Problems of Epistemology

The Problem of the Origin of Knowledge

Critical Remarks on Kant's Theory of Knowledge

In scrutinizing the Kantian theory presented in the previous section, which is not devoid of wit or profundity, I shall first clarify, as distinctly and precisely as possible, what seems to me weak in it, and then conclude by noting its enduring value. I allow David Hume, primarily targeted by Kant's critique, to defend his case against Kant. Has Kant refuted Hume's assertion, which encapsulates empiricism in its final formula: that there exists no knowledge of facts derived from pure reason, and thus no absolutely universal and necessary judgments regarding facts, but only judgments that possess presumptive universality? Has Kant indeed demonstrated, in opposition to this, the possibility of authentically universal and necessary propositions, for instance, in natural science?

For a long time in Germany, this was considered proven. I do not hold this view; I do not believe Hume would be compelled to acknowledge it. I will attempt to provide him the means to defend his theses, in this specified sense, against Kant.

Regarding the argumentation in the "Prolegomena," which stems from the existence of “actual, well-founded, and requiring no deduction of pure a priori knowledge” in pure mathematics and natural science—an argument that subsequently transitioned into later editions of the "Critique"—Hume would rightly reject it as petitio principii. Indeed, he would say, the factual reality of these sciences is beyond doubt, but we must ask—this being precisely his question—what is the sense in which their propositions possess objective significance? He, Hume, arrived at the view that mathematics, as such, does not claim to possess objective significance at all. Geometry says nothing about reality; however, when its theorems are applied to define reality, for instance, in astronomical calculations, they cease to bear apodictic character and assume a hypothetical nature: insofar as physical space corresponds to geometric space, as measurements of distances and angles are accurate, the moon is located at such a distance, possesses such a size, and exhibits such motion, etc. The theorems of trigonometry possess apodictic certainty, but no proposition in astronomy possesses such. The universality and necessity of pure mathematics are grounded precisely in the fact that the latter revolves entirely within the realm of concepts. In contrast, physics, aiming to provide knowledge of contemplative reality, thereby renounces universality and necessity, i.e., in the strict sense, for he acknowledges presumptive universality, such as in the laws of mechanics, just as in any other, along with necessity in the ordinary sense of the term, only not the universality and necessity of mathematical propositions.

Kant states in one instance that he introduced metaphysics (i.e., pure natural science) into good company with mathematics. Indeed, it could not be in better company; yet Kant should not have obscured the essential distinction between them. It is precisely for this reason that he invented the formula: synthetic judgments a priori; under the ambiguous name "synthetic," he conflates purely mathematical and physical propositions. With his utterly vague and inadequate distinction between "analytical and synthetic judgments," he obliterated the definite difference between judgments concerning the relations of concepts and judgments about the behavior of objects, thus hopelessly muddling the inquiry; physics propositions are presented in this manner as homogeneous alongside those of pure mathematics. True, this is not consistent either, since alongside this remains the correct understanding: not how pure mathematics is possible, but how applied mathematics is possible? Thus, first and foremost, in the transcendental deduction of mathematics, found in the analytics under the title “axioms of intuition,” Kant’s true thought emerges quite clearly: applied mathematics is possible because “empirical intuition is only possible through pure intuition (of space and time); consequently, what geometry says about the latter undoubtedly holds true also in relation to the former, and the objection that sensory objects cannot conform to the rules constructed in space falls away.” Similarly, in the transcendental deduction of pure natural science, where objective significance is attributed to the principles of pure reason for the reason that empirical thought of objects is only possible through pure thought.

And thus, Hume could continue, if one were to dissect this true thought of Kant: knowledge a priori, and hence, universal and necessary knowledge of facts, is possible through a priori, non-empirical synthetic functions—this proves to be, of course, equally unassailable. Let us assume—as we undoubtedly must—that such synthetic functions exist and hold substantial significance for constructing our experiential world, yet significant doubts arise against the Kantian view.

First and foremost, the question arises: how do we know about these functions—apriori or through experience? Kant sidesteps this question; however, without an answer to this query in his sense, his work becomes futile. If we do not possess a priori knowledge of these functions—and I would not know what meaning could be attached to this expression, even within the realm of Kantian thought—if we know of them only through experience, certainly through inner, anthropological experience, then all foundational propositions determining the form of these functions would again possess only empirical significance. The assertions: space and time are forms of human sensory intuition, categories are forms of human reasoning, would now be generalizations of anthropology; and the axiomatic propositions expressing the nature of our intuition of space or our functions of judgment, as laws of reality, would ultimately remain propositions of empirical origin and empirical significance; this would naturally entail the self-evident condition: as long as synthetic functions remain identical. It would remain conceivable that there exist individuals, or humanoid beings with divergent forms of mind; it would remain conceivable that the mind itself undergoes transformations, that our descendants, that I myself, am in a transitional phase to other forms of understanding; if I were to transition, for example, to four-dimensional intuition of space, the axioms from the previous intuition of space would lose their objective significance for me. Let this assumption be considered as improbable as one likes—it remains conceivable, and with it, the proof in favor of the strict universality and necessity of those principles is lost. They would retain their significance with the caveat: as long as and insofar as space, time, and categories in this specific form are constructive factors of the world of phenomena.

