Agroup of graduate students, post-docs, and faculty members that meets weekly to discuss articles/papers in moral philosophy (broadly construed) over pizza and beer. While the reading selection is ultimately left up to the members of the group, the group's primary focus is on classic, influential papers that have stood the test of, at least some, time.
During the summer, members of the reading group meet for work in progress sessions to present and discuss early-stage research and draft papers. All grad students, postdocs or faculty with an interest in moral or political philosophy are welcome to attend.
Divided into eight sections, each with introductory essays, the selections offer rich and detailed insights into a diverse multinational philosophical landscape. Revealed in this pathbreaking work is the way in which traditional philosophical issues related to ethics, metaphysics, and epistemology, for instance, take on specific forms in Africa's postcolonial struggles. Much of its moral, political, and social philosophy is concerned with the turbulent processes of embracing modern identities while protecting ancient cultures.
P.H. Coetzee is formerly of the Department of Philosophy at the University of South Africa. A.P.J. Roux is Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at the University of South Africa.
Simon Blackburn, author of the best-selling general introduction to philosophy, Think (which features on our introduction to philosophy reading list), writes with admirable clear-headedness in his 2003 Being Good: A Short Introduction to Ethics.
Blackburn largely focuses his 172-page introduction around problems within ethics, from our status as moral beings to the foundations of moral judgements. This is a good primer for anyone interested in the complex issues inherent within the study of morality.
Is it ethical to buy luxuries when others do not have enough to eat? Should we buy meat from intensively reared animals? If your carbon footprint is above the global average, are you doing something immoral?
Within 432 thought-provoking pages, Scanlon outlines his contractualist view of ethics, in which he states that thinking about right and wrong means thinking about what we do in terms that could be justified to others and that could not be reasonably rejected.
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I mention this variety to make it clear that what follows must be understood as incomplete. It reflects my training as an ethicist who works predominantly with article and chapter length, English language, twentieth and twenty-first century writing in a pluralist but analytic-leaning tradition.
In addition to differences in types of philosophical writing, there are differences in the goals one might have when reading philosophy. Which goals one has influences how one should read. What excites me so much about reading philosophy is the opportunity to have my beliefs and values challenged. I read philosophy to identify, clarify, and test my current beliefs and values. As such, reading philosophy is an act of creation, self-creation of perspicuous wisdom regarding how to live well with others. As a step toward this wisdom making, I hope that the first-year students in my philosophy courses become more intellectually humble and less dogmatic as a result of reading philosophy. For most people, these goals are unattainable unless they give themselves over to the strangeness and disquiet that so often comes with reading philosophy.
The strangeness of philosophy has implications for the reader of philosophy. The philosophy reader should not be searching for bits of established fact or even for evidence designed to confirm a hypothesis regarding an empirical (or social) fact. Rather, in a text, a reader of philosophy should look for inferences or connections between highly plausible assumptions and surprising conclusions that are difficult reject.
So, philosophers read courageously, evaluating the plausibility of inferences, with an openness to self-re-creation wrenched from a dissipation and reconstruction of truth. But how does one read this way? There are two major steps: understanding and evaluating.
Understanding. (5) Set the Stage. Before reading an essay about which I know very little I sometimes find it helpful to read a Wikipedia summary. But too often Wikipedia is not detailed enough. When I need more background information, I turn to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy or the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. The Internet Encyclopedia is usually a bit more accessible, while the Stanford Encyclopedia is usually more thorough. By gaining some understanding of the conceptual terrain within which the essay I am reading resides, I can usually make better sense of the fine-grained discussion found in the essay.
Understanding. (7) Assess and note progress. Some passages are particularly thorny. As a result, it is very common to read philosophy much slower than one reads other texts. Indeed, many philosophers stop at the end of sections, and sometimes paragraphs or even sentences, to check if they can restate the ideas in their own words. If it is difficult to do so, some re-reading before moving on is necessary. For the most difficult texts, I create paragraph by paragraph summaries as I go by writing a clause or a sentence that is a paraphrase of the central content of a paragraph. By making sure that I understand a paragraph well enough to state its main point in my own words, I know I am ready to move on.
David W. Concepcin is professor of philosophy at Ball State University, chair of the American Philosophical Association, Committee on Teaching, and author of Reading Philosophy with Background Knowledge and Metacognition.
I am a philosopher who believes that Western philosophy begins not with Plato, but elsewhere, and earlier, with the Book of Job. That is because I believe that the problem of evil is the central point where philosophy begins, and threatens to stop. The experience of inexplicable suffering and basest injustice forces us to ask whether our lives have meaning, or whether human existence may be deeply incomprehensible. And if that is the case, then the urge to philosophy can seem to be a simple mistake.
Classically, the majority of thinkers dealt with the problem by denying the third claim. Evil doesn't exist, or anyway not really: you can't have light without having shadows; you wouldn't want to eat sugar all the time and nothing salty (these are Leibniz's examples.) Everything we take to be evil actually happens for the best, and if we knew all that God knows we would understand that too.
Just consider the way in which Job's suffering is introduced: the first messenger appears with the announcement, "The oxen were ploughing and the donkeys grazing and the Sabeans attacked and took them and killed the servants and only I escaped to tell you." Before he had finished speaking another one came and said, "Lightning fell from the sky and burned up the sheep and servants and only I escaped to tell you." Before he had finished speaking, another one came and said, "Your sons and daughters were feasting and a great wind came out of the desert and they're dead and only I escaped to tell you." If you saw this on a stage, you might laugh, or sneer. You can do neither in the main body of the text.
Moreover, the weakness of the language of the prologue and epilogue seems to reflect the weakness of their content. The opening premise is clearly outrageous: God makes a bet with the devil? God allows someone He Himself describes as a man of perfect integrity to be tortured as a means of proving a boast about His own power? And speaking of power, in the second round of torments, the Almighty behaves like a sulky child, complaining to Satan that "You made me torture him for no reason". This is the God who speaks out of the whirlwind with a force and majesty unequalled in the Bible?
If the prologue can seem outrageous (one writer calls it the most brutal scene in all of Western literature) the epilogue can seem ridiculous. It looks like a tacked-on happy ending, straight out of Disney, which simply ignores all the questions that the rest of the book poses. Is there incomprehensible suffering in the world? Of course not, or not for long: at the end of the book Job has 14,000 sheep instead of 7,000, 6,000 camels instead of 3,000; the Lord doubles Job's possessions, and gives him just the same number of children he had before.
I am in no position to answer such textual questions, or evaluate the attempts made to argue for the unity of the text. I raise them just to say that scholars are still debating them, and if your initial reaction in reading Job was a sense of severe dissonance between parts of the book, you are not alone.
A brief survey of the immense literature on Job reveals that Job's world is much closer to ours than the world of the intervening centuries; for every earlier interpretation sought to deny some piece of that picture we find undeniable. Some medieval Christian interpretations did this in the most straightforward of ways: they simply censored those pieces of the text in which Job expresses rage. If you leave those out, you get the figure of the patient Job, who remains humble and pious throughout every twist of fate; you get some bits of traditional theodicy about the mysteriousness of God's purposes for the feeble human mind; and Job's piety is rewarded in the end, serving nicely as an example for schoolchildren.
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