Does this chapter explain even itself?

Does “I don't do philosophy” negate itself by counting as philosophy? And: an apology.

Mar 16, 2025

Straight razor with strop. Photo (CC) Frank Schulenburg

In academic fields concerned with human activities, many papers are self-refuting. The theories they advocate don't even apply to themselves.

Often that is due to philosophical damage. Philosophy directs attention away from the actual world in which the paper was written, and toward the imaginary realm of Ideal Forms. Under its influence, you can un-see what you are doing, even as you do it!

How about this chapter, “I don't do philosophy”? Is this chapter itself doing philosophy?

That would be quite funny, although a little embarrassing!

This is the third and final part of “I don’t do philosophy,” which is Chapter 4 of “Undoing Philosophy.” If you’ve arrived here without context, you might want to read chapters 0, 1, and 2 of “Undoing Philosophy” first. And, you might want to read the first part of “I don’t do philosophy,” which is “Four kinds of philosophy I don’t do,” and the second, “What isn’t philosophy: a meta-rational explanation,” before this.

Chapter 3 is not yet published. Subscribe so you don’t miss it!

An illuminating analogy from linguistics

Linguistics is among the fields most damaged by philosophical concepts and methods. Commonly, the literal text of a linguistics paper is full of counterexamples to the theory it argues for.

One of my all-time favorite academic papers is Joseph D. Becker’s “The Phrasal Lexicon.” I recommend reading the whole thing—it’s short, brilliant, and you don’t need to know linguistics to understand it.

Becker writes:

The “modern” linguist spends his or her time analyzing terse unlikely sentences like “John, Bill and Tom killed each other” (to pick one at random from a recent journal), which seethe with repressed frustration and are difficult to work into a conversation. These example sentences bear no discernable resemblance to the sentences which compose the text that purportedly explains them—yet the linguist’s own sentences are also alleged (implicitly) to be drawn from the same English Language! Perhaps it is time that editors, or at least readers, began applying BECKER’S CRITERION to their readings in linguistic theory:
Any theory (or partial theory) of the English Language that is expounded in the English Language must account for (or at least apply to) the text of its own exposition.
Using this handy guideline, you can pretty much wipe your theoretical linguistics shelf clean and start over.

Becker’s first sentence there actually said “starring or unstarring.” I’ve amended that to “analyzing” for the benefit of non-linguists. “Modern” linguists—Becker wrote this paper in 1975—were primarily concerned with formal grammaticality rules, following Chomsky’s catastrophic, explicit imposition of Descartes’ rationalism on the field.

Descartes had an insane fear that an evil demon might be feeding him false sensory data, and so decided that only intuition and logical deduction are reliable sources of knowledge. Similarly, Chomsky declared that ordinary people often speak incorrectly. Therefore, what people actually do and don’t say is useless as evidence when building linguistic theories, and must be ignored. Instead, linguists proceeded by inventing what they claimed were grammatical or ungrammatical sentences, according to their intuitions about what the formal logical rules must be. They marked the supposedly ungrammatical ones with an asterisk (“star”).

Since formal grammar rules are metaphysical entities that don’t exist in the actual world, and inventing data is what we now euphemize as a “Questionable Research Practice,” this caused arguments. Other linguists would “unstar” these supposed sentences, based on their “linguistic intuition” that they were actually grammatical, also without any empirical basis. This made most of the field nonsense for half a century.

Becker’s paper finishes with an “End Test”:

Does Becker’s paper meet Becker’s Criterion? Does the view of language propounded here at least apply to the language in which it is propounded? Well of course!

And then he gives examples. Lots of them! His view of language explains much of the text of the paper doing the explaining .

And then he gives counterexamples! His view doesn’t explain the whole of his paper.

And so I conclude that the rather messy taxonomy given in this paper has a fair amount of truth to it when we look at what people actually say, think and write. Indeed, I suggest that the realer the text, the messier and truer these notions become. All of this can of course be summed up in a single elegant principle, namely:
BECKER’S RAZOR: Elegance and truth are inversely related.

