The Philosopher's Dilemma

What if the Only Thing More Dangerous than Ignorance is Certainty

If you are interested in traditional Indian philosophies, or for that matter any thinking whose ostensible purpose is the love of wisdom, the pursuit of truth or value, it’s important to understand what you’re getting into.

What’s thinking for? What can it provide for us? For traditional philosophers there must be an irrefragable conclusion, but why? Must we be conclusive?

Nearly all of India’s philosophies tell us also that “philosophizing” is a pursuit of “happiness,” not to be confused with pleasure or any sort of limited experience. The contrast between where we stand now as “ordinary” beings versus the ultimate possibility is the key to understanding the agenda.

While not all Indian philosophizing centers on the bondage/liberation distinction, it’s usually the ultimate goal and its highest purpose. When we reach that conclusion, fulfill our ultimate human potential we experience ānanda. Everybody’s got their version of ānanda: and that is what most think we should be doing something about. Ānanda is not sukha or any other kind of “happiness” that can be compared with limited, temporal experiences.

Can doing philosophy confer ānanda? Does ānanda happen as we make the case or just when we arrive experientially at the conclusion?

It’s important that we not take the ānanda out of the purpose of Indian philosophers, no matter how they define it, or if they choose to assign it to ineffability. Whatever ānanda is we need to think about how its claim (as the result of a practice) entangles us in its pursuit. What do we also need to believe or claim about our experience to make the ānanda our true pursuit?

We need not be cynical but, dare I say, we will need a dose of “seriousness” to understand how Indian philosophy imagines its purpose. This is merely to say we’ll need to think about how they understood their conversation to be worth the time.

We can postpone the discussion of what ānanda means or what it would be to this or that school or tradition and instead ask about what it also takes to be on board with the agenda. What else must we agree is possible? Or at least, what more does the pursuit imply? We need to consider not only what they claim is on offer but also what it takes to make a claim for an ultimate goal (which, for simplicity’s sake, we’ll call [the experience of] ānanda.)

Indian traditions of philosophical discourse are called “seeing,” darśana. While traditions and schools argue about methods and content, it’s not unfair to say all proceed in ways similar enough to pose a shared agenda. We need to know why they are doing it. They all think it is vital to engage the conversation, no matter how they reach their ānanda. But what do they think this kind of conversation requires?

Indian philosophers are not experimenting with truth. In this lab, the desired and known results come with performing the experiment. There might be failure but there is alternative “correct” result. Darśana is not about the asking or about having doubts. It’s about arriving at a correct understanding, about clarifying or having a distinct vision. This is no open inquiry any more than the accepted methods or conclusions will be subject to further revision. Others may refute or reject in whole or in part any given writer’s work but that is only to replace it with their own version. In short, every writer begins with the assumption of correctness and thinks their own argument to be incontrovertible.

Simply put, the writer thinks he’s right and that there would be no point in writing were that not the case. The endeavor isn’t dishonest nor should it to be offered with even a tincture of bad faith: they mean what they say and surely possess the courage of their convictions. One doesn’t deliberately misrepresent another’s views because that’s not necessary: their best objections will be refuted.

However, we should think these methods or results wholly committed to critical thinking.

What I mean by critical thinking is simple enough: to be thinking critically isn’t necessarily to be in service of reaching a certain result; the answer is not foregone, its purpose is instead to raise the issues that cause us to think, to reflect, to consider. Thinking itself may serve the purpose of being “critical.” We don’t need to think for something so much as we learn to think and about thinking. Instead of being told what to think, we are invited to ask about how we are thinking; we need to think about what it means to think. We might not know what we want from the argument, so we can ask instead what arguing is about.

“Argument” here means nothing more than a thinking for sake of offering a reasoned opinion, a definition so basic that it can apply for all, no matter the formality of the “rules” of the conversation. In Indian philosophy there are methods, protocols, rules of argument because we otherwise won’t be playing the same game. But however rule-provided the game, the game as they see it has a conclusion, a win. We play the game to win, whether or not we are amused (or anything else) by the game. Śiva and Śakti’s dice game can’t be just for play even if it must be played again and again to decide the “winner.”

