Philosophy of the Modern Era

John Dewey

It is widely acknowledged that John Dewey (born in 1859) stands as a leading contemporary philosopher in America. I wholeheartedly concur with this assessment. His influence extends not only to philosophers but also to those studying education, aesthetics, and political theory. He is a man of broad character, liberal in his views, noble and kind in personal relationships, and indefatigable in his work. I largely agree with many of his perspectives. While I hold him in high regard, I have experienced his kindness and would like to fully embrace his beliefs; however, I am compelled to diverge from him on his most characteristic philosophical doctrine, specifically his replacement of "truth" with "inquiry" as the primary concept in logic and epistemology.

Like William James, Dewey hails from New England, continuing the traditions of New England liberalism, which some descendants of the great "New Englishmen" who lived a century ago have forgotten. He was never a so-called "pure" philosopher. He had a particular interest in education, and his impact on American education is profound. I have, to the best of my modest abilities, sought to influence education in the same direction as he has. Perhaps, like myself, he was not always satisfied with the practical actions of those who proclaimed him their teacher, but every new doctrine in practice is invariably linked with some absurdities and excesses. However, this is not as dire as one might think, for the errors of the new are much easier to detect than those that have become traditional.

In 1894, when Dewey became a professor of philosophy at the University of Chicago, he included pedagogy among the subjects he taught. He founded a progressive school and wrote extensively on educational issues. All he created during this period is compiled in the book The School and Society (1899), which has had the most significant impact of all his writings. He continued to write about education throughout his life, devoting nearly as much attention to it as to philosophy.

Dewey was also preoccupied with numerous other social and political issues. Like myself, he was profoundly influenced by his travels to Russia and China—negatively in the former case and positively in the latter. He reluctantly supported World War I. He played a significant role in investigating whether Leon Trotsky was truly guilty, and while he believed the charges against Trotsky were unfounded, Dewey still thought that the Soviet regime would hardly have been better off if Trotsky had succeeded Lenin instead of Stalin. He concluded that violent revolutions leading to dictatorship cannot foster a good society. Although he was quite liberal on economic matters, he was never a Marxist. He once told me that, having freed himself from the shackles of traditional orthodox theology, he had no intention of binding himself in other chains. In all this, his views almost entirely align with my own.

From a strictly philosophical standpoint, the primary significance of Dewey's work lies in his critique of the traditional notion of "truth." This critique is encapsulated in his theory known as "instrumentalism." Truth, in the understanding of most professional philosophers, is static, finite, perfect, and eternal. Using religious terminology, it can be equated with the thoughts of God and with those ideas that we, as rational beings, share with God. The perfect image of truth is akin to a multiplication table—precise and reliable, free from all influences of time. Since the time of Pythagoras, and especially after Plato, mathematics has been intertwined with theology, deeply influencing the epistemological theories of most professional philosophers. Dewey's interests lie in the realm of biology, not mathematics; he views thought as an evolutionary process.

Of course, the traditional perspective allows that people come to know gradually, but each level of understanding, once achieved, is regarded as something complete. Hegel does not view human knowledge in this way, however. He envisions human understanding as an organic whole, incrementally expanding in each of its parts; yet no part of knowledge achieves perfection until the whole does. While Hegel's philosophy did influence young Dewey, it remains a philosophy that possesses its absolute and eternal realm—more real than transient processes. Such concepts cannot find a place in Dewey's worldview, in which all reality is transient and processes, even if evolutionary, do not represent, as they do for Hegel, the discovery of an eternal idea.

In all that I have said about Dewey above, my views do not diverge from his. And this unity of our views extends beyond what has been discussed. Before entering into a discussion on the issues where we part ways, I would like to express a few words about my own perspective on "truth."

The first question is: what can be "true" and what can be "false"? The simplest answer would be: a proposition. "Columbus crossed the ocean in 1492" is true; "Columbus crossed the ocean in 1776" is false. This is a correct answer, yet it is incomplete. Propositions are true or false, as is typically the case, because they possess meaning, and their meaning depends on the language used. If you translate Columbus's writings into Arabic, you must replace the year 1492 with the corresponding year in the Islamic calendar. Propositions expressed in different languages may have the same meaning, and it is this meaning, rather than the words themselves, that determines the "truth" or "falsehood" of a proposition. When you articulate a proposition, you express some belief that could just as well be expressed in another language. This "belief," whatever it may be, is what is "true," or "false," or "more or less true." Thus, we are compelled to examine the concept of "belief."

