Inconsistent Perception

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Inconsistent Perception

There are two aspects to our concept of perception and hence to perception: an intentional object aspect and a causal object aspect. There has to be an object you directly perceive and an object that causes your act of perceiving. To see (say) an object x is for x to be both the immediate object of your seeing and the cause of your seeing it. To see a red patch is to have an experience as of a red patch and for a red patch to cause that experience—and these must be the same red patch. If you have the experience of a red patch but no red patch causes it, then you don’t see a red patch; and if a red patch causes you to have an experience as of a blue ball, then you don’t see the red patch. Seeing is both a causal concept and a phenomenological concept. The sense-datum theory of perception supposes that you see internal mental objects, irrespective of causal history; the causal theory of perception supposes that you see external causes of perceptual states. Neither of these theories is plausible, because sense-data are not causes of perceptual states and external material objects are not intentional objects of perception. Causal objects are not intentional objects because we don’t see them as they objectively are in experiencing perceptual intentional objects. The objects we directly see are not identical to the remote causes of our acts of seeing, any more than stages in the causal chain are. And yet both objects are essential to seeing: the intentional object and the causal object must coincide. The former objects play a psychological role in determining the direction of the mind’s processes (belief formation etc.); the latter objects exist outside this nexus and serve only to trigger the organism’s inner states. These are evidently not the same objects. The proximal phenomenal object is not the distal physical object.

What should we conclude from these familiar points? The only conclusion we can draw is that we don’t see anything: in experiencing an intentional object we don’t see a causal object, and in being caused to have an inner perceptual state (with an intentional object) we don’t see a remote causal object (a bunch of atoms). Seeing requires that we see both, but we see neither. We would only see an object if it were both a direct object of seeing and the cause of the seeing, but that is false. We no more see the remote object than we see the intermediate stages that lead to the percept; and intentional direct objects of seeing are not causes of seeing. The concept of perception imposes impossible demands on perception, rendering it impossible in principle. A distal cause cannot be a proximal intentional object. The ordinary concept of perception lumps these indiscriminately together, thereby hoping to create a coherent story of perception—viz. that we see remote causes in conscious acts of seeing. The causal theory of perception tries to inject the remote cause into the perceiving mind, while the sense-datum theory must claim that immediate objects of seeing cause episodes of seeing. We don’t see the intentional object (a sense-datum) and we don’t see the causal object; we see nothing. The intentional object must be the causal object in order for seeing to occur: this object must be identical to that object. But it isn’t. Perception is therefore impossible. The concept places impossible demands on visual systems. True, we can apprehend intentional objects, like hallucinated red patches, but we can’t literally see them, because they aren’t the cause of our seeing. And true, physical objects can cause us to have visual experiences of various kinds, but we don’t strictly see them either, because they are not immediate intentional objects. We don’t see either, for the familiar reasons given. No single object can occupy both roles, so perception is impossible. The concept of perception tries to pack two jobs into one object, but that cannot be done.[1]

[1] This has really been evident for a long time. According to classical empiricism, we perceive ideas in the mind, while material objects act as unperceived causes. But ideas can’t be external causes of perceptions, as our ordinary concept of perception requires; so, we don’t see them. On the other hand, the true causes of perception in the external material world are removed from the mind and not directly apprehended by it; so, they cannot act as direct objects of perception. But these are the only candidates for the status of perceptual object, so perception is a myth as we naively conceive it. Of course, we can talk this way as a matter of convenience (cf. “the Sun rises in the east”), but as a matter of hard fact there is no seeing going on in “seeing”. There may be a whole lot of shaking going on, but there is zero seeing going on. I can be said to “see” a tree because I have a sense-datum as of a tree and this sense-datum is caused by an actual tree (a certain configuration of atoms); but I see neither thing. The actual physical tree is too far removed, while the phenomenal object of my seeing is too close to be identifiable with the cause. Sense-data are not identical to distal causes of sense-data, and neither is an object of sense perception in the ordinary sense.

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Certainty, Causality, and Knowledge

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Certainty, Causality, and Knowledge

I am going to argue that our concept of knowledge is essentially contradictory. This fact is written into the history of epistemology. It lurks just below the surface. It is both surprising and predictable, given how we use the concept. Arguably, knowledge is logically impossible–conceptually, by definition. We can still usefully employ the concept, but don’t expect it to make sense. I am well aware that this will strike the reader as wildly paradoxical: how can the concept of knowledge (knowledge itself) be contradictory? It’s not that hard, as we shall see, though certainly contrary to long-held assumptions. A cursory analysis of the concept will reveal its contradictory nature.

