Bathroom Blues

Bathroom Blues

The president was loitering in one of the many bathrooms of the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. As a construction person, he was much interested in the décor of this palatial retreat. So much fine marble! So much ornate gold! It made Mara Lago look paltry and poor in comparison. He was having a hard time with respect to envy, he admitted. This royal bathroom was Yuge and had several toilets each separately designed, so you could take your pick. There was a large fridge in it full of soft drinks (he had already taken a diet coke). The floor to ceiling mirrors made him look small, insignificant. His ego was taking a bruising in the envy area. The White House now struck him as cramped and cheap—a place where a loser might live (if live is the word). Gloomily, he exited.

After a two-mile walk, he came upon the prince himself—a tall regal man dressed in flowing robes. Telegenic. He was the center of all he beheld. He shook the hand of the president, the latter’s hand limper than he liked. He didn’t know whether to bow. “How are your accommodations?” the prince asked. “Magnificent”, the president replied. “Top quality fittings everywhere—beautiful, beautiful”. The prince beamed with royal benign. “And how is the president’s wife?” “Oh, she’s doing marvelously, so popular, so devoted”, replied the president. He couldn’t help reflecting that the Crown Prince had no indictments against him and had never had to appear in court even once. Nor was he ridiculed by TV comedians and harassed by the press. Come to think of it, the man had never done a day’s work in his life, or owed any bank money, or had ever gone bankrupt. Really, there was no comparison between the two with respect to the success and winning. The president was reduced to thinking about his military and his TV celebrity and his superiority over the pope.

The president was mounting his plane feeling low. It was a great visit, he was praised by everyone, a total success like the world had never seen before. So much respect! But he couldn’t stop thinking about that bathroom—so much beauty, so much class! He settled into his seat and tried not to think about it. He ordered a burger and gazed listlessly out of the window. He knew he would never be completely happy again.

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A Bit of History

A Bit of History

When I arrived in Oxford in 1972, after having studied psychology for the previous four years in Manchester, I was in need of a philosophy supervisor. At that time, I was enrolled in the B.Litt. program, having been deemed by R.M. Hare not qualified to undertake the B.Phil. degree. I had recently read an article by Michael Ayers that seemed to me akin to the work of the Danish philosopher Peter Zinkernagel, with whom I had had a lengthy correspondence. He agreed to supervise me. After the first term, he recommended that I should be promoted to the B.Phil., which duly happened. He was an excellent supervisor and a nice man. However, as it turned out, the philosophy panel had assigned me to Simon Blackburn, then a young philosopher recently arrived from Cambridge. I wrote to tell him that I had already signed up with Michael Ayers, which meant I had little to do with him during my education at Oxford. I often wonder how things would have gone if I had not chanced upon that article by Michael and thus ended up with Simon. It’s impossible to say. The next person to supervise me was Peter Strawson, arranged by Michael—would I have had him if I had gone with Simon? These counterfactuals are a mystery! As the years went by, I had more to do with Simon, though our paths didn’t intersect that much; I did review one of his books for the TLS. We also did a seminar together in Oxford when I was Wilde Reader. Now, over fifty years later, Simon reviewed my book Philosophical Provocations, very favorably. I think back to that time in Oxford when I arrived from outside and in another subject and was in want of a supervisor.

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Certainty

Certainty

As a topic in the philosophy of mind, as opposed to epistemology, certainty has not received much attention. I intend to put that right. What kind of mental state is certainty? What is its analysis? I will be asking a series of questions, this being a new field—certainty studies. First, what is the relation between certainty and consciousness? There has always been a vague feeling that the two belong together (see Descartes), but how exactly? The following is an appealing thesis: consciousness is a necessary condition for certainty, but not sufficient. You can’t be certain unless your certainty is conscious, but you can be conscious without being certain. There is no such thing as unconscious certainty, but there is such a thing as conscious uncertainty. Here we must bring in the concept of belief: there can be unconscious beliefs (most beliefs are unconscious most of the time), and conscious beliefs can be uncertain. So, certainty is not the same as belief, even strong belief. This implies that certainty is not analyzable in terms of belief: it is a different kind of mental state. I will come back to this; I am still asking questions not providing answers. Is certainty perhaps the highest degree of belief, or something quite different and sui generis?

