Ancient Philosophy

Introduction

The concepts of life and the universe that we term "philosophical" arise from two fundamental factors: one consists of inherited religious and ethical ideas, while the other encompasses those inquiries that may be classified as "scientific," using the term in its broadest sense. Individual philosophers vary considerably based on the proportion in which these two factors are integrated into their systems; yet the presence of both, to some extent, characterizes philosophy.

The term "philosophy" has been used in various contexts, ranging from broad to narrow. I propose to employ this term in its most expansive sense, which I will now attempt to clarify.

Philosophy, as I shall define it, exists as an intermediary between theology and science. Like theology, it engages in speculation concerning matters about which precise knowledge has thus far remained elusive; but, akin to science, it appeals more to human reason than to authority, whether that authority be tradition or revelation. All definite knowledge, in my view, belongs to science; all dogmas, insofar as they transcend definite knowledge, fall under the purview of theology. Yet between theology and science lies a No Man's Land, open to incursions from both sides; this No Man's Land is philosophy. Almost all the questions that captivate speculative minds are such that science cannot address them, while the self-assured responses of theologians no longer seem as compelling as they did in previous centuries. Is the world divided into spirit and matter, and if so, what constitutes spirit and what constitutes matter? Is spirit subordinate to matter, or does it possess independent powers? Does the universe have any unity or purpose? Is it evolving toward some end? Do natural laws truly exist, or do we merely believe in them due to our intrinsic inclination towards order? Is humanity what it appears to an astronomer—a tiny clump of carbon and water, helplessly floundering on a small and insignificant planet? Or is humanity akin to how Hamlet perceived it? Perhaps it is both at once? Are there elevated and base ways of life, or are all ways of life merely vanity? If there is an elevated way of life, what does it entail and how can we attain it? Must goodness be eternal to be esteemed, or should we pursue goodness even if the universe inexorably heads toward destruction? Is there such a thing as wisdom, or is what appears to be wisdom merely the most refined form of folly? Such questions cannot be resolved in a laboratory. Theologians have claimed to provide answers to these queries, and quite specific ones at that, yet the very definiteness of their answers leads contemporary minds to view them with skepticism. To explore these questions, if not to answer them, is the essence of philosophy.

What, then, you may ask, is the point of spending time on such unresolvable questions? This can be addressed both from a historical perspective and from the standpoint of an individual facing the terror of cosmic solitude.

The historical response, as far as I can provide it, will be articulated throughout this work. Since the moment humanity became capable of free reflection, their actions in countless significant aspects have depended on their theories regarding the nature of the world and human life, as well as on their theories of what constitutes good and evil. This is as true of the present as it is of the past. To comprehend an era or a nation, we must grasp its philosophy, and to understand its philosophy, we must ourselves, to some extent, become philosophers. Here we find a reciprocal relationship: the circumstances of human life largely determine their philosophy, and conversely, their philosophy significantly shapes those circumstances. This interaction, which has transpired over centuries, will be the subject of the following exposition.

However, there is also a more personal response. Science tells us that we are capable of knowing, but that which we can know is limited, and if we forget how much lies beyond these boundaries, we shall lose our sensitivity to many profoundly important matters. Theology, on the other hand, fosters a dogmatic faith in the belief that we possess knowledge where in truth we are ignorant, thereby generating a kind of audacious disrespect toward the universe. Uncertainty in the face of living hopes and fears is agonizing, yet it must be preserved if we wish to live without the support of comforting fables. Both forgetting the questions posed by philosophy and convincing ourselves that we have found indisputable answers to them is problematic. To teach how to live without certainty while not being paralyzed by indecision is perhaps the chief contribution philosophy can make in our age for those who engage with it.

Philosophy, as something distinct from theology, emerged in Greece in the 6th century BCE. After experiencing its history in antiquity, it was once again, during the rise of Christianity and the fall of Rome, subsumed by theology. During its second great period, from the 11th to the 14th century, it endured the dominance of the Catholic Church, save for a few great dissenters, such as Emperor Frederick II (1195—1250). This period was brought to an end by the chaos that culminated in the Reformation. The third period, beginning in the 17th century and extending to our time, is more influenced by science than any preceding era. Traditional religious beliefs maintain their significance, but everywhere there is a felt need for their justification and modification wherever science seems to demand it. Few philosophers of this period can be deemed orthodox from a Catholic perspective; in their theories, the secular state occupies a more prominent position than the church.

