Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta Immanuel Kant. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta Immanuel Kant. Mostrar todas las entradas

29 de octubre de 2014

Invitados #7: Theodor W. Adorno, Aportación a la historia del pensamiento

Que haya escapado a la investigación, es difícil de aceptar; pero no está de más volver a recordar esta anécdota memorable de la historia del pensamiento. El 4 de diciembre de 1801, Kant añadió a su testamento del 28 de febrero de  1798 un codicilo, y en el §  2 dispuso: «A mi cocinera, Louise Nietschin, si a mi muerte (aún está sirviendo), y si no, nada, la suma de dos mil florines. Pero en mi testamento se contienen diversos legados hechos a mi cocinera». No puede quedar duda de que la cocinera de Kant se apellidaba Nietzsche, pues la z que falta en su nombre y adorna el del filósofo como un bigote marcial solo pudo entrar en la ortografía con la heroización de la burguesía victoriosa, dando así testimonio de una evolución que, por lo demás, puede estudiarse en las diferencias existentes entre las ideas kantianas y las nietzscheanas. Pero si esto es así, el odio de Nietzsche a Kant y a los sistemas idealistas aparece bajo una luz completamente nueva, y, por otra parte, se descubre una relación totalmente inesperada entre ambos pensadores. Pues de la cocinera de Königsberg a aquella aristocracia polaca cuya sangre tanto complacía a Nietzsche poseer no hay un camino muy largo. Perro tampoco al resentimiento. Incluso al más libre de los espíritus pudo ocurrirle que estuviera harto de su origen ante la posibilidad de lo mejor y más auténtico de su naturaleza —porque lo noble parece que necesitó de la mediación de la pequeña alma burguesa de la pobre cocinera—. ¿No sería el odio a Kant sino el odio a la cocinera en él mismo? ¿No se demostraría lo fraudulento del sistema, del que el buen europeo desconfiaba, el fraude de la antepasada en el libro de cuentas? ¿Y no cabría la última y más lejana posibilidad de que la moral de los señores fuese solo una moral de los esclavos superior con la que se hiciese posteriormente justicia, por cuestionable que esta fuese, a la sirvienta Louise frente al imperativo categórico del opresor? Habría que considerar seriamente la posibilidad de convocar un concurso con este problema como tema.


[Publicado originalmente en Th. W. Adorno, 
Obra completa, 20/2, Akal, Madrid, 2014.] 

11 de octubre de 2014

Kant for Humans. Bentham for Animals. Voltaire for Priests. The Philosopher's Stone to Solve the Spanish Ebola Crisis.

[Since the Spanish ebola crisis is a global issue, I wrote this post in english with the illusion of being read by people around the world, although it might be just that: an illusion. I think the world deserves to know what young writers from Madrid think about the situation, instead of hearing once again the wishfull thinking from intellectual globettroters such as Javier Marías. Thus I encourage my fellow bloggers to follow my lead, to write about this topic in the global κοινὴ, although I am not 100% sure whether those fellow bloggers really exist at all. We will wait and see.]

i. Anonymous philosophy. An atheist from the 19th century, whose name I have no desire to recall,* said that if he had to debate with a philosopher about the existence of God, he would need Kant’s Kritik der reinen Vernunft in order to win the debate, but if he had to do it with a priest, Voltaire’s Traité sur la tolérance would be enough to win the very same debate.
A moral thinker from the 20th century, whose name I have no desire to recall either, said that animals and humans should not be treated equally, since the average human has dignity (or moral responsability) while the average animal doesn’t,** and therefore humans should be treated acording Kant’s standards while animals acording to Bentham’s.

(*) We parody here Samuel Putnam’s translation of Miguel de Cervantes from 1949. For other versions, see Larry Lynch, «Comparing Translations of Don Quixote de la Mancha».
(**) Just for the sake of the argument, if we want to claim that animals and humans should be treated unequally regarding certain properties such as dignity or mental capacity, we will normally talk about the average human and the average animal in order to avoid the argument from marginal cases, acording to which there is no moral property shared exclusively by all humans, since marginal cases of our species, such as people with the Down syndrome, have the very same properties of other primates. The problem with talking about the average as a moral standar is, roughly speaking, that it average is always pretty shitty. See more problems in P. Vallentyne, «Of Mice and Men: Equality and Animals», Journal of Ethics, 1964, 9, 403-433.
ii. Kant for humans. The anonymous atheist and the anonymous thinker seem to agree that Kant works quite well for rational beings, both in the logical and moral sense of the word ‘rational’, and thats why Kant is neither for priest nor for animals, because they cannot think for themselves, but according respectively to the authority of Nature or Church. My duty here is not to dispute this claim, which seems as disputable as schematic, but to see how it applies to the Spanish ebola crisis.
Pretty easy: If Ana Mato, the Spanish health minister, is morally rational in the kantian sense of the term,*** and therefore she acts on a maxim that she wills to become an universal law, and she has brought ebola to Madrid knowing that the Spanish health system cannot cure the disease, then I suggest that Anonymous (or whatever hacktivist that might read this) should reveal Ana Mato’s adress so that an escrache of potential ebola patients pay her with her with her same coin. Kant would be definitively for it:

