The transition from the Middle Ages to Modernity marks one of the most significant transformations in the history of philosophy. Often dismissed as intellectually stagnant, medieval philosophy was in fact a rich and complex tradition that shaped later debates about reason, faith, knowledge, and reality. As political, scientific, and cultural conditions changed, philosophical inquiry gradually shifted away from theological frameworks toward a new emphasis on human reason and experience. Read on to learn more about the evolution of philosophy from the Middle Ages to Modernity.

The Middle Ages: A Misunderstood Era in the Evolution of Philosophy

The Middle Ages are often portrayed as an intellectually stagnant period dominated by blind faith and religious authority. This characterization, however, overlooks the depth, originality, and lasting influence of medieval philosophy. Far from suppressing reason, medieval thinkers actively engaged with logic, metaphysics, ethics, and epistemology, developing sophisticated philosophical systems that shaped the course of Western thought.

Medieval philosophy emerged from the encounter between classical Greek philosophy and the theological traditions of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. Rather than rejecting ancient thinkers such as Plato and Aristotle, medieval philosophers preserved, translated, and critically expanded upon their works. This process ensured the survival of classical philosophy and allowed it to evolve within new intellectual frameworks. Monasteries, cathedral schools, and later universities became centers of rigorous debate and scholarly inquiry.

A defining feature of medieval philosophy was its exploration of the relationship between faith and reason. Thinkers such as Augustine, Anselm, and Thomas Aquinas argued that rational inquiry could coexist with, and even support, religious belief. Logical analysis was used to clarify theological doctrines, while metaphysical arguments addressed questions about existence, causality, and the nature of God. Far from discouraging critical thought, medieval philosophy refined methods of argumentation that remain foundational to philosophy today.

The Middle Ages also produced significant advances in logic and semantics, particularly through scholasticism. Medieval logicians developed precise analytical tools, distinctions, and methods that influenced early modern philosophy and modern logic. Debates over universals, free will, and the nature of knowledge anticipated concerns later taken up by modern thinkers.

Understanding medieval philosophy as a dynamic and intellectually vibrant tradition challenges the myth of a “dark age.” Rather than representing a break in philosophical progress, the Middle Ages served as a crucial bridge between antiquity and modernity. Without its conceptual frameworks, preserved texts, and disciplined methods of reasoning, the philosophical revolutions of the modern era would not have been possible.

Most Prominent Medieval Philosophers

Medieval philosophy spans nearly a millennium and includes a diverse range of thinkers who worked within Christian, Islamic, and Jewish intellectual traditions. Among the earliest and most influential figures is Augustine of Hippo, whose synthesis of Christian theology and Platonic philosophy shaped Western thought for centuries. Augustine emphasized the inner life, divine illumination, and the restless nature of the human soul, laying the foundations for medieval metaphysics and ethics.

Another key figure is Anselm of Canterbury, best known for formulating the ontological argument for the existence of God. Anselm’s motto, faith seeking understanding, captures the medieval conviction that reason and belief are complementary. His work exemplifies the emerging scholastic method, which relied on precise definitions and logical argumentation.

Thomas Aquinas stands as the most influential medieval philosopher. Drawing extensively from Aristotle, Aquinas developed a comprehensive system that reconciled reason and revelation. In works such as Summa Theologiae, he addressed metaphysics, ethics, natural law, and theology, arguing that human reason could attain genuine knowledge of the natural world while remaining consistent with faith.

Beyond the Latin Christian world, medieval philosophy flourished in the Islamic and Jewish traditions. Avicenna and Averroes played a crucial role in preserving and interpreting Aristotle, profoundly influencing European thought. Avicenna’s metaphysics shaped debates on essence and existence, while Averroes defended the autonomy of reason. In the Jewish tradition, Maimonides sought to harmonize Aristotelian philosophy with biblical theology, emphasizing rational understanding of divine law.

Later medieval thinkers such as William of Ockham challenged scholastic complexity, advocating for conceptual economy and separating philosophy from theology. Together, these philosophers demonstrate the richness and diversity of medieval thought, whose influence extended far beyond its historical boundaries and directly shaped the emergence of modern philosophy.

Descartes and the Transition to Modernity

René Descartes occupies a pivotal position in the history of philosophy, standing at the threshold between medieval thought and modern philosophy. Writing in the early 17th century, Descartes sought to break with inherited authorities and establish a new foundation for knowledge grounded in reason alone. His work reflects the broader intellectual transformation of his time, shaped by the scientific revolution, the decline of scholasticism, and growing skepticism toward traditional explanations of the world.

Descartes’ method of systematic doubt marked a radical departure from medieval philosophy. Rather than beginning with theological assumptions or established doctrines, he proposed doubting all beliefs that could possibly be false. This approach led to his famous conclusion, cogito, ergo sum; the realization that the act of thinking itself guarantees the existence of the thinking subject. With this insight, Descartes shifted philosophy’s starting point from God or nature to the self-conscious human mind.

This emphasis on subjectivity signaled the birth of modern epistemology. Knowledge was no longer primarily derived from tradition or authority but from clear and distinct ideas accessible through reason. Descartes also introduced a strict distinction between mind and body, redefining the metaphysical landscape and influencing later debates in science and philosophy.

While Descartes did not entirely reject God or metaphysics, he redefined their philosophical roles. God became the guarantor of rational certainty rather than the starting point of inquiry. In doing so, Descartes helped dissolve the medieval synthesis of faith and reason and paved the way for modern philosophical movements such as Rationalism and Empiricism. His work marks a decisive transition toward modernity, where human reason becomes the primary foundation of knowledge.

Rationalism

Rationalism is one of the central philosophical movements of the modern era, defined by the belief that reason is the primary source of knowledge. Emerging in the 17th century, rationalism developed in response to skepticism about sensory experience and the limitations of tradition. Rationalist philosophers argued that certain truths can be known independently of experience through intellectual insight, logical deduction, and innate principles of the mind.

As previously mentioned, René Descartes is often considered the founder of modern rationalism, emphasizing clear and distinct ideas as the basis of certainty. However, following Descartes, philosophers such as Baruch Spinoza and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz expanded rationalist thought into comprehensive metaphysical systems. Spinoza sought to understand reality through strict logical necessity, arguing that everything follows from a single, rational substance. Leibniz, in turn, proposed that reality consists of immaterial monads governed by rational principles and pre-established harmony.

A defining feature of rationalism is its confidence in the power of reason to uncover fundamental truths about reality, morality, and God. Rationalists often defended the existence of innate ideas: concepts not derived from sensory experience but embedded in the structure of the mind itself. Mathematics served as a model for rationalist knowledge, demonstrating how certainty could be achieved through deduction rather than observation.

Despite its strengths, rationalism faced criticism for its apparent distance from empirical reality. These critiques gave rise to empiricism, which emphasized experience as the source of knowledge. Nevertheless, rationalism played a crucial role in shaping modern philosophy by establishing reason as a central authority in the pursuit of truth and by laying the groundwork for later debates about knowledge, science, and metaphysics.

Empiricism

Empiricism, on the other hand, is a major philosophical movement of the modern period that emphasizes experience as the primary source of human knowledge. Emerging largely in Britain during the 17th and 18th centuries, empiricism developed as a response to rationalist claims about innate ideas and purely deductive knowledge. Empiricists argued that the mind gains its content through interaction with the world, and that observation and experience form the foundation of understanding.

John Locke is often regarded as the founder of modern empiricism. In his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke rejected the notion of innate ideas and described the mind as a tabula rasa, or blank slate, shaped by sensation and reflection. Building on this foundation, George Berkeley pushed empiricism in an idealist direction, arguing that existence consists in being perceived and denying the existence of matter independent of perception.

David Hume brought empiricism to its most radical conclusion. By insisting that all ideas must be traced back to sensory impressions, Hume challenged traditional concepts such as causality, substance, and the self. He argued that causal connections are not logically necessary but formed through habit and expectation, raising serious doubts about the certainty of scientific and metaphysical knowledge.

Empiricism profoundly influenced the development of modern science by prioritizing observation, experimentation, and evidence over speculation. At the same time, its skeptical implications exposed limitations in human reason, prompting new philosophical responses. Most notably, Immanuel Kant sought to resolve the conflict between empiricism and rationalism by arguing that while knowledge begins with experience, it is structured by the mind, a philosophical school called idealism, as we are about to see.

The Evolution of Philosophy and Idealism

Idealism is a major philosophical movement that emerged in response to the tensions between rationalism and empiricism, seeking to explain how knowledge and reality are shaped by the mind. Rather than treating the external world as something fully independent of human cognition, idealist philosophers argued that reality is in some fundamental sense dependent on mental structures, consciousness, or reason. Idealism became especially influential in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, reshaping modern philosophy.

Immanuel Kant marks the decisive turning point toward idealism. While rejecting the claim that reality is created by the mind, Kant argued that the world as we know it is structured by the mind’s a priori forms and categories. Space, time, and causality are not properties of things-in-themselves, but conditions through which human experience is possible. This position, known as transcendental idealism, sought to preserve objective knowledge while acknowledging the limits of human understanding.

Building on Kant’s work, German Idealists such as Arthur Schopenhauer, Friedrich Schelling, and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel developed more ambitious systems. Idealism had far-reaching implications for metaphysics, ethics, and political philosophy. By emphasizing the active role of consciousness in shaping reality, it challenged purely materialistic and mechanistic worldviews. Although later philosophical movements reacted against idealism, its influence remains profound, shaping debates about subjectivity, freedom, history, and the nature of reality in modern philosophy.

Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre shared similar philosophical interests and published essays, plays, and fiction on the same subjects. However, they were never close friends, and whatever friendship they had ended after the 1951 publication of Camus’s book-length essay The Rebel. Albert Camus is often considered today as an existentialist. In this article, we will see why this label is inappropriate due to his belief in the existence of human nature.

Who Was Albert Camus?

Albert Camus was born in Algiers in 1913. A year later, his father, Lucien Camus, died from wounds received fighting in WWI. Camus grew up in poverty, living in a cramped three-bedroom apartment with his mother, grandmother, and brother. The normal plan for him would have been to find work as soon as possible in order to help support the family; however, Camus was a very bright child and won a scholarship at secondary school.

