Reflection 20
HOW OPEN-ENDED IDEAS OPEN ME
A few weeks ago somebody wanted to discuss with me my recent reflections. He started by explaining what he understood from my text and saying what he thought I intended to say.
While talking with him, I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was distorting what I wanted to say, or even trivializing it (without bad intention, of course). But at first I could not put my finger on what exactly was bothering me.
And then I understood: He was trying to make my texts more precise than they really were. He was ‘translating’ my words into well-defined ideas.
When I speak or write in philo-sophia, my words always contain an element that is indefinite, undefined. When I say, for example, “to go beyond my boundaries” or “voices of human reality,” I don’t have an exact definition of what these words mean. I may have some picture in my mind, an image, some partial understanding, but much remains vague in my understanding.
This is not an unfortunate accident. I value the indefinite element in the ideas that speak in me. I don’t want to force upon them sharp boundaries. Because they can do something very important precisely because they are indefinite: Their openness enables me to be in openness. Since their meaning is open-ended, they do not imprison me within the walls of a finished opinion. When I reflect on them, they make me explore what exactly they imply and thus encourage me to investigate new meanings. They act more like wise questions than like answers, like road-signs that direct me to walk in a certain direction which I have not yet fully explored.
In short, the role of such indefinite ideas is to help unfold a vision that is not yet clear to me. They don’t enclose my thoughts in definitions and distinctions, they don’t sharpen my vision, but open my gaze to further meanings and new ways of understanding.
I don’t mean to say that definite ideas are inferior, and that they all must be made indefinite. They, too, have their function, but that function is different. My point is that when we have only well-defined ideas, we tend to be imprisoned in inflexible theories and opinions. The outlines of our world are then too sharp, the distinctions too final and too rigid—like the walls of Plato’s cave.
It seems to me that in the history of philosophy, the indefinite element in ideas has often been ignored and even suppressed. Many philosophers have been preoccupied with defining and clarifying and sharpening ideas, as if trying to purify them from any trace of suspicious vagueness.
Perhaps this is because traditional philosophy often regards ideas as theories to possess and transmit. However, if philo-sophia is to be a search for wisdom and a way of life, then ideas are important not as possessions, but because of what they can do to us: to unfold new roads for understanding that lead us beyond our current boundaries.
Of course, all this should not serve as an excuse for careless thinking or for confused writing. Philosophical words must be precise, although not in the sense of accurate definitions, but more like the precision of a poem. Words ought to be carefully chosen in order to give voice to the intended ideas, and to enable them to perform their important function, namely, to truly open us to still-unexplored visions.
From this point of view, my reflections should not be seen as theories. My writings are valuable only to the extent that they take an active part in my open search for new horizons of understanding and wisdom—and hopefully also help others in their search. This is why when my reader translated my text into clear-cut ideas, a crucial element was lost: its openness.
What, then, do I mean when I say “to give voice to human reality” or “to be open to new horizons of understanding?”
I can give only a vague answer. But this is why these ideas inspire me to keep searching.
And even the reflections which I have written in this book are not a definite idea. I am writing them here not in order to lay down the principles of philo-sophia, but in order to give voice to an open-ended vision that arises in me and wishes to be explored. I am in fact describing my personal experience while writing my reflections: the experience of giving voice to ideas which I do not fully understand. Whenever I write a reflection, I can see that the ideas that rise in me point in a certain direction, I can see that they wish to take me further, but I cannot see where exactly they are leading me. Little by little they reveal more of themselves, and also lead me to further ideas, which themselves lead me further through their openness.
And that’s fine with me. I don’t feel the need to grasp and possess and control these ideas. Let them develop in their own pace and in their own way. I trust that they will take me through meaningful landscapes.
I remember the first meeting of a philosophical companionship go which I once belonged. We met in Florence, and it was our first face-to-face meeting. For all of us, I think, it was a tremendous experience of philosophical togetherness. This might seem surprising. When eight philosophers from five different countries meet, they are likely to find themselves arguing and disputing. All of us are active philosophical practitioners (including some heads of organizations), and people like that usually have their own personal agendas and convictions. Normally, such a situation invites disagreement. And yet, although we philosophized for an entire weekend, we never came to a real dispute.
I don’t mean to say that we agreed on all philosophical issues. The point is that the question of agreement or disagreement was never important in our conversations. Each of us had, of course, a different perspective on the philosophical issues, but instead of fighting over those differences, we welcomed them and used them to construct a ‘polyphonic dialogue.’ We ‘sang’ different ‘voices’ in a common choir.
How was that possible? How could philosophizing—such a confrontational discourse—transcend differences in personal opinion?
I think that the main answer is this: We were not interested in defining our opinions. We were not busy making our concepts clearer and our ideas more precise, as is so common in traditional philosophy. Indeed, we were not interested in what academic philosophy regards as precision or accuracy. On the contrary, we preferred to leave our concepts and ideas somewhat open, with somewhat indefinite boundaries. Consequently, our different philosophical ‘voices’ could accept each other. They could interact and explore together, instead of clashing and contradicting. The walls that commonly separate one opinion from another were dismantled.
In other words, we did not treat our ideas as finished and well-defined products. When one of us expressed an idea, he or she did not intend it to be a final answer, but a door for further exploration, a finger that points beyond itself, a source of inspiration for further ideas, an invitation for others to join and respond.
I don’t think that we did this with full conscious intention. But looking back at the process, I believe that this is what in fact happened, and what enabled us to experience a new kind of philosophical dialogue.
