[5] {3}

[6] {4}

I. THE INTELLECTUAL FUNCTION

II. TRUTH AND SCIENCE

III. SCIENCE, PHILOSOPHY, INTELLECTUAL LIFE[7] {5}

The intellectual life today finds itself in a profoundly paradoxical situation.

On one hand, there are only two or three moments of history which can be compared with the present in quantity and quality of new scientific discoveries. It is important to emphasize this without the least reserve; indeed, it should be recognized with enthusiasm and pride. Greek metaphysics, Roman Law, and the religion of Israel (leaving aside its divine origin and destiny) are the three most stupendous products of the human spirit. The act of absorbing them in a radical and transcendent unity constitutes one of the most splendid historical manifestations of Christianity's internal possibilities. Only modern science can be equated in magnificence to the legacy of these three. Yet at the same time it is difficult to understand the uneasiness which inevitably pursues anyone who dedicates himself to an intellectual profession. Despite so much science, so true, so fertile and so central to our life, to which so much human toil has been consecrated, the intellectual of today, if he is sincere, finds himself surrounded by confusion, disoriented, and intimately discontented with himself. This, naturally, is not the result of his knowledge.

I. Confusion in science. This does not refer to the radical confusion which may reign in some of the most perfect sciences of our time, such as physics and mathematics. Such presumed confusion is on the contrary more a sign of vitality, because it involves a crisis of principles. A {6}science is, in fact, really knowledge and not simply a collection of facts insofar as it derives formally from its principles, and insofar as it returns to them from each of its results. Ordinary scientific progress is never comparable to that which is made when old principles are clarified and new ones sketched out and modeled; Aristotle, Archimedes, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, and Planck are names marking off the decisive epochs in the history of physics, each inaugurating a new era of this science.

The confusion to which I refer is not this crisis of principles. It [8] is something different and more serious:

1. Each one of the many sciences existing today almost completely lacks a "border" circumscribing the realm of its existence. Any conjunction of facts which is homogeneous constitutes a science. And when, within this science, a group of problems, methods, or results acquires sufficient development to attract by itself the attention of the scientist and distract him from other problems, it is automatically constituted as a "new" science. The system of the sciences is identified with the division of intellectual labor, and the definition of each science is identified with the homogeneous conjunction of questions with which the scientist deals. In fact, all that is necessary to constitute a new science is a certain quantity of items known. But it is unclear where a science begins or leaves off, because it is not known, strictly speaking, of what the science treats. In order to know of what something treats, it is necessary to fix its proper object, both formally and specifically. The first confusion reigning in the present-day scientific panorama is due to the confusion about the object of each science.

2. All of the sciences find themselves situated in the same plane. Not only do they lack systematic unity, they do not even have a unity of perspective. One viewpoint is as good as another. There exists no difference of rank among the diverse "knowledges" of present-day humanity. In being "scientific", all fields of knowledge possess the same rank. It seems as though exactly the opposite situation has come about from what Descartes described when he said that all the sciences, taken {7} in conjunction, constitute one single thing: the understanding. In place of this unity, which essentially implies unity of perspective, with differences of rank, we have a conjunction of disparate fields of knowledge, projected onto a single plane. The second confusion which science produces is owing to this unparalleled dispersion of human knowledge.

And this "scientific plane" is determined by the knowledge of what are called the "facts". Every science begins, in effect, with a positum: the object, which "is there", and which is not considered except insofar as it is there. It seems, then, that all sciences are supposed to be equivalent insofar as they are sciences, precisely because all are "positive". The radical positivization of science acts as a leveling influence on principles. Yet no one stops to consider that perhaps not all objects are susceptible to equal [9] positivization. And in such case, if this "being there" were not the same for every class of objects, the positivization would not be leveling, and the sciences, even the most positive, would have in their proper integral object a principle of hierarchical subordination.

II. Disorientation in the world. The problem is that the intellectual function does not have a definite place in today's world. Not, certainly, on account of any lack of interest, but because this function has been converted into a kind of secretion of truths, let them come from where they may and be about what they will. Before this deluge of bits of positive knowledge the world begins to form a dangerous sieve of truths, based squarely on the presumed interest which they offer; interest which is quickly converted into immediate utility. The intellectual function is measured only by its utility, and everything else tends to be dismissed as simply curiosity. In this way, science goes on converting itself into a technology.

