Crossing Horizons

World, Self, and Language in Indian and Western Thought

Shlomo Biderman, Ornan Rotem

• Publisher: Columbia University Press
• Year: 2008
• ISBN:
  9780231511599
• Topic: Philosophie
• Subtopic: Philosophies orientales

In this book, Shlomo Biderman examines the views, outlooks, and attitudes of two distinct cultures: the West and classical India. He turns to a rich and varied collection of primary sources: the Rg Veda, the Upanishads, and texts by the Buddhist philosophers Någårjuna and Vasubandhu, among others. In studying the West, Biderman considers the Bible and its commentaries, the writings of such philosophers as Plato, Descartes, Berkeley, Kant, and Derrida, and the literature of Kafka, Melville, and Orwell. Additional sources are Mozart's Don Giovanni and seminal films like Ingmar Bergman's Persona.

Biderman uses concrete examples from religion and literature to illustrate the formal aspects of the philosophical problems of transcendence, language, selfhood, and the external world and then demonstrates their plausibility in actual situations. Though his method of analysis is comparative, Biderman does not adopt the disinterested stance of an "ideal" spectator. Rather, Biderman approaches ancient Indian thought and culture from a Western philosophical standpoint to uncover cultural presuppositions that can be difficult to expose from within the culture in question.

The result is a fascinating landmark in the study of Indian and Western thought. Through his comparative prism, Biderman explores the most basic ideas underlying human culture, and his investigation not only sheds light on India's philosophical traditions but also facilitates a deeper understanding of our own.

ONE

Far and Beyond

TRANSCENDENCE IN TWO CULTURES

“He is the Rock, his work is perfect”:

His work is perfect with all mortals

And let us not cast even the slightest doubt over His actions.

And none of his acts will look around and say:

Would that I had three eyes

And would that I had three hands

And would that I had three legs

And would that I were to walk on my head

And would that my front be my behind,

How fine it would be for me.

—Seferei Dvarim, chapter 32, v. 4

The following verse, whose beauty is suffused by its simplicity, is the first line of an ancient Hebrew liturgical poem (piyyut) describing the high priest’s rites on the Day of Atonement. Before the actual description itself, the poet turns to what he sees as the absolute beginning of all beginnings, namely, God:

Then, with all naught you were all

And with all being you were filled by all

It would seem that this verse needs no explanation: a poet can take as much license as he wants and choose to reveal while concealing, shedding light only to then obscure his words with a thick shadow. After all, ambiguity may well be the essence of his artistic expression. Yet how are we to understand the following words, admittedly not in verse, which one would expect to be the epitome of clarity, as they are the opening sentences of a tract on prosaic legal matters: “The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a first Being. And He brings into existence everything there is. And all existent things in heaven, on earth and in between exist only through the truth of His Being.” These words are taken from the preface to Mishneh Torah, Maimonides’ monumental compendium on Jewish religious law (halacha). Yet these opening sentences are not concerned with legal intricacies, but rather with the very foundations of belief on which the halacha is based. While the text itself is written in Hebrew that is both lucid and stirring, the meaning of this opening assertion, like the opening verse of the aforementioned piyyut, is shrouded in ambiguity. Nearly every term begs to be interpreted, yet any such attempt to interpret them burdens us with heaps upon heaps of further explanations, counterexamples, proofs, refutations, and ever more hermeneutical devices. What, for instance, is the meaning of “foundation of foundations”? And what distinguishes it from “the pillar of wisdom”? Still pondering over this question, the perplexed reader immediately stumbles over the next phrase: “is to know that there is a first Being.” Why knowledge? Why not the customary “belief”? What does “to know” mean when applied to the “first Being”? Is it on a par with knowledge, as in knowing the laws of physics? Or perhaps it is more like the knowledge of mathematical truths? Or perhaps it is a knowing-how claim, meant to instruct one in life rather than changing one’s cognitive horizons? Perhaps it is a different kind of knowledge altogether? Surely, these questions will be resolved once we understand the true nature of this transcendent Being—the object of knowledge set forth by Maimonides. But this Being is so encompassing and illimitable, so rich with varied meanings, that any attempt to understand His true nature will probably fail and induce utter despair in the perplexed.

Whether we opt for the poet’s confidence or the philosopher’s rational perplexity, it is easy to see that these two points of view—the poem and the philosophical tract—share common ground. They share, as it were, a vast horizon of beliefs, opinions, expectations, and aspirations. Often we call this common ground, somewhat parochially, “Western culture.” In other words, a common conceptual framework is shared by both the poetic rendering and the philosophical reflection.