Social connection and personal freedom, like religion and science, have existed in a state of conflict or unstable compromise throughout this period. In Greece, social cohesion was ensured by loyalty to the city-state; even Aristotle, although in his time Alexander rendered the city-state an obsolete phenomenon, could not perceive any advantage in alternative politics. The degree to which individual freedom was curtailed by one’s duty to the city-state varied considerably. In Sparta, personal freedom was minimal, akin to that observed in contemporary Germany or Russia. Despite episodic persecutions, Athenians enjoyed exceptional freedom from state-imposed constraints during their golden age. Until Aristotle, Greek thought was dominated by a profound sense of religious and patriotic loyalty to the city-state; its ethical systems were tailored to the lives of citizens of city-states and contained significant political elements. However, the concepts appropriate to the era of Greek independence became increasingly inapplicable once the Greeks came under the control first of the Macedonians and then of the Romans. This led, on one hand, to a loss of vigor due to the break from tradition, and on the other, to the emergence of an ethics that was more individualistic and less communal. The Stoics viewed the virtuous life more in terms of the soul's relationship to God than of the citizen's relation to the state. In this manner, they cleared a path for Christianity, which at first, like Stoicism, was an apolitical doctrine, as during the first three centuries its adherents had no influence over governance. For six and a half centuries, from Alexander the Great to Constantine, social cohesion was maintained not through philosophy or the ancient sense of loyalty, but rather through force—first and foremost, military might, and subsequently, civil administration. Roman armies, Roman roads, Roman law, and Roman officials first established and then safeguarded a powerful centralized state. One cannot ascribe any role to Roman philosophy in this regard, as it played no part whatsoever.

Throughout this extended period, Greek ideas inherited from the age of freedom underwent a gradual transformation. Some of the old ideas, particularly those we must consider as specifically religious, gained relative significance; others, more rationalistic in nature, were cast aside due to their incongruence with the spirit of the times. Thus, late pagans adapted the Greek tradition until it became suitable for integration with Christian teachings.

Christianity popularized a significant perspective, already implicit in Stoic teaching but alien to the general spirit of antiquity: namely, the view that a person's duty to God is more pressing than their duty to the state. The notion that "we ought to obey God rather than man," as Socrates and the apostles expressed, survived the transition to Constantine's faith, primarily because the early Christian emperors were Arians or inclined toward Arianism. However, as emperors became orthodox, this perspective faded into obscurity. In the Byzantine Empire, it remained latent, just as it did later in the Russian Empire, which derived its Christianity from Constantinople. In contrast, in the West, where Catholic emperors were almost immediately replaced (with the exception of parts of Gaul) by heretical barbarian conquerors, the supremacy of religious duty over political obligation endured and, to some extent, continues to persist to this day.

The barbarian invasions effectively ended the existence of civilization in Western Europe for six centuries. Though it flickered in Ireland until the Danes destroyed it there in the ninth century, before it ultimately extinguished, it birthed a remarkable figure—John Scottus Erigena. In the Eastern Empire, Greek civilization remained unchanged, as if in a museum, until the fall of Constantinople in 1453; however, apart from its artistic tradition and the Justinian Code of Roman law, Constantinople contributed nothing of great significance to the world.

During this period of darkness, spanning from the late fifth century to the mid-eleventh century, the Western Roman world underwent some very interesting transformations. The conflict between duty to God and duty to the State, brought forth by Christianity, took the form of a struggle between the church and the king. The papal jurisdiction extended over Italy, France, Spain, Britain, Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, and Poland. Initially, outside Italy and Southern France, the pope's control over bishops and abbots was quite weak, but since the time of Gregory VII (late eleventh century), this control became real and effective. From this point onward, the clergy of all Western Europe transformed into a unified organization directed from Rome, striving for power with cleverness and resoluteness. The clergy generally, until the early fourteenth century, triumphed in their conflicts with secular authorities. The conflict between church and state was not merely a contest between clerics and laity; it also represented a revival of the struggle between the Mediterranean world and the northern barbarians. The unity of the church mirrored the unity of the Roman Empire: church services were conducted in Latin, and church leaders predominantly hailed from Italy, Spain, or Southern France. Their education, revived after its rebirth, became classical again, and their concepts of law and government would be more comprehensible to Marcus Aurelius than to contemporary monarchs. In its essence, the church embodied both continuity with the past and the most civilized elements of the present.

