers, we should respect this distance.

The first dissociation is accomplished very simply. Plato, at multiple points, has Socrates attribute the argument that he is making to Adeimantus. In discussing how poets should portray the behavior of humans and the gods, Socrates says, “According to your argument, we should disallow this type of passage” (389a). Interestingly, Adeimantus responds with the following: “Yes, if you want to attribute the argument to me” (389a). Neither Socrates nor Adeimantus wants full credit for the argument, though both seem to agree at every point. Later, Socrates again attributes the argument to Adeimantus: “So what you’re saying, if I’m getting it right…” (396b). Socrates is in this way making it clear that the argument is not his own.

This could, perhaps, be put down simply to Socrates’ trademark false modesty, but I think there is more to it, and this may perhaps be seen by considering the second dissociation: Plato’s own. Of the many aspects of poetry and other art discussed in chapter 4, the most interesting is the condemnation of representational art in favor of narrative art. Representational art is that in which the author “represents” other people by speaking in their voice: instead of merely remarking (i.e. narrating) that so-and-so prayed, the author presents the actual words of the prayer. In narrative art, the author relates events solely in his own voice. Authors may, of course, combine the two.

The upshot of the discussion of these two artistic styles is the following: art should be primarily narrative, but representation of good men doing good things is allowable. It is interesting, then, that Plato’s art is purely representational. Apparently, Plato has no place in his own republic. Nor can this fact be glossed over by suggesting that Plato is at least representing Socrates’ voice, and Socrates is surely a good man. We need only look back to the first chapter, in which Socrates spars with Thrasymachus, to see Plato representing a sophist engaging in sophistry, and to show him being especially petty. Plato’s own art does not live up to the supposedly ideal community he describes.

This dissociation goes further. One presupposition of the discussion throughout Republic is that each person is best suited for a single job, and should not engage in multiple activities, for then he will do each less well. Indeed, this is part of the argument against representational art: it requires adopting multiple voices, a form of engaging in multiple activities. Leaving aside the absurdity of the premise (which obvious absurdity should make us question Plato’s genuine adherence to it, given that Plato wasn’t stupid), we can see Plato’s own work as embodying a rejection of it.

This rejection becomes explicit when Plato has Socrates say, “In fact, the same people can’t be competent comic actors and also competent tragic actors” (395a). This should be compared to the end of Symposium, in which Socrates argues that in fact the best comic playwright must also be a great tragic playwright. Waterfield, in his notes to Symposium, suggests that Plato may be drawing attention to the fact that Symposium combines both the burlesque of comedy and the seriousness of tragedy. Indeed, in the speeches on love, the tragic playwright gives a half-comedic speech, while the comic playwright tells a rather tragic tale. This strikes me as precisely right: Plato’s work is an embodiment of the meeting of tragedy and comedy—precisely what he rules out in Republic. So, again, Plato’s own work seems to be just the sort of art that his utopia would never allow. Waterfield, in his notes to Symposium, remarks on this incompatibility between Socrates’ arguments in Symposium and in Republic, but does not go further than noting it. I think it is quite significant, however: it is a method Plato uses to dissociate himself from the content of his utopia.

If Plato, in his Republic, is not in fact detailing his ideal society, just what is Plato doing? Beyond what is implied by my first argument (that Plato is hoping to elucidate individual morality in some fashion), I honestly do not know, at least not yet. But what has struck me most vividly about the discussion in chapter 4 is how much Socrates’ proposals designed to ensure that people are educated to act within reason look like mere indoctrination. It seems to me that, in the utopia Socrates describes, people never have any need to reason themselves, because they never confront anything contrary to reason. But what is reason if it is not something that people do? The eminently reasonable society of Plato’s Republic seems not to deserve the epithet at all. It is not unreasonable—reason simply plays little role at all. Plato’s Republic (the text), as opposed to his republic (the society), functions in precisely the opposite way: by presenting sometimes obviously, sometimes subtly flawed arguments in the course of a discussion, and by dissociating himself from these arguments in crucial ways, Plato forces the reader to come to an understanding of the issues on her own. Plato does not indoctrinate.

Hence, while I have not yet finished the text and cannot quite say what, exactly, it is good for, I can fairly confidently assert that Plato’s Republic is infinitely preferable to Plato’s republic.

