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Title
The Necessary Illusion ; How Ontological Agnosticism Follows All Its Consequences.
Phronetic essay, Publication: August 2025
The concept is not the thing: why we will never know being
A question as old as thought
Since the dawn of human consciousness, we have sought to understand the world around us. This quest gave birth to philosophy, the sciences, religions, and the arts—so many attempts to answer the fundamental question: “What is reality?” We have devised complex systems, elegant theories, and powerful narratives to explain what surrounds us.
Yet at the heart of this age-old endeavor lies a fundamental problem: everything we think, say, and understand necessarily passes through concepts. This conceptual mediation is not a mere technical detail; it constitutes an insurmountable limit to our knowledge of the real.
The thesis I defend here is simple yet deep: if all human knowledge is conceptual by nature, then no knowledge can perfectly coincide with reality as it is in itself. Between our mental representations and the being of things stretches a gulf that nothing can bridge.
The mechanics of the illusion
The reasoning behind this stance can be set out in three logical steps which, together, form an argument that is hard to refute.
Step One: All human discourse is made of concepts
Whether it is a scientific theory, a philosophical system, a religious doctrine, or an artistic expression, all human discourse is invariably composed of words, symbols, and definitions—in short, concepts. Even mathematics, often regarded as the most precise language we possess, operates with abstract notions such as “number,” “function,” or “set.”
Our very thinking is conceptually structured. We can only reflect through categories, classifications, and abstractions that let us organize our experience of the world. Without concepts, consciousness would be nothing but a chaotic flux of undifferentiated sensations.
Step Two: A concept is not the thing
What is a concept exactly? It is a general and abstract mental representation that designates a category of objects sharing certain common attributes. By definition, a concept does not coincide with any particular object.
Take the concept “chair.” It does not refer specifically to the kitchen chair you sat on this morning, nor the office chair you are using now, nor any particular chair. It designates a class of objects that share certain features (a seat, supports, the function of sitting).
But in reality, every chair is unique. It has a specific shape, a particular color, a distinct texture, a singular history of wear and use. No real chair is the concept “chair”—it is always richer, more complex, more singular than the concept can capture.
Step Three: A concept cannot be reality as it is
If a concept is by nature an abstraction that coincides with no particular object, then it cannot be identical to the reality it attempts to represent. At best, it is an operational approximation, a useful simplification—a map that helps us navigate the territory of the real without ever being that territory.
The conclusion follows on its own: all our knowledge, being made of concepts, is not and cannot be reality itself. It consists of mental constructions which, however sophisticated, remain inevitably separate from the being they strive to grasp.
This reasoning is disarmingly simple. It appeals to no esoteric jargon and no complex theory. It flows logically from the very definitions of what a concept is and what human knowledge is.
When the concept and the thing part ways
To better seize this distance between our concepts and reality, let us look at a few concrete examples that show how our mental representations necessarily differ from the things they try to capture.
Language and perception
Consider the word “red.” When you say or think this word, what exactly happens? You certainly do not summon in your mind every possible shade of red—from vermilion to crimson, from burgundy to scarlet. You use a term that groups under a single label an infinity of different hues.
But physical reality does not “know” the word red. It consists of specific wavelengths, surfaces that absorb and reflect light in particular ways, complex interactions between photons and matter. The word “red” is a cognitive simplification, a mental shortcut that lets us communicate and think—but it is not the color itself.
Moreover, the subjective experience of red varies from one person to another. How can I know whether what I perceive as red corresponds exactly to your experience of red? This question, known in philosophy as the problem of qualia, underscores even more the gap between our concepts and the reality they seek to describe.
The subway map and the real city
Imagine a map of the Paris Métro. It is incredibly useful for navigating the underground network of the French capital. It clearly shows stations, transfers, and color-coded lines. But what is missing?
It does not depict the streets above, the buildings lining those streets, the smell of bakeries in the morning, the honking of horns, the feeling of wind on your face as you emerge from a station. It does not capture the life of the city, its history inscribed in its stones, the diversity of its inhabitants.
