Introduction

The Relationship of Philosophy to the Sciences

Philosophy, as already indicated, shares with the sciences a rational understanding of reality; it, too, is a science. But what distinguishes it from the others? Two perspectives appear plausible here. The sciences differ from one another in terms of their subject matter and form. Accordingly, the distinction of philosophy from other sciences must be sought either in the subject it addresses or in the way it treats that subject. Both perspectives have been expressed. According to the first, philosophy has its own unique domain of reality, one that no other science claims; in the division of the sciences, it appears as a separate field, coordinated alongside the others. According to the second view, philosophy shares subjects with the other sciences but addresses them in its own unique manner, distinguishing itself through its method.

The latter perspective dominated the first half of the current century: it is the view of speculative philosophy. All of reality, according to this view, is the subject of two forms of inquiry—philosophical and scientific, speculative and empirical. In both great realms of human knowledge, nature and history, we have alongside one another natural science and natural philosophy, history and the philosophy of history. The task of science is to methodically gather knowledge of facts through experience; the task of philosophy, on the contrary, is to reveal the true essence and inner connections of things through its own distinct method.

With the decline of faith in the speculative method, this view has faded. Our era no longer believes in the possibility of knowing the thoughts or meaning of reality a priori, through the dialectical development of concepts. It recognizes only one reality and one truth, accessible through one path—reflective experience. Thought without experience leads no more to the knowledge of reality than experience without thought. The philosopher does not possess a via regia to knowledge; pure speculative thinking, in reality, is nothing more than a distorted reflection upon knowledge gained through unacknowledged experience.

If there is no distinct philosophical method, the second view seems to remain: that philosophy distinguishes itself from other sciences through its specific subject matter. This perspective now prevails. Various attempts have been made to delineate philosophy’s own domain. According to a now-common view, the unique subject of philosophy is knowledge itself. Kant’s contribution, if we are to believe Kuno Fischer, was in helping philosophy secure a more reliable position among the sciences by identifying a domain untouched by others—namely, knowledge. "The objects of experience are things, but the object of philosophy is experience itself, the fact of human knowledge."

Others wish to grant philosophy the realm of inner experience, contrasting it with the natural sciences; they proclaim it to be the science of spirit. Thus, Lipps (in Grundthatsachen der Psychologie, p. 3) takes this approach, while A. Döring contrasts philosophy with the other sciences, which deal with the actual, by treating it as the study of goods and values. In his Philosophical Doctrine of Goods (Güterlehre, 1889), he attempts to justify this definition through abstract and historical arguments. An older, widely held view, which dates back in some form to Aristotle, regards philosophy as the science of first principles or the general basic concepts and presuppositions of the individual sciences.

These attempts to demarcate philosophy from the other sciences, however, seem to me fundamentally flawed. Philosophy is supposed to be the science of knowledge. But such a science has long borne another name: logic, or the theory of knowledge (gnoseology). Why should it exchange this name for another, especially one that already carries a broader meaning? After all, in traditional language, logic or the theory of knowledge is only one discipline within philosophy, standing alongside others. The same objection holds against the other views. Research into spiritual or historical life is typically called, in contrast to the natural sciences, the humanities or the sciences of spirit. Likewise, the study of goods and values is called ethics or constitutes a part of that science. Yet ethics and the other sciences of spirit are not philosophy but, according to traditional terminology, merely parts of it.

Finally, as for defining philosophy as the science of principles, as Ueberweg does in his History of Philosophy, it may be necessary to return to this notion in some form. However, this definition, as it stands, cannot be accepted. First, due to its vagueness: where do the principles or basic concepts, which are to serve as the subject of philosophy, end, and where does the domain of other sciences begin? Should philosophy discuss the essence of matter, force, motion, space, and time? In that case, it must, of course, treat the general properties of matter and the general laws of motion, thereby entering the realm of physics. Should it discuss the essence of the soul, life, the principles of law, and the state? But where, then, can we draw the line separating it from politics, jurisprudence, biology, or psychology? Clearly, such boundaries can only be drawn arbitrarily, not through conceptual distinctions. What is seen as a question of principles, and what is not, is a matter of perspective. The principles of property law or copyright law are just as much principles as the principles of constitutional law or ownership. Moreover, where should philosophy derive its knowledge of principles? It is said to explain the fundamental concepts neglected by empirical sciences. But how is it to arrive at such knowledge? Should it study matter through observation and experiment? Yet, this is precisely how physicists and chemists also study the nature of matter. If philosophy has no other means, then it becomes apparent that these sciences do not need philosophy to discover what matter is. They would hardly be deterred by the objection that in doing so, they "overstep the task and essence of empirical science"; why should they care about such an arbitrary boundary imposed by an outsider?

If there is no distinct philosophical path to knowledge apart from the sciences, then what difference remains between philosophy and the other sciences? If it does not differ from them in method or subject, it must ultimately coincide with them.

Indeed, this is my view. Philosophy cannot be separated from the other sciences; it is nothing other than the totality of all scientific knowledge. All sciences are members of a single system, a single universitas scientiarum, whose subject is the entirety of reality. This ever-unfinished system, built over millennia, is philosophy. Each science investigates a particular slice or cross-section of reality: physics examines reality insofar as it appears bodily and reveals specific relations; biology investigates the phenomena of life in the same matter; psychology considers reality from another angle, as it exists within consciousness. By unifying all these forms of knowledge to answer the question of what reality as a whole is, we arrive at philosophy.

To speak metaphorically, reality is given to the human spirit as a grand enigma. Each individual science offers partial data for its unraveling; yet the endeavor to articulate the solution to this riddle, to discover the key to the mysterium magnum of existence—this is philosophy.

