The Problem of Existence: Why is There Something Instead of Nothing?

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Chapter 1: The Fundamental Question of Metaphysics

In this essay I shall investigate the question: ‘Why is there something instead of nothing?’ It is an extraordinary question, rarely asked and rarely answered. It does not easily arise in conversation, for it cannot be openly and cheerfully debated. Instead it appears as a kind of phantom, shrouded in mist and darkness. The question itself, even in the context of a philosophy classroom, has a strange and disquieting atmosphere. It seems to come from the void, and it depends upon the dreadful contrast between being and nothingness, raising the possibility of knowing both. In asking us to reflect upon this contrast, this question lies at the extreme end of philosophical inquiry, and it deserves to be recognised as such. Transcending all of the normal conceptual structures and standards, asking for an explanation beyond any explanatory framework, it seems both inescapable and incalculable.

Yet I will provide an answer to it of a certain kind, through a gradual process involving an investigation of many possible responses. The final result of this process will be represented, not as a simple proposition with a distinct information content, but as a general schema which may be instantiated by a variety of explanatory propositions. As such, my answer will not entirely form a closure of the inquiry that is opened up, but I believe that it forms a coherent and complete response, in at least the sense that the investigation has a distinct conclusion.

1 Dimensions of the Question

My attempt to provide an answer draws upon both the intellectual and emotional aspects of human thought. I will assume that any response to a philosophical question, whether it proves to be intelligible or not, is generated within a particular context, and normally has both a conceptual background and an emotional environment. Most simple questions, arising in science and ordinary life, do not have any serious connection with emotions. This is because the context in which they are asked provides a conceptual background that determines the method of investigation and the content of the possible answers. However in constructive philosophy, because we deal with extremities such as the basis of moral value, the existence of God, and the nature of reality as a whole, the context is normally far too open-ended to provide such details. Thus it is often the case that we cannot understand our answers to philosophical questions in their entirety without understanding the motives and feelings that have occasioned them. This does not mean that rationality is or ought to be excluded from philosophy. It means only that our responses to philosophical questions are often without a background method which supplies a unique answer through a determinate process, and we must therefore draw upon the resources of human nature as a whole. Since human nature encompasses much more than reason, many philosophical investigations have an emotional basis.

The range of feelings that may be appropriately occasioned by sincerely asking why anything exists is relatively narrow. If the question is interpreted properly, then it is clearly concerned with the fact of existence. This is the fact that there exists something rather than nothing, and the feelings we have about this fact are prompted in part by the nature of our ‘encounter with (possible) nothingness’. Such an encounter can be dark and harrowing, or it can be light, creative, and humorous. But whether or not it is uplifting, a confrontation with Nothingness, or with Being itself, inevitably evokes extreme reactions because they represent the extreme limits of thought. As such, the feelings upon which responses may be based will mostly lie in the region of such passions as awe, astonishment, amazement, gratitude, joy, and exultation. These feelings may be called ‘positive appreciations’ because they are responses to a positive encounter with the fact of existence. We feel these ways when we rise up to meet this fact in some way, rather than shrinking from it or regarding it as oppressive.

The question of existence may also excite fear, anxiety, despair and frustration, which may correspondingly be called ‘negative appreciations’. In such cases, we feel the intense difficulty of the question as something too great to handle, and we stagger back from it in some way. These feelings are significant because they help to illustrate where we have lost our way, and may urge us onward to a more complete view of the matter. In many cases, both positive and negative appreciations may lead us to formulate particular responses to the question, and sometimes a negative feeling may spur us on to construct a more complete resolution. However, there are limits to the emotional basis for this inquiry. I consider it unlikely that any serious responses can be formulated on the basis of feelings such as contempt, lust, revenge, pride, anger, or pity. The vast realm of the moral emotions is largely irrelevant in this context, for it is a strictly metaphysical question. Some religious feelings may be relevant, (for example gratitude, joy and exultation may be interpreted as such), but it is highly unlikely that feelings such as piety, holiness, and humility can form the basis of a relevant response.

