Noolat has a famous metaphor, roughly to the effect that science is like a ship sailing on the boundless sea: if something goes wrong, people can only repair it with whatever is on hand, or with things that can be salvaged from the sea. You might say it would be better to dismantle the ship and rebuild it from scratch, but the problem is that in this boundless sea the ship is our foothold; we can only keep sailing while repairing it.
This metaphor is a good one; however, what those philosophers of science have not sufficiently noticed is that science is not an isolated, freely drifting thing in human civilization. Its development is always inseparable from the other processes of human civilization. Perhaps it is more apt to compare not science, but the entire journey of civilization, to a ship at sea.
And what I want to talk about now is the structure of this ship.
1. Mast and Sail
When a ship has just emerged over the horizon, the first thing seen from afar, the most prominent and conspicuous part, is its mast and sail. On the mast or sail there are more likely to be striking symbols or flags printed or hung, marking the ship’s identity and origin.
In the ship of civilization, this part primarily corresponds to the aspect of “art,” or rather “technique” and “craft.” When one watches a certain civilization from the outside and from afar, what one first notices is often its technological and artistic side: architectural styles, painting styles, ornamentation and design, and so on. Art is ostentatious; it is the “sign” of a civilization’s personality. Before people go deeply into the intellectual world and spiritual substance of a civilization, what they first encounter is often its “art.”
For those who are inside the ship, of course, mast and sail are not merely decorations. Their significance lies in constantly sensing and grasping the wind direction and the route. Although this is not vital to the ship’s mere survival, a ship without sails can only drift with the current, losing the ability to keep its course.
In human civilization, I call artists “graspers of the times.” Art is always “fashionable,” always the most keenly attuned to the currents and winds of an era, and it points the way toward the future.
However, not all ships are sailing ships. Primitive oared boats have no sails, and modern steamships have no sails either. This is not to say that they do not need to grasp the times. In primitive civilizations, the various parts of civilization had not yet differentiated; artistic activity was never lacking, only it was often mixed and inseparable from everyday life, religious life, and intellectual activity, and had not become a part of civilization that could be independently distinguished. Of course, primitive oared boats are both difficult to send on long voyages and unlikely to be very eye-catching; only after art gained independence did the Age of Great Voyages become possible.
Modern steamships, on the other hand, no longer rely on the power of the wind; they rely on coal and petroleum, just like modern civilization. Modern civilization no longer draws endless vitality by relying on artists to capture the forces of nature, but instead distances itself from nature and obtains the energy for forward motion by consuming large amounts of coal and petroleum. In a sense, the artist is replaced by the “engineer.” From the inside, the ship’s voyage no longer needs to pay special attention to wind and current, and can instead sail recklessly according to its own will; from the outside, the ship’s appearance becomes more imposing and domineering, yet seems to lack a distinctive individuality. Whether this is good or bad is not the subject of this essay; in any case, how artists are to find a place to stand on a modern steamship becomes a problem worth pondering.
Of course, the Pirate King set out to sea in a sailing ship
2. Keel
What is called the “keel” has now more often become a concept in architectural decoration (for example, light-steel keel), but its origin is from sailing ships. The architectural concept of the keel has inherited its meaning as the “load-bearing structure.”
The keel can be said to be the “soul” of a sailing ship. Quite the opposite of the conspicuous mast, it is the most hidden and unobtrusive part of a ship. It is often a single piece of the toughest timber, running from bow to stern, with most of it buried deep beneath the waterline—the keel of a ship with a pointed hull is deep and firm, making the whole ship more solid and its voyage more stable.
On a sailing ship, including the mast, almost all parts are replaceable. In philosophy there is an ancient puzzle called “Theseus’ ship”: today I replace one part of the ship, tomorrow another, and by the end all the parts have been renewed; then I gather the old parts that were removed and assemble them into another ship. So which one, after all, is the original ship of Theseus?
But this puzzle applies only to ships without keels. If it is a sailing ship built around a keel-centered structure, then we can confidently say: where the keel is, there the ship is. For the keel cannot be replaced; it is where a ship’s true individuality is concealed. Since the keel is fashioned from a single log, and since there are no two identical trees in the world, there are likewise no two identical keels in the world. And the entire sailing ship is in fact built on the basis of the keel; its overall structure depends on the keel. The keel is both the support of the entire ship and the core through which the overall structure comes to be gathered together.