In 1930, aged seventeen, Camus was diagnosed with tuberculosis. His illness had a profound effect on his life. Not only was it a painful and debilitating condition, but it also prevented him from becoming a teacher and exempted him from duty during the Second World War. Camus sought to fight and joined the Resistance after relocating to Paris.

Camus moved to Paris in 1940. Before that, he worked as a journalist and served as a leading member of a theater company. During this period, he wrote and published lyrical essays and worked on his book-length essay The Myth of Sisyphus, the novel The Stranger, and the play Caligula. He also published a review of Jean-Paul Sartre’s novel Nausea (1938).

While working for a newspaper in Paris, a role he did not particularly enjoy, Camus completed his essay and novel. In 1941, he and his wife Francine returned to Algiers. Whilst there, The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus were published in France. Comparisons were drawn between Camus’s work and that of Sartre. During this time, Camus suffered greatly from his tuberculosis.

In 1942, Camus returned to Paris to a hero’s welcome. He became a fixture on the literary scene and had a friendship with Jean-Paul Sartre. However, this friendship was to end after Camus published his second book-length essay, The Rebel, in 1951.

Who Was Jean-Paul Sartre?

In 1905, Jean-Paul Sartre was born in Paris to a wealthy family. His father was an officer in the navy who died from an illness contracted in Indochina when Sartre was just two years old. As a teenager, he developed an interest in philosophy and went on to study at the prestigious École Normale Supérieure. In 1929, he met Simone de Beauvoir (pictured above), who was studying at the nearby Sorbonne. Although they were never married and maintained an open relationship, they became lifelong companions.

As mentioned above, in 1938, Sartre published Nausea, his short novel on the absurd. This work has become an existential classic; however, Camus’s review (written in Algiers before he and Sartre had met) was cool. He wrote that the philosophy in the novel stuck out like a sore thumb. Camus’s own novel of the absurd, The Stranger (1942), is also considered an existential classic and is widely accepted as a far superior novel.

It was around this time that Sartre wrote his play, No Exit (1944). It is in this play that we hear the now-famous line ‘Hell is other people.’ It is generally considered that Sartre’s plays are superior to those of Camus, who chose to write his theatrical works in a heavy, classical style that some find jarring.

We note that Camus and Sartre were friends but parted ways after Camus published The Rebel in 1951. However, before we look at this, it will be useful to look at a short publication (a transcript of a public lecture) published by Sartre in 1946: Existentialism Is a Humanism. It is here that we find one of the key ideas of his existentialism, that existence precedes essence.

Why Is Sartre Considered an Existentialist?

The text “Existentialism Is a Humanism” is a public lecture delivered by Sartre at Club Maintenant in Paris in 1945. Prior to this, no philosopher had taken ownership of the label ‘existentialism.’

There have been a few thinkers regarded as so-called ‘founding fathers’ of existentialism, or at least as proto-existentialists. These include Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881), Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), and Martin Heidegger (1889-1976). However, Sartre was the only thinker to embrace the label.

It is worth noting at this point why philosophers might reject the label ‘existentialist.’ First, it may be that the label is not suggested during their lifetime. That is, the term might only come into public usage after a particular philosopher is long dead. Here, they never got the chance to accept, let alone embrace, the label in their lifetime. However, for those alive, well, and working when a label is used, there is a very good reason why they may wish to reject a label.

All thinkers like to think of themselves as original and unique. Labels, such as ‘existentialist,’ categorize an individual’s thinking. It makes them part of a movement; it gives readers a ‘heads up’ as to how they ought to be read. Very few thinkers want to be seen in this way. Albert Camus rejected, his whole life, the label of ‘existentialist,’ whereas Sartre embraced it.

As we shall see, there are important differences between the philosophy of Camus and that of others now considered to be existentialists. The interesting question for now is why Sartre embraced the label. A plausible answer was that it was ‘up for grabs.’ That is, since no one had claimed it, Sartre could take it for himself and define it how he liked.

Existence Precedes Essence

The idea that existence precedes essence means, in simple terms, that people are not born to fulfill a previously designed purpose. What this means is that, for Sartre, human beings are not born with a pre-ordained path or objective. Consider, in this regard, an acorn. The acorn has only two paths open to it: either it will rot or be eaten, in other words, it will be destroyed, or it will grow into an oak tree. The essence of the acorn precedes what it will be. With human beings, on the other hand, whatever they will become after infancy is not fixed. For Sartre, we all exist and then choose what we will become.

In his lecture, which would later become Existentialism Is a Humanism, Sartre asked his audience to think of a paper-knife. This object is created with a function in mind, that is, opening letters, and is designed to fulfill this function. Whenever we come across a paper-knife, we have an object in our hands that was designed and created by people in order to fulfill the function of a paper-knife. However, human beings, according to Sartre, were not created by someone in order to fulfill some function. God, says Sartre, is regarded by believers as a kind of supernatural artisan who created human beings to perform or serve a function.

However, because Sartre was an atheist, he did not believe in any deity. Therefore, there is no ‘artisan’ that produced human beings, and human beings were not ‘designed’ to perform some kind of function. This means, the ‘essence,’ what it is that human beings are and what they are for, cannot precede their existence, that is, their presence on Earth. After we are born, that is, after we come into existence, we are free to choose what we will be.

Radical Freedom

Sartre argued that we are “condemned to be free.” He said that we are nothing but what we make of ourselves. Sartre places the responsibility for where we end up in life on our own shoulders. His view is at once both liberating and devastating. Sartre compares human beings to moss or cauliflowers. As we saw above with the example of acorns, these things have no part to play in what they will become. Unlike simple vegetables, we have the opportunity to use our lives how we see fit.

Sartre points out that many of us have grand ideas about what we might be. For those who fail to achieve what they hoped for, Sartre offers no consolation. He places responsibility for who we are squarely on our own shoulders. But, of course, factors outside of our control play a part in our lives.

Sartre accepts that there is a ‘condition’ of human beings. There will inevitably be people who find themselves in situations in which there seems to be little choice in what they can do. For example, someone born a slave has a very limited choice in what they can do about their situation.

However, for Sartre, the condition of human beings is not in their ‘nature.’ In other words, someone born into slavery is not by nature a slave. If they continue to act as if they were a slave and justify their servitude by claims to their nature as a slave, Sartre would argue that they were wrong and in bad faith.

‘Bad faith’ is the phenomenon of denying one’s own existential freedom. A classic example of someone acting in bad faith is the soldier accused of war crimes who attempts to justify their actions by claiming they were only following orders.

Camus and Human Nature

In his book-length essay The Rebel (1951), Camus speculated that there might exist something like human nature. In the first chapter, he writes: “An analysis of rebellion leads us to the suspicion that, contrary to the postulates of contemporary thought, a human nature does exist, as the Greeks believed. Why rebel if there is nothing worth preserving in oneself?”

What Camus meant was that the instinct to rebel is something human beings are born with, that it is in their natures to rebel against injustices. Here, Camus is not simply referring to a negative reaction to someone treating a person badly, but rather the idea that there is something about human beings as a whole that means it is wrong to treat them in particular ways. For example, we might say that slavery is wrong simply because it is wrong to disrespect the autonomy of others and to treat them as means to some end.

On this point, Camus’ philosophy clearly differs from Sartre’s. We saw that Sartre holds human beings come into existence prior to becoming what they are. Whereas Camus believes that some fundamental essence of humanity exists prior to existence. That is, there is something we all share simply by virtue of being human beings. For Camus, this is an inbuilt sense that all human beings have something in common with each other (what we might call ‘human dignity’) that can be violated by the actions of others. And in addition, we share a common impulse to rebel whenever we witness such violations. Camus summed up this instinct or impulse with the following philosophical formula: “I rebel – therefore we exist.”

If the idea that existence precedes existence is an essential tenet of existentialism, then Albert Camus cannot be considered an existentialist; a label he consistently and vehemently denied.

Dr. Johnson’s violent rebuttal of Berkeley’s arguments for idealism, which is based on the non-existence of matter, has gone down in philosophical history. Kicking a large stone so hard he literally bounced off it, Johnson famously said, “I refute him thus!” This impulsive act has lent Johnson’s name to a particular philosophical fallacy known today as “the appeal to the stone.”

Dr. Johnson Kicks a Stone

One Sunday, after leaving church, Dr. Johnson struck up a conversation with his friend and future biographer, James Boswell. The friends discussed the ideas of the Irish Bishop George Berkeley. Berkeley held that matter did not exist, that all the physical things we perceive in the universe are ideas alone. This view was known at the time as ‘immaterialism’ but would later become much more well-known as ‘subjective idealism.’ On hearing Berkeley’s arguments for this position from Boswell, Johnson famously kicked a large stone so hard he rebounded off it and cried out, “I refute it thus!”

Like all good philosophical anecdotes, there is a little more to the story than is often told. Let us take a brief dive into the details to see what exactly is at stake here. First of all, who was Dr. Johnson?

Born in 1709, Samuel Johnson was an English thinker who excelled in many fields. He was a playwright, a poet, a man of letters, and a literary critic, amongst other things. Today, he is most famous for his dictionary. Johnson’s Dictionary was published in 1755 and was considered the most respected dictionary of English until the arrival of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1884.

Johnson was a celebrity of his day, known as much for his eccentricities as for his intellectual achievements. He suffered from various tics that have been posthumously diagnosed as symptoms of Tourette’s syndrome. His dramatic response to Berkeley’s idealism, powerfully kicking a stone whilst shouting, would certainly not be out of character for Johnson.

When we talk about Johnson’s stone-kicking response today, it is typically to give an example of a misunderstanding of Berkeley’s argument. As we shall see, Johnson’s reply is no real objection to subjective realism. However, as said, there is more to the story than is often presented.

Esse Est Percipi (To Be Is to Be Perceived)

Berkeley’s key idea, the one that so enraged Dr. Johnson, is neatly summed up in his neat Latin phrase: Esse est percipi (to be is to be perceived). He argues that for anything to exist, it must be perceived by someone. Put simply, an object that no one is aware of through their senses simply cannot exist. This is because everything that exists exists only as an idea. There is no physical matter in the universe.