Categories: Drama, Literature, Philosophy, Plato Tags:

How Socrates’ failure grounds Plato’s success in Republic, Book I

2012/12/28 2 comments

The first book of Plato’s Republic, read carefully, serves as a much-needed reminder that there is more to Plato than an obsession with comparing morality to various crafts. Plato was not just a philosopher but also a dramatist, and the two aspects of his work are, I think, inseparable. Reading Plato solely for the arguments in his work entails missing the subtle self-critiques of those arguments, critiques that are rarely made explicit. Rather, they appear in the dramatic flow of the dialogues.

Frequently, the nature of the conversation is itself an example of the points being made—an example, or a critique. Book I of Republic contains both, one obvious and one subtler. Near the beginning, Socrates is quizzing Cephalus, a rich, old man, about how he has remained happy in old age, and the role that money has played. Cephalus at one point says, “It’ll make me happy if I leave these sons of mine not less, but a little more than I inherited” (330b, Waterfield translation). A noble sentiment, and when Cephalus is called away to “attend to the ceremony” (331d), his son Polemarchus begins discussing with Socrates a point Socrates was beginning to dispute when Cephalus left. Plato makes it explicit that Polemarchus has “inherited the discussion” (331e). The very shape of the dialogue, then, exemplifies Cephalus’ point. He has succeeded in leaving behind more than he started with, for now Polemarchus and Socrates have a topic to discuss. Since Plato of course values discussion and philosophy more than money, it indicates that Cephalus truly lives up to his own ideals. Even though Cephalus thinks about the issue in terms of money, he manifests this virtue in other areas as well.

My real interest here, however, is not in Cephalus. Socrates’ discussion with Cephalus is a preliminary to his discussion with Polemarchus, which is itself in many ways a preliminary to his discussion with Thrasymachus. On the surface, that discussion looks something like this: Thrasymachus, the sophist, bursts into the discussion and makes a claim about morality (that it is the advantage of the stronger party) that goes against everything Socrates stands for. Socrates twists him in knots, leading him to clarify his position: the strong are immoral and seek their own advantage, while the weak are moral and disadvantage themselves while working to the advantage of the strong. It is better to be immoral than moral—if one is strong enough. Socrates again proceeds to twist him in knots, until finally Thrasymachus starts pouting and disengages from the discussion, agreeing with everything Socrates says (though he in fact disagrees), and generally being a sore loser. By all appearances, Socrates has thoroughly defeated Thrasymachus. And while it is not terribly difficult to poke holes in Socrates’ arguments, simply in virtue of his childish behavior, Thrasymachus has lost.

There is more to the story, however. We should not be so fast to think that Socrates has won. (I suppose I should mention in passing another reason: Socrates himself would not consider winning to be important, but only arriving at truth, or at least at a recognition of one’s own ignorance.) We can see this by comparing Socrates’ discussion with Polemarchus to his battle with Thrasymachus. At the very beginning of the dialogue, Socrates is approached by Polemarchus and others, who make the friendly threat that he is outnumbered and so has to do as they say (which is just to accompany them). Socrates suggests that he might convince them to let him leave, but they respond that they won’t listen to him, and that it is “impossible” (327c) to convince someone who won’t listen. This underscores the obvious truth that dialogue only works with willing, open participants. Once Thrasymachus closes himself off, dialogue thus becomes impossible, and while Socrates continues to make an argument (conclusion: “immorality is never more rewarding than morality” 354a), really we should think about what is going on as the mere spinning of idle wheels. Socrates establishes that Thrasymachus is wrong, but it doesn’t mean anything because in doing so he hasn’t really engaged with Thrasymachus at all.

Waterfield, in his helpful notes, points out that this discussion is unlike most discussions that occur in Plato’s dialogues, in which Socrates and his interlocutors share the assumption that morality is good, and go on to attempt to discover what, exactly, morality is. In this discussion, on the other hand, Thrasymachus challenges this core assumption (note to 348e). So this discussion is in that sense quite unlike Plato’s standard fare. The conclusion of Book I is Plato’s usual starting place: Socrates has established that morality is superior to immorality, but he still doesn’t “know what morality actually is” (354c). But, because this usual starting point is able to be established only because Thrasymachus in effect drops out of the discussion, replaced by a mere yes-man with Thrasymachus’ face, Plato in fact forces us to ask to what extent Socrates’ starting point can be established, and to what extent it must merely be shared. (I am reminded here of Aristotle’s claim, at the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics, that he only intends to speak to those who have been brought up to appreciate fine and just things, for only with them will his investigation get off the ground. One might see Plato here as, in a cleverer way, making the same sort of point in Republic Book I. I will have more to say about this at the end of the post.)

