vermis ☽ ♅ ☾ sum ❅

Machiavelli’s conception of absolutist world power emphasises the ruler’s ability to acquire and retain power, irrespective of ethical norms and legal constraints. It is said that Niccolò Machiavelli originally put forward this system of double standards as a thought experiment to free the raison d’état from traditional ethical norms (Discorsi sulla prima deca di Tito Livio, 1531); his aim was to demonstrate how certain norms could be exceeded or circumvented in specific cases.

In order to legitimise the exercise of secular political rule, it was necessary to separate morality from politics, so that the prince could be a master of hypocrisy and pretence.

The term ‘Machiavellianism’ derives from the historical and political writer. In 1513, following his exile from Florence, he wrote 'Il Principe', which was printed in 1532. In this work, Machiavelli offers advice to the princes of the small Italian states of the time. Law and religion no longer hold intrinsic value, but are merely means and tools of a politics which, when the opportunity arises, uses them as a pretext, whilst not considering itself bound by any higher standards or values. Machiavelli’s ideas were followed by the doctrine of raison d’état, which was developed in particular in Richelieu’s France.

Among the numerous works written in opposition to Machiavelli, Frederick II’s 'Antimachiavell' (1740) is noteworthy not so much for its content as for the author himself. Below is a brief summary of the content, which I have compiled from my notes.

Frederick II's Anti-Machiavel (1740) 

Frederick II's Anti-Machiavel (1740), published with a preface by Voltaire in The Hague, represents one of the most ambitious Enlightenment critiques of Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince (1532; 1745 edition consulted). The work seeks to offer what Voltaire describes as an antidote to Machiavellian amorality, arguing that wisdom and virtue should be promoted with the same vigour with which vice has often been celebrated. Voltaire praises the project because virtue is finally adorned more attractively than vice, while condemning Machiavelli for teaching rulers the art of “being godless” (p. 211). He further criticises Amelot's defence of Machiavelli as disproportionate and compares Machiavelli's effect on political thought to that of Spinoza on religion: just as Spinoza allegedly undermined the foundations of faith, Machiavelli corrupts the art of government. 

The central concern of Anti-Machiavel is the moral responsibility of rulers. Frederick regards The Prince as one of the most dangerous books ever written because nothing is more harmful than the passions of kings (p. 215). Historical remembrance, he argues, should be reserved only for virtuous rulers, while justice must remain the foremost concern of every prince (p. 218). The true aim of government is neither conquest nor personal glory but the happiness of the people (p. 221). A ruler should strive to increase the population and bring the country into a flourishing condition (p. 238). 

Frederick also challenges Machiavelli's credibility by situating him within what he regards as the barbarous political culture of the fifteenth century. Since Machiavelli drew his examples from a violent and morally degraded age, Frederick argues that the individuals he presents are largely negative models. This criticism extends to Machiavelli's recommendations for securing newly conquered territories. Frederick rejects the three principal strategies proposed by Machiavelli: exterminating the ruling family, establishing a residence in the conquered state, and founding colonies. Such policies, he contends, impose enormous costs and ultimately destroy the very territory from which a ruler hopes to profit. As he writes: “Denn diese Eroberung kostet ihn sehr viel; und dernach zerstöret er das einzige Land, das ihm seinen Verlust wieder ersetzen können. Ihr werdet mir doch zugestehen, dass der Besitz eines verwüsteten und von Einwohnern entblößten Landes einen Fürsten nicht mächtig machen könne” (p. 236). 

Another important criticism concerns Machiavelli's emphasis on ambition. Frederick objects that ambition is presented as the primary driving force of political greatness, while countless examples exist of individuals whose ambition led only to ruin. Courage and skill, moreover, are not identical with virtue, since “Muth und Geschicklichkeit findet sich eben so wohl bey Strassenräubern als bey Helden” (p. 244). Genuine greatness depends upon historical circumstances (p. 246). A person's qualities may be admired in one age and regarded as harmful in another; thus, a highly warlike character may appear admirable during wartime but less so during peace. 

Frederick is particularly critical of Machiavelli's treatment of newly acquired states and of the exemplary role assigned to Cesare Borgia. The advice offered by Machiavelli, he argues, rewards disloyalty and vice. Borgia, whose methods are presented as politically effective, was in Frederick's view exceptionally bloodthirsty and therefore unsuitable as a model for rulers. His strategy depended upon weakening neighbouring powers by setting them against one another before appropriating their possessions. Such methods exemplify a broader political hypocrisy whereby many invoke the “advantage of heaven” merely as a disguise for self-interest. 

Accordingly, Frederick condemns deception, perjury, manipulation, and murder as political tools. He writes: “Der Menschen Treu und Glauben missbrauchen, schändliche List anwenden, meineidig werden, Meuchelmorde begehen; sehet, dieses nennet der Lehrmeister der Bubenstücke Klugheit” (p. 251). He further argues that vice inevitably leads to further vice: “Sehet, wie man von einem Laster auf das andere fället: Um die Ausgaben zu bestreiten, muss man Geld haben; damit man solches bekommen möge, muss man dessen Besitzer plündern; und damit man es sicher genießen könne, muss man sie ausrotten. Schlüsse der Straßenräuber!” (p. 253). 

The eighth chapter of The Prince, dealing with those who become rulers through criminal means, receives especially severe criticism. Frederick compares Machiavelli's teaching to a school of vice or a university of traitors. Figures such as Agathocles and Oliverotto da Fermo are presented by Machiavelli as examples of successful political actors, whereas Frederick insists that they deserve oblivion rather than admiration (p. 255). He fears the corrupting influence of such examples, arguing that one mind infects another and that young people can have their understanding distorted through reading, just as novels may unsettle the mind (p. 256). 

Against Machiavelli's admiration of successful rulers regardless of their methods, Frederick argues that a closer examination of the lives of tyrants and criminals reveals not happiness but miserable endings. Even if there were no divine justice and no God, virtue would remain indispensable because it alone allows human beings to coexist and preserve themselves. Vice, by contrast, produces misery and accelerates destruction: “sollten um so viel mehr die Menschen tugendhaft seyn, weil die Tugend allein sie vereinigen kann, und ihnen zu ihrer Erhaltung unumgägnlich nöthig ist, und das Laster hingegen sie nur unglücklich machen, und ihren Untergang befördern kann” (p. 260). 

The theme of liberty occupies a similarly important place. Frederick describes freedom as humanity's strongest inclination and as inseparable from human nature itself: “Denn so wie wir ohne Ketten geboren werden, so begehren wir ohne Zwang zu leben” (p. 261). The spirit of independence and magnanimity has historically elevated great individuals. Political authority is therefore legitimate only when exercised through laws. Unlike the arbitrary decisions of individuals, laws are inherently oriented toward justice and function as remedies against political and social disorders (p. 264). 

In his discussion of military affairs, Frederick distinguishes between different kinds of soldiers according to the “temperament of the state” (p. 279). Native troops constitute the best military force, yet foreign soldiers may become necessary when demographic limitations prevent a state from sustaining its armies (p. 281). The ideal ruler should personally command his forces: “Ein großer Fürst soll seine Völker selbst anführen. Seine Armee ist seine Residenz; sein Vortheil, seine Pflicht, seine Ehre, alles verbindet ihn dazu” (p. 284). Yet the prince must not reduce himself to the role of a soldier alone; he remains simultaneously judge, legislator, and guardian of justice. 

A particularly interesting section concerns hunting. Frederick rejects Machiavelli's praise of hunting as the noblest and most ancient of pleasures. While hunting may exercise the body, it does little to improve the mind. Historical precedent alone cannot justify a practice. Great figures of the past also engaged in morally objectionable customs such as sibling marriage or polygamy, yet no one would therefore recommend them. He mocks rulers who spend their lives in forests pursuing animals because they lack the intelligence and sociability necessary for the company of rational human beings: “Ich frage nun, ob das Exempel sind, denen man folgen soll?” (p. 295).  Likewise,he questions whether mere longevity possesses any value in itself, concluding that a meaningful life is measured not by years but by thought and useful deeds (p. 297). 

The later chapters continue this defence of virtue. In Chapter XV, Frederick argues that praise and blame should ultimately depend upon moral character; a good king will be recognised as upright and just. In Chapter XVIII, devoted to the question of whether princes should keep their word, he attacks Machiavelli's famous argument that rulers may abandon promises when circumstances require. Public curiosity, he notes, observes and spreads everything: “Sie ist ein Tier, das alles siehet, alles höret, und alles ausbreitet.”  Deception can be exposed by comparing words with actions. Frederick therefore rejects the image of the prince as a creature who must be half beast and half man. He acknowledges that the world contains both honest players and cheats,but insists that this fact cannot justify dishonesty. Machiavelli's advice that princes need not keep their promises because others do not keep theirs merely presupposes a fundamentally corrupt vision of humanity. Frederick's criticism is therefore not only political but anthropological: Machiavelli's recommendations become plausible only if one assumes a thoroughly evil world in advance. 

The AntiMachiavel constitutes a distinctly Enlightenment attempt to reconcile political power with morality. Frederick rejects the separation of ethics and politics that many readers have associated with Machiavelli and instead argues that justice, virtue, public welfare, and respect for liberty are the true foundations of durable government. Whether entirely consistent with Frederick's own later reign or not, the work remains a remarkable defence of enlightened kingship against the logic of raison d'état. 

Erving Goffman (1922–1982) is regarded as one of the most influential sociologists of the 20th century. Born in Manville, Canada, he studied sociology at the University of Toronto and the University of Chicago, where he also obtained his doctorate. His academic interests centred on microsociology and the sociology of interaction – that is, everyday encounters between people. Rather than focusing on large-scale social structures, Goffman examined seemingly ordinary everyday situations and demonstrated that it is precisely in these that fundamental social processes can be observed. His work had a lasting influence on sociology because it illustrates how identity, communication and social order emerge in everyday interactions.

In "The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life", Goffman describes social life using a theatrical metaphor. People act as performers who embody specific roles in front of an audience. Several individuals can form an ensemble that collectively sustains a social reality, such as hospital staff or a group of friends. However, the audience is not merely a passive observer. It evaluates the performance and plays a decisive role in determining whether it is perceived as credible. At the same time, performers often view themselves from the perspective of their counterpart and adapt their behaviour accordingly. It is precisely this that makes a performance convincing.

The ‘facade’ plays a central role in this. It encompasses all means of self-presentation, such as clothing, language, facial expressions or posture. Although people appear to be free to choose their façade, they are guided by social expectations. The role a person assumes is therefore never entirely random, but rather an expression of how they wish to be perceived and what expectations others have of them. The more convincing this performance is, the more authentic it appears. Goffman points out, however, that performers do not always believe in their own roles. If they play them merely out of expediency, he refers to this as cynicism. It is precisely this tension between conviction and mere performance that highlights just how fragile social reality is.