The mind can create ideas or receive ideas. Consider the difference between simply imagining a table and actually going to look at one. In the case of imagination, you choose to ‘see’ the table with your mind. It can appear exactly as you want, and when you no longer want to see the table, you can think of something else. However, when you go and look at a table, you can only see an image of that particular table. In the first instance, you created the image of the table, but in the second, you passively received it. If both tables are merely ideas and one was created by you, where did the second idea come from? The answer for Berkeley is God.

Thus, there are two kinds of ideas. Those we create and conjure up when we dream or hallucinate, as well as when we remember, reminisce, and imagine things. And those created by God. These are far more stable, enduring, and consistent. Unlike a memory of a table or an imaginary table, what we would normally call ‘a real table’ is, according to Berkeley, an idea created by God.

When Dr. Johnson kicked the stone, he was trying to make the point that this solid piece of rock could not be merely an idea but rather a physical object.

Primary and Secondary Qualities

Berkeley’s ideas might outrage common sense, but they are not easily refuted. He had read John Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689) and was taken with the idea of primary and secondary qualities. Berkeley’s position is that there are no such things as primary qualities. To see how this is so, let us take a look at Locke’s idea.

Primary qualities are those things we can say about an object that are independent of any observer. These include whether it is a solid, liquid, or gas; how much space it takes up; what shape it has; and whether it is moving. The idea here is that no matter whether anyone is looking or not, objects possess these qualities in some form. Think of the question: if a tree falls over in the woods and no one is around, does it make a sound? Locke would say (and most of us would agree) that the tree was certainly solid, that it was tree-shaped and took up a tree’s worth of space, and that it was moving as it fell.

Secondary qualities are properties that produce sensations in an observer. Here, things like the color of the tree, the texture of its bark, whether it was warm or cold, and the sound it makes falling to the ground are all secondary qualities.

There is an experiment that you can do to experience secondary qualities for yourself. Fill a large bowl with tepid water. Then hold onto something cold with your left hand and something hot (not too hot) with your right. After a few minutes, put both hands into the bowl of water. The water will feel warm to your left hand but cold to your right hand. Water cannot be both warm and cold at the same time; therefore, this cannot be a property of the water itself.

Against Abstraction

Berkeley’s philosophy seems difficult to take seriously at first. However, what we experience of the world are the secondary qualities of objects. And these are all of the mind or ideas. Berkeley would argue that the notion that matter does not exist should be easier to believe than the thought that it does.

Imagine picking up a stone from the street and holding it in your hand. What color is it? Perhaps it is a pale sandy brown or dark grey, almost black. Color is a secondary quality. If it were a primary quality, then it would be a feature of the stone that is always present, whether or not it is observed. But we know that dogs, for example, see colors differently from us. A stone in your hand would be one color to you and a different one to your dog.

Now imagine feeling the texture of this stone. Is it smooth or rough? You might be imagining a smooth stone, but for a much smaller creature, a tiny insect, the surface of the stone would seem much rougher than it does for you.

We have already seen how hot or cold the water appears to you depends on you, the observer; thus, this is a secondary quality.

For now, however, keep picturing the stone in your hand. Now, without mentioning its color or its texture or whether it is hot or cold, describe what the stone is ‘really like.’ Remember, you can only perceive its secondary qualities. What is the stone like when no one is around to perceive it?

Berkeley would point out that this ‘unperceived stone’ is a very strange object indeed. If we are going to appeal to common sense, is not the idea of matter existing outside of perception a more peculiar idea?

Divine Perception

As noted above, Berkeley claims that there are two kinds of ideas in the universe: those we create and those we receive. We saw that imagined ideas are of a weaker kind than objects we see ‘in real life,’ so to speak. Those objects, the things we perceive in the world around us, are ideas created by God. Because he is all-powerful, the ideas he creates are naturally more powerful as well. Berkeley’s appeal to God gets him out of a potentially difficult objection to his theory. Let us briefly examine the problem.

One of the hardest concepts to believe is that everything in the universe only exists if there is someone to perceive it. This seems to suggest that when I am alone in my room and I leave, then everything in the room ceases to exist. Suppose I leave my music playing while I go and make myself a cup of coffee. When I return, the music will still be playing, but further into the track by exactly how long it takes me to make coffee. If everything ceases to exist when no longer perceived, how and why does it come into existence in exactly the right place when I return?

Berkeley’s solution is through an appeal to a divine perceiver. God is all-powerful and perceives everything in the universe. Therefore, there is always a perceiver to maintain the stability and consistency of these ideas. This, for Berkeley, is the nature of reality.

Appeal to the Stone Fallacy

What we call an ‘appeal to the stone’ fallacy is a kind of faulty reasoning that seeks to show something is false simply by saying that it is absurd. The fallacy gets its name, of course, from Boswell’s account of Dr. Johnson kicking a stone supposedly to refute Berkeley’s philosophy.

Appeals to the stone are not valid arguments in that they are not really arguments at all but rather outright dismissals of an opponent’s position. Suppose someone wanted to argue for the existence of aliens currently living on this planet in secret. Someone else might simply respond, “That is an absurd idea, it simply cannot be true!” This is not an argument but a refusal to engage in the debate. Sometimes this approach is perfectly reasonable. If someone were attempting to argue that tomorrow is yesterday or that bachelors are married, you can reasonably dismiss their ideas as absurd. But you have not argued for your position.

Something often omitted in the retelling of this philosophical anecdote is that, according to Boswell, Johnson kicked the stone more out of frustration than demonstration. Both he and Johnson considered Berkeley’s ideas to be at odds with common sense. But try as hard as they could, neither of them could come up with a way of disproving Berkeley’s arguments. They were absolutely convinced that Berkeley was wrong and annoyed that they could not vindicate common sense. This is why Johnson kicked a large stone so hard he “rebounded off it” as Boswell tells us.

After all, who with a throbbing sore foot would really believe the stone to be merely an idea?

The urge for “more” isn’t new. Ancient Greeks saw how people leaned toward accumulating wealth, status, possessions, even knowledge, and treated it not as sin but as a matter of proportion. How much is enough, and what happens when wanting more warps one’s sense of measure? Concepts like sophrosyne and pleonexia helped philosophers show how excess could distort the self. Their varied responses, from Stoic detachment to Epicurean simplicity, all suggested that desire is natural, provided it’s shaped rather than allowed to run wild.

Pleonexia and the Problem of “More Than One’s Share”

Greek writers used the word pleonexia to describe the urge to take more than one’s fair share. It was a subtle word meaning something less than “greed” but more than “ambition.” In daily life, it could mean grabbing the largest portion at a meal. In politics, it was far more serious and indicated a threat to the balance of a community.

Plato and Aristotle both saw pleonexia as a force that, once unleashed, was hard to contain as it defied easy limits. Aristotle in particular saw it as a type of injustice because it involves taking or wanting what belongs to someone else. At worst, pleonexia was a persistent and insatiable drive that could disrupt relationships, households, and communities.

Against this tendency, Greek thought consistently affirmed the need for measuredness. The relevant virtue, called sophrosyne, meant self-control (sometimes translated as “soberness”). Rather than demanding abstinence or denial, it stressed the importance of keeping one’s desires in alignment with both nature and circumstance. The real issue was not how much one possessed, but whether one’s wants were appropriate and reasonable. A person could be wealthy and still show sophrosyne, just as someone with few possessions could be unsettled by wanting more than reason allowed.

This concern with balance rested on a broader assumption in Greek ethics: human beings need internal principles to check excessive desire. Pleonexia, then, was not only a warning about consumption but an early attempt to describe a psychological propensity towards “more” as the answer to dissatisfaction. Long before modern economics or consumer culture, it shaped how the Greeks thought about accumulation and its effects on life.

The Stoic Way

The Stoics recognized that people acquire goods and that life requires provisioning and preparation. Their primary concern, however, was the extent to which sought-after or tightly held possessions could control or disturb the mind. Motivations such as wealth, reputation, or comfort were not inherently corrupting. Danger arose when a person’s identity became entangled with them and one’s wellbeing fluctuated according to their evolving state.

In response, Stoic teaching encouraged a stance of use without attachment. A person should be able to lose possessions without losing themselves. The founder of Stoicism, Zeno of Citium, argued that material things are indifferent by nature and that virtue alone defines the good life. Chrysippus and other early thinkers clarified that certain indifferents such as health or wealth might be preferred, yet they remain outside the soul and cannot determine its goodness. This principle was later echoed by Roman figures such as Seneca and Epictetus.

How one was meant to internalize Stoic principles was developed through specific exercises. In one such example, practitioners imagined loss in order to disentangle the psyche from reliance on unhealthy values. As Seneca says in his letter to Lucilius: “Gentle comes the blow of misfortune that has been anticipated…And so a wise person gets used to future misfortunes and what other people make bearable by long suffering he makes bearable by prolonged thinking” (Letter 76: 34-35).

Such practices thus aimed to prevent possessions from dominating the self. When possessions become essential to identity, they cease to be tools and become liabilities. The Stoic way of living meant moving through the world unenslaved by fortune, unshaken by gain or loss, and guided by reason and virtue rather than the happiness suggested by wealth and objects.

Epicureanism and Reducing Needs

If Stoicism addressed accumulation by loosening emotional attachment, Epicureanism approached it by reducing desire itself. The Epicureans were not minimalists in the modern lifestyle sense, nor were they hostile to pleasure. But they did notice that its pursuit often increased anxiety rather than satisfaction. People exhausted themselves chasing goods that promised happiness but delivered restlessness.

Epicurus responded with a nuanced classification of desires. Some were natural and necessary, like food, shelter, and companionship. Some were natural but unnecessary, like fine meals or elaborate leisure. These were pleasant but not essential. Others were neither natural nor necessary and arose from social comparison, vanity, or convention. These last desires were the most dangerous because they multiplied without limit and depended on circumstances outside one’s control.

For Epicurus, the aim was to organize one’s needs in a way that made tranquility (ataraxia) possible and allowed for the quiet pleasure of a life free from disturbance (aponia). Pleasure, in his view, was not a matter of intensity but of stability aided by the steady contentment that comes from wanting little and lacking nothing essential. To achieve this, he advised curating one’s life so it required less constant pursuit of superfluous indulgences. When longing shrinks to what is sufficient, satisfaction thus becomes easier to attain. Similarly, accumulation becomes unnecessary once one recognises how few things are truly needed for wellbeing. Instead of endlessly adding to life, the Epicurean method tries to remove the pressure that incessant craving places upon it.

