Varieties of Sanity

                                               

 

 

Varieties of Sanity

 

 

Mental illness comes in several varieties: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, neurosis, eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, paranoia, impulse control disorder, tic disorder, sexual disorders. These illnesses can be possessed independently (though there are certain correlations): you can have one without having the others. I take the big three to include psychosis, manic-depression, and lack of impulse control: these are the three main ways in which the mind can assume pathological traits. At any rate, I shall focus on these three in what follows. My question is: Does sanity have a similar structure? Are there different types of sanity? You can be insane in several different ways, but can you be sane in several different ways? And what does this tell us about the nature of sanity and its possible enhancement?

            What is sanity? The OED defines it thus: “of sound mind; not mad”. This suggests that the primary concept of the pair saneinsane is the latter: the concept of sanity was introduced by way of contrast with the concept of insanity, of which salient instances had been observed. To be sane is to not have any of the ailments classified as mental illnesses. To be normal is not to be abnormal. Compare the concepts of bodily health and ill health: to be of “sound body” is not to have various bodily ailments. To be healthy is not to be ill. But we can surely do better than this, since there must be traits that constitute sanity, as there are traits that constitute health of the body. To be sane is to have these traits, or to have them in good measure. Compare the traits that constitute bodily fitness (or one aspect of it): strength, endurance, and flexibility. To be unfit is to be weak in these dimensions, but to be fit is to possess them in good measure. So what are the traits variations in which constitute mental health and mental ill health?

We can take our cue from the types of mental illness listed above. The affective instability characteristic of manic-depression suggests that affective evenness is a type of sanity: affective sanity is keeping on an even keel, not being too happy or too sad. As we might say, it is having rational emotions—ones appropriate to objective circumstances. Not being deliriously happy about nothing very much or cast down by the slightest setback. The sane person has good emotional regulation. In the case of psychosis (schizophrenia) the natural thought is that it is the hallucinations and delusions of the psychotic that qualify him as mad; so the sane person is one who is notdeluded or hallucinated. More precisely, it is someone who is free of delusion in good measure (everyone might be a bit deluded—as in romantic love). I shall say simply that cognitive sanity consists in being non-delusional in one’s beliefs—being a good curator of one’s beliefs. Not being subject to fantasy beliefs or delusions of persecution or under the impression that one is the messiah. It is being “sound of intellect” (as distinct from affect). Third, a person with impulse control problems cannot help acting in ways that may not be in his or her best interests (or the interests of others): blurting things out, reaching repeatedly for the cookie jar, obsessively washing your hands, hitting the cat for no reason. Then being sane in respect of impulse control is simply acting with restraint—sensibly, prudently, moderately, and maturely. It is not acting on any passing whim or harmful urge. This is to be sound of will (as distinct from affectively or intellectually): having a well regulated will. Here it is action that can be pathological not emotion or thought. It is what the agent does, not what he thinks or feels that makes him fall into the category of the mentally ill.

So we have three aspects of the mind—emotion, thought, and will—that can vary in certain ways, and these ways determine whether the person is sane or insane, mentally well or ill. Let us then say, for the sake of brevity, that sanity consists in evenness, truthfulness,  [1] and self-control. These are the virtues proper to emotion, thought and will (to put it in Aristotelian terms); and sanity consists in possessing these virtues while insanity consists in lacking them (or not having them in good measure). So now we can return to our original question and answer as follows: there are three types of sanity, which can in principle be possessed independently of each other—sanity of emotion, sanity of thought, and sanity of action. Affective sanity is evenness of emotion; cognitive sanity is truthfulness of belief; and conative sanity is restraint in action. You may be strong in one area but not in the other two (as you may be physically strong but not flexible or have much endurance): you might, say, be generally truthful in your beliefs but prone to emotional instability or impulsive actions; or you might be cautious in action but prone to depression; or you might be emotionally even but deluded and impulsive. No doubt there are correlations between the components of sanity, as there are for the types of mental illness, but we can discern three distinct dimensions of sanity—three sorts of mental wellness. So sanity is not just a unified blank state of not having various mental ailments; it is a positive composite state made up of discrete components (it has “modularity”). Strictly speaking, we should not describe a person as sane without being prepared to specify what type of sanity we are talking about—just as we must not describe a person as insane without being able to specify what type of insanity we have in mind. For the sake of linguistic accuracy, we might speak of emotional sanity, cognitive sanity, and active sanity (“Oh yes, he is quite sane cognitively but pretty crazy actively”).

I have not taken a stand on whether sanity and insanity differ merely by degree, though clearly there are degrees of evenness, truthfulness, and restraint. The point is that just as insanity has varieties so too does sanity: mental wellness is modular in roughly the way mental illness is. The psychological faculties can be independently subject to breakdown or disease, but they can also be differently developed in different individuals (or the same individual at different times). For it is not true that any deficiency in a psychological faculty constitutes a mental illness. I may be less physically strong than you, but that doesn’t mean I am physically ill; and I may be less fleet of thought than you, but that also doesn’t mean I am mentally ill. Sanity can vary both in type and in degree of excellence. I might be perfectly well in all three departments but still striving for improvement—I want to be even saner than I already am. So we need to distinguish psychotherapy (or psychiatry) from what might be called “sanity training”: the former aims to rectify mental illness while the latter aims to promote mental wellbeing to yet higher levels of excellence. The distinction mirrors the distinction between physiotherapy and athletic training: fixing injuries versus improving performance. You can work on your strength, flexibility, and endurance; and you can work on your evenness, truthfulness, and restraint—without any suggestion that you are ill. There are three things to work on in each case, corresponding to the three faculties that admit of breakdown or improvement. The varieties of mental wellness correspond to varieties of mental training method—ways to enhance or improve sanity (not merely cure insanity).

I am suggesting that we tend not to think of sanity in a sufficiently structured way—as we used not to think of insanity in a sufficiently structured way. It wasn’t till the nineteenth century that we started to recognize the varieties of mental illness, relying instead on some undifferentiated notion of “mental fugue” or perturbation of the “animal spirits” (or a grievous moral failing); similarly, today we tend to think of the sound mind in an undifferentiated way, as if it is just one kind of seamless thing. Hence we have the simplistic binary opposition of sane and insane, with sanity as just the negation of its opposite. Our habitual concepts are too crude to capture the psychological reality: sanity is a multifaceted thing not just a uniform state of overall mental wellbeing. I am not denying that a certain kind of holism might characterize mental wellness, according to which all three types of wellness presuppose the others; but that doesn’t defeat the thesis that there are three types of mental wellness—just as holism about meaning or belief doesn’t imply that there are no such things as separate meanings or beliefs. The ancients tended to think that Reason alone could ensure mental health, so that cognitive sanity would bring with it affective and conative sanity; that seems unduly optimistic (and not consistent with the facts of mental illness), but in any case it is acknowledged that there are three areas of wellness to consider. They are certainly conceptually distinct, and apparently distinct in psychological realization. No doubt the brain areas responsible for each faculty are distinct, as are their biological pathologies. In principle, a virus could target one area and not the others, thus producing radical dissociation of mental functioning—insane in one way but not in others. Just consider phobias: it is certainly possible to have a phobia with respect to one sort of stimulus but not with respect to others—“insane” in one way but not in other ways. There is no such thing as a generalized phobia, merely specific types of phobia. Phobias are highly modular.

What is the cause of sanity? The question is not unreasonable. We can ask what the cause of insanity is—organic damage, the genes, parental upbringing, excessive studying—so why can’t we ask what the cause of sanity is? Or better, to reflect the complexity of sanity, what the causes are: what leads to sanity (or greater sanity) in the three areas mentioned? Once we have a clearer idea of causes we can pursue methods of treatment or training. Suppose cognitive sanity is caused by a rigorous training in mathematics (the Platonic theory of sanity): then that is how we should train our young in order to produce high levels of sanity. If emotional evenness is caused by proper parental praise and blame, then that is what we should emphasize in producing it. If impulse control is caused by meditation, then meditate away. All over the world we now have centers for combatting psychological ill health, but why not invest in centers that promote good mental health? Just as we have gyms as well as hospitals for aiding physical health, why not have places you go to in order to work on your mental health? You might do a workout devoted to emotional stability one day and then on another day work on your truthfulness or your impulse control. You might want to get really good at all three! I don’t have any specific suggestions for exercise routines, but the idea is not intrinsically absurd. One possibility that suggests itself is to use dramatic enactments in order to develop your level of sanity: you act out various scenarios that test your ability to be even, truthful, and restrained. My point is that this is the kind of thing that suggests itself once we have become attuned to the varieties of sanity–and to the fact that sanity is a positive achievement not merely the absence of insanity. We might even say that it is a skill—a talent that can be nurtured and improved upon. You could undertake to become saner every day, to pay attention to your level of sanity, and not take it for granted (especially when it has been challenged by events in your life).  [2] Sanity is something to be prized and enhanced, not simply assumed and left to its own devices. I wouldn’t be opposed to weekly sanity classes in school to supplement the usual student counselor. Sanity coach seems like a worthwhile occupation (the educational requirements would have to be stringent, however).  

 

  [1] I am using this word in an extended sense to include not only sincerity in speech but also accuracy in thought. It is odd that we have no natural word for this property, the property of having a propensity to form true beliefs. Some people are better than others at forming true beliefs, and the psychotically insane are particularly bad at it; truthfulness in this sense is critical to cognitive sanity. Someone who forms his beliefs by following his fantasies is not a sane person. (The question of what it takes to be a good curator of one’s beliefs is a complex one.)

  [2] The idea of psychological wounds strikes me as real and important: these can cause states of insanity, or borderline insanity, or at least emotional trauma, and they need to be properly treated. Just as the body needs to be rehabilitated after injury, so does the psyche; and the injury might be selective and specific, requiring a specially designed kind of treatment. Mental health needs to be preserved in the face of such wounds, which means that the sinews of sanity must be suitably ministered to (and the right language for the ailment is vital for recovery.)   