This question, evaded by Kant, was raised and resolved in the sense of empiricism by L. Fries in his "New Critique of Reason": knowledge of the formal elements of knowledge is acquired only through experience. It was said that Fries distorts Kant's thoughts; the critical philosophy does not aim at a psychological indication of anthropological fact but at a transcendental investigation of the possibility of experience. The latter is achieved not by observing what people actually do, but by reflecting on what must be acknowledged as a necessary component in every knowledge, which cannot be eliminated without destroying it—reflecting on the axiomatic elements of knowledge, which turn out to be precisely the synthetic foundations expressing the nature of intuition of space and time, and forms of thought; without assuming their objective significance, experience would be entirely impossible.

Absolutely correct—such is Kant's thought. Yet, Hume would argue that this indeed constitutes a petitio principii: I deny the axiomatic nature of the law of causality in the Kantian sense, and nevertheless, I consider experience possible—experience as we truly possess it in the sciences, although not as a system of strictly universal and necessary propositions, but rather as a system of propositions presuming universal significance. For this, the physicist does not require any other assumption than the presumptive universality of transcendental principles. He can calmly assume not only that we conceive of some world where, for instance, our law of causality would hold no significance but also that in our world, at any moment, some phenomenon might occur that does not conform to the law of causality—say, some movement occurring entirely in isolation, without relation to any preceding or subsequent movements. In fact, the physicist, should such a case truly present itself, would not cease his quest for its cause and effect; he would, therefore, neither comprehend nor acknowledge such an isolated case. Yet it remains conceivable that this case indeed has neither cause nor effect, and it is also conceivable that we, due to repeated experiences of futile searches for the cause and effect of known phenomena, might gradually be compelled to refrain from applying the category of causality to them.

The same applies to axiomatic propositions stemming from the nature of space: we assume that physical space fully corresponds to geometric space, that it, like the latter, is continuous and homogeneous. However, it remains conceivable that this is not the case; it remains conceivable, for instance, that physical space possesses internal heterogeneity. We assume that movement, unless hindered by physical obstacles, will continue at a uniform speed; and where this does not occur, where a body loses its speed, we presume that it is under the influence of some physical forces. Yet it remains conceivable that our assumption is incorrect, that different spaces, as such, possess varying degrees of accessibility to passage, that in space as such, there are, as it were, metaphysical irregularities. Likewise, if someone were to propose to explain, for instance, the deceleration of some cosmic movement by such an assumption, we would not engage with it, but would persist in asserting that unknown obstacles are involved, and it would be difficult to accuse us of error. Nevertheless, it is still conceivable that this would be a delusion. And more than this is not required to refute Kant's proofs.

But if one were to counter that Kant has indeed demonstrated that physical space differs not from geometric space, that what encompasses all nature is a purely subjective contemplation of space, then one would have to respond as follows.

Certainly, Kant assumes that space, time, and categories are purely subjective factors of knowledge and, as such, possess universality and necessity for everything that becomes the object of the subject. But by what right? He himself constructs all knowledge again from two factors: the nature of the subject and the influences (affections) experienced by it from things. How does he intend to clearly distinguish these two factors from one another? For we are given but a single product, the world of representations—by what means does he think to determine factors from this one product, to identify the multiplier from a single result? Kant himself posits the assertion that "particular laws of nature" could in no way be derived from pure reason; experience is necessary for this. But if for the law of gravitation experience must prevail, why should it not also apply for the law of causality? If for any specific localization, for example, geographic or astronomical, experience is necessary, why is it not needed for the formation of the very concept of space? If the formation of the concept of space is also co-determined by the nature of reality in itself, then in such a case, the same subject, being transported to some other world, would form some other mode of contemplation, perhaps entirely incomparable to our space. The same goes for forms of thought; the same subject, being relocated to a different environment, might perhaps form a completely different concept of natural law or even form none at all. Hence, it would follow that absolutely universal and necessary judgments about facts cannot exist; the foundational principles would then hold significance only insofar as the intellect finds before it a reality homogeneous with ours—beyond these limits, they would lack meaning. Just as we conceive of a world that would not give our mind cause to formulate the law of gravitation, we also conceive of a world in which it would not develop the law of causality.

