“A wonderful inference, and difficult to grant”

In The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius makes this delightful statement after Philosophy has made an elaborate argument about free will based on the difference between providence and fate, one which we experience in time, the other which God experiences outside, or perhaps above time. This argument, which touches on chance and free will, takes up much of the last third of The Consolation of Philosophy. It is a wonderful inference, one I’d like to embrace. And like many such arguments, much too neat. I’ve never found either idea neat, and even less so when taken together.

When I think of how free will and God’s omnipotence might both be true, the quandary that troubles most, I think of my daughter who lives in Washington two thousand miles away. When she calls, I know I’m either going to get a happy go lucky gypsy on the other end of the line who loves flowers and puppies and everyone—or I’m going to get an angry woman who is mad at the world, her boyfriend, now ex, her boss, the guy in the car in front of her who is too stupid to actually have a driver’s license. Did I mention she is moody? Oh, I guess I should also mention I get a hundred moods in between. The point is, I know her. I know her intimately, through years of talking and crying and laughing together. There is little that she might do that would surprise me, though I allow that she might.

Now, let’s think about that in terms of free will and God. A god who is omniscient knows you and I intimately, enough so that there is little we could do that would surprise him. This seems to fit the difference between providence and fate, at least it is a wonderful inference to me.

Compare Philosophy's argument to this one in The Atlantic. They are both wonderful inferences: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/06/theres-no-such-thing-as-free-will/480750/ 

Bertrand Russell, "The Place of Science in Liberal Education."

In “The Place of Science in Liberal Education,” Bertrand Russell compares the standing of science and the liberal arts in education in England in 1903. He challenges the view that liberal education is more valuable than science education which is seen as being merely practical. Defining education as, “the formation, by means of instruction, of certain mental habits and a certain outlook on life and the world,” Russell argues that science creates habits and outlooks of thought as valuable as those created by liberal education. Today the tables have turned. Science and technology, STEM, are far valued about liberal education. However, not for the habits and outlooks of thought, but for their practicality as measured monetarily. Sorry, Bertrand. Not only do we find it difficult to learn, we seem to be moving backwards.

Leonardo Da Vinci’s Thoughts on Art and Life

Been working my way through Leonardo Da Vinci’s Thoughts on Art and Life, (Einstein translation) while in Italy. Leonardo compares painting to other disciplines, and as might be expected, painting wins out in all contests. He spends several chapters comparing painting to poetry by which he means all written discourse, summarizing the difference between painting and poetry with the succinct phrase, “Painting is mute poetry, and poetry is blind painting.” Since, as he previously pointed out, eyesight is superior to hearing, painting wins out. I found it interesting that he devotes a single paragraph to philosophy:

“Painting includes in its range the surface, colour and shape of anything created by nature; and philosophy penetrates into the same bodies and takes note of their essential virtue, but it is not satisfied with that truth, as is the painter, who seizes hold of the primary truth of such bodies because the eye is less prone to deception.” 

This brief analysis is interesting because it notes the hallmark of all philosophy, that “it is not satisfied” with surface or simple explanations. Then, it goes on to identify sight, once again, as the “primary truth.” We might summarize Leonardo’s own philosophy as “a picture is worth a thousand words.” 

Yet, when he writes about painting itself (ignoring the irony that he has to use the enemies’ techniques to clarify what painting really means) he digs a little deeper into his ideas, himself less than satisfied with the surface. Writing about how to paint, he insists that representing the surface of the human figure isn’t enough, one must represent something more: “No figure will be admirable if the gesture which expresses the passion of the soul is not visible in it. The most admirable figure is that which best expresses the passion of its mind.” Perhaps this passage explains why we find the Mona Lisa’s smile so intriguing; it expresses the passion of her mind.