You can travel efficiently with this map, but you will never see Paris through it. Likewise, our concepts are like subway maps for navigating the real—useful, sometimes indispensable, but fundamentally distinct from the territory they represent.
Science and equations
Modern science, with its rigor and precision, might seem to escape this limitation. After all, isn’t the equation E = mc² an exact description of a fundamental aspect of reality?
And yet, this famous equation, as powerful as it is, does not contain energy, mass, or the speed of light. It merely describes a measurable relationship among these quantities. The equation is a conceptual tool of remarkable efficiency, but it is not physical reality itself.
Science does not give us access to raw reality; it gives us models that allow us to predict and sometimes to manipulate certain aspects of that reality. These models become more precise and more encompassing over time, but they remain representations—conceptual maps of the territory of the real.
Cooking and the recipe
Consider a sourdough bread recipe. It tells you the exact quantities of flour, water, and salt, the baking temperature, the resting times. But does this recipe have a smell? A taste? A texture?
Reading the recipe is not eating the bread. Likewise, knowing a concept is not touching the being it seeks to describe. There is an irreducible qualitative difference between the conceptual description of an experience and the experience itself.
The profile and the person
In our digital age, we are familiar with profiles on social networks or dating sites. A profile can be detailed: age, profession, interests, carefully selected photos. But does this profile give you the person’s voice, their physical presence, the way their gaze changes when they speak about what they love?
The concept (here, the profile) is a summary, an abstraction that can be useful, but never captures the richness and complexity of the real person. There is always a surplus of being that escapes representation.
History and the real past
A history textbook can tell you at length about the French Revolution—its causes, key events, consequences. But it contains neither the noise of the crowds in the streets of Paris, nor the smell of gunpowder during the storming of the Bastille, nor the fear and hope that filled the participants’ hearts.
The historical account, however rigorous, is a conceptual filter that organizes and simplifies the past to make it intelligible. It is not the event itself in its lived fullness.
The illusory exits
Faced with this argument, several objections are frequently raised. Let us consider them to see whether they allow us to escape the conclusion that our concepts can never coincide with reality.
“Concepts exist within reality itself”
Some philosophers—Platonists and realists in particular—hold that concepts are not mere mental constructions but exist objectively in reality. On this view, the concept “chair” would correspond to a real form or essence that exists independently of our minds.
But even if we accept this metaphysical position, the problem remains: the concept I have in mind—the mental act by which I grasp the idea of “chair”—is still distinct from that supposed objective essence. Conceptual mediation is not eliminated; it is merely displaced.
Moreover, this position raises more questions than it resolves: where and how do these objective concepts exist? How does our mind access them? How do we explain historical changes in our concepts if they are eternal realities?
“A concept can perfectly match reality”
Another objection claims that a concept, though distinct from the thing, can nevertheless correspond to it perfectly—like a key that matches its lock.
But what exactly does “correspond” mean here? If it means perfect identity, then the objection contradicts the very definition of a concept as an abstraction distinct from any particular object. If it means merely functional adequacy—practical usefulness—then the objection only confirms our thesis: the concept is useful without being the thing.
Correspondence, however precise, always presupposes a duality—a separation between what corresponds and that to which it corresponds. It does not overcome the ontological gap between concept and being.
“If it works, it isn’t an illusion”
One might object that if our concepts allow us to act effectively in the world, to predict phenomena, to build technologies, then they cannot be considered illusory.
But this objection confuses utility with identity. A subway map can be perfectly functional for navigating a city without being the city itself. The illusion is not in the practical effectiveness of our concepts but in the belief that they coincide with the reality they represent.
Our conceptual maps can be extremely precise and useful while remaining fundamentally distinct from the territory they chart.
“We can know without concepts—by pure intuition”
Certain mystical and philosophical traditions claim there is a form of non-conceptual knowledge, a direct intuition or immediate experience that would give us access to reality as it is.
But if this knowledge cannot be expressed, communicated, or even thought without recourse to concepts, in what sense is it knowledge in the usual meaning of the term? As soon as we try to articulate this supposed pure intuition, we fall back inevitably into the conceptual domain.
