Wimbledon and Me

Wimbledon and Me

I had always been a one-handed player, forehand and backhand. Occasionally I would try a two-handed backhand and find it awkward and unnatural. But my neck operation in March changed all of this: it left my right arm impaired, causing me to lose power, mobility, and control. I was assured it would get better, but nobody ever claimed it would go back to normal, and I don’t think it will. I decided to try to play two-handed, mainly hitting against the wall at the Biltmore tennis center. I’m not going to say it was easy but it didn’t prove as impossible as I feared. The forehand was the easiest because it doesn’t differ much from a one-handed forehand; you just add your left hand to your right on the handle. With a good amount of practice, I started to get it. The backhand was harder because you have to use your non-dominant hand as the main source of power and control. It’s true that I use my left hand a good deal for drums and guitar, but tennis is different. However, after a couple of months of almost daily practice it started to feel natural. I have got to the point that when I hold the racket in one hand to hit, I want to add my left hand to the action—it feels strange to use just one hand. Theoretically, this makes sense: no baseball player or cricketer would choose to use one hand, and obviously two hands are better than one for power and control. That’s why tennis players switched from one hand to two for the backhand (with some notable exceptions). But if that is true for the backhand, doesn’t it carry over to the forehand? Why don’t more players use a two-handed forehand (like Monica Seles)? I don’t know.

         So when I watch Wimbledon it now seems odd to me to see players using two hands for the backhand and then reverting to one hand for the forehand. This is especially true for recreational players who don’t have the speed and strength to hit well with one hand (kids, oldsters, the impaired). I even think I might improve my game by going two-handed! It is certainly an interesting way to play, if not one I would have welcomed.

Share

Mass and Consciousness

Mass and Consciousness

In “The Mysteries of Mass” Jorge Cham and Daniel Whitestone write as follows: “We have many descriptions of mass but very little understanding of what it is and why we have it. We all feel mass. As a baby, you develop that sense that some things are harder to push around than others. But as familiar as that feeling is, most physicists would struggle to explain the underlying technical details. As you’ll see in this chapter, most of your mass is not made out of the masses of all the particles inside of you. We don’t know even know why some things have mass and some don’t, or why inertia perfectly balances out the force of gravity. Mass is mysterious, and you can’t it all on that dessert you had last night.” (58-60)[1] Here we can substitute “consciousness” for “mass” in certain places and get something both sensible and true. In particular, consciousness is a mystery, and despite the fact that we all feel it we don’t know why some things have it and some don’t. The authors go on to observe that inertia is a mystery and that we don’t understand why some things have it and some don’t (64, 68). They also note that particles have very different masses for which we have no explanation: it seems arbitrary what mass a particular type of particle has. Particle mass is not predictable from such properties as charge or spin; it seems like a brute fact of nature. The authors sum up: “It’s amazing to think that something so fundamental to our existence [mass] can still be a mystery” (74)

       The analogies to consciousness are staring us in the face, though our authors make no allusion to them. Specifically: (a) we don’t know why some things are conscious and some are not, and (b) the reason why some neurons are associated with consciousness and some are not is opaque to us (not predictable from their physical-chemical properties). The mysteries thus take an analogous form in both cases. Our familiarity with both things may blind us to their mysteries, but a little probing reveals a deep lack of comprehension. I would put the point this way: some things have mass/inertia and some don’t (space, time, neutrinos, numbers, maybe thoughts), just as some things are conscious and some are not (particles, rocks, numbers, space and time). We don’t understand why this is—we just know that it is. Nor do we know why these things are mysterious (the mystery is a mystery). Nor do we see any method by which we could resolve the mystery. The mysteries are deep, intractable. Did mass evolve from an earlier massless state of the universe? If so, evolved from what and by what mechanism or process? Did consciousness evolve from an earlier non-conscious state of the universe? If so, evolved from what and by what mechanism or process? We might compare the massless neutrino with the insentient zombie: both behave like objects with mass/consciousness, yet these attributes are lacking. In short, the parallels are remarkable and instructive.

