On Becoming a Philosopher

Good evening! Tonight A.C. Grayling shares with us how one ‘becomes’ a philosopher. Many callings are limited: becoming a good doctor requires the study of medicine. Becoming a good boxer requires the study of boxing. But becoming a good human being requires the study of philosophy. Fung Yu-Lan wrote, ‘According to Chinese tradition, the study of philosophy is not a profession. The purpose of the study of philosophy is to enable a man, as a man, to be a man, not some special kind of man.’ Grayling most likely would agree. In many ways, everyone can be, and should be, a philosopher, because philosophy is the quintessential discipline. There is no vocation that rivals that of the ancients.

‘When asked my profession, I say that I teach philosophy. Sometimes, with equal accuracy, I say that I study philosophy. The form of words is carefully chosen; a certain temerity attaches to the claim to be a philosopher – “I am a philosopher” does not sound as straightforwardly descriptive as “I am a barrister/soldier/carpenter,” for it seems to claim too much. It is almost an honorific, which third parties might apply to someone only if he or she merited it. And such a one need not necessarily be – indeed, may well not be – an academic teacher of the subject.

When I reply in the way described, I see further questions kindle in the interrogator’s eye. “What do philosophers do in the mornings when they get up?” they ask themselves, privately. Everyone knows what a barrister or carpenter does. The teaching part in “teaching philosophy” is obvious enough; but the philosophy part? Do salaried philosophers arrange themselves into Rodinesque poses, and think – all day long?’

I get asked these questions all the time in Brisbane. Strangely, I get more impressed reactions in Hong Kong. ‘What can you do with a Major in philosophy and religion?’ I say I will teach those who are interested. Some people complain it’s too restrictive. Teaching, restrictive? Now there’s something I haven’t heard before.

‘Socrates’ conversation with Charmides was the trigger that made me a lifelong student of philosophy. I read that dialogue at the age of twelve in English translation – happily for me, it is one of Plato’s early works, all of which are simple and accessible; and it immediately prompted me to read others. There was nothing especially precocious about this, for all children begin as philosophers, endlessly voicing their wonder at the world by asking “wh–” questions – why, what, which – until the irritation of parents, and the schoolroom’s authority on the subject of Facts, put an end to their desire to ask them. I was filled with interest and curiosity, puzzlement and speculation, and wanted nothing more than to ask such questions and to seek answers to them forever. My good luck was to have Socrates show that one could do exactly that, as a thing not merely acceptable, but noble, to devote one’s life to. I was smitten by the nature and subject of the enquiries he undertook, which seemed to me the most important there could be. And I found his forensic method exhilarating – and often amusing, as when he exposes the intellectual chicanery of a pair of Sophists in the “Euthydemus,” and illustrates the right way to search for understanding. Presented with such an example, and with such fascinating and important questions, it struck me that there is no vocation to rival philosophy.

These juvenile interests were more or less successfully hidden from contemporaries in the usual way – under a mask of cricket, rugby, and kissing girls in the back row of the cinema – because being a swot was then as always a serious crime; but although all these disguises were agreeable in their own right, especially the last (the charms of Charmides notwithstanding; but they anyway expanded my view of what human flourishing includes), they could not erase what had taken hold underneath – a state of dazzlement before the power and beauty of ideas, and of being fascinated both by the past and the products of man’s imagination. It was a fever that took hold early, and never afterwards abated.’

It’s funny because I haven’t bothered to hide my philosophical interests from anyone, whether they are strangers or intimates. I guess I live in an era different to Grayling’s, although there will always be those who are afraid to step out of their comfort zone, and reach for the Higher. It’s a pity that youths these days do not become philosophers earlier, after all, kids begin their lives as philosophers too.

Unlike Grayling, Socrates was not the one who introduced me to philosophy. Compared to Grayling, whose interests lay in Greek, Roman, and largely Western themes of philosophy, I was on the other side of the world, sleeping with my storybooks of Ancient Egypt’s gods and goddesses, their proud voices echoing in my heart even to this day. I owe a large debt to Ra, Osiris, Thoth, Horus and many others, who introduced me to the beauty of religious studies. Philosophy came further down the road, and became merged as I discovered Mahayana Buddhism.

‘An education as a philosopher involves studying the writings of the great dead, which enables one to advance to engagement with the technical and often abstruse debates of contemporary philosophy. But philosophical education requires more than this too, for in order to do justice to the question of how these debates relate to the world of lived experience – of how gnosis connects with praxis – a wide interest in history, culture and science becomes essential. The reason is well put by Miguel de Unamuno. “If a philosopher is not a man,” he wrote, “he is anything but a philosopher; he is above all a pedant, and a pedant is a caricature of a man.”

At Oxford I had the good fortune to be taught by A. J. Ayer, a gifted and lively teacher, and P. F. Strawson, one of the century¹s leading philosophical minds. There were other accomplished philosophers there whose lectures and classes I attended, but I benefited most from personal intercourse with these two. And when in my own turn I became a lecturer in philosophy, first at St Anne’s College, Oxford and then at Birkbeck College, London, I appreciated the force of the saying “docendo disco” – by teaching I learn – for the task of helping others grasp the point in philosophical debates has the salutary consequence of clarifying them for oneself.’

We see that Professor Grayling is writing from the perspective of the Greeks who inspired him to his life’s work. So far I have only revealed snippets of his full article. Access the link to read the entirety. I finish this post with his concluding thoughts:

‘Socrates liked to tease his interlocutors by saying that the only thing he knew was that he knew nothing. There is a deep insight in this, for the one thing that is more dangerous than true ignorance is the illusion of knowledge and understanding. Such illusion abounds, and one of the first tasks of philosophy – as wonderfully demonstrated by Socrates in Plato’s “Meno” – is to explore our claims to know things about ourselves and the world, and to expose them if they are false or muddled. It does so by beginning with the questions we ask, to ensure that we understand what we are asking; and even when answers remain elusive, we at least grasp what it is that we do not know. This in itself is a huge gain. One of the most valuable things philosophy has given me is an appreciation of this fact.

Another is the permission to keep alive and fresh the child’s curiosity which first prompted me to take Plato’s “Charmides” from the library shelf. “Philosophy begins in wonder,” Alfred North Whitehead said, “and when philosophic thought has done its best, the wonder remains.” Another thing Socrates could have said that he knew, because all students of philosophy know it, is that the wonder arrived at by philosophy is an enriched and insightful wonder, and is one of the most exalted possessions of the human spirit.’