And this, which might appear nothing more than unfortunate, is in reality something much more serious. The world, which thus measures everything by its utility, progressively begins to lose the consciousness of its ends, ie. begins to not know what it wants. And then there supervenes all the deafening clamor, pro and con, about the "intellectual", because in reality the world does not know where it is going. In place of a world, we have a chaos, and in it {8} the intellectual function likewise varies chaotically. More than a century ago Hegel said:

...it is not difficult to see that our epoch is a birth-time, and a period of transition. The spirit of man has broken with the old order of things hitherto prevailing, and with the old ways of thinking, and is in the mind to let them all sink into the depths of the past and to set about its own transformation. It is indeed never at rest, but carried along by the stream of progress ever onward. But it is here as in the case of the birth of a child; after a long period of nutrition in silence, the continuity of the gradual growth in size, by quantitative change, is suddenly cut short by the first breath drawn-there is a break in the process, a qualitative change-and the child is born. In like manner the spirit of the time, growing slowly and quietly ripe for the new form it is to assume disintegrates one fragment after another of the structure of its previous world. That it is tottering to its fall is indicated only by symptoms here and there. Frivolity and again ennui, which are spreading in the established order of things, the undefined foreboding of something unknown-all these betoken that there is something else approaching. This gradual crumbling to [10] pieces, which did not alter the general look and aspect of the whole, is interrupted by the sunrise, which, in a flash and at a single stroke, brings to view the form and structure of the new world.

And a special way of sinking consists in just doing nothing but living on in the imagination. A good number of "intellectuals", and not always those of minor scientific importance, live on contemplating their past image, impressively ignorant of the radical transformation which the physiognomy of the intellect is undergoing. One of the things which most impresses a historian who takes up the study of the epoch of Cassiodorus (c. 480-575) is to observe the ingenuity with which those men, who for us already find themselves in a new age of history, try to believe that they are doing nothing but continuing in an unbroken line the history of the Roman Empire. And listening to the best intellectuals, it seems as though we are doing nothing but returning to march along the "secure road of science". Everything will be resolved by reconquering the "scientific spirit", the "love of science". They forget that the intellectual function comes inscribed in a world, and that truths, even the most abstract, have been conquered in a world endowed with a precise meaning. The fact that such truths can float, without prejudice to their validity, from one world to another {9} has led to the impression that they are born outside of any world. This is not true. Mathematics itself got underway, in Greece, because of the cathartic function attributed to it by the Pythagoreans; later it was the road of ascent from the world to God and descent from God to the world; in Galileo it is the formal structure of nature. Grammar was born in ancient India, when the need was sensed to manipulate with absolute liturgical correctness the sacred texts, to whose syllables a magic, evocative value was attributed; the necessity to avoid sin engendered grammar. Anatomy was born in Egypt of the necessity to immortalize the human body. One by one the most essential members were taken and solemnly declared sons of the Sun god; this inventory was the origin of anatomy. In India history was born of the necessity to faithfully set down the great past actions of the gods; fidelity and not simple curiosity engendered history in that country. No science escapes this condition. Therefore the fact that sciences acquire an extrahistoric and extraworldly character is an unequivocal index of [11] the fact that the world finds itself affected with internal decomposition.

Man, instead of limiting himself as the animals to acting in an environment, has to realize or lose objectives and sketch out methods or plans for his actions. The total system of these plans is his world. When the plans are converted into simple rules, when the objectives are transformed into pigeonholes, the world crumbles gradually. Men are converted into cogs and ideas are used, but not understood; the intellectual function lacks a precise meaning. One step more, and truth is deliberately renounced: ideas are converted simply into schemes for action, into recipes, and etiquettes. Science degenerates into an office, and the scientists into a social class: the "intellectuals."

III. Intimate discontent with himself. If the scientist, the "knower of things," and "possesser of ideas," upon seeing himself alone and isolated in the world, meditates and turns in upon himself, what does he find there by way of justification?

{10} He possesses, of course, some methods for knowing, which give splendid results, such as there have never been in any other epoch of history. The exuberance of scientific production reaches such degrees that we are left with the impression that the quantity of scientific discoveries enormously exceeds the actual capacities of men to understand them.

This is not an attempt to cast doubt on science or to support a facile pessimism which, in the final analysis, can only take hold in weak and pusillanimous intellects. Never has the human mind found itself with more possibilities than those which it now has at its disposal. But peering deeper and examining the situation honestly, we see:

1. That, for the scientist, his methods at times begin to have little to do with his understanding. The methods of science continue to be converted with dizzying speed into a simple technology of ideas or of facts-a species of meta-technology; but they have ceased to be what their name indicates: organs which examine evidence, ways which lead to truth itself.

2. That the scientist begins to be bothered that he knows too much. This is no accident. What confers an eminent rank on scientific production is the meaning which it possesses in the order of intellection of things, in the order of truth. By this meaning man is rector of his investigation, and by it he affirms himself to be in full possession of himself and his science. Now, in this conjunction [12] of methods and of results of enormous proportions, today's man, instead of finding himself in the truth, is lost among so manv truths. The intellectual is invaded, in the depths of his being, by a profound loathing of himself, which ascends, like a dense fog, from the exercise of his proper function.

