1.11 Abstraction

Abstraction

Section 8 (first update. 12.14.2020)

Abstract(act)action

Abstract Action

Semantically speaking, the term abstraction is a conjunction of the two words—abstract and action—with the word actas the synthesis term, i.e., the “shared” element that denotes meaning in both. It is the common component between abstr(act) and (act)ion, present in both words. Thus, abstraction can be understood as the action of the abstract or abstract action.

An action in the abstract is qualitatively different from an action in the three-dimensional physical world we identify as the concrete. In the physical world, we use the term matter to describe the substance exchanged in interactions. Matter is what is received by the organs of sensation—it is material that can be molded, changed, destroyed, etc. But what form does substance assume in a purely abstract sense, if such a realm is to be assumed?

The answer is that “thoughts” or “ideas” are the substances of abstract realms. However, terms like these often carry a negative connotation, as if they lack efficacy in the world; that is, they are regarded as “mere thoughts” or “mere ideas,” without the force to cause change or motion in nature. This assumption is limited, as it fails to consider a hierarchy of substances based on their fundamental effect on the observer¹.

The material world we identify as “reality” appears the way it does because it is closest to the sense organs of the observer—organs that evolved to feel and sense the world. However, the same physical objects that appear “real” when directly observed become less and less concrete, and more and more abstract, as they move further from immediate conception. The observer functions as a focal point in nature: the closer a substance is to this focal point, the more concrete it appears; the farther away, the more abstract it becomes.

But “distance” is not the correct measure to determine whether a substance is more abstract or concrete. Terms like closest and further have spatiotemporal meanings, but philosophically, they function metaphorically to denote intensity of relation to the observer. Traditionally, a substance is considered more concrete when it is felt and observed, and more abstract when thought of in the mind.

Concepts like abstract and concrete therefore denote different magnitudes of substance. The intensity of a substance is determined by its level of abstractness or concreteness, as mediated by the conception of the observer. The observer regulates which among the infinite possible moments become real, finite events. While infinite possibilities exist, only a few constitute the life duration of any particular observer.

Why do some moments occur while others do not? The answer cannot be randomness, for if randomness governed the transformation of possibility into actuality, then sequences of events would bear no necessary relation to one another. Thus, the concept of a timeline—where events unfold in sequence—would be unintelligible. For instance, adulthood presupposes adolescence, which presupposes childhood. Earlier events condition later ones, at least in terms of logical or developmental necessity².

This reflects a rational sequence of time, where reason governs the continuity of experience. In 3D space, motion is commonly identified as locomotion, defined as a change in position relative to space—an external shift from one location to another. This is distinguished from alteration, which is an internal change within the same object, and generation, which concerns the coming-into-being of a new object. The Ancient Greeks regarded these as fundamental kinds of motion, though they are not identical³.

Abstraction, however, is a motion of the mind—a kind of abstract motion. Among types of change, generation is the most fundamental. It is inherently abstract because it involves the transition from non-being into being. At one moment, the object is “not there,” and in the next, it is. How does this occur?

This question was central to Ancient Greek philosophy, encapsulated in the conundrum of “man begets man.” If we claim that one object comes from another object, and that there is always a prior physical object, we are left with an infinite regress: there is never a “first” origin. Moreover, if the objects are not the same, how does one produce the other? And if they are the same, what explains this sameness?

There must be a conception that acts as the face of efficacy—a mediating force that compels an idea to move from potentiality into actuality. In short, there must be an observer that transforms possibility into concrete existence⁴.

In the third dimension—the dimension accessible to the senses—matter functions as the value of exchange between two different moments of change. Space and time exhibit specific behavior, known in classical mechanics as elementary dynamics, described by a finite set of principles. The term finite here should not be taken negatively.

Finitude is often viewed as a limitation because of its association with death and impermanence. The finite subject is measurable, definite, and perishable. The unconscious recognition of mortality leads the understanding to see the finite as deficient, while the infinite is seen as lacking nothing and remaining constant. However, the finite is not inherently negative.

Rather, finitude represents the conceptualization of the infinite—it breaks it down into parts that can be grasped by the observer. In this sense, finitude is not a defect, but a function of the observer’s cognition. It is through finite determinations that the infinite becomes intelligible⁵.

Footnotes

Hegel develops this idea extensively in the Science of Logic, arguing that the finite is a moment of the infinite, necessary for the dialectical process. ↩

This echoes Aristotle’s conception of substance (ousia) and its relation to perception, as well as later developments in phenomenology, particularly in Husserl’s notion of intentionality. ↩

A concept reinforced by Hegelian dialectics, where each stage of development presupposes its predecessor, forming a rational unfolding. ↩

See Aristotle’s Physics, Book V and VI, where change is categorized into locomotion, alteration, generation, and corruption. ↩

Compare with Kant’s transcendental subject, which synthesizes the manifold of experience, or Heidegger’s Dasein, which reveals being through care. ↩

The Positive as Negation

The term positive is commonly understood to denote the presence of something rather than the lack of existence. When something positive exists, it implies that something has been generated into being—there is an addition, a coming-into-being—rather than a reduction, a taking-away, or subtraction from what already is, which we associate with negativity.

However, Hegel complicates this dichotomy. He employs the concept of negation not as a merely negative or destructive notion, but rather as a positive, active force¹. Negation necessarily involves dependency on something external—it limits or determines an other— it takes away from what is already there. Yet, paradoxically, this very limiting function is also the negation’s positive capacity, for it functions as a determination, a real force that alters what it acts upon. In doing so, it initiates change. The idea is that we begin with the Infinite, because it is present before any finite conception of it. Therefore, the Infinite cannot be limited by reducing it to the finite absolutely—otherwise, that reduction leads to an infinite regress. You can always limit it an infinite number of times. Thus, a negation of the Infinite is to turn it into a finite conception: a moment of itself that constantly transforms into different variations of itself.

Recollection

The idea of negation connects to a deeper question: How does the infinite relate to the finite? In psychology, the mind is often described as a blank slate (tabula rasa), born empty and then filled by experience—as if experiences are deposited into a mental vault over time.

By contrast, the Ancient Greek—particularly Socratic—view of knowledge holds that knowing is a process of recollection (anamnesis)². Rather than being passively acquired from without, knowledge is remembered from within. This theory helps account for the phenomenon of the epiphany—the sudden moment of insight or the so-called “Eureka moment”. It also explains why certain truths “resonate” with the observer: because these truths were already known at a universal level, and consciousness is simply remembering them.

This theory of recollection links directly to the logic of measuring the infinite: it is not the accumulation of parts that produces the whole, but the retrieval of determinate forms from an indeterminate source. This is precisely what negation does—it draws a specific, determinate form from a universal or infinite ground.

The Negation Is Positive

To say the negation is positive is to assert that there is no such thing as a truly fundamental “positive” existing independently. What we call positive is always a particular, finite negation of an infinite, indeterminate quantity. That which is positive appears as such only because it is a presupposed limitation of something unbounded and infinite³.

In this light, every so-called “positive” thing is actually a reduction or extraction from the infinite. No matter how much is taken away, the infinite always remains inexhaustible. As such, every finite determination is a negation of the whole, not a separate or opposite entity.

In mathematics or formal logic, we define positive quantities only by their finitude—they are values that have been constrained to measurable form. For instance, the number 5 is a negation of 27, just as 2 is a negation of 5, making 3 another negation of 27. In this context, the alpha number, say 27, contains all potential values; each finite number is a particular mode of relating to that original totality⁴.