In human civilization, “religion” is the most suitable candidate for the role of “keel.” Although it does not, like art, serve as the outward “emblem” of civilization, it is often regarded as the most fundamental aspect of a civilization’s individuality. Thus, although when we first encounter another civilization we first come into contact with its art, in the end, when we seek to understand that civilization’s individuality, we must attend to its religion. For example, so-called Christian civilization, Confucian civilization, Hindu civilization, and so on: religion plays, for a civilization, the role of support and cohesion just as the keel does for a ship; it can indeed be called the “soul” of a civilization.
Compared with fashionable art, religion’s function is the exact opposite. Its significance lies in maintaining stability; in other words, its role is the most “conservative.” Religion of course contains many subsidiary branches and details; the keel has extensive connections with the hull and the deck, and these connections are all adjustable and repairable. Yet some most basic spiritual quality contained within a religion is difficult to replace. Before a given civilization rises, its religion already contains many of its most fundamental traits. And as civilization becomes increasingly prosperous and complex, the keel becomes increasingly hidden, while its exposed parts seem increasingly independent, as if they had little to do with the keel, so much so that even those aboard the ship forget the existence of the keel. Yet after all, the keel remains the hidden soul of a civilization, the true source of its individual character. Once the deepest faith is corroded or even broken, the whole civilization will inevitably fall apart.
We can see that not all ships are keel-ships either. Primitive boats had no keels; in primitive civilizations, religion, like art, did not relatively independently become a part of civilization, nor did it become coherent and hidden. And the religious forces of the medieval West were too flamboyant and too outwardly manifest to serve the role of keel. It was only by the Renaissance, when religion’s power no longer tried to obscure art and the humanities, allowing the crew and the sails to stretch freely above the keel—in other words, only when religion gradually sank beneath the waterline and truly took on the role of keel—that the Age of Great Voyages became possible.
As for modern steamships, structurally they are still descendants of keel-ships, yet that unique, irreplaceable soul has been abolished. Hence modern steamships can be mass-produced; they are reproducible. Perhaps this is progress, but what has been lost? Who knows. In any case, modern steamships also require stable supporting force and cohesion; the firmness of each individual part does not mean that the overall structure is firm.
3. Astrolabe, Compass, Nautical Chart, Clock, Cannon…
There are also many pieces of equipment on a ship that seem indispensable, yet also seem unnecessary, such as astrolabes, compasses, nautical charts, clocks, cannons, and so on. These “attachments” often require specialists to operate and use, and they are not necessary for sailing. Not only do primitive oared boats not need them, even some complex and magnificent sailing ships may not need them, especially cannons.
Without a compass and charts, a long voyage might still be accomplished by relying solely on the sailors’ experience and sense. All these “attachments” are by no means essential, and may even seem cumbersome. Moreover, dependence on these delicate attachments also entails risk—relying too much on such “clever tricks and contrivances” will inevitably cause the sailors’ more direct “sense” to grow dull. Once those devices fail, or those “experts” secretly make trouble, the sailors will be helpless.
But after all, they do indeed help with the ship’s positioning and navigation, and can further allow the crew to understand where they are.
Broadly speaking, “technology” is precisely these attachments within a civilization. In primitive civilizations, technology has not yet manifested in an independent way, and in many civilizations its status has often been rather inconspicuous. There are only a few exceptions—ancient Greek civilization, seen from afar, looks like a floating observatory of the heavens; modern Western civilization looks like an offshore artillery battery with a great clock hanging from the mast; as for modern civilization, the entire ship has become a machine.
No civilization lacks offensiveness in the slightest; every ship will be equipped in some way with certain offensive and defensive weapons. But the appearance of cannons has a special significance. In addition to greatly increasing a ship’s attacking power and deterrent force, the cannon, unlike swords and other primitive weapons, is also the first weapon that can defeat another ship from afar without face-to-face contact, without any need to physically infiltrate the other side’s interior. Moreover, it was also the first to make it possible to directly sever a sturdy keel. Western science possessed such firepower in modern times. When modern China first encountered the West, what it saw was precisely the “strong ships and sharp cannons” that were literal and metaphorical at once. In addition, cannons are also consumptive weapons: while attacking the other side, they also consume their own limited ammunition. And their decay will be destructive: the decay of swords merely reduces killing power, whereas a decayed cannon may misfire and turn on its owner.
