Kant and the Platypus: Essays on Language and Cognition

Copyright © 1997 R.C.S. Libri S.p.A.

English translation © Alastair McEwen 1999

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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This is a translation of Kant e l’ornitorinco.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Eco, Umberto.

[Kant e l’ornitorinco. English]

Kant and the platypus: essays/Umberto Eco: translated

from the Italian by Alastair McEwen.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-15-100447-1

ISBN 0-15-601159-X (pbk.)

1. Semiotics. I. Title.

P99.E2713 1999

302.2—dc21 99-23895

eISBN 978-0-547-56378-7

v2.0817

Introduction

What has Kant got to do with the platypus? Nothing. As we shall see from the dates, he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. And this should suffice to justify the title and its use of an incongruous set that sounds like a tribute to Borges’s ancient Chinese encyclopedia.

So what is this book about? Apart from the platypus, it’s about cats, dogs, mice, and horses, but also chairs, plates, trees, mountains, and other things we see every day, and it’s about the reasons why we can tell an elephant from an armadillo (as well as why we don’t normally mistake our wife for a hat). This is a formidable philosophical problem that has obsessed human thought from Plato to present-day cognitivists, and it is one that even Kant (as we shall see) not only failed to solve but didn’t even manage to express in satisfactory terms. So you can imagine how much chance I’ve got.

This is why the essays making up this book (written over twelve months, picking up the themes I have been dealing with—including some unpublished material—over these last few years) spring from a nucleus of interconnected theoretical concerns, and while they are interreferential, they are not to be read as chapters of a work with systematic ambitions. Although the various paragraphs are sometimes scrupulously numbered into sections and subsections, this is only to enable rapid cross-referencing between one essay and another, without this artifice necessarily suggesting an underlying architecture. And while I say many things in these pages, there are many more that I don’t say, simply because my ideas are not clear in that regard. In fact, I should like to take as my motto a quotation from Boscoe Pertwee, an eighteenth-century author (unknown to me), which I found in Gregory (1981: 558): I used to be indecisive but now I’m not so sure.

Written therefore in a spirit of indecision and beset by numerous doubts, these essays spring from my feeling of not having honored certain debts incurred when I published A Theory of Semiotics in 1976 (in which I took up and developed various lines of research begun in the latter half of the sixties). The debts concerned the problems of reference, iconism, truth, perception, and what in those days I used to call the lower threshold of semiotics. In the course of these twenty-two years, many people have posed me some most pressing problems, orally or in writing, while an even greater number have asked me if and when I was going to write an updated version of A Theory of Semiotics. These essays were written also to explain, perhaps to myself rather than to others, why I did not do so.

Basically, there are two reasons. The first is that, while in the sixties it was possible to think of linking up the scattered members of many semiotic research projects in order to attempt a summa of them, today the area covered has become so wide (overlapping that of the various cognitive sciences) that any new systematization would seem rash. What we are now faced with is an expanding galaxy and no longer a planetary system for which fundamental equations can be supplied, a situation that strikes me as a sign of success and health. Questioning about semiosis has become central to a great number of disciplines, even on the part of those who did not think they were practicing semiotics, or were practicing it unwittingly, or simply did not wish to practice it. This was already true when I was writing A Theory of Semiotics (just to make one ex ample, it was not because biologists had been reading books on semiotics that they began talking about genetic codes), but the phenomenon has grown so widespread as to suggest that, no matter how selective their theoretical criteria, those interested in the argument would be well advised to apply a kind of ecumenical tolerance, in the same sense in which the broadminded missionary decides that even the infidel, whatever the idol or superior principle he worships, is naturaliter a Christian and shall therefore be saved.

Nevertheless everyone, no matter how tolerant he may be of other people’s opinions, must also enunciate his own, at least with regard to fundamental questions. With a view to integrating and correcting A Theory of Semiotics, then, here I am ready to explain my most recent ideas regarding some points that that book left in abeyance.

As a matter of fact (and here we come to the second reason), in the first part of A Theory of Semiotics I began with a problem: If, in a Peircean sense, there is such a thing as a Dynamical Object, we know it only through an Immediate Object. By manipulating signs, we refer to the Dynamical Object as a terminus ad quem of semiosis. In the second part of the book, devoted to the ways in which signs are produced, I presupposed (even though I did not spell it out) that if we speak (or emit signs, of whatever type they may be), it is because Something urges us to speak. And this ushered in the problem of the Dynamical Object as a terminus a quo.