Cynic Minimalism

The ancient Cynics approached the problem of accumulation by questioning what a person genuinely needs to live well. Their critique was direct, often unsettling, and aimed at showing how much of everyday life rested on habit and social expectation rather than genuine requirement. They used simplicity not as a badge of virtue but as a way to unsettle assumptions about what a person must have to live well.

Diogenes, the most famous of them, lived in a large jar in Athens and carried almost nothing. He begged for food, wore only a cloak, and wandered the streets confronting people with questions about wealth and status. At one point, when he saw a boy drinking from his hands, he threw away his cup, saying it was unnecessary. His life was not strictly meant as an example but as a challenge: if someone could live with almost nothing, what did most people really need?

Cynic teaching often worked through shock. Its philosophers acted in ways meant to make people uncomfortable and sought to show how much of life was shaped by habit and expectation rather than need. The husband and wife pairing of Crates and Hipparchia, for example, gave away wealth, rejected private domestic life, and lived their philosophy openly in public. They consequently turned everyday norms of respectability and gender roles into objects of scrutiny.

For Cynics, luxury and unnecessary possessions were regarded as distractions that often dictated how people measured value in themselves and others. Simplicity produced a particular freedom. Fewer possessions meant fewer dependencies, less anxiety, and reduced vulnerability to loss or judgment. In a society obsessed with accumulation, the Cynics treated their unique version of minimalism as a method for discerning what genuinely supports life and conversely what only clutters it. Their example suggests that living better does not always mean adding more, but learning how much can be let go without losing what is essential.

Socrates and the Limits of Knowledge

For the Greeks, excess was not confined to material goods. Knowledge, too, could become a form of accumulation. Socrates addressed this by refusing to treat knowledge as something to be possessed or displayed. His defining claim that he was wise precisely because he recognized how little he knew was not a gesture of humility but a disciplined stance against false certainty.

In contrast to the sophists of classical Athens, who presented knowledge as a transferable commodity and sold expertise as a form of status, Socrates practiced inquiry as a process rather than an achievement. Through questioning and what is now called “Socratic dialogue,” he exposed the unexamined assumptions and contradictions of others and revealed how confidence without understanding could distort judgment. For Socrates, when knowledge was treated as a personal asset, it risked becoming ornamental or instrumental rather than truthful.

Socratic restraint therefore lay in limiting what one claimed to know. Wisdom consisted not in accumulating answers but in maintaining a careful relationship to uncertainty. This orientation made room for reflection and ethical awareness, suggesting that intellectual excess, much like material excess, could burden rather than improve life.

How to Live Better

Greek philosophy did not condemn desire or advocate a life stripped of pleasure. Across their differences, philosophers shared a central insight that the good life depends on the reevaluation of wants and needs. Though desire is natural, it requires attention, self-awareness, and personal limits.

Living better, in this view, is not about having more but about knowing what truly matters. Greek philosophy teaches us that freedom comes from clarity and not from possession. It also helps to distinguish what sustains life from what merely distracts and what actually nourishes the mind from what inflates it unnecessarily. The Stoics taught mental detachment from possessions, the Epicureans recommended limiting unnecessary indulgences, the Cynics practiced radical simplicity, and Socrates emphasized intellectual humility.

In a world that encourages endless consumption, the ancient Greek approach offers an alternative model. Ultimately, it suggests that the art of living well lies in letting go of what is superfluous and in cultivating a life measured by reflection and sufficiency. Wanting less, the Greeks remind us, is not a restriction on life, but a path to living better.

Of all the architects of the foundational social sciences and literary methodology that came to be known as structuralism, few have been such a prolific master builder as the Belgian-born Lévi-Strauss (1908-2009). If old-school structuralism today is often deemed passé in a 21st century dominated by semiotics, deconstruction, and other post-structuralist theories, anyone wishing to dig into their origins can not overlook Lévi-Strauss’s cornerstone contributions.

Who Was Claude Lévi-Strauss?

As a singular testament to his reputation, following the 1981 death of the renowned existentialist writer/philosopher Jean Paul Sartre, 600 French scholars voted Claude Lévi-Strauss the most influential intellectual in the country. While his standing in contemporary academia is not what it was then, he was nonetheless instrumental in the crucial post-World War II ethnological shift that sought to universalize social mythologies between those so-called “primitive” societies and those from so-called “civilized” ones.

He was certainly a trailblazer in criticizing and condemning what would be known as Western “ethnocentrism” vis-à-vis native, non-technological societies. Furthermore, whatever their source, Lévi-Strauss’ notion that social/cultural myths both predate and circumscribe the individual was a first great leap in post-structuralism’s watershed evolution that would reject the bedrock Cartesian affirmation (“I think, therefore I am”) of the autonomous, free-thinking human subject. In 2026, Lévi-Strauss remains high in the pantheon of postwar French academicians, along with such cranial heavyweights as Roland Barthes, Michel Foucault, Jacques Lacan, Gilles Deleuze, and Jean Baudrillard.

In Search of Myth

That said, reading Lévi-Strauss is not for the faint of heart. His prolific output of scholarly tracts, from his Brazilian travelogue Tristes Tropiques (1955) to The Raw and the Cooked (1964) and The Savage Mind (1962), can be tough going—not unlike traveling up a serpentine Amazon by canoe—especially when he traces in voluminous detail the manifold vagaries of a particular South American kinship or totemic myth. Lévi-Strauss was fond of using musical metaphors to describe his technique for deciphering the “real meaning” of a myth, as opposed to its literal or surface meaning. A myth, he said, should be interpreted as a complex musical score of sorts, which calls for attentive “listening” to all the various orchestral parts working together, not as separate notes, as well as any recurring leitmotifs underscoring the overall melody.

“Myth” here means those popular traditional stories, usually of a historical nature and passed through generations, in a society or culture that serve to illustrate or explain the world in some fashion. For instance, the ancient Greek myth of Oedipus tells the gruesome tragedy of a young man who unwittingly murders his father, the king of Thebes, and then goes on to marry his own mother, becoming king himself. Sigmund Freud, of course, used the myth as a metaphor for his theory of the Oedipus complex, in which a boy has an unhealthy dependence on his mother, all at the risk of his future maturity—and the wrath of his father. It’s also a tale that serves as a pointed warning with regard to the incest taboo central to nearly all societies. On a much more rudimentary level, the fictionalized American myth of George Washington and his youthful chopping down of a cherry tree was meant to convey the first U.S. president as a person of unimpeachable honesty (“I cannot tell a lie … I did it”) and moral responsibility.

The most formative part of Lévi-Strauss’ life was likely his time in Brazil in the late 1930s, when he accepted a professorship of sociology at the University of Sao Paolo. There, he undertook several expeditions to the hinterlands for anthropological research among the Indigenous tribes, including the Bororo. He made a brief return to France during the war years, but, as he was Jewish, to the United States and New York City, where he became very much taken by the “structural linguistics” of the Russian-born émigré Roman Jakobson, who had begun teaching at the New School of Social Research.

The Binary Mind

One might say Lévi-Strauss had a “eureka!” moment when he began integrating Jakobson’s theories and conclusions into his own anthropological ones. Of course, the key term here is “structure.” As opposed to prior thinking that social or tribal myths were opaque, parochial, or even meaningless, Lévi-Strauss set out to demonstrate that such myths are not only culturally resonant but also deeply entrenched in the human capacity for apprehending the world. Yes, these narrative myths attempt to “explain” certain phenomena; yet critically, those explanations tend to allay and smooth over the contradictions, enigmas, and unresolved questions of life. Perhaps the “ur” example of an age-old human enigma is the question of what happens after death. Almost every society and culture has tried to answer that question, often in religious or mythical terms.

From Jakobson, Lévi-Strauss borrowed his key concept of binary oppositions, again reflecting how the human mind operates, i.e., in a dualistic way. In any myth, especially a complex one, on rigorous examination there appears a pattern of binary values (events, personages, places, techniques, etc.) that seemingly oppose each other. Over the course of the narrative, typically one set of oppositions wins out or is shown to be superior. In many myths—including narratives from popular culture—one can see, for instance, binaries set up in gender and gender roles.

The Western Genre as Myth

Take the classic U.S. Western, which surely has a mythical standing: more than one has tapped into familiar oppositions that dialectically contrast the male hero’s attributes (e.g., active, rugged, laconic, self-reliant, rootless, violent, nature/wilderness, a “Westerner”) with a prospective female romantic partner (passive, feminine, verbal, loving, social, domestic, culture, an “Easterner”).

The great Western High Noon (1952) is exemplary. Gary Cooper plays a marshal about to wed a young Quaker woman (Grace Kelly) and leave town with her, but bravely decides to stay and face the four gunslingers coming to town to kill him for revenge. Despite his gnawing sense of duty and valor, his pacifist bride pleads with him to forgo violence. Ultimately, he shoots it out with the villains, a “happy ending” made possible because his bride doesn’t forsake him. Not only do the marshal’s manly actions win the day, but his bride’s values are essentially discounted or seen to be naive. Yet this particular resolution has its own contradictions since the townspeople are shown to be cowards and not worthy of the marshal’s moral stature. The movie has long been interpreted as a symbolic allegory of Hollywood’s complicity with the McCarthy-era communist “witch-hunts.”

Only half-jokingly, Lévi-Strauss argued that a student of social myths must take the vantage of an “observer from another planet” and dismantle them “like a clock.” It is thus a scientific operation; one can picture these deep structures as a skeleton that propels the human body in much the same way, regardless of all the surface variables (race, age, stature, gender, etc.). This facet summons up a deep criticism of the Lévi-Strauss method, its reductive nature, which tends to be dismissive of the uniqueness or anomalies in the story’s specific elements. For example, consider one remarkably atypical genre scene in High Noon, when the marshal sits all alone in his office, abandoned by almost everyone, including his deputies. In a private moment, he puts his head down on his desk and appears to briefly sob.

Despite all the various criticisms of Lévi-Strauss’s means and methods in the decades since the 1960s (including that his actual fieldwork was sketchy and built toward a priori conclusions), structuralism can still be a valuable tool in analyzing myth and narrative, including in popular culture. For another, more modern example, consider the Oscar-winning blockbuster “disaster” movie Titanic (1997), which remains one of the most financially successful films ever made, despite (or perhaps because of) its exorbitant costs.

