An Enquiry Concerning What?

I'm taking a philosophy class, so that's cool. I enjoy it. Three weeks ago the instructor assigned a short essay. We were to choose from a list of philosophic concepts, explain the one we chose, and then give reasons for either agreeing or disagreeing with it. The list was full of topics that we had learned in class, so nothing was super unfamiliar, but the whole "agree/disagree" thing was a little rough. For example, here's what I chose:

Explain Hume’s “empirical test” of ideas. How do ideas arise? What does Hume’s test imply about ideas such as God and the soul? Do you agree with Hume’s empirical test? Why, or why not?  

Oh. Sure. Let me form a yes or no stance on empiricism. No big deal. Sarcasm, that was. Yoda. What? Seriously though, here's why that is a big deal: Hume's copy principle (empirical test) is the golden child of empiricism. Now, empiricism states that knowledge is gained through experience; everything we know, we gathered after birth. It stands in direct contrast to rationalism, which holds to reason and innate ideas as our main source of knowledge. They're two opposing schools of thought. And apparently I'm supposed to agree with one or the other. Considering the centuries of development on both sides, I hardly think I'm adequately informed to kick one to the curb.

I ended up throwing cosmology into the mix and calling it good. Honestly, I think it's a horrid idea to attempt one argument or the other in a two page essay, but the instructor didn't mind my little cosmological rabbit trail that wasn't actually...very...cosmological. In fact, Owen, you would know better, but I believe arguing God in relation to His incommunicable attributes would be an ontological argument. I think Anselm used something like that in his theistic proofs. But I did bring it back to creation, so maybe it was a sad combination of the two.

Anyway, here's the essay for what it's worth. If anything, you can learn a little about Mr. Hume.

*ahem*

Scottish philosopher David Hume stands as a monumental figure in the development of modern philosophical thought. His work A Treatise of Human Nature and its revision, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, helped establish empiricism – one of the two primary epistemological schools of thought. In classic empiricist form, Hume’s fundamental concept maintained that all true knowledge is gained through sensory experience alone. In other words, immediate, physical sense experience is the sole source for true ideas.

Hume defined the empirical source of knowledge through his Copy Principle, stating that each and every authentic idea is a copy of some past impression – a sensory experience – or a combination of multiple ideas that also are copies of impressions. One might test the legitimacy of an idea by pinpointing the impression from which the idea is copied. This empirical test led Hume to reject the rationalist concept of innate ideas and, instead, affirm John Locke’s Tabula Rasa, or “blank slate” state of mind. That is, a newborn mind is a fresh canvas awaiting strokes of life experience and sensation. Ideas arise through that sensation and create what Hume called in Section VI of A Treatise of Human Nature, “a collection of different perceptions”, or the mind. This position, therefore, argues that no one is born with a pre-established knowledge of divinity, free will, or the soul.

Indeed, Hume’s empiricist foundation leaves very little room for God or an eternal soul. This is particularly evident when, in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, he states the aforementioned empirical test: “When we entertain, therefore, any suspicion that a philosophical term is employed without any meaning or idea…we need but enquire, from what impression is that supposed idea derived? If it be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our suspicion”. When we recognize that ideas of God and the soul are generally considered to be innate, the empirical test quickly labels them as illegitimate. After all, as Hume would contend, we have no immediate sense experience of a perfect deity, and thus no genuine idea of one.

The empirical test, however, is flawed insofar as it neglects cosmological arguments. For when an idea is traced to an impression, it is necessary to assume that the impression was experienced physically – be it internally or externally. The issue arises when one takes a step past the physical world and considers its origin. In the case of an eternal creator, we must assume that its existence is independent of immediate physical sensation. Granted, Hume held that we acquire ideas of God from “reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom”.  However, God as a creator cannot be derived from a collection of augmented human characteristics, for such a deity, in fact, possess incommunicable attributes. That is, qualities that are unique to his being and unshared by anyone else.

