Perhaps it is ironic to write about the philosophy of love on the eve of Valentine’s day. Why? Because love knows no time nor calendar, as Shakespeare probably once wrote and swiftly deleted. The predictability and premeditation of the modern Valentine’s day ritual conjures up something other than love — we buy flowers and make special efforts either because we don’t want to disappoint our loved one, or because we know we’ll be in the dog house if we don’t. The only other reason would be to deceive by kindly gestures. In other words, to increase our chances of winning affection.

Wikipedia suggests that Valentine’s day might have its roots in an ancient festival (predating the Valentine martyrs); a festival that Plutarch described as “noble youths running up and down through the city naked, for sport and laughter striking those they meet with shaggy thongs.” This sounds like a lot more fun than a limp red rose and a bag of Hershey’s kisses.

But I’m a grumpy old curmudgeon, so don’t listen to me.

Then again, no lesser curmudgeon than Arthur Schopenhauer regarded love as

“more important than all other aims in man’s life; and therefore it is quite worthy of the profound seriousness with which everyone pursues it.“

“What is decided by it is nothing less than the composition of the next generation”

He is, of course, exactly right about the evolutionary role of romantic love. Romantic love has evolved as a powerful mechanism that attracts people sexually and psychologically so that they will perhaps reproduce.

I’m not sure I’d agree that it is more important than all other aims in a man’s life. Successfully reproducing and protecting and raising one’s offspring are undoubtedly at least as important as falling in love. But the point is well taken, it’s far from a frivolous pursuit. But we treat love frivolously, often, and seem to regard it generally as a mystery that shouldn’t be too deeply analyzed or questioned.

The psychological theory of love, and much of the therapy we pay for, rests on the notion that we’re attracted to certain people so that we can replay problematic relationships from our childhood; these fatal romantic attachments allow us to try to address those unresolved issues. But we could also surmise that we would find a way to replay our deep-seated childhood issues in any relationship.

If we accept that love has evolved through natural selection as a way of ensuring propagation of the human race, can we evaluate love rationally? Or are the ways of love too subtle and obscure to submit to rational analysis?

The answer seems to be that love cannot be reasoned into being, nor reasoned away. But with reason we can understand its place and respect its role.

Romeo, loving Juliet, could have reasoned that nature was giving him a strong hint about the genetic favorability of his coupling with this Capulet, but could have also understood that there were unfavorable aspects to the union. Armed with an understanding of love’s rational role in life, he might have concluded that a trip with the boys to the Amalfi coast would be just the ticket to resettle his hormones and avoid a tragedy.

And, conversely, avoiding love because it doesn’t seem appropriate or convenient can be a mistake in the other direction. If we ignore nature’s hint, we aren’t living up to our nature as human beings.

Understanding love doesn’t diminish its hold on us, but it may help us put love’s clutches into context.

To satisfy the political machine in the name of their popularity, presidents are called upon to perform many functions, attend many events, make many speeches. President George Bush today recognized Hanukkah and evoked the memory of Daniel Pearl. Would Daniel Pearl have welcomed the honoring?

Bush quoted some of Pearl’s last words, “‘My father is Jewish. My mother is Jewish, and I’m Jewish.”’ Then he said, ”These words have become a source of inspiration for Americans of all faiths. They show the courage of a man who refused to bow before terror — and the strength of a spirit that could not be broken.” Bush juxtaposes two ideas in order to connect them: The idea of faith and the idea of refusal to bow to terror. But given Pearl’s journalistic profession and his choice of pursuing it as he did in such dangerous places, would it perhaps not be more compelling to say that Pearl’s was less an inspiration of faith than of truth?

Mike Huckabee, an unexpected front-runner for the GOP candidacy, might be too easy a target, but his disarming lack of remorse in the face of his faults could win him supporters. Huckabee has refused to retract his idea, as it was voiced in 1992, that AIDS patients should be isolated. His justification for not retracting the statement? He believes it was an appropriate degree of caution at the time. He also continues to stand by his statements that homosexuality is aberrant, unnatural and sinful. Sinful because it “misses the mark.” (I doubt that a homosexual would agree!) And unnatural because it doesn’t meet the ideal of one man, one woman in a pro-life marriage under god. His justification for this being the ideal? The perpetuation of civilization.