Exposing the underlying frameworks that make up a worldview is a tricky business. As any art collector will admit, the ideal picture frame is one that is somehow transparent, framing the painting, yet never drawing too much attention to itself. When we move from art to pictures of the world, the difficulty of recognizing the frame is most conspicuous. All the more so when what we are attempting to uncover is a conceptual framework. Here, besides the intricacy of discerning the frame, there is the additional problem of recognizing the picture itself. The reason for this difficulty is that the very vocabulary we employ in this quest is inseparable from the picture we are trying to recognize. Different philosophers (such as Wittgenstein) have drawn our attention to the inherent difficulties in justifying cultural frameworks. Yet these difficulties manifest themselves even before one offers justifications; it appears the moment we seek to describe these frameworks, since it is evident that any description inevitably relies on the terms and conceptual schemes that condition this framework, thus making description impossible. It would seem that we are confronted with another instance of bootstrapping.

One way to disengage ourselves from this problem is to take a step in the direction of cross-cultural comparison. To begin with, a small stride will suffice; a slight nudge aimed at highlighting some interesting differences of opinion over two distinct cultural positions regarding the attribution of knowledge to a divine Being. Recall Maimonides’ formative words: “The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a first Being. And He brings into existence everything there is. And all existent things in heaven, on earth and in between exist only through the truth of His Being.” We might commence our comparative journey by wondering whether such a claim is conceivable within the framework of Indian thought? Given that any culture can put forward any claim, perhaps we should reformulate this question: are we likely to find a claim such as this at the bedrock of Indian thought? Can the conceptual framework of this culture sustain such a claim? As a prelude, we could examine an apparently similar Indian expression of the search for an omniscient First Being. What was there in the beginning, then, with all naught, before any creature had taken form? To counter Maimonides’ reply, we could posit the reply to this question as it appears in the Ṛg Veda, the oldest surviving collection of Indian texts available to us.¹

The hymn I am alluding to forms part of the tenth section of the Ṛg Veda and is surely one of the better known Vedic hymns, probably familiar even to those not well versed in the philosophy and religion of ancient India. This hymn begins with an absorbing characterization of “beginning”:

Then, there was neither existence nor non-existence;

There was neither air nor the ether which is beyond.

What did it conceal? Where? In whose protection?

Was there water, unfathomably deep?

There was neither death nor the deathless then.

There was no sign of night nor of day.

That one breathed, windless, by its own impulse.

Other than that there was nothing at all.

The hymn belongs to the later stratum of the Ṛg Veda and would probably have been composed around the ninth or eighth centuries BCE. Most scholars agree that this stratum heralds a break from the pervading polytheism of the earlier hymns. This specific hymn is seen to be advocating an unmistakable monistic outlook whereby the plurality of existence is subsumed by one all-embracing and boundless being. The source of plurality is unity, since “that one (tad ekam) breathed, windless, by its own impulse” and, moreover, “other than that there was nothing at all.” Until quite recently, orientalists waxed lyrical over these verses, seeing in them a vindication of their romantic depiction of India. In fact, all too often, in the West this hymn was brought forward as evidence of India’s espousal of monism. It is not that difficult to envisage Western scholars in the not-too-distant past expressing a restrained appreciation and even admiration: imagine, they might have said to themselves, even in India, abstract thought occasionally developed! Seen from this angle, one cannot deny the similarity between Maimonides’ claim and the Vedic outlook—the similarities seem to outweigh the dissimilarities. Despite the yawning gulf that exists between Maimonides’ philosophical language and the loose, mythic language of the Vedic hymn, it would seem that prima facie the frameworks within which both ideas operate are similar. The beginning, so claim both the Vedic poet and Maimonides, is the “One,” the “first Being,” that which exists even when “there was nothing at all.”

And yet, the Vedic hymn quoted above has more to say about the attributes of the One. Further along, the poet outlines the stages by which the universe was formed from that primary being (mostly through evolution or birth rather than creation). Culminating the description of this evolutionary process, a reflective afterthought is presented that is not only incongruent with the kind of presuppositions that may have begun to take root in the Western reader’s mind but also deviates from them sharply. This is how the hymn ends:

Who really knows? Who here will proclaim it?

