Categories of Intentionality

Categories of Intentionality

It’s time to get serious about intentionality. I mean we need to develop a systematic taxonomy of it—a classificatory scheme. And we need to include the whole it, not just this or that type. We also need to clean up and systematize the terminology, because the word “intentionality” hinders comprehension: it has no verb form (except “intend”, which is misleading) and it suggests intention too forcefully. I propose recruiting “reference” as our theoretical term, so that we can use “refer” as the verbal form. So, we need to construct a taxonomy of linguistic and mental reference—everything that can be said to refer in the sense intended by “intentionality”. We need a taxonomy of reference in general; and we need to establish priorities.

I will start with language—not because it is the most basic but because it is the most familiar and well-trodden. And I will distinguish four types of linguistic reference: nominal, descriptive, indexical, and general. There are different terms for these categories in the literature, but I think we can all agree if I say that these correspond to proper names, definite descriptions, demonstrative pronouns, and general terms (or predicates). These are all ways in which utterances can refer, and each has received its fair share of logical and linguistic treatment. In this connection we encounter such concepts as acquaintance knowledge and descriptive knowledge, sense and reference, context and causality, character and content, direct reference, rigid designation, intension and extension, predicate reference. It is generally agreed (though not universally) that we have here four distinct types of reference—four varieties of linguistic intentionality. The concept of reference is divisible into these four types.

Now we must ask if there are other bearers of reference apart from language. It is no great stretch to include cognitive states: thoughts, beliefs, and knowledge. Thoughts can be name-involving, descriptive, indexical, and general—and so can belief and knowledge. Thoughts can refer in these four ways. Some may say this is because there is a language of thought; others may take the cognitive case to be sui generis. We are certainly not speaking of the same thing when we say that thoughts (etc.) have intentionality or make reference. But it doesn’t stop there: we also have perception to consider. Again, it seems reasonable to attribute reference to perceptual states: I can see John, see the man in the corner, see that woman over there, and see the color red. Each of these is a different kind of perceptual intentionality requiring separate treatment. Different things are going on in my mind when I have the perceptual states in question—different mental acts are being performed, often simultaneously. Similarly for conative states: I can desire to go to France, desire to climb the highest mountain in the world, desire that piece of cake, desire to spread good will everywhere. Desire has the same four-way division of types of intentionality. And emotion lines up in turn: I can be angry at John, angry at the man (whoever he is) that spilt the milk, angry at that guy with the megaphone, and angry at fascism. All in all, then, we have twenty types of intentionality: four times five. There are five different types of mental state (including language) and four different types of referential device. They crowd together in the mental landscape as we perceive, think, desire, feel, and speak. The intentional zoo has many species in it.

So far, so smooth; not much to get worked up about here. But things become murkier when we inquire into priorities: which, if any, of these categories is basic? I certainly don’t think language is; in fact, I think it is the least basic. I am inclined to think that desire and emotion are basic, because more primitive evolutionarily. Perceptual reference exists in service to conation and emotion—desire for food and shelter and emotions of fear and aggression. The organism must secure food and shelter and it must avoid predators and seek mates. It senses what it needs to sense in order to survive. Reference derives ultimately from the conative and the affective—the desire-emotion complex. No doubt this primitive intentionality is modified when uploaded into other faculties, but the rudiments pre-exist these faculties. The question is difficult, but presumably it has an answer. Reference is not exactly clear and uncontroversial. What we can say is that a properly inclusive theory of intentionality will have to take in a lot more than is conventionally recognized. The varieties of reference are more extensive than the literature would suggest.  At any rate, we now have a taxonomy to work with.[1]

[1] I have referred (linguistically, mentally) to a vast literature in this short essay, as old hands will recognize: Brentano, Pierce, Frege, Russell, Wittgenstein, Carnap, Quine, Strawson, Kripke, Kaplan, Evans, Burge, Donnellan, and others. These estimable thinkers have tended to focus on reference in language and left the other kinds to fend for themselves; I am trying to rectify this tremendous oversight, not to say injustice. Where is desire in all this? Where is anger? Such linguistic chauvinism! I am preaching inclusiveness.

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Philosophers and Novelists

Philosophers and Novelists

Some professional novelists are amateur philosophers (too numerous to list). There are many philosophical novels. The same goes for poets, playwrights, and short story writers (also song writers). Fiction has room for philosophy. But there are very few professional philosophers who are amateur novelists (or professional ones). Philosophers seldom write fiction on the side. Why? Is it because they don’t read fiction and don’t like it? That may be true of some but certainly not all. Are they just too busy? Hardly. I think the answer is that they don’t have the talent or inclination or skill set. They are just no good at it. The way they normally write doesn’t equip them with the skills of a fiction writer. Their prose is too dry, abstract, and inhuman. Their minds are not cut out for it. There are exceptions, but they prove the rule. Sartre’s fiction is in service to his philosophy (Nausea is an existentialist novel), and anyway he is not a typical academic philosopher (he never published in Mind). He only published one novel. Iris Murdoch is the great counterexample: she is a fine much-published novelist and she taught philosophy at Oxford. But she is better described as a novelist who also writes philosophy—she gave up teaching philosophy after a few years (and also never published in Mind). I happen to think she is an excellent philosopher, as well as novelist, but she is hardly an orthodox analytical philosopher—her philosophical books are not classic Oxford philosophy, and no one ever offered her a job in a philosophy department. What we don’t find is a typically accredited academic philosopher who is also adept at writing novels. We don’t find anyone good at both. No one who publishes in Mind also publishes comic novels or romances are even adventure stories. It is as if one ability excludes the other.

The only exception I know of is me—in the whole history of philosophy. Kant wrote no comic fiction or lyrical poetry. Hume was a fine writer but didn’t venture into the horror story. Descartes never tried his hand at song writing. Russell, it is true, penned a couple of short stories, but they were sorely lacking in novelistic qualities (yet he was close friends with Joseph Conrad). All these people could write up a storm, but fiction eluded them. There is no one of whom it could be said that they were genuinely able philosophers, writing about mainstream philosophy, and also accomplished writers of non-philosophical fiction—who possess bothabilities. Except me. I have published two full-length novels, Bad Patches and The Space Trap, as well as a couple of short stories (and written many more), and even composed song lyrics (as well as some poetry). To me there is nothing strange or strained about this; it comes naturally. Nor do I just recycle my philosophy in my novels; they aren’t about philosophy at all. They are comic novels about sex, money, and art, and marriage, boredom, and emigration. I keep philosophy out of it. I write dialogue and descriptive passages, describe feelings and actions. I don’t go all intellectual in my novels. I aim to shock and amuse. I write down-the-line people-centered literary fiction. I dip into the demotic. I go for the jugular. You couldn’t tell from reading my fictional stuff that I am a philosopher by profession. Why only me? I don’t know. I could have written a lot more fiction, but I decided against it for practical reasons; I have the chops, as they say. I would say I am better at philosophy, but then I have put a lot more time into it. I am genuinely puzzled about my uniqueness in this respect.