And the problem is that his knowledge and his methods constitute a technology, but not an intellectual life. He is, at times as if asleep to truth, abandoned to the efficacy of his methods. It is a profound error to think that science is born through the mere fact that its object exists and that man possesses a faculty for understanding it. The Altamiran man and Descartes are distinguished not only by the fact that the latter is a philosopher and the former no; but also in that the {11} Altamiran man cannot philosophize. In order for science to be born and continue existing more is necessary than the naked faculty of producing it. Certain other possibilities must be given. Painfully and slowly, man has continued to weave a subtle and delicate web of possibilities for science. When it disintegrates, science ceases to be a living force and becomes an arid product, a cadaver of truth. Science is born only in an intellectual life. Not when man was, as if by chance, in possession of truths, but rather the other way around exactly, when he found himself possessed by the truth. In this "pathos" of truth science was created. The scientist of today has often ceased to carry on an intellectual life. In its place, he thinks he is able to content himself with its products; to satisfy, in the majority of cases, a simple intellectual curiosity.

Thus we have defined a situation by some of its essential characteristics:

1. The leveling positivization of knowledge

2. The disorientation of the intellectual function

3. The absence of an intellectual life.

More than fixed characteristics, these are tendencies observable in varying degrees. I said at the beginning of these lines that, for example, in some sciences a fertile crisis of principles is a symptom of abundant vitality. But it is evident that the reality of these three characteristics which we have just pointed out constitutes a radical danger to the understanding, an immanent risk that the life of truth may cease to exist. In this tragic fight where the fate of the intellect is decided, the intellectual and science are both engulfed at the same time in a peculiar situation, in our situation. Accordingly, the first thing [13] which ought to be done is to accept it as a reality and confront the problem which it poses: restoration of the intellectual life.

[14] {13}

If we look carefully, it is easy to see that these three characteristics are not the product of chance. They represent the three deviations to which, due to its makeup, the intellectual life finds itself exposed.

All science has as its ultimate goal truth. And in the very structure of truth the three dangers to which we have just referred are already lurking.

Truth is the intellectual possession of the "nature" of things. These things are held out to man and truth consists in nothing but the understanding examining their form. When the understanding expresses this situation we say that its thoughts possess truth. Or in other words, truth is, according to the traditional formula, an agreement of thought with things. What are the conditions of this agreement?

1. In the first place, there is something which is antecedent to exercise of the intellectual function: things themselves must be put-before" the understanding; that is, things have to be present to man. We leave aside any subsequent complications. Whatever may be the means and ways by which man can have things present, they have to be there. Otherwise it would be impossible to even begin to understand. We could, perhaps, think; but such pure thoughts would not by themselves be knowledge or true or false. And to this patency of things the name "truth" can be given in the most fundamental sense. Thus the {14}Greeks called it a-lethia-discovery, making patent. If all things were present [15] and manifest, in every detail and in their internal structure, the understanding would be nothing but a faithful mirror of reality. This is not what occurs. On the contrary, the presence of some things obscures that of others; the details of things do not manifest without further to-do their internal structure. For this reason the understanding sees itself enveloped in a problematic situation. It must learn to bring itself close to things, so that they manifest {15} themselves to it more each time. This mode or way of approaching things is what, since ancient times, has been called methodos, method. Method is nothing but the road which brings us to things; it is not a simple intellectual ordinance. So here is the first condition of truth: reliance on things themselves.

2. But the problem of truth is by no means exhausted with that. If it were, the understanding would do nothing but register things, once they were presented to it. To be sure, for centuries and centuries the understanding did only this, at least for the most part. But man does not always wait for things to pass before his eyes. The greatest conquests of modem physics are due to the audacious impulse with which man, instead of following nature, anticipates it by means of a question. Truth, as an agreement of the understanding with things, supposes a certain manner-fortunate or lucky-of asking after them. This does not refer to the generic questions which the intelligence, by its very nature, cannot [16] but ask. Every search, even the most modest, supposes that man asks himself why something occurs, what something is, etc. We do not mean this. Rather, we have in mind a concrete mode of formulating these generic questions. The meaning of "why?" is different in philosophy than in psychology. If someone asks why I move my arm, it is meaningless for the physiologist to reply "because I want to." It is one thing to ask why a phenomenon occurs, another to delimit with my question the area in which I am going to investigate the phenomenon and moreover force nature by questions to present phenomena which she otherwise would not have presented. These concrete methods of stating questions, or rather this primary and antecedent mode of approaching reality, is a prerequisite for any possible agreement with it. If one wishes to speak of methods, this one is not a method that leads simply to resolving problems which things of the world present, but rather a method which leads us to force things to present to us new problems. It is a method of interrogation more than of resolution. Thus, mathematics serves as a method of interrogation for physics. Truth, then, presupposes a system of antecedent questions with which the understanding confronts reality. {16}