Particularly interesting is Goffman’s idea that roles are not merely played out, but can actually become reality over time. For example, someone working as a waiter for the first time initially takes their cue from societal expectations of how a good waiter should behave. They initially mimic the role until it gradually becomes second nature. What was initially a performed role develops into an actual identity. In this way, Goffman demonstrates that identity does not simply exist, but is constantly re-created in social situations.

Another key concept is the distinction between the ‘front stage’ and the ‘back stage’. On the front stage, people present the role they want others to see. A teacher appears engaged, confident and competent in the classroom. On the back stage – for example, in the staff room – the same teacher can express insecurity, frustration or criticism without jeopardising their public role. This model becomes particularly interesting when the boundaries shift. If, for example, the press visits a school, teachers and pupils can jointly create a new ‘front stage’ and convey as positive an image of the school as possible. This is not necessarily about telling lies, but rather about a conscious selection of what is to be shown.

It is at this point that Goffman’s actual core idea becomes clear: Social reality does not arise independently of people, but is jointly produced through interactions. The performer attempts to convey a particular definition of the situation, whilst the audience interprets and either confirms or questions it. It is only through this mutual coordination that what the participants accept as reality comes into being. Reality is therefore not an objectively fixed fact, but the result of social negotiation processes.

In this context, Goffman speaks of the ‘definition of the situation’. By this he does not mean that all participants share the same objective reality, but rather that they provisionally agree on which definition of the situation should apply. Social reality is therefore always the result of mutual recognition and remains, in principle, subject to change. It must be reaffirmed and maintained anew in every new interaction.

This shared understanding forms the basis of social life. Without it, orderly coexistence would be virtually impossible, as people would be unable to assess the behaviour of others or respond to it appropriately. Expectations would be unpredictable, social order could not stabilise, and even everyday interactions would break down. It is only through a shared understanding of a situation that we can achieve a sense of direction, reliability and a certain degree of harmony in social coexistence.

That is why, from the very first encounter, people try to gather as much information as possible about the person they are meeting, or to draw on existing experiences. The aim is to form expectations and adapt one’s own behaviour accordingly. This information comes from various sources, which Goffman refers to as ‘sign-carriers’. Clothing, language, gestures, facial expressions, occupation, status symbols or a person’s demeanour provide clues as to how they might be categorised. Previous experiences help in assessing present and future behaviour. At the same time, however, there is a risk that people will project stereotypical notions or clichés onto others and judge them prematurely.

Since inner attitudes, feelings or beliefs are not immediately visible, they must be inferred from observable behaviour. This is precisely why a person’s outward presentation takes on such great significance. People present themselves as coherently as possible so that others can understand their role and adjust their expectations accordingly. Goffman states that the individual ‘must act in such a way that they express themselves, intentionally or unintentionally, and make a certain impression on others’.

In this context, Goffman distinguishes between expressions that are ‘given’ and those that are ‘radiated’. Given expressions can be consciously controlled, such as speech or deliberately used gestures. Radiated expressions, on the other hand, are largely beyond one’s control. These include, for example, unconscious facial expressions, physical reactions or other signals that allow inferences to be drawn about a person’s actual state of mind. It is precisely these unintentional forms of expression that often determine whether a presentation appears credible.

Presentations can also be used deliberately to control the flow of information. People sometimes intentionally convey a certain image of themselves by selecting or emphasising certain pieces of information. For example, wealthy hosts may bring out their finest china when guests arrive in order to convey affluence and refinement. Similarly, female patients in psychiatric institutions report having recounted their life stories in a particularly dramatic manner because they believed this was precisely what was expected of them. Recruits undergoing basic military training, too, frequently assume the role of the honourable soldier long before they actually identify with it. They act in accordance with the expectations of those around them and often only internalise this role as they go along.

The terms ‘front stage’, ‘back stage’ and ‘audience’ do not have a fixed relationship with one another, but shift depending on the situation. People can be both observers and those being observed at the same time. Those who have greater influence over the thoughts or behaviour of others also have greater scope to help shape the definition of a situation. Within an ensemble, Goffman refers to this as ‘directorial dominance’. Individual members have more authority than others and play a decisive role in determining which performance is maintained and what information reaches the audience.

This becomes particularly clear in so-called boundary roles, such as a factory foreman or a referee. On the one hand, both belong to their respective ensembles; on the other hand, however, they control the ensemble’s proceedings and ensure that the desired performance is maintained. Similarly, a hairdresser may deliberately make her appointment book appear full in order to protect her breaks, or a hospital may selectively control information about a patient’s state of health by initially placing them on a different ward. In both cases, access to information is deliberately controlled, thereby also influencing the perception of the situation.

In this way, Goffman ultimately answers the question of how a shared social reality emerges from the behaviour of individual people. For him, reality is not an objective and unchanging quantity. Rather, it is recreated, confirmed, adapted and negotiated with others in every interaction. Social reality exists only because people play their roles, recognise one another and continually reaffirm their definitions of the situation.

In this way, Goffman ultimately answers the question of how the behaviour of individual people gives rise to a shared social reality. For him, reality is not an objective and unchanging entity. Rather, it is constantly recreated, confirmed, adapted and negotiated with others in every interaction. Social reality exists only because people play their roles, recognise one another and continually reaffirm their definitions of the situation. In this sense, reality is not a fixed state, but an ongoing process of social construction.

Heisenberg: Quantum Theory and Philosophy - with some excerpts.

Quantum Mechanics and a Conversation with Einstein (p. 31)

"I thought," I asked in astonishment, "that you of all people had made this very idea the foundation of your theory of relativity? You had emphasized that one cannot speak of absolute time, since this absolute time cannot be observed. Only the readings of clocks, whether in a moving or a stationary frame of reference, are decisive for determining time."

"Perhaps I have used this kind of philosophy," Einstein replied, "but it is nonetheless nonsense. Or, to put it more cautiously, it may be of heuristic value to remember what one actually observes. But from a fundamental standpoint, it is quite wrong to want to base a theory solely on observable quantities. For in reality, it is precisely the other way around. Only theory determines what can be observed. You see, observation is generally a very complicated process." The process to be observed triggers certain events in our measuring apparatus. As a consequence, further processes then occur in this apparatus, which ultimately, indirectly, produce the sensory impression and the fixation of the result in our consciousness. On this entire long path from the process to its fixation in our consciousness, we must know how nature works; we must at least practically understand the laws of nature if we want to claim that we have observed something. Only theory, that is, knowledge of the laws of nature, allows us to infer the underlying process from the sensory impression. If one claims that one has observed something—

The Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Theory (p. 45)

The probability function can only be linked to reality if an essential condition is met: namely, if a new measurement or observation is made to determine a specific property of the system. Only then does the probability function allow us to calculate the probable result of the new measurement. The result of the measurement is then expressed in terms of classical physics.

Therefore, the theoretical interpretation of an experiment requires three clearly distinct steps. In the first, the initial experimental situation is translated into a probability function. In the second, this function is computationally tracked over time. In the third, a new measurement is performed on the system, the expected result of which can then be calculated from the probability function. For the first step, the validity of the uncertainty principle is a necessary precondition. The second step cannot be described in terms of classical physics. It is impossible to specify what happens to the system between the initial observation and the next measurement. Only in the third step can the transition from the possible to the actual be completed.

We will illustrate these three steps with a simple thought experiment. It has already been stated that the atom consists of an atomic nucleus and electrons that move around this nucleus. It has also already been established that the concept of an electron orbit is somewhat problematic.

The Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Theory (p. 50)

...can give rise to contradictions. The duality between the two complementary pictures—the wave picture and the particle picture—is also clearly evident in the flexibility of the mathematical formalism. This formalism is usually formulated in a way that resembles Newtonian mechanics—that is, using equations of motion for the coordinates and velocities of the particles. However, through a simple transformation, it can be rewritten as a wave equation for three-dimensional matter waves; yet these waves, too, possess the character of matrices or operators rather than simple field quantities. Consequently, the possibility of playing with the various complementary pictures—and their mathematical formalisms—does not lead to any difficulties within the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum theory.

An obstacle to understanding this interpretation invariably arises, however, when one asks the familiar question: "But what is actually happening during an atomic process?" It has already been stated that measurement and the results of observation must always be described in the terms of classical physics. Yet what is derived from the observation is a probability function—a mathematical expression combining statements about possibilities or "tendencies" with statements regarding our knowledge of facts. Therefore, we cannot fully objectify the result of an observation. We cannot describe what occurs between one observation and the next. At first glance, it appears as though ... we have introduced a subjective element into the theory—as if to say that what happens depends on how we observe the event, or at least on the fact that we observe it. Before discussing this objection, it is necessary to explain precisely why one would encounter immense difficulties in attempting to describe what occurs between two successive observations.

It is useful here to consider the following thought experiment. Let us assume that a small monochromatic light source emits light onto a black screen containing two small apertures. The diameters of the apertures need not be much larger than the wavelength of the light, but the distance between them should be significantly greater. A photographic plate is placed at some distance behind the screen to capture the incident light. If this experiment is described in terms of the wave model, one says that the primary wave passes through the two apertures. This results in two secondary spherical waves originating from the apertures and interfering with each other. The interference produces a pattern of varying intensities—known as interference fringes—on the photographic plate.

The blackening of the photographic plate is a chemical process triggered by individual light quanta; therefore, the experiment must also be described in terms of light quanta. If it were permissible to discuss what happens to the individual light quantum between its emission from the light source...

Quantum Mechanics and Kantian Philosophy (p. 67)

"Nature thus informs us that the disputed determining factors do not exist at all—that our knowledge is already complete without them."

"But that is terrible," said Grete Hermann. "On the one hand, you say our knowledge of the Radium B atom is incomplete because we do not know when or in what direction the electron will be emitted; on the other hand, you say the knowledge is complete because, if there were further determining factors, we would run into contradictions with certain other experiments.

But surely our knowledge cannot be both complete and incomplete at the same time. That is simply nonsense."

Carl Friedrich then began to analyze the premises of Kantian philosophy somewhat more closely: "The apparent contradiction here," he said, "arises because, in what we say, we act as if one could speak of a Radium B atom *in itself*. But that is not self-evident, and strictly speaking, it is not correct either. Even for Kant, the 'thing-in-itself' is a problematic concept. Kant knows that nothing can be asserted about the 'thing-in-itself'; we are given only objects of perception. Yet Kant assumes that these objects of perception can be linked or ordered, so to speak, according to the model of a thing-in-itself. He thus presupposes—as given *a priori*—that structure of experience to which we have become accustomed in daily life and which, in precise form, constitutes the foundation of classical physics. According to this view, the world consists of..."