The power of negation, then, lies in its ability to limit the infinite—transforming it from an indeterminate, ungraspable unity into a determinate, particular measure. Through this act, what was previously indiscernible becomes specified. The negation selects and determines a part of the whole, and in doing so, renders the infinite intelligible, if only partially.

Though no finite moment can ever fully describe the infinite, the infinite is nevertheless composed of these finite, particular “moments” in time. Each such moment exists in its own unique form, representing one possible instance out of the totality of all conceivable moments. The process of negation is how the mind—i.e., the observer—draws from the flux of infinite possibilities a discernible, finite world of experience within which it can live and understand⁵.

Footnotes

Heidegger touches on this in Being and Time, where Dasein selects possibilities from an open totality, making them its own through decision and temporality. Although our ontology does not align with Headgear, this specific example is relevant.↩

See G.W.F. Hegel, Science of Logic, particularly the section on “Determinate Negation”. Hegel famously claims that “the negation of the negation is a positive,” and that all determination is inherently negation. ↩

This notion originates in Plato’s Meno, where Socrates argues that learning is essentially a form of recollection (ἀνάμνησις), based on the soul’s pre-existence. ↩

Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, especially in discussions on becoming, finitude, and infinity. The finite is always defined through its relation to the infinite. ↩

Compare to Cantor’s theory of set cardinality and the idea that infinite sets contain all possible subsets. Even finite subsets are “particular negations” of the infinite whole. ↩

The Positive Side of the Finite: Bringing potentiality into actuality

The positive side of the finite is that it represents the restraint of the infinite¹. This restraint of the infinite is the first moment of knowledge. The initial act of knowing consists in distinguishing something from everything. The finite discloses the infinite by slowing it into a kind of still, static motion—or more precisely, it “slows down” the speed of light into an abstraction: a static state we recognize as the particle state².

The infinite, which proceeds ever onward in time, is restrained into a particular moment. In this moment, time is not truly halted, for that would be impossible, but is instead moving at an extremely slow rate relative to the speed of light—the domain where infinity unfolds as the highest conceivable motion in existence³.

In the present moment, elementary mechanics are at play: one object, occupying one place, at one time. This implies that motion in the universe proceeds so slowly (in this abstracted frame) that each moment, bundled “within” a singularity, occurs in an orderly succession—one moment after another⁴.

Abstract motion is the act of selecting a particular moment from infinity and disclosing it as a finite duration of time. This is the kind of motion that gives rise to Being and non-Being⁵. Yet, because our sensation of observation is attuned to spatial motion—locomotion—the observer is conscious of space, but unconscious of time. Perception reveals a continuous field of objects, each simultaneously possessing a unique temporal duration. For perception, the infinite velocity of time is slowed down almost to stillness in one place—thus, “everything slowly appears to fall into place.”

This abstraction is the action of the abstract. It captures moments as objects in space⁶. But these objects are not determined by an immediate cause located within the present moment; rather, they are shaped by a prior cause, one that is not itself an effect found in the observed world of matter.

Instead, these objects—determined into being at a specific moment—are predicated upon a purely abstract predicate⁷. This predicate experiences nothing directly but only indirectly. In other words, Motion, as abstract activity, is capable of discerning an ordered set of unrelated objects, separated across spacetime, and bringing them into the same determination in a given moment.

Footnotes

This abstract predicate might be interpreted as a universal form, archetype, or logical structure—something akin to a Platonic form or a Hegelian category that governs particular instantiations. ↩

In metaphysical terms, the “finite” functions as a delimiting principle which allows the infinite to be cognized. This echoes Hegel’s view that the infinite must “negate” itself into finite determinations in order to be intelligible. ↩

This refers to the contrast between the wave-like infinite potential of light and the discrete particle-like events captured by measurement—akin to wave-particle duality in quantum mechanics. ↩

Here, “speed of light” functions metaphorically as the upper bound of motion, aligning with modern physics but abstracted into a metaphysical framework. ↩

This idea resonates with time as experienced in phenomenology, where consciousness presents time as a succession of now-points. ↩

This echoes Heidegger’s notion of Being as a process that includes both emergence and withdrawal, or the ancient Greek concept of “genesis” and “decay.” ↩

The capture of temporal moments as spatial objects mirrors Kant’s view of the role of the understanding in structuring sensory data into experience. ↩

In quantum mechanics, the phenomenon known as entanglement refers to the relation of “two or more objects described with reference to each other, even though the individual objects may be spatially separated by vast distances”¹. Quantum entanglement is described as two or more objects moving simultaneously in the same direction, even when separated by vast distances in space. This means that the objects do not necessarily need to “know about each other”—in other words, they do not need to exist within the same spatial-temporal field in order to share the same set of determinations, whether in motion or form.

The entanglement idea is often used to illustrate the multiverse theory, which proposes that there are many different versions of the universe operating simultaneously and instantaneously across space-time. In fact, all universes are governed by the same fundamental and universal principles; only the finite variations—the specific details of events—differ across each universe. There is a slight variation in the events occurring in each universe.

Quantum entanglement can be seen as a demonstration of the multiverse, because it shows how, irrespective of space, time appears to occur simultaneously and universally across all regions.

However, Reason, as the abstract power of motion, cannot simply “do that” without qualification—because a finite power is always moving against an infinite set of possible conceptions. The infinite must be derived from a particular order of sequence; that is, a duration can possess a limit of infinity, but only for a short period of time.

These discrete periods of time correspond to energy states that continually come in and out of being. This constant disruption in what would otherwise be a continuous whole is marked by moments of abruption. It is within these “blank” or empty periods of time that Being can exhibit two or more infinite moments².

These moments are fundamentally correlated by a duration in time, where one follows after another. Yet they are not merely differentiated by forming habitual patterns—rather, the pattern in time is not distinguished by voids in space. According to the principle of quantum entanglement, objects may be completely separated across vast regions of space and still bear the same fundamental relation, independent of their spatial location. That is, the relation between two or more objects, which bear no necessary connection in space, points to one and the same substance³.

Entanglement illustrates the power of an abstract substance that transcends the limitations of physical domains. This abstract substance is more fundamental than the physical—it is their predicate, the selecting force that draws from an indeterminate state of all matter a comprehensible set of relations, forming a finite duration of time.

You are within it, and within it, you are yourself.

Footnotes

Echoing Spinoza’s idea that all finite things are modes of one infinite substance, and also aligning with certain interpretations of quantum field theory where particles are excitations of the same underlying field. ↩

This definition aligns with the Copenhagen interpretation and later formalizations of entanglement in quantum theory, where the total state of a system cannot be factored into independent states of its parts. ↩

This could be understood through a metaphysical lens where moments of discontinuity (e.g., quantum decoherence or wavefunction collapse) reveal deeper patterns of being. ↩

The Ontological Role of Logic and Mathematics in the Sciences

An important implication of philosophy on the science(s) is the requirement to maintain the ontological principle that the logic of the predicate is a necessity for any mathematical expression. The predicate is not an empty theoretical presupposition, but rather it represents the notion of matter. In this sense, matter is the first theoretical predicate for every object in nature. The predicate of any conceivable object is that it must be material; however, what matter is, is not answered by the predicate. Alternatively, The predicate of any conceivable object is that it must be material, but the nature of matter itself is not explained by the predicate.

