Before we can answer the big question, we need to clear up two common confusions: first, a “philosophy of life”—the way you approach your existence based on a set of principles—is not the same as philosophy as a discipline. Second, “philosophising,” as in “Oh, sorry, I drifted off; I was philosophising about life,” or that moment over dinner when the conversation gets so far-fetched that someone says, “Well, now we’re just philosophising,” is not what philosophers actually do.

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Compare saying that you’re a philosopher because you philosophise about life to saying you’re a mathematician because you can split the check among six friends, or that you’re a doctor because you know what Ibuprofen is for. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking in such casual terms. After all, you know that you’re not a mathematician or a doctor simply because you know that a mathematician does mathematics and a doctor does medicine—and you have a reasonably good idea of what those two things involve. That’s not the case with philosophy, though. Rarely does anyone really know what it’s about, and I suppose the problem is that the nature of philosophical activity hasn’t been made public enough.

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So, what is philosophy? And what does a philosopher do? Let’s start with the first question. The simplest definition I like to use is this: “Philosophy is the discipline that studies the most profound theoretical principles of any given phenomenon, or, for that matter, of any given discipline.” We arrive at these principles by asking the right questions. Yet, surprisingly, many in the philosophical community believe that asking questions is all philosophy should do, and that it should never give answers. What? Yes. Fortunately for us, that hasn’t been the case for thousands of years—and hopefully never will be. Philosophy should, and indeed does, offer answers.

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Let’s break that definition down with an example: science—specifically, physics. Take Newton’s second law: F = ma. In English: the acceleration of an object is directly proportional to the net force acting on it and inversely proportional to its mass. In even better English: how fast something speeds up depends on how hard you push it and how heavy it is. Physics can explain how the theory works, but have you ever wondered about the fundamental elements of that theory—force, mass, and acceleration—and what they actually mean? For instance, what is acceleration? A physicist might say it’s velocity divided by time. Great, but what’s time? And that’s where Philosophy of Science begins.

 

The same applies to mathematics. Sure, we know that 2+2=4. But what is 4? Obviously, it’s a number, but what exactly is a number? What is its nature? Does it exist outside our minds, or is it something that exists solely because we can think about it? These questions—and far more complicated ones—are asked and answered by Philosophy of Mathematics. Now, turn to medicine: suppose you’re a doctor facing a difficult childbirth, and you can either save the mother or the newborn. What is the morally correct action to take? That’s Moral Philosophy. You can probably see where this is going: take any example you like, ask “why” and “what” as profoundly as you can, and you’ll soon find yourself on philosophical ground.

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In a few words, philosophy lies at the root of all knowledge, no matter how that knowledge is expressed.

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Just as there is a divide between philosophers who think the discipline should ask questions rather than answer them, there’s another split that’s had dramatic effects on the community, known as the analytical divide. As the 1900s approached, philosophy became preoccupied with all kinds of subjective questions, often expressed in a style and language that was far from easy to comprehend. This was not the case with classic philosophers like Plato, who is reasonably accessible. But it is the case with Kant, whose material will cause you a headache.

In many cases, this convoluted approach to philosophy persisted into the 1900s, with cases including Hegel, Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Schopenhauer, among many others who are regarded as anything but clear. For some of us, reading the confusing sentences and making sense of them—even if what it means to me is different from what it means to you—is part of the philosophical exercise. And it’s often said (with good reason) that this style of philosophy is closer to literature, where the beauty of language matters. 

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Of course, some other philosophers absolutely hate that. They value clarity above all else, preferring succinct expressions that mirror the scientific method. This led them to “clean” the house and reformulate the aims and methods of philosophy. Ultimately, their approach can be summarised as all philosophical problems being problems of language. To fight the fight, they chose logic as their medium of expression—no more adorned language, instead, reductive notation.

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At that point, the community split. Many philosophers continued to focus on questions about experience, morality, ethics, the good life, God, love, friendship, and art, and came to be known as Continental philosophers, since their approach remained largely in Europe (and also in the East, as seen in Chinese, Indian, Buddhist, and other traditions). The other side focused on the analysis of words, sentences, meaning, concepts, and similar concerns—hence the name, Analytical. This type of philosophy is now practised all over the world, but is most prominent in the United Kingdom and the United States.

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Despite the distinction between Continental and Analytical, the question still remains: What does a philosopher do? To put it simply: we are engineers of knowledge. We take an idea, a concept, a thought, a principle, a truth, a falsehood—whatever it is—and break it apart. Then, with all its elements spread out on the table, we rebuild it in a clearer, more solid form.

But what’s the point of that? Simple: it provides the solid ground upon which all other knowledge stands. Philosophers are trained to think systematically, to assess arguments upon arguments, and to work through intricate levels of thought, sometimes exploring subjective scenarios or exaggerated possibilities. We are trained to think differently—not “outside the box” but in a way that divagation has no place. We don’t drift off, but if we do, it’s guided by proper questions toward either building up or deconstructing an idea. And after all that, we put it into words.

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Let me give you another example of how important philosophy is by showing what happens when it’s missing. Remember when the art world went crazy because a banana taped to a wall sold for millions? Doesn’t thinking of that as art seem at least odd, or even ridiculous? If you agree, you’re not alone. But think about this: if you say the banana isn’t art, then you have to be able to define what art is—and can you? If so, email me, because you’ve solved one of the biggest questions in the philosophy of art. If not, don’t worry; philosophers haven’t figured it out either. And trust me: defining art isn’t a job for artists or critics, but for philosophers. Without a definition—or at least some clear ground—we get what we’re facing now: a discipline ridiculed by ignorance of what counts as art and what doesn’t.

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Science and technology have pushed aside the humanities and stolen all the attention. Rarely does anyone think of philosophy these days, except as a philosophy of life or a bit of philosophising over beers under a night sky by the firepit. But the truth is that philosophy is always there, and even in the midst of the storm, we’ve been hanging on with all our might to stay afloat.

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Something that we philosophers understand is that our task is quiet and foundational—we lay the groundwork upon which every other beauty is built.