Lent Post #16: Why do philosophers make unsuitable life partners?

Philosophy plus love?

I’m going to share a piece that was posted by one of the many interesting Facebook pages which I follow on a regular basis. The article was originally posted on the Guardian website and can be found here. After the body of the article, you will find my original and unedited reply that I posted to the article. I hope, that someone out there finds it interesting. You can find the page on Facebook through which I originally encountered the article on The Mindless Philosopher

It is said that on a trip to the US in the 1920s a German sociologist was astonished at the domestic arrangements of his American colleagues. How can you get any serious work done, he asked, without servants? The duties of a spouse and parent apparently do not sit well with deep thought and research, unless eased by paid help.

This makes me wonder whether “parentism” might be a problem to consider alongside sexism, at least in certain branches of academia. The two often go together, but they need not. Consider the student parlour game of puzzling over who among the major philosophical thinkers had a conventional home life.

In the ancient Greek world, Socrates was married with children but never got round to writing anything down. Plato, as far as we know, never married. Aristotle did marry, and one of his major works, The Nicomachean Ethics, is named after his son. But in later centuries the record is astonishing.

One hypothesis is that domestic bliss dulls the philosophical edge
St Augustine (“grant me chastity, but not yet”) fathered an illegitimate child, but then became a celibate priest. Aquinas and the philosophers of the middle ages were all churchmen. In the 17th and 18th centuries, virtually all of the canonical figures were domestically unconventional. Hobbes, Locke, Hume, Adam Smith, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Kant and Bentham all went unmarried. Bishop Berkeley married late but had no children. Jean-Jacques Rousseau eventually married his lover Thérèse Levasseur, but abandoned all of his five children to foundling homes. This did not stop him writing a treatise, Emile, on the proper upbringing of children.

Closer to our own time, John Stuart Mill married late in life and had no children of his own. Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Sartre and Wittgenstein were all unmarried and childless. Marx gave up philosophy, turning to economics and politics, when his children were still young.

There are exceptions. Hegel married and had children. And in the 20th century AJ Ayer and Betrand Russell brought up the averages by marrying lavishly, though reproducing modestly. But it is a remarkable tradition.

What about the major women philosophers? Of those who are widely known, Mary Wollstonecraft produced her major works before producing her children, and tragically died from complications after the birth of her second child, who would become Mary Shelley. Simone de Beauvoir, Hannah Arendt, Simone Weil and Iris Murdoch, were all childless.

What explains this extraordinary correlation? It could be pure coincidence, but other hypotheses press for consideration. One is that the sheer oddity of philosophers makes them unsuitable life partners. Another is that domestic bliss dulls the philosophical edge. A third is that the problem lies in the nature of the deepest, most fundamental, philosophical work. If genius is “the infinite capacity for taking pains”, it wouldn’t seem to leave much time for anything else.

Nevertheless, few are on the level of Spinoza or Kierkegaard. For ordinary mortals our research requires only a finite capacity for taking pains, which ought to be compatible with a normal home life. In fact, in a recent survey in my faculty, although many people report that they struggle to achieve an acceptable life-work balance, those caring for children seem to do better than those who are not. And this makes sense. If you are looking after your children it puts your academic work into perspective. Maybe it isn’t the most important thing in the world after all.

The trouble is that if you don’t think your research and writing are the most important thing, at least in your own world, you probably won’t do as much of it as you could. And this is how the academic careers of parents, especially mothers, can stall. Once upon a time, we would have said: “That’s the choice you make”. Now we know that there is such a thing as “indirect discrimination”. We need to define a new model of academic progression that is fair to everyone. And a start would be to make advancement dependent on what academics do during normal working hours, rather than in their evenings and weekends.

Jonathan Wolff is professor of philosophy at University College London and dean of arts and humanities

I don’t know to what degree I would consider myself a philosopher, but I would consider myself to be philosophically inclined. My personal experience with academic philosophy has caused me to cease studying it formally, but it remains one of the greatest loves of my life. I was taught Plato and Aristotle over the course of many months by a retired philosophy professor from Southern California (at least, that’s what he told me) who found himself homeless. I would trade lessons for meals at the age of 15. My decision to cease the formal study of philosophy came out of an idea that the academic study of philosophy was not necessarily concerned with how philosophy could be applied to one’s daily life in stark contrast to the way Plato and Aristotle seemed to view philosophy in my mind.

LOL! As for my romantic partnerships, my nearly incessant need to question everything, not to antagonize, rather to learn has rendered them very difficult for me. While my formal study may have ceased, the meaning in my life tends to come from the questions themselves. I choose to explore the nature of those questions via poetry, or short story, as they are windows into thought to whom those who have not had any training in philosophy becomes more accessible. I will say… There isn’t too much room for much else in my life between finding a way to express the meaning I find in those questions, and in my own experience that I try to remain cognizant of, and working on my various other writing projects. So perhaps, depending on the situation all three theories are correct? This was definitely an article worth considering. Thank you for sharing!

PS. I do personally feel that we should generally work to create a model of academic and professional progress which takes into account more of what one does during designated work hours, as opposed to penalizing them for choosing to have a life outside of those endeavors.