3. Where is this system of questions born? Though indisputably part of them may belong to reality itself, this is not sufficient to illuminate the entire set. If it were, science would be consubstantial with man. There have been things ever since the world was the world, and there has been human understanding moving about asking "why" ever since there have been men. Nevertheless, science has a delayed history, slow and tortuous. Even in the most objective of the sciences, this historical conditionality is undeniable. There are problems which are only posed in certain epochs; moreover there are problems which are posed and resolved-perhaps by chance-in an epoch, but which are ignored in science because its historic state does not permit it to give meaning to them. The system of questions is born from the total structure of the situation of the human understanding.

These three conditions can be expressed, then, and ought to be expressed in reverse order: in his concrete situation, man sketches a Plan, a mode of bringing himself close to things and interrogating them, and only then do they give the reply which constitutes agreement with them: truth.

And here appears the tripartite danger to which the [17] understanding finds itself exposed in its quest for truth.

Man, in fact, does not have before him either all things or all of any one of them. But with these fragments of fragments, thanks precisely to the fact that their fragmentary character is unknown to him, man proceeds to constitute his world, that totality alone in which each one of the things is and can be given. It is obvious then that science begins by breaking down this ingenuous world so as to reduce it to its just cognitive proportions. These just proportions are expressed in the term "the facts:" what is before me, only in virtue of being there and insofar as it is there, without the least intervention on my part. Now, the facts thus understood tend to be reduced to empirical data. Scientific truth will consist in nothing but agreement with these data, and science will be simply a knowledge about their ordered concatenation. The reduction of things to facts, and of facts to sensible data, leads inexorably to the idea of an intellectual life in which all branches of knowledge are {17} equivalent and whose overall unity is given only in the encyclopedia of complete knowledge. Such was the work of positivism.

But above all during the 19th century, with another science at hand-theoretical physics-man understood the insufficiency of this construction. Modern physical science was born when the scientist decided to interrogate nature mathematically. Science needs to know how to interrogate things. And this "necessity" is imposed on the scientist by the mere act of proposing to himself to discover an intelligible order among empirical data. Truth is not something which is simply given, something which man happens into; truth is something more than a fact: it is a necessity. Man needs to know what things are going to occur, if he does not want to see himself lost among them. And this necessity is what led man to formulate his manner of confronting them. And like every necessity, it was then said, necessity of truth is a phenomenon of biological structure, and like all life, that of the understanding has to obey at least the law of maximum yield with minimum expenditure of energy. Via its questioning science manages to reduce the enormous variety of sensible data to a few simple relations which permit it to foresee the course of various phenomena. More than seeing, science is foreseeing. And therefore, as it used to be said fifty years ago, economy of thought leads to examination of phenomena with precision and to [18] encapsulating them in mathematical formulae. Each formula is a potential conjunction of innumerable phenomena, which enables man to manage their future course with maximum security and simplicity. Truth is an agreement with things, but above all with things in the future; therefore viewed from the present, a true law of nature is nothing but an attempt to dominate the course of these things. The intellectual life is then the progressive creation of formulae which permit reality to be managed with maximum simplicity. Its truth is measured solely by its efficacy. This is pragmatism, the natural extension of positivism.

But pragmatism, while emphasizing the formulative and symbolic character of all interrogation, has pointed out a deeper root: the vital necessity. For pragmatism, the mental life is a special case of biology. Now, this assimilation {18} seems to go too far, because it is so simplistic. The mental life, and human life generally, are not purely biological. With biological roots and mechanisms, man the zoion unites a bios. It would be more exact (although still insufficient) to say that human biology is a particular case of the human bios. And life thus understood always arises from a situation, in which it moves and unfolds. Only within this situation does thought acquire meaning and structure. It is certain that truth cannot be achieved other than by a special manner of drawing near to things, but this manner is already given in the general mode with which man by his bios is situated before them. The dynamism of historical situations is what conditions the origin of our mode of approaching reality, be it moulded in an explicit question-set or no. And this historical situation also subtly alters the meaning of truth. Historical situations-thus it was believed, at least during the 19th century-are states of the Spirit; however objective one may wish to make them, they remain only states of the Spirit, and truth itself as well as science are nothing but an aspect of these states. Employing the terminology then in use, if we call the product of historical reality "culture," science will be nothing but a form of a cultural state. It expresses the intellectual aspect of an historical situation; it is a cultural value. Truth is the value corresponding to understanding, and, like every other value, it exists only by virtue of the meaning it acquires in a situation. Each epoch, each people, has its system of values, its own way of understanding the universe-more valid in some than in others, but a reflection always of an historical situation-without [19] any of them having the right to usurp the character of unique and absolute. Historicism is a ready ally of pragmatism.

