DaveC426913
Valued Senior Member
(Well, I know you did.
I was riffing off what you said, for the benefit of our readers.)
Is the self an illusion?
- Thread starter Magical Realist
- Start date
I was riffing off what you said, for the benefit of our readers.)We have readers?! Oh, joy! All my life I've wanted readers.
(now I owe you two debts)
Magical Realist
Valued Senior Member
“There is no "I" for a person, for a beehive, for a corporation, for an animal, for a nation, for any living thing. The "I" of a vivisystem is a ghost, an ephemeral shroud.”
― Kevin Kelly, Bootstrapping Complexity
― Kevin Kelly, Bootstrapping Complexity
Magical Realist
Valued Senior Member
"Why are you unhappy? Because 99.9 percent of everything you think, and of everything you do, is for your self — and there isn’t one."---Wei Wu Wei
Yes and no. I hew towards Neoplatonism, which is admittedly western, but it has a great deal of similarities-- possibly direct influence --from the Advaita Vedanta philosophy of India. I ultimately agree with a nondualistic idea of the eternal Self, one that recurs and reincarnates in a process of transmigration. However, I think that breaking from this cycle and the obliviation of the Self is possible through achieving ascent to, and unity with, the Monad, which can be effected through contemplation, meditation, theurgy, or mystic relationships with the gods.
Gawdzilla Sama
Valued Senior Member
Heinlein wrote on this once or twice. Twins had a sense of self because "sometimes he goes away, but I'm always here."
Magical Realist
Valued Senior Member
"Perhaps the best-known argument from Buddhist literature against the existence of the self is that found in The Questions of King Milinda (Milindapañha). The discussion begins with the King asking the apparently innocent question, “who are you?” Nāgasena replies coyly that he is really nobody; that he is called Nāgasena, but that this is just a name, a designation, and there is nothing to which it really refers. The name Nāgasena refers not to his body, his mind, his experiences, nor to anything apart from these.
The King replies that it seems to follow that there is nobody to whom to offer alms, nobody who wears the robe, nobody talking to him, and even nobody denying that he has a self. So, the King concludes, there must be something to which the name Nāgasena refers, something that presumably constitutes his self.
Nāgasena asks the King to consider the chariot on which he rode to the site of the dialogue. The King grants that he did ride a chariot, and so that the chariot he rode exists. But what, Nāgasena asks, is that chariot, really? He points out that the chariot is neither identical to its wheels, nor to its axles, nor to its poles, etc.… It cannot, he argues, be identical to any of its parts, for that would be to leave some others out; to select one part as the real chariot would be arbitrary, as well as clearly false.
One might be tempted to reply at this point that while the chariot is obviously not identical to any one of its parts, or even any proper subset of its parts, it is to be identified with all of its parts taken together. But Nāgasena immediately points out to the King that the chariot cannot simply be the sum of those pieces. After all, a pile of chariot pieces on the ground, delivered fresh from the chariot factory but not yet assembled, is not yet a chariot And it can’t even be identical to all of those parts suitably arranged or put together. If it were, then if we changed one of those parts, or changed their arrangement, we would have a different chariot. But that can’t be right. We could replace a wheel or an axle, and we would still have the same chariot, saying truly, “I have owned this chariot for years; all I need to do is to replace the wheels every so often,” or, “hey! I just got a new seat for my chariot. Come check it out.”
Nor is the chariot something different from those parts. After all, no chariot as the bearer of those parts remains when they are all removed. For this reason, we ought to resist the temptation to think of it as a separate entity that possesses those parts (just as we saw we should resist the temptation to think of ourselves as possessors of bodies and minds). Nor can we think of it as some mysterious entity located in the parts, but identical with none of them. Nobody takes that possibility seriously. So, Nāgasena argues, the words “the king’s chariot,” are merely a designation with no determinate referent.
But this is not an argument against the existence of the chariot. After all, we began by granting its reality. Instead, it does not exist as some singular entity that is either identical to or distinct from its parts. Its mode of existence is merely conventional, determined by our customs regarding the application of words like this chariot.
And this, Nāgasena instructs the King, is how we should think of the person who is called “Nāgasena” and his relation to that name. He is no singular entity. He is neither identical to nor distinct from his parts. He is not the possessor of those parts. There is no single part with which he is identical. His existence is merely nominal. A final account of the basic constituents of the world, even were it to contain his hair, fingers, desires, and experiences, contains no Nāgasena. The self to which the King, as well as the reader of the dialogue, might have thought that the name “Nāgasena” refers is therefore nowhere in the picture. But note that in presenting the analogy of the chariot, we never drew the conclusion that the chariot does not exist, or that it was incapable of bearing the King to the site of the debate. Likewise, we have not questioned whether Nāgasena exists, but only his mode of existence. His mode of existence is distinct from his mode of appearance; the appearance of the self is an illusion.
