Like all human passions, philosophy is restless. It is never satisfied, but ever looks beyond the partial to the more complete, beyond the taken-for-granted to the not-so-obvious. Unceasingly and everywhere, it relentlessly asks all comers, like Socrates in ancient Athens, "Why?" Without such restless passion, philosophy would have no great motivation and so no great accomplishments. In fact, it would soon be reduced to a mere mental game. Mental games certainly have a role to play in human experience, but they are not philosophy.

Conversely, philosophy draws on the ability to think—rationally, critically, and systematically. Without such critical thinking, philosophy would soon be reduced to enthusiasm for some belief system or social movement. Belief systems and social movements certainly have a role to play in human experience, but they are not philosophy.

The philosopher is passionately motivated but critically discerning, a man or woman who yearns for the whole truth while yet remaining skeptical of any purported example of it. Confronted with any assertion or any form of activity, an inquiring mind can always ask "What does this assume?" and "What follows as a consequence from this?" The motivation to do so systematically for the sake of greater knowledge is philosophy.

Through the critical and systematic examination of assumptions and implications, philosophers sometimes succeed in creating whole new systems of their own, but they can never remain completely satisfied with such systems. If they do, either the passion has failed or the critical thinking been blunted. In either case, the system may indeed continue, but philosophy has ended.

So then, we may define philosophy as the critical and systematic examination of presuppositions and implications, motivated by a passion to know. As such an endeavor, philosophy can obviously be applied to any area of inquiry and to any question. Over the past few millennia it has in particular often been applied to certain basic, recurring questions, a practice that has given rise to certain specialized names for philosophy when these questions are asked. When applied to the question "What is being?," philosophy is called ontology; when "What is knowledge?," epistemology; when "What is right?," ethical theory. But in all these cases, philosophers are really asking the same questions: "What are the presuppositions?" and "What are the implications?"

The Narrowness of Anglo-American Academic Philosophy

During the last century a number of academic philosophers in Britain, North America, and elsewhere have taken the position that philosophy is of a much narrower scope than I have just outlined. They see philosophers as paid professionals exercising technical expertise on subjects of special interest. Accordingly, philosophy should not tread on the toes of other disciplines that are equally specialized. "Who am I as a philosopher to ask critical questions in nuclear physics?" advocates of this school typically ask. "I'll leave that to the nuclear physicists, who are much better qualified than I am on that score."

Ironically, but not surprisingly, many of these same philosophers have found that the special fields allegedly appropriate to philosophical inquiry have been steadily shrinking. So, for example, with all the sciences and arts now removed from their purview, these philosophers typically spend most of their time debating only questions about language and logic, and regard anything else as "not philosophical." But one could use their own criteria to object even to these fields. Why not yield language to linguists? Why not yield logic to mathematicians? Aren't they better qualified in these fields than philosophers? Indeed, why even have departments of philosophy at all in universities?

The great fallacy of much recent Anglo-American academic philosophy is its refusal to see that one can always ask substantive questions. For example, even if a person is not learned in nuclear physics, he or she can still ask "Is nuclear physics worthwhile?" This is a question about nuclear physics but one that cannot be answered within nuclear physics. There is no theory or set of experiments that a nuclear physicist can point to in order to answer this question, since the question is about the very propriety of such experimentation and theorizing in the first place.

To answer the question of whether nuclear physics is worthwhile, we first have to specify what we mean when we say something is "worthwhile." Next we have to compile the salient historical record of nuclear physics. Finally we have to evaluate that record according to our criterion of what is worthwhile. Now, describing the historical record of nuclear physics can be done through observation, but developing a criterion of what is worthwhile is a question of value. We have to examine various standards of "good" and "bad" and then decide which of these standards we will use to judge the effects of nuclear physics. In other words, there is no way to answer the question "Is nuclear physics worthwhile?" without making some value judgment as to what we mean by "worthwhile."

Is it possible to make such value judgments? Yes. Who, then, is to make them? Anyone who wishes to! Can these value judgments in turn be systematically analyzed for their presuppositions and implications? Yes. And what do we call doing that? Clearly not nuclear physics, though such analysis may have implications for nuclear physics. What then? What, indeed, if not philosophy?

