Space, Time, and Logic

Philosophy needs a metaphysical vision. Humbly (and pretentiously), I will provide one. As far as I know, it has no predecessor, though echoes of other theories will be apparent. Neither does it have a name: it might be called “Logical Spatio-Temporalism” (LST), or just “Spatialism” because space is central to it. It isn’t idealism or materialism, since mind and matter don’t figure in the foundations. The elements of it are space, time, and logic: this is what reality is fundamentally made of. Matter, mind, and mathematics are derivative from these three elements; I would even say they cause them. I take it that matter is implicit in space not just annexed to it or superadded. This is a modern viewpoint, though it admits of various elaborations. Matter is a modification of space, a version of it. I favor the idea of a space-matter continuum; there is an underlying unity here (as there is said to be a unity called space-time). We could say that space became matter as we know it; it was already matter in some other form (no particles of the familiar types). Space is matter before it has been cooked, so to speak. Matter, as it exists now, evolved from space. To space we must add time—the medium of change. Without time matter is static and unchanging, unrecognizable as matter. Time renders space dynamic. The modern physicist will insist that space and time are not separable, and if you are happy with that curious identification, you are welcome to adopt it; then the theory will have space-time as one element of it. Could time exist without space? Let’s not even go there; say what you like, you can still share my metaphysical vision. The third element is the novel one: logic. I don’t mean predicate calculus or modal logic or any other symbolic scheme; I mean necessary consequence of the kind we call logical (and let’s not go into that question either). Heuristically, think of Frege’s abstract realm of “Thoughts”—the subject matter of reasoning. We adjoin this to space and time in order to capture the realm beloved of the rationalists—logic, mathematics, philosophy itself. The picture, then, is that mathematics, as it now exists in human civilization, is an outgrowth of logic (possibly combined with space in the field of geometry). Together, these three elements constitute the foundations.

The vision is that space, time, and logic precede mind, matter, and mathematics. These are relative latecomers in the construction of the universe as it presently exists. Everything that now exists owes its being to these three things; we might even say that the present universe is supervenient on space, time, and logic—determined by them. They cause everything. After God created them, he could slope off and take a nap; his work was done. Alternatively, the ontological structure of the universe has them at the bottom holding up the superstructure. They are bedrock. Mind and matter are mere side-effects, not foundational at all. Any universe like ours will have them as its infrastructure. But this is not to say that every possible universe is so structured: for it may be that space and time can vary across logical space. Maybe in some possible worlds space has a different geometry—of 27 dimensions or infinitely many. Maybe time loops and curls somewhere in logical space. Logic, however, remains the same, being metaphysically necessary. These universes will look nothing like ours and may have nothing corresponding to our mind and matter. I am not legislating across all possible universes. But in our universe our space and time call the shots; they determine what will be or not be. These are the metaphysical elements that fix the reality of this world. The fundamental layer consists of space, time, and logic (or space-time and logic). Logic is the province of the a priori; space and time are the progenitors of the a posteriori.

Notice, however, that the scheme is metaphysical not epistemological; not a trace of the epistemological shows up in this metaphysical system. It is strictly by the book. This is reality as it exists completely independently of all or any knowledge. Our knowledge results from this reality; it doesn’t bring this reality into being. Not space, not time, not logic (shades of Frege). How much we know of this reality remains to be determined; it could all be completely unknowable by us. What we mean by space (our conception of it) might be nothing like space as it exists objectively, and similarly for time and logic. My own bet is that the gap is surprisingly large, but that is a separate question. We can at least responsibly surmise that reality is structured in the tripartite way described. Reality has the architecture (to use a fashionable term) I have conjectured: here space, there time, yonder logic. It has three basic ingredients (like bread—flour, water, and yeast). If you want to bake a universe, these are the ingredients you need—assuming you want a universe like ours (if you cut out the yeast, you end up with something pretty flat).

It will be observed that this is a minimalist theory; it tries to cut everything down to the minimum number of elements necessary. This is desirable because we don’t want to populate the universe with too many basic features, or else we won’t know how it exists. Yet it does contain one of two elements beyond what some systems envisage (the ones we call monistic—idealism, materialism). We must strike the right balance between profligacy and miserliness. Occam’s razor must not cut too deep. It really does seem to me that the three elements I have identified are genuinely distinct and individually necessary; whether they are sufficient is the mooter point. Some may urge that we need an extra ingredient if we are going to get all that we need—call that ingredient “God”. The itch that prompts this urge is certainly real, but we do better to live with the itch than succumb to superstition and quack cures. In any case, STL eschews such expedients and adventures. It carries a light backpack.[1]

[1] The thing with metaphysical visions is that they are best presented pithily and pitilessly, so they can penetrate the carapace of prejudice that seeks to repel them. Then the reader can contemplate them at his or her leisure and not be swamped by detail and qualification.

