Methinks I am like a man, who having struck on many shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith, has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past errors and perplexities, makes me diffident for the future. The wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in my enquiries, encrease my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at present, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean, which runs out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with melancholy; and as it is usual for that passion, above all others, to indulge itself; I cannot forbear feeding my despair, with all those desponding reflections, which the present subject furnishes me with in such abundance….
I call upon others to join me, in order to make a company apart; but no one will hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm, which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to the enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians; and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have declared my disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprized, if they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look abroad, I foresee on every side, dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction. When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and ignorance. All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step I take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and absurdity in my reasoning….
For my part, …. I can only observe what is commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. Very refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction.
But what have I here said, that reflections very refined and metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and experience. The intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose anger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have, I any influence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, invironed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty.
Most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four hours’ amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.
Here then I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. But notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my former disposition, that I am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments in that splenetic humour, which governs me at present. I may, nay I must yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in this blind submission I shew most perfectly my sceptical disposition and principles. But does it follow, that I must strive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that I must seclude myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that I must torture my brains with subtilities and sophistries, at the very time that I cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty. Under what obligation do I lie of making such an abuse of time? And to what end can it serve either for the service of mankind, or for my own private interest? No: If I must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe any thing certainly are, my follies shall at least be natural and agreeable. Where I strive against my inclination, I shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no more be led a wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages, as I have hitherto met with.
These passages, from the conclusion of the first book of Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature, arrest me like no other. If he had written nothing else but these words on a scrap of paper, he would still rank as one of the world’s most acute philosophers. They dramatically portray the emotional life of the intellectual mind, as replete in self-awareness as they are ruthless in accuracy.
Anyone who feels compelled to meditate on the questions he asks – “Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return?” – and does not rest content with self-serving fantasies will land on Humean shoals. Two conclusions are irresistible: first: no, we do not have any answers; and second: the tools we have to work with – “the wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties” – should make us despair of ever getting any. In the acidic observation of Portal 2’s GLaDOS, “You’re not just a regular moron; you were designed to be a moron.”
This unfortunate fact matters, does it not? And yet, “very refined reflections have little or no influence upon us.” They should, of course. This discovery, if genuine, should leave us utterly paralysed, and we can find no reason why it shouldn’t leave us utterly paralysed. But, luckily (???), nature comes along and rescues us. “I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four hours’ amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.” The mood of philosophical angst will pass – just give it an hour or so. You’ll get over it, and find something distractingly fun.
Our knowledge is not such a great thing; and our worry over its mediocrity is not such a great thing either. The lesson to be learned from the Humean diagnosis of the human condition is this: it’s no big deal. If we must be fools, let us be at least natural and agreeable fools.
In the end, Hume goes on to find some good in these “strained and ridiculous” speculations. At least they ward off superstition and delusions of philosophical or religious insight. His weather-beaten vessel shores up at the port of Socratic modesty, taking his own wisdom to be the insight that he really has no wisdom. We’re left with living contentedly among appearances, tempering our actions and opinions with the knowledge that we are fools. But let us be agreeable fools nonetheless.
“Frith” is from an Old English root that means “asylum, peace,” but it came to mean a little fishing hole made out of a Scottish estuary. I wonder what a boatride with Hume and Emerson would be like? Not sure either would like the cut of the other’s jib, to put it in nautical terms. Hume shipwrecks in the frith since his barnacled boat no longer holds water and the backgammon table has tipped over and spilled into the waves; Emerson steers into it to find sanctuary and a place to use his fishing pole. What’s interesting about comparing the following passages to what you posted from Hume is that great thinkers, underneath the struggle for dry and dusty reason, wisdom, and knowledge, still float in primal, pelagic waters. I wonder why the deepest moments of our thought – the abandonment of surfaces – we always think of the ocean.
“Every man beholds his human condition with a degree of melancholy. As a ship aground is battered by the waves, so man, imprisoned in mortal life, lies open to the mercy of coming events. But a truth, separated by the intellect, is no longer a subject of destiny. We behold it as a god upraised above care and fear…In the most worn, pedantic, introverted self-tormentor’s life, the greatest part is incalculable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be, until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I? What has my will done to make me that I am? Nothing. I have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection of events, by secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness have not thwarted, have not aided to an appreciable degree…year after year our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet…
…God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please – you can never have both. Between these, as a pendulum, man oscillates…He in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof from all moorings, and afloat… As long as I hear truth I am bathed by a beautiful element and am not conscious of any limits to my nature. The suggestions are thousand-fold that I hear and see. The waters of the great deep have ingress and egress to the soul…
…[New doctrines] seem at first a subversion of all our opinions, tastes, and manner of living. Take thankfully and heartily all they can give. Exhaust them, wrestle with them, let them not go until their blessing be won, and after a short season the dismay will be overpast, the excess of influence withdrawn, and they will no longer be an alarming meteor, but one more bright star shining serenely in your heaven and blending its light with all your day…
…The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind…he has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, the perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite, but a simple, natural, common state which the writer restores to you.” – Intellect
“I have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection of events, by secret currents of might and mind” – what a wonderful passage! It makes me wonder of Emerson is not in a boat, but on a floating inner tube…
When the water’s boiling – like it is in this Hume passage – I always pull Emerson off the shelf. He’s one of the few who can take tragic existentialism and simmer it back down into wonder.
I didn’t mean “we” as in “we great thinkers,” or anything, but just “we” as in the common rung of human beings. We’re all ocean people when we get thinking. A Hume or Emerson only comes along once every few hundred years, goes deeper and comes up muddier.
What would Hume say about modern men being experts in one field or thing but fools in everything else? These people would spend most of their time doing quantum physics or accounting or comedy or painting and they would most of their time appear master of their domains and in charge, wouldn’t they?
Maybe they’re an expert at backgammon or chess.
Take Kasparov, and perhaps here I answer my own question, who is ineffective as a political activist for all his vaunted mastery of chess strategy or tactics.
I mean were the Renaissance men fooling themselves that they weren’t fools?
How is Hume’s idea of our frailty different than Plato’s idea that we only glimpse shadows in a cave?