Such an understanding is also reflected in common parlance. According to the latter, philosophy is not a separate science, but a synthesis—a system of sciences. Logic, metaphysics, and ethics are commonly regarded as branches of philosophy. One need only take one further step to declare: physics, chemistry, biology, and cosmology—in short, all sciences—belong to philosophy.

An objection might be raised: if this is indeed what philosophy is, then it represents an impossible task. Who would dare undertake such a challenge? Who would venture to claim possession of—or even the pursuit of—something as vast as the totality of scientific knowledge? Would not one who attempted this, as Dühring has said, make a profession out of dilettantism?

Before addressing this objection, it seems prudent to offer a brief historical overview to demonstrate that the aforementioned concept of philosophy is historically the only satisfactory one. The aspirations that have long been designated by the name of philosophy have always aimed at a single goal—comprehensive, all-encompassing knowledge of the world. Of course, historical references alone cannot establish the true concept of philosophy; the understanding of sciences is based on their goals, and ultimately, these must be framed from this perspective. It is possible that all previous attempts were misguided or sought the unattainable. Nevertheless, such a historical justification can protect us from the charge that our explanation is merely an arbitrary personal definition.

The word "philosophy" is of Greek origin and did not initially emerge as a technical term; it originally belonged to the ordinary spoken language. It appears in Herodotus’s famous tale of the meeting between Solon and Croesus. Croesus greets the Athenian with the words that the fame of his wisdom and travels has already reached him: "that you, philosophizing, have visited much of the world for the sake of contemplation." Clearly, "for the sake of contemplation" here serves as an explanation of the term "philosophizing." What makes Solon a "philosophical" traveler is precisely the striking fact that, in his wanderings, he does not pursue practical aims like a merchant or a soldier. In a similar sense, the word "philosophy" is used by Thucydides, Isocrates, and others to denote general theoretical education, as opposed to technical and practical training.

When we now speak of Greek philosophy, we typically do not think of Solon or the general education of Athenians, but rather of a series of individuals, led—according to ancient tradition—by Thales. Why is Thales called a philosopher, and what is the essence of his philosophy? I believe this can be summed up in a single idea: he presents a general theory of reality. All things arise from water, and all return to water. It is a very simple theory, but nonetheless a theory—the first attempt at a scientific explanation of all things. The same applies to his successors: not water, says one, but air; another proposes fire or atoms as the fundamental principle of reality. The attempt to extend such a thought across all existence—this is the philosophy of Heraclitus, Empedocles, or Democritus. Clearly, the notion of distinct sciences had not yet emerged.

However, the term "philosophers" was only applied to these figures retrospectively—they were originally called sages (sophoi) or, more specifically, natural philosophers (physiologoi). Only with those gathered around the name of Socrates did the term become a scholarly designation. Plato, Aristotle, and their companions and students referred to themselves as philosophers. What, then, does this word mean in this context? In Plato, it is first clarified through opposition—opposition to the sophists. What distinguishes the two? The sophist, as Plato portrays him, is a man who travels from city to city as a wandering teacher, making a living by instructing students in various subjects related to education and the arts—particularly the art of rhetoric. Thus, his goal is practical; he does not travel "for the sake of contemplation," but as a merchant—one who trades in knowledge. And his student, like himself, has a practical aim: he purchases knowledge to improve his social standing, enhance his influence, and increase his wealth.

The philosopher, by contrast, is a pure contemplator of things; he does not practice a craft nor seek personal gain. The pursuit of knowledge is his sole aim. Socrates serves as the quintessential model: to seek truth, to dispel error and illusion—this is his life's task; his joy lies in igniting in his young companions the same passion for truth. There is a touch of Socratic irony in this designation: while Protagoras and Gorgias eagerly embrace the title of sages (sophoi), Socrates and his followers refuse to be regarded as possessors of wisdom; they prefer the more modest title, lovers of wisdom.

The relationship between philosophy and science remains the same in this context: philosophy is the unified sum of all true knowledge. The sciences do not stand apart from or alongside it; they enter into it as its members. Plato did not systematically divide knowledge into specialized disciplines; he contemplated all things—the nature of bodies, the form of the cosmos, the essence of the state, the soul, pleasure, love, rhetoric, and knowledge; all this was his philosophy. Aristotle was the first to divide knowledge into distinct disciplines and systematically develop several of them—logic, physics, psychology, cosmology, zoology, metaphysics, ethics, politics, economics, rhetoric, and poetics. Collectively, they form his philosophical system, and outside of philosophy, there is no science in the proper sense. For history is not a science; every science deals with the universal or with concepts. Even mathematics stands somewhat apart, as it does not directly concern the actual.

Such is the meaning of the word "philosophy" in the soil from which it originally sprang: a direction towards universal knowledge of a single reality, with purely theoretical aims—these are its essential traits. Philosophy is an end unto itself, not a means to an end lying beyond it. Moreover, as Plato and Aristotle add, it is the ultimate and highest goal, for in perfect knowledge of being, man fulfills his natural and divine vocation: God has placed him in the world as a contemplator and interpreter of His creations.

In later times, one element of the concept of philosophy, which was never foreign to it, increasingly came to the fore: philosophy became the designation for the knowledge of life's ultimate purpose and the orientation of feelings and life towards this goal—the life of the sage. Yet, the moment of universal knowledge, of penetration into the nature of things in general and of man in particular, remained an essential presupposition.

The Middle Ages preserved this understanding of philosophy as the unity of scientific knowledge. This persisted unchanged into the Modern period and even until the early part of this century. I will make a few remarks about contemporary times.

