Is the Soul Immortal?

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The belief in the immortality of the soul is common to almost all cultures in almost all eras. In our society, it is often associated with stories of ghosts, possession, and reincarnation. There are also emotions involved in it, because when a loved one passes away, we cling to the idea that something of them survives somewhere. This belief, however, has been questioned several times throughout history. From Aristotle to modern science, there are dozens of arguments that deny the separability of the soul from the body, and with it, its corresponding immortality. This essay will defend the idea that, despite how deeply rooted and cherished this belief may be, there are more and better reasons to believe that the soul is mortal. Let us begin, then, by first clarifying what the soul is, and then proceed to the formulation and examination of the arguments given on both sides.

The word “soul” has various meanings, but among all of them, there are at least two that are relevant to the topic at hand: the soul as vital force and the soul as mind. Let us examine them below.

The soul as vital force. Some philosophies and religions have considered the soul to be a kind of energy. It is a type of energy different from those known to current physics, which would give life to things, enter bodies with different configurations, and, depending on those configurations, the body would be capable of nourishing itself, growing, perceiving, moving on its own, thinking, or reasoning. We will return later to the discussion of whether this type of energy exists.

The soul as mind. There are at least four features that are believed to be defining of the mind and its processes or events. The first is that the mind is not something physical; mental events do not occupy a place in space, do not interact with gravity or light, have no mass or weight, and for that reason cannot be studied as we do with ordinary objects. The second feature is privacy: each person can access their own mental states, but not those of others. The third is that the mind consists of faculties and their contents. Some philosophers have called this feature “intentionality” because faculties are always exercised over something: I perceive something, I love something, I remember something, I imagine something. Finally, the mind always has a subject; we do not simply say: there is a memory of the apple, but we say that this memory belongs to someone: to Maria or Juan. The mind, then, is an entity made up of faculties whose events or processes are immaterial, private, intentional, and have a subject (they belong to someone).

Relationship of the mind to the body. Now, there are two ways to conceive of this mind in relation to the body. It is either a consequence of the physical, chemical, and electrical processes that occur in the body, or it is independent. In the latter case, we would be forced to accept that the mind is also some kind of energy. This latter way of understanding the soul seems to be implicated in beliefs about ghosts, spirits, possessions, and reincarnation. A ghost or spirit, for example, would be a mind that would have the ability to produce certain physical events: producing sounds, moving objects, changing the ambient temperature, manifesting as a translucent or fluorescent body. Possession would be the act by which a mind enters a different body and takes control of its functions (this would explain some strange behaviors in humans and animals). Reincarnation, in turn, would be the passage of the mind from a dying body to a newly born one, and so on. This disembodied mind, without a body, could be in another world or dimension or wander in this one or, alternatively, move from one world to another according to various religions and popular beliefs.

The existence of the soul. These, then, are the meanings of “soul” relevant to determining its immortality. However, understanding the meaning does not indicate that souls exist. We can understand what a unicorn, a centaur, an angel, or a winged crocodile is, which does not mean they exist. Is there any reason to believe in the existence of vital forces or disembodied minds?

Let us start with vital force. If it is something physical, it should be observable intersubjectively and measurable. If it is not, it should still manifest in some way. Today’s scientists do not need to propose a special energy to explain the fact of life. They do so using observable and unobservable physical objects, so it does not seem to be a physical type of energy. It seems, then, that it is a non-physical energy that should manifest in the physical world for us to know of its existence. One might say that the movements of living beings, their growth, reproduction, and behavior are the manifestation of that immaterial energy. In that case, we would have two theories: one that says life is the product of the interactions of physical objects and nothing more, and another that says there is something more, and that something is vital force. This theory, however, seems unnecessary, as the first explains everything that needs to be explained with physical elements alone. Vital force seems superfluous. Moreover, proposing it generates more problems than it solves.

Now let us evaluate the mind. What kind of existence is this mind? It is not physical, as we have seen. However, if it exists, it must be able to manifest somehow. One way is through internal experience. I can “see” what I imagine, I can feel my joy or my sadness, I have an internal experience of my mind, and this experience does not seem questionable. It also cannot be equated with the brain states or physicochemical processes of neurons, no matter whether we conceive of the mind as a product of those processes or as detached from them. These internal states, this internal experience, lead us to say that the mind exists.

And what about the minds of others? We do not have direct experience of other minds. If we attribute a mind to other organisms, it is because they have behavior similar to ours or a similar anatomy, but never because we have direct experience of their minds. Similarly, if someone died and appeared to us in the form of a translucent or fluorescent body, we would indirectly attribute a mind to them. Of the internal states of that specter’s mind, however, only it would have experience. Nonetheless, our attribution of a mind to other organisms or objects is not infallible. It could be that only one mind exists and that others are imitations of people: androids or virtual images of human beings that appear to have minds. Thus, we can accept that minds exist, not so much because they manifest in the behavior of others, but primarily because we have an internal experience of them.

