Creative Writing

Creative Writing

Wednesday 24 August 2011

Scribes in ancient Mesopotamia

Literacy was not widespread in Mesopotamia. Scribes, nearly always men, had to undergo training, and having successfully completed a curriculum became entitled to call themselves dubsar, which means 'scribe'. They became members of a privileged élite who, like scribes in ancient Egypt, might look with contempt upon their fellow citizens.
Understanding of life in Babylonian schools is based on a group of Sumerian texts of the Old Babylonian period. These texts became part of the curriculum and were still being copied a thousand years later. Schooling began at an early age in the é-dubba, the 'tablet house'. Although the house had a headmaster, his assistant and a clerk, much of the initial instruction and discipline seems to have been in the hands of an elder student; the scholar's 'big brother'. All these had to be flattered or bribed with gifts from time to time to avoid a beating.
Apart from mathematics, the Babylonian scribal education concentrated on learning to write Sumerian and Akkadian using cuneiform and on learning the conventions for writing letters, contracts and accounts. Scribes were under the patronage of the Sumerian goddess Nisaba. In later times her place was taken by the god Nabu whose symbol was the stylus (a cut reed used to make signs in damp clay).

Libyan' Inscriptions in Numidia and Mauretania

When the Numidian king Massinissa (c.241-148) died, the people of Dougga (or: Thugga) decided to build a monument in his honour. A bilingual inscription (RIL 2, KAI 101) says the building was erected in the tenth reign year of his successor Micipsa (139/8 BC). One part of the inscription was written in Punic. The other part looks like a series of geometrical shapes (strokes, circles, dots and the like). This lesser known type of writing, which was already mentioned by Fulgentius the Mythographer and Corippus in antiquity (Chaker), is usually called the 'Libyan' alphabet. Archaeologistst have uncovered more than a thousand 'Libyan' inscriptions throughout Northern Africa.

Unfortunately, the Massinissa text is not very representative of the whole collection. There are but a few bilingual (Libyan-Punic or Libyan-Latin) texts to be studied upon. In addition, most documents are very short: "here lies X". To make things worse, the 'Libyan' alphabet comes in a number of variants (mostly containing some 23 symbols), while it is far from sure that one and the same symbol has the same sound value everywhere. Even the datation of many texts raises problems. So, only a part of this set of inscriptions (the 'oriental' part) can be deciphered with reasonable certainty.

Obviously, modern scholars are curious to know what ancient language goes with this type of writing. (Perhaps one should even say: what languages, for little is known with certainty.) It is tempting to hypothesize that these 'Libyan' inscriptions were actually written in some ancient form of Berber (or some supposed predecessor). After all, the Berbers are known to have inhabited the region for quite a long time. Moreover, their language (that is, the set of mutually unintelligible 'Berber' or 'Tamazight' dialects) seems to have originated in Northern Africa itself, unlike the 'imported' languages Punic, Latin, Arabic and French. Some ancient variety of the Berber language may well have been spoken in antiquity already, for the set of Berber dialects constitutes a separate branch of the so-called Afro-Asiatic Note language family (just like the set of Semitic languages or ancient Egyptian, for instance).

There is even more reason to guess that 'Libyan' was in fact (some kind of) Berber. Tuareg people (i.e. nomadic Berber tribes living in Southern Algeria and adjacent countries) traditionally use to exchange short and friendly messages in exactly that sort of alphabet, which they call Tifinagh Note (which is presumably derived from 'Punic' (sc. letters)). As a matter of fact, it is widely believed that the well-known Punic consonantal alphabet served as a 'model' for the Libyan writings of Antiquity. And, moreover, modern scholars (like Werner Pichler) tend to speak of  "Libyco-berber script", meaning 'Libyan' and/or Tifinagh writings.

But one cannot be too cautious. The existence of a "Libyco-berber script" doesn't necessarily imply a Libyco-berber linguistic continuity. In the first place, Berber was not recorded before the Middle Ages. So, in the best case, one has to resort to non-attested, reconstructed words and expressions instead of 'real' Berber, and it is questionable whether those reconstructions reflect the actual language situation of Roman age Mauretania and/or Numidia. (Compare, for example, Robert Kerr's (2010:21-22) scepticism and methodological criticism with Salem Chaker's moderate optimism.) Nevertheless, the idea that MSNSN GLDT W GJJ reflects something like 'Massinissa the king (Tashelhit Berber: agellid), son of (TB: u) Gaia', is exciting.

Teaching the Holocaust: Lessons from Yad Vashem

The more extensive a man’s knowledge of what has been done, the greater will be his power of knowing what to do.
(Benjamin Disraeli)
As a history teacher I have always strongly believed that Holocaust education is a pivotal part of the curriculum and a chance to challenge both religious and political extremism. For some time, however, much of my teaching was very linear and focused mostly on teaching the mechanics of the Holocaust. Whilst pupils would learn about the history of antisemitism, our lessons covered, above all, the atrocities and death camps, with the story of Oskar Schindler (and Schindler’s List) a key component of Holocaust education – a very two dimensional way of conveying history! My move away from this linear model of teaching began following my visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau with the Holocaust Educational Trust’s (HET) Lessons from Auschwitz Project in 2010. Seeing the scale and systematic nature of the Holocaust first hand, made me appreciate the need to give a face and identity to the victims, perpetrators and bystanders of the Holocaust.

HET also organise teacher training courses in Jerusalem during the summer in partnership with Yad Vashem, The Holocaust Martyrs' and Heroes' Remembrance Authority in Israel. This year, 22 teachers from the UK participated in the ten-day course which consists of a series of lectures and workshops. The lectures covered a breadth of topics relating to the Holocaust, including the educational philosophy and rationale for teaching the subject, nineteenth-century antisemitism, Jewish life between the wars in Poland, the establishment of the ghettos, and Jewish resistance. Two Holocaust survivors, Dr Ehud Loeb and Ms Channa Meiri, were also invited to speak and share their testimonies.

