Andrew Robinson: An Existentialist on Substack

Interview with a Fellow Philosopher - Episode 1

Philosopher's Walk - Kyoto (Japan)

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I am starting a series of interviews with philosophers. The goal is to introduce a wider audience to what philosophers do, as well as some of the ideas that these philosophers are working on. Hopefully it will demonstrate the relevance of philosophical research in our time, when philosophy is often accused of being a remnant of a past activity, and show the complexity and diversity of our field.

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Romaric: Thank you for accepting my offer of an interview. Would you mind introducing yourself, your reason for doing philosophy, your research topic, or the question(s) that interest you?

Andrew: Yes, of course. My name is Andrew, and I'm a philosopher with an MA and MSc from Edinburgh University. I work at the intersection of existentialism and social ontology, with a particular focus on grief and identity. I am currently applying for a PhD.

I come from a lower working-class background in Scotland and didn't start formal education until I was in my early thirties. My path has been unconventional, from delivery driver to philosophy graduate, and this has shaped my view of philosophy as a tool for confronting life's great challenges. My philosophical journey began not in academia but in the ‘trenches of life’. Raised in survival mode, I found an unlikely companion in philosophy after my grandmother gave me David Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. 

Training in an analytic department made me want something more than the dry analytic content I was being offered. I still find Barrett's description of academic philosophy as "talking about problems nobody knows they have, in a language they don't understand" a compelling critique of academic philosophy. I find this compelling, and having studied the analytic way of doing philosophy at Edinburgh, I can see what he was saying. I think this may be due to the specialization of academic philosophers to maintain academic status against the rise of STEM subjects [i.e. Science, technology, engineering, and mathematics subjects]. 

If I can have a sort of metaphilosophical side-battle: One of the things that annoys me is when people like Timothy Williamson claim that philosophy is a non-naturalistic science. To me, this is wrong and reeks of science envy. I have always compared it to art or, very loosely, poetry. One of my frustrations with this view is that it strips philosophy of its human element, reducing it to a rigid, mechanistic pursuit of truth, like solving a mathematical formula. Philosophy, for me, aligns more with Gabriel Marcel's distinction between problem and mystery. Williamson's approach treats philosophical questions as 'problems'—things to be resolved or 'solved,' with clear solutions to be discovered, much like in the sciences. But philosophical inquiry often operates within the realm of 'mystery,' where our questions are deeply tied to lived experience, subjectivity, and the infinite complexities of being. Mysteries are not about finding neat, scientific answers but about dwelling in the ambiguity and depth that make philosophy a human endeavour, much like poetry or art; of course, my saying that is a very controversial view. Nevertheless, because of that wonderful book by Barrett, Irrational Man, I have put all my efforts into existential philosophy despite the annoyance of the analytic departments at such efforts. 

I do philosophy because it allows me to grapple with existential questions that are both deeply personal and universal. Having faced institutional barriers, personal loss, and social exclusion, philosophy has become my way of articulating and understanding the struggle to find meaning in a world that often feels indifferent. I see it as a powerful tool for academic discourse and real, lived experience. In this way, and to reiterate, I believe that the French philosopher Gabriel Marcel was right when he introduced the distinction between a "problem" and a "mystery.” It is Marcel's mysteries that I would like to shed light on. 

My current philosophical focus is on exploring the relationship between grief and identity. This is a deeply personal topic for me, as I have experienced significant loss in my own life. I am interested in how grief reshapes our understanding of who we are, particularly through the loss of significant relationships. Some of the key questions I am exploring are: How does grief alter our sense of self? What role does memory play in preserving identity in the wake of loss? And What are the existential conditions that underlie the grief-experience? These ontological questions seek to uncover the deeper implications of how we relate to others and ourselves through the experience of loss. In terms of practical application, I believe that philosophy offers valuable insights for navigating the emotional and psychological challenges that life presents. By connecting abstract ideas to real-world issues such as grief, loneliness, and social exclusion, I aim to show how philosophy can help individuals better understand and cope with their circumstances. For me, philosophy is not just an intellectual exercise, but a tool for making sense of life's most difficult moments, and my work is driven by this commitment to making philosophical ideas accessible and applicable.

Romaric: The relationship between your life and academic research sounds profound. Would you like to talk a little more about that? Actually, my own philosophical research, which deals with very different issues, is also deeply connected to my own life because I am fighting against both life and social determinism.

