"What is first precipitated in the mind's conception is being. A thing is knowable because existence is pointed to. Therefore being is the proper object of mind; it is the primary intelligible as sound is the primary audible."
St. Augustine/Augustine of Hippo
I post this again because it still astonishes me that Augustine was able at such an early stage of human philosophical thought to recognize the fact that the temporality and therefore the continual change of the being of 'what-is' is the essential recognition that grounds phenomenological philosophy. Sixteen years after Augustine wrote that, Wallace Stevens wrote these lines concerning the character of what we see (and otherwise sense) in the world as not 'infection' of the world with our ideas but expression of the nature of our being within the world's being:
"What we say of it becomes a part of what it is."
Another relevant extract from Stevens's poetry, from a poem entitled "Things of August":
When was it that the particles became
The whole man, that tempers and beliefs became
Temper and belief and that differences lost
Difference and were one?"
I've continually argued, from the basis of phenomenological philosophy, that in order to understand what we are capable of thinking and understanding concerning the existential nature of our being and the being of the world in which we find ourselves thinking we must begin by investigating the actual ground out of which we are able to first experience and later reflect on the temporality of being. Of Being as the Whole within which we become conscious of our being we know nothing. Thus to attempt to define our lived/experiential being and the nature/structure of Being (Itself) in solely objective terms, as in some fashion a mechanical operandum, effaces the empirical grounds of what we see and are capable of knowing, and the recognition of the limits of that which we can come to know.
In "Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly," a poem I've posted here a number of times in the past, Stevens almost remains caught between two contrary ideas about the nature of reality, of 'what-is', but concludes the poem with a metaphor for the open-endedness and radical temporality disclosed in the human capacity for imagination, for thinking and testing reality beyond the limits of the immediately given, the immediately experienced, while avoiding the compulsion to come to rest in any final conception. The history of science itself exemplifies this openness to what is possible and to some extent discoverable, but for the most part seeks explanations such as the one Stevens describes early in the poem as "A pensive nature, a mechanical / And slightly detestable operandum." Here's the whole poem again:
Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly
Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr.
Homburg during his
visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:
To
think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to
transform them into
other things,
Is only what the sun does
every day,
Until we say to
ourselves that
there may be
A
pensive nature, a
mechanical
And
slightly detestable operandum, free
From man's ghost,
larger and yet a
little like,
Without his
literature and
without his gods . . .
No
doubt we live
beyond ourselves in air,
In an
element that does not do for us,
so well, that
which we do for ourselves, too big,
A
thing not
planned for
imagery or belief,
Not one of the
masculine myths we used to make,
A
transparency through
which the
swallow weaves,
Without any form or any
sense of form,
What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are,
beyond mystic disputation,
In the
tumult of
integrations out of the sky,
And what we think, a
breathing like the wind,
A
moving part of a motion, a
discovery
Part of a discovery, a
change part of a change,
A
sharing of
color and
being part of it.
The
afternoon is
visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,
Too much like
thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent,
obscurest patriarch,
A
daily majesty of meditation,
That
comes and goes in
silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun
shines or does not.
We
think as wind
skitters on a pond in a
field
Or we put
mantles on our
words because
The same wind,
rising and rising,
makes a
sound
Like the last
muting of
winter as it ends.
A new
scholar replacing an
older one
reflects
A
moment on this fantasia. He
seeks
For a
human that can be
accounted for.
The
spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr.
Homburg thought: the body of a
world
Whose
blunt laws make an
affectation of mind,
The
mannerism of
nature caught in a
glass
And
there become a spirit's mannerism,
A
glass aswarm with
things going as far as they can."
A last note: Merleau-Ponty wrote in the
Phenomenology of Perception that "the imagination is present in the first human perception."