Joad C. E. M. - Return to Philosophy

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Text originally published in 1935 under the same title.

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RETURN TO PHILOSOPHY

being

A Defence of Reason

An Affirmation of Values

and A Please for Philosophy

BY

C. E. M. JOAD

Contents

Many people today adopt an instinctively derogatory attitude to reason. It is not, they say, a free activity of the mind, reaching conclusions under no compulsion save that of the evidence; it is the tool of instinct and the handmaid of desire. They are sceptical also in their attitude towards values. Beauty, they hold, is not an intrinsic quality of things; it is merely the compliment which we bestow upon the objects which have been fortunate enough to give us pleasure. One mans pleasure is as good as anothers, and all the art criticism in the world is only an elaborate series of variations upon the theme: This is what I happen to like. As with art, so with morals. To act rightly is merely to act in a way of which other people approve.

It is the object of the following pages to criticize this subjectivist attitude and to expose its inadequacy in art, in morals, and in thought. The book is, therefore, in effect a restatement in modern terms of certain traditional beliefs; that reason, if properly employed, can give us truth; that beauty is a real value which exists, and that we can train our minds and form our tastes to discern it; that some things are really right in a sense in which others are really wrong, and that the endeavour to know truth and to discern value is the noblest pursuit of the adult civilized intelligence. The best name for this pursuit is philosophy. This conclusion is reached by a number of different routes, each of which starting from some distinctive characteristic of modern life or thought, an aeroplane shed, a quasi-religious cult, or an essay of Aldous Huxley converges upon the same position. The defence of reason, the affirmation of values and the plea for philosophy thus constitute the underlying theme which links together the various essays which follow.

C.E.M. JOAD

Measles, rheumatics, hooping-cough, fevers, agers, and lumbagers, said Mr. Squeers, is all philosophy together; thats what it is. The heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the earthly bodies is philosophy. If theres a screw loose in a heavenly body, that, philosophy; and if theres a screw loose in a earthly body, thats philosophy too; or it may be that sometimes theres a little metaphysics in it, but thats not often. Philosophys the chap for me. If a parent asks a question in the classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, gravely, Why, sir, in the first place, are you a philosopher? No, Mr. Squeers, he says, I ant. Then, sir, says I, I am sorry for you, for I shant be able to explain it. Naturally the parent goes away and wishes he was a philosopher, and, equally naturally, thinks Im one.Mr. Squeers in Nicholas Nickleby.

I

Meals with the Great. I have frequently been surprised by the appeal of philosophy to successful men of the world. Those who have achieved wealth, eminence and power by virtue of being hard-headed practical men with no nonsense about them, seem late in life to develop a kind of soft spot in the brain through which, mysteriously, philosophy creeps. Sooner or later, if I may mix my physiology, the hardest head develops its Achilles heel, and this Achilles heel is a conviction that its owner is an original metaphysician. As a professional philosopher who has written a number of philosophical books, it has been my lot to come into contact with a number of such men during their late metaphysical periods. The contact has usually begun with the arrival of a discreet note from some well-known man of affairs, asking me to lunch or dinner. Highly gratified and pleasantly expectant of some proposal redounding to my credit or profit, I have accepted.

I am surprised at the modesty, at the diffidence almost, with which the great man receives me, especially when it becomes clear that a tte--tte between myself and my host is intended. During the meal, usually an admirable one, we talk on indifferent topics; he volubly and assertively, I gradually subsiding into the muddled acquiescence which good wine causes me to extend to all opinions, however outrageous. Yet behind the volubility and the assertiveness, the diffidence, it is obvious, is still there. By the time the table has been cleared, coffee served, cigars lighted, decanters placed on the board and the servants withdrawn, it has become unmistakable nervousness. A sort of imminence gradually creeps into the atmosphere; a disclosure, it is clear, is impending.

After-Dinner Philosophy. The Universe Unriddled. And presently out it comes. My host, it seems, has for years past been giving his attention to philosophical subjects. He has, he knows, no training in philosophy, but he has been interested in it all his life. As a token of this lifelong interest he has drawn up a scheme, a plan, a system, theory or formula, the fruit of prolonged meditation, which he believes to be not entirely without importance. Growing enthusiastic as he proceeds, he divulges that the scheme, plan, system or what not, is nothing less than a complete philosophy of the universe, in the course of which all problems which have at various times puzzled philosophers are finally set at rest.

This scheme he has resolved to lay before me, and with an exquisite mixture of diffidence and condescension he finally produces from a drawer a typewritten manuscript, carefully sealed and swathed in tape. The seal is elaborate, the tape brightly coloured, the typing exquisite. And that is all! As for the contents, the scheme, system, theory, philosophy, it has turned out with practically no exceptions to be complete balderdash, the degree of its sense being inversely proportional to the magnitude of its pretensions.

In this way I have been honoured in strict confidence with a private and advance view of the philosophies of a newspaper proprietor, a theatrical producer and the head of a big business syndicate, all men with well-known names at the very top of their professions, not to mention the meditations of smaller fry. And in every case the actual content of their solemnly divulged productions has been worthless. What they have had to say about life and the universe has been just nothing at all.

I cannot trust myself to reproduce actual conversations, but the following letter (whose authorship I must not for obvious reasons disclose), which, typical of a number that I have received following these intimate occasions, reproduces the atmosphere of faint reproach for my apparent unresponsiveness, my failure to be impressed, which they have usually sought to convey, will serve to illustrate the attitude and assurance of my eminent hosts.