The Unseen

David Rozeman

David Rozeman teaches in the Philosophy Department at the University of Nebraska at Kearney.

A man can see what he has, but not what he is. What he is can be compared to his height above sea level, which you cannot, for the most part, judge without more ado. And the greatness, or triviality, of a piece of work depends on where the man who made it was standing. But you can equally say: a man will never be great if he misjudges himself: if he throws dust in his own eyes. —Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value

Nearly every day, it seems, a new biography appears in the newsstands and bookshops of someone who is in the public eye. A survey of the new releases in the biography category at Amazon.com revealed new books about the lives of Donald Trump, Muhammed Ali, Bob Dylan, Shaquille O’Neal, Martha Stewart, Kurt Cobain, and Allen Iverson (five of them); all of them “top sellers.” Increasingly, these are autobiographies, such as President Clinton’s modestly titled My Life. And nearly all are of the still living, which means, for the most part, the popular. The situation, then, is not much different from high school, where importance and popularity are nearly always the same thing. These are America’s “royal court,” selected solely on the basis of popularity. And, in a similarly childish manner, the subjects of this popularity believe themselves fully deserving of such public adulation. But in our day, with so many people eager to stake their claim to their own worth, the above quote from Wittgenstein ought to pull us up short and cause us to reflect on the simple-mindedness and fickleness of popularity, and, conversely, the intensely difficult task of self-examination. Popularity is based on what one has; the true worth of a person is based on what he or she is. Just as Socrates reminded the Athenians that it is far more difficult to acquire virtue (to be good) than to acquire wealth, reputation, and honors (to have goods), in the same way Wittgenstein reminds us that it is far more difficult to see what you are than to see what you have. So let us look more closely at what Wittgenstein says.

I have a home, a car (two, in fact), a dog, a computer, a bicycle, lots of books, and (for shame) a television. I have a job, a family, a wife, a son, and a daughter (how nuclear can you get?); a hobby or two, and, quite often, a headache. I have gray hairs. I have fair skin, blue eyes, poor teeth, and wrinkles (but in all the right places). I have memories (they come and go, for the most part, but some are indelible). I have my good points and my bad points; my strengths and weaknesses; my virtues and my vices. (I even have a copy of the survey instrument that was used at one time to reveal to me what these were.) I have friends, a few, anyway. And even fewer ideas. I have trouble seeing without my glasses. I have work to do. I have no desire to do it. I have certain abilities. I’m not a bad repairman, for example (no calls, please). I have rights and responsibilities (like everyone else). I have my good days and my bad days: on my good days I have a good time and, sometimes, even success; on my bad days I have a hard time of it and I have many worries.

Can I see all these things? Well, of course. In some way or another I can see all of these things. But can my seeing these things that I have enable me to see what I am? No. For, in the first place, I cannot see what I am without a lot of work. Judging yourself is not easy; it might easily be a misjudgment. It cannot be done in, say, thirty minutes. And it may take a more sophisticated instrument than a survey to do it. Secondly, seeing what I am requires that my view be triangulated on a much longer and more solid base than my own comparatively short memory and relatively shaky existence. It also requires a point of reference, one that I may not even be able to see from where I am standing, though I must believe it to exist if there is to be any possibility of anybody seeing what I am. Taking up Wittgenstein’s analogy, the problem of seeing what I am is like determining my height above or below sea level: in order to determine this I must, first of all, start with a reference point at sea level. Without such a point I will not be able to see level. This point will be the ground, the initial endpoint of all measurement--that which makes any measurement meaningful. It is, of course, important that I understand this point to be an ideal one: that it not necessarily be the point upon which I now stand, that it exists independently of me, even though knowing my height above sea level depends upon my knowing that such a reference point exists. Secondly, in order to reduce the possibility of error, I must have a base for my triangulation much longer than myself What I am trying to determine is not my height from heel to head, but my height above sea level. So my heel-to-head height must be made negligible; my individual height must approach zero. It must be made nothing so that nothing can be made of it. This can only be done by using a baseline that, relative to my heel-to-head height, approaches infinity. This baseline’s function is to determine the extension of the initial reference point in two-dimensional space. If the triangulation of my height above or below sea level is to be right, I must be able to locate the extension of this initial reference point above me, the right-angled intersection point of its horizontal trace with my vertically extended one. So this baseline must be a continuous function, and it must be, by definition, sea level.

