The Value of Philosophy

Having now come to the end of our brief and very incomplete review of the problems of philosophy, it will be well to consider, in conclusion, what is the value of philosophy and why it ought to be studied. It is the more necessary to consider this question, in view of the fact that many men, under the influence of science or of practical affairs, are inclined to doubt whether philosophy is anything better than innocent but useless trifling, hair-splitting distinctions, and controversies on matters concerning which knowledge is impossible.

We have now reached the end of our brief and very incomplete review of the problems of philosophy. In conclusion, we should consider the value of philosophy and why we ought to study it. Considering these questions is especially necessary because many people, influenced by science or practical affairs, tend to doubt philosophy’s value. They wonder whether philosophy is anything more than harmless but useless play, overly fine distinctions, and debates about things we cannot know.

This view of philosophy appears to result, partly from a wrong conception of the ends of life, partly from a wrong conception of the kind of goods which philosophy strives to achieve. Physical science, through the medium of inventions, is useful to innumerable people who are wholly ignorant of it; thus the study of physical science is to be recommended, not only, or primarily, because of the effect on the student, but rather because of the effect on mankind in general. Thus utility does not belong to philosophy. If the study of philosophy has any value at all for others than students of philosophy, it must be only indirectly, through its effects upon the lives of those who study it. It is in these effects, therefore, if anywhere, that the value of philosophy must be primarily sought.

This view of philosophy seems to arise partly from a mistaken understanding of life’s goals. It also seems to arise partly from misunderstanding the kinds of benefits philosophy seeks to provide. Through inventions, physical science benefits countless people who know nothing about the science itself. So studying physical science is worthwhile not only, or mainly, because of its effect on the student. Rather, it is worthwhile because of its effect on humanity as a whole. Philosophy does not have this kind of practical usefulness. If studying philosophy has any value for people who do not study it, that value must be indirect. It must come through the effects philosophy has on the lives of those who study it. Therefore, we must look primarily for philosophy’s value in these effects, if anywhere.

But further, if we are not to fail in our endeavour to determine the value of philosophy, we must first free our minds from the prejudices of what are wrongly called 'practical' men. The 'practical' man, as this word is often used, is one who recognizes only material needs, who realizes that men must have food for the body, but is oblivious of the necessity of providing food for the mind. If all men were well off, if poverty and disease had been reduced to their lowest possible point, there would still remain much to be done to produce a valuable society; and even in the existing world the goods of the mind are at least as important as the goods of the body. It is exclusively among the goods of the mind that the value of philosophy is to be found; and only those who are not indifferent to these goods can be persuaded that the study of philosophy is not a waste of time.

But to succeed in judging the value of philosophy, we must first free our minds from certain prejudices. These are the prejudices of people wrongly called 'practical'. The 'practical' person, as the word is often used, recognizes only material needs. Such a person understands that people need food for the body, but overlooks their need for food for the mind. If everyone were well off, and poverty and disease had been reduced as far as possible, much would remain undone. We would still have much to do to create a worthwhile society. Even in the world as it is, the goods of the mind matter at least as much as material goods. The value of philosophy lies entirely in these goods of the mind. Only people who care about these goods can be convinced that studying philosophy is not a waste of time.

Philosophy, like all other studies, aims primarily at knowledge. The knowledge it aims at is the kind of knowledge which gives unity and system to the body of the sciences, and the kind which results from a critical examination of the grounds of our convictions, prejudices, and beliefs. But it cannot be maintained that philosophy has had any very great measure of success in its attempts to provide definite answers to its questions. If you ask a mathematician, a mineralogist, a historian, or any other man of learning, what definite body of truths has been ascertained by his science, his answer will last as long as you are willing to listen. But if you put the same question to a philosopher, he will, if he is candid, have to confess that his study has not achieved positive results such as have been achieved by other sciences. It is true that this is partly accounted for by the fact that, as soon as definite knowledge concerning any subject becomes possible, this subject ceases to be called philosophy, and becomes a separate science. The whole study of the heavens, which now belongs to astronomy, was once included in philosophy; Newton's great work was called 'the mathematical principles of natural philosophy'. Similarly, the study of the human mind, which was a part of philosophy, has now been separated from philosophy and has become the science of psychology. Thus, to a great extent, the uncertainty of philosophy is more apparent than real: those questions which are already capable of definite answers are placed in the sciences, while those only to which, at present, no definite answer can be given, remain to form the residue which is called philosophy.