If mathematics concerns itself with the cataloguing of external relations that occur between objects, and abstracts from them principles that are universally applicable to all other objects, then we are compelled to investigate those very principles. The principles of logic are indeed abstracted from material objects in nature; however, they are also abstracted from the mind of the observer¹. It is precisely here that philosophical logic suggests a bridge between observer and phenomenon.

The function of logic—and of mathematics, for that matter—assumes that these systems are necessarily pragmatic elements involved in an observer’s interaction with phenomena. The function is the performance of what the system is meant to do. Logic, therefore, functions to reveal all possibilities inherent in a phenomenon, and in this way, it is also fundamentally an ethical science². Since it aims to reveal the full extent of truth, mathematical observations about objects are logically constituted. Thus, logic is always part of some active, living mind, element, or being. Even if logic is not identical with the being that employs it, they cannot be assumed to be entirely separate³.

When logic considers motion in the abstract—that is, when it considers a thought or an idea, which may be a hypothesis or assumption about what a system could be if it were limited to itself, and not extended into the domain of other systems—this act of abstraction brings with it the necessary components that serve as variables describing features of its material structure. It unifies material parts into a conjunction of objects that constitute an event for the observer.

This event is formed inter-dimensionally. That is, outside of the conception of the infinite as a finite moment, there exists another dimension we understand as the fourth dimension. This dimension serves as the marker for accessing an infinity of dimensions—fifth, sixth, seventh, and so forth. However, all of these are part of the same dimension where the infinite resides. The infinite is every possible moment folded into itself, like a shooting wavelength existing everywhere and in all directions⁴.

Footnotes

The concept of dimensions as interpenetrating or folded echoes theories in both metaphysics (e.g., Henri Bergson’s “duration”) and theoretical physics, especially in string theory and M-theory, which propose multidimensional realities. ↩

This idea finds roots in Kantian philosophy, where the forms of sensibility and understanding (space, time, and categories) are both a priori structures of the mind and yet essential for the structuring of experience. ↩

The ethical nature of logic as revealing “all possibilities” recalls ideas in phenomenology and dialectics, particularly in the work of Hegel, who linked logic to the unfolding of truth in ethical life (Sittlichkeit). ↩

Similar sentiments are echoed in Spinozist and process philosophy, where logic and mind are interdependent modes of the same substance or process. ↩

The fourth dimension often appears wonky, and the higher the dimensions, the more indiscernible their shapes become. This is because matter—which mathematical models attempt to describe—is itself determined by a more fundamental, abstract substance known as logic, or, as the ancient Greeks called it, logos¹.

The kind of logic operative at any given moment determines the sequence of events in the finite dimension of time known as the present. This is the moment in which the senses are in direct contact with objects. In other words, the term present as an adjective means in attendance or presented—to be here and now, available, seen, and witnessed—rather than past, which is no longer capable of being directly experienced. Notably, the feature of being unavailableapplies not only to the past but also to the future. The future does not exist during the present; it is only received when it becomes present, at which point it transforms into something else—an “other” to itself, a non-being².

The concept of abstraction, in one sense, explains how human understanding engages with the material world—namely, by categorizing and segmenting it to derive knowledge as a sequence rather than as a totality of all instances at once³. However, the boundaries between these categories become blurred when each moment is viewed as a single, isolated instance. When one possible event is selected from among infinite possibilities and observed in the present moment, that moment represents a particular dimension disclosing a specific period of time. Yet within this disclosure, there is infinite depth.

For example, when we say it is 2 o’clock right now, we mean only this moment—now—and not the moment before or after. Two is neither one nor three. Yet in this single moment now, there are potentially infinite outward directions in space. Light, for instance, radiates outward infinitely in all directions. Simultaneously, there is infinite inwardness—a depth that penetrates the atomic or even subatomic level.

Spatially, for a being to be disclosed within one dimension means that the object can move indefinitely in a single direction. However, when treated as a dimension of time, an object may only occur at one instant—i.e., “at one time.” This means that it exists here, now, in this specific location, on this particular date, with this specific weather, and so on. In contrast, time, as not limited to one dimension, allows every moment to occupy all dimensions at once⁴.

Footnotes

The idea that matter takes form, particularly as discrete, intelligible objects, is foundational in Aristotelian metaphysics—form (morphe) being the intelligible structure of a thing. ↩

Logos in ancient Greek philosophy, particularly in the works of Heraclitus and later the Stoics, refers to the rational principle that governs the cosmos. ↩

This notion parallels existentialist and phenomenological views of time, particularly in the works of Heidegger, where the future is a projection that only becomes “actual” when it is present. ↩

Kant and subsequent philosophers have emphasized how cognition requires the structuring of sensory data into time and space through conceptual abstraction. ↩

This could be interpreted as an echo of theories in physics and metaphysics regarding block time or eternalism, where all points in time exist simultaneously. ↩

Abstraction is, therefore, not merely a faculty of the human mind; it is also a mechanism intrinsic to time itself, allowing it to be divisible into distinct moments that connect in sequence to form a duration. The assumption here is that any human mode of thought has a natural place in the universe prior to its emergence in the human brain. An example of a natural abstraction is the “instantaneous point flashes” of energy that quantum mechanics describes as discrete quanta or “discrete points of energy.”¹ This phenomenon characterizes the natural operation of abstraction in nature—an operation that human understanding later acquires and sublates into forms of knowledge.

When one flash overlaps with another, a wavelength gradient is created, enabling an event to be displayed or perceived by an observer. Charles Sanders Peirce defines abstraction as follows:

“Abstraction [aphaeresis] is the separation in thought of an attribute or relation from its subject, by neglecting the latter. This seems to be its sense, in Aristotle […] Such a separation of matter and form, or of certain characters from others, but not of one thing from another.”²

Ordinary understanding is endowed with the capacity to perceive an object and then abstract its qualities.³ When cognition performs an abstraction, it regards the form as something extracted from the matter. This assumes that the forms derived from matter—such as its mathematical relations like size, density, or shape—are qualities that only arise after the inception of the material object. What the ordinary understanding often fails to grasp is that the object is already a particular configuration of those very qualities, prior to their separation and abstraction. For example, angles, units, and lengths—typically categorized as quantitative properties—are, in essence, mental notions or abstractions of physical motions. These properties are not static substances, but measurable aspects of movement itself. Abstraction serves to record this movement in a static form so that each moment of change can be tracked and documented as part of the object’s determinations. These determinations may be inverted, deviated, or sublated in the dialectical sense.⁴ It seems that the universe itself is built to be capable of being conceived.

How do we reconcile these two views?

The first is that the basic operations of the universe—independent of the human mind that later apprehends them—appear to function according to a kind of natural abstraction. That is, reality itself is divisible into discrete moments or “points” of energy. These discrete units of energy constitute the structure of temporal experience: events occur in succession, one following another in time. Even objects themselves participate in temporal sequence—for example, a son follows after the father, and each exists in relation to the historical flow. This suggests that the universe is not fundamentally continuous or static as it appears to perception, but is instead made up of discrete, dynamic phases.

The second notion of abstraction, as reiterated by Peirce following Aristotle, defines it as the rational capacity of the human mind to separate what is otherwise experienced as a complete and unified object into its distinct qualities or aspects. The mind can isolate form from matter, or soul from body, treating these as if they were independent entities. However, in reality, these qualities are indivisible—they always belong to the same organic whole. The human act of abstraction, then, involves conceptual division of a unity that remains integrated in nature.