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Truth-Value Gaps and Meaning

 

 

Truth-Value Gaps and Meaning

 

 

Sentences exhibiting truth-value gaps would appear to pose a significant problem for truth-conditional semantics. Such sentences evidently have meaning, yet they are neither true nor false. In this respect they resemble non-indicative sentences such as imperatives. But imperatives can be handled by adopting a parallel concept like obedience conditions and proceeding in the usual way.  [1] How do we deal with sentences like “The king of France is bald” or “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously” or “All my parakeets are asleep” (said when I have no parakeets). These sentences are as meaningful as any, yet they lack truth-value.  [2] And there are infinitely many of them, as many as there are sentences with truth-value. Should we conclude that Tarski-style semantics for them is impossible? They don’t even have falsity conditions, so how could they submit to a recursive definition of the kind Tarski showed how to provide? We understand such sentences—our linguistic mastery encompasses them—and we also appreciate that they lack truth-value, so how can truth-based semantics apply to them?

            It is an interesting fact that there is no simple predicate capturing the condition of being neither true nor false, so theorists adopt the makeshift “gappy”, or we could stipulate a use for “vacuous” applied to whole sentences (as in “vacuous names”). For convenience I will abbreviate “neither true nor false” to “NTF”, so that I can say that a sentence s is NTF if and only if p, where p is some sentence in the meta-language yet to be specified. The question is what that sentence will be. For truth we simply repeat the sentence of the object language (or a translation of it), for falsehood we prefix the sentence on the right with negation—what do we do for “NTF”? What we need is a necessary and sufficient condition for the semantic predicate “NTF” to apply. It seems fairly obvious what this should be: s is NTF if and only if it is not the case that either p or not-p, where p is (or translates) s. For example, “The king of France is bald” is NTF if and only if it is not the case that the king of France is either bald or that he is not bald. That is, the law of excluded middle doesn’t apply to the sentence in question. If there is no king of France, he can’t be either bald or not bald, so a sentence affirming that he is bald is neither true nor false.  [3] Notice that the condition on the right hand side is not meta-linguistic, so it resembles the usual disquotational conditionals made famous by Tarski. We could say that “snow is white” is made true by the fact that snow is white, “snow is black” is made false by the fact that snow is not black, and “The king of France is bald” is made neither true nor false by the fact that he is neither bald nor not bald. Similarly, it is not a fact that colorless green ideas sleep furiously or that they don’t, so the sentence stating this is neither true not false. When a speaker understands such a sentence she knows that the facts don’t give it a determinate truth-value, and her understanding is displayed by the biconditional enunciated. We have the usual mention-use pattern of classical truth theories, but the right hand side doesn’t just repeat the left—it provides a more complex condition. The same is true for falsity, because there we have to add negation. Not all semantic biconditionals are “homophonic”.

            Employing this basic format, we can provide recursive clauses in the usual manner.  Thus “p and q” is NTF if and only if both p and q are NTF; “p or q” is NTF if and only if either p or q is NTF  [4]; “not-p” is NTF if and only if p is NTF. To deal with quantified sentences we introduce the notion of a “true of” (satisfaction) gap: the predicate is neither true nor false of a putative object (such as a French monarch). The reference of the description is neither bald nor not bald, since there is no such reference. Compare “Vulcan revolves”: the putative planet Vulcan neither revolves nor fails to revolve, so it doesn’t satisfy “revolve” or dissatisfy it. Thus we can apply the standard Tarskian apparatus to the concept of a truth-value gap, mutatis mutandis. We can therefore provide a recursive disquotational definition of the predicate “NTF”. We could call the form of this definition “Convention NTF” and require that for any sentence of the object language such a meta-language sentence be derivable. Thus we have Convention T for truth, Convention F for falsity, and Convention NTF for neither truth nor falsity: the first simply repeats the sentence, the second introduces negation, while the third deploys negation plus disjunction. For “snow is white” to be true is for snow to be white, for “snow is white” to be false is for snow not to be white, and for “snow is white” to be neither true nor false is for snow neither to be white nor not white. Thus we bring sentences exhibiting truth-value gaps within the fold of Tarski-style theories—not by subsuming them under the concept of truth but by extending the apparatus beyond that concept. We might call this generalized truth-theoretic semantics.

            It is a question whether every sentence has an NTF condition, not just those that are actually neither true nor false. Do we, in understanding “snow is white”, grasp under what conditions it would be neither true nor false, as we grasp its truth conditions and its falsity conditions? We grasp this for sentences that are NTF because we recognize their “gappy” status, but do we also grasp it when we know that there is nothing gappy going on? I rather think we do: for we grasp what it would be for them to be NTF. I know that “snow is white” would have a truth-value gap if snow were neither white nor not white—though I also know that it is actually one way or the other. If you ask me under what conditions the sentence would be NTF, I can tell you—if there’s no fact of the matter about the color of snow (as there is no fact of the matter about the color of Hamlet’s hair). So NTF conditions are pervasive in the understanding of language: they are part of what every speaker (tacitly) knows. Every sentence has conditions under which it would be NTF, say by the subject-term lacking a reference (and this is always an epistemic possibility  [5]), and this is something speakers grasp at some level. So a semantics for the predicate “neither true nor false” is applicable everywhere. We all grasp something of the form: “snow is white” would be neither true nor false if and only if snow was neither white nor not white (possibly by not existing). NTF conditions are as much grasped as truth conditions and falsity conditions.

 

  [1] I wrote about this in my 1977 paper “Semantics for Non-Indicative Sentences”, Philosophical Studies.

  [2] I am going to assume the existence of meaningful sentences with truth-value gaps without arguing for it. My question is what happens to semantics if we accept such sentences. I will also not discuss all the possible examples that have been offered: vague sentences, future contingents, empty names and demonstratives, ethical sentences, etc. What I propose will carry over to these cases.

  [3] It is worth noting that empty descriptions can also occur in imperative sentences such as “Kill the king of France!”, so we have obedience-value gaps as well as truth-value gaps. Then too we have “Bring me some colorless green ideas!”

  [4] Actually this clause is too simple given the case in which p is true and q is NTF, since this will make the disjunction come out true. We could append “unless p is true” to cover this case, but for simplicity I will stick with the condition as stated in the text.

  [5] In the extreme case in which we are brains in vats and our noun phrases are empty of reference, truth-value gaps will be ubiquitous, and hence the correct semantics for our language will be largely a NTF semantics.

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The Uniformity of Evil

                                   

 

 

 

The Uniformity of Evil

 

 

Evil comes in many varieties. A typical list would include: genocide, murder, torture, terrorism, slavery, sadism, the sexual and physical abuse of children, slander, betrayal of trust, desecration of the sacred, disfiguring, maiming, and crippling. We might count as evil the willful destruction of great works of art or architecture, in addition to such standard examples as the extermination of innocent populations. Physical harm to persons is not always involved, though it often is, along with emotional pain. Given this variety, we might be tempted to suppose that the class of evil acts is irreducibly heterogeneous, united by nothing more than brute disjunction or family resemblance. That is, we might deny that there is any one feature common and peculiar to all evil acts. The concept of evil, it may be said, is just too vague and open-textured to admit of informative definition. We must accordingly accept the diversity of evil.

            I shall suggest, to the contrary, that evil is a unitary quality common to all acts rightly classified as evil. Moreover, it is quite a simple quality, which is not to say that it is easily identified in practical life. My definition of evil, to get right to it, is that it is the intentional destruction of the good—but this will need some unpacking. First, destruction: by this I simply mean, “causing to cease to exist”. The world contains a certain entity or quality at a certain time and to destroy that entity or quality is to bring about its cessation. This may be done violently or insidiously, quickly or slowly. It is the opposite of creation: instead of causing something to exist, it removes that thing from reality. So destruction is explained through the notion of existence and its negation. It is therefore a highly general notion applicable a wide variety of cases—people, animals, artifacts, states of mind, social movements, bits of nature.

            Second, the good: by this I mean any good state of affairs. Without going into the matter fully, the following list will serve our purposes (we could add to it if need be): life, happiness, knowledge, innocence, freedom, friendship, and aesthetic quality. If you think some of these items reduce to others, or should not be on the list of intrinsic goods at all, by all means amend as you see fit; the definition of evil will remain the same, even if its extension differs. I favor keeping the list fairly long and non-reductive, because I think that the good is best seen in all its variety; we don’t want theories that try to reduce every basic value to one (such as pleasure). Despite the variety of the goods, there is something they all having in common—that they are precisely good—and that is what matters to the definition of evil.

            Third, intentional: by this I mean that the act in question must be intended in a certain way. If an agent destroys something good by accident, through no fault of his own, and is horrified by what he has wrought, he cannot be adjudged evil, merely unlucky. So we should say that an evil act is one that is intentional under the description “destruction of the good”: the agent foresees and intends the destruction of the good and acts as he does in order to bring this destruction about. He “knows what he is doing”. In a typical case he plans the destructive act and self-consciously carries it out.

            Thus an evil act is one that involves an agent intentionally destroying what he knows to be good. The mental state of the agent incorporates the concepts of destruction and goodness—this is the content of his intention in acting. It is the intention that defines the evil agent. Is there a second-order intention associated with this first-order intention? Grice argued that communicative acts require a second-order intention—not only the intention to produce a belief in one’s audience, but also an intention that the first intention should be recognized by the audience. Thus the basic intention is transparent, not concealed and secret. In the case of the evil agent, there is also a second-order intention, but it is not a transparency intention—it is an opacity intention. The agent intends that his first-order intention should not be recognized by observers (he may even try to shield himself from knowledge of his intention). The evil agent is trying to destroy the good, but he doesn’t want people to know that this is what he is doing, possibly including himself. Even if he feels safe in his actions, fearing no repercussions, he does not want it to be apparent that his aim is precisely to destroy something good. So he will often characterize his actions in other ways—say, by arguing that he is serving a greater good. I might put it by saying that there is always a level of shame about evil actions, and hence a desire for concealment. The agent is not proud of what he does, even if he tells himself it is somehow necessary. For the agent has set about intentionally destroying what he acknowledges to be good, and this is not something he can happily admit. That is why there is often a degree of self-deception involved in evil actions (not so for virtuous actions). For this reason there will typically be a second-order intention to conceal the first-order intention. The easiest way to fulfill that intention is to commit the evil act secretly, away from prying eyes—as it might be, in a dungeon or concentration camp or in the dark. The evil agent is by nature deceptive; secrecy is his cover, his protection.