Now, suppose someone dies and their mind survives, though unable to manifest its existence. It would be a mind locked within itself, disembodied, without a body, and without the possibility of communication—pure mental experience. It would exist, yes, but only it would know it, without anyone being able to prove it. If, however, it could manifest, it would have to do so by producing some physical event: an immaterial object causing material events. Is there evidence of the latter? People believe so, offering testimonies from others or their own experiences in favor. Even so, we cannot vouch for the testimonies of others; it could be that these people believed they perceived disembodied minds when it was actually something else. On the other hand, when we critically analyze our own experiences, we find that almost everything we thought was the physical manifestation of a disembodied mind was perhaps a common physical event. The matter becomes more complicated when science tries to investigate whether there are physical manifestations of such minds. To date, everything that has been taken as such has ended up being a common and ordinary event. How could we prove the existence of such minds without their manifestation in the physical world? How could we know what they think or feel if they do not show themselves?

Let us suppose, for the sake of discussion, that a strange event occurs, one we usually attribute to ghosts. Suddenly, the temperature drops, objects begin to levitate, and a moan or laughter is heard in a room. Scientists arrive with their instruments to investigate, and at the end of the investigation, they conclude that they don’t know why the temperature dropped, nor did they identify any physical object that caused those movements and sounds that literally came out of nowhere. This would be the closest we would have to the physical manifestation of a ghost. But let’s not celebrate too soon. Could it be an extraterrestrial with an invisibility cloak playing a prank on us? Could it be some unknown state of matter causing all of this? Just because such events occur does not mean that ghosts exist; they could be caused by other events or entities that are not ghosts.

Let’s try another approach. Suppose this mind we believed to be disembodied actually does have a body, this body being of some kind of physical matter or energy we do not know. This would mean either that at this moment each of us has two bodies made of two different materials or that when we die, our soul passes from one body to another. How would this be explained? How could it be demonstrated or proven? Proposing a body made of antimatter or dark matter or any other type produces more problems than it solves. It is difficult to fit a theory like that with what we know about the physical world.

In summary, there is no proof that there are minds without bodies. However, assuming there were, several problems would arise that would be difficult to answer well: Where were those minds before relating to bodies? What happens to them once they separate from bodies? Where do they go, and what do they do? Do those minds have an origin? What is that origin? Do they have an end? What is the end? How does an immaterial mind produce physical events? How do brain states, which are physical, produce events in an immaterial mind? Thus, there are good reasons to believe that the mind exists, but not vital force or the mind without a body. The problem of immortality has not yet been touched. However, by elimination, it already seems easier to accept that souls emerge from the body and do not survive without it.

Dependence of the Mind on the Body

The mind could survive without the body and still be mortal. It could wander for a few years through the world and then disappear or pass from one body to another and, after a few reincarnations, cease to exist. Still, what we commonly believe is that the mind is immortal. We must note that there are two ways of understanding this. In one, minds are eternal, not created by anyone, and will never perish. In the other, souls have an origin. Both cases give rise to questions whose solutions are not easy to defend. There is, however, a simpler answer: namely, that the soul emerges from the body and dies with it. Let’s see then, on what basis this theory stands.

There are abundant reasons to believe that the soul depends on the body, more specifically on the central nervous system. Let’s start with the most basic: if we affect the chemistry of our brain, we also affect our mental experience. If the soul is independent of the body, it should not be affected by changes occurring in the physical plane. Now, consider the case of general anesthesia. When it is applied, it is as if the soul turns off: we don’t feel, we don’t perceive, we don’t imagine, or remember anything. It is a lapse in which we seem not to exist. How can the soul, if it does not depend on the body, be affected to such an extent unless it has a dependent relationship with the body?

But if this argument is not enough, we now have the case of physical impairment of the brain, where part of the brain is lost or ceases to function, or where the brain is divided or sectioned; we also have the case of conjoined twins sharing part of their brain or that of electrodes or chips connected to the brain for interaction between both. All these cases represent a significant challenge for those who believe that the soul does not depend on the brain. Abilities commonly attributed to the soul, such as reasoning, abstraction, or intellection, can be lost or affected by removing part of the brain; two minds or souls emerge when the corpus callosum is severed, and what happens to the souls of those who share part of their brain? Are they one soul, two souls, three souls? We have no contact with any soul without a body; instead, we have plenty of evidence that the soul changes or is affected when the brain is affected. All this leads us to think that there is a strong dependency of the soul on the brain, so it is not improbable to think that if neuronal activity ceases, the activity of the soul ceases as well.

This does not mean that all problems are solved. There still remains the issue of how something material, like the brain, can produce something immaterial like the mind. But that is only one problem, compared to the many that emerge from postulating a soul that exists without the body. Moreover, the idea fits well with the theory of evolution, the origin of life and the universe, as well as with our current physical theories.

Plato’s Arguments on the Immortality of the Soul

Until now, the idea has been defended that the soul arises from the brain and dies with it, without considering the arguments of those who defend the immortality of the soul. All that has been said so far is that the belief that the soul is separable from the body and survives without it is unlikely and leads to unnecessary complications. But perhaps there are convincing arguments that show us otherwise. Plato is one of the main authorities on the matter, and his arguments in favor of the immortality of the soul have a good reputation among philosophers, so we will have to analyze them carefully.