Is certainty voluntary? Can we decide to be certain? It is generally agreed that we can’t decide to believe, but can we decide to be certain of what we believe? Can the true believer decide to be certain that God exists? Is this subject to the will? That sounds both possible and impossible. I can apparently decide to be certain of my wife’s fidelity for reasons of marital harmony, not letting any doubts creep into my mind, but I surely don’t believe that her infidelity is impossible. We speak of moral certainty, but we acknowledge that we might be wrong. Didn’t Hume decide to adopt an attitude of certainty when he left his skeptical study? I can decide to be strong in the face of the world’s hostilities, so can’t I decide to be certain in the face of its uncertainties? Can’t I adopt an attitude of confident conviction, firm resolve, calm assurance? Didn’t Descartes decide to doubt—so why can’t he decide to not doubt? What is going on here?[1]

Can there be Kripke puzzles about certainty?[2] Pierre believes that London is pretty and he also believes that London is not pretty, but can he be certain that London is pretty and also certain that London is not pretty? He isn’t certain that London is pretty in Kripke cases, because it might only be pretty in places, and Pierre knows this. It seems a lot harder to have contradictory certainties than contradictory beliefs, because there is no room for ignorance when certainty is present. Could someone be certain that 2 is even and also certain that 2 is not even? It is hard to imagine a case in which this situation is possible. No such case has ever been presented. Could I be certain I am in pain and also certain that I am not in pain?

Could a person be certain of everything he believes? Or does certainty require the presence of uncertainty elsewhere? Does it need the contrast? What would it be like to be certain of even the most doubtful things, never letting doubt creep in? Surely, there has never been such a person. Total uncertainty sounds far more possible, as with the confirmed skeptic. Certainty is arguably inherently exceptional not routine and automatic. Must a person be uncertain of most things? Isn’t the Cogito the exception not the rule? Could someone be certain of all inductive inferences, knowing what they involve?

Does certainty have a distinctive neural correlate, a neural signature? How does it differ from a belief correlate? Does this correlate overlap with the neural correlate of consciousness? What would a neuroscience of certainty look like? Is it something like a high level of neural excitation? Is there a certainty neuron or brain center?

Could a person discover he was certain of something? Could he be ignorant of his certainty and then come to know that he is certain? That sounds impossible; if so, why? What does it tell us about the intrinsic nature of certainty? A person could discover what he believes—truly believes, as we say—but the same does not seem true of certainty. Is it because certainty cannot be unconscious whereas belief can be?

Is certainty free-floating or must it be tied to particular examples? I am certain of my own mental states but not of the external world, but could another being invert this pattern? Could you be brought up to be certain of external things but uncertain of internal things? If you were indoctrinated in such a certainty system, wouldn’t you eventually rebel? Doesn’t a proposition have to be certain in order for you to be certain of it? And yet certainty seems to some extent subject to the will. It is a slippery thing, apparently, modally ambiguous.

Does certainty come in degrees, like belief? Can I be more certain of this than that? Could I have a low degree of certainty about something? That sounds distinctly off, conceptually. Certainty seems all or nothing—you either have it or you don’t. There are no borderline cases.

Is certainty identifiable with the highest degree of belief—is such a conceptual reduction possible? It sounds reasonable enough, but is it really an analytic truth? Couldn’t there be an unconscious belief of maximum degree? And couldn’t a person consciously believe something to the max and yet not feel certain about it? He has the belief but he doesn’t have the accompanying attitude of certainty—perhaps he is certainty-phobic because he has been let down in the past, or the part of his brain responsible for certainty has been damaged but not the part responsible for degrees of belief. There seems to be daylight between these two concepts.