Socrates and Thrasymachus are so far apart in their starting assumptions that discussion literally becomes impossible for them. Even before Thrasymachus shuts off, he accuses Socrates of being a bully and of picking on the least important parts of his view to make it look more ridiculous than it actually is—and Thrasymachus is by and large right in these criticisms. Even when Thrasymachus is engaged, they are talking past each other much more than actually having a proper dialogue. Considered against this backdrop, Socrates’ arguments aren’t worth much.

This is especially so because of Socrates’ method. Socrates frequently makes arguments that adopt the assumptions of his interlocutors, in order to show that there are flaws and tensions internal to their positions, and this occasion is no exception. (Gadamer discusses this method helpfully in his essay on Plato’s Lysis, found in his Dialogue and Dialectic. Gadamer’s magnificent method of reading Plato deserves mention also for inspiring by example my reading of Republic here.) One of Thrasymachus’ assumptions is that immorality is superior to morality because it leads to material advantages. Socrates, too, adopts this assumption—it is central to his attempts to show that immorality leads to discord and morality to concord. Thus, when Socrates purports to show that morality is always more rewarding than immorality, he has only shown that morality is more socially advantageous than immorality, a conclusion far too utilitarian to really be what Plato is ultimately after (which would be showing that morality is good for its own sake). At one point in the Lysis, Socrates describes the bad as out of kilter with themselves—this is the conclusion that Socrates is really after here. But he has only shown that immorality makes one out of kilter with other people, not with oneself. Establishing this could perhaps be helpful for showing a tension internal to Thrasymachus’ position, but since Thrasymachus isn’t really present anymore, it’s hard to say that Socrates has accomplished much of anything.

Indeed, the closest thing to a satisfactory argument against Thrasymachus in Book I is not anything Socrates says, but the differences in their character. Thrasymachus is petty and a sore loser; Socrates is interested in discussion and knowledge. At the same time, however, Thrasymachus is wiser than Socrates in just this respect: he recognizes the futility of their discussion, whereas Socrates doesn’t, and keeps it going even after Thrasymachus disengages. Socrates thus could learn from Thrasymachus a lesson about the dialectical art for which he is so famous.

In this sense, then, Socrates has not defeated Thrasymachus in argument—he has simply been better behaved. Here, however, we might be puzzled: just why is Plato doing this, if the end point is so unsatisfactory. To understand why, we need to dig deeper, looking at the shape of the discussion in another light. Just as Socrates’ exchange with Cephalus itself embodied certain points raised in the discussion, so too does the shape of Socrates’ quarrel with Thrasymachus show Thrasymachus’ position in action—and in a way that reflects how impoverished it is.

Thrasymachus, recall, views morality as behavior of the weak acting to the advantage of the strong—those strong enough to compel them to be moral. The strong, on the other hand, work to their own advantage, without regard for others. We have already seen that Socrates and Thrasymachus, by the end of Book I, are no longer engaging one another in true discussion—which requires that both parties be equal and open to what the other has to say (as we saw at the beginning of Book I). If what we have is not dialogue, however, what is it? Plato here is very clever: what we see is an interaction between two very unequal participants: Socrates, the stronger, and Thrasymachus, the weaker, the yes-man. Moreover, Socrates is explicitly working only for his own edification at this point—Thrasymachus is merely treating him “to all the food I still need to be satisfied” (352b). The situation is thus this: the dialectically stronger (Socrates) is working to his own advantage without consideration of the other party, while the weaker (Thrasymachus) is serving the advantage of the stronger. The discussion has transformed from dialogue to an embodiment of Thrasymachus’ picture of morality.

What can we learn from this? If Thrasymachus is right in his picture of morality, then the situation should work out in Socrates’ favor, and to Thrasymachus’ disadvantage. The latter certainly happens: Thrasymachus, as noted, comes across as a whiner and a sore loser. But, as explored above, Socrates does not end up very well off, either: he winds up establishing a position that is not the one he ultimately wants to establish, and because Thrasymachus is no longer engaged in the discussion, Socrates has really accomplished nothing. Of course, the sophists were famous for valuing “winning” debates over arriving at the truth, so it is probable that Thrasymachus would (grudgingly) view Socrates as the winner in the discussion—though only because Socrates is a “bully”. (As Thrasymachus says, “The point is that immorality has a bad name because people are afraid of being at the receiving end of it, not of doing it.” 344c) Socrates, however, cannot consider himself as having achieved what he wished to achieve.