The course highlighted the complexity and multiple layers of the Holocaust, the importance of telling the human stories rather than just the structure of destruction, and how important the use of vocabulary is when teaching this subject. Talking to other history teachers, I discovered that we prepared similar content for our lessons. Whilst I do look at whether the Holocaust could happen again, I realised that I have always implied that liberation bought with it an end to the Holocaust. However, the testimonies of Dr Ehud Loeb and Ms Channa Meiri showed that the impact of the Holocaust continued after liberation: it is part of the fabric of Israeli society and the survivors (and their families) still live with their experiences.

There is a danger of over simplifying the Holocaust: the Jews were victims and the Nazis were all evil perpetrators. Telling the story of individuals allows us to see the three dimensional history of the Holocaust. We must teach the story of the Holocaust as a human story (of both victims and perpetrators). As Shulamit Imber, the Pedagogical Director of the International School for Holocaust Studies at Yad Vashem, highlighted in one of the lectures: ‘We need to ask how people lived and not just how they died.’

I have always used the term ‘Holocaust’ to teach this topi. Questioning whether or not to use this term in our teaching may seem pedantic and little more than an issue of semantics; however, many survivors prefer to use the term Shoah. I now appreciate that it is also important to recognise other groups who were persecuted by the Nazis and the use of specific vocabulary - Porajomos (the Great Devouring) to refer to the genocide of the Roma Gypsies, for example.

I will henceforth seek to incorporate three key elements into my lessons. First, sharing the philosophy and resources of teaching the Holocaust with my department; second, taking a thematic rather than a linear approach to teaching the Holocaust (‘Life before the War’, ‘Resistance’ and ‘Liberation’); and third, looking to develop a holistic, cross curricular approach, including inviting a Holocaust survivor to share their testimony with pupils.

I would advise any history teacher to go on the course. I have, however, returned from Yad Vashem with far more questions than I went with and the temptation to rip up current schemes of work is very real (a view shared by most participants on this course). To quote Imber, once again, the impact and legacy of this education programme is, above all, the realisation that 'the Holocaust needs to become part of the narrative of civilisation'.

Monday 15 August 2011

What Is the Passionate Life and Is It Worth Living?


If as Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living, then what life is worth living? Is it the passionate life?

The language of the modern self-development literature is full of passion—or at least references to passion. We are advised by these Gurus of Passion that passion is the key to finding joy and a fulfilling life; finding our destiny and securing our purpose lies in living with passion. See this site for a variety of claims by modern Gurus of Passion.

This “Selling of Passion” was probably bound to happen in a world driven by technology: a revisiting of the supposed value and efficacy of passion as opposed to “cold” instrumental (technological) reason. The futurist John Naisbitt coined the term “high tech, high touch” in which we yearn for a more emotionally richer life in a technologically driven age. In other words there is clearly a market for passion.

If as Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living, then what life is worth living? Is it the passionate life? What do philosophers have to say about the meaning and value of passion that can help us here?

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Can they give us any suggestions on the differences between the various passions? Are there passions we should avoid and ones we should embrace? Does reason inevitably conflict with passion such that the passionate life has no place for reason? And does reason automatically exclude the passionate life?

Not-so-Passionate Philosophers

One stream of philosophical argument warns that passion make us less free.

The Stoics of the Hellenistic Age held that “emotions like fear or envy (or impassioned sexual attachments, or passionate love of anything whatsoever) either were, or arose from, false judgments, and that the sage—a person who had attained moral and intellectual perfection—would not undergo them”.

For the Stoics, “the passions or pathê are literally ‘things which one undergoes’ and are to be contrasted with actions or things that one does” The Stoics argued that one should not be psychologically subject to anything—manipulated and moved by it, rather than yourself, being actively and positively in command of your reactions and responses to things as they occur or are in prospect. It connotes a kind of complete self-sufficiency. It is significant that the original Latin meaning of “passion” (“passio”) meant suffering and endurance.

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The philosopher Lucretius said that the “lovers’ passion is stormed tossed ,even in the moment of possession, by the waves of delusion and incertitude….They clasp the object of their longing so tightly that the embrace is painful. They kiss so fiercely that teeth are driven into lips.”

Too much passion then makes us slaves to desire according to this view-even destroying us.

Plato (in Book 8 of the Republic) tells the story of the young man who, living in his “heyday of passion,” cannot tell the difference between necessary pleasures and unnecessary pleasures- and thus wastes his life. He is living in the land of delusion, the land of “lotus eater.” Plato alludes to a line from Homer’s Odyssey about “drone desires.”

The More Passionate Philosophers

Yet there is another train of philosophical thinking that is more accepting of passion.

Philosopher David Hume, notwithstanding his adroit usage of logic, asserted that our reason is the slave of passion--a simple fact of human nature. He also distinguished between good emotions and bad emotions.

Soren Kierkegaard, known for integrating his Christian beliefs into his philosophical thinking, defended the sincere passion of a non-Christian pagan as against Christian believers who had no deep feelings about their beliefs.

Jean-Paul Sartre argued that passion and responsibility are compatible: passion is not a power, he said, that is a “ravaging force which fatally leads a man to certain acts”--thus answering Lucretius and the Stoics.

Contemporary philosopher Martha Nussbaum also rejects the notion that emotions are blind forces that have nothing to with reason or responsibility--even finding a role for "rational emotions" in public affairs.

Kant has the reputation for being a very austere, very logical philosopher, rejecting the role of moral passions as part of sound ethical judgments (in lieu of “duty”), however he did integrate feeling into his aesthetics of judgment. He also declared: “Nothing ever great is done without passion.” Other examples of philosophers who saw the passions in a less negative light are Hegel and Nietzsche.

The Death of Morality


Morality is a Culturally Conditioned Response

Jesse Prinz argues that the source of our moral inclinations is merely cultural.

Suppose you have a moral disagreement with someone, for example, a disagreement about whether it is okay to live in a society where the amount of money you are born with is the primary determinant of how wealthy you will end up. In pursuing this debate, you assume that you are correct about the issue and that your conversation partner is mistaken. You conversation partner assumes that you are making the blunder. In other words, you both assume that only one of you can be correct. Relativists reject this assumption. They believe that conflicting moral beliefs can both be true. The stanch socialist and righteous royalist are equally right; they just occupy different moral worldviews.