The connection lies in recognizing that before the human mind can perform complex abstractions—such as analyzing an organic object into its constituent parts—there exists a deeper, more primordial abstraction inherent in nature itself. This foundational abstraction is visible in the discrete, non-continuous energy conditions that structure the physical universe. In other words, the universe is not smoothly continuous as it may seem to perception; rather, it fluctuates, oscillates, and unfolds through successive states that suggest an ongoing emergence or “coming into being.”

Why does reality not present itself as static and continuous, as it often appears to ordinary perception? Why does the fundamental state of the universe seem unstable, fluctuating, as though it is constantly passing in and out of being?

One possible explanation is that the nature of observation itself is embedded within the material substrate of the universe. In other words, the presence of an observer—or the potential for observation—is a built-in feature of reality. Analogously, it is as though when we look at an object, that object is already being disclosed within the perspective of another observer. Our perception, then, is not merely our own, but is entangled with the observational structure of reality itself. What we see is, in some deep sense, what another observer—perhaps reality itself—is also seeing.

This implies that the universe is not simply a passive container of things, but a participatory structure in which subjectivity and objectivity are mutually entangled. The primal abstraction of energy into discrete events is the ontological ground from which both physical phenomena and mental operations, like abstraction, later emerge.

Footnotes

The idea of sublation (Aufhebung) is drawn from Hegelian dialectics, where contradiction and negation are preserved and elevated in a new synthesis. Movement, as abstracted, is not destroyed but preserved in the higher concept. ↩

Quantum mechanics describes energy as being quantized, meaning it exists in discrete units. These “flashes” of energy are not continuous but appear in packets (quanta), which can be interpreted as moments of natural abstraction. ↩

Peirce, C. S. (CP 4.235). His understanding of abstraction follows Aristotelian logic, where the form can be separated from the matter conceptually, not physically. ↩

Aristotle discusses this in De Anima and Metaphysics, where the intellect (nous) can abstract universal forms from particular substances. ↩

The phrase “state of nature,” popularized by Hobbes, is an example of a fallacious abstraction. Hobbes derives from nature a condition which is “nasty, brutish, and short,” and concludes this to be the natural condition of mankind—what would exist if there were no government, no civilization, and no laws.¹ This assumption presupposes that laws and civilization are what make people rational. What is considered “natural” here is contested. “Natural” can either mean a more primal, primitive condition—as Hobbes assumes—or it can mean, as in the Aristotelian tradition, the realization of a being’s full potential. In the latter case, human beings creating society, government, and laws is a natural condition for them because their nature, in its potential, is to become rational. Therefore, rational beings naturally produce rational elements such as laws and government.

However, the question then arises: Who made these laws? If the answer is that human beings made the laws, then it follows that humans are already fundamentally rational—rational enough to recognize that laws are necessary and reasonable. This means that when humans deviate from their rational nature and become “nasty and brutish,” they have created systems (such as law and government) that help realign them with that original rational nature. Hobbes presents human nature as essentially animalistic and restrained only by the artificial structure of the state. Yet, he does not explain the rational process through which this ordered state developed, as if the emergence of government was itself non-rational.

The abstraction occurs when Hobbes isolates the “brutish” side of human behavior and assumes it to be man’s fundamental nature. Rousseau, by contrast, argues for the opposite abstraction: that man is inherently free, but that society corrupts him.² This too is an abstraction, because “freedom,” in this liberal context, is defined as the individual’s ability to do as they please—even if that means acting purely on primal instincts and urges.

The Aristotelian tradition of ethics, later developed by German idealists like Kant and Hegel, seeks to synthesize these two opposing abstractions to arrive at a fuller understanding of human nature.³

According to this tradition, the freedom to act on one’s base instincts is not true freedom, because in doing so one remains governed by lower, animalistic drives. In this sense, a person is least free when acting without rational deliberation. True freedom, then, involves education and moral development toward a higher nature. This aligns with Aristotle’s principle that the true nature of man is his capacity to become rational—he is potentially rational.⁴ Freedom must be achieved, not assumed. This achievement requires the cultivation of certain virtues and the suppression of others; reason must come to govern the irrational.

In psychological terms, Jung describes ‘being conscious’ as developing awareness of the unconscious, while ‘being unconscious’ means acting out behaviors without awareness.⁵ Philosophically speaking, unconsciousness is the absenceof consciousness. Animals are unconscious because they act entirely from instinct—they do not choose their actions. Consciousness, on the other hand, involves a crucial capacity to “think before acting,” and this is where human freedom truly resides: if one chooses to act on a desire despite knowing its implications, one exercises deliberate will.

Jung writes, “We are the origin of all coming evil,”⁶ because humans can choose to commit atrocities—knowingly. At the same time, they can also choose to do great good. Animals are always ‘good,’ in a sense, even when their behavior would seem ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ by human standards, because they do not act from moral agency. They act on impulse, in direct reaction to external stimuli, always in tune with the immediate moment.

In some ways, this is a psychological blessing: animals are impenetrable to self-doubt or manipulation. They are 100% what they are. Humans, by contrast, carry the “curse” of self-reflection—they feel their thoughts and actions. We know that we know. This recursive awareness brings about inner dialogue, debate, and negotiation, making us susceptible to manipulation, internal contradiction, and moral failure.

Whereas on one level, chaos seems to be the foundation of life, on another, more fundamental level, it is actually predicated on order.

Even more primary than the so-called ‘state of nature’ where life is “brutish,” we observe that nature exhibits an absolute molecular and systemic order—within which those macro-level experiences of chaos occur. This idea—that order underlies chaos—aligns with the second law of thermodynamics (entropy), which tells us that systems move toward disorder, but only from a prior state of order.⁷ In this sense, chaos presupposes order. Between any two ordered states, there exists an exchange value, a zone of uncertainty or transformation.

The concept of “uncertainty” or “chaos” always emerges from within the structure of ordered systems or observers. Abstraction provides a general picture of external relations between things, but it often misses the implicit internal transformations that make those things dynamic processes rather than static entities.

(See space caught bending.)

Footnotes

Schrödinger, Erwin. What is Life? (1944). Also relevant is the second law of thermodynamics, where entropy increases over time, but assumes prior systemic order. ↩

Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan (1651). Hobbes describes the state of nature as a pre-political condition marked by constant fear and danger of violent death. ↩

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. The Social Contract (1762). Rousseau famously begins with “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains,” implying society as a corrupting force. ↩

Kant and Hegel both reinterpreted freedom not as absence of restraint, but as rational self-determination. See: Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals; Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit. ↩

Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book I. Aristotle defines the human function as rational activity in accordance with virtue. ↩

Jung, Carl Gustav. See The Undiscovered Self and Modern Man in Search of a Soul, where Jung emphasizes the process of individuation and becoming conscious of the unconscious. ↩

Jung, C.G. “The Psychology of the Unconscious” — “We are the origin of all coming evil” refers to humanity’s unique moral agency. ↩

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The Problem with Abstractions is Distractions

Abstractions of space and time.

Distraction in the realm of knowledge is not the lack of paying attention to something, but rather the diversion of attention from one concept to another without carrying the necessity of the former into the latter. This occurs when, for example, we examine the concept of space, and then proceed to examine the concept of time as if it is entirely distinct, independent, and not necessarily connected. We assume that each must be outlined separately, and from this difference alone, we arrive at what appears to be a complete picture. However, this is only the step of arriving at the contradiction. The task is not yet complete; it must continue through to the resolution, which involves showing how each concept characterizes the nature of the other.