The decision to state the problem of the Dynamical Object first in terms of its being a terminus ad quem was to determine my successive interests, following the development of semiosis as a sequence of interpretants—interpretants being a collective, public, observable product laid down in the course of cultural processes, even though one does not presume the existence of a mind that admits of, uses, or develops them. This led to what I have written on the problem of signification, the text and intertextuality, narrativity, and the elaboration and limits of interpretation. But it is precisely the problem of the limits of interpretation that set me to wondering whether those limits are only cultural and textual or something that lies concealed at greater depths. And this explains why the first of these essays deals with Being. It’s not a matter of delusions of grandeur but of professional duty. As will be seen, I speak of Being only inasmuch as I feel that what is sets limits on our freedom of speech.

When we presume a subject that tries to understand what it experiences (and the object—that is to say, the Thing-in-Itself—becomes the terminus a quo), then, even before the formation of the chain of interpretants, there comes into play a process of interpreting the world that, especially in the case of novel or unknown objects (such as the platypus at the end of the eighteenth century), assumes an auroral form, made up through trial and error; but this is already semiosis in progress, which calls pre-established cultural systems into question.

And so, every time I thought of putting my hand to A Theory of Semiotics again, I wondered if I shouldn’t have restructured it starting from the second part. The reasons why I wondered this ought to become evident on reading the following essays. The fact that they are presented in essay form, explorations that are vagabond from diverse standpoints, says how I realized—gripped by the impulse to overturn everything systematically—I was unable to structure it (and perhaps no one can do this alone). Out of prudence I decided to shift from the architecture of gardens to gardening, so instead of designing Versailles, I limited myself to digging over some flower beds barely connected by beaten earth paths—and this with the lingering suspicion that all around there was still a romantic park in the English manner.

By deciding where to locate my flower beds, I have decided to take issue with myself (instead of taking issue with thousands of others), and that’s to say with various things I had written before, correcting myself when this struck me as the right thing to do, but without denying myself in toto, because one changes one’s ideas the way an animal sheds its coat, in patches: it’s never a wholesale change from one day to the next. If I had to sum up the nucleus of problems around which I have been circling, I would talk in terms of the characteristics of a cognitive semantics (which certainly has little to do with the truth-functional or the structural-lexical varieties, even though it tries to draw themes and ideas from both) based on a contractual notion both of our cognitive schemata and of signification and reference—a position consistent with my previous attempts to elaborate a theory of content featuring a blend of semantics and pragmatics. In doing this, I try to temper an eminently cultural view of semiosic processes with the fact that, whatever the weight of our cultural systems, there is something in the continuum of experience that sets a limit on our interpretations, and so—if I weren’t afraid of sounding pretentious—I would say that the dispute between internal realism and external realism would tend to compose itself in a notion of contractual realism.

THE READER WILL notice that, starting from the second essay and more and more as I go on, these theoretical discussions of mine are interwoven with stories. Perhaps some readers will know that, when I feel the urge to tell stories, I satisfy it elsewhere, and therefore my decision to tell stories here is not dictated by a need to realize a suppressed vocation (a temptation for many contemporary thinkers who substitute philosophy with pages of bellelettrisme). It could be said that there is a profound philosophical reason behind my decision: if, as they say, the era of the great narrative has passed, it might be useful to proceed by parables, which let us see something in textual mode—as Lotman would have put it, and as Bruner invites us to do—without wanting to draw grammars from them.

But there is a second reason. In adopting a questioning approach to the way in which we perceive (but also name) cats, mice, or elephants, it struck me as useful not so much to analyze expressions like There is a cat on the mat in terms of models, or to go see what our neurons do when we see a cat on the mat (not to mention what the cat’s neurons do when it sees us sitting on the mat—as I shall explain, I try not to stick my nose into the black box, preferring to leave this difficult profession to the experts), as to bring an oft neglected character back to the stage, namely, common sense. And in order to understand how common sense works, there is nothing better than imagining stories in which people behave according to its dictates. In this way we discover that normality is narratively surprising.

But perhaps the presence of all these cats and dogs and mice in my discourse has brought me back to the cognitive function of the moralizing bestiaries and fables. In attempting at least to update the bestiary, I have introduced the platypus as the hero of my book. I am grateful to Stephen Jay Gould and Giorgio Celli (as well as to Gianni Piccini, via the Internet) for having aided and abetted me in my hunt for this imponderable little animal (which years ago I also encountered in person). The platypus accompanied me step by step, even where I don’t mention it, and I took the trouble to supply it with philosophical credentials by immediately finding it a relation with the unicorn, which, like bachelors, can never be absent from any reflections on language.

