Wiker drives home his thesis with  the over reaching pseudo science of Darwin, Freud and Sanger and then clinches his case with the social science frauds of Margret Mead, Alfred Kinsey, and Betty Friedan. Dr. Wiker argues that each of these malignant books screwed up the world because they essentially denied the reality of human sin that is inherent to the human condition. This was cleverly achieved by these sophists by replacing the Biblical myth of Eden with either their own primitive Eden myth from which we are striving to return or some future humanistic utopia toward which we are progressing often by any means necessary. Wiker estimates that in total these amoral philosophies as expounded in these infernal books have led to the demise of hundreds of millions of innocent people. Very bad books indeed! However, Wiker believes that the best defense against the pernicious ideas expoused in these books is not to ban them but rather to expose them to the critical light of reason to show them for what they truly are: evil in both word and deed.

Nietzsche’s theory states that, “A living thing seeks above all to discharge its strength — life itself is will to power; self-preservation is only one of the indirect and most frequent results” (Beyond Good and Evil, Part I, XIII). Macbeth stands as a testament to this very idea. Macbeth’s motive for his usurpation of King Duncan was that of ambition. Ambition is of course the drive to be successful or to dominate. Macbeth seeks to dominate and control the people of Scotland by increasing his position in society. Therefore, by becoming king and thus gaining the means to exert his will over the people, he becomes an example of “the will to power”. However, Macbeth is not content with just having the means to control the Scottish people. Macbeth wants to have complete control over his world so that nothing can have power over him. He begins exterminating everyone who knew about the prophecies which spurred on his assassination of King Duncan. Then, after he has slain all those who were threats to his innocence, he begins seeking out those who are suspicious of him or appear treacherous. These actions could be seen as an antithesis to Nietzsche’s idea of “the will to power”, since self-preservation appears to be the cardinal instinct in Macbeth’s actions. However, Macbeth is not acting to save his life or defend it even; he acts because of his inborn need to exert his power over others. Had Macbeth not been killed by Macduff later on in the play, Macbeth would no doubt have tried to expand his empire into neighboring England and then to other countries as well. Nietzsche’s theory accurately describe Macbeth’s apparent madness. What appears to be insanity is actually nothing more than “the will to power”.

The Thane of Fife, Macduff, is s stark contrast to Nietzsche’s “will to power”. In Macbeth, Macduff is seen as the selfless savior of Scotland. He sacrifices his own family in an attempt to bring aid to Scotland and usurp the horrible Macbeth. This behavior is known as altruism, a term first coined by Auguste Comte. Comte believed that “We are born under a load of obligations of every kind, to our predecessors, to our successors, to our contemporaries. After our birth these obligations increase or accumulate, for it is some time before we can return any service.... This ["to live for others"], the definitive formula of human morality, gives a direct sanction exclusively to our instincts of benevolence, the common source of happiness and duty. [Man must serve] Humanity, who we are entirely.” Altruism is based off of the principle that people have a moral obligation to help others to improve the quality of the world. Good acts that are committed with the goal of some personal achievement in mind are not considered altruistic, and Macduff acts only with selflessness. There could be dissent from critics that after Macduff’s family was murdered by Macbeth, Macduff became vengeful and therefore was no longer acting for the good of others, but rather for personal satisfaction. However, Macduff was not consumed with thoughts of revenge. He was only concerned with the well being of his country and his fellow countrymen. It should be noted that Macduff snuck into England to try to get military support from King Duncan’s outcast son Malcolm. The murder of his family occurred after Macduff had already reached England and spoke with Malcolm, so Macduff was already acting out of selflessness. Macduff’s willingness to help others and serve his country is shown when he responds to Malcolm in Act IV. Malcolm tells lies to Macduff concerning his ability to lead Scotland and to take the throne from Macbeth. Macduff cries out in desperation, “Fit to govern! / No, not to live. O nation miserable, / With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, / When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, / Since that the truest issue of thy throne/ By his own interdiction stands accursed, / And does blaspheme his breed” (Act IV, Scene III). Macduff’s passion for his country proved not only to Malcolm, but also to the readers that Macduff was a selfless soldier who truly wanted to change Scotland for the better which coincides with the altruistic beliefs.

These two theories, “the will to power” representing selfishness and altruism representing selflessness, are antitheses to one another. Shakespeare set these two characters’ attributes so opposite to one another for one simple purpose. He wanted dramatic emphasis to be placed on Macbeth’s wickedness. With Macbeth’s atrocious crimes being committed solely for the purpose of his own self-interest, Macbeth appears to be the most wicked soul ever to rule. None of his crimes benefit anyone else in the slightest. When you pit a character of such self-indulgence against Macduff, a righteous soldier fighting for the good of his country, Macbeth is put in an even more wicked light. Shakespeare intended to make Macbeth out to be the worst villain of all literary history in this work. By having Macduff exist as a foil to Macbeth, it only doubles the power of Shakespeare’s vilification of Macbeth.

Although “the will to power” and the idea of altruism were not around during Shakespeare’s day, it does not mean that they did not exist. These theories were conceived centuries later but have existed since the dawn of man. Shakespeare picked up on these inborn human qualities and used them in his work Macbeth to help convey his intent.