       Here are two further points of analogy, both quite speculative. First, mass is defined in terms of inertia, i.e., resistance to change of motion in response to force applied; while consciousness is often defined in terms of what might be called epistemic resistance, i.e., ease of knowledge by an outside party (the other minds problem in its various forms). Mass is defined by how easy it is to move the object; mind is defined by how easy it is to know the object (subject). Some objects are harder to move than others, and some minds are harder to know than others (by other minds). Second, there are two concepts of mass in physics, inertial mass and gravitational mass, which though distinct are closely related. Similarly, in psychology there are two types of consciousness, non-conceptual consciousness and conceptual consciousness. Though distinct, these are closely related. Perceptual consciousness is inherently non-conceptual; cognitive consciousness is essentially conceptual or propositional. Sensation and thought are two types of consciousness, as inertial mass and gravitational mass are two types of mass. So, there is a similar abstract structure here. Of course, none of these analogies and mysteries provide reasons to jettison mass or consciousness from our conceptual scheme; but they do encourage tolerance of the mysteries attending consciousness. Even so basic a scientific concept as mass has its mysterious side.[2]

[1] We Have No Idea (2017), chapter 5.

[2] Of course, consciousness isn’t identical to mass!

Share

Cancer and Cancelation

I doubt that it will be necessary to cancel me for much longer, which will be a relief to my cancelers. Cancer will step in to help them out.

Share

Radiation

I have just finished six weeks of radiation treatment, five days a week. Among other things it damaged (temporarily) my sense of taste, making it difficult to eat; I now weigh 128 pounds. Compensation: it is now much easier to do my horizontal balance and I can do more pushups.

Share

Tranquility Ethics

Tranquility Ethics

What constitutes the good life? According to ethical hedonism, the good life is the life of pleasure. But what is it about pleasure that makes it conducive to the good life? Is it pleasure’s inherent phenomenology or is it something to which pleasure gives rise? Is it the way pleasure feels or is it the kind of effect that pleasure produces? What might that effect be? Consider the following case: you are setting out to write something important to you so that you require undisturbed time alone; however, a good friend of yours of hedonistic persuasion decides to give you a lot of pleasure by arranging all manner of delightful diversions. You do not welcome these intrusions despite their undeniable pleasurableness. Or consider the pleasure machine that ensures non-stop enjoyment but gives you no time to do anything else: again, this will detract from other values you hold dear. Too much pleasure seems to upset the balance. Nevertheless, pleasure does achieve one kind of outcome for which you have reason to be grateful: it spares you the discontent that comes from having unsatisfied desires. You don’t have to worry about desires you can’t satisfy, needs that go unmet. So you want the amount of pleasure that accompanies satisfaction, contentment, but you don’t want so much pleasure that you feel deluged with the stuff. The good life, then, is not so much the maximum amount of pleasure as the right amount of pleasure. But what is the right amount?

            I suggest it is the amount that ensures tranquility.[1] The qualitative feel of pleasure may be part of what gives it value, but that is not the whole story—there is also its connection with what might be called peace of mind. For example, the pleasure of eating is associated with the knowledge that one is not going to go hungry in the near future, and it is incompatible with hunger pangs felt in the moment. Present and future hunger pangs are not consistent with a tranquil, contented, peaceful state of mind. If (per impossibile) pleasure invariably led to a troubled and distracted state of mind, then it would not have the value it now has; indeed, one might wonder if it has any value. So some of the value of pleasure derives from its instrumental value as a way of achieving tranquility—though it can lead to the opposite of tranquility in certain (unusual) circumstances. Perhaps this link to tranquility explains at least part of the attraction of ethical (and prudential) hedonism. The pleasurable life is the tranquil life—calm, peaceful, composed, restful, and agreeable. It is the opposite of chaotic, anxious, vexatious, and annoying. And tranquility is a value to which we can readily assent: we all want to live a tranquil life; we all subscribe to what might be called “tranquility ethics”. One of the things we ought to do (morally and prudentially) is bring about a state of tranquility. Tranquility is a good thing.