Is there such a thing as certainty-how as well as certainty-that? There can be knowledge-how as well as knowledge-that, but is the same true of certainty? The two concepts have been closely associated, but does certainty admit of the “how” construction? Can I say “I am certain how” as I can say “I know how”? That sounds a bit iffy, not quite grammatical, and yet not beyond the semantic pale—we do say “I’m not sure how to fix this”. But can we say “You clearly are not certain how to do that” as we can say “You clearly don’t know how to do that”? We definitely cannot say “I believe how to do this” and the like. Certainty seems to hover between knowledge and belief in this respect; it is certainly happier with the “that” construction.

Here is a suggestion: certainty is to belief what intention is to desire. Intention is clearly close to desire, and it is tempting to analyze intention in terms of desire; but careful reflection recommends distinguishing the two concepts—no reduction of the former to the latter is plausible. Similarly, certainty and belief are close cousins, even mutually dependent, but certainty is a condition unto itself, not reducible to belief. It is exalted belief, as intention is exalted desire—transformed, elevated, metamorphosed. It is really a thing apart, though indebted to its conceptual relative. We might say that certainty is belief crystallized, as intention is desire crystallized—a new level of mental being. This is revealed in behavior:  intention triggers action and certainty triggers decision. Both are motivational attributes, closely bound up with the will.

What is the phenomenology of certainty (we dealt with its physiology—obscure)? Here we reach the nub. Is it the same as the phenomenology of belief? For it seems right to say that certainty is, or involves, a feeling—the feeling of being certain. But there is no such feeling of belief. We feel a rush of certainty, but not a rush of belief—a wave, a throb. We crave certainty; we are unhappy with uncertainty. Certainty is pleasurable (though not always), but uncertainty is not—it can be painful. There could be a certainty drug that produced the feeling in question, and people might pay good money for it. It is tempting to say that there is a sensation of certainty, located in the gut as well as the head. Thus, the thrill of certainty—the headiness, the excitement. Not for nothing do people seek certainty and are reluctant to relinquish it. Russell longed for the certainty of mathematics in other areas of his life—certainty made him happy. He kept searching for it, needing a shot of certainty. Let’s admit it: certainty is an emotion—a peculiar one, to be sure, but an emotion nonetheless. It is akin to love, or at least lust. We lust after certainty. Certainty is a certain kind of ecstasy. Uncertainty is a kind of torment. Certainty removes anxiety, creates confidence, tranquility. Certainty is at the emotional center of human life. We love certainty. An age without certainty is an age of anxiety.

What is the explanation of this positive valence? I have a speculative idea: certainty is what precedes satiation. The animal doesn’t know where its next meal is coming from; its belly lets it know the problem. It is full of existential doubt. It searches desperately for food. When food is finally within its grasp it feels a wave of certainty: now I am going to eat! This feeling of certainty means survival for another day. The animal knows it is about to be fed—it is certain of it. It isn’t yet satiated, but the moment is nigh, and the animal knows it. Certainty is what you feel when you are about to be fed, and hence saved from starvation. We want the feeling because we want what it leads to; the two are associated in our minds (brains). Certainty is yet another strategy of the selfish gene: these are the biological roots of our craving for certainty. That is my speculative idea anyway. It must have some function.

Does certainty have a bodily expression? Does it reveal itself in the face? I believe it does: shining eyes, a slight smile, a smug look. This is the characteristic expression of the convinced religious believer—a lack of natural human anxiety. I think I have that look when I reach a philosophical conclusion that strikes me as unassailable. Oh, how often—every few years, or every day? I will have to investigate. Mere belief doesn’t configure the face so markedly. Certainty is an emotion, so it has a bodily expression—a somewhat rarified emotion sometimes, but a real one.

When does the child develop the feeling of certainty? A good question for the child psychologist. I doubt it is present in the early months, what with all the crying and grimacing; but I suspect it doesn’t take long to evolve. Perhaps it first manifests itself when the breast heaves into view and the baby knows it is in a for a hearty meal. Before that it was full of Cartesian doubt (“Was I just dreaming of that creamy nipple?”), but then the joy of tactile immediacy—all doubt is banished. Later in life there is all manner of uncertainty to contend with, occasionally relieved by episodes of pleasurable certainty, recalling those blissful days at the mother’s breast. A philosopher eventually sprouts, eager to explore the topic of certainty.

