In my previous post, I explained that the emergence of cosmopolitanism is tied to the death of Socrates, who was condemned by Athenian democracy for “not believing in the gods of the polis and (therefore) corrupting the youth,” as recorded in The Apology, the first and most authentic dialogue about Socrates written by Plato. Plato could only transcribe what was widely known due to the proximity of the event. Socrates, in response to such accusations, repeatedly tells us that he had “only a human, not supernatural, understanding,” unlike those who speak of or deal with the gods. He does not say, “I only know that I know nothing,” as textbooks misinform and as is taught in schools and universities. Instead, as Socrates also states in The Apology, “I simply do not think I know what I do not know.”
Incidentally, in China, there is a popular saying that knowing is distinguishing what one knows from what one does not know.
Today, I want to discuss what natural or real human thought Socrates refers to—thought of which most people have no idea, have never heard, and do not believe or think exists. This is why schools and universities surely teach that Socrates only knew that he knew nothing.
Well, natural thought essentially anticipates, fears, or desires based on what is already known—on what one has already experienced—and this refers to the use or utility of things. This is the repeated handling of something as an extension of the body, and therefore the same for all humans. Among these things, the most determinant is the weapon, which is used to take life. Similarly, this real or natural human thought places us in the position (of the body) of the other. For instance, if we twist someone’s ear, we assume it hurts them (this is the Logos—it has no greater mystery). Hence, “Human” Laws appear equally in all cultures, whether it’s the Silver Rule: “Do not do to others what you do not want done to you,” or the Golden Rule: “Treat others as you would like to be treated.” (By the way, although it is assumed or gives the impression that realistic thought is poor and idealistic thought reaches the ends of the universe, the opposite is true: idealistic thought is a kind of inert or dead thought. It lacks imagination, is not virtual, does not place itself in the position of the other, and is powerless to understand, for example, the potency of the weapon, which precisely hides and denies it.)
So, were these figurations—whether of Zeus or Athena—that Socrates had to believe in and confess, or nowadays Yahweh, God, or Allah? And not only the gods but also the narratives, terms, and ideas such as democracy, socialism, cosmopolitanism (yes, cosmopolitanism too; I already showed in the previous post that it meant human unity, and enlightened Europeans defined it as the “unity” of armed units, which they call nations), communism, materialism, human rights, justice, and goodness. These are representations whose characteristics and determinations are transmitted to us by our ancestors, environment, and schools and universities, and their definition ultimately falls into the hands of political power, which decides the narrative and definition of all these terms.
The Chinese, whose enormous intellectual development occurred while coexisting in different states (armed units) but, like the Greeks, sharing language and culture, historically did not have the enormous abstraction of the Greeks. The Greeks developed a writing system similar to speech by including vowels, giving rise to a rich mythology and artistic production. Among the Chinese, few could read, and their way of reasoning—not less intelligent, but surely more so—is based on experience; it is realistic. It is based on analogy: a case is presented, and the listener is asked to judge whether it is similar to another case with some resemblance. The listener logically decides what they want. It is, therefore, an exercise in persuasion and suggestion, not imposition. For example, this is how the Analects, the Book of Confucius, begins:
Chapter 1
1.1. The Master said, “Is it not a pleasure to learn with constant perseverance and application? Is it not delightful to have friends come from distant places? Is it not the mark of a person of complete virtue to feel no discontent even if others do not recognize them?”
Confucius encourages learning by pointing out the pleasure it brings, similar to receiving a friend who comes from afar and whom we treat with interest and respect. We care for them after their long journey, expect them to tell us news and customs unfamiliar to our environment, and wish to compare our circumstances with theirs, etc. Likewise, when we study, read, and understand the authors of other times, we gain confidence in ourselves. We confirm our capacity and intelligence, needing no one else to judge us or declare us valuable, as we are certain of it ourselves. This provides composure, dignity, and satisfaction.
Mozi’s reasoning is similar. He frequently argues that theft or murder is punished as unjust, but looting and massacring other peoples is glorified. From this, he concludes that this is like seeing something dark and saying it is black but seeing something greatly dark and saying it is white, or tasting something slightly bitter and calling it bitter but calling something extremely bitter sweet. Thus, those who say such things neither know what is black, what is bitter, nor what is just.