Andrew: Well, you see, philosophy, for me, has always been about how it can help us in our lives, not merely an academic pursuit. I think the best philosophy comes from those who undergo an, to borrow a phrase, ‘existential shock’. This is a phrase from James Baillie, who uses it to describe a sudden realisation of one’s mortality. In the sense I want to use it, however, it is more along the lines of a personal experience of life that jolts you into needing to question everything around you. Whatever the subject this existential shock leads you to, it always makes for the best thinkers, in my opinion. That line from Barrett I mentioned earlier: ‘philosophers talk about problems nobody knows they have in a language nobody understands,’ is the opposite of how I approach philosophy, I want to write about problems people know they have, and if I am writing about such a thing — say about temporal intrinsic properties — then it’s up to me to also show why this is a problem for everyone, not just philosophers.

My research on grief, for instance, doesn't come from a detached, abstract place. It emerges from personal experiences with loss and the questions that arise when faced with the void left by death. I am glad you are in the fight. I think the more of us there are, the more these institutional barriers will falter. Like you, my research is a form of resistance to the idea that our paths are fixed or that suffering is meaningless. Instead, I argue for the possibility of redefining oneself and reconfiguring one's world, even when the weight of existence feels overwhelming.

Romaric: Throughout the history of philosophy, even when these barriers were not institutional, the very meaning of philosophy has been discussed many times. Personally, I always remember that philosophers like Voltaire, Rousseau, and even Kant weren't ignorant of worldly circumstances. The Lisbon earthquake of 1755 is a classic example. We should also mention the impact of the Second World War on philosophical debate, both during and after the war.

Andrew: Yes, you're absolutely right. However, I would perhaps clarify my position here and suggest that if we look more closely at the history of philosophy, we find that many of its greatest contributors were not academics in the sense we understand today. Spinoza, for instance, earned his living as a lens grinder, working in solitude rather than in a university. While renowned as a philosopher today, Hume was more recognised as a historian during his lifetime. And Leibniz, despite his towering intellectual contributions, turned down academic appointments, choosing to work independently.

There are more examples, of course, Locke, Sartre, Weil, and Kierkegaard, but these thinkers show how philosophy, at its core, was often pursued outside institutional settings. Many philosophers were deeply concerned with worldly matters, and their ideas were not confined to academic silos. Of course, this raises a question about the relationship between philosophy and academia today, and this is, I contend, Barrett's fundamental point. I would ask: Does the institutionalisation of philosophy risk narrowing its scope, making it more about technical, scholarly debates rather than the broader existential, ethical, and metaphysical questions that once animated thinkers like Rousseau, Kant, or Voltaire?

The Lisbon earthquake you mentioned is a perfect example of how philosophy was not only responsive to the intellectual trends of the time but was also deeply intertwined with the events and crises of the world. Voltaire's Candide and Rousseau’s reflections on human suffering were philosophical responses to this catastrophe, wrestling with human vulnerability and the problem of evil. Similarly, as you mention, the horrors of the Second World War reshaped philosophical discourse in the 20th century, especially with the emergence of existentialism. Thinkers like Sartre and de Beauvoir grappled with the nature of freedom, responsibility, and human dignity in ways that were inseparable from the historical events surrounding them.

So, in many ways, you're right that the history of philosophy demonstrates that its vitality often lies in its engagement with the world. This historical context is important when we reflect on what philosophy should be today, especially in a world facing complex and pressing existential threats.

Which is why Barrett's observation is so poignant for me — apart from someone like Peter Singer — how many academic philosophers today are truly engaging with the major debates shaping the current world? I’m sure there are some, like the late Arne Naess’ climate philosophy, but not to the degree we’ve seen in the past. Philosophers like Rousseau, Kant, and even Sartre weren't just engaging with abstract problems; they were wrestling with the core issues of their time—wars, revolutions, moral upheavals.

Today, it often feels like many academic philosophers are more focused on narrow, technical debates that only resonate within the academic sphere. The issues they tackle are important, no doubt, but how often do these discussions actually intersect with the concerns of the broader public? We live in a time of unprecedented challenges — climate change, global inequality, technology transforming what it means to be human. Shouldn't philosophy be at the forefront of grappling with these existential questions, helping society navigate through them, rather than retreating into more esoteric, specialised concerns?