However, the main point I want to get across is this: philosophy would look very different if the two talents went together. Philosophical prose is generally heavy lifting, short on humor, reader-unfriendly, and often mind-numbing. It would be a lot easier to get through if the writer had some literary talent. Imagine an introduction to philosophy by Kingsley Amis! Imagine Flaubert on philosophical logic! Imagine Nabokov on the analysis of knowledge! Oscar Wilde on aesthetics! Jane Austen on skepticism! The list goes deliciously on. Why do I write philosophy the way I do and no one else does? Because I’m a novelist. I don’t go over the top with the lyrical and lascivious, the sex and violence; but the traces of it are there—I give the reader literary treats to keep him or her humming along. I venture to suggest that this possible world is better than our drab and dreary actual philosophical world: philosophy would be more enjoyable, engaging, accessible, popular. We philosophers might even make some money! We might get on TV, go on philosophy world tours, headline with rock bands, have a good time (I’m exaggerating for effect). Large sections of the population would read us and idolize us. The world would be a better and more intelligent place—if only we could write more appealing prose! If only we had a better sense of poetry and pizazz; if only a philosophy text read like Lolita. Okay, that’s asking a lot—maybe John Grisham would do, or Elmore Leonard. Really, a philosophical training in philosophy should include a creative writing component. There should be a prize for the best written philosophy book of the year. Wooden coma-inducing lumpen prose should be called out for what it is. Above all, we must stop thinking that good philosophy must be written like a medical report or a government paper. At the very least, philosophers should read some great prose stylists and try to absorb their methods, starting with Oscar Wilde, Max Beerbohm, and P.G. Wodehouse (later you can tackle Nabokov and George Eliot).[1]

[1] It’s not enough to think like a laser, you also have to write like a dream—as someone once said about someone.

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Ideal Languages

Ideal Languages

Logic-minded philosophers have lamented the logical ineptitude of natural languages like English. They have recommended improvements based on formal systems. They have tried to approximate to an ideal language—one free of all logical defect. Others have decried these revisions and declared natural languages fine as they are; they have preferred descriptive philosophy of language to revisionary philosophy of language. It is less often noted that the would-be improvements are all stateable from within ordinary language, so that kind of language is quite capable of logical perfection, by the standards of the revisionists. But I am not going to be concerned with questions of logical perfection here but with other kinds of lapses from the ideal—less esoteric ones. For I wish to say that language as we have it is imperfect in certain other important respects: it is actually quite bad at certain things it purports to be at least competent in. Indeed, language distorts and misrepresents certain facts; moreover, this cannot be rectified from within language—the imperfection is endemic to language as such. In point of fact, ordinary language is very good at logic, which is why it can fix its own (alleged) logical problems; but it is not good at everything—quite the opposite. Good with logical reality, but bad with this other kind of reality (to be named shortly; I am keeping you guessing).

Let’s warm up with a relatively mundane aspect of language (and I mainly mean vocal speech): its volume. It’s not loud enough. Speech has to cope with background noise and sheer distance, and it often loses the battle. It is by no means sonically ideal. The human voice in its native state is not a great volume generator; shouting is frustratingly limited. There are low-talkers and loud restaurants. The human voice is poor at compensating for hearing loss in the elderly. Suppose you want to inform someone that a car is heading straight for them, so you shout a warning, but alas you just don’t have the necessary vocal volume. We know what happens next. It would be nice if you had an inbuilt loudspeaker to which you could resort when necessary, because your voice is just not loud enough sometimes; it is sonically deficient. It is also bad with accents: unless you are a native speaker of a given language, your foreign accent will always bedevil you. The English language is notoriously terrible at the pairing of spelling and sound; far from ideal. It does the non-native speaker no favors. Human speech is imperfect in its ability to conjure the right accent in a foreign tongue; the articulatory system thus leaves a lot to be desired. Then too, some words are just hard to pronounce (e.g., “anemone”) and many are far too long.

But the point I am leading up to hits us in a deeper place: our emotions (I’m sure you guessed it, because it’s all too familiar). Isn’t it a truism that our language falls grievously short in the emotion department? What is that quote from Flaubert? “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars”. Love, fear, anger—they receive short shrift from our cramped turns of speech. We can express our thoughts well enough, but our emotions are difficult to put into words, and we know it. We resort to gestures and grimaces, kisses and hugs. We shout and scream, murmur and coo. Saying the words “I love you” doesn’t seem to cut it—to show our love, put it on display for the beloved to savor. Just three little nondescript words, no different from other words, for such a Big Thing (cf. “I like figs”). Hence the talk of “shouting it from the rooftops”. Emotion and language just don’t match up that well; the latter is not designed for the former. What does match up? Music, song, dance, weeping, screaming, hitting, stroking. You can’t tell your pet dog or cat that you love them, so you stroke them or cuddle them or make funny noises. I think that song is the main symbolic medium of emotion in human beings, its ideal expression (insofar as it has one). But the words of the song don’t matter that much; it’s the way they are sung, particularly pitch and rhythm.[1] What is a human language? A finite system of syntactic rules and discrete lexical items, capable of infinite combination—an abstract computational object; it isn’t intrinsically expressive in the way other actions are. Emotions belong to a much older part of the human mind and brain, originating in animals; the language faculty was grafted on rather late in the day. There is no guarantee that it will express or convey the nature of feeling. It can name emotions, but it can’t embody them. We therefore sink into hyperbole and theatricals. We look the other person in the eye and adopt a particular bodily posture in a non-verbal effort to communicate our feelings. Darwin wrote a whole book on the expression of emotion in man and animals and language hardly came into it. Language is poor even at describing emotions let alone expressing them. We easily become tongue-tied. But I am stating the obvious, am I not? Language is good at logic because language and logic are structurally analogous, but language and emotion are not structurally analogous; emotion doesn’t have a digital discrete structure but a dynamic continuous structure (if “structure” is even the right word). Language does not picture emotion as it pictures thought (hence the “language of thought”); at best it alludes to it. We don’t speak an emotionally perfect language, or even an emotionally adequate one.

Thus, the emotional imperfection of language is not remediable from within language; it is inherent in language. Language is necessarily inept when it comes to emotion; not just not ideal, but the wrong kind of beast. It is bad at the representation of emotion. It is faulty in the way logicians have thought ordinary language is logically faulty. But there is no perfect or ideal language of emotion; the two are just not cut out for each other. We are stuck with this situation, unable to escape from it. We might therefore expect that our emotions have become stilted and distorted by their alliance (such as it is) with language; they have become linguisticized, if I may coin a phrase. And not just some humans but all humans, insofar as they are language users. Not animals, though—their emotions are pure and unadulterated. Dare I suggest that this infiltration of the emotional by the linguistic has resulted in a degree of emotional inauthenticity? And dare I further suggest that this inauthenticity is the root cause of many of our problems as a species? (Just wondering.) To put it simply, there is a distinct danger that our emotions will get reduced to mere words. Emotional desiccation results from a top-heavy language faculty.[2]

Let’s leave that grim subject and hymn our language, though in a way that might seem paradoxical. One often hears it said that ordinary language is less than ideal on account of its vagueness, imprecision, and sloppiness, leading to outright falsity. Actually, I think this allegation is baseless, though understandable: language is good because it permits these “faults”; they are integral to its working as well as it does. Again, I am saying nothing startlingly new; this is a Wittgensteinian point (see his discussion of vagueness in PI). Often, we don’t need exactitude, precision, pedantic correctness; we just need to get our point across for some practical purpose. Language allows us to do that because of its flexibility and concision. It’s like a tool: you don’t need an ideal broom or knife in order to clean the kitchen floor or slice bread—you just need instruments that get the job done up to a reasonable point. The downside of the perfect tool is that it may be too expensive or dangerous or cumbersome, and you don’t need to sweep up every last crumb or cut through bread in an instant. Similarly, you can talk loosely or impressionistically and communicate successfully. Our language is designed to be sloppy (if we are going to use this term). Imagine an ideally precise language that takes ten times as long to pronounce and defies human comprehension—it would be no use at all. So, I would not slam our language for its inaccuracies, but instead praise it. In the case of emotion language, however, I would lambast language for its lack of verisimilitude, its want of transparency, and its poverty of expression. In short: it doesn’t tell it like it emotionally is.[3]

[1] A good example is “Mother” by John Winston Lennon, which packs tremendous emotion into the simple words, “Mama don’t go, Daddy come home”. Lennon sings these words in a virtual scream of bitter anguish. He seems to be pointing out how inadequate human language is to express human emotion, elongating the word “go” and dramatically varying its pitch.

[2] See George Eliot’s Middlemarch and the character Edward Casaubon, the emotionally barren (but wordy) scholar.