The argument of reminiscence is based on Plato’s theory of ideas and on the notion that the soul existed before being in the body. It basically asserts that if we remember something we had no reason to know, this proves that we obtained it elsewhere. For example, a person who has never studied geometry should not know the Pythagorean theorem. However, Plato, in one of his dialogues, shows how by asking the right questions, such a person can come to remember this knowledge. And how could they remember that knowledge if they had never seen geometry? Plato’s answer is that they remember it because they knew it before; they had acquired that knowledge elsewhere: in the world of ideas. When we analyze this supposed demonstration, however, what we find is that what Plato calls reminiscence more closely resembles a thought process called inference, where implicit information in other elements is made explicit. If we have better reasons—and in fact we do—to accept that the ignorant person in geometry can infer the Pythagorean theorem from knowledge acquired in this world, the argument of reminiscence does not work, and we must conclude that everything we know was acquired here.

The weakest argument is the argument of opposites. Here Plato commits a fallacy of begging the question, that is, he includes among his premises that the soul is immortal or that it continues living outside this body, to then be able to affirm that souls come and go, entering and leaving bodies. It requires assuming that the soul is immortal to then talk about living bodies and dead bodies, embodied and disembodied souls, as this argument does. It is not the most fortunate of them.

The argument of the vital principle says that since the soul is the principle of life, it cannot die, because then it could not give life. In other words, what gives life must be alive and cannot die. This is false. A single-celled organism is alive, but its components are not. And it could be that in the realm of disembodied souls the same thing happens. The vital principle might not be alive, so Plato has to prove to us not only that the soul is the principle of life but also that it is alive. But, even if it is alive, he should further prove that its life does not end. It could well be that life ends and the soul ceases to exist, or that it continues to exist but without life. On the other hand, we must examine what Plato means when he says that the soul is alive. It would not be the biological concept of life we currently use, for this applies to organisms that are born, grow, reproduce, and die, and obviously the immaterial soul does none of this, or at least if it is immortal, it does not die. So the word “life” must mean something different to him. The above shows us that the argument of the vital principle is full of assumptions without proof, making it difficult to accept it at face value.

Some might believe that the most promising argument is the argument of simplicity. However, this is an ambiguous argument full of assumptions. Let’s see. The argument basically says that only what has parts can be destroyed, and since the soul is simple (it has no parts), therefore the soul is immortal. In this argument, Plato seems to equate indestructibility with immortality. But this equivalence is questionable. To say that something is immortal means that it has perpetual life. Evidently, one can conceive of something indestructible that, nonetheless, has no life, or better yet, does not have perpetual life. If the above is correct, then the argument of simplicity does not establish that the soul is immortal, but that it is indestructible by being simple. The question of whether the soul has life or not and whether it lasts perpetually is something left untreated in this argument.

Let’s try to construct an argument of Platonic inspiration that demonstrates the immortality of the soul. First, we will have to modify the concept of life for the reasons already mentioned. What Plato understands by life must be some kind of “self-produced activity” (in quotes because that activity for Plato is really receptivity, which seems to be more passive). According to him, souls, before being trapped in a body, are engaged in capturing ideas. So we can accept without problem that the proper activity of the soul is the act of capturing. But is this activity self-produced or is something external producing it? If we follow Plato, we will have to accept that the soul is self-produced capture, and with this, we have the first part of our argument.

The second part of the argument would have to explore whether that capturing activity is perpetual or whether it ends. Let’s assume for a moment the latter. There would be two ways to interpret this. In the first, the capture ceases, but the soul continues to exist. It would not be immortal because, if its activity ceases, its life would cease; it would continue to exist but dead. Under this view, the soul is distinct from its activity, and what would need to be proven to demonstrate immortality is that this activity does not cease. We would also need to explain what the soul consists of when it is dead. Does it have parts? Does it have any structure? What remains when the activity ceases?

In the second interpretation, if the soul’s activity ceases, the soul ceases to exist. In this case, it is not the same as the first. In the first, the soul continued to exist but was inactive, that is, dead. In this case, the cessation of activity implies the soul’s disappearance. Thus, there is no distinction between the soul and its activity, and we avoid the problem of explaining what remains when the activity ceases. However, just like in the first case, the immortality of the soul would consist in its activity being perpetual. Which of the two interpretations would be best to reconstruct our argument? Evidently, the second, as it avoids the problem of explaining what the soul is or how it is when it is not active. We are left, then, with the problem of demonstrating that the soul’s act of capture is perpetual. How can this problem be solved?

We said at the beginning of this essay that the soul could be understood as the mind and that the mind was immaterial, that it had several faculties, that it was intentional (therefore, that it had a self and content). This is not, however, the way Plato understood the soul. First, neither for Plato nor for most Greeks did what was captured, perceived, or desired (the intentional content) form part of the soul. Second, for Plato, a soul within a body is not the same as a soul without a body. The soul within a body has parts: the rational part (the one in charge of capturing), the appetitive (the one of desires and pleasures), and the spirited part, the one of noble and strong emotions. The soul without a body would only be the rational part, that is, the part that captures.