Defective Clairvoyance

I love this post

Defective Clairvoyance

Most of the time, it is the idea of things that bother me, and not the things themselves. I’m becoming more and more cognizant of the fact that there is (very often) an explicit contrast between my imagined expectations, and actual lived experience:

I wake up and it feels like someone tiptoed into my room and injected me with cortisol. I am utterly and pointlessly overwhelmed. I just lie frozen in my bed. I dread that I have to muster up the strength to get up. I’m reminded of my humanity and how I am pressured to go through the Groundhog Day motions of maintaining this ever-rotting flesh:

-pee, wash dirty face, tone pimpled face, moisturize dry, starting-to-wrinkle face, floss gross teeth, brush teeth and tongue till you gag and spit, gargle rabies foaming-at-the-mouthwash, wash greasy hair, dry wet noodley hair, straighten frizzy hair with a 400 degree flat iron, “cover” under-eye circles with beige goop, smear BB cream all over your visage, color in patchy eyebrows with brown powder, dab eyelids with “nude” glittery powder, trace eyelid-eyelash border with eyeliner,coat eyelashes in black casting, arrange an outfit that fellow humans will inevitably judge you by, actually put the subpar outfit on, figure out what to eat (among all the dizzying possibilities of food!), spoon feed self…

As I’m still lying there in bed, dream-drunken, I feel like I have insider knowledge into the life of Sisyphus because I, too, am going to have to wake up every day, for the rest of my life, and do it all over again.

I finally hurl myself out of bed and am standing in front of the bathroom sink. I notice that my body automatically starts sobering up. Something about just being vertical is galvanizing. I step into a shower. Looking up at the gentle and steady warm water falling, I find myself soaking in clarity. I smirk to myself as I think, “Why didn’t I just get up earlier? Why did I ever dread this? I wonder what it’s like for other people, who just get up. Oh well, I am up now and I feel so grateful to be experiencing this. It’s so invigorating.” I put on some fresh clothes and I appreciate the little things, like how my shoes feel perfectly snug as I wiggle them onto my feet. I take my first steps around my room as a fully-dressed, clean person. I feel so awake, so alert, and perfectly prepared to experience the day.
I’m hesitant about going out alone. When I have some very specific objective, going outside is easier because it’s a little more predictable. But today, I have no place that I really need to be. The general idea of leaving home just for the sake of getting out seems too vulnerable. Somehow or another I am going to be bothered or humiliated out in that precarious world, where all sorts of uncertainties abound.

I finally decide to challenge myself. As I’m stepping out the door, I am greeted by sunlight and celebratory birdsong. The crisp air wakes up my skin and a sense of daytime adventure leaps inside me. I feel silly for ever sequestering myself in a stuffy room, instead of being out in the wide open space of the world. I belong outside. Later on, I meet up with friends and I hypothesize to them that there is some sort of unspoken, evolutionary affinity between our biological bodies and the nuances of nature, and that communion is severed by cinderblock walls.

I become attached to said friends, but the time finally comes for them to say their goodbyes. The fact that I am about to be alone for an extended amount of time feels like being sentenced to solitary confinement. I will be alone, thrown back into the chambers of my mind. I can’t know where my busy thoughts will take me once I am alone. They could easily spin out and I’ll end up being forced to endure the tumultuous waves of Styx.

But then the person goes and I find myself actually alone. About a minute after they’ve left, I admit that it really is nothing like I expected. The silence is actually sweet. There is a sense of airy delight. My thoughts become unbridled and imaginative. I sit with myself and enjoy my own company. I assumed that being alone was going to make me feel out of control, but it’s actually the only way that I can feel most in control. I can finally recharge, gather myself, marshal goals, and make myself.

The “idea” of creating frustrates me the most. It is by far my most pernicious, most pervasive bane. When I think about the idea of possibly creating something, it feels like I am being choked and rendered immobile by a straightjacket of self-doubt.

Then I somehow end up entering the realm of creativity, that sacred space where time no longer matters and everything surges and cascades. Where dusty, stored-away experiences reappear and magically collide to form a fresh amalgam. That is when I really look back and wonder. I wonder why thinking about creating can be so intensely threatening but the act itself is one of the most profound and rewarding parts of being alive.

The moral of this mess: Next time you’re about to face the unknown, the daunting, or the assumed-to-be disagreeable, watch how you waver. Like me, you might start by making tense suppositions but end up in unexpected relief. The phantasmagoria in your mind and the actuality that follows never totally align. Reality is rarely as bad as your worries make it out to be. Forge ahead. You might start with a dreaded future, but find that time ends up unfolding into a pleasant surprise.

“We are more often frightened than hurt;

and we suffer more from imagination than from reality.”

-Seneca, Stoic philosopher/badass (4 BC – AD 65)

Suddenly Satori

Defective Clairvoyance

Most of the time, it is the idea of things that bother me, and not the things themselves. I’m becoming more and more cognizant of the fact that there is (very often) an explicit contrast between my imagined expectations, and actual lived experience:

I wake up and it feels like someone tiptoed into my room and injected me with cortisol. I am utterly and pointlessly overwhelmed. I just lie frozen in my bed. I dread that I have to muster up the strength to get up. I’m reminded of my humanity and how I am pressured to go through the Groundhog Day motions of maintaining this ever-rotting flesh:

-pee, wash dirty face, tone pimpled face, moisturize dry, starting-to-wrinkle face, floss gross teeth, brush teeth and tongue till you gag and spit, gargle rabies foaming-at-the-mouthwash, wash greasy hair, dry wet noodley hair, straighten frizzy hair with a 400 degree…

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