Clearly not a man of science, Huckabee’s claim that homosexuality is aberrant or unnatural is easily refuted by well-documented studies showing that homosexuality appears in many species. And on the matter of his fear about the end of civilization, there’s ample evidence that civilization has done very nicely thank you over many millions of years, undeterred by Huckabees concept of a God insisting on one man, one woman, pro-life. But we’re still left with his position of authority as a former Baptist minister on the question of sin. As Huckabee says, we’ve all missed the mark, we’ve all sinned. In which case I expect we should wait for Huckabee’s future installments of what constitutes missing the mark so that nobody feels left out…

Back to Bush.

Also today, in the same NY Times piece, we read that, despite his record, Bush marked International Human Rights Day. I wonder whether he suspended torture of American detainees for the day, too, as a sign of his profound respect?

Some days I sit down to write and have no idea what I might write about. Today I sat down with a couple of ideas (to work on the moral problems posed by the plotline of the movie Gone, Baby Gone, and another good idea that now escapes me), but found myself instead reading an opinion piece by Stanley Fish - Suffering, Evil and The Existence of God.

Fish’s piece is inspired by a look at two new books, only one of which addresses Suffering and Evil as they pertain to the Existence of God — Bart D. Ehrman’s “God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question – Why We Suffer.” The other Antony Flew’s “There Is a God: How the World’s Most Notorious Atheist Changed His Mind,” instead forwards the theory that “the only satisfactory explanation for the origin of such ‘end-directed, self-replicating’ life as we see on earth is an infinitely intelligent Mind.”

Let’s tackle these two challenges in reverse order:

Flew makes the point that since science deals with chemicals and material stuff any answer it gives about meaning and purpose is insufficient. Or, as he would have put it when still an atheist the answer that “the laws of physics are ‘lawless laws’ that arise from the void – end of discussion” simply leaves open the question of from whence those laws arose. But here Flew has erred on two critical points.

1. The laws of physics are both self-consistent and consistent with logic and reason. The laws of physics arise out of the nature of this existence, not out of a void. (And therefore the concepts of our existence preceded and reveal themselves through the specific appearance of this space and this time.)

2. The principles of existence can and do provide a fully rational explanation for “the origin of such ‘end-directed, self-replicating’ life as we see on earth.”

The principles of existence in space and time give us the principle of persistence — something that tends to continue to exist will tend to persist. (This is not a tautology, but a very simple reflection of a universal logical principle.) An example: Although there are many kinds of fundamental particles, only protons and electrons exist freely in any abundance. This is because protons and electrons, unlike their heavier sibling particles, have effectively infinite lifespans. This is why the material of the universe consists of atoms (electrons, protons, and neutrons — which are stable in bound form).

Living creatures embody an end-directed form because this is the form that survives. Any number of chemical reactions and interreactions can and do take place in a primordal soup, but the ones that aren’t persistent go nowhere.

Life seems so mysteriously purpose-driven because we’re looking at it backwards. What we don’t immediately perceive are all of the unproductive nubs and dead-ends (think dinosaurs). When we look for meaning, it helps to reflect that the meaning of life derives from process of its unfolding.

(All of this is explained much more fully in my book - “LIFE! Why We Exist… And What We Must Do to Survive.”)

But what then is the purpose of suffering and evil?

It’s easier to dispense with evil. The concept of evil reflects a perception that someone or something wishes to hurt, harm or destroy for the simple purpose of hurting, harming or destroying. This practical definition of evil proves quite useful. Evil stands in opposition to a natural goal of life (that it should persist). Evil then arises from an unproductive genetic branch or from circumstances that warp a person’s psychological makeup. It serves no ultimate positive purpose, but provides great fodder for psychological dramas and political speeches.