It cannot be said that the Age of Great Voyages became possible only after cannons appeared; in fact, the Age of Great Voyages and the rise of cannons promoted each other. When all ships lacked cannons, even a pirate ship did not need to be equipped with cannons. But when most ships at sea were already equipped with cannons, then even a peaceful merchant ship, if it wanted to sail alone, had no choice but to equip cannons.
4. Hull, Deck
The “hull” is the most ambiguous “part” of a ship, or rather it can hardly be called a “part” at all. I am referring to the portion, apart from the keel, mast, and various attachments, that constitutes the shape of the entire ship. It seems like a whole, yet each small piece seems both close and distant. It looks like an accretion, yet taken as a whole it is indispensable. It is neither the ship’s decoration nor its spine, mind, or soul; it is the ship’s “body.”
For a civilization, this part can aptly correspond to “culture.” In the broad sense, art, religion, science, and so on are all parts of “culture”; the word “culture” is almost equivalent to “civilization.” This is just as the mast and keel, and so on, may also be seen as parts of the “hull,” or as its “specialized” or “alienated” forms, just as hair and nails are specialized skin. It is precisely “culture” that binds the entire ship into one, making it seem like an organic whole.
“Culture” in the narrower sense can be understood as the customs and habits of a civilization. Whether art, religion, or science, one may say they are all certain specialized forms of life. And for a civilization, before all those specialized and alienated forms of life, the most natural, most original, most worldly form of life—those basic customs and rites that one acquires simply by “normally” growing up within that civilization, as well as the most primitive, unreflected worldview and values—is what is called this part of “culture.” It outlines the ship’s shape and connects the ship’s parts into a whole.
And within the entire “hull,” a particularly special part is the “deck.” Simply put, the meaning of the “deck” is to provide a “platform” on which the crew can walk, communicate, live, and work. It connects the entire ship on a special dimension. It is the most important “public platform.”
And what deserves to be called the civilization’s “deck” is none other than “language.” Every language provides the most important public platform. Of course, a ship may have no deck, such as a small boat, but in such a case one might rather say that the entire ship is the deck; whereas a large and structurally complex ship must have a clearly defined deck. Moreover, the deck on a ship is not always a solid iron plate; it may be stratified. The platforms formed by various dialects, written languages, and professional languages are interconnected yet each forms its own system, creating a complex structure, and the largest and most basic of these decks is often the official everyday language, which is the medium through which the various scattered, stratified platforms can communicate with one another.
There are a few places where one can be far away from the deck: one is the top of the mast; the other is deep within the keel. Through high-level activities in art and religion, people can temporarily free themselves from words. But this is not, after all, the norm. Human beings are animals of language, and in human life and communication, language is ultimately the primary medium.
5. Rudder and Anchor
Although it is the sail that grasps the wind, in the end what actually controls the route is not wind and sail, but rudder and anchor. These embody coercive control. Of course, corresponding them to “politics” and its system could not be more fitting.
The one nominally commanding the entire ship is the captain, yet the one who actually controls the rudder and anchor may be anyone. Controlling the rudder and anchor does not require a special expert; what is needed is only “decision.” The helmsman must make a decision after integrating all factors—currents, wind direction, the condition of the hull, the ship’s position, the enemy’s threat, and one’s own purpose, and so on—left turn or right turn, move forward or drop anchor.
Of course, the helmsman cannot always control the ship’s course as desired. When the objective conditions surrounding the ship, or the other sailors, are unwilling or unable to cooperate, the helmsman’s operation may fail, and may even produce disastrous consequences. In any case, in the long run, every ship is only endlessly drifting and searching on the sea; there is no eternal direction. What the helmsman can decide is nothing more than a momentary course.
How should the helmsman be chosen? How should the ship be steered? It is undoubtedly dangerous for one person to be arbitrary and dictatorial, but equal voting seems to lack efficiency and may also contain new dangers. In any case, this ought to be something for the sailors to discuss on the deck.
