Concerning Reason
As is often the case, I've been meaning to write for some time, but for one reason or another, I've failed to make space for it. In any event, I have recently noticed a confluence of themes sprouting up into conversations I've had with different people, and, as it's nearly spring (nevermind the flurries- whoever invented Minnesota should be shot), I thought I'd re-plant them here.
I had originally intended to put to paper, as it were, a stimulating conversation I was fortunate enough to take part in with Christopher Beckett over some delicious coffee and a game of Othello. I believe it was back in February, when we had one of those welcome respites from the cold which last only a day or so, but which help remind us of just what warmth is. Chris and I had parked it outside on a bench, and he mentioned that he knew someone who was something of Go freak. A Go addict? Anyway, it seems that those who become interested in the game rarely take only a passing interest in it, and ultimately learn the names of particular strategies and famous players, much like serious Chess players. Othello, as it happens, is something like Go, though I don't imagine there being any professional Othello players. As Chris and I sat playing and talking, the discussion turned towards the kind of skill employed by game players, and what its relationship was to other kinds of skills and knowledge, or even life in general. While we certainly had to concede that many players use a kind of analytic approach similar to that used in science, there also seemed to be an artfulness employed, a kind of schizophrenic winging it that was often just as useful. Anyone who's played these games will surely agree that such improvisation only bears fruit with any regularity once one has gained some level of accomplishment, but I find it a little curious nevertheless that so un-thinking an approach should bear fruit with any frequency greater than chance at all. The question also arose as to what sorts of knowledge could be gained through this kind of strategy, and that reminded me of a book I believe I have mentioned here before: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. It is the story of two nineteenth century magicians, among other things, and is quite an excellent read in many respects. Of particular interest to me is the way in which one of the characters goes about learning magic: He discovers that faeries have a particular affinity for the insane, and he manages to obtain an elixir that renders him temporarily insane for the purposes of communicating with them, and seeing as they do. Again, what is the relationship between knowledge and irrational thinking? Perhaps it is not quite "thinking" properly, but it seems to be some kind of mental activity, akin perhaps to what Pierce called "abduction", or the hypothesizing of Sherlock Holmes, musement. The topic came up again at a concert at First Avenue, where some friends of mine and I met to hear Subtle ("Mind blowing" is the best way to describe them, so by all means check them out, but I digress). Susan, a painter among other things, and I were discussing art. It occurred to us that it is, on the one hand, perfectly natural that art should sometimes convey an emotion, idea, or meaning, more efficaciously than words which might more literally represent those same things, but also that, on the other hand, what could be stranger? That is, why should the words, "I miss you" not convey that emotion at least as well as some melancholy piece of music, for example? Perhaps it is just that words are abstract enough that they are sometimes more ambiguous than the particular thing communicated by a piece of art, but it strikes me as odd. Perhaps, too, this is actually all a part of what reason is. That is, perhaps I have construed what it is to do the mental activity we call thinking too narrowly. But there is surely some limit to what we will call rational thought? How else can we account for reason going wrong, as in the case of religious metaphysics, or racism? There are clearly some instances when "reason" is not reason at all, and leaves us in a state of un-knowing. Maybe that is the price we pay for being able to synthesize new ideas. It is a method more prone towards error, but also one perhaps more capable of radically clarifying our perception of the world and ourselves.
Curious.
-P
I had originally intended to put to paper, as it were, a stimulating conversation I was fortunate enough to take part in with Christopher Beckett over some delicious coffee and a game of Othello. I believe it was back in February, when we had one of those welcome respites from the cold which last only a day or so, but which help remind us of just what warmth is. Chris and I had parked it outside on a bench, and he mentioned that he knew someone who was something of Go freak. A Go addict? Anyway, it seems that those who become interested in the game rarely take only a passing interest in it, and ultimately learn the names of particular strategies and famous players, much like serious Chess players. Othello, as it happens, is something like Go, though I don't imagine there being any professional Othello players. As Chris and I sat playing and talking, the discussion turned towards the kind of skill employed by game players, and what its relationship was to other kinds of skills and knowledge, or even life in general. While we certainly had to concede that many players use a kind of analytic approach similar to that used in science, there also seemed to be an artfulness employed, a kind of schizophrenic winging it that was often just as useful. Anyone who's played these games will surely agree that such improvisation only bears fruit with any regularity once one has gained some level of accomplishment, but I find it a little curious nevertheless that so un-thinking an approach should bear fruit with any frequency greater than chance at all. The question also arose as to what sorts of knowledge could be gained through this kind of strategy, and that reminded me of a book I believe I have mentioned here before: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. It is the story of two nineteenth century magicians, among other things, and is quite an excellent read in many respects. Of particular interest to me is the way in which one of the characters goes about learning magic: He discovers that faeries have a particular affinity for the insane, and he manages to obtain an elixir that renders him temporarily insane for the purposes of communicating with them, and seeing as they do. Again, what is the relationship between knowledge and irrational thinking? Perhaps it is not quite "thinking" properly, but it seems to be some kind of mental activity, akin perhaps to what Pierce called "abduction", or the hypothesizing of Sherlock Holmes, musement. The topic came up again at a concert at First Avenue, where some friends of mine and I met to hear Subtle ("Mind blowing" is the best way to describe them, so by all means check them out, but I digress). Susan, a painter among other things, and I were discussing art. It occurred to us that it is, on the one hand, perfectly natural that art should sometimes convey an emotion, idea, or meaning, more efficaciously than words which might more literally represent those same things, but also that, on the other hand, what could be stranger? That is, why should the words, "I miss you" not convey that emotion at least as well as some melancholy piece of music, for example? Perhaps it is just that words are abstract enough that they are sometimes more ambiguous than the particular thing communicated by a piece of art, but it strikes me as odd. Perhaps, too, this is actually all a part of what reason is. That is, perhaps I have construed what it is to do the mental activity we call thinking too narrowly. But there is surely some limit to what we will call rational thought? How else can we account for reason going wrong, as in the case of religious metaphysics, or racism? There are clearly some instances when "reason" is not reason at all, and leaves us in a state of un-knowing. Maybe that is the price we pay for being able to synthesize new ideas. It is a method more prone towards error, but also one perhaps more capable of radically clarifying our perception of the world and ourselves.
Curious.
-P
posted by P. Robinson at 11:21 AM
1 Comments:
What you are talking about reminds me of what Andy Clark theorizes (in an edited collection called Minds and Morals). He says that when, for example, an adept plays Tetrus, mostly she can just follow the rules without consciously thinking about them--the knowledge is, as it were, in her fingers. But then when things get hairy, she has to remind herself of the best strategy. Both ways of playing require rationality, but they are different ways of knowing how to play.
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