Further, at one point in the dialogue (before Thrasymachus shuts off), Thrasymachus makes the point that “no professional makes mistakes: a mistake is due to a failure of knowledge, and for as long as that lasts he is not a professional” (340e). Because Socrates is making mistakes (by not recognizing the dialectical situation, and how it impacts his ability to employ his usual method), he cannot be considered a professional, cannot be considered as the truly stronger party.

This is, I think, Plato’s aim in setting up the discussion in this way. By allowing the dialogue to degenerate into an embodiment of Thrasymachus’ ideal of the stronger lording over the weaker, to the advantage of the stronger and the disadvantage of the weaker, Plato shows that, in such a situation, there is no one who can really be considered the stronger at all. Thrasymachus’ position—which Socrates does not defeat by argument—defeats itself when put into practice.

But ought we be convinced by this display? I noted that, from Thrasymachus’ point of view, Socrates could be considered the stronger party: he has browbeaten Thrasymachus into submission and has, by public lights, “won” the debate. Thrasymachus, being a sophist, can only see this as victory. So it looks like a stalemate. Thrasymachus’ view, when put into practice, proves internally consistent. But Socrates, engaged in the search for truth rather than in the attempt to win public acclaim for his debating skill, cannot employ Thrasymachus’ methods.

In this sense, then, Plato leaves us in a position akin to that of Aristotle that I mentioned above. Someone interested in winning debates may plausibly adopt a Thrasymachian view in which the stronger force the weaker to acquiesce. What Plato has shown, however, is that if one is interested in the search for truth, if what one cares about is not winning but gaining wisdom, then one simply cannot be Thrasymachian. Plato has not established that one ought to prefer truth to victory. What he has established is that the search for truth is not a struggle for dominance, for power over others. That is an accomplishment, since—one would hope—anyone who reads Plato does so because of an interest in truth.

Independently of the soundness of his arguments, the very shape of Republic Book I cuts off the possibility that Socrates has achieved his aims. Plato turns this fact on its head, however, by using Socrates’ mistakes to paint a vividly negative portrait of Thrasymachus’ views. Not through argument—Plato shows them in action, thereby revealing their emptiness. A sophist would not be persuaded, would necessarily miss the point, but then a sophist would never be open to Plato regardless. After all, as we saw at the very beginning, you cannot convince someone who will not listen. Those who are engaged in the struggle for wisdom, on the other hand, are warmly invited to the rest of Republic.

Addendum 2013.01.07: 300 pages later, after a winding discussion, Plato finally returns to the question addressed so unsatisfyingly in chapter 1. Socrates proposes that the interlocutors “remind ourselves of the original assertion which started us off on our journey here” (588b). And after gaining Glaucon’s assent, Socrates goes on to say, “Well, now that we’ve decided what effect moral and immoral conduct have… we can engage him in conversation.” He is saying this in explicit reference to the assertion of chapter 2, which was defended by Glaucon, but we have to recall that Glaucon was there simply pushing Thrasymachus’ objection further. My argument has been that Socrates in a very deep sense failed to engage with Thrasymachus and Thrasymachus’ position, and I take this claim to be Plato explicitly acknowledging what was previously “hidden” in the structure of chapter 1’s “dialogue”. At the end of chapter 1 and the start of chapter 2, Socrates really was not in a position to engage with the Thrasymachian view. Only after much discussion has this become possible.

Categories: Drama, Literature, Philosophy, Plato Tags:

Nietzsche’s Platonism

2011/09/06 8 comments

The title of this post is intended partially as a joke—it is difficult to think of many philosophers less Platonistic than Nietzsche, whose philosophy is routinely aimed at cutting down Plato’s metaphysical bloat and the morality that Nietzsche would argue underlies it. Nonetheless, I do intend the title to be taken seriously. I think that, in his writing, Nietzsche employs a type of “theory” of recollection, one radically different from Plato’s to be sure, and that understanding this (and how it differs from Plato’s) will lead to a more fruitful engagement with Nietzsche’s style. I had the idea for this post while reading Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality, but I think it applies more broadly. I hope to explain why Nietzsche’s writing will frustrate those seeking primarily to find arguments in his work, and why such frustration is, I believe, largely unwarranted.

