For your viewing displeasure, here is a video of Sacripoltical performing Nihilist Void at Solar Van Saturdays on June 15th, 2024. Thanks to Matt F. for taking the footage.
The show was a lot of fun! It was great to see a bunch of old friends and to make new friends from bands like Three Reefs Deep, Laguna Screech, 12 Steps to Nothing, and Dollar Store. Thanks to Lee from Elegant Trash for organizing another great afternoon of punk rock!
Next time, I’ll need to wear more sunscreen.
Come on out to Rocky’s Beach in Berkeley on Saturday, June 15th for an afternoon of sunshine, bay views, and punk rock! The show starts at noon.
The first time I read Plato’s Republic I was an undergraduate in an ancient philosophy class taught by the very stern and serious John Glanville at San Francisco State University. I was hooked from the very first chapter. The book read like a novel, and I was instantly sucked into the lively debate, led by Socrates, into the nature of justice and the perfect society. At the time, I recall being more sympathetic with some of the early remarks by Thrasymachus – who foreshadows Nietzsche – than I was with Socrates’ arguments. In the years that followed, I reread Republic a number of times, coming increasingly to admire it. And while I don’t agree with most of the doctrines it advocates, I do think that Plato (or Socrates) makes certain observations about humans and about the cycles of government that are accurate and eerily prescient. It is a book that everyone should read.
The follow-up to Republic isTimaeus, a dialogue that I had only dipped into here and there until recently. After reading an account of its influence on early Christian thought, I became convinced that I needed to look at it in its entirety; a task that proved to be eye-opening. As with Republic, this is not because I agree with its ideas, but rather because the vision that unfolds in its pages is so ambitious and bold that a reader cannot help but be mesmerized by its grandeur. Entering into the world of Timaeus is like entering into a science-fiction epic. And in this epic, one finds jaw-dropping precursors to many ideas that are woven into the very fabric of Western culture.
There is debate over whether Timaeus is a middle or a late Platonic dialogue. Whenever it was written, it purports to pick up where Republic left off, beginning with a recap, by Socrates, of some of the main points from the earlier book. Socrates reiterates his views on politics, including the separation of citizens into various castes and occupations (17c – d), the divisions of the soul (17d – 18b), the equality of women and men (18c), and the raising of children (18d – 19). Once he has offered this summary, Socrates directs his friends, Critias, Timaeus, and Hermocrates to give their own speeches that will put his ideal city into contest with other cities as a way of setting it into motion, showing off “its distinctive qualities” (19c). What follows quickly spins off into territory that seems very far from the task set by Socrates. First, Critias offers a short, mythic story of ancient Athens’ battle with Atlantis, then Timaeus launches into an astounding account of the creation of the entire universe and all of the creatures it contains. It is this latter section of the dialogue that has exercised an especially deep and profound influence on the literature and religion of the West. Poor Hermocrates never gets the chance to deliver his own speech, perhaps because Plato became so engrossed in the story he puts into the mouth of Timaeus.
The speech from Critias recounts the tale of wise Solon, leader and law-giver of Athens, who travels to Egypt and encounters priests with knowledge of ancient times unknown to the Greeks. These priests tell Solon that the Greeks are “young in soul, every one of you” (22b). While the Greeks remember only a few historical disasters, there in fact have been, and will continue to be, “numerous disasters that have destroyed human life in many kinds of ways” (22c). Fire and water are the most common forms these catastrophes take, but humans have continued to survive, sometimes in greater and sometimes in lesser numbers. Athens, it turns out, is the home to the best and noblest people on earth precisely because, over the course of time, they have been strengthened by the repeated culling of their stock. The fittest, the wisest, and the finest humans populate Athens, a city where something like the aristocracy described by Socrates in Republic was once established, long ago. It was this perfect republic that triumphed in a forgotten battle against the people of Atlantis.
Atlantis was an island nation that once existed outside of the Straits of Gibraltar. Its rule extended through Europe, Africa, and Asia, and its excellence at one time surpassed that of the Greeks. But the Atlanteans tried to enslave the Greeks, and it was only Athens who stood up to this outrage, driving the invaders back to their island. Afterwards, a great earthquake sunk the island of Atlantis, and it disappeared beneath the waters of the ocean.
What is the purpose of this story? In Republic, Plato tells many stories (such as the myths of Gyges, the cave, and of Er) that all serve some illustrative function. In Timaeus, it seems to me that the story of Atlantis is intended to illustrate something that is a recurrent theme in many of Plato’s works: the existence of never-ending cycles both in nature and in human culture. Solon’s encounter with the Egyptian priests emphasizes the cyclical nature of worldly destruction while the story of Athens’ war with Atlantis emphasizes the cyclical nature of national rise and fall. Just as nature exhibits patterns of creation and destruction, so too do human institutions. Real wisdom, this story seems to suggest, lies in recognizing this fact. The truth is that nothing in this world lasts forever, that the greatest human accomplishments are subject to decline and decay, and that humans should cultivate a sense of humility when it comes to their successes. Furthermore, if we are to hope for anything solid, stable, and permanent, it must be sought outside of the visible and tangible realm of ephemerality, in the realm of the eternal. It is precisely this eternal realm that Timaeus invokes in his own speech, which occupies the remainder of the dialogue.