Thus could Hume defend against Kant his theorem that no universal and necessary propositions about facts exist. He might also add that if someone finds such considerations about possibilities and conceivabilities superfluous and claims that for the world we already inhabit, our contemplation of space and our laws of thought represent suitable forms of understanding, then he, Hume, has no objection to this; but in that case, he must point out that Kant's "salvation of the sciences" from skepticism appears to him at least equally superfluous. For all our theoretical and practical purposes, understanding the law of causality as the most reliable generalization of all our experience is just as sufficient as Kant's a priori law of thought. He is as disinclined to allow exceptions to the law of causality as is Kant; he would oppose illusory miracles, like the latter, with the law of causality as an "axiomatic" proposition.

Following this, Hume would likely draw attention to something else, which renders Kant's "salvation" utterly illusory. Kant himself acknowledges that knowledge of any specific relation of cause and effect is only possible through experience. In this regard, he holds an entirely identical view with Hume; he does not share the perspective of old rationalism, which believed it possible to derive—through mere thought in "analytical" judgment—a specific action from the concept of cause. Thus, every individual causal relationship, every natural law of our mechanics or physics, according to Kant, is an empirical law and, as such, does not possess mathematical universality and necessity. Only one law of causality, the formula: everything that occurs presupposes something that, by rule, follows it, must, according to Kant, be purely a priori and, hence, universal and necessary. Now, this would yield, in reality, hopelessly little; all we would now know would consist of the following: every phenomenon correctly follows some other; which one?—this we must learn only from experience. And here, the possibility of better learning from subsequent experiences would always remain open. We might suppose we knew: if this relationship derived from experience is a causal relationship, then it is indivisible and has universal significance, yet we could never be absolutely certain that we have before us an actual causal relationship rather than merely a random and decomposable sequence. For instance, the human intellect is inclined to form, based on experience, a universal law of nature: the speed of falling bodies depends on their specific weight. Physics corrects this formula: it is true only under one condition, namely that the fall occurs through a medium that offers resistance; if this condition is removed—say, due to the formation of a vacuum—then all bodies fall at the same speed. Now, it also remains conceivable that the law of gravitation could prove decomposable: the parts of massive matter attract each other only under certain conditions, for example, at least in the presence of ether or electrical tension; if this influence were successfully eliminated, the phenomena of gravitation would cease. Even the law of conservation of motion or conservation of matter does not constitute an exception in this regard: it remains conceivable, for example, that matter and motion are constantly lost, but that, due to some unknown cause—say, some transcendent being—they are continuously replenished in equal measure; should the activity of this being cease, the loss would become evident. This is a completely arbitrary representation, yet nonetheless, it is conceivable.

Thus, Hume might assert that while Kant salvaged the strict universality of the law of causality, physics, nonetheless, would gain nothing from this; all its laws would remain empirical laws, possessing merely presumptively universal significance. Therefore, it seems to him that the endeavor of "saving the sciences from skepticism," commenced with such grand preparations, culminated in a result that is rather modest, if not to say—meager.

Finally, Hume might draw attention in his critique to another point: Kant’s entire argument is cleaved in two. Kant ought to have said—indeed, he initially does say—that only individual sensations with qualitative determinations are given; conversely, every connection and every order must be reduced to the synthetic functions of the subject. Through the forms of intuition and categories, which exist only as functions of connection and distribution, the place of each element in the relationship of the whole of nature is determined. However, from this consequence of his assumption, Kant subsequently diverges. In the transcendental deduction, he concedes that the temporal sequence of phenomena has its origin in "experience," that for the cognition of particular laws of nature, "experience" must intervene. "But the capacity of pure reason a priori to prescribe laws to phenomena does not extend beyond those laws upon which nature generally rests, as the regularity of phenomena in space and time. Particular laws, insofar as they pertain to empirically determined (!) phenomena, cannot be entirely deduced from this. Experience must be added to this." Thus concludes the transcendental deduction, cleaving itself in half. If "experience" can and must assist in the distribution of time, then where lies the boundary? If reason requires "experience" to form biological generalizations, chemical formulas, and physical laws, why should the same not apply to the laws of causality and substantiality? Is it because they are universal and necessary? But that is precisely what is in question.