            Now consider virtue ethics: the good life is the virtuous life. This looks like a very different conception of the good life from that of the hedonist: instead of pursuing pleasure we should act as we morally ought to act. Then and only then will we be living a good life. Obedience to God is one version of this general position. A reason often given for following this precept is that we will not have to suffer the pangs of conscience: we will be contented with ourselves and not tormented by perception of our moral failures (and prudential blindness). The virtuous life is a life untroubled by a guilty conscience. But notice the affinity between this rationale and that presented by the reflective hedonist: the virtuous life is similarly the tranquil life. We will not be distracted by the pricks of conscience; we will be free to pursue whatever occupations appeal to us. We will not lie awake at night berating ourselves for our bad deeds—as the hungry person lies awake wondering where his next meal is coming from. So tranquility is part of the appeal of virtue ethics too. It turns out, then, that hedonism and moralism (as we might call it) share a common feature, namely that both rest upon an underlying commitment to the value of tranquility. We can imagine a moral theorist beginning with tranquility and moving on from there to advocate (limited) hedonism and (moderate) moralism. Thus: tranquility is clearly central to the good life (morally and prudentially); hedonism and moralism serve the cause of tranquility; therefore we should adopt hedonism and moralism. But we only accept them in a form that respects tranquility: not excessive injunctions to maximize pleasure, and not extreme forms of moral self-abnegation, but sensible precepts that don’t upset the delicate balance that ensures peace of mind. Then we will be living the best possible life for a human being. Given the nature of human existence, we know that tranquility is difficult to achieve, but it should be our focus, our ideal; it should form the core of the good life.[2] A life with much pleasure in it will be a tranquil life (as long as the pleasure is not too distracting), and a life of virtue will also be a tranquil life (if not pushed to absurd extremes): so we should find room for both things. Thus tranquility ethics unites hedonistic ethics and virtue ethics, as well as highlighting a central value often neglected. The happy person is seen not as someone overflowing with pleasure, or as sternly following the moral law, but as someone internally at peace, untroubled, cool, calm and collected.

No doubt many characters from literature could be cited as fitting this description, but James Bond provides a simple and familiar example of the type (if somewhat cartoonish): always in pursuit of pleasure but heedful of the demands of duty, never flustered, inwardly calm (even when delivering necessary violence), utterly imperturbable. He faces situations of utmost stress but he never loses his quietness of mind, his composure, his sangfroid. Even his name suggests firmness of purpose, an internal unity. No wonder people envy James Bond his life-style, his easy way with the world. Despite his superficial difference from another famous spy, George Smiley, both men have a kind of inner constancy, a preternatural calmness under pressure. You feel they would remain tranquil in the most perilous of situations (likewise Mr. Spock for different reasons). By contrast, Shakespeare’s characters (Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Macbeth) are hardly ever tranquil, always worked up about something. As to ordinary humans, their life is full of anxiety, disquiet, inner conflict, turmoil, uncertainty, fear, and want—the very opposite of tranquility. This is why it makes sense to urge its importance, and its difficulty. This is also why we envy trees their tranquil lives. It is strange that the Western tradition in philosophy places so little weight on tranquility.

Colin McGinn

[1] Eastern traditions emphasize tranquility as essential to the good life, but I won’t talk about this here except to say that detachment from emotions and from other people does not seem to me a good way to achieve the right kind of tranquility. Tranquility comes in degrees, and perfect tranquility strikes me as unachievable given human nature.

[2] The concept of tranquility is not the same as the Aristotelian concept of flourishing: the latter concept connotes realizing one’s potential in forms of excellence, while the former concept is more negative in that it suggests an absenceof turmoil as part of the good life. Tranquility is not feeling certain things like anxiety or self-hatred or anger. Rocks are tranquil.

Share

Perceiving

Perceiving

Two positions have dominated the philosophy of perception: naïve realism and the sense-datum theory. Either we see material objects “directly” or we see only sense-data. I will describe a hybrid theory according to which the objects of perception are indeed material particulars located at some distance away in space but the properties we see these objects as having are not the objective physical properties actually possessed by such particulars. Instead the properties in question are projected by the mind and have no objective counterparts in the physical world. Thus we should be, to use the standard terminology, naïve realists about the objects perceived but sense-datum theorists about the properties these objects are perceived as possessing. We see physical particulars existing in the distal environment, but the attributes we see them as possessing are not their actual physical attributes; they are (in one sense) mental attributes (or possibly topic-neutral attributes). We see objective particulars, but we don’t see them as having attributes objectively possessed (i.e. the attributes they actually objectively exemplify).[1] Perception is both objective and subjective, depending on which facet of it we are discussing. In the matter of perceptual reference to specific objects the senses are objective, but in the matter of perceptual description (general attributes ascribed) the senses are not objective. In yet other terms, perception is exogenous and endogenous, distal and proximate, “external” and “internal”. Thus naïve realism about the objects of perception doesn’t entail naïve realism about how these objects are perceived, and subjectivism about how objects are perceived doesn’t entail subjectivism about the objects perceived. In fact it turns out that this combination of objectivity and subjectivity is precisely what we should expect of perception, given its function and limitations.