The above example with nuclear physics can be applied by analogy to any human endeavor. Hence a great many important and interesting questions remain to be asked about meaning and value, touching every aspect of human life. Yet these questions generally go unaddressed by most Anglo-American academic philosophers, who all the while agonize over what they regard as the steadily narrowing field appropriate to philosophical inquiry. In their quandary they have forgotten the great lesson of the philosopher Socrates. He taught that everything human involves a basic question of value and that the examination of such values constitutes the mission of philosophy. Socrates encapsulated this broad view of philosophy with the remark that has ever since been associated with his name:

For human beings, a life unexamined is not
worth living.

Philosophers with the narrow, modern view have another failing: they underestimate the historical role of philosophy as a generator of new sciences. If philosophers throughout the ages had followed the advice of recent Anglo-American academics, most of the sciences themselves, which these academics so admire, would never have arisen in the first place. Physics and astronomy, for example, were once known as natural philosophy and were initiated by Greek and Latin philosophers speculating about things not yet known with precision. What are now called sociology and psychology are offshoots of more recent philosophical speculation. However clumsy the original speculations of these philosophers may appear in hindsight, they nevertheless addressed human attention and imagination to new avenues of knowledge. Should we assume today that no new sciences will ever appear? If not, isn't it possible that philosophic speculation may yet pave the way for them as it has so often in the past? And if that is so, what becomes of the notion that philosophy must be limited to language and logic?

Alienated from much of philosophy's past rich history and in massive retreat from the most pressing of contemporary issues, Anglo-American academic philosophers increasingly find that they have nothing of substance to say. Within the last half century, only a few academic philosophers have undertaken to buck this trend. Those who have done so have generally been marginalized by other academics.

More recently, a ray of hope has appeared: many women in the field, moved by feminist concerns, are now insisting that philosophy once again take up issues of substance. An outstanding example is Andrea Nye's lucid, ground-breaking book Words of Power. The book argues that formal logic, seemingly the most objective part of philosophy, actually embodies patriarchal values.

Many of Nye's academic male peers have reacted with dismay to her claim. "If sheer logic is not absolute," they exclaim, "then what is?" Despite their umbrage, Nye is right. This present work confirms and builds on her pioneering insights.

The Popular Hunger for Meaning

Despite the current sterility and insularity of Anglo-American academic philosophy, the general public remains highly responsive to the raising of what are basically philosophical questions. Just look at the great abundance of popular books on meditation, metaphysics, science fiction, the occult, reincarnation, etc. Naturally enough, academic philosophers look down on such books, regarding them as unprofessional and not really philosophical. But when judged in terms of Western philosophy's varied currents during the past 2,500 years, these topics are indeed philosophical. In fact, the history of philosophy shows that the narrowness of modern academic philosophy is untypical.

As to the fact that the popular books are "unprofessional," the academics are right. But they overlook the reason: those who have formal training in philosophy are schooled to disdain such topics. Hence a gap has developed, with those having an interest in the great substantive questions of philosophy on one side, and with those having the greatest formal training on the other. Thus has philosophical substance been sundered from philosophical technique, a breach that has served to diminish both.

A Personal Example

I myself have experienced first-hand the narrowness of Anglo-American academic philosophy, an experience that is directly related to the writing of this work. From 1967 to 1971 I was a graduate student in the doctoral program in philosophy at Columbia University in New York. By the spring of 1969 I had completed all course requirements and qualifying exams for the Ph.D. degree and had begun writing a dissertation in ancient Greek philosophy.

Judged by my academic record of the time, I was swimmingly "on track." But by 1971 numerous factors had led me to feel disenchanted with both Columbia University in general and the philosophy department in particular: the complicity of the university's administration in the Vietnam War; a violent police assault on the campus, engineered by the administration; the narrowness and dogmatism of the sect of "analytic philosophy," which then prevailed (and still does) at Columbia; and the uninspiring personal example set by many of my own professors.

In early 1972 I withdrew from Columbia, gave away all my books in philosophy, left New York for the West Coast, and became an auto mechanic. In the meantime, I also wrote two books on gay history and culture. In 1986, fourteen years after I withdrew from Columbia, I wrote a letter to the philosophy department, inquiring if I still had any options with them. To my surprise, the department generously responded that it would re-admit me, and that if I finished my dissertation, I would be granted the degree.