This has been called the ‘fundamental question’ of metaphysics.¹ If this is a good name for it, we might expect it to lie at the centre of a great theoretical controversy, but it does not. Relatively few philosophers in this century have given it any serious thought, and fewer still have actually constructed an answer. This is not because they disagree with such a characterisation. On the contrary, there are good reasons for thinking that it is at least one of the fundamental questions of metaphysics. It addresses the existence of the world, which is the basic metaphysical fact, and thus appears to be fundamental to our understanding of reality.

The main reason that philosophers have paid so little attention to this question is fear. There is a tendency to fear the unknown, and this applies to things which we suspect cannot be known or cannot be explained. The fundamental question appears to present us with a situation in which we are capable of understanding what is at stake, but incapable of providing an immediate answer. An important aspect of this situation is that there is no natural method, nor any general form of explanation, which easily applies to the inquiry. Hence professional philosophers are generally unwilling to tackle it. They fear that we can have no theory where there is no method of constructing a theory. This makes it an extremely difficult matter. We are dealing with a question without a natural context and without any obvious answer. And yet superficially, it looks like a very simple matter. It can be expressed in a reasonably simple English sentence, without using any jargon and without any reference to complex theories.

Many of those who have tackled the fundamental question, even for a brief period, have reported strange experiences. In as far as they have felt its depth, they have responded with expressions of awe, anxiety and bewilderment, and often a sense of being lost in the world. Sometimes, in finding an answer, these feelings can be transformed into a sense of spiritual depth, or otherwise into a sense of absurdity. That is, depending upon the answers that we find, if we are able to find any at all, we may feel that existence is ultimately meaningless, or that it has an immense and indescribable meaning. The conclusion that the world is an absurdity, however, does not make the feeling of awed incomprehension less powerful or more benign. Rarely has the question been tackled without some kind of emotional turmoil, even if this is left implicit in the results that a philosopher produces. Furthermore, when it is treated as if it were a normal problem with a normal solution, the results often seem inadequate to the problem, and inappropriate to the odd feelings that it provokes.

Most people, whether they know anything about philosophy or not, are arrested by the fundamental question when they first encounter it, and most people find it impossible to think of anything that might count as an adequate answer. It is the sort of thing which gives you a sudden shock. If you don’t already have a prepared theory to explain why the world exists, you will immediately feel odd when the question is asked. You will realise that you have been living in a world for many years whose very existence is inexplicable to you. In severe cases, this experience is not just an ‘intellectual intuition’ of oddness, it is a like a transportation from one world to another. It is as if, simply by putting existence itself to the question, you have made it separate from yourself. This makes the world appear in a different light, and it can even make the world lighter, less serious or more ridiculous in its apparent contingency.

The fundamental question of metaphysics can be interpreted as a technical problem, and to a certain extent traditional analytical and logical tools can be used to deal with it. However most of these tools are ultimately too blunt to be very useful. Furthermore this interpretation does not make it easier to grasp the responses that arise from employing analytical methods. Nor does it offer us an easy escape from the unnerving sense that the question simply won’t be answered. In certain contexts, it can be seen as an invitation to a sort of parlour game, and it may lead to a witty exchange of critique and counter-critique. But this is not the way it appears to those who ask it sincerely. For those who are genuinely troubled by the inquiry, it is more likely to lead to insomnia, to endless nights of thinking about it this way, then that, and coming up with nothing.

Unlike the problems of politics, religion, and science, the question of existence seems to come from nowhere, without any context or method. It is like an apparition from the void, and it puts everything, even the void, into question. We face not just the problem of why anything exists, but the problem of why there is no obvious explanation-space for this question. It is not a scientific question, nor a truly theoretical question, nor a problem of interpretation, nor a logic puzzle. Although it can be treated as falling into some of these categories, it fits none of them properly. It is a metaphysical question, and because it is fundamental it has no natural explanatory setting. We do not immediately see how we ought to investigate it. This is disturbing, to say the least.