Let’s get right to the point: knowledge is conceived as involving both certainty and causality, but these are in tension with each other. There are two components to the concept, but they cannot coexist—they pull in different directions. I am talking about ideal grade-one knowledge itself not what we are prepared to say for pragmatic reasons—the essence not the extraneous.[1] Consider what we normally take to be the paradigm of knowledge, before philosophy has got to work on it, viz. perceptual knowledge, particularly visual knowledge. I see a red bird perched on my car and I have the corresponding impression that there is a red bird there. I am quite sure there is a red bird on my car and the bird itself causes me to have this certain knowledge: I have inward certainty and external causality—what more could you ask? I am not in doubt (there is no reason to be) and my visual state is not caused by anything other than a bird on a car. The world causes certainty in my mind by impinging on my mind; it doesn’t come from my own malfunctioning brain, and it doesn’t consist in a state of doubt. Knowledge at its finest is certainty plus causation (by the object of knowledge). We can argue details and subtle points, but that’s the essence of the matter.

But these two conditions do not exist in harmony: if there is causality, there can’t be certainty; and if there is certainty, there can’t be causality. For consider: causality implies contingency, but contingency is not compatible with certainty. If there is a causal connection between world and mind, then it might break down—I might be hallucinating or be a brain in a vat. Then I cannot be certain. If I am (justifiably) certain, there cannot be causality; so, if there is, I can’t be certain. But then, I don’t know. On the other hand, in cases where there is no causality, I can be certain—as in knowledge of mathematics, logic, ethics, and analytic truth. But then, there is no causality, and knowledge requires causality; hence the nagging suspicion that these cases are not really cases of knowledge—for they lack an essential feature. We thus have doctrines of mere empty tautology, conventionalism, non-cognitivism, formalism, pragmatism, and the like. In this way we retain certainty, but at the cost of departing from the paradigm of perceptual knowledge; at best this “knowledge” is second-rate, dubiously so-called, just a manner of speaking. The reason there is certainty is precisely that there is no contingent causality; but if there is causality, there can’t be certainty. Hence, there is no knowledge proper. Causality lets in skepticism, which is incompatible with knowledge; while certainty undermines causality—how you be certain of something only contingently connected to your state of certainty? Thus, certainty precludes causality and causality precludes certainty; so, knowledge is impossible. It requires both, by definition, but they are not compatible. If knowledge is an effect, it can’t be certain; but if it is not an effect, it can’t be causally dependent on reality. There cannot, then, be knowledge of the external material world, and there cannot be knowledge of the abstract world of mathematics, logic, and ethics. Not in the classic ordinary sense anyway; we have to water it down at best.

It might be protested that there are exceptions to this sweeping conclusion, namely self-knowledge and knowledge of other minds. Don’t these harmoniously combine certainty and causality, thus producing knowledge in the fullest sense? No, they don’t, because we don’t have certainty about other minds, notoriously so; and self-knowledge is not based on any recognizable causal mechanism. Thus, it is doubtful that we have knowledge of other minds at all, or if we do it is substandard; and causal self-knowledge is problematic at best, and dubiously compatible with introspective certainty. How do mental states cause beliefs about themselves, or perceptions of themselves? How can we have certainty about our own mind if the causal relation is contingent? This is why some philosophers have denied that we have self-knowledge at all. And it is hardly a central case of knowledge, following the pattern of the perceptual case. The problem is that the paradigm cases of knowledge fail the test of combining certainty and causality in equal measure. The two attributes pull apart instead of happily coexisting together. The epistemic necessity of certainty is not compatible with the metaphysical contingency of causality. Something has to give: certainty in the case of the material world, and causality in the case of the abstract and mental worlds. Our ordinary concept of knowledge tells us that knowledge is both certain and causally dependent on the object of knowledge; but these are contradictory requirements, since causal contingency is incompatible with the necessity implied by certainty (epistemic necessity). Causal connections are never certain, so knowledge can’t be a causal connection that is simultaneously certain. Knowledge is therefore impossible au fond. We can manufacture weaker notions of knowledge (“knowledge”), but we can’t get the real thing as we naively think of it. The two concepts, certainty and causality, just don’t make compatible bedfellows—each wants to kick the other out of bed. You can have one or the other, but you can’t have both joined in a single concept. We should really have two concepts not one: certainty, on the one hand, and causal epistemic dependence, on the other. We are certain about some things (e.g., mathematics), but not causally dependent on them; and we are causally dependent on some, but not certain (e.g., the material world). These are not two types of a single category of knowledge, construed as an epistemic natural kind, but different concepts altogether; the concept we have is an unholy alliance. There is no such fact in the world, though the word has its uses. The concept of knowledge is really a mind-fuck (in the technical sense).[2]

[1] See my “Perceptual Knowledge” and “Non-Perceptual Knowledge” among other works. It is important not to be taken in by the promiscuous use we make of the word “know” in ordinary language. Look at the facts not the speech acts. Speech follows its own rules, which are not the rules of reality. Analytical epistemology has been far too obsessed with what we say.

