We are all philosophers. I don’t mean this in the “What do you make of Quine’s ‘Two Dogmas’?” sense. No, we are all philosophers in that we all do philosophy.

Philosophy is a practice of wonder and logic; curiosity and introspection; dialectic and meditation; criticism and advocacy. We all do some of these things, some of the time. We all philosophize, but we do so in different ways.

So, without any empirical rigor whatsoever — another favorite characteristic of philosophy — I present here five different ways to be a philosopher. Of course, this isn’t definitive. Of course, this isn’t universal. It’s just an inductive hypothesis based on my reading of thousands of philosophical texts. It’s a playful heuristic to question our own questioning — an “aide-philosophie.”

Which philosophical archetype are you?

The Sphinx

The archetype: The Sphinx had the head of a woman, the body of a lion, and the wings of a bird. She sat outside Thebes and would block the way of any traveler sorry enough to come close. Each time, the Sphinx would ask a single riddle, the classic being, “What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?” but I assume there were more. If you got the riddle wrong, she would devour you.

The philosopher: The Sphinx-philosopher is someone who argues by constantly interrogating your position. They might feign ignorance or pretend to be an ally, but they are always asking questions with a purpose. The toxic version of the Sphinx is the carnivorous one. If you get the questions wrong — if you fail the test of logic, knowledge, or social compliance — then you are an enemy. The constructive version of the Sphinx is the Socratic one. Questions are an opportunity to grow together.

In everyday life: The Sphinxic person will rarely assert anything but question everything. At dinner parties, they make people uncomfortable by refusing to take sides while somehow ridiculing everyone else’s side. They’re maddening but also magnetic. You’ll find the Sphinx often working in teaching, therapy, or coaching — any field where the goal is to midwife insight rather than deliver it.

The Leviathan

The archetype: The Leviathan is a demonic sea serpent that breathes fire. Its back is a row of shields and churns the oceans to a frothing boil. In 1651, Thomas Hobbes used the Leviathan to represent a great monster made up of tiny individual elements (the shields). It’s an artificial, composite creature roaring as a sovereign whole.

The philosopher: The Leviathan-philosopher will construct vast, architectonic systems meant to explain everything — metaphysics, ethics, politics, aesthetics — under a unified framework. For example, Aristotle, Aquinas, Hegel, and in the 20th century, figures like Whitehead or Rawls in their domains. Marx’s account of class struggle and socio-economic inevitability is a philosophical leviathan. These philosophers believe their system can comprehensively map everything. God, morality, truth, knowledge, and the human condition can all be explained by this system.

In everyday life: This person has a transferable framework that they apply to everything. They’ve read a book, studied a philosophy, or watched a YouTube video and decided, “Yes, this idea is the one that will govern my life.” Every action in every minute of the day can be explained by this single system of ideas. It might be God, or love, or money, or duty, or pride, or whatever. Their one ring rules all the others. They might be attracted to a career in law, urban planning, and organizational design.

The Kitsune

The archetype: In Japanese folklore, the kitsune is a fox spirit known for their ability to shapeshift. A kitsune might appear as a beautiful woman, an old man, a child, or a tree. Some are tricksters, and others are teachers. Many are both. The key point is that kitsune don’t just deceive but reveal through deception.

The philosopher: The kitsune-philosopher uses wit, paradox, equivocation, and role-playing to approach a position, both in critique and defense. Kierkegaard wrote under pseudonyms who disagreed with each other. Nietzsche spoke through Zarathustra, aphorisms, and self-contradiction. Derrida and Rorty played with irony and textual instability. Even Plato wrote behind the mask of Socrates. Kitsune distrusts systems and sincerity equally. And while the kitsune are often accused of nihilism, relativism, or simply not being serious enough, their Rashomon perspectives and easy humor are always doing philosophical work.

In everyday life: The kitsune-person may say something outrageous and, when challenged, give a wide smile with a twinkle in their eye. They’re often impossible to argue with because they keep changing things. They seem to believe everything and nothing, but never seem shallow. Like the tricksters of myth, there’s depth to their slyness. They work in the arts, in criticism, and in satire. They’re the person in the office whom everyone suspects is either a genius or completely incompetent.

The Minotaur

The archetype: The Minotaur is a half-human, half-beast (typically a bull) locked in a labyrinth. The Minotaur is feral and brutal, no doubt — he will kill anyone he catches in his maze — but he is also lost and tormented. The Minotaur is an outsider, forced to be the monster King Minos of Crete wanted him to be.

The philosopher: The minotaur-philosopher is someone lost in the mire of human suffering, mortality, freedom, and absurdity. They never escape the labyrinth but make a dark, resigned home within it. Here, you’ll find Pascal, Dostoevsky, Heidegger, Sartre, Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir pacing about in anguish. They write from the gut, from dread, and from the weight of being human. There are no answers, just doom, gloom, and radical acceptance. If you listen closely, you might hear Sisyphus laughing.

In everyday life: The minotaur-person feels things deeply and has no interest in pretending otherwise. They can’t really do small talk, and every conversation inevitably becomes a meditation on mortality or meaning. They’re intense in friendships and will text you late at night about the nature of loneliness. They keep a diary. Minotaurs can emerge anywhere, but often around great pressure or even trauma. They work in hospice care, emergency medicine, and addiction counseling. As Montaigne put it, they have death always in their mouths.

The Garuda

The archetype: The Garuda is a great eagle of Indian mythology and is associated with clear sight and the dispelling of poisons — especially those of serpents and nagas. The Garuda soars above the landscape and sees the structure of things. It does not deal in tricks or riddles but is a clarifier.

The philosopher: The Garuda-philosopher won’t even have a conversation with you until we’ve all defined our terms. They are committed to clarity, precision, logical rigor, and the dissolution of pseudo-problems. Frege, Russell, the early Wittgenstein, Carnap, Quine, and contemporary analytic philosophers are Garudas. But so, too, are scientifically leaning empiricists like Hume, who sought to clear away metaphysical fog. They believe most philosophical problems are confusions of language or logic, and the task is to see clearly.

In everyday life: The Garuda-person asks, “What do you mean by that?” a lot. They hate vagueness and metaphor used as arguments and will often call out both — “What does that actually mean?” they say. They generally don’t have time for “lived experience” or emotional reasoning. If it can’t be formalized, it’s not worth debating. They will often work in programming, law, or science. They’re the person you ask to look over your email before you send it.

You will find these archetypes at every dinner party, in every workplace, and at every family gathering. They’re styles of being in the world as much as styles of argument. And most of us are composites — a little Sphinx when we’re unsure, a little Minotaur late at night, a little Garuda when we’re fed up with nonsense.

Which are you most like?