Maverick Philosopher Bill Vallicella concludes a blog post titled “On Hitchens and Death” [1], by suggesting that “if materialism is true, then I think Nietzsche is right: truth is not a value; life-enhancing illusions are to be preferred. If truth is out of all relation to human flourishing, why should we value it?”
Paul Tillich, on the other hand, wrote that “being religious means asking passionately the question of the meaning of our existence and being willing to receive answers, even if the answers hurt.”
Of course, Tillich presumed that truth is a value precisely because he did not believe — as I presume Vallicella doesn’t, either — that materialism is true.
But suppose someone pursued the truth “religiously” and concluded, to his great hurt, but inescapably, that materialism is true. This would lead him, presumably, to reject “religion” in any conventional sense. But that would be the “religious” thing to do, if Tillich is right and the passionate inquiry into the meaning of existence is what religion is all about. Hard to see how finding out that the answer to the question is that existence has no meaning would change that.
The problem with the notion that a life-enhancing illusion would be preferable to such a truth is that once one knows something to be true it is pretty hard to counter it with what one knows to be an illusion. People may believe things that are not true, but not because they are untrue.
There is another problem as well, and that is that truth is not exclusively — or even primarily — a matter of thought. The only truth worth embracing is a living truth, one that is a product of experience, not ratiocination.
I am not an irrationalist. I have the greatest respect for the intellect. I use it all the time, I hope correctly.
I also like philosophy. But philosophy as an academic discipline is not the same as philosophy as a way of life, and a professor of philosophy may not necessarily be a philosopher. I’m sure there are people who are both, but I have met a number of people with graduate degrees in philosophy who struck me as being among the least philosophical of humans.
I am writing this in a cabin in the middle of a woods overlooking a stream that, this summer, had mostly dried up — though now, thanks to a steady, ongoing rain, it has swollen to something more than its usual burbling self.
I have been reading Basho up here. The great haiku master is a perfect companion for a trip to the mountains. Reading him, though, I got to thinking about why I read him.
In large part, it is because — like the Zen masters and certain mystics — he prompts you to feel that the key to the meaning of life is right there under your nose — in the sound of a frog jumping into a pond, at the sight of some blossoms scarcely visible beneath a hedge — just waiting to be noticed. He certainly reminds us that truth is something to be encountered, not figured out.
We imagine that if the sort of encounter Basho hints at over and over could happen to us we could make our way through life serene and content, unperturbed by its slings and arrows, pitfalls and pain. In other words, our pursuit of enlightenment is another subset in our pursuit of pleasure. We do not want to know the truth for its own sake, no matter what. We want to know it because we think it will make us feel good.
Basho’s life was by no means serene. His health was frail He died at 50. The pilgrimages he undertook in the final decade of his life were often arduous:
Exhausted
Seeking an inn:
Wisteria flowers.
This is Robert Aitken’s translation, in A Zen Wave: Basho’s Haiku and Zen. Aitken notes that “Basho traveled on foot, often in rather poor health,” and he translates a passage from Basho’s journal describing the experience leading up to this poem:
Most of the things I had brought for my journey turned out to be impediments and I threw them away. However, I still carried my paper robe, my straw raincoat, ink stone, paper, lunch box, and other things on my back — quite a load for me. More and more my legs grew weaker and my body lost strength. Making wretched progress, with knees trembling, I carried on as best I could, but I was utterly weary.
Basho’s exhaustion was real, overwhelming and not at all pleasant. It was also integral to the experience recorded in the haiku. His joy in the wisteria blossoms is inseparable from the pain he endured.
This haiku seems to me a perfect illustration of truth as something that must be experienced, not simply thought about. But the experience can only be hinted at. No one can tell you the truth, because the truth for you must be something that you encounter on your own. Basho can point you in the right direction. But you have to make the pilgrimage yourself, on your own dime.
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Frank Wilson [4]
Latest posts by Frank Wilson (Posts [6])
- An illusion of precision [7] - September 9, 2015
- Watching the passing scene [8] - October 28, 2013
- To see like a child [9] - June 26, 2013
- Riffing and digressions [10] - January 21, 2013
- Life is a parenthesis between one darkness and another [11] - September 13, 2012