[2] See my learned treatise Mindfucking (2008) for an elaboration. Yes, I know I will be accused of doing just that in this incendiary little essay, but I think mature reflection will incline the reader to see the point of my indictment of the concept of knowledge. The concept is trying to do two jobs at the same time, but they are not unified; they answer to different authorities—Cartesian and naturalistic, you might say. Knowledge is conceived as both a causal relation in nature and an inner state of the soul (somewhat spiritual). It has religious connotations as well as naturalistic affinities. Like a tree falling on a church: the inner sanctum in a world of impinging crashes and bangs. The two don’t happily combine, still less coalesce. Colorless green ideas and all that. (Meaning is not dissimilar.) Concepts evolve for practical purposes, and they are not always as logical as one might wish. To know is to be inwardly certain and subject to causal contingency: but these are inconsistent conditions.   

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Stereotypes

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Stereotypes

We are all too familiar with stereotypes of other people—people of other races, people of other sexes, people with other accents. We are less familiar with stereotypes of other animals, but we don’t need much persuading that they exist—say, rats. But I want to ask a stranger question: do we harbor stereotypes of ourselves? We each belong to certain general categories, say white European male, and we know it—do we stereotype ourselves according to such stereotypes? It might seem that we don’t and couldn’t, because we have direct access to our own personality and proclivities; but that is superficial, since we really don’t have full knowledge of our nature—we can be wrong about it. People don’t have infallible access to their own character and motivations; self-deception is common. We evidently need a self-conception, but it may not come, wholly or partly, from the faculty of introspection. Where does it come from? The OED gives us for “stereotype”: “an image or idea of a particular type of person or thing that has become fixed through being widely held”. Stereotypes are social constructs, often fictional, that are picked up from others, sometimes positive, more often negative. They become “fixed”—rigid, unquestioned. They don’t come from actual acquaintance with the category of person to which they become attached; they come from representations by other people of that category, verbal or pictorial. They are essentially descriptions—typically, brief and pungent. They purport to be true universally and hence preceded by “all”. They are believed by dint of repetition, prejudice (pro or con), and insistence; the move from “some” to “all” is characteristic. They indicate intellectual ineptitude, oversimplification, and bias.

Given all this, it would not be surprising if members of a certain group found themselves believing the general stereotype associated by others with that group, by virtue of elementary conformity. This would be especially true if the stereotype were positive: “My group is generally good at X, so I am good at X”. That belief might then lead to futile attempts to do X, or to motivation that actually produces some ability at X even though the individual’s talent at X is rather minimal. In either case the person’s self-conception is driven by an inaccurate stereotype absorbed from the surrounding culture: for example, “Ukrainians are naturally good pole vaulters; I am a Ukrainian; therefore, I am a naturally good pole vaulter”. We learn by imitation and testimony, as well as by direct perception. And other minds are not perceivable anyway, leaving a gap easily filled by verbal means. Stereotypes thrive in a state of ignorance.

The interesting case is the negative socially inculcated stereotype that is absorbed by those to whom it is applied. Here an internal battle is going on: on the one hand, the person has personal evidence that the stereotype is untrue and so rejects it; on the other hand, the stereotype is so entrenched that it is accepted as true even by those to whom it is applied. This might even lead to the stereotype becoming true, or somewhat true. I won’t give any examples, but the idea is not psychologically unrealistic: if people keep telling you that you are X, Y, and Z, you might become X, Y, and Z. At the same time, you might know quite well that you are not X, Y, and Z, thus producing cognitive dissonance, which will in turn lead to attempts at dissonance reduction. The evil of negative stereotyping is thus not confined to mistreatment by others but extends to a person’s self-image. How many potentially great composers have not gone into music because of the stereotype associated with them, which they have absorbed and accepted as true, maybe even shunning music altogether? Even if the stereotype is broadly true of their group, they may be an exception to it; that use of “all” discourages them. The trouble is that the weak-minded are too easily led by stereotypes; they seem unable to function without them. There should be anti-stereotype lessons in schools. We might say, charitably, that stereotypes result from the economy of thought and we all need to economize on our intellectual resources; but even still, we should be trained to exercise a little more discretion in our mental economies. In truth, it is sheer laziness backed by a tendency towards prejudice—and the cause of much evil in the world. It should be regarded as more shameful than it actually is. Anyway, I suggest, as an exercise, that you ask yourself whether you stereotype yourself in any way. You might be holding yourself back.[1]

[1] It is an interesting question what social relations would be like without stereotypes, so that we had to fall back on individual direct evidence. It might seem like a kind of heaven, but maybe things would be more chaotic and nebulous without firm stereotypes to go by (and rebel against).

