AND ANOTHER THING
Waiting for a few Delphic utterances
PAUL JOHNSON
Last week's special number of the Times Literary Supplement on philosophy left me, as usual, wondering, what is philos- ophy for? I would say to A.J. Ayer, 'Fred- die, teach me something useful.' To which he would reply, 'That is a foolish request. Indeed, as you formulate it, a meaningless one.' The philosophers I feel most indebted to have helped me in non-philosophical ways. Karl Popper taught me the scientific approach to truth-discovery, the most important thing I have ever learned. E.H. Gombrich, one of the few writers on aes- thetics worth reading, made me aware of the physical basis of seeing art. Michael Oakshott gave me an intuitive glimpse — I would put it no higher — into political wis- dom. Karl Rahner explained to me the rea- son why God not only exists but must exist. But these are not matters which much interest academic philosophers, the sort of people who write in the TLS.
They can teach you a new word or two, however: something I am always in the market for. Thus Derek Parfit, debating 'Why Does the Universe Exist?' comes up with 'axiarchy'. The word is not in the Shorter Oxford, so I worked it out for myself: rule by self-evident truth. The Dec- laration of Independence is, as it were, a celebration of axiarchy. Martha Nussbaum, writing on virtue, used 'eudaemonise, that is, one who supports an ethical system whose moral standard is the tendency of actions to promote happiness. I do not envisage using either term often but into the word bank they go. Sir Peter Strawson, on 'Echoes of Kant', is more serviceable because, like many academics, he teaches you how not to write. Consider this sen- tence, which made my sub-editorial pencil itch: 'Finally, while it is true that without a very high degree of causal regularity we should lack the very concepts of those rela- tively persisting objects which sustain the spatio-temporal unity of the world, the argument for the universal reign of natural causality — for absolute determinism — remains inconclusive.' First, I take out the 'finally', since there are still eight para- graphs, most of them long ones, to come; then the two 'verys', rarely necessary except for humorous purposes. `Spatio-temporal' is otiose. But these preliminary elisions do not get one far: the sentence remains obscure and ought to be rewritten ab initio. What he means is: the laws of physics are useful but may not always work. I used to argue with a tall, elegant lady philosopher, co-panellist on a television programme, who often rebuked me for loose reasoning. 'My thinking is muddled only according to the arbitrary rules of your particular academic jargon, to which I do not subscribe. Your "philosophy", as you like to call it, is no more than a don's par- lour game.' Nonsense,' she would reply. 'We philosophers use exactly the same lan- guage as everyone else, the only difference being that we take more care and employ more precision.' In that case, since the object of language is communication, why is it often so difficult to understand what your lot are trying to say?' That is a failing, it is not invalidation.' And so on. Bertrand Russell was the only philosopher I have come across who always conveyed his meaning clearly and, because he did, you could debate the merits of his conclusions; and they were usually wrong. Even when he said something which was true, brief research into his oeuvre immediately revealed that he had also asserted the opposite, usually a short time before. Nobody disputed Russell had a powerful brain. But equally, no one in his or her senses would go to him for advice on any- thing that mattered.
And after all, isn't that what a philoso- pher ought to be — a person to whom you turn in search of wisdom, an oracle? Recently I heard John Major say that he wished Adam Smith were still alive so that he could ask his opinion. It is painfully apparent that Messrs Major and Lamont do not know what they ought to do about the British economy, any more than Presi- dent Bush knows what to do about Ameri- ca's. If they all joined forces and held a synod of economists from Harvard, Oxford, Yale and Cambridge, they would be none the wiser but certainly deafened by the babel of conflicting voices. If, like me, they believe that economic policy is more a philosophical matter than a technical one, and turned to Quine and Strawson, Rawls, Dworkin, Dummett and, in desperation, Baroness Warnock, they would still be wasting their time. (Though a transcript of the answers, ruthlessly subbed, would make an amusing Sunday newspaper article.)
In India, even today's holy men squat on their haunches at shrines, waiting for folks to glean their wisdom. In the black quarters of Washington DC, you see notices in the windows of houses saying 'Counselling'; but that means astrology. The latest big city fashion is for local authorities to employ 'counsellors'; but this is presumably a dodge to get on the payroll left-wing activists who are otherwise unemployable. The genuine guru is now an endangered species, at least in the West. People trav- elled hundreds of miles to Weimar to con- sult Goethe or to Thomas Jefferson in Monticello or Carlyle in Chelsea or Ruskin on Coniston Lake or to pop questions to Edison on his front porch; not so long ago they went to I Tatti to look up Berenson or to Rapallo to tap Max Beerbohm. They still flock to Harold Acton at La Pietra. But no one in the whole world would dream of crossing the street to consult a modern phi- losophy don.
So what is philosophy for then? I recall, in the late 1940s, leaning against the iron fence at Magdalen, watching the deer in the park. Similarly engaged was the formidable Gilbert Ryle, then editor of Mind. A dapper figure passed in view hur- rying across the lawns. 'Do you know who that is?' asked Ryle. 'No.' It is A.J. Ayer. Might have been a great philosopher. Ruined by sex.' The figure disappeared, at speed, as though to a much anticipated assignation. Years later, I called at Ayer's house in London, on a journalistic assign- ment. The door opened to reveal a volup- tuous young lady, in tight sweater and trousers, most unusual in those days. Taken aback by this apparition, I asked fatuously, 'Am I addressing Mrs Ayer?' She replied with a smile, 'I wish you were.' So Freddie, at any rate, knew what philosophy — or a reputation as a great philosopher — was for, and one doctrine he never subscribed to was Platonic love. Doubtless philosophy has other uses too. What it seems unable to do, in our day, is to tell us how to live, or die.
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