Alfred North Whitehead addresses what happens when space and time are taken independently. In discussing the problem with the nature of “abstractions,” and specifically the two fundamental abstractions of space and time, Whitehead writes:

“This long discussion brings us to the final conclusion that the concrete facts of nature are events exhibiting a certain structure in their mutual relations and certain characters of their own. The aim of science is to express the relations between their characters in terms of the mutual structural relations between the events thus characterised. The mutual structural relations between events are both spatial and temporal. If you think of them as merely spatial you are omitting the temporal element, and if you think of them as merely temporal you are omitting the spatial element.

Thus when you think of space alone, or of time alone, you are dealing in abstractions; namely, you are leaving out an essential element in the life of nature as known to you in the experience of your senses. Furthermore, there are different ways of making these abstractions, which we think of as space and as time; and under some circumstances we adopt one way, and under other circumstances we adopt another way. Thus, there is no paradox in holding that what we mean by space under one set of circumstances is not what we mean by space under another set of circumstances. And equally, what we mean by time under one set of circumstances is not what we mean by time under another set of circumstances.

By saying that space and time are abstractions, I do not mean that they do not express for us real facts about nature. What I mean is that there are no spatial facts or temporal facts apart from physical nature—namely, that space and time are merely ways of expressing certain truths about the relations between events.”¹

Footnotes:

1. Alfred North Whitehead, The Concept of Nature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920, pp. 168–169.

The Fallacy of Abstractions: On the Interrelation of Space and Time

To presuppose one principle over the other implies that one principle can be taken independently from the other—in the sense that one exists prior to the presence of the other. However, this logic represents the fallacy of abstractions. It is not valid, for example, to assume space comes first and can exist independently of time, as if space were present before time.

In order for space to be present at all, it necessarily involves a duration—whether eternal or momentary. Its mere presence is a definition of time. Time, then, is a quality of space in being its measure. Likewise, if time is to be considered, it requires space, because the presence or occurrence of anything must be somewhere—occupying a location or position. Space is the quality of time in the sense that it is the dimension, realm, or “container” through which events in time are disclosed.

**Time is period; space is plane.**¹

The point here is that when we talk about one concept as if it is distinct from the other, we must not forget that this distinct description is supplementary to what the other lacks. In talking about the relation between events, for example, what time lacks in describing the coexistence of two different events, space provides by acting as the shared medium of continuity. For instance, two men falling off their bicycles may do so at different times, but they share the same city—a spatial context. There is a space in which both of these distinct events can coexist.

Conversely, what space lacks in describing the temporal connection between two events happening in the same location, time makes up for by revealing these events as moments in a cyclical life process. For example, every person may experience an injury at some point in life—different events, same theme, connected by time.

Whitehead elaborates on this interdependence:

“Accordingly when we are comparing two observations made under different circumstances we have to ask, ‘Do the two observers mean the same thing by space and the same thing by time?’ The modern theory of relativity has arisen because certain perplexities as to the concordance of certain delicate observations—such as the motion of the earth through the ether, the perihelion of Mercury, and the positions of the stars in the neighbourhood of the sun—have been solved by reference to this purely relative significance of space and time.”²

Spacetime, then, is not simply the combination of two independent notions—space and time—but a relational synthesis derived from their distinction. Spacetime is a constructed abstraction meant to resolve their tension by explaining how the same underlying nature exhibits itself in different forms. It does not imply that substance exists in two forms, but rather that a single, unified reality exhibits dual aspects under different conceptual conditions.

Space and time are distinct concepts only in terms of logical abstraction. Their distinction is required in scientific reasoning, which assigns different sets of functions and relations to each. For example, some relations are better explained spatially (e.g., geometry, proximity), while others temporally (e.g., duration, sequence). These distinctions are necessary not to separate them, but to facilitate understanding of how they come together in synthesis.

Thus, when we talk about the features of one concept, those features can illuminate the limits or lack in the other. The reciprocal relationship—how time relates to space and how space relates to time—is what is ultimately defined in the concept of spacetime.

Spacetime is defined as a continuum in which complex events interact, taking on form and shape in space while unfolding through time. The complexity lies in the indeterminate and potentially infinite nature of these coordinated functions as they are subsumed in nature itself.³

Footnotes

1. The idea that “time is period, space is plane” refers to a philosophical generalization of dimensions. Time defines when an event occurs (period), while space defines where it occurs (plane).
2. Alfred North Whitehead, The Concept of Nature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920, p. 169.
3. This conception is consistent with Einstein’s general relativity, in which spacetime is a dynamic, four-dimensional continuum affected by mass and energy. However, Whitehead’s interpretation leans toward a process-oriented metaphysics that emphasizes relational structure over static substance.

The fallacy of abstraction occurs when an observer, confronted with complexity, assumes that this complexity represents the complete picture of the universe—merely because it is intricate and difficult to explain. As Alfred North Whitehead puts it:

The Fallacy of Abstraction

“It [the modern point of view] has thus swept away space and matter, and has substituted the study of the internal relations within a complex state of activity. This complex state is in one sense a unity. There is the whole universe of physical action extending to the remotest star cluster. In another sense it is divisible into parts. We can trace interrelations within a selected group of activities, and ignore all other activities. By such an abstraction, we shall fail to explain those internal activities which are affected by changes in the external system that has been ignored. Also, in any fundamental sense, we shall fail to understand the retained activities. For these activities will depend upon a comparatively unchanging systematic environment.”¹

Whitehead argues that abstraction isolates aspects of a dynamic system, pretending they can be fully understood apart from the whole. The mind, in conceiving nature, inevitably employs abstractions. The senses, for instance, pick out from a continuous state of nature a particular event—a moment in the life of a process—and represent the entire process on the basis of what is perceived in that isolated moment, which forms only a part of the whole.

Friedrich Engels also discusses this error in his critique of metaphysical thinking:

“But this conception, correctly as it covers the general character of the picture of phenomena as a whole, is yet inadequate to explain the details of which this total picture is composed; and so long as we do not understand these, we also have no clear idea of the picture as a whole. In order to understand these details, we must detach them from their natural or historical connections, and examine each one separately, as to its nature, its special causes and effects, etc.”²

Here, Engels acknowledges the necessity of abstraction as a tool for understanding, but warns that it becomes a fallacy when the detached part is mistaken for the whole. A particular moment is indeed true because it is part of a process, but it cannot be used to describe or explain the process in its entirety.

Take, for example, a photograph of outer space. The image captures a stunning but static fragment of a dynamic, evolving cosmos. To take that picture as fully representative of the cosmos is to fall into the fallacy of abstraction—confusing a slice of time and space for the total reality.

Footnotes:

1. Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (1925), pp. 140–141.
2. Friedrich Engels, Anti-Dühring (1878), pp. 26–27.

Whitehead gives a Modern example of how we can mistakenly view the universe: by assuming that complexity alone represents the whole. No matter how infinite this complexity may appear, it cannot define or limit the totality of the universe. The universe is beyond even this measure—it surpasses itself. More is always found. Furthermore, the dynamics that interact within complexity itself are the form and shape of this whole, which we cannot grasp merely by glimpsing a single cluster of the universe.