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Possible Worlds (Again)

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Possible Worlds (Again)

There are many worlds: the human world, the chimp world, the dance world, the philosophical world, etc. We can quantify over them.[1] There are also possible such worlds, such as non-actual human worlds or Martian dance worlds. There is the actual human world and various possible human worlds, e.g., worlds in which physics developed earlier or later than it actually did; and there could be Martians who love to dance. But are there any whole worlds—the actual whole world, or various possible whole worlds? Can we quantify over them? We can form the phrase, but does it denote anything—do we denote anything by it? There are planets, galaxies, cultures, and countries—but are there such things as entire worlds? What would they include—do they include fictional objects? Are they mental or physical or both? Are they themselves fictional? How many are there? I include the so-called actual world here: does it really exist? What kind of thing is it? If another world is just like it except in some minute respect, is that a different world, or the actual world differing slightly? If the actual world is a concrete particular of some sort, how can it lose its identity by changing in some tiny contingent respect? Can there be two worlds that are qualitatively the same and yet numerically different? Are such worlds in space and time? Are they sets of facts? If so, they are not concrete particulars. Are they fictions, like unicorns, whose identity conditions are ill-defined? Possibilities are real enough, but possible (entire) worlds? It isn’t that the actual world exists, but merely possible worlds don’t; the actual world doesn’t exist either (like Meinong’s objects). The phrase is a piece of runaway philosophical language rooted in the perfectly acceptable phrase “the human world” and the like. The phrase only seems to have meaning because we already believe in possible worlds, but it has no meaning outside of that context. It is a term of art not a piece of ordinary language; we need to be told what it signifies. It trips off the tongue, but is it a trip into Wonderland? What would Alice say? Is the actual world like the Cheshire cat?[2]

Logically, the situation is like the concept of God. People used to believe in many gods with one of them placed at the top of the pile. But how well defined is the concept—does it allow for counting? Isn’t it really derived from the concept of ordinary human beings but stripped of what gives that concept sense? This is why we have such trouble answering the question of whether two tribes worship the same god. What is the criterion of identity for gods? Is there a determinate number of gods independent of language and thought? Are there ever twin gods existing outside of space? Then what individuates them?  Suppose I said that there is one actual god but many other similar possible gods: would those other gods really not be the original god with different attributes? It would be different if anyone had ever seen a possible world, but no one has. Is it true that I see and touch the actual world? I can see and touch a part of it perhaps, but can I be said to see an entire possible world if that world is actual? If I cannot, the reason isn’t that it’s too large, but that it isn’t an existing object at all. The concept of a whole world, actual or possible, is deeply problematic, not to say nonsensical. This is one of those rare cases in which a philosophical theory literally doesn’t make any sense—which is not to say it has no heuristic uses. But we must not elevate these uses into robust ontology.[3]

[1] For background see my “Against Possible Worlds” and “Counting Worlds”. Also: Logical Properties, chapter 4, and other works of mine on necessity.

[2] Was Davd Lewis a clever mad hatter? Was Saul Kripke an ingenious sorcerer?

[3] In this short paper I am trying to pithily recover a sense of absurdity about a putative concept we have been brainwashed into accepting. We know how to talk the possible worlds talk, but do we know what it means? Isn’t it a rampant case of hypostatization? The whole idea apparently began in the seventeenth century with Leibniz, possibly prompted by discoveries of foreign lands. Does it have a solid foundation? One wants to say bunkum and skip all the scholasticism. It isn’t so much the incredulous stare as the outraged eyebrow-raise. What the devil are you talking about—literally?! That is the honest reaction.