To what an extent this rupture is hopeless, how impossible it is to construct a uniform experience, as it stands before us in the sciences, from pure rational concepts or synthetic functions of the intellect and those "empirical determinations" of phenomena, becomes evident at every point. Read the transcendental deduction with its endless, meandering repetitions, where the end and the beginning contradict one another—the former positing: synthesis arises from reason, while the latter struggles with the restrictive qualification: but particular connection originates from "experience"—wherein all misfortune is concealed beneath this ambiguous notion. Take note of those attempts to separate pure apperception from empirical association, only to reconnect them; or observe the desperate efforts (in the chapter on the schematism of pure rational concepts) to incorporate the synthesis of thought into the sensory synthesis of sensations in time; or the equally desperate attempts in the "Prolegomena" (§ 20) to derive "experience" from "judgments of perception." I do not think any individual could boast of genuinely comprehending these thoughts, that is, of being able to think them. They can only be understood psychologically, revealing the various impulses that led Kant’s thought in divergent directions.

In contrast, we shall now assert: Kant's statement that experience is not merely something passively received, but rather a product of sensibility and reason, is entirely valid. One might even assert: the mind produces nature itself as a collection of lawfully interconnected phenomena. However—this must be added—he produces it entirely in the same manner—through observation and reflection. Through millennia of labor, aided by perception and contemplation, scientific exploration, philological-historical inquiry, microscopic and telescopic observation, mathematical reasoning, physical experimentation, and abstract deduction, humanity has generated nature, that is, the image of the world as we perceive it today. There is not a single point in the structure of the cosmos, nor in the internal regularity of the processes of nature, where observation and reflection do not act in concert. The absolute separation of "empirical" and "a priori" elements is utterly unfeasible. The law of causality is also an "empirical" law, not in the sense that it is imprinted upon reason from without—this does not exist anywhere—but in the sense that it presupposes observation, just like any law of chemistry or biology. The foundation of our belief in the universal natural regularity is fundamentally no different than the foundation of the belief in the universal significance of the rule that every human has a father and a mother; it is not "a priori necessity" that serves as its support, but experience—certainly not ordinary experience, but scientific experience. Ordinary experience does not offer the universal significance of the law of causality; it still considers contingency and randomness; it has so often perceived absolute emergence and disappearance that it is not at all disturbed by this. Only science has created the concept of natural regularity. On what, then, did it rely? Well, without a doubt, on the fact that wherever it approached things with more precise observation, it uncovered causal connections or could demonstrate how apparent emergence and disappearance was, in reality, merely a transition of existing movement and existing matter into new forms. And this experience, repeated thousands of times, it now formulates in axiomatic propositions expressing universal natural regularity, stating: even where we do not yet know the cause or law, the latter exists. But had it never made this specified experience anywhere or at any time, there would be no discourse regarding these axioms.

With this, we touch upon a point that I shall now examine more closely. Kant proceeds from the biological perspective that prevailed in his time: the nature of living beings is unchanging. Thus, for him, both the forms of intuition and thought are attributes of a stable organization of the mind.

Contemporary anthropology does not regard this view as satisfactory. In the organic world, nothing is absolutely permanent; everything arises and changes. The bodily organization and nervous system have evolved through a long series of transformations. The same will apply to the organization of the mind. Space, time, and causality are not the original unshakeable composition of the human mind but have gradually developed over the course of its long existence, much like they also develop within the individual—indeed, based on inherited predispositions and with the assistance of the parental generation. This is most clearly observable in the function of causal understanding of reality: the individual learns it—just as they learn counting and language. Thus, various individuals reach different stages of development in the function of causality: some do not transcend the immediate, practically significant causal connections, while the concept of strict and universal natural regularity remains entirely alien to many.

Just as we can observe the development of the function of causality in the individual, so, in history, we can broadly discern its emergence within the species. In a primitive form, we already find it in higher animals: they learn to adapt their actions to the phenomena in their environment; through experience, they become smarter. This occurs, evidently, in such a manner that the sequence of phenomena is imprinted upon them; upon the occurrence of a prior event, a subsequent one is unintentionally anticipated, and this anticipation determines the practical course of action. And, to a certain extent, there exists a reverse form of conclusion: the subsequent event becomes an object of desire, leading to the consciousness of the prior event as a means to an end; a dog, trained to "serve" by rewarding its initial successes with a treat, then employs its skill as a means to achieve a goal. The formula by which it concludes, even though it does not articulate it in judgment, is this: the same subsequent event follows the same prior one; if not every time, then it can at least be expected.