Positivism, pragmatism, and historicism are the three great aberrations to which, in one form or another, truth is exposed due to its tripartite intellectual structure. Truth is the expression of what there is in things, and if these are understood as mere empirical data, one slips gradually toward positivism. Truth is not conquered except through a mode of interrogating reality; and if this interrogation is understood as a human necessity of successfully controlling the course of events, one steers {19} toward pragmatism. Truth does not exist except in a determinate situation; if this is understood as an objective state of the Spirit, one is submerged in historicism. And these three aberrations are not independent. Viewed from its ultimate source, the historical situation of European man leads him to invest a good part of his life in scientific intelligence; therefore he sees himself compelled to give intellectual form to his way of drawing near to things, and thanks to this formulation he is able to discover and state precisely what things are as facts.

It is probably not difficult to recognize that at the bottom of the three characteristics which we previously discovered in our intellectual situation, there lie more or less explicitly these three attitudes toward truth and toward science. It is certain that except in isolated cases, no one could be found today capable of subscribing wholeheartedly to any of these three conceptions. Anyone even slightly concerned with philosophical questions will sense in them something definitely dated and past. But it would be a great illusion to believe that their effects disappear when their intellectual hegemony disappears. They are no longer fashionable perhaps as theories of science, but they left us in the intellectual situation in which we debate today. The dispersive and levelling character of knowledge is the natural result of the positivist attitude. The technicism of our scientific labor is nothing but pragmatism in action. The absence of a true intellectual life and the attention directed preferentially to various states of civilization with their different "ways of viewing" things are, to a very great degree, a radical historicism. If one asks, then, what is understood today in the majority of cases by an intellectual life, it would be easy to obtain replies such as these: the intellectual life is an effort to order facts in an ever increasing and more coherent scheme; it is [20] an enrichment of the encyclopedia of knowledge. The intellectual life is an effort to simplify and dominate the course of events; it is the efficacious technology of ideas. The intellectual life is our manner of seeing the facts; the expression of our European curiosity. And in all three cases a mere enunciation of the formula makes anyone who is considering an intellectual profession today slow down and proceed with caution. They are three conceptions {20} which express, more than the nature of science, the immanent danger of its internal decomposition.

Let us linger a bit, nevertheless, on a reflection about the common root of these aberrations. Truth began presenting itself to us as an agreement with things, or if one prefers, as effort to be in agreement with them. But included in this idea of "agreement" there is a serious equivocation which must be brought to light. Listening to these diverse conceptions of science, one observes that in all of them the effort of arriving at this agreement is emphasized ever more energetically, so energetically, that one has the vague impression that, for them, the primary situation of man must be that of being deprived of things. It seems that science consists in giving us things of which primarily and radically we would be dispossessed. That in large measure this is so, there is no need to insist here. But I am not referring to that; it is not a question of ascertaining the greater or lesser quantity of things which man knows or does not know primarily. I refer to something more serious: to whether, by its own proper internal quality this privation of objects is basic to the understanding. And this is not a question of science, but rather something which affects the general structure of thought inasmuch as it is thought.

By an external analogy with the presumed "sensible world," one is inclined to believe that the primary function of thought must be that of forming ideas, in the same way that the senses, abandoned to themselves, would give us nothing but impressions. Thought would be a species of intellectual sensibility or sensation. Is this correct?

Ideas are rather the result of thinking activity. And many times this has caused an overlooking of the hidden principio of thought itself By its proper objective structure, thought, in contrast to the senses, does not have its roots in a mere impression; or in other words, it is not the impression which primarily constitutes the nature of thinking. Thought, by virtue of its proper structure [21] cannot receive any impression if it is not unfolding, so to speak, its content. The most elemental act of thinking unfolds something in two planes: The thing that is and that which it is. The "is" is the formal objective structure of thinking. In virtue of it, for thought, things are not its (thinking's) impressions, they are not simply something {21} which thought happens upon, but rather the mode of "having them" is paradoxically "placing them at a distance," understanding that they "are". We do not only "have" things, but also things "are" in such and such a manner. The radical difference between the senses and thought is, then, a difference of placement," so to speak, before their object: the senses "have" impressions, thinking understands that they "are." Without this primary objective dimension of thinking, one could not speak of thought. It is what distinguishes thought fundamentally from every form of sensing. The most modest of sense data is for thought an expression of something which is. And as thought and sensibility are not functions necessarily separated, it follows that in every sensible perception this aspect of the "is" must be included because of the fact that man, even within the empirical sphere, moves in a world of things, and is not simply immersed in impressions. I am not discussing philosophical theories here, only giving a mere immediate description of the act of thinking. Thanks to this constitutive unfolding of the "is", thinking finds itself before things, understanding from them what they are. And what they are to this understanding is what are called "Ideas.' Therefore, as I said, the idea is not the beginning, but the result of the thinking function. And moreover ideas, although in me, are of things.