At the head of modern philosophy are commonly placed two men as the founders, or the first representatives of the two great trends that have run through all subsequent philosophy: the Englishman F. Bacon and the Frenchman R. Descartes. The latter is the founder of the rationalist-metaphysical direction in philosophy's further development; the former, the forerunner of the empiricist-positivist trend. In both directions, the view of philosophy’s relationship to the sciences remains the same.

Bacon distinguishes between historical and philosophical, or scientific, knowledge. The former is directed toward the particular and the singular, while philosophy, or science, deals with general concepts; the former arises from memory, the latter is a function of reason. Setting aside divinely inspired theology as a distinct domain of knowledge, he then subdivides philosophy, or science, according to the three objects of reason: God, nature, and man. This gives rise to three branches: natural theology, anthropology (including both physical anthropology and medicine, as well as psychology, understood as the general science of the spirit), and natural philosophy. This division, however imperfect it may be in other respects, demonstrates at the very least that Bacon intended to subsume all scientific knowledge under the concept of philosophy. The only domains excluded are history (and poetry), precisely because they do not qualify as sciences.

Similarly, in Descartes' work, the concept of philosophy encompasses all scientific knowledge. His principal systematic work bears the title Principia Philosophiae; the first book contains a concise treatise on metaphysical questions and the theory of knowledge, the second addresses the foundations of mechanical physics, the third deals with cosmology, and the fourth presents a series of physical, chemical, and physiological explanations. We might be inclined to call such a work an encyclopedia of the sciences. In the preface, Descartes himself defines philosophy as the totality of human knowledge. Its chief parts, he states, are: 1) metaphysics, 2) physics, and 3) the technical sciences, including, in particular, medicine, mechanics, and ethics.

This understanding of philosophy remains unchanged in both historical traditions. Let us take a few examples. Thomas Hobbes, in the introduction to his Logic, defines philosophy as the knowledge of actions or phenomena derived from their causes, discovered through proper reasoning. Its purpose, as with Bacon and Descartes, is mastery over things for our ends: scientia propter potentiam. Its principal divisions are: mathematics, natural science (which properly begins only with Copernicus, Galileo, and Harvey), and philosophia civilis, which dates no earlier than the work De Cive. Theology, both natural and revealed, as well as history (natural and political), are excluded from philosophy because they do not constitute sciences.

In like manner, John Locke uses the term "philosophy" interchangeably with "science." He designates its chief branches as Physica or natural philosophy, Practica, the main part of which is ethics, and Semiotica, whose most significant component is logic. That Locke too considered natural philosophy as the primary part of philosophy is evident from the preface to his Essay Concerning Human Understanding. His ambition, as he himself declares, was merely to clear the ground of weeds, so that great masters such as Boyle, Sydenham, Huygens, and Newton might continue to construct solid edifices.

This usage of the term is equally common in the realm of exact sciences. Newton titles his work Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. The mathematician Wallis, in an article from 1696 (concerning the founding of the Royal Society), remarks: “Our occupation consisted in the discussion of philosophical studies and everything related to them, with the exception of theological and political matters—namely, physics, anatomy, geometry, astronomy, navigation, statics, magnetism, chemistry, mechanics, and natural scientific experiments. We debated blood circulation, the valves of veins, Copernican hypotheses, the nature of comets and new stars, the moons of Jupiter, the improvement of telescopes and the grinding of lenses for that purpose, the weight of air, the possibility or impossibility of a vacuum, and other matters belonging, as was then said, to the realm of ’new philosophy,’ thoroughly established since the time of the Florentine Galileo and the Englishman Bacon of Verulam, in Italy, France, Germany, and elsewhere abroad, as well as here in England.”

Similarly, the traditional conception remained in continental philosophy, which followed Descartes as its leader. Spinoza understood philosophy as a unified system of all scientific knowledge corresponding to a single reality—Natura sive Deus. He named his chief work Ethics rather than a system of philosophy because the main branch of philosophy, natural philosophy, is either absent or only hinted at in a few auxiliary propositions in the second book. Leibniz, at home in all fields of scientific inquiry—from historical source studies to mathematics and physics—had a similar view of the absolute form of science or philosophy as Spinoza: he conceived of it as a demonstrative system in which calculations are performed by means of signs, much like in arithmetic. In this sense, he speaks in one place of an Encyclopedic demonstrative.

Christian Wolff, the first to systematize the new philosophy into a scholastic framework, begins his treatise on the essence of philosophy (in the introduction to his Logic) by distinguishing historical from philosophical knowledge. The former answers the question "what," while the latter addresses the question "why": cognitio eorum quae sunt vel fiunt historica, and cognitio rationis eorum quae sunt vel fiunt philosophica dicitur. He who knows only the fact (the nudam facti notitiam) that water flows downhill has historical knowledge; the philosopher, however, knows that this is caused by the slope of the terrain and the pressure of the upper parts of the water on the lower ones. As a third type of knowledge, Wolff adds mathematics, which defines relations of quantity. Philosophy, nonetheless, benefits from both historical and mathematical knowledge. In the third chapter, he addresses the principal parts of philosophy; there are three: natural theology, psychology, and physics. To these are added three normative sciences: logic, practical philosophy (which relies on psychology), and technology (which relies on physics). Ontology, the science of the general definitions of being, is also included.

It is clear that natural science everywhere forms the central part, and in some cases even constitutes the very substance of philosophy. Its method is regarded as the true form of scientific knowledge in general. Following its model, attempts are made to elevate the spiritual sciences to the level of true science, as David Hume explicitly sets out to do in the title of his Treatise on Human Nature.