Human reasoning, in its essence, assumes a form that is not fundamentally different; one might even assert that, in principle, many individuals do not transcend this form at all, despite applying this method of reasoning more broadly and accurately than even the most astute animal. Folk medicine, encompassing pathology, therapy, and dietetics, is composed of observed—correctly or incorrectly—causal correlations: if one engages in this or that, one might catch a cold or suffer a fever; if afflicted by fever, one ought to sweat it out or take something. For some, the need for causal explanations does not extend beyond such connections. They do not perceive a difficulty when a remedy does not consistently yield results; their law of causality does not demand this. Its formula might be expressed as follows: usually, the same follows from the same, but sometimes it may occur otherwise. Indeed, this formula adequately meets immediate needs; practical life constantly contends with those complex relationships that can only be encompassed by rules with exceptions, rather than strictly universal laws: a peasant grapples with weather and organic life phenomena that cannot be computed and can only be anticipated by the aforementioned formula; a craftsman works with materials and tools, which never possess entirely identical configurations; a teacher or official engages with human natures that, while generally similar, each exhibit unique traits and therefore do not respond uniformly to the same stimulus.

It could be said that science, too, has only recently achieved a clearer understanding of the law of causality. Aristotelian philosophy contented itself with an understanding of causality that allows for exceptions that evade scrutiny: these exceptions, termed chance occurrences, are relegated to an indeterminate factor of natural processes, matter, while regularity pertains to another factor—the hypothetical essence. Consequently, science, constrained by this disrupting factor, cannot progress beyond the notion of "it usually happens thus." Only modern physics has distinctly articulated the concept of natural regularity, with the laws of mechanics serving as a typical example of regularity in general. Based on these, the notion of a strictly universal and exceptionless regularity of phenomena emerged, applicable in both the external and internal worlds. Descartes drew this conclusion for the external world, particularly in the realm of biology, while Hobbes and Spinoza extended it to the internal realm: will and feeling follow unexceptional laws, just as the movements of the corporeal world do.

How did the function of causality develop within human reason? To this, one might first respond: through the capacity to decompose complex facts into their constituent elements. The thinking of animals—if we may refer to their reasoning process as such—consists in the associations of complex phenomena or contemplative representations. A horse that once discovered good feed in a particular yard will, years later, turn into that yard upon passing the same way; the entire area is associated for it with good feed. Humans operate on the same associative principle; yet a person does not follow it directly; they first reflect on whether they can expect the same outcome as before: is that old inhabitant still alive? Are the same circumstances present that provided good reception then? The zoologist Meibius recounts an experiment involving a container of water, divided by a glass partition. In one half, a pike was placed, and in the other, various small fish that typically served as its prey. The pike immediately lunged at these fish, but instead of the anticipated meal, it received a sharp bump against the glass partition. After repeated attempts, it ultimately learned to abstain from pursuing its prey. Weeks later, when the glass partition was removed, the pike swam freely among the other fish but no longer considered attacking them. Clearly, it had established for itself a "natural law": attacking these fish results in a painful bump to its mouth. A human in a similar situation would endeavor to deconstruct this complex consequence into its simpler elements. They would reason that the blow they received might not be due to the nature of this prey but to some obstacle, invisible to the eyes. They would immediately start to investigate this barrier, probing it with their hands, and then attempt to remove it or traverse it. This process would suffice even for a more developed animal mind in this case. However, the general mode of action among animals and their governing thought is characterized, in contrast to human reasoning, by its reaction to complex situations or phenomena through stereotypical conclusions and actions. Human thinking, and consequently human activity, is more dynamic; it disassembles a given case into essential factors and incidental circumstances, thereby discerning genuine, consistent sequences from random and fleeting combinations.

It is evident that this ability is closely linked to the feature long regarded as the advantage of human thought over that of animals: thinking in concepts. The essence of conceptual thinking lies in the disaggregation of observed connections; it involves the internal organization of contemplation; analysis and synthesis are two facets of this process. In a concept, individual aspects of observation are presented independently and are then reconnected in judgment. A heavy stone sinks to the bottom of the water; raw wood does not burn; such simple judgments of perception, however, presuppose significant mental labor. The human eye perceives no more than the animal eye; yet, what remains a vague contemplative connection in animal consciousness is decomposed by the human mind into numerous components, which it subsequently reassembles into a unified system. It separately considers the object itself, its properties, and likewise movement—distinguishing direction and velocity from the movement itself; then, all these aspects of the composite phenomenon are encompassed in judgment as a whole, yet a dissected whole, in which each individual component occupies its specific place. Clearly, it is only through this organized contemplation, which entails profound analysis, that the knowledge of natural laws became possible. Only after distinguishing a constant substance from a transient phenomenon of movement and further isolating direction from movement, could reason proceed to the laws of gravitation or inertia. The construction of that system of concepts and categories, which finds its objective expression in language, and the complete dissection of reality corresponding to the disaggregation of speech—this monstrous task was accomplished by the human spirit before it could embark on the scientific investigation of phenomena. Now, an individual acquires this result of countless generations of ancestors with almost no effort within the first two or three years of life, only to then, in the subsequent two decades, reach the refinement that this system of concepts underwent due to scientific thinking.