Secular power, in contrast, resided in the hands of kings and barons of Teutonic descent, who sought to preserve as much as possible of the institutions they had brought from the forests of Germany. Absolute power was foreign to these institutions; it seemed to the strong conquerors an empty and lifeless legality. The king had to share his power with the feudal aristocracy, but all equally believed they were permitted occasional outbursts of passion in the form of war, murder, pillage, or violence. Monarchs could repent, for they were genuinely religious people, especially since repentance was, in the end, merely another form of passion. Yet the church could never instill in them the serene moderation of good behavior that the modern employer demands from their employees and usually attains. What use is the conquest of the world if they cannot drink, kill, and love according to their whims? And why should they, with their armies of proud knights, submit to the prescriptions of scholars who had taken vows of celibacy and were devoid of armed power? In defiance of ecclesiastical disapproval, they maintained duels, judicial combats, organized tournaments, and developed courtly love; in their fury, they even killed notable clerics.

All armed forces remained on the side of the kings, and yet the church prevailed. The church triumphed partly because it held almost a complete monopoly on education and partly because kings were constantly at war with one another. But mainly, this success arose from the deep-seated belief, shared by rulers and people alike, that the church was omnipotent. The church could determine whether a particular king would spend eternity in heaven or hell, and it could release subjects from their duty of obedience, thereby inciting rebellion. Moreover, the church personified order in opposition to anarchy, thus garnering support from the emerging mercantile class. In Italy, in particular, this last factor was crucial.

The Teutons' attempt to maintain at least partial independence from the church expressed itself not only in politics but also in art, novels, chivalry, and war. Intellectually, this attempt was poorly reflected, as education was almost entirely in the hands of the clergy. The prevailing philosophy of the Middle Ages does not serve as an accurate mirror of its epoch; it reflects only what one faction believed. Among the clergy, however, particularly among Franciscan monks, there were individuals for various reasons at odds with the pope. Furthermore, in Italy, culture spread among the laity several centuries earlier than north of the Alps. Frederick II, in his efforts to establish a new religion, embodied the extreme anti-papal culture, while Thomas Aquinas, born in the Neapolitan kingdom ruled by Frederick II, remains to this day a classic representative of papal philosophy. Fifty years later, Dante achieves a synthesis and presents a singular harmonious exposition of the complete medieval system of ideas.

After Dante, for various political and spiritual reasons, the medieval philosophical synthesis disintegrated. While this synthesis endured, it exhibited a peculiar neatness and a miniature fullness and completeness. Whatever this system encountered, it brought into precise alignment with all other contents of its highly limited world. Yet the Great Heresy, the pacifying movement, and the papacy of the Renaissance paved the way for the Reformation, which shattered the unity of the Christian world and the scholastic theory of governance centered around the pope. New knowledge of antiquity, as well as of the shape of the Earth, birthed in Renaissance man a sense of fatigue with systems now perceived as spiritual prisons. Copernicus's astronomy relegated Earth and humanity to a more modest position than they had occupied within the Ptolemaic system. Among scholars, the desire to gather new facts supplanted the ambition to reason, analyze, and systematize. Although in the realm of art, the Renaissance still adhered to strict order, in thought it preferred a grand and fertile disorder. In this respect, Montaigne is the most typical representative of his era.

In political theory, as in all other areas, except art, order was disrupted. Throughout the Middle Ages, an era so tumultuous and restless, the spirit of thought was dominated by a passion for legality and the most stringent theory of political power. Ultimately, all power derives from God. In sacred matters, He entrusted authority to the pope, and in secular matters, to the emperor. However, both the pope and the emperor lost their significance during the fifteenth century. The pope became merely one of the Italian princes, entangled in the incredibly intricate and unscrupulous Italian political game. New national monarchies in France, Spain, and England wielded power over their territories that neither the pope nor the emperor could contest. The nation-state acquired, particularly due to gunpowder, a sway over the feelings and thoughts of people that it had never previously possessed, gradually dismantling all that remained of the Roman faith in the unity of civilization.