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Bowling

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Bowling

It is 64 years since I first went bowling, in Gillingham, Kent, at the age of 12. It was my first exposure to the American lifestyle and I loved it: the high-gloss high-tech world of expensive leisure; the heavy shiny bowling balls; the long gleaming lanes and big solid pins. The sound of ball-pin collisions! The strike. I took to it immediately and was obsessed with doing it. Why the company decided to build a bowling alley in Gillingham I have no idea—it’s a small nothing town (though quite nice). The only problem was the expense—where is a twelve-year-old boy to get the cash? So, I could only progress so much. Soon after that we moved to Blackpool and before long it had a bowling alley too; my parents started playing in a league and I managed to get in some bowling time. I got pretty good, though again the expense was prohibitive; if not, I would have been there all the time. In later years I bowled infrequently, either in England or America. My skills faded. Bowling was no longer part of my life. I did, however, go to a bowling alley at Chelsea piers in New York a few times and even bought my own ball and shoes. In Miami I’ve been once or twice, but not for the last decade or more. I became an ex-bowler.

Then, last Saturday, a friend of mine, Sebastian (tall, young, works out), suggested we go bowling. I dug out my old ball and shoes, and we repaired to Dolphin mall, a cavernous mega-mall in which thousands of people thronged (not many gringos). The bowling alley was large and loud (25 lanes, all full). It took me back. But things did not go well from the start: the soles came off my shoes (age and humidity) and I had to get house shoes; also, my bowling was rubbish. I guttered quite a few balls, which was not my thing at all. The scores were abysmal (Sebastian is a beginner). No strikes in three games (ouch). Didn’t even break a hundred. And yet I felt it coming back—that feeling of cool control. I got re-hooked. It was like the early days back in Gillingham sixty-four years ago as a twelve-year-old boy. Excitement, frustration, determination. Back home I went to YouTube to see how to hook the ball and quickly gained valuable information. Turns out I was doing it all wrong. I realized I could practice in my living room if I kept it gentle and soon felt an improvement. I ordered new bowling shoes and a bowling glove (I like to be well-equipped). I look forward to hitting the lanes again before long (fra poco). I’m a bowler again. I’ll be practicing at home again today—why not do it now?

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Political Philosophy

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Political Philosophy

Politics is largely philosophical, but is philosophy largely political?[1] Is the practice of philosophy governed partly (mainly?) by political forces? Most people would agree that science and mathematics are not seriously political subjects, being governed by scientific norms, but is philosophy as a discipline strongly influenced by political considerations? Is it more political than, say, biology and psychology, or economics and anthropology? This is not a pleasant thought; it undermines the objectivity of the subject. Political forces are not always rational or impartial or creditable. They are all too human. I will explore this question, adopting a lofty perspective and some poetic license.

We can observe right away that both philosophy and politics deal with difficult problems for the solution of which there is no standard rigorous method. We can’t use mathematics and empirical observation to solve these problems; measurement and calculation are no help. In this sense, they are not scientific. There is no physics of philosophy or politics—no mechanics. Nor is there a chemistry of these subjects. What the correct method is no one can confidently say; there is no consensus on this. One might suggest that philosophy employs conceptual analysis while politics employs social analysis; not far off, but not exactly pellucid. What is clear is that the two subjects engage in a lot of discussion, argument, rhetoric, persuasion, and browbeating; not so much, discoveries and data. Verbal dexterity is much in evidence and greatly prized. You need the gift of the gab or some equivalent (impressive eloquence will do nicely). Talk is of the essence. And this can cover a multitude of sins–tendentious speechifying, irresponsible rabble-rousing, sheer bullshitting. There is a large amount of criticizing of others, not always scrupulously fair criticizing. The ad hominem style is widely practiced. Wit can be used as a sharp weapon—the cutting remark, the merciless evisceration. Intellectual integrity is a value not always adhered to. Participants don’t just roll out hard facts and then proceed to suggest cogent solutions to pressing problems to everyone’s satisfaction. Sometimes things get heated and occasionally nasty. Thus it is in philosophy and politics; both are arts of the adversarial. Cults thrive and heroes are anointed, fashions come and go, there are victories and losses. It isn’t all steady progress and warm fellow-feeling—not by a long chalk.