«The penal law is a categorical imperative; and woe to him who creeps through the serpent-windings of utilitarianism to discover some advantage that may discharge him from the justice of punishment, or even from the due measure of it, according to the Pharisaic maxim: “It is better that one man should die than that the whole people should perish.” For if justice and righteousness perish, human life would no longer have any value in the world.  [...] But what is the mode and measure of punishment which public justice takes as its principle and standard? It is just the principle of equality, by which the pointer of the scale of justice is made to incline no more to the one side than the other. The undeserved evil which any one commits on another is to be regarded as perpetrated on himself. Hence it may be said: “If you slander another, you slander yourself; if you steal from another, you steal from yourself; if you strike another, you strike yourself; if you kill another, you kill yourself.” This is the right of retaliation (jus [lex] talionis); and, properly understood, it is the only principle which in regulating a public court (as opposed to individuals’ private judgement), can definitely assign both the quality and the quantity of a just penalty. [...] The equalization of punishment with crime is therefore only possible by judicial sentence extending even to the penalty of death, according to the right of retaliation. This is manifest from the fact that it is only thus that a sentence can be pronounced over all criminals proportionate to their internal wickedness; as may be seen by considering the case when the punishment of death has to be inflicted, not on account of a murder, but on account of a political crime that can only be punished capitally» (I. Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals, part II, translated by W. Hastie)

(***) Just for the sake of the argument, we assume that Ana Mato is morally rational, but you might dispute whether she has any mental capacity at all, especially after regarding her criminal records, full of things such as not noticing that her corrupt husband has a new Jaguar the automovile, not the wild animal— but someone knowing about the ownership and existence of the car, which sounds like being really stupid, and you are right: we cannot kill Ana Mato because politicians, like priests and animals, neither think nor are they responsible for their actions. Which leads us to
iii. Bentham for animals. This week, the government of Madrid sacrificed Excalibur, the dog of the first ebola patient, and the arguments (the pros and cons) were the following. Against the decision of the government, philosophers such as Eze Paez and Catia Faria argued that Excalibur is a sentient being whose biological and subjective interests should be taken into account before making any decision.
Moreover, I would argue that a dog has greater subjective interest in being alive while having ebola than a human with the same moral properties in the same biological situation (say, a two year old child) since, according to the famouse article published in Emergin Infectious Disease in 2005, dogs are asymptomatic. They dont show any symptoms and the illness eventually clear from them.
On the contrary, the life of a two year old ebola patient could actually become so unbearable (constantly suffering from fever, diarrhea, headache, vomiting, and internal hemorrhages) that if the illness didn’t kill him, and all experimental treatments do fail, we might actually consider sacrificing him for his own good.
There you have your Godwin law resumé, you little speciesist hater: if I had to decide whether to sacrifice Excalibur or a two year ebola patient, I would ceteris paribus choose the later. And so would do also Bentham:

«The day may come, when the rest of the animal creation may acquire those rights which never could have been withholden from them but by the hand of tyranny. The French have already discovered that the blackness of skin is no reason why a human being should be abandoned without redress to the caprice of a tormentor. It may come one day to be recognized, that the number of legs, the villosity of the skin, or the termination of the os sacrum, are reasons equally insufficient for abandoning a sensitive being to the same fate. What else is it that should trace the insuperable line? Is it the faculty of reason, or perhaps, the faculty for discourse? But a full grown horse or dog is beyond comparison a more rational, as well as more conversable animal, than an infant of a day, or a week, or even a month, old. But suppose the case were otherwise, what would it avail? The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?» (Jeremy Bentham, Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, chapter XVII, section 1.)
    iii. Voltaire for priests. In favor of the decision of the government, contrarian facebook opinators like Daniel Arjona, who were pro the repatriation of Manuel García Viejo, the hospitaller who brought the disease from Sierra Leona, after recognizing that such a repatriation was a mistake (Arjona said: «My bias was to play in the contrarian mode in which one locates himself when seeking independence. To abuse of skepticism as an ideology rather than a prevention. To rethorically invoke the scientific method, to loose afterwards its track while defending a brouhaha trench in this bloody social network»), he went back to that “brouhaha trench” by writing: «Those who didnt want to save the priest are crazy for saving the dog. I am even gonna sleep better».
Although he apologized once again, Arjona is an example of the catholic political thought, so common among the Spanish intellectuals, always asking for public pardon after following Rosa Luxemburg’s exactly opposite principles: (i) always against the people even if they are right; and (ii) freedom is always the freedom of those who agree with us. In conclusion, when I claim that Voltaire works pretty well for priests, I am not claiming that we shouldn’t repatriate terminal ebola patients from Sierra Leona because they belong to the Order of Hospitallers, although I think that we shouldn’t repatriate them because they are terminal and the Spanish health system cannot cure them, but what I really want to defend here is that we should squabble with this catholic intellectual priesthood with that classic french touch.
And that’s all folks: have a nice weekend and écrasez l’infame (hastag: #ecrlinf). 

