Fates & Free Will: Kyoto School Zen Meets Three Greco-Roman Goddesses

‘Since in God there is no variable will or arbitrariness, God’s love is not narrow-minded love in which God loves some and hates others, or by which some are caused to prosper and others to die away. The love of the God who is the foundation of reality as a whole must be equal and universal, and its self-development must be infinite love for us. There is no special divine love apart from the development of the myriad things in nature.’
— Kitarō Nishida, An Inquiry Into the Good [善の研究 ] (1911), pp. 163-4

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In Chapters 19 through 22 (pp. 103-121) of An Inquiry into the Good (1911), Japanese moral philosopher Kitarō Nishida (1870 - 1945) grapples with the philosophical question of freedom, its origins, its depths, and its constraints within the frameworks propounded in existing ethical theories. To oversimplify the totality of this particular work of Nishida, one could say he undertakes the ancient philosophical endeavor of exploring the true nature of the ‘good life’ and the standards of ‘goodness’ itself. However, Nishida takes a novel approach that interlaces his Zen Buddhist spiritual training with Western philosophical traditions in a dialogic intellectual exchange intended to clarify matters of reality, existence, consciousness, and ethics. An associate of the Kyoto school during Nishida’s lifetime was his colleague and friend D.T. Suzuki, the author of the widely read An Introduction to Zen Buddhism (1934). For example, Nishida cites Suzuki in his later work titled Intelligibility and the Philosophy of Nothingness (e.g., 1966, pp. 19-20). It is precisely because of his heterodox form of existential and moral inquiry — one that facilitates a dialectical dance between Eastern and Western ways of knowing (epistemologies) and of being (ontologies) — that Nishida is renowned as the founding thinker of the philosophical movement known as the Kyoto School [京都学派].

Why facilitate a East-West moral philosophical dialogue? Does this Europeanization of Eastern thought erode its integrity? Are the insights of Eastern and Western thought incommensurable or complementary? As for the first question, Nishida’s experimentation in thought arose from a desire to know, from a love for truth. ‘Love,’ he writes, ‘is fundamentally the feeling that seeks unity’ (p. 164). It follows that it would be facile to propose that any one blog post reflecting on only a single corner of Nishida’s mind could ever be sufficient to arrive at some ‘true’ conceptualization of the ‘good.’ What is possible, however, is a brief clarification of his thought process. His discussion of the ethics of freedom in the theory he develops over four chapters is particularly instructive of a few constituent components of ‘goodness’ as he sees it.

Drawing from Zen’s emphasis on ‘pure experience as true reality’ (p. xxiv), being as ‘action-intuition’ [kéiteki-chokkan] (p. xxxiii), the ‘continuity of discontinuity’ (p. xxiii), and the dissolution of the ‘subject-object separation’ (pp. xx), he situates the Western ethical and moral contours of freedom and autonomy within a new metaphysical framework. Nishida attempts to arrive at a philosophically valid conception of the ‘good’ by juxtaposing autonomous ethical theories with heteronomous ethics. Autonomous ethics — categorized separately into the secondary rational (i.e., acting on one’s volition to maximize utility), hedonic (to maximize pleasure), and activity (to maximize goodness) theories — hold that true freedom emerges from acting in alignment with one’s own intrinsic nature or reason. Freedom is only possible when one expresses one’s own will in accordance with one’s individuality, a beautiful quality expressed in each individual’s personality.

To acknowledge another personality is to acknowledge one’s own, and the relationship in which people mutually acknowledge their personalities is love. In a certain regard, love is the union of both personalities—that is, in love, two personalities, while independent and respecting each other, join together and constitute one personality. Viewed this way, God can envelop all personalities and acknowledge their independence because God is infinite love (p. 170, my own emphasis).

For Nishida, this notion of ‘personality’ is fundamentally linked to his broader philosophical views on the self’s autonomous capacity for freedom and independence. He conceives of each individual’s personality not as a static or isolated entity but as an evolving expression of one’s authentic self, which emerges through the dialectical interplay of noumenal and phenomenal experiences, internal and external influences, encounters with difference and alterity, etc.