[3] Isn’t it interesting that Oxford analytical philosophy was obsessed with whether ordinary language is logically defective, but it never crossed anyone’s mind that it might be emotionally defective. I wonder why. Maybe some people like language to be emotionally lifeless, or distancing and indirect. It stiffens the upper lip, dash it. In general, the philosophy of emotion is somewhat of a side subject in analytical philosophy. It bypasses the topic.

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Mysterian News

Mysterian News

I notice in today’s NY Times (May 10, 2026) that Ross Douthat mentions the word “mysterian” in his weekly column, expressing sympathy with the doctrine so named. He doesn’t say anything worth reading (as usual), but the article is indicative of the wider intellectual culture; the inset contains the words “The nature of consciousness is still a mystery”. Remind you of anyone? A bit of history: when I published my article “Can We Solve the Mind-Body Problem?” in 1989 in Mind I was well aware of its likely impact and my predictions have been borne out. First, I would be regarded as an eccentric who had lost his way after a promising early career (“Have you seen that weird article by Colin McGinn?”). After five years the thesis would become a mainstream position in philosophy, though not widely accepted, but it would be forgotten that I created it (with a little help from my friends and forerunners). This also happened. Next it would seep out into the broader intellectual culture, eventually shaping the entire debate. It would be supposed that I just latched onto a cultural trend. Finally, it would become a meme, helped along by Owen Flanagan’s catchy coinage “mysterianism”. This has all come to pass, but let me remind the world that I created it. I actually re-shaped intellectual culture, not just the philosophy of mind. Everything you read on this subject today has been influenced by my contributions. In the future, I predict, it will become the dominant and orthodox position (this will take from twenty to fifty years). And this blog will be the central text of the revolution. Just wait and see. I have been right up to now.

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Natural Worlds

Natural Worlds

Sir David Attenborough, great naturalist and celebrated TV presenter, an indisputable “national treasure”, likes to use the phrase “the natural world”.[1] I have no objection to this usage in its place (but see below), but I think the phrase deserves scrutiny (and he is not the only one who uses it). What does it mean? What does it refer to? What is the natural world? It is not the same as the actual world, construed as one among many possible worlds. It is part of the actual world—the part consisting of animals, plants (including fungi), and landscape (rocks etc.). But it’s narrower even than that: it refers to these things as they exist on planet Earth. It corresponds closely to what we call “nature”, as in “I love nature”. The idea is that the natural world is one world among many worlds existing on planet Earth—the physical world, the art world, the philosophical world. In practice, Sir David limits his interest to the natural animal world, leaving plants and rocks to one side; he is concerned mainly with animal life on Earth. His famous TV series is not about geology or ferns. In any case, the natural world is taken to be one world among many—one domain among many. There might be a series on TV in some remote galaxy called “Life on X” that deals with a quite different natural world. Natural worlds form a plurality, like possible worlds; we can quantify over them, as in “All natural worlds obey the laws of physics”. We might take this to be equivalent to “It is necessary that natural worlds obey the laws of physics”. Natural worlds are multiple, and ours is just one of them. The natural world of Mars, say, is different from the natural world of Earth; a series on the former would be pretty dull in comparison.  Sir David’s Martian counterpart might want nothing to do with it (geology has always left him cold).

Now the first point I want to make is that Earth itself is home to several natural worlds: we have the geological world, the botanical world, and the zoological world, on the one hand, and the arctic, temperate, and tropical worlds, on the other. Not to mention the worlds of whales, monkeys, and bats. The phrase “the natural world” is a catch-all phrase, whose semantics is not exactly pellucid. Semantically, why doesn’t it include the physical world and the chemical world? These are both “natural”, aren’t they? Isn’t matter part of nature? The same for mind. There are many different worlds on Earth, each well-defined, but the natural world isn’t one of them; the phrase is intended to refer to the totality of them (a collective term). In fact, that phrase is pretty empty, a mere stand-in for something better that we can’t quite come up with. We fall back on the phrase because there are no preferable synonyms. It might even be said to be strictly meaningless. A tough-minded critic might insist that there is no such unified thing, only the multiple worlds I have listed. Reality is always natural, trivially so; we need a term that is more specific—a genuine sortal term. It is merely disjunctive, like “thing” or “object”—sorely in need of an individuating concept. Natural worlds don’t form a natural kind. How do we count them? What is their criterion of identity? We can talk that way if we must, having nothing better to offer, but we shouldn’t fool ourselves into thinking that we have a genuine concept here. This is a kind of dummy sortal concept, like thing. Sir David might have simply said “natural things”, in which case the semantic lameness would have been transparent (“I have always been interested in natural things”). The phrase is highly uninformative: everything is natural and nothing is not a thing. Why not just say “I am interested in animals” or “I am interested in plants” or “I am interested in rocks”? The phrase “the natural world” is just a cobbled-together piece of semi-nonsense—indispensable practically, perhaps, but semantically ill-formed. What does it mean? Isn’t it a bit like “the spirit world” or “the astrological world”? Exactly what is meant by these phrases? Is it perhaps used because it might seem a touch vulgar or unacademic to announce that you are interested in animals? And your interests might be even more confined: worms and insects leave you cold, but you lovelions and elephants. If so, you should say so and not hide behind something nebulous called “the natural world”.[2]

And what about “Life on Earth”: is that phrase kosher? It is intended as all-encompassing, but is it? Isn’t it both too wide and too narrow? Too wide because it includes plant life (not covered in the series), and too narrow because a lot of animal life is not on the earth. Some animal life exists in the earth, some swims in the seas, some flies above the earth, and some does a combination of the above. It would be more accurate to say “Life at or near the Earth”. In fact, the series mainly covered terrestrial life—walking life, basically. Again, there is not the natural unity promised by the phrase. Life on or around Earth is a miscellany, as is the so-called natural world. What is strange is that our language is so impoverished in this respect: why don’t we have a good word for the thing we are trying to refer to? Why can’t we come up with one? It’s suspicious. I have racked my brains and I can’t come up with anything satisfactory. This is why I don’t blame Sir David for resorting to the phrase; he has dedicated his life to something he can’t name or describe. A mysterious entity—the natural world. What other kind of world is there, and can’t you be more specific, please? He clearly loves apes and is impressed by lions and admires elephants, but what is this “natural world” he keeps banging on about so enthusiastically? Do I love “nature”? No, not all of it, but I am fond of many animals and admire a pretty flower; I don’t have any general love of nature as a whole (disease, death, cockroaches). Isn’t all this talk rather pretentious and vague, like “I love humanity”? Doesn’t it lend itself to a kind of emotional inauthenticity? When Sir David recounts his famous close encounter with a family of gorillas, he comes alive and hums with emotional intensity; blather about “the natural world” seems like a way to secure funding from the bigwigs at the BBC. The phrase is best permanently scare-quoted. It has a bureaucratic ring to it.[3]

[1] I recently had the pleasure of watching a documentary on PBS about the making of young David Attenborough’s wonderful “Life on Earth” series, which prompted this essay. I remember seeing him once on the tube in London in the 1970’s. I am a great admirer of his, but the phrase stuck out like a sore thumb and gave me a twinge of unease. This is an expression of that unease.

[2] Why even call it the natural world, as if it is just a special case of natural things like mountains and valleys, atoms and molecules? Why not call it the super-natural world, meaning that it is on a higher plane than more mundane things (like Superman)? It is a cut above the usual hoi-polloi. It is something special, amazing, spiritual even (though not divine). Granted this won’t include common-or-garden rocks, but it might include landscapes and seascapes.