On the Responsibility of the Researcher (p. 89)

...know how the individual ought to conduct himself when placed within the machinery of a humanity shaped by conflicting ideas—a humanity at the mercy of its own passions and delusions, yet interested in technical progress. We have learned too little about this so far.

"We have at least come to understand," I attempted to reply, "that for the individual whom scientific or technical progress has confronted with an important task, it is not enough to think only of that task. He must view the solution as part of a broad development—one he evidently affirms, given that he is working on such problems in the first place. He will arrive at the right decisions more easily if he takes these broader contexts into account."

"That would presumably mean he must also strive for a connection with public life and seek to influence state administration if he wishes not only to conceive the right course of action but also to carry it out and bring about results. Yet such a connection is perhaps not unreasonable. It fits well with the general trend we were trying to visualize earlier. As scientific and technical progress becomes increasingly important to the public at large, the influence of those driving this progress on public life could also grow. Of course, one cannot assume that physicists and engineers would be better at making important political decisions than politicians are. However, through their scientific work, they have learned better how to think objectively, factually, and—most importantly—in terms of broad contexts. They may..."

The Beauty in Exact Natural Science (p. 102)

... as exemplified by Newtonian mechanics, hardly needs explaining. The parts are the individual mechanical processes; those we carefully isolate with apparatus, as well as those that unfold inextricably before us in the colorful interplay of phenomena. And the whole is precisely the unifying principle of form that Newton has established in a simple system, to which all these processes have been mathematically defined by axioms. One and the same. But the fact that in such unity and simplicity, the One is contrasted with the many, that the many are united within it, is nevertheless perceived as simple and beautiful. The significance of this, which we also recognize and emphasize as the One for discovering truth, naturally follows. The Latin motto, "simplex sigillum veri," "Simplicity is the seal of truth," is inscribed in large letters in the physics lecture hall at the University of Göttingen as a reminder to those who wish to discover new things. The other Latin motto, "pulchritudo splendor veritatis," "Beauty is the splendor of truth," can also be interpreted as meaning that the researcher first recognizes truth by this splendor, by its radiance.

Twice more in the history of exact science, this illumination of the grand narrative has become the decisive signal for significant progress. I am thinking here of two events in 20th-century physics: the development of the theory of relativity and quantum theory. In both cases, a bewildering abundance of details was almost suddenly ordered after years of fruitless efforts at understanding, when a connection, admittedly quite abstract, but ultimately simple in its substance, emerged, which, through its coherence and abstract beauty, immediately convinced all those who can stand and speak.

But we do not want to trace the historical course of events further now, but rather ask quite directly: What is illuminating here? How is it that the grand connection becomes recognizable in this illumination of beauty in exact natural science, and can it still be rationally proven? What is its illuminance before it is understood in its details, and what effect does it have on the further course of science?

Perhaps we should first recall a phenomenon that can be called the unfolding of abstract structures. This can be explained using the example of number theory, which was mentioned at the beginning, but one can also point to comparable processes in the development of art. For the mathematical foundation of arithmetic, the study of numbers, a few simple axioms suffice, which essentially only define precisely what counting means. But with these few axioms, the entire range of forms that only entered the consciousness of mathematicians over the course of a long history is already established: the doctrine of prime numbers, of quadratic residues, of numerical congruences, and so on. One can say that the abstract structures established by counting only became apparent later.

Presenting an insight into Plato's philosophy in Politeia, The Republic. Plato’s Politeia is not written as a systematic treatise, but as a philosophical dialogue. This form is by no means coincidental, but rather an expression of his view of how philosophical knowledge arises in the first place. Plato does not merely present philosophical teachings, but allows truth to emerge through shared conversation. In this way, the dialogue form differs fundamentally from mere instruction: it combines the knowledge that something is the case with the knowledge of how knowledge is acquired. The reader follows the process of knowledge formation themselves and is encouraged to understand it. Socrates is at the centre of this process. Using maieutics, he guides his interlocutors to draw insights from their own reason, whilst elenctics serves to uncover and refute contradictory or untenable opinions. Philosophical knowledge thus arises not through authoritative instruction, but through the critical examination of convictions that appear self-evident. The dialogue form makes this process visible and, at the same time, clarifies the difference between mere opinion (doxa) and well-founded knowledge (episteme). At the same time, the dialogue serves to examine various conceptions of justice step by step and to highlight their limitations. The interlocutors embody different ethical and political positions, which are not chosen at random. Kephalos represents the traditional, religiously influenced morality of ancient Athens and initially defines justice as truthfulness and the settling of debts. His son Polemarchos adopts this way of thinking and develops it further in the spirit of the Homeric tradition by asserting – following Simonides – that justice consists in doing good to friends and harming enemies. The transmission of these views from father to son illustrates how deeply traditional moral concepts are rooted in society. Socrates, on the other hand, breaks with this tradition by subjecting every position to rigorous dialectical scrutiny, thereby paving the way for a new, philosophically grounded conception of justice. The refutation of Polemarchus’s definition serves as a prime example of the method of Socratic dialectic. Socrates first points out the epistemic problem that people can be mistaken about who is actually a friend or a foe, so that moral action must not be made dependent on subjective judgements. Furthermore, he highlights a moral problem: whoever harms another person corrupts their character and thereby ultimately increases injustice. Finally, he develops a virtue-logical argument: a virtue can never produce its own opposite. Just as warmth does not produce cold and music does not make anyone unmusical, neither can justice bring about injustice. This overcomes the traditional Homeric maxim whilst at the same time paving the way for Plato’s positive definition of justice. However, Plato does not develop this directly in relation to the individual soul, but initially using the model of the state. The polis serves as a heuristic tool in this regard: what can be more easily observed within the broader context of the state can subsequently be applied to the more elusive order of the human soul. Since the soul itself is not directly visible, its structure is examined as reflected in the ideal state. In this way, Plato sets the stage for his central thesis: that justice, both in the state and in human beings, consists of a harmonious order of its individual parts.

Little (personal) introduction Throughout my life I have encountered Plato’s Politeia time and again: at school, while preparing for university entrance examinations, during my legal studies, and now once more as in my philosophy studies. Each encounter left me with the impression that I understood the work more fully; yet each new reading revealed further layers beneath what I had previously taken to be understanding. Few books reward repeated study as generously as Plato’s Republic.

Hardly any other work combines questions of justice, the Good, knowledge, and opinion with comparable depth and sophistication. Although the dialogue is often read primarily as a political treatise, the virtues of the state and those of the soul mirror one another, allowing Plato to explore the conditions under which human beings may orient themselves toward the Good.

Particularly I am fascinated by the three famous allegories: the Sun, the Divided Line, and the Cave. Together they demonstrate that the Good cannot be adequately captured through definitions alone. Instead, Plato approaches it through images that guide the reader gradually toward philosophical insight. The Politeia is therefore not a textbook of ready-made answers, but an invitation to refine one’s own vision and to learn to distinguish appearance from reality, to sharpen one's one perspective.

This invitation becomes especially apparent in Plato’s epistemology. In Book V, as part of his characterisation of the philosopher, he develops the fundamental distinction between epistēmē and doxa—between knowledge and opinion. This remains the most detailed exposition of that distinction in his corpus and continues to provoke scholarly debate. Do knowledge and opinion differ primarily as modes of cognition, as objects of cognition, or in both respects simultaneously? Plato’s discussion suggests that the answer is far from straightforward.

What I find particularly remarkable is that opinion is not simply dismissed as error. It possesses its own sphere, its own legitimacy, and its own relation to reality. Likewise, knowledge is not presented as the mere accumulation of correct propositions. Even within the Politeia, one can discern different levels of cognition: discursive reasoning, which proceeds through concepts and arguments, and a higher form of insight directed toward that which grants permanence, intelligibility, and truth to all things. One of Plato’s greatest achievements, in my view, lies precisely in portraying knowledge not as a possession but as a process of intellectual and moral development.

The arising questions reach far beyond antiquity. What does it mean to know something? Under what conditions can knowledge be justified and communicated to others? Where does that deeper understanding begin which manifests itself less in propositions than in judgement, experience, or skill? Modern epistemology addresses such issues through distinctions between propositional and non-propositional knowledge, or between “knowing that” and “knowing how.” 

Against this background, the Theory of Ideas appears in a particular light, it is not merely a metaphysical claim about a second world existing beyond the sensible realm. Rather, it is an attempt to explain how knowledge is possible at all and why our concepts can be more than arbitrary conventions. The Forms provide the standards by which thought is guided and evaluated. They explain why we can meaningfully distinguish between better and worse accounts of justice, virtue, or goodness.

In this respect, the Ideas fulfil three functions simultaneously: they ground the existence of things, their knowability, and their value. The Ideas are, by their very nature, existent, knowable, and good; sensible particulars possess these characteristics only in a derivative manner. Being, truth, and value converge within them. Consequently, the Good is not merely the absence of evil. It is a positive principle that calls human beings to realise and bring forth what is good.

This helps explain why Socrates repeatedly leads his interlocutors beyond their initially plausible definitions. He reveals how readily we mistake familiarity for understanding and invites us to seek more universal and robust conceptions of justice, virtue, and the Good. His method remains strikingly relevant. With sharp irony and relentless questioning, he dismantles established certainties, but not for the sake of destruction: In pursuit of deeper insight. The sophists, defenders of convention, and ambitious young men who populate the dialogue represent intellectual attitudes that remain familiar in every age.

It is precisely this interplay of epistemology, ontology, and ethics that makes the Politeia an inexhaustible work for me. It not only teaches us how to think about the world; it also challenges us to examine the foundations of our own thinking. Every reading reveals new connections, new tensions, and new questions. The dialogue does not simply provide doctrines to be accepted, but demands an ongoing engagement with the most fundamental questions of human existence.

For this reason, Plato’s Politeia continues to accompany me after many years of study. Each return to the text opens new perspectives and discloses new depths. The essays that follow bring together some of my reflections on this remarkable work. They make no claim to completeness. Rather, they mark a series of milestones along an intellectual journey that remains, and perhaps must remain, unfinished.

How is the Good recognised, and what is the nature of the knowledge of the Good?

The recognition of the Good and the question of the nature of this knowledge constitute one of the most difficult passages in Plato’s theory of knowledge. The classical philologist Thomas A. Szlezák, from whose circle of students the Tübinger Schule emerged, addresses this fundamental theme by highlighting several points simultaneously: Plato’s position and his critique of modern interpretations (and also how Aristotle understood the idea of the Good differently by identifying the Good with the One. This topic is also very interesting and we could think, if it is an interpretation of Aristotle or if there are predicates or premises leading to the conclusion of identifying the Highest Good with the Unmoved Mover, but let us discuss this some other time, some other place :* merci).

