In short, the axiological researcher must fully appreciate the scandal of the problem of values—specifically, the absence of any foundation for values and the impossibility of dismissing extreme axiological positions. Moreover, rather than responding to this scandal with the customary indignation, the researcher should suspend all value judgements and adopt a stance of axiological epoché.
Why is this necessary? There are three reasons.
First, this state of mind follows logically from our acknowledged ignorance, assuming we are honest with ourselves. If we knew why nihilism was a mistaken axiological stance—if we knew how to establish a foundation for values—we could reject nihilism, and even feel indignant about it, because we would understand the basis for that rejection. Our ignorance, however, makes such rejection impossible, and thus leads us to suspend our axiological judgements.
Second, without this state of mind, a person may only feel irritated by the attempt to determine values, or by the project of axiology itself. Such a person is wholly committed to their value judgements—entangled in them, one might say. Living in full confidence in the goals they have set, they are untouched by any uncertainty that might unsettle the core of their life; they feel no doubt and have never questioned their assumptions. To explain the project of axiology to such a person is an exercise in futility. They cannot bear to see the value of what they cherish called into question, and will reject any conclusion that fails to confirm their existing beliefs.
A simple test suggests itself for determining whether someone might be open to the axiological project: can they tolerate being told that what they love has no value? Or again: would they be willing to revise their tastes if shown that their current taste is poor taste? Or will they reject any demonstration in order to keep their (supposed) love intact?
Such a person becomes, for us, like a stone: none of our arguments will reach them; we no longer share common ground, and no dialogue remains possible. They are deaf to us, and therefore impervious to our challenges—but equally, they have nothing to say to us. They can no more threaten us than a stone by the side of the road.
Third, it is likely impossible to establish values without, at least once in the course of our inquiry, genuinely entertaining the axiological doctrines we aim to refute. Neutrality is required if we are to determine impartially what has value and what does not. To be neutral, however, we must at some point treat all possible value judgements with equal seriousness, as genuine axiological positions worthy of the name. If we dismiss with a shrug what strikes us as absurd or scandalous, we forfeit any chance of grasping the depth of the problem of values—and with it, any chance of resolving it.
Two types of person will thus likely remain forever unmoved by the project of axiology. First, those who fail to recognise the scandal of the absence of any foundation for values—intuitionists, for instance, who claim that we naturally and immediately know what holds value (which, as if by coincidence, tends to align with the traditional triad of the beautiful, the true, and the good). Second, those who, having grasped this scandalous absence of foundation, take refuge in the hollow feeling of indignation, mistakenly supposing it provides an answer to the axiological problem—which, of course, it cannot.
The meaning of this suspension of judgement may be difficult to grasp. It may become clearer if we take as our model the Cartesian epoché, which, in its radical character, appears to resemble the axiological epoché we are proposing. But is Cartesian doubt truly radical? Does it genuinely serve as a model for those who wish to free themselves of all value judgements? Let us examine Descartes' approach to find out.