“What is that which always is and has no becoming?” (27d) Timeaus begins his own speech by asking this question, claiming that we can come to know pure Being only through the understanding, and not through observation. Observation only establishes “that which becomes” (27d). Pure understanding establishes what is eternal. Timeaus tells his listeners that since the universe is a body that is observable, and since it exists in the visible world of physical existence, it must have come to be. Things that come to be must have been caused, and so the universe must have been caused. But what could have caused the universe? It must have been an architect – a god, Maker, or Demiurge – who brought the universe into existence according to a perfectly good and intelligent plan (29e – 30 c). The universe, according to Timaeus, is a single, living organism, created by god in the image of an eternal and perfect design.
The argument is full of holes, but it seems as if Plato is aware of this, as he has Timaeus emphasize that what is being described is a “likely tale” (29c). Since we are only human, we can’t expect to establish things like the existence of a creator god with absolute certainty. The best that we can hope for is an account that makes sense to us, and that seems probable. Here, Plato appears to be grappling with the idea that the ultimate causes and foundations of reality are unknowable. He appears to be sanctioning faith, which of course, along with his view of a creator god, comes to play such a huge role in the later Judeo-Christian tradition. Plato, a pagan philosopher, turns out to be a precursor to, and an influence on, Christian religion.
If the universe is a body, that implies that it must exist in three dimensions, and not as a two-dimensional plane (32b). Timaeus tells his friends that the three dimensions of the universe must be constructed of solids, and any solid must be connected by two “middle terms.” What he seems to mean here is that if you had only two points, you would have a line, which is two-dimensional and does not possess depth. A line has a middle point, which is one “middle term.” In order to extend the line into three dimensions, another point (or term) would need to be introduced outside of the line. This gives you four points, which could be conceptualized as two separate lines possessing two separate “middle terms.” But drawing lines connecting all four of these points together would create the outline of a solid figure, and the two initial “middle terms” would then all “have the same relationship to each other” (32), which just means that there would no longer be any middle or terminal points on the figure. They would all be unified as points in a solid mass. Later in his speech, Timaeus reasons that all solid bodies are comprised of triangles (53d), and so analytically, everything in the universe is actually composed of triangles. What he has articulated here is the basis of trigonometry, a branch of geometry, which is the a priori science of spatial relationships. So, since the universe is a body, and since a body occupies space, we can understand the structure of the universe in terms of three-dimensional structures that are all made of triangles. The five perfect solids, all comprised of triangles, are introduced at 54d – 55c: the cube represents the element of earth, the tetrahedron represents fire, the octahedron represents air, and the icosahedron represents water. It is through the unification of these four elements that the god constructed the universe, with earth, fire, air, and water harmonizing inside of the space created by a cosmic dodecahedron.
The universe contains all things, so there is nothing outside of it. As a whole, the universe is a sphere (or a dodecahedron, which most closely resembles a sphere). It has no eyes, ears, nose, mouth or legs, because there is nothing outside of itself to see, hear, smell, taste, or to touch (33a – d). Within the body of the universe, god imparted circular motion to the objects created out of earth, fire, air, and water. This motion is of two sorts: Same and Different. The motion that remains the same is the motion of the stars, while the motion that is different is the motion of the planets, which wander in the heavens against the backdrop of the stars (36c – 37d). It is the contrast between the Same and the Different that produces time (37d). If there was no contrast between Same and Different, all that would exist would be eternal Being, but with the divergence between the wandering orbits of the planets and the steadiness of the stars, temporal change is introduced into Being. I found this point to be especially interesting, as Plato seems to be indicating that time is a relative quality of the universe, not absolute. I previously thought it was Augustine who first suggested the relativity of time (an idea later developed by Kant and, of course, Einstein), but here it is, already in Plato.