This political disorder found expression in Machiavelli's "The Prince." In the absence of any guiding principle, politics devolved into a naked struggle for power. "The Prince" offers subtle advice on how to successfully navigate such a game. What occurred in the great era of Greece transpired again in Renaissance Italy: traditional moral constraints vanished, perceived as linked to prejudice; liberation from shackles ignited energy and creativity in individuals, leading to a rare flourishing of genius. Yet anarchy and treachery, inevitably following the decline of morality, weakened the Italians as a nation, causing them to fall under the dominion of nations less civilized than themselves, but not so devoid of social cohesion.

However, in this instance, the outcome proved less destructive than in Greece, for the new powerful nations, with the exception of Spain, were as capable of great achievements as the Italians had been shortly before. Beginning in the sixteenth century, the history of European thought became defined by the Reformation. This movement, intricate and multifaceted, owed its successes to a multitude of factors. Primarily, it represented the rebellion of the northern nations against the restored dominion of Rome. Religion had been the force that subdued the North, yet in Italy, religion had begun to decline: the papacy as an institution persisted, extracting vast tributes from Germany and England. Still, these once devout nations could not feel respect for the Borgias and Medicis, who specialized in saving souls from purgatory in exchange for money, which they themselves squandered on luxury and vice. National, economic, and moral motivations converged to intensify the rebellion against Rome. Moreover, kings soon realized that if the church on their territories became solely national, they could achieve dominance over it, thereby acquiring greater power at home than they had previously enjoyed when sharing authority with the pope. For all these reasons, the theological innovations of Luther were welcomed equally by rulers and the populace of much of northern Europe.

The Catholic Church traces its origins to three sources. Its sacred history was Jewish, its theology Greek, and its governance and canon law, at least indirectly, Roman. The Reformation rejected the Roman elements, softened the Greek influences, and greatly amplified the Jewish. It thus collaborated with nationalist forces that undermined the social cohesion once established by the Roman Empire and later maintained by the Catholic Church. According to Catholic doctrine, divine revelation did not conclude with the creation of Scripture but continued through the ages via the church; thus, individuals must submit their private opinions to its authority. Protestants, in contrast, dismissed the church as a mediator of revelation; truth was to be sought solely in the Bible, which each person could interpret for themselves. Should individuals diverge in their interpretations, there exists no divinely appointed authority capable of resolving the dispute. In practice, the state claimed rights that had previously belonged to the church, but this was an act of usurpation. The theory of Protestantism did not recognize any earthly mediator between the soul and God.

This transformation bore significant consequences. Truth was to be affirmed not by advisory authority but through inner contemplation. A rapidly developing tendency towards anarchism in politics and mysticism in religion arose, which always struggled to fit within the confines of Catholic orthodoxy. There emerged not a singular Protestantism but a multitude of sects, not a unified philosophy opposing scholasticism but as many philosophical systems as there were philosophers, and not one emperor, as in the thirteenth century, opposing the pope, but a considerable number of heretical kings. Consequently, both in thought and in literature, a deepening subjectivism developed, initially manifesting as a liberating escape from spiritual bondage but inevitably leading to a personal isolation detrimental to social health.

Modern philosophy begins with Descartes, for whom the self-evident assertion was the existence of oneself and one's own thoughts, from which one could infer the existence of an external world. This was merely the first stage in a development that led, through Berkeley and Kant, to Fichte, for whom all is but an emanation of the "I." This was madness, and confronted with such an extreme, philosophy has since attempted to revert to the realm of everyday common sense.

Subjectivism in philosophy and anarchism in politics go hand in hand. Even during Luther's lifetime, uninvited, unrecognized apostles propagated the doctrine of Anabaptism, which dominated the city of Münster for a time. The Anabaptists abrogated all laws, asserting that a good person would be guided at all times by the Holy Spirit, unbound by prescriptions. From this premise, they arrived at communism and sexual promiscuity. They were soon exterminated after a heroic resistance, but their doctrine, in a milder form, spread to the Netherlands, England, and America; historically, it became the source of Quakerism. An even sharper form of anarchism, now severed from religion, arose in the nineteenth century. In Russia, Spain, and to a lesser extent in Italy, it achieved significant success and remains a specter for American immigration authorities to this day. This modern, albeit anti-religious form retains much of the spirit of early Protestantism; it differs primarily in directing against secular governments the hostility that Luther had aimed at the pope.