Relativism has been widely criticized. It is attacked as being sophomoric, pernicious, and even incoherent. Moral philosophers, theologians, and social scientists try to identify objective values so as to forestall the relativist menace. I think these efforts have failed. Moral relativism is a plausible doctrine, and it has important implications for how we conduct our lives, organize our societies, and deal with others.

Cannibals and Child Brides

Morals vary dramatically across time and place. One group’s good can be another group’s evil. Consider cannibalism, which has been practiced by groups in every part of the world. Anthropologist Peggy Reeves Sanday found evidence for cannibalism in 34% of cultures in one cross-historical sample. Or consider blood sports, such as those practiced in Roman amphitheaters, in which thousands of excited fans watched as human beings engaged in mortal combat. Killing for pleasure has also been documented among headhunting cultures, in which decapitation was sometimes pursued as a recreational activity. Many societies have also practiced extreme forms of public torture and execution, as was the case in Europe before the 18th century. And there are cultures that engage in painful forms of body modification, such as scarification, genital infibulation, or footbinding – a practice that lasted in China for 1,000 years and involved the deliberate and excruciating crippling of young girls. Variation in attitudes towards violence is paralleled by variation in attitudes towards sex and marriage. When studying culturally independent societies, anthropologists have found that over 80% permit polygamy. Arranged marriage is also common, and some cultures marry off girls while they are still pubescent or even younger. In parts of Ethiopia, half the girls are married before their 15th birthday.

Of course, there are also cross-cultural similarities in morals. No group would last very long if it promoted gratuitous attacks on neighbors or discouraged childrearing. But within these broad constraints, almost anything is possible. Some groups prohibit attacks on the hut next door, but encourage attacks on the village next door. Some groups encourage parents to commit selective infanticide, to use corporal punishment on children, or force them into physical labor or sexual slavery.

Such variation cries out for explanation. If morality were objective, shouldn’t we see greater consensus? Objectivists reply in two different ways:

Deny variation. Some objectivists say moral variation is greatly exaggerated – people really agree about values but have different factual beliefs or life circumstances that lead them to behave differently. For example, slave owners may have believed that their slaves were intellectually inferior, and Inuits who practiced infanticide may have been forced to do so because of resource scarcity in the tundra. But it is spectacularly implausible that all moral differences can be explained this way. For one thing, the alleged differences in factual beliefs and life circumstances rarely justify the behaviors in question. Would the inferiority of one group really justify enslaving them? If so, why don’t we think it’s acceptable to enslave people with low IQs? Would life in the tundra justify infanticide? If so, why don’t we just kill off destitute children around the globe instead of giving donations to Oxfam? Differences in circumstances do not show that people share values; rather they help to explain why values end up being so different.

Deny that variation matters. Objectivists who concede that moral variation exists argue that variation does not entail relativism; after all, scientific theories differ too, and we don’t assume that every theory is true. This analogy fails. Scientific theory variation can be explained by inadequate observations or poor instruments; improvements in each lead towards convergence. When scientific errors are identified, corrections are made. By contrast, morals do not track differences in observation, and there also is no evidence for rational convergence as a result of moral conflicts. Western slavery didn’t end because of new scientific observations; rather it ended with the industrial revolution, which ushered in a wage-based economy. Indeed, slavery became more prevalent after the Enlightenment, when science improved. Even with our modern understanding of racial equality, Benjamin Skinner has shown that there are more people living in de facto slavery worldwide today than during the height of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. When societies converge morally, it’s usually because one has dominated the other (as with the missionary campaigns to end cannibalism). With morals, unlike science, there is no well-recognized standard that can be used to test, confirm, or correct when disagreements arise.

Objectivists might reply that progress has clearly been made. Aren’t our values better than those of the ‘primitive’ societies that practice slavery, cannibalism, and polygamy? Here we are in danger of smugly supposing superiority. Each culture assumes it is in possession of the moral truth. From an outside perspective, our progress might be seen as a regress. Consider factory farming, environmental devastation, weapons of mass destruction, capitalistic exploitation, coercive globalization, urban ghettoization, and the practice of sending elderly relatives to nursing homes. Our way of life might look grotesque to many who have come before and many who will come after.

Emotions and Inculcation

Moral variation is best explained by assuming that morality, unlike science, is not based on reason or observation. What, then, is morality based on? To answer this, we need to consider how morals are learned.

Children begin to learn values when they are very young, before they can reason effectively. Young children behave in ways that we would never accept in adults: they scream, throw food, take off their clothes in public, hit, scratch, bite, and generally make a ruckus. Moral education begins from the start, as parents correct these antisocial behaviors, and they usually do so by conditioning children’s emotions. Parents threaten physical punishment (“Do you want a spanking?”), they withdraw love (“I’m not going to play with you any more!”), ostracize (“Go to your room!”), deprive (“No dessert for you!”), and induce vicarious distress (“Look at the pain you’ve caused!”). Each of these methods causes the misbehaved child to experience a negative emotion and associate it with the punished behavior. Children also learn by emotional osmosis. They see their parents’ reactions to news broadcasts and storybooks. They hear hours of judgmental gossip about inconsiderate neighbors, unethical coworkers, disloyal friends, and the black sheep in the family. Consummate imitators, children internalize the feelings expressed by their parents, and, when they are a bit older, their peers.

Emotional conditioning and osmosis are not merely convenient tools for acquiring values: they are essential. Parents sometimes try to reason with their children, but moral reasoning only works by drawing attention to values that the child has already internalized through emotional conditioning. No amount of reasoning can engender a moral value, because all values are, at bottom, emotional attitudes.

Recent research in psychology supports this conjecture. It seems that we decide whether something is wrong by introspecting our feelings: if an action makes us feel bad, we conclude that it is wrong. Consistent with this, people’s moral judgments can be shifted by simply altering their emotional states. For example, psychologist Simone Schnall and her colleagues found that exposure to fart spray, filth, and disgusting movies can cause people to make more severe moral judgments about unrelated phenomena.