Philosophy, like all other studies, aims primarily at knowledge. It seeks knowledge that brings unity and structure to the sciences as a whole. It also seeks knowledge gained by critically examining the foundations of our convictions, prejudices, and beliefs. But we cannot claim that philosophy has had much success in finding definite answers to its questions. Ask a mathematician, a mineralogist, a historian, or any other scholar what definite truths their field has established. Their answer will last as long as you are willing to listen. But ask a philosopher the same question, and an honest philosopher will have to admit something different. Philosophy has not achieved the definite results that other sciences have achieved. Part of the explanation is that once definite knowledge about a subject becomes possible, the subject stops being called philosophy. Instead, it becomes a separate science. The entire study of the heavens, now part of astronomy, once belonged to philosophy. Newton's great work was called 'the mathematical principles of natural philosophy'. Similarly, the study of the human mind was once part of philosophy. It has now separated from philosophy and become the science of psychology. So, to a great extent, philosophy's uncertainty is more apparent than real. Questions that already allow definite answers are assigned to the sciences. Only questions that cannot, at present, receive definite answers remain in what we call philosophy.

This is, however, only a part of the truth concerning the uncertainty of philosophy. There are many questions—and among them those that are of the profoundest interest to our spiritual life—which, so far as we can see, must remain insoluble to the human intellect unless its powers become of quite a different order from what they are now. Has the universe any unity of plan or purpose, or is it a fortuitous concourse of atoms? Is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, giving hope of indefinite growth in wisdom, or is it a transitory accident on a small planet on which life must ultimately become impossible? Are good and evil of importance to the universe or only to man? Such questions are asked by philosophy, and variously answered by various philosophers. But it would seem that, whether answers be otherwise discoverable or not, the answers suggested by philosophy are none of them demonstrably true. Yet, however slight may be the hope of discovering an answer, it is part of the business of philosophy to continue the consideration of such questions, to make us aware of their importance, to examine all the approaches to them, and to keep alive that speculative interest in the universe which is apt to be killed by confining ourselves to definitely ascertainable knowledge.

But this is only part of the truth about philosophy’s uncertainty. Many questions seem bound to remain beyond human understanding unless our intellectual powers become fundamentally different from what they are now. Some of these questions matter deeply to our spiritual lives. Does the universe have a unified plan or purpose, or is it a chance collection of atoms? Is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, offering hope of endless growth in wisdom? Or is consciousness a temporary accident on a small planet where life must eventually become impossible? Do good and evil matter to the universe, or only to human beings? Philosophy asks these questions, and different philosophers offer different answers. But none of the answers philosophy suggests seem capable of being proved true, whether answers can be found elsewhere or not. Yet even if there is little hope of finding an answer, philosophy has a duty to keep considering these questions. Philosophy must make us aware of their importance and examine every approach to them. It must also keep alive our interest in exploring possibilities about the universe. That interest tends to die when we limit ourselves to knowledge we can establish with certainty.

Many philosophers, it is true, have held that philosophy could establish the truth of certain answers to such fundamental questions. They have supposed that what is of most importance in religious beliefs could be proved by strict demonstration to be true. In order to judge of such attempts, it is necessary to take a survey of human knowledge, and to form an opinion as to its methods and its limitations. On such a subject it would be unwise to pronounce dogmatically; but if the investigations of our previous chapters have not led us astray, we shall be compelled to renounce the hope of finding philosophical proofs of religious beliefs. We cannot, therefore, include as part of the value of philosophy any definite set of answers to such questions. Hence, once more, the value of philosophy must not depend upon any supposed body of definitely ascertainable knowledge to be acquired by those who study it.