In the poem "the road not taken" Plato's ideas about human nature fits in with the difficulty the narrator faces in choosing which path to go down. He seems to experience an internal conflict between the different desires of his soul. He desired to go down the path which was "grassy and wanted wear" even though the other path was "just as fair" showing his reason in choosing which path to stick to. There are also some Platonic ideas that fit in with Larkin's poem "this be the verse". You can ask yourself what makes Larkin create such a rebellious poem. You could associate it with his human nature which he would have derived from his soul in an earlier life or you could blame it on his nurture, blaming his upbringing as the reason why he has written such a poem. If you like Plato are a dualist then you could blame his behaviour to his soul. However although the previous idea may fit in with the poem, Larkin contradicts Plato's ideas of humans being "social creatures". Larkin in the poem refuses help from his parents and encourages you not to have children. This goes against Plato's idea of humans being social as Larkin opposes cooperation with your parents and reproduction.

Hobbes analyses human nature in a rather negative and unflattering way. He basically says that our nature is to only think of ourselves, saying that we are egotists. Some of Hobbes' ideas also fit into both poems. In the poem "the road not taken" Frost describes how he took one path over the other as it had a "better claim because it was grassy and wanted wear". This shows how Frost judged the paths on their appearance, eventually going down the nicer looking path because of its attractive resources, much like what Hobbes discusses in the quest for felicity. This decision over two paths also fits in with his ideas of two sorts of rationality, as Frost rationally chooses to go down the path less trodden as if to even out the difference between the ruggedness of the paths. However if all the people chose the same path as he had that path would become much more worn than the other. Hobbes' ideas also fit in with Larkin's poem "this be the verse". Larkin seems to write the poem egotistically as if he is only looking for self preservation. Larkin also seems to want to acquire felicity as he uses strong language and bold statements to try and show his power over the readers as if he is trying to gain felicity, much like Hobbes emphasised how humans were in a constant quest for felicity.

Rousseau on the other hand thought Hobbes was wrong about human nature, agreeing that the primary motivation was self-preservation but added that this was not everything about being human. Hobbes agrees with the notion of living more "in harmony with nature". This can be seen in "the road not taken" poem as Frost, when choosing the paths, respects the nature of the paths and chose the path which "wanted wear" as if he is working with nature. Also later on in the poem he tells us how he took the path less travelled by and "that has made all the difference" which sounds like the idea of self-improvement. Like Rousseau suggests that one human drive is self-improvement, Frost ended up being pleased that he chose the path less trodden as if he had gained life experience. Some of Rousseau's ideas are also shown in Larkin's poem "this be the verse". Larkin displays his innovative ideas on how you should forget family life as it "fucks you up" and that you should not have any kids yourself. This advice that he is offering us shows us that he is trying to not just improve himself but also improving humanity as a whole with his strange innovations. Even if the innovations are pretty odd he still displays advice on how you should live your life, showing that he is trying to improve humanity.

Both poets show ideas that are similar to Hobbes in the way that they both demonstrate ideas that could be associated with the quest for felicity. In the poem "the road not taken" Frost talks about how he chose one path over the other, showing his prejudice for not choosing the other because it did not have green grass. This could be seen as selfish as he was merely concerned with choosing the path which he preferred. This same selfishness, associated with the egotistic ideas of Hobbes, can be seen in the poem "this be the verse" by Larkin. Larkin displays his thoughts on how parents "fuck you up" and how the concept of being with your parents or family messes you up. This shows a concern for only himself as he does not think about how his parents might feel, which could mean that he is selfish. However the poem by Frost does give reasons for his choice whereas Larkin only states that you should avoid family life without giving sufficient reason.

Some of the ideas of Plato, Hobbes and Rousseau fit in well with the poems on their ideas about human nature. However the poems also give their own views on the "human condition" as well. Larkin's poem seems to have the ideas of the quest of felicity which Hobbes was associated with and Frost's poem can be associated well with the works of Plato with the desires of the soul in choosing the right path. Between the two poems the ideas of the human condition contrasted a lot with each other, with hardly any similarities between the two poems. However you can interpret them to adapt to Hobbes idea on the quest for felicity which both poems seem to display ideas about.