The topic of certainty thus has its logic, semantics, metaphysics, phenomenology, folk psychology, and child psychology—like any topic in the philosophy of mind. It also plays a role in epistemology in relation to knowledge and justification. Ideally, one would like to integrate these two perspectives. In epistemology we are concerned with whether certainty is ever justified and whether knowledge requires certainty, among other topics; now we know more about what certainty actually is—what kind of mental state it is. It is a type of passion, in the old terminology, as well as a cognitive phenomenon. It is not reducible to brain states or behavior or belief, but is a sui generis denizen of mind. It belongs as much to emotion and the will as to thought and knowledge. It merits careful scrutiny.[3]

[1] The OED gives us “completely convinced of something” for “certain”. This doesn’t give us much to go on, though it does offer the nice example of a convinced pacifist under “convince”. The word “convince” carries connotations of persuasion, as in interpersonal dialogue. We don’t normally speak of the physical world as convincing or persuading us of anything. Perhaps the paradigms of certainty involve persuasive arguments. The concept of certainty is not very revealing from an analytic point of view.

[2] See “A Puzzle About Belief”.

[3] I have not discussed certainty and the a priori, certainty and self-knowledge, certainty and necessity, certainty and skepticism, animal certainty, certainty and faith, certainty and assertion, and no doubt other things. These are all worthwhile topics to investigate.

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The President’s Jet

The President’s Jet

Reclining in his big beautiful bathroom, the president felt things were going well—really well, in fact, frankly. Even the water pressure in his gleaming shower was working well on his magnificent hair. An Arab state had officially made him the gift of a brand-new luxury jet costing a billion dollars (give or take five hundred million). He would have to be a stupid person not to accept, so he gleefully did. He was intending to ask them to throw in more gold and a dedicated crew, which he was sure they would agree to. Not only that, but behind the scenes they had asked him if he would like a big beautiful palace as well; he had hesitated for at least a nanosecond before accepting—he wasn’t a stupid person. He was sure that many of the world’s top women would be tempted to visit—not for sex, just so you understand, but purely for show. Even his wife seemed pleased at the jet gift, as it seemed like a good way to get away with her girlfriends to visit fashion shows in Estonia (the president had not mentioned the palace for obvious reasons). Maybe now he would get some respect from those nasty women “journalists” from the fake news who kept asking him disrespectful questions about his policies. He was standing tall and walking straight and sitting comfortably—this was what he had signed up for. Some losers had muttered some nonsense about security concerns, but he wasn’t worried because he knew that he was perfectly secure. He was looking forward to having a bigger plane than Elon, though he would make a point of not inviting him aboard. It was all going very golfingly, as he liked to say.

But above all it would settle his little problem with the pope. All Little Leo had was his pathetic popemobile—he didn’t even own his tiny Vatican apartment. No Arab state had offered him his own gold-plated luxury plane. He just wasn’t that important (“consequential” as the president had recently learned to say—he knew all the big words). He could lord it over the pope, no problem. He wondered whether some Arab state would buy the Vatican for him, hmmm. What with crypto-coin he was rolling in it! With these agreeable thoughts humming in his head, the president wandered royally into the kitchen, expecting to see his wife happily absorbed in a glossy. But she wasn’t there, having gone off to a spa in Latvia with a couple of her rich girlfriends without mentioning it. He pressed a button that would bring him a refreshing coke and stared vacantly at the wall dreaming of his big beautiful jet and royal palace.