Belief, provided it is simple enough, may exist even without being expressed in words. Certainly, it is difficult to believe, without using words, that the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter is approximately 3.14159 or that Caesar, upon deciding to cross the Rubicon, determined the fate of the Roman Republic. Yet, in simple cases, unspoken belief is quite prevalent. For example, suppose you are descending a staircase and mistakenly think you have reached the bottom step—then you will take a step that is only suitable for flat ground, fall, and hurt yourself. A strong shock of surprise will ensue. You might naturally say, "I thought I had already come down," yet in truth, you were not really thinking about the steps; otherwise, you would not have erred. Your muscles had already adapted to walking on flat ground, although you had not yet reached the bottom step. It was your body that made the error, not your mind; or so it would be natural to express what happened to you. However, in reality, the distinction between mind and body is rather dubious, and it is better to speak of the "organism," without delineating its functions between mind and body. Thus, one could say: your organism was adapted for walking on flat ground, but in this case, it was unsuitable. This misalignment of adaptation constitutes an error, and it can be said that you held a false belief.

The criterion for error in the above example is astonishment. I believe this holds true generally for all beliefs that can be verified. We shall call a belief false if it provokes astonishment in the believer under the relevant circumstances. True belief, on the other hand, does not evoke such a response. However, while astonishment serves as a useful criterion in applicable cases, it does not encapsulate the meanings of "true" and "false" and cannot always be applied. Suppose you are walking in a storm and tell yourself, "It is utterly improbable that lightning would strike me." In that very moment, you are struck by lightning, yet you feel no astonishment, for you are dead. If one day the Sun were to explode (which, according to James Jeans, is seemingly possible), we would all perish immediately and therefore feel no astonishment. But since we did not anticipate the catastrophe and it occurred nonetheless, it follows that we were all mistaken beforehand. Such examples suggest an objective dimension to truth and falsity. What is true (or false) pertains to a state of the organism, yet, generally speaking, its truth (or falsity) is contingent upon events external to the organism. Sometimes experimental verification of truth or falsity is possible; at other times, it is not. When such verification is impossible, the dichotomy of truth and falsity nonetheless remains relevant and significant.

With this, I conclude my exposition on truth and falsity and turn to an examination of Dewey's concept. Dewey does not claim absolutely "true" judgments nor does he brand opposing judgments as absolutely "false." In his view, there exists a process called "inquiry," which represents a form of mutual adjustment between the organism and its environment. If I were to proceed, aligning as closely as possible with Dewey’s perspective, I would begin with an analysis of the concepts of "meaning" or "significance."

Suppose, for instance, you are in a zoo and hear an announcement on the radio: "A lion has just escaped." In this case, you would act as you would if you had actually seen the lion, that is, you would flee in panic. The statement "the lion has escaped" signifies a certain event in that it induces a behavior akin to what would have been provoked by the event itself had you witnessed it. More generally, we can say that a statement S signifies an event E if it elicits a behavior equivalent to that which would have resulted from the occurrence of event E. If, in fact, such an event did not take place, then the statement is false. The same applies to belief, which may not be expressed in words. One could assert: belief is a state of the organism that induces a behavior similar to that which would arise from a specific event were it sensed. The event that would evoke such behavior represents the "meaning" of the belief. This assertion is overly simplistic, yet it serves to outline the theory I advocate. Thus far, it seems to me that our views have not diverged significantly from Dewey’s. I am, however, in clear disagreement with his subsequent positions.

Dewey places the essence of logic in inquiry rather than truth or knowledge. He defines inquiry as "the guided and directed transformation of an indeterminate situation into a determinate situation, characterized by distinctions and relationships that integrate the elements of the original situation into a whole." He further notes that "inquiry is linked to objective transformations of objective objects." This definition is evidently imprecise. Consider, for instance, a sergeant training recruits in relation to a group of new soldiers, or a mason with a pile of bricks; they seem to fit Dewey's definition of "inquiry." Since it is clear that he did not intend to include these cases, it follows that there must be an element in his concept of "inquiry" that he neglected to mention in his definition. I will attempt to define this element. But first, let us examine what emerges from his definition as it stands.