19 de marzo de 2014

Algo presuntamente interdisciplinar que (no) verás de nuevo

Los museos se han vuelto la última frontera del cine y del teatro dizque experimental, toda vez que ambos campos tienen sus altibajos de público en las salas, mientras las ganas de fosilizar sus productos y convertirlos en objetos de colgar y mirar siguen igual de vivas que siempre en el pecho de prohombres del archivo infinito como Manuel Borja Villel (véase la exposición de José Val del Omar en el MNCARS como constatación —en este sentido— del dictum: museo y mausoleo tienen algo más en común que la eufonía); pero este maridaje desigual adolece de problemas conceptuales. «El problema con las artes escénicas es que basta con separarse un poquito del modelo teatral de La venganza de don Mendo para que te metan en ‘danza u otros’, ese cajón de sastre donde todo vale», me declara en anónima entrevista un miembro fundador de Perro Paco, un blog de crítica de teatro cuyo estilo rompe con los criterios de análisis complacientes (cuando no meramente publicitarios) que maneja la inmensa mayoría de revistas de críticas del campo. 
Bajo el inhóspito epígrafe de ‘danza u otros’ estuvo precisamente en el MNCARS el pasado jueves la (¿bailarina?, ¿performer?, ¿actriz?) Cláudia Dias. A sus cuarenta y dos años (dato nada baladí como veremos más adelante), esta portuguesa natural de Lisboa tiene a sus espaldas una importante trayectoria caminando sobre el canto de la navaja de los géneros escénicos, trasegando entre la improvisación de nuevo cuño y lo puramente interdisciplinario, primero en calidad de integrante del Grupo de Danza de Almada (1990/97) y luego en el colectivo Ninho de Víboras (1997/2004), dando por conocida y descontada su formación (ahora sí: como bailarina) en la Academia Almadense y el papel que tuvo en el desarrollo de la estrategia de creación escénica en tiempo real que acuñara su maestro, Joao Fiadeiro, que consiste en realizar una ejecución que trascienda el instinto del momento pasajero para abrirse a una peculiar forma de autonomía que estriba en asumir lo dado por el entorno y conceder la iniciativa creativa a los mismísimos espectadores
Por si no quedara aclarado, leamos las palabras de Fiadeiro: «para ser verdaderamente libre, es necesario que pueda elegir; para elegir, es necesario que tenga hipótesis; para encontrar hipótesis, es necesario que comprenda el problema; para comprender el problema es necesario que tenga tiempo para hacerlo; para tener tiempo para comprenderlo, es necesario que inhiba mi tentación de actuar por impulsoComo dijo Kant: la libertad que consiste en obedecer a la inclinación del instante fugitivo no es propia de un sujeto racional, sino en todo caso de un cochinillo segoviando dorándose a placer en el horno. Afortunadamente (o no) el trabajo reciente de Claudia Dias se aleja de estas coordenadas para profundizar en el sotacaballorey de la obra teatral de bajos vuelos, capaz de abundar en universales antropológicos utilizando elementos alegóricos y un anzuelo mediático como —por ejemplo— la posición que detenta Portugal en el concierto de las naciones: pocos actores, un buen texto y palante.
El trabajo presentado en Madrid, Vontade de Ter Vontade, es un ejemplo perfecto. Por pocos actores entiendo en esta ocasión la propia Cláudia Dias recorriendo un camino de arena compactada que a todos visos simboliza la existencia humana como tránsito y mudanza mientras ella enumera (¡tan largo me lo fiáis!) los años que tendrá hacia 2050 y la iluminación volviéndose tenue y  apagándose para terminar. Por un buen texto cabe sospechar que la enumeración de una serie de trayectos posibles por encima de la cartografía colonial y geológica, hasta estelar que compone nuestro tiempo presente, empezando por los PIGS y terminando por el Reino de los Cielos, quizá pueda pasar por un buen texto si no fuera por las bromas sacadas de Wikiquotes para solaz y mayor gracia de gente que se mesa el mentón muy fuerte (Claudia Dias le pregunta a Dios: «¿Existe vida antes de la muerte?»). También parece gratuita la referencia en el programa de mano a Tony Judt (el historiador neolaborista) y a Boaventura de Sousa Santos (intelectual flotante del brasileño Partido dos Trabalhadores) como si fueran los presuntos inspiradores de la estereotipada visión que transpira esta pieza sobre política exterior. En descargo de ambos debería indicarse, como toda obra de ficción señala, que todo parecido con la realidad es inopinada coincidencia

Ah, se me olvidaba: al final hubo baile. Un contundente intermezzo donde Cláudia Dias estuvo moviendo las caderas al ritmo de cierta música latina removiendo con los pies la playa, poniendo una distancia cínico-irónica respecto de su discurso y finalmente escarbando un ‘bujero’ donde enterrar y guardar las bragas.

[Publicado originalmente en A*Desk. 19 de marzo de 2014.]