[3] I intend no rebuke to Mr. Attenborough in this tetchy essay; we are all under the same semantic burden. But I do recommend refraining from using the phrase so lushly and lovingly. It isn’t what it purports to be—a lucid designator. I might also remark that it somewhat dehumanizes (!) animals by treating them as a kind of abstract stuff—bits of “the natural world”. Better to stick with specific species and individual animals: we should be concerned with the fate of apes and lions (etc.) not some vague pseudo-entity called “the natural world”. Words matter in politics and ethics. In some moods, I would like to ban the word “nature” and its cognates. I don’t love my bird Eloise because she is part of the natural world (oh so natural!); I love nature, inasmuch as I do, because Eloise is part of it. Also, my lizard, Ramone, and my cat, Blackie.

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How Many Earths?

How Many Earths?

Let’s start with a couple of thought experiments.[1] Suppose there is a certain planet that has been around for a billion years; call it Janet. Not much has changed in it during this time and it has received no bombardments from abroad. Then one day it is subjected to an intense heat wave caused by getting too close to a sun or by incoming meteors. This influx of heat causes Janet to undergo a thorough geological transformation: the rocks that compose it metamorphose into different kinds of rock. We feel inclined to say that Janet is not the same planet she was; indeed, Janet no longer exists, having been transformed into a different planet. The case is like transforming a person so comprehensively that we cannot speak of the same person. Janet now looks completely different, is half her previous size, and has a different molecular composition. She might even have been split into two. Janet is no more. Now consider another planet, Joan, that receives a different kind of treatment: Joan is subjected to heavy sustained bombardment from outer space, adding tremendously to its mass. It is now ten times bigger than it was and hosts types of matter alien to its original makeup. It isn’t itself internally modified, but it is covered with alien material. We would say that Joan still exists but the planet that has been created is not identical to Joan; it is a new planet. It is as if the new planet has swallowed the old planet whole. Here we would speak of two planets not one—old Joan and new Joan. Obviously, we can construct other scenarios of a similar kind; for example, we could imagine a planet, Julie, that is pulled apart by a strong gravitational field and now consists of spatially separate parts held together by a cosmic thread—it looks like three balls held together by string. Does Julie still exist? Judgments of planetary identity are not always straightforward; some changes can make us question a planet’s identity. We might even discover that a planet we thought was one is really two: under its surface are two previous planets that have tenuously joined forces, giving an appearance of unity that is not borne out by the facts (they have quite different geologies).

My question, then, is whether the earth is as unitary as we tend to suppose. Is it really one planet? What makes a planet into a single object? What are the criteria of identity associated with the sortal “planet”? Consider a planet very different from Earth called Wendy: Wendy is spherical like Earth but is made of only one type of rock, say granite; it is homogeneous all through. There is no molten core, no atmosphere, and no alien bombardment in its past. It is exactly as it was when it came into existence ten billion years ago—no life on it, no weather to speak of, no geological upheavals. Wendy is completely static. Nor does it vary from place to place—nothing like the arctic or the tropics. It is a very dull planet. But it is certainly unitary over time; it has not gone out of existence since its birth, replaced by a numerically distinct planet. Wendy hasn’t changed a bit. It’s the same old dependable Wendy over a lifetime of ten billion years. This is nothing like planet Earth, whose career has been notably dynamic: huge geological changes, much bombardment, considerable accretion, hard on the outside and soft in the center, continuously changing, and home to myriad life forms. Earth is barely recognizable from its early days; not the same planet at all. Wouldn’t it be proper to speak of Old Earth and New Earth? Isn’t that more respectful of the facts on the ground? Doesn’t it give a more accurate picture of what we loosely call “Earth”? Don’t we talk the way we do out of convenience not ontological veracity? It’s like the way we talk about towns: towns change dramatically over time, yet we speak of them as one. Isn’t the London of today a different town from the London of its first incarnation (a bunch of mud huts by a river)? Aren’t there really many Londons, over time and at a time? Don’t we speak of a single London only by convention? Certainly, being in roughly the same place is not sufficient for numerical identity.

I would therefore like to propose that we revise our thinking about the earth’s identity to take account of its actual nature. There are really several Earths. True, they are tightly crowded together, like cattle in a corral, but they are sufficiently distinct to warrant names of their own; the collection of them is crudely designated “Earth”. And I recommend going the whole hog: there are many Earths. There is crust Earth, mantle Earth, outer core Earth, inner core Earth, ocean Earth, atmosphere Earth. Crust earth can itself be divided into different Earths, according to the type of rock forming the rock strata. Then we have the different regions of surface Earth: arctic Earth, temperate Earth, tropical Earth. In addition, and importantly, we have botanical Earth, animal Earth, and psychological Earth.[2] Each of these is part of the totality we call “Earth”, though spatially separate. They each constitute different “worlds”: the world of molten lava, the solid crust world, the oceanic world, the plant world, etc. The main division is between the original world of early Earth consisting largely of hot molten rock and the cooler post-bombardment world of later Earth. The latter then divides into pre-biotic Earth and biotic Earth. We might then go on to distinguish the pre-mental Earth from the mental Earth. It would not be unreasonable to suppose that the original planet does not exist anymore, having been replaced by the newer model, the result of serious work being done on the original (like a thoroughly renovated house). That hot hell-hole no longer exists, being replaced by our very habitable semi-paradise. It looks and feels completely different. Its geological composition is completely different. It is no more the same planet than the original Earth was the same celestial object as the cloud of dust from which it condensed. Too much transformation, too much metamorphosis. From lava to life. What if planet Earth is transformed even more dramatically in the future, say by nanotechnology driven by AI—different geology, different climate, different everything, completely unrecognizable? There can be many Earths over time and many at a time. We live on a multitude of Earths, just as we live in a multitude of towns. Each should have its own name in an ontologically perfect language.

The earth is like the brain. What we call the brain is really composed of many sub-brains, and it is pretty arbitrary where we draw its boundaries (are the retinae part of the brain, or the whole nervous system?). We already have labels for the parts considered as separate modules; it is those that matter not the brain as a totality. The whole brain has no identifiable function; it’s the parts of it that have functions. It is easy to imagine a brain as a loose collection of separate entities linked causally; there is no necessity about cramming all the parts into a confined space. The various sub-brains could each have their own place of residence distributed all over the body (intellect in the toes, say). It’s the components that matter not the way they are packaged. Similarly, the earth is a package of sub-earths, each with its own identity, its boundaries unclear (does it include the clouds and atmosphere?). How many brains do I have? How many earths do I live on? Many, in both cases. Words like “brain” and “planet” are not well-behaved sortals, carving nature at its joints; they are folk terms introduced for convenience. They suggest more homogeneity than actually exists in their designations. We exist in a plethora of worlds; we live on a plurality of planets. If the molten core of Earth were to evaporate, leaving only the crust, we would still have a planet called Earth to call home—crust Earth, that is. If the crust were to disappear, leaving only the molten core, we would still have an Earth, though not one we could live on. I think, in fact, that throughout history the reference of “Earth” in people’s mouths was the part of Earth on which they lived—a small section of the earth’s surface. Most of what we now call Earth was outside their ken and conceptual repertoire; now we take in much more, but remember that many people know nothing of the full reality of the place in the universe they occupy. The folk never intended to take in the whole kit and caboodle, just a local slice of it. They were right in that there are many Earths; there is no single Earth, no natural unit, no primordial individual substance. There is no single thing that persists from Earth’s birth to now. There are many Earths whose fate we are (rightly) concerned about, not just one. When you gaze at one of those pictures of Earth seen from a distance, you are seeing many Earths not a single Earth. If Earth dies, many Earths die. If some Earths die, not all do.[3]

[1] I view this essay as a contribution to the philosophy of astronomy, including Earth science. It might help to consider my discussion of “planet” in conjunction with Quine’s discussion of “rabbit”, though rabbits are better defined.

[2] See my “A Philosophy of Nature” on the continuity of biotic and non-biotic Earth.