Many philosophers have indeed believed that philosophy could prove certain answers to such fundamental questions true. They have thought that the most important elements of religious belief could be proved true through rigorous reasoning. To assess these attempts, we need to survey human knowledge and judge its methods and limits. We should not make dogmatic claims about such a subject. But if the investigations in our earlier chapters have not misled us, we must abandon hope of finding philosophical proofs of religious beliefs. We therefore cannot count any definite set of answers to such questions as part of philosophy’s value. So, once again, philosophy’s value must not depend on any supposed body of knowledge that students can establish with certainty.

The value of philosophy is, in fact, to be sought largely in its very uncertainty. The man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned in the prejudices derived from common sense, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the co-operation or consent of his deliberate reason. To such a man the world tends to become definite, finite, obvious; common objects rouse no questions, and unfamiliar possibilities are contemptuously rejected. As soon as we begin to philosophize, on the contrary, we find, as we saw in our opening chapters, that even the most everyday things lead to problems to which only very incomplete answers can be given. Philosophy, though unable to tell us with certainty what is the true answer to the doubts which it raises, is able to suggest many possibilities which enlarge our thoughts and free them from the tyranny of custom. Thus, while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, it greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be; it removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never travelled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar aspect.

The value of philosophy lies largely in its very uncertainty. A person with no exposure to philosophy goes through life trapped by prejudices drawn from common sense. These prejudices also come from the usual beliefs of their time or nation. Others come from convictions formed without any conscious reasoning or acceptance. For such a person, the world tends to seem clearly defined, limited, and obvious. Everyday objects raise no questions, and unfamiliar possibilities are dismissed with contempt. But as soon as we begin to think philosophically, even the most ordinary things raise questions. As we saw in the opening chapters, we can give only very incomplete answers to these questions. Although philosophy cannot answer with certainty the questions it raises, philosophy can suggest many possibilities. These possibilities expand our thinking and free our minds from the tyranny of habit. So, while philosophy reduces our certainty about what things are, it greatly increases our knowledge of what they may be. Philosophy removes the somewhat arrogant insistence on certainty found in those who have never explored the freedom of doubt. And philosophy keeps our sense of wonder alive by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar light.

Apart from its utility in showing unsuspected possibilities, philosophy has a value—perhaps its chief value—through the greatness of the objects which it contemplates, and the freedom from narrow and personal aims resulting from this contemplation. The life of the instinctive man is shut up within the circle of his private interests: family and friends may be included, but the outer world is not regarded except as it may help or hinder what comes within the circle of instinctive wishes. In such a life there is something feverish and confined, in comparison with which the philosophic life is calm and free. The private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. Unless we can so enlarge our interests as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleagured fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. In such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of will. In one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife.

Besides revealing unexpected possibilities, philosophy has another value, perhaps its greatest. Philosophy considers vast and important things, and thinking about them frees us from narrow, personal aims. A person guided by instinct lives within a circle of private interests. Family and friends may fall within that circle. But the outside world matters only when it helps or hinders the desires within that circle. Such a life feels restless and confined compared with the calm and freedom of a philosophical life. The private world of instinctive interests is small, surrounded by a vast and powerful world. Sooner or later, that larger world must destroy our private world. Unless we can broaden our interests to include the whole outside world, we remain like soldiers in a besieged fortress. We know that the enemy blocks our escape and that we must eventually surrender. Such a life offers no peace, only a constant struggle between insistent desires and a powerless will. In one way or another, if our lives are to be great and free, we must escape this prison and struggle.