            I won’t spend much time defending the first part of the hybrid theory—the identification of perceptual objects with objective physical particulars. When an ordinary object is before me in my visual field and acts on my senses in the normal way, we can say truly that it is the object I am seeing. It is the very object that I can also sense in other ways—by touch, taste, etc.—and it is the same object that is described by physics and chemistry, biology and geography. It is a three-dimensional solid object located in physical space consisting of atoms and subject to gravity and other forces; it might have been there long before perceiving organisms ever evolved and it will survive their extinction. Its properties are precisely those ascribed to it in objective physical science, whatever those may be. It is completely mind-independent. Yet it is the (direct!) object of perceptual reference—what the perceptual system singles out as a subject of predication (attribution, characterization). It is what is seen: not some intermediary will-o’-the-wisp entity but a real concrete inhabitant of objectivity reality. Nor is there any other object that is simultaneously seen along with this concrete object; it is the only object referred to by the perceptual system. So yes, we see bunches of atoms, assemblages of electrons, protons, and neutrons, collocations of strings or quarks—things that have nothing of the mind built into them. The objects of perception are just the ordinary physical particulars of the natural world, neither more nor less; and nothing else!

            This much will be assented to by most theorists of perception today (not so in the heyday of sense-datum theory); far more controversial is the second part of the theory. It will be supposed that the properties attributed by vision (say) are precisely those objectively possessed by the distal particulars that constitute the objects of sight. For example, I may see an object as round and being round is exactly what that object is—objectively, in reality, as things mind-independently stand. I see the physical particular itself and my eyes ascribe to it the very properties it really has. Maybe I also see it as frightening or delicious-looking, which are mind-involving, but the core of my perceptual representation consists of attributions of objectively instantiated properties—shape, distance, relative position, texture, and so on. I see an object as having edges and by God it has edges! But are things really that simple? Do we see things exactly as they objectively are? Let’s start with color and other secondary qualities: don’t these really have their origin in the mind? Certainly there is a long tradition that supposes so. Again, I won’t go into this question in detail, but it surely is possible that color in objects consists of a disposition to give rise to sensory experiences of a certain sort.  And isn’t the way an organism sees color a result of its specific sensory make-up? The same color might elicit fear in one animal but joy in another, depending on what the object means to the animal (is it predator or prey?). Couldn’t there be creatures that by stipulation project colors onto objects with no detriment to the claim that they nevertheless perceive objective physical particulars? This may be admitted but denied that primary qualities are mentally projected: things surely have shape independently of whether they are perceived to have shape! That may well be so, but is it the same shape? We are familiar with the idea that visual geometry is Euclidian while physical geometry is not, so that how we perceive figure differs from how figure objectively is. Also, there is that old point of Plato’s, namely that nothing in nature is ever perfectly circular or rectangular or straight. These are ideals dealt with in pure geometry, but they don’t apply to the empirical world. But don’t we see things in accordance with this natural geometry? The discus looks round, the picture frame rectangular, etc. We see and feel edges as smooth and continuous while in (microscopic) reality they are bumpy and discontinuous. We see things as solid when they are not, being mainly empty space; or empty when they have tiny particles in them, like air. We perceive spatial relations egocentrically, which they are not intrinsically. Then we have that old chestnut: the circular coin that looks elliptical from an angle. An elliptical representation surely enters into such a perception (no matter what we think), but the coin itself lacks this property. All perceptions come with a mode of presentation (visual constancies provide a good example), but modes of presentation are not part of the reality that we perceive—they are not objective features of the physical world. It is hard to think of any perceptual encounter that is free of subjective elements, i.e. mental representations that incorporate the perspective of the subject. We don’t perceive the world sub specie aeternitatus. We never perceive the world just as it objectively is sans any subjective intrusion; no organism does. We always bring a point of view (the Lebenswelt).