Given that the question does provoke distinctive emotional responses in those who approach it with sincerity, we ought to ask whether an answer, if there are any legitimate answers at all, helps to alleviate these feelings, and whether we need to say anything about the origins of such emotions. Normally, finding the answer to a deep or difficult problem will at least help to eliminate the puzzlement it has occasioned. If we are still feeling odd or uneasy about a question after we have accepted a successful answer, this seems inappropriate. It may be because we are still thinking through its consequences, but if we have truly accepted that a problem is resolved, then it seems we are no longer entitled to feel any wonder, as we might feel in contemplating a great mystery. In the case of the fundamental question, however, it seems possible to continue feeling overwhelmed with awe and wonder, even when one has finished with the problem on an intellectual level. This makes it a peculiar sort of question. Although we can respond intelligently, it is essentially disturbing, even when satisfactory answers are available. There is thus a sense in which even my own construction is necessarily inadequate, for it will not entirely remove nagging, aching feelings of incompleteness. It may, however, meet with other successes, in that it remains true to the general sense of a satisfactory resolution, in both its cognitive and emotive dimensions.

The fundamental question seems to threaten the mind with dissolution, and thus it provokes desperation and fear. Unlike scientific and religious questions, it is difficult to absorb the inquiry into any of the contexts of ordinary life, for it asks about something beyond, or outside of our everyday experience. It has a tendency to be forgotten or discarded as illegitimate. It also has a tendency to provoke a sense of depth or oddness. It can lead to surprising answers, independently of the dispositions of those who believe that they have a response.

All of this is relevant to a deepened philosophical understanding of the fundamental question. The fact that almost everyone feels odd in some way about the question reveals something about what it is, just as the fact that some philosophers are intolerant of the question reveals something about their dispositions and emotions. The fact that we are often unsure of how to describe the odd feelings that it provokes is also of importance, since it reveals the way that we think about the question. We are also unsure of how to alleviate these feelings (should they be thought undesirable) or deal with the question in a way that would reduce them.

Psychotherapy is useless because the question is an intellectual one, and philosophical analysis rarely treats feelings of any kind, so it too is almost useless. It seems that what we ultimately need is an actual answer, and one that is satisfactory at all of the levels at which we can approach the question. For this we need more than analysis, we also have to employ synthetic methods. We must be able to unite our different approaches to existence, and express these in a revealing explanatory schema. If successful, this will absorb and reflect the total significance of the inquiry, and we may rest. The expression that I will ultimately endorse addresses both the fact of existence itself, and our felt responses to this fact, and it does so regardless of whether we believe that the question can be answered.

2 Dismissing the Question

In the face of an extraordinary question, it is possible to develop such a headache that one may wish to dispense with it once and for all. This can result in attempts to stop thinking about it, to forget the question, or even to get it off the philosophical agenda entirely. There is a great difference, however, between discarding the fundamental question as something we should not think about, and addressing it seriously by providing reasons to believe that no answer will be forthcoming. The latter, for one thing, may involve a considerable amount of thought, and an investigation into the limits of rationality. The former response, on the other hand, is normally the product of fear, frustration, or anxiety. The following remark by Carl Jung illustrates the radically dismissive response rather well:

If there is something we cannot know, we must necessarily abandon it as an intellectual problem. For example, I do not know for what reason the universe has come into being, and shall never know. Therefore I must drop this question as a scientific or intellectual problem.²

Jung’s view appears to be that there is a reason for the universe, but we shall never know what it is. This is remarkable. He dismisses the question as a topic for investigation, but appears to suppose that there could be an answer. It may be said in response that it is a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy to claim that one will never know why the universe exists and on that basis, decide not to pursue it. Jung has supplied no reason to think that he shall never know the answer. He simply dismisses the question. For him, it is not an intellectual problem.

To dismiss a profound philosophical question in this way is not merely to set a limit on human thought, it is to accept that we should not even try to think beyond such a limit. There are a number of examples in the history of science which illustrate that this is an unacceptable approach to impossible problems. Consider the long history of attempts to square the circle, one of the great mathematical problems of the middle ages. It exercised hundreds of great minds, and produced many noble efforts and magnificent thoughts. Yet, in the end, it was found that it is impossible to square the circle. Does this mean that nobody should have even tried to do so? Of course not, because if nobody had tried, we would not have known exactly why it was impossible, and we would not have acquired the benefits of the mathematical understanding associated with such knowledge. We would have no knowledge of transcendentals, the properties of pi, and so on.