In debt as I am to Borges for many ideas in the course of my previous activities, I had been consoling myself for the fact that Borges had talked of everything, except the platypus, therefore I was overjoyed at having escaped the anxiety of influence, but just as I was about to hand these essays over to the printers, Stefano Bartezzaghi pointed out to me that Borges, at least orally, in a conversation with Domenico Porzio, in explaining why (perhaps) he had never gone to Australia, had spoken of the platypus: Apart from the kangaroo and the platypus, which is a horrible animal, made from the pieces of other animals, now there are camels too.¹ I had already dealt with the camel, when working on the Aristotelian classifications. In this book I explain why the platypus is not horrible, but prodigious and providential, if we are to put a theory of knowledge to the test. By the way, given the platypus’s very early appearance in the development of the species, I insinuate that it was not made from the pieces of other animals, but that the other animals were made from pieces of the platypus.

I TALK OF cats and platypuses, but also of Kant—otherwise the title would be unjustifiable. As a matter of fact I talk of cats precisely because Kant brought in empirical concepts (and while he didn’t talk about cats, he talked about dogs), after which he didn’t know where to put them. I started from Kant to honor another debt I had incurred with myself, back in my university days, when I began to take down lots of little notes on that devastating concept (the suggestion came from Peirce) known as the schema. The problem of schematism has cropped up again today, right in the middle of the debate on cognitive processes. But many of these lines of research suffer from insufficient historical background. Some people talk about neoconstructivism, for example, others make explicit references to Kant, but many others again indulge in neo-Kantism all unawares. I still remember an American book, a very good one, what’s more (but, as the saying goes, no names, no pack drill), in which at a certain point there is a note that says something like It seems that Kant said something similar regarding this point (cf. Brown 1988).

If it seems that Kant said something similar, the task of a philosophical discourse is to take another look at Kant’s point of departure and to see what group of problems he had been wrestling with, because his experience can teach us something too. We might still be the unwitting children of his errors (just as we are of his truths), and knowing this might help us avoid making analogous errors or thinking that we have just discovered something that he suggested two hundred years ago. Let’s put it this way: Kant knew nothing about the platypus, and that should not worry us, but if the platypus is to solve its own identity crisis, it ought to know something about Kant.

I’M NOT GOING to attempt an exhaustive table of acknowledgments, because it would be pure name dropping, starting with Parmenides. The bibliographical references at the end of this book do not make up a bibliography, they are only a legal device aimed at avoiding accusations of having omitted the names of persons from whom I took direct quotations. And so many important names—those of authors to whom I owe much but whom I have not cited directly—are absent.

I should like to thank the Italian Academy for Advanced Studies in America at Columbia University for giving me the opportunity to devote myself for two months to the first drafts of essays 3, 4, and 5.

Apart from this, in recent years I have been stimulated on these themes by the people who worked with me (and who have introjected the sound principle that you must speak of your friends without mincing words, because elaborate ceremonial is reserved for adversaries only). My debts in this sense, having been accumulated in the course of many debates, are infinite. It will be seen that I have quoted some dissertations produced in recent years, which have directly influenced many of these essays, but goodness knows how many names I have not had occasion to mention, from among all those with whom I debated in the course of workshops held at the Center for Semiotic and Cognitive Studies of the University of San Marino and in the innumerable seminars held at the University of Bologna.

Nor can I omit the various comments and ideas, not to mention the stubborn resistance, offered by the contributors to the anthology Semiotica Storia Interpretazione: Saggi intorno a Umberto Eco (Milan: Bompiani, 1992).² Finally, the decision to put my hand to these essays after collecting and re-elaborating my various notebooks perhaps came to me following the discussions, diagnoses, and prognoses (still uncertain) offered me by the participants in the Decade at Cerisy-la-Salle in the summer of 1996. At the time, those present must have thought that I appreciated the musical evenings enlivened by generous doses of calvados more than anything else, but I didn’t miss a word of what was said, and I was in difficulty on several occasions.³

My thanks to all of them (especially the youngest of them) for having awakened me from some of my dogmatic slumbers—if not like Hume, at least like old Lampe.

Chapter One

On Being

The history of research into the philosophy of language is full of men (who are rational and mortal animals), bachelors (who are unmarried adult males), and tigers (though it is not clear whether we should define them as feline mammals or big cats with a yellow coat and black stripes). Analyses of prepositions and adverbs (what do beside, by, or when mean?) are less common (but the few we have are very important), while there are some excellent analyses of emotions (such as anger in Greimas), and some fairly frequent analyses of verbs, such as to go, to clean, to praise, to kill. On the other hand no semantic study seems to have provided a satisfactory analysis of the verb to be, despite the fact that we use it in everyday speech, in all its forms, with a certain regularity.

This was more than evident to Pascal (in a fragment from 1655): "One cannot begin to define being without falling victim to this absurdity: one cannot define a word without beginning with the term is, be it expressly stated or merely understood. To define being, therefore, you have to say is, thus using the term to be defined in the definition." Which is not the same as saying, as Gorgias said, that we cannot speak of being: we speak about it all the time, too often perhaps; the problem is that this magic word helps us define almost everything but is defined by nothing. In semantics we would speak of a primitive, the most primitive of all.