            This is not remotely surprising given how perceptual systems evolved. Perception evolved in conjunction with (inseparably from) the organism’s motor system, and the motor system is a practical capacity. Like all biological systems the sensorimotor system obeys principles of economy and has inherent limitations; it doesn’t build in more than is necessary to achieve its biological purpose (survival, reproduction). Perceptual representational primitives are geared to practical ends not to ideal science, so they suffice to carry out their function if they approximate to objective reality; complete veridicality is not in their job description. Getting the exact geometry of the physical world right is not their aim, so long as there is an adequate correlation between how they represent things and how things objectively are. We don’t find systematic radical discrepancies between perceptual content and objective reality, because that would thwart the purposes of the sensorimotor system; but it can tolerate small degrees of inaccuracy or coarseness or opacity. Animals don’t need “microspical eyes” (to use Locke’s phrase). As long as the perceived external object is represented in practically useful ways, the sensorimotor system is doing its job; it can get by with non-veridical representations as long as they make no difference to practical outcomes. Indeed too much accuracy and precision might interfere with the smooth functioning of the organism (compare vagueness). Of course the human visual system evolved from much simpler visual systems and inherits many of their design features, so we should expect it to have the pragmatic character of earlier systems. Thus some degree of objectivity is desirable, but not complete veridicality, absolute precision. The mind generates perceptual primitives that suit its biological purposes, and these map onto objective reality without necessarily coinciding with it. Thus the properties attributed to external objects by the sensorimotor system are not possessed by those objects as they are independently. Those smooth surfaces that we see and touch are not possessed by physical objects as such; their surfaces are granular and discontinuous—so they are not parts of physical objects objectively considered. The data of sense consist of attributes cobbled together by the mind (ultimately the genes) over the long course of evolution, so sense-datum theory is not wrong on this score (however mangled its expression tended to be).[2] We perceive objects as we represent them for our specific purposes not as they independently are (precisely, objectively, absolutely). Of course objects are disposed to cause in us perceptions that only approximate to their intrinsic objective properties, so they have these dispositional properties; but the properties we attribute are not identical with any properties of the object in itself. Yet we are seeing that object: it is the particular that our perception singles out for comment (so to speak). So our perceptual states have two sides: the objective physical particular that is singled out and the mind-contributed property that is attributed to that particular. We are both locked in our head (as in the traditional sense-datum theory) and oriented to outer reality (as naïve realism supposes). But we are not completely locked in our head, because of the correlations and approximations I have mentioned. We are not a mirror but we are not a black box either.

            There is a question about how mental the perceptual attributes are, and hence how subjective perception is. Earlier sense-datum theorists tended to take sense-data as completely mental—assuming that perceived shape and color were themselves mental phenomena (though not all did this: some took them to be neutral between mental and physical). I would say they are not mental at all, not strictly speaking anyway. I don’t think color properties are really mental properties, despite being projected by the mind. I also believe that geometrical attributes are not themselves mental: being circular, say, is not a property of the mind. They are “abstract” for want of a better word. My point has just been that the attributes ascribed by the perceptual system to physical particulars are not in general identical to attributes objectively possessed by those particulars, so how we see things is not (precisely) how they are objectively. I don’t say that these attributes are mental or subjective, though it is true that they are projected by the mind (they are probably lurking somewhere in the genes). Certainly they are not derived from external objects in the manner of classical empiricism. They are “subjective” only in the sense that they have their origin in the mind not in the sense that they are attributes of the mind (like pain or belief). What I have chiefly wanted to urge is that it is perfectly consistent to maintain a hybrid view of perception, and that both sides of this composite picture are plausible. Perception is of (de re) physical particulars outside the perceiving subject and yet it is as of (de dicto) properties that fail to coincide with the properties objectively possessed by such particulars. Perceptual reference is to physical particulars, but perceptual predication is not of physical properties (i.e. those objectively possessed by physical particulars). So both naïve realism and the sense-datum theory are partly wrong and partly not wrong.[3]

Colin McGinn     

[1] I am adopting some of the terminology developed by Tyler Burge in his Perception: First Form of Mind (2022).

[2] See J.L. Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia (1962) on the mangling.

[3] Burge doesn’t discuss the hybrid theory, though it seems to me consistent with his overall position (except that he tends towards attribute veridicality). I should note that a projective view of perceptual properties is consistent with the existence of perceptual constancies with respect to such properties.