In this philosophical framework, personality is closely linked to the Zen Buddhist spiritual outlook that values self-realization and sees being as an evolutionary and ongoing process of becoming, a process that ideally culminates in one arriving closer to the ‘good’ life that accords with both the senses and the soul. (For more on this concept of ‘personality’ from Nishida, see Chapter 24, ‘The Good as a Unity of Personality,’ pp. 127-131). This insight is found in eighteenth-century European Enlightenment texts, such as Rousseau’s observations on freedom and equality in his Second Discourse (On the Origin of Inequality) (1755). Rousseau theorizes that the state of nature attests to humankind’s innate faculties of a) self-improvement and b) feeling genuine pity at the sight of another being suffering. The first faculty, that of self-improvement, Rousseau claims is essential to autonomous freedom on the one hand and hence integral to the active process of discovering the good on the other. Nishida’s approach to personality similarly reflects a core belief that true freedom and moral worth come from aligning with one’s authentic self – as the ‘one’ in question continues to uncover that self in its encounters with the confusions, conflicts, and constraints imposed by external ethical norms, societal expectations, and inevitable contingencies. Autonomy is a requisite for the good life.

In contrast to autonomous ethics, heteronomous ethical theory sees freedom as derived from moral obligations imposed on the self by an external commanding authority. Nishida observes how, in Western thought, this authoritative and prescriptive force is either conceived of as a divine or social authority, such as a deity (or deities) or a political leader. The heteronomous perspective thus confines individual freedom to mere compliance and obedience along deterministic lines, with moral duties and potentially false conceptions of the ‘good’ being externally mandated and inculcated by lofty authorities rather than emerging spontaneously and autonomously from within the self. In many Western religious traditions, such as Christianity, for instance, followers are required to adhere to divine commandments as dictated by God, limiting the individual’s capacity to realize what is truly good through internal or external repression. Now, this is not to say that religious doctrines do not uncover some form of the truth (such as the notion that ‘thou shalt not kill’ is a generally ‘good’ prescription. Although even this tenet finds exceptions in cases of self-defense or so-called ‘just’ wars). But when it comes to matters of autonomy specifically — e.g., issues of bodily autonomy captured in the contentious ethical debate over a woman’s right to access abortion services, reproductive healthcare, or contraceptive options — one begins to stab at this debate between heteronomy and autonomy.

In the secular sense, Nishida cites Thomas Hobbes’ assertion in Leviathan (1651) that citizens must submit to a sovereign for the sake of societal order and hence freedom. The use of the sea serpent demon ‘Leviathan’ as a metaphor for the purportedly omnipotent powers of the State is taken from the Old Testament’s Book of Job.

A prominent advocate of the monarchical authority theory is Thomas Hobbes, an Englishman who wrote at the beginning of the modern era. According to Hobbes, human nature is totally evil, and in nature the strong prey on the weak. We can escape the suffering caused by this state of affairs only by handing over all authority to one monarch and then fully obeying the monarch’s commands. Hobbes argues that to obey the monarch’s commands is good, while to disobey is bad. We see a similar type of authority theory in the thought of the Chinese philosopher Hsiin-tzu, who wrote that the good is to follow the way of ancient kings (p. 108).

Rousseau counters Hobbes’ depiction of human nature as he conceives it in an entirely different interpretation of the theoretical imaginary of pre-political human life dubbed the state of nature. Rousseau suggests that it is not human nature itself that is rotten but the social institutions imposed upon it. It is these institutions that have led to the current state of socioeconomic inequalities, collapse, and decay that one witnesses throughout modern history, not human nature itself (but this subject is best suited for another post - or a book). Both heteronomous views posit an illusory freedom, wherein freedom is bestowed from the outside by authority (divine or otherwise) rather than realized and actualized from within. It is not one’s agency leading them toward the good. Instead, they are steered by an invisible hand along a path sketched out for them in advance, one that conflicts with their personality and hence their authentic self.