Finally, I must have some measurable vertical altitude: I must have traveled up or down from where I began. My journey has a slope to it--ascending or descending, steep or gentle. But this slope can only be determined after a significant distance has been covered. This distance may include valleys and peaks, long periods of a gentle slope followed by periods of steepness, and aberrant periods which might, for a relatively short time, belie the general trend. So an accurate determination of my height above or below sea level must be the result of an average, an interpolation that will smooth out the slope over a long distance or period. At any given moment, taking into account only my particular location at that moment will not result in an accurate determination of my altitude above sea level, for the accurate account must take into consideration the geography (or, in general, the natural history) of where I am and how I got there. Furthermore, I cannot determine my altitude above or below sea level by myself: I necessarily require help. Because, in order to do so, I must remain where I am. X doesn’t mark the spot. I do. I am the spot. There is no spot without me. So I can’t leave my spot in order to locate my spot. My spot goes with me. (Good spot.) Thus, determining where I am. My height above or below sea level requires the help of someone who can somehow see my position within the spatial framework of the world’s geography; someone who can see that whole framework in a glance. We might say that this operation requires a kind of extra-terrestrial viewpoint. The object being located within a spatial field cannot be the same object as the agent doing the locating.

If the topology above is unclear to you, perhaps the analogue will be clearer. An accurate judgment of one’s own character in the moral, intellectual, and emotional sense--essentially, the worth of one’s life and being--requires, first, a frame of reference, some common condition that all human beings share. The ancients supposed that this common condition essentially included the abilities to reason, to be consciously passionate, and to choose. The possibility they had in mind was a life, in fact, a way of life, characterized by well-reasoned, compassionate choices. Without these three elements of reason, devotion and choice, judging the worth of what one is would not be possible. The question of worth would be worse than worthless, it would be meaningless. It is important to realize here that this attribution of these capabilities (to reason, to be passionate and to choose) to human nature cannot be validated or invalidated by any sort of observation or scientific study. They are the logical prerequisites for judgments of value. That is, without these capabilities judgments of value are not possible. Without these common capacities we could not make any value judgments, not because we would somehow be restrained from doing so, but simply because a judgment of value would be meaningless to us. We simply would have no such expression. Having the capacities for reasoning, for passion and for choice is part and parcel of what it means to make a judgment of value. For all judgments of value involve seeking the truth in the thing we are judging, seeing the beauty in that sort of thing, and choosing to use and appreciate it for its goodness and beauty. With our capacity for reasoning, we seek what is true; with our capacity for passion we love what is beautiful; with our capacity for choice we embrace what is good. The worth we attribute to a poem, or a piece of music, or even to a mathematical equation, depends upon the truth (or falsity) we find in the poem, the music, or the equation; on the affects of the beauty or simple elegance (or the ugliness or twistedness) of the thing; and on the good (or ill) use we choose to give it. So this trinity of capacities is the reference point for all judgments of value, and it is the ground, too, for anyone judging what he is. It tells us what sort of creature we are.

Secondly, in order to reduce the chances of misjudging myself, it’s best that my frame of reference be filled out with a human history. My own personal history must not be disproportionate to the history of my intellectual and spiritual ancestors. I must not suppose my own individual worth to be on a par with the collective worth of my forebears, many of whom braved trials much greater than my own and took upon themselves a deeper suffering than I have, all for the sake of ideas nobler than my own. My individual worth must be made to approach zero. It must be made nothing so that nothing can be made of it. In light of this history along whose line stand these knights, saints and sages, lengthening and strengthening that line, my own worth must be seen as negligible. If the judgment of the worth of any individual’s life is to be accurate, it must be seen in light of this history, for it indicates what kind and degree of worth it is possible to attain, given the common capabilities of reason, passion and choice.