Upstairs/Downstairs in “Titanic”

On the surface, so to speak, Titanic is a fictionalized historical romance based on the tragic sinking of what was called the “unsinkable” luxury ocean liner on its maiden voyage from Great Britain to New York in January 1912. To this historical template, writer/director James Cameron foregrounds the star-crossed relationship between Jack (Leonardo DiCaprio), a penniless American drifter and aspiring artist, and Rose (Kate Winslet), a refined young lady sailing with both her wealthy fiancé and domineering mother. The film’s legions of worldwide fans (many who claim dozens of viewings) no doubt know the plot backwards and forwards, which in some ways sets sail as a Romeo and Juliet-type tragedy. Over the course of the three-hour-plus length, Cameron parallels the budding love affair with the ship’s doomsday rendezvous with an iceberg in the North Atlantic. Unlike that unforeseen iceberg, readers on this voyage should note here a spoiler dead ahead.

One could picture Lévi-Strauss munching on popcorn in the audience and asking, “What is this movie really all about?” and “What explains its popularity?” One can argue that, indeed, there is a “deep structure” in Titanic, and it has to do with the physical and symbolic orders representing the social tiers of the “upper” and” lower” classes. Throughout, Cameron contrasts in stark binary ways the events and qualities of the upper regions of the ship vs. the lower. Of course, the upper decks are home to first-class passengers, basking in their luxury accommodations, meals, furnishings, and the freedom of the open air. Far down below is third-class or steerage, confined, no-frills accommodations primarily for poor immigrants en route to America, often ethnic ones. The first-class passengers and officers above are invariably upper-crust white Anglo-Americans.

Jack is alone in negotiating between the upper and lower worlds. Unlike the other steerage passengers, he seems to freely travel to the upper decks and promenades (not likely historically), as part of his efforts to win over Rose, his lofty but captive “princess.” In two telling scenes, a tuxedoed Jack first dines with Rose and her mother sitting with their buttoned-up, stuffy, smug Edwardian guests; in the next, Jack escorts Rose down into a joyful, jumpin’ steerage cabin where the plebian passengers dance a fancy jig or two, including Rose, who daringly flings off her constricting shoes.

As the plot proceeds full-steam, their love affair does too, culminating in an amorous tryst in the back seat of a newfangled “horseless carriage” they luckily discover in one of the cargo holds. Jack is not only the catalyst for Rose’s liberation from her subordinate 19th-century gender role, but he is also a figure of modernity at the dawn of the century of technological marvels and the women’s suffrage movement.

Happy Endings?

Nevertheless, the bugaboo of Lévi Strauss’ sticky contradictions haunts Titanic. Can Jack and Rose live happily ever after? Typically in a classic Hollywood movie they would, but Cameron revises his mythmaking both to account for history and for today’s plunging faith in fairy-tale endings. After all, the Titanic did catastrophically sink, with at least 1,500 dead, and most of the victims were either steerage passengers or members of the crew. In another vein, a feminist critic might also argue that Jack is nonetheless the active, decisive agent in “freeing” Rose, i.e., not Rose herself.

Structurally, Cameron’s story coda is also significant. In a framing device, a present-day, elderly Rose is shown sleeping in bed, surrounded by photos of her younger self (including one boldly boarding a biplane). Perhaps she dreams, perhaps she has passed away, but Rose is supernaturally transported down into what remains of the actual Titanic shipwreck, which in turn magically morphs into its glorious, pre-iceberg existence, with all hands on deck, including a beatific Jack welcoming her atop a grand stairway. For Rose, heaven is an egalitarian Eden far under the sea.

Everyday life brings a variety of challenges: illness, stress, uncertainty, and the constant struggle to stay focused and motivated. Stoicism, an ancient philosophy that emerged in Greece and later flourished in Rome, has experienced a resurgence in popularity, offering practical guidance on facing these difficulties with strength and clarity. Instead of trying to control everything around us, Stoicism teaches us to manage our thoughts, actions, and emotional responses.

The Origins of Stoicism

Stoicism began in Athens around the early 3rd century BC, during a time of philosophical experimentation. The philosophy was conceived by Zeno of Citium, a merchant from Cyprus who came to Athens after losing his cargo in a shipwreck. Seeking guidance and meaning, he studied under several philosophers before eventually developing his own approach. Zeno began teaching in the Stoa Poikile, a public painted porch in the Athenian marketplace, and the namesake of the term “Stoicism.” Unlike many other philosophical schools that taught in private academies, Stoicism was accessible to anyone who wished to listen.

Stoicism evolved over time through the contributions of several influential thinkers. Cleanthes, Zeno’s successor, emphasized the connection between the human mind and the rational order of the universe. Chrysippus, who followed Cleanthes, turned Stoicism into a rigorous system of logic, ethics, and natural philosophy. Later, during the Roman era, the philosophy gained new life. Philosophers such as Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius coupled Stoic ideas with Roman culture and society.

What Is Stoicism?

At the center of Stoicism is the belief that the universe is guided by logos, a rational structure or order. Because human beings possess reason, we are capable of understanding our place within this order. Stoics taught that true happiness comes not from wealth or external success, but from living in harmony with nature and exercising its inherent virtue. They identified four primary virtues: wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance. These virtues serve to guide how to think, act, and respond to challenges.

Of equal importance is the Stoic distinction between what we can and cannot control. Our choices and the way we respond to the circumstances of our lives are within our control. External events, such as the choices of others and the circumstances of our lives themselves, are not. Learning to focus only on what we can influence, and to accept the rest with patience, allows us to live a peaceful life.

Stoicism was never meant to be an abstract theory. It was, and remains, a philosophy of daily practice that is most effective when implemented into all facets of one’s life. Its origins show that Stoicism was created not for idle reflection, but for living well even during times of great distress.

Procrastination and Self-Doubt

Procrastination is often misunderstood as simple laziness, but it is more often rooted in self-doubt. We delay tasks not because we do not care, but because we worry that we may not succeed or have the capabilities to perform the task at hand. Stoicism combats procrastination by teaching that our value does not come from external results, but from the quality of our effort and our commitment to acting with virtue. When we internalize this perspective, fear loses much of its power.

Again, Stoicism tells us to focus solely on what is within our control. Self-doubt thrives when our attention shifts to what might go wrong. We must redirect our attention to the present moment and the task immediately before us. Epictetus advised: “Do not demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do, and you will be content.” The goal is not to guarantee success, but to accept the outcomes of any situation, be they positive or negative.

The Certainty of Death

Death is one of the few experiences that unites every human being. No matter our age, culture, wealth, or achievements, life will eventually come to an end. For many, this truth can inspire fear or avoidance. However, Stoicism teaches that the certainty of death is not something to dread, but something that can bring meaning to how we live. By acknowledging death as a natural and unavoidable part of existence, we learn to value the present moment and focus on what matters most.

Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, often reminded himself that life is brief and that every day is a gift. He wrote that we should live “as if we could leave life at any moment,” not out of fear, but as a reminder to live sincerely and purposefully. When we remember that our time is limited, we stop wasting energy on trivial concerns, grudges, or distractions. Accepting death brings one peace, while resisting the inevitable only results in anxiety.

This perspective does not remove the sadness of loss, but it helps us bear it with grace. Stoicism acknowledges that grief is a natural response when someone we love dies. The goal is not to suppress emotion, but to avoid becoming consumed by it. By remembering that death is the natural conclusion of our life, we can honor those who have passed and continue living in ways that reflect their importance.

How to Deal With Sickness?

Sickness is another universal aspect of the human experience. Whether it is a temporary cold or a long-term condition, Stoicism offers a perspective that helps us face sickness with acceptance and resilience rather than fear or frustration. The Stoics understood that the body is vulnerable to change. They taught that while we cannot always control our physical health, we can control the meaning we give to our experience and the attitude with which we respond.

Epictetus, who himself suffered from chronic illness throughout his life, reminded his students that the body is something “lent” to us by nature. It can weaken, fail, or change without our permission. Stoicism encourages us to distinguish between physical pain and the distress we add to it through worry or despair. By training the mind to observe rather than panic, we reduce unnecessary emotional struggle.

Still, this does not mean ignoring illness or pretending we feel fine. Stoics believed in caring for the body and seeking medical help when necessary, all the while facing sickness with patience. Marcus Aurelius wrote that hardship is an opportunity to practice virtue: “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” Illness can teach perseverance, humility, and gratitude for the times we feel strong.

Stoicism: The Lesson Learned

In summary, Stoicism offers a powerful and practical approach to dealing with the challenges of everyday life. Whether we face sickness, confront the reality of death, or struggle with procrastination and self-doubt, the Stoic teachings guide us to return to what we can control: our thoughts, actions, and responses. By accepting what we cannot change and focusing our energy on what we can influence, we can turn otherwise hopeless and frightening situations into opportunities to grow stronger and wiser as a human being.

The Ancient Greeks saw the universe as unstable, full of change and drama. They thought reality itself was dynamic. They believed that everything was constantly shifting and that nothing remained constant: cities could rise and then crumble, seasons would change, and friendships would begin and end. In this ever-changing world stepped Empedocles, an amazing thinker from early Greek philosophy. In fact, he was more than just a philosopher. He is also considered a poet, physician, and politician. Historical accounts indicate that he even wore clothes fitting for a prophet.

Empedocles and a Universe Made From Four Elements

Empedocles’ best idea is amazingly simple. All things in the universe are driven by two forces only: Love and Strife. Love unites and holds together. Strife separates and splits apart. To him, this was not just poetic language. It was the natural laws explaining why certain events occurred, the human psychology, as well as the moral code for living, all wrapped up into one. What is surprising is that his concept still feels very familiar today.

Empedocles was the one who proposed an interesting and innovative idea at that time, that reality does not come from a single substance. All his predecessors were searching for the one, ultimate material. Some thought it was water. Others believed that it was air. Even some thinkers believed in something infinite. However, Empedocles did not support this idea. He proposed that there are four main roots of existence. These include earth, air, fire, and water.