Oddly, suffering does serve a purpose and seems to be an inevitable part of life. At the most immediate level, our bodies use suffering as an effective means of prompting us to act. Hunger pangs cause us to want to eat and thereby sustain our body with food. Pain from our nerve endings causes us to avoid doing things or continuing to do things that will harm us (and ultimately perhaps cause us not to survive). Even emotional anguish serves to provide us with a context for acting in ways that will help us survive or help our social group survive.

I buy coffee and a carrot muffin every day for breakfast from a “Pret” cafe in midtown Manhattan. As I do wherever I go, I strive to be pleasant when I get my breakfast. I see people being unpleasant sometimes and it makes me cringe. (Isn’t it less stressful to be polite and helpful and sympathetic to those with whom we come into contact? And, I should point out, Pret does a great job of attracting and training its staff to be polite and courteous, too.) In any case, this morning there were no carrot muffins out on the rack so I took a blueberry muffin instead. When I stepped up to pay, the person serving me recognized me, remembered what I typically purchase, and rang up a carrot muffin. When she realized that I’d settled for blueberry she went out of her way to hunt down a carrot muffin for me. (It was delicious.)

Republican Representative Deborah Pryce in announcing her retirement today had this to say about America’s increasingly media-driven campaigns of dirty politics: “I don’t think anything will change until Americans revolt and get it into their heads that they need to be informed voters instead of just listening to the paid political ads.” But she also freely admitted that she’d resorted to attack ads in order to hold onto her seat in last election, to the tune of $4.5 million. Which makes one wonder whether politicians don’t also need to do a little revolting of their own. The message though is that being nice, in politics at least, doesn’t pay off. That’s the prevailing wisdom. I’m not sure whether any politician has yet dared to be nice in the face of his or her rival’s nastiness.

Various religions have long taught the virtues of being nice, of not retaliating. The texts of Christianity (the religion with which I’m most familiar) stress the importance of being kind and peaceful even in the face of unkindness. Although, if I remember rightly from my attendance at church, long ago, as a boy, the religion seemed to attract a high proportion of petty, judgmental and holier-than-thou people. But I guess you can’t necessarily blame the teachings for the people they attract!

The 2001 movie Evolution, in amongst slapstick humor and great special-effects, teases up an interesting philosophical question. The movie’s premise: A meteor carrying the necessary genetic material for a very different form of life crashes into the earth. The new form of life has two characteristics that set it apart from the kinds of life forms with which we’re typically familiar: 1. Life evolves exponentially faster. 2. The species are uncompromisingly unpleasant and aggressive. I was fascinated by this second characteristic (made easier to observe by the first).

In the context of the movie, life can evolve even if the members of its various species behave with uncompromising aggression. But could this be true out in the universe? Does any principle indicate that we will get further by being nice?

Here’s a theory (one that I explore in greater detail in my book): Being nasty can help an individual survive in certain situations. It can help us get our coffee ahead of the next guy, or it can even make a difference between life and death — the killer instinct. But when we think about survival more broadly, in a family or social group, being nice starts to pay off. Being nice creates social bonds and payback. It leads to cooperation and sacrifice. I would argue that being nice is a much more enlightened practice than being nasty and one that pays great dividends over time.

If only politics could evolve to be more enlightened, too.

My fourteen year-old daughter (who’s studying High School Physics) asked me the other day to explain a vacuum to her. I told her it was the absence of any substance. “Like air?” she asked. I wafted my hand in front of her face to demonstrate that air is something. On another occasion she asked me what we think about when we’re not thinking about anything. A tough question. Can we think about nothing? When meditating, it seems to be possible for brief stints, but I’m never sure that I’m not fooling myself.

‘Sopranos’ creator, David Chase, reportedly aimed for an absence of explicit meaning in the closing scene of the Sopranos series when he cut to black. Chase lambasts those who felt cheated of a more definitive ending, defending the uncertainty as more appropriate.

And a woman who salvaged a discarded painting headed for the dump, not knowing why she’d done so, felt driven to learn more about it and found out years later that the painting was a masterpiece worth perhaps a million dollars. (‘One Person’s Trash Is Another Person’s Lost Masterpiece‘.)