It is certain, then, that thought must conquer things, but this is so because thought is already moving among them. And here is the great equivocation to which I alluded above. Truth, as an agreement with things, always supposes a previous "being among them." There is a radical and primary truth (and if one wishes also a falsity, we prescind from the problem) of the understanding: its constitutive immersion in things. Therefore one can resolve to be [22] or not be in agreement with them, because antecedently one is with them and among them. Truth, as an agreement between an affirmation {22} and a reality, is always something secondary and derived; there is a primary truth, which is precisely that which establishes the necessity of discerning some things from others, and of evaluating this discernment with the logos. It is for this reason that a primary and ineluctable unity between thought and things is constitutive to the three conditions of truth, to which I alluded above. We leave aside the philosophical problem posed by this unity.

Now, it is easy to see that the common root of the three aberrations discussed above is to be found in the simultaneous theoretical and practical neglect of this radical objective dimension of thinking and of truth. Such neglect puts us in the presence of an interpretation of thought which continues ever reducing it to a mere impression. From here to considering it as only a state of man (of the senses, of life, or of an historical situation, it matters little), there is only a short step. Or in other words, present day thought in science is tending vertiginously to the loss of its object: things. This loss is the common essence of the three characteristics of our intellectual situation. One ends up not knowing what he knows or what he is looking for. But if one considers science as a penetration ever deeper and more extensive into a world of objects in which we are constitutively immersed, the situation changes instantly and completely. The positum is not a mere sensible impression; simplicity in the control of phenomena is not a blind biological utility; the historical situation in which we find ourselves placed is not a mere objective form of the Spirit. In any of these three aspects, man cannot conceive of himself nor understand himself unless he is in and with things. And therefore the three essential conditions of truth cannot be identified with positivism, with pragmatism, or with historicism. It is things which instruct our efforts. Therefore science is not a simple addition of truths which man possesses, but rather the unfolding of an understanding possessed by truth. Hence the sciences cannot be found merely juxtaposed, but rather stand in need of each other to capture diverse facets and planes of diverse profundity, of a single real object. The intellectual life is a constant struggle to maintain itself in this primary and integral unity.

{23}But clearly, it is not enough to merely say so. The three [21] characteristics which we have singled out above define, by some of their features, our situation, and manifest the urgent need to reconquer the sense of the object. Our task consists in large measure in accomplishing this given our own situation. It is certain that the object, precisely in virtue of being constitutive of thinking, is never absent from it, not even in our present-day situation. But in this situation it happens to be particularly obscured. Perhaps in this obscurity many conceptions of the "object," probably insostenable, are very seriously guilty. We must bear in mind that through varying in scope and depth, depending on the situation, nothing which has ever occurred lacks meaning. Therefore I do not refer here to a mere reconquest, but rather a radical restatement of the problem, with clear eyes and an open mind.

[24] {25}

With all of the foregoing, nothing but the first step imposed by our situation has been shown: man's turning in upon himself to see clearly "where he is." It is by no means evident that man possesses sufficient energy to maintain himself alone with himself, an not shun or flee this aloneness. Therefore the salvation of the intellectual life does not depend only or even primarily on understanding itself. Science, as we said, was born only when the possibilities which permitted its existence were produced. Man had to put into play something which induced him to know. And this something posed the deepest problem of existence. The present-day extirpation of the understanding is nothing but an aspect of the extirpation of integral existence. Only that which can newly refound existence in its primigenial root can reestablish in full measure the noble exercise of the intellectual life. Since ancient times, this refounding of existence has had a well defined overseer: it is called "religation" or "religion." In a work published five years ago I treated of the problem. I refer the reader to it, so that he will not jump to the conclusion that I am thinking in terms of vague romantic notions, or that I allude to any type of religious practices. I mean the primary and fundamental religation of existence.

But if in this reestablishment the understanding is not a sufficient condition, it nevertheless remains a necessary one. And the primary mission of the understanding is that of clarifying the situation to which it has come and converting it into a problem.

{26} But in trying to confront the radical dimensions of the situation in which it finds itself, the understanding confronts itself (by a process very different from the Cartesian), and observes' that it is involved in a series of questions presented by that situation.