Whitehead remarks:

“We can, for example, take a picture of a cluster of stars and think that this is the whole of the universe. Yet this can only be a moment of the universe, since the universe is eternal, and only a part, since the universe is infinitely divisible. Moreover, what appears in an image we claim to be the universe is subjected to space and time. During the instant it is perceived, it may have already changed into something completely different. We know this startling fact when we look up into the skies and see a star. That star may have already been long gone, and we are just perceiving the remembrance of its light reflection, which took a certain amount of time to arrive at the pupil. The universe is a place of time.”¹

When we look up at the sky and observe the stars, they appear to be randomly scattered. This impression of “randomness” is a limited conception. Between the stars, there is a vast depth of space that may appear empty and void. However, we know through empirical observation that any apparently empty region of space, when magnified sufficiently, reveals an indefinite number of more stars. This suggests that any “empty” space between stars contains more stars, such that when two stars appear to be randomly scattered, they are, in fact, part of a larger structure of an indefinite number of stars.

This leads us to question the exact position of a star. When we perceive a star or a planet at a specific point in space, that is merely an abstraction of the star in its orbital motion, which is always in relation to another star. We observe only a part of its orbit, and in that limited view, the star appears isolated, not as a component of a greater system. Moreover, no position in the universe is truly itself, but only as it appears to perception. Objects in space are not merely in a particle state; rather, this particle state is only one moment at one instant in time that the object existed. Objects in space are also subject to time, meaning they are temporal and exhibit themselves as wavelengths in a shared relation with an observer. The objects occupying a certain position in space also mean that the light emitted from those objects extends outward from their particular positions and travels toward the observer. Thus, the original positions of the objects may have shifted over time, but the light extending to the observer has just now arrived at their eyes, giving off a past moment of that object. This is why we can observe stars that have long since died in the universe, but their light has only just reached our eyes. The universe is a place of time; therefore, we are not merely observing objects in space, but rather moments in time.

There is a saying: “If one star is out of place in the universe, that would change the whole universe—and even who you are and your circumstances.” What sounds grandiose is, in fact, simple. For instance, if someone had not slipped on a wet floor and broken their leg, their circumstances would have been different—they might be running outside instead of lying in a hospital bed. The mere presence or absence of the wet floor determined that person’s circumstances. Yet the floor alone did not cause the broken leg—it was part of a broader structure that constituted the event: the individual was moving hastily, perhaps because they were late; they fell at a particular angle with their weight shifted to one side, and so on. The connection of events is the qualitative version of the physical phenomenon of divisibility.

Consider any object, such as a grain of sand. We can divide it into an infinite number of atoms. But to say that the object is divided into an infinite number of atoms is somewhat inaccurate. Atoms are not “parts” of the object in the same way that a ‘foot is part of a man’. A part is a partial conception that belongs to a greater whole. An atom, by contrast, cannot be partially conceived, because that would imply it is divisible—and by definition, it is not.²

Atoms are not parts of the specific object but are parts of the general substance that the object shares. Being a “part” of something is not simply one object connected to another within the same context. Rather, when something is a true part of another, it both contributes to the specific nature of that thing and retains its own independent nature. For example, a man is 70% water, but water is not a part of the man in the same way that a leg is. Water has its own independent chemical structure. It is composed of hydrogen, which in turn is not a part of water like a ripple is a part of a wave, but rather a general state of matter from which water is a particular expression.

Thus, when we say that any object is infinitely divisible into atoms, this does not mean the object is split into an infinite number of parts. Rather, it means that through the object we access a more general state of matter—one that is infinitely capable of being conceived. At the atomic level, matter becomes indivisible, and this state represents a conceptual limit. Infinite divisibility leads to an abstract indivisibility—an apparent paradox where the infinite regress resolves into a conceptual boundary. This is the philosophical grounding of the idea that an atom is the smallest unit of matter. In our ordinary perceptions, however, objects are always divided into finite, comprehensible parts.

Footnotes

In ancient philosophy, atoms were considered indivisible (from Greek atomos). Modern quantum theory shows that even atoms have internal structures (protons, neutrons, electrons). Alfred North Whitehead, Nature alive and nature lifeless ↩

Whitehead’s philosophical emphasis on process and temporality reveals a universe in flux, where appearances are deceiving because they are static snapshots of dynamic realities. This reflects his process philosophy, particularly in works like Process and Reality. ↩

The explanation of the Big Bang actually involves a very interesting narrative. The universe is initially defined by an infinitesimal point, which, being infinite, allows no defined moment prior to it. If there were a moment before this point, the universe would be finite, because that earlier moment would mark one finite instance, and the moment after the beginning would be the next finite point. But if there is no moment before the beginning of the universe, then only the moment after its inception becomes finite—because a series of discernible events can now be said to have taken place¹.

As you may by now realize, finitude is related to the act of conception, of picking something out from everything, whereas infinity pertains to the consciousness of everything—and simultaneously, no-thing at all². The moment the infinitesimal point is defined, we have the beginning of the universe. And the first finite point of the infinitesimal is, in fact, a conception.

It is interesting, in the explanation of the Big Bang, that one cannot help but use the first conception of the universe as a measure for its beginning, and the infinite as the conceptual limit of that conception. This forms the division between a finite abstraction—defined as a measurable quantity, like stardust or lighter elements converting into heavier ones³—and the indeterminate moment prior to any conception, known as the infinitesimal singularity⁴.

As a mere physical phenomenon, the infinitesimal is inconceivable, because any physical description of it becomes merely an abstraction of a particular kind of matter—like a chemical or molecule. But as an abstract rational principle, the infinitesimal singularity constitutes the limit of conception—that which lies beyond. This limit may arise either from a restriction in the conceiving faculty or be a feature of things in themselves⁵.

Footnotes

“Things in themselves” (or noumena) is a Kantian term, referring to the reality that exists independently of our perceptions and conceptual frameworks. ↩

In cosmology, time and space are thought to have begun with the Big Bang. Asking “what happened before” may be a category error since time itself did not exist as we understand it. ↩

Philosophically, this recalls both Kantian and phenomenological ideas of how consciousness and perception shape reality, where the infinite can represent either totality or pure indeterminacy. ↩

A reference to nucleosynthesis, the physical process by which elements are formed in stars and supernovae—a finite, observable phenomenon. ↩

The singularity refers to a point where general relativity breaks down, and physical laws as we know them cease to function—a region of infinite density and zero volume. ↩

Differentiated by faculty, or by nature differentiated?

The way science deals with the limit of conception is by stating that the universe is too physically vast, and the observer too small by comparison. Therefore, the limit in knowledge is assumed to be the extent in magnitude between the observer and the world¹. However, this assumption fails to address two critical implications of what it means for conception to be limited.

First: Do objects exhibit a natural distinction from each other, such that their relation is the limit? Or do the sensible faculties themselves differentiate things? The latter cannot be fully answered without the former, because if we assume that things are differentiated only due to the operation of sensible powers, then we are left asking: How do these faculties possess the power to distinguish? What is the source of this differentiating capacity?

The sensible power to pick out distinctions reinforces the fact that things are infinitely distinct, and sensation is merely a selective mechanism of particular abstractions². Moreover, the sensible faculties are not merely analytical—that is, they do not only distinguish one thing from another—but synthetical, as they serve as the foundation of understanding forms and whole. When combined with abstract reason, they produce reflective knowledge about a particular thing³.