In each of these situations, it seems, there is a common set of concepts: It is difficult for us to conceive of an absence (of matter, thought, meaning, history or value) and when we encounter an absence it tends to be quickly filled.

People have been concerning themselves with the concept of a void or vacuum for thousands of years. From c.485bc to 350bc, for instance, Parmenides, Leucippus and Aristotle take turns denying, affirming and denying again the possibility of a vacuum. We now know that what seems solid actually consists of smeared-out energy states that only have solidity in as much as they resist sharing space with other similar energy states.

But the difficult concept of a void interests me. As a premise, we could assert that people find a void or vacuum difficult to conceive of because it is the opposite of our nature. Baruch Spinoza expressed this difficulty in absolute terms: “Nature abhors a vacuum.” He also said: “Whatsoever is, is in God, and without God nothing can be, or be conceived.”

So, we can’t conceive of an absence because from a naturalistic perspective we cannot comprehend what we cannot encounter directly, and from a spiritual perspective because we cannot accept the possibility of nothingness, since in comparison our “somethingness” would dwindle into insignificance. A similar and overlapping problem exists with the concept of infinity. Infinity is in some respects the inverse of the void. (Mathematically, a division by zero.)

Where does all of this leave us? Well, I think it leaves me with a newfound respect for the concept of a vacuum. Perhaps meditation as a practice if it brings us even only glancingly into contact with an appreciation for the concept of nothingness teaches us exactly what its proponents say it teaches us, eternal humility.

‘They just shoot at anything and everybody,’ says one of the interviewees in a CNN story today on chronic youth violence in parts of Philadelphia.

Responding to Al Gore’s receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize, Rob Edwards of Woodbridge, Connecticut is reported as saying: “It is a sad world in which we live when bad science (and even a lack of any data at all on many points) leads to so much hype or accolades, especially the award of the Nobel Peace Prize. The IPCC is a farce. View the CBC documentary from 2005, which is backed up by clear and reproducible science, to understand how wrong the IPCC and Al Gore actually are.” (Which prompted me to go look up the CBC documentary.)

And on logic matters today (a philosophy blog,) a post questioning whether there “isn’t something inelegant about stocking up on assignments of objects to variables only not to use infinitely many of them?” I couldn’t understand a word of it. I don’t mean to pick on this post; I wouldn’t understand most of them, I’m sure.

Which brings me to the question of what is reality, and whether philosophy can help us answer it. If we live in a world where kids shoot each other mindlessly, what use is the study of model theory? And if Al Gore’s receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize raises a scornful response from many quarters, some of them apparently well meant and well informed, are we to trust our understanding of the world around us, or the understanding of others?

Our perception of reality itself of course is somewhat of an illusion. We see and feel and hear things because we have evolved to see and hear and feel them in that way. Our eyes respond to a thin slice of the electromagnetic spectrum, our ears to a narrow portion of the frequency spectrum. Things are solid for us because we perceive them at as solid, but at the smallest perspective, subatomic particles are smears of energy spread out relatively huge distances. Smaller particles can just go whizzing through us.

Reality is perception. Consistency in that perception can reassure us of consistency in the world around us. Logic can help us build models that may or may not prove reliable. And progress can only be measured with hindsight.

Where does that leave us?

President Bush today in referring to his desire to meet with the Dalai Lama says that he hopes that China will one day see the Dalai Lama as a spiritual leader and someone who wants peace.

I guess that could just about sum up the mind-boggling futility in seeking out logical consistency in the world around us… But then I think about Plato. Plato said: “It is only the dead who have seen the end of war.” And this kind of philosophy seems to give us courage and a reason to continue to think.

There is no certainty. Or, everything is certain.

Descartes compressed these two ideas into one when he declared “I think, therefore I am” (cognito, ergo sum). Our certainty is our awareness of our existence, and yet this certainty is based on something as elusive as our awareness.