When Aristotle {Metaphysics IV, 1.1) says there is a science that studies being as being, he uses the present participle to on. In Italian this is translated by some as ente, by others as essere. In point of fact this to on can be understood as that which is, as the existing being,¹ and finally as what the Schoolmen called the ens, whose plural is entia, the things that are. But if Aristotle had been thinking only of the things of the real world around us, he would not have spoken of a special science: entities are studied, according to the sector of reality, by zoology, physics, and even by politics. Aristotle says to on e on, the being as such. When we speak of an entity (be it a panther or a pyramid) as an entity (and not as a panther or a pyramid), then the to on becomes that which is common to all beings, and that which is common to all entities is the fact that they are, the fact of their being. In this sense, as Peirce said, Being is that abstract aspect that belongs to all objects expressed in concrete terms: it has an unlimited extension and null intension (or comprehension).² Which is like saying that it refers to everything but has no meaning. For this reason it seems clear why in philosophical language the substantive use of the present participle, normal for the Greeks, gradually shifted to the infinitive, if not in Greek, certainly in the Scholastic esse. This ambiguity is already to be found in Parmenides, who talks of t’eon, but then affirms that esti gar einai (DK 6), and it is hard not to take an infinitive {to be) that becomes the subject of an is as a substantive. In Aristotle being as an object of knowledge is to on, but the essence is to ti en einai {Met. IV, 1028b, 33.36), what being was, but in the sense of that which being stably is (which was later to be translated as quod quid erat esse). Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that to be is also a verb, which expresses not only the act of being something (and hence we say that a cat is a feline) but also the activity (and hence we say that it’s good to be in sound health, or to be on vacation), to the point that often (when one is said to be glad to be in the world) it is used as a synonym for to exist, even though the equation leaves room for a great many reservations, because originally ex-istere meant to leave-from, to manifest oneself, and therefore to come into being.³

Therefore, we have (i) a substantive, the ens, let’s call it the existing entity, (ii) another substantive, being, and (iii) a verb, to be. The perplexity is such that different languages react in different ways to it. Italian and German have a term for (i), ente and Seiende, but only one term for both (ii) and (iii), essere and Sein. It was on the basis of this distinction that Heidegger founded the difference between the ontic and the ontological. While French has only one term, être, it’s true that the philosophical neologism étant has been in use since the seventeenth century, but Gilson himself (in the first edition of L’être et l’essence) had difficulty in accepting it, and opted to use it only in subsequent editions. Scholastic Latin had adopted ens for (i), but in a spirit of tormented casualness it also toyed with (ii), sometimes using ens and other times using esse.⁴ In current English there are only two terms, to be and being, the second usually covering both senses (i) and (ii): for instance, the current translations of Aquinas’s De ente et essentia read On Being and Essence. Some of Heidegger’s translators (see for instance Ralph Manheim’s translation An Introduction to Metaphysics, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1959) use essent for (i) but others (see Being and Time, translated by J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson, New York: Harper, 1962) translate Was ist das Seiende, das Seiende in seinen Sein? as What is being, what is beingness in its Being? Peirce proposed to use ens (or entity) for all the things that may be spoken of,⁵ including not only material entities but also entities of reason, like the laws of mathematics; and that is how ens came to be the equivalent of being, in the sense that it is a totality that includes not only what is physically around us but also what is below, or inside, or around or before or after, and founds it and/or justifies it.

But in that case, if we are talking about everything that can be spoken of, we need to include the possible too. Not only and not so much in the sense in which it has been maintained that even possible worlds really exist somewhere (Lewis 1973), but at least in Wolff’s sense (Philosophia prima sive ontologia methodo scientifico pertractata, 134), according to which an ontology regards the entity quatenus ens est, regardless of all questions of existence, and so quod possibile est, ens est. A fortiori, therefore, not only speculations but also past events would come within the sphere of being: what is, is in all the conjugations and tenses of the verb to be.

By this point, however, temporality (both of the Dasein and of the galaxies) has inserted itself into being, and there is no need for us to be Parmenideans at all costs: If Being (with a capital B) is everything that can be spoken of, why shouldn’t the future also be a part of it? The future looks like a flaw in a vision of being as a compact and immutable Sphere: but at this point we still cannot know if being is not so much inconstant as mutable, metamorphic, metempsychotic, a compulsive recycler, an inveterate bricoleur. . . .

In any case, the languages we speak are what they are, and if they contain ambiguities, or even confusion regarding the use of this primitive (ambiguities that philosophical reflection does not clear up), may it not be that this perplexity expresses a fundamental condition?