This viewpoint did not become foreign even to the 19th century. In England and France, it remained common. I would remind you of Auguste Comte’s Philosophie positive and Herbert Spencer’s system of synthetic philosophy. For Comte, philosophy is not substantively different from science; it is a universal awareness of the state, development, purpose, and method of scientific inquiry in its various branches. Comte saw his special task as raising the study of social phenomena to the status of positive science, which had already been attained by the natural sciences in the realms of astronomy, physics, chemistry, and physiology—an aim previously set by Hume in relation to the spiritual sciences. Similarly, Spencer’s synthetic philosophy is grounded in the same general framework. He defines philosophy as the ultimate and highest unity of scientific knowledge: “Knowledge of a lower kind is uncoordinated knowledge, philosophy is completely coordinated knowledge.” If certain parts of his system, such as physics, do not appear alongside psychology and biology, the author himself explains this as a mere accident.

Only the 19th century introduced turmoil into this sturdy tradition; in Germany, philosophy came to be understood in a way that distinctly separated it from science, even positioning it in opposition to the latter. The confusion began with Kant; his distinction between a priori and a posteriori knowledge serves as its point of departure. By the former, he refers to knowledge that reason can derive purely from itself, while the latter must be obtained through experience. The existence of such a priori statements, which possess objective significance, constitutes the very subject of demonstration in the first two major sections of the Critique of Pure Reason, namely in aesthetics and analytics. At the threshold of physics, Kant believes, one encounters precisely these types of statements, such as the constancy of matter and the equality of action in the transfer of motion to its cause, and so forth. A systematic exposition of all a priori knowledge would be what ought to be termed metaphysics or philosophy in its truest and proper sense. The circumstance that "this distinction between two kinds of elements in our knowledge, of which some are entirely a priori and within our control, while others must be gleaned from experience, has remained very unclear even to professional thinkers"—this circumstance has long hindered the correct delineation of philosophy from the empirical sciences.

Thus, philosophy was for the first time separated from the sciences by its very concept and set apart as an independent discipline. Of course, Kant did not believe that this a priori philosophy contained the true sum of our knowledge or had any cause to be arrogant in relation to the empirical sciences. On the contrary, the judgments of "pure natural science" contain, in themselves, no actual knowledge of reality; they are axiomatic statements that gain significance and value as knowledge only insofar as they encompass the diversity given by sensation; without this latter, they would remain mere empty schemata of possible experience. Kant's intention is precisely to use his critique to abolish real or transcendental metaphysics, rational theology, cosmology, and Wolff's psychology, replacing them with merely formal metaphysics.

Yet here, too, something occurred that is often encountered in history: the articulated thoughts have effects and destinies independent of their originator's intentions. Kant, against his will, became the father of speculative philosophy. From Kant's fundamental premise that the forms of thought are at the same time laws of nature as a whole, as a collection of phenomena, arose the philosophy that aimed to deduce (through the immanent dialectical development of concepts) the entire world, nature, and history from the nature of representation. The overarching character of the philosophies of Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel lies in the conviction that through a new method of pure thinking, revolving solely around concepts, it is possible to create a system of absolute knowledge of reality, independent of experience and empirical sciences. "Science," says Fichte, "in no way asks for experience and pays it no heed. It would have to be true even if no experience could possibly exist, and it is a priori assured that any future experience must conform to the laws it has set forth." Similarly, in the introduction to Grundzüge des gegenwärtigen Zeitalters, he declares that "philosophy deals with its subject (in this case, the construction of history) exclusively a priori, disregarding any experience, and must be capable of describing a priori the totality of time and all its possible epochs."

In a like manner, as Fichte a priori deduces history, Schelling a priori constructs nature, occasionally expressing his ire towards the "blind and thoughtless method of natural science, which has established itself everywhere since the corruption of philosophy by Bacon, physics by Boyle, and Newton." In Hegel, speculative philosophy reaches its culmination; all reality is constructed from concepts; reality and truth coincide within his system. Empirical sciences stand alongside; they gather all kinds of knowledge of the singular not ex principiis, from concepts, but ex datis, through external data collection. True knowledge of reality is philosophical; its form—the dialectical development of concepts—is nothing other than the subjective repetition of the objective process of the development of the idea, that is, of reality itself.

Never before has philosophy spoken in such a proud tongue. Firmly resting upon itself, it now renounced the service it had previously rendered to the sciences, which it had once employed as its instruments; it no longer needed them, having discovered that "royal road" to knowledge and reproduced absolute knowledge of things from within itself. If one wishes, here too, the old concept of philosophy as the sum of all genuine scientific knowledge remained intact, but with one distinction: whereas scientific inquiry, especially in the natural sciences, was previously included, it was now excluded as a pre-scientific method.

However, the vibrancy of speculative philosophy did not endure long. Beginning in the 1830s, its reputation rapidly declined, and it—along with all philosophy—became the object of profound disdain. Several factors combined to make its downfall sudden and catastrophic. The decisive reason lay in the hostile stance it itself adopted towards scientific inquiry. Natural science and historical research, which had themselves begun to flourish greatly since the 1820s, increasingly deprived speculative philosophy of light and air—that is, of the trust and engagement of the rising generation. This latter now repaid philosophy for all the disregard with which speculative philosophy had, on occasion, treated scientific inquiry: philosophy was seemingly nothing more than a non-scientific matter, wholly unworthy of serious attention, a sophistical trickery that spoke of things in general, with a certain appearance of meaning and reason, an artful farce that produced, through the mingling of general concepts, all manner of dark and profound oracle-like utterances—much to the delight of the utterly idle.

Thus, philosophy found itself in a predicament. It had cast aside its old heritage, the sum of scientific knowledge, to embark on a quest for higher, pure knowledge a priori. Now, this latter, along with the dialectical method, had slipped through its fingers. Like the dog in the fable that, grasping at a shadow, let the meat it had in its mouth fall away, it was now left with nothing. How did it fare in this predicament? The most fitting course would have been to designate speculative philosophy as an episodic delusion and return to its old understanding. If it must part ways with the claim that it possesses a unique means of acquiring knowledge of reality, it would thus require a return to the old understanding of its relationship with the sciences.

