Introduction

Philosophy in Only Seven Sentences?

Can we tackle some of the key questions and answers in philosophy through just seven sentences by seven famous philosophers? I wager we can; so we will. Many other sentences—or paragraphs or books—could have made the cut. Because of this, some will argue that my selection was biased, ignorant or slanted. If so, let them philosophize over it. After all, that is the purpose of this book: to think and act philosophically.

I make no claim that Philosophy in Seven Sentences is representative of philosophy as a whole. I chose these authors and their sentences for several reasons. First, I was familiar with them. As I point out several times, many of these ideas have deep autobiographical significance to me. Second, they raise issues pertinent to our day. Third, each sentence is fairly well known; none is esoteric.1 I also chose these authors because their arguments were clear enough to be well suited to philosophical analysis, even on a popular level.2

Some may think that popular philosophy is an oxymoron, a silly contradiction not worthy of a moment’s thought. Philosophy is, of course, for experts—those who have accumulated vast student-loan debts, after which they have logged long and lonely years in the classroom, studying at their desks, and arguing with other philosophers about philosophy. These strange souls are abstruse, esoteric, recondite and many other long, pompous words not meant for the masses. Philosophers write for each other, argue with each other and often flummox or bore the hapless college students whose academic requirements put them in their presence.

And so it is for many philosophers, but not for all of them. At its most ancient root, philosophy was meant to initiate us into “the good life,” to tutor us for the ongoing experience of knowledge and virtue. Since everyone lives some kind of life, philosophy explored the mind’s abilities to live life in accord with reality. At best, it helps scratch the itch of human existence—or, at its worst, it rubs the wound raw. Even though etymology (the study of word origins) may deceive, it does its work well in understanding the origin of philosophy, telling us that its two Greek parts are love (philos) and wisdom (sophos). Philosophers may not always love wisdom, but that is their discipline’s pedigree. The Hebrew Bible warns in the book of Proverbs that both wisdom and folly call out for reflection and allegiance. The wise are diligent in learning, facing the facts in earnest, while the fool sacrifices character for ignorance and untutored pleasure. But knowledge beckons, nevertheless, at least in our better moments. As Aristotle wrote, “All men by nature desire to know.” (We will examine this sentence shortly.)

Any thinking person may join philosophy’s discussion, which rings down through the ages. That is the aim of this small book, which, I hope, can be read profitably by both philosophical neophytes and seasoned philosophers, whatever their worldview may be. My aims are catholic (universal), however parochial my selections may seem to some.

Philosophy is not a closed club or a secret society. Since we all can think about ultimate questions, let’s do it. For the record, I propose that the requirements for being a philosopher (whether good or bad, major or minor, professional or layperson) are a strong and lived-out inclination to pursue truth through the rigorous use of human reasoning, and to do so with some intellectual facility. But, sadly, even some philosophers disavow the search for truth. In What’s the Use of Truth? French philosopher Pascal Engel writes, “There is . . . no obligation to say or to believe that which is true.”3 If so, why should we read his writings or those of any other philosopher?

Is then everyone a philosopher? Everyone muses a bit on where we came from, who we are and where we are going. But not all do this very well. So, while Johnny Rotten (b. 1956) of the Sex Pistols addressed some philosophical themes in his punk rock compositions and performances, one is reluctant to give him the title of philosopher. This is because it is a kind of merit badge, reserved for the few. I was recently asked by a precocious ten-year-old named Liam if I was a philosopher. I said I was. Then he asked, “What do you do?” My reply was, “I think a lot about arguments.” We then discussed the nature of an argument. With a little coaxing he told me what an argument was: giving reasons for what you believe, often in conversations with those who believe otherwise. I have recruited him for graduate study in my program.

To enjoin the discussion of philosophy, I will appeal to seven sentences, all of which are short, but none of which are trivial. Some are more renowned than others. A few of them are famous. These statements are not impenetrable, deceiving the unwary inquirer with obscurity masquerading as profundity. Sadly, not a few philosophers cloak their ideas with idiosyncrasies and unnecessary jargon. Not so for a Socrates or Jesus, who went about speaking the common tongue in uncommon ways to both common and uncommon people. The public square was their classroom and all comers were their students. Neither wrote a word, but their words are unforgettable, as we will see. Their ideas are affirmed and denied by the simplest and most sophisticated thinkers.

While we cannot directly encounter the likes of Socrates or Jesus—or the more bookish philosophers such as Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Descartes and kindred—we can interrogate them and investigate the perennial questions they address: the nature of truth, how we gain knowledge, the meaning of human existence, death, the source of morality and more. In my many years as a teacher and learner of this antique art, I find to my dismay that too many students too often give up too soon. They face an intellectual difficulty, some demanding reading, or differences of opinion and they cash in their chips, despite my provocations, cajoling, and (on occasion) anger. It need not be and should not be so. T. S. Eliot should kindle a flame in us. “But our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep our metaphysics warm.”4

I first read Eliot’s line in 1977 and never forgot it. Who could, unless he or she were skimming? Martin Heidegger, despite his murky prose, was right in calling our lives a “being unto death,” because our eventual demise—gradual or instant—brackets ­everything we think or do or hope. “No one gets out of here alive” is no tired cliché, unhappily. Samuel Johnson put it well: “Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”5 Our mortality sets limits on all our endeavors, including philosophizing. There is, like it or not, a flashing stop sign ahead on the road. So, why not think well now? Or at least try to? We can take or steal some calmly measured time to muse on what matters most, and we have some guides—epitomized by their sentences—to light the way or at least to rebuke our intellectual laziness. Let me introduce them, in historical order.

Surveying the Seven

Protagoras is not a household name. Google him and find out. (The first entry is, not surprisingly, Wikipedia.) Nor do you find many academic titles analyzing his ideas, although he is often grouped with the Sophists. This is considered a disreputable crowd by some wags and is even a byword: “You sophist!” The charge is that Sophists cared nothing for truth but cared everything about being paid to philosophize for a vested interest. More on these philosophers-for-hire later. Even so, this old Greek crystallizes the thought of not a few philosophers and nonphilosophers. Our chosen sentence sums it up.

Man is the measure of all things: of the things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not.6

Protagoras gives wings to an idea that many ponder: try our hardest (or not try at all), we cannot break free of ourselves—our senses, our viewpoints, our values, even our “stuff.” The world is our judgment and nothing more. It does not await our judgment; it is our judgment. There is no objective truth but only various views from various places at various times by various people. Things are not our measure, but we are the measure of them. Hence, Protagoras is the spokesman for relativism, sometimes called nonrealism or perspectivism. It is not just that we have no (or limited) access to objective reality. That is skepticism. Reality is pretty much exhausted by our perceptions and thoughts. The real world is our world. Myriads have measured Protagoras wrong at least on this, but no one in pursuit of knowledge and wisdom can ignore him. His ghost haunts us still. Is there a philosophical exorcist about?

Our next sentence is often heard but seldom digested. I unfailingly quote it in my first class of introduction to philosophy: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I attempt to coax my students to live this way—for their sakes and mine. (It makes for better papers too.) Thus said Socrates, the gadfly (or pain-in-the-neck) of ancient Athens. Like Protagoras, we know of Socrates through those who knew his work, but unlike Protagoras we have more substantial sources, particularly Plato. And Socrates is a household name. Not incidentally, the man who was not an author ended up being the inspiration for the prolific Plato, who was the world’s first systematic philosopher. As philosopher Alfred North Whitehead discerned, “The safest...