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Elicitism

Elicitism

I will state what I think is the correct account of knowledge, to be set beside empiricism and rationalism. All concepts and perceptual impressions are innately based; what is not innate is their combinations. It is like language: the basic lexicon is innate, as are the basic rules of grammar; what is not innate are the specific combinations that are constructed over time. These elements are not derived or copied from external objects; neither are concepts mere copies of sense impressions. Empirical knowledge, so called, arises from causal interactions between the innate cognitive system and objective states of affairs. A priori knowledge does not arise in this way, but in some way difficult to understand. The relation between constituents of knowledge and external objects is one of elicitation not similarity (“faint copies”). The external stimulus elicits the innately determined scheme so as to direct action. Effective action does not require an identity of nature between inner and outer but only a kind of abstract isomorphism. We can compare the internal scheme with overt behavior in that both are innately based and not derived by copying from outer stimuli. Reflex behavior is innately determined, elicited by external stimuli, and not structurally or qualitatively similar to the eliciting stimulus; rather, there is a kind of isomorphism between the two—a lawful connection. Evolution requires no more. It would be attractive to suppose that the internal representations result from the internalization of ancient behavioral responses, but such a theory seems hard to maintain. Still, the parallel exists: innate reactions triggered by external stimuli in the absence of any copying relation. The knowledge system is thus a mixture of rationalist elements (innate mental representations) and knowledge-producing interactions with the external world (plus whatever process leads to a priori knowledge). The constituents of knowledge are not “derived” from the objects of knowledge but original elements of the mind: their nature is not fixed by the nature of the objects that elicit them. I call this theory (really, statement of fact) “elicitism”, because it stresses that the relation between knowledge and its objects is that of elicitation not duplication, much like the relation between stimulus and behavioral response. In fact, there is nothing to stop us from speaking of psychological responses as a type of behavior, viz. mental behavior (or action). Whatever truth there is in classical empiricism (not much) is contained in this theory (statement of fact). In short: knowledge is the result of an innate cognitive system plus a relation of elicitation.[1]

[1] If this sounds like a truism, it is intended to be.

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Locke, Hume, and Mystery

Locke, Hume, and Mystery

Both Locke and Hume were mysterians. Locke stressed the limits of knowledge obtainable by the senses, this being the only basis for human knowledge; he thought that solidity, for example, has a nature we cannot know. Matter in general is a mystery for Locke. Hume focused on causation, but he too maintained that this aspect of the world transcends human knowledge. But curiously, neither philosopher extended this mysterian viewpoint to knowledge itself—why? They were quite confident about the nature of knowledge: they had a theory about it, namely empiricism. All knowledge derives from and is caused by experience: this is its nature, its essence, its reality. They never seem to have contemplated the possibility that knowledge might not be comprehensible by the human mind; in particular, they never wondered whether some types of knowledge (usually dubbed a priori) might have an unknown nature. They thought they knew exactly what knowledge intrinsically is, what explains it, what constitutes it. Why the inconsistency?

The answer isn’t at all obvious, but I have a hypothesis. The mysteries of matter were becoming clearer as the science of physics progressed, but the mysteries of mind had not yet become visible. Thus, consciousness itself was not perceived as mysterious—and knowledge is one of its attainments. More particularly, the role of the brain was not yet clear: brain science had not got off the ground—the nerve impulse was yet to be discovered. So, questions about mind and brain were not yet part of the intellectual landscape. If they were, our two philosophers would surely have wondered how the brain is capable of knowledge—how, indeed, experience arises from the brain. Then, mystery would have entered their calculations—mysteries of mind not just matter. They could be content with an empiricist theory knowledge because it never occurred to them that the mind might itself be a mystery—specifically, how knowledge is related to the physical world. They thought knowledge could not extend beyond experience because that was the only theory they were able to understand, neglecting the possibility that knowledge might work in ways they were incapable of understanding. Their inconsistency is therefore intelligible, if not defensible. In other words, our impressions of knowledge, like our impressions of solidity and causation, might not reveal the true of nature of what they are impressions of.

