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.

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.

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.