Philosophy as Passion for Knowledge: What Kind of History of Philosophy for the 21st Century?

1 Philosophy as Passion for Knowledge

Our discipline – philosophy – has a very long history. In the tradition of European thought, it dates back to Greek antiquity. Philosophy found one of its paradigmatic depictions in Plato, who described the philosopher as a lover of wisdom, as someone who strives after wisdom but does not possess it. As Diotima, the prophetess and philosopher from Mantinea, explained to Socrates: only the gods are in the possession of wisdom. That is also why no god philosophizes. Hence, “Philosophers (οἱ φιλοσοφοῦντες) are neither the wise (οἱ σοφοὶ) nor the ignorant (οἱ ἀμαθεῖς)” but “those who are in-between (οἱ μεταξὺ)” (Diotima in Plato 1903, Symposium 204a).

However, philosophy is not the only discipline with a very long history. The same holds true, for example, for theology, law and medicine, which, together with philosophy constituted the four faculties of medieval universities. These four faculties also constituted The University of Copenhagen, when it was established in 1479, as a result of the efforts and visit of Danish Queen Dorothea (1430–1495) to Rome in 1475 (Jahnke 2014; Olesen 2020).

Yet, there is, and – in a sense – always has been, something peculiar and odd about philosophy, and this is its lack of an immediate and concrete purpose. While the purposes of medicine, law, or theology, seem straightforward (namely, to cure people, secure justice in society, and educate lawyers, physicians and priests), the purpose of philosophy is more elusive. There appears to be no concrete and binding purpose for philosophy. This sometimes vexes non-philosophers, especially parents of future philosophy students, who, when confronted with their child’s wish to study philosophy, first have to take a deep breath and then ask: What is this good for? Are there any jobs for philosophers? And what is philosophy anyway?

On the one hand, everyone seems to know what philosophy is. Every company, every restaurant has its own philosophy, which you can find on their websites or menus. Here, philosophy refers to a set of values or theoretical assumptions that underpin and shape the specific activity, production, or service of a company. But on the other hand, people who describe themselves as philosophers often disagree on what philosophy really is. So, what is philosophy?

Are there any core topics, methods, or questions that qualify as philosophy and bind the discipline together? I share the view of Richard Rorty that philosophy is not a natural kind. This means that the discipline of philosophy is not constituted by a core feature – such as a specific set of topics, methods, questions, problems, or theories – that has remained the same across all ages and places (Rorty 1984, 63). Rather, philosophy appears to be constituted by what Ludwig Wittgenstein referred to as family resemblances of overlapping features and similarities, without there being any single feature common to all.

While there are many ways to understand philosophy that have been influential at different times in history, and many features of philosophy that deserve to be highlighted, and on which I could focus – such as philosophy as a first science, a strict science, a fundamental science, philosophy as a way of living, as a life form, applied philosophy or experimental philosophy – on this occasion, I will focus on a specific aspect of philosophy that is particularly dear to me, and that constitutes an important dimension of philosophy, namely philosophy as the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.

Let’s consider philosophy as the realm of disinterested knowledge. Pursuing knowledge for its own sake, stands in opposition to instrumental research that serves concrete and practical goals. By disinterested I do not mean neutrality on the part of the researcher, but rather research settings dissociated from immediate utilitarian goals, material interests, and short-term benefits. As such, philosophy has always been in a precarious state. From the very beginning, philosophy was ridiculed for opposing the common sense approach to the world. The story of the Thracian handmaid comes to mind. According to this story, told by Plato, the philosopher Thales fell into a well while looking up at the stars. A handmaid from Thrace came along and mockingly said that “he was so eager to know what was going on in heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet”. A “jest”, as Plato continues, “which is equally applicable to all philosophers” (Plato 1903, Theaetetos 174a).

Yes, there is something ridiculous about philosophy – especially given the challenges we face today, such as wars, the climate crisis, mass migration, global anti-democratic movements. Yet this very feature of philosophy constitutes also its dignity and, at least in my view, one of humanity’s most precious goods. As Italian Humanist Cassandra Fedele, the first women “to speak in a public, city forum and the first to address public issues in her own voice” (Robin 2000, 154) said during her 1487 oration at the university of Padua: “What is more suited to the grandeur of cities (ad urbium splendorem) than the study of philosophy (philosophiae studia)?” (Fedele 1636, 198) I believe it is time we remember the value found in disinterested knowledge.