Whence has it come? Whence is this creation?

The gods came later with its emanation.

Who then knows whence it has come?

Whence this creation has come—

Whether he formed it or did not—

The one who surveys it in the highest heaven—

Only he knows, or maybe he does not.

(Ṛg Veda, 10.129)

The contrast between what Maimonides is claiming and the position of the Vedic hymn is immediately clear. As a foundation of all foundations, Maimonides installs man’s paramount requirement to know the existence of the first present. And it is clear that this requirement arises from his unfaltering conviction that the “first present” not only constitutes the content of man’s knowledge, but, moreover, is what enables it, by virtue of “the First Being,” such that “all existent things in heaven, on earth and in between exist only through the truth of His Being.” Stated somewhat differently, the possibility of knowing the First Being is thoroughly grounded by the ontological assumption that Being and Truth are identical. Human knowledge may “reveal” to the knower the truth of the first Being, and, from his or her psychological viewpoint, it precedes divine truth. But this is only psychological precedence; it has no ontological significance whatsoever. It is clear ontologically that the necessity of the first Being’s existence precedes any human attempt to attain truth. Moreover, “human” truth is unattainable without presuming the independent status of a divinity in which Being and knowledge are identical.

On the other hand, the Vedic hymn, also describing a supposedly unique supreme being (that windless “One” breathing by his own impulse), does not grant his self-knowledge any ontological precedence over human knowledge. The very possibility of this knowledge is seriously questioned by the Vedic poet, who doubts if “that One” (tad ekam) knows at all. Maybe he does not know? Moreover, the final section of the hymn clearly seems to draw certain epistemological conclusions about the possibility of human knowledge: knowledge, if possible at all, is not bound by any predetermined ontological assumptions according to which divine knowledge is assumed as being necessarily true. On the contrary, divine knowledge is shrouded by a thick cloud of doubt, and even the supposed omnipotence of the windless One cannot vouch for his veracity. Consequently, the very act of doubting the primary Being’s “knowledge” shows that the concluding verses of the Vedic hymn assume a different conceptual scheme from that of Maimonides.

What then is this conceptual scheme? What lies at the foundation of knowledge in the West, and to what extent is it different from India? As a possible solution I would like to consider what might be succinctly termed the presupposition of transcendence (where presupposition means an assumption, a notion, preceding and underlying any conceptual framework). This presupposition is rooted in the conceptual bedrock sustaining the West’s philosophical and religious framework, and its origins can be traced back to ancient Greece.

A prominent appearance of the presupposition of transcendence in Western philosophy occurs with Plato’s theory of Forms (also known by the less adequate term theory of Ideas).² Among other things, this theory may be characterized as an all-embracing and far-reaching claim for the ontological precedence of the outward over the inward, exteriority over interiority, the universal over the particular, the transcendent over the immanent, and structure over content. The underlying supposition of the theory of Forms is that, apart from their existence in the visible world, things also exist as pure form, invisible to the eye and inaccessible to the other organs of sense. In other words, Plato establishes a palpable hierarchy between phenomena that are particular and contingent and belong to the visible world and universal and eternal truths belonging to the world of Forms. For him, the “right track” to know reality is by means of the “unaided intellect,’’ disavowing the senses and instead allowing knowledge to appear to “pure and unadulterated thought.” Whatever we perceive by means of the senses is subject to change and permutation. Forms, on the other hand, “never admit to change” and always remain “constant and invariable.”

For Plato, it is perfectly natural to assume that things are independent and unrelated to us: “[All things] must be supposed to have their own proper and permanent essence; they are not in relation to us, or influenced by us, fluctuating according to our fancy, but they are independent, and maintain to their own essence the relation prescribed by nature.” This independent existence of things shifts us from the sensual world to the abstraction of Forms, which do not rely on any specific content in order to exist: Forms are immaterial, atemporal, and unchanging. They are inaccessible to bodily senses and can be known solely by the intellect. The existence of the transcendent world of Forms is a necessary condition for the existence of the varying and changing objects of the sensible world. Indeed, particulars can exist only as manifestations of universals and can therefore be understood only by relying on the existence of nonsensible universals. Moreover, the very process of comprehension would be impossible without the existence of an objective and independent criterion through which understanding grasps its objects. This is also true with regard to the evidence our senses draw from the phenomenal world. Evidence needs to be subjugated to universal principles that in themselves are not sensual. Arithmetic provides a good example for this: the distinction between a set comprised of five members and a set comprised of seven members is only possible because of the existence of the Form “number” as an entity that is itself abstract, self-reliant, and completely severed from its (sensual) appearances. An even better known example is geometrical Form; the Form “triangle” is not conditioned in any way by its empirical manifestations. When considering Plato’s attitude to geometry, it is possible to understand his preference of essences over particulars and his predilection for essentialist definitions over demonstrative definitions. Geometry allows one to obtain knowledge of the eternal, “that which always is,” as opposed to the knowledge of “something which at some time comes into being and passes away.” Consequently, these Forms exist irrespective of appearances and are quite independent of any mind perceiving them. At the same time, Forms enable the existence of the manifold appearances of our world. For example, red poppies are only possible by virtue of the transcendent existence of the Form “red.” The appearance of red in a poppy’s petal, according to Plato, “partakes” of, or “imitates” the Form “red.”