Another famous example comes from the history of physics. For some time scientists had dreams of inventing a ‘perpetual motion machine’. This would have been a magnificent device, one that would never run out of energy and would never stop supplying its products. There were several attempts, ingenious and intricate devices that seemed to come close to the ideal. In the end it was found that the perpetual motion machine is physically impossible, but the process of trying to invent it led to the discovery of the laws of thermodynamics. If nobody had made the effort, we would not know why the device is impossible. We may conclude in general that impossible tasks are not to be shunned or dismissed. The attempt to reach beyond our limitations may not succeed, but it can produce greater understanding. It can lead to significant achievements as well as failures.

And in any case, as Kipling said, we should treat both Triumph and Disaster as impostors. The very word ‘failure’ is a pessimist’s word. Truly adventurous researchers will instead speak of ‘learning why it cannot be done’. Even if, in the end, we are confronted by limitations on philosophical thought, this does not mean that we should be daunted by them, nor that we should not seek, as far as possible, to think beyond them. A true philosopher does not cringe in terror and dismiss her most important questions just because she fears ‘the unknown’. On the contrary, courage is one of the essential marks of all significant philosophical activity, and the ability to go beyond the supposed limitations of thought is itself one of the great virtues of creative thought.

In any case, although the task is daunting, it is possible to provide coherent responses to the fundamental question. Such responses will at least allow that it has a certain content and presents a prima facie difficulty which philosophical thought may pursue. A response, of course, need not take the form of a direct answer. It may also be a constructive argument for the conclusion that we are asking for something that we shall never have. Furthermore, not all responses are satisfactory. Some are merely flippant, some are based upon faulty theories or inappropriate methods. Some ways of responding are better than others at capturing the sense of our emotional attitudes towards the fact of existence.

3 Inadequate Answers

Broad rather than narrow criteria should be used for determining whether a particular response to this question can be deemed adequate. Because there is no natural starting-point, almost anything which is clearly directed at the fundamental question, and which can be formulated as closing off the inquiry, may be considered as prima facie legitimate. A response which does not supply an answer in the strict sense, but instead shows that there is a limit to our ability to provide rational explanations, may thus be regarded as potentially correct. Such a position at least closes off the inquiry, and it seems to capture our intuition that the fact of existence is beyond us. A response can be ruled out, however, for a variety of reasons, including those which apply generally to explanatory theories, such as logical impossibility or incompatibility with known facts.

In this essay I shall also employ an ‘intuitive’ criterion for determining whether a particular response could be counted as truly satisfactory. If it is incompatible with the felt significance of the fundamental question, or in some way opposes the awesomeness and depth of the inquiry, it should be deemed inadequate. Thus minimally a satisfactory response must not only address the content of the fact that something exists. It must also help to explain, interpret or express our sense that we have encountered something of great significance, something which acts as a limit to the world, or at least the world that we can understand. This criterion significantly narrows the field of possible responses, as it rules out several answers to the question which might otherwise appear legitimate. It means that we should recognise that we are dealing with a matter that is not merely intellectually difficult, but emotionally extreme.

It may turn out, of course, that no response is fully satisfactory, not even a doctrine which entails that existence is a brute fact. If this is the case, then we should seek a response which is as satisfying as it can be. It might be that, given the nature of this inquiry, the best that we can hope for is a metaphorical elucidation, rather than a categorical, factual explanation.

In dealing with the fundamental question, it is important to ask what we are really seeking, and what kind of response would bring the reward that seems promised in the search. If we could truly have an answer, if we could actually spell out the ‘why’ of existence, with full confidence, what would we do with it? What would it mean for us, to understand the ultimate explanation for reality itself? Or alternatively, what would it mean to know exactly why there can be no such explanation? These are questions which cannot be addressed without first determining which alternatives are feasible. But it seems clear that, whatever is chosen, we are facing something that is powerful and meaningful, rather than something which is simple, obvious, or trivial.

Some inadequate answers to the question of existence can be considered as steps on the way to a more complete and emotionally satisfactory response. Although we may begin with fear, and try to dismiss it, as we approach this matter more closely, we may uncover a more expansive understanding of the world and the place of reason. On the other hand, some inadequate answers seem to lead nowhere. They are inadequate because they are based upon a mistake about the nature of the inquiry itself. We are not dealing with something superficial, and if we construct a superficial response, we have made a mistake. It has been claimed, for example, that of the two possibilities, existence is more likely than nonexistence, and that this explains the fact that something exists instead of nothing. But this seems ridiculous. Such an explanation does not go deep enough, and it may be considered as inadequate on this basis.