[3] We are told that Mars used to be a warm watery planet and is now a cold dry one. That planet is no more, having been replaced by a much less hospitable planet. What we see now is a dead body, a remnant. How many planets orbit the sun? We are accustomed to saying eight, but properly individuated there are many more. We alone have about twelve by my count. If we took all of our life forms, along with a suitable quantity of soil and rock, to another solar system and set up camp, we would still be living on Earth by my reckoning—an Earth anyway. If a cataclysm stripped Earth of all life, leaving only an inorganic hunk of rock, we would be left with an Earth of sorts, but not the one we know and love. We could call this the “Many Earths Hypothesis”, though it is not so much a hypothesis as a fact. The word “Earth”, without any attached modifier, suffers from indeterminacy of reference; context usually helps to narrow it down. It is high time we got more specific about what we are talking about.

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A Philosophy of Nature

A Philosophy of Nature

It would be nice to give a general description of nature that brings out its essential attributes; not of this or that aspect or department of nature, but the whole thing.[1] What is the general form of the natural world? When people speak of nature in this vein, they mean the earth and the life that exists there; not other planets in other solar systems, or possible worlds, but this planet as it actually is. This includes geology, botany, zoology, and psychology—terrestrial science. Is there something that unites these various fields? The first thing we should note is that nature consists of natural kinds: divisions of nature that depend only on nature not on human conceptualization. We are trying to describe nature as it is objectively not from our subjective human viewpoint. Some people doubt that natural kinds exist; kinds are imposed by us, they say, by our classifying minds. There is a simple refutation of this: if that were so, our minds themselves would have no natural divisions, but how then could they impose divisions on nature? Take concepts: color concepts, shape concepts, mathematical concepts, ethical concepts, etc. They must fall into groups of their own accord, so to speak, or else they can perform no acts of classification. But then, why insist that nature cannot exhibit objective divisions? The truth is that our concepts fall into different conceptual kinds without this being imposed on them from outside. In the physical world kinds fall into two kinds: natural and imposed. So, we can say, unambitiously, that nature consists of a finite collection of objective natural kinds—geological, botanical, zoological, psychological. Rocks, plants, animals, and psychological states. Nature is naturally carved up in a certain way; it isn’t a homogenous blob or a blank slate.

We can start our description of nature with geology—“the science which deals with the physical structure and substance of the earth”, as the OED defines it. The first thing to note is that the earth is old, older than has been traditionally thought—some four billion years old. It wasn’t born yesterday, or six thousand years ago. It has been a long time in the making, from its molten beginnings to its current semi-solid state. The rocks that compose it are of various ages—igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic. These are the earth’s natural kinds. A geology text will tell you all about them and their origins. They were not created all in one go but over vast geological time; so, some parts of nature are older than others. The idea that the earth was created in one fell swoop in the relatively recent past is a myth that the science of geology has exploded. This evolution (the word is appropriate) is apparent in the layering of rock with which we are familiar—those rock strata beloved of geology textbooks. The earth thus consists of natural kinds of rocks, very ancient by human standards, some more ancient than others, divided into strata that sit one on top of the other. These have evolved as a result of natural forces that have created them over time: volcanic eruptions, cooling, heating, sedimentation, pressure, bombardments from outer space. Not all of these mineral kinds are native to planet earth; in fact, many originate in stellar debris floating around in remote parts of the universe (this is true of nearly all metals). The natural substances of earth are a mixture of the native and the alien, original and acquired. We might call this astronomical holism: a planet like earth is not an isolated system but is formed by the totality of cosmic matter and processes. The universe works in large units—galaxy-sized, roughly. The general form of these accretions and original materials is that of stratification: a layering of types of matter accumulated over time, not the replacement of one type by another. The landscape of earth—what we observe of it—is formed by complex and various forces and types of stuff that resemble a layered cake. The earth retains its history, which can be read off its structure. It didn’t emerge fully formed one bright day, equipped with everything it would become; it slowly evolved by means of natural forces. It is a mish-mash of things. It has grown and transformed over time, as if organically. Its surface today is nothing like what it was four billion years ago. Geologically, it is a work in progress with a long history behind it; it didn’t spring fully formed off an assembly line.

I repeat all this in order to make a point: the rest of nature is much the same. Biology (including psychology) recapitulates geology. Perhaps this should have been obvious, since the flora and fauna of the world are a kind of extension of its geology. From the point of view of an alien geologist, plants and animals are just iterations of geological strata—metamorphic rocks, basically. The matter of the earth has transformed into another type of material, squishier, more active, with some new properties—but the same old stuff that has lying around for millions of years. Our alien geologist may report back to base that earth has created new kinds of “rock” from its original composition. Some of this is actually quite rocky, like coral rock and bones and teeth. The same old atoms have taken on new properties, forming new strata. The new strata sit on top of the old strata forming a kind of soft malleable crust or icing capable of renewing itself by acts of duplication. The same principles apply to it as apply to the underlying geological strata: it is ancient, evolving, stratified, and the result of natural forces. The biological world is essentially another chapter in geological history. Darwin’s theory of evolution is a theory of the origin of another type of rock (the fleshy kind). Plants and animals belong in a late chapter of the history of geological existence. In fact, Darwin was on the brink of discovering his theory of plant and animal evolution during his geological excursions recorded in The Voyage of the Beagle, because he had already understood the lessons of geology: the world is old, created over deep time, indebted to the past, preserving the past in altered form, ever changing. All he needed was the idea of natural selection under conditions of random mutation. Geology gave him the basic principles of organic evolution on earth. He could have written a book before On the Origin of Species called On the Origin of Rocks and told a very similar revolutionary storyBoth sorts of natural kind evolve gradually over time by natural forces, not by divine act fully formed. Rock formations change over geological time, and so do flesh formations. The inorganic and the organic instantiate much the same basic pattern. The old is gradually modified into the new while preserving its old nature. This is not to deny the differences between organic and inorganic evolution; it is just to point out that in a general theory of nature the two march in parallel—evolving natural kinds under natural forces obeying a principle of stratification.

The same picture holds for psychology: minds evolve gradually over time, as a result of natural forces, preserving earlier formations. We are now very familiar with this idea: minds today contain characteristics from the distant past; they don’t leave this past behind. The mind consists of strata, old and new, that coexist today, not always harmoniously. Thus, the id coexisting with the superego, and the like. The mind follows the pattern laid down by its mineral and physiological predecessors. It’s a mish-mash of the old and new. The brain is like a rock formation arranged into layers with temporal labels. Some parts of the brain are indeed evolutionarily older than other parts (e.g., brain stem and pre-frontal cortex). It is the same pattern repeating itself: the old folded into the new, layer upon layer. The mind is a stratified thing too. This is as true for the human mind as it for the minds of other animals. The mind is old structures combined with new–like the body, like the ground beneath your feet. For example, human knowledge is a stratified structure: we have old knowledge and new knowledge coexisting together—knowledge of how to eat and mate and knowledge of physics and history. If we want a label for this philosophy of nature, we could call it “historicist stratificationism”, or “hist-strat”. That’s how nature works as a general rule.[2]

[1] The OED defines “nature” as “the phenomena of the physical world collectively, including plants, animals, and the landscape, as opposed to humans and human creations”. Odd that this definition seems to exclude both humans as a species and animal minds. Isn’t physical anthropology the study of part of the natural world, and aren’t animal minds part of nature?

[2] We could apply the same analysis to language, architecture, the arts, the sciences, religions, etc. Geology is the model for them all. Yet geology is not generally held in high esteem, compared to physics. If I am right, it lays down the blueprint for the rest of life on earth. I don’t of course mean that everything living reduces to geology, just that geology provides the form of many other regions of nature. It is a good question whether geological evolution is required for other types of evolution, which I leave for homework. I would say that geology was as important as astronomy in shaping our current view of the universe and our place in it.