            The conception of evil I am suggesting limits it to creatures capable of certain kinds of “sophisticated” attitudes. I doubt that animals are capable of evil in the sense I have defined, though they are certainly capable of impressive feats of destruction. Animals may maim or kill but they don’t do so with the kinds of intentions I have described (some of our primate relatives may have such intentions, in which case my claim applies to non-primate animals). They may cause great suffering and death but they do not do so under the description “destroy the good”. They just don’t have the concept. Evil is what results when a creature acquires such abstract concepts, so it is a uniquely human achievement. Perhaps, indeed, the very acquisition of the concept of the good (as well as the concept of destruction) is what opens the human species up to feats of evil not possible for other species. We do evil things precisely because we know what good is; we destroy the good because we apprehend things as good. Evil thus requires a certain intellectual attainment. The necessity to conceal evil acts also requires a cognitive sophistication absent in other animals (possibly with certain exceptions). It is not that animals do less harm than we do—though that is doubtless true—but rather that the harm they do does not spring from evil motives and intentions.

            Now we must see how the definition fits the various types of evil I have listed. Let’s start with a hypothetical example. Suppose a university administrator, call her Eva, receives a complaint against a distinguished professor, call him Carl. The complaint is completely fictitious, being motivated by malice and a bad grade. Eva knows this, but she also knows that taking disciplinary action against Carl will, in the current climate, score her political points, help with funding, and appease the radical feminists. She decides to initiate dismissal proceedings against Carl, fully aware that this will ruin his reputation, take away his livelihood, and prevent him from any further achievements as a scholar and teacher. She also knows that he cannot fight her actions legally because it would bankrupt him to do so. Eva thus uses her power, quite cynically, to destroy Carl in order to advance her political and personal goals. Carl is duly forced out of his position, becoming impoverished and bitter. I hope we can agree that Eva was evil in acting as she did, and the reason is clear: she intentionally destroyed something good. Carl was an innocent man, a good man, and also a productive and brilliant scholar. Eva destroyed his ability to work and teach, as well as his happiness and security, along with that of his family. She did so deceptively, unethically, and callously. Her evil actions fit the definition perfectly.  [1]

            Next consider an artist who is tired of being unfavorably compared to another artist, whose work is vastly superior. He decides to destroy the superior artist’s work, stealing into his studio one night and burning all his paintings. Let’s suppose that he manages to destroy every one of the great artist’s works and also to prevent him producing any more (he is so traumatized by the destruction). Now the second-rate artist gets more attention and makes more sales, with his main rival eliminated. Again, these actions are clearly evil, and they fit the definition perfectly: the evil artist has intentionally destroyed works of great aesthetic value for his personal gain and out of envy.

            David is a bitter man and a failure in life. He lashes out at anyone he can, belittling and insulting people. His young son Patrick becomes a target of his ire because David cannot stand the thought that his son might succeed where he failed. He sets out to damage Patrick psychologically, even going to the extreme of raping his five-year old son. He succeeds in his aim and Patrick is so traumatized that he becomes a heroin addict and eventually commits suicide. Again, the evil is obvious, and again we can see why: David has destroyed Patrick’s innocence and happiness in order to satisfy his own warped needs. His express aim was to prevent his son from achieving anything good in life, including any chance of happiness: he destroys the good in order not to suffer the pangs of his own sense of failure.  [2]

            Terrorists bomb a city center, killing dozens of innocent men, women, and children. They do so because the people they have targeted practice a different religion from theirs and appear to be happy and prosperous doing so, making their own religion look shabby and regressive. Their aim is not just to kill and maim but also to undermine the peace of mind of people living in the city in question. Their actions are evil and for the usual reason: they have destroyed life, happiness, and peace of mind among the target population, because of their misguided religious zealotry.

            The Nazis undertake a program of mass extermination against the Jews. Their motivation is that the Jews are far too successful in German society, owing to their intellectual and cultural superiority. The Nazis covertly acknowledge the qualities of the Jewish minority and wish to rid themselves of a people that challenge their sense of racial superiority. They accordingly murder six million Jews by means of starvation, gunshots, and poison gas. They are defeated before they can realize their project of total genocide, but they would have carried it through to the end if they could. No one can doubt the evil of the Nazis, and their actions clearly conform to the theory: they intentionally destroyed the good—life, well-being, culture, achievement—in order to gratify their own (shaky) sense of superiority.

            Liz is a friend of Susan, who is also friends with Wendy. But Liz doesn’t like the friendship between Susan and Wendy; she wants Susan to herself. She decides to undermine the friendship between Susan and Wendy by telling lies about Wendy to Susan, to the effect that Wendy has been making advances to Susan’s boyfriend. Liz convinces Susan of this falsehood, using doctored photographs and what not. Susan consequently drops Wendy as a friend, causing her considerable distress. This is not evil on a grand scale, like the previous example, but it is evil nonetheless. Here the good that has been destroyed is friendship.

            Iago sets out to destroy Othello, who is respected as a great general and honorable man (Iago’s reasons are obscure), by making him jealous. He succeeds in reducing the normally unflappable Othello to a blubbering heap and a murderer of Desdemona, his wife. Iago’s evil consists in this act of destruction, more of the soul than the body, in the case of Othello. Macbeth betrays the trust of King Duncan, murdering him while he sleeps, in order to advance his own ambitions, and then murders others to cover his crime. He doesn’t think Duncan is a bad king; on the contrary, he likes and admires Duncan. So he has knowingly destroyed something good. Judas betrays Jesus, despite believing him to be the Son of God, for fifty pieces of silver; he thus destroys the embodiment of goodness for a tawdry sum.

            I don’t think I need to multiply examples any further: it is easy to see how the definition of evil I have presented works, and indeed it is an intuitive and natural way to characterize evil. The definition is simple and straightforward; and it offers a uniform account of what evil is. Are there any counterexamples to it? Someone might suggest that the definition does not provide a necessary condition for evil, since some evil consists in positively producing harm, not just removing the good. The evil of torture, say, is that it produces a lot of harm, either pain or injury. But I take it that this is just another way to phrase the theory under discussion: to produce harm is just to annihilate a good, i.e. the good of not being harmed. Harms are defined relative to goods: for example, pain is bad because it is good not to be in pain. The trouble with stating the theory in terms of harm is that it loses generality—not all cases involve an intention to harm. The envious artist was not attempting to harm his rival exactly, though he did; his intention was to destroy the good—the harm to his rival was just a by-product.  The same can be said of the desecration of sacred sites or buildings. The harm formulation gets the emphasis wrong: the evil agent recognizes the good in something and seeks to destroy it despite this; he is not just out to do harm. A run-of the-mill thug might be out to create harm by punching anyone within range, but he is not evil in the sense I am trying to capture. Evil is the intentional abolition of the good, recognized as the good. Iago, say, is not interested in bringing down some undistinguished nobody; what incites him is Othello’s distinction—the good that he embodies. And what marks Judas out is not just a betrayal of any old goat-herder from Palestine, but the fact that he betrayed the Son of God (allegedly). The harm caused might be the same in both cases, but the evil agent is doing more than just maximizing harm—he is destroying that which is indisputably good. It is true that one way to destroy what is good is to cause harm, as in crippling an athletic rival, but the evil resides in the negation of goodness, not in the harm as such. Nor is it clear that negating the goodness of a person is always harming her: if a scientist reduces the intelligence of a rival by putting a chemical in her drink, this is definitely evil, but it is not clear that the target has been harmed—she might be quite happy having average intelligence. I might set out to make you happier by chemical means, so that you spend less time at home working, and more time out having fun—as a way to lessen your intellectual output. This would be evil, but it is not clear what harm I have done to you—you might even decide you want to change your life-style in that direction anyway. What if I introduce you to a very seductive partner so as to distract you from your important intellectual work—have I harmed you?

            Now it might be claimed that the conditions are not sufficient for evil, since it is possible to intend to destroy the good for morally praiseworthy reasons. Thus we have vaccination and surgery—we remove a person’s tranquility and freedom from suffering by subjecting them to these procedures. Are dentists necessarily evil? The obvious answer is that the agent is aiming for the greater good of the patient, and rightly so: the short term removal of the good is justified by the long term creation of the good. It wasn’t that Iago believed that only by destroying Othello and Desdemona could he save the city of Venice from a terrible fate: he did not commit his harmful acts with a heavy heart, with everyone’s best interests in mind. So we should add that evil is the intentional destruction of the good all things considered—that is, when the destruction of one good is not justified by the production of a further good. Of course, this is not to deny that some evil agents use such justifications spuriously, as the Nazis did to excuse their genocidal actions. But in cases like dentistry it is clear that no evil is committed, since the intention is to produce long term dental goodness in the (temporarily) suffering patient. The dentist is promoting the good not negating it.