In order to respect this perplexity, in the pages that follow we shall use Being in its widest and most open sense. But what sense can be held by a term that Peirce defined as being of null intension? Could it have the sense suggested by Leibniz’s dramatic question Why is there something rather than nothing?

Here is what we mean by the word Being: Something.

1.1 SEMIOTICS AND THE SOMETHING

Why should semiotics deal with this something? Because one of the problems of semiotics is to say whether and how we use signs to refer to something, and a great deal has been written on this. But I do not think that semiotics can avoid another problem: What is that something that induces us to produce signs?

Every philosophy of language finds itself faced not only with a terminus ad quem but also with a terminus a quo. It must ask itself not only To what do we refer when we talk, and with what degree of reliability? (a problem certainly worthy of consideration) but also What makes us talk?

Put phylogenetically, this was the fundamental problem—which modernity has prohibited—of the origins of language, at least from Epicurus onward. But while it can be avoided phylogenetically (by pointing to the lack of archaeological evidence), it cannot be avoided ontogenetically. Our own day-to-day experience provides us with the elements, perhaps imprecise but in a certain sense tangible, with which to answer the question But why have I been induced to say something?

Structural semiotics has never addressed the problem (with the exception of Hjelmslev, as we shall see): the various languages are considered as systems that are already constituted (and synchronically analyzable) the moment users express themselves, state, indicate, ask, or command. The rest appertains to the production of words, but the reasons why we talk are psychological and not linguistic. Analytical philosophy has contented itself with its own concept of truth (which deals not with how things really are but with the conclusions that should be drawn if a proposition is understood as true), but it has not considered our prelinguistic relation with things. In other words, the statement Snow is white is true if the snow is white, but how we realize (and are sure) that snow is white is delegated to a theory of perception or to optics.

Beyond a doubt the only person who made this problem the very foundation of his theory—semiotic, cognitive, and metaphysical all at the same time—was Peirce. A Dynamical Object drives us to produce a representamen, in a quasi-mind this produces an Immediate Object, which in turn is translatable into a potentially infinite series of interpretants and sometimes, through the habit formed in the course of the interpretative process, we come back to the Dynamical Object, and we make something of it.

It might be observed that, as soon as we get back to the Dynamical Object and start speaking about it again, we are once more at the point of departure, and so we have to rename it using another representamen, so that in a certain sense the Dynamical Object always remains a Thing-in-Itself, always present and impossible to capture, if not through semiosis.

Yet the Dynamical Object is what drives us to produce semiosis. We produce signs because there is something that demands to be said. To use an expression that is efficacious albeit not very philosophical, the Dynamical Object is Something-that-sets-to-kicking-us⁶and says Talk! to us—or Talk about me! or again, Take me into consideration!

We are familiar with the indexical signs, this or that in verbal language, a pointing finger, an arrow in the language of images (cf. Eco 1978, 3.6); but there is a phenomenon we must understand as presemiotic, or protosemiotic (in the sense that it constitutes the signal that gets the semiosic process under way), which we will call primary indexicality or attentionality (Peirce spoke of attention as the capacity to direct the mind toward an object, and to pay attention to one element while ignoring another).⁷ Primary indexicality occurs when, amid the thick stuff of the sensations that bombard us, we suddenly select something that we set against that general background and decide we want to speak about it (when, in other words, while we live surrounded by luminous, thermic, tactile, and interoceptive sensations, only one of these attracts our attention, and only afterward we say that it is cold, or we have a sore foot); primary indexicality occurs when we attract someone’s attention, not necessarily to speak to him but just to show him something that will have to become a sign or an example, and we tug his jacket, we turn-his-head-toward.

In the most elementary of semiosic relations, the radical translation illustrated by Quine (1960: 2), before knowing what name the native has assigned to a passing rabbit (or to whatever he sees where I see and understand a passing rabbit), and before I ask him, What is that thing?—with an interrogative gesture while, in a way he perhaps finds incomprehensible, I point my finger at the spatiotemporal event that interests me—to ensure that he replies with the celebrated and enigmatic gavagai, there is a moment in which I fix his attention on that spatiotemporal event. I may cry out, I may grasp him by the shoulders, but I shall do something so that he notices what I have decided to notice.

This fixing of my own or someone else’s attention on something is the condition of every semiosis to come; it even precedes that act of attention (already semiosic, already an effect of thought) by which I decide that something is pertinent, curious, or intriguing, and must be explained by a hypothesis. This fixing comes before curiosity itself, before the perception of the object as an object. It is the as yet blind decision whereby I identify something amid the magma of experience that I have to reckon with.