Let us turn to the question of wether and how the Good can be recognized. If we were to assume that the Good could be recognised in the same way as an ordinary object, then we would recognise the Good just as we see a tree and recognise it as a tree. The Good would be an object alongside other objects, distinguishable and definable by its unique characteristics.

Socrates would reject this view, for according to "Politeia", the Good is, in fact, the very condition for the Good to be recognised at all. Here the allegory of the sun comes into play once more: although humans can see the sun, it is primarily the sun that makes it possible to see other things. Thus, the Good fulfils the same function as thought.

The opposing view, namely that the Good is entirely unknowable, assumes that if the Good is the prerequisite for all knowledge, it can never itself be known.

In contrast, Szelezák concedes that the Allegory of the Cave presupposes that the Good can be recognised; after all, the philosopher is able to ascend to the sun. “The fact that the Good can be recognised is the conclusion (517b8-c1) of the Allegory of the Cave and, in a certain sense, also its prerequisite, for without it the ascent would indeed not be worthwhile (as the cave-dwellers believe: 517a4); therefore, the knowability of the Good is already touched upon preparatorily in the Allegory of the Sun (508e3–4, analogous to the visibility of the sun 508b9–10). In the explanation of the Allegory of the Cave, we also learn that the soul ultimately even acquires the ability to ‘endure’ gazing upon the most luminous of all that exists (anaschesthai theômenê: 518c9–10). The fact that contemplating the Idea of the Good is possible ‘only for a few moments’ (Albert 1996, 153) is confirmed by this passage.”

How, then, can the Good be recognised?

Not as one recognises trees, nor as one defines them logically; the Good is grasped through dialectic. Several stages must be overcome, and the path begins with the recognition of individual good things, such as justice, courage and beauty. At the next stage, the question arises as to what actually makes all these things good. The individual good things are examined: one looks for commonalities and searches for a common ground. This process is what dialectic entails.

At the third stage, dialectic ascends ever higher, whilst elenctic refutes false opinions. Dialectic sees the reason behind the reason and keeps asking what this and that depends on, until finally nothing higher can be sought. Thus dialectic attains the Good and, with it, the highest idea in understanding.

“It therefore stands to reason that the prior act of beholding (theastai) or seeing the Good, as distinct from this, should be understood as a holistic, intuitive grasp which – like the sudden beholding of the Idea of the Beautiful in the Symposium (210e4) – consists of a single step: the unifying vision of the manifold into unity.”

In summary: The Good is knowable. Its cognition “therefore belongs to discursive thought”, whereby elenctic clears away false opinions and adopted everyday definitions, whilst dialectic prepares the way for cognition by ascending from individual ideas to the highest principle.

The actual act of recognition, however, could be a sudden glimpse (exápinas), as in the Symposium; but it can also emerge suddenly, as in the Allegory of the Cave, where the prisoner beholds a path as if from nowhere and unties himself, whilst increasingly realising the falsity of the images before stepping into the sunlight.

Plato’s Allegory of the Sun

The Allegory of the Sun occupies a central position within Plato’s Republic and is of fundamental importance for understanding his philosophy. Together with the Allegory of the Cave and the Allegory of the Lines, it forms the core of Plato’s theory of knowledge and his theory of ideas. These three allegories bring together the essential ideas of his philosophical system and present them in a vivid context.

The Sun Allegory becomes necessary because the Idea of the Good (unlike, for example, justice) cannot be directly defined or deduced. Plato therefore describes the path to knowledge by means of an analogy. The allegory not only aims to establish a hierarchical order between the image and the archetype, but is also intended to illustrate the fundamental structure of reality as a whole.

At the heart of the allegory lie two analogous propositions. Firstly, the Idea of the Good relates to the intellect in the same way as the sun relates to the sense of sight. Secondly, the Idea of the Good relates to the realm of the thinkable in the same way as the sun relates to the realm of the visible. This establishes a structural correspondence between the sensually perceptible world and the intelligible world.

Plato explains this using the example of sight: although sight and visible objects are related to one another, this relationship alone is not sufficient. A third element is required (light) for seeing and being seen to be possible at all. The light emanates from the sun, which itself belongs to the heavenly gods. The faculty of sight cannot therefore actualise itself by its own power, but is dependent on an external source. It is only through sunlight that visible things become truly recognisable. (There is also a sensible relation of nous: the mind's eye, way back before philosophers elevated the term to draw a line between pure intellect and the part of soul, which is recognizing universal truths. . . )

This epistemological (gnoseological) statement is complemented by an ontological one. The Sun and the Idea of the Good are not only principles of knowledge, but also principles of being. Thus, in the visible world, the sun enables the creation, growth and preservation of all life. Similarly, the Idea of the Good confers being and existence upon the intelligible world. The Good therefore stands even above being, as it is its actual cause.

In doing so, the sun does not merely fulfil the function of an element within an analogy of proportion, but assumes a mediating role. Unlike other visible things, it is not itself something produced, but rather the prerequisite for knowledge to take place at all. This also clarifies the relationship between the faculty of knowledge and the object of knowledge.

Plato further makes it clear that knowledge always depends on the nature of its object. If the soul turns towards the changeable and the obscure, this is akin to attempting to recognise a shadow in the dark. Reason, as it were, becomes mingled with the darkness and fails to attain certain knowledge. Only when it turns towards the unchanging and the intelligible can true knowledge arise.

The soul is not, however, confined exclusively to the intelligible world. It can direct itself both towards the realm of the unchanging and towards the realm of becoming and passing away. Depending on which sphere it turns to, it attains either mere opinion (doxa) or true knowledge (episteme).

The Sun Allegory is also regarded as the simplest of the three great allegories. It first summarises the theory of ideas in a fundamental form and illustrates the concept of two hierarchically ordered worlds, which are linked by a relationship of analogy. The different forms of knowledge (in particular opinion and knowledge) are first hinted at. These distinctions are then elaborated in greater detail in the Allegory of the Lines, whilst the Allegory of the Cave ultimately illustrates humanity’s ascent from ignorance to the knowledge of the Good.

Commentary on the Allegory of the Cave

The Allegory of the Cave forms the climax of the three famous allegories in Plato’s "Politeia". Whilst the Allegory of the Sun describes the Idea of the Good and the Allegory of the Lines describes the various stages of knowledge, the Allegory of the Cave illustrates humanity’s journey from ignorance to knowledge. It deals with human nature in terms of education and ignorance, whilst at the same time highlighting the political and ethical role of the philosopher.

The cave is, first and foremost, a metaphor for ordinary human existence. The prisoners have been chained in one place since childhood. They can move neither their bodies nor their heads and see nothing but the cave wall in front of them. Behind them a fire burns; between the fire and the prisoners runs a path along which people carry objects. The prisoners, however, do not see these objects themselves, but only their shadows on the wall. Since they have never perceived anything else, they regard the shadows as the actual reality. Whoever recognises, names and explains the shadows most quickly is considered particularly wise.

Here, Plato criticises a form of knowledge that is limited to mere opinions and appearances. The shadows are merely images of images, projections of an already imperfect reality. The bearers of the objects can be understood as symbols of the Sophists, who, whilst conveying opinions and beliefs, do not lead people to the truth. The cave-dwellers confuse appearance with reality and regard their limited perspective as the whole of reality.

The moment of liberation is decisive. One of the prisoners is unchained and forced to stand up. This step alone is painful. He must turn his head, face the light and begin the arduous ascent out of the cave. Plato emphasises that knowledge is not a comfortable experience. Anyone who abandons their previous world view initially experiences confusion. The new seems less real than the familiar. Only gradually do the eyes become accustomed to the light.

Outside the cave, the liberated individual gradually recognises the true order of things. At first he sees shadows, then reflections, and finally the objects themselves. In the end, they even gaze upon the sun. In the Allegory of the Cave, this sun corresponds to the Form of the Good, the highest principle of knowledge of all. Just as the sun illuminates visible things, the Form of the Good makes true knowledge possible in the first place. The ascent from the cave is therefore not merely a gain in knowledge, but a transformation of the entire soul.

Plato describes this process as the ‘art of reorientation’. For him, education does not mean implanting knowledge into an empty soul, as one might implant eyes into a blind person. Rather, the soul already possesses the capacity for knowledge; it merely needs to be turned away from transitory things and directed towards Being. In 518d, Plato therefore describes education as the turning of the whole soul from becoming towards Being.

It is noteworthy, however, that the philosopher must not remain outside the cave. Although he has recognised true reality and the affairs of the cave now seem trivial to him, he is obliged to return. This reveals the political dimension of the allegory. The philosopher owes his education to the polis and must not use the knowledge he has gained solely for his own benefit. He must serve other people and endeavour to lead them to the truth as well.

It is precisely this descent that proves difficult and dangerous. Anyone returning from the bright sunlight into the darkness initially sees less clearly than the others. The cave-dwellers interpret this as proof that the ascent is harmful. They mock the returnee and would even kill anyone who sought to dissuade them from their familiar beliefs. Many commentators see in this an allusion to the fate of Socrates, who was sentenced to death by the Athenians because of his uncomfortable questions.

The Allegory of the Cave thus shows that knowledge is always a laborious process of self-transformation. It describes the path from opinion to knowledge, from appearance to reality, and from ignorance to enlightenment. At the same time, Plato makes it clear that true knowledge entails an ethical obligation. Those who have recognised the Good must not retreat into the solitude of truth. They must embark on the perilous journey back to humanity in order to help others lead a better and more just life. In doing so, Plato unites epistemology, pedagogy and politics into a single philosophical vision.

With every moment of wonder, my life grows (A Song of Praise dedicated to the Phenomena of Wondering)

With that first sense of wonder, the world unfolds before me – not as an answer, but as the door to a hidden realm. What we thought we knew crumbles before our eyes or vanishes like a shadow the moment the sun shines. The sky extends deeper than the eye can see, and every word already carries a fragrance of its meaning. With every moment of wonder, I realise that I possess no knowledge. Indeed, I do not even know how little I know. The only thing I am sure of knowing is that I seek knowledge, and that with every step I take towards it, it eludes me once more. And sometimes I wait, like a foolish bride on her wedding bed, in the hope that my illusion might once again cast itself into my arms. But I come crashing down onto the hard ground of ignorance, and once again the hand of a thought pulls me up. A hand among many hands stretched out across the centuries, bearing chisel and hammer to carve a passage thorugh the stone of our opinions, through the walls of what we call knowledge. These are thinkers who inspire us not to let the conversation within us fall silent. For in the dialogue of solitude, I am not alone, but two within one. Only when I am at one with myself can I be with others. Only by living with myself can I live with others. And whilst my heart beats in unison with the vast blue expanse, I shall not rest until I have grasped and clarified, rescued the pure from the mire, tirelessly spun something warming even from the dust, and wrested an eternal meaning even from the transitory. Perhaps the most beautiful things in life have no end, and perhaps we can never attain the highest insight, maybe it shall not be ours to possess, but we can understand the journey towards it as a pilgrimage. Every step is both arrival and departure, every horizon conceals another horizon beyond. And as the stars pulse above me, I behold your eyes once more, and the sense of wonder begins anew and my life grows.

