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For my Winter Term project, I am spending rather a lot of time (two and a half hours every weekday) reading and writing about important Medieval primary sources, currently Averroes: On Harmony of Religion and Philosophy. I have discovered that his philosophy is abjectly terrifying even without a bunch of Inquisitions tacked on to it.
Averroes reasonably thinks there are three Aristotelian classes of reasoning. Rhetorical reasoning is basically fancy BS: doesn't matter what is said, just HOW it's said. Dialectical reasoning is logical reasoning based on dearly held popular beliefs (moderate politics, sometimes, mayhap). Demonstrative reasoning is true philosophy: logical reasoning based in indubitable FACTS (I think, therefore I am). This is all well and good, until Averroes goes on to explain that there are also three classes of thinking people: those who are capable of only rhetorical reasoning (can't see through BS), those who are capable of dialectical reasoning (can see through BS and therefore despise rhetorical reasoning), and those who are capable of demonstrative reasoning (can see through BS and can tell when someone has no indubitable reason to believe something beyond tradition. These philosophers therefore despise both rhetorical and dialectical reasoning). Moreover, it is impossible for someone of the lower classes of thought to understand the higher reasoning methods, and any attempt to do so will only make them more confused and with the wrong ideas. Therefore, informing the lower thinking classes of the conclusions of the higher thinking classes is morally reprehensible and should be avoided at all costs.
This is all lovely biggotted, isn't it? But it's terrifying because if Averroes was actually correct about this, our entire modern education system would be invalidated. The society Averroes hopes for from this philosophy is sinisterly akin to the dystopia in Huxley's Brave New World. This is really, really depressing and a good reason to hope that Averroes is really, really mistaken.
By the way, if you suspect he might be right but you hate philosophy and all the reasoning that goes with it, please forget about this post immediately, as your immortal soul is doubtless in danger of getting confused over irritating, self-righteous philosophic conclusions.
Averroes reasonably thinks there are three Aristotelian classes of reasoning. Rhetorical reasoning is basically fancy BS: doesn't matter what is said, just HOW it's said. Dialectical reasoning is logical reasoning based on dearly held popular beliefs (moderate politics, sometimes, mayhap). Demonstrative reasoning is true philosophy: logical reasoning based in indubitable FACTS (I think, therefore I am). This is all well and good, until Averroes goes on to explain that there are also three classes of thinking people: those who are capable of only rhetorical reasoning (can't see through BS), those who are capable of dialectical reasoning (can see through BS and therefore despise rhetorical reasoning), and those who are capable of demonstrative reasoning (can see through BS and can tell when someone has no indubitable reason to believe something beyond tradition. These philosophers therefore despise both rhetorical and dialectical reasoning). Moreover, it is impossible for someone of the lower classes of thought to understand the higher reasoning methods, and any attempt to do so will only make them more confused and with the wrong ideas. Therefore, informing the lower thinking classes of the conclusions of the higher thinking classes is morally reprehensible and should be avoided at all costs.
This is all lovely biggotted, isn't it? But it's terrifying because if Averroes was actually correct about this, our entire modern education system would be invalidated. The society Averroes hopes for from this philosophy is sinisterly akin to the dystopia in Huxley's Brave New World. This is really, really depressing and a good reason to hope that Averroes is really, really mistaken.
By the way, if you suspect he might be right but you hate philosophy and all the reasoning that goes with it, please forget about this post immediately, as your immortal soul is doubtless in danger of getting confused over irritating, self-righteous philosophic conclusions.
The River Hypnos
Stroke follows stroke. Wave follows ripple. I am about to capsize, but don't. (When you travel the River Hypnos, you will eventually sink beneath the torpid waters and enter into its eternal sleep. The only question is how, and when.) My journey begins in a one-person kayak. At the wellspring, the river is small, a barely navigable stream. But then a tributary joins, and then another, and another. Soon the River Hypnos is a river indeed. The waters are deep and mostly calm, but punctuated by steep cataracts. The river is peopled by many other boats. Some are in the same kayaks as I, but many take larger rafts. (The proper selection of watercraft is very important when traveling the River Hypnos. Too large and the keel will crack over the cliffs of the cataracts. Too small and you will sink alone into tide as the river eventually widens into its estuary.) I pass the first few rapids with ease. The problem is not the rapids, though; it is after the rapids when hordes of shipwrecked
Thief of Dreams
A long-in-coming addition to my ongoing series of interesting dreams... A creature from long ago and far away fell to Earth in the dead of night. It was small, and weak, and formless. It flitted along the gravel of an empty country road until it found the shadow of a tree, then fence, then house. It waited. The trouble started not with the neighbors but with a neighborhood dog. He was a friendly fellow, bit and white and fluffy. One week he started barking madly at cars rolling by, growling at pedestrians, nipping at his owners. Then, mysteriously, he was gone one morning. Must have slipped his collar and jumped the fence. Ernest first learned of the trouble when John called him after lunch on a Saturday, completely incoherent. He drove over straight away and let himself into the house. John had locked the front door and pushed an armchair piled with weights from his exercise room up against it making entry somewhat difficult. John's couch was also out of place, halfway through the
On the Many Uses of Dynamite
In honor of my uncle who was a great storyteller and died today, here are two of my favorite stories he used to tell. It might not occur to the younger generation that the little general store that every small town used to have on the corner used to hold a lot more interesting and useful oddments than it does now. Nowadays, your local stores have largely been replaced by the big boxes of the modern consumerist economy, and the ones that are left are much more specialty and antique-y than they are general. Before the advent of the likes of Wal-Mart, however, the general store had not only dry goods and cleaning supplies as found in modern convenience stores, but also local crafts, tools and hardware, sausage, lamps, farm and garden equipment, fireworks... and dynamite. This last was a favorite of my uncle's and did not, at the time, even require a permit for purchase. My uncle was a large, tall policeman but also worked the family farm where my mother grew up. If major jobs needed
Midnight in Number 9 Grimmauld Place
It's been awhile, but here's another little dream story:
Brigit was very lucky, she knew. She was visiting London with her family for a brief sight-seeing and book-buying trip, and she was staying at the very same bed and breakfast as the most famous wizard in the world! The Harry Potter, now nearly 70 years old, had been renting rooms with his wife at Number 9 Grimmauld Place for several months now, the two celebrities had informed Brigit's parents at the breakfast table a couple days ago. While their house down the road was undergoing renovations. There was a particularly unpleasant painting that was proving difficult to extract, apparentl
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