Introspective Invariance

 

 

Introspective Invariance

 

 

Our knowledge of the external world is subject to much variation in type and degree of access. We don’t always perceive accurately or clearly or with the same amount of revelation. There are illusions, occlusions, blurring, darkness, variations in appearance, constancy effects, blindness (partial or total), stimulus overload, perspectival disparities, squinting, habituation, priming, etc. Some things are too small to see, some too large. One sound can drown out another. It can thus be hard to know what is going on around you and mistakes are common. But this kind of variation doesn’t apply to our knowledge of the internal world: here we know everything to the same degree with no variation of access. I know my pains as well as I know my intentions and beliefs; and I know individual instances of these types with the same degree of transparency. There are no analogues of perceptual illusions or occlusions or absences of light. Traditionally, it is supposed that such knowledge is certain and incorrigible; but it is also uniform, as if each mental state is bathed in an equal amount of illumination and appears quite unimpeded. There is epistemic invariance in introspection, unlike perception.

            This should strike us as remarkable, because mental states themselves are very various. Sensations, thoughts, emotions, intentions, beliefs, and acts of will differ widely among themselves—as physical objects do. Yet they are all presented in the same uniform manner to introspection; it isn’t that some are more difficult to introspect than others in the way physical objects vary in their ease of perceptibility. There are no mental analogues of remote galaxies or invisible germs or atoms or things buried underground. Everything seems presented just as it is without any impediment to knowledge. So in addition to the traditional attributes of infallibility, incorrigibility, first-person authority, and certainty, we have epistemic invariance—the property of being always equally accessible. The contents of the mind don’t vary in their degree of availability to introspection. But that seems odd and inexplicable, since the mind is not homogeneous in itself; and one would expect some variation of access depending on the prevailing conditions of introspection. Why isn’t introspection more like perception in this respect? Surely there could be a mind that exhibited introspective variance: the different types of mental state are variously known, with the possibility of error, and analogues of blurring, darkness, blindness, and so on. Isn’t that what we would expect given the realities of knowledge in an imperfect world? Why is our knowledge of our own mind like God’s omniscient knowledge of everything? It seems nothing short of miraculous.

            It may be replied that the traditional picture is wrong and epistemic variation is the way things really are. That picture of introspective knowledge is a Cartesian myth: we are not infallible and incorrigible with respect to our own minds, and there is variation in quality and degree of access from case to case. Thus we have unconscious mental states, unattended pains, being unsure what you really believe or desire, not knowing whether you are in love. So there is variance in degree and type of epistemic access with respect to one’s own mind. But these points, though not mistaken in themselves, don’t really restore the analogy to perception: we still don’t have the kind of variance that characterizes perceptual knowledge. Ordinary occurrent conscious mental states are all apparently known in the same way with the same degree of clarity and certainty. They are laid out before the introspective eye in equal measure, whether they are sensations, thoughts, acts of will, etc. A pain in the toe is as present to introspection as a thought in the head, despite its relative remoteness. No matter what your beliefs are about they are equally present to you. Sensations of touch are not more introspectively available than sensations of sight. Here it may be said that this is not really as surprising or remarkable as I am making out, for all of these mental states are really in the same place—the brain. The pain in my toe is really located in my brain, just like my thoughts; there is no difference of epistemic proximity. But this just raises another puzzle: why do different parts of the brain produce the same kind of introspective access? Suppose the introspective faculty is located in a certain part of the brain, say the prefrontal cortex, while the pain and thought centers are located in other parts: won’t those other parts be differently hooked up to the prefrontal cortex, more or less distant from it and employing different nerve fibers? If so, shouldn’t we expect a difference in degree of access, with signals from one brain part taking longer to reach the introspection center than signals from another brain part? How is introspective invariance consistent with cerebral variance? Situating all mental states in the brain doesn’t support introspective invariance; it undermines it. We still have the puzzle of why different compartments of the mind converge in their introspective accessibility.

            Here is another way to put the point. You can selectively lose a sense but you can’t selectively lose the ability to detect the sensations delivered by a sense. You can go blind but you can’t go “blind” to your visual sensations. I have never heard of a case of someone losing their entire introspective faculty (they go “mind-blind”), still less of someone ceasing to detect their own visual sensations while still being aware of their auditory and tactual sensations. There are no such introspective breakdowns or pathologies. But they seem like logically conceivable scenarios—couldn’t they occur in some imaginary creature? Then there would a very distinct kind of introspective variance—knowledge of some sensations but not of others (which nevertheless exist). Suppose we adopt a biological perspective, always a salutary procedure, and consider the evolution of introspection. First consider sensations and introspective knowledge of these sensations: that is one possible kind of species psychology. Then consider thoughts and emotions along with their own introspective faculty. Why should that faculty be just like the faculty directed at sensations? The faculties could exist in different species, arising at different times, and with different objects—why should they function identically? If we put both faculties together in a single species, why should the result be epistemic invariance? These are different biological adaptations, so why should there be such strong convergence? Yet in our case the entire contents of our mind present themselves with exactly the same transparency. There is a uniformity here that is at odds with biological reality as well as mental heterogeneity. To put it simply: why shouldn’t thoughts be better known than pains (or vice versa)?

            It might be retorted that the puzzle arises only under a misguided perceptual model of introspection (the term itself might be contested). If we insist on viewing so-called self-knowledge as a type of inner vision, then we shall feel puzzled about why it doesn’t have the characteristics of vision; but that picture isn’t compulsory, so the puzzle dissolves. I don’t think we need to be committed to an inner vision model to feel the force of the puzzle, but anyway this response doesn’t really advance the discussion, because the same puzzle arises under other conceptions of reports of one’s own mental states. Why should all mental phenomena be expressively identical? I express my pains with the same alacrity and finesse as I express my thoughts or emotions—there isn’t some sort of temporal delay or potential for selective breakdown. Intuitively, I have the mental state and I am aware of it, so I express it at will: it isn’t that in some cases the expression is thwarted or compromised. Logically speaking, a creature could exhibit selective expression, but we don’t do that—why? That is, why does our (conscious) mind always present itself to us with the kind of uniform availability that it does?  The objects around me present themselves to my senses in all sorts of different ways, with great differences of accessibility, but the mental states inside me don’t do that—they just sit there with an equal degree of accessibility, like peas in a pod (or rather notlike that). This is a fact so familiar that it takes work even to notice it, but once noticed it cannot but appear puzzling. The physical world varies enormously in its degree of perceptual accessibility, but the mental world is unvarying in its degree of introspective accessibility (with the qualifications made earlier).  [1] It’s as if we always have 2020-vision as far as the contents of our own (conscious) minds are concerned.

            Consider animal minds before introspection ever evolved. At some point it did evolve and mental states began to be known by their bearers. Did it operate over all mental states initially or only a subset of them? Was it equally adept for all existing mental states? Did it go through a phase of epistemic variance? Do other animals have the same invariance that we have? What is the explanation of this invariance? These are puzzling questions indeed.

 

  [1] Compare knowledge of one’s own body: here too we have marked epistemic variance, since some parts of the body are better known than other parts, even in the case of proprioception. I can’t see my back or feel my brain, for example—yet these body parts are as much parts of my body as any. But the interior of my mind isn’t like that: it is the analogue of a completely visible body. The mind is thus epistemically anomalous, puzzlingly so.

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Interrogative Closure

                                               

 

 

Interrogative Closure

 

 

Nearly thirty years ago I coined the phrase “cognitive closure” to mean “things that can’t be known”. I now want to introduce the phrase “interrogative closure” to mean “questions that can’t be asked”—to be contrasted with “affirmative closure” meaning “answers that can’t be given”. Just as there may be answers to questions that are beyond us to discover, so there may be questions that are beyond us to ask. We can ask some questions about nature, but maybe there are questions that we are not equipped to ask, because of a paucity of concepts or a theoretical blind spot. The human question generator may not be able to output every question that can be coherently formulated. This is a species of cognitive closure because it depends upon a cognitive limitation; it is a lack of knowledge that leads to the inability to ask questions (or the right questions). Questions require concepts and the requisite concepts may be lacking. This is presumably true of many or most animals: they may well be capable of interrogative thought, but they are not capable of asking every possible question. Questions of explanation are likely to be beyond their cognitive capacities: they may wonder what the sun is but they can’t ask what explains the sun’s movements. Nor could they come to be able to ask such questions save by substantial neural reprogramming; they couldn’t do it simply by thinking harder or being forced to sit in a chair while lectured to. They may have the interrogative construction in their cognitive apparatus, but they cannot formulate every meaningful question that can be asked about reality—not by a long chalk.