6. Logbook
The logbook may perhaps be utterly useless. Primitive oared boats did not record their experiences, and the logbooks of modern steamships may mainly be records of technical data; only an adventurer’s logbook is useless yet stirring.
Of course, that is the historian’s work.
7. Minstrel/Magician
略
January 15, 2009
Wu Zheng Baobao
2009-01-15 20:01:31
This really is a very good comparative treatment, and it also fits your avatar and quotation.
I’d like to understand what kind of “unreflected” worldview this is. In my impression, a worldview is the result of reflection and contact. A single individual cannot form a worldview on their own.
where does the ship go?
or,
where does the ocean go?
These are questions that need to be addressed.
Gu: Middle school textbooks write, “philosophy is a worldview, …,” but this is problematic; the key is what is meant by worldview.
A better formulation would be something like Heidegger’s “world-picture.” In a culture, it often has a ready-made pattern.
I did not say that a “single individual” can form a worldview. What I mean by an unreflected worldview is the default framework and predispositions that are instilled in an individual as they grow up normally within a certain group.
For example, the basic metaphor of the modern world is “machine”: the essence of the world is like a clock. This basic perspective will affect the way a person thinks and asks questions. For example, when it asks about the ultimate nature of some thing, it more often thinks of its “composition,” how it is made up of smaller mechanical structures, how these structures interlock and produce effects. This is what is called the mechanical view of nature or the mechanistic view of nature. Under a more primitive worldview, people simply would not ask questions in this way; when the ancients asked about the ultimate nature of something, what they cared about might be how it came to be generated and transformed, and so on. That is a certain vitalist worldview.
Fundamentally speaking, in the state of being “unreflected,” the notion of a “single individual” cannot arise. A person’s unreflected default configuration is their culture; this culture is implanted during the whole course of a child’s growth and education, before an independent personality has yet taken shape.
So-called “thrownness” is precisely this state: when a person acquires the capacity for independent reflection, they always discover that they have already been thrown into some historical and cultural situation.
2009-01-15 23:05:32
I very much agree with this concept of “thrownness.” Even now, we still cannot completely escape it. In fact, after our self-reflection reaches a certain stage, these preexisting historical and cultural contexts become one of our characteristics and also bring us certain advantages.
However, if there is no self-reflection at all, then it is hard to speak of taking advantage of the various benefits of context.
Analyzing a structured worldview is actually an effective tool. Some theories that emphasize wholeness can only, after they have explained and investigated the various parts of the world, or of the object they study, make valid and convincing statements about the whole. :: In essence, I still do not accept that kind of “vitalist” worldview. Presumably you do not either.
Ancient: “Only after giving an account of and studying the various parts of the world, or of the object under investigation, can one make valid and persuasive claims about the whole”—you should note that this very claim is already based on the habitual mental framework of this age. The key question is: what exactly counts as “valid,” and what exactly counts as “persuasive”? Cultural differences lie precisely here: a certain mode of argument may be the most valid for you, but to another person it may be utterly incomprehensible, while the arguments that seem most persuasive to them are unacceptable to us.
For example, for a living organism, even if you analyze for me how its leg muscles move, how its nerves transmit signals, how its eyes may lock onto prey, how gastric acid is secreted, how hormones regulate things, and a whole pile of other mechanisms, I still probably won’t understand why it suddenly pounces on a piece of meat. But if you say, “It’s hungry,” I may be quite satisfied with that answer. Do we really need to explain the mechanisms of each and every one of those parts in order to understand such a simple statement as “It’s hungry”?
I also can’t really accept the worldview of vitalism. But I don’t know what exactly “in essence” means.
2009-01-15 23:39:43
Your example, in fact, is a false example. Because those detailed explanations are not at all meant to solve the problem of “why it pounces on the meat.” Of course, the point you want to make is one I agree with.
Have you ever encountered novels about “cultivation”? The worldview of “cultivation” and “advancement” is in itself coherent too. First, there is a basic explanation of the world’s magical structure; then, from certain scriptures or characters, one acquires an understanding of the path of cultivation and the process of advancement; and then comes the endless process of all kinds of training. The protagonist, of course, keeps turning danger into safety and sailing along smoothly, making the reader feel great.