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Some Ideas on Logic

المخاطبات- العدد 14- أفريل 2015 AL-MUKHATABAT ISSN 1737-6432 Numéro-Issue 14 Avril-April SOME IDEAS ON LOGIC

Colin MCGINN (Auteur indépendant)

(1) Inverted Logic

Abstract. It is argued that classical logics are not the only genuinely logical systems. In addition to modal logic, deontic logic, epistemic logic, and other recognized systems, we must make room for a logic devoted to predicates. This can be done by treating predicates as logical constants and rendering every other expression by means of schematic letters. The result is an inverted logic in which what are logical constants in one system are schematic letters in another. Logic is really the study of any kind of entailment, no matter what the category of expression is.

ملخّص. لا يعتبر المنطق الكلاسيكي على نحو حقيقي النسق المنطقي الأوحد، فبالإضافة الى منطق الجهات و المنطق التوجيهي و المنطق الابستمي و بعض الأنساق الأخرى المعترف بها، يجدر بنا أن نخ ّصص مجالا لمنطق خاص بالمحمولات يقوم على معالجة هذه الأخيرة باعتبارها ثوابت منطقية و استصفاء ك ّل عبارة أخرى بواسطة أحرف التمثيل. و تكون النتيجة عندئذ منطقا معكّوسا يكون فيه ما يعتبر ثوابت منطقية في نسق ما أحرف تمثيل في نسق آخرا، فالمنطق هو حقا دراسة أ ّي ضرب من ضروب الإستلزام بغ ّض الطرف عن ماهية

مقولة التعبير.

Résumé. Les systèmes logiques classiques ne sont pas à vrai dire les seuls systèmes. A côté de la logique modale, la logique déontique, la logique épistémique et d’autres systèmes bien connus, nous devons laisser la place à une logique dévouée aux prédicats. Cela peut être réalisé en traitant les prédicats comme des constantes logiques et en rendant compte de toute autre expression au moyen de lettres schématiques. Le résultat est une logique inversée dans laquelle ce qui est une constante logique dans un système devient une lettre schématique dans un autre. La logique est vraiment l’étude de tout type d’inférence, sans préférence pour une catégorie d’expressions en particulier.

The standard logical systems of propositional calculus and predicate calculus include two sorts of symbols: logical constants and schematic letters. Thus we have the constants “and”, “or”, “not”, “if”, “for some x”, “for all x”; and the

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schematic letters “p”, “q”, “F”, “G”, “a”, “b”. A formula will contain a mixture of these symbols: for example, “p and q” and “for some x, (Fx)”. What such formulas say can be expressed informally as follows: “the conjunction of any two propositions” and “something is such that it has a property F”. When stating the entailments of formulas in these logical systems (i.e., propositional calculus and predicate calculus), we say things like: “No matter what the two propositions p and q you conjoin are, you will have each of p and q as an entailment”, or “No matter what F you choose is, if everything is F, then a particular thing is F”. The aim is to express the generality of the entailments that depend on the logical constants in these systems; this is achieved by employing a combination of schematic letters (“placeholders”) and expressions with a constant meaning (“interpretation”). Hence we say that any argument of a certain general form is valid, where the form is fixed by the logical constants and the schematic letters. Logical form is the residue left when ordinary interpreted expressions of certain categories are replaced by schematic symbols, leaving only the designated logical constants.

Different logical systems may treat different expressions as logical constants with characteristic entailments. Modal logic adds new symbols:  and , which represent the constants of “necessarily” and “possibly” respectively, to standard systems and investigates the entailments thereby generated. Similarly for epistemic logic, deontic logic, tense logic, indexical logic, mereology, and so on. It is a question whether the expressions treated as logical constants in these various systems have anything interesting in common—is there a well-defined notion of a logical constant that transcends what we are treating as a constant in various systems. Is it merely arbitrary what we call a logical constant? Could any expression be a logical constant in some system? It may seem that the answer to that last question, at least, must be no, since no existing system treats sentences and predicates as logical constants. But could we construct a logical system that treats predicates, say, as logical constants, with other expressions treated as schematic letters? That is, can we invert the roles of the two sorts of expression in standard logic? Can we coherently treat predicate expressions as logical constants and connectives and quantifiers as schematic letters? Can we thereby investigate the entailments of predicates, in particular, by generalizing over other semantic categories? If we can, the question of what counts as a logical constant becomes completely system-relative; at any rate, predicates will be seen to possess a “logic”, as much as connectives and quantifiers.

It is actually quite easy to construct systems of this kind. I will call such a logical system a “predicate logic”, contrasting it with what are better called

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“truth-functional logic” and “quantifier logic”. The question is what category of expressions are we constructing a logical system for—what entailments are we seeking to capture? Once we select such a category, we formulate the entailments by generalizing over the other semantic categories, by use of suitable schematic letters. So consider a system containing two interpretedpredicates, “is a vixen” and “is a lioness”–the logical constants of the system– along with associated schematic letters. There are two cases to consider: a truth- functional system and a quantifier system. To deal with the former, add a pair of symbols, “a” and “b”, which can stand for particular animals. Then we can form conjunctions, disjunctions, and negations of whole sentences, like “Not (a is a vixen and b is a lioness)”. But suppose we don’t use particular interpreted connectives; instead we use schematic letters that hold a place for any connective. For example, let us use “C” to stand for either conjunction or disjunction (a schematic letter for two-place truth-functional connectives). A formula of this language will then look like this: “a is a vixen C b is a lioness”, where “C” functions as a schematic letter replaceable by particular connectives. Now we ask about the entailments of such a formula. Since the predicate “is a vixen” entails “is a female fox” and “is a lioness” entails “is a female lion”, theentailments of the complex sentence follow simply from these two entailments; so we obtain, “a is a female fox C b is a female lion”. We may infer this formula from the previous formula, based on the entailments of the two predicates. We don’t need to worry about what C is. If C is conjunction, then the entailed sentence is a conjunction that follows logically from the first sentence (by virtue of the meaning of the predicates), while if C is a disjunction, then the disjunctive sentence also follows logically. No matter how we interpret the connective schematic letter, the inference goes through, because the entailments depend purely on the predicates involved. The connectives don’t interfere with these entailments, just as the identity of the predicate doesn’t affect the entailments due to the connectives in classical logic. We can generalize over connectives by replacing them with schematic letters, thereby focusing on the logical properties of the predicates in the formulas. Thus we treat the predicates as logical constants in this system of “predicate logic” and the connectives as mere placeholders. (We can do the same for one-place connectives like negation, but there is only one to consider, since standard logic contains only negation as a one-place connective—still, the distinction between constant and schematic letter applies also with respect to the class of one-place connectives.)

Now we move to languages with quantificational structure, so we will need an apparatus of individual variables to go with the quantifiers. A typical formula would be this: “For some x, x is a vixen” or “For all x, x is a lioness”. Now we

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introduce a schematic quantifier letter “Q”, to be read “any quantifier”, so that we can write, “Qx, x is a vixen”. The letter can be read disjunctively—either existential or universal quantification—as the schematic predicate letters of standard logic can be read as disjunctions of interpreted predicates (either “is white” or “is red” or “is a man”, etc). What are the entailments of a formula containing the letter “Q” in this system? There are none to speak of in virtue of that letter, since the entailments of quantifiers depend on the particular quantifier, not the general category of being a quantifier. But the predicates in the formula have their usual entailments. Thus we can say: anything of the form “Qx, x is a vixen” will entail “Qx, x is a female fox”, no matter what quantifier we substitute for “Q” is (existential or universal). We can also, of course, deduce “Qx, x is a fox” from “Qx, x is a vixen”. Again, we have generalized over quantifiers to tease out an entailment due solely to a specific predicate. It is easy to see that the same principles will apply once we start constructing complex formulas using connectives and embedded quantifiers. We will be able to write things like: “Qx, Qy (x is a vixen C y is a lioness C x is smaller than y”, which has such substitution instances as: “For all x, there is a y such that x is a vixen and y is a lioness and x is smaller than y”, which we obtain simply by substituting on the schematic letters “Q” and “C”. We can obviously make other substitutions–say, by inverting the initial quantifiers or using disjunction not conjunction. It is easily seen that, no matter what we replace the schematic letters by, we will derive the same consequences in virtue of the meaning of the constant predicates “vixen” and “lioness”. The validity of the inference does not depend on the choice of quantifier or connective, but solely on the meaning of the specific predicates.