Thomas Erikson: Surrounded by Idiots

Communication is far more than the mere transmission of information. Unlike the transport of goods, a message is not simply passed from one person to another. Communication is a complex process in which both sender and receiver are equally involved in creating meaning. For a message to be understood, both sides must interpret, contextualise and respond to one another. In particular, the ability to adopt another’s perspective plays a key role: those who communicate should be able to imagine how the other person perceives what is being said and what reactions this might trigger.

Against this backdrop, Thomas Erikson explores in his book *Surrounded by Idiots* why people communicate so differently and why misunderstandings arise. His approach is based on a personality model inspired by the historical four-humours theory. Erikson divides people into four colour types: Red stands for dominant and decisive individuals, Yellow for communicative and enthusiastic people, Green for calm and steady characters, and Blue for analytical and structured thinkers. The basic idea is that people interpret the same message differently, depending on the traits they possess.

The practical benefit of this model lies in the fact that it sharpens our awareness of differences between people. Those who recognise the needs and expectations of the person they are talking to can adapt their communication more effectively. At the same time, self-reflection helps us to better understand the impact we have on others. Erikson makes it clear that successful communication depends not only on what is said, but also on how it is said and who is receiving the message.

Particularly interesting is the idea that each of the four colours fulfils an important social function. The red types drive change and make decisions. The green types ensure stability and cohesion. The blue types analyse problems and lay the foundations for scientific and technical developments. The yellow types connect people and circulate ideas. From this perspective, diversity appears not as an obstacle, but as a prerequisite for a functioning society.

At the same time, the model has its limitations. People can rarely be clearly assigned to a single category. Most people possess a combination of different traits, which come to the fore to varying degrees depending on the situation. This makes it clear that the human personality is far more complex than four colours can convey. Cultural influences, personal experiences and situational factors also play an important role. The same behaviour can be interpreted completely differently in different contexts.

Furthermore, communication is not determined by words alone. Body language, facial expressions, gestures, tone of voice and even pauses between sentences influence the meaning of a message. Many approaches to communication theory therefore emphasise that the non-verbal and paraverbal elements are often just as important as the actual content. These aspects, too, cannot be fully captured by a colour model.

Another question raised by the book is whether certain personality types are more socially desirable than others. In my view, a world in which everyone thinks and acts in the same way would be neither particularly creative nor worth living in. Different characters give rise to new ideas, perspectives and developments. It is precisely the diversity of people that makes communication necessary and interesting in the first place.

My personal verdict is therefore mixed. The book offers an easy-to-understand and practical introduction to different communication styles. It helps readers to better understand their own behaviour and that of others. At the same time, the categories presented should not be seen as a definitive description of people. The complexity of human personality cannot be fully reduced to four colours.

Georg Simmel’s essay *The Metropolis and Mental Life* ranks among the most incisive analyses of modern urbanity. From the perspective of a sociology that is at the same time a subtle analysis of communication, Simmel unfolds a paradoxical central theme: the metropolis generates freedom and alienation in equal measure. This dialectic is not merely a contradiction, but the very driving force behind the modern subject.

Right from the outset, Simmel stands in a peculiar proximity to Immanuel Kant. His concept of an ‘individual law’, however, dispenses with the construction of a universal morality and shifts the emphasis towards an ‘aesthetics of existence’. Life itself becomes a form-giving process, a stylistic achievement of the subject under conditions it has not chosen for itself. In this sense, Simmel interprets the entire history of humanity as the ongoing transformation of a fundamental conflict: the struggle with nature – and, increasingly, the struggle with one’s own socio-technical apparatuses. The overarching motif running through it all is the subject’s resistance to being ‘levelled and worn down’.

The metropolis radicalises this conflict. Its structural peculiarity lies in the “intensification of nervous life”: a permanent sensory overload that compels people to develop new psychological defence mechanisms. The city-dweller is, as Simmel puts it, a “being of difference”. His individuality arises not from inner continuity, but from difference – from the necessity of asserting oneself against the uniformity of the environment.

Here, the monetary economy emerges as the central medium of modernity, a theme that Simmel systematically elaborated in The Philosophy of Money. The intensification of economic exchange processes in the city confers paramount significance upon money: It functions as a universal equivalent, as the ‘general denominator of all values’. This is accompanied by a profound rationalisation. The modern spirit becomes ‘calculating’; social relations become precise, calculable, comparable. Communication is increasingly based on an implicit consensus of rational understanding, embedded in a ‘supersubjective temporal scheme’ that synchronises and standardises actions.

This rationality gives rise to a peculiar form of justice: a formal equality of treatment, which is, however, accompanied by a ‘ruthless harshness’. As everything becomes comparable, it simultaneously loses its qualitative uniqueness. This is precisely where the core of alienation lies: the world appears as a network of interchangeable quantities, whilst the subject runs the risk of becoming such a quantity itself.

Simmel describes the psychological response to this situation in his famous theory of blasé. This attitude is not mere cynicism, but a ‘preservative of subjective life’. Faced with overstimulation, the individual reacts by numbing their feelings; they withdraw into an inner distance. Communication becomes more superficial, reactions are economised. Blathering is thus a defensive strategy: it protects against ‘nerve-wracking’, but buys this protection at the price of reduced engagement with the world.

Here, the dialectic of freedom and alienation is condensed in an exemplary manner. The metropolis liberates the individual from traditional bonds – from class-based orders, close-knit communities, centripetal social structures. In pre-modern contexts, individuality was severely limited; belonging defined identity. The modern city, by contrast, opens up new possibilities: mobility, choices, distance from social expectations. The city-dweller becomes a ‘potential wanderer’, whose existence is shaped by the possibility of coming and going.

Yet it is precisely this freedom that remains ambivalent. It is defined in negative terms – as freedom from ties – without necessarily guaranteeing a positive form of self-determined living. On this point, Simmel converges with the analyses of Émile Durkheim and Max Weber: moral individualism, or the question of autonomous living, highlights the tension between formal freedom and a lack of substantive direction. The city expands possibilities without providing criteria for how these possibilities might be meaningfully shaped.

Under these conditions, alienation becomes a paradoxical home. The city-dweller lives in a state of permanent distance: from others, from places, and ultimately from oneself. This alienation, however, is not merely a loss, but also a condition of freedom. It allows one to switch social roles, to vary identities, and to avoid being completely defined. Alienation appears here as the flip side of the possibility of shaping oneself.

From the perspective of communication theory, this dialectic can be described as a transformation of forms of interaction. The personal, emotionally rich communication of small communities is replaced by objective, functionally differentiated forms of exchange. The individual gains autonomy from immediate social constraints, but loses a sense of existential embeddedness. Communication becomes more efficient, but also colder; relationships become more diverse, but less binding.

Simmel’s analysis remains relevant precisely because it offers neither a simple critique nor an apology for modernity. The metropolis is neither merely a place of alienation nor merely a space of freedom. It is a field of tension in which the subject must constantly reposition itself. The ‘aesthetics of existence’ to which Simmel alludes could be understood as a response to this situation: as an attempt to find one’s own form under conditions of structural ambivalence.

The dialectic of alienation and freedom is thus not a problem that can be solved, but a structure that must be shaped. This is precisely where the real challenge of modern life lies – and Simmel’s enduring insight.

Barker-Plummer, Barwise Etchemendy: Language, Proof and Logic, Stanford, Second Edition, 2011. DISCLAIMER

I know that it is one thing to talk about logic and logical propositions, but quite another to actually operate in a logical way. Writing about logical systems may give the impression that reasoning follows naturally from understanding the rules. Yet for many people (including myself) the development of a consistently structured logical way of thinking has not always been easy. This difficulty should not be mistaken for a lack of rationality. Rational capacity and the ability to formalize reasoning within strict logical systems are not identical. Logic demands discipline, abstraction, and a willingness to reduce complex thoughts into precise structures. What follows is therefore not only an explanation of logic but also a reflection on the intellectual framework that makes structured reasoning possible.

HISTORY AND PURPOSE

Logic is one of the oldest intellectual tools developed by human civilization. At its core, logic is the systematic study of correct reasoning. It attempts to answer a fundamental question: When does a conclusion follow from certain assumptions? Throughout history, philosophers, mathematicians, and scientists have developed logical systems to distinguish valid reasoning from mere persuasion or intuition.

ANCIENT ORIGIN 

The earliest systematic investigation of logic is usually attributed to the Greek philosopher Aristotle (4th century BCE). Aristotle developed a formal method of reasoning known as syllogistic logic. In this system, arguments are structured through premises and conclusions:

All humans are mortal.

Socrates is a human.

Therefore, Socrates is mortal.

Aristotle’s work demonstrated that arguments could be evaluated based on their form, rather than the specific content of the statements. This was revolutionary: it meant that reasoning itself could be studied scientifically.

At roughly the same time, other traditions also explored logical thinking. Stoic philosophers in ancient Greece developed propositional logic, focusing on statements connected by logical operators such as “and,” “or,” and “if…then.” Meanwhile, philosophical traditions in India and China also developed sophisticated theories of inference and debate.

MEDIEVAL AND EARLY DEVELOPMENT

During the medieval period, logic became a central discipline in universities. Scholars expanded Aristotelian logic and integrated it into theology and philosophy. Logical analysis was used to clarify arguments about metaphysics, ethics, and religious doctrine.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, philosophers such as Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz envisioned a universal logical language capable of resolving disputes through calculation. Leibniz imagined that disagreements could one day be settled by saying, “Let us calculate.”

This dream would only be realized centuries later.

MODERN FORMAL LOGIC

The modern transformation of logic occurred in the 19th and early 20th centuries through mathematicians such as George Boole, Gottlob Frege, Bertrand Russell, and Kurt Gödel. They turned logic into a precise mathematical discipline.

Boole introduced algebraic methods for logical reasoning, laying the foundation for what we now call Boolean logic. Frege developed predicate logic, enabling much more expressive forms of reasoning. Russell and Whitehead attempted to derive mathematics from logic in their monumental work Principia Mathematica.

Modern logic now plays a crucial role in computer science, artificial intelligence, linguistics, and mathematics. Every digital computer ultimately relies on logical operations derived from these developments.