The circular motions of the heavenly bodies are imitated by all of the other bodies contained in the universe, only with less perfection. Human bodies participate in these motions, combining within themselves a synthesis of body and soul, or the imperfect and the perfect, the Same and the Different (42). Our sensations and emotions are manifestations of the fact that we have movements coming into and exiting our bodies. If, over the course of one’s life a human being is able to master these motions, then that person may become perfect, with consciousness returning to the stars upon death. If, on the other hand, a person is mastered by these motions, then one is reincarnated into a lower, even less perfect, state of existence. Oddly, Timaeus says that men who fail to master the motions of their souls are reincarnated as women (42c; 91) suggesting that women are lesser than men; an assertion that seems to contradict Socrates’ point at the beginning of the dialogue – which Timaeus agreed to – that men and women are spiritual equals (18c). Being charitable, it may be that what Timaeus is alluding to is the lower social (rather than spiritual) status of women in Greek culture. Perhaps the “punishment” upon death is to remain human, still capable of rational thought, while suffering the burden of social demotion. In any case, it is clear that the other stages of reincarnation are far worse: reincarnation as animals of the skies, the land, and the sea. Birds are reincarnated humans who studied the heavens, but only relied on observation, not pure reason (91e). Land animals are reincarnated humans who never cultivated their curiosity or philosophical capacities at all (91e), while sea animals are those “most stupid and ignorant” (91b), not even fit to breath pure air.
I have always found it fascinating that in contemporary, Western cultures many people tend to think of reincarnation in a positive way, while in Eastern cultures it is conceived as a sign of spiritual failure. In religions like Hinduism and Buddhism (as in Platonism), reincarnation is the result of not learning the lessons that you were supposed to learn. It is a hellish thought to have to repeat life again and again until you finally get it right and are finally released from the cycles of Samsara. In Plato, we find something of this Eastern view while also finding the precursor to what later becomes the Christian notion of Heaven. To enter Heaven is to end the cycle of birth and rebirth. In the Christian religions, however, there is only one shot at getting to Heaven. There is no reincarnation. Perhaps the contemporary, positive view of reincarnation has something to do with the secularization of Western cultures, in which belief in God and Heaven have declined, and all that is left is the hope for endless repetition of life in the ephemeral, visible world. Today, we no longer believe that perfection, and life among the eternal stars, is possible. We are like frustrated Platonists who have denied the realm of eternal Being and substituted it with a desire for eternal becoming: the syndrome of nihilism.
In a long section of the dialogue, Timaeus analyzes the mechanics of the human body, perception, and disease by relating them to disproportion and lack of balance between the elements that make up all things. While the details of this section are amusingly crude and primitive, they do provide a naturalistic account of bodily functioning that paves the way for the development of later, more sophisticated forms of scientific physiology. And, in fact, the general lesson that Timaeus takes from this discussion is not so crude or primitive. He concludes that in order to remain healthy, we should endeavor to take care of both our bodies and our minds (87). The mind is kept healthy through the practice of philosophy, while the body is kept healthy through exercise, travel, and as a last resort, the use of drugs (89). This is sound advice that retains its legitimacy even if you don’t believe that all things are composed of earth, air, fire, and water.
In his book The Cave and the Light, Arthur Herman argues that it is Plato’s conception of God as the architect of the universe that influenced the Christian concept of God developed during the Middle Ages. This conception led to advances in architecture, science, and culture, all premised on the belief that humans could understand and harness nature through the mastery of mathematics and geometry. And it was Timaeus, Herman claims, the most widely circulated and influential of the Platonic dialogues, that inspired this confidence. While many Christians reject the importance of the pagan philosopher Plato, it is probably the case that Christianity, as we know it today, would not even exist without that pagan thinker.
To me, Timaeus is astounding. It is the kind of imaginative writing that no one today – especially in professional philosophy – would put their name to. While many of its arguments are faulty, and many of its conclusions primitive, the vision that Plato sets forth in this dialogue is so audacious and bold that I enthusiatically wanted to go along with the story. Once I surrendered myself to the narrative and granted its basic premises, I was swept into a worldview that started to look strangely familiar. Plato’s perspective depicts the universe as a cosmos: a well-ordered and beautiful whole that is comprehensible by human intellect. We are a part of that cosmos, and so the science used to understand the natural world can also be used to study ourselves, giving us guidance on how to live good lives. Reason and logic are tools that help us to improve ourselves, emulating the perfection of God as we aspire to eternal life. It is a wonderful story that Jews, Christians, and Muslims still tell today. That’s why it seems so familiar.
And yet, I lack the kind of faith that anchors this many thousands-years-long narrative. I endorse the use of reason and logic, but I am not so sure that they are tools I share with the Creator. I agree with Plato that there are aspects of reality that cannot be known with certainty, and that there is a kind of inductive probabilism that necessarily plays a part in what we believe to be the case. But while Plato thinks it probable that something like God exists, I find myself thinking God’s existence is improbable. More likely than not, there is no God. In this, I’m influenced by philosophical developments since Plato; in particular Nietzsche who proclaimed the death of God. But maybe I’m wrong. I’m always willing to grant that. I know that I don’t know.
Socrates, Plato’s teacher, seems to always get the last word.
The Nihilist Void 