In these ethical reflections on the possibility of free will, Nishida engages with a concept that he several times refers to as ’a variable free will’ (pp. 163-5). Simply put, as autonomous beings, we are required to act ‘in instances of doubt, contradiction, and conflict’ (p. 163), regardless of whether or not we see these inevitable contingencies, this ‘continuity of discontinuity,’ or the realities of entropy as being the result of forces out of our control. As it concerns one’s pure and direct experience, these moments of uncertainty demand the activation and action of a sort of moral agency from within the self, one with the capacity to respond to the present moment and, in turn, facilitate the above-described process of concomitantly realizing the self and the good through experience, action, and reflection. The appearance of contingency challenges the apparent paradox that suggests freedom can only coexist with the necessity of causes (if this is the case, acting in accordance with the conception of free will above would imply acting in a manner that seems essentially predetermined). ‘True self-awareness,’ writes Nishida, ‘exists upon the activity of the will, not upon intellectual reflection’ (p. 162). As beings limited by the faculties of our fleshy vessels, ‘we can still think of the world as coming into being by chance and yet having a goal’ (p. 81). There are necessarily some things (phenomena, reactions, etc.) that are out of our control. One does not need to know God’s plan or clutch onto the philosopher’s stone to discover for oneself the true standards of good.

Following Nishida’s example, I now turn to the Western canon to facilitate another sort of East-West philosophical and cultural exchange. Here, my exploration reaches further back into history and moves beyond normative philosophical and religious discourse.

In Greco-Roman mythology, the Fates illustrate the relationship between contingency and agency in stories where providence and prophecy challenge human beings’ autonomy and desire. The Fates (the Moirai in Greek and the Parcae or Fatae in Latin) are typically depicted as three sisters who spin out, measure, and cut the threads of life for all beings — mortal and divine. These sisters — Clotho (the Spinner, Κλωθώ), Lachesis (the Allotter, Λάχεσις), and Atropos (the Inflexible, Άτροπος) — are also tasked with determining the destinies and enforcing the prophecies that govern human affairs in the mortal world. Their role in the narratives of Greco-Roman mythology spotlights the ancient lingering uncertainty surrounding the existential tension between fate and free will.

Mythical narratives referring to the Fates explore how protagonists (or individual selves) grapple with the inevitability of their destinies. Despite efforts to alter their fates, these fabled characters frequently find themselves ensnared by the predetermined threads woven by the goddesses.

One compelling example of this tension on display is found in the ancient Greek myth of princess Alcestis (Ἄλκηστις), which was popularized by the Athenian tragedian Euripides (c. 480 – c. 406 BCE). The theatrical setting of a tragedy is especially fitting for this discussion, as the genre compels its audience to confront what is truly more ‘tragic’ — the flaws and follies of human error driven by noble intentions or the realization that these efforts were futile and doomed from the outset. In the myth, Alcestis’ husband, Admetus, king of the Thessalian city of Pherae, is granted a special favor by the god Apollo. The wager: he is allowed to live beyond his allotted time (enforced by the goddess Atropos) and escape death. The catch? Admetus must find someone willing to die in his place. At first glance, Apollo’s intervention seems to represent a heteronomous force — an external power that (only after imbibing with the Fates) alters the natural course of events. Nevertheless, despite his fervent wish to extend his life, Admetus is unable to find anyone willing to take his place. That is, the divine proposition is rendered mute on account of his failure to successfully act on his own volition (albeit, in this case, for selfish ends, i.e., in the rational or hedonic sense, rather than in an active pursuit of the ‘good’). His father, Pheres, refuses to sacrifice his life, deeming the request absurd and self-serving. The predicament weighs on Admetus and ultimately underscores the farcical nature of heteronomous freedom. It is futile to try and escape one’s fate through negotiations with the divine.