1. The problem of the positivization of knowledge is a problem [25] which affects every form of positive knowledge and every positive reality. And the understanding does not simply see itself buffeted from one region of this reality to another, nor from one mode of positive knowledge to another; rather, by encompassing in its glance everything positive, the understanding makes it the object of a trans-positive or transcendental consideration. And such knowledge is not of this or that, but of everything, albeit in a different manner. It is not one more branch of knowledge among others, but a new type of knowledge.

2. Analogously the problem of disorientation in the world will lead us to a consideration of the diverse forms and visions of the world, not so that we can hop from one to another, nor so that we can take pleasure in the simple contemplation of a museum of conceptions of the world and of life, but so that we can encompass them together in one consideration which is, so to speak, trans-mundane, transcendental.

3. The problem of the absence of an intellectual life will lead us, finally, to a consideration of the understanding, a consideration which embraces all possible forms of its exercise, not to opt for one in preference to the others, but in order to clarify the nature of the intellectual function as such. This is one species of trans-intellectual or transcendental consideration.

Once one reflects a little, he will see that under one form or another, in its radical solitude-not an abstract solitude, but the concrete solitude of its present day situation-the understanding, upon performing this task of turning in upon itself, is moving squarely in the direction of the three fundamental ideas aforementioned. The positivization of knowledge conduces to the idea of everything that is, through the mere fact of existing, i.e. to the idea of being. The disorientation of the world leads to clarifying the idea of the world as such. {27}The absence of intellectual life reveals to us the nature of the understanding as such, that is, the theoretical life. Upon exercising this function, the understanding finds itself exercising an authentic intellectual life, in a world of problems perfectly oriented, with all realities in their deepest and total concretion.

Philosophy is nothing else. Philosophy is simply "transcendental knowledge." I do not believe it necessary to insist that this adjective involves no allusion whatever to idealist terminology.

Philosophy is not, by any means, a sufficient condition for [26] restoring the life of the understanding; but it is nonetheless a necessary condition for doing so. And this, not on account of any fortunate congruence of philosophy with that mission, but rather because philosophy consists precisely in the problems of being, of the world, and of theory, which are posed by the simple turning in of the understanding upon itself.

Reciprocally, one can say that, from a purely intellectual point of view, the problematic and paradoxical situation in which man finds himself today signifies, in the final analysis, absence of philosophy. "As strange," said Hegel at the beginning of his Logic "as a people for whom their political rights, inclinations, and habits have been abrogated is the spectacle of a people who have lost their metaphysics, of a people in whom the spirit has no existence, and who are preoccupied with their own essence." And, like Plato, he invites us to retire "to the tranquil anterooms of thought, where the interests which move the life of peoples and individuals are quiet."

The difficulty in this case is that philosophy is not something done, finished, of which one may take a draught at his pleasure. In every man, philosophy is something which has to be fabricated by personal effort. This does not mean that each person needs to start from scratch or invent his own system. On the contrary. Precisely because we are dealing with a radical and ultimate knowledge, philosophy finds itself mounted on a tradition. And this means that, even in the case of philosophies already formulated, such an adscription is itself the result of a personal effort, of an authentic intellectual life. The rest is a {28} brilliant "apprenticeship" of books or a splendid course of grand lectures. One can, indeed, write book after book and spend a long life as professor of philosophy, yet not even graze the outskirts of philosophical life. Conversely one can totally lack any "originality, " yet possess in the most recondite part of himself the internal and silent movement of philosophy.

Philosophy, then, has to be done, and therefore it is not a question of an abstract apprenticeship. Like every truthful doing, it is a concrete operation, executed from a situation. What is that situation today? It is difficult to respond to this question. Every situation is marked by certain problems posed by the obscure instability and inconsistency which underlie it. We have already seen that starting from science one arrives at three ideas: being, the world, and theory. Science must live on them, and since ancient times they have been the object of philosophy. But [27] contemporary philosophy debates about these very same ideas. Being, world, and theory are the names of three great intellectual problems and vexations, not three ideas already formulated and available in textbooks.

These three problems are posed in contemporary philosophy by three realities which constitute, without doubt, the most real contents" of the man of today.

Since the 18th century, history has more and more been putting pressure on human existence. But up until then, except in isolated cases and isolated circumstances, history was considered as something which happened to man; now historicity fights to be introduced in its own state of being. With this the idea of being, upon which nearly all of philosophy has been built since its origins until our time, vacillates and turns into a serious problem.

On the other hand, the colossal development of technology has profoundly modified the way in which man exists in the world. It can be said, really, that technology constitutes that concrete manner in which contemporary man exists among things. But although technology, for the ancients, was a mode of knowing, for modern man it is progressively taking on an ever more purely operative character. Homo sapiens has been yielding his place to homo faber. {29} Whence the grave crisis which affects the very idea of the world and of the proper function of man in his life.