Despite this difference, Chinese philosophy offers something that brings us closer to today’s reflection on the role of figurations and representations. This is likely Confucius’ main theory, known as the Rectification of Names. Confucius asserts that the disorder, chaos, and war of his time resulted from the misuse of names or terms, which, with the collapse of the Zhou dynasty, had fallen into confusion. Restoring order required rectifying them: creating a clear and shared nomenclature that Confucius and the Literati—his school—took upon themselves to propose and maintain. This nomenclature was accompanied by rituals, which were “theatrical” representations, especially of the emperor, officials, and the court. These included certain ceremonies, festivals, the use of specific colors, clothing, actions, and coordinated movements.
Mozi, like Socrates, rejects all this paraphernalia and proposes adhering to common human sense. For instance, instead of mourning the father’s death for three years—which involves not eating or dressing well, not working, and many other inconveniences and rituals—Mozi suggests that all one needs to do is bury the father’s body neither too deep, to avoid reaching water, nor too shallow, to prevent animals from digging it up. And so on for the rest of life’s decisions—dispensing with nonsense.
However, these ideas, gods, figurations, and even narratives, which are foreign to human common sense and both indeterminate and necessarily transmitted by authorities—be they Confucian Literati, religious leaders, or political figures—imply a series of rituals, such as sacraments, praying with one’s head to the ground, or the “festival of democracy.” These rites, ceremonies, or incantations are things we each must confess to and believe in, assuming we know what we do not know. This is simply the way we accept our submission, our renunciation of freedom—said, if one prefers, as the Chinese, Muslims, or Christians might say, for the benefit of a specific society.
Cervantes, our modern Socrates, sends Don Quixote out into the world to make others confess, because, as he says on numerous occasions, “Heaven (those ‘ideas’ and ‘terms’) endures force.” People go along with Don Quixote’s madness and absurdities without much difficulty if they fear him—because of his weapons. Indeed, one effect of victory is constructing the narrative and deciding and declaring what is and what is not. As a result, the winner is inevitably deemed good, and the loser bad. With this clarified, it becomes easier to understand Cervantes’ assertion that, ultimately, “arms mean war,” and no further explanation is needed. But in Cervantes, we always find individuals whom he calls “discreet,” precisely those capable of discerning the falseness—or meaning—of these figurations, their uses, and who know how to navigate them in society without believing in them, in contrast to the simple and inescapably human reality.
Realist thought doesn’t even require words, though it can use them. For example, if we see a table with its legs pointing upwards, we intuitively know it is improperly placed. This understanding is virtual yet real; only afterward might we articulate in words that a table’s purpose is to hold things on its surface, and that position contradicts its use. This ability to grasp the essence of things directly, without the mediation of abstract definitions, is at the core of realist thought.
Cervantes illustrates this realism by denying the assumed falsehood of evil human nature. He demonstrates in the novel of the Curioso Impertinente that when the body is subjected to certain conditions—such as specific sexual practices, addictions to sweets, or smoking—the body itself begins to anticipate the pleasure or sensation those actions provide. This visceral anticipation shapes our engagement with the world, bypassing abstract ideals or imposed moral frameworks. To address these tendencies as “bad” or approach them through any idealistic lens is counterproductive, for in reality, what we are doing is provoking our own body.
The followers of Socrates, the cosmopolitans like Mozi (whose followers and books were burned, thereby destroying the possibility of science in China—Mozi had already developed it, but Chinese paid the price for their zeal for falsehood missing science), refused to confess to these terms. The reaction against them was particularly harsh, especially by the Cynics. All of them appealed to natural law and human unity to use common sense and be free from confessing lies.
And so today, in a world fully revealed and, moreover, where not only state officials can communicate but where all humans are in direct contact through social networks, we must liberate ourselves. We must pursue freedom, which is also human unity, and the way to do so is—without offense, with respect and patience—to unveil these figurations. This is also how we deny legitimacy to all violence, for supporting and endorsing falsehood is to support violence. Supporting violence means endorsing it, which today can already be delegitimized through the use of common sense—something impossible in the past, in a world locked in struggle without alternatives, where everyone had to defend their own. Therefore, this contact and activity we speak of must become active and make us all discreet toward one another.
And this, precisely, is the path shown and opened to us since the beginning of time: the understanding of falsehood, of the fact that violence must hide itself in shame (before the Logos). This was the knowledge and hope of the discreet, as seen clearly in the cases of Mozi, Socrates, and Cervantes.
It is time to seek freedom. Our thought must be liberated, not subjected to the impositions that determine what must be confessed and represented. Mozi further asserted that the logical consequence of freedom—which is not imposition but rather mutual persuasion and influence—is Universal Love. Freedom leads us to see that what is just and what is most beneficial is to treat others as we would like to be treated