Psychologist Jonathan Haidt and colleagues have shown that people make moral judgments even when they cannot provide any justification for them. For example, 80% of the American college students in Haidt’s study said it’s wrong for two adult siblings to have consensual sex with each other even if they use contraception and no one is harmed. And, in a study I ran, 100% of people agreed it would be wrong to sexually fondle an infant even if the infant was not physically harmed or traumatized. Our emotions confirm that such acts are wrong even if our usual justification for that conclusion (harm to the victim) is inapplicable.

If morals are emotionally based, then people who lack strong emotions should be blind to the moral domain. This prediction is borne out by psychopaths, who, it turns out, suffer from profound emotional deficits. Psychologist James Blair has shown that psychopaths treat moral rules as mere conventions. This suggests that emotions are necessary for making moral judgments. The judgment that something is morally wrong is an emotional response.

It doesn’t follow that every emotional response is a moral judgment. Morality involves specific emotions. Research suggests that the main moral emotions are anger and disgust when an action is performed by another person, and guilt and shame when an action is performed by one’s self. Arguably, one doesn’t harbor a moral attitude towards something unless one is disposed to have both these self- and other-directed emotions. You may be disgusted by eating cow tongue, but unless you are a moral vegetarian, you wouldn’t be ashamed of eating it.

In some cases, the moral emotions that get conditioned in childhood can be re-conditioned later in life. Someone who feels ashamed of a homosexual desire may subsequently feel ashamed about feeling ashamed. This person can be said to have an inculcated tendency to view homosexuality as immoral, but also a conviction that homosexuality is permissible, and the latter serves to curb the former over time.

This is not to say that reasoning is irrelevant to morality. One can convince a person that homophobia is wrong by using the light of reason to draw analogies with other forms of discrimination, but this strategy can only work if the person has a negative sentiment towards bigotry. Likewise, through extensive reasoning, one might persuade someone that eating meat is wrong; but the only arguments that will work are ones that appeal to prior sentiments. It would be hopeless to argue vegetarianism with someone who does not shudder at the thought of killing an innocent, sentient being. As David Hume said, reason is always slave to the passions.

If this picture is right, we have a set of emotionally conditioned basic values, and a capacity for reasoning, which allows us to extend these values to new cases. There are two important implications. One is that some moral debates have no resolution because the two sides have different basic values. This is often the case with liberals and conservatives. Research suggests that conservatives value some things that are less important to liberals, including hierarchical authority structures, self-reliance, in-group solidarity, and sexual purity. Debates about welfare, foreign policy, and sexual values get stymied because of these fundamental differences.

The second implication is that we cannot change basic values by reason alone. Various events in adulthood might be capable of reshaping our inculcated sentiments, including trauma, brainwashing, and immersion in a new community (we have an unconscious tendency towards social conformity). Reason can however be used to convince people that their basic values are in need of revision, because reason can reveal when values are inconsistent and self-destructive. An essay on moral relativism might even convince someone to give up some basic values, on the ground that they are socially inculcated. But reason alone cannot instill new values or settle which values we should have. Reason tells us what is the case, not what ought to be.

In summary, moral judgments are based on emotions, and reasoning normally contributes only by helping us extrapolate from our basic values to novel cases. Reasoning can also lead us to discover that our basic values are culturally inculcated, and that might impel us to search for alternative values, but reason alone cannot tell us which values to adopt, nor can it instill new values.

God, Evolution, and Reason: Is There an Objective Moral Code?

The hypothesis that moral judgments are emotionally based can explain why they vary across cultures and resist transformation through reasoning, but this is not enough to prove that moral relativism is true. An argument for relativism must also show that there is no basis for morality beyond the emotions with which we have been conditioned. The relativists must provide reasons for thinking objectivist theories of morality fail.

Objectivism holds that there is one true morality binding upon all of us. To defend such a view, the objectivist must offer a theory of where morality comes from, such that it can be universal in this way. There are three main options: Morality could come from a benevolent god; it could come from human nature (for example, we could have evolved an innate set of moral values); or it could come from rational principles that all rational people must recognize, like the rules of logic and arithmetic. Much ink has been spilled defending each of these possibilities, and it would be impossible here to offer a critical review of all ethical theories. Instead, let’s consider some simple reasons for pessimism.

The problem with divine commands as a cure for relativism is that there is no consensus among believers about what God or the gods want us to do. Even when there are holy scriptures containing lists of divine commands, there are disagreements about interpretation: Does “Thou shalt not kill?” cover enemies? Does it cover animals? Does it make one culpable for manslaughter and self-defense? Does it prohibit suicide? The philosophical challenge of proving that a god exists is already hard; figuring out who that god is and what values are divinely sanctioned is vastly harder.

The problem with human nature as a basis for universal morality is that it lacks normative import, that is, this doesn’t itself provide us with any definitive view of good and bad. Suppose we have some innate moral values. Why should we abide by them? Non-human primates often kill, steal, and rape without getting punished by members of their troops. Perhaps our innate values promote those kinds of behaviors as well. Does it follow that we shouldn’t punish them? Certainly not. If we have innate values – which is open to debate – they evolved to help us cope with life as hunter-gatherers in small competitive bands. To live in large stable societies, we are better off following the ‘civilized’ values we’ve invented.

Finally, the problem with reason, as we have seen, is that it never adds up to value. If I tell you that a wine has a balance between tannin and acid, it doesn’t follow that you will find it delicious. Likewise, reason cannot tell us which facts are morally good. Reason is evaluatively neutral. At best, reason can tell us which of our values are inconsistent, and which actions will lead to fulfillment of our goals. But, given an inconsistency, reason cannot tell us which of our conflicting values to drop, and reason cannot tell us which goals to follow. If my goals come into conflict with your goals, reason tells me that I must either thwart your goals, or give up caring about mine; but reason cannot tell me to favor one choice over the other.