Second: Things are naturally differentiated, because we have, by nature, a limit to sensible knowledge. For instance, color is limited to sight; sound to hearing. At a certain distance, you may see something but not smell it. This is due to the spatial and temporal conditions under which sensations occur⁴. Space and time, as a priori forms of intuition, determine how sensation manifests and when it fails to reach us. It is the element within the thing—its spatial-temporal presentation—that allows it to be differentiated in sensation⁵.

The notion of abstraction precisely encompasses the dilemma: Are things differentiated by a faculty while being by nature undifferentiated? Or are they distinct in nature, presented to the senses as such?

The power of the sensible faculty is the mechanism by which natural distinctions become apparent. Yet things must also be naturally distinct for the conceiving faculty to pick them out. If we remove whatever it is that distinguishes two objects, they melt into one another to form a continuity—a single, undivided thing. Thus, the limit of conception is an actually inconceivable element: it is a void or barrier that differentiates things for our conception. Remove that void, and what remains is an undifferentiated continuum.

This limit does not appear as part of the thing itself. It is what allows things to appear distinct. Without it, all things would be the same thing—or at least indistinctly continuous. The limit of conception is a natural phenomenon by which the infinite becomes manifest as the finite—within which, however, resides an infinity of finites⁶.

For example, consider how we cannot see air particles, or perceive the layer upon layer of nested realities that underlie what we call “a single object.” The finite presentation hides infinite structure. The same applies to dimensional abstraction: a tesseract (a four-dimensional hypercube) is the same object appearing in different places depending on how it intersects with three-dimensional space⁷.

Footnotes

A tesseract (or hypercube) illustrates how higher-dimensional objects can only be experienced in lower-dimensional “slices,” reinforcing the concept that much remains concealed due to dimensional limits. ↩

This is a standard epistemological stance in empirical science, where the scale of the observable universe is thought to set a practical and conceptual limit on human understanding. ↩

This recalls Kant’s notion that the manifold of sensation must be organized by the faculties of sensibility and understanding before it can be known. ↩

See Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, especially the Transcendental Deduction, where he argues that the synthetic unity of apperception makes experience possible. ↩

In Kantian terms, space and time are forms of intuition, structuring how all sensory data is received and processed. ↩

This is a fusion of Aristotelian hylomorphism (form and matter) with Kantian epistemology, implying that the object’s presentation is inherently relational to the perceiving subject. ↩

This is analogous to the idea that the finite object is a container or expression of an infinite structure—a perspective echoed in fractal geometry and metaphysical realism. ↩

In the Preface to the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant writes:

“Human reason is called upon to consider questions which it cannot decline, as they are presented by its own nature, but which it cannot answer, as they transcend every faculty of the mind. It falls into this difficulty without any fault of its own.”¹

For Kant, abstraction involves the movement of understanding from the physical composition of an object to the abstract principles of reason. For example, when we derive the idea of straightness from observing a table, the resulting concept—a 180-degree angle—is not unique to the table. Rather, it is an abstraction of straightness drawn from an encompassing quality found across many different phenomena. The table’s edge, when examined closely, is not truly straight but shows subtle ridges and curves. Thus, straightness is abstract because it exceeds in conception any particular object from which it might be derived².

What the understanding derives from experience are not merely impressions, but abstractions of principles of pure reason. Kant’s task is not to explore how far reason can go without the aid of experience, but to show how every object of perception can be traced back to a form of abstract thought³. This, as Hegel later affirms, is also the task of philosophy:

“Philosophy is the cognition of that which is eternally and necessarily; it is the science of the Idea, which exists in and for itself.”⁴

Kant partially demonstrates this through the concept of apperception, a central function of the understanding. The understanding mediates between pure thought and the representation of that thought as grasped in perception. Apperception is thus the intuition of the form that is derived from the perception of the object. This intuition then produces judgment, which is the conscious apprehension of the idea within the object⁵.

On Self-Consciousness and Conception

Hegel develops this further: The individual form of self-consciousness—humanity’s capacity to recognize itself as a something, a what—is a selective act. To identify oneself as “I” is to simultaneously exclude all else from that identification; it is to set oneself against the infinite⁶. This consciousness, which seems to operate behind the body or is perhaps the body’s most apparent expression, is the development of the universe toward a particularized expression of self.

The intricate complexity of the universe results in the emergence of wholes—like self-conscious beings—that operate independently of the aggregate of parts that compose them. Self-consciousness develops just as any object does: as a whole derived from the relations of particular parts, which are themselves wholes made up of further parts. The identity of a “whole” is determined by conception. For example, from one perspective, a certain object may appear as a single whole; from another (closer) perspective, it may reveal itself to be a composition of many parts. Thus, the identity of the object as a whole becomes a conceptual abstraction stored in memory once the perceptual field is altered.

Conception is a whole, not because it contains no parts, but because it distinguishes between its parts—it discloses them. However, conception is never itself a part, because it is inconceivable as such. It is always a whole precisely because it is the act of conceiving. Yet the manner in which conception discloses its objects is also how the whole becomes itself a part in another conception.

Self-consciousness is the same: it is a whole conception that discloses the sum of parts (the body, memory, language, relations), yet it develops its own independence and freedom from the universe of parts that constitute it.

Consider again the earlier example of the table edge. From a distance, the edge appears straight; upon closer inspection, the change in magnitude reveals it as a sequence of curved ridges. The conception that perceives the “straight edge” is, in truth, the whole of the curved ridges constituting it—an abstraction resolved at a particular scale⁷.

Footnotes

This example illustrates both Kant’s point about the limits of perception and Hegel’s point about the dialectical development of concepts: perception is shaped by magnitude, relation, and cognitive synthesis. ↩

Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, Preface to the First Edition (1781). This expresses Kant’s central concern with metaphysical inquiry: reason’s innate tendency to ask unanswerable questions. ↩

This anticipates Kant’s distinction between the phenomenon (what is given in experience) and the noumenon (the thing-in-itself), as well as his emphasis on the synthetic a priori. ↩

Kant argues that space, time, and the categories of the understanding are necessary preconditions for experience, not derivable from it. ↩

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Encyclopaedia Logic §1. Philosophy seeks the absolute by tracing appearances back to the Idea. ↩

This reflects Kant’s notion of the “transcendental unity of apperception,” which is what makes coherent experience possible. ↩

Hegel elaborates on this in the Phenomenology of Spirit, where the development of self-consciousness is the gradual movement of Spirit (Geist) becoming conscious of itself through history and finite individuals. ↩

In the present evolutionary development of self-consciousness, the proximity of the body to the identification of the self is more approximate and refined than in earlier stages of life. Animals, for example, do naturally exhibit a sense of self in the form of self-preservation—a bodily awareness distinct from their environment. However, they lack a developed identity of self, because their modes of consciousness, such as instinct, are identical with whatever their senses present from the environment at any given moment¹.

Animals lack the reflective thinking of the understanding, which initiates the crucial distinction between the object in the environment and the modes of consciousness that conceive those objects. The animal’s sense of identity is fused with the object immediately in front of it, and that object is subject to the animal’s emotional response—they attack it when threatened, they consume it when hungry, and so on².

Throughout the progressive development of human history, we observe different cultures beginning to identify particular aspects of their environment with themselves. Ancient civilizations such as the Egyptians and Hindus offer compelling examples. In Hindu iconography, for instance, the goddess Parvati is often depicted with multiple arms and seated atop a tiger or lion. This is a symbolic identification of the human being with primal forms of life—insects, centipedes, and apex predators³.