It did not do so. The reason is not far to seek: its representatives lacked the courage to revert to the old concept; it seemed to burden them with excessively heavy, even unfulfillable obligations. After all, by declaring philosophy the sum of scientific knowledge, they would seemingly have to assert that they themselves possessed something akin to this. And who would dare to present themselves for ridicule that such a declaration would invite?

In the past, things were different. Greek philosophers would have readily accepted such an interpretation of their name: indeed, as Democritus or Aristotle would have said, they possessed, or sought, something akin to a universal science of things. Medieval philosophers, similarly, would not have shied away from the demands arising from this notion; Albert and Thomas, and even the youngest magister artium, having just completed his biennium (in medieval German universities, each master, upon promotion, was required to teach philosophy for two years), would have recognized this concept and asserted that, in any case, he believes that, as far as it is possible for a human, he has mastered the sciences to the extent that he can, in a certain sense, call himself a possessor of them. After all, to become a "teacher" (Meister), he had diligently studied all the works of the "philosopher" and is now capable and prepared to explain any of them, whether it came to him by choice, by rotation, or by lot (the lottery of books among the reading masters was quite common in medieval universities). This is precisely why he was called a master of the arts, for he could teach them all—mathematics and astronomy, as well as physics and metaphysics, logic and rhetoric, ethics and politics—he himself represented a diminished copy and likeness of the first great teacher, Aristotle. The same would be said by a Doctor of Philosophy in the sixteenth or even eighteenth century. Melanchthon also lectured on all the sciences encompassed within the philosophical faculty, describing many of them in his textbooks, which remained in circulation for a long time. Even in the last century, Christian Wolff taught both mathematics and physics, as well as logic, psychology, practical philosophy, and political science.

Kant would hardly have refused a chair in physics or mathematics, astronomy or geography, if it had been offered to him; he only declined a professorship in poetry with the obligation to teach Latin and German versification when it came to him in rotation.

To us, these matters appear strange and impossible. And indeed, they are certainly impossible now. Over the last century, scientific inquiry has branched out and specialized to an infinite degree. The old professio historiarum, largely alongside the professio poeseos or eloquentiae—known in our language as philology—or with professio moralium, has splintered into a dozen or more specialties. Similarly, or even more so, the profession of the ancient physicus has increased through division. It was expected of this last figure that he would provide information on all things in heaven and on earth. Now, this realm has fragmented into an ever-increasing number of specialties, and each specialty absorbs so much of a person's labor that they can barely keep pace with the progress of research in the nearest adjacent fields. The shift between specialties, which was often practiced in the last century when promotions to better-paid positions occurred, is certainly no longer found anywhere.

Thus, philosophy has had to redefine its concept. Since it is no longer possible to be a philosopher in the sense of possessing all scientific knowledge—for one would find himself in a hopeless predicament if he attempted to submit to the judgment of the ancient verse:

Indeed, he knew many things, But alas, he knew them poorly—

philosophy seeks to find a definition that allows one to hope to remain a philosopher. The first condition is that it should not encompass all sciences, above all, it should not include the so-called exact sciences. In response to this inclination of philosophy toward such exclusion, there is a tendency among the sciences to detach themselves from philosophy; to be classified as philosophical is not regarded as a particular advantage for a science. Physics, chemistry, astronomy, and physiology, as well as zoology, feel themselves to be independent sciences; they do not wish to belong to the realm of philosophy, just as philology and history have already existed outside the old concept of philosophy. Moreover, neither politics nor economics, or political economy, regard themselves as "philosophical" sciences anymore. In short, all sciences that have established themselves as independent specialties have extricated themselves from the ancient union and no longer belong to philosophy. What remains for philosophy are disciplines that have not yet succeeded in establishing themselves as independent fields of study; mostly those suspected of being incapable of becoming true sciences—namely, metaphysics, ethics, aesthetics, logic, and the theory of knowledge (epistemology), psychology (which, to be fair, now ardently wishes to become a "precise" science and will probably not want to remain a philosophical science), pedagogy, the philosophy of history, and everything else for which "philosophical" lectures are delivered in German universities.

Thus, for this collection of sciences, which have not yet fully become such, efforts have been made to find a unifying concept, and thus the aforementioned definitions have emerged: philosophy is the doctrine of the form of knowledge—excluding content; or it is the science of the spirit—keeping at bay, at least, the natural sciences; or a science of principles—seeking to find an excuse for shortcomings in particulars; and various other fragile definitions that serve, clearly, as mere means of extricating oneself from a difficult situation.

Now, it seems to me that philosophy must once again gather its spirit and restore its old concept: philosophy is the sum of all scientific knowledge. History demands this; through millennia of tradition, this notion has so firmly established itself that any other definition stands in contradiction to history and ordinary language. Nature of the subject matter itself also requires this, and I shall now say a few more words on this matter.