PURPOSE OF LOGIC

The primary purpose of logic is to evaluate arguments. It helps us determine whether a conclusion follows from given premises. Logic does not directly tell us whether the premises are true; instead, it analyzes the relationship between premises and conclusions.

In everyday life, people often rely on intuition or rhetoric when making arguments. Logic provides a framework that goes beyond persuasion and examines the structure of reasoning itself.

Understanding logical structure helps us detect fallacies, clarify debates, and construct rigorous arguments. This is particularly important in fields such as philosophy, law, science, and mathematics, where reasoning must be transparent and defensible.

CORE CONCEPTS OF LOGICAL ARGUMENTATION

The logical form of an argument refers to its underlying structure independent of the specific content of the statements. Two arguments may discuss entirely different subjects but share the same logical form.

For example:

All A are B

C is A

Therefore C is B

This structure remains valid regardless of whether A refers to humans, animals, numbers, or any other category. Logic studies these abstract structures.

LOGIC CONCLUSIONS

In einem deduktiven Argument folgt die Konklusion genau dann logisch aus den Prämissen, wenn es aufgrund der logischen Form des Arguments ausgeschlossen ist, dass seine Prämissen alle wahr sind, während die Konklusion falsch ist.

Das bedeutet: Wenn die Prämissen wahr sind, muss auch die Konklusion wahr sein.

VALIDITY

An argument is deductively valid if and only if it follows solely from the meaning of the logical expressions (and thus from the logical form) that it is impossible for all the premises to be true and the conclusion to be false. Or to put it another way: All arguments of the same structure with true premises necessarily have a true conclusion. It does not matter whether the premises are actually true. Only the structure of the argument is decisive.

DEDUCTIVE VS INDUCTIVE ARGUMENTS In deduction, the truth of the conclusion necessarily follows from the truth of the premises. This means: If the premises are true, the conclusion is true with a probability of 1.0.Example:Mathematical proofs are deductive.In induction, by contrast, the conclusion does not follow from the premises with logical necessity, but only with a certain probability.The probability is less than 1.0, but ideally greater than 0.5. Inductive arguments are typical of empirical sciences. Scientific theories are derived from observations and are therefore always only probable, not logically necessary.Example: The sun has risen every day so far.Therefore, it will rise tomorrow as well.  This conclusion is plausible, but not logically necessary.

CONCLUSION

Logic is both a philosophical discipline and a practical intellectual tool. From Aristotle’s early syllogisms to modern formal logic and computer science, it has shaped the way humans understand reasoning. Logic teaches us that the strength of an argument depends not on rhetoric or emotion but on its structure.

Yet understanding logic conceptually does not automatically make reasoning easy. Translating thoughts into strict logical form requires practice and intellectual discipline. The challenge lies not in the absence of rationality but in the effort required to transform complex human thinking into precise formal structures.

One way into the thought of José Ortega y Gasset is through a distinction he once drew with characteristic simplicity: the difference between ideas and beliefs. At first the contrast sounds like a matter of terminology. Yet for Ortega it reaches much deeper, revealing something about the very structure of human existence. We do not first stand outside the world and think about it. Rather, we already live within a framework of unspoken certainties - beliefs that quietly sustain our thinking long before reflection begins. 

Human existence, Ortega observes, is undeniably influenced by the ideas a person holds and by the intellectual atmosphere of an epoch. Yet ideas, whether individual or collective, are rarely as transparent as we imagine. The ideas that inhabit our minds are often vague, unstable, and subject to varying degrees of truth. Even scientific propositions, which claim the authority of exactness, participate in this precarious condition. 

But beneath the shifting surface of ideas lies a deeper and more stable layer: what Ortega calls beliefs. Beliefs are not propositions that we consciously hold; they are the invisible ground upon which we stand. Ideas are things we have, objects that we may examine, question, or abandon. Beliefs, by contrast, are things we live in. They form the background of certainty that allows life to proceed without constant interrogation. 

Confusion arises when these two orders are conflated. What is often described as the “ideas of an age” is in reality a mixture of explicit thoughts and implicit certainties. Ortega insists that only the former deserve the name of ideas. Beliefs belong to another dimension entirely: they are the silent architecture of existence. 

Reality and the Distance from Thought 

From this distinction follows Ortega’s striking conception of reality. The evident, he argues, is not necessarily real for us. Reality is not simply what appears obvious to the intellect; it is rather what confronts us with resistance. Reality is that with which we must reckon, whether we wish to or not, the counter-will that stands before us. 

Between our ideas and this resistant reality there lies a subtle but decisive distance. Ideas may influence our lives profoundly, yet they never possess the compelling force of belief. We may free ourselves from ideas, revise them, or even ignore them. Precisely for this reason fidelity to one’s ideas has often been praised as heroic: it requires an effort to live according to what one merely thinks. 

The Crisis of Ideas 

What Ortega describes as a “crisis of ideas” is therefore not merely an intellectual phenomenon but an existential one. The true question is not which ideas have been formulated, but how deeply they were believed. For this reason Ortega addresses an implicit appeal to historians: rather than composing a genealogy of rational doctrines - from Descartes to modernity - they should inquire into the actual form that belief in reason assumed within each historical epoch. Ideas alone do not shape an age; belief does. 

Imagination, Poetry, and Science 

This perspective leads Ortega toward a provocative insight: the proximity between science and poetry. If an idea lacks the solidity of lived reality, it occupies a domain close to imagination. The world of imagination is traditionally associated with poetry, yet science itself is not as distant from that world as we tend to assume. 

Truth, Ortega suggests, may be understood as a special case of the imaginary - an exact form of imagination. Mathematical constructions exemplify this paradox: they are rigorously precise, yet they arise from the same faculty that produces poetic images. Both originate in the human capacity to envision possible worlds. 

The Doubt and the Abyss 

If belief provides the ground of life, doubt represents the moment when that ground trembles. Doubt is not merely an intellectual hesitation; it is a condition of existence. When belief falters, life assumes a disturbing character. One lives, Ortega writes, as if suspended above an abyss - like a person caught in an endless earthquake. 

Yet even doubt constitutes a form of reality. It throws us before the uncertain as such and compels us to inhabit a world where the familiar firmness of belief has dissolved. In this sense, doubt resembles a kind of death within life, a participation in the possible dissolution of our own existence. 

The Human Being as Heir 

Against this background Ortega emphasizes the historical dimension of human life. Man is, before anything else, an heir. The greater part of what sustains our existence has not been created by us but received from others - those who labored before us to build and preserve the structures of culture. 

To forget this inheritance is a form of ingratitude that leads to what Ortega calls the rebarbarization of humanity. When the past is neglected, the individual loses the awareness of belonging to a historical continuum. Historical consciousness, therefore, is not merely scholarly knowledge; it is the recognition that our life rests upon foundations we did not construct. 

The Enigma of Reality 

In its most profound sense, reality itself remains enigmatic. Ortega suggests that the primordial reality has no fixed form and therefore cannot properly be called “world.” It confronts us rather as a riddle into which our existence is immersed. To feel oneself alive is to sense this immersion in the mysterious. 

The human being differs from the animal precisely in his response to this condition. The animal is entirely outside itself, bound to the immediate environment. The human being, however, possesses imagination - the ability to withdraw into an inner space. From this retreat into inwardness he returns to reality with new interpretations, as though examining the world through an optical instrument fashioned within himself. Thus the external world we inhabit is never the naked reality itself but always an interpretation - a constructed image of reality. 

Thought, Action, and the Cycle of Life 

Ortega describes human life as a recurring movement composed of three moments. 

First comes the experience of disorientation: the individual finds himself lost among things, estranged from himself. This is the condition of being “outside oneself.” 

Second follows a movement of retreat into inner reflection. Here the individual forms ideas about the world and about possible ways of mastering it. This is the contemplative life, the vita contemplativa. 

Finally comes the return to the world through action. Guided by reflection, the individual intervenes in reality according to a deliberate plan - the sphere of the vita activa. 

True action, Ortega insists, is never mere activity. It is thoughtful intervention, the realization of a project conceived in advance. Human dignity emerges not simply from what man is but from what he does. 

The Utopian Nature of Man 

From these reflections emerges an implicit anthropology. Man is a fundamentally utopian being. Unlike the animal, he is not given a completed world in which to dwell: He must construct his world, drawing partly upon inherited beliefs and partly upon the imaginative projections of his own thought. 

Between belief and doubt, inheritance and invention, reality and imagination, human life unfolds as a fragile but creative enterprise. Truth itself appears not as a static possession but as a privileged form of imagination - an imagined order that proves sufficiently stable for life. 

Books have always been my most faithful companions, and reading my quiet joy.

When I began this small book-blog a few years ago, I did so without expectation - simply to share the rare delight that literature can bring. That a thousand hearts have gathered here since then touches me more than I can easily express.

For each heart belongs to a reader who paused, if only for a moment, and felt that a thought, a line, or a book was worth lingering over.

“Daphnis and Chloe” by Longus (c. 2nd–3rd century AD) is an ancient Greek romance novel. Two foundlings abandoned on Lesbos grow up as shepherds, fall in love with touching naivety, and embark on adventures without their noble origins being revealed at first. It is a classic, idyllic pastoral tale about the discovery of love. About this edition: 31 illustrations based on woodcuts by Renée Sintenis, printed in Leipzig in the autumn of 1939. The text is based on the classic German translation by Friedrich Jacobs, first published in 1832. This is the third edition, published in 1941 as an unchanged reprint of the second edition.

Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe shows impressively how emotion and nature are seamlessly interwoven into a single expressive fabric. The pastoral setting is not merely decorative; it functions as an active medium through which feeling becomes legible. Seasonal change, vegetal growth, and animal behavior do not symbolize emotion from the outside: they are the grammar in which emotion unfolds. Desire arrives like spring: unbidden, incomprehensible at first, yet undeniably real. In this sense, Longus dissolves the boundary between inner life and external world, suggesting that human affect is continuous with the rhythms of nature itself.

This fusion is what allows him to construct a particularly refined form of poetic tension. The central dynamic (innocence versus knowledge) is not dramatized through conflict in the conventional sense, but through gradual awakening. Daphnis and Chloe do not lack feeling; they lack the conceptual framework to interpret it. Their education in love is therefore both epistemic and experiential. What emerges is a subtle dialectic: instinct precedes understanding, yet understanding transforms instinct. The reader is invited to inhabit this interval of not-knowing, where sensation is intense but meaning remains suspended. It is precisely this suspension that gives the narrative its lyrical quality.

Beneath its apparent simplicity, the text engages with philosophical questions that resonate with broader Greek thought traditions. One might read it as a meditation on the relationship between physis (nature) and nomos (custom or law): is love an innate force, or something shaped and codified by culture? The gradual “education” of the protagonists suggests that neither pole is sufficient on its own. Nature initiates, but culture interprets. In this way, Longus positions himself (quietly but perceptibly), in dialogue with classical debates about human formation, knowledge, and the good life.