The whole problem of whether, once a theory of consciousness has been worked out, this object becomes a Dynamical Object, noumenon, or the still raw material of an intuition not yet illuminated by the categorical comes afterward. First there is something, even if it is only my reawakened attention; but not even that, it is my attention as it sleeps, lies in wait, or dozes. It is not the primary act of attention that defines the something, it is the something that arouses the attention, indeed the attention lying in wait is already part (is evidence) of this something.

These are the reasons why semiotics cannot avoid reflecting on this something that (to link us with all those who throughout the centuries have tormented themselves over it) we decide to call Being.

1.2 AN UNNATURAL PROBLEM

It has been said that the problem of being (the answer, that is, to the question What is being?) is the least natural of all problems, the one that common sense never poses (Aubenque 1962: 13–14). Being as such is so far from constituting a problem that apparently it is as if such a datum ‘didn’t exist’ (Heidegger 1973: 1969). To the point that the post-Aristotelian tradition ignored the question and, as it were, removed it, which perhaps explains the legendary fact that the text of Metaphysics disappeared, to resurface only in the first century B.C. On the other hand Aristotle himself, and with him the entire Greek philosophical tradition, never posed the question that Leibniz was to put to himself in his Principes de la nature et de la grace: Pourquoi il y a plutôt quelque chose que rien?—adding that, at bottom, nothingness would have been simpler and less complex than something. As a matter of fact this question also represents the distress of the nonphilosopher who sometimes finds it too difficult to think of God in His inconceivable eternity, or worse still, of the eternity of the world, while it would be much simpler and more reassuring if nothing existed or had ever existed, so that there would never have been even one mind prepared to rack its brains over why there is nothing rather than being. But if we aspire to nothingness, by this act of aspiration we are already in being, albeit in the form of frailty and sin, as Valéry suggests in Ebauche d’un serpent:

Soleil, soleil! . . .Faute éclatante!

Toi qui masques la mort, Soleil . . .

Par d’impénétrables délices,

Toi le plus fier de mes complices,

Et de mes pièges le plus haut,

Tu gardes les coeurs de connaître

Que l’univers n’est qu’un défaut

Dans la pureté du Non-être.

Incidentally, if the normal condition were nothingness, and we were only a luckless transitory excrescence, the ontological argument would also collapse. It would not be worth arguing that, if it is possible to think id cujus nihil majus cogitari possit (that is, possessed of all perfections), since part of this being’s due should also be the perfection that is existence, the very fact that God is thinkable demonstrates that He exists. Of all the confutations of the ontological argument, the most energetic seems to be expressed by the question Who says that existence is a perfection? Once it is admitted that absolute purity consists of Nonbeing, the greatest perfection of God would consist of His nonexistence. Thinking of Him (being able to think of Him) as existing would be the effect of our shortcomings, capable of sullying with the attribution of being what has the supreme right and incredible good fortune not to exist. It would have been interesting had there been a debate not between Anselm of Canterbury and Gaunilon but between Anselm and Cioran.

But even if being were a flaw in the purity of nonbeing, we would be ensnared in this flaw. And therefore we might as well try to talk about it. Let us return therefore to the fundamental question posed by metaphysics: Why is there something (whether it is being as such, or the plurality of entities that may be experienced or thought of, and the totality of the immense flaw that has deprived us of the divine tranquillity of nonbeing) rather than nothing? I repeat, in Aristotle (and in the Aristotelian scholastic tradition) this question does not appear. Why? Because the question was avoided by means of the implicit answer that we shall now try to give.

1.3 WHY IS THERE BEING?

Why is there being rather than nothing? Because there is.⁸

This is an answer to be taken with the maximum seriousness; it is not a bon mot. The very fact that we can pose the question (which we could not pose if there were nothing, not even the posers of the question) means that the condition of every question is that being exists. Being is not a problem for common sense (or, rather, common sense does not see it as a problem), because it is the condition for common sense itself. At the beginning of De Veritate (1.1) Aquinas says: Illud autem quod primum intellectus concipit quasi notissimum, et in quo omnes conceptiones resolvit, est ens.* That there is something is the first, most obvious, and best known thing conceived by our intellect, and all the rest follows. That is, we could not think if not by starting from the (implicit) principle that we are thinking something. Being is the horizon, or the amniotic fluid, in which our thought naturally moves—or, rather, since in Aquinas’s view the intellect presides over the first apprehension of things, it is that in which our first perceptual efforts move.

There would be being even if we found ourselves in a Berke-leyan situation, if we were nothing other than a screen upon which God projects a world that does not exist in reality. Even in that case there would be our act, even if it were fallacious, of perceiving that which is not (or which is only insofar as it is perceived by us), and there would be we as perceiving subjects (and, according to Berkeley’s hypothesis, there would be a God that tells us what is not). There would therefore be enough being to satisfy even the most anxious of ontologists. There is always something, since there is someone capable of wondering why there is something instead of nothing.