            Humans are adept at interrogation, as every parent of a young child knows. We are always asking questions, thirsting for answers, not letting go of a question. If we are natural thinkers, we are also natural questioners. Descartes questioned whether everything is open to doubt before he came up with his answer—questions precede answers. But despite our prodigious questioning—we can ask infinitely many questions, as we can produce infinitely many affirmative sentences—we are not guaranteed to be able to ask every question that can in principle be asked. It would be biologically anomalous if we were; and it is notorious that asking the right question often takes genius—it isn’t routine. Interrogative omniscience is not to be expected. This is surely obvious. What is not so obvious is that this is not an all-or-nothing matter: it isn’t that every question is such that we can either clearly ask it or clearly not ask it. Let me distinguish extreme interrogative closure from moderate interrogative closure: the extreme kind implies that we cannot ask the question at all, in any form, not even close; the moderate kind implies that we can formulate a question in the neighborhood of a given question but can do so only inadequately, ineptly, inaccurately, and obscurely. We don’t grasp the right question, but we grasp a question that gestures towards the right question, albeit feebly and misleadingly. The question that we ask might involve conceptual confusions that are cleared up by the correct question, or it might have false presuppositions. There are facts that we are asking about, but our way of asking contains conceptual errors. And it may be that this moderate closure is incurable: we can never ask the question in its proper form, only the inferior substitute. But at least we are not completely blocked from asking the relevant question, unlike animals. We are semi-closed to the question.

            It is hard to find an example where we can see that this is the situation, since that would require grasping a formulation of a question that we by hypothesis cannot grasp. If this is our position with respect to a certain question, we will not be aware that it is—we will suppose that we are more or less on the right track. We will be like children asking ill-formed questions without realizing it (“When does dreaming become waking?” “Why doesn’t Tuesday follow Sunday?”). Maybe there is some coherent thought in the vicinity of the question, but it is so ineptly put as to be unanswerable. What I want to suggest is that we are in this kind position with respect to the mind-body problem: we suffer from moderate but not extreme interrogative closure. We are on the verge of asking the right question, but we are not really there; or better, we are far from formulating the right question correctly, but we at least recognize that there is a question. We glimpse the question from afar, obscurely, but we cannot get it into focus. Perhaps we can never get it into focus, given our conceptual limitations.

Consider then how we talk about the mind-body problem. We speak of the mind “depending” on the brain, “resulting” from it, being “caused” by it; or we introduce technical terms like “emergence” and “supervenience”. Then we form questions like these: “In virtue of what does the mind depend on the brain?” or “How does the brain cause the mind?” or “Is the mind strongly or weakly emergent on the brain?” or “What makes the mind supervenient on the brain?” Thus we contrive to state the question that encapsulates the mind-body problem—or we think we do. But how solid are these formulations? First, the concepts invoked add to the underlying facts: these are that changes in the brain are accompanied by characteristic changes in the mind. But it is another thing to start speaking of “dependence” and “causation” and “emergence”.  That is to import concepts into our description of the case that have their original home elsewhere. We know what we mean when we use these concepts in their usual context, but they become loose and metaphorical when applied to mind and body.  This is why people appeal to models drawn from other domains to explain the meaning of the technical term they re-deploy: water and liquidity, crystals and molecules, embryogenesis. But it is far from clear that we can subsume mind and body under such concepts: isn’t this just sheer hand waving? Isn’t it a forced resort to concepts that work elsewhere and are wheeled in just so that we have something definite to say? Maybe the relation between consciousness and the brain is correctly captured in terms quite alien to us (even using the word “relation” here is tendentious); we are forcing it into a conceptual box that suits our actual concepts. A conceptual lacuna is papered over with concepts drawn from elsewhere and quite unsuitable for the task. Instead of asking, “How does the mind depend on the brain?” where the word “depend” is taken from its original home in describing things like architectural forms and weather patterns, we should be asking, “How does the mind stand in relation R to the brain?” where R is a relation alien to our conceptual scheme. Let’s not pretend that we know what we are talking about in invoking these words and admit that they are poor substitutes for more adequate and accurate concepts. They are stopgap measures, crutches.

            We say that the brain “generates” the mind, “produces” it, “gives rise” to it, but we have no idea what these labels mean, except the meaning given by their original context, which has nothing to do with the case at hand. We feel there is some general relation between mind and brain, something like causation or generation; but we really don’t have any clear conception of what sort of relation holds between the two—so we just stick a label on it. Then we proceed to formulate a question using the appropriated label hoping thereby to make sense. But that question may be quite inept, confused, and misleading, given its dubious genesis. Of course, we can’t make such a judgment directly by comparing our concocted question to the question as it should be formulated (by God or super-intelligent aliens), since we don’t know what that formulation would look like; so we blunder blindly on, not realizing that our question falls short of capturing the nature of what we are attempting to describe. Interrogative closure, extreme or moderate, never announces itself as such. Still, we may reasonably suspect that something like this is what is going on, given how we set about formulating our question and the peculiar nature of what we are asking about. The general character of the relation between mind and brain is not apparent to us, so we can’t just refer to it directly and ask how it works; instead we postulate a relation and give it a name—“dependence”, “emergence”, “supervenience”, etc. All that warrants the term are the basic facts, namely that changes in the mind are correlated with changes in the brain. It is not that the chosen terms are clearly false or confused, so that the question we ask is simply meaningless; it is rather that the question as formulated falls short of the formulation that best captures the real relation between mind and body. I can’t tell you what that relation is, for obvious reasons, but I have an inkling that it needs to be conceptualized in ways that are unavailable to us. For one thing, it would need to be a relation holding between something inner and private and something outer and public. And it could never be observed: we could never see that mind and brain stand in relation R.

            It is difficult to find analogies for the case of mind and body precisely because it is unique. We are asking for an explanation of “dependencies” between mind and body not between bodies or within minds. We can ask about how emotion depends upon belief and about how air currents depend upon temperature, but it is another thing to ask how consciousness “depends upon” neural activity. In what sense does the former “depend on” the latter? All we get in reply is some sketchy business about correlation.  [1] Presumably the relation is much stronger than mere correlation, so we reach for more full-blooded language; but we may be reaching in the wrong direction and seizing upon whatever happens to fit our cognitive grip regardless of suitability (a hammer to do the job of a screwdriver). The standard analogies used to explain what the relation is supposed to be between mind and brain encourage us to be complacent about our capacity to frame the right question; we may be quite far off target. The very fact that our formulations of the question don’t lead anywhere satisfactory suggests that we are not asking the question as it needs to be asked. For a being that knows how to ask the question the answer might not be so elusive. Its elusiveness to us is a sign that we are in the presence of interrogative closure: we can’t find the answer because we can’t ask the question (properly, adequately). There is affirmative closure because there is (moderate) interrogative closure: our inability to get the question right is bound up with our inability to answer the question. In addition, our cluelessness about the inadequacy of our question leads us to false optimism about answering it: if we knew how bad our formulation of the question was, we would be more inclined to think we cannot answer it. But of course if we knew that we would be on the road to answering it. Our predicament is that we are (moderately) closed to the right question but we find it hard to recognize that fact, and so we think we are conceptually on the right track to solving the problem. I believe we are completely closed to the solution and moderately closed to the question, but I have not argued for that composite position here.  I have suggested only that it is probable that we suffer from moderate interrogative closure with respect to the correct formulation of the mind-body problem.  [2]

 

  [1] It may be suggested that we can help ourselves to a very abstract notion of dependence, perhaps defined in terms of counterfactuals, just as supervenience is abstractly defined. But that abstract notion will not do justice to the specific relation that holds between mind and brain—the notion that distinguishes it from other applications of the abstract notion. We want to know how that relation holds between mind and brain. We want to know how the actual specific relationship between mind and brain is set up—how this part of nature operates. This is why people invoke concepts like emergence: because it promises to identify the explanandum clearly and distinctly. But it does so only by means of dubious analogies and assimilations that serve to obscure the proper formulation of the issue. This is why it is more hygienic to express the question as, “What is the explanatory basis of the relation R that holds between mind and brain?” and remain agnostic about the identity of R. Using words like “depends upon” is at best a crude and uninformative description of how mind and brain connect up (and that phrase too is loaded). There is a good way to ask the question out there in interrogative space, but it is not to be found in our formulations heretofore (and perhaps permanently). 

  [2] Imagine that we are extremely interrogatively closed to a large number of questions—as every other animal on our planet is. There are thousands of questions about nature that we are not equipped to ask. Then it will not be surprising if there are some questions to which we are partially open—which are only moderately closed to us. These exist on the border between the humanly accessible questions and the humanly inaccessible questions. I have suggested that the question that constitutes the mind-body problem might be one of these borderline cases (other philosophical questions might also belong in this class). Isn’t this a realistic way to look at the human ability to ask questions? Some we can ask clearly, some we can’t ask at all, and some we can ask only unclearly.