            Let me return for a moment to the destruction of reputation, because I think it is particularly instructive. This does not involve physical harm or death, so it doesn’t fit a crude definition of evil as simply “causing suffering”. A person can no doubt suffer from the unjust destruction of his reputation, but that suffering does not pinpoint wherein the evil lies. The slanderer is taking aim at a manifest good and seeking to annihilate it: the good character or good standing of the person unjustly accused. Suppose the target’s reputation is well earned and fully justified—it is backed by undeniably good qualities. Then the slanderous accuser is attempting to negate this manifest good—say, with a view to preventing the person accused from gaining employment. The intention is precisely to destroy a human good—that is its exact focus. This epitomizes evil, perhaps more clearly than any other case, because the good that is destroyed is specifically targeted as such. It is close to another paradigm of evil—the intentional undermining of trust. If an evil agent sets out to gain the trust of another person, himself without evil intent, by encouraging such trust, with a view to betraying it later, she has attacked a deep and central human good—the ability to trust another person. A person treated in this way may never be able to trust again, which undermines many other human goods. The betrayer has destroyed something precious and precarious, and we rightly reserve our severest criticism for such actions. This is precisely what Iago and Macbeth do. It is particularly heinous because it specifically targets a central human good for annihilation. Just as a person values his good name, so he values being able to trust other human beings: to destroy these things is evil in the purest sense. Neither of these forms of evil is calculated to cause pain or death (though they may cause both of these things); what they are calculated to do is to take a certain kind of good from a person that is highly valued. Both involve depriving the target of normal social relations. The evil here consists in destroying a fundamental social good—being well thought of and kindly received, and being able to place one’s trust in another. Hence these are my paradigms of evil, not the usual cases of torture and murder—because they exemplify the abstract form of evil so clearly.    

            We need to make a minor amendment to the definition. I have been speaking of evil agents, but there are also those who are passively complicit in evil—bystanders or onlookers. There are not just those who do the deeds, there are those who allow them to be done. It is not only the agents of the action who are evil but also the observers of it: the wife who lets her husband rape his son, those who tolerate atrocities committed by others, people who make no protest when those with power persecute the innocent—the whole sorry crew of cowards, toadies, and the morally numb. These enablers of evil should also be included under the concept. It is easy to do so: just add “or those who tolerate the destruction of the good”. We thus recognize two categories of evil: active and passive.

            We should also make a distinction between ideological evil and non-ideological evil. Iago and Macbeth are not evil ideologues, like Stalin or Hitler. They stop when the count of corpses reaches the double figures, and no general ideology drives their homicidal tendencies. But the evil ideologue envisages a much wider field of operations—sometimes totaling in the millions. Here entire sections of the population are targeted for destruction: Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, the bourgeoisie, heretics, racial minorities, and many others. The guiding ideologies are by now very familiar to us, but it is easy to miss them when they emerge, because they masquerade as moral crusades. It is often only in retrospect that an evil ideology reveals itself for what it is. Ideological evil allows people to destroy the good while telling themselves they are working for a greater good, so it is especially sinister and dangerous. They make people think that their evil acts are not evil at all. Whenever you see people justifying destructive acts by reference to an ideology be on the lookout for ideological evil. One sees in the ideologue a wild-eyed enthusiasm, a disregard for basic principles of fairness and justice, violent imagery and extreme response, blanket condemnation, sloganeering, demonizing, prejudice and pre-judgment, sectarianism, and social conformity. The psychology of ideology is murky, but the human mind clearly has a weakness for ideology, and the results can be devastating (consult history). I don’t doubt that one of their principal attractions is that they permit people to do evil in the guise of promoting the good.

            It is important for any conception of evil to distinguish it from merely bad or immoral acts. Evil acts are always immoral, trivially, but not all immoral acts are evil. It is not ipso facto evil to break promises or steal or tell lies or defraud or assault. In certain circumstances all these can be evil, but they are not evil in all circumstances. So we had better hope that they don’t turn out to be evil according to our definition. Nor do they: breaking a promise or stealing things are not intentional under the description “destroying the good”. They are not even cases of intending to do harm, even if they do in fact do harm. When I break a promise to you I have not identified a good in you that I proceed intentionally to eliminate; I simply act selfishly or lazily. Nor is it my aim in stealing from you to remove a good from your life; it is simply to add a good to my life. I would be quite happy to enhance my life by leaving yours undisturbed, so long as I get what I want; taking your things is just my means to enhancing my life. It is entirely contingent that my gain is your loss.

By contrast, if I decided to steal from you in order to deprive you of something precious to you, even if it meant nothing to me, then I would be acting evilly. But ordinary instrumental theft, in which I am merely trying to accumulate more goods for myself, does not exemplify the evil schema; I am not so much destroying a good as transferring it from you to me. Even assaulting another person, say in the course of robbery, is not evil by the criterion laid down here, since this is merely a means for me to get what I want. I am not trying to obliterate a good that you have; I am simply using the means necessary to my obtaining a good that I want. I would be quite happy to get what I want without assaulting you, but as it happens I have to. If I assault you intending to destroy your happiness and future, then I am acting evilly; but not all assault is so motivated. A crime it may be, and it is certainly immoral; but it is not evil, intuitively or according to our theory. It all depends on the motive behind the assault.

This is why, if the assault is disproportionate to the intended theft, it veers into the realm of the evil. If all I need to do is twist your arm, but I hit you on the head with a brick, then I have acted evilly, because I have removed more good from you than if I had used the minimal means to enact the theft. My action is immoral either way, but it is only evil when I destroy a good as an end in itself. Just war and self-defense both involve destroying good things, notably lives, but they are not evil because there is no intention to destroy the good as an end, just as a (proportionate) means. I would even distinguish between very bad acts and the subclass of bad acts I am calling evil acts. It is very bad to steal from helpless old ladies, and more so to assault them, but this is not a case of downright evil, as when you decide to terrorize old ladies for its own sake. It is when you take aim at their wellbeing itself that you become evil. The hardened criminal is not necessarily opposed to the good of others; he is merely out for his own good, irrespective of the deprivations he brings to others.  But Iago is not just a self-centered criminal using Othello for his own enrichment; his intention is rather to destroy Othello, mind and body, without regard for how he might benefit. A career criminal would find Iago irrational, given the risks and potential payoffs, but Iago is quite rational given his real aims. He is in the business of removing the good not in acquiring goods.

            The evildoer is therefore often quite difficult to distinguish from the mere criminal or immoralist. The actions look the same from the outside; it is the inner attitude that makes the difference. The same act of violence can be motivated by evil intentions or by merely criminal intentions. It would be easier if all evil actions were purely evil, i.e. motivated by nothing more than a desire to destroy something good. But some evil is instrumental—the agent expects to get something out of it himself. Here is where evil can shade into mere criminality or wrongdoing. Suppose I have a selfish aim and I am not too particular about how I achieve my aim: then I am not ipso facto evil, just rather unscrupulous. I might cheat people or coerce them or rob them to get what I want. This is not yet to act evilly towards others, because my focus is not destroying what is good for them. It is said by historians that the Germans at the beginning of their persecution of the Jews sought only to have them leave Germany: they made life difficult for Jews in the hope that they would voluntarily leave the country. These were no doubt deplorable and vicious policies, but they do not compare to the policies that succeeded them. If the Jews were not willing to leave voluntarily, then they would have to be exterminated. At first this was achieved by mass executions conducted wherever Jews lived, using bullets, but that was deemed inefficient, so special extermination camps were set up, where starvation and gas were used to kill people. Here the intentions of the Germans were nakedly sadistic and designed to bring about extreme degradation. They wanted to remove as much as possible of what makes life good from the Jews in their captivity. In this they entered the realm of evil quite decisively. They began to make the destruction of soul and body an end in itself. At the beginning they had an instrumental desire to force Jews into exile, but as time went on this was replaced by a desire to annul everything Jewish. They went from the merely criminal and bad to outright evil and depravity. They sought systematically and ruthlessly to destroy the good as exemplified in a population of people.  

            We find evil shocking in a way we don’t find routine crime shocking. Why? The theory gives us the answer: because the evil will is aimed at the destruction of the good. The criminal will is not: it is aimed rather at the good of the criminal, with indifference towards the good of others. But the evil agent is bent on the destruction of the good as such—in the purest case, he wishes simply to destroy what is good without any benefit accruing to himself. This is shocking, because we normally think that the pursuit of good states of affairs is what human motivation is all about. The evil agent inverts that assumption and aims to annihilate the good, not create it (in himself or others). We wonder why anyone would do anything so negative; hence the evil agent strikes us as a monster, a freak, even a paradox. The merely self-interested criminal, by contrast, is normal in his motivation, just unscrupulous. We wonder what the point of evil is, if it is aimed solely at the reduction of the amount of good in the world. No one’s utilities are being maximized. This raises the question of motivation, which I don’t want to get into here. Suffice it to say that envy, competition, and Schadenfreude often play a role. There is also, apparently, a brute appetite for destruction for its own sake—a kind of generalized vandalism. It may have to do with assertions of power, and certainly evil shadows power. In any case it is the opposite of the normal desire to bring about the good.  [3]

            Let me end with the question of natural evil, i.e. the kind that arises in the world independently of anyone’s will—earthquakes, floods, fires, disease, etc. This appears to be a counterexample to the theory defended here, since the natural destruction of the good is not an intentional destruction. Of course, if there is an agency behind it (say, Satan), then it fits our definition—these events are instances of intentional action. But suppose they are purely natural—what should we say about this kind of evil? My answer is that this is not a kind of evil; it is simply the occurrence of bad states of affairs. Talk of evil here is just a holdover from antiquated ways of thinking about the natural world, as if everything that happens must be willed by somebody. There are evil agents, but there aren’t evil facts or events or conditions. So the notion of “natural evil” is an oxymoron, unless we explicitly postulate an agent behind the bad events. A child dying of cancer is no doubt a horrible thing, but it is not an evil thing. What is called “the problem of evil” only arises when we introduce an agent like God. The problem is usually posed by asking why God allows horrible things to happen, as if he is a passive bystander too lazy or indifferent to lift a finger; and indeed, that is a form of evil (“passive onlooker evil”). Then evil is involved, but only because of an assumed agent—not because of the horrible event in itself.

But there is also the problem of active divine evil if we suppose that God is responsible for everything that happens—if he is the cause of all natural events. Then it looks as if God is actively, intentionally, and knowingly producing very bad states of affairs—that is, he is destroying the good on a grand scale. He then appears as an evil agent. This problem of evil  (“active agent evil”) is even worse than the kind in which God is conceived as a mere onlooker, since it is his will that actively creates the bad state of affairs. How can God be good and yet he intentionally produces very bad states of affairs? The only conceivable answer relies on the model of the benevolent dentist, but that rings very hollow to most people. In any case, there is no counterexample here to the definition, since God would be evil if he intentionally destroys the good (without some excusing instrumental explanation). In either case (God or no God) the existence of “natural evil” poses no problem for our theory.