This isn't to say that philosophy should abandon its intellectual rigour, but rather that it could regain some of the urgency and relevance it once had by engaging more directly with the world as it is, much like the philosophers of the past did. That’s why thinkers like Barrett hit home for me — philosophy should not just be a theoretical exercise, but a living, breathing discipline that helps us confront and make sense of the very real problems of today.

Romaric: I would like to know who the existentialist philosophers you appreciate are. I also wonder how and to what extent these philosophers help you and could, for you, help anyone face life's struggles. 

Andrew: Haha, that is an excellent question. I would say the usual French suspects: Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. But I would also add Miguel de Unamuno, Søren Kierkegaard, Nishitani Keiji, Watsuji Tetsurō, and Nishida Kitarō. I am always curious why there are never any living philosophers on such lists.

As for how these philosophers help me and others, I think each brings something invaluable to our awareness of life. I like to use the example of Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Bruegel the Elder — most people enjoy the sleepy town or the peaceful feeling, often overlooking poor Icarus' legs and hand in the water. Once this is pointed out, the whole meaning of the painting changes.

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus - Pieter Bruegel the Elder

I feel that existentialism does something similar. For example, Sartre's statement that existence precedes essence struck me because I had given up one way of life to go to university and pursue another. I was constantly confronted with my choices, defined not by my past, but by what I chose to do next. Similarly, Nishitani's work on the dissolution of the self into nothingness was instrumental in helping me deal with grief after the loss of a family member. His perspective that the self is not fixed and that we are constantly in flux helped me accept the idea of change and loss not as something to fear but as a natural part of the ongoing process of life. This shift in thinking gave me peace when I felt emotionally lost.

I also really like de Unamuno’s idea of living with the tension between faith and reason — it encourages me to look at life’s uncomfortable questions — such as is suicide a rational response to suffering? Which I wrote about in my ‘The Rationality of Despair’. Instead of turning away from them. De Unamuno is a great writer, and I have what we might call his meta-philosophy (from chapter one in Tragic Sense of Life) on my laptop: a human being first and a philosopher second. 

It may sound silly and obvious, but I've noticed that academically trained philosophers have a way of talking to each other that other academic disciplines might find curt, aggressive, or dismissive. It also helps me ground my ideas, experience the world, and philosophise. A point I wrote about in the first Rags to Reason article is how this approach resonates with the need to balance self-examination with the experience of life. I argue that both experience and philosophical inquiry are necessary. Socrates was only half right when he said, 'the unexamined life is not worth living.’ I add that the unlived life is not worth examining. From this addition, I think de Unamuno points at the intricate interplay between thinking and doing. In other words, the Socratic part is about clarity, and the existentialist way of thinking adds authentic engagement with the world. In this way, existential thinkers can point out certain things about life that are there but not always in focus — much like poor Icarus' legs and hand in the water.

Romaric: As you already know, the main part of my academic research has been on Japanese philosophy and especially on the authors of the Kyoto School. You have introduced philosophers such as "Nishitani Keiji, Watsuji Tetsurō, and Nishida Kitarō" as existentialist philosophers. If there is an important tendency in studying these philosophers, it is to approach them from a phenomenological point of view, be it a Husserlian, Heideggerian, or post-Heideggerian (mostly French) point of view. You have already mentioned Nishitani and a concept of self that is considered to be influenced by Buddhist ideas, but what dimensions of Watsuji's and Nishida's philosophy do you identify as existentialism, and how have their ideas influenced your views?

Andrew: Another great question. I think it's important to mention here that some Japanese philosophers, like Kuki Shūzō and Kōyama Iwao, spent time in Europe with key thinkers such as Heidegger and Sartre. These interactions were pivotal not just for the Japanese scholars, but I believe they also influenced the Europeans. There’s a tendency to overlook this mutual exchange, which is often framed as a one-sided adoption of Western thought by Japanese philosophers. However, I would argue that the Japanese thinkers brought their own perspectives, particularly grounded in Zen Buddhism and Eastern traditions, which in turn impacted Heidegger’s later work on nothingness and existential thought. The lack of recognition of this influence is likely due to European hubris — a reluctance to acknowledge that the flow of philosophical ideas was not purely from West to East, but a dialogue that enriched both traditions. I am glad to see this divide is slowly being erased; there should just be ‘philosophy’ not ‘eastern’ or ‘western’, you know?

But while the phenomenology of these thinkers is important, this is also a great time to discuss how existentialism differs from phenomenology, especially when we’re discussing figures like Nishida and Watsuji.