The afterlife of Daphnis and Chloe confirms the durability of these concerns. Its vision of natural innocence and its suspicion of overly rigid social structures reappear in later pastoral and philosophical traditions, particularly in early modern and Enlightenment thought. What persists is not just the story, but its underlying proposition: that there is something essential in human experience that resists full articulation by social norms, and that this “something” is most truthfully encountered in proximity to nature.

In that sense, Longus’ achievement lies in crafting a prose that behaves like philosophy without ceasing to be poetry - an inquiry conducted not through abstraction, but through image, rhythm, and the slow unfolding of feeling.

In What Is Philosophy?, José Ortega y Gasset proposes at first glance a disarmingly simple definition: philosophy is “knowledge of the universe” (p. 61). Yet this formula immediately trembles. For what is “the universe”? It is “everything there is” and precisely this is what we do not know. Thus philosophy is born not from possession but from lack. It is the discipline that dares to ask about the whole when the whole withdraws from view.

A central thread in Ortega’s meditation is historical consciousness. Variations in thinking must not be mistaken for the refutation of past truths. “It is not truths that change, but man who changes.” (p. 26) The shift is anthropological before it is epistemic. Every alteration of worldview presupposes a mutation in the prevailing type of man (p. 33). History, therefore, is not a chronicle of dead opinions but the reconstruction of living orientations: it is not properly history “unless it achieves an understanding of men and their ideas at that point of time” (p. 27).

And yet no epoch is homogeneous. “In every historical epoch does not only one generation live, but three: the young, the mature and the old” (p. 33) - three different actualities sharing one calendar. “All of us are contemporaries, we all live in the same time and the same atmosphere, but we play our part in forming them in a different time. Only the coevals coincide with one another; contemporaries are not coevals.” (p. 34) The tragic rhythm of history lies here: crises erupt when the young can no longer identify with the inherited past (p. 38). A rupture in generational continuity becomes a metaphysical disturbance.

The twentieth century, Ortega observes, discovered itself as “an anti-philosophic age.” (p. 31) Between 1860 and 1920 philosophy had largely reduced itself to a theory of knowledge (p. 49). The model of truth became physical truth: exact, rationally deduced, confirmed by the senses (p. 50). Physics appeared to offer the only legitimate access to reality. Yet this triumph concealed a fracture, a “crisis in principles” (p. 51). When the foundations of physics themselves required reform, reform could not proceed from within; it demanded a standpoint outside. Hence physicists, from Henri Poincaré and Ernst Mach to Albert Einstein and Hermann Weyl, began to philosophize about their own science. Ironically, while philosophy had exaggerated physics as the paradigm of knowledge, the physicists’ own reflection concluded that physics is an inferior, symbolic form of knowledge (p. 52). Scientific truth is exact, but incomplete and penultimate; it is embedded within another, deeper mode of truth and has in modernity almost become a myth (p. 67).

Physical reality itself is not absolute but dependent, conditional, relative to man (p. 54). Philosophy, by contrast, seeks independence from every partial standpoint. It is pure theoretic heroism (p. 62): it will never enjoy a “sure and peaceful” path, never achieve what Immanuel Kant called “der sichere Gang.” It advances without terra firma. There is no security here, only exposure. As Johann Gottlieb Fichte formulated the tension: “Philosophieren heisst eigentlich nicht leben, leben heisst eigentlich nicht philosophieren.” (p. 84) To live is to be entangled in the agreeable and disagreeable; “All living is busying oneself with another thing which is not oneself, all living is living together with one’s surroundings.” (p. 219) Philosophy interrupts this immersion; it extracts us from immediacy and forces us into solitude.

Thus philosophy is inevitable (p. 74). Man is a philotheamōn, a “friend of looking” and, as Aristotle says, “Man by nature feels the urge to know.” (p. 67ff) But man is composed equally of what he has and what he lacks. Seeking belongs to his structure. “To seek is to assume the thing sought and indeed to have it by prevision. To seek is to anticipate a reality which is still nonexistent.” (p. 171) Doubt, skepsis - opens the crack that proof may fill (p. 170). The Greeks exhausted skepticism to its limits; yet, as Johann Friedrich Herbart observed, “Every good beginner is a skeptic, but every skeptic is only a beginner.” (p. 172) Doubt expels us from Paradise (p. 178), but it also constitutes the dignity of thought.

Ortega distinguishes philosophy sharply from mysticism. The mystic submerges into the absolute and returns silent: “The mystic’s knowledge is untransferable, and in its essence silent.” (p. 109) Philosophy refuses silence. It would rather “make of the obscure the clear,” as Johann Wolfgang von Goethe declared. It brings the secret to the surface. It contemplates the universe from without, for “to contemplate a thing it is necessary to maintain oneself outside it” (p. 114). Here Ortega sides again with Aristotle: scientific conviction comes from the periphery of ourselves. Intelligence is a small thing on the surface of us, as Maurice Barrès remarked and yet it is our only instrument.

But Ortega is unsparing toward the Greek faith in the self-realizing power of the idea. “The Greeks suffered the basic error of believing that the idea, by virtue of being clear and only by this, imposed itself… that the logos… was by itself and not otherwise made flesh.” (p. 118) Outside religion, this is magical thinking. Historical reality is not magic. The idea does not incarnate itself automatically; clarity generates neither power nor efficacy. The superior is less effective than the inferior; intelligence cannot confront instinct head-on but must tame it (p. 117). Ideas are feminine, employing subtle and enduring tactics. Truth requires embodiment, struggle, institutions. In this sense Ortega moves decisively beyond rationalist optimism toward a philosophy rooted in life and circumstance.

Every philosophical thought must obey two laws: autonomy and pantonomy - it must be self-grounding and yet aspire to the universe (p. 121). It seeks universal value without borrowing authority from other sciences. It is neither utilitarian nor decorative, neither Martha nor Mary (pp. 91–93). It accepts its destiny, splendor and misery intertwined, without envy of mathematical exactness or sensory verification.

Finally, Ortega’s reflections on God and solitude deepen this existential turn. The Christian God is utterly incommensurable with the world; the incarnation is the supreme paradox (p. 173). Christianity discovers solitude as the substance of the soul (p. 174). With Augustine of Hippo: “Do not go afar; seek within thyself. Truth resides inside of man.” (p. 175) Yet Ortega warns against the suffocation of life by idealism. The self must go out of itself; otherwise thought collapses into a solipsistic “I-Soul” and forgets the “We-Soul” (p. 179). My thought is not the external world. Life demands exteriority.

José Ortega y Gasset: Estudios Sobre el Amor (English title: On Love: Aspects of a Single Theme). For José Ortega y Gasset, love begins as attention: the silent miracle by which another becomes the axis of our inner world. Unlike desire, which grasps and consumes, love releases and affirms. It is a movement beyond the self - where defenses fall, vulnerability awakens, and we dare to be seen without armor. In loving, we lose our inner certainty, yet gain a deeper truth: the self becomes real only where it opens.  

Love as Becoming (a fragmented poem I wrote for memorising, directly after reading :* <3) From the bottom of my heart I have to thank you

for the despair into which you plunge me,

and I detest the tranquillity in which I lived

before I knew you.

For what was peace without passion?

A smooth lake, devoid of any depth.

Only your gaze - a soft, sharp sting -

wounded my soul tenderly

and taught it sweet trembling.

Love is desire that rises,

a yes that warms and affirms itself,

an inner flame

that does not destroy, but gathers.

It is the desire to procreate in beauty,

not in the body alone,

but in the mind, in the breath, in the word.

Like a warmth that pushes inward,

it draws the lover to the beloved:

centripetal, irresistible,

a flowing over of being,

a silent act that dissolves boundaries.

I am no longer here, you are no longer there -

we are a flowing in-between.

Thus fusion becomes possible,

because the self does not defend itself.

The world draws closer, closer than space and skin,

a vital togetherness,

in which closeness is not measured,

but lived.

O wonder: love narrows and widens at the same time.

It limits the world

and lowers it completely into the heart.

What was much outside becomes one inside;

the multiplicity of thoughts

finds unanimity,

like a choir that finally recognises the tone.

Here dwells perfection,

not as a rigid crown,

but as a luminous movement.

Those who love are distinguished,

those who give themselves are enchanted.

For love is not a state,

it is a becoming -

and in its becoming,

life becomes beautiful.

There is a peculiar arrogance in youth: the quiet conviction that the world’s cruelty persists because those before us did not think clearly enough. One imagines that history is populated by the morally lazy, and that suffering might have been prevented had someone, somewhere, discovered the right principle. Behind this sentiment lies an ancient philosophical temptation - the hope that morality might admit of a formula. Is there a way to maximize happiness? A calculus of felicity? A method that could transform ethical life into something like applied mathematics?

This temptation animates the debate staged in Utilitarianism: For and Against, where J. J. C. Smart defends utilitarianism with disarming clarity and Bernard Williams interrogates the moral cost of that clarity. What emerges is less a dispute over conclusions than a struggle over how morality itself should be imagined.

Smart’s Intellectual Honesty

What I find compelling in Smart is not the doctrine itself, but the intellectual temperament behind it. He begins with suspicion - not toward morality, but toward the metaphysical debris surrounding it. Ordinary ethical thinking, he writes, is often “muddled, or else mixed up with questionable metaphysical assumptions” (p. 3). His ambition is austere: “It will be my object in the present study to state a system of ethics which is free from traditional and theological associations” (p. 4).

This aspiration resonates with a modern philosophical sensibility: a desire to think ethically without metaphysical consolation. If morality is to survive the collapse of theological certainty, perhaps it must learn to walk on empirical legs. In this sense, Smart’s utilitarianism appears almost as an ethical naturalism - morality reconstructed under the sign of scientific sobriety.

Yet even here the ground trembles. Smart confronts the classic divide between act- and rule-utilitarianism, only to dissolve it. An adequate rule-utilitarianism, he argues, would collapse into a single rule: the act-utilitarian one—“maximize probable benefit” (p. 12). What appears as pluralism reduces to unity. Morality contracts into a single imperative: optimize outcomes.

There is something both liberating and unsettling in this reduction. Liberating, because it promises clarity. Unsettling, because it strips morality of its familiar textures—duties, prohibitions, sacred boundaries - and replaces them with a single algorithmic demand.

Moral Language Without Metaphysics

Smart’s non-cognitivist leanings sharpen this austerity. Moral language, on his account, is less about truth than about commendation. “The function of the words ‘ought’ and ‘good’ is primarily to express approval… With ‘ought’ we commend actions… with ‘good’… states of affairs or consequences of actions” (p. 13).

Here I hesitate. For if moral language is primarily expressive, then utilitarianism becomes less a discovery than a decision - a commitment masquerading as neutrality. The system collides, as Smart himself admits, with “ultimate attitudes.” We may agree about consequences and still diverge about what ultimately matters.

Perhaps this is the first fracture in the dream of moral calculation: the recognition that no ethical system floats free from evaluative gravity.

The Texture of Happiness

The problem deepens once we ask what exactly is to be maximized. Smart’s reflections on pleasure are more subtle than caricatures of utilitarianism suggest. He distinguishes contentment from pleasure: contentment may be mere absence of unsatisfied desire, whereas pleasure involves a more positive equilibrium. “Pure unconsciousness would be a limiting case of contentment, but not of pleasure. A stone has no unsatisfied desires, but then it just has no desires” (pp. 16–17).

This passage lingers with me. It reveals a utilitarianism struggling against its own abstraction. Happiness cannot be reduced to a void of suffering; it must retain some positive density.

From here, qualitative distinctions emerge. Not all pleasures are equal - not intrinsically, but through their consequences. Some are fecund. The pleasures of poetry, Smart notes, are “more fecund than those of pushpin” (p. 16). Intellectual and aesthetic experiences generate further goods: sensitivity, imagination, moral depth. Other pleasures, he suggests, may be sterile or even corrosive.

Yet the argument carries an unintended confession. If higher pleasures matter because they cultivate richer forms of life, then utilitarianism quietly imports a vision of human flourishing it cannot fully justify. The calculus begins to smuggle in anthropology.

The electrode fantasy exposes this tension. Suppose humans could live in permanent states of stimulation - content, even delighted. We might grant that such beings are satisfied, yet recoil from calling them happy. Smart acknowledges this unease: happiness is “mainly descriptive but also partly evaluative,” making the maxim “You ought to maximize happiness” doubly evaluative (p. 24). The calculus depends on values it cannot compute.

Aggregation and Its Shadows

Once happiness becomes the currency of morality, questions proliferate. Should we maximize total happiness or average happiness? Should we follow the negative utilitarian suggestion - associated with Popper - that we minimize suffering rather than maximize happiness (p. 28)? Smart observes that people agree more readily about miseries to avoid than goods to promote (p. 30). Pain is democratic; happiness is plural.

But the deeper difficulty is distributive. The calculus asks: which course of action makes mankind happier on the whole? Yet the phrase “on the whole” already conceals a moral gamble. It risks dissolving individuals into aggregates. A world of profound injustice might still qualify as morally optimal if its totals are high enough.

Smart attempts to soften this by appealing to fairness in Mill’s sense. But the tension persists: equity appears as a constraint imported from outside the calculus, not generated by it.

Still, I am struck by Smart’s modesty. He does not pretend that utilitarianism harmonizes with all our intuitions. Rather, he presents it as a tool for deliberation. Moral theories, he suggests, are most needed when we must decide consciously - when habit fails. “The actions for whose rightness we as agents want a criterion are… those done thinkingly and deliberately” (pp. 45–46).

This pragmatic framing gives utilitarianism a certain dignity. It is less a metaphysical doctrine than a decision procedure for moments of moral vertigo.

The Moral Psychology of Optimization

Smart extends evaluation beyond actions to agents and motives. “A good agent is one who acts more nearly in a generally optimific way than does the average one … A good motive is one which generally results in beneficent actions” (p. 48).

Here utilitarianism reveals its austere anthropology. Moral worth becomes statistical reliability. The saint and the well-trained bureaucrat begin to resemble one another. Virtue dissolves into optimization.

And yet Smart ends on a note I find almost moving. No ethical theory, he concedes, will sit comfortably with all our attitudes. But utilitarianism, with its empirical flexibility, aligns with the “scientific temper.” It is a morality for a changing world - provisional, revisable, unsentimental. One senses both courage and loss in this vision.

Williams and the Revolt of the Person

If Smart embodies the modern will to clarity, Williams embodies its resistance. He does not merely dispute utilitarian answers; he questions its entire moral optics. The first philosophical question, he suggests, is not whether we accept utilitarian conclusions, but whether we accept its way of seeing (p. 78).

Williams describes Smart’s view as a direct, eudaimonistic consequentialism (p. 79). But where Smart speaks of happiness, Williams prefers the cooler language of utility - perhaps already a sign of distance. His central concern is integrity.

Why, Williams asks, should an individual bear responsibility for outcomes he did not initiate but could prevent? The familiar trolley cases are not puzzles but symptoms. Utilitarianism seems to erase the distinction between doing and allowing. It demands that I regard my own moral boundaries as negotiable variables in a global optimization problem (pp. 108ff).

Here the theory ceases to feel merely demanding; it begins to feel invasive. For our projects, convictions, and refusals are not detachable preferences. They are threads in the fabric of the self. To demand their sacrifice is not merely to ask for altruism - it is to threaten identity.

Williams also exposes a psychological cost. A moral outlook that evaluates everything from the standpoint of aggregate outcomes risks alienating agents from their own actions. Smart’s “causal theory of moral comment,” he argues, lacks openness and makes it difficult for a person to understand his own conduct (p. 124). One begins to see oneself from the outside, as if one were a replaceable instrument.

At the political level, Williams’ critique sharpens into indignation. Utilitarianism, he claims, appears “absurdly primitive” when confronted with real questions of justice and distribution (p. 142). The complexity of political life—its histories, inequalities, and claims of legitimacy - resists reduction to a single maximizing principle. In the face of political reality, he concludes, utilitarianism’s simplicity “disqualifies it totally” (p. 150).

A Tension Without Resolution

Where does this leave us? I find myself unable to dismiss either voice. Smart reminds me that suffering is not sacred, that consequences matter, that morality cannot live on metaphysical nostalgia. His utilitarianism speaks to a modern conscience unwilling to ignore preventable misery.

And yet Williams reminds me that a morality that sees everything may understand nothing. A life reduced to variables in a calculus ceases to be lived from within. Integrity - this stubborn, unquantifiable center of the person - resists aggregation.

Perhaps the youthful dream of a moral formula fails not because the aspiration to reduce suffering is misguided, but because morality inhabits two registers at once. From the outside, we see totals, outcomes, humanity. From the inside, we see commitments, boundaries, selves.

Utilitarianism gives voice to the first perspective with unmatched clarity. Williams gives voice to the second with unmatched depth. Between them stretches a philosophical tension that refuses resolution.

[Part 2 of my essay]   Let us now imagine those human beings in the so called state of nature. The state of nature is a thought experiment, not a historical fact.5   Hobbes maintained that, although there may never have existed a historical period in which individual human beings universally lived in open conflict with one another, rulers and sovereign authorities have nevertheless, at all times, found themselves in a persistent condition of mutual suspicion. Owing to their political independence, such figures remain perpetually disposed toward hostility, occupying a stance comparable to that of armed combatants confronting one another.6  Given individuals’ desire for possession, property is insecure when claims can be enforced by violence. From universal insecurity arises the logic of anticipation,7 meaning pre-emptive attack out of fear.   Hobbes argues that basic human instincts of competition, mutual distrust, and the pursuit of prestige - are creating a state of general hostility in which each individual is effectively pitted against every other. Such a state of war eliminates the material and social conditions necessary for a stable life and a secure and comfortable human existence. Without a sovereign authority capable of enforcing and maintaining rules, no legal system can emerge, and consequently no action can be classified as unjust, since normative distinctions between right and wrong presuppose an enforceable political power.6    To underline the necessity of an established common power, where only minimal rights are retained, Hobbes insists that obligations resting merely on honour or moral disposition are inadequate, since covenants lacking coercive enforcement possess no effective power to secure compliance.7 Because the laws of nature run counter to dominant human passions, their observance requires the presence of a superior authority capable of compelling obedience.8 Consequently, individuals authorize a single ruler by transferring their rights and concentrating their collective strength in one person, thereby unifying their plurality of wills into a single political will.9 The sovereign power thus instituted embodies the will of all and provides protection against injury and insecurity.10  Peace and order require a strong central authority. It may be possible for animals without reason to organize themselves peacefully without a common power, but humans are not zoa politika (a critical reference to Aristotle), and he lists six distinguishing characteristics.  Only the sovereign can secure stable law, enforcement, and lasting peace; only he can monitor compliance with contracts and initiate consequences.11 Based on these premises, it is rational to surrender some of one's freedom in exchange for the protection of life, physical integrity and property by the authorised representative of the collective will, thereby subordinating freedom to the more fundamental goods of security and self-preservation.12    The break with the previous political order, an order that was essentially legitimized by transcendental sources, represents one of the first secular attempts to establish an authority that can be justified by secular and scientific assumptions. Hobbes provided a systematic foundation for the central elements of the modern state and coined legal terms, in addition also the rights of the individual to take legal action against states.  From my perspective, Hobbes’ attempt to find a solution to uncertainties in an age of war without consulting divine authority has elements of genuine significance.  

Hobbes: Leviathan or The Matter, Forme and Power of a Common-Wealth Ecclesiastical and Civill - Part 1   It is the age of machines and religious wars. Since Aristotle, thinking about nature has shifted: teleology meets causality, and new mechanistic explanations enter philosophy through Hobbes. Morality without a religious source is sought, for reason is not organ of self-knowledge and morality is not innate. Hobbes regards philosophy as the knowledge of effects from causes and causes from observed effects, even effects relevant to human life can be foreseen.  In this context he develops the political theory of the Leviathan, an artificial collective being symbolizing the sovereign state, the common power.    The following examination aims to clarify why, according to Hobbes, it is reasonable for humans to establish a common power, where only minimal rights are retained, provided everyone else, except the sovereign, does the same.    To understand Hobbes’ premises, we refer to Part I of Leviathan, where Hobbes introduces the natural equality among men:  “Nature hath made men so equal (...) yet when all is reckoned together, the difference between man and man is not so considerable.”1  Mental or physical differences are insignificant; all people share equal hope of achieving their goals. This equality also breeds mistrust and, ultimately, conflict, for no one can claim a benefit that another may not equally desire. Physical superiority cannot ground lasting domination as cunning and technology can overcome strength. So, strength alone is no longer a guarantee of security and, above all, cannot provide a justification for domination.2    From equality of abilities arises equality of hopes, which produces quarrel:   “And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which neverthelesse they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies (...).”3   This state of perpetual conflict motivates individuals to destroy or subdue others to protect themselves and satisfy their desires.   From equality of powers arises diffidence: Any person may seize another’s possessions; everyone is becoming a potential invader, homo homini lupus.   To reinforce his view of human nature, Hobbes asks the reader rhetorically whether he locks his door for security reasons.4