Many attempts have been made to rebut such concerns, but each attempt has just fueled more debate. At this stage, no defense of objectivism has swayed doubters, and given the fundamental limits mentioned here (the inscrutability of divine commands, the normative emptiness of evolution, and the moral neutrality of reason), objectivism looks unlikely.

Living With Moral Relativism

People often resist relativism because they think it has unacceptable implications. Let’s conclude by considering some allegations and responses.

Allegation: Relativism entails that anything goes.

Response: Relativists concede that if you were to inculcate any given set of values, those values would be true for those who possessed them. But we have little incentive to inculcate values arbitrarily. If we trained our children to be ruthless killers, they might kill us or get killed. Values that are completely self-destructive can’t last.

Allegation: Relativism entails that we have no way to criticize Hitler.

Response: First of all, Hitler’s actions were partially based on false beliefs, rather than values (‘scientific’ racism, moral absolutism, the likelihood of world domination). Second, the problem with Hitler was not that his values were false, but that they were pernicious. Relativism does not entail that we should tolerate murderous tyranny. When someone threatens us or our way of life, we are strongly motivated to protect ourselves.

Allegation: Relativism entails that moral debates are senseless, since everyone is right.

Response: This is a major misconception. Many people have overlapping moral values, and one can settle debates by appeal to moral common ground. We can also have substantive debates about how to apply and extend our basic values. Some debates are senseless, however. Committed liberals and conservatives rarely persuade each other, but public debates over policy can rally the base and sway the undecided.

Allegation: Relativism doesn’t allow moral progress.

Response: In one sense this is correct; moral values do not become more true. But they can become better by other criteria. For example, some sets of values are more consistent and more conducive to social stability. If moral relativism is true, morality can be regarded as a tool, and we can think about what we’d like that tool to do for us and revise morality accordingly.

One might summarize these points by saying that relativism does not undermine the capacity to criticize others or to improve one’s own values. Relativism does tell us, however, that we are mistaken when we think we are in possession of the one true morality. We can try to pursue moral values that lead to more fulfilling lives, but we must bear in mind that fulfillment is itself relative, so no single set of values can be designated universally fulfilling. The discovery that relativism is true can help each of us individually by revealing that our values are mutable and parochial. We should not assume that others share our views, and we should recognize that our views would differ had we lived in different circumstances. These discoveries may make us more tolerant and more flexible. Relativism does not entail tolerance or any other moral value, but, once we see that there is no single true morality, we lose one incentive for trying to impose our values on others.


THINKING AT THE EDGE”


(in German: “WO NOCH WORTE FEHLEN”) is a systematic way to articulate in new terms something which needs to be said but is at first only an inchoate “bodily sense.” We now teach this in a bi-yearly four day course and are ready to distribute the steps in print and in a video production.

TAE stems from my course called “Theory Construction” which I taught for many years at the University of Chicago. Students came to it from many fields. The course consisted half of philosophy and logic, half of the difficult task of getting students to attend to what they implicitly knew but could not say and never considered trying to say. It took weeks to explain that the usual criteria were reversed in my course. Whereas everywhere else in the University only what was clear counted at all, here we cared only about what was as yet unclear. If it was clear I said “We don’t need you for this; we have it in the library already.” Our students were not used to the process we call “FOCUSING,” spending time with an observation or impression which is directly and physically sensed, but unclear. All educated people “know” such things in their field of study. Sometimes such a thing can feel deeply important, but typically people assume that it “makes no sense” and cannot be said or thought into.

“Oh,” one student exclaimed when he grasped what I was looking for, “you mean something about which we have to do hemming and hawing.” Yes, that was just what I meant. Another asked: “Do you mean that crawly thing?”


Of course I know that it is a very questionable project to think from what is unclear and only a bodily sense. A rational person, and especially a philosopher, will immediately wonder: Why should such a sense be more than mere confusion? And if there were something valuable in it (say an organismic experiencing of something important in one’s field) how would speech come from it? And if it sometimes can, how would one know whether what is said comes from it, rather than from reading something into it? Should one just believe whatever one said from such an unclarity, or would some statements be preferable to others?

These questions do not have single answers. They require entering a whole field of considerations. They require certain philosophical strategies about which I have written at length.

Since summaries of this kind of philosophical work are not possible, I can only refer to the works that lie behind what I will say here.

An internally intricate sense leads to a series of statements with certain recognizable characteristics. Statements that speak-from the felt sense can be recognized by the fact that they have an effect on the felt sense. It moves, opens, and develops. The relation between sensing and statements is not identity, representation, or description. An implicitly intricate bodily sense is never the same thing as a statement. There are many possible relationships between the body and statements and we have developed some precise ways to employ these relationships.

Every topic and situation is more intricate than the existing concepts. Every living organism is a bodily interaction with an intricate situation and with the universe. When a human being who is experienced in some field senses something, there is always something. It could turn out to be quite different than it seemed at first, but it cannot be nothing.

Here I would like to give an example: Suppose you are about to fly to another city in a small plane, and your experienced pilot says “I can’t explain it. The weather people say all clear, but the look of it gives me some odd sense of doubt...” In such a case you would not tell the pilot to ignore this sense just because it is not clear. I have stacked this example. Of course an experienced pilot’s unclarity has already taken account of all the clear knowledge that the profession uses, so that what is unclear is something more. We need not be certain that this “sense” is in fact due to the weather; it is enough that it may be. You decide to stay safely at home. But if the weather does become dangerous, then it is important to all of us to find out what it was that the pilot sensed, which escaped the weather people. The federal aviation people and the whole society would want that pilot to articulate just what was in the look of the weather which the unclear sense picked up. Adding this to the knowledge of the Weather Service would make us all safer when we are in the air. And so it is also with any person who is experienced in any field. But such a sense will seem to be beyond words.