• Plato: Essential Dialogues of Plato; Plato's Republic
• Aristotle: The Nicomachean Ethics; The Metaphysics; The Politics; The Four Causes
• Epicurus: To Menoecus
• Marcus Aurelius: Meditations
• Confucius: Analects
• Plotinus: The Enneads
• St. Augustine: Confessions; On the Teacher; On the Trinity; On Free Will
• St. Anselm: The Monologion; Proslogion; Curs De Homo
• St. Thomas Aquinas: Summa Theologica
• Machiavelli: The Prince; The Discourses
• Michel de Montaigne: Essays
• Francis Bacon: Colors of Good and Evil; Sacred Meditations; Confession of Faith; History of Life and Death; Things Thought and Things Seen
• Descartes: The Meditations; Discourse on Method
• Thomas Hobbes: Leviathan
• Blaise Pascal: The Pensees, Discourse on the Passion of Love, Lettres Provinciales
• Baruch de Spinoza: Metaphysical Thoughts; Ethics; Short Treatise on God, Man and His Well Being
• John Locke: Two Treatises on Government; Essay Concerning the Human Understanding; The Reasonableness of Christianity
• Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Discourse on Metaphysics; Monadology; Theodicy
• George Berkeley: A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge; Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonus
• David Hume: A Treatise on Human Nature; The Enquiries
• Voltaire: Candide; Zadig
• Jean-Jacques Rousseau: The Social Contract; Emile
• Immanuel Kant: Critique of Pure Reason; Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals
• George Hegel: Phenomenology of Spirit; The Philosophy of Right
• Adam Smith: The Wealth of Nations; The Theory of Moral Sentiments
• Jonathan Edwards: Freedom of the Will; Religious Affections
• Thomas Paine: Common Sense; Rights of Man; The Age of Reason
• Arthur Schopenhauer: The World as Will and Representation
• John Stuart Mill: On Liberty; Utilitarianism
• Auguste Comte: The Positive Philosophy of August Comte
• Ralph Waldo Emerson: Essays
• Charles Darwin: On the Origin of Species; The Descent of Man
• Karl Marx: The Communist Manifesto; Capital
• Sigmund Freud: Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality; The Ego and the Id; Civilization and Its Discontents
• Soren Kierkegaard: The Journals of Kierkegaard; Fear and Trembling; The Sickness unto Death
• Friedrich Nietzche: Thus Spoke Zarathustra; Beyond Good and Evil; The Will to Power
• William James: Pragmatism; A Pluralistic Universe; The Meaning of Truth
• George Santayana: The Sense of Beauty; The Life of Reason;
• Bertrand Russell: Problems of Philosophy; History of Western Philosophy; Essays
• Ludwig Wittgenstein: Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus; Philosophical Investigations
• Martin Heidegger: Being and Time
• CS Lewis: Mere Christianity
• Jean-Paul Sartre: Being and Nothingness
• Hans-Georg Gadamer: Truth and Method

Prior to reading The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, I was interested in it because of the existential elements expressed in the novella. From the first page on I took notice of Gregor’s depression, lack of self-awareness and uncertainty in himself. His negative attitude toward himself is illustrated from before his transformation, specifically as he deems himself to be an inconvenience to his family. Instead of asking why this happens to him, he simply accepts his fate, but instead of facing it head on, he scuttles away under a couch. Even though Gregor expresses no personal ambition throughout his life, one should consider what they would do if they woke up to find themselves “changed into a monstrous vermin”. Can one really be sure of what they would do in this particular situation?

Of course, Gregor’s physical state parallels to his mental state. He believes himself to be repulsive and this is what he turns into. Instead of choosing his own individual actions and acting on his personal ambitions, he chooses to work of his family debt. Although one can consider this act admirable, in Gregor’s particular situation it is seen as cowardice. One cannot resist the urge to feel sympathy for poor Gregor, left to die by his family, the people who are supposed to love unconditionally. Instead his family leaves him to die, forgets him and survives perfectly well without his support. As he breathes his last breath, he does so unwillingly, “without his consent”, as he has done things all his life. Gregor’s downfall is his lack of self and his inability to make decisions. The belief that his family is dependant on him even though they are more than all right without him also plays heavily on Gregor’s lack of action, as this can be interpreted as an excuse not to leave the vicinity of his family and start his own life. Gregor’s actions, or lack thereof, are his own and he is responsible for his state, but one ultimately sympathizes with him and rejects the harsh treatment his family inflicts on him instead of commending their ability to be mutable and adjust to the absence of Gregor.

Flew is a philosopher, and has been for around fifty years. His father was a Methodist minister, but Flew lost his faith in his teens, and never returned to it. What he didn't lose was his sense of integrity, and his determination to follow an argument through to its logical conclusion - even if it meant giving up long-held beliefs. Flew has been debating with God-believers for two or three decades, but it's not his sole reason for existence. He's a philosopher in the best sense in that he thinks about big questions in all sorts of fields.

In the book he explains in some detail how he came to the conclusion that there is a God, and then sets out his arguments clearly. It's the clarity of this book (which could have been philosophically dense) that makes it so good. I'm no philosopher, but overall I found I could understand the arguments almost entirely. (A few points slipped past me, but that's fine - sometimes philosophers don't even understand each other.)

The book is written in conjunction with Roy Abraham Varghese, an Indian-born philosopher who has written a number of books on the interface between science and God. Varghese contributes a clear and substantial introduction to the book, as well as a critical appraisal of Dawkins and four other popular atheists in one of the appendices. The other appendix is by N T Wright, the English Anglican scholar and writer, who looks at the evidence for the Resurrection.

Apart from enjoying the sense of generosity Flew brings to the book, it was an eye-opener for me to see that philosophy doesn't just exist in two opposing camps, the way Dawkins and others might lead us to conclude. The philosophers mentioned in the book may vary hugely in their understandings, but for the most part they're men who are willing to put aside their own biases, and think through issues at the deepest levels.

I haven't been so excited by a book in a long time.

River of Fire requires deeper reflection. Dr. Taitetsu Unno introduces us to the most popular form of Buddhism in Japan providing spiritual insight. Unno does not only discuss in detail the Shin Buddhist doctrine but also relates his own experience and the changes that took place in his while practicing Shin Buddhism for decades. The book is partly autobiographical. The main theme though does not revolve around his life.