All this should immediately make clear that the problem of being cannot be reduced to the problem of the reality of the world. Whether what we call the outside World, or the Universe, is or is not, or whether it is the effect of a malign spirit, does not in any way affect the primary evidence that there is something somewhere (even if it were no more than a res cogitans that realized it was cogitating).

But there’s no need to wait for Descartes. There is a fine page in Avicenna who—after having said on many occasions that an entity is that which is conceived first of all, and that it may not be commented upon except through its name, because it is the first principle of every other comment, and that reason recognizes it without having to fall back on a definition, because entity has no definition, genus, or differentia, and that nothing is more known than it is—invites us to make an experiment that suggests he was not unfamiliar with certain Oriental drugs:

Let us suppose that one of us has suddenly been created, and is perfect. But he is blindfolded and cannot see external things. He has been created gliding through the air, or, better, in the void, so that he might not suffer the shock of air resistance. His limbs are separated, they neither meet nor touch. He meditates and wonders if his existence is proved. Without any doubt, he would state that he existed: despite the fact that this does not prove the existence of either his hands or his feet, or his insides, or his heart, or brain, or any other external thing, he would say he existed, without establishing whether he had a length, a breadth, or a depth . . .(Philippe 1975: 1–9)

Therefore there is being because we can pose the question of being, and this being comes before every question, and therefore before every answer and every definition. It is known that the modern objection that Western metaphysics—with its obsession about being—springs only from within a discourse based on the syntactic structures of Indo-European, and that is to say on a language that requires the subject-copula-predicate structure for all judgments (insofar as, as the eighteenth-century constructors of perfect languages did their utmost to propose, even sentences like God is or The horse gallops can always be resolved as God is existent and The horse is galloping). But the experience of being is implicit in the first cry emitted by a baby that has just emerged from its mother’s womb, to greet or take account of the something that manifests itself to it as the horizon, and in the baby’s seeking the breast with its lips. The phenomenon of primary indexicality shows us reaching out toward something (and it is irrelevant whether this something is really there or whether we posit that it is through our reaching out; it is even irrelevant whether it is we who are reaching out—there would be a reaching out in any case).

Being is id quodprimum intellectus concipit quasi notissimum, as if we had always been on that horizon, and perhaps the fetus is aware of being while it still floats in the uterus. Obscurely, it senses being as quasi notissimum (or, better, as the only known thing).

There is no need to wonder why there is being; it is a luminous evidence. Which does not mean that it cannot seem dazzling, terrible, unbearable, lethal—and as a matter of fact it seems that way to many people. Asking questions about its foundations is illusion or weakness and reminds one of the person who, asked if she believed in God, replied, No, I believe in something much greater. Being is its own fundamental principle, and we run into this inescapable fact every time we ask ourselves questions about it. Asking questions about the foundations of being is like asking questions about the foundations of the foundations, and then about the foundations of the foundations of the foundations, in an infinite regression: when, exhausted, we stop, we are once more and already at the very foundations of our question.⁹

If anything, the question why is there being rather than nothing conceals another source of disquiet, which regards the existence of God. But first comes the proof of being, then the question of God. The question Who has made all this, who keeps it in being? follows the act of recognizing the evidence that there is something, an evidence so well known that it strikes us as being already organized within the cohort of the entities. It seems undeniable that even animals possess evidence of being despite the fact they are incapable of asking themselves the question that follows from it, an Deus sit. Aquinas was to reply to this in a summa appropriately called Theologica. But first comes the discussion on the De ente et essentia.

1.4 HOW WE TALK ABOUT BEING

Being is even before it is talked about. But we can take it from irrepressible evidence and transform it into a problem (which awaits an answer) only insofar as we talk about it. The first opening to being is a sort of ecstatic experience, albeit in the most materialistic sense of the term, but as long as we remain in this initial, mute evidence, being is not a philosophical problem, any more than water is a philosophical problem for fish. The moment we talk about being, we are still not talking about it in its all-embracing form, because, as we have said, the problem of being (the most immediate and natural of experiences) is the least natural of all problems, the one that common sense never poses: we begin to grope our way through being by carving entities out of it and gradually constructing ourselves a World.

Therefore, since common sense is incapable of thinking of being before having organized it within the system, or the uncoordinated series, of entities, entities are the way in which being makes its rendezvous with us, and it is from there that we must begin.

And so we come to the central question of Aristotle’s Metaphysics. This question is posed in the form of an observation from which Aristotle does not begin but very nearly arrives at after a succession of steps—stumbling over it, so to speak, as he gradually moves from the first book to the fourth, where, after having said that there is a science that studies being as such, at the point where one would expect the first tentative definition of the object of this science, Aristotle repeats as the sole possible definition what in the first book (992b 19) had appeared only as a parenthetical observation: being can be said in many ways (leghetai men pollachos) and in several senses (1001a 33).