It is evident that "inquiry," as understood by Dewey, constitutes a part of a broader process—an effort to render the world more organized. The outcomes of inquiries should result in "wholes." Dewey’s affection for all that is organized is partly rooted in biology and partly influenced by Hegel, whose impact was overly prolonged. If we disregard this unconscious Hegelian metaphysics, it becomes unclear why one should expect inquiry to yield "wholes." Were I to be presented with a shuffled deck of cards and asked to investigate the order of the cards, I would, in accordance with Dewey's prescriptions, first arrange them in order and then declare that this is the order resulting from the inquiry. Indeed, during the manipulation of the cards, there would occur "objective transformations of objective objects," but that definition allows for this. If, ultimately, I were told, "We wanted to know the order of the cards as they were when you received them, not after you arranged them anew," I would reply, if I were a disciple of Dewey: "Your thoughts are generally too static. I am a dynamic being, and when I investigate any subject, I must first modify it to facilitate the inquiry." The legitimacy of such a procedure could only be justified through Hegel's distinction between appearance and reality. Appearance may be convoluted and fragmented, yet genuine reality is always ordered and organized. Therefore, when I arrange the cards in order, I am merely discovering their true eternal nature. However, this aspect of Dewey’s concept has never been fully articulated by him. Beneath Dewey’s theories lies a metaphysics of the organism, yet I am uncertain to what extent he himself was aware of this.

Let us amend Dewey’s definition in such a way that it enables us to distinguish inquiry from other forms of organizing activity, such as the actions of a sergeant or a mason. One might previously argue that inquiry is differentiated by its purpose, which is to achieve some form of truth. However, according to Dewey, "truth" itself must be defined based on "inquiry," not the other way around. He approvingly quotes Peirce's definition: "Truth is the opinion that is ultimately agreed upon by all who investigate." This leaves us entirely in the dark regarding the pursuits of researchers, for we cannot assert, without falling into a vicious circle, that they endeavor to discover truth.

I propose that Dewey's theory could be articulated as follows: the relationship between the organism and its environment is sometimes satisfactory for the organism and sometimes unsatisfactory. When it is unsatisfactory, the situation can be improved through mutual adjustment, where all changes that enhance the situation primarily occur within the organism (they never happen solely with one side). This process is termed "inquiry." For example, during a battle, your primary focus is on altering the environment, namely, the enemy, but in the preceding reconnaissance period, you are chiefly concerned with positioning your own forces in relation to the enemy's disposition. This early period is the period of inquiry.

The difficulty with this theory, in my view, lies in its severing the connection between belief and the fact or facts that could be said, in general, to "confirm" these opinions. Let us continue with the example of the general preparing for battle. Intelligence reports certain enemy preparations to him, and in response, he undertakes countermeasures. Common sense would suggest that the reports upon which the general acts are "true" if the enemy indeed made the movements reported. These reports remain true even if the general subsequently loses the battle. However, Dr. Dewey rejects such a perspective. He does not categorize beliefs as "true" or "false" but rather considers that there are two types of opinions: one that we shall call "satisfactory" if the general wins the battle and "unsatisfactory" if he loses. Until the battle occurs, the general cannot assess the reports from his scouts.

In summary, we can say that Dr. Dewey, like anyone else, divides beliefs into two classes, one of which is good and the other bad. However, he holds that a particular belief may be good at one moment and bad at another. This occurs with imperfect theories that are better than their predecessors but worse than their successors. Whether a given belief is good or bad depends on whether the activity provoked by that belief yields satisfactory or unsatisfactory consequences for the organism holding it. Thus, a belief in some past event should be classified as "good" or "bad" not according to whether the event actually occurred but rather based on the future consequences of that belief. The results of this are curious. Suppose someone asks me, "Did you have coffee for breakfast this morning?" If I am an ordinary person, I would try to recall that. But if I am a follower of Dr. Dewey, I would say, "Wait a moment. Before I can answer you, I need to conduct two experiments." First, I must assure myself that I did indeed drink coffee and weigh the consequences of that, if any; then I must assure myself that I did not drink coffee and once again consider all the consequences of that. After that, I need to compare these two sets of consequences and evaluate which one seems more satisfactory to me. If one set of consequences is more satisfactory than the other, then my answer to the question should be the one leading to those consequences. If, however, the consequences are equally satisfactory, then I must confess that I cannot answer the question.

Yet, our difficulties do not end here. How can I know the consequences of the belief that I drank coffee for breakfast? If I say, "The consequences are such and such," then that statement must also be verified according to its consequences before I can determine whether what I said was a "good" or "bad" assertion. Even if this difficulty were overcome, how should I decide which of the consequences is more satisfactory? One conclusion regarding whether I had coffee may fill me with satisfaction, while another may inspire me with a determination to continue military efforts. Each can be viewed as good, but until I determine which is better, I cannot say whether I had coffee for breakfast. Clearly, this is absurd.

Dr. Dewey’s divergence from what has until now been considered common sense stems from his refusal to admit "facts" into his metaphysics in the sense that "facts" are said to be stubborn things that cannot be manipulated. It may be that in this respect, common sense is gradually changing and that Dr. Dewey's views will not seem contradictory to what common sense will become over time.