Share

Impersonal Identity

Impersonal Identity

We normally think that bodily survival depends upon identity through time. The body of an animal may change over time, but the body remains one and the same through these changes; the animal doesn’t acquire a numerically distinct body as it goes through life. Even in death the body remains one and the same object (though the organism may be no more). The body of the animal survives death by being identical to an earlier body, going back to the womb. Only when nothing identical to the earlier body exists does the body cease to exist. But what should we say about fission cases? Suppose the body divides into two, either naturally or by artificial intervention: then we have a problem with identity as a criterion of survival. For we cannot say that the later bodies are each identical with the earlier body, since they are not identical with each other; and it seems funny to say that one body could be identical to two bodies taken together. Yet it would surely be an exaggeration to claim that in such a case we have no survival—as if fission cases are just like incineration cases. It seems right on balance to say that the fission of a body allows for survival without identity. That position is reinforced by noting that fission might be succeeded by fusion: the pieces might be put back together again just as they were in the pre-fission body. Surely that would be the very same body that had recently divided into two. The original body had survived even though for a while nothing was identical to it. Bodily survival does not logically require bodily identity over time.

            This conclusion applies to more than just animal bodies. You can divide a statue into two for purposes of ease of transportation, later to be reassembled, and the case is clearly one of survival without identity (the statue survives as two pieces). Likewise for a rock or a plant. Similarly for a club or nation: such social entities can divide and remain in existence. Secession is not cessation. If a club decides to operate henceforward as two clubs, this is not like disbanding the club altogether; it might just be a convenience so to divide, as when a tennis club decides to split into a doubles club and a singles club. The reason for this is that fission involves continuity: the parts of the original entity survive as separate entities. Wherever there is fission there will be survival without identity, because identity is a very demanding relation; there are relations that fall short of it where we still have continued existence. Identity obeys Leibniz’s law, but mere survival does not. If you take apart your bicycle, you don’t destroy it utterly; it may be expressly designed to be taken apart. Nor do you destroy a cake by cutting it into pieces, even though the original cake is not identical to any of its pieces (they are not identical to each other). There is nothing strange or paradoxical here: given fission, survival without identity is what we should expect.

            The survival of persons follows the same pattern. Generally survival coincides with identity through time, but in fission cases (split brain) these come apart. Then we have survival in the shape of erstwhile parts that persist, as when the two halves of the brain are implanted into different bodies. The original brain is not identical with either hemisphere, and it is odd to say that it is identical with both together.[1] But nothing here is surprising once personal fission has been mooted: brains can be divided, and when they are we have survival without identity. Suppose Jekyll resides in one half of a person’s brain and Hyde in the other. When the brain is split and the halves placed in different bodies two persons are formed, but the original person survives the procedure (unlike the case in which the original brain is simply burned to ashes). Nothing here shows anything distinctive or remarkable about persons as such; certainly they are not the onlythings that can survive without benefit of identity. If persons were simple indivisible entities, then fission would not be possible for them; but evidently this is not the case. In fact, the idea of split personality already provides space for such a possibility, given that the two (or more) personalities might come to inhabit distinct bodies. The potential for fission is present in cases of split personality, and it provides an example of survival without identity if the personalities come to occupy distinct bodies. I think this is implicit in our ordinary concept of a person, because we recognize that conflicting psychological traits can coexist inside the same human organism (as with selfish and unselfish traits). All is not harmony within, as many a human story illustrates. Once we envisage dividing an individual into separate unified psychological wholes we are preparing the ground for survival without identity. This is not some startling piece of anti-commonsense philosophy but part of our ordinary folk psychology—which is the story of Jekyll and Hyde makes sense to us. It is true of each of us that if we had our brains suitably rejigged and placed in different bodies, then we would survive without any future person being identical with the person we now are. In this respect we are like the rest of nature.

[1] Even if it were, we could still destroy one and have a case of survival without identity.

Share

Subjects and Persons

 

Subjects and Persons

 

Are persons and subjects identical? Both these concepts are hard to define, but we can fix ideas by saying that subjects are centers of consciousness and persons are constituted by memories, personality traits, and mental and physical capacities. Elsewhere I have given an argument showing that they are not identical, because we can conceive of cases in which the same subject persists while the associated person changes.[1] An implication of this is that subjects and persons, though non-identical, exist in the same place (at the same time). In fact, we are already committed to the spatial coincidence of several distinct entities associated with persons: a particular aggregate of material stuff; a collection of biological cells; a body; a living organism—and in addition subjects and persons. All these have differing identity conditions, so that each can perish while the others survive. The aggregate of matter can go out of existence while the collection of cells persists, and the organism can survive the total replacement of its cells; arguably, too, the person can outlive the organism it was once attached to (say by being uploaded into another organism). All this is very familiar. The question I want to consider here is whether subjects and persons have different conditions of survival: are there cases in which one can survive without the other? I will be particularly interested in fission cases.