The important point is to understand that “arguments” are not quarrels but modes of conversation for the purpose of sharing discourse. The particular operation of norms and rules, methods and forms are assumed by every writer and, as we would expect, not all agree. What we can say is agreeable to all is that an argument is a kind of yoga: it is an engagement, a connection, it yokes us together in an effort for something, towards something, and with some kind of purpose and meaning.

Of course, not all “talking about” needs to be “argument” and there are all sorts of yoga, but how we make our case and why we think we need to make it are matters we can talk about. Arguments have agendas, they are presumably made on purpose and, in some way or another, we’re most often either being persuaded or we’re “asking about.”

I’m not suggesting that “argument” is some kind of superior or singular human need or even that it is “better” than other yogas or all of the other ways we can communicate our ideas and feelings. I mean only that we should ask what we want from our conversations and what we think is being asked of us when we “argue.” This is the agenda of the “classical” Indian philosopher. My own teacher’s response and objections we will consider later. First thing is to understand how India’s philosophers traditionally conceive their task.

In Indian philosophy it’s better to see each writer as a representative of a traditional viewpoint rather than striking a pose of independence in the service of thinking. This means that most everything we read is persuasive rather than inquiry. The purpose of an argument is not to raise a question nor engage not knowing the answer. Inquiry in this sense is rare or, at the very least, not the traditionalist’s game.

In Indian tradition you also have to be arguing about “honest” things, you’re not allowed to debate if the earth is flat if you know it isn’t; you can’t argue for argument’s sake. We would be hard pressed to find an Indian “inquiry” that doesn’t purport to have a goal, a goal (artha) that is said to be ultimate (e.g., parama, etc.) and therefore certain in the eyes of the writer. Arguments need to be true and faithful, and they need to result in certitude.

Of course, Buddhist writers like Nagarjuna and Candrakirti are keen to demonstrate the limitations, even the impasse (prasańga) that argumentation must admit. Their point is to argue that arguments can’t be certain but that this proves the key to liberation (and their version of ānanda). The ultimate truth can’t be so limited to outcome of argument. Within that tradition much of the debate centers on whether one can make “independent” (svatantra) arguments about ultimacy that are true in the ordinary (vyavahārika) sense.

Ironically, both sides in the Buddhist debate (the prasanga vs. svatantra) are determined to make their case beyond doubt even as they argue about how methods demonstrate limitations. Those that claim a certain kind of impasse, even futility in argument as its best case (i.e., the Prasangikas) are fiercely committed to their result. In sum, for all their ingenious skepticism about the purpose and power of argument, even these Buddhists will not deny that our highest human possibility is to be freed from suffering, which means there must be some meaningful distinction between being bound in samsara and what happens when we admit there is an awakened Buddha. The goal is still somehow a result-with-certainty, no matter how carefully we deconstruct the efficacies of argument.

My Indian teacher, steeped in the traditional learning and expert at the forms and the contents of such arguments not only demurred from particular claims to ultimacy (in truth, as a matter of salvation, etc.) but also because he envisioned a different kind of learning. His view makes for heresy because he holds out for a different notion of our human goal and for the purpose of argument. We’ll return to his alternative understanding at our conclusion.

Within the traditional idea of philosophizing, darśana conveys the sense that the seer has seen ultimate truth. What makes truth “ultimate” is that it conveys a conclusion that liberates from all further limitations and conditions and therefore is beyond disproof. The writer not only conveys the claim authoritatively in the form and tone of the argument but also from the standpoint of his prospective audience represents the claim, perhaps even embodies the truth.

While the case may be composed in a style of persuasion, the argument is presumed to be true. Doubt is among the things that must be overcome. Put another way, if doubt is not dispelled the argument isn’t worth making. It’s not merely a matter of minds-made-up but of being in a state in which doubt has been erased and certitude is.