Two examples of the thesis that existence is more likely than nonexistence have emerged in recent philosophy. The first was presented by Robert Nozick, who proposed a series of responses to the fundamental question (none of which is entirely successful) in his book Philosophical Explanations.³ One of the possibilities he suggested was an ‘egalitarian’ answer. In this case, the egalitarian assumption is that all states are equal in their need for an explanation, so that all possibilities have equal weight. It therefore seems that we can employ the principle of indifference from probability theory in addressing the question of existence. That is, all states or events are regarded as being equally probable as long as we can see no reason why one should occur rather than another. Nozick argued that there are an infinite number of ways for there to be something, corresponding to the infinite number of possible worlds that might be actual, but there is only one way for there to be nothing. It follows that the probability of the empty world, wherein nothing exists, is vanishingly small.⁴ The existence of something rather than nothing can then be explained in terms of its greater probability.

Nozick presents an unconvincing argument for this conclusion. He first claims that on some views of statistical explanation, if we can correctly specify a random mechanism that yields a very high probability of there being something, then we have explained why it is there. He then asserts that we can answer the question ‘Why is there something instead of nothing?’ by stating that this is just what you would expect from a random mechanism. But at no point does he actually specify what this mechanism is, or how it is supposed to work. Given that this is essential to his argument that there can be a statistical explanation, it seems that we can reject it on this basis alone. In fact, the very idea of such a mechanism is unintelligible. It would necessarily be ‘something’ itself, and thus it cannot explain why there is something instead of nothing. Even if there is a world-selecting God, who was somehow not a ‘something’, there is no reason to think that his selection of a world would be random.

The second example of a probabilistic explanation was developed by Peter van Inwagen.⁵ His argument is an adaptation of Nozick’s, but it is presented in greater detail, and has a slightly different conclusion. Four premises are defended:

1. There are some beings;

2. If there is more than one possible world, there are infinitely many;

3. There is at most one possible world in which there are no beings;

4. For any two possible worlds, the probability of their being actual is equal.⁶

There are then two cases to consider. If there is only one possible world, then by premise 1, it is a necessary truth that some things exist, and the probability of there being no beings is 0. If there is more than one possible world, then by premise 2, there must be an infinite number, and by premise 4, the probability of any world being actual is 0. It is then claimed that a proposition which is true in at most one world must also have a probability of 0, because the probability of each world is 0. Hence, van Inwagen concludes, premise 3 entails that the probability of there being nothing is 0.⁷ This fact is supposed to constitute an explanation for why there is something instead of nothing.

There are several objections to this argument. Interestingly, van Inwagen himself admits that he is unhappy with it, because it seems too simple, and in fact this may be its most telling defect. At first glance, it looks as if what has been presented is not an explanation at all, but a paradox or a riddle. This is because we are not prone to see the fundamental question as a matter which can be decided by an application of probability theory. Even if the notion of probability can be coherently employed in this context, it does not appear to do the right explanatory work. For massively improbable events do sometimes occur, and the explanation for their occurrence or non-occurrence, if there is an explanation, always makes reference to something other than their probability. It seems that when we ask why anything exists, instead of nothing, we are asking for a non-probabilistic explanation, if there is one. Neither Nozick nor van Inwagen has supplied a reason to think that we must be content with a probabilistic account, rather than seeking for a deeper explanatory ground.

The most contentious premise of the argument is the fourth, and consequently van Inwagen provides a lengthy defence of its truth. He supposes that a possible world may be thought of as a maximal state of an isolated system of objects, by which he means a system that is not pre-determined by another object outside of it. He then argues that if an isolated system has several maximal states (ie. assignments of properties to all of the objects in the system), then each maximal state of the system will have equal probability.⁸ This is because, in the absence of some external object which determines the maximal states of a system, there is no basis for preferring one over another. It follows that all possible worlds, as maximal states of an isolated system (which van Inwagen calls