Philosophy as Science, Literature, and Religion

Philosophy as Science, Literature, and Religion

What kind of subject is philosophy? Is it a type of science? Is it a form of literature? Is it a religious calling? Or is it all three? I think it is all three: philosophy is a literary science touching on religious themes (among other things). Once this is understood it can proceed on its course secure in its knowledge of itself. It doesn’t have to worry about what it is up to. So, our first question is whether and why philosophy should be deemed a science. I don’t mean that it is one of the disciplines commonly called a science—physics, chemistry, biology, psychology, etc. Nor is it the sum of those, or the more speculative parts of those. I mean that it is a science in its own right, even when it seems at its least “scientific”. I won’t argue for this here, as I have done so at length elsewhere.[1] The general idea is that philosophy is the science of conceptual questions, or logical questions, or non-empirical abstract questions, or a priori questions, or metaphysical questions. It proceeds by rigorous conceptual analysis, a priori methods, and thought experiments—not by laboratory experiments, or sense-based observations, or quantitative analysis. It is what used to be called a “moral science” not a “natural science”. It resembles mathematics in some respects, or parts of economics, or parts of physics—the philosophical parts. Philosophy is apt to be foundational, highly general, theoretical in the extreme. Above all, it is systematic, analytical, logical, and impersonal—all the marks of a science in good standing. It isn’t poetry or exhortation or politics or preaching or merely rhetorical or artistic (unless science in general is artistic). It belongs with the other sciences in its intellectual aims and criteria of success. I am speaking mainly of what is called analytical philosophy, but other kinds also fall under this general characterization (e.g., phenomenology). I think that, once understood, this categorization of philosophy should be (and is in fact) widely accepted. Philosophy is scientific in the honorific sense—it’s not unscientific.

But is it just like the other sciences? That seems more questionable, because of the role of style in philosophy—literary style. Different philosophers write differently, whereas other types of scientist tend to converge on a common style. In philosophy, style matters. Some of it is candidly literary—Plato’s dialogues, existentialism, Wittgenstein (early and late), Nietzsche. Many philosophers are noted writers (Hume, Russell, Sartre, Ryle, Quine, Austin, Strawson, Murdoch, Davidson, Fodor, and many others). I myself pay particular attention to style and think it integral to my performances and productions; I am influenced stylistically by people like Max Beerbohm and Nabokov (not to mention a host of philosophers, particularly Russell). Thus, philosophy verges on literature (consider the many philosophical novels). Do you think these philosophers would have the influence they have absent their style? Would Quine, for example, have commanded many followers just in virtue of the content of his doctrines? It isn’t so in the regular sciences; here content matters almost exclusively (Watson and Crick didn’t need a persuasive style). There is nothing special about Newton’s literary style—or any number of distinguished scientists. Philosophers have a voice that makes them stand out, that confers authority, but not so scientists. It is hard to be a good philosopher without being a good writer. If you want to be one, you had better work on your literary talents. So, philosophy, in addition to being a science, is a form of literature—an artistic form in its own way. Aesthetics plays a part. The style should sparkle, resonate, inspire—it should get to you.

You might be with me so far but jib at the religious affiliation. Philosophy isn’t a religion! It’s not Christian, or Muslim, or Jewish, or Buddhist. It’s secular. But doesn’t it consider religious questions, among others? A whole department of it is called “philosophy of religion” and questions about the existence and nature of God are surely philosophical. It isn’t totally divorced from religion, like chemistry or psychology. The reason is that philosophy, in part, is concerned with the same questions as religion proper: the meaning of life, right and wrong, the natural versus the supernatural, the possibility of God’s existence, free will, the self or soul, the significance of death. Many an analytic philosopher, rigidly atheist as he or she may be, got into the subject via religious questions (till graduate school knocked it out of them, if not before). That is, philosophy is characteristically concerned with the “deep questions” of human life—why are we here, where are we going, how should we live, what does it all mean. You can’t deny it—religion is a common gateway to philosophy (even if you end up far away from it). The religious impulse is close to the philosophical impulse. Even an atheist has religious views—he has thought hard about religious questions. But the scientist qua scientist need have no such preoccupations, or the novelist for that matter (still less the painter or musician). Have you ever met a philosopher sublimely indifferent to religious questions? How can you be a philosopher and not be interested in the ontological argument? It’s part of the job. Botanists may never have heard of it, or metallurgists, or astronomers. In philosophy religion is just around the corner, flee from it as you might.

Thus, philosophy has a triple identity—a split personality. It combines three distinct areas of human intellectual effort: the scientific, the literary, and the religious. If you like science, appreciate good writing, and can’t escape the religious, it’s a good fit for you. The excellent philosopher is part scientist, part poet or novelist, and part priest (or priest critic). He or she has a bit of each in him or her. Some may emphasize the scientific part, some the literary part, some the religious part; but all recognize these three elements as components of what they are up to. Russell is the perfect illustration: mathematician and scientist, consummate stylist and winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, and religiously preoccupied (see his autobiography). I fully confess to all three foibles: fascination with science, love of literature, religious interests (good and evil, the meaning of life, our origin and destiny). Philosophy without all three components feels dead. The scientific rigor is bracing, the writing is a delight, and the human predicament is an ever-present concern. These elements pulse through many other practitioners: Nabokov, say, is a scientist (lepidopterist), superb stylist, and stern moralist (contrary to his popular reputation).[2] Similarly for Descartes, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, and their followers. I think the same is true of contemporary analytical philosophers, though the university setting has obscured the fact (Thomas Nagel is a good example). Perhaps this is why the philosopher is apt to excite hostility in certain quarters—because he is a hybrid figure, chronically suspended uneasily (or easily) between three stools. The critics don’t know how to classify him (pigeonhole him), though he is (or should be) quite at home in his triple identity. He is an identifiable intellectual natural kind.[3]

[1] See my “The Science of Philosophy”.

[2] He actually had an active interest in philosophy and even published reviews of philosophy books. Humbert Humbert, for all his faults, has a somewhat philosophical turn of mind and a pompous academic style. The main character, Krug, in Bend Sinister is a philosophy professor.

[3] The real essence of this natural kind might be defined as “rational answers to profound questions”. Of course, we need to say more about “rational” and “profound”.