We are all imbued with the classical Western unit model. We can hardly think in any other way. What we call “thinking” seems to require unitized things which are assumed to be either cleanly identical or cleanly separate, which can be next to each other but cannot interpenetrate, let alone have some more complex pattern. If, for example, there are two things which also seem to be one in some intricate way, rather than try to lay out this intricate pattern in detail, thinking tends to stop right there. We consider the sense of such a thing as if it were a private trouble. It seems that something must be wrong with us because “it doesn’t make sense.” And yet we keep on having this stubborn sense which does not fit in with what is already articulated in our field. It probably stems from a genuine observation which does not fit the unit model.


The unit model is regularly the reason why some new insights cannot be said. But to reject the unit model in general is not possible, because it inheres in our language, our machines and in all our detailed concepts. We fall back into it the moment we want to speak further. The new insight cannot be said in terms of the old concepts and phrases. In class I used Heidegger, McKeon and my own philosophy, three critiques of the unit model, but as it turns out, the capacity for breaking out of the unit model cannot be imparted in this way. Critique does not prevent us from falling into the old model. Some say that it will take 300 years for the assumptions that inhere in our language to change. To a philosopher it seems unlikely that people can think beyond the pervasive assumptions. Therefore TAE can seem improbable.

On the other hand, Wittgenstein showed that the capacity of language far exceeds the conceptual patterns that inhere in it. He demonstrated convincingly that what words can say is quite beyond the control of any concept, pre-existing rule, or theory of language. He could give some twenty or more examples of new meanings that one word could acquire through different uses.[1] Building on this, we have developed in TAE a new use of language that can be shown to most anyone who senses something that cannot yet be said. This new way of speaking is the key to this seemingly impossible venture.

In my philosophy I have developed a new use of bodily-sourced language with which we can speak directly from the body about many things — especially about the body and language.

Language is deeply rooted in the human body in a way that is not commonly understood. Language does not consist just of the words. The situations in which we find ourselves, the body, and the language form a single system together. Language is implicit in the human process of living. The words we need to say arrive directly from the body. I have a bodily sense of what I am about to say. If I lose hold of that, I can’t say it. If I have the sense of what I want to say, then all I do is open my mouth and rely on the words that will come. Language is deeply rooted in the way we physically exist in our interactive situations.

The common situations in a culture each have their appropriate phrases, a cluster of possible sayings that one might need. The words mean the effect they have when they are used in a situation. Our language and the common situations constitute a single system together. However, this bodily link between words and situations applies no less when the situation is uncommon and what needs to be said has no established words and phrases.

All living bodies create and imply their own next steps. That is what living is, the creating of next steps. The body knows to exhale after inhaling, and to search for food when hungry. And, in a new situation new next steps come from the body. Even an ant on a fuzzy rug crawls in an odd way in which it has never crawled before. When we sense something that doesn’t fit the common repertory and nevertheless wants to be said, the body is implying new actions and new phrases.


We find that when people forgo the usual big vague words and common phrases, then — from their bodily sense — quite fresh colorful new phrases come. These phrases form in such a way that they say what is new from the bodily sense. There is no way to say “all” of it, no sentence that will be simply equal, no sentence which will simply “represent” what is sensed. But what can happen is better than a perfect copy. One strand emerges from the bodily sense, and then another and another. What needs to be said expands! What we say doesn’t represent the bodily sense. Rather it carries the body forward.

First it must be recognized that no established word or phrase will ever be able to say what needs to be said. The person can be freed from trying to “translate” the felt sense into regular sayings. Yet what a person wanted a word to mean can be expressed but only in one or more whole sentences that use words in a fresh and creative way. In certain kinds of sentences a word can go beyond its usual meaning, so that it speaks from the felt sense. When one has tried several words and found that each of them fails to say what needs to be said, fresh sentences can say what one wished the word to mean. Now it turns out that each of the rejected words gives rise to very different fresh sentences. Each pulls out something different from the felt sense. In this way, with some further developments, what was one single fuzzy sense can engender six or seven terms. These terms bring their own interrelations, usually a quite new patterning. This constitutes a whole new territory where previously there was only a single implicit meaning. One can move in the field created by these terms. Now one can enter further into the experiential sense of each strand and generate even more precise terms. People find that never again are they just unable to speak from this felt sense.

Up to this point TAE enables fresh language to emerge. The last five steps concern logic, a very different power. But there is also an inherent connection between a felt sense and how we make logic. (See A Process Model, VIIA, VIIBa and VIII.)

The new terms and their patterning can be given logical relations, in a series of theoretical propositions. Now it becomes possible to substitute logically linked terms for each other. Thereby many new sentences (some surprising and powerful) can be derived. Expanding this can constitute a theory, a logically interlocked cluster of terms.

At every point in the process we can see that explicating a felt sense is not at all arbitrary. Although it involves creating new terms rather than merely copying or representing what is already given, its implicit meanings are very precise. The various relations between sensing and speaking have not been well studied until now, because only representation was looked for. By using these very relations between sensing and speaking in order to study them, I have initiated this field of study and developed it in some depth. Here I only want to say that once one experiences this “speaking-from,” the way it carries the body forward becomes utterly recognizable. Then, although one might be able to say many things and make many new distinctions, one prefers being stuck and silent until phrases come that do carry the felt sense forward.

TAE was envisioned and created by Mary Hendricks. The idea of making it into an available practice seemed impossible to me.

TAE requires a familiarity with Focusing. The participants in our first TAE were experienced Focusing people. This took care of the most difficult part of my university course. Nevertheless I expected it to fail, and I certainly experienced that it did fail. Some people did not even get as far as using logic, and most created no theory. Yet there was great satisfaction and even excitement. A great thing seemed to have happened, so I was grateful that I was saved any embarrassment. For some reason they did not feel cheated.

Later I understood. During the ensuring year many people wrote to us. They reported that they found themselves able to speak from what they could not say before, and that they were now talking about it all the time. And some of them also explained another excitement. Some individuals had discovered that they could think! What “thinking” had previously meant to many of them involved putting oneself aside and rearranging remembered concepts. For some the fact that they could create and derive ideas was the fulfillment of a need which they had despaired of long ago.