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Innate Blank Slates

                                   

 

 

Innate Blank Slates

 

 

Even the most hardline nativist will agree that not everything that passes before the mind, or exists in it, is innately fixed. In particular, memory contains contents that derive from experience. Memory may be defined as the ability to learn, and animals with memory absorb information from the environment that was not in them at birth. To this extent the mind is a blank slate—a receptacle waiting to be filled by post-natal experience. There may be (there is) a lot that is innate, but not everything is innate: fresh input reaches the mind to be added to its original resources. Does this mean that nativism has to concede a local victory to empiricism? Is it that the mind is partly innately structured and partly formless? Is it well stocked in some departments and entirely empty in others? Is the library of the mind a collection of written texts existing alongside an empty volume waiting for the world to inscribe messages on it? Is the mind partly nativist and partly empiricist? I think this is the wrong way to look at the matter; in fact, the so-called blank slate (memory) is really just another iteration of the nativist doctrine. The mind is genetically determined all the way down—including the blank slate. The blank slate is just another innately fixed biological component of the mind.  [1]  

            It might not have been so. Consider this theory, conceivably true in some possible world: the blank slate is acquired by experiencing blank slates in the world and copying them inwardly. You observe empty spaces or sheets of white paper or wax tablets and this creates in you a blank mental canvas on which experience can subsequently write. You “abstract” inner blankness from perceptible blank and formless things, and this forms the basis of memory. Thus the blank slate is an acquired characteristic. If this is the entirety of the mind, then the whole thing is acquired. But that is clearly a completely wacky theory, held by exactly no one. For one thing, wouldn’t the mind need an antecedent blank slate in order to acquire one by means of observing external blank slates? And how on earth could the mind “abstract” blankness and then internalize it—wouldn’t that be just an idea of blank slates? No, the reasonable view—and the one held by all empiricists—is that the mind is innately blank. That is its character at birth, its genetically determined nature, its intrinsic essence. So the blank slate is itself an innate component of the mind existing alongside other innate components. Its distinguishing characteristic is its flexibility: it is a receptiveepistemic faculty—it accepts novelty and change. It is modified by experience instead of being oblivious to experience. We might better call it “the receptive slate” in order to emphasize its function and mode of operation. It is genetically fixed and yet malleable, inborn and also plastic. In this respect it is like the perceptual faculties: we are not born already seeing all the things we will ever see (!), yet vision is an innately fixed faculty. The point of vision (and the other senses) is to permit variation in what is seen, i.e. sensitivity to environmental contingencies; but that is quite consistent with a strongly nativist conception of vision. The form is innate and the content is acquired, as we might put it. The perceptual categories might all be innate, but the particular state of affairs perceived is a result of environmental influence. Similarly, memory is innate even though what is remembered results from the impact of the world. There are clearly advantages to such flexibility and receptivity, but in no way does this cast doubt on the innateness of the faculty in question. Even the humble earthworm can sense and learn, but its ability to do so depends on its innate constitution.

            Why should we classify the blank slate existing inside every learning organism alongside its other innate characteristics? Why should we deem it biological? Why is it not, say, “cultural”? Why resist a form of dualism about what traits an organism possesses, the blank traits and the non-blank traits? There are several reasons. First, it is genetically determined: there is a gene (or complex of genes) for blankness (flexibility, receptivity). Blankness is certainly not the result of an absence of genes! The genes construct an epistemic organ whose specialization is openness to experience, as opposed to one that already knows all the answers. It is as if the genes constructed an amorphous bodily organ that could be modified by experience—say, a limb that could be molded into a different appendage depending upon environmental demands (a leg, a fin, a wing). That could be a useful adaptation in certain conditions, as a modifiable memory is a useful adaptation. An animal with a gene for blankness will enjoy a selective advantage. Some creatures lack such genes, harboring merely a set of instinctive reflexes, but others contain them, the better to survive in a changing world. So the blank state is as genetically engineered as any physical or mental organ (say, the human language faculty).  [2] Animals are genetically designed that way. They are born to be blank (in part).

Second, the blank slate is not as blank as all that: it is not a featureless nothing, devoid of all inner structure. Consider paper: paper is a highly structured and carefully designed piece of technology, not just a mere absence. It must absorb and retain ink, not blurring or running. It stacks and folds. It can be bound into volumes. It is durable. It took centuries to invent and perfect paper. Paper has a certain intrinsic constitution precisely designed to accept ink. It has as much of an inner nature as the ink that adorns it. And memory must be very similar: memory too took a long time to evolve, and it must be possessed of an inner nature that makes its feats of retention possible. The genes for memory are entrusted with a difficult and intricate job: to construct a system that absorbs and retains information, while letting it to degrade if it is no longer useful. Compare the hard drive of a computer—also an intricate and inventive piece of technology. These are not just empty boxes waiting to have stuff thrown into them. So there is no viable dualism of the structured and the unstructured—the mental plenum versus the mental vacuum. It’s all sophisticated architecture. The blank slate is blank only relative to what may be written on it; in itself it is plenitude, no more vacant than any other natural object.  [3]

Third, the blank slate has a biological function, which may be characterized as follows. The world is divided into general facts and specific facts; it is useful to know both kinds. An individual organism has a specific history and it is useful for the organism to learn from its history—to know the specific facts that aid its survival, such as where food is to be found. So it is adaptive to install an organ that can record particular facts for later use—that is, a memory organ. Thus the blank slate is as functionally adaptive as any non-blank organ of the body or mind. It isn’t just for frivolous “culture” and knowing historical dates to pass examinations; it functions as an adaptive trait, no less biological than digestion or locomotion. The genes design it to perform this function. Animals learn new things so as to get the genes that make them into future generations (fundamentally).

Fourth, and very important, there is not the blank slate, there are many blank slates: that is, each species has its own type of blank slate designed to serve its particular mode of life. Memory is species-specific. Squirrels remember where they have stowed their nuts, birds remember which direction to fly in, social animals remember their conspecifics, humans remember birthdays and to pick up the dry cleaning. Memory faculties vary in their storage capacity and in their contents, with inbuilt biases to remember some things and not others. They are like eyes: they all do the same thing, but they vary in their architecture and acuity. The phenomenology and physiology of memory varies from species to species, as does its functional character. Memory systems are shaped by natural selection like any other trait, and they are as species-specific as other traits of evolved organisms. The metaphor of the blank slate should not be allowed to obscure this fact—as if all forms of blankness were the same (compare different sizes and shapes of paper, or paper and hard drives and vinyl discs). The larynx of different vocal animals serves the purpose of emitting sound for every animal that has a larynx, but larynxes come in different designs and produce different sounds—there is not some universal larynx common to all species.  [4] Just as the larynx of one species will not allow it to make the sounds of another species, so the memory of one species will not allow it to remember what another species remembers. Species-specific means functionally limited. The blank slate of an organism is thus tied to a particular ecological niche, a specific biological set-up.        

            We can accordingly say that blank slates are genetically determined, intrinsically structured, biologically functional, and species-specific. They are part of an animal’s organic endowment—certainly not a product of environmental contingencies or “culture”. True, they can receive information from experience, but that doesn’t render them non-biological, or introduce a sharp line between the innate and the learned—any more than the varying objects of the senses show the senses to be non-biological. So it isn’t that memory reveals the limits of nativism; nativism, rightly understood, simply includes the blank slate of memory. If there were a “blank limb” capable of assuming one specific form or another depending on environmental demands, then that limb would not thereby cease to be biological. It would simply be innately adaptable instead of innately fixed. The traditional opposition between nativism (rationalism) and empiricism is thus misconceived, since even the empiricist is a (closet) nativist. The only issue is how much of human (and animal) knowledge is due to memory based on experience and how much to what is known at birth (without the use of memory); whatever view you take, the faculties in question are innate and biological. The terminology should really be dropped and replaced by talk of memory knowledge and non-memory knowledge. The question then will be whether specific areas of knowledge are known by memory or otherwise—knowledge of logic, mathematics, morals, language, laws of nature, colors, shapes, historical events, science, geography, etc. It is misleading to speak of nativism versus empiricism, as if empiricism could escape nativism about its preferred model of human knowledge. Talk of a blank slate is really a misleading way to talk about memory. Traditional empiricists claim that all knowledge is based on memory, while traditional nativists claim that much knowledge is not based on memory (though some certainly is). Knowledge based on experience is possible only if experience is remembered; knowledge not based on experience is knowledge not remembered. Do we know mathematics because we remember what we were taught or because we have that knowledge built into our minds before being taught anything? That is the real question, not whether the knowledge is innate or acquired.  [5] Even if it is acquired by means of experience and memory, the knowledge rests on an innate faculty, as biological as anything else about us. And again, the fact that vision “acquires” different objects as the eyes rove around the world doesn’t show that vision is not an innate faculty—just as the different objects you might pick up with your hands doesn’t demonstrate that your hands are not innately determined structures. A nativist who held that which objects you pick up in life is genetically determined would clearly be out to lunch, but that is not required in order to maintain the sensible position that hands themselves are genetically determined. It is the same with memory and the blank slate. The blank slate is empty just in the sense in which the empty hand is empty—neither of which entails a lack of innateness. We could rename the debate “memory-ists versus non-memory-ists”. Even the extreme empiricist who believes that all knowledge is based on memory is committed to the innateness of the faculty of memory, with the four characteristics I listed above; the inner constitution of the mind would still be independent of all experience (learning, environmental impact). There is no way to avoid nativism as the foundation of knowledge.