The motif of Parvati reflects an ancient recognition that divinity encompasses both nurturing and destructive forces of nature. Her multiple arms evoke the insect-like image of the centipede, symbolizing an omnipresent force, while her positioning atop the lion reflects the human as ruler or conqueror of the animal kingdom⁴. In these depictions, all arms are the arms of divinity—a basic recognition of the interconnectedness of nature, as noted by Alan Watts:

“All arms are the arms of divinity.”⁵

Parvati, like nature, is both beautiful and nurturing, but also dangerous and violent toward man. In many depictions, there is always a man being slaughtered beneath her feet—a clear metaphor for the dual nature of the universe in which the self is both participant and victim.

In modern times, the conception of self has shifted further: the particular body and the image associated with it—through mirrors, media, and digital profiles—is now most often identified directly with the self. The symbolic relation between the environment and identity has diminished, replaced by an internalized and often isolated image of the body as self, reflecting a more psychological and representational notion of selfhood⁶.

Footnotes

For a contemporary philosophical treatment of the body and identity, see Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (1945), and Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter (1993), on the performative construction of self through bodily image. ↩

See Thomas Nagel, The View from Nowhere (1986), where the contrast between subjective animal perception and human reflective consciousness is explored. ↩

This distinction is emphasized in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, where understanding allows the subject to distinguish appearances from the concepts used to organize them. ↩

In Hinduism, Parvati represents the feminine divine and is often connected to both domestic fertility and fierce warrior aspects, such as in her forms as Durga or Kali. See David Kinsley, Hindu Goddesses (1986). ↩

The motif of the lion as a symbol of power is widespread—from Mesopotamian iconography to modern national emblems. In Hinduism, the lion also appears in Narasimha (the man-lion avatar of Vishnu) symbolizing divine conquest over primal forces. ↩

Alan Watts, referenced talk or lecture (timestamp 9:46:12), discussing Hindu symbolism and the archetype of interconnected being. ↩

Consciousness, Evolution, and the Reality of Ancient Forms

In the present day, we identify objects in our environment as distinct from ourselves because we associate the self with the very capacity to differentiate between what is internal and external. Our contemporary notion of self is not grounded in a fixed substance but in the capacity for distinction—the activity of the understanding that separates and orders phenomena.

Passage of Nature and the Experience of Consciousness
The “passage of nature” is experienced as the movement of consciousness itself. Consciousness enters through various conceptions, and it becomes particularized as the environment and object of experience place limitations upon it. While the particular forms of consciousness are varied and circumstantial, the substance behind these forms—pure consciousness—remains the same. Yet, as it moves through differentiated environments, this indeterminate consciousness develops attachments and properties that are associated with specific objects and forms.

This dialectical process of keeping and discarding features mirrors how nature operates: the lion’s facial hair becomes the man’s beard. Nature builds future forms on the basis of past forms, retaining certain features while eliminating others.

Evolution and the Fallacy of Linear Continuity
A common fallacy in modern understandings of evolution is the assumption that development is continuous and linear from past to future. We ask, for example, what humanity will look like in 3,000 years, under the assumption that the humanity of today will persist into that future. This assumption relies on the belief that past civilizations were essentially the same kind of humanity as we are now.

But this assumption is flawed. The reality experienced by ancient civilizations was not the same as our present reality. Even the human body has not remained constant. Humans in the time of Jesus, while physically closer to modern humans than cavemen, still differed from us. Early humans were more ape-like and hairier, and though we consider ourselves a continuation of those forms, it is more accurate to say we are a development arising from their transformation.

Ancient Symbols and Hybrid Forms
Ancient civilizations intuitively connected human and animal forms. The symbolic merger of man and lion in ancient mythologies is not merely metaphorical but may reflect a recognition—however unconscious—of the retained features of animals in the human form. In more radical interpretations, what we call “mythology” might not be myth at all. Some suggest that these depictions can be taken literally: that there were once beings with hybrid forms—animal-human entities—existing in a different ontological reality from our own. These forms, while foreign to our current reality, may represent earlier evolutionary states or parallel developments.

The counter-argument is that these hybrids are simply imaginative abstractions—combinations like centaurs or mermaids that never existed in physical form. However, the possibility should not be dismissed outright, as we lack conclusive evidence disproving the idea that ancient humans existed in a different morphological and existential framework. This opens the possibility that such beings were part of a different evolutionary “reality” linked to ours through transformation, not continuity.

Sumerians and the Cradle of Civilizations
Take, for example, the Sumerian civilization, traditionally dated to around 7,000 years ago. Yet some archaeological evidence suggests that similar or predecessor civilizations may have existed over 60,000 years ago. Perhaps what we call the Sumerian civilization was not a true beginning, but rather the tail-end of an older world, serving as a transitional bridge between two distinct modes of being.

The term cradle of civilization thus carries multiple meanings: not only “birthplace,” but also “crossroads,” “holder,” “base,” or “framework.” If we consider the time from ancient Greece until now as the era of “modern humanity,” then we’ve existed for less than 6% of the total time civilization may have existed. The question then arises: how developed were these ancient civilizations that had tens of thousands of years to evolve?

Assuming that meaningful development only occurred in the last 3,000 years contradicts the evolutionary principle that given enough time, development must occur. Even if the rate of development was slow, the sheer span of time implies some degree of advancement. Whether time and development are directly proportional, or merely co-dependent, the result is the same: time and development are intrinsically linked.

Evolution as the Idealization of Form
The process of evolution can also be viewed as an attempt to actualize the ideal form—an effort by consciousness to refine and produce the most perfect specimen. It sublates features: keeping some, discarding others, in pursuit of ideal beauty. But how is this beauty measured?

The standard cannot lie outside consciousness, for any external standard would already be an object formed by consciousness. Therefore, the standard of beauty is the ideal vision that consciousness itself seeks to manifest. This is not a subjective aesthetic, for the subjective merely receives what the objective form presents. The objective form possesses novelty, while the subjective only replicates it.

Space, Time, and the Structure of Reason
Discussions of consciousness are inseparable from natural categories like space, time, and light—not merely as subjective experiences, but as the contents of pure reason. As Immanuel Kant argued, space and time are a prioriforms of intuition—structures of the mind that shape all experience, not derived from experience itself but presupposed in its possibility.¹

The Contradiction of Consciousness
A neglected philosophical problem arises when consciousness is treated as a passive observer—viewed from a detached standpoint. This external perspective assumes the existence of a conceiver without accounting for its presence. In this contradiction, the understanding encounters the mystery of consciousness: how can consciousness be both identical with its conceptions and at the same time inconceivable apart from them?

This leads us to the further question: Can the soul be separated from the body? If so, does it remain a pure locus of conception, or does it require embodiment to function as consciousness?

Whitehead and the Living Universe
Alfred North Whitehead conceived of life as self-enjoyment, suggesting that nature itself is alive.² In his Process and Reality, he argues that every entity, no matter how small, has an interiority—a form of experience, however primitive. Thus, consciousness may not be an emergent property of complex brains alone, but an immanent property of all nature. This supports the idea that ancient beings experienced reality differently, not because they were less evolved, but because consciousness expressed itself through different forms.

Footnotes

1. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, Transcendental Aesthetic – Space and Time as a priori intuitions.
2. Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality (1929) – “Life is a passage of self-enjoyment.”