            I hope that the theory I have presented strikes the reader as natural and intuitive, almost a truism. Truism or not, it still serves to bring order to our thinking about evil, by providing an account that discerns uniformity in the many varieties of evil. We don’t have to fall back on a disjunctive analysis or a vague family resemblance story, i.e. no definition at all. We now know what to look for when we are keeping our eye open for evil. Thus a theoretical advance might lead to a practical advance: we might become better at detecting evil, and hence preventing it. It is also good to reserve a special label for one particular kind of human badness, and we need to be able to justify the use of the concept of evil in our classifications of human actions. We need to know that the word “evil” denotes a coherent and well-defined natural kind—a distinctive moral natural kind. My view is that the concept of evil is a vital part of our moral conceptual scheme, corresponding to a very real type of human act. My aim has been to buttress the concept by providing a clear and straightforward definition of it, applicable to the major kinds of evil that exist. Absolute precision may not be possible, and borderline cases can no doubt be constructed, but I hope to have shown that the concept of evil deserves a place in our repertoire of moral concepts. Actually getting rid of evil may not be so easy.         

 

  [1] I do not intend to describe any actual case here; it is purely fictitious. This paper is philosophy not history.

  [2] This case is based on, but departs from, the novel sequence The Patrick Melrose Trilogy by Edward St Aubyn, a study of evil.

  [3] I discuss evil motivation at length in Ethics, Evil and Fiction (Oxford University Press, 1997). Here I am defining what evil is; in that book I was concerned with its psychology.

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The Structure of Moral Thinking

                                   

 

The Structure of Moral Thinking

 

 

How do we actually think when we think morally? What is the psychological reality of reasoning about moral questions? How do we arrive at moral knowledge? I propose to answer this question by considering an imaginary example designed to separate out the several components of moral reasoning and intended as a model of how we in fact reason morally.

            Our imaginary being begins with various kinds of experiences and other psychological states: contentment, calm, comfort, elation, enjoyment, fulfillment, relaxation, tranquility, inspiration, understanding, and so on through an extensive range; but also disquiet, anxiety, discomfort, depression, disappointment, annoyance, frustration, boredom, ignorance, and so on through an equally extensive range. At this stage there is no evaluation of these feelings and states by the subject, merely the undergoing of them. The subject is so far just a repository of psychological facts with no evaluative attitude towards these facts. Then a degree of self-reflection sets in: the subject starts to evaluate her psychological states. Some she deems “good”, others “bad”: she adopts an evaluative attitude with respect to her inner life. But this attitude is completely passive—she merely notes a distinction in how she reacts to her first-order psychological states, mainly her emotions. She has ventured beyond the merely factual to the evaluative, but there is no thought yet of action. In due time she makes an interesting discovery: she has the power to affect the course of her psychological life. Previously she was passive in the face of her experiences, but now she realizes that she can do something about how she feels. She discovers that she has the power of action to shape the course of her emotions: she can actively avoid some things while actively promoting others. For instance, if she eats food she can produce a pleasant sensation of satiation, and if she stays indoors she can avoid getting cold. Now she has discovered prudence: she can act so as to avoid the bad states and bring about the good ones. This is a practical discovery not an evaluative one; any value prudence has wholly depends upon the value of the states of affairs it brings about. Our imaginary being has become the captain of her destiny—partially at least (some things she can do nothing about). She now makes judgments of the form: I ought to do such-and-such in order to bring about, or avoid, psychological state X. First, she consults her evaluation metric; and second, she determines how best to avoid the bad states and promote the good ones—so far as she is concerned. There is no thought yet of other people and of morality—everything is egoistic (as we might say from the outside).

            Let us then introduce other people into our solitary subject’s world—people with whom she interacts. How will she deal with them? From the point of view of prudence they are mere instruments for affecting her own psychological states—just like the inanimate objects of her environment. Nothing in her reasoning hitherto has prepared her for morality; the step from it to that is impassable. So how does she make the leap? The answer is clear: she must recognize that others are like her in a certain crucial respect—they too have evaluation metrics and prudential practicality. That is, other people have emotions like hers, evaluations of these emotions, and the ability to act on this information so as to promote the good and avoid the bad in their own lives. This is not an easy piece of knowledge to acquire; we can easily imagine beings that never acquire it (most animals, say). One needs to be able to appreciate the psychological reality of others, as well as their distinctness from oneself—solipsism must be transcended. But once our subject grasps this important fact about the world she possesses a reason to act in ways she has not recognized heretofore: this reason is that her actions will help or harm the other people she has come to know exist. She acknowledges the existence of others and this provides a reason to act towards them in certain ways. Moreover, those ways need not coincide with the ways of acting recommended by her purely prudential reasons: there may be conflict between the reasons she has. Call the basic fact she recognizes equality: other individuals are equal to her in being a source of reasons for action. She might judge, possibly truly, that others are not equal to her—that their psychological states don’t matter as much as hers. Compared to her they are mere insects (they might actually be insects). Then she will not rate the reasons deriving from their psychology as equal to her reasons, and she will act accordingly. Or she might judge others to be superior to her, possibly truly, treating the reasons for her actions stemming from them as stronger than the reasons stemming from her own psychology—she regards them as gods (they might be gods). But in the situation we are imagining there is equality between them and her, so it is rational for her to take this equality into account in her deliberations. Her reason for acting morally towards them is that they are her equals in the relevant sense. She thus conjoins this last consideration with what she has already concluded concerning evaluation and action. Now she makes judgments of the form: I ought to do such-and-such for others. She has arrived at the moral ought.

            We have then three separate elements in the origin of moral reasoning: first- person evaluation of psychological states; recognition of reasons for action deriving from that evaluation (practical prudence); and extending this conceptual apparatus to others by virtue of a judgment of equality (morality). Distilling it down still further, we can say that moral reasoning consists of evaluation, practicality, and equality—each element necessary and jointly sufficient. That is the basic structure of moral thinking as we find it. Perhaps the order of acquisition in humans mirrors what I have expressed chronologically for my imaginary being; in any case, that is the architecture of moral reasoning. The whole thing is powered by a first-person recognition that human psychology consists (partly) of emotional states that admit of division into the good and the bad. It would be too simple to say that pain and pleasure provide the basis of moral judgment, since the disagreeable emotions don’t always involve pain (anxiety, boredom, ignorance) and the agreeable ones are only pleasurable in a wide sense (is understanding a type of pleasure?). But there exists a way of dividing the emotions that corresponds to a natural evaluation, and without that neither prudence nor morality could get off the ground.

You might object that other ways of classifying emotions would work just as well for grounding prudence and morality: what if the subject judges that certain emotions are approved by God or by members of his own family and society? That would provide a reason for action different from the kind of evaluative judgment I have cited. But for familiar reasons this kind of suggestion goes nowhere: for (a) it raises the question of why God or other people regard certain emotions as good and other emotions as bad if not precisely that some are intrinsically good and some are intrinsically bad; and (b) such a basis would be unable to power prudence and morality without being itself based on something more than mere positive regard by others—so what if they think boredom is OK, Idon’t! At some point a basic evaluation is necessary or else there is nothing good or bad to be concerned about. If (per impossibile) people were simply indifferent to their emotions, not seeing why some are deemed good and others bad, there would be no reason to be concerned about what emotions they had—they would accept the ones we regard as bad with equanimity. Neutrality about what you feel is the death of prudence and morality; an evaluation is essential in order that action be prescribed or proscribed.

            You might wonder whether the step through prudence to morality could be skipped: why not go straight from evaluation to moral judgment? That is, if a subject judges that others will have disagreeable psychological states unless he does X he might immediately conclude that he ought morally to do X with no thought of prudence. I think this is possible in principle, but my aim was to describe how we think morally not how it is logically possible to think morally. And in our case we take a detour through ourselves: we put ourselves in the position of the other and ask what prudence would require in that circumstance. This is encapsulated in the Golden Rule: treat other people as you would wish to be treated (assuming you are being prudent). We could simply say, “Treat others as they wish to be treated”, but that doesn’t carry the same psychological punch, because we prefer to think in terms of ourselves and of what we want. Thus we urge people to act towards others so as to produce the psychological states that we would like to have if we were in their position. This convoluted way of putting it embeds our grasp of how we conceive of our own good when acting prudently. In our case we think first in prudential terms and then we generalize; we don’t just jump from evaluation of our psychological states to a judgment about how we should treat others. We use our conception of prudent action to generate a moral judgment by taking ourselves as model: I should behave towards others as I would like them to behave towards me (when I am being prudent). In principle, I suppose, a person could have no grasp of prudence and still be motivated by the moral ought, but that does not appear to be true of humans—we weave prudence and morality together. I treat other people’s psyches as I would treat my own, in effect. It is not merely that morality and prudence are parallel forms of reasoning; the latter is embedded in the former—its prototype, as it were. Morality is what happens when prudence extends to others by way of a judgment of equality.

 

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The Sermon on the Mount

                                   

 

 

 

The Sermon on the Mount

 

Is there any evidence of Jesus’ divinity in the passages known as the Sermon on the Mount? If his moral teachings reflected some kind of divine infallibility, we would expect these teachings to express the most advanced morality possible. We would expect Jesus to be a moral sage. And if we found such an advanced morality in his reported words, that would be evidence of his divinity, since only a godlike being could so transcend the morality of his time and place. On the other hand, if his recorded sayings were merely banal or erroneous, that would undermine his claim to be the Son of God. So, how good was Jesus as a moralist?