If one inquires about the conditions necessary for the development of theoretical capacities in humans, these must, of course, be sought within the entirety of their psychophysical organization. Significantly, the hand played an undeniable role in this. The sensory organs reveal little advantage for humans—in contrast, the hand serves as a remarkable tool for exploration. It separates and connects things and properties or states in reality. It gives and takes away from the body form, position, movement, and color. By contrast, quadrupeds, equipped only with their grasping tools—their teeth—stand helpless before objects. It is no wonder that objects remain for their intellect mute and seemingly speak solely to their stomachs. In contrast, note how even a small child experiments with objects using their hand, turning them this way and that, inspecting, placing, and overturning them, decomposing and reassembling them. These practical analyses and syntheses performed on objects by the hand are subsequently echoed in the analyses and syntheses conducted by reason upon contemplative representations. Hand tools correspond to the concepts of reason. It is rightly considered that two distinguishing circumstances characterize humanity: that it produces tools and that it thinks in concepts; indeed, these are closely interconnected. The active relationship of humans to contemplative representations, which animals passively let slip by, is fundamentally rooted in the possession of a hand, which is always ready to intervene, experimenting in the flow of phenomena. The experiment of the natural scientist is merely a further development of the primitive experimentation of the child's hand. And whoever, as a child, has not familiarized themselves with objects in this manner will never truly come to know them throughout their life, even if they were to amass all the learned wisdom of the world in their mind.

Returning now to our examination, we shall therefore assert: from the perspective of developmental theory, the notion of absolute apriority regarding certain functions cannot be entertained. Space, time, and categories, much like the eyes, ears, and brain, have evolved over the course of development. They, like these latter faculties, now form part of the inherited legacy of the individual, at least in a certain sense; likewise, the entire system of concepts transmitted through language must be regarded as part of this historical inheritance. An individual possesses this inheritance long before they begin to think for themselves; the latter serves as a sort of a priori addition to the knowledge acquired throughout the subsequent course of their life. Indeed, there can be no doubt that this a priori fundamentally shapes their worldview; everything presented to their understanding is apperceived through the inherited forms of perception and thought. Conversely, we should not assume that this spiritual inheritance is a priori in the sense that it constitutes the nature of the mind as a system of forms that are absolutely fixed and unrelated to reality. We would rather assert: just as all organs have formed in the interaction of a living being with its environment, so too has the most crucial and delicate organ— the mind—come into being. Just as fins could arise only in water and through constant interaction with it, and ears could develop only in a medium that transmits sound waves, so too could the internal organs of our perception and thought arise only in the environment as our world represents it. Certainly, we cannot demonstrate such adaptability in the same way as with fins; we cannot, by stepping outside our world of representations, compare it with the actual world; but if we allow for the possibility that the subject and their mind evolved within the existing world, we must consider that the world serves as a contributing factor in the formation of the mind.

Thus, the conclusion would therefore be as follows: Kant did not achieve his initial and true objective, which was the aim of his proof of aesthetics and analytics; he failed to demonstrate the possibility of knowledge of facts derived from “pure reason,” and, along with this, the possibility of strictly universal and necessary judgments about facts. In this regard, Hume’s empiricism retains its rightful place before him.

On the other hand, Kant’s theory of knowledge contains a number of valuable and enduring elements, and I would like to briefly note these. Foremost among them is the crucial insight that knowledge is not a mere collection of “impressions,” but rather a product of the spontaneous activity of the subject. Empiricism is prone to this misunderstanding: the soul is initially a blank slate upon which things inscribe their marks through the senses. This perspective, owing to sensationalist and empirical theories, has persisted into the present day, beginning with the sensationalist materialism of the ancients, which posited that a delicate corporeal image separates from the surface of things, like a skin, and penetrates into the sensitive faculty.

The complete unsatisfactoriness of this viewpoint, which renders the subject a passive recipient of impressions, is splendidly illuminated by Kant's theory. In our knowledge, there is absolutely nothing that enters the soul from the outside in such a manner. Even the simplest sensation—light, sound, taste—is not impressed upon it externally but is produced by it in conjunction with the surrounding environment as something that exists solely within it, as its own product. This is assumed by Kant as self-evident; conversely, he emphasizes that even the universal forms of the sensibly perceptible world, space and time, are orders spontaneously generated by the subject, and not merely an imprint of an existing empty space or empty time. Their reality consists solely in the living function of the subject, which encompasses the multiplicity of moments of sensation into a unity of perception.