That is an example of a meta-rational maxim. Becker’s Razor applies to itself: it is elegant and not always true. Newtonian physics is its canonical counterexample: an elegant system of truths. But then… Newtonian physics is not always true either…

Becker says explicitly that his paper suggests a messy view of language, not a theory. It’s not a proposition that could be either definitely true or definitely false. It’s a way of understanding what language is for and how it works.

He writes:

Because lexical phrases are real, they have an advantage over transformations and other such chimeras in that they are actually observable. Having read this paper, you will have no trouble hearing them as they come tripping off the tongues of the folks that surround you. And, for better or for worse, you will feel them popping out of your own brain when you speak and when you write. This experience should give you a better understanding of the process of language production than any theory I could espouse to you on paper.

“Transformations” are metaphysical entities, Ideal Forms of language, proposed by Chomsky. Becker rejects them as chimeras.

His method, instead, is the same I use. Look and see (as Wittgenstein recommended). Or, listen to what people say, as Becker suggests. And feel the texture of what you find; the patterns in it.

That’s where most of the book Meaningness comes from! It just points out typical things people say about meaning, and what the observable effects of those ways of talking are. There’s an extended, albeit invented, example in “Stances are unstable,” for instance.

So, does Chapman’s chapter “I don’t do philosophy” meet its own claim that Chapman doesn’t do philosophy?

Well, first, it’s not a claim, not in the philosophical sense, not something that could be definitely true or false. Philosophy is a marsh with a mushy margin, not a mathematically perfect sphere with an infinitesimally precise boundary, not a metaphysical Ideal Form. Whether something counts as philosophy, or not, may often be somewhat nebulous.

This chapter is somewhat more like philosophy than most of what I write, so it’s a good test case. Still, I will point out good reasons that “I don’t do philosophy” does not itself count as doing philosophy.

These reasons amend and extend the reasons I’ve already given that the rest of what I do is not philosophy. They may clarify the overall understanding of what philosophy is, and how it is that I don’t do it.

The less interesting criteria for counting as philosophy come out the same here as in the rest of my writing, so we can dispose of them in a single sentence. Namely: I am not a philosopher; philosophers would not accept this as philosophy; my main personal and intellectual connections are not with philosophers; and I don’t intend “I don’t do philosophy” to count as philosophy.

The more interesting criteria are topic, motivation, and methods. And those come out somewhat differently for “I don’t do philosophy,” and for “Undoing Philosophy” overall, than for the rest of what I write.

Does writing about philosophy always count as philosophy?

Philosophy’s main topic is philosophy. You do philosophy by commenting on previously-written philosophy. Philosophy is not a main topic in most of what I write. However, it is one here. So does that make this philosophy? It does sort of read like philosophy, because of that similarity of topic!

One can, however, write about philosophy while doing something other than philosophy:

Sometimes theologians and clerics write about philosophy while doing theology or religious apologetics. They may deny and denounce particular philosophical positions as impious and immoral. The reasons they give are religious, not philosophical.
Likewise, there is a small field of “psychology of philosophy.” It uses standard psychological methods to try to figure out why particular people choose to do philosophy, and why people with different psychological characteristics advocate different philosophical positions.
Similarly, the “sociology of philosophy” uses sociological methods to treat doing philosophy as a social activity, and to investigate why particular philosophical trends dominate in particular places and times. This is much more the way I understand philosophy than philosophy’s own understanding of itself, partly because it does not take philosophy’s claims seriously:

The sociology of philosophy is the study of philosophical activity as socially organized activity rooted in various historical and social contexts. It has a certain predilection for the more prosaic everyday aspects of philosophical activity. What was Kant doing when he was not working on his Critique of Pure Reason, or Heidegger when not writing Being and Time? What about all the other philosophers who were active in the same period but failed to effect any Copernican turns, or construct any foundational ontologies? The center of attention may shift to ordinary lecturing, little-noticed publications, activities of local philosophical societies, routine faculty meetings, and intellectual networks, friendships, and rivalries.1

So, this suggests that taking philosophy as a topic does not necessarily mean you are doing philosophy. Whether you use philosophical or non-philosophical methods to understand philosophy determines whether you are doing philosophy.

