In the midst of a quite complimentary, indeed even fulsome
[in the original sense] reference to me, Talha says this: “Why Prof. Wolff should despise Hegel so much
is a fun mystery!” Talha goes on to note
that I draw insights from and praise the work of Karl Mannheim, Herbert
Marcuse, and others who were themselves deeply influenced by Hegel. So what’s up with my hate on Hegel?
I think it is worth replying, not merely to clarify my
personal preferences [a rather minor matter, after all], but to spell out my
views on how one ought to do philosophy, which may be of interest to a slightly
larger audience.
Personal matters first.
I hate Hegel because he makes relatively clear ideas obscure, whereas I
have spent the last sixty years trying to make difficult and puzzling ideas as
clear and transparent as I am able. I
freely acknowledge that Hegel had some interesting ideas. I just can’t stand reading his exposition of
them. So sue me. I don’t like Mahler either.
Now let me try to be a bit more serious. I was introduced to philosophy at a
relatively early age [from sixteen to nineteen] by a group of very gifted
philosophers in what was then called the analytic tradition: Willard Van Orman Quine first, then Nelson
Goodman, after that Henry Aiken and Morton White, and then most importantly of
all, Clarence Irving Lewis. By the time
I was old enough to get a driver’s license, I had internalized standards of
clarity and precision that have stayed with me to this day. Some were rather trivial: never to confuse
use and mention, always to make sure I had the same number of left and right
parentheses in a logical formula. Some
were a good deal more important: always to struggle to say what one had in mind
as simply and transparently as possible, never to be satisfied with a metaphor
that I could not, if called upon, cash in for a literal assertion.
Quine and Goodman and White struck me as supremely
intelligent but lacking a certain moral urgency, a deep conviction that what
they were doing was important as well as interesting. It was in Lewis that I, at the age of
eighteen, found a satisfying combination of intelligence and moral
passion. To this day, I cherish his
comment on the term paper I submitted to his graduate seminar in
epistemology. I had written a paper on
Hume, ripping various of his more questionable claims to shreds. Lewis treated my efforts very gently, and
after remarking that "in this paper, it would be out of place to ask that
[the points] should 'add up' to something in conclusion," he wrote,
"I should hope that this general character of the paper is not a symptom
of that type of mind, in philosophy, which can find the objection to everything
but advance the solution to nothing."
If I could be described,
rather extravagantly, as having had a revelation on the road to Damascus, that
was it.
Once I began my own philosophical work, I was guided both by
the demand for clarity and precision and by Lewis’ inspiration. My first major effort was a struggle to come
to terms with the Critique of Pure Reason. I could chop logic with the best of them, but
I sought, like Gandalf in the Caves of Moria, to dive deep and struggle with
the Balrog to discover the argument lying at the heart of Kant’s great
work. Like Jacob, I wrestled with the
book and would not let go until it bless me. I insisted [and here the voices of Quine and
Goodman spoke to me] that what I found within it must be stated by me in clear,
precise English, capable of being presented in the shape of a valid formal
argument without losing the depth of Kant’s
insights.
I brought the same need to Das Kapital, which was, I found, much more difficult to cope with
because to succeed I needed to deploy not only the resources of philosophy,
economics, mathematics, and history but also the insights of literary
criticism. I brought the same need for
both clarity and depth to the writings of Mannheim and Marcuse, in both of whose works I found insights and arguments
of great power.
When I read the writings of Gerald Cohen, Jon Elster, and
the other so-called Analytic Marxists, I found that they had achieved clarity and
precision at the expense of Marx’s deepest insights, a disappointment I
expressed in my essay on Elster [to be found in Box.net].
I can easily imagine that were I to bring to Hegel the same
generosity of spirit that has animated me in the reading of these other authors,
I would find much to value.
But you must allow an old man his crotchets.
