Some thoughts on being a contrarian

There's no way this post will be as short as it should be. But here's to hoping.

Was it worth drinking hemlock?

Philosophers--and perhaps intellectuals generally--tend to have a reputation for being contrarians. That is to say, they will nearly always try to show the opposite of what you say, or suggest some possible counterexample to your claim, regardless of the claim. "Contrarian" is usually reserved for the man who says something opposed to the common view, the guy who "goes against the grain." And in a way, this is not entirely different from the way philosophers are seen. The contrarian is different from the corrector, who knows you're wrong about something (and probably takes too much pleasure in telling you so). A contrarian, on the other hand, may not know whether or not you are actually wrong, but always suggests that you could be anyway. Even if your view is not the common view, he will treat it as if it is. "Going against the grain" is this man's modus operandi. Perhaps the most famous philosopher who had a reputation for being a contrarian was Socrates, who paid a price for it that many philosophers would likely be unwilling to pay. Yet it is common for philosophers to inquire--indeed, that is part of the fun of being a philosopher. 

This is, however, in spite of the fact that it is rarely fun for anyone else. As a result, many get annoyed by philosophers (sometimes to the point of making them drink hemlock) and tend to avoid philosophical topics with them. They view philosophers as supercilious and sanctimonious because of how often they suggest that the other is wrong and, understandably, no one likes to be wrong, let alone be told he is wrong. No wonder we are told that "the many" dislike philosophers, the gadflies. What tends to naturally go hand in hand with this view is that many think that being a contrarian is what it means to be a philosopher. This is perhaps, in my eyes, the most unfortunate result of the philosopher's inclination to be a contrarian. 

The reaction to the contrarian-philosopher is multiform. In one way, it often feeds into the aforementioned frustration with philosophers: contrarians are rarely well-liked, if at all. This is the more common reaction. In another way, however--and this is less common--someone may already have a certain respect for the philosopher and the intellectual life, and in a misguided attempt to imitate the philosopher, will take up the practice of opposing every proposition whatsoever because that's what he thinks he's seen the philosopher do. What then happens is that this individual will end up opposing some of the most common-sense views thinking he's philosophizing and be forced to defend some awkward positions. This typically, but not always, happens with younger students of philosophy. They latch onto the ostensible behavior of their teachers without fully understanding the reason behind that behavior. 

So what is the reason? The answer to this question ought also to reveal the answer to another: should philosophers be contrarians? Was it really worth drinking hemlock? What exactly did Socrates accomplish for his efforts? It's important to note that central to the caricature of the philosopher that many have in their minds is the feature that the philosopher is a contrarian simply for the sake of being a contrarian. He questions because it brings him pleasure. He delights in debate for its own sake. He laughs when he sees the frustration in the other for not being able to win him over. Every so often he may say something that sounds wise in the midst of his incessant questioning, but this is in spite of his being a contrarian, not because of it.

But there is an irony to the caricature. For true philosophers don't question simply because it's fun. In fact, the fun in questioning doesn't come from the questioning itself. If the questioning never came to an end, the true philosopher would be frustrated. Having to endlessly question with no hope of an answer at the end would bring agony rather than delight. Anyone who truly questions for the sake of questioning is not a true philosopher and in fact brings disgrace upon the name of philosophy. (Witness "the many" who hate philosophy.) No, the philosopher questions for the sake of truth. For wisdom. It's right in the name: philosophia. If he delights in anything, it's at the truth and wisdom to be attained at the end.

Truth, however, isn't easy to get at. As St. Thomas says, just as it is less perfect for someone to be healed by many medicines, and more perfect for someone to be healed by few medicines, and most perfect to be healed by no medicine at all--so too, the human intellect must come to the truth of one nature by many operations, unlike angels, who come to the truth of one nature by one operation, and even still unlike God, who knows the truth of all natures by a single operation. All this is to say that of all intellectual beings--men, angels, God--human beings are the lowest in their intellectual power. For our nature is bound up with matter, which makes things particular as opposed to universal, and it is the universal that is intelligible. But particular things are highly variable--one particular thing is one way while another is another way. The way we, men, come to the truth of things is by sifting through these particulars and seeing what is universal in them.