Nietzsche, in his works, rarely if ever presents an argument alongside or embedded within extensive commentary and analysis. Rather, he often categorically states some (usually controversial) claim, or, if he does give an argument, it is usually only a sketch founded on other controversial claims. Given how much time Nietzsche spends hammering home the ramifications of his views, one might expect him to spend more time establishing them. Now, there is one obvious reason for the structure of Nietzsche’s works, one related to my main point, but not what I will focus on. Nietzsche was a master stylist with a remarkably fluid writing style—he was probably the best philosophical writer. Nietzsche once remarked something along the lines of, “most philosophers are bad writers because they tell us not only their thoughts, but also the thinking of their thoughts.” We are spared the thinking of Nietzsche’s thoughts in part out of aesthetic considerations. This will be rightly unsatisfying to the person who looks to Nietzsche for arguments. If Nietzsche desires to persuade us of his positions, to earn our assent to them, then he ought sacrifice some stylistic beauty for the sake of shoring up his arguments. I maintain, however, that this is not Nietzsche’s goal, and that fleshing out his arguments would in fact make Nietzsche’s books weaker and less effective.

Plato’s theory of recollection roughly states that people, before they were born, possessed all knowledge. At birth, however, this knowledge is lost, and all that we call learning is merely recollecting of what we’ve forgotten. Plato is focused not on knowledge of contingent, earthly things, but rather with knowledge of the Forms, of logic, of mathematics, and of any other perfect, eternal truths. Teaching is thus an act of reminding one of eternal truths he has already grasps (Plato illustrates this with a truly horrid example of Socrates helping a young boy to “recollect” geometry). Nietzsche, of course, rabidly attacks both the idea of eternal truths and of eternal souls to grasp them. This would seem to make the theory of recollection entirely unavailable to Nietzsche. I propose, however, that his works exemplify a non-metaphysical analog of Plato’s theory: they serve in large part to remind people of what they already know. The truths may be contingent and earthly, but they are recollected all the same, and this paves the way for the heart of Nietzsche’s philosophy: his “revaluation of all values.”

Nietzsche, in The Gay Science and elsewhere, proclaims, “God is dead!” This is not a declaration of atheism, but a comment on the relationship to religion in 19th century Europe: it is dying out. Advances in scientific thought, the Englightenment, Kant’s attacks on the ontological argument, materialism—all have eroded the ability for one to both think critically and believe. The religious spirit, Nietzsche claims, is losing it’s grip on European minds. In attacking notions of free will and God’s existence (to pick two major examples), Nietzsche is to an extent merely capturing what he sees as the current direction in which thought is moving (though of course he agrees with this movement to an extent, and then goes beyond it). Note that Nietzsche thought his books could be properly read only by a limited audience, and I expect that his ideal audience would have been precisely those people who acutely felt the break with religion in their own thought. This audience, then, will already have arrived at many of the same conclusions as Nietzsche at many points, and he is helping them to recollect these conclusions, in order that they might explore their ramifications.

Thus Nietzsche’s are thoughts we (the readers) already have, and he is merely reminding us, and sketching the arguments that got us there. To what end? Plato thought that right knowledge leads necessarily to right action. For Nietzsche, this is not so. He writes, “Is the ‘terrible’ truth not that no amount of knowledge about an act ever suffices to ensure its performance, that the space between knowledge and action has never yet been bridged even in one single instance” (Daybreak, 116, Hollingdale translation). Even if we know that Christianity’s justifications for morality are bunk, we are still tempted to view morality in a fundamentally Christian way. The Christian virtues have seeped into us, and cordon off our dangerous knowledge, saving action from that knowledge’s “pernicious” influence. Right thought does not lead to right action—and it is action that Nietzsche cares most about. To change the orientation through which we approach life thus requires not careful argument, but careful arrangement and forceful presentation of claims we already recognize but have not fully absorbed. Thus Nietzsche focuses his efforts primarily on exploring e.g. the implications of God’s nonexistence, rather than yet again tearing down the ontological argument. He drives home the blow to our conception of personal responsibility that comes with a materialistic worldview, rather than agonizing over the arguments for materialism.

All of this to achieve a revaluation of all values, as he described the goal of his philosophy. By reminding us of what we already know in the right way, Nietzsche strives to break us free of patterns of thought and action that are pernicious holdouts from Christianity. Making his works more academic and dry by fleshing out argument sketches that serve merely as reminders would work directly contrary to the goals of Nietzsche’s works. Nietzsche asks of his readers: you know this (you have reasoned in the way I outline here)—but can you live it? I would not expect people for whom God is not dead to come away from Nietzsche as atheists (unless perhaps they took the time to flesh out his argument sketches and evaluate them for themselves). I imagine they would find his works rather foreign, as if Nietzsche wasn’t talking to them at all. In many ways, he wasn’t.