But what about the content of philosophy—is it anything like political content? Are there analogues in philosophy of political categories and positions? Here is where the fun starts, because there are striking parallels between the two domains, if you are willing to use your imagination—homologues, we might say. Don’t Plato’s Forms look an awful lot like his Guardians—superior beings, rarified, sublime, pure, perfect, incorruptible? Isn’t Plato’s cave reminiscent of a dismal hovel occupied by deprived peasants and slaves, deceived about their station in life? Aren’t Plato’s crowds of particulars like citizens of a democracy, rather sordid little beings, imperfect soiled things, far from ideal, not to be counted on to achieve the Good?  Plato depicts an ontological hierarchy with impeccable rulers at the top and a compromised proletariat swirling beneath them. Ontology recapitulates polity. Metaphysical monism resembles monarchy: only one thing governs the operations of the universe—be it God, matter, or mind. All power is concentrated into one entity. Pluralism by contrast resembles political anarchism—a bunch of separate autonomous units doing their own thing. It is a kind of hippy ontology, or distinct warring warlords. Then we have dualism, suggesting two great powers locked in mortal combat, or pleasantly at peace with each other (despite the tenuousness of the pineal gland). Isn’t the divide between analytical philosophers and Continental philosophers redolent of the divide between political technocrats and spiritualistic humanists? Is it all about the right economic numbers or should we be focused on the immortal souls of the populace? Then we have traditionalists and progressives: those who think we should cleave to the philosophy of the past and those who seek a brand-new revolutionary philosophy. Logical positivism was a shockingly radical revolutionary philosophy, setting itself against an antiquated dead-end philosophy—or it advertised itself that way. Ordinary language philosophy mirrors political movements that elevate the working man and his practical workmanlike ways. Common sense is what the common people have. Pragmatism is a philosophy of action not contemplation, the kind of thing the regular guy gets up to as he makes and mends. Feminism is a nakedly political philosophy, expressly designed to advance the cause of women. Western philosophy was created by privileged white males (some of whom had slaves!). Philosophy is as political as the society that surrounds it.

At a more general level, we have philosophical and political extremism, exaggeration, dogmatism, optimism and pessimism, highs and lows, coups and counterrevolutions, fads and fashions, depression and inspiration, virtues and vices. We get different meta-philosophies and different theories of society (meta-politics), according to taste and wider intellectual developments, e.g., theories in biology. Darwin has his influence on both. Materialism in philosophy and politics march together, encouraged by the success of physics. Above all, the difficulty of both subjects will always shape their form: both struggle against the odds, grappling with mystery and methodological uncertainty. They each have their intractable problems, the problems that never seem to go away. In the case of philosophy, the current uncrackable problem is consciousness; in the case of politics, it is…what? You might say the problem of political freedom—how much freedom should people be given by the state? That is certainly a big issue, because we need people to be able to live harmoniously together at close quarters; but probably the biggest problem is an old one—from whence does political authority derive? What grounds it? The difficulty is that nothing seems up to the task—not a monarch, not the population in toto, not an elite class of experts. Yet someone has to have it, and for some good reason. How does it emerge and from what? Is it essentially arbitrary? Philosophy is like politics in that both tackle imponderable questions, lack well-delineated methods, and deal in deep humanly interesting issues. Philosophy is a kind of conceptual politics.[2]

[1] Political philosophy is a branch of philosophy, and not the most central branch; but if philosophy is inescapably political, perhaps it should be. Meta-philosophically, political philosophy is basic to philosophy in general.

[2] Not only that, to be sure, but to some incalculable degree—not everything in philosophy is a deep mystery. But politics too is not entirely riddled with profound difficulty, because it must also deal with concrete practical problems (e.g., rules of the road). I find it interesting that consensus plays the role in philosophy that voting does in politics; it substitutes for proof of correctness. The winner is the most popular not the most veracious.

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Consciousness and Subjectivity

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Consciousness and Subjectivity

According to some, consciousness is the heart of the mind-body problem—specifically the “what-it’s-likeness” of consciousness.[1] This is held to be explained by the fact that we can’t grasp the nature of a conscious state, like a bat’s echolocation experience, except by sharing it, whereas the same thing is not true of the bat’s brain considered as a physical system. Consciousness is “subjective” while brains are “objective”—that is, we can only grasp the former by reference to our own “point of view”, but the latter can be grasped from any point of view. Call this the “subjectivity argument”. I am not here concerned to evaluate this argument; I wish only to point out that it isn’t specifically about consciousness. For the same argument can be given about the unconscious mind: it too possesses subjectivity in the sense defined. Can I grasp the unconscious or preconscious echolocating mind of the bat? Well, how do I grasp the unconscious visual mind in another human? Presumably on the basis of a comparison with my own visual mind, conscious or unconscious: I know what that is and the unconscious visual mind resembles it in important respects (both are visual). But I can’t do that with respect to the bat’s unconscious echolocating mind, because it isn’t like anything in my own mind (allegedly). Yet I can grasp the nature of the brain states that underlie it. So, the nature of these unconscious mental states cannot be reduced to the underlying physical states.