Thus we have inverted the usual procedure of standard logic by treating different expressions as logical constants and schematic letters. What is going on here can be seen by considering an ordinary sentence like, “Every vixen is smaller than every lioness and some lionesses are nimbler than some vixens”. Here we have quantifiers, connectives, and predicates combined to produce a sentence. That sentence has various entailments in virtue of expressions in each semantic category. We can decide to focus on certain of these entailments by making logical generalizations. We do this by treating some expressions as logical constants and replacing others by placeholders. Thus we say that any conjunction of propositions entails each conjunct, or that if everything has a given property then each thing has that property. But we can also say that if anything is true of vixens it must be true of female foxes—whether involving quantifiers or connectives. We can express this in a logical system by generalizing over other types of expressions while keeping the predicate fixed.

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If we are interested in the logic of zoological taxonomic terms specifically, we can construct a system that focuses on their entailments alone, by replacing everything else with schematic letters. Another way of putting it is this: standard logic looks at the analytic entailments of connective concepts and quantifier concepts; an inverted logic looks at the analytic entailments of predicate concepts. To take a very simple example, we can investigate the logical properties of a sentence like “a is a vixen”. There are no connectives or quantifiers in this sentence, so the logic of connectives and quantifiers need not be invoked; but we can spell out the logical properties of the contained predicate, noting that it entails “a is a female fox” and “a is a fox”. Here we will say that it doesn’t matter what object you refer to in a simple sentence like this, the predicate entailment still holds. We might also note that the sentence entails “Something is a vixen” and is entailed by “Everything is a vixen”, focusing on the subject term and generalizing with respect to the predicate. Either procedure is acceptable and simply depends on what kind of entailment we want to highlight. Every word in a sentence has entailments of some sort, so every word has a logic associated with it. Standard propositional calculus and predicate calculus single out certain words for logical attention, but we can single out other words and not be accused of arbitrariness or error, as in the inverted logic. We can therefore add predicates to the list of words that can coherently be treated as logical constants, such as modal, epistemic, deontic, or mereological words.

It is true that the predicates I have selected do not occur as often in speech or writing as other words, so that their logic is not as pervasive as that of other words (e.g. “and” or “not”). But that is a merely statistical fact, with no bearing on logical questions. Should we say that epistemic logic isn’t really logic because “know” does not occur as often as “and” and “not”? Doesn’t it depend on the kind of speaker you and the kind of subject matter that most occupies you? You may have an intense and exclusive interest in simple subject-predicate propositions about knowledge, not caring to conjoin or disjoin such propositions or insert quantifiers into them. It is the logic of epistemic concepts that preoccupies you, not the logic of conjunction, disjunction, and quantification. Then it will be natural to construct logical systems based around the concept of knowledge, ignoring systems that focus on truth-functional compounding and quantifiers. Similarly, you may be gripped by the logic of zoological nouns like “vixen” and “lioness”, because of your frequent interactions with such animals as foxes and lions, being quite indifferent about those other constructions. You may find connectives and quantifiers logically boring. Then you will put your efforts into fashioning logical systems that

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formalize predicate entailments, maybe expanding your logical interests beyond your initial zoological preoccupation. You will leave connective and quantifier logic to those with different predilections. And it is noteworthy that such logics sprang up among mathematicians interested in formalizing the sentences of mathematics, in which quantifiers play a central role. But zoologists with little interest in general laws might have different logical interests: they may want to know how words for animal groups are logically related. They might then naturally develop a side interest in words for kin relations: “bachelor”, “spinster”, “widow”, “brother”, and so on. They thrill to the logical proposition that a brother is a male sibling, or that no one can be both a widow and a wife, or that husbands cannot avoid being married. What fascinate these logicians are the logical relations between classes of predicates; and such words occur most frequently in their speech. To them our favored logical systems, with their chosen logical constants, may appear perverse—inversions of the natural and universal logical order. They wonder why we are so interested in such bland logical material (what is so fascinating about “or”?). It might even be that they worked out our logical systems long ago, finding them trivial as well as boring; they find “predicate logic” systems far more intellectually challenging. This is what they teach in university logic courses, not our preferred systems (everybody would get an easy A in our systems).

Inverted logic is thus really a species of logic. Formally, it works in the same way orthodox logic works, with selected logical constants and general schematic letters. If this is right, then the question of whether the standard logical constants have any special status becomes particularly pressing. Maybe the right thing to say is that every word has a meaning that carries certain characteristic entailments, so that every word can be treated as a logical constant relative to other words, depending on interests. The word “and” is no more absolutely a logical constant than is the word “vixen”. Every word can be either a logical constant or not a logical constant, depending on the system. Logic is simply the theory of entailment, and entailment is a trait of every word. Any system that formally captures entailments deserves to be called a logical system.

(2) Logic without Propositions (or Sentences)

Résumé. Ce papier fait valoir que la logique ne doit pas être conçue comme l’étude des relations logiques entre les propositions. La logique est plutôt l’étude de la structure logique de la réalité objective, telle qu’elle existe en dehors des propositions. Néanmoins, il peut y avoir une logique des propositions, si cela est dérivé en premier lieu d’une logique de la

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réalité. Le réalisme des universaux joue un rôle clé dans l’argument. L’objectif général est de mettre à nu le fondement métaphysique de la logique.

ملخّص. تحاول هذه الورقة إثبات أ ّنه لا يمكن اعتبار المنطق دراسة للعلاقات المنطقية بين القضايا، إذ هو بالأحرى دراسة البنية المنطقية للواقع الموضوعي كما يوجد خارج القضايا، و مع ذلك فإّنه بالإمكان وجود منطّق للقضايا (مع أّنه في ذاته مست ّل من منطق سابق للوقائع). تلعب النزعة الواقعية في الكليات دورا مركزيا في هذه المحاججة، و هدفنا العام هو بيان الأسس الميتافيزيقة للمنطق.

Abstract. This paper argues that logic should not be conceived as the study of the logical relations of propositions. Rather, logic is the study of the logical structure of objective reality, as it exists outside of propositions. Nevertheless, there can be a logic of propositions, though this is derivative from a prior logic of reality. Realism about universals plays a key role in the argument. The general aim is to provide the metaphysical basis of logic.

The way logic has been presented for a hundred years or so is as a theory of the logical relations between propositions. Propositions have entailments and figure as the premises and conclusions of arguments. Not much is said about the nature of propositions in the standard explanations of logic, but we are to assume that they correspond to the meaning of sentences—declarative sentences. So logic deals with representational entities—things that stand for states of affairs in the world. It does not deal with states of affairs themselves— with objects and properties. Sometimes talk of propositions is “eschewed” (Quine) and sentences are made the subject matter of logic, construed as marks and sounds, or some such. Then we hear what is called “propositional logic” described as “sentential logic”. If we wanted to go one stage further in the direction of concreteness, we could re-describe propositional logic as “statement logic” or “utterance logic”, where these are conceived as actual speech acts. Thus we would investigate the logical relations between speech acts. It is the same for what is called “predicate logic”: logic investigates the logical relations between predicates, especially as they interact with quantifier expressions. We are still investigating sentences, but we analyze them into predicates and quantifiers. If we don’t like the talk of predicates (bits oflanguage), we could re-name this branch of logic “concept logic”: then proposition logic and concept logic would both deal with what is expressed by language, while sentential logic and predicate logic address themselves to

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linguistic expressions. No matter how we formulate it, logic is conceived to operate at the level of representational entities, with logical relations defined over these entities. Logic is essentially concerned with the discursive. So conceived, modern logic is “the logic of (discursive) representations”. Consequence, consistency, and contradiction are all regarded as relations between sentence-like discursive entities (propositions, sentences, statements, assertions, utterances, speech acts). Premises and conclusions of arguments are precisely such entities. The laws of logic are the laws of the logical relations between these entities.