One way of escape is by philosophic contemplation. Philosophic contemplation does not, in its widest survey, divide the universe into two hostile camps—friends and foes, helpful and hostile, good and bad—it views the whole impartially. Philosophic contemplation, when it is unalloyed, does not aim at proving that the rest of the universe is akin to man. All acquisition of knowledge is an enlargement of the Self, but this enlargement is best attained when it is not directly sought. It is obtained when the desire for knowledge is alone operative, by a study which does not wish in advance that its objects should have this or that character, but adapts the Self to the characters which it finds in its objects. This enlargement of Self is not obtained when, taking the Self as it is, we try to show that the world is so similar to this Self that knowledge of it is possible without any admission of what seems alien. The desire to prove this is a form of self-assertion and, like all self-assertion, it is an obstacle to the growth of Self which it desires, and of which the Self knows that it is capable. Self-assertion, in philosophic speculation as elsewhere, views the world as a means to its own ends; thus it makes the world of less account than Self, and the Self sets bounds to the greatness of its goods. In contemplation, on the contrary, we start from the not-Self, and through its greatness the boundaries of Self are enlarged; through the infinity of the universe the mind which contemplates it achieves some share in infinity.

One way to escape is through philosophical contemplation. At its broadest, philosophical contemplation does not divide the universe into two hostile camps: friends and enemies, helpful and harmful, good and bad. Instead, it views the whole impartially. In its pure form, philosophical contemplation does not aim to prove that the rest of the universe resembles humanity. All knowledge we gain expands the Self, but this expansion is best achieved when we do not seek it directly. It comes when the desire for knowledge alone guides our study. Such study does not demand in advance that its subjects have particular qualities. Instead, it adapts the Self to the qualities it discovers in those subjects. We do not expand the Self by taking it as it is and trying to prove the world resembles it. That approach tries to make knowledge possible without accepting anything that seems alien to the Self. The desire to prove this resemblance is a form of self-assertion. Like all self-assertion, it blocks the very growth the Self desires and knows it can achieve. In philosophical thinking, as elsewhere, self-assertion treats the world as a means to its own ends. Self-assertion therefore makes the world less important than the Self, and the Self limits the greatness of what it can gain. In contemplation, by contrast, we begin with what is not the Self. The greatness of what lies beyond the Self expands the Self's boundaries. Through the universe's infinity, the mind contemplating the universe gains some share in infinity.

For this reason greatness of soul is not fostered by those philosophies which assimilate the universe to Man. Knowledge is a form of union of Self and not-Self; like all union, it is impaired by dominion, and therefore by any attempt to force the universe into conformity with what we find in ourselves. There is a widespread philosophical tendency towards the view which tells us that Man is the measure of all things, that truth is man-made, that space and time and the world of universals are properties of the mind, and that, if there be anything not created by the mind, it is unknowable and of no account for us. This view, if our previous discussions were correct, is untrue; but in addition to being untrue, it has the effect of robbing philosophic contemplation of all that gives it value, since it fetters contemplation to Self. What it calls knowledge is not a union with the not-Self, but a set of prejudices, habits, and desires, making an impenetrable veil between us and the world beyond. The man who finds pleasure in such a theory of knowledge is like the man who never leaves the domestic circle for fear his word might not be law.

For this reason, philosophies that make the universe resemble Man do not encourage greatness of soul. Knowledge is a form of union between the Self and what is outside the Self. Like all union, this union is weakened by domination. So any attempt to force the universe to fit what we find within ourselves weakens that union. A widespread tendency in philosophy holds that Man is the measure of all things and that truth is human-made. This view also holds that space, time, and the world of universals are properties of the mind. According to this view, if anything exists that the mind did not create, we cannot know it. Nor does anything outside the mind's creation matter to us. If our earlier discussions were correct, this view is false. But beyond being false, this view strips philosophical contemplation of everything that makes it valuable. It does so by confining contemplation to the Self. What this view calls knowledge is not a union with what is outside the Self. Instead, it is a set of prejudices, habits, and desires that form an impenetrable barrier between us and the world beyond. A person who enjoys such a theory of knowledge is like someone who never leaves the family circle. Both fear that outside that circle, their word might not be law.