We cannot help but think that the being-in-itself reality, to which the subject stands in an initial and indefinable relationship, somehow becomes a cause for this type of representation of it; we may ascribe to it “intelligible” orders that bear some correspondence to the forms of our perception; but these forms of perception themselves are not imprints within the subject; rather, they are creations of it. This also implies that the very objects of the external world are creations of the subject: bodies and their movements are phenomena.

The validity of this assertion becomes even more evident when applied to concepts. A concept is not an accumulation of impressions, a general image wherein common traits are enhanced while divergences are blurred, akin to how such images are prepared on a photographic plate that is presented multiple times before similar objects, thereby mechanically reproducing a type, for instance, that of a doctor, a spiritual figure, and so forth. A concept exists only as a living function that encompasses the diversity of perceptions. In the case of more general concepts, this matter is quite evident; while one might still be deceived, for example, into thinking that the concept of an apple passively resides in memory, akin to the aforementioned photographic types, yet even here, the difficulty of reproducing a “general image” of large and small, red and green, round and angular apples could already present a challenge— it becomes absolutely clear that a general image of fruit in general, where apples, cherries, walnuts, figs, and so forth are equally represented, is impossible. Moreover, a general image of a fruit, or a body, or a thing in general, or a general image of color, form, magnitude, speed, direction, unity, multiplicity, reality, possibility, or negation! It is evident that concepts of this nature cannot arise through any sort of photographic operation; they do not exist in the form of perceptual images, but only in the activity of encompassing and manipulating the multiplicity of possible perceptions, whereby a word or some other sign serves, in a certain sense, as a substitute for representation. Indeed, without perceptual representations, these concepts would not exist, and their significance lies solely in the existence of perceptual representations that we encompass with concepts or which we grasp through their assistance.

We shall thus assert: all knowledge is the activity of the subject and, as such, it is a priori. True, it is a priori not in the sense that it is an internal phenomenon standing outside any relations; like any activity, so too the activity of the mind is conditioned by the nature of those things to which it is directed. Sensations are manifestations of the subject's activity, summoned by the surrounding environment; the irritation co-defines the quality of the sensation; the sensation, in turn, becomes the irritation that calls the subject to produce a perceptual representation, and the latter becomes the irritation that prompts the production of a system of concepts. Thus, we can also say: all knowledge is a posteriori, pertaining both to the most primitive sensation and to the highest categories. Essentially, this is what Kant has in mind; there is no genuine knowledge in which both elements—the a priori and the a posteriori—are not present: perception without concepts is blind; concepts without perceptions are empty. However, only the challenge of preserving the universality and necessity of the so-called "synthetic principles of pure reason" alongside their objective significance compelled him to maintain the view that certain elements possess pure and absolute apriority.

This also gives rise to another consideration. Together with Kant and all rationalists, down to the earliest Greek philosophers, we shall assert: scientific knowledge does not arise from the senses but from the understanding; it is produced not through perception but through thought in concepts. Certainly, philosophical empiricism does not require any instruction in this regard. Hume and J.S. Mill well understood the role that sensations play in science and the role that thought occupies; Hume would not have penned his theory of knowledge, nor would Mill have developed his system of inductive method, had they held the view that the eyes and ears are the true organs of scientific knowledge. Similarly, Bacon is not an empiricist in the sense that he was supposedly the first to alert his contemporaries to the need to open their eyes if they wished to learn anything about things. On the contrary, he draws attention to the fact that merely assembling perceptions achieves nothing; certainly, this must be done, but it is only after this that genuine scientific work, inductio vera, commences. Poor induction, inductio per enumerationem simplicem, merely settles for counting a few instances and then deriving from them a general law. What Bacon regards as his merit is the invention of a method to form judgments that indeed possess universal significance based on individual observations, that is, to produce science. Whether he succeeded in this is another question, but he perceived the task correctly.