My topic “philosophy” here is also somewhat different from philosophy’s topic “philosophy.” Philosophy’s main topic is its own previous outputs, which philosophers add to by arguing for or against prior claims, or by inventing new but similar ones. As in the sociology of philosophy, I am ignoring its claims and instead discussing its process: the doing of philosophy. Philosophers sometimes also discuss that, but such “metaphilosophy” is a minor subdiscipline, not a central one.

More subtly, it’s also a question of how you take philosophy as a topic: as subject, or as object? Philosophy’s main subject is philosophy. Doing philosophy makes you subject to it. That is: its axiomatic assumptions and attitudes and activities form the framework that shapes you. Theologians, psychologists, sociologists, and I myself treat philosophy’s phenomena as objects. We often object to them, and are not shaped by them—or try not to be.

With the terms “taking as subject” vs. object, and “being subject to” vs. objecting to, I am applying a psychological framework, namely constructive-developmental cognitive psychology, to characterize philosophy. Here I am doing psychology, not philosophy!

Meta-rational methods, not philosophical ones

Earlier, I explained why I avoid philosophical methods. Those included, specifically, arguing to establish or refute theoretical claims; conceptual analysis aiming at clean-cut definitions; and explanations in terms of metaphysical entities. “I don’t do philosophy” avoids these three, just as the rest of my work does.

“I don’t do philosophy” is an assertion, but not a philosophical claim. My aim here is not to browbeat you into admitting that it is true, by arguing against your objections. I pointed out from the start that there is no definite truth of the matter. Rather, I want to convey an understanding of the particular senses in which it is true. I’ve done that by explaining the ways my work does and doesn’t resemble philosophy, and why those matter for practical purposes.

I have not aimed for a precise definition of “philosophy” in order to prove that my work does not fit it. Instead, I pointed out that the category is inherently nebulous. Then I applied a non-philosophical method, from cognitive psychology, to better understand its margins.

These are meta-rational styles of explanation. I took the question “does this chapter count as philosophy?” as an object to be understood and evaluated in terms of context and purpose for use. My explanation did not take any theoretical framework as inherently valid. Rather, it brought multiple frameworks to bear, pointing out ways in which they each cast some light on the issue, and ways in which they contradict each other. These came from multiple academic fields; disrespect for disciplinary boundaries is characteristically meta-rational.

I applied many of the meta-rational maxims. Among them:

It is often more important to ask what it would mean for something to be true than to ask whether it is true. What sort of truth is relevant here?
“I see you have a complex problem: it has a real part and an imaginary part.”
It is better to be roughly right than precisely wrong.
There is no method. There are only methods.
A messy, inaccurate, partial, but sometimes-good-enough solution for a problem that matters is better than an elegant exact solution to a problem that doesn’t matter.
Figure out what your own cognitive style is. Embrace and develop it as your secret weapon; but try to learn and appreciate other styles as well.

My explanation invoked no metaphysical entities. At this point, I mostly have to leave that as a bare assertion. A good explanation will depend on a prior explanation of what entities are and aren’t metaphysical. The question “what counts as metaphysics” is even murkier than “what counts as philosophy”—although also even more important in practice! I hope to explore this further at some point.

One thing I have said earlier is that most abstractions are not metaphysical. I explained why the abstraction “pet” isn’t, unless you insist on treating it philosophically, i.e. metaphysically.

This chapter’s explanations involve abstractions, such as “purpose” and “topic” and “method.” I will say that, like “pet,” these are non-metaphysical. Or, at any rate, I have treated them non-metaphysically here in “I don’t do philosophy.”

Philosophical and non-philosophical purposes

Earlier I explained how the purposes of my work are different from the purposes of philosophy. Primarily, my writing suggests simple means for practical improvements in your life, and philosophy mostly doesn’t.

That explains the purpose of the results of my work: these dead words on your screen. There is more to be said about the purpose of my process that leads to such results—and perhaps the purpose of your process in reading, understanding, and using them.

I’ve casually criticized philosophy, in much the same terms I have here, for forty years now. That’s been in person, in conversations; and occasionally in passing in writing. “Plato is the root of all evil,” I’ve often said. But I’ve never before felt motivated to produce a detailed explanation of how and why, and what that implies.