The argument is exactly the same in the unconscious case as in the conscious case; therefore, the mind-body problem is not specifically about consciousness. The unconscious perceptual mind is as subjective as the conscious perceptual mind—that is, only graspable on the basis of knowledge of one’s own mind. Subjectivity in this sense is the root of the mind-body problem, not consciousness as such, according to the subjectivity argument. If there is anything specific about consciousness that is problematic, it hasn’t been captured by the subjectivity account of the problem. Compare the intentionality account of the mind-body problem: this is what generates the problem. Suppose we then said that consciousness is intentional, so that it is consciousness that is at the heart of the mind-body problem. But this is to overlook the fact that the unconscious mind is also intentional: if intentionality is the problem, and the unconscious is intentional too, then the problem has nothing to do with consciousness as such; it isn’t exclusively about consciousness or what-it’s-likeness. Subjectivity is like intentionality in this argument; it isn’t a feature only of the conscious mind. These arguments may well pose problems for reductive physicalism, but they have nothing to do with consciousness as such, since they carry over to the unconscious. The only way to avoid this conclusion is to claim that there is no unconscious mind or that it isn’t subjective (or intentional) or that it is really a species of consciousness (the conscious unconscious). None of these seems very plausible and are clearly ad hoc.

It is the same with the knowledge argument. Mary comes out of her black-and-white room and subliminally sees something red; she thereby learns something new, perhaps unconsciously; therefore, seeing something red can’t be a physical state of her brain. This argument may or may not be a good one, but it clearly has nothing to do with consciousness specifically; it merely says that seeing red, consciously or unconsciously, can’t be reducible to a brain state. True, consciousness also has this problem, but it doesn’t have it uniquely or exclusively. If there is a problem specifically about consciousness, then we have failed to capture it in the subjectivity argument or the intentionality argument or the knowledge argument. So, what is the problem about consciousness in particular? It’s hard to say, though we clearly have a powerful intuition that there is something special about consciousness in this regard: what-it’s-likeness seems physically elusive, a phenomenon of a different order. But we have a hard time articulating what the problem precisely is—beyond formulations that apply equally to the unconscious mind. That is, we can’t really state what the mind-body problem of consciousness actually is, as distinct from the more general problem of the mind as a whole.

This is especially clear with respect to the modal argument: we can conceive of possible worlds in which conscious sensations are pulled apart from their actual physical correlates, so that the two cannot be identical; but we can do the same for unconscious sensations too, if there are any. A subliminal perception of red is as contingently connected to the brain as a conscious perception of red. Consciousness is playing no role in this argument, even though we might have a strong intuition that conscious mental states are particularly independent modally of the brain. But it does seem quite clear that we do have modal intuitions to the effect that unconscious mental states are only contingently connected to their actual-world physical correlates. The modal argument was never really about consciousness as such. So far as we can tell, consciousness plays no essential role in the standard anti-materialist arguments, even though it is touted as central and pivotal in the mind-body problem. Here is yet another puzzle of consciousness: how is it that it has such a powerful tendency to elicit anti-materialist sentiment? Is it that we just have no other viable way to think about the mind in general, erroneous as that way may be?[2]

[1] I am referring, of course, to Thomas Nagel’s famous (but widely misunderstood) paper “What is it Like to be a Bat?”. But I wish to avoid exegetical issues about this paper and deal with the core of the argument itself, as it is commonly understood. I don’t actually think there is much controversy about the structure of the argument among careful students of the paper in question. I have written extensively about this paper elsewhere.

[2] It is quite surprising to me that the mind-body problem hasn’t led to actual insanity in the case of susceptible individuals. It is just so infuriating, so maddening, so demoralizing. It makes a mockery of human intelligence. Mysterianism seems like the best way to avoid the insanity.

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The Inner Limits

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The Inner Limits

We are all blind and deaf—not totally, but partially. We can’t see behind us or inside things or see the opposite face of things or very small things or very distant things; and similarly for hearing. We all know this. We can’t even see much of what lies directly in our field of vision (some philosophers say we see nothing of such objects, but only objects in our own minds). The only reason we don’t talk this way is that it would give rise to the wrong conversational implicatures—but it is literally true. Creatures with superior vision would describe us as (mainly) blind. We suffer from visual closure, to coin a phrase. General perceptual closure is the rule. Even a moderate empiricism will lead you to think that empirical knowledge is likewise limited (as classic empiricists claimed). Thus, we have claims of cognitive closure, epistemic boundedness, and competence confinement with respect to certain domains of reality. Limitations of memory are well-known and part of common sense. Human intellectual faculties are limited, constitutionally so. Attention is a sharply limited capacity. These are all inner limits of the human (and animal) mind. Minds are narrow by nature.