Indeed, only the most superficial glance can rest upon the notion that scientific knowledge arises solely from perception. It was not the senses that made Copernicus the founder of a new astronomy or Galileo the progenitor of a new natural philosophy; rather, it was reason itself. One might even invoke Plato and assert that it was solely through the expulsion of sensory illusions that they penetrated to the truth. For those who remain bound to sensory experience, the geocentric worldview and Aristotle's distinction between light and heavy bodies—where the former yearn to ascend and the latter to descend, in accordance with their lightness or heaviness—appear far clearer than the doctrines of contemporary science. Similarly, Aristotle’s mechanics posits that movements induced by external forces cease spontaneously when the imparted momentum is exhausted; this, everyday experience confirms. Only thought, transcending the confines of perception, leads to new perspectives, even as it employs perception in the form of observation. Thought dissects the various movements of ascent and descent, of throwing and pushing, into their constituent elements; whereas ancient physics, adhering to perception, accepted them merely as absolute facts. Thus, it explains the actual movement of a propelled body as the aggregate of the inclination toward inertia and the resistance that must be continuously overcome. Actual movement in descent, whether upwards or downwards, is elucidated through the overarching tendencies of gravitation and inertia acting in concert with the static inclinations of the surrounding medium. In this manner, Newton deconstructed celestial motions into the composite action of initial tangential motion and the force of gravity. Ancient cosmology merely articulated perception as it is presented: the movement of celestial bodies is a simple, uniform, and eternal circular motion.

Thus, science invariably emerges as the endeavor of reasoning liberated from sensory perception; perception is reduced in observation or experimentation to a necessary, yet distinctly secondary, moment. As science progresses, the role of perception diminishes significantly. This phenomenon of sidelining perception is especially notable in the biological sciences today. Physiology and evolutionary theory have begun to transform the old "descriptive" sciences, which merely collected perceptions, into systems of thought. So too can one assert that Darwin’s theory “contradicts common sense” in the same manner that Kant described Copernican theory; it defies the perceptual truth that species types remain constant. Even history finds itself enveloped by this ambition to evolve from a mere collection of perceptions (memories and testimonies) into a system of understood truths; the principles governing economic life initiated this transformation, and their influence on the formation of historical sciences is evidently increasing. It is clear that the laws of political economy do not arise from a mere collection of perceptions, but are discovered through deductive reasoning. Indeed, one might go so far as to assert that historical inquiry derives its conclusions not from the accumulation of testimonies: those who do not know a priori what has transpired cannot be informed by evidence; those who lack the skill to seek find nothing; those who do not know how to ask receive no answers from sources, only confusion in the form of rumors and opinions. Only he who knows the matter at hand can truly inquire. The ancient sage Heraclitus rightly asserts: vast knowledge does not engender wisdom.

Finally, I wish to reiterate that idea which forms the pivot of Kantian philosophy: knowledge is a function of the subject, but not its sole or most significant aspect. It is granted to us for practical navigation in the world, and for this purpose, it suffices; yet it is neither granted nor sufficient for an absolute penetration of reality, as if to resolve the world into thought. In this, Kant aligns with Hume: absolute consciousness of reality is impossible. This was the folly of the old rationalism or dogmatism: it simultaneously assumed that in this knowledge, the worth of humanity and the ultimate aim of life must be posited. Against this scientific hubris, wherein scholastic philosophy and theological dogma converge, Kant mounts a most devastating critique: there exists no science of the absolute or the super-sensible. The absolute and the super-sensible do exist, but they lie beyond the bounds of possible knowledge; critical reflection reveals to us that our understanding is confined to the realm of sensory or possible experience; on the other hand, it also shows that our experiential world is not the world of things-in-themselves. To this extent, we are guided by theoretical reason.

A step further leads us through practical reason, guided by philosophy that does not stop at theoretical speculations about nature but instead turns its gaze toward humanity from the perspective of its purpose. And it is only from this point that philosophy in the higher sense begins—a philosophy in its secular conception, as opposed to that in a scholastic sense. It reveals to us that the purpose and worth of humanity ultimately reside not in knowledge but in the volitional aspect. Herein lie the profound roots of our essence; we perceive them in our conscience, in the awareness of the moral law. While we become directly assured that through this deepest facet of our essence, we are rooted in reality itself, belonging to the very absolute reality rather than to nature as it appears to the senses and reason—faith in an absolute teleological order of things arises, a moral order of the world, in relation to which the order of nature serves merely as its external reflection. What the spirit perceives as the highest and best, it attributes to religion as an outflow of the deepest foundation of reality; it comprehends reality as the manifestation of a kingdom of purposes, as the creation and realm of God’s activity. It would be a folly to believe that faith can be proven and imposed upon reason. This error emerges in response to the counterpoint of negative dogmatism embodied in materialistic atheism. Critical philosophy illustrates the equal impossibility of both positive and negative dogmatism. It is precisely this that substantiates the possibility of faith—a faith that rests solely and without any proofs in the will: I could not live, I could not breathe freely, nor act in a world that would be nothing more than a monstrous, insensate, and soulless machine; hence, I cannot believe that it is such; therefore, I believe that it is the manifestation of the All-Wise and All-Good, even if my eyes cannot behold Him and my reason cannot grasp Him.