The sciences are not a mere haphazardly accumulated aggregate, but rather a unified whole. Just as reality itself is not an aggregate, but a singular entity, the members of which are interconnected through constant and universal interaction, so too does the knowledge of this reality form a cohesive system. This does not preclude dissection; rather, this dissection is not division and isolation but a vital relationship of all parts to the whole. This relationship manifests practically in the fact that each science requires others as auxiliary sciences; it cannot resolve its tasks in isolation. Each branch of the natural sciences presupposes others: biology presupposes chemistry and physics, and vice versa—physics needs physiology; for example, in optics and acoustics, their boundaries intertwine. Similarly, every branch of historical research presupposes others. But neither natural sciences nor historical ones can do without one another. History presupposes geography, and for the calculation of time, astronomy as well; linguistics intersects with physiology, and archaeology may occasionally require the assistance of geology and geognosy. Conversely, while natural sciences may be more independent, they cannot do without historical and philological inquiry. Geography is now typically classified under natural sciences, and rightly so; yet without historical information detailing changes in the earth's surface during historical times, it would lack essential support. Likewise, each science—since it exists only within the historical process of development—requires a recollection of its own history, if not for systematic exposition, then at least for a general orientation in its position and significance within the entirety of spiritual historical life; one need only observe the extensive role that the historical aspect occupies in Humboldt's Kosmos. Finally, it should be noted that all sciences are connected with psychology and the theory of knowledge (epistemology) and intersect with one another in these areas. Accordingly, the concept of the unity of the sciences is not an arbitrary invention but a necessary thought: the unity of the cosmos corresponds to the ideal unity of an all-encompassing system of knowledge. And for the latter, philosophy is now historically given as a name; to strip this concept of its name or to rob this name of its old significance would be an act of caprice.

Yet—thus arises the objection already broached above—can philosophy exist under such a definition? Does it not render the very thing impossible? Who would now possess the audacity to call themselves a philosopher? And is not the very theory of the world, in and of itself, also an impossible endeavor—at least for the human spirit? Thales may have undertaken something of this sort; at the outset of a journey, courage is often at its peak. But now, after two millennia of labor have demonstrated the vastness of such an enterprise, we have become more modest and are grateful if now and then some fragment of reality yields to our understanding.

To this, one could reply: without a doubt, philosophy, as a finished and complete theory of the world, exists neither in the present nor shall it ever be attained. Yet, this does not detract from the validity of the concept; the same objection could be leveled against every other science. There exists neither astronomy, physics, nor physiology as ready-made and completed systems, nor as systems that merely await transmission and study. The concepts of sciences are not concepts of empirically given things, but rather concepts of tasks. The validity of these concepts rests upon the proper designation of the task, irrespective of how far the resolution of it has progressed; indeed, even if it has not yet begun at all, the concept would still retain its significance. It could be said—using Kantian terminology—that it represents an idea, that is, a notion for which a corresponding object can never truly be given. The same applies to the concept of philosophy: it is correct and valid insofar as it presents the task of the unity of all knowledge.

Likewise, we shall not be disconcerted by the fact that no one can encompass and possess all of science. Certainly, no one, let us say; but is there now a single mind capable of absorbing all of natural science or all historical-linguistic knowledge? Nevertheless, we speak of philologists, historians, and physicists, designating them not as possessors of knowledge, but as researchers within its domain. In the same way, we now employ the name of philosopher: it denotes a person who aspires to the unified and universal understanding of reality. This is precisely what the meaningful name conveys: (φιλόσοφος, a lover, not a possessor of knowledge). According to a well-known anecdote, Pythagoras desired to be called a philosopher (φιλόσοφος) precisely to avoid the pretension implied in the title of sage (σοφός).

Thus, a philosopher is any scientific investigator in whom the idea of the unity of all knowledge is alive; their more specific circle of inquiry may lie anywhere, in physics or psychology, in astronomy or history. Only one who fundamentally and factually confines themselves to a narrow field, who knows and desires to know nothing beyond their own codes and discrepancies, beyond their acids and bases—such a person we do not call a philosopher, not because their area of study does not belong to the realm of philosophy (they could never entirely escape it), but because they themselves lack the inner disposition that makes an investigator a philosopher. It is not matter, but form, the spiritual direction that makes a philosopher.

Thus, it seems to me that the name would regain its ancient significance and honor. Purely theoretical goals and a universal direction of inquiry—that is what distinguished the philosopher among the Greeks from the mere mathematician or physician. The same still signifies the philosopher today, regardless of how dramatically the landscape of scientific inquiry has changed since then: a dedication to pure contemplation and an orientation toward the universal.

This is indeed echoed in our common language; a person like Darwin, who diligently observes the facts, paying attention to even the most trivial details, and who simultaneously possesses an understanding of the most expansive relationships, transforming everything into a coherent whole, is what we call a philosophical naturalist. In the same vein, we refer to V. Humboldt as a philosophical linguist and historian. Conversely, one who confines themselves to a narrow circle, who knows and wishes to know only their specialty, we may label a non-philosophical mind, perhaps even a craftsman of empiricism and specialization. If they are adept in their specialty, capable of producing scientifically viable material with their tools, we shall hold them in high regard as a valuable worker, yet we shall still feel that something is lacking—namely, a higher, more liberated understanding of things. In this regard, it is entirely indifferent in which domain they operate, whether they are engaged with mathematical formulas or syllogistic figures, whether they are writing on the fishes of Japan or conducting psychophysical experiments on apperception. One could even write a history of philosophy without being a philosopher. It is not matter, but form that makes a philosopher.

Moreover, the other aspect of the term’s meaning has not become entirely alien to our language. When we observe in someone a profound immersion in their thoughts and, in relation to this, a certain detachment from the world and its pursuits, a lack of practical dexterity, a certain indifference to their means and position, we might say (perhaps with a slight smile): that is a true philosopher. Conversely, we understand the indignation with which Schopenhauer speaks of the degradation of philosophy to a craft; it seems preferable, we feel, to descend to a chemist or physician if they are turning their science into gold.