In a tragic turn, Alcestis, the devoted wife of Admetus, steps forward, choosing to sacrifice herself to extend her husband’s life. Her decision, a profound act of love and selflessness, originates out of her own autonomous volition. (The story also explicitly underscores the often-overlooked burden placed on women in ancient narratives who routinely perform acts of self-sacrifice for the benefit of the patriarchs at the center of the literary lens). The narrative in Euripedes’ play Alcestis reaches its climax with the arrival of the divine hero Heracles (Ἡρακλῆς), a friend of the mortal Admetus, who, unaware of the recent spousal tragedy, arrives at the palace in Pherae. Heracles embarks on a quest to wrest Alcestis from the grasp of death in a heroic surge of spontaneous action. ‘Death is an entering into absolute nothingness; life is an appearing out of absolute nothingness’ (Nishida, 1966, p. 209). But Heracles is not afraid. He confronts Thanatos (Θᾰ́νᾰτος), the personification of Death itself and, following a dramatic wrestling match, he manages to revive Alcestis and rescue her from the grave. Heracles’ intervention supports this idea that true freedom arises when individuals autonomously use their agency to act on their will, even when under duress or the supervision of gods and goddesses, to navigate the contingencies they encounter and face the unknown on the road to discovery. Alcestis’ return reinforces the notion that, while one’s fate may seem inescapable or predetermined, autonomy and action are the fletching and arrowhead that break prophecies and alter the apparent finality of fate.

In reflecting on Nishida’s philosophical reframing of autonomous and heteronomous ethical theory, one evidently confronts a nuanced and recontextualized version of Western philosophical concepts (e.g., liberty, agency, will, etc.). Seen through a Zen Buddhist spiritual lens, one that necessarily grasps this idea of ‘the place of absolute nothingness’ through an intellectual activity that is ‘the religious consciousness’ (p. 130), Nishida illustrates how each of these questions is intimately connected with one’s conception of the divine and of existence; nevertheless, he concludes that it is one’s ability to act autonomously within these eschatological parameters that clears the pathway toward the good. Nishida writes, referring to Suzuki, ‘Absolute nothingness and emptiness allow a somnambulistic certainty and sureness. It is through Nothingness that Zen finds the fullness of life’ (p. 20). The dialectic between autonomy and freedom or the self and the divine is not simply a question of personal volition versus external authority; it reveals the very conditions under which we, as both thinking and acting beings, are and become free. To claim autonomy is to recognize that true freedom arises not from an atomized, isolated, or narcissistic individual asserting their will but through one’s capacity to discover and express their personality and, in turn, shape, resist, and break away from the certitude of fate and the homogenizing forces of societal expectation on the differentiated paths that lead them towards the good life. Nishida’s emphasis on Zen epistemological underpinnings (e.g., the principle of ‘continuity of discontinuity’) asseverates that autonomy is not about the unbridled expression of will but rather a constant negotiation (a dialectic) between the self and the world — between agency and contingency.

Freedom (as I have mentioned in previous posts) must be understood not as a fixed state of being founded on ossified ‘objective’ truths. It is an unfolding process of self-realization within a web of relationships and constraints. Heracles wrestles with Death, Alcestis chooses sacrifice, and Admetus lives with the consequences of both divine intervention and personal indecision. In these tales, it all becomes clear: true autonomy — and thus, true freedom — is realized through an honest, conscious, and moral engagement with the contingencies and exigencies that shape and constrain our lives.

Like the threads spun out for each one of us by the Fates, our destinies may be woven into patterns beyond our immediate control, but it is through our active participation in this process — through conscious, deliberate action — that we gain freedom. Autonomy, then, is not simply about asserting individual will; it is the ability to navigate the constraints and contingencies of life while continually striving to act in accordance with our evolving dialectical understanding of the good and ourselves. Liberty is found not in the absence of limits, in license, or in the defiance of the Fates but in how we creatively and courageously choose to act and uncover the good when presented with contingency and uncertainty on the verge of self-discovery. This is the challenge and the promise of autonomy in Nishida’s An Inquiry into the Good.

[I am citing these texts by Nishida. An Inquiry into the Good (tr. M. Abe & C. Ives). (1990). New Haven: Yale University Press & Intelligibility and the Philosophy of Nothingness: Three Philosophical Essays (tr. R. Schinzinger). (1966). Honolulu: East-West Press.]