With this in mind, we can then return to the matter of simplicity. The soul, free of the body, would be a simple action: pure capturing. And with this, we would have the second part of the argument: the act of capturing is simple. We only need to make a small terminological adjustment to give the argument more consistency. Instead of saying that the simple is indestructible, we might say that it is perpetual, that it cannot cease to exist. In this way, our Platonic-inspired argument would be as follows:

P1: The simple is perpetual (it cannot cease to exist)

P2: The soul is simple

Conclusion A (from P1 and P2): The soul is perpetual (it cannot cease to exist)

D1: The soul is self-produced capturing activity

Conclusion B (from Conclusion A and D1): The capturing activity is perpetual

This argument establishes that the act of capturing cannot cease because its simplicity prevents it from doing so. And this is what it means for the soul to be immortal. To refute it, one would have to question premises 1 and 2 or definition 1. Refuting premise 1 is not easy, and definition 1 seems to be the best reconstruction of the statement “the soul has life”; premise 2 is the one that would be most problematic, although the simplicity of capturing seems evident. It is important to note, however, that the argument assumes, rather than demonstrates, that the soul is separable from the body. Moreover, it contradicts some parts of Plato’s philosophy, for example, his claim that souls had an origin or that evil souls, upon separating from the body, have a different destiny than contemplating the ideas. Distancing ourselves from him, the argument has its own advantages, solving problems such as the soul’s fate once free of the body or what it was doing before being trapped in a body, in both cases: contemplating the ideas.

Let’s not be overly optimistic though. The argument leaves many questions unanswered. Why does the soul get trapped in the body? If souls are immaterial, meaning non-spatial, and also eternal, what distinguishes one soul from another when they are not trapped in a body? How and why does the simple soul become composite upon entering a body? And if it does not become composite, how does it acquire other faculties it did not originally have? How can the immaterial act on the material and vice versa? How can we detect a soul that is outside a body? That is to say, immortality generates more problems to solve; giving a well-argued solution to these problems is no easy task, and it is difficult to see the need to do so when we have a simpler solution that does not generate so many difficulties, namely: that the soul is immaterial, born with the body, and dies with it.

Origin of the Belief in Immortality and Separability

The best solution, then, due to its simplicity and ability to be integrated with scientific theories, seems to be that the soul is mortal and depends on the body. The problem of how the body produces the soul remains, but the issue of its dependency seems resolved. Assuming, then, that this is the case, we may ask how and why humans came to the idea that there can be a soul without a body that lasts forever, to also understand why, despite having good reasons against it, people persist in this belief.

The first key element to believing in the soul’s immortality is establishing its separability from the body. There are several paths that can lead us to this conclusion. In one of them, people’s bodies appear to us in dreams, and we thus believe there is something separable from the normal body. And this body continues to appear when the other ceases to exist. Hence, we conclude that the soul continues to exist without the body. Another path to the separability of the soul is through attributing purpose or agency to certain natural events. This led to the belief that there were various distinct, invisible entities wandering around, which occasionally decided to manifest by pushing a ship’s sail, moving a tree, whispering through a cave. The next step would be to believe that these invisible entities are, in fact, family members, powerful enemies, or important leaders whose bodies perished but who continue among us in that other form.

The question of immortality, in turn, would have more to do with the desire of people to feel the presence of their loved ones or cherished leaders. We can think that the soul is separable from the body and still believe that it can die at any moment. Where, then, does the idea that it does not die come from? Behind this are emotional reasons: it is not easy to face the loss of loved ones, to overcome loneliness, the sense of insecurity and vulnerability with their passing. Thus, believing that they continue to exist indefinitely offers consolation, relief to those who have lost family members. It also offers a way out for those who see in death the loss of all individual and collective efforts, for those who believe that life is not worth it since we are going to die, that it makes no difference whether one lives 5 or 100 years, whether one strives for something or not because in the end, everything will end. Only eternity can give meaning to someone like this; only that can remove the idea that life is a waste.

Thus, both things combine: the idea that the soul survives the body with the desire that it continues living indefinitely, giving rise to the soul’s immortality. These ideas become part of religious beliefs and then, at a later stage of development, philosophy and mathematics make them sophisticated by defending them with complex arguments that lend them more credibility. In this way, the soul ends up becoming something immaterial, of infinite duration, capable of grasping the most abstract notions and the noblest and most sublime aspirations. The idea of the immortal soul thus travels two paths: one among academics and scientists who combine it with the theories of the time, and another among common people who mix it with stories of mystery, miracles, and wonders.

Aside from personal reasons, there are also social and political reasons to ensure that belief in the immortality of the soul is not abandoned. Religion and power have always gone hand in hand. Through education, these ideas are instilled and perpetuated not only to maintain cultural identity but also to use it to control people. The idea of a soul that is eternally punished for its evil or, conversely, is rewarded for its humility and obedience, is an example of this. The immortality of the soul does not come alone but with stories that use it to instill fear or hope, support ideas, and sustain wars. Therefore, it is not easy to abandon these ideas. It would be emotionally overwhelming for people, especially for those who cling to the existence of their loved ones or their own existence. And it would be an affront to the powers behind those ideas using them to their advantage. However, these are emotional and political reasons, not concerned with the truth. If truth is the concern, one thing is clear: a mortal soul makes things easier for us; an immortal one complicates them, and truth prefers simplicity.

What is philosophy of science?