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Absurdity

Absurdity

Every now and then I am struck by the sheer absurdity of my current situation. I live approximately a mile from the University of Miami, where I used to be a philosophy professor. I drive by there frequently. For twelve years I have had no contact with the people in the philosophy department. I am banned from campus under threat of forcible removal. Why, I don’t know. People who used to be my friends and colleagues shun me like the plague. Why, I don’t know. With the exception of Ed Erwin (now deceased) everyone keeps their distance. Meanwhile I churn out philosophy at least as good as anything I did before. My professional contacts (and friends) include Thomas Nagel, Noam Chomsky, Rebecca Goldstein, Richard Dawkins, and Steven Pinker—not a shabby list. But no one from my old department. I once inquired if my ex-colleagues would be okay with my attending colloquia and was rebuffed. Why, I don’t know. All is silence. I am reminded of Cincinnatus C. in Nabokov’s dark comedy Invitation to a Beheading, imprisoned for a nameless crime and condemned to death. The nearest he comes to understanding the nature of his crime is the phrase “gnostical turpitude”; for this he is betrayed by everyone and duly beheaded. A similar fate befalls Josef K. in Kafka’s The Trial. It’s the not knowing that constitutes the worst punishment. My situation is not quite so serious, but it is equally hilarious. We should all get together and have a good laugh about it.

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President and Pope

President and Pope

The president was seething in his presidential bathroom. This time it wasn’t his political enemies or the fake news media or Robert de Niro. It was the pope. The new pope. The American new pope. The problem was obvious: he was drawing big crowds, he was on TV a lot, he was popular, he was multilingual, intelligent, and respected by all the top cardinals. None of this was acceptable to the president, especially the big crowds. There was a distinct danger that this guy might become the most famous American on the planet. The president felt that he looked more papal (he said paypal) than that short guy from Chicago; also, his hand gestures were not as good as the president’s. The president had the best hand gestures. There were rumors that the new pope was not a supporter of his and didn’t love his country. He had to be stopped before he made nasty comments about the president. He straightened his tie, checked his makeup, and exited the bathroom, forgetting to flush the toilet (he had bigger things on his mind).

In the kitchen his wife was gazing at a glossy magazine. She didn’t look up. The president didn’t care. He said, “Do you think he’s hot like me?” Still not looking up, she replied “What?” “The new pope”, he said. “I guess he’s fairly attracteeve for a pope”, was her languid response. “But he’s so short”, he countered. She said nothing. “Anyway, he has never had sex with any of the world’s top women”, he commented ruminatively. That had to count for something. The presidential wife pretended not to hear. Presently, he left, having serious presidential work to do in the Oval.

He had a plan. He was smart, much smarter than all those so-called intellectuals and book-readers. His first line of attack was obvious: the guy was not a real American—he was born in Peru, then smuggled into the country. Where was his birth certificate? It worked with Obama, so it should work with this Leo character (not even his real name). People are saying his mother was a Peruvian washer woman (whatever that is); and that he never knew his father. The Democrats then allowed him to worm his way into the Catholic church in a DEI initiative. Second, that conclave thing was a fake election: he was never really elected pope. It was rigged, a scam, a criminal conspiracy, the cardinals were all part of a deep state plot—how did anyone know otherwise? Third, he isn’t really a Christian: he just acts the part so he can gain power. It’s all just a cult anyway, everyone knows that. Fourth, and here the president showed his political genius, he would insinuate that pope Leo had gang connections in South America. He had lived in Peru for twenty years, in rough parts of the country—how could he not have gang connections? He might even be the head of a Peruvian gang of murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and tattoo wearers. His hat, apparently, was similar to the hat of a Peruvian gang called Agua Fina. His skin did have a brownish hue when seen at twilight. How could he love our country if he refused to live in it for twenty years? You all know that. He should really be deported for coming here illegally. He is obviously a socialist and a loser.

The president had arranged for a rally in Rome. He had his speech all mapped out. He would begin by saying that this pope would bring atheism like you have never seen before, so much atheism. Then he would move to brand him an illegal immigrant and gang member. He would call him Little Leo. He would grin and point as people chanted “Lock him up!” He would suggest he might be a drug addict because he is so thin. He would point out that the pope’s ability to speak several languages was proof of his lack of patriotism. The guy was a Peruvian citizen for Christ sake! The president felt confident that this rally would put an end to his problem—the problem of being the second most famous American in the world. The pope would be eclipsed and defeated by the president and would soon be calling him “Sir”.

Meanwhile pope Leo XIV remained in the Vatican, praying and smiling to himself, saying nothing.

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