Bernard Williams and Me

One day, over twenty years ago, I ran into Bernard Williams in the corridor at NYU. He remarked: “The thing about you, Colin, is that you think you’ve either solved the problems of philosophy or they can’t be solved at all”. I paused for less than a second and replied, “I believe you’re right”. I assume his point was that this is a rather self-confident attitude, perhaps not entirely justified by the facts. But I think, on mature reflection, that it was perfectly reasonable, and not for “narcissistic” reasons. In the case of the mind-body problem, I had at that time been thinking about it for over thirty years and was well-versed in all the standard theories, as would be any half-way competent philosopher; and I had no idea what such a solution would look like. I also knew personally all the top philosophers of the time, and they had no idea either (though some may have thought they did). It was phenomenally unlikely that I, or any of them, would come up with the correct theory any time soon, and there were principled reasons for urging pessimism. It is perfectly rational to believe that no one living will come up with the solution. Is it rational to believe that someone not now living will come with it? But what will they have that we don’t? On the other hand, there are philosophical insights that have been gained in recent times, and I have as much access to them as anyone else; so, what I believe about the relevant questions is likely to be correct, or at least eminently defensible. Bernard was wrong if he thought that I mistakenly believed myself to have come up with these insights—that is demonstrably false. But I share them, like numerous others. The essential point is that no one I know (including myself) is anywhere near solving the mind-body problem, so it is not absurd for me to hold that the problem is not within sight of a solution. It is not that there is anyone X such that X can be counted on to solve the problem. Even the great Saul Kripke, who might be thought a plausible value of “X”, declared the problem “wide open and extremely confusing”. So, Bernard was quite right about my attitude, but it wasn’t all that silly. It isn’t as if Saul qualified his remark by saying, “But I hear Colin McGinn is working on the problem, so perhaps we will get a solution in a week or two”. That would be ridiculous. In this we see the true nature of philosophical problems. It isn’t like Watson and Crick and DNA or the Higgs boson or Darwin’s theory of evolution.

A Law of Subjectivity and Objectivity

Things can be subjective or objective, and so can conceptions of things. The former distinction pertains to types of objects and concerns their proximity to the mind: are they explicitly mental or at any rate mind-dependent? In this use, we say that color is subjective but shape is not. The latter distinction pertains to how we think of objects or otherwise mentally represent them: do we specify them conceptually in terms of their relation to us? Accordingly, objective things can have subjective modes of conception, and subjective things can have objective modes of conception. Here I will state a law that may seem paradoxical but is really truistic: the more subjective a conception is the more objective its object is apt to be, and the more objective a conception is the more subjective its object is apt to be. Objective things characteristically have subjective representations, and subjective things characteristically have objective representations. This sounds paradoxical because one would think the subjectivity or objectivity of an object would carry over to its mode of conception. But that is to confuse the two uses of “subjective” and “objective”, which have two meanings—objectual and conceptual. The reason the law is a truism is that the further an object is from the knowing mind the more we have to rely on its relations to our subjectivity (in the objectual sense) to get it in our sights; and the closer an object is to the knowing mind the less we have to rely on such indirect methods to get at the object conceptually.  For example, our thoughts about galaxies rely on our subjective modes of perceiving them, i.e., our visual experience; but our thoughts about our pains can skip all this and go straight to the pain, not relying on our senses. We know about pain directly, as it is in itself, but we know about galaxies indirectly, as they appear to us. The physical world is subjectively represented (initially at least, and maybe always), while the mental world is objectively represented in that we have immediate access to what it objectively and intrinsically is. Intuitively, we see the subjective appearance of galaxies from a certain position in space, but we see the real objective thing in the case of pain and other mental phenomena. We know galaxies from our particular point of view (from Earth, with our sense of sight), while we know pains from no point of view, but directly, and just as they are (by introspection). This is why the law I stated holds: the more out there an object is the more we rely on what is in here to conceive of it (the germ of truth in empiricism), but the more in here the object is the less we have to rely on anything indirect and peculiar to us, and can just go right to the object (hence infallibility doctrines of self-knowledge).

Granted that we have hold of a law here, we can ask how it applies elsewhere, in particular to mathematics and ethics. For if those subject matters are subjectively represented, then they must obey the law and be objective in themselves. But if they are conceived in a demonstrably objective manner, we can infer that they are subjective in the objectual sense: objective epistemology, therefore subjective ontology. If we have a murky humanly-relative conception of numbers, say, then numbers will be objective in the objectual sense—possibly Platonic. But if we conceive of numbers just as they are in themselves, with no subjective intrusion or mediation, then, according to the law, they should be closer to the mind, or even be mental entities. We can infer something like Platonism from conceptual subjectivity and something like intuitionism from conceptual objectivity. That is, we can do this unless the law breaks down in the case of mathematics. Similarly for ethics: if our ethical conceptions are subjective (subject-centered), we can infer objectivity in the objects; but if they have the marks of conceptual objectivity, then ethical subjectivism about the objects would appear to be indicated. If we think of the good relatively to our particular point of view, invoking our own psychology, then ethical truth is apt to be objectively determined; but if we think of it directly, and hence objectively, then ethical subjectivism would appear indicated. Suppose we think of the good as what produces the emotion of approval in us, but not so for all beings that think ethically; then we can argue that ethical fact must transcend our modes of mental representation. We must be thinking of the good in a subjective manner, perhaps peculiar to our species. The contingent mode of presentation of ethical facts that we employ must fall short of the reality in question. By contrast, if our mode of thinking is objectively true to the nature of the ethical facts, then those facts must be subjective in nature (in the objectual sense). If the good really is just what gives us pleasure, say, then we know its nature, because we know what pleasure is and what things produce it. But if the good is something epistemically remote from us, then it must transcend our subjective modes of apprehension (as Plato thought). Subjectivity in the conception implies objectivity in the object (assuming it has an object); and objectivity in the conception implies subjectivity in the object. So, it looks as if all we need to do to settle the question of the objectivity of ethics is to find out whether we think subjectively or objectively about it; and similarly for mathematics, mutatis mutandis. The law will do the rest.