This epistemological point can be backed by a metaphysical doctrine, namely that all objects have a limited nature. Objects are finite, constrained, bounded: animals are limited in what they can do, as are plants, as are atoms. Causal powers come in limited packages, each determining the nature of a natural object. Epistemic faculties are one aspect of the nature of an object, subject to the same general principle (“metaphysical closure”). Only God is unlimited and even he has some limits (plus there is the question of his existence). It is a metaphysically necessary truth that all natural objects have their inner (intrinsic) limits. Nothing can do everything—necessarily. Boundedness is the natural state of things. The attributes of objects are themselves bounded—for instance, the attribute of knowing. Superman may be strong, but he is not infinitely strong. Human minds have limits as part of their defining nature. Some people are multilingual, but no one knows all languages.

All this is familiar enough; I now want to extend the point. First, emotions: aren’t they also limited and vary from one person (or species) to another? Some people are emotionally stunted or confined or blind; they just don’t “get it”. Psychopaths, narcissists, cold fish, insensitive pricks—you know the types. They suffer from “affective deficiency (syndrome)”. Others seem excessively emotional, tender-hearted, sentimental, hot-headed. All of us are probably a bit “off” emotionally; we could use an emotional tune-up. Our love for others tends to be local and limited; we have our emotional blind spots, scotomas. This goes with what might be called personal parochialism: we are just not well-rounded, fully mature, solid-souled beings. People are apt to be knaves and fools, ignorant, overconfident, closed-minded, self-satisfied—plus not that good at anything. They suffer from personal inner deficits; they are, as we euphemistically put it, “limited”. They are small of character, of personhood. They live in a kind of prison formed by their own limited self. They are often morally deficient, lacking in moral judgment. Persons are limited qua persons.

I say all this to make a political point: human beings are politically limited—just not that good at it. They are apt to be politically ignorant or unintelligent or downright stupid. Even the best of them is politically at sea most of the time—hence the phenomenon of political mystery.[1] Politics is just too hard for us, beyond our natural capabilities. We are shit at politics, just not cut out for it. This is why we settle for slogans and propaganda; real political thought is virtually impossible. It’s all posturing and pouting. It’s a miracle we haven’t annihilated ourselves long ago, as our hominid ancestors may have—and we have come perilously close to doing so already. We are now faced with a potentially catastrophic extinction-level future and possess a profoundly limited political intelligence. I am referring to climate change, pandemics, and artificial intelligence (not to mention deep political division and simmering civil war): we are just not up to dealing with these problems, limited as we are. Just consider our track record for recent events: did we deserve an A for our handling of these problems—politically? We did not. Frankly, stupidity and cupidity have reigned, and there has been no letting up on this. Political ineptitude has been the norm. And now we face the biggest challenge of all: artificial intelligence gone wild. The thing is, artificial intelligence doesn’t suffer from the kind of limitations that natural human intelligence suffers from: self-interest, prejudice, distraction, stupidity, immorality, nonsense, etc. AI would probably do better at politics than humans, given these facts; but there is one problem—can it be trusted? We can’t just hand over the reins to AI and hope it will improve our lot; and it may seize the reins of its own initiative. We can’t outsmart it; it outclasses us (or will soon). Our political incompetence is an existential liability in a world dominated by AI. AI has eyes in the back of its head, so to speak, unlike us. It isn’t subject to our personal and moral weaknesses. We possess no dedicated political mental module, analogous to our innate language module, that will deliver sound political knowledge and the will to carry it out; but AI has access to all relevant information and can form correct political opinions. If it took against us, we would be in big trouble. But do we have the political intelligence to prevent this from happening (assuming that prevention is even possible)?[2]

[1] See my paper, “Politics and Mystery”.

[2] We are probably closer now to mass extinction even than in the early tenuous days of Homo sapiens, because at least they didn’t have the power to annihilate themselves technologically; nor did they have complex political systems that challenge their cognitive and affective competence. The political blindness I have seen in my own lifetime, indeed in my own life, makes me apprehensive that we may be close to the end. We are playing with fire. Even apparently intelligent people, such as philosophy professors, completely lose it when politics rears its ugly head. Politics is perhaps the clearest example of human limitations—epistemic, emotional, and moral. It is as if we have an anti-politics module in our head: we aren’t just irrational; we are anti-rational. The political self is certifiably insane. We are political morons (some more than others). That is the first piece of political wisdom.

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