The true philosophic contemplation, on the contrary, finds its satisfaction in every enlargement of the not-Self, in everything that magnifies the objects contemplated, and thereby the subject contemplating. Everything, in contemplation, that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest, or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. By thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, in the sole and exclusive desire of knowledge—knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain. Hence also the free intellect will value more the abstract and universal knowledge into which the accidents of private history do not enter, than the knowledge brought by the senses, and dependent, as such knowledge must be, upon an exclusive and personal point of view and a body whose sense-organs distort as much as they reveal.

True philosophical contemplation, by contrast, finds satisfaction in every expansion of what lies outside the self. It welcomes everything that enlarges the objects of contemplation and, through them, the mind contemplating them. In contemplation, everything personal or private distorts the object, as does everything shaped by habit, self-interest, or desire. These distortions therefore weaken the union that the intellect seeks. By creating a barrier between the contemplating mind and its object, these personal and private concerns imprison the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears. It will be free from the constraints of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices. It will view things calmly and without bias, seeking knowledge alone. This knowledge will be as impersonal and as purely contemplative as human beings can attain. For this reason, the free intellect will also place greater value on abstract and universal knowledge. Such knowledge is untouched by the chance circumstances of personal history. The free intellect will value it more than knowledge gained through the senses. Sensory knowledge must depend on a limited, personal viewpoint and a body whose sense organs distort as much as they reveal.

The mind which has become accustomed to the freedom and impartiality of philosophic contemplation will preserve something of the same freedom and impartiality in the world of action and emotion. It will view its purposes and desires as parts of the whole, with the absence of insistence that results from seeing them as infinitesimal fragments in a world of which all the rest is unaffected by any one man's deeds. The impartiality which, in contemplation, is the unalloyed desire for truth, is the very same quality of mind which, in action, is justice, and in emotion is that universal love which can be given to all, and not only to those who are judged useful or admirable. Thus contemplation enlarges not only the objects of our thoughts, but also the objects of our actions and our affections: it makes us citizens of the universe, not only of one walled city at war with all the rest. In this citizenship of the universe consists man's true freedom, and his liberation from the thraldom of narrow hopes and fears.

A mind accustomed to the freedom and impartiality of philosophical reflection will keep some of both in action and emotion. Such a mind will see its aims and desires as parts of the whole, without insisting on their importance. This restraint comes from seeing those aims and desires as tiny fragments of the world. All the rest of the world remains unaffected by any one person's actions. In reflection, impartiality is the pure desire for truth. In action, the same quality of mind is justice. In emotion, it is universal love, offered to all, not just to those considered useful or admirable. So reflection broadens not only what we think about, but also what we act for and care about. It makes us citizens of the universe, not just of one walled city at war with all the others. Our true freedom lies in this citizenship of the universe, which frees us from enslavement to narrow hopes and fears.

Thus, to sum up our discussion of the value of philosophy; Philosophy is to be studied, not for the sake of any definite answers to its questions, since no definite answers can, as a rule, be known to be true, but rather for the sake of the questions themselves; because these questions enlarge our conception of what is possible, enrich our intellectual imagination and diminish the dogmatic assurance which closes the mind against speculation; but above all because, through the greatness of the universe which philosophy contemplates, the mind also is rendered great, and becomes capable of that union with the universe which constitutes its highest good.

To sum up our discussion of philosophy’s value, we should study philosophy not for definite answers to its questions. As a rule, no definite answers can be known to be true. Instead, we should study philosophy for the questions themselves. These questions broaden our sense of what is possible and enrich our intellectual imagination. They also weaken the rigid certainty that closes our minds to speculation. But above all, contemplating the greatness of the universe through philosophy makes the mind great as well. The mind then becomes capable of unity with the universe, and this unity is the mind’s highest good.