            Let me end with some reflections on knowledge of language in the light of the foregoing observations. We can accept that some knowledge of language is innate, i.e. knowledge of universal grammar—memory plays no role in possessing such knowledge. But in addition to this we also have knowledge of the particular human language that we learn to speak—and here memory indisputably plays a role. Does this mean that biology leaves off where knowledge of a particular language begins? No, because memory is itself a biological endowment programmed into the genes. Human speakers thus exploit two innate endowments in their acquisition of language. But there is a further point to be made: the specific form of memory that is exploited in learning a particular language is likely dedicated to that task. We possess a remarkable memory for linguistic information–phonetic, syntactic, and semantic—and it is plausible that this is specific to language. So we are not just using our general-purpose species-specific form of memory but also a special memory module dedicated to language learning.  [6] Of course, this is an empirical hypothesis, but its distinct possibility allows us to make a conceptual point, namely that we have a genetically fixed and highly specific form of memory that is employed in language acquisition—a third type of innate mechanism. Thus language acquisition employs three levels of innate machinery: an innate knowledge of universal grammar; an innate general memory faculty directed to knowledge of a particular language; and an innate memory module dedicated to linguistic memory of a specific language. So it is just not innateness at the first universal level but also at the levels that deal with learning a specific language. We possess not just a blank slate peculiar to humans but several blank slates devoted to different cognitive tasks—and all are innate. The blank slate might be as modular as the non-blank systems that make up our general knowledge. In any case, the blank slate is not the negation of innateness but a special case of it.  [7]

 

  [1] I am not the first person to make this point, but I think it is still underappreciated. Even if all ideas are acquired, the thing that acquires them isn’t. The blank slate is as innate as anatomy and eye color.

  [2] It might be that blank slates are more complex genetically than determinate organs, because of the engineering requirements of extreme receptivity; certainly, they require big brains. Empiricism could not then claim biological parsimony.

  [3] Notice that paper is selectively receptive: ink leaves a mark on it but wind doesn’t. There could be a form of “paper” that is receptive to wind but not ink. Thus bias is built in as part of the nature of the thing.

  [4] There is an illuminating discussion of larynxes in Eric Lenneberg, Biological Foundations of Language (1967): Chapter Two. They serve as a good model for all adaptive traits.

  [5] Of course, innate knowledge is also “acquired” in the sense that organisms come to have it at a certain time by certain processes—by gene activity (and earlier by natural selection). The usual use of “innate” and “acquired” in these debates is quite unsatisfactory.

  [6] Mimicry is one expression of this type of linguistic memory.

  [7] Why would anyone think that the blank slate is not a robust biological trait of the organism? Perhaps for epistemological reasons: we can’t perceive or introspect the blank slate (i.e. the memory faculty); we can only apprehend its contents (ideas, concepts). Thus we are inclined to doubt its reality. And something unreal can’t be a biological fact. I won’t take time to dissect the errors in this way of thinking.

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Injustice

                                                            Injustice

 

 

Injustice directed towards an individual creates a specific psychological response. This response includes anger at the perpetrator, moral indignation, resentment, a sense of futility, a desire for revenge, disillusionment, and general malaise. It can shape a person’s entire life, and destroy his or her wellbeing permanently. The injustice can be of two kinds: retributive and distributive. The victim can be blamed and punished for something he or she has not done, or punished disproportionately, or not given due process; or the victim can be subject to unfair distributions of goods to which he or she is entitled, by natural right or contract. Though both types of injustice occasion the psychological response mentioned, the former is apt to occasion it more strongly and deeply. A person wrongly blamed for something, especially where the blamers show bias or negligence, or basic disregard for justice itself, is liable to induce a state of extreme agitation and outrage. In addition to the unjust treatment the victim has received, he or she must also deal with the sense of anger, outrage, resentment, and so on. Clearly, to treat someone unjustly is the very height of culpability, and anyone guilty of such injustice must be held accountable, especially if they have been placed in a position of authority and power over others. This is why we rightly deplore corruption in the judicial system or in quasi-legal tribunals, as well as negligence and plain stupidity. Hatred of injustice is both necessary and unavoidable.

            We don’t feel the same way about other crimes against the person. If someone steals from you or strikes you or breaks a promise to you or lies to you, then you may well be upset and angry, but you don’t experience the same degree of psychological upheaval. The reaction to injustice is in a class of its own, sui generis, and not so easily shrugged off. The psychological impact is more profound and enduring. It creates a feeling of pointlessness, deep distrust, and personal isolation. This is particularly true if the injustice is repeated and systematic—if it is sustained over time in numerous unjust acts (racial discrimination, especially embodied in the law, is the obvious example). It is bad enough to blame and punish an innocent person once, but to keep on doing it is exponentially worse, especially when opportunities for just restitution arise. Then the victim is apt to feel that the system is stacked against him, that there is no escape from injustice, and that life is not worth living in such conditions. Suicide can then seem like the only possible escape from systemic injustice. This is a profoundly terrible thing to do to someone—very different from the normal run of crimes and misdeeds. While it is possible to forgive someone for stealing, lying, hitting, and so on, it is extremely difficult—perhaps impossible—to forgive someone for blatant and repeated injustice. A sense of injustice destroys personal relations between people. You cannot remain friends with someone who has treated you unjustly, nor can you respect him or her thereafter.

            I take it these points are obvious, if painful to contemplate. One of the less obvious consequences of injustice is that it becomes almost impossible to treat the person who has been unjust to you in a just manner. You feel that your unjust persecutor has sacrificed the right to just treatment from you. Here injustice differs from other crimes: you don’t feel that being lied to or stolen from or struck justifies doing the same thing to the person who has done these things to you. But you do feel that injustice justifies injustice in return: “Why should I be just with you when you were so unjust with me?” Is this just psychological weakness or is it something more profound—more conceptual? Is it just “hitting out” or does it reflect something about the nature of injustice? True, you may manage to set aside your (correct) sense of injustice and treat the perpetrator justly; but you feel that this requires a special, almost superhuman, effort—as if the other person does not deserve just treatment from you. Their right to justice from you has been undermined by their own manifest injustice towards you. That is why they must be judged by someone other than the person they have wronged—by an impartial judge: because the victim of the injustice simply cannot be expected to treat them justly. Everyone has the right to be treated justly by me, but not if they have treated me unjustly; then someone else must be brought in to serve the cause of justice (hence no vigilante justice). No one can be left at the mercy of those they have treated unjustly. But the victim of an act of theft, say, is not likely to steal from the thief, or to suppose that it is morally permissible to do so. Acts of injustice, however, are affronts to morality itself—a rejection of the demands of morality—and we feel that such actors deserve special condemnation. The corrupt judge is worse than the guilty criminal, because the judge is charged with, and accepts, the role of arbiter of justice. To imprison a person unjustly is the ultimate crime; and the person imprisoned is not expected to deal leniently, or even fairly, with his unjust judge. Injustice thus breeds injustice in the victim, even if he or she tries to “rise above” it.

            But there is a further consequence that is even more disturbing: the tendency to generalize injustice. If a person has been made the victim of injustice, especially if it is repeated, systematic, and unrepentant, then he or she is apt to abandon justice as a general rule of conduct. The victim thinks: “I have been treated unjustly, so why should I treat others justly?” By contrast, the victim of theft does not think: “I have been stolen from, so why should I not steal from others?” It is not entirely clear why there should be this asymmetry, but it seems to exist and to be entrenched. It may have to do with the general sense that injustice is itself a rejection of morality, not merely a violation of it. We say of the grossly unjust agent that he or she “doesn’t know right from wrong”, but we don’t tend to say that about other miscreants. We take injustice to be a more profound moral failing—and rightly so. It brings morality more fully into question, so that an unjustly treated individual feels less constrained by it.

And here I think is where the special evil of injustice shows itself—the thing that sets it apart from other crimes and misdeeds: it creates chains of injustice. Suppose A is unjust to B and that B forms the psychological response I described; then B will be apt to be unjust to C, even when C has not been unjust to B. But then C has become the victim of injustice, and will in turn be likely to be unjust to D; and so on. One act of injustice (or a series of acts directed against a particular individual) will generate a chain of unjust acts, all mediated by the psychological response I described. It doesn’t work like this with stealing, lying, and so on. Injustice has the power to propagate itself through a population, like a contagious disease, hopping from one person to the next. Previously just people are thus turned into unjust people by being themselves treated unjustly—all because at the beginning of the chain an innocent person was treated unjustly. Injustice begets injustice, while theft does not beget theft. Of course, if the theft is felt to involve injustice, then theft will generate the same kind of chain; but not otherwise. If a rich man steals from you, you feel an injustice that does not apply to a poor thief—though you may still deplore the poor thief’s action. We do not hate the thief qua thief, as we hate the unjust agent—he or she we regard as morally bankrupt. Is there anything worse than a “hanging judge” who blatantly ignores evidence and follows discriminatory policies? What about a judge who knowingly sentences innocent people to death for kickbacks from the makers of electric chairs, or because she wants to look “tough” for political reasons? That is evil of a stunning magnitude.

            Chains of injustice ramify and proliferate. They can spread through a whole population. They can be transmitted down the generations. And they may be triggered by a single isolated act of injustice. The injustice chain is particularly dangerous in the case of children. If the parents have been treated unjustly, they will be apt to treat their children unjustly; but children will experience the injustice in a sharp and undiluted form, without any possibility of rising above it. It will inform their entire worldview: the world will be seen as an inherently unjust place, with talk of justice meaningless and pointless. And so injustice gets passed down the generations. How many unjust acts in the world are explained by the existence of one of these chains? Here we should distinguish between the instigator of a chain and a link in a chain. If A is not himself a victim of any injustice, and yet acts unjustly, for reasons of self-interest or political expediency, say, then A is an instigator—he or she sets the chain in motion. Such a person is far more culpable than one who is a mere link in a chain instigated by someone else—the link merely inherits injustice without creating it ab initio. The link is a victim of injustice as well as a perpetrator of it, and he is the latter because (or partly because) of the former. The instigator, however, has brought a potentially endless chain of injustice into the world: not just the initial unjust act, but also all its ramifying consequences. The instigator has created the disease, not merely been one of its carriers. 