            There are two sides to the question: what he said and what he didn’t say. He said nothing about issues of the utmost moral importance, still less say what needs to be said about these issues. He never says that slavery is an abomination or that capital punishment is wrong or that a man should not beat his wife or that abusing animals is wrong or that racism is bad or that homosexuality is not a sin or that children should not be flogged. These would have been sayings revealing a remarkably advanced moral intelligence, quite out of step with the assumptions of the time, indicative of divine insight: but Jesus says none of these things. Is that because he does not believe them? Or is it that he does believe them but is reluctant to speak his mind for fear of seeming too radical? I think it is evident that he doesn’t say them simply because they have not occurred to him: that is, he has no source of moral insight beyond that of his particular time and place. His moral thinking is not shaped by access to an omniscient and morally perfect God but by prevailing norms. What he says positively is a mixture of oddity and common sense: for example, “Anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, makes her the victim of adultery, and anyone who marries a divorced woman commits adultery” (Matthew 5.31); “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough troubles of its own” (5.32); “Settle matters quickly with your adversary who is taking you to court. Do it while you are still together on the way, or your adversary may hand you over to the judge, and the judge may hand you over to the officer, and you may be thrown in prison” (5.25). These are hardly the remarks of a deep and insightful moral thinker: they are highly contestable and advance no radically new vision of morality. He also reiterates the point that you should not advertize your good deeds to others for their approval, because God is always watching you and he will reward you for them, which seems to take back what it enjoins.

            But there is one passage that has caught the imagination of generations and is often regarded as the heart of Christian teaching, viz.: “You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.” (7.38) This passage does indeed stand out for its novelty and radicalism, and it has the form of a general ethical stance not just advice on practical matters. But it is surely unacceptable as a moral directive: we should seek to prevent evil not tolerate it. Jesus says we should turn the other cheek when slapped—does he extend this doctrine to punching and stabbing? How many times must one invite further assault—until the point of death? If you are against acting violently on principle, what about just running away? And what if the person assaulted is not yourself but (say) your child: should you advise your child to turn the other cheek when slapped in front of you? Should you allow the slapping to go on unimpeded? Shouldn’t you at least remove your child from danger? What precisely is the point of encouraging more evil from the evildoer? Should the legal system contain no discouragement to evil? Should the police turn the other cheek or decline to defend someone who is being assaulted? What if it is just a simple matter of saying, “Stop that”? Jesus baldly asserts, “But I tell you, do not resist an evil person”: isn’t that the worst advice possible? Of course we should resist evil—evil is precisely that which should be resisted! What is he thinking—that the evildoer will feel ashamed if we offer him our coat as well as our shirt? What if he doesn’t? Jesus seems to be suggesting that we should not even rebuke bad actors, that we should actively encourage people to exploit and abuse other people. Why is this good? He doesn’t say. What would a society be like that offered no resistance, or even rebuke, to those bent on evil? Should rape be followed by an invitation to more rape? If someone murders your sister, should you suggest murdering your brother too?

True, it is good to minimize violence, but Jesus goes a lot further than that: he seems to be advocating a bizarre kind of masochism. So this directive is simply not defensible as a moral principle. Nor does he offer any justification of it. I really have no idea why he would assert such a thing—it certainly doesn’t strike me as a profound moral insight. I can’t think of any moral thinker before or since who has advocated such an extreme form of moral passivity: even when it would be easy to prevent evil being done, we are enjoined to make no protest and take no preventive action. Presumably Jesus thinks we should praise and encourage good action, but he seems to be against criticizing and discouraging bad action. Nor is it easy to see how this position is consistent with his readiness to insist on other injunctions: he is quite happy to tell people what not to do in matters of divorce and oaths and giving to the needy, so why not tell people not to slap you for no reason? He never says anything expressly against violence in the Sermon on the Mount, but it is surely not his position that we should actively condemn adultery but not violence: all immoral acts should be condemned. Sound morality tells us to prevent evil acts, but Jesus explicitly rejects that idea. And it isn’t that he thinks that non-resistance in the face of evil will lead to less evil–he is not being a peculiar kind of consequentialist. He is not recommending non-violent resistance to injustice but simply non-resistance, non-complaint. Does he think (implausibly) that this will reduce the amount of evil in the world? Or is it that he thinks that we will get our reward in heaven so we need not worry about evil on earth?

            All in all the Sermon on the Mount is mishmash of antiquated, peculiar, and dubious pronouncements, asserted without justification, and often quite opaque in meaning. It is hard to see how these “teachings” could be regarded as evidence of divine inspiration—they show no special moral acuity.

 

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The Problem of Deduction

 

 

The Problem of Deduction

 

 

The problem of deduction can be stated as follows: in virtue of what does one proposition logically necessitate another proposition? Propositions have logical powers of entailment, but what is the nature of those powers? Compare Hume’s question: what is the nature of causal power? Events necessitate other events, but it is question how they do that—what does causal power consist in? Entailment is a relation between distinct propositions, a relation that holds necessarily, and we want to know what constitutes it. There are two sides to the problem: metaphysical and epistemological. What is the objective nature of the relation of logical consequence, and what kind of knowledge do we have of that relation? And it is a problem because there seems to be nothing for logical necessity to be. Like causal necessity it is undetectable by the senses—we have no “impression” of it (internal or external). We make logical inferences, as we make causal inferences, but we are at a loss to see what grounds them. Is this just a matter of habit with no rational foundation? Just as there is a problem of induction, so there is a problem of deduction; and in both cases necessity is the problematic notion. It seems impossible to locate the necessity that is required for deduction. Logical powers are as elusive as causal powers.

            This difficulty gives rise to skeptical scenarios. What if we encounter aliens who reason very differently from us, taking as logical consequences what we deem to be a palpable non-sequiturs? What if they accept modus ponens as we do except when the subject matter of the propositions concerns (say) psychological states? What if they deduce as we do except after time t at which point they do something completely different (as we would describe it)? How can we demonstrate that they are reasoning incorrectly? What can we point to in their mind that shows that they are not reasoning as they used to? And how can we justify our own belief that we are reasoning correctly? What is it about our grasp of propositions that explains and justifies how we deductively reason? What if someone just doesn’t find the normal inferences self-evident and questions our habitual certainty? What fact about a proposition establishes that it has certain logical consequences and not others?  [1] How do we even get the idea of logical inference (compare Hume on the origin of the idea of causation)? What does the necessitating that we talk so glibly about? Has anyone ever seen it? Examine a proposition on all sides and you will not find logical necessity lurking in it. A proposition is a string of concepts (or possibly objects), but where is the relation of logical necessitation there? How does a proposition reach outside of itself to another proposition that allegedly follows from it? This seems like a mysterious joining of distinct existences.

            Nothing about the linguistic form of a proposition can explain the logical powers of the proposition: phonetics and syntax are not the basis of entailment. Meaning is what must play the role of logical necessitation, but what is it about meaning that plays this role? The problem goes beyond questions of indeterminacy: even if meaning is determinate we still don’t know how it manages to generate entailments. We lamely say “truth in virtue of meaning”: but what does that mean? What is it about meaning (whatever it is) that explains how one proposition can entail another? Complex structured entities don’t generally have entailments, so what is it about complex structured meanings that suits them to give rise to entailments? Meanings have constituent structure, but that doesn’t by itself explain how they generate inter-propositional relations of logical consequence. Lots of things have constituent structure. It is quite possible to do linguistics and not worry about entailment at all. Nor does psychology help: nothing in the mind or behavior can add up to logical entailment—not contents of consciousness or dispositions to infer. We think we can “see” that one proposition entails another, but we can’t say what we are seeing. Is it that we somehow see the shadow of the entailed proposition in the entailing proposition? Do entailments somehow lurk in the crevices of a proposition? What if you were entailment-blind and simply couldn’t see what a proposition entails—would you thereby be blind to the proposition? How can what is inside a proposition determine what is outside it? Can we picture the entailments of a proposition—see them with our mind’s eye? It is not that the given proposition literally contains the propositions it entails, so that in seeing it you see them; the idea is rather that your grasp of a proposition leads you to grasp its logical consequences. But how does a proposition lead you thus? Does it whisper those propositions to you? The entailments are forced on you, we feel, but the force that forces you is elusive. Propositions are complete in themselves (to paraphrase Hume on cause and effect), so how can they make reference to other propositions that lie outside of them? Yet they do in the sense that they have logical entailments; we just can’t see what enables them to. Our deductive practices thus seem devoid of a foundation, as if they hang in thin air. Even in the simplest of cases, such as conjunction elimination, we can’t see how entailment works: how does “and” contrive to produce the consequences it does? Not by its form but by its meaning: but how does its meaning license its entailments? Don’t say its meaning is defined by its entailments, because the question is how meaning and entailments are related: how can the meaning of “and” generate the entailments of propositions containing it? What kind of thing could that meaning be? The problem concerns the metaphysics of meaning (propositions) and we lack a conception of meaning that explains how deductive consequence works (just as we lack a conception of causation that explains how causation works). What is meaning such that logical consequences flow from it?

            The temptation is to adopt a “constant conjunction” view of entailment: there are no intrinsic necessary connections between propositions (compare the regularity theory of causation) but we find that truth-values are constantly conjoined, and that is all there is to it. Whenever one proposition is true certain others are, but it is not that the former proposition has the power to produce truth in other propositions; there is no such inter-propositional necessitation, merely a general coincidence of truth-value. We mistake this coincidence for an actual connection or linkage or dependence. Propositions don’t entail each other; they simply agree in truth-value in regular ways. It is just that whenever a proposition of the form “p and q” is true p is true and q is true, but the former proposition doesn’t make the other propositions true. What we call entailment is just a word for regular agreement in truth-value (there is no consequence). But this kind of position, though tempting, is massively implausible and only attracts us because we find it hard to ground deduction in anything substantial. As so often in philosophy a common sense platitude is challenged by a type of skepticism that undermines our habitual confidence. Deduction is no more immune from this than anything else.

 

  [1] I am alluding here to Wittgenstein’s discussion of meaning and rule following in Philosophical Investigations and Kripke’s treatment of it in Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language. I assume this as background to my remarks here. Doubts about deduction arise naturally from more general doubts about meaning. See also my “Knowledge of Entailment”.