The darśana-philosophers raise doubts and objections. This has a formal role in argument represented by the pūrvapakşa. The pūrvapakşa is the prima facie first objection, the represented counterview that provides an important argument-feature in both style and substance.

There are two important matters of the pūrvapaksin as the contrarian.

First, it’s assumed that their point of view is correctly and honestly portrayed. There are instances when this is clearly not the case---for example, when Śankara uses Buddhist arguments as his pūrvapakşa he doesn’t always represent them correctly. But that appears not to have been done in bad faith: he may not have had the sources required to have a better understanding of the Buddhist position. In other words, he’s got them wrong, but he didn’t mean to. Śankara merely mistaken in his representation of the opponent. He might well have revised the pūrvapakşa to accurately portray the Buddhist position---but the Buddhist would still not carry the day. The point of a pūrvapakşa is to represent an opponent’s viewpoint and then to demonstrate that they’re wrong.

Second, it’s plain the pūrvapakşa really stands no chance. The case may be made honestly, even vociferousl, but the argument as such is performative since the outcome has been predetermined. No one would write unless they were certain about the certainty of their conclusion. Such arguments usually strike a respectful and dignified tone, but there should be no doubt about the positioning or the outcome. The Washington Generals get their moment in the game, but the Harlem Globetrotters always win. Arguments are not actual competitions; both sides don’t stand the chance to be correct, and the purpose isn’t, as it were, to be thinking aloud or to present differing interpretations that might be plausible.

The aim is niscaya, one of the important words for “certainty,” which literally suggests that what has been ascertained is “unmoving,” that the conclusion, like the logic of the argument itself, is beyond disproof. This is why the incontrovertible visionary understanding (the darśana) is called a siddhānta, literally a “perfect ending.”

Of course, we should expect no less considering what they believe the stakes to be. The goal, indispensable without a positively indisputable argument, is to lead us (somehow) to ultimate reality. These are religious arguments, not only because they appeal to resources also deemed beyond disbelief, but also because salvation (in this case their version of a comprehensive solution to the problematic of death and rebirth (samsāra)) is the purpose and goal of writing.

Certitude provides the interesting intersection between the arguing and the goal, which is to assert their version of the ultimate truth. Of course, who holds an opinion they don’t think is true but in darśana-writing truth is the purpose of writing at all and doubt must be extinguished. The word “nirvana” (used not only by Buddhists of course) refers to this “wind-less” situation, the extinction that removes all doubt and all the rest that would cause us less than completion.

There is never the slightest doubt in the darśana-writer’s mind that such a goal can be had and that their solution to the human condition is conclusive: it appears again and again in the grammar of ultimacy itself, buddha means enlightened, siddha means perfected. These are not tentative conclusions nor results that refer to matters incomplete or yet still in process; these are ways of saying decided and settled. Nothing less obtains when they present their arguments formally. They know their conclusions before they begin. What is ultimately true is true whether or not you know it.

Our writers are deemed seers, nothing less than saintly, because they are themselves attributed the ultimate conclusion, the very salvation that the arguments propose as the greatest human possibility is already theirs. They write from this experience, not for it; they have, as it were, returned from the conclusion to lead the reader to the destination they already possess.

The writer-seers are regarded, at least tacitly, as beyond any ordinary or mundane corruption. Their personal interests are deemed immaculate and irrelevant: no fame, fortune, or reputation is thought a possible motivation. Their good faith argument cannot be compromised by any worldly interest: this is a presumption that connects sageliness to sincerity, truthfulness, confidence, and integrity. The idea is that nothing can infiltrate their agenda nor compromise their endgame.

When they describe the qualifications required to appreciate their arguments (and to attain their putative goals), the assumption is that they write not to please their patrons or to win favor but only to serve their truth. Integrity is then tantamount to saintliness because of how the argument is made, not only its purport.