            The evil of injustice therefore far outweighs the evil of other kinds of immoral act, not just because of its intrinsic evil (though that is considerable), but also because of its tendency to grow and spread. You can see how it could infect an entire population, as well as succeeding generations. It deserves the name “Original Sin”: it is a sin that begets other sins. Those guilty of it, especially the instigators, deserve special condemnation, special contempt. Everyone should, of course, be conscious of the burdens of justice, and employ every means possible to ensure that justice is done. All unjust acts should be rectified fully and promptly. Restitution should be mandatory. There is simply no excuse for injustice, as there can be for other kinds of immoral act. Injustice should not be tolerated or excused, but rigorously punished (not only by law but also by social censure). The shame attaching to injustice should be unique and profound. No one should turn a blind eye to it. Ever.

            What can be done to prevent chains of injustice from forming? Don’t instigate them, obviously: but what do we do if some people insist on being injustice instigators? It is all very well to exhort people not to make the same “mistakes” as those who have treated them unjustly; but that may not be very effective advice for someone who has been made bitter and cynical by the injustices done to them. You can’t expect people to be saints if they have been systematically abused. A person who has been sent to jail, knowingly and cynically, for a murder he did not commit is not likely to view the world kindly. Someone who has known nothing but injustice is unlikely to treat others justly. What is necessary is firm public support for justice, above all other values, and an intolerance of injustice—people should be rewarded and punished according to their capacity for justice. No one should be left in a position of judicial power that has acted unjustly. Also, it is necessary for justice to be seen to be done, not merely to bedone: justice must be celebrated and recognized, spoken of in hushed and reverent tones. Injustice, for its part, should be despised and reviled for what it is. The word fair should be on everyone’s lips, and be the (or a) basic moral word. The nerve of justice should be forever taut.

Utilitarianism has a lot to answer for here: it shifts moral praise and blame from justice to consequences, so that an unjust individual can always plead that he or she was just trying to maximize the good—this being regarded as the ultimate aim of morality. An unjust act is thus excused by claiming that it will likely lead to greater happiness all round. This is an insidious way of thinking, almost bound to lead to corruption, and anyway ignores the ramifying effects of injustice—and hence is not defensible even on utilitarian grounds. Fairness is what matters, not the expectation of generalized happiness. If people feel that they will not be treated fairly, perhaps precisely because they have not been, then this will rot everything from the inside out. The psychological effects of injustice, and the resulting chains of injustice, are so damaging that injustice must never be allowed to stand. Injustice is the worst of moral failings.

 

C

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Inhuman Philosophy

                                   

 

 

Inhuman Philosophy

 

 

Has philosophy become inhuman? Is that why it has lost its prestige and popularity? Is it doomed by its inhumanness? Or is it perhaps not inhuman enough? Is it just not scientific, merely a parade of personal opinion and undisciplined subjectivity? Must we reunite philosophy with the humanities or must we let it be swallowed up by science? Is philosophy at a crisis point where it must decide its own future, either rediscovering its humanistic heritage or opting for scientific assimilation?

            What form might these decisions take? One suggestion might be that we make the parts of philosophy with more human interest into its central, or even its exclusive, concern. Thus we focus on aesthetics and ethics, politics and the meaning of life, the philosophy of race, gender, and selfhood. Then we will have a genuinely human type of philosophy—with no more logic, metaphysics, epistemology, philosophy of science, etc. An alternative suggestion may be to abandon any area of study not subject to scientific method, i.e. theory construction guided by empirical observation: we make philosophy into science’s handmaiden (or bitch, in current terminology). Both these approaches smack of extremism and ideology, not to speak of violence and destruction, and I have no sympathy for them at all. But I think it is a good question whether philosophy today, or indeed in the past, is prone to an off-putting inhumanness. More basically, it is a good question what such inhumanness might consist in—what is it to be inhuman in the intended sense? Are mathematics and physics inhuman, or biology, or psychology? Are poetry and literature always human (or humane or humanistic)? Is analytic philosophy inhuman and continental philosophy human (whatever exactly that contrast is intended to be)? Presumably the question isn’t whether philosophy ought to be (exclusively) about human beings: surely that is too narrow (what about animals and gods, or standard metaphysics?); and surely it is possible to be about humans in an inhuman way (say, the physiology of the human digestive system). It’s not a question of subject matter but of style, method, a particular type of interest.

            Consider philosophical logic. I myself find this subject particularly interesting, but I don’t think my interest in it betrays my humanity. For part of my being human is that I am interested in abstract topics: to cease to think about such topics would be a human deprivation for me (I don’t the feel the same way about medieval plumbing, say). It is clearly not inhuman to be interested in topics not about humanity. One reason for this is that it is possible to be passionate about such topics (same for mathematics and physics). They excite our curiosity, get our intellectual juices flowing, and lead to heated arguments: nothing inhuman about that. Are they “dry” topics? We can say that I suppose, but again humans are not averse to a dry topic now and then: they have a certain kind of purity, a certain wan enchantment. Maybe not everyone finds them fascinating, but that doesn’t make them inhuman in any pejorative sense (not everyone finds soap operas fascinating, or operas for that matter). So the objectionable property of being inhuman is not to be identified simply with abstract subject matter or topics not dealing with human beings (is it inhuman to be interested in animals?).

            It is the way a subject is discussed that attracts the epithet “inhuman”. And I think that philosophy has become rather inhuman in this sense: spuriously serious, professionalized, forbiddingly written, jargon-ridden, overly defensive, and intentionally dull. No doubt there are institutional reasons for this, having to do with tenure, job shortages, and university administrators (inhuman by definition). But there is also a certain cultural deadness abroad, a kind of humorless, risk averse, businesslike approach to philosophy. This is one reason why some people preach the assimilation of philosophy to science—as a way of making philosophy respectable. They want the prestige that the label science brings (and who doesn’t want prestige?). But that is not the solution to the inhuman tenor of so much philosophical writing (and speaking); instead we need to alter how we handle the topics of philosophy. It is perfectly possible to make a topic humanly interesting without making it about the human. We can make philosophy sound less inhuman by being more human ourselves—less like soulless machines, or corporate drones, or members of a profession. The problem does not lie in philosophy but in philosophers—they are what is inhuman. We shouldn’t castigate the subject for the shortcomings of its practitioners. That is, we should practice philosophy according to its nature, not according to the professional norms that have come to characterize contemporary academia.

 

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Infinite Metaphysics

                                               

 

 

 

Infinite Metaphysics

 

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.” (William Blake)

 

As Spinoza noted, we must not let metaphysics be shaped by the human perspective; we must maintain a resolutely objective stance. The human perspective favors the finite, mainly because of the limits of our senses—they are not geared to the infinite. We can conceive the infinite but we can’t perceive it. Thus we tend to think of the infinite as the finite stretched, extended or continued, instead of viewing the finite as the infinite condensed or truncated. We are skewed towards the finite, to the point of finding the infinite baffling. But that has nothing to do with ontological issues about the infinite—with its position in nature. Viewed objectively, nature has the infinite written into it at every turn; it hums with infinity. Space and time are infinite, both in their extension and their continuous structure. Matter may not be infinite in extension but it too has an infinitely divisible mathematical structure. Mathematics is par excellence the home of the infinite. Minds too are infinite in scope: consider the infinite potential of language and thought with their combinatory powers. Less obviously, meaning itself is infinite, as rules in general are, because it applies to indefinitely many cases. God is infinite (if there is such a being). Laws of nature are infinite, given that they extend over arbitrarily many natural events. The world is really the totality of infinities. We don’t tend to acknowledge the ubiquity of the infinite, owing to our perceptual and cognitive biases, but attention can be drawn to it: reality is steeped in the infinite, up to its neck in it.

            Blake is thus right that the infinite is written into the finite: there is always a deep structure of infinity in the most finite of things. Take that grain of sand: it is both part of an infinite spatial and temporal manifold and also infinitely divisible spatially. It does not stand apart from the infinite but incorporates the infinite into its being. Likewise we hold the infinite in the palm of our hand whenever we pick up an object, since every object is both a constituent of something infinite (space, the universe) and also a container of the infinite. What we call the finite is the infinite as it presents itself to us—a reflection or token of the infinite. Without the infinite the finite is nothing, something far less than a grain of sand. Pan-infinitism is true. When Berkeley speaks of “finite spirits” he perpetrates a falsehood: our minds may not be up to the level of God’s mind but there is plenty of infinity in the human mind both as to content and architecture (whatever may be said of animal minds). Even to speak of grains of sand as finite objects, by contrast with the infinity of the universe, is misleading, because grains are imbued with infinity too. It is not that infinity is cordoned off at the margins of things; it is woven into things.