Recently, philosophy in Germany is returning to its original concept. Thus, W. Wundt defines philosophy “as a universal science, which aims to unify the knowledge acquired by individual sciences into one coherent system.” This definition evidently presupposes the unity of scientific knowledge, and Wundt would have no objections to labeling a completed system as “philosophy,” just as he would not oppose the demand that a “philosopher” not merely be a freeloader concerning individual sciences, but should at least be a collaborator in one of their fields. This perspective has also been echoed by Fechner, Lotze, and F. A. Lange: the integration of physical and spiritually historical facts into a unified world system is the ultimate goal, while thorough study of the sciences is the path leading to it.

With the return to the old understanding, two misconceptions that accompany a false comprehension of philosophy's essence are dispelled: the misconception that philosophy can exist without science, and the other—that science can exist without philosophy.

The first misconception troubled minds during the era of speculative philosophy. Fruitless and torturous attempts were made to weave a philosophical system from a few very general concepts, such as: subject and object, nature and spirit, being and becoming. This misconception has now nearly vanished; perhaps, a remnant still exists in the form of the belief that it is somehow possible to study philosophy independently of the sciences, for example, through the history of philosophy. Such study, no matter how enlightening in itself, inevitably remains fruitless and empty if it is not supplemented by scientific pursuits in other areas. A principled philosopher turns to the things themselves. Even if it is impossible to be an independent researcher everywhere, they must at least stand somewhere on their own ground. Only in this way do they acquire a tranquil conscience; only thus do they attain the capacity to judge scientific matters in general; only through this are they able to receive the thoughts of others and benefit from their investigations. The choice of field remains free; it may lie among the spiritual sciences, among the natural sciences, or even at the boundary of both—in physiology and psychology; as the saying goes, all roads lead to Rome, so in the sciences, all roads lead to philosophy; only there are no paths leading there through the air.

More perilous in our times is another fallacy: the notion that science can exist independently of philosophy. This misconception is linked to the belief that philosophy constitutes a distinct discipline, akin to any other science, albeit one that is less well-founded—a nebulous inquiry into matters beyond the reach of precise investigation. There is no shortage of individuals who shun engagement with philosophy as if it threatens to dull their sense of reality. “Physics, beware of metaphysics!” This counsel is sound if it cautions against hasty systematization, unproductive schematization, or the intrusion of metaphysical interpretations into the physical explanations of phenomena. Yet it becomes misguided when it seeks to deter sciences from forming their most fundamental and comprehensive ideas about their domains, or from linking these to the latest findings of other sciences. Such a stance would merely cede the task of constructing a general framework to a vulgar metaphysics, simultaneously stripping the sciences of their intrinsic motivating force. Ultimately, all sciences are rooted in philosophy, and if they sever this connection, they will wither and die. What we ultimately seek from any science is not merely the explanation of a particular phenomenon or the understanding of a specific domain, but the comprehension of reality as a whole. Scientific research, or philosophy, initially emerged from the urge to seek answers regarding the nature and significance of things in general; yet the necessity of division of labor compelled them to fragment into distinct fields of inquiry. However, this fragmentation is not meant to foster isolation but to refine their particular efforts in resolving a collectively overarching task. The theoretical interest, which constitutes the lifeblood of any science, lies in its engagement with philosophy, in how it can contribute to resolving the question of the nature of things in general.

This becomes abundantly clear when we consider not merely the individual feelings of separate researchers but the collective historical development of any given discipline. What currently places biology at the center of natural science inquiry? What compels it to direct its microscopic investigations, often seemingly minutiae, toward lower forms of life? Clearly, it is the hope of uncovering traces of the great mystery of life and its development on Earth. Thousands of lichen and fungi, monera and infusoria would hardly captivate our interest in isolation. Among a narrower circle, there may be a certain fascination with the infinitely small, akin to sport, but science cannot sustain itself for long on such grounds. Or consider astronomy: with indefatigable zeal, it gathers observations, cataloging the positions of hundreds of thousands of stars, calculating the paths of comets and meteors, discovering new asteroids and cosmic nebulas, testing the force of light and spectrum. For what purpose? Merely for the sake of individual facts? Clearly not; it is because we hope that through this path, we may penetrate more deeply into the structure and development of the cosmos at large. Were this motivation to dissipate, were we to lose interest in this question, our observations and calculations at observatories would soon cease as well. Individual facts may hold practical or technical interest, as in chemistry with the discovery of new compounds, yet the theoretical interest that sustains science, as such, is directed toward the general, representing that aspect which it turns toward philosophy.

The same holds true even for the historical sciences. While here the individual—at least the immediate and relatable—bears direct significance for us, the ultimate interest that animates all inquiry remains the question of the "wherefrom" and "whereto" of historical life in general. Should this question become indifferent to us, historical inquiry would cease as well. The same would ensue if we were to receive a wholly satisfactory answer to this question; inquiry would then cease equally. The Middle Ages illustrate this. They possessed a philosophy of history that satisfied all their inquiries; between creation and the Last Judgment lay the entirety of human existence, clearly laid before their eyes and, like a grand drama, dissected into acts through events of Sacred History. Hence, historical inquiry did not exist during the Middle Ages; all significant and worthy knowledge was already known—why delve into the trivial and indifferent? We are not in such a blissfully wretched position, and thus we have become researchers of history; we do not disdain even the small and seemingly insignificant; we collect every fragment of ancient papyrus or inscribed pottery shard: placed in its proper context, it may illuminate some aspect of ancient life and thought, a remnant of a vanished language, and thereby cast a new glimmer of light on the path our species has traversed on Earth.