Nothing truly can exist or disappear out of nothing. All the things in our universe, according to Empedocles, simply mix and separate. The growth of trees happens because there is an equilibrium of certain elements. The demise of a human being occurs due to the disintegration of the mixture. This concept bears resemblance to modern-day chemistry rather than mythology.

Later thinkers also recognized the effectiveness of such an idea. Aristotle later absorbed the four-element theory in his natural philosophy. This remained part of medieval science for many years.

Empedocles offered an explanation for changes that occur but do not involve creation from nothingness. For example, picture the bread-making process. Flour, water, heat, and air are mixed together to produce a new loaf, but its components preexisted in their current form. Empedocles believed reality behaves in a similar manner. But it remains a question as to what causes things to bind together as mixtures or separate from each other. That is where Love and Strife come in.

Love: The Force That Brings Things Together

Empedocles described love as being attracted to each other. It combines different things so that they can be harmonious. Under love’s influence, variety becomes unity. Plants and bodies grow. Communities are cooperative. Love does not just refer to romantic feelings. It is the principle behind friendship, the growth of organisms, and also the orderliness of the cosmos.

Occasionally, during the universal cycle, love has complete control over everything. Everything merges into perfect unity, which Empedocles said was the “Sphere.” There is no opposition and there are no divisions.

The concept is repeated by later philosophers intellectually. For instance, Plato explained that love entails moving towards unity and the attractive. In his Symposium, he explained how love draws human beings towards what they lack. Later on, the Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza said reality was like one substance that expressed itself through several other entities. In addition to that, contemporary psychologists recognize that social bonding is vital for survival. Individuals literally evolve from being attached to others.

However, Empedocles said that something very crucial should be put into consideration. When we get complete unity, individuals lose their own identity and distinctiveness. If everything turns out into one, the difference vanishes. It is not enough for love alone to sustain or hold the whole universe together.

Strife: Why Conflict Is Necessary

If love unites, then strife separates. The term “strife” has an overall negative connotation. Think about war, division, envy, decay. All these fall under strife’s scope. Yet the philosopher Empedocles considered strife to be very important. Without separation, we cannot have anything distinct existing at all. Picture a painter blending his paints forever until they become only gray. This is the case where shapes cease to be distinguishable from one another by any difference.

Strife establishes clear lines of demarcation. This enables different kinds of living organisms to remain separated into their respective categories. It also contributes to what makes an individual unique. It facilitates the occurrence of change within nature, too.

Later on, some other great thinkers continued exploring such rivalries. Heraclitus is well known for claiming that opposition and conflict are responsible for the origin of everything around us. The opposition gives impetus towards a certain form of dynamic motion. After many years, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel spoke of historical development as being propelled by oppositions. When human knowledge through experience clashes with rational ideologies, then new truths emerge out of it all.

Even today, creative work depends upon existing oppositions. Artists face failure in their craft. Scientists dispute over widely held concepts. Progress in our personalities most often begins with the difficult feelings we go through. Empedocles grasped a concept that many individuals are resistant to. Harmony by itself does not yield life or development. There must be differences involved.

The Cosmic Cycle: Why Nothing Stays the Same

Empedocles is famous for his idea that our universe is moving through endless cycles. He even called these processes the cosmic cycle. Sometimes love dominates. At that phase, everything leans toward unity. However, when strife becomes dominant, it causes separation and diversity to increase. When it gains complete control over all things in our lives, it becomes separate from one another. Then love begins its return, and the cycle is repeated.

This idea is quite innovative and proposes a powerful alternative to different myths and beliefs about ongoing creation or destruction. In fact, our reality is quite rhythmic. Even later philosophical traditions agreed on this idea. Let’s analyze Friedrich Nietzsche here. He was the one who believed in the idea of eternal recurrence. In simple terms, it means that existence repeats endlessly.

Eastern thinkers thought in the same way as well. Here, we can mention Gautama Buddha and his cyclical thinking. He proposed that our lives are just cycles of suffering and renewal. And these cycles are shaped by different internal and external causes and conditions. We can even trace some roots of these cycles in modern science. There are expansions and contractions everywhere, and these are ecosystems that balance our growth and collapse.

Let’s consider relationships here. If you are friends with someone, your connection is deep at the beginning. Then, a distance may occur. And after some time, you may reconnect with your friend again. The same applies to other spheres of our lives. Our careers can rise sharply, then reach a plateau, and rise again. Societies reform and fracture. And Empedocles might think that such a cycle is not about failure. It is the structure of reality itself.

Love and Strife Inside the Human Soul

Empedocles’ views were not limited to just cosmology. Humans, too, experience a mix of attraction and division. In their pursuit of connection, they protect their individuality. They crave belonging but at the same time value independence. The philosophers frequently came back to this kind of conflicting nature.

Sigmund Freud explained opposing forces existing in the mind, forces oriented toward life and destruction. Simone de Beauvoir looked into how relationships are caught between freedom and attachment. Even our daily decisions demonstrate the equilibrium of these two elements.

Getting too attached may give one a feeling of being suffocated, while being overly separate can make someone feel lonely. Healthy friendships, love, or community usually need some shifting between being near and far apart from each other. Empedocles gives an extraordinary sense of comfort. Disagreement in relationships might not indicate the failure of the relationship. Rather, it can be part of a larger regular pattern. Growth typically occurs when harmony and tension follow each other in turns.

Why Is Empedocles Still Relevant Today?

In contemporary society, conflicts are viewed more as matters that should be completely eliminated. We strive for continuous production, lasting happiness, and unchanging identity. However, Empedocles would differ mildly from our views. Too great a degree of harmony results in stagnation, while excessive division leads to chaos. Creativity requires tension. Friendship needs distinct individuality.

Societies have to undergo disagreements so as to progress. Even ecosystems can also benefit from disturbances. The destruction caused by forest fires gives way to growth and new life. This can be seen as not choosing between love and strife. On the other hand, it is important to understand both. Strife supports diversity while love encourages bonding. They create complexity collectively.

Perhaps this is how Empedocles composed his philosophical thoughts using poetic language. He did not see the universe as a mechanical system. Instead, he regarded it like an ongoing live performance, always interweaving together while separating. And if he were alive right now observing human history oscillating between cooperation and discord, he might just smile. The cycle has never ceased.

How does one lose oneself and become a stranger? In a Kafkaesque world that is not alien to us even now, everyone is in danger of losing their identity. Sociologists and philosophers have discussed what alienation is and its consequences. However, the famous writer from Prague, Franz Kafka, has masterfully shown its impact on human beings through the story of a man who turns into vermin overnight.

Some Facts From Franz Kafka’s Life

Kafka’s life is well known: not only the basic information concerning dates, but also his education, vocation, and novels. Thanks to the diaries he kept and the letters he sent, we also know what was happening in his soul; all that occupied his thoughts and tormented him.

Franz Kafka was born on July 3rd, 1883, in a Jewish family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Although he studied law, he found his biggest passion in writing. He was writing in German but also knew Czech very well. After completing his studies, Kafka began working in a law office and subsequently at an insurance company. He hated his job and found it repulsive. In one letter, he writes: “For my office work defies my writing to you; that kind of work is completely foreign to me and bears no relation to my real needs.”

On the other hand, he talked about writing as an escape from the torment he was experiencing: “My mode of life is devised solely for writing, and if there are any changes, then only for the sake of perhaps fitting in better with my writing; for time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy…”

A major problem for Kafka was his self-doubt and self-consciousness about his writings. This was probably due to the troubled relationship with his father.

Despite having some serious relationships with women, he never got married. His first love was Felice Bauer, and they were engaged twice. Later, he met a journalist, Milena Jesenská, to whom he sent some of the most beautiful letters. These letters were published as Letters to Milena (Briefe an Milena). During the last period of his life, he became romantically involved with Dora Diamant.

Why Should We Be Grateful to Kafka’s Closest Friend

“Dearest Max,
My last request: Everything I leave behind me . . .  in the way of notebooks, manuscripts, letters, my own and other people’s, sketches and so on, is to be burned unread and to the last page, as well as all writings of mine or notes which either you may have or other people, from whom you are to beg them in my name. Letters that are not handed over to you should at least be faithfully burned by those who have them.”
–Kafka’s letter to Max Brod

Franz Kafka burned almost everything he had written. He did that because of his insecurity. As we said, he was never satisfied with what he was writing. During his lifetime, only a few of his stories were published, either as standalone pieces or in collections. His first story, “The Judgment,” was published in 1912, the year he also wrote The Metamorphosis. The latter was published in 1915. Kafka regretted it because he didn’t like its ending. Today, The Metamorphosis is his most popular fictional work, even though he has many other short stories that deserve our attention and recognition.

Max Brod is best remembered as Kafka’s biographer; during his active period, he was a renowned playwright, sociologist, writer, and translator. Kafka met Brod at the university after Brod delivered a speech on Schopenhauer. He asked him to take a walk with him, and Brod gladly accepted. Even though Kafka disagreed with many philosophical views Brod had, they became inseparable.

Thanks to Max Brod, who refused to burn Kafka’s three unfinished novels (Amerika, The Trial, and The Castle), many stories, letters, and diaries, Franz Kafka became one of the most significant writers of the 20th century.

The Concept of Alienation

The Metamorphosis has many layers, but alienation is one of the main themes that appears here. Another term we could use is estrangement, because, as we will see, not only is the core of it strange, but more importantly, our protagonist Gregor Samsa becomes a complete stranger to himself and to others.

Alienation is a philosophical concept that is widely discussed in literature and figures prominently in sociology. Karl Marx‘s theory of alienation posits the loss of an individual’s humanity due to social circumstances, specifically the division of labor and life within socially stratified classes. Karl Marx identifies capitalism as the cause of human alienation. The economic situation and human dissatisfaction with their work led to it. Marx distinguished four dimensions of alienation: from the product of labor, from the process of labor, from others, and from self.

The story itself also has an important social theme. The alienation of the main character threatens the family’s financial ruin. There is a motivating force behind this, and we return again to the social theme and to the theme of bureaucracy, which Kafka was obsessed with. However, we will focus on the main character and his probable existential crisis, which leads to his alienation from himself and others. This implies becoming Other to oneself and to close others; the loss of the self and of the bonds formed during life. Of course, in this way, one becomes different, strange, odd, and alien to oneself and to the people around.