So: do we think about moral value subjectively or objectively, and similarly for mathematics? Do we think about these things from our point of view or from the object’s point of view? The trouble is that it is hard to see how to answer this without having an independent grasp of the ontology in question, as we do in the case of physical objects (we call it “physics”). We can’t determine the epistemology without already knowing the ontology, i.e., whether the objects are subjective or objective in the objectual sense. We might find signs of subjectivity, such as variation in the manner of conception, but these can be interpreted as evidence of relativism; we can’t report that the conception comes apart from the facts, which are uniform. I myself believe that individual or cultural variation in ethical conceptions indicates that people have only a subjective grasp pf ethical values, which themselves exist universally and objectively; but it is hard to prove this (we don’t have an ethical analogue of physics). All we can say is that if ethical conceptions are subjective in the sense explained, and thus analogous to conceptions of the physical world, then ethics is objective on the objectual sense, i.e., not constituted by psychological facts. For if it were so constituted, there would not be this kind of variation; then we could affirm ethical subjectivism with regard to subject matter. (People don’t differ about what pain is because its nature is so evident.) Still, the law applies to the ethical case, though it is hard to use it to argue for one position or the other. If people rely on their own nature to anchor their moral thinking, perforce as it were, then moral values must be objective in the objectual sense, i.e., not “in the mind”. If people referred to the good as “the (non-mental) cause of these feelings”, then we would have reason to suppose that the good is more than the feelings thus referred to. But we don’t have any clear reason to suppose that they do. We must therefore rest content with the conditional claim. That is a non-trivial result.[1]

[1] Needless to say, these are very difficult and obscure matters, over which I have lightly skated.

Accents

Nowadays people recommend speaking in the same accent you were brought up to speak, whatever that may be, in the interests of linguistic diversity. I disagree. I myself first spoke in a Geordie accent, because I was born in Newcastle; my parents spoke Geordie their whole life. My family moved to Gillingham Kent when I was three and I spoke in that accent until I went to school at age five, and presumably for some time after. In due course I learned to speak in the Kent accent (the one Mick Jagger speaks). Should I have clung to Geordie even if no one could understand me and found me weird? Of course not. Then we moved again when I was twelve, this time to Blackpool in Lancashire. The kids called me a Cockney because of my southern accent. In time elements of the Lancashire accent crept in, though never very broad. I went to university at age eighteen and reverted to my Kentish accent because that was more common (and my then wife was from Kent). By the time I went to Oxford I was speaking in cleaned-up Kentish. There was nothing “inauthentic” about any of this; it was natural and necessary. What was my authentic accent—Geordie? I can’t even speak Geordie anymore, except for a smattering.

Living in Miami people often ask me where I am from and say they love my English accent. I tell them it is not my English accent they love, because many English accents are quite unlovable (Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester). What they love is my accent, but what accent is that? It has no name and no region. I invented it, several times. I consciously speak a certain way, like a trained actor. And it isn’t the sounds my mouth makes as I speak; it’s my clean vowels, intonation, clarity, and pauses. I speak so as to be understood and (yes) admired. I speak intelligently. I don’t speak harshly or carelessly or too rapidly. I choose my words and try to be amusing. I do this a lot with nurses. So, my point is this: do not speak as you were brought up to speak, but teach yourself to speak better—more clearly, intelligently, pleasantly. Speech is a performance, so perform it well. Let it convey who you uniquely are, not just what region you are from. Space out your words appropriately, so that the hearer has time to absorb what you just said. If you have a strong foreign accent, get rid of it, don’t feel proud of it (especially when talking on the phone). Vary your accent depending on who you are talking to. It would have been useless for me to speak in my first accent my whole life, as a philosophy professor, living in America. Work on your accent; if necessary, obliterate it. I don’t think it’s a good idea to retain your South African accent while living and working in America—you will not be understood. Moderate your Australian accent when you see your listener struggling, as he or she will. Your accent should be a work of art not just something you found lying about; so work on, refine it, perfect it. No one thinks you should preserve the manners of whatever surrounded you as a child, or the dress sense, or the subject matter of your speech; so, don’t stick to the accent you wore born into. You may get diversity that way, but you won’t get admiration and applause. Try to speak better than other people. Diversity is just another name for conformity and laziness. I recommend Alec Guinness or at least Peter Sellars as role model. It’s good to have a nice voice.