Shin Buddhism serves to enrich the increasing practice of Buddhism in the United States, which was already introduced to other forms such as the Zen and Tibetan traditions. River of Fire, River of Water is the first introduction to the practice of Pure Land Buddhism from a trade publisher and is intended for readers even those without prior knowledge about it.

The Pure Land tradition went as far back as the sixth century c.e., when Buddhism was first established in Japan. Unlike Zen where is practiced mostly by monasteries in remote areas, the Pure Land tradition was the form of Buddhism practiced by ordinary people. It is applicable on the daily life of a person. This makes the Pure Land tradition more adaptable to those who seek the Buddhist way. The method may differ but the end goal is similar to the others which is the development of the true self.

Shin Buddhism has been the widespread Buddhist faith of Japan. Its practice is mainly contained within the Japanese communities in the United States which somehow limits its growth to other groups. Books such as this will provide necessary information that will make Shin Buddhism easily understood and attractive to people.

Shin Buddhism requires the practice of conscience and faith. It does not encourage compulsion. Simple faith and conscience are the most important requirement to be able to attain enlightenment not strict discipline and morality.

River of Fire, River of Water is both an "easy read" and a reference work. Chapter 6, “Nembutsu: The Name-that-Calls" gets to the heart of Shin Buddhism. One quote that stuck is :

"Philosophically speaking, the nembutsu is the self-articulation of fundamental reality. As such, the saying of the Name contains the alpha and omega of the Buddhist soteriological path."

Faith in Amida Buddha simply means uttering the name of Amida Buddha, or the Nembutsu - "Namu Amida Butsu." It is not an automatic chant but celebrates deep faith to Amida Buddha's promise to save all troubled beings who request for help.

Unno uses a variety of angles in Shin Buddhism to communicate the simple doctrine behind a difficult to understand faith. He describes what the practice is like:

"The person who chooses the Shin path devotes hours, days, and years to the interior practice of deep hearing.... This initial stage of deep hearing is like mastering the theory. But this must be followed by the saying of nembutsu, the practice equivalent to mastering technique in dance. After that everything must be forgotten and the person must "just live," but now live with awareness, sensitivity, and grace."

This book can be used as an introduction to a deeper study into the fundamentals and history of Shin Buddhism. Or, it can provide enlightenment to a person who seeks it and wants to experience this great faith. It depends on the reader but whatever options he or she chooses will work.

River of Fire, River of Water is a wonderful elucidation on Shin Buddhism and the tranquil life of faith in Amida Buddha. The fact that it is published by a major publisher, Doubleday, gives the book the prominence it deserves. Hopefully, it touches many lives as it preaches the constructive and life-affirming path of Shin Buddhism, the natural way to enlightenment.

Descartes bases the logic of his claim on Leibniz's Law of the Identity of Indiscernibles, which he implicitly accepts as a necessary truth: for all X and Y, if X and Y are to be identical, it follows that any property of X is also a property of Y. Descartes appeals to this law, searching for differences in the properties of X and Y (in this case, the mind and the body) as proof for their distinctness from one another. The difference he finds, however, is in his own perception of the mind and body: he doubts one's existence, and cannot doubt the other's. This apparent difference between the mind and body is in fact not necessarily a difference inherent in either, but instead simply a gap in Descartes' perception of the two. In the same way that the planet Venus, once believed to be two different stars, is (as we now know) still the same entity, we cannot judge two objects to be identical or not identical based merely on our perceptions of them. It seems clear, then, that Descartes' reliance upon the logic of the Identity of Indiscernibles was not a sound one.

Just as easily, however, we can defend Descartes' application of Leibniz's Law for this specific case, because of the nature of his claim. In the example of the planet Venus, it was clearly separated from the thoughts and perceptions of those observing it; the mere thoughts of people on Earth are, most rational people would argue, not sufficient causation for the cloning of planets! This distinction disappears, however, when Descartes refers to his own mind. In doing this, he is of course using a psychological factor as justification for his belief, but the fact that this psychological factor is also the entity to which he refers serves to give his claim a certain element of authority that humans lacked when labelling the planet Venus. Descartes' choice of logic, therefore, may not be as inapplicable as critics claim.

Applicability of logic aside, however, the very premises of Descartes' argument are even more open to debate. This becomes apparent when we examine his arguments for giving the understanding priority over the senses and imagination. After observing a piece of wax melt in his hand, he concludes that the mind's knowledge of the wax is not based on any “physical sensation or imagination”, but instead on “understanding alone” [Descartes, 121]. He bases this assertion on the fact that, when moved closer to the fire, the wax's physical properties change: he lists smell, colour, shape, size, physical state, hardness, and temperature [Descartes, 120]. Descartes then generalises this case, stating that “what I have said about the wax applies to everything else that is outside me” [Descartes, 121]. From this leap, he draws the conclusion that he knows nothing through sensation or imagination, but instead through understanding alone, and decides that one cannot know anything “more easily or more plainly than [one's] mind” [Descartes, 121]. It is difficult to accept Descartes' generalisation in light of the fact that he gives no evidence for why this must be the case.