What, we might ask, is the status of the person who is no self? In particular, one might wonder, what accounts for the continuity of consciousness from one moment to the next, and the persistence of our identity through all of the changes we undergo in our lives if there is no self? Wouldn’t we exist even if there were no conventions? Isn’t our existence the precondition of any conventions? That is, we might ask, what exactly is the mode of existence that we in fact enjoy?
Nāgasena asks the King to reflect on the lamps that are lit in the evening. These small clay lamps then in common use in India did not contain enough oil to last through the night. The practice was to use a nearly depleted lamp to light the next lamp, and so on until daybreak, just as a chain smoker lights the next cigarette using the butt of the previous one.
Now, Nāgasena asks, consider the flame by one’s bed that was lit at dusk last night, and the flame to which one awakes this morning. Are they the same, or are they different? Should we say that there was a single flame that burned all night and was transferred from lamp to lamp, or should we say that a sequence of different flames burned through the night, each giving rise to the next? In one obvious sense, the flame of last night and the flame of this morning are different from one another: different oil is being consumed; they are burning on distinct clay lamps. But in another equally obvious sense, they are the same: they are each stages of a single causal continuum, an uninterrupted sequence of illumination by florescent gas.
It seems like the right thing to say is that the identity and continuity of the flame are constituted in part by causal continuity, in part by common function, but in the end primarily by the fact that we have a convention of talking that way. That is, we conventionally ascribe identity to the elements of such causal sequences, and not to sequences of events that are less causally connected, such as the sequence of lamps in the other room.
This is how The Questions of King Milinda invites us to think of our own personal identity. Just as there is no drop of oil or bit of incandescent gas that remains constant in the lamp from evening to morning, there is no self, soul, or ego that persists in me from day to day. My body and my psychological states are constantly changing, like the oil and lamps that support the flames. But, like those flames and those lamps, they constitute a causal sequence with a common function. And we have a convention of calling distinct members of such sequences by the same name. So, in one obvious sense, I am not identical to the person called by my name yesterday. We are alike, causally related, but numerically distinct. In another sense, though, we are the same person. We share a name, many properties, a causal history, and a social role; and that, while not involving a self, is enough.
This pair of analogies illustrate the core of the classical Buddhist understanding of what it is to be a person, instead of a self. We are, on this view, causally and cognitively open continua of psychophysical processes. No one of these processes by itself captures who we are; none persist unchanged over time; none are independent of the others. Together, they constitute our conventional identity, an identity we can now see to be very robust indeed, although not fixed. To put this another way, we do not stand over against the world as isolated subjects; we do not act on the world as transcendent agents. Instead, we are embedded in the world as part of an interdependent reality.
To see ourselves as interdependent persons rather than selves has important ethical consequences. Instead of seeing ourselves as detached from others and from the world around us as isolated subjects or agents, we see ourselves as interdependent beings in constant interaction with those around us. To see oneself as a self is to see oneself at the center of the moral universe, a very unhelpful place to be. To see oneself as a person, is to see oneself as embedded in the network of dependent origination that links us to one another. This view supports the development of the qualities referred to as the brahmavihāras, or divine states: maitrī (friendliness); karuṇā (care); muditā (sympathetic joy); and upekṣā (impartiality). Taken together, the brahmavihāras represent an understanding of our moral position not as the center of our universe, but as embedded in a universe with no center. This is a far more realistic place to be and it invites us to approach others with empathetic understanding."---- https://www.buddhistinquiry.org/article/what-does-no-self-really-mean/
The King replies that it seems to follow that there is nobody to whom to offer alms, nobody who wears the robe, nobody talking to him, and even nobody denying that he has a self. So, the King concludes, there must be something to which the name Nāgasena refers, something that presumably constitutes his self.
Nāgasena asks the King to consider the chariot on which he rode to the site of the dialogue. The King grants that he did ride a chariot, and so that the chariot he rode exists. But what, Nāgasena asks, is that chariot, really? He points out that the chariot is neither identical to its wheels, nor to its axles, nor to its poles, etc.… It cannot, he argues, be identical to any of its parts, for that would be to leave some others out; to select one part as the real chariot would be arbitrary, as well as clearly false.
One might be tempted to reply at this point that while the chariot is obviously not identical to any one of its parts, or even any proper subset of its parts, it is to be identified with all of its parts taken together. But Nāgasena immediately points out to the King that the chariot cannot simply be the sum of those pieces. After all, a pile of chariot pieces on the ground, delivered fresh from the chariot factory but not yet assembled, is not yet a chariot And it can’t even be identical to all of those parts suitably arranged or put together. If it were, then if we changed one of those parts, or changed their arrangement, we would have a different chariot. But that can’t be right. We could replace a wheel or an axle, and we would still have the same chariot, saying truly, “I have owned this chariot for years; all I need to do is to replace the wheels every so often,” or, “hey! I just got a new seat for my chariot. Come check it out.”