A couple years ago, I noticed an odd thing. Whenever I casually mentioned on Twitter that philosophy is bad, I’d get a slew of content-free outraged replies. Were philosophers so thin-skinned? (Why?) Checking profiles of the reply guys, it appeared that none of them were philosophers!

And, their reactions were characteristic for sacredness violations, like I had spat on their altar. Curiouser and curiouser!

So, this revealed that there is some group of non-philosophers who hold “philosophy” holy in their hearts, as a dearly-held religion. I had been entirely unaware of this phenomenon! I have never read about it anywhere! What is going on? Who are they? How did they come to hold philosophy as holy?

This was fascinating! Initially I was just curious about it as an anomaly. I spent a couple of full-time months on that last year, and wrote 25 pages of a draft about it. Then I thought better of it and threw it away. Many people are confused about many things; why care about this insignificant lot?

But then I realized this might form the pipeline of toxic metaphysical misconceptions: from academic philosophy to amateur “Philosophy!” to popular culture, and then into everyone’s unthought background assumptions about How Things Are. My exploration reminded me of the extent to which bad philosophical ideas distort non-philosophers’ thinking, feeling, and acting.

That seemed a matter worth serious concern and investigation. “Undoing Philosophy” grew from it.

What do amateur enthusiasts think “philosophy” is? A bit of probing showed that their ideas about this are quite different from philosophers’ understanding. It was evident that most were mainly ignorant of professional philosophy. Many said something like: “Yeah, that university stuff is bad, but real philosophy is vital and True!” I tried asking what they meant by “real” philosophy, and got only vague and contradictory answers.

There must be some source for this, I thought; and asked, but got little in reply. Where do they get their misunderstandings? Initially, I imagined that there must be an internet subculture I had not previously encountered, with bloggers who explain what they mean by “philosophy” and where you go to get it. But this seems not to exist!

Gradually, I came to an alternative, tentative explanation: perhaps individual enthusiasts form vague, inaccurate, quasi-religious conceptions of philosophy from taking introductory classes, or reading introductory books.

Maybe a philosophy class is, for many people, the first in which the teacher says that there are no established answers. Every class up to that point was just telling you what you had to believe or do because it is authoritatively correct. So there’s an exhilarating sense of freedom. “I am allowed, encouraged even, to have my own opinion!” And the teacher claims that philosophy gives you tools to “think for yourself.” How exciting! You are allowed to think, not just to fill in the blanks in the homework assignment!

And, you are allowed to think about anything you find interesting, including things not taught in school! School is boring! You are interested in other things! Like, how your mind works! You are allowed to think about that!

And so… perhaps what amateur enthusiasts hold as sacred is not philosophy, but open-ended curiosity. It is the domain of personal inquiry, liberated from fixed institutional narratives, into the realm of meaning, and the wonder of existence.

And… I hold that sacred too. I wrote about wonder and open-ended curiosity on Meaningness:

Wonder is the antidote to the denial of the nebulosity of knowing. It involves receptivity and gentleness. Clear thinking is good, but your mind should not be so sharp that it cuts your own throat. Aggressive precision is a common failure of dualism. It traps you in a cage of certainty. It is better to be roughly right than precisely wrong.
Open-ended curiosity is not centrally concerned with answers, or with questions. Those can be important, but they come after understanding.
Open-ended curiosity does not assume the form of an answer. It does not assume there is any answer, nor that questions are necessarily meaningful. It is comfortable with formlessness and meaninglessness. It is willing to be confused, and willing to allow confusion to persist. When a phenomenon stubbornly refuses to make sense, open-ended curiosity neither jumps to judgement, nor rejects it as boring or frightening. It allows both meanings and meaninglessness to be however they are.
Open-ended curiosity recognizes that you don’t have to have an opinion about everything—or even most things. It also does not shun judgement when a clear pattern emerges. And then, it does not regard any conclusions as final.

My own open-ended curiosity, my playful enjoyment of the textures of meaningness, is much of my purpose in creating what I do.

And maybe… when respondents take such intense offense at my insulting philosophy, that is what they wish to protect for themselves?