A serious problem, however, remained. Although retaining my doctoral research notes after leaving Columbia, I had no further interest in my original dissertation topic. Instead, I wanted to develop a whole new approach to philosophy that would be congenial to feminism and gay liberation, reflecting my own personal and philosophical growth during the 14 years since I had left Columbia. No one in the philosophy department, however, was willing to sponsor such a dissertation. So I have written this present work instead, both for my own personal fulfillment and as a contribution to the common good.

Opening the Doors

This book is the initial installment of an intended three-volume series dealing with certain basic themes in Western philosophical consciousness in light of the approach of a new millennium. The general aim of the entire series is to help heal the breach between substance and technique that now characterizes much of Anglo-American academic philosophy. To that end, the series forthrightly seeks for truth in the face of some of the great philosophical questions still asked in popular works, such as "What is the difference between reality and illusion?," "How can we distinguish knowledge from opinion?," "What happens when we die?," and "What does it mean to live a worthy human life?" But in discussing such substantive questions, the series also draws on formal methods of argumentation, as well as past developments in the history of philosophy. In this way, the series seeks to cull what is best both from the popular interest in the substantive questions of philosophy and from the specialized techniques of the professionals.

This installment in particular, Critique of Patriarchal Reason, focuses on two questions: "What does it mean to experience reality?" and "What does it mean to be rational?" The main argument developed here is this: formal logic, higher mathematics, and science have all fostered a crippling concept of human rationality that fails to do justice to the richness of human experience. The book demonstrates how these biases have emerged historically, and illustrates their harmful impact on women, gay people, indigenous Third-World cultures, and the natural environment. Many philosophers are discussed in detail, with a special emphasis on Ludwig Wittgenstein, a crucial transition-figure in 20th-century philosophy. (Chapters seven through ten uncover a surprising connection between Wittgenstein's theories of logic and language on one hand and his conflicted attitude toward his homosexuality on the other.) On the basis of its examination of the life and thought of these various philosophers, the book concludes with an appeal: let us jettison the crippling ideal of patriarchal reason and open ourselves to a more inclusive understanding of human rationality.

Patriarchal Reason

Why, the reader might wonder, does the book call this crippling concept of reason "patriarchal"? The history of the noun "patriarchy" provides the answer. From antiquity to the present, this word has had various meanings: "the rule of the fathers," "the rule of the male founders of the tribes of Israel," "the rule of the early Christian bishops," and "the dominance of men in the family and society." Behind these various meanings lies a simple historical fact: men have been in charge. Accordingly, this book uses the adjective "patriarchal" in a simple and broad sense, as a synonym for "male-supremacist."

But why the term "patriarchal reason"? Because in 1781, the German philosopher Immanuel Kant published one of the most influential works in the history of philosophy, Critique of Pure Reason. Hoping to reconcile the possibility of religious belief with the methods of the new sciences, Kant undertook to map out both the powers and the limits of human reason. In doing so, Kant just assumed that the highest manifestations of human reason occur in a rather limited area—the fields of formal logic, higher mathematics, and natural science. This narrow assumption about what is most rational represented a significant break with the broader views of the Renaissance humanists before Kant, and was also at odds with notions found in many non-Western societies. Although later Western philosophers typically rejected many of Kant's dogmas, most have unthinkingly adopted his narrow assumption about the highest manifestations of human reason. This book will show that so-called "pure reason" is actually only one band on the spectrum of human rationality, and a narrow, male-oriented band at that.

I have tried to make the material presented here as accessible to the general reading public as possible, without at the same time oversimplifying the questions at issue. Every chapter begins with a summary of its contents and a recapitulation of the last chapter, and there is a glossary of philosophical terms at the end of the book. Nonetheless, certain sections may at first seem intimidating to readers who are unaccustomed to sustained intellectual argument. As with any skill, however, so the skill of thinking philosophically improves with practice. The key to understanding in philosophy, as in life, is patience and perseverance.