Plato’s adherence to the theory of Forms leads him to assign the utmost importance to the distinction between knowledge and mere opinion. Knowledge is determined by virtue of the fact that things exist independently of being known. Knowledge is no more than bringing to light that which exists in itself. By contrast, opinion arises from the subjective mental state of the knower. Therefore, knowledge is possible if, and only if, one relies on one’s intellect instead of succumbing to the tempting power of imagination. Bodily senses will be of no use in this goal of attaining knowledge, since the picture of reality they offer is always conditioned in one way or another. On the other hand, knowledge has no context. Since knowledge is based on the intellect, the preferred life—life worth living—is a spiritual life governed solely by reason. Life governed by reason is a life in which the intellect restrains the subordinate echelons of the soul, which are predominantly geared toward the satisfaction of baser desires.

This is how Plato’s theory of Forms explicates not only the primacy given to the universal and the abstract over the particular and the concrete but also the primacy of the intellect over the senses as a means of knowing the truth. That is to say, this theory is not only a metaphysical outlook but also a model of rationality. Indeed, the theory of Forms clearly demonstrates the customary Western paradigm of rationality: if Being does not reside in the phenomenal but in its abstraction, and if Form precedes any of its concrete appearances, one should conduct one’s life according to the rule of reason rather than follow one’s senses and imagination, which are both saturated in the ephemeral. Plato’s counsel is unmistakable: wherever desire pervades, let wisdom rule; ideal human life should not be controlled by the blind power of instinct, but by nondesirous, detached, and contemplative intellect.

No wonder Plato places the Form of the Good at the top of the hierarchical scale of Forms. The Platonic Good is abstraction in its most abstract sense, lying beyond any categorical distinction (in this Plato follows in the footsteps of his great predecessor Parmenides). About six hundred years after Plato, the Neoplatonist philosopher Plotinus characterized this abstraction in a metaphysical language that is likely to strum a few mystical chords in certain readers. Plotinus referred to the Being that exists absolutely and independently as the “One” and characterized it as completely transcendent: “Since the nature of the ‘One’ is generative of all things it is not any one of them. It is not therefore something or qualified or quantative or intellect or soul; it is not in movement or at rest, not in place, not in time, but ‘itself by itself of single form’ [Plato, Symposium 211B].” The Platonic Form of Good and Plotinus’s “One,” despite the differences between them, share the same transcendent conceptual framework. As we shall see, the same framework underlies the dominant forms of Western religiosity (except that in religion it mostly takes a personal form, whereas the Platonic Forms are totally impersonal).

Aristotle, Plato’s renowned pupil and adversary, came up with the most extensive critique of Plato’s theory. For reasons that need not concern us here, Aristotle rejected the metaphysical assumptions that sustained the Platonic theory of Forms. In the present context we need only stress that Aristotle’s repudiation of Plato’s theory of Forms does not displace the conceptual presupposition of transcendence. On the contrary, Aristotle seems to have absorbed this presupposition from Plato, despite the fact that its expression is not as explicit ...

Table of contents

• Cover 
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents 
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• 1. Far and Beyond: Transcendence in Two Cultures
• 2. One Language, Many Things: On the Origins of Language
• 3. My-Self: Descartes and Early Upanisads on the Self
• 4. No-Self: Kant, Kafka, and Nāgārjuna on the Disappearing Self
• 5. “It’s All in the Mind”: Berkeley, Vasubandhu, and the World Out There
• Notes
• Bibliographical Notes
• Index