Everybody is familiar with one type of fiction: novels, short stories, plays, historical tales, films (including those purportedly based on real events) and the like. The other type, despite the fact that usual practice categorizes it under non-fiction, is philosophy, and is every bit as fictional. At least one eminent philosopher has been honest enough to acknowledge this. When a young student told Bertrand Russell that he liked to read Kant, Russell is reported to have remarked: ‘So you like fiction, eh?’ In this regard it would be unfair to single Kant out, of course. And indeed, on a separate occasion when taking a momentary break from writing philosophy to dabble in novel writing, Russell observed that he had merely turned his attention from one form of fiction to another.
There is no denying how self-consistent many philosophical systems can appear to be. A sound philosophical argument makes a lot of sense (provided one understands it) and can therefore be very convincing. But novels and plays must make a lot of sense as well, or else nobody would read them. Now, nobody argues that since in novels (for example) one finds bald men, overweight women, corrupt policemen and shady politicians (all realistic depictions), the rest of the narrative must also be real. In fact, it is obvious to all that when one needs to lie to others, one must first tell something true (to win their confidence); there is just no way around it. Playwrights, novelists, and film-makers do it all the time. So do philosophers. Like detective-fiction writers, trust philosophers to slip in the sneaky item when the unsuspecting reader is least expecting it.
Philosophers over the years have used logic to build elaborate metaphysical and ethical systems. Even those that have not been system-builders have prided themselves on their impeccable logical thinking. The problem is that unlike scientists who rely on induction, philosophers have generally turned to deductive logic to create the edifices of their various philosophies. This is where the trouble begins.
For even if their syllogisms (and whatnot) are sound, there is no escaping from the fact that their axioms (or fundamental premises) are nothing more than how (in the infinite wisdom of the philosopher) things ought to be. In other words, they are results of the philosopher’s imagination allowed to run amok. Fictional foundations are bound to result in arbitrary ethical and metaphysical superstructures. It must therefore be borne in mind that no matter how reasonable, apparently unarguable, common-sense or high-sounding a metaphysician’s axioms may be, they are nothing more than figments of his imagination. They cannot help being arbitrary; and there is therefore no basis whatsoever to believe them to be true. Trust human creativity to invent such fantasies and trust the philosopher to convince others (and himself) that how things ought to be are how they really are. Often, he does it so subtly as to be himself unconscious of the subterfuge.
Philosophy has the wherewithal to enthral a certain type of refined mind that can be engaged by no other genre of literature; this is the type of man who is apt to consider the other forms of entertainment too ‘lowly’ for his intellect.
Despite the fact that many of them use the very same logic, philosophers differ from one another on virtually every issue and in very basic measures. This is so because there is no possible way of reconciling their differences, the source of each set of premises being the individual philosopher’s imagination and personal prejudice. One such bias is as good (or as bad) as any other, because there is no means of subjecting any of these sets to objective scrutiny in order to see how much any is worth. There is therefore no settling the issue. No wonder philosophy has historically failed to solve any problem to anybody’s satisfaction, barring of course the satisfaction of the philosopher presenting it.
Philosophers are past masters at erecting elaborate metaphysical frameworks that captivate the sophisticated man, one who thinks of himself too cultured to be interested in avocations that call for lesser involvement of his intellect. The simple man, on the other hand, finds philosophical discourses abstruse. Dazed by all the parade of elaborate arguments and corollaries (which he can barely read, let alone understand), he cannot help feeling awe for the philosopher. The reputation of philosophers as super-smart men is thus assured across the board; hence the persistent perception that philosophy could not be more different from mere novels and the like.
Of course, no reasonable man would belittle philosophy any more than he would think of disparaging other forms of fiction. Like novels, short stories and plays, philosophy can be extremely useful on account of its entertainment value. Few other activities can be as absorbing and intellectually demanding. Philosophy has the wherewithal to enthral a certain type of refined mind that can be engaged by no other genre of literature; this is the type of man who is apt to consider the other forms of entertainment too ‘lowly’ for his intellect. In that capacity, one wishes more power to philosophy. Only it must never be forgotten that no matter how mesmerizing and intellectually stimulating it may be, it remains fiction nevertheless.
Finally, a word of praise for logical reasoning: Logic is an extremely useful tool in that it helps one avoid fallacies and inconsistencies. But like all tools, it has limitations. Man learnt a long time ago that logic alone cannot possibly bring new knowledge to the table; that any sound logical system is ultimately a bunch of tautologies; that it is therefore the fantasies in the form of axioms that turn out to be decisive in any philosophical system. But man is notoriously prone to forget what he learns (and this includes the most intelligent of specimens), hence the need for periodic reminders such as this one.