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The Non-Existence of Lolita

                                   

 

 

 

The Non-Existence of Lolita

 

 

The novel Lolita takes for granted the existence of Lolita—or does it? Is she real? There is no doubt that Dolores Haze, a twelve-year-old American schoolgirl, is real: but is Lolita real? To answer this question we must first investigate the category of the nymphet: is there such a thing as a nymphet? Early in the novel Humbert expatiates as follows: “Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as ‘nymphets’”. The nymphet is thus a “maiden” who is not a human but a demon, recognizable only by someone bewitched. She sounds very much like a mythological creature not a flesh-and-blood human child. The nymphet is said to live on an “enchanted island” surrounded by a “vast misty sea”. “[A]re all girl-children nymphets?” Humbert asks. “Of course not. Otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone voyagers, we nympholepts, would have long gone insane.” Is it just the pretty ones? “Neither are good looks any criterion; and vulgarity, or at least what a given community terms so, does not necessarily impair certain mysterious characteristics, the fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soul-shattering, insidious charm that separates the nymphet from such coevals of hers as are incomparably more dependent on the spatial world of synchronous phenomena than on that intangible island of entranced time where Lolita plays with her likes.”

Clearly the nymphet is difficult to identify and indeed is close to indefinable (“certain mysterious characteristics”). “You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs—the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate—the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.” The true nymphet is a far cry from the pretty young girl who might attract the eye of a man of pedophilic disposition; she is much harder to pin down and analyze (“ineffable signs”), seeming to depend on the sensibilities of the “artist and madman” who sets out to detect her. To put it plainly: she is a projection of his fantasies not an objective human type. There is really no such thing as a nymphet—no human girl falls into the category as a matter of objective fact. This is why Humbert’s attempts at providing criteria are so vague and unhelpful: he simply can’t tell us what makes a girl a nymphet. A nymphet is, as he implies, a mythical creature, a creation of the (fevered) imagination, not a member of a subclass of actual human girls. Nymphets don’t exist in the real world but only in the world of imagination. It is impossible to pick one out of a crowd of human children for the simple reason that there are none, except as projected by the bewitched observer. There are pretty girls and plain girls, thin girls and plump girls, shy girls and bold girls, but there are no girls that are nymphic demons—they exist only in fairy tales. If a bewitched traveler discerns one in a group that is only because he projects his fantasies onto her: the object of his fantasy does not really exist—though its real-world counterpart does. We cannot existentially quantify over nymphets.

            But Lolita is essentially and by definition a nymphet. Not so Dolores Haze, an actual American schoolgirl: she is no mysterious deadly demon equipped with magic powers. At the outset of the novel we memorably read: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.” Here the theme of multiple identities is sounded loud and clear: the real girl Dolores is contrasted with the fantasy girl Lolita constructed in Humbert’s febrile mind. In his arms she was always Lolita; in his mind too. She was Lolita to him. Put this together with the passage about the idea of the nymphet: she was a nymphet to him, not in the real world. Her name is “Dolores Haze”; he calls her “Lolita”. Thus, given that nymphets don’t exist, and that Lolita is a nymphet, we can deduce that Lolita doesn’t exist. She is a figment of Humbert’s imagination superimposed on the actual girl Dolores Haze (dolorous and hazy). The title of the book is therefore the name of a mythical creature not of a human girl. Lolita never existed. There was no such person.

            If Lolita never existed, can she die? Did she die? We know that Dolores Haze dies because she is numerically identical with Mrs. Richard F. Schiller, who we are informed died in childbirth (by John Ray, Jr., PhD, in the Foreword). But Lolita is not identical to her, so didn’t die with her. Then did she outlive Dolores? No, because the lifespan of the nymphet is strictly limited, expiring at the age of fourteen. Lolita actually died a few years before Dolores—the latter being a tragedy, the former not so much. We do not weep for Lolita, because she is a mythical being who never existed to begin with. In the middle of the novel Humbert anticipates the death of his nymphet owing to advancing age, mainly viewing it as an inconvenience requiring him to get rid of Dolores and find another nymphet to take her place: nymphets come and go quickly (lifespan, five years at most). However, the non-identity of Lolita and Dolores does have implications for the course of Humbert’s love life (if we may so describe it), because when, at the end of the novel, he finds himself loving the woman about to bear another man’s child, it is not Lolita that he then loves. He used to love Lolita (or whatever passed for love in his nymphleptic days with her), but now she is gone and the individual before him is not a nymphet at all but a grown woman. It is not that he still loves Lolita in her post-nymphet incarnation, because there can be no such thing, but rather that he loves the person that corresponded to her in the real world. He now loves a real human being—Mrs. Dolores Schiller, notLolita. She does not belong on an enchanted island but lives in a crappy house in the grim North West. He has thus made a stunning psychological breakthrough: not just loving a female beyond the age limit of the nymphet but also loving a real person. That is his fundamental transition—the move from fantasy to reality, not just from one age of female to another. Now he loves someone distinct from his fantasy objects—someone who can really die (and does die quite soon). He was a pedophile, to be sure, but he was also a fantasy-phile, cut off from reality. For the first time he lives in the real world. That is his redemption as well as his tragedy. We need feel no grief for Lolita, because she was a mere figment, a phantasm, an hallucination–though Dolores has our profound sympathy. What was done to Dolores was criminal. So there is no consolation for the reader in getting the ontology of Lolitastraight. Lolita doesn’t exist, never did, and so can’t be harmed; Dolores does exist, and certainly was harmed.

            So here is a linguistic recommendation: stop referring to Dolores Haze as “Lolita”, because that buys into Humbert’s distorting prism of self-serving fantasy; instead call her by her proper name, “Dolores” (or “Dolly” or “Lo” if you like). She was never a nymphet, save in Humbert’s imagination, but always an ordinary human girl. The creature called “Lolita” is a non-existent entity conjured up by the sick mind of a “panting maniac” (as Dr. Ray aptly describes friend Humbert). Names matter. Dolores Haze was no Lolita.  [1]

 

  [1] Both films of Lolita (not to mention countless readers) treat our young heroine as objectively nymphet-like, completely missing the point that she is a fantasy object of Humbert’s, as the text makes clear (if studied carefully). It is now a commonplace to suppose that the world is populated with actual Lolita’s. In fact, there are none, because the nymphet is as mythical as the unicorn. No one has ever been a Lolita.

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The Nature of Things

                                               

 

The Nature of Things

 

 

Long ago there lived a pre-Socratic philosopher named Kryptos. Kryptos was interested in change and he had noticed an interesting fact about change: some changes leave an object in existence while other changes put an object out of existence. If you bend a stick or move it from one place to another, you effect a change in it, but it remains in existence, while if you cut it into pieces or burn it in a fire it goes out of existence. Kryptos named these types of change “preservative change” and “destructive change”, and was pleased to have hit upon such an important distinction. Further reflection led him to the idea that things have two sorts of properties: those that are required for the thing to exist and those that are not required for the thing to exist. He had no name for this distinction, but his vague thought was that some properties are more central to a thing’s identity than others. In line with this he made an observation that struck him as significant—a discovery about the nature of things: color is never central to a thing’s identity, but shape can be. Things can always change their color without going out of existence, no matter how extreme the change, but if you change a thing’s shape enough you will destroy it. That is what happens with fire: a burning leaf, for example, goes from its leaf shape to an amorphous pile of ash after undergoing a series of shape changes. Kryptos’ theory was that color change is always preservative but shape change can be destructive (yet it was puzzling to him that some shape change is preservative—what’s the difference?). He had discovered a general truth about things, change, properties, and existence. He felt he was onto something.

            He struggled to find a verbal formulation for his discoveries; he needed a good label for the distinction he had unearthed. He decided to call the properties that were central to a thing’s existence “inherent attributes” and properties that were peripheral “extraneous attributes”. His crude thought was that the former are in the object while the latter are outside of it (the Athens Greek Dictionary defined “inherent” as “existing in something as a permanent or essential attribute”). The shape of a thing—its geometrical form–was inherent in it, while the spatial location of a thing was extraneous to it (as was its color). Clearly, not every aspect of shape was thus inherent, but it seemed to Kryptos that there is a sharp limit on how much change of shape a thing could undergo before ceasing to exist (a chariot, say, could not assume the shape of a quill pen and still exist). This was very obvious in the case of geometrical objects themselves: if you change the shape of a circle to that of a square, you put the circle out of existence. In geometry form is identity. He took to speaking of the “inherent-extraneous distinction” and explaining it to interested parties. He thought of it as an ontological distinction because it concerned the nature of being, i.e. what is involved in something’s existence. The attributes of things partitioned into those that were inherent and those that were extraneous, those that formed the core of an object and those that hung more loosely on the object. It would be possible to examine the object and determine which attributes fall where. He toyed with other labels for the distinction he had discovered: sometimes he spoke of “constitutive attributes” and “circumstantial attributes”, or of what was “intrinsic” and what was “extrinsic”, or of “internal properties” and “external properties”. These labels all had their merits and he was reluctant to be tied down. The distinction itself was what mattered.

            A pupil of Kryptos suggested a simplification: call the cluster of attributes that form the core of a thing its “nature”, defined by the dictionary as “the basic or inherent features, qualities, or character of a person or thing”. True, everything about a thing is part of nature (more or less), but it seemed right to single some attributes out as constituting the specific nature of a thing; the others could be described as “accidental”. Kryptos adopted the suggestion and added something to it: he maintained that it is possible to analyze the nature of a thing—break it down into its constituents. Things were generally complex and could be analyzed into simpler things. Thus some facts about a thing could be revealed by analyzing it, while others could not be arrived at in this way—those that were extraneous. We can analyze the nature of a thing and produce inherent truths about it, but we can also investigate it and discover extraneous truths about it. All this flowed from Kryptos’ initial insight about preservative and destructive change. He had identified a deep ontological distinction: the distinction between what is integral to a thing’s existence and what is peripheral to it—what is built into a thing and what is merely conjoined with it.