If we do accept his generalisation and its concomitant conclusions, we are led to extremely unpalatable results. If one is not to trust one's senses or imagination in any way, one cannot ascribe any validity at all to the understanding of physical objects, since this understanding itself must come from either sensation or imagination of what is then turned into mental images. When Descartes decides to reject all he knows through sensation and imagination, he invalidates his claim to any understanding at all about the object in question, and, in doing so, cannot be taken seriously when he claims that his understanding is accurate in any way. One simply cannot know even one's own mind if one rejects every sensation and imagination one experiences. Thus, following this line of argument, everything Descartes writes beyond the thought popularly expressed as I think therefore I am [Descartes, 118] becomes mere speculation.

By rejecting all but the understanding, Descartes rejects the grounds for understanding itself; his argument is self-defeating. We need not follow this apparently paradoxical line of thought, however, because it is based on the premise that we cannot trust our senses, a premise that Descartes never shows to be true with respect to his elusive wax. While many of the physical properties of wax change as it melts, it must be said that it stays in the same place. Our senses do not, therefore, deceive us completely: we see nothing materialise and take the place of the wax. Since this physical property stays constant, we no longer have to believe that the object exists as a consistent entity in our understanding alone. There is nothing about the melting of wax that we cannot easily comprehend; we require, therefore, no act of complex thought to recognise that it remains the same entity. For other, more commonplace objects, it is even harder to find grounds for mistrusting the senses. (This remains uncontroversial until we reach the Quantum level, where Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle throws doubt on almost everything we can know about position and movement. However, much like with Relativity, Descartes would not have been aware of these phenomena that we observe today so it cannot be included in his original argument!) Our senses cannot be rejected on these grounds.

Similarly, the mere possibility that we can understand something cannot guarantee that it always exists in reality. When Descartes writes that “physical objects are grasped in terms of being understandable (rather than being tangible or visible)” [Descartes, 121], he makes no argument that impossible objects do not exist. It follows, then, since one can understand a perfect square, where each of the four sides is of equal length and at right angles to the other two sides it touches, that this "perfect square" actually exists. This is clearly not what Descartes argues for, however, and is merely another unhelpful by-product of his claim that the understanding by itself is more important for holding knowledge than the senses or the imagination.

We have good reason to reject the understanding as a sole source of knowledge, and have been provided no airtight reason for rejection of the senses or imagination. Descartes does not have a leg to stand on, then, when he incorporates these results into his argument for the separation of mind and body: the mind, it seems, clearly can be doubted if one chooses to reject its inputs, namely, sensation and imagination. Since the first premise of Descartes' argument for the separation of mind and body is invalid, we cannot accept its conclusion. In addition, Descartes' use of Leibniz's Law of the Identity of Indiscernibles is openly debatable. For these reasons, Dualism, as it has been argued for in Meditations on First Philosophy, cannot under any circumstances be adequately supported.

 

 

This Cartesian individualism, however, is less striking than it initially seems: Descartes' departure from the medieval mindset of his predecessors is incomplete, causing deeply entrenched concepts to doggedly interfere with the effectiveness of his philosophy as a tool for knowledge. Furthermore, even if his philosophical method were applied entirely without prejudice, considerable doubt arises as to whether it can lead to any useful conclusion.

Appealing to the logical claim that something must be true if it cannot be doubted, Descartes opens his essay by systematically suspending his belief in anything even remotely susceptible to doubt “just as though I have found it to be entirely false.”  By asserting that all of his previous knowledge had come “either from the senses or through the senses”,Descartes' doubt of the senses represents a fundamental rejection of all knowledge he had acquired thus far.

Bringing into play a hypothetical “evil demon”, Descartes even finds grounds for rejecting basic mathematical knowledge as necessary truth. His eventual arrival at the statement “I am, I exist, [which cannot be doubted whenever] I state or mentally consider it”, a profoundly anti-authoritarian declaration, thus neatly distinguishes this individualistic assertion from all previous doubtable beliefs in an appeal to nothing but his own thoughts and existence.

At the heart of Descartes' philosophy is his effort to derive, from this inherently individualistic premise, an unshakable set of true beliefs. Compared to the questionable foundations of theological knowledge based intrinsically on appeals to authority, Descartes' thinking is undoubtedly ground-breaking. Indeed, it might seem that the proper application of this method is a sure-fire path to veritable knowledge: if something were derived from a proposition that cannot be doubted, the argument goes, how could it not be true? However, careful consideration reveals many of Descartes' arguments themselves to be anything but proper; in fact, it seems suspiciously as though Descartes himself appeals to authority to solve his more tricky problems.

A prime example is found in Descartes' Wax Argument, which he needs in order to establish that the mental images he experiences are not from the senses and can therefore be trusted. After observing a piece of wax melt in his hand, he concludes that the mind's knowledge of the wax is not based on any “physical sensation or imagination”, but instead on “understanding alone.” He bases this assertion on the fact that, when moved closer to the fire, the wax's physical properties change: he lists smell, colour, shape, size, physical state, hardness, and temperature. Descartes then generalises this case, stating that “what I have said about the wax applies to everything else that is outside me”.