Let’s grant that in fission cases (brain bisection and subsequent relocation of the hemispheres) we have survival without identity. My question then is whether in such cases we also have survival of the subject sans identity: does the conscious subject survive in the form of two subjects of consciousness, as the person survives in the form of two persons? Our intuitions are clear about survival of the person, but are they equally clear about survival of the subject? The basis of these intuitions in the case of persons concerns the relationship between the brain and the person: the person as a psychological entity is distributed between the two hemispheres, so we can understand how each hemisphere can form the basis of a person (memories, personality traits, etc.). Thus we have no trouble accepting that brain bisection is not the end of the person. We can survive this operation, as we can survive losing part of our brain but retaining enough to constitute our (partial?) survival. We see what can survive and we understand the mechanism whereby survival occurs (it isn’t like incineration). But the same is not true of the conscious subject; here things are not so clear. What is it in the brain that gets bisected in such a way as to lead to two complete subjects? And what exactly is it that survives? What kind of parts does the subject have that allows for it to be divided into these parts? Do we even have a clear idea of what such division would amount to? Thus we have no articulable intuition comparable to that in the case of the survival of persons under fission. Maybe two brand new subjects emerge from the operation—we have way of telling. We can’t point to a brain structure and observe that it is plainly divisible into two, since the subject and the person are not the same. What if the conscious subject corresponds to a brain structure that cannot be divided into two to yield the survival of the original? It doesn’t have the analogue of two hemispheres, i.e. something capable of preserving a person-like entity in two bodies. What if the subject is simply not a divisible entity at all? We really have no idea, so we don’t have the conviction that it could allow for survival under fission. It might simply die when bisection of its neural correlate occurs. Thus we can be gratified that qua person we could survive fission but not convinced that qua conscious subject we could also survive fission. The subject is a different entity and it doesn’t automatically inherit the survival capabilities of persons; at any rate, we have no solid intuition that it does. The metaphysics of the subject might well preclude what the metaphysics of the person permits. What if the subject is based in a single (remarkable!) neuron that cannot be divided into two to yield two functionally equivalent neurons? Then we don’t have the possibility of survival under division of the physical basis in question—as we do for the person.

Someone might retort that it doesn’t matter; only the person matters. Why should I care if the conscious subject can’t survive under fission? If I must have the operation done I will be comforted to know that the person I am will survive, but I might not care whether the conscious subject I also am will survive. But this is too sanguine: for I will surely care that my own consciousness will survive the operation; it is what I centrally am. My personality may change and my memories fade without losing my identity, but if a numerically distinct center of consciousness comes to occupy my body then in a very real sense I no longer exist. If your conscious self replaces mine (while leaving my personhood intact) I shall feel that I have lost my essence; it’s not like having some else’s kidney put into my body. I care whether I survive! Perhaps we should say that both subject and person matter and not try to decide which matters more, since we may want to preserve our personhood as well as our subject-hood. The difference is that in the one case fission is clearly compatible with survival, while in the other case this claim is far more problematic; we don’t really have any clear idea of what the latter kind of fission might consist in. We only have a very schematic idea of what the conscious subject is (vide Hume) while the concept of a person has more structure (memories, projects, personality, etc.). It is even epistemically possible that our lives are populated by many successive conscious subjects that merge imperceptibly together. The concept of the pinpoint unstructured self has its intuitive appeal, with nothing to distinguish one self from another. In any case, survival without identity is harder to make sense of in the case of the conscious subject as such. The person is marked as to gender, for example, yet the conscious subject does not appear to be; so we know what must survive for fission to be a case of personal survival. But what has to survive in order that the conscious subject survives? One wants to say: merely the thing itself. Attributes matter in the one case but not in the other.

Thus if we are interested in the question of what it takes for us to survive, we need to consider two entities (not counting the living organism)—the person and the subject of consciousness—and different answers may be indicated in the two cases. Certainly we should not assume that what matters is preserved under fission just because this is true for persons; it may not be true for subjects (or organisms/animals). I am myself inclined to say that the preservation of the person matters less, simply because one’s personal profile changes considerably over a single life, from childhood to old age: but one remains the same animal and the same subject of consciousness throughout one’s life. So fission cases have less significance for the survival of what we are than has been recognized. We are animals and subjects of consciousness as well as persons, but only persons allow for clear cases of survival without identity.

[1] See my “I Am Not a Person”.

Share