            We tend to mystify the infinite, regarding it as somehow supernatural or awe-inspiring. We speak reverently of it, as of the divine. But really it is as natural and humdrum as anything else in nature. Nature simply is an infinite object. Only a misguided empiricism could blind us to this fact—a desire to reduce the real to the perceptible. Ontology cannot be dictated by epistemology. Even if infinity is beyond our cognitive capacities in some way, that implies nothing compromising as to its robust reality. In fact, it lies at the foundation of things. We might say that infinity is the most basic law of nature—what nature most fundamentally is. We are skewed away from it, but it is indifferent to that limitation. To a more discerning eye the universes swells with infinity, stretching out in every direction. Even if we had no conception of it at all, living in a totally finite conceptual world, it would still form the scaffolding of reality. To be infinite is to be to no more ontologically suspect than to be finite. Indeed, one can imagine a metaphysical system that regards the finite as merely the appearance of the infinite (Spinoza’s system is like this).  The infinite is a little bit like consciousness: mysterious from our human perspective but really a natural phenomenon like any other. After all, it is merely a question of size. The infinite is an ingredient of reality in good standing.

            We can raise ontological questions about infinity. How many kinds of infinity are there? Are some types of infinity abstract and some concrete? Did the big bang create infinity or did the universe already contain it? Does it play any explanatory role in the universe? Is there any possibility of defending a projective view of infinity? How is infinity related to necessity? Is there something inherently paradoxical about infinity?  Could there be a completely finite world? Are the things that are actually infinite necessarily infinite? Is all infinity really of one basic kind? Is the property of being infinite a unitary property (as opposed, say, to a family resemblance property)? Can infinity be destroyed? Can it be caused? Why does it exist? That is, we can undertake traditional metaphysics with respect to infinity. We don’t have to leave it to the mathematicians or be cowed by its majesty.         

            Blake’s lines raise an interesting question about perception. I said that we don’t perceive infinity, but Blake speaks of seeing the world in a grain of sand and holding infinity in one’s palm. What kind of seeing and holding might these be? It might just be metaphor, but I think the poet intends more. A natural suggestion is that Blake is speaking of a kind of seeing-as: we can see the grain as a world and feel something in the palm as infinite. But this strikes me as stretching the concept of seeing-as, because there is no experience of such things in the act of seeing a grain or holding a ball (say). Nor does Blake use the locution “seeing as”. What would it be like to see a grain as a world?  [1] What Blake says is that we might see a world in a grain of sand (or perhaps feel infinity in a ball). Presumably he means something like this: we can use our imagination to supplement what we are seeing or feeling. Given that the infinite is present in the finite object, we can strive to find it there. We can bring our understanding to bear on our senses in such a way that it is as if we are seeing or feeling the infinite—what we might call “seeing as-if”. Blake is stressing the proximity of the observable world to the world we are apt to think transcends it: these are not two realms cut off from each other, but closely intertwined. The infinite is woven into the fabric of observable reality not remote from it. It ought to be perceptible—even though it is not (literally). The grain of sand is an emblem of the infinite, a manifestation of it; the distinction between finite and infinite is not an ontological distinction. A finite segment of space, say, is not opposed to the infinity of space; it is a part of infinite space and it contains infinity within its boundaries (in the form of infinitesimal points). Similarly for an hour of time: finite but enmeshed in the infinite.

            It is an interesting fact that the question of the reality of the infinite is neutral among standard metaphysical systems: idealism, materialism, dualism, pluralism. All these systems are consistent with the full reality of the infinite. The infinite does not favor mind over matter or matter over mind; the world could be material and infinite, or mental and infinite, or both and infinite. Infinity has no ontological preferences. But a dualism of the finite and the infinite is quite misguided: the two are much too closely connected for that to be plausible. Each presupposes the other; they are not independent. A double-aspect theory suggests itself.

 

Coli

  [1] It is not as if the grain is ambiguous between a unit of sand and an entire world, like the duck-rabbit drawing, presenting one aspect and then the other; nor is there any sensory impression of a world when looking at a sand grain.

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Impressions of Existence

                       

 

 

Impressions of Existence

 

 

You wake up in the morning and you become conscious of the world again. For a while nothing existed for you, but now existence floods back. You become aware of external objects, of space, of time, of yourself, of your mental states. I shall say that you have impressions of existence. I am interested in the nature of these impressions—their psychological character. They are of a special kind, not just an instance of other psychological categories. I want to say they are neither beliefs nor sensations; they are a sui generis psychological state. They need to be recognized as such in both philosophy of mind and epistemology. Intuitively, they are sensory states without qualitative content—perceptual but not phenomenal (though these terms are really too crude to capture all the distinctions we need). Let me try to identify what is so special about them, acknowledging that we are in obscure conceptual territory.

            First, impressions of existence are not beliefs: existential beliefs are neither necessary nor sufficient for existential impressions. I might have the impression that there is a cat in front of me, but actually be hallucinating, and know it. My sense experience gives me the impression of an existing cat, but I know better, so I don’t believe a cat exists in my vicinity. Just as I can have an impression of an object with certain properties but decline to believe there is an object with those properties (I know I’m hallucinating), so I can have an impression that something exists and yet not believe it does. So existential belief is not necessary for existential impression. Nor is it sufficient because I can believe in the existence of things that I don’t have impressions of existence of—such as remote galaxies or atoms or other minds. These points make it look as if impressions of existence are standard perceptual states, like seeing red things and square things. But there is no quality that I see when I have a visual impression of existence: it strikes me visually that a certain object exists, but there is no quality of the object that is presented to me as its existence (this is an old point about existence). Redness and rectangularity can enter the content of my experience, but existence can’t. It isn’t a sensory quality, primary or secondary. I have the impression that a certain object exists—that’s how things seem to me—but there is no quality of existence that is recorded by my senses. Even theories of existence as a first-order property don’t claim that existence is perceptible in the way color and shape are; and theories that identify existence with a second-order property certainly don’t regard it as perceptible. I don’t see the existence of a thing, as I see its color and shape. Yet I have an impression of existence, and that impression belongs with my experience (not my beliefs). I describe myself as “under the impression” that various things exist—my experience is not neutral as to existence—but this impression is not a belief I have, and it is not a type of sensation either.

            Not all experience carries impressions of existence: not imaginative experience, for example. If I form an image of a unicorn, I am not thereby under the impression that a unicorn exists. Nor do I have existential impressions of fictional characters. There is sensory content to these experiences (note how strained language is here), but I would never say that I have impressions of existence with respect to imaginary objects. On the contrary, I would say that I have impressions of non-existence. Impressions of existence are not constitutive of consciousness as such, though they are certainly a common feature of consciousness. Do I have such impressions in the case of numbers and other abstract objects? That is not an easy question, but I am inclined to say no, which is perhaps why Platonism strikes us as bold. We might have an intuition of existence here (and elsewhere), but that is not the same as an impression of existence. We don’t say, “It sure as hell looks like there’s a number here!” Impressions of existence belong with the senses (including introspection) not the intellectual faculties. Do I have impressions of existence with respect to language? Well, I certainly have the feeling that words exist—I keep hearing and seeing them—but as to meanings the answer is unclear. The meanings of words don’t impress themselves on my senses in the way material objects do. Physical events impress me with their existence too, but fields of force not so much. We seem more or less inclined to believe in the existence of things according as they provide impressions of existence or not. We are impressed with impressions of existence, though we extend our existential beliefs beyond this basic case.       

            Impressions of existence undermine traditional conceptions of sense experience, such as sense-datum theory, sensory qualia, and the phenomenal mosaic, rather as seeing-as undermines these conceptions. Seeing-as is not to be conceived as a “purely sensory” visual state either. Sense experience contains more than qualitative atoms of sensation (“the given”); there is a variety and richness to it that is not recognized by traditional notions. Impressions of existence are not instances of Humean “impressions” or Lockean “ideas”. To be sure, there is something it is like to have an impression of existence, which is not available to someone that has only theoretical existential beliefs, and we can rightly describe such impressions as phenomenological facts; but we are not dealing here with what are traditionally described as “ideas of sensible qualities”, such as ideas (sic) of primary and secondary qualities. The impressions in question sit loosely between what we are inclined to call (misleadingly) perception and intellect, sensation and cognition, seeing and thinking. They are neither hills nor valleys, but something in between. It is thus hard to recognize their existence, or to describe them without distortion. Existence is woven into ordinary experience, but not as one thread intertwined with others (color, shape). One is tempted to describe such impressions as assumptions or presuppositions or tacit beliefs, but none of these terms does justice to their immediate sensory character—for it really is as if we are directly informed of an object’s existence, as if it announces its existence to our senses. As Wittgenstein might say, we see things as existing (even when they don’t). The sensory world is not an existentially neutral manifold. Seeing-as shows that seeing is not just a passive copy of the stimulus, and “seeing-existence” carries a similar lesson. It doesn’t fit the paradigm of seeing a color, but so what?