Nor is the chariot something different from those parts. After all, no chariot as the bearer of those parts remains when they are all removed. For this reason, we ought to resist the temptation to think of it as a separate entity that possesses those parts (just as we saw we should resist the temptation to think of ourselves as possessors of bodies and minds). Nor can we think of it as some mysterious entity located in the parts, but identical with none of them. Nobody takes that possibility seriously. So, Nāgasena argues, the words “the king’s chariot,” are merely a designation with no determinate referent.
But this is not an argument against the existence of the chariot. After all, we began by granting its reality. Instead, it does not exist as some singular entity that is either identical to or distinct from its parts. Its mode of existence is merely conventional, determined by our customs regarding the application of words like this chariot.
And this, Nāgasena instructs the King, is how we should think of the person who is called “Nāgasena” and his relation to that name. He is no singular entity. He is neither identical to nor distinct from his parts. He is not the possessor of those parts. There is no single part with which he is identical. His existence is merely nominal. A final account of the basic constituents of the world, even were it to contain his hair, fingers, desires, and experiences, contains no Nāgasena. The self to which the King, as well as the reader of the dialogue, might have thought that the name “Nāgasena” refers is therefore nowhere in the picture. But note that in presenting the analogy of the chariot, we never drew the conclusion that the chariot does not exist, or that it was incapable of bearing the King to the site of the debate. Likewise, we have not questioned whether Nāgasena exists, but only his mode of existence. His mode of existence is distinct from his mode of appearance; the appearance of the self is an illusion.
What, we might ask, is the status of the person who is no self? In particular, one might wonder, what accounts for the continuity of consciousness from one moment to the next, and the persistence of our identity through all of the changes we undergo in our lives if there is no self? Wouldn’t we exist even if there were no conventions? Isn’t our existence the precondition of any conventions? That is, we might ask, what exactly is the mode of existence that we in fact enjoy?
Nāgasena asks the King to reflect on the lamps that are lit in the evening. These small clay lamps then in common use in India did not contain enough oil to last through the night. The practice was to use a nearly depleted lamp to light the next lamp, and so on until daybreak, just as a chain smoker lights the next cigarette using the butt of the previous one.
Now, Nāgasena asks, consider the flame by one’s bed that was lit at dusk last night, and the flame to which one awakes this morning. Are they the same, or are they different? Should we say that there was a single flame that burned all night and was transferred from lamp to lamp, or should we say that a sequence of different flames burned through the night, each giving rise to the next? In one obvious sense, the flame of last night and the flame of this morning are different from one another: different oil is being consumed; they are burning on distinct clay lamps. But in another equally obvious sense, they are the same: they are each stages of a single causal continuum, an uninterrupted sequence of illumination by florescent gas.
It seems like the right thing to say is that the identity and continuity of the flame are constituted in part by causal continuity, in part by common function, but in the end primarily by the fact that we have a convention of talking that way. That is, we conventionally ascribe identity to the elements of such causal sequences, and not to sequences of events that are less causally connected, such as the sequence of lamps in the other room.
This is how The Questions of King Milinda invites us to think of our own personal identity. Just as there is no drop of oil or bit of incandescent gas that remains constant in the lamp from evening to morning, there is no self, soul, or ego that persists in me from day to day. My body and my psychological states are constantly changing, like the oil and lamps that support the flames. But, like those flames and those lamps, they constitute a causal sequence with a common function. And we have a convention of calling distinct members of such sequences by the same name. So, in one obvious sense, I am not identical to the person called by my name yesterday. We are alike, causally related, but numerically distinct. In another sense, though, we are the same person. We share a name, many properties, a causal history, and a social role; and that, while not involving a self, is enough.
This pair of analogies illustrate the core of the classical Buddhist understanding of what it is to be a person, instead of a self. We are, on this view, causally and cognitively open continua of psychophysical processes. No one of these processes by itself captures who we are; none persist unchanged over time; none are independent of the others. Together, they constitute our conventional identity, an identity we can now see to be very robust indeed, although not fixed. To put this another way, we do not stand over against the world as isolated subjects; we do not act on the world as transcendent agents. Instead, we are embedded in the world as part of an interdependent reality.
To see ourselves as interdependent persons rather than selves has important ethical consequences. Instead of seeing ourselves as detached from others and from the world around us as isolated subjects or agents, we see ourselves as interdependent beings in constant interaction with those around us. To see oneself as a self is to see oneself at the center of the moral universe, a very unhelpful place to be. To see oneself as a person, is to see oneself as embedded in the network of dependent origination that links us to one another. This view supports the development of the qualities referred to as the brahmavihāras, or divine states: maitrī (friendliness); karuṇā (care); muditā (sympathetic joy); and upekṣā (impartiality). Taken together, the brahmavihāras represent an understanding of our moral position not as the center of our universe, but as embedded in a universe with no center. This is a far more realistic place to be and it invites us to approach others with empathetic understanding."---- https://www.buddhistinquiry.org/article/what-does-no-self-really-mean/