For me, existentialism focuses much more on lived experience and the individual’s confrontation with freedom, choice, and responsibility. It's deeply concerned with how we define ourselves through our actions, like Sartre’s famous idea that “existence precedes essence” — we’re not born with a fixed nature but create ourselves through the decisions we make in the face of life’s uncertainties. Existentialism often centres around the anguish and absurdity of human life, asking how we can live authentically in a world that doesn’t offer clear meaning or purpose.

Phenomenology, on the other hand, especially as developed by Husserl, is more about describing the structures of experience. It’s not so much about the human condition or freedom but about how we perceive and interpret the world around us. Phenomenology tries to get to the essence of experiences by "bracketing" out assumptions and judgments to understand things as they are given to consciousness. While existentialists like Heidegger and, controversially perhaps, Merleau-Ponty draw on phenomenology, they take it in a much more existential direction, focusing on how we exist in the world rather than just how we experience it.

This distinction matters in how I approach philosophers like Nishida and Watsuji. I see their work as more existential because they’re deeply concerned with the practical implications of living — how we relate to others, the world, and ourselves, not just how we experience or describe these relations. Nishida’s “basho” and Watsuji’s “aidagara” are about existence in context and relational, ethical engagement with the world. While phenomenology might analyse these experiences, existentialism focuses more on what these relations mean for our lives and identities.

In my own work, I’m influenced by their existential focus on the relational nature of identity—that who we are is shaped not just by internal reflection but through our active, lived relationships with others and the world around us. This perspective pushes me to explore identity in the context of grief as dynamic and relational rather than a fixed or purely introspective process.

Nishida's idea of 'pure experience' aligns with existentialism, particularly with figures like Heidegger. Nishida rejects the idea of a subject-object opposition and views reality as a unified field where the self and the world are deeply intertwined. This concept is worth exploring in more detail:

In much of Western philosophy, there's an assumption that the subject is the person doing the thinking or experiencing (you), and the object is whatever the subject is thinking about or experiencing (the world, things, other people). Subject and object are seen as separate entities: the subject (you) is here, and the object (the world) is over there. You're observing or thinking about the world as something external to you. This separation, particularly the internal (subject) and external (object) divide, is a foundational framework for how many Western thinkers, including Descartes, understood the relationship between the self and the world. In this view, the self is positioned as an observer of a world 'out there,' creating a sharp distinction between the internal self and external reality.

However, when people say Nishida rejects the subject-object opposition, they mean that he doesn’t agree with this strict separation. For Nishida, experience is more unified — we’re not just passive observers of the world, standing outside of it; we’re actually interconnected. There is no hard boundary between the self and the world. Rather, they arise together in a dynamic, relational way, like how a painter is part of the act of painting, fully immersed in it, rather than just standing apart from the canvas as an observer. The painter and the act of painting are inseparable.

In simpler terms, Nishida’s philosophy moves away from the notion that we are separate from the world and instead suggests that we and the world coexist and influence each other in a fluid, relational process.

This concept ties into existentialism, especially Heidegger’s focus on being-in-the-world (Dasein), where existence is defined through our experiences rather than as something observed from a detached perspective. Nishida’s notion of basho (or 'place') — the idea that everything happens in a relational context — adds another dimension to how I think about identity and grief. It challenges the individualistic frameworks in Western existentialism by emphasising that identity is shaped through these relational spaces, not just personal freedom or choice.

As for Watsuji, he takes this even further with his idea of “aidagara” (which means "betweenness"). He argues that human existence is fundamentally relational, not individual, which feels like an ethical response to Sartre’s more individualistic freedom. Watsuji critiques the Western focus on isolated individuals by showing that we’re always in relation to others — something I find incredibly important when thinking about the concept of grief. His emphasis on the ethical dimensions of our relationships with others really deepens the existential themes of responsibility and choice. It’s not just about the individual’s choices but also about how they impact the web of relations we’re always a part of.

So, how do these ideas influence my views? Both Nishida and Watsuji have shaped how I approach existentialism, making it less about the solitary individual and more about how we exist with others. That's how I created or maybe ‘discovered’ a new ontological mode of being that I argued for in my master’s thesis, which I call Being-with-specific-others: reflecting how our identity is inherently relational and shaped through our interactions with significant others. You can probably see Watsuji’s influence here.

Without going into my dissertation, allow me to clarify:

To understand my conception of “being-with-specific-others” and how it offers a richer understanding of relationships like friendship, it helps to contrast it with established existential terms.