From this mammoth leap, he then draws the extreme conclusion that he knows nothing through sensation or imagination, but instead through understanding alone, and decides that one cannot know anything “more easily or more plainly than [one's] mind”. It is understandable how this theory, closely mimicking Plato's forms, might seem obviously true to Descartes. However, without this implicit appeal to Plato - a dominant authority in the subject - it is difficult to accept this generalization in light of the fact that Descartes gives no real justification for why this must be the case. In fact, with this poorly hidden appeal, Descartes contradicts the very anti-authoritarian principles he established in Meditations I.

Descartes' explicit appeal to authority is even more problem-ridden. Unable to satisfy his problems of knowledge internally, he instead introduces a Christian God to his philosophy (using a host of dubious arguments that are not included in the scope of this essay) in order to solve this problem for him. Descartes writes that the “only reason for thinking that I ought to doubt these things was the thought that my God-given nature might deceive me.”

Then Descartes knocks down his own straw man, asserting that “it is obvious that He can't deceive, for the natural light reveals that fraud and deception arise from defect [which God, a perfect being, could not have].” It is worrying for a modern atheist reader to note that Descartes is left essentially dead in the water without God, that he can find no reason other than God's apparent benevolence to establish his set of true beliefs.

In fact, herein lies one of the most serious flaws with Cartesian Skepticism as a path to knowledge: by casting everything but thought itself into doubt, Descartes robs himself of any conventional tools to get back out of the mud of extreme skepticism, and is forced to rely on a multitude of complex and vulnerable arguments, each of which hinges on the next such that one flaw could conceivably bring down all the assertions that follow it.

Even Descartes' very first assertion, that his thought implies the existence of “a thing that thinks”, can be hotly contested: though admittedly difficult to comprehend, it does not seem inherently impossible that thoughts could exist outside of the form of a “thing”, nor indeed that these thoughts must necessarily be linked or inter-dependent in any way at all. From its very conception, Descartes' argument from the cogito is a minefield of widely doubted concepts.

Compared with other ways of knowing, the weaknesses of Descartes' individualistic philosophy become even more apparent. A more modern scientific approach toward acquiring knowledge, for example, would make use of existing theories - of authorities, so to speak - and build upon them, conducting tests by means of acquiring empirical evidence to either support or cast doubt on a certain body of knowledge. This much more liberal use of the word "knowledge", meaning in this case that which is postulated, supported, and yet to be disproved, allows for limitless candidates to be introduced as tools for knowledge, the very thing that Descartes' skepticism could never do.

If, whenever new knowledge is attained, it supports the relevant theory, then the very acquisition of knowledge leads to the strengthening of the solid foundations of knowledge; conversely, if this new knowledge disproves the theory, the faulty foundations are identified and replaced. Faced with a self-sustaining system such as this, Descartes' philosophy is, at best, an unwieldy tool.

Furthermore, Otto Neurath would argue that Descartes' scheme of dismantling each and every foundation of knowledge to start anew from one basic principle is fundamentally flawed; knowledge might just as easily be viewed not as a house, but as a ship at sea which may only be gradually reconstructed. It is impossible by this analogy to cast into doubt everything we know because our belief set could never be rebuilt, just as Descartes' philosophy fails to convince a modern reader of much if anything beyond the assertion “I am, I exist”. Though Descartes might rightly argue that this purely scientific mode of inquiry could never lead to absolute certainty, it is certainly unclear whether Descartes' extreme anti-authoritarian philosophy - even if applied in an incontestably acceptable manner - could do any better.

Descartes' departure from an authoritarian-based knowledge system is admirable, but far from complete. Appealing to authority in both his wax argument and his argument from the benevolence of God, Descartes sheds the individualism of his approach and appeals to authority once again. Wildly successful in rejecting almost all grounds for knowledge, he is consequently unable to persuasively re-establish much, if any, of it at all. Cartesian skepticism fails, therefore, from a purely practical standpoint, and although one might easily argue that philosophy itself is inherently impractical, Descartes' individualistic system of belief is nevertheless trumped by the empirical scientific method.

 

Part I

Central to Bertrand Russell's Theory of Descriptions, and to his treatment of language in general, is the concept of a "denoting phrase". From the examples he gives in the opening paragraph of On Denoting, Russell's denoting phrase appears indistinguishable from what linguists and philosophers before him would have termed the "subject" of a sentence or expression. Phrases such as “any man,” “every man,” “all men,” “the present King of England,” or “the center of mass of the solar system at the first instant of the twentieth century” may all be followed by a quantifier of some sort in order to satisfy the traditional subject-predicate arrangement of a typical sentence or expression.

Possibilities abound: “any man may attend the conference;” “every man is mortal;” “all men have minds;” “the present King of England has not a hair on his head;” “the center of mass of the solar system at the first instant of the twentieth century was a location entirely unknown to scientists on Earth.” With such widespread applications for its use, the denoting phrase is thus an integral part of language as Russell sees it.

For Russell, a phrase is denoting “solely in virtue of its form,” as opposed to being denoting in virtue of any empirical truth. Consequently, a phrase which does not properly correspond to any fact about the world - a phrase which Russell stipulates does not denote anything - can still be a denoting phrase. To the 2007 audience of this paper, “the present King of England” is such a phrase; today, England's monarch is, of course, female. For Russell, a denoting phrase need not be unsubstantiated in empirical truth, however.