The fundamental difference between Dr. Dewey and myself lies in the fact that he judges beliefs by their consequences, while I judge them by their causes when past events are considered. I regard such a belief as "true" or as close to "truth" as we can achieve if it stands in a certain kind of relation (sometimes very complicated) to its causes. Dr. Dewey believes that this opinion possesses "warranted assertability"—a term he uses to replace "truth"—if it contains a certain type of consequences. Our disagreement is tied to a difference in worldviews. Our actions cannot influence past events, and therefore, if truth is defined by what has already occurred, it does not depend on present or future volitional acts; this expresses, in logical terms, the limitation of human power. But if "truth" or, rather, "warranted assertability" depends on the future, then to the extent that we can change the future, we are capable of altering what is to be asserted. This enhances the consciousness of human power and freedom. Did Caesar cross the Rubicon? I would consider an affirmative answer as necessarily conditioned by past events. Dr. Dewey would respond with "yes" or "no," assessing future events; and there are no grounds to prevent those future events from being arranged by man so that a negative answer becomes more satisfactory. If I find the belief that Caesar crossed the Rubicon very unpleasant, I should not remain in a state of dull despair; I can, if I have enough skill and strength, create such social conditions in which the assertion that Caesar did not cross the Rubicon will possess warranted assertability.

Throughout my book, I have sought, wherever possible, to connect philosophies with the social environment surrounding the philosophers in question. It seems to me that the belief in human power and the reluctance to admit "stubborn facts" are linked to the optimism engendered by machine production and the scientific transformation of our natural environment. This perspective is shared by many supporters of Dr. Dewey. For instance, George Raymond Geiger, in his laudatory essay, states that Dr. Dewey's method "signifies a revolution in thought, as bourgeois and unremarkable, yet as significant as the industrial revolution a century ago." It seemed to me that I expressed the same sentiment when I wrote: "Dr. Dewey's worldview, in what constitutes its uniqueness, harmonizes with the age of industrialization and combined enterprises. It is natural that its strongest appeal is directed toward Americans and that it is nearly equally appreciated by progressive elements in countries such as China and Mexico."

Regrettably and surprisingly, this assertion, which seemed entirely innocuous to me, angered Dr. Dewey, who replied: "Mr. Russell’s deep-seated habit of associating the epistemological theory of pragmatism with the unpleasant aspects of American industrialism... is very much akin to my linking his philosophy with the interests of the English land aristocracy."

As for me, I am accustomed to many—especially communists—explaining my views in connection with the British aristocracy, and I readily concede that my opinions, like those of others, are influenced by the social environment. If I am mistaken about the influence of the social environment on Dr. Dewey, I regret my error. However, I find that I am not alone in making such a mistake. Santayana, for instance, remarks, “In Dewey, as in contemporary science and ethics, there is a pervasive quasi-Hegelian tendency to dissolve the individual into his social functions, and all substantial and real into something relative and transient.” It seems to me that Dr. Dewey’s world is one in which imagination is preoccupied with human beings; the cosmos of astronomy, the existence of which is undoubtedly acknowledged, is almost always overlooked. Dewey’s philosophy is a philosophy of power, albeit not of individual power, as with Nietzsche; the strength of society is perceived as valuable. It is precisely this element of social power that renders the philosophy of instrumentalism attractive to those who are more impressed by our newfound dominion over the forces of nature than by the limitations to which that power is still subject.

The relationship of humanity to the non-human environment has varied significantly across different eras. The Greeks, with their fear of hybris and their belief in a necessity or fate that transcended even Zeus himself, scrupulously avoided what might seem offensive to the Universe. In the Middle Ages, subservience went even further: humility before God was the foremost duty of a Christian. Such an attitude intertwined with initiative, making genuine originality scarcely possible. The Renaissance restored human pride, but it escalated to such a degree that it led to anarchy and calamity. The achievements of the Renaissance were largely undermined by the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation. Yet modern technology, while not entirely conducive to the proud individuality of the Renaissance, has invigorated the awareness of collective human power. A once overly modest humanity began to consider itself nearly divine. The Italian pragmatist Papini persuades us to replace “imitation of God” with “imitation of Christ.”

In all of this, I sense a grave danger—the danger that can be termed “cosmic irreverence.” The notion of “truth” as something contingent upon facts largely beyond human control has been one of the means by which philosophy has instilled the necessary element of humility. If this limitation on pride is lifted, then a further step is taken toward a certain kind of madness—the intoxication of power that has intruded into philosophy since Fichte and which modern thinkers, philosophers or non-philosophers alike, are drawn to. I am convinced that this intoxication represents the gravest peril of our time and that any philosophy, even unintentionally, which supports it, heightens the threat of enormous social catastrophes.