Finally, the complications of every order, in day-to-day private and public life, convert the most elementary means upon which we have moulded our existence into an acute problem. Urgency prompts contemporary man; his interest is inverted and now includes only the immediate. Whence the grave confusion between the urgent and the important, which leads to an overestimation of spontaneous decisions as opposed to remote and "inoperative" theoretical speculation. Whereas, for a Greek, the supreme form of praxis (creation, action) was theory, for contemporary man theory is separated so far from what he calls "life" that, at times, "the theoretical" becomes synonymous with "the false," with "the removed from reality."

History, technology, and vital urgency convert these three ideas (being, world, and theory), which constituted the incontrovertible content of previous philosophy, into a grave problem. With this the very idea itself of philosophy is left enveloped in a radical problematicism. The predominance of each one of these problems led, in the course of time, to three [28] distinct conceptions of philosophy: philosophy as a theoretical knowledge of the things that are; philosophy as a right knowledge of the world and of life; philosophy as a form of personal life. As being, world, and theory are today becoming a radical problem, they remain dangling and leave floating before the man of today the central problem of the possibility and of the very meaning of philosophizing. Since we are conscious of the historical character of every situation, since the world is dominated by technology, since man is importuned with more pressing needs, what meaning can philosophy have? Can a form of understanding be given which, without radical and distressing equivocation, comes designated with the same philosophical vocabulary with which the Greeks designated the supreme form of knowledge? The problem of the philosophy of today reduces, in the final analysis, to the very problem of philosophizing; it is philosophy as a problem.

What is it that brings about this problem? In what, precisely, consists the intellectual situation in which we find ourselves so strangely {30} implanted? No one elects his primary situation. Even the first of men was created by God in a situation which was not of his doing: paradise. Philosophy is not exempt from this condition. It was born founded on nature and on man, who forms a part of nature, though they both were dominated in their internal structure and their destiny by the action of gods. This was the work of the Ionians, and it constituted the permanent theme of Hellenic speculation. A few centuries later, Greece witnessed the collapse of this attempt to understand man as a purely natural being. Nature, hidden and fleeting, drags along the human logos: Greece ruined itself forever in its vain attempt to naturalize man and the logos.

Now without a world, one day Greece receives the Christian preaching. Christianity saves the Greek, discovering to him a spiritual and personal world which transcends the natural. From this moment, man embarks upon a new and different intellectual path; from a nature which is disintegrating, he turns in upon himself and approaches God. The horizon of philosophizing changed. Philosophy, created reason, was possible as something founded in God, uncreated reason. But this created reason takes off on its own, and in a vertiginous unfolding during two centuries will go on progressively emphasizing its created at the expense of its rational character, with the result that at the end reason will be converted into a pure creature of God, infinitely removed from the [29] Creator and ever more shut up in itself. This is the situation reached in the 14th century.

Only now, without a world and without God, man sees himself forced to remake the road of philosophy, based upon the sole substantive reality of his reason; this is the beginning of the modern world. Removed from God and things, in possession only of itself, reason has to find in its breast the motives and the wherewithal which will permit it to reach the world and God. It does not succeed. And, instead, while seeking to discover these worldly and divine wellsprings of reason, it ends up converting them into the very reality of the world and of God. This is the idealism and pantheism of the 19th century.

The result was paradoxical. When man and reason believed they were everything, they lost themselves; they were left, in certain respects, annihilated. Thus the man of the 20th century {31} finds himself even more alone; this time without the world, without God, and without himself. A singular historical condition. Intellectually nothing is left to the man of today except the ontological place where the reality of the world, of God, and of his own existence were at one time able to be written. It is absolute solitude. Alone with his past, without any other support than what used to be, contemporary man hides from his vacuity; he takes refuge in the mnemonic revivification of a past; he extols the marvelous technical possibilities of the universe; he races to the solution of the urgent problems of day-to-day life. He flees from himself; he makes his life pass superficially. He renounces adoption of radical and ultimate attitudes and goals; the existence of contemporary man is constitutively centrifugal and penultimate. Whence the anguishing coefficient of provisionality which threatens to dissolve contemporary life. But if, by a supreme effort, man is able to fall back upon himself, he will sense the ultimate questions of existence pass by his unfathomable depth like umbrae silentes. The questions of being, of the world, and of truth echo in the depths of his person. Imprisoned in this new sonorous solitude, we find ourselves situated beyond the totality of what merely is, in a type of transreal situation, a situation which is strictly transphysical; it is in fact metaphysical. Its intellectual formula is precisely the problem of contemporary philosophy.

Barcelona, May 1942.