 Finally, seeing what I am in reference to a common human condition and the history of a people of which I am a descendant, requires that I, too, have a history. It is this personal history that reveals my character, shows what I have become. For that is the way it is with beings whose essential nature is to reason and choose: what one is, is a function of what one has become, what one has made of oneself. Thus, for us, life is both a task and a journey, its way determined by both what we choose and how we respond to what we do not choose. What I am now is the consequence of both what I have caused and affected, and of how I have reacted to the causes and affects from outside myself. When I began this journey of life, I was, in a sense, not yet myself, for my self is what I was to become. But, over time, I have become what I am; I have found (or, more accurately, founded) myself. And, inevitably, this journey of becoming myself has a slope to it, either ascending towards the ideal of human excellence, greatness and nobility or descending towards mediocrity, pettiness and vice. This slope can also vary in steepness: the paths towards excellence, (arete in Greek, virtu in Latin) or mediocrity can be either steep or gentle. The journey may include times of intense trial or blessing, grief or felicity, weakness or strength. But it will likely also include long stretches of only gradual changes in fortune, affection and action. By and through all these various circumstances that are either the consequences of or the occasions for our powers of reason, passion and choice, I both form and discover my character, who and what I am. In examining myself, my tendency is to look at myself only in the moment, in the context of the here and now. But an accurate judgment of myself must take into consideration both the historical and cultural landscape into which I was born and have lived, and my own chosen path within it.

Furthermore, as Wittgenstein indicates, seeing what I am is not something I can do. That is, I necessarily require help. For in order to see what I am, I must remain what I am. Who and what I am cannot be equated with a description of me, a list of the social/cultural/racial/general categories I fall into, my genetic make-up, or even my name. These are all merely part of the frame of reference within which I have become who and what I am; they are not what I am. I cannot leave off being what I am in order to see what I am. To paraphrase the philosopher John Locke, whenever I take the train from Oxford to London, surely my self goes with me! Thus, seeing what I am, the worth of my life and being, whether (and to what extent) it is great or mediocre, requires the help of someone who can somehow see my position within the moral and spiritual framework of the world’s history; someone who can see that whole framework in a glance. We might say that a right judgment of what I am requires someone with a kind of extra-temporal viewpoint. But the subject being judged within the moral and spiritual framework cannot be the same subject as the agent doing the judging.

So although it is not possible for me to see what I am, this does not mean that it is not possible, or that it is nonsense to speak in these terms. There is a truth to what I am, even if I am not the one who can know it or be the best judge of it. Thus it is possible for me to misjudge myself, to be so far from the truth about what I am that I “throw dust in my own eyes.” And if this is what I do, then of course I will be equally mistaken in judging the greatness or triviality of a person’s work, including my own. That is, I would be more certain of the greatness of my work than my judgment could allow. A more accurate judgment of myself would reflect the fact that such a judgment is never easy, and, in my own case, never certain. This ought to make me more modest. Still, despite the fact that I cannot see what I am, there is still a truth about what I am. And it is this truth about what I am, this greatness or mediocrity of my being, that will determine the corresponding greatness or triviality of my work.

We can confirm the truth of this relationship between the quality of a person’s character and the quality of his or her work in every walk of life. The quality of our schools, for example, depends ultimately upon the quality of individual teachers and administrators. The goodness of a family or a community depends ultimately on the goodness of its individual members; the merciful care of a hospital or a care home will be no more and no less merciful and caring than the people who do this work; the justice we hope for in a judicial system is only as good as the justice we can hope for in the souls of its magistrates; our laws are only as lawful and abiding as our legislators are law-abiding. In all these cases, and countless others, it is greatness of soul that is primary. It is the greatness underlying all great works.

Judging a person’s work, then, will require taking into consideration what he is, which is a function of where he is standing within the framework of human history and worth. And “From those to whom much has been given, much will be required.” But, at the same time, since the individual person cannot rightly judge what he is, for he does not know all that he has been given, this will be revealed in what he does. In light of this ignorance of himself, a great man will be the one who continually seeks what it is possible for him to do, and who does it well.

The question about one’s height above sea level is a question about one’s place in the physical realm, one’s place in the visible universe; the question about what one is, is a question about one’s place in the moral and spiritual realm, one’s place in the universe of human history and values. A correct answer to it requires a vision of that history, that universe. Though we as individuals within that universe might approximate such a vision, we can never get a full picture of it.

In the end, seeing what one is, and knowing the true greatness (or triviality) of one’s work can only be done by another.     *

“Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Understanding is not enough; we must do. Knowing and understanding in action make for honor. And honor is the heart of wisdom.” –Johann von Goethe