In the story, we will see how the protagonist loses the very features that make him who he is, and how, at the same time, he becomes unrecognizable to his family.

Gregor Samsa and His Alienation From (Him)Self

“One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.” That’s how the story begins. This first sentence immediately indicates Gregor’s alienation from himself because he is no longer in his own body. He has become a bug. We are left without an explanation for why this happened, but we can draw some conclusions.

Gregor attempts to move, but his body and new legs are foreign to him, and at first, he is unable to rise from his bed. His senses also change throughout the story. He begins to lose his sight, and his sense of taste changes. Because of the impossibility of enjoying his favorite food that his sister brings him, Gregor starts to eat rotten, disgusting food. There is also the loss of the ability to communicate. Human speech is now foreign to his mind, although, at the very beginning, he can still produce some understandable sounds.

For Gregor, his job was most important because he was the family’s provider. We can interpret this transformation that happened to him as his hidden desire to stop working. Kafka’s stories often present a protagonist who is dissatisfied with his job, and Gregor here is too. He wakes up as a large vermin but cannot stop thinking about how repulsive his job as a salesman is to him.

Gregor’s estrangement from his own body, whether taken literally or metaphorically, is an estrangement from his self. Dissatisfied with his life, he drifts away from himself. He becomes repulsive to others, although, in essence, some of his human qualities remain. He certainly feels sorry for his family, enjoys music still, etc., but he is left to die all alone as someone else.

Gregor Samsa and His Alienation From Others

Now, let us examine how Gregor’s transformation affects the family relationships. Gregor Samsa lives with his parents and younger sister and supports them financially. He holds a job he does not particularly like, but the whole family relies on him because, in addition to earning for the family’s well-being, he also repays his father’s debt. Once Gregor cannot get out of bed and go to work, the established order in that household begins to be disrupted, and Gregor becomes alienated from his family members.

Gregor did not hear the alarm and therefore did not wake up in time for work. He realizes that he has taken the form of an insect, but he is still thinking about work and how he must catch the next train. He wants to fulfill his duty as a son and brother and maintain order in the house, even at that moment when he does not understand what is happening. Gregor is under the delusion that everything will return to normal as soon as he leaves the room. But that does not happen. And slowly, as the story progresses, he is less and less interested in his job.

However, he remains sensitive regarding his family. He wants to stay close to them, but the change that happened doesn’t allow that. His family rejects him. Gregor’s alienation from himself, which manifested as a transformation into an insect, led his family to fear and loathe him. Gregor Samsa loses his role in society and in the family and becomes a total stranger.

Ancient Philosophy marks the beginning of systematic human reflection on reality, knowledge, ethics, and the meaning of life. Emerging in the ancient Greek and Roman world, it introduced fundamental questions that continue to shape philosophical inquiry today. Thinkers such as Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics sought to understand nature, virtue, reason, and the good life through careful argument rather than myth or tradition. Their ideas formed the foundations of Western philosophy, science, logic, and political thought.

The Pre-Socratics: Birth of Philosophy

The Pre-Socratic philosophers represent the earliest stage of Western philosophy and mark the decisive break from mythological explanations of the world. Active primarily between the 6th and 5th centuries BC, these thinkers sought to understand nature, existence, and change through reasoned inquiry rather than divine narrative. Their work laid the foundations for philosophy, science, and rational thought.

Figures such as Thales, Anaximander, and Anaximenes focused on identifying the fundamental principle underlying all reality, proposing water, the indefinite, or air as the basic substance of the cosmos. Others, like Pythagoras, emphasized number and mathematical harmony as the structure of reality, linking philosophy with early scientific thought. Heraclitus introduced the idea of constant change, famously asserting that all things flow, while Parmenides challenged this view by arguing that true being is unchanging and indivisible. This tension between change and permanence became one of the central problems of philosophy.

Later Pre-Socratics such as Empedocles, Anaxagoras, and Democritus attempted to reconcile these opposing views by proposing pluralistic theories of nature, including the four elements, cosmic mind, and atomism. Although their ideas differed, they shared a commitment to rational explanation and critical inquiry.

The significance of the Pre-Socratics lies not only in their theories, many of which survive only in fragments, but in their method. By asking what the world is made of and how it operates according to rational principles, they initiated philosophy as a disciplined pursuit of knowledge. Their legacy shaped Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle and established the intellectual foundations of Western philosophy.

Socrates: Revolution in Dialogue

Socrates stands as one of the most transformative figures in the history of philosophy, not because of his written works, which he left none, but because of the method he introduced. Living in Athens during the 5th century BC, Socrates shifted philosophical inquiry away from cosmological speculation toward ethical examination and the improvement of the human soul. His greatest contribution was the revolution of dialogue as a philosophical tool.

Rather than teaching doctrines, Socrates engaged others in conversation through a method now known as the Socratic dialogue or elenchus. By asking a series of carefully structured questions, he exposed contradictions in commonly held beliefs and pushed his interlocutors to refine their understanding. This approach challenged the assumption that wisdom consisted of possessing knowledge. Instead, Socrates famously claimed that true wisdom begins with recognizing one’s own ignorance.

Dialogue, for Socrates, was not mere debate but a cooperative search for truth. Through questioning, participants were encouraged to examine concepts such as justice, virtue, courage, and piety, uncovering their underlying assumptions. This method placed reasoned discussion at the center of philosophical life and made self-examination a moral duty. Socrates believed that an unexamined life was not worth living, emphasizing ethical awareness over theoretical certainty.

His commitment to dialogue ultimately brought him into conflict with Athenian authorities. Accused of corrupting the youth and impiety, Socrates accepted his death sentence rather than abandon his principles, reinforcing his belief that moral integrity outweighed personal survival. Through Plato’s dialogues, Socrates’ method became foundational to Western philosophy. The revolution he initiated transformed philosophy into an active, dialogical practice rooted in questioning, critical thinking, and the relentless pursuit of truth through conversation.

Plato: Philosophy of Transcendence

Plato stands as one of the most influential philosophers in Western history, developing a vision of reality that emphasized transcendence beyond the visible world. A student of Socrates, Plato sought to provide a stable foundation for knowledge and ethics in response to the uncertainty revealed by his teacher’s dialogues. His philosophy is grounded in the distinction between the world of appearances and a higher, intelligible realm.

Central to Plato’s thought is the Theory of Forms. According to this view, the physical world is in constant change and therefore cannot be the source of true knowledge. Instead, genuine understanding arises from grasping the eternal and unchanging Forms, perfect and non-material essences such as Justice, Beauty, and the Good. Particular objects and actions participate in these Forms but never fully embody them. Knowledge, for Plato, is thus a process of intellectual ascent, moving from sensory perception to rational insight.

This transcendent framework also shapes Plato’s ethics and politics. The Form of the Good stands as the highest principle, illuminating all other Forms and guiding moral life. In The Republic, Plato argues that only those who apprehend this higher reality, the philosopher-kings, are fit to rule, as they govern according to truth rather than opinion.

Plato famously illustrates this ascent through the Allegory of the Cave, where prisoners mistake shadows for reality until one turns toward the light. Philosophy, in this sense, is a transformative journey of the soul, drawing it away from illusion toward ultimate truth. Plato’s philosophy of transcendence deeply influenced later metaphysics, theology, and conceptions of reality itself.

Aristotle: Philosophy of Immanence

Aristotle, a student of Plato, developed a philosophical system that shifted the focus from transcendence to immanence, grounding reality, knowledge, and meaning within the natural world itself. While Plato located truth in a separate realm of Forms, Aristotle argued that form and matter are inseparable in concrete substances. For him, reality is not something to escape, but something to understand through careful observation and rational analysis.

Central to Aristotle’s philosophy is the concept of hylomorphism, the idea that all beings are composed of matter and form. Form does not exist independently in a transcendent realm; it is present within each individual thing, giving it structure, purpose, and identity. This immanent view allows Aristotle to explain change, growth, and diversity without abandoning stability or intelligibility.

Aristotle’s emphasis on immanence also shapes his approach to knowledge. Rather than relying solely on abstract intuition, he grounded philosophy in empirical observation, classification, and logical reasoning. His development of formal logic and systematic inquiry laid the foundations for science and influenced intellectual traditions for centuries. In ethics, Aristotle rejected otherworldly ideals in favor of practical human flourishing. In the Nicomachean Ethics, virtue is cultivated through habitual action within everyday life, guided by reason and aimed at eudaimonia, or human flourishing. Meaning, for Aristotle, is realized through living well within the world, not beyond it. His philosophy of immanence thus affirms nature, experience, and rational practice as the proper domain of philosophical inquiry.

The Hellenistic Period: Reaction to Turmoil

The Hellenistic Period, spanning roughly from the death of Alexander the Great in 323 BC to the rise of Roman dominance, was an era marked by profound social, political, and cultural upheaval. The collapse of the Greek city-state system and the emergence of vast empires radically altered how individuals understood their place in the world. Traditional civic identities weakened, political participation diminished, and daily life became increasingly unstable and unpredictable. In this context of uncertainty, philosophy shifted its focus from abstract speculation to the practical problem of how to live well amid disorder.

Philosophical schools such as Stoicism, Epicureanism, Cynicism, and Skepticism emerged as direct responses to these conditions. Stoicism, founded by Zeno of Citium, taught that inner peace could be achieved by aligning one’s will with reason and nature, accepting what lies beyond one’s control, and cultivating virtue as the only true good. Epicureanism, developed by Epicurus, offered a different path, advocating for modest pleasure, freedom from fear, and the cultivation of friendship as defenses against anxiety and political chaos.

Cynicism pushed this practical orientation to its limits, rejecting social conventions, wealth, and status altogether in favor of radical simplicity and independence. Skepticism, particularly in its Pyrrhonian form, responded to uncertainty by suspending judgment, arguing that tranquility arises when one abandons the futile search for absolute certainty in an unstable world.

Despite their differences, these schools shared a common goal: securing personal tranquility in an unpredictable environment. Philosophy became a form of therapy, aimed at protecting the individual rather than reforming the state. By shifting attention from external power to inner stability, Hellenistic philosophers provided tools for resilience that remain relevant today. Their work reflects a timeless insight: that when social structures fail to offer security, wisdom must be sought within the self.