Modern science today encompasses countless areas or disciplines that seem distinct from one another. On one side, we have the so-called hard sciences: physics, chemistry, biology, and mathematics, although the latter is often seen as being of a different nature from the other three. On the other side, we have the human sciences, which are said to be speculative, far from experimentation, lacking the generality and cohesion expected of scientific disciplines—thus, they have been called soft sciences in contrast to the former. The philosophy of science has dealt with both hard and soft sciences, but the bulk of research has concentrated on the former, especially physics, which philosophers consider the model or paradigm of experimental science. I do not wish to discuss here whether the social sciences represent knowledge of a different nature than hard sciences, which would lead us to the debate over the fairness of comparing social sciences to hard sciences and then labeling them as soft. For now, I only want to mention that, at least programmatically, the philosophy of science also includes the so-called social sciences, although studies on them by philosophers of science are not as abundant as those on other sciences.

Are astrology, palmistry, superstitious beliefs, or indigenous worldviews subjects of study in the philosophy of science? They are only insofar as the philosophy of science attempts to draw the line between what is scientific and what is not, but no further. Determining what is science and what is not is, of course, one of the problems of the philosophy of science. However, initially, it takes the concept of science for granted. It assumes that physics, mathematics, and other disciplines embody scientific knowledge and then reflects on various aspects of them. From there, general questions arise—questions about characteristics common to all sciences. What do physics, chemistry, biology, and mathematics have in common? What do Galileo’s refutation of Aristotle’s theory of weight-acceleration relations and Pasteur’s refutation of spontaneous generation have in common? What do the development of the theory of elliptical planetary orbits and the understanding of the atom's internal structure share? As the philosophy of science delves into such questions, it ultimately confronts issues related to the scientific method, hypothesis formulation, measurement, mathematization, scientific explanation, prediction, experimentation, the relationship between theories and the world, induction and deduction, scientific communities, and the role of biases in theory development, among other topics.

However, the philosophy of science can be more specific. It can focus on a single discipline. How is truth determined in mathematical knowledge? What are the differences between actual and potential infinity? Should numbers be understood as classes, functions, or constructions from basic intuitions, as Brower believed? These are specific problems in one branch of the philosophy of science: the philosophy of mathematics. The same can be done for each hard science, allowing us to find philosophy of physics, chemistry, biology, etc. Specialization also leads to comparisons between disciplines, raising questions about whether some sciences are reducible to others, whether certain theories can be extrapolated to other fields of knowledge, or at least offer guidance on how theories should be structured in those other fields. This gives rise to problems such as whether chemistry is reducible to physics, whether the probabilistic models of quantum physics can be applied to predicting human or social behavior, or whether there is a difference in nature or degree between mathematics and other disciplines. Thus, the various fields of study within the philosophy of science are completed.

Therefore, we can now offer a vague definition of the philosophy of science. It studies scientific knowledge—its nature, structure, function, relation to the world, importance, as well as the procedures, discovery or invention stories that lead to such knowledge, scientific communities, and how they behave and relate to their surroundings. This can be done either on a general level or a specific one, often comparing, distinguishing, and sometimes extrapolating. As we can see, the subject matter of the philosophy of science is vast, but even so, it is just one branch of philosophy in general. If I could decide, I would say that it is a branch of other branches, if the internal division within philosophy makes any sense at all.

Among those approaching the philosophy of science, a concern about its usefulness often arises. What is the purpose of the philosophy of science? Why study it? Assuming these are not rhetorical questions born out of laziness or a lack of interest in philosophy, we should remember that usefulness is often a matter of creativity. Becoming aware of aspects of scientific knowledge can make us more tolerant of beliefs we consider superstitious, although for some, it only makes them more sectarian. It may improve the performance of scientists by making them aware of the intricacies of scientific knowledge, although for some, it may be confusing and distract them from their goals. However, most who engage in the philosophy of science do not do so because of its utility, nor are they concerned with finding applications. They do it because they enjoy seeing and understanding, because they like to gain clarity on these matters. They are intrigued by scientific knowledge, they take pleasure in its formulas, its heroic stories, its discoveries and applications. They want to know why scientific knowledge works, whether it is the only form of knowledge or whether there are other forms, whether we are justified in considering it a superior type of knowledge, and if so, in what sense, whether there is any possibility of objectivity in knowledge, and whether a “hard science” is possible for human beings and their societies. These questions concern them and drive the progress of the philosophy of science.

On the Uselessness and Unpopularity of Philosophy

In an era filled with technology—where the internet, smartphones, streaming platforms, and social media are widespread, where scientific progress and our understanding of the universe and our brains are continuously advancing, with robotics and AI approaching our own intelligence—one might question the importance, relevance, and contemporary value of philosophy. What does philosophy have to offer to a world leaning towards democratic, capitalist systems, with varying degrees of state control, a world dominated by energy-hungry powers on the brink of collapse?

What does it have to say to a world witnessing India, China, and Japan joining the exploration of space and the search for powerful and clean energy sources, alongside major European and North American powers? Writing a philosophy book for the general public in such a time is a bold move, both for the writer and for the institution that supports and promotes its publication. It is truly challenging—challenging because it must face the widespread prejudice that philosophy serves no purpose, and because it must compete with many other cultural products that are more widely applicable, more interesting, or more marketable.