Now after five American and four German TAE meetings I am very aware of the deep political significance of all this. People, especially intellectuals, believe that they cannot think! They are trained to say what fits into a pre-existing public discourse. They remain numb about what could arise from themselves in response to the literature and the world. People live through a great deal which cannot be said. They are forced to remain inarticulate about it because it cannot be said in the common phrases. People are silenced! TAE can empower them to speak from what they are living through.

People can be empowered to think and speak. We have come to recognize that, along with Focusing, TAE is a practice for people generally. They do not all need to build a theory with formal logically linked terms. Thinking and articulating is a socially vital practice. In ancient times philosophy always included practices, and now philosophy does so again. One need not necessarily grasp all of the philosophy from which the practices have come. I have accepted the fact that without the philosophical work no description of TAE (as in this Folio) can be adequate.

I need to make clear that with TAE we are not saying that thinking or any other serious human activity can be reduced to standard steps of a fixed method. When people said they discovered that they could think, they certainly did not mean these little steps which I myself couldn’t remember exactly, at first. The steps help break what I might call the “public language barrier” so that the source of one’s own thinking is found and spoken from. After that nobody needs steps. Precise steps are always for precise teaching so a new way can be shown and found. Then it soon becomes utterly various.

Steps 4 and 5 of TAE reveal a more-than-logical creativity inherent in the nature of language, which has remained largely unrecognized until now. Language is not the deadly trap it is often said to be. Language is often blamed when something exciting becomes limited and lifeless. Philosophers of many sorts hold that anything will fall into old categories by being said. This might be true when one uses only common phrases, but in the case of fresh phrasing it is quite false. New phrasing is possible because language is always implicit in human experiencing and deeply inherent in what experiencing is. Far from reducing and limiting what one implicitly lives and wants to say, a fresh statement is physically a further development of what one senses and means to say. Then, to write down and read back what is said can engender still further living. What one physically senses in one’s situation is not some fixed, already determined entity, but a further implying that expands and develops in response to what is said. Rather than “falling into” the constraints of the said, we find that the effects of the said can open ways of living and saying still further.[2]

Many current philosophers deny that the individual can think anything that does not come from the culture, from the group, from interaction. This view is an over-reaction to a previous philosophy which treated the individual as the universal source. But both views are simplifications. Culture and individuality constitute an intricate cluster. Each exceeds the other in certain respects.

We have a language brain and we live in interactional situations. But language is not an imposition upon a blank. Even plants are quite complex, and animals live complex lives with each other without language. When the living body becomes able to carry itself forward by symbolizing itself, it acts and speaks from a vast intricacy. Of course we get the language from culture and interaction. But we have seen that language is not just a store of fixed common meanings. Humans don’t happen without culture and language, but with and after language the body’s next steps are always freshly here again, and always implicitly more intricate than the common routines. You can instantly check this by becoming aware of your bodily aliveness, freshly there and implicitly much more intricate than the words you are reading.

From the start I had the students in my class meet in listening partnerships during the week. They divided two hours, taking turns purely listening. “Just listen. Only say when you don’t follow” I instructed them. “If your partner is working on a paper, don’t tell about how you would write the paper....” They always laughed because they knew the problem. Nobody is ever willing to keep us company where we are stuck with our unfinished paper, so that we can think our way through. But in a Focusing partnership we do just that. We attend entirely just to one person at a time. This mutually sustaining pattern was always a main reason why students praised the course.

TAE has a social purpose. We build our inter-human world further. It is not true that merely developing as individuals will somehow change the patterns in which we must live. We need to build new social patterns and new patterns of thought and science. This will be a mutual product no single person can create. On the other hand, if we work jointly too soon, we lose what can only come through the individual in a focusing type of process. Nobody else lives the world from your angle. No other organism can sense exactly “the more” that you sense. In TAE for the first three days, one is constantly warned to “protect” one’s as yet inchoate sense. We interrupt anyone who says “mine is like yours,” or “yours made me think of...” or any sentence that begins with “We...” We may have uttered the very same sentence, but the intricacy that is implicit for you turns out to be utterly different from mine. These two intricacies are much more significant than what would come from this spot, if we articulate it together. There is an interplay which happens too soon and stops the articulation of what is so fuzzy and hard to enter. Because we are inherently interactional creatures, our implicit intricacy opens more deeply when we are speaking to another person who actually wants to hear us. But if that person adds anything in, our contact with the inward sense is almost always lost or narrowed. In TAE we provide the needed interaction without any imposition, by taking turns in what we call a “Focusing partnership.” In half the time I respond only to you. I follow you silently with my bodily understanding, and I tell you when I cannot follow. I speak from this understanding now and then but only to check if I follow. In TAE I write down all your exact words as they emerge (because otherwise they might be gone a moment later) and I read anything back to you when you want it. Then in the other half of the time you do only this for me.

Once the individual’s sense of something has become articulated and differentiated enough, then what happens is something we call “crossing.” Other people’s insights enrich ours by becoming implicit in our own terms. If one first develops and keeps one’s own terms, one can then cross them with others. Keeping one’s own terms means keeping their intricate precision. Crossing enriches their implicit intricacy and power. At that point collaborative interaction can create a new social product right here in the room. This is of course the intent of the current emphasis on “dialogue” and Shotter’s (2003) important work on “joint action” since we humans live fundamentally in an inter-human interactional space.[3] But we need the individual’s unique implicit store of world–interaction and this requires articulating the individual’s bodily felt sense first.

When many TAE theories cross, they need not constitute one consistent logical system. There is a different way in which they go together. They cross. Crossing makes the other theory implicit in the felt sense under one’s own logically connected terms. Then we find that we can say more from our own felt sense, using the other theory and its connected terms. Implicit intricacy connects all the TAE theories in advance. Each theory opens an intricate location in the public world and in philosophy and science. It enables the implicit intricacy to be entered at that location. A TAE theory relates to many other locations not only through its felt sense but also through logical connections to other things.