The lofty claim for integrity in method and purpose also insinuates an indifference, a vairāgya, a passionless-ness in ethos, the underlying sensibility of the argument. To express vairāgya stands for the agenda of truth-telling above all other matters. This may include an indifference to any whose feelings might be hurt for whatever reasons as the case moves forward. To tell the truth requires candor that places emotional responses in the rearview mirror. The volatility of emotions is evidence enough of its incompatibility with a unmoving, certain (nişcaya) truth. An objection must be made within the form of argument but, as we’ve seen, objections can’t succeed.

Again, these are not experiments in thinking any more than they are journeys made with the reader to share the experience of arriving together. They aren’t in pursuit of the truth; instead, they reveal it, tell it, offer it, and invite the reader to make the journey. The philosopher-saint is the guide but is not learning along with his fellow pilgrims so much as he is showing them what is to be seen. Thus, we return again to the word for philosophizing itself, darśana, seeing.

These sorts of ancillary claims about the philosopher’s virtue in telling the truth is regarded commensurate with their incorruptibility in the face of worldly temptations or pressures. The moral approbation that underlies traditional esteem comes from this relationship between being harbingers of ultimate truth and their personal integrity, though it is rarely described in these terms. Rather, it too is assumed: because the writers have no want or need, and can neither be rewarded nor punished for their work, virtue protects their claims to certitude.

There isn’t an alternative to this style of writing and thinking in classical Indian philosophy. We don’t find dialogues of inquiry that further an indefinite conclusion; doubt or mere suggestion without the agenda of definitive conclusion isn’t on offer. Differing points of view can’t be deemed to be true; there’s no consideration of multiple points of view having an equal seat at the table and there’s certainly no notion of compromise for results somehow acceptable to both sides. The purpose of putting forward an interpretation is to state the truth, refute and correct your opponents, and by implication produce certainty as the only acceptable outcome.

It was on all of these points that my Indian teacher took up an alternative case for what argument needs to be and its better purpose. What can be achieved in thinking? The matter brings us to a very different idea when we consider the poet’s conclusion in Rg Veda 10.129, particularly the curious phrasing of the concluding verse:

7. This creation---from where it came to be, if it was made or not---the overseer of this (world) in the furthest heaven surely knows, or if he does not know…

The vital point is that the hymn ends in a question, not an answer. Put in context, the hymnist claims that if thought is itself the primal creative act, the origin of world remains unknown even by the gods. In the final verse we learn that there may not be an “overseer” who knows the origin of our being. This means that even if such a being/reality exists (and it seems the poet thinks it does, called That One, tadekam), even That One may not know its origin or our conclusion, our purpose, or the reason(s) we exist. What are we to know, what are we to do if the world remains in all these ways uncompleted?

That there exists no definitive answers means “thinking” will not end. The poem ends unfinished to leave the hearers thinking, which may be exactly what the universe is offering. Or to put it another way, it may be only what the universe is offering even to its gods. Thinking may be the deal we must make to participate in an unfinished world. We might then conclude that we, the hearers, are here to repeat the fundamental act of creation, the act of thinking. Thinking isn’t opposed to feeling. Rather, thinking is the creative act itself; it may be a kind of feeling. The poet of the Veda doesn’t offer any comment about this possibility.

We learn from Vedic hymn that indecision isn’t the point so much as thinking itself, what thinking is for, what it can achieve, and what we can expect of ourselves because the universe may not be offering finality. The ultimate truth---and not without that semblance of a smile we remember from the Gita---is that we live to be thinking, to be wondering, not to believe or have faith in some other knower but because the world isn’t about reaching a conclusion, it’s for we humans about the chance to think about it.

I’ll be writing again about how my teacher reconsidered the meaning and purpose of the Indian “argument.” For now allow me to suggest that his ideas were rooted in a certain kind of pūrvapakşa, in an objection to the traditionalist agenda. He was, however, no strawman nor did he need to win his argument. What he wanted was for us to think about how thinking creates a world that invites us to live more humanely.