Though it may sound cliché or repetitive, it is essential to mention these aspects when writing philosophy because those of us who are dedicated to it and want to make it accessible to a wider audience and spark their interest must confront this problem.

But then, what does philosophy offer the world today? In what way could it be useful or appealing? Without a doubt, philosophy is not as eye-catching as movies, TV shows, or social media. It is obvious that what has been considered philosophy up to now does not build bridges, produce food, or create jobs, at least not directly or evidently. This fact has led some to declare its uselessness once and for all, discarding it without even knowing it. But, on one hand, philosophy is useful, and on the other, our societies are filled with activities and products whose usefulness is doubtful, yet we still consider them valuable. This is the case with works of art, cinema, or music. Music, in itself, does not feed the hungry, nor can it build a bridge or solve unemployment. Yet, we value music to the point of paying for it, attending concerts, and admiring those who create it, even if it is unfamiliar to us. Someone might say that, in that case, music does have utility: its utility is to entertain, please, or express. But if that is so, then philosophy is also useful in that sense because it, too, entertains and pleases some. The difference is that music, cinema, and art can be appreciated much more easily and are more accessible to the general public.

To understand philosophy, one must dedicate time, effort, and patience. The appreciation of philosophy often comes after a lengthy period of engagement. However, since humans seek economy and practicality, we decide not to invest too much time, especially when we have urgent problems and do not perceive a reason to do so. From there, it’s just a small step to declare philosophy useless, and another to disdain it. And when we add to that its inherent difficulty, it’s easy to see why many who approach philosophy for the first time become frustrated, bored, or have an unpleasant experience.

Unpopularity, uselessness, consequences that few care about—all these are reasons why the general public does not like philosophy. Meanwhile, philosophers usually focus on their work and ignore the rest. They write philosophy for philosophers, not expecting another audience to engage with them, but if asked, they will say that their work is for those willing to make the effort to understand. They also often defend themselves by saying that philosophy is for the few, or that it doesn’t matter at all if people understand them. But even if they were understood, it remains difficult for ordinary people to read Plato or Aristotle directly without getting bored. This is another problem with philosophy: with some authors, there is no other way than to make the effort. The same goes for certain topics: some, by their nature, cannot be addressed or presented to the general public unless they have sufficient conceptual background to understand them. Therefore, it’s impossible to make all philosophy appealing and accessible to most people.

However, not everyone will become a philosopher; some just want to read a bit, learn something, broaden their knowledge, and understand. If these are the aspirations of the non-philosophical public when it comes to written works, why not offer them just that: something attractive and interesting so they can understand what philosophy says and has said? I believe that this is both possible and necessary. Philosophers should not only work within their circles, focusing on their respective topics—some dedicated to truth, others to interpretation, persuasion, or expression. They should also work for the public, to improve the image of philosophy and make it accessible to many people. Some philosophers may find this task disdainful, whether due to anti-capitalist or anti-market prejudices, or because they believe doing so would diminish their work. I respect those prejudices, but from my perspective, it’s important to combat error, and what deeply bothers me is the widespread prejudice people hold against philosophy, and the responsibility that falls on many philosophers for not combating that prejudice.

On the Intentions of Philosophers

What intention, purpose, or aim do philosophers have when they engage in philosophy? Well, that depends on many factors. Some philosophers investigate, pose questions, answer them, challenge those answers, clarify them, reformulate them, abandon them, enrich their position with other perspectives, turn to science or personal and/or external experience, challenge themselves, and so on. Other philosophers simply express themselves, share what they feel, think, or what comes from their soul; their language is primarily emotional and evaluative. Others also want to change the world, society, so they exhort people to act and engage in radical criticism of the status quo. What is it that each one of them intends? One seeks to clarify things, to understand, or if you will, to find the truth. And the other? The other just wants to vent, to express themselves, to say how they feel at a given moment, how they see things. But they have no intent regarding others at that moment, perhaps only communicating it to themselves or doing it to find emotional relief. And what about those who want a particular form of society? They want to convince and move others to action, to gain followers and, with them, make their vision of society a reality.

Now, some philosophers, after their investigation or reflection, want to communicate their ideas in an organized, clear, and polished way. So, they write. Some write with the purpose of being read by others, evaluated, approved, or disapproved according to certain evaluation criteria. These criteria generally include valid arguments and probable or true premises (in the case of argumentative philosophy) or that the descriptions match the evidence, what is shown or seen (in the case of descriptive philosophy). There are other criteria for evaluating this form of philosophy; for instance, the extent to which a reflection maximizes understanding of a subject is also valued, and even secondary matters of style are considered. What do philosophers who write in this way seek? They only seek to be read or heard, properly understood, and honestly evaluated. If the result of that evaluation is positive, it’s welcome; if negative, corrections and adjustments must be made. That is one way of doing philosophy, and those are the aims of this approach.