The problem with this worldview is that it gives other people no opportunity or possibility to explore the essence of the world; it merely “informs” people that “the world is like this.” It has enormous similarities with all kinds of religions.
Maybe my understanding is skewed, maybe it misses the mark, but I very much like those statements or systems that emphasize the individual and human autonomy.
Ancient: I agree that those detailed explanations are simply not meant to solve the problem of “why it pounces on the meat.” But how, then, can this problem be solved? In fact, within a mechanistic framework, this problem simply cannot be solved, can it?
2009-01-15 23:42:48
So when understanding Aristotelian physics, we should think of this example, and then we won’t find his line of thought so absurd.
When explaining why a certain dog pounces on a piece of meat, an answer like, “It likes to eat meat, and right now it is hungry,” is almost complete and fully satisfying. By contrast, to go on and on explaining the mechanism of its muscle movement and nerve conduction, even if one can explain it very clearly, somehow still feels like a mismatch, as if one has missed the point.
Then, when explaining why a stone falls toward the ground, if we continue with the same kind of thinking that sees the world as alive, the following answer will also be complete and satisfying: “It has a tendency to return to its natural place, and right now it has left its natural place.”
2009-01-15 23:53:41
Forget it. Natural science still has one hundred and twenty thousand points of confidence in explaining why a dog would want to eat meat. But as for explaining why people do what they do, that’s where it becomes a bit much.
Ancient: Try explaining it!
Note that I’m not asking why a dog would want to eat meat, but why a dog would pounce on the meat! And the fact that a dog wants to eat meat is the clearest, most straightforward, and most satisfying explanation of that problem.
2009-01-16 00:27:57
A dog’s pouncing on meat can only show that this is a random manifestation of the fact that the dog wants to eat meat, and also a concrete instance of the dog’s wanting to eat meat.
If one really wants to explain why the dog pounces on the meat rather than walking toward it, why it is by this means rather than that means, why it is in this direction rather than that direction, then one is actually sinking into the quagmire of denying probability theory and randomness.
I don’t know whether what I’m saying makes sense?
Ancient: Randomness or not, I don’t understand it anyway. Besides, what branch of natural science is this supposed explanation from?
Now there are two problems, identical in form, both of which are “Why does X move toward Y?” The first is “Why does a stone fall toward the ground?” The second is “Why does a dog pounce on meat?” How does natural science explain the first problem? Is an analogous explanation for the second problem equally satisfying?
When explaining why a stone falls toward the ground in this way rather than that way, and in this direction rather than that direction, isn’t one also falling into the so-called quagmire of denying probability theory and so on?
2009-01-16 09:39:19
Bro, I don’t know what you’re talking about in your reply.
Randomness is why, when you got up this morning, you were in this posture rather than another posture; why, when typing, your fingers press on this spot on the key rather than another spot.
The example of a stone falling to the ground has no doubt or problem whatsoever. If you really want to think about such concrete instances, you might as well consider why the clouds in the sky are shaped this way rather than that way.
Ancient: It seems you still haven’t gotten used to the method of reflection; philosophy is most concerned with those places that have become habitual, that seem to involve no problem at all, and in such places one must absolutely not be careless.
Let me sort out our problem from the beginning again.
First, you said, “Only after giving an account of and studying the various parts of the world, or of the object under investigation, can one make valid and persuasive claims about the whole”—then I asked you, in the event of a dog pouncing on meat, what does it mean to study its “various parts”? What exactly would a valid and persuasive argument for the question “why does a dog pounce on meat” be like? What are its “various parts”?
Then I offered a method of breaking the dog’s action down into parts for explanation, and you said what I said was a “false example,” that “those detailed explanations are simply not meant to solve the problem of ‘why it pounces on the meat’” — then what sort of explanation can solve this problem? I said that this problem simply cannot be solved in the way modern science proceeds.
Then you said modern science has one hundred and twenty thousand points of confidence in explaining this matter. So I asked you exactly how it explains it. The explanation you gave was: “A dog’s pouncing on meat can only show that this is a random manifestation of the fact that the dog wants to eat meat, and also a concrete instance of the dog’s wanting to eat meat.” — but I do not think this explanation is persuasive enough; why do you think this explanation is sufficiently valid??