            This has a bearing on skepticism. It is not merely that the skeptic questions our existential beliefs; he questions our existential impressions. We don’t feel a visceral affront when someone questions our belief in galaxies, atoms, and other minds—we feel such things to be negotiable—but we jib when we are told that the very nature of our experience is riddled with falsehood. Our galaxy without other galaxies is one thing, but a brain in a vat is something else entirely. The brain in a vat is brimming with impressions of existence, as a matter of basic phenomenological fact, but these impressions are all false—there are no objects meeting the conditions laid down in its experience. Here, we want to say, the skepticism is existential—it shakes us to the core. How could our experience mislead us so badly, so dramatically? It is like being lied to by an intimate friend. How could experience do that to us! It seduces us into believing that things exist, but they don’t! So the shock of skepticism is magnified by the experiential immediacy of impressions of existence; it isn’t just theoretical, academic. It is different with skepticism about other minds, because in this case we don’t have such impressions of existence; so the skeptic isn’t contradicting ordinary experience, just commonsense assumption. We assume other people have minds, but we don’t have sensory impressions of other minds (pace Wittgenstein and others). We might then say there are two kinds of skepticism: belief skepticism and impression skepticism. The skeptic about other minds is a belief skeptic, but the skeptic about the external world (or the self) is an impression skeptic. Skepticism about the past, the future, and the unobservable falls into the former category, while the latter category might extend to include skepticism about our own mental states, as well as the self that has them. And certainly we have a very strong impression that our own mental states exist (not merely a firm belief). Of course, there is always a distinction between actual existence and the impression of existence, but it is surely indisputable that we have an impressionthat our own mental states exist—whether they really do is another question. In any case, the skeptic who questions the veridicality of our impressions, as opposed to our beliefs, is always a more nerve-racking figure.

            I will mention a few issues that arise once we have accepted this addition to the phenomenological inventory. First, animals: I take it that sensing animals enjoy impressions of existence, even though they may not be capable of existential beliefs. They may not have the concept of existence but they have a sense of it—the world they experience impresses them as real. If they have mental images, there will a contrast in this respect in their mind. This shows how primitive and biologically rooted impressions of existence are. Second, training: is it possible to train someone out of her impressions of existence? We can’t train someone not to experience perceptual illusions (the system is modular), but could we train someone to cease to experience the world as existing? It’s an empirical question, but I doubt it—this too is part of the encapsulated perceptual system, hard-wired and irreversible. Of course, beliefs can be readily changed by suitable training—as by pointing out their falsity. The brain in a vat will never be able to reconfigure its perceptual experience to rid itself of the impression of existence, even when thoroughly persuaded of its true situation. No matter how much it believes its experiences not to be veridical they will keep on seeming that way (we could always do an experiment to check my conjecture). Third, are impressions of existence capable of varying by degree? Can we have stronger impressions of existence in some cases than in others? A Cartesian might think that the impression is at its strongest with respect to the self, with external objects trailing. A Humean might deny any strong impression of existence for the self, but insist on it for impressions and ideas. Judging from my own case, it seems pretty constant: the impression itself is always the same, though the associated beliefs may vary by degree. Even when I know quite well that an experience is illusory, it still seems to assert existence, just as much as when I am certain an experience is veridical. So I am inclined to think the impression doesn’t vary from case to case. It is all or nothing. Fourth, are there other cases in which we have sensory impressions that fail to fit traditional categories? Are there impressions of necessity or identity or causation or moral rightness? That would be an interesting result, because then we could claim that these cases are still sensory in the broader sense without accepting that they belong with impressions of color and shape. We could thus widen the scope of the perceptual model. I leave the question open.

 

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Hume, Wittgenstein, and Kripke

                                   

 

 

Hume, Wittgenstein, and Kripke

 

 

 

In An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding Hume writes as follows: “It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us at a great distance from all her secrets, and has afforded us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of objects; while she conceals from us those powers and principles, on which the influence of these objects entirely depends. Our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever inform us of those qualities, which fit it for the nourishment and support of a human body. Sight or feeling conveys an idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that wonderful force or power, which carry on a moving body for ever in a continued change of place, and which bodies never lose but by communicating it to others, of this we cannot form the most distant conception. But notwithstanding the ignorance of natural powers and principles, we always presume, when we see like sensible qualities, that they have like secret powers, and expect, that effects, similar to those which we have experienced, will follow them…. It is allowed on all hands, that there is no known connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a conclusion concerning their constant and regular conjunction, by anything which it knows of their nature.” (Section VI, [16])

            Later he writes: “When we look about us towards external objects, and consider the operation of causes, we are never able in a single instance, to discover any power or necessary connexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause, and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the other.” (Section VII, [6]) Again: “The scenes of the universe are continually shifting, and one object follows another in an uninterrupted succession; but the power or force, which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible qualities of the body.” (Section VII, [8]) And again: “And experience only teaches us, how one event constantly follows another; without instructing us in the secret connexion, which binds them together, and renders them inseparable.” (Section VII, [13]) More: “Can there be a more certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation [voluntary motion] is performed, so far from being directly and fully known by an inward sentiment or consciousness, is, to the last degree, mysterious and unintelligible.” (Section VII, [14]) Also: “We are ignorant, it is true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other. Their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible.” (Section VII, [25]) As a result of our ignorance “so imperfect are the ideas which we form concerning it [causation], that it is impossible to give any just definition of cause, except what is drawn from something that is extraneous and foreign to it.” (Section VII, [29]) Referring to his own attempts to define cause, he confides: “But though both these definitions be drawn from circumstances foreign to the cause, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any more perfect definition, which may point out that circumstance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its effect. We have no idea of this connexion; nor even any distinct notion what it is we desire to know, when we endeavour at a conception of it.”(Section VII, [29])

            Hume’s position seems clear enough, being a conjunction of three main theses: (a) causation consists in the objective presence of causal power (“necessary connexion”) in the objects; (b) we have no direct knowledge of the nature of such power (no “impression” of it); and (c) all we know of causation is constant conjunction, which is “extraneous and foreign” to causation itself. It is constant conjunction, combined with our natural instinct to project it into the future, that furnishes us with the only notion of causation that we possess—a notion that fails to capture the actual nature of the causal relation. Causation essentially involves necessary connexion between individual causes and effects, but our knowledge of it is confined to a mere symptom of such connexion, viz. constant conjunction. We don’t grasp what causation objectively is, though we have causal beliefs as a result of natural propensity—as do children and animals. As Hume sometimes puts it, we don’t reason from cause to effect, but merely find ourselves inferring effects from causes as a result of our innate disposition. His position might be put this way: God has knowledge of the objective nature of causation (those actuating powers dwelling in objects) and can therefore reason a priori from cause to effect, but we have no such penetrating knowledge and hence no basis from which to reason in this way. We rely in daily life on causal inference but we have no understanding of the nature of that on which we rely—we just blindly follow the regularities we have observed.

            Now I don’t wish to go into a defense of this interpretation of Hume here (others have done so), though I think it is clearly correct; my aim is to use it in application to Kripke’s discussion of Wittgenstein’s views on meaning.  [1] Kripke compares what he takes to be Wittgenstein’s view of meaning with what he takes to be Hume’s view of causation, hoping thereby to illuminate Wittgenstein’s tantalizing discussion. I disagree with both of his interpretations as interpretations, but that is not my current concern; I want to develop a new and better comparison between Hume and Wittgenstein. Kripke contends that Wittgenstein’s position is that there is no individual fact of meaning but that meaning ascriptions have social assertion conditions. Analogously, Hume is said to hold that there is no individual fact of causation—nothing in the cause-effect pair considered intrinsically that could constitute causation—but that causal statements have assertion conditions that pertain to constant conjunctions, so that causation is a “social” matter. Thus there cannot be purely individual rule following and there cannot be one-off causal relations: meaning and causation are not located in individuals but in collections—societies of speakers or groups of events. We are tempted to believe that meaning is an individual matter and that causation resides in the particular events that are causally connected, but in reality there are no such localized facts—both things involve wider collections of speakers or events (via assertion conditions). They are extrinsic and plural.

            Obviously the interpretation of Hume that I gave earlier contradicts these ideas: there is an individual fact of the matter about causation—actual local necessary connexion—but we have no cognitive access to it, no knowledge of it, and no definition of it. It exists all right but it doesn’t “discover” itself to us—so we can’t form an “adequate idea” of it. All we can do is follow our natural instinct to make causal inferences based on constant conjunction, even though this is “extraneous and foreign” to causation in itself. Our notion of necessary connexion, such as it is, arises through this natural instinct (what Hume calls “custom”) and not through any kind of rational examination of individual causes and effects—for we have no “impression” of necessary connexion as it exists in objects. The question I want to ask is what an analogous theory of meaning would look like: What should we say about meaning if we model it on what the real Hume says about causation? Is there anything to be said in favor of such a theory? What if we become Humeans (real Humeans) about meaning?

            A real Humean about meaning accepts the following three propositions: (a) there is an objective individual fact of meaning, involving “normative connexion” (cf. necessary connexion); (b) we have no direct knowledge of this fact, no “impression” of it, and no adequate definition of it; and (c) our notion of meaning, such as it is, derives from our observation of symptoms of meaning that are “extraneous and foreign”. Meaning is thus something that undoubtedly exists in the objects (human speakers), but it doesn’t present itself to us; our idea of meaning is solely derived from circumstances merely associated with meaning. Meaning as it is in itself is “mysterious”, “incomprehensible”, and “secret”. Nature “has kept us at a great distance” from meaning, which counts among its many secrets; yet we do mean things and we can even talk about meaning. We just don’t have the kind of knowledgeof meaning that we have of other things: our idea of it is not derived from acquaintance with it—we believe in its existence but we can’t comprehend its inner nature. It is objectively real but hidden.