But what about the other philosophers, the ones who write to vent? At some point, they also want to share their writings. What do they seek with this? Well, perhaps they found what they wrote appealing and want others to enjoy it. But perhaps they simply want to share, to have others read and understand them, and that’s it. One thing seems certain: they don’t care about being evaluated in terms of whether they provide a good argument or if what they say aligns with reality. Rather, they are interested in sharing their generally pessimistic point of view about reality. They don't aim to impact anyone, and their work is not made with that purpose. If it happens to have some impact, it wasn’t within the writer’s deeper intentions. Philosophers of this type just want others to read and understand them, and if by chance readers share the same view or attitude, so much the better, as that means there will be identification, that they will find in those writings the expression of their own thoughts and feel that they are not alone, that there are others like them. But generally, these philosophers don’t write with the intention of making all that happen. Optimistic philosophers or those of a poetic tendency also belong to this group; all of them simply want to communicate their perspective and perhaps, just perhaps, move others to share it.

Philosophers committed to criticizing and changing society are very similar to the first group in their phase of investigation and reflection, and very similar to the second in their phase of communication. Their central theme is determining whether this is a good society, and if not, what would be a better one and how it could be achieved. Thus, a large part of their reflections is about criticizing society, which often serves as a way to introduce their proposal for society. This is often accompanied by exhortations, calls to action, and transformation. These philosophers also present arguments and counter-arguments, but attempting to evaluate them in the same way as the first group is inappropriate because their arguments have a different intention: to lead to a negative assessment of society and to do something to change the situation for the better. Nothing prevents, of course, the inclusion of important facts in their arguments, but their language is emotionally charged and filled with ethical evaluations. In their preliminary investigations, these philosophers seek a worldview with which to commit, and for that reason, they wander from place to place in apparent confusion. But once they commit, their tentative style becomes more resolute, and they then seek to have others commit to the same vision. What do these authors aim for when they publish or communicate? They not only want to be heard; they want to generate change, transformation, to move people to action, to have others share their worldview, or at least awaken critical awareness of their surroundings. Of the three types of philosophers mentioned, this one is the most outwardly oriented in its goals. The first group hopes to be read, understood, and evaluated; this group also wants to be read and understood, and evaluated (particularly in terms of strategies or methods, since values are usually not examined), but above all, they hope that if the reader agrees, they will join their cause, and if they disagree, they will still engage. The second type of philosopher wants to share their vision, have others read and understand it, nothing more. This type also wants to share their vision but seeks something more: for people to commit to that vision and take action. The same can be said for defenders of the status quo, as they proceed similarly, only in the opposite direction: they find faults in novel proposals and highlight the virtues of traditional forms.

Of course, most philosophers have elements of all three types. In general, their works combine the three styles to varying degrees. Now, how should we approach each philosopher? We already know that only the first type expects to be evaluated, that all three expect to be understood, and that the third also wants to move others to action. To understand philosophy, we must determine exactly what each philosopher tends toward: truth, expression, or motivating action. Now, to assess the quality of philosophical works, there are many criteria, as one can evaluate the writing, clarity, coherence, plausibility, but also beauty, impact, and effectiveness in persuasion. A philosopher of the first tendency is more interested in the first type of evaluation; the second is not very interested in evaluation, though they can be evaluated in many ways; the third is generally open to evaluating strategies but not the intentions or values from which their idea of society is generated.

On Criticism

Nobody wants to criticize. Socially intelligent people avoid making criticisms because they know from experience that doing so is the easiest way to earn disfavor. It is a fact confirmed by social psychology: we tend to like people who agree with us in everything more than those who differ, even if slightly. In our unconscious, criticism is taken as an affront, leading us to reject those who criticize us. Yet, what would the world be without it? Science, philosophy, and even politics would be unthinkable. As painful as it may be, criticism serves an important function: it drives change and, sometimes, progress. Nevertheless, critics are often condemned for the reasons mentioned above. A significant step was taken the day someone curbed their natural tendency toward confrontation and self-defense and calmly considered the criticisms made against them. And it was a great act of nobility the day a criticism was made not to discredit or destroy but to highlight flaws and motivate improvement.

We often distinguish between destructive and constructive criticism. To differentiate between the two, we rely on contextual clues. The timing of the criticism, the audience, the words used, the tone, gestures, etc., are some of these clues. Of course, we also consider the degree of objectivity, that is, how much the criticism aligns with reality. Given the number of factors involved in recognizing well-intentioned criticism, making one that is effective yet does not hurt another's self-esteem or feelings is often a challenge. It is also a challenge to recognize constructive intent in a person who, when offering criticism, is not particularly skilled at managing contextual cues. In academia, a bit of everything is mixed, but it is always aimed at ensuring that objectivity outweighs contextual clues. For this reason, written criticism is often preferred over oral debate, as passions tend to flare up in the latter, causing the pursuit of greater understanding or clarity to be completely forgotten. This is not the case in politics, the workplace, neighborhoods, or homes. There, criticism is often aimed at damaging someone's image or hurting their self-esteem. There is no intention of promoting positive change in the other person; it is simply a battle where the loser is the one left publicly humiliated or emotionally wounded. And yet, criticism is important: whether to grow, attack, or defend.