In 1905, when he published On Denoting, there was indeed a present King of England. To Russell in 1905, this denoting phrase denoted a singular definite object, the man we know as Edward VII. Furthermore, a denoting phrase need not denote unambiguously. The expression, “any man may attend the conference,” does not single out any specific man. Russell's theory revolves primarily around interpreting these three types of denoting phrases: those which are denoting but do not denote anything, those which denote a singular definite object, and those which denote ambiguously.

Russell's early acknowledgment of these three different types of denoting phrases highlights a key advantage of his theory. The fact that his theory allows us to use a denoting phrase regardless of whether or not it actually denotes anything allows us to formulate a problem in ignorance of its solution. Indeed, we can still formulate a problem in ignorance of whether or not there is in fact a solution to it at all. A formerly religious person whose faith had been shaken after a terrible natural disaster might ask, “Why didn't God intervene?” Russell's treatment of the denoting phrase “God,” as we shall see, allows for this question to be meaningful in the case that there was no such entity as God.

Even in the case that this soon-to-be atheist did not know whether God existed, her question remains meaningful. Similarly, an inquisitive and demanding scientist might ask, “Where, exactly, is the center of mass of the solar system?” Russell's treatment of this denoting phrase allows the scientist to ask this question without being acquainted in any way with the location of the center of mass of the solar system. In fact, if, due to some terribly complex result of Einstein's theory of General Relativity, scientists later deduced that there was no center of mass of the solar system per se, Russell's interpretation of the denoting phrase still allows it to be meaningful. In this way, Russell's theory allows for us to use language to extend our knowledge beyond our sphere of acquaintance, even when we do not know exactly how far this sphere extends.

To a reader with sufficient philosophical inclinations, these claims might seem incredible. Certainly, Russell's statement that one could “be denoting” and yet “not denote anything”variable” as its primary element. For example, we may understand a sentence such as “all men are mortal” to mean “'If x is human, x is mortal' is always true.” Russell holds that a sentence in this new form will express the same idea held in the original sentence, but do so in way that withstands certain philosophical criticism that the original sentence cannot. appears to be a blatant contradiction in terms. When we analyse these denoting expressions from the logical framework that Russell posits, however, the contradiction vanishes. This framework breaks up the original form of a sentence and replaces it with a form that takes the “notion of the

Indeed, when we use Russell's strict logical format, the truth or falsity of a statement such as “'If x is human, x is mortal' is always true” remains unchanged even if there cease to be men in the universe at all. The sentence does not presuppose that the "x" in question is human, but instead simply lays out a stipulation that should follow if this "x" does happen to be human: "x" will be mortal. Therefore, to an empiricist like Russell, the sentence will always be true (or, in the case that there exists, has existed, or will exist an immortal man, it will always be false) even if we fail to point to a single man to justify our claim. Similarly, in the aforementioned cases denoting “God” and “the center of mass of the solar system” respectively, neither sentence carries an ontological commitment when we analyse it with Russell's formal logic. Without such an ontological commitment, we need not subscribe to Alexius Meinong's exotic view that the universe contains countless “non-existent objects” subsisting in some special realm. Indeed, to accept Russell's formalist logical interpretation of denoting phrases is to dispel the myth that a grammatical subject implies the existence of an actual subject; it is to reject the Parmenidian belief that we cannot talk about that which is not.

Part II

Despite its myriad advantages to the metaphysician and logician alike, however, Russell's treatment of denoting phrases has been subjected to more than a century of heavy criticism. Perhaps the most prominent of these attacks came in 1950 with the publication of Peter Strawson's On Referring. In his interpretation of the philosophy of language and its relationship to logic, Strawson adopts a fundamentally different approach to Russell's method. To Strawson, logic is not the essential skeleton of language and thought. He argues that Russell's logic, just like the logic of Aristotle, cannot accurately express what is contained in ordinary language, precisely because “ordinary language has no exact logic.” By Strawson's account, logic becomes an artifact, a mere abstraction without direct application to human communication.

Instead of logic as the arbiter of disputes over linguistic meaning, Strawson argues that the context of an utterance takes a primary role in its meaning. To this end, he points out that there are obvious differences between “the occasions of the use” of sentences. It is just as easy to imagine the same sentence being uttered after the French Revolution, however, when no referent exists. Of course, by itself, this is not a knock-down criticism of Russell's theory. In fact, Russell's account is able to deal with it effectively. Russell's formal interpretation, “'For all x, if x is the King of France, x is wise' is always true,” is just as true (or false) before the French Revolution as it is after.

In the post-Revolutionary era, of course, the denoting phrase fails to denote. To use Strawson's term, there is a failure of reference. Strawson makes use of one of Russell's own examples to illustrate this. It would not be difficult to imagine the sentence “The King of France is wise” being uttered before the time of the French Revolution. In this context, the sentence would clearly apply to a specific and existent person: whoever the country's male monarch happened to be at the particular time. Strawson specifies that, in this context, the sentence would in fact be used to “refer” to this particular person.