            Hume thinks that constant conjunction results from necessary connexion—indeed, necessary connexion is the cause of constant conjunction. Constant conjunction, however, is all we are acquainted with and all that we know of causation—yet it is “extraneous and foreign”. What is the analogue in the case of meaning? Here we cannot do better than to follow Kripke’s discussion: external linguistic behavior, inner states of consciousness, and dispositions. None of these can be said to constitute meaning, though they are certainly closely “associated” with it. This is all we directly know of meaning, which lies “behind” these symptoms, and it is what enables us to talk meaningfully about meaning—but it is not what meaning is. We don’t know what meaning is, as we don’t know what causation is. We may have sensations associated with meaning, as we have sensations associated with causation—inner and outer sensations in both cases—but they are not the essence of meaning. Observing someone’s linguistic behavior over time is no more observing their meanings than observing constant conjunctions over time is observing causation. Meaning and causation transcend such observable matters. Behavior is to meaning as constant conjunction is to causal power—related but not constitutive. You can examine behavior from dawn till dusk and you will not see meaning there; and the same is true of mental images, sudden feelings of understanding, or sensations of hesitation (as the meaning of “or”). Meaning is simply not given in this way, as causation is not: it cannot be seen with the inner eye any more than causation can be seen with the outer eye.

            We can compare this view of meaning and causation with another issue discussed by Hume: the self. A analogous Humean about the self holds (a) that the self undoubtedly exists as one and the same entity over time, despite psychological fluctuations; (b) that we have no direct knowledge of the self, no “impression” of it, and no definition of it; and (c) that we talk of the self by adverting to what are merely extraneous symptoms (the body, mental states). Our natural instincts lead us to believe in a continuing self, even though we have no “impression” of such continuity and no real conception of that of which we speak; our idea of the self, such as it is, doesn’t come from up-close confrontation with the self, or from a priori reasoning, but just from a natural tendency to assume personal continuity beneath psychological fluctuation. We are ignorant of the inner being of the self, but we compensate for that ignorance by blindly following our instinctive inclinations. Similarly, the real nature of meaning is hidden from us, because of what Hume describes as the “surprising ignorance and weakness of the understanding” (55). Our ignorance should on no account be confused with non-existence: there is a hard fact of meaning, as of causation and the self, but it happens not to be presented to the (“weak”) human understanding. Hume’s question was how we could have an idea of causation if we have no acquaintance with it, and this is what led to his “skeptical solution” in terms of custom and instinct. In the case of meaning we have the same question, and the analogous answer is that we are acquainted with the symptoms of meaning, though not with the thing itself, which allows us to possess a working concept of meaning (inadequate as that concept is).

            It is an interesting question whether there is more than an analogy between causation and meaning. Might we not think of meaning as a kind of inner causal power? What we mean governs how we use words—the ability to mean is an ability to speak. Linguistic competence is a power to produce certain kinds of effect—meaningful utterances appropriate to the occasion (“performance”). So it is a special case of a causal power; and we don’t grasp the nature of causal power, according to Hume’s view of causation. Meaning is a kind of norm-governed potentiality—a source of unlimited linguistic use. How meaning is able to achieve this remains difficult to fathom, but it does. So maybe we should think of use (performance) as effect and meaning (competence) as cause, and then note that causal relations are ultimately impenetrable. And in addition to that general opacity, there is the problem of understanding the nature of semantic norms—how use conforms to meaning. In virtue of what is one use correct and another incorrect?

            Why might we jib at this Humean picture of meaning (a form of agnostic realism)? I think it’s because we have a tendency to suppose that we know more about meaning than we really do, as Hume remarked regarding causation—we overestimate our degree of insight. But why is that? In the case of causation we have been long drilled in the practice of following constant conjunctions: that works fine for most purposes, so we don’t notice how shaky are its foundations (until someone like Hume brings up the problem of induction). We have adequate practical knowledge, and (as Hume also remarks) nothing can disrupt our instinctive tendencies. We therefore suppose that we understand more about causation than we do. In the case of meaning the source of complacency is simply that we have first-person knowledge of meaning: I know what I mean by my words. But that doesn’t imply that I know the nature of meaning in its deep essence. It is just the reflection of a practice that works and which is underpinned by instinct. I cannot gaze at my meanings and drink in their essence—as I can gaze at my pains and grasp their nature. As Wittgenstein insisted, meaning and understanding are nothing like experience and sensation—they are not “contents of consciousness”. Meanings are elusive, slippery, hard to pin down. Hence they baffle us—and hence there is an inclination towards skepticism about their very existence. Just as many people see in Hume’s reflections about the impossibility of sensing necessary connexion a reason to doubt that necessary connexion exists, so many people find the elusiveness of meaning a reason to doubt the existence of meaning. In both cases they are illicitly drawing a metaphysical conclusion from an epistemological premise—something that Hume himself emphatically does not do.

            What goes for meaning presumably goes for concepts: these too are intrinsically unknowable (directly), though they are real enough, and we form ideas of them by recourse to their symptoms. What are their symptoms? Chiefly, they are thoughts: we ascribe concepts to ourselves by ascribing thoughts to ourselves; and we never encounter a concept except in the context of a thought. Thoughts are to concepts as constant conjunction is to causation—and as use is to meaning. Concepts are what make thought possible, as causation is the foundation of regularity: but both are elusive to direct detection. When was the last time you introspected a concept?  [2] Concepts bear an obscure relation to thought, as meaning bears an obscure relation to use: in neither case should we try to reduce the one to the other. We can’t inspect our concepts per se (have “impressions” of them), though we know they are there, just as we can’t inspect causal necessity, though we don’t doubt its existence.

            A Humean view of certain facets of reality is evidently consistent, but is it attractive? It is certainly radical, as Hume recognized with respect to his view of causation; it is not what we naturally assume. We tend to think that we can observe necessity in the objects, or else we suppose that if we can’t that must prove non-existence, leaving only constant conjunction. The idea that causal necessity is real but inaccessible, and that our causal inferences arise from animal instinct not reason, is repugnant to us. Similarly, we tend to assume that meaning is open to introspection, or can be heard in words as sounds are heard. Once this naive position is called into question there a tendency to lapse into skepticism about meaning. The idea that meaning is real but inaccessible, and that our talk of meaning is derived only from extraneous symptoms of it, is also repugnant to us. The same is true of the self, where again it is hard to accept inaccessible realities combined with a non-rationalistic account of our discourse about selves. Still, there is a lot to be said for this kind of view, especially in the light of the troubles occasioned by other views. The idea that our practice might be sustained by something other than direct knowledge of the thing in question, something merely instinctual, is particularly striking. Constant conjunction is quite far removed from the real nature of causation, and mere custom is not what we expect from causal inference; but that is what our ideas of causation ultimately involve, if we follow Hume. This is what he calls a “skeptical solution”—“skeptical” because it finds no rational basis for ordinary belief (hence the problem of induction) and a “solution” because it tells us where our concept comes from and why the practice works. An analogous view of meaning has it that our practice of speaking of meaning is one step removed from meaning itself, which remains elusive, hidden, and mysterious; instead we go by observable symptoms extraneous to meaning. This is a skeptical solution because it suggests that our talk of meaning does not result from rational insight into the nature of meaning but from non-rational natural facts.

            Hume believes that causality (“in the objects”) is fully present in individual instances, so that the effect could be inferred from the cause alone had we the requisite knowledge of the cause. Constant conjunction does not create causal connexion, and indeed can never establish connexion as opposed to mere conjunction. There is, for Hume, nothing to prevent a single instance of causation that is never repeated. And yet we have no knowledge of causation except by experiencing constant conjunctions and feeling the tug of instinct to venture beyond them. In the case of meaning an analogous view would insist that meaning is present whole and entire in every act of meaning, with regular linguistic use a mere contingent accompaniment. And yet we cannot form an idea of meaning except by recourse to what is contingent and dispensable (behavior or states of consciousness), and then letting nature do its work. Meaning in itself is real, singular, and inherent, but our knowledge of it perforce relies upon symptoms that don’t do justice to its nature. If causal powers could look at constant conjunctions, they would not recognize themselves therein; likewise, if meanings could look at linguistic behavior and states of linguistic consciousness, they would not recognize themselves therein. Causation is really nothing like constant conjunction, and meaning is really nothing like its symptoms (inner or outer); yet we are condemned to conceive of them both in terms “extraneous and foreign”.  [3]

 

  [1] Saul Kripke, Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language (Basil Blackwell: Oxford, 1982). I discuss this book in Wittgenstein on Meaning (Basil Blackwell: Oxford, 1984).

  [2] I mean a concept in isolation, not connected to other concepts. It is true that we can try to analyze a concept, but when we do we position it within a thought—we can’t just gaze at it independently of the thoughts in which it might occur. Concepts come to us as constituents of propositions (this is a version of Frege’s context principle). We can’t be conscious of concepts as pre-propositional units.

  [3] The same thing cannot be said of consciousness or typical conscious states: here we do have an “adequate idea” of that of which we speak. In Hume’s language, we understand the nature of “impressions and ideas”—these are not hidden like causation or the self.

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