Among the literary and visual theories of the past half-century, the field of semiotics (aka semiology) remains among the most useful, particularly for those attempting to analyze and interpret video and photography. Like methods such as psychoanalytic and deconstructive criticism, semiotics is a field that erupted in 1960s academia to usurp traditional methods of realist analysis. Instead of seeing a work as essentially “neutral” or objective, a viewer schooled in semiotics endeavors to decipher its various messages at work and its complex, culturally-based signifying practice.

Understanding Semiotics: Stop and Go Traffic

The key root of the word signifying is “sign.” What is a sign? Consider the commonplace traffic stop sign. While millions of them dot roads and highways in many countries, intended to convey a specific meaning to passersby, that meaning is deceptively simple and dependent on 1) learned cultural language and 2) whom exactly the sign is addressing. First, consider that the word “STOP” appears in bold white capital English letters against a red octagonal background, all framed by a white border. Let’s journey through this sign’s manifold meanings and derivations; and also what it does not mean. Imagine an alien landing next to one on some desolate country road, stumped by its meaning and purpose.

As set forth in U.S. traffic laws, the stop sign is intended for drivers of motor-driven vehicles arriving at road intersections and attempting to enter cross traffic. Does the law apply to motorcyclists? Yes. How about bicyclists? Yes, it is usually meant to, but rarely do they obey. Adult pedestrians approaching the sign know that he/she can ignore it. Yet even a lawful driver might also reasonably ask, “STOP” what? Stop moving? Turn off the engine? And once the driver stops, when can they proceed again? Doesn’t stop mean stop, permanently?

On a basic level, this meaning of STOP is ascertained only by knowing the standard Anglo-American language and how the grouping of a series of letters in a certain order signifies a specific meaning. Even so, the word STOP is not necessarily a command, though that is the intention here. STOP could mean a noun, not a verb, e.g., a bus stop or pit stop. What if certain U.S. states used their own linguistic or visual language to fashion their stop signs, just like some states have their own dialects and idioms? What if some states used the words HALT or WAIT instead? They mean the same as STOP, don’t they?

“STOP” is not only laid out in capital letters with a simple, direct, easy-to-read font (e.g., not in cursive or gothic style), but the red background makes a stark contrast, especially within the larger symbolic language of other common traffic signs. No matter the country, the color red has a long history of being associated with attention-getting social alerts and messages of danger: red fire engines, “red alerts,” “code red,” and even red numerals used to indicate retail sale prices. But the red stop sign is also meant to be “read” and obeyed in concert with other classes of traffic signs that have their own colors and shapes. For instance, dark green (a culturally more sedate color) square and rectangular signs on highways are used for informational purposes, like upcoming exits.

Complicating this whole signifying process is the issue of context, which can shift situational meanings. While the color green is employed in road signage for driver information and guidance, the specific coded usage changes if utilized in a typical overhead traffic light, which is designed to control cross traffic at busy intersections. Yes, the color red is used to signal an orderly “stop” to oncoming drivers, but here the succeeding green light below it becomes a crucial indicator to motorists that they can safely (usually) proceed through the intersection.

Signifier & Signified

Semiotics, then, involves a visual or linguistic “unpacking” of the sign; it’s not unlike looking under the hood of a car to see how it runs. What makes it go? Is it a clunker or does it purr like a kitten? As with any humanistic tool of analysis, semiotics has had its pioneers and learned converts. Substantial credit is usually given first to the little-known Swiss academic Ferdinand de Saussure, whose central work is Course in General Linguistics (1915). De Saussure wrote that he envisioned semiology (from the Greek semeion for “sign”) as a “science that studies the life of signs within society.” He also provided nomenclature for his proposed science; perhaps most important is his concept that a sign is composed of two parts, signifier and signified: the former is the word/image representation while the latter is the mental concept conveyed by the word/image. For example, the word “book” on this TC page is a signifier, language-based and typically arbitrary; its signified complement is the general idea or concept of what a book is. (Note that the word “book” alone doesn’t signify a specific real-world object; in semiotic jargon, that would be called the referent.)

This process works for visual images as well, though not in the same way. A realistic photo of a certain book is indeed a signifier, but its complementary signified is the mental concept of that very book, not an abstract “idea.” For more recent semioticians like France’s Roland Barthes, it’s exactly the apparent naturalism of photography (i.e., photos “don’t lie”) that makes it so subject to what he called the tricky, manipulated “rhetoric of the image.” This critical qualitative difference between the linguistic and visual sign also helps account for the immense power and reach of images in today’s globalized cyber-world. Whereas the image of a book appearing in a magazine will be easily perceived as such by most readers, to understand the word “book” one must not only need to know English, but what “book” means in context of the writing. Just as STOP might be misinterpreted, so can book: Is it a portable set of bound paper pages designed for a reader, the process of arranging a trip, as in “book a flight,” or a personal impression of someone, as in “her face was an open book”?

Peirce’s Sign Categories

The burgeoning 1960s field of semiotics got another boost with the incorporation of the concepts of the American Charles Sanders Peirce, whose posthumous papers on the subject were published in the 1930s. Among his key projects was classifying signs into three basic categories: the iconic, which significantly resembles its subject; the symbolic, which bears no resemblance or innate connection to its subject; and the indexical, which shares some unique existential bond with its subject, not necessarily resemblance.

A photograph (or, better yet, a filmic image) is the quintessential iconic sign. Alternatively, the symbolic sign is arbitrary in nature, as in written language (the word “book” has no real connection to the referent “book”). The most complex of the three, the indexical sign encompasses everything from a human fingerprint (which is actually created by the subject and provides a unique identifying link) to a thermometer’s temperature reading (its exposure to the elements becomes a sign of the weather conditions).

Like de Saussure, Peirce’s intent was to show the complexities of the signifying processes at work (and play) in human communication, and to explain how best to understand what exactly is being communicated. It gets complicated when one begins to realize Peirce’s categories can overlap. In the 1950s, France’s famed film theorist/critic André Bazin marveled at the unique properties of the motion-picture medium to replicate life, qualities made possible by its chemical processes that essentially etch images from the world onto the film negative. The result is an analog image that is both iconic and indexical. This fact is at the heart of today’s dilemma regarding the near-total transition to digital film and photography: Since these resulting captured “images” are neither iconic nor indexical but are instead coded via (binary) numbers, how are they to be preserved if the technology to “read” them is constantly evolving?

Barthes’ Denotation and Connotation

With the advent of post-World War II literary/narrative theory (such as Claude Lévi-Strauss’s structuralism), it wasn’t long before it was adopted for visual analysis, first in photography and then in cinema. The central figures in the growth of semiotics include Roland Barthes. During the 1950s, he became fascinated with the analysis of popular culture, from movies and magazine photography to staged wrestling. Far from being culturally or politically neutral—and bereft of apparent social “messages”—Barthes claimed that a close analysis of these visual signifiers in fact can reveal an array of signified meanings, both explicit and implicit.

Among his chief contributions to semiotics was his adaptation of the linguistic terms denotation and connotation, a dualism that he used in ways similar to de Saussure’s signifier and signified. In essays like “The Photographic Message” (1961), Barthes rhetorically states that a photograph is a “message without a code.” He means that one doesn’t need to know a special language (with nouns, verbs, syntax, etc.) to perceive and “read” what the main subject of a snapshot is, say a Hollywood celebrity. The mistake viewers make is assuming that a photograph consists solely of its denotative, or objective, meaning, its “literal reality.” In fact, to a greater or lesser extent, a photograph is also invariably inscribed with secondary signified meanings, i.e., connotations. These meanings are nuanced, even “invisible,” and their perception and impact are especially dependent on the photo’s creative origins.

What are some connotative photographic techniques? Barthes’ lists several, including pose, syntax, trick effects, and objects. For one simple but effective example, a photographer may shoot his/her subject from above or below, high angle or low. While not an iron rule, a high angle looking down tends to diminish the subject, while a low angle looking up at the subject can seem to magnify it, lending it visual dominance. By “objects,” Barthes asks the viewer to ponder what else is in the photo besides the main subject. How many times do politicians pose for pictures next to their country’s flag, thus implying their patriotism? Not unexpectedly, for Barthes and a cadre of scholars to follow, connotation is almost inevitably enmeshed in prevailing cultural values (for instance, gender or racial stereotyping), thereby communicating and reinforcing political ideologies.

Semiotics and Significant Signifiers?

Semiotics continues to be an invaluable analytic tool in a world inundated by photographic (and pseudo-photographic) images, whether traditionally iconic or of the new digital “deepfake” manipulated variety. Consider, for example, the above 2024 press photo of U.S. President Donald Trump. Denotatively, the subject is simply that he exits Air Force One, the custom presidential jet. But what are the connotations, intentional or not, that serve to convey both his power and authority—extra baggage, so to speak?

He is at the very center of the photo, captured from a low angle, erect and in a high position with no others present; his dress is classic Western white CEO male, topped with a striking necktie that, in Freudian psychoanalytic terms, has long been interpreted as a sign of masculine (phallic) power. A large presidential seal is also prominent, giving weight to Trump’s near-imperial status as the “leader of the free world.” One could also argue that the very fact that he has just descended “from the skies” suggests an almost god-like arrival.

Notably, the colors of his outfit—red, white, and blue—are those of the U.S. flag. Another key element is Trump’s prominent raised fist. As he was rushed off the stage by Secret Service agents in the seconds after his attempted 2024 assassination at a Pennsylvania campaign rally, Trump pumped his fist in the air, evidently to signify to his audience his survival and “fight” in the face of such an attack. Barthes would say: while such a photo appears as an objective “message without a code,” its timing, framing, angle, and focus were in fact deliberate choices. What if the photo instead captured Trump sneezing or slipping on the steps while alighting the plane? The connotative meanings would land very differently.

Finally, and adding an ironic postscript, the raised fist has long served as a gesture of communal solidarity and anti-fascist resistance, especially among discriminated minorities, for instance, the 1960s U.S. Black Power movement. Careful “semiologists” might be gob-smacked to see such a proletarian gesture usurped and appropriated by a privileged, billionaire-class U.S. president whose current administration is seeking to roll back many of the hard-fought gains of the 1960s Civil Rights movement, including minority voting power.