At universities, especially within the humanities, our goal is to shape and cultivate minds not to produce machines. These minds we wish to allow to grow, to wander freely, to explore the depth of human understanding as well as the breadth of its various perspectives. This requires both time and freedom. Before being pragmatic, seeking compromises, and settling on what is feasible, I think it is crucial to allow minds to explore what could (or even should) be possible, to view things from multiple perspectives, and to re-think the great problems, ideas and ideals of human life, society, and nature.

For me, there are at least three aspects that highlight the value of disinterested knowledge: the development of critical thinking, creative thinking, and historically informed thinking skills. Each of these capacities offer significant long-term benefits: Critical thinking capacities are essential for challenging established ideas and for building up mental resilience against authoritarian thought and manipulation. Creative thinking capacities are crucial for developing new ideas and visions for the future, as well as for imagining pathways for overcoming challenges faced by today’s and tomorrow’s society. Historically informed thinking capacities help us to understand how we became who we are and prevents us from making the same mistakes all over again. These skills and this knowledge are vital for securing and defending the open democracy we strive for, especially in a modern knowledge society characterised by increased use of technology and artificial intelligence. They will be bitterly missed if the core values of our society come under threat again.

Empirical research is based on and measures what we – human beings – actually do, what we think, and why. This is crucial for obvious reasons: it mirrors us and reveals who we are under specific historical and geographical conditions. However, empirical research cannot measure the potential that lies in human thought. It cannot guide us to thinking and imagining what we want to become, how we might want to live, what our core values should be, or how we want to shape society. This knowledge is acquired by a different kind or research.

The cultivation of minds is not a one-time task; it cannot be summarised in a textbook and simply be “learned”. Instead, it must be undertaken again and again with each generation of students and future scholars. This highlights one of the differences between work in the humanities and work in technology and applied sciences, where one can take up where others have left. The cultivation of the mind begins anew with every generation. And again: this requires time and space.

Yet, there is a growing pressure in academia, both in education and in research, to cater to short-term objectives. So, the time and space for disinterested research need to be carved out and defended against the pressure of seemingly more urgent concerns. This necessitates some resistance against the economization of education and research. My comments pertain specifically to philosophy as an academic discipline, whose benefits cannot be adequately measured by short-term goals and aims. Ultimately, this issue affects all academic disciplines where disinterested knowledge is practised.

Denmark has a long tradition of cherishing knowledge for its own sake. This can be illustrated by the writings of the 13th century cleric and philosopher Bo the Dane, better known as Boethius of Dacia (around 1270), who wrote in his work On the supreme good (“De summon bono”): “To know the true (cognitio veri), to do the good (operatio boni), and to delight in both constitutes human happiness (beatitudo humana). (…) This is the life of the philosopher (vita philosophi).” (Boethius of Dacia 1976, 369; 371). We might also consider the writings of translator and philosopher Birgitte Thott (1610–1662), who stated in her work On the path to a happy life (“Om Weyen till et Lycksalligt Liff”), in the context of her defense of women’s learning and studying philosophy, referencing Solon: “even if I had one foot inside the grave, I would still like to learn something”.^[1]

When I used the expression passion for knowledge to characterise philosophy, rather than the more literal translation love for wisdom, I borrowed a term from Friedrich Nietzsche, who explored the idea of philosophy as Leidenschaft der Erkenntnis in his writings (Ebbersmeyer 1995). Nietzsche re-vitalised the idea of philosophy as striving for knowledge towards the end of the 19th century and in the light of his own philosophical views: “In us, knowledge has transformed itself into a passion that is not afraid of any sacrifice and fears nothing but its own extinction.” (Nietzsche 1988, 3: 264).