This concept plays on my mind this evening. We live with uncertainty every day. We are frustrated by our lack of certainty, by the elusiveness of certainty. My wife and I are looking at purchasing a house. We place a bid. We want the house. We can even imagine ourselves living there. But we have no certainty that we will. This dream of living there is no more real than a dream I had two nights ago in which my unmarried friend told me that his wife was pregnant. The same friend who told me in an e-mail today, with a semblance of certainty “this will happen more and more.”

The philosophy of certainty is also elusive. Descartes with masterful ingenuity and perceptiveness, turned the target sideways on, and placed the emphasis of certainty on the perceiving “I,” rather than the perceived “it.”

Nothing other than the impression of perception is certain. And the impression of perception in a dream is no more real than the impression of perception in waking life…

But is this so? Can’t we distinguish a dream from waking life? Some have quibbled that we can’t be certain of the difference between the two. Some have been lured into the definitiveness of this perspective.

However, if we instead think about certainty as a spectrum, we can approach it differently. I expect that certain impressions will follow other impressions. The degree of predictability of these impressions can be estimated and compared to the actual progression. When I estimate a high degree of likelihood, I become more certain of the outcome.

For instance, I connect the impression of my hand upon the cold stone countertop with the impression of “coolness” against my hand. (I’m skipping the interim impressions of my hand.) It is possible that this connection, the next time I place my hand on the counter, won’t exist. However, I estimate that it will exist with a high degree of certainty, because it correlates so well to the way I’ve perceived that impressions follow other impressions.

If we follow this approach, we find that the world is not completely in focus, but neither is it completely a-jumble. We can use our perceptions and impressions to predict other impressions and predictions. On this rests the foundation for reason and logic.

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”

(Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.)

If we reject received ideas and observe and analyze the world around us we gain insight that reflects the only truth we have — our own impressions. This doesn’t mean we should ignore everyone else, our mental and emotional reactions can provide valuable impressions, too. But we should not simply accept without first deciding whether we can reasonably agree.

We can be skeptical about our impressions, too. We can logically conclude that none of our impressions are reliable, that we can’t be sure that the world exists. But, as Schopenhauer concluded (in The World as Will and Representation), what do we gain by such a conclusion? What do we have to gain from saying that we can’t believe in anything? This conclusion leads us to a dead end.

If we accept that our impressions are indeed impressions, that they are, for the most part, not fictions, then we have a place to work from. We can begin to analyze which of our impressions seem more reliable, more complete, more reasonable. We can discuss our impressions with others and find out whether they share the same impressions. We can form hypotheses based on our impressions and see whether we can validate these hypotheses. When we accept an impression as an impression, a whole world of potential understanding opens up.

With his theory of forms or Ideas Plato recognized that in order to hypothesize and analyze we use abstract concepts. Whenever we think about something in general terms (chairs as opposed to “this chair I’m sitting on”) we use abstract concepts. (As I think about this, as I have before, I conclude that consciousness is the ability to manipulate abstract concepts.) So what are the forms or concepts that shape our existence?

This question has nagged at people for thousands of years. But given what we know about the world (through observation and analysis) we can now set out the answer!

It’s important to go back to Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer’s philosophy made great strides in identifying the principles or abstract concepts through which we can understand our existence. He recognized that our impressions of existence come to us through what he called a “fourfold root.” The fourfold root was the three dimensions of space and time (or causality).

All of our impressions concur with the idea that space has three dimensions and that things exist through time governed by the principle of cause and effect.

What Schopenhauer didn’t understand (because not enough was known at the time of the way that the universe evolves over time) was that the earth and heaves weren’t a fixed and static thing, that our existence follows after a whole long stream of prior events. We now know a great deal about that string of events. We can see back in time by looking out into space, and by digging through the layers of earth beneath our feet. We have a great deal of insight into the evolution of the universe.

This insight into the evolution of the universe adds to Schopenhauer’s principles. It tells us that existence isn’t static. That the matter in the universe consists of energy. And that energy changes from one form to another.

So what is the principle by which the evolution of existence has lead to our existence? As I describe in my book, the principle is one of persistence: The more likely a form is to persist, the more likely it is to remain in existence.

This applies to the persistence of fundamental particles, cosmological systems, molecules, and life.