In Heidegger's concept of "being-with-others" (Mitsein), he explains that we are always embedded in a social world. We exist alongside others, and our actions, choices, and existence are shaped by our social surroundings. However, this concept is general — it refers to how we are always, by default, in a shared world with others, but it doesn’t delve into the particularity of those relationships. It highlights our social existence but doesn't differentiate between the depth or type of relationships.

Similarly, Sartre's concept of "being-for-others" (être-pour-autrui) deals with how we are constantly aware of others’ perceptions of us and how that shapes our self-understanding. For Sartre, relationships often have tension, where the gaze of the other imposes an external view of ourselves that we cannot fully control. While this concept touches on intersubjectivity, it often portrays relationships as marked by conflict or objectification rather than mutual recognition or intimacy.

This is where being-with-specific-others comes in. It emphasises relationships that are not interchangeable — they are grounded in the unique, irreplaceable bond between specific individuals. Unlike the general framework of being-with-others, which could apply to anyone in our shared social existence, being-with-specific-others is about the deep, chosen, and personal connections we form, where the particular person’s presence matters. For example, in friendship, it's not just that we are together in the world or seen by others, but that this specific friend brings something irreplaceable to our life—a shared history, mutual understanding, and a unique dynamic that defines the relationship. Metaphysicians call this haecceity the 'thisness' that makes individuals uniquely themselves. This concept, combined with Watsuji’s idea of aidagara — the relational, ethical 'betweenness' — pointed me toward the insight that our relationships are not just shaped by the fact that we coexist but by the particular, irreplaceable nature of the specific others we engage with. These bonds, grounded in the uniqueness of the person, offer a richer understanding of identity and relationality than what is captured by more general existential concepts. 

In this way, being-with-specific-others captures the depth of mutual recognition, the intentionality behind these relationships, and their role in shaping our identity. It’s not simply that others define who we are through perception but that our identity is co-constructed through the particular, meaningful bonds we have with certain people.

This idea also explains phenomena like friendship, which more general existential concepts don't fully account for. Friendships involve reciprocity, trust, and a sense of shared identity tied to specific people rather than the general condition of being with others. It’s the specificity of the relationship that creates its depth—something that broader existential terms might overlook by focusing on the structure of social existence as a whole rather than on particular, intentional relationships.

This also relates to my views on grief: the loss of a specific other impacts us in a way that general social ties do not. The connection to a particular person is deeply ingrained in our identity, and when that specific bond is severed, it can leave a profound sense of loss and redefinition. I think that being-with-specific-others explains this better than broader existential categories.

Focusing on who we are with and how we are with them rather than just the fact that we are always with others, this concept enriches our understanding of relationships, and the unique emotional and existential impacts they have on us.

I incorporate these ideas into my research on identity in the context of loss and grief, particularly how our sense of self is tied to the relationships we build and lose. This more communal, interdependent view of existence enriches Western existentialism's often more isolated perspective. I think that’s why I would see the Kyoto school having, maybe not explicit existential themes, but definitely implicit. I remember reading an essay that described Nishitani as the first ‘Mahayana existentialist.’ I think that’s right — although I would go further and say Kyoto existentialism. But I think you could push back on my descriptor there!

Romaric: I certainly find your views stimulating, and this interview will certainly interest Substack readers. Would you like to give them some references for those who want to read more of your work? Three of your texts, be they academic papers, Substack contributions, or anything else you would like to share.

Andrew: That’s very kind of you, although I would shamelessly say the best way to read more is to subscribe, as I tend to write a lot. Also, I have a ‘nutshell philosopher’ series where I give the essential elements of philosophers that are lesser known, such as Carlo Michelsteadter and Emil Coiran. But for those who are interested in my views, I would recommend the following, all on Substack:

• Grief and the Weight of Memory in Lamentations 3:19-20.

• A Grief revisited.

• Existentialism revisited: Philosophy in the face of modern crises.

However, I have over forty essays for The Existential Pulse, not all about existentialism or grief, such as ‘Aristotle and the virtue paradox’ or ‘Plato in the 21st century’. Something for everyone!

Thank you for the thoughtful questions and the opportunity to reflect on these ideas. It’s been a great conversation, and I hope this series continues to spark meaningful dialogue, bringing philosophy into the everyday in ways that truly matter. For those who do read my essays — remember that philosophy is a dialogue, feel free to enter into discussions with what you read.