For Nietzsche, it was crucial to understand the philosopher’s desire for knowledge as a passion, meaning as an embodied affect shaped and developed within specific cultural and historical circumstances. It is no longer sufficient to ask: “Is this idea true?” We must also critically ask ourselves: “How did we find our ideas? What is their driving force?” (Nietzsche 1988, 9: 232). This implies that we should critically reflect upon and question our own assumptions. And this brings me to the second part of my lecture.

2 What Kind of History of Philosophy for the 21st Century?

Over the past few decades, traditional accounts of the history of philosophy have become more and more questionable. Currently, large research projects are re-thinking the way we narrate philosophy’s past. Some might argue that this “re-thinking” and “re-writing of our history” is wrong or misguided, as it introduces a politically motivated (likely left-wing) agenda into research and academia, which has supposedly been purely objective and neutral. For instance, why discuss gender or race, if these categories do not play any role in the universality and neutrality of philosophical thought? My response to this objection is: I wish this were true. I wish philosophy, academia, and the world we are living in were free of prejudices. Unfortunately, this is not the case. While I strongly agree that philosophers and researchers strive for neutrality and objectivity, we must also acknowledge that philosophers are only humans, and that research settings and institutions are shaped by human beings and the biases of their times.

We cannot see the blind spots of our own research. However, historical distance allows us to identify the prejudices and shortcomings of previous accounts of the past, necessitating critical re-writing. This is not a new insight. To quote Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832), one of the most distinguished writers in the German language, who wrote in his Materialen zur Geschichte der Farbenlehre (1810): “There is no doubt in our day that world history must be rewritten from time to time.” He continues: “Such a necessity does not arise, however, because much of what has happened has been rediscovered, but because new views are presented, because the comrade of a progressive age is led to standpoints from which the past can be surveyed and judged in a new way.” (Goethe 1948–1971, 16: 412).

Today, traditional narratives of the history of philosophy, which mostly follow patterns developed during the 18th and 19th centuries, are being challenged for various valid reasons. Before addressing some of these challenges, I will briefly comment on the term narrative. Narratives in the history of philosophy are patterns of thought that help us make sense of the past and of the development of past thought. They function like background assumptions that help us structuring our discipline. Moreover, they define what we do and do not do, and what it is that we do.

Discussing narratives already carries an element of subversion. The term narrative indicates that history of philosophy is not merely a neutral report of past events or the result of an objective and disinterested selection process that presents its findings as necessary to the reader. Instead, the term narrative suggests that the history of philosophy is understood as a story told. A narrative consists of actors (whether people, ideas, or theories), a sequence or plot that unfolds over time, and a narrator. The term narrative originates from the Latin narratio, which had a specific function in rhetoric (see Quintilian 1970, Institutio oratoria 2.4.2). Today, the term is significant in literary studies and film studies. Thus, the term narrative connects the history of philosophy with techniques used and analysed in literature, rather than, for example, in science.

The term narrative is very different from other terms used in the history of philosophy, such as the German term “Grundriss” (outline), as used in Friedrich Ueberweg’s renowned and comprehensive history of philosophy.^[2] The term Grundriss, which is also the German word for a ground plan used on construction sides, suggests that everything relevant is presented in a systematic and historically accurate manner, with each element given its proper place within the rationally constructed edifice of philosophy. However, the term Grundriss obscures the selection processes behind such projects. For example, in Ueberweg’s case, this led to a near-total omission of women philosophers in many of its volumes.

Talking about narratives implies a different understanding of how we approach the history of philosophy. It acknowledges that the history of philosophy is written from a specific perspective and shaped by particular interests and preferences. It also recognises that we adhere to some tacit assumptions that define what we consider an important problem, an interesting question, or a philosophical topic worthy of investigation. These tacit assumptions may not always be consciously considered; indeed, they very often are not. They can be Hegelian or neo-Kantian, colonialist or misogynistic, or something else entirely – and we may not even realize it.

The term narrative makes it explicit that the history of philosophy is always written from a particular point of view. There is no history of philosophy written entirely from “the view from nowhere”, to borrow a famous formulation from Thomas Nagel (Nagel 1986). Of course, this does not absolve us from striving for objectivity. We must reflect on the limits and validity of objectivity. Thus, discussing narratives prompts us to reconcile our individual perspectives with the view from nowhere.