Considered on its own, criticism is neither good nor bad, neither constructive nor destructive. It can be true or false, fair or unfair, reasonable or not. It is the intention behind it and how we interpret it that makes it destructive or constructive. In any case, following certain guidelines can reduce the chances of it being taken negatively. Good or bad, criticism has its place in the world. Neither condemning nor marginalizing it: use it wisely for the various purposes we assign it, and if we are criticized, learn to identify not only the intentions but also the degree of objectivity, so we can take advantage of it if appropriate and respond accordingly to each situation.

What is philosophy?

To ask what philosophy is, is equivalent to asking for the definition of the term "philosophy." However, a term can be defined in various ways: either by showing the objects to which it applies or by offering information that allows us to identify those objects. Ideally, in the case of "philosophy," it would be preferable to offer the latter type of definition. However, this is not possible due to the diversity of topics, problems, purposes, and styles encompassed by the term. The only thing that can be done in this regard is to provide a vague characterization that, although it may not capture the essence of philosophy, gives us an idea of it.

Almost all philosophers claim to seek the truth in their reflections, and it is the desire to find it that gives rise to their work. Even though it is sometimes said that their only goal is understanding, a good understanding often involves a particular conception of truth. This does not mean that philosophers do not occasionally have other kinds of goals; in fact, it can be said that the overall purpose of some of their works seems to be mixed: besides truth, they also aim to provoke action or cause an emotional impact. Nevertheless, most of philosophy can be better understood if conceived as striving for truth, even though philosophers differ in their concept of truth and in the activities they undertake to determine it.

Given the above, philosophical activity can be characterized as the attempt to formulate, justify, and/or evaluate problems and their solutions. These problems may involve the interpretation of philosophical texts or address topics such as human knowledge, moral behavior, the origin of existence, the most general features of what is, the meaning of life and happiness, society, and human culture, among others. The styles in which these solutions are expressed are also diverse: meditations, dialogues, treatises, aphorisms, and essays are some of them.

Philosophy is marked by a strong ambivalence: sometimes it emphasizes solid argumentation and conceptual clarity; other times, it is not very argumentative and is expressed in difficult language. Sometimes it deals with general and abstract topics, and sometimes with concrete or specific aspects. At times, it has systematic and all-encompassing ambitions, and at other times, it addresses detailed problems without any intention of connecting them. At moments, it considers the search for foundations to be its most important task (although what it considers fundamental depends entirely on its approach and interests); at other times, it declares this enterprise a failure and places most questions on the same level. Generally, philosophy questions almost everything. As a result, it not only has diverse criteria for evaluation, methods, and notions of truth, but it has also proposed different forms of society and culture, as well as various visions of reality (whatever that may be), which do not correspond to the thinking of the majority. However, there are also times when philosophy has turned conservative, attacking anything that challenges the order and beliefs accepted by the majority.

The Role of the Philosopher

From the above, it follows that the roles of the philosopher can also be diverse. In general, philosophers are engaged in the formulation, justification, and/or evaluation of philosophical problems and their solutions. Some philosophers consider this task to be primarily discursive, theoretical, and conceptual. Others believe that, in addition to that, it should also include the practical aspect, that is, putting words into action. For example, among philosophers who reflect on society and human culture, some believe their role is purely theoretical, while others believe they must also take action. Sometimes, philosophers of the latter type try to persuade others to adopt their approach. The discussions in this regard never cease, but each one is committed to their chosen way of doing philosophy.

The Usefulness of Philosophy

Given that philosophical products are so diverse and cover such different topics, it is to be expected that each of them will have different applications. For example, the new social, political, economic, or cultural orders proposed by philosophy would give rise to societies very different from our own if they were taken seriously. Positions such as realism, phenomenalism, or solipsism, if understood, would imply a change of vision similar to that experienced by a person transitioning from a common-sense view to a scientific view of reality. Various historians of science have also recognized the importance of philosophy in the origin, development, and organization of different fields of study. Psychology, sociology, and political science are some of them.

However, sometimes the question of the usefulness of philosophy becomes a question of the benefit or advantage that can be derived from it. The benefit that can be derived from philosophy is relative and depends on factors such as the creativity of the person seeking to benefit from it and the purpose for which they intend to use it. Some have found in philosophy the peace they were seeking, others the ideological foundation for their political discourse or the direction they needed for their lives, etc. But there are also those whose lives have become more bitter upon encountering philosophy, and those who have committed great atrocities in its name.

At times, the question of the usefulness of philosophy turns into the simple and plain question: what do philosophers live on? Well, the vast majority of those who practice philosophy make a living by teaching, either in schools or universities. Some also receive money for research. Others are employed by Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) dedicated to defending the environment or human rights or are part of a political group whose ideas they disseminate and defend.

Discussions Between Philosophical Schools

At times, different philosophical schools or trends engage in endless discussions about what is and is not philosophy, excluding each other from the field. Sometimes these discussions are motivated by the desire for dominance, in which case they are battles between schools to secure a place in history, in universities, or to dispute resources allocated to dissemination and research. But sometimes these discussions occur out of ignorance and misunderstanding. What is often ignored in these disputes is that the schools in question are so different in their principles that dialogue between them is impossible. They have such different notions of truth, criteria, and methods of evaluation that understanding and agreement become impossible. From our perspective, however, despite their differences, each of these schools is as much a part of philosophy as the other, and all of them, at least intellectually, are on the same level as one another.