Moreover, how can we distinguish a genuine intuition of being from a mere subjective illusion if we have no conceptual criteria to validate it?
“This is nihilism”
Finally, one might fear that this position leads to a form of epistemic nihilism—the claim that all knowledge is impossible or illusory.
But recognizing the limits of our conceptual knowledge does not amount to denying its value or usefulness. Our conceptual maps can be extremely precise, sophisticated, and effective, even if they are never the territory itself.
This is not nihilism but a form of lucidity that invites us to use our concepts while remaining aware of their representational nature.
Living with the enigma
To acknowledge that our knowledge is illusory in the ontological sense—that it never coincides with the being it strives to grasp—is not to renounce knowing or understanding. It is rather to accept a fundamental condition of our cognitive existence: we always navigate with maps, never with the territory itself.
This stance can be called ontological agnosticism. It does not claim that reality does not exist, nor that it is unknowable in the absolute. It simply affirms that our mode of knowing, being necessarily conceptual, can never coincide perfectly with that reality.
What ontological agnosticism is not
Ontological agnosticism is not a nihilism that would claim “everything is false” or “nothing makes sense.” Our knowledge can be extremely precise, useful, and meaningful. The illusion is not in their practical effectiveness but in the idea that they perfectly coincide with reality.
Nor is it a relativism that would deny the existence of a reality independent of our representations. On the contrary, ontological agnosticism presupposes that there is indeed a being, an objective reality that our concepts attempt to grasp without ever completely succeeding.
A lucid stance
Ontological agnosticism is first and foremost a lucid stance that accepts our structural limits without giving up on understanding and acting in the world. It invites us to use our conceptual maps as well as possible while remaining aware that they will never be the territory they represent.
This lucidity can be liberating. It frees us from the illusory quest for an absolute knowledge, a final theory that would perfectly capture reality. It invites a form of epistemic humility that recognizes the always provisional and partial nature of our knowledge.
But it does not condemn us to ignorance or despair. On the contrary, it can stimulate our curiosity and creativity by reminding us that our conceptual maps can always be refined, enriched, rethought—even if they will never become the territory.
The subversion of ontological agnosticism
Ontological agnosticism is deeply subversive. It does not attack any one theory or ideology in particular; it challenges the very pretension of any human discourse to state reality as it is. For more than two millennia, philosophers, scientists, and theologians have worked to refine, enrich, or replace the conceptual maps by which we navigate the world. Ontological agnosticism does not deny the usefulness of these maps; it asserts that none of them is—or can be—the territory.
This position strips every intellectual system, however prestigious, of ontological legitimacy. It refuses a hierarchy of truths while affirming that there are maps that are more precise and more useful—but none that captures being in its fullness. It short-circuits the quest for a “final theory” by suggesting that research may continue indefinitely without ever reaching ultimate reality.
This is why the idea is unsettling. It cannot be easily refuted without changing the terms of the debate or twisting definitions. It cannot be co-opted without losing its critical substance. And once formulated, it does not easily leave the mind—for once one has seen the distance between the map and the territory, it becomes difficult to pretend that distance does not exist.
Conclusion
The idea that our concepts are not the things they attempt to represent may seem simple, almost trivial. Yet its implications are profound and disturbing.
If all human knowledge is conceptual, and if no concept can coincide with the reality it seeks to grasp, then we are committed to a form of ontological agnosticism. We can build ever more precise maps of the territory of the real, but we can never claim that these maps are the territory itself.
This position is neither a nihilism that would deny the possibility of knowledge, nor a relativism that would claim all representations are equal. It is rather a form of lucidity that recognizes both the value of our conceptual constructions and their intrinsic limits.
Living with this fundamental enigma—knowing that we will never know being as it is—can be a source of freedom. It frees us from the illusory pursuit of absolute knowledge and invites a form of epistemic humility that excludes neither rigor nor intellectual ambition.
In this lucidity there may lie a kind of wisdom: to use our conceptual maps while remaining aware that they are not the territory; to inhabit the world of representations while keeping open the question of the being that exceeds them.