What Aquinas thought the intellect percipit quasi notissimum, the horizon of our thinking and talking, Aristotle thought (but Aquinas agreed) was by nature (if it had a nature, but we know that it is neither genus nor species) ambiguous and polysemic.

For some authors this statement consigns the problem of being to a fundamental aporia, which the post-Aristotelian tradition has only attempted to reduce, without destroying its dramatic potential. Indeed, Aristode was the first to try to reduce it to acceptable dimensions, and he did so by playing on the adverb in many ways.

The many ways might be reduced to four. Being can be said (i) as accidental being (it is the being predicated of the copula, and so we say The man is white or is standing); (ii) as true, and so it may be true or false that a certain man is white, or that man is an animal; (iii) as potentiality and actuality, and so if it is not true that this healthy man is ill at present, he could fall ill, and today we might say that we could think of a possible world in which it is true that this man is ill; and (iv) being can be said ens perse, in other words as substance. In Aristotle’s view, the polysemy of being subsides in the degree to which, however we speak of being, we say it with reference to one principle (1003b 5–6), i.e., to substances. Substances are individual existing beings, and we have perceptual evidence of them. Aristotle never doubted the existence of some individual substances (Aristotle never had doubts about the reality of the world as it appears in our everyday experience), substances in which and only in which the Platonic forms themselves are actualized, without their existing before or afterward in some pale Space beyond the heavens, and this security enables him to master the many senses of being. "The primary meaning of being is the essence that signifies (semainei) the substance (ousia)" (1028a 4–6).

The problem of Aristotelian being lay not in the pollachos but in the leghetai. Whether it is said in one or many ways, being is something that is said. It may well be the horizon of every other evidence, but it becomes a philosophical problem only when we begin to talk about it, and it is precisely our talking about it that makes it ambiguous and polyvocal. The fact that this ambiguity can be reduced does not alter the fact that we become aware of it only through speech. As it is thinkable, being manifests itself to us right from the outset as an effect of language.

The moment it appears before us, being arouses interpretation; the moment we can speak of it, it is already interpreted. There is no help for it. Not even Parmenides escaped this circle, despite his having labeled the onomata unreliable. But the onomata were fallacious names that we are led, prior to philosophical reflection, to give to that which becomes. But Parmenides was the first to express in words the invitation to recognize (and interpret) the many signs (semata) through which being arouses our discourse. And for being to exist, it is necessary to say as well as to think (DK 6).

A fortiori, in Aristotle’s view, without words being neither is nor is not: it is there, we are within it, but we don’t think we are. Aristotle’s ontology, and this has been widely commented on, has verbal roots. In the Metaphysics every mention of being, every question and answer on being lies within the context of a verbum dicendi (be it leghein, semainein, or others). When we read (1005b 25–26) that it is impossible for anyone to suppose that the same thing is and is not, we come across the verb ypolambanein, which is indeed to believe, to grasp with the mind, but—given that the mind is logos—it also means to take the word.

It might be objected that we say without contradiction that which appertains to the substance, a substance independent of our speaking about it. But up to what point? How do we talk about the substance? How can we say without contradiction that man is a rational animal, whereas saying that he is white or that he runs indicates only a transient accident and cannot therefore be the object of science? In the act of perception the active intellect abstracts the essence from the synolon (matter + form), and therefore it seems that in the cognitive moment we immediately and effortlessly grasp the to ti en einai (1028b 33.36), what being was and therefore stably is. But what can we say of the essence? All we can do is give its definition: "And definition results from the necessity of its meaning something. Definition is the notion (logos) whose name (onoma) is the sign (semeion)" (1012a 22–24).

Alas! We have irrepressible proof of the existence of individuals, but we can say nothing about them, except by naming them through their essence, that is to say by genus and differentia (not therefore this man but man). The moment we enter the universe of essences, we enter the universe of definitions, that is to say the universe of language that defines.¹⁰

We have few names and few definitions for an infinity of single things. Therefore recourse to the universal is not strength of thought but weakness of discourse. The problem is that man always talks in general while things are singular. Language names by blurring the irrepressible proof of the existing individual. And all attempted remedies will be vain: the reflexio ad phantasmata, reducing the concept to flatus vocis with respect to the individual as the sole intuitive datum, entrenching oneself behind the indexicals, proper names, and rigid designators . . . all panaceas. With the exception of a few cases (in which we might not even speak, but point a finger, whistle, seize by an arm—but in those cases we are simply being and not talking about being), we are invariably already situated in the universal when we talk.

And therefore the anchorage of substances, which should make up for the many senses of being, owing to