            Before long Kryptos added to his basic theory: he noticed that what was inherent was (as he put it) “indispensable”, while what was extraneous was “dispensable”. He saw this as implicit in his original conception, though it now needed to be spelled out. We can say that some attributes could not be removed from a thing without destroying it, while others could be so removed: some are necessary and some are not. He had no established terminology for this distinction, so he adopted the Greek word for mode; that enabled him to speak of a “modal” distinction. Thus he announced the “indispensable-dispensable distinction” and added it to the inherent-extraneous distinction. Then he made the following claim: the modal distinction mirrors the ontological distinction. What is inherent is indispensable and what is extraneous is dispensable. You couldn’t have a thing without its inherent properties, but you could have a thing without its extraneous properties. Another way to put the point was this: the properties that are discovered by analyzing the nature of a thing are indispensable, while those that are discovered by investigating the circumstances of a thing are dispensable. The two distinctions coincide; indeed, the modal distinction seems like a good way to articulate the ontological distinction. In any case, they were glued together. Things have an inherent nature that is essential to them (as Kryptos started saying), while also having extraneous properties that are merely accidental.

            So far Kryptos had said nothing about knowledge of things, only about things themselves. But he eventually began to see the epistemological implications. If a thing’s nature could be discovered by analysis, while learning of its circumstances required going beyond analyzing it, then there were two types of knowledge we could have of a thing—analytic knowledge and circumstantial knowledge. Again, he struggled with terminology (he was a conceptual trailblazer after all), since nothing in colloquial Greek quite supplied what he needed. After intense thought he hit upon what he took to be another insight: some knowledge of things is more basic than other knowledge of things. That is, some knowledge of things presupposes other knowledge of things—and hence is conceptually dependent on such knowledge. Specifically, knowledge of what a thing is is more basic than knowledge of how it is: for we can’t have the latter without the former. We first have to identify things before we can investigate them; or refer to them before we can predicate things of them; or form an adequate conception of them before we try to find out what is true of them (their laws etc). Thus knowledge of a thing’s nature comes before knowledge of its circumstances—knowledge of its inherent attributes precedes knowledge of its extraneous attributes. Analytic knowledge of a thing is prior to other knowledge of it; we find out the latter after we already possess the former. You first form an inventory of the things in the world, in which inherent attributes are specified (nature, essence, conditions of existence), and then you set about discovering the laws and accidental facts about these things. You couldn’t do the reverse. Kryptos christened this epistemological distinction the “prior-subsequent distinction”, for lack of better words (the intuitive idea seemed clear enough). He then took the obvious next step and announced that this distinction coincides with the other two: we have prior knowledge of the inherent indispensable attributes of a thing, while having subsequent knowledge of the extraneous dispensable attributes. The three distinctions—ontological, modal, and epistemological–all line up. Moreover, the ontological distinction is basic, since the others follow from it quite naturally. We can say, in Kryptos’ terminology, that analytic facts about a thing are both indispensable to it and known prior to extraneous facts. For example, we can say that facts about the chemical analysis of a substance are both modally indispensable and epistemologically prior. Likewise, the analysis of a triangle as a three-sided closed figure involves modal indispensability and epistemological priority, in contrast to the fact that (say) triangles are popular in Vladivostok.

Having established all of this Kryptos composed a treatise entitled Fundamental Distinctions of Nature, only fragments of which survive. In it he made gnomic pronouncements like, “Nature divides into the what it is and the how it is”, and “Some attributes are guaranteed by the existence of a thing while others are left to chance”, and “Some knowledge results from labor while some is in the knowing”. One of his main propositions was what came to be called among his disciples the Convergence Thesis, namely that his three distinctions converge: the ontological, the modal, and the epistemological map onto each other. We should observe that he never said anything about sentences or meanings or propositions; he spoke only of things and facts, natures and attributes. His dualisms were resolutely de re: they concerned existence, things, change, attributes, natures, essences, and ways of knowing. How any of this might be expressed in language and thought was not his concern—Kryptos cared only about reality and its divisions. His achievement was to identify these distinctions in reality and demonstrate their interrelatedness. Ontology, modality, and epistemology form a tightly connected package, not to be sundered.

Later philosophers introduced other terminology, intended to capture other distinctions, though reminiscent of Kryptos’ groundbreaking work. Thus we have the analytic-synthetic distinction, the necessary-contingent distinction, and the a priori-a posteriori distinction. Each of these has been much contested and their interrelations subject to controversy. Interestingly enough, one recent group of philosophers agreed with the Convergence Thesis, even accepting that something like Kryptos’ ontological distinction is fundamental. The logical positivists took it that the analytic-synthetic distinction is fundamental, with the modal and epistemological distinctions emerging as consequences. Kant had referred to this distinction as the “explicative-ampliative” distinction, and there are echoes in this of Kryptos’ distinction between the intrinsic nature of a thing and what holds of it as a matter of extrinsic fact. The difference is that Kant was thinking of the explication or analysis of concepts or meanings whereas Kryptos was interested in the explication or analysis of things—geometric forms, substances, species, persons, etc. To him the interesting distinction is between water being H2O (this being its chemical analysis) and the fact that there is water in this glass (an extrinsic non-analytic fact about water). He had no interest in “truth in virtue of meaning”, only in what belongs to the nature of a thing: for him “water is H2O” is an analytic truth because it gives the (chemical) analysis of water.  [1]

Nor did he link the concept of prior knowledge to the concept of experience: his notion of priority is not that of knowledge a person has independently of all sense experience, since we know the nature of substances by sense experience. We could say that his notion of subsequent knowledge coincides with another use of the word “experience”, as when we say that someone has had a lot of experience of the world. Here we are referring to the person’s observing and interacting with many things over a substantial period of time, not to the state of consciousness called “sense experience”—as in a doctor saying, “I’ve had a lot of experience with malaria”. In this sense we can say that subsequent knowledge involves experience while prior knowledge does not, since you can know what something is while having very little experience of how it behaves. I might know what an octopus is by once seeing one (or reading a zoology text) but have had very little experience of octopuses and know nothing of their ways.  The contemporary modal distinction between necessary and contingent truths bears an obvious relation to Kryptos’ distinction between indispensable and dispensable attributes, though it too concerns language not things, and carries other baggage. So there is no simple mapping of Kryptos’ distinctions onto these later distinctions; they are certainly not different ways of saying the same thing, despite some overlap.

What is interesting from Kryptos’ point of view is the recent contention that the Convergence Thesis is false (mainly due to Kripke). He would have no particular objection to the rejection of that thesis for the modern distinctions, but he would no doubt be anxious to point out that the kinds of examples produced by Kripke have no bearing on his distinctions. What are today called analytic truths contain no analysis at all by Kryptos’ standards: truth in virtue of meaning is not analytic truth in the literal sense, which requires breaking something down into constituents (consider “a is identical to a”).  [2] Nor are his extraneous truths aptly described as “synthetic” in any meaningful sense: they don’t involve assembling parts into a whole (i.e. synthesis), as chemical parts can be combined to produce a composite substance. In his sense of “analytic truth” prior knowledge is of analytic truth and all necessity is analytic, since both concern the constitutive structure of a thing as opposed to what is extraneous to it and therefore known subsequently. Knowing what a hexagon is, for example, involves analyzing it into its essential components. Similarly, knowing what water is involves analyzing it into its chemical constituents (or grasping its superficial properties). So “water is H2O” is an analytic truth, a necessary truth, and a prior truth (in the sense that it can be known just by knowing what water is prior to any knowledge of further extraneous facts about water).  But Kryptos has no wish to argue over words: he wishes rather to insist that his distinctions are real, important, and convergent. In his opinion the later distinctions are distorted and misleading versions of his original ideas; but, be that as it may, his distinctions are solid, and they converge. There is no “necessary a posteriori” or “contingent a priori”, as he would interpret these phrases. If an attribute is necessary it is part of a thing’s nature, in which case it is known prior to other facts about the thing; and if an attribute is contingent it is not part of a thing’s nature, in which case it must be known subsequently. Moreover, the necessary and the a priori, as he interprets these terms, coincide with the analytic, as he interprets that term—just as the contingent and the a posteriori coincide with the extraneous (“synthetic” if you must). Thus the three deep distinctions written into the nature of things line up according to the Convergence Thesis, whatever may be true of the newfangled notions. Those notions look like a mess to Kryptos, as he gazes down from his seat in Platonic heaven, while his notions have stood the test of time (none of the other philosophers up there with him have managed to make a dent in them in the last 3,000 years).  People should never have taken the linguistic turn to begin with, he thinks; that was never going to end well. Also, they became too obsessed with epistemology and what is certain (that was the fault of those later Greek skeptics, not to mention that parvenu Descartes). They liked their concept of a priori knowledge because it seemed to grant them certainty in at least one area, but the concept of prior knowledge in Kryptos’ sense affords nothing of the kind. We cannot be certain of the essence or nature of empirical things, but we can know these things well enough to be getting on with. Questions of doubt and certainty are beside the point when it comes to the nature of things. What matters is (a) that things have intrinsic natures and extraneous circumstances (ontological), (b) that some of their attributes are guaranteed by their nature while some are not (modal), and (c) that knowledge of their nature is more basic than, and prior to, knowledge of their other characteristics. We should not lose sight of these fundamental distinctions and their interrelatedness, whatever may be said of more recent distinctions.

 

Colin McGinn

 

              

 

 

  [1] This is what might be called a “deep analysis” of water, but there is also the possibility of a “superficial analysis”, as when we determine the cluster of properties that belong to the appearance of water (transparent, tasteless, liquid, etc). Both may be said to constitute the nature of water. Neither concerns the meaning of the word “water”.

  [2] It is an interesting question whether the modern notion of analytic truth can be assimilated to something like Kryptos’ notion. Consider “bachelors are unmarried men”: this can be interpreted as providing a de re analysis of the attribute of being a bachelor, not as an analysis of meaning as such. Then a statement like “bachelors are happy” is not an analytic truth in this sense, but rather involves facts extraneous to the very nature of a bachelor. So Kryptos would agree that analytic truths in the modern sense coincide with analytic truths in his sense, at least in certain cases.

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