Narratives can become questionable for various reasons. They might be based on assumptions we no longer share. They might exclude certain figures, topics, and traditions that we now consider worth studying but which do not fit into standard narratives. Most fundamentally, we might question traditional historiographical accounts because we find them historically inadequate. Many prevalent narratives in the history of philosophy originated during the 18th and 19th centuries and no longer align with current research. Hence, traditional narratives are increasingly challenged because they clash with new research topics and interests, as well as with the advanced state of research. This does not mean that standard narratives are inherently illegitimate (although there is no excuse for excluding women from a philosophy course reading list). The task is rather to uncover the assumptions on which these narratives are built and assess their validity today. We might also ask to what extent these narratives stimulate new research or impede new insights and perpetuate outdated power relations.

Instead of a neat Grundriss, the history of philosophy might perhaps be better represented by a building still under construction, much like Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s painting The Tower of Babel (1563). One cannot be certain how many rooms there are in this building and where to find them. Some ceilings might collapse, others might be repaired, and some might be discovered only after extensive research.

Let us now turn to some of the most problematic yet pervasive patters in traditional narratives, focussing on the history of early modern philosophy.

3 Why Does all of This Still Matter Today?

Practicing philosophy and the history of philosophy is not an innocent activity. By selecting certain authors, topics and theories, and by ignoring others as less relevant, we perpetuate – intentionally or unintentionally – intellectual, cultural, and political agendas that we might no longer share. Narratives in the history of philosophy also serve as justificatory narratives ^[14] that assist in maintaining normative orders of domination. They exclude some and promote others. As historians of philosophy, it is our task to be aware of the tacit assumptions and prejudices that are deeply rooted in our discipline and, consequently, in the way we conceptualize the past.

While there are many relevant lessons to be learned from this, I would like to conclude with some reflections on the topic of gender inequality. Although we live in a privileged part of the world regarding gender equality, we have not yet eradicated the problem. Our societies are still structured according to gender differences, and the power structure between the sexes remains unequal in terms of access to positions of power, wealth, and prestige. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has called this masculine domination a “particular form of symbolic violence” (Bourdieu 2002, 227) meaning that we are dealing with power relations that pass through knowledge, where one group imposes norms on those of the subordinate group (Bourdieu 2002, 229).^[15] The history of philosophy is, of course, only one of many discourses in our society and institutions that perpetuate masculine domination through unconscious patterns of thought. Still, the responsibility of our discipline rests with us. If we do not analyze these patterns and work actively against them, we will most likely contribute to perpetuating gender inequality far into the future. In a recent paper for the United Nations, Londa Schiebinger and colleagues focused on the challenges and opportunities of Artificial Intelligence and warned: “This unconscious gender bias from the past amplifies gender inequality into the future” (Schiebinger 2022, 6).

The extent to which these patterns still shape Danish society becomes apparent if one looks at Danish media. A recent survey has shown that women are seriously underrepresented when it comes to “expert” views in the media (Siegumfeldt 2024), perpetuating the idea that the “smart people in society are men” (Kirkebæk-Johansson and Mortensen 2024). This also indicates that the knowledge produced by women and from their perspectives is not considered and represented as equally valid and important.

The problem of gender biases and sexism is also evident at universities in Denmark (Einersen et al. 2022). A recent study on sexism at Danish universities revealed that “37 % of the female PhD students have experienced at least one verbal act that objectifies, excludes or degrades them on the basis of their gender during their PhD education” (Lesner e.a. 2024). This includes malicious sexual comments, unwanted physical contact, and sexual coercion. I think everyone agrees that this is unacceptable. While I assume that the matter is taken seriously and appropriate measures are underway to quickly improve the situation, it reminds us that there is still a way ahead of us.

I would like to end my lecture with a quote from classicist Mary Beard. I believe her insight from Women and Power also applies to academia: “You can’t easily fit women into a structure that is already coded as male; you have to change the structure” (Beard 2017, 86–7). Such a change requires the joint effort of many people. Let’s take it one.^[16]