But there are two points about logical laws that call this representational conception into question. The first is that we presumably want logical laws to apply to worlds in which there are no representations. Suppose that no representational beings had ever evolved in the universe, so that there are neither sentences nor propositions (I will ignore Fregean Platonism about propositions)–there is no language and no thought. Then logical relations defined over representations will not exist in that universe; there will be no logical laws of this kind. But will there be no logical laws of any kind? Surely not: the universe will still be governed by the laws of logic, as they are traditionally conceived. Contradictions will still be impossible, by the laws of logic: but they will not be defined over anything propositional. Logical laws like this are no more language-dependent than natural laws, such as the law of gravity. We can state logical and natural laws by means of propositions, but the laws themselves don’t concern propositions. The laws can exist without the existence of any statement of them. So logical laws are not inherently propositional: they can hold in a world in which there are no propositions (a fortiori for sentences and speech acts). The universe would be subject to the laws of logic even if no thinking beings ever came into existence.

The second point is that the traditional way of formulating logical laws does not make them about propositions or sentences. Thus: “Everything is identical to itself”; “Nothing can both have a property and lack it”; “Everything either has a given property or lacks it”. In stating these logical laws no mention is made of propositions or sentences; the subject matter consists entirely of objects and their properties. There is thus no need to invoke propositions when stating logical laws; and such laws can clearly hold in a world without representations—you just need objects and properties, with logical relations defined with respect to them. Then are there two kinds of logical law—laws of propositions and laws of objects and properties? That seems unappealing: one would like a uniform account of what a logical law is. The same goes for non-

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standard logics, like modal or deontic logic: they also hold in worlds that contain no propositions (or sentences). If we add to the traditional three laws of logic so as to include further logical truths, such as Leibniz’s law of identity or the logical relations between colors, then again we have logical laws that are not defined over propositions—they concern the logical nature of the identity relation and of color themselves. They deal with logical necessities that are not formulated by reference to propositional entailments: it is a logical truth about identity, say, that (in addition to being reflexive, transitive, and symmetrical) if a is identical to b, then a and b have all properties in common. Again, we talk here only of objects and properties (or relations), not of propositions about them. These are de re (referential) necessities, not de dicto (non referential) necessities. Identity itself entails that identical objects are indiscernible, not propositions about identity; just as having a particular property itself entails not having the negation of that property, not propositions about the property. Logical facts obtain independently of discursive entities like propositions or sentences.

Rather than accepting that there are two kinds of logical laws, it would be better to demonstrate some kind of relationship of dependence between them. It seems too much simply to deny that propositions enter into logical relations, since that would be to condemn standard logic as completely misguided, based on an outright falsehood. Instead, we could try to see its entailments as derivative from deeper logical laws that are not inherently propositional: thus propositions have “derived logicality”. But how do we set about doing that? I propose that we re-conceptualize the matter along the following lines. Suppose we accept an ontology consisting of particulars and universals (objects and properties); then we can distinguish the following three areas of investigation: (i) which particulars instantiate which universals, (ii) what the nomological relationships are between universals, and (iii) what the logical laws governing universals are. That is, there are three sorts of fact about universals: first, which objects fall under them, how many, and so on; second, what laws of nature apply to universals (e.g. the laws of motion); third, what logical characteristics universals have. Each of these questions is about universals themselves, not about propositions or concepts. We are interested here in the third question, but it is worth observing how it relates to the other two questions, which are clearly not at all concerned with propositions or sentences. And the answer we would give will reflect the nature of the question: we will refer only to universals and their inherent logical relations (though of course we will be using propositions or sentences to do so).

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These relations, I suggest, will be of four basic kinds: identity, exclusion, consequence, and combination. Logic is then fundamentally about these four basic logical relations—with proposition-centered logic depending on the more basic logical facts. The logical relation of identity is captured in the law of identity for universals (also objects): every universal is identical to itself, and to no other universal. Then we will detail the logical properties of identity, noting also that identity is a necessary relation. None of this concerns propositions or sentences about identity, though there will be consequences for identity statements of familiar kinds. By exclusion I mean the way one universal excludes others from being instantiated in the same object—any which is incompatible with the first. Thus being square will exclude being not square, say by being triangular or circular. Every universal necessarily (logically) excludes other universals—that is a logical law. This is a de re necessity, not a truth about concepts or predicates: it could obtain without there being any concepts or predicates. By consequence I mean the way one universal can be sufficient for another: it is sufficient for being an animal that something is a cat, sufficient for being a man that someone is a bachelor, sufficient for having a successor that something is a number. One universal necessitates another, and perhaps another in turn. Logic (in a broad sense) traces out these consequence relations. By combination I mean logical properties of collections of universals: for example, if an object x instantiates a collection of universals U, then x instantiates each member of U; and if an object x instantiates a given universal F, then x instantiates F or any other collection of universals (these laws are intended to correspond to the standard rules of conjunction elimination and disjunction introduction). The idea here is that we can move from facts about collections of universals to facts about specific universals, and from facts about specific universals to facts about collections of them. Intuitively: if x instantiates F and G, then x instantiates F; and if x instantiates F, then x instantiates F or G. Here we logically link objects with universals considered as members of collections. Objects can be in the intersection of two universals (F and G) and be in the union of two universals (F or G).

All these logical laws are stated over objects and properties. The claim then is that this is the metaphysical basis of logical laws as they are stated over propositions. It is in virtue of the former laws that the latter laws hold. It is fairly obvious how this goes: we just need to make a step of semantic ascent. Thus: if being F necessitates being G, then “x is F” entails “x is G”–and similarly forexclusion. The logical laws of “and” and “or” fall out of logical laws concerning objects and properties, as just outlined. The law of existential generalization is based on the fact that if a particular object instantiates a universal then something

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does; and the law of universal instantiation is based on the fact that if everything instantiates a given universal then any particular thing does. In the case of “not”, used as a sentence operator, we can take negation as applicable to universals themselves, so that not-F is itself a universal. Then we can interpret “not-not F” as meaning “the negative of the negative of F”, i.e. F. Alternatively, we can construe negation as equivalent to “belongs to the complement of F” (e.g. “x is not red”). What we are doing is simply taking negation to apply to properties, not concepts or words; and similarly for conjunction and disjunction. An object can have the property of being F and G, or the property of being F or G, or the property of being not-F. All the standard so-called sentence operators have a more fundamental interpretation as operations on universals, forming complex universals from simpler ones. There are then logical relations between these universals, and hence logical laws. This allows such laws to obtain in worlds that lack language or anything representational. It makes them de re not de dicto—about reality not our description of it.

We could express all this by speaking of states of affairs, but I think we get the basic ontology right by sticking to talk of objects and properties (particulars and universals)—these being what states of affairs are all about. Objects and properties have logical laws governing them, on this conception, as they have natural laws governing them, and as they form particular facts about the distribution of properties in the universe. None of these facts depends on propositions or concepts or words. Of course, we can formulate propositions about these laws and facts, but they are not themselves constituted by anything internal to propositions. A logical principle stated at the level of propositions is thus derivative from the more basic level of the logic of universals. Predicates entail other predicates because the universals they denote or express themselves necessitate other universals—this being an entirely non-linguistic matter. So- called predicate logic is really property logic, seen through the prism of language. Strictly speaking, predicates don’t have logical relations, except derivatively on properties. If there were no properties obeying logical laws, then there would be no predicate logic. If there were no universals that inherently exclude