If your explanation is sufficiently valid, then if I use “A stone falling to the ground merely shows a random manifestation of the fact that the stone tends toward the ground, and also a concrete instance of the stone tending toward the ground” to explain the phenomenon of a stone falling, would that also be sufficiently persuasive? Would that also be sufficiently valid?
Moreover, even if the explanation you gave is valid, is it a mechanistic explanation? Where are its “various parts”?
2009-01-16 11:29:56
Also, your so-called “randomness” now seems merely like a way of evading things that natural science cannot explain, rather than an explanation. The question of why I got up this morning with the sun in this position rather than that position clearly is not something you would brush off with “randomness,” right? Why? Because natural science can explain that problem, whereas there are some problems that natural science cannot explain; so with a single “randomness” you send them away, which is no different from having no explanation at all. Unless you give me a clear definition: under what circumstances can randomness be used to explain, and in what cases may it not be abused? If this boundary is completely fuzzy, then I can simply attribute everything I cannot explain to randomness, which obviously is not an explanation.
2009-01-16 20:58:47
Yes. Stones fall to the ground, and the sun rises. In themselves, both of these descriptions of action are summaries of long-term experience. But a dog pouncing on meat is not. That is why, in some cases, we give explanations expressed through regularity, while in others we apply explanations of randomness.
Randomness is not for brushing things off; it is for explaining the world. Of course, not everything that cannot be explained needs to be reduced to randomness. But randomness does indeed mean that many concrete phenomena cannot be explained by derivation from formulas, and of course no explanation is needed either. The three-body problem is already unsolvable; how can one explain the random behavior formed after countless examples of motion and interaction in the world? How can one guarantee that the human brain is not making a certain decision at t minus 0.000001 s, rather than at t plus 0.000001 s?
Any science that describes the world must acknowledge randomness and unpredictability.
Ancient: Is the object explained by scientific laws necessarily a “summary of long-term experience”? For example, if you toss a stone and—hey—it doesn’t fall to the ground, but hangs suspended in midair. How do you explain that? Can you explain it with “randomness”? The truth may be, say, some kind of illusion, or maybe it is being held up by magnetic force, or something else; in any case, if people put their minds to it, they can still find an explanation that conforms to regularity, but on what grounds do you stop pursuing certain phenomena and not continue? When should one keep pursuing, and when should one stop? Is it reasonable to evade the issue by invoking randomness before one has figured out the truth?
As for the three-body problem, first, scientists have proved that it cannot be solved in a general closed form; second, although there is no general closed form, methods for obtaining approximate solutions still exist.
You still have not answered my question. First, I do not deny randomness and unpredictability, but I emphasize that only when you make the limits of randomness explicit can it possibly serve as an explanation; otherwise it is evasion.
Second, is your explanation of “randomness” a mechanistic explanation? Is it an explanation that first studies each part clearly and then arrives at an understanding of the whole? What are the parts?
2009-01-16 21:51:34
There is also an earlier question: “What branch of natural science is this explanation from?” Physics? No. Although quantum mechanics ultimately preserves an element of randomness, it differs from the way you use it; quantum mechanics uses randomness only to explain the microscopic world. Then is it statistics? No. Statistics does not use randomness to explain concrete phenomena; rather, on the contrary, it uses an entire class of concrete phenomena to explain randomness. No mainstream modern natural science uses the concept of “randomness” the way you do. Natural scientists will frankly admit that some problems are ones they are not yet able to explain (though they often do not admit they will never explain them), rather than, like you, thinking that invoking randomness counts as providing a valid explanation.
2009-01-17 00:35:19
If you knew the difference between the concepts of “observed value” and “estimated value,” and their wide-ranging applications, then you would understand the profound existence of randomness. Don’t even mention science—any science that requires measurement and observation must first understand these two concepts.
For example, the result of tossing a coin once—heads or tails—is meaningless; only after countless tests will the frequency of the results approach the probability of the outcome of the event of “tossing a coin.”
Ancient: At the very least I count as someone from the philosophy of science; these seemingly plausible statements won’t bluff me.
You still haven’t answered my objection.
Whether the existence of randomness is profound or not has nothing to do with whether natural science uses this concept in the way you do to explain things.
This discussion has become tedious; I won’t say more.
2009-01-17 10:25:08
Good.
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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