Once unleashed, subjectivity cannot be confined to any boundaries until it reaches its logical conclusion. The Protestant emphasis on individual conscience in morality was, in essence, anarchic. Habit and custom were so strong that, with rare exceptions (such as the outburst in Münster), followers of ethical individualism continued to act virtuously according to tradition. Yet this was an unstable equilibrium. The cult of "sensuality" in the eighteenth century began to erode it: actions were admired not for their benevolent outcomes or for their alignment with a moral code but for the emotions that prompted them. From this attitude arose the cult of the hero, as expressed by Carlyle and Nietzsche, alongside the Byronian cult of frenzied passion, whatever its content.

The Romantic movement in art, literature, and politics is tied to this subjective mode of judging individuals not as members of society but as aesthetically beautiful objects of contemplation. Tigers are more beautiful than sheep, yet we prefer to observe them from behind bars. The typical romantic pushes aside the bars, rejoicing in the magnificent leaps of the tiger as it destroys the sheep. He urges people to imagine themselves as tigers; but when his call meets success, the results are not entirely pleasant.

In response to the most outrageous forms of subjectivism in the modern era, various reactions ensued. First, a half-hearted, compromise philosophy, the doctrine of liberalism, which sought to delineate appropriate spheres for the individual and the government. In its modern form, this effort traces back to Locke, who opposed both "enthusiasm"—the individualism of the Anabaptists—and absolute authority, as well as blind adherence to tradition. A more radical movement led to the doctrine of reverence for the state, which attributes to the state the same significance that Catholicism granted to the church, or even sometimes to God. Hobbes, Rousseau, and Hegel represent various stages of this theory, and their doctrines have found practical realization in Cromwell, Napoleon, and fascist Germany. Although communism in theory is distant from such philosophies, in practice it tends toward a type of society that results from such deification of the state.

Throughout this lengthy evolution, from the seventh century BCE to the present day, philosophers have divided into those who sought to strengthen social bonds and those who desired to weaken them. This distinction was associated with others. Proponents of discipline defended certain dogmatic systems, whether old or new, and were thus compelled to adopt positions, to a greater or lesser extent, antagonistic to science, since their dogmas could not be empirically verified. They almost invariably taught that happiness is not a good, but that one should prefer "nobility" or "heroism." They harbored sympathy for the irrational aspects of human nature, sensing that reason is hostile to social ties. Supporters of liberalism, on the other hand, excluding extreme anarchists, leaned towards scientific, utilitarian, rationalist views, opposing frenzied passion. They tended to be against all deeper forms of religion. This conflict existed in Greece long before the emergence of what we recognize as philosophy, and it is distinctly expressed among the earliest representatives of Greek thought. Transformed, it persists to this day and will undoubtedly continue for many years to come.

It is evident that each side in this conflict, regarding what endures over a prolonged historical period, is partially right and partially misguided. Social cohesion is a necessity, and humanity would never have succeeded in establishing it through rational arguments alone. Every society is susceptible to two opposing dangers: on one hand, the danger of ossification due to excessive discipline and reverence for tradition; on the other hand, the peril of disintegration or subjugation to foreign conquest stemming from the rise of individualism and personal independence, which render cooperation impossible.

Generally, significant civilizations begin with harsh and superstitious systems that gradually weaken, leading to an era of brilliant geniuses during which the benefits of old traditions are preserved, while the evils associated with their destruction have yet to fully manifest. However, when these evils do emerge, they precipitate anarchy, the inevitable consequence of which is a new tyranny that gives rise to a fresh synthesis, safeguarded by a new system of dogmas.

The doctrine of liberalism represents an attempt to avert this endless oscillation. At its core, liberalism strives to fortify a social order that does not rely on irrational dogmas, ensuring stability without imposing restrictions greater than those necessary for the preservation of society. Whether this endeavor can be successful remains a question only the future can answer.