Pure logical inference is retained in TAE, but we also find a certain “odd logic” in articulating a felt sense. We find, for example, that a small detail which would usually be subsumed under wider categories, can instead overarch them and build its more intricate patterning into them. Another example of the odd logic: We find that when more requirements are imposed, degrees of freedom are not lessened; more requirements open more possibilities. There is an odd logic of experiential explication.[4] Next we must consider regular logic.

In order to understand our reductive sciences within a wider experiential science we must first appreciate the power of the unit logic. I need to laud what I call “graph paper,” the units that logic requires. The little logical units are familiar to everyone from mathematics (1+1=2+170=172). The units of which numbers are composed are external to each other, next to or after each other. With Newton they became characteristic of space and time and therefore of anything that exists in space and time. If you imagine everything external gone, there still seems to be a space and time which is empty but still quantitative in this unit measured way. The reality which Science represents is constructed in this space and time. Science turns what it studies into nice clean logical units that can be used with mathematics. By calling this space and time “graph paper” I want to bring home that physics, chemistry, organic chemistry, biology, microbiology — every scientific specialty is an elaborate construction of little units on this kind of screen, such as molecules, cells, genes, neurons. The unit model is not the only possible model for science. Of course nature doesn’t really come in little units, but we can project it onto such a screen of units. We also enlarge it very greatly so that the units capture what cannot normally be seen. Then we can institute very specific operations with these units. We can test the results of these operations, and eventually create things that have never existed before. Among other things we also map ourselves onto these screens of units when we study ourselves. No, of course we are not these screens. It is a bad mistake to think that we consist just of these little units on all the screens. We are the ones who live and look at screens that we make. When I was young we were all supposed to be chemical. Then biochemistry and microbiology expanded vastly. Then, later, we were supposed to be neurology. Obviously there are many sciences; what they say changes every few years, and new kinds of screens are constantly being added. We are not little units on a screen, not the sum of all the current and future screens. But let us not pretend that we could do without the wonderful things that have been constructed from such units, — for example, medicine, electric lights, and even this computer on which I am typing. Once we make a screen of units, logical reasoning and inference are very powerful and can lead us to places nothing else can find.

On the other hand, logic is not what creates the units. Only we create the units, and we keep on creating them. The solution of long standing problems usually requires creating new units. Even Euclid proves a theorem about triangles only by extending one of the lines, or by dropping a new line from the apex to the base — in other words, only by creating some new unit.

When one is using a well-defined concept, if one enters the felt sense at that juncture one can find exactly how that concept is working at that juncture, its precise effect in that context. This will be much a much more precise pattern than the definition one had for that concept. A felt sense is a source of much greater precision and can enable one to generate new units.

The “Complexity” theorists who make analog computer models still assume that the starting set of units must last through to the end. So their results are disappointing.

Logical analysis is being widely rejected even in Analytic Philosophy today, but giving up on logical analysis is a great mistake. It is true that logic depends on premises it cannot examine. Logic is helpless to determine its own starting position. But TAE shows that new logical inferences can be instituted at significant junctures with new units that are first arrived at by Focusing and TAE. The possibilities are greatly enhanced, when we can give logical analysis an articulated way to determine new starting locations and to generate new units there.

From new experiences and new phrases that come, we can fashion new units for logical inferences. In this way we can build something in the world with articulated strands and terms. Then it is a new logic with new units. Then logical inference applies again, and leads again to new places, new insights and new questions at which one cannot arrive in any other way.

What comes from a bodily felt sense is often of an odd sort that doesn’t lend itself to the little boxes of graph paper. And, this “illogical” character is often the most important aspect of what we need to say. We can develop logically connected terms nevertheless. With TAE we have a way to let the “illogical crux” redefine all the terms, so that logical inference then lends them its power without losing an intricate new pattern or violating the life that the theory articulates.

When terms articulate a felt sense and also acquire logical connections, this duality enables us to move in two ways from any statement: Once we have logically linked terms, logic generates powerful inferences far beyond what can be found directly from experiencing. On the other side, by pursuing the experiential implications we can arrive where logic would never lead. We need both.

For example my A Process Model (Gendlin, 1997) employs both. In Focusing, new and realistic steps arise from the body, but this seems illogical. Focusing is possible, since we do it. But to conceive of a world in which Focusing is possible leads to a cluster of logically interlocking terms in which the living body is an interactive process with its environment and situation. This is the case for plants. Animals require understanding how “behavior” is a special case of such interaction, and human language again a special case of behavior.

In this way I have developed a conceptual model for physics and biology, which can connect to the usual concepts and data (as we must be able to do), but with conceptual patterns which are modeled on and continuous with living and symbolizing. This kind of concept can connect with the usual units, but also embodies what cannot be reduced. This model can let one reconfigure any concept. With such concepts one can think about all physical bodies in such a way that some can be living, and about all living bodies in a way that some can be human bodies.[5]

I can only indicate the philosophy behind the above. This philosophy is original with me, but of course I could not have arrived at it if I didn’t know the history of philosophy and Dilthey, Husserl, Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty, Wittgenstein, Whitehead, McKeon, and many others.

My new way was to put the ancient concepts, strategies, and issues into a direct relation with implicitly intricate experiencing. I found that each philosophical approach can open avenues in the implicit experiencing, instead of canceling the others out.

Every major philosophy changes the meaning of the basic terms such as what “basic” means, what “is” or “exists” means, as well as “true,” “understand,” “explain,” and all other such words. Each philosophy gets its changed meanings by entering into that bigger realm at the edge of thinking which is more organized than any system of concepts. But then the philosophy tells a story, its own story in its own terms about how it got its terms. It gives us only a conceptualized report about its entry and return. It doesn’t enable us to do this. My philosophy lets us enter and return. It studies and uses what happens to language, and also (differently) what happens to logical terms when we enter and return.

There are ancient sophisticated conceptual strategies to think about how human beings live in reality in such a way that we can know something. It is after knowing many of these strategies and their pitfalls, that I say: we don’t just have interactions; we are interaction with the environment, — other people, the world, the universe, and that we can sense ourselves as such. What we sense from there is never nothing