In this sense, one might say that philosophy represents a central fire, the sun whose vital warmth spreads across all sciences. The soil of inquiry becomes amenable to cultivation precisely because it is permeated by this warmth. The individual effort yields a greater and more mature fruit to the extent that it can direct this living sunlight upon its ground. Conversely, those who, disregarding light and warmth, scrape and disturb the soil haphazardly, wherever it may be, shall reap meager and tough yields. A science that loses its connection to philosophy or to the unity of knowledge in general would perish; like a garden bereft of sunlight, it would be overgrown with weeds and wither, achieving neither bloom nor fruit, or, to speak plainly, it would succumb to barren minutiae or to senseless accumulation of material. Kant, in one instance, characterizes such scholarship as cyclopean, lacking a single eye: “the eye of true philosophy, to purposefully utilize the mass of historical knowledge, the burden of a hundred camels” (Anthropologie, § 58).

But what, then, becomes of such a conception in relation to "specialist philosophers"? It seems to me that the very term sounds somewhat peculiar, not much better than if one were to speak, on the flip side, of "fools by profession." There are—let us say—scientific researchers, some with a philosophical spirit and others without: physicists, astronomers, psychologists, biologists, historians, metaphysicians, sociologists, moralists—all of them may possess this spirit or lack it. Philosophy, as a specialty, does not exist. If, however, one were to insist on defining philosophy and delimiting it as a distinct specialty, one would have to return to Aristotle's distinction of "first philosophy" or philosophy in a narrower sense. Its task would be to examine the most general questions about reality—what we now commonly refer to as metaphysics. To this last would need to be added studies on the theory of knowledge (epistemology), inextricably linked to ontological and cosmological inquiries. If one wishes to thus distinguish metaphysics and the theory of knowledge as philosophy in a narrower sense, then it must be added immediately: one cannot engage in them separately and in isolation from the other sciences. A purely metaphysical endeavor—purus putus metaphysica—is a fairy tale or mere empty wordsmithing. Only the natural sciences and the humanities provide material for judgments about being in general and about the world as a whole; only these sciences furnish the occasion and material for epistemological studies. Thus, even from this perspective, the situation remains that one would have all the more claim to be a "specialist philosopher" to the extent that one becomes well-versed in both major domains of scientific inquiry—the mathematical-natural and the philological-historical.

If, however, someone were to assert now that “special philosophy” remains an arrogant endeavor, since no one can truly meet such a demand, one would have to concede this judgment without further debate. Regarding the judgment itself, it could be argued in favor of a less stringent interpretation. It has been noted previously that the formation of views on questions we designate as metaphysical and epistemological is not something one can arbitrarily engage in or disregard. Every person, who does not simply exist as a creature with animalistic needs, inevitably develops some form of metaphysics, a perspective on the essence of things, on God, on the world, and on the relationship of our knowledge to reality. If this is the case, one must also acknowledge that it is preferable to focus attention on these questions, even if only once, rather than leaving them to chance. Thus, if someone proposes to share the results of their reflections on such matters, although one might see this as pretentious, it would be a similar pretension to that found in the publication of poetic works, wherein the poet expresses their innermost impressions and feelings.

However, one could also perceive a form of self-sacrifice in someone who, instead of limiting themselves to sharing the results of specialized research, agrees to present to the public their more general thoughts, which are essentially more subjective and not subject to proof in the same sense, and at the same time makes themselves a target for the compassionate mockery: “It seems he is inclined to speak on matters of which he knows nothing, or at least does not know as a specialist but rather as an amateur.” In such times, at least in our own, which uses the term “dilettante” or “simple amateur” as the most severe insult to any scholarly writer, and which, on the other hand, is so easily comforted by the lack of coherent general thoughts—at such a time, one would think that being branded a “specialist philosopher” would not be alluring to anyone who holds their reputation and good name in any esteem.

Nevertheless, such individuals continue to exist. Just as poets repeatedly arise who, heedless of the fate of their many predecessors, present the offspring of their spirit to the ridicule and dull curiosity of passersby, so too will there always be individuals willing to, like Christian Wolff, sacrifice their “thoughts on God, the world, the human soul, and all things in general” to the spiteful glee of the cautious, the admonitions of those who know better, the shrugs of the knowledgeable, and the laughter of the crowd. Perhaps they console themselves with the thought that they are not entirely useless to ordinary beings. If they do nothing else, they at least remind us of the ultimate goal of all research: to orient the human spirit in the reality of which it is a part. Science is easily at risk of losing sight of this goal. It often experiences the reverse of what happened to the son of Kisa, who set out to find his father’s lost donkeys only to discover a kingdom. Scientific research, initially searching for a theory of the world, may ultimately be quite content to discover earthworms and quietly anatomize them. And if, at times, it feels a chill from its critical striving or its encheiresis naturae, it immediately reassures itself with general phrases: for the true researcher, nothing is too small, or: the time for general thoughts has not yet come; first, the specific research must be completed. The metaphysician would then represent that disquiet which counteracts the descent of scientific inquiry into a quiescent specialization. His task, in the overall endeavor of science, would be to keep alive the idea of the ultimate goal of every inquiry, perhaps also to embody the insufficiency of human powers to achieve this goal, or to show that in the pursuit of knowledge, the human spirit does not reach the end of things, and that faith and poetic creation also have their rightful place.

On the other hand, he would have the task of serving as a conduit for the influence of scientific inquiry on worldviews. If this does not happen, if scientific inquiry remains fragmented, and if serious philosophy is absent, obscurantism will soon prevail in the field of action. Thus, we arrive at what Kant refers to in one instance as the secular conception of philosophy—as opposed to the scholastic notion: “Philosophy is the science of the relation of all knowledge to the essential goals of human reason.”

The essence, the true gift of the philosopher, was drawn by Goethe, the poet and philosopher by divine grace, in his Tasso:

He hears the harmony of nature,
Welcoming his heart,
And that which life gives, and what is preserved
In the chronicles of days gone by;
Scattered in his heart he gathers,
And breathes life into the dead with feeling.