Though examples like these do not initially pose a threat to Russell's theory, Strawson's use of them allows him to focus on context and thus make a set of important distinctions, between a sentence, the use of a sentence, and a particular utterance of a sentence. To Strawson, the term sentence refers to a simple collection of words that may be used with different meanings and in different contexts, and may be uttered at different times and by different people.

He writes that “you use the expression to mention or refer to [something] in the course of using the sentence to talk about [it].” Since the same sentence may be used to make a true assertion in one context and a false assertion in another, Strawson concludes that “we cannot talk of the sentence being true or false.” Herein lays Strawson's twofold contradiction with Russell, who holds not only that a sentence must be either true or false, but also that a denoting phrase within a sentence can actually refer to an existent object.

Part III

Despite Strawson's powerful objections, it is nonetheless inadvisable to simply ignore Russell's views on denoting phrases. Taking Strawson's theory to its anti-Russellian limits - perhaps further than Strawson intended - leads to irresolvable trouble. Paul Grice's attempt in his 1957 article, Meaning, to explain the meaning of utterances in purely pragmatic terms is an excellent illustration of this problem. Briefly put, because of his total emphasis on pragmatics, Grice is forced to argue that only whole utterances have meaning.

However, it seems clear that words themselves also have meaning, contrary to Grice's view. If this were not so, then it becomes exceedingly difficult to explain how we can easily grasp the meaning of sentences we have never heard before. Surely, we do this because we understand the meaning of its constituent parts. Language must be autonomous from speakers' intentions. The value of Russell's account becomes apparent when we recall that it deals with language in this autonomous form.

Part IV

Of course, there exists an obvious counter-argument to the view that language is autonomous from speakers' intentions. Simply put, language derives its meaning, its power, and its very existence from those who use it communicate. Without intelligent beings such as humans, language would not exist. Language evolves constantly, since its speakers add new words, remove old ones, and change the meaning of yet others. Clearly, the meaning of a word is not completely autonomous from its use; a word's meaning is, in fact, dependent upon how it is used.

This counter-argument is difficult to object to, but we need not do so here. Instead, we may modify it slightly to increase its precision. Language, indeed, does not have complete autonomy from the collective intention of those who use it. It does, however, remain quite autonomous when faced with the intentions of a single user of language. If a speaker were to insist upon using terms not commonly agreed upon to get across her point, she would usually fail to communicate altogether. Thus, language retains its autonomy from each individual speaker's intentions, but is nonetheless not completely autonomous from the collective intentions of all speakers. Of course, the intentions of an individual speaker depend upon Strawsonian context, and the collective intention of all speakers defines the meaning of Russellian words and phrases. Thus, this counter-argument reaffirms what we already know: there is a definite distinction between Russell's autonomous sentences and Strawsonian non-autonomous pragmatics.

Part V

This contradiction between Russell and Strawson stems inevitably from their initial focus. For Russell, logic is the fundamental backbone of language, whereas for Strawson, the context is the key. Thus, whereas Russell's theory is designed to deal with these words and sentences themselves, Strawson's argument concerns the use of words and sentences. For Russell, words denote; for Strawson, speakers refer. In a very real sense, then, the two philosophers talk across purposes. However, though Russell and Strawson might disagree on whether the use of sentences, as opposed to sentences themselves, is the primary element of communication, the content of their two theories concerns such different aspects of language that they are not, on the whole, mutually inconsistent.

In fact, we can salvage a great deal from each theory in order to formulate a hybrid theory more powerful than either interpretation alone. In this theory, Russell's and Strawson's models are placed in separate domains. Russellian logic is used to interpret sentences by themselves, and Strawsonian context is used as the key to interpreting the use of these sentences. This highlights the important distinction between semantics and pragmatics necessary for concepts such as irony.

For example, a logical interpretation of the sentence “This essay is a pile of rubbish” would run in approximately the following way: “'For all x, if x is this essay, x is a pile of rubbish' is always true.” Of course, my use of this sentence may very well mean the opposite of what the logical interpretation suggests. This, of course, depends on the context of the utterance - such as my level of confidence, my usual patterns of speech, and perhaps the essay's actual level of quality. It is this distinction between a speaker's intentions and the isolated formal meaning of sentences - two very different domains - that allows me to make use of a device such as irony.

Furthermore, this theory allows us to ascribe truth and falsity to specific utterances of sentences by particular users and yet maintain, as Strawson does, that when void of context these same sentences have no truth value. One might judge the sentence “This essay is a pile of rubbish” to be wholly accurate in the specific case of the essay I am now writing, but it is most certainly false when applied to some other essays that have been written. Indeed, unless placed in a proper context, the sentence itself is, as Strawson holds, entirely without a truth value. Thus, in this hybrid theory, both Russell's and Strawson's treatment of truth conditions remain valid within their respective domains.

Though Russell's and Strawson's theories on denoting and referring are markedly different, they are not mutually inconsistent. When the Russellian formal logic necessary for denoting and the Strawsonian contextual concerns necessary for referring are restricted to separate - the former to sentences and words, and the latter to the use of sentences and words - we arrive at a theory that not only explains linguistic conventions such as irony, but also preserves elements of both theories' conclusions regarding truth conditions.