Understanding the Copy Principle and using the empirical test is very practical for examining the legitimacy of ideas. In his Enquiry, Hume writes, “By bringing ideas into so clear a light we may reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise, concerning their nature and reality”. This goal is admirable. But physical experience alone cannot account for anything beyond itself. As a result, the empirical test fails to accurately refute a divine source of the physical world we experience. So while it is practical in many ways, we cannot depend on the empirical test to provide or disprove metaphysical knowledge.

"Leise flehen meine Lieder"

In all two of my previous blog posts, I have written on topics that hold a creative value. Topics that, as a writer, I saw as important, and felt inclined to give my opinion on. This post, however, sways a little to the emotive side of things, and how it applies to certain writing. No, I'm not taking a huge leap in a different direction, but again -- it is a topic that I feel is important. And what better way than to ramble within a blog post?

Poetry is awesome. It is a wonderfully personal way to portray what is in the heart, without having to actually speak it. One can pour their feelings into any variety of forms...and nobody has to read it. Obviously, there is poetry worth sharing and publishing -- congratulations should you be among that number -- but that is its beauty. It can be enjoyed in solitude as well as company of many.     

To my delight, I have been given the ability/opportunity to write poetry of my own. The quality of which I have yet to discover, but I have a quaint collection of sorts. However, while the size of that collection increases almost weekly, I have yet to write a true love poem. It's funny - to some people, poetry has become synonymous with love. And yet, I ignore any inclination to attempt writing to someone in affection. Why? Well, in the past, I refused for the sole reason that I have never experienced the love of which I would be writing, thereby giving me no right to do so.

But two weeks ago...I was convinced by a friend to try. I pulled an aabbccdd and wrapped it up that night. I'm not gonna lie, it was adorable. But now I look at it and know that it is not, in fact, a "love poem". The reason for that? It had no return. Because it was not written about an actual person, there was nobody to experience my affection and return it. This made my poem into sixteen random lines written for a ghost in my mind.

Written below are my official thoughts on this. They give my opinion and more explanatory reasoning on the matter. 

This I believe: A love poem holds little to no importance until the subject is able to read it, and with full knowledge that they are indeed the subject. Furthermore, it is necessary that the person reading is able to return the affectionate sentiments, due to the collaborative and easily collapsible nature of the adoring poetry. For only when the mind of the author and the mind of the subject are joined in tender harmony are the author's words made a reality. Until then, they are merely a hope. 

See, there is a vast difference between observing and caring, and experiencing and sharing; even if the observational affection is legitimate! Allow me to break down the two sides...

"Observing and caring" refers to one sided inspiration. It is my adoration of someone I see from afar and care for. Like I said, one's feeling in this situation can be legitimate. But it will never compare to "experiencing and sharing". This clearly refers to mutual love. It is a two-sided participation in the love poem's sediments.   

Let me reference Ludwig Rellstab's "Ständchen". I first heard it as a Lieder in Franz Schubert's musical masterpiece "Serenade". Translated from it's original German, the first two stanzas read as follows:

"Softly my songs plead
Through the night to you;
Down into the silent grove,
Beloved, come to me!

Slender tree-tops whisper and rustle
In the moonlight;
My darling, do not fear
That the hostile betrayer will overhear us." 

This is a perfect example of two-sided participation. Now, obviously, I don't know the exact authorial intent (it could be a work of fiction), but I like to think of it as an honest display of mutual affection. Because, in these verses, the speaker is relying on the subject's participation. He is insinuating through his  text that she will indeed come, and then he will be able to speak these words to her. She will hear the words of affection! And from there she can give a response.  

But what if I wrote those words? There would be no response, for there is nobody to write it to. At least, nobody from whom I could receive mutuality that would make the poem a decided reality.  I could not write it because my words could not be confirmed by her. It is yet one-sided. 

In conclusion, a love poem without return is a wish. Nothing more. It holds no gravity, save for in fantasy and dreams.