Because this work discusses, in a new light, the thought of numerous past philosophers, it may prove useful as a resource book for introductory philosophy classes. Nonetheless, readers should not expect to find here some sort of authoritative overview of the thoughts of others. To the contrary, what follows is an original philosophical work in its own right, dealing with the nature of human experience and rationality, and developed with an eye toward the approach of a new millennium.

One might object here, of course, that a millennium is a very artificial thing. For example, if our number system were based on 8 instead of 10, the year we now symbolize by "2000 A.D.", which is the last year of the present millennium, would instead be "3720 A.D." But for all that, anniversaries of any kind are important to human beings because they provide us with an opportunity to reflect on our past accomplishments and future goals. If a great many people begin to think that a certain kind of anniversary is especially important, then in fact it will be, and for no other reason than that people so regard it. A millennium, then, is much more than so many rotations of the earth around the sun, counted in a number system that happens to be based on 10. A millennium is also a cultural and psychological construct in the consciousness of the people for whom it is important. If that importance succeeds in generating a philosophical discussion, then a millennium has philosophical significance.

The Art of Philosophy

If you have studied philosophy before, you may want to sit down and read this book through from beginning to end as you would a novel. But if you do not have such a background, you may want to skip around, concentrating at first on those chapters that are initially of most interest to you. Alternatively, you might just let the book fall open at random, read a paragraph or so, close the book, and then think and feel about what you have just read. Do you agree or disagree? Does it ring true to your own experiences and feelings? How would you frame an objection to the argument, then an objection to the objection, etc.?

As with all works on philosophy, there will probably be only a small part of this one that you completely agree with. In fact, if you should find yourself agreeing with much of what you read in this book, it probably means that you are not thinking critically enough. Ironically, although philosophy at its best attempts to give substantive answers to substantive questions, the real value in any given work of philosophy does not lie in the particular answers it offers but in its ability to stimulate a worthy dialogue with its readers. In the end, the process of thinking and feeling is what is most important, and not any particular argument in itself. Therein does philosophy differ from the sciences, and to its greater credit, for philosophy is an art.

As part of its effort to reclaim philosophy as an art, this book displays a number of paintings and photographs by San Francisco artist Frank Pietronigro. What is the connection between these images and the text? The best way for you, the reader, to answer this question is to ask yourself these further questions: What are the feelings that underlie the various shapes and lines in these images? What are the feelings that underlie the various words in the text? How do the feelings expressed in the one medium relate to those expressed in the other? What new ideas of my own come to mind after I reflect on this interplay of feelings, images, and words?

In asking yourself these questions, you will mirror the creative process that gave rise to this book. Whenever I write, even on the most abstract of matters, I always begin with feelings, which I seek to articulate in concepts and words. When I succeed in doing so, the result is a text. Likewise, many visual artists first begin with feelings, which they seek to express in shapes and colors. When they succeed in doing so, the result is a painting or drawing. Although using different media, both the writer and the visual artist partake of a common process, the creation of a meaning that is rooted in feeling.

Although artist Frank Pietronigro and I use different media, we share a certain common sensibility in looking at human experience. As you trace out the connections in this book between images, words, and feelings, you will encounter this common sensibility through different lenses. If you persevere in making these connections, you will likely make an interesting discovery: the common experiential content that lies behind both visual art and text, although quite meaningful, is not something that can be easily captured by any logical or scientific formula. And that is part of the message of this book.

The Personal is the Philosophical

The philosophical interpretations presented here have arisen from decades of reflection on my own personal experiences and on the major historical events happening in the world around me. Hence they have been influenced (although not determined) by the fact that I am a white, 54-year-old gay man, born and raised in a working-class family, and formally educated in philosophy. In addition, I am a 60s-inspired rebel and an American citizen, to name but a few of my personal circumstances. But regardless of my own particular background, I seek, like every thinking person, an understanding of the greater world around me and of the role of the human species within it. This book has emerged as a result of that greater seeking.

I invite you to come with me now for a journey into the world of philosophy. My hope is that in taking up these pages you will find yourself stimulated to raise questions in your life that you might not otherwise have asked and, even more, to conceive of entirely new ideas of your own that go beyond those presented here. If that should come to pass, then regardless of whether we agree on the specific arguments presented here or not, we will have participated in a worthy dialogue.