It is this sifting that gives rise to the philosopher's contrarian-ness. It is extremely common for philosophers to instinctively begin to come up with a possible counterexample to any claim that is made. But these counterexamples are necessary to the extent that they allow us to better see the truth of things. I once heard someone say that a city tends to take on the character of its ruler(s). Hence, if the ruler is vicious, the city will be vicious; if virtuous, then the city will be virtuous. Fascinating as this claim may be, its truth is far from self-evident. All one would need to do to show its falsity is to find one city in which its people take on a different character than its ruler. One wouldn't need to go far to find such a counterexample. America, dare I say, is one such example. If it is, one will have shown the falsity of the claim that a city will take on the character of its ruler(s).

The point is that in order to arrive at genuine knowledge, we need to lay hold of truths. But truths about things bound up in matter, i.e. particular things, things of which we have the most experience, are hard to get at. It often takes a counterexample or two to see whether a statement is really true or not.

So if real philosophers seem like contrarians, it is because they are doing this: coming up with counterexamples to what you say to see whether or not your statement is in fact true--but not because they delight simply in the idea of your being wrong; rather, it's because finding the truth is what matters. Any philosopher worth his salt will understand that.

The Principle of Free Inquiry

I'd now like to address the second question: should philosophers be contrarians? This tendency to come up with counterexamples might tempt someone to think that every claim is subject to questioning. This is what has been called the "principle of free inquiry." According to this principle, there is no claim whose truth cannot be questioned, and this attitude sits at the heart of modern man. It is one of the principles that distinguishes him from his forefathers and betrays a deep distrust--both in those who came before him and in his own intellectual powers. It is for this reason that this principle is extremely dangerous. It is a short step from the principle of free inquiry to skepticism--that is, from questioning every attempt at knowing truth to becoming convinced that no truth can be known. Where else could such a principle possibly lead?

Because of its dangerous nature, the principle ought to be done away with sooner rather than later. There are a number of arguments that could be given against it, but I'll limit myself to one: if every claim to truth is subject to questioning, is not the principle of free inquiry itself subject to questioning and testing? If so, then by what principle will we test it? Surely not the principle itself. A principle can't be its own standard for its truth value. Clearly, then, there must be some other principle by which we judge the principle of free inquiry. But then that principle will need to be judged according to some other principle. This could go on ad infinitum or else it becomes circular, and in either case we will have gained nothing. 

The only real solution is to abandon the principle of free inquiry, which is to say, accept that there are certain statements that are not subject to questioning. These are of two kinds: those whose truth is immediately evident to us, known through themselves, on the one hand; and on the other, those which, even if their truth escapes us, we accept from a higher authority--indeed, the highest authority, because of which we believe them with a certitude even stronger than that with which we hold other truths. The first kind of statement is called "self-evident" or per se nota statements; the second are the articles of faith, received from God. From both sorts of principles we can derive other truths by means of demonstration, the conclusions of which derive their certainty from the first principles. This is a certainty that no one who clings to the principle of free inquiry could ever hope for.

So, to be clear, I am not advocating that the philosopher act according to the principle of free inquiry, as the contrarian does. In doing so, he would betray everything that he stands for, that which makes him a lover of wisdom. To the layman, it may seem like the philosopher acts according to the principle of free inquiry and resemble the contrarian because he questions people a lot; but this is different from actually doing so. The true philosopher does not, in fact, question everything; he does not want to. If he questions a lot, it is not because he thinks he should on principle; it is only because he happens to by his nature. In reality, he hopes to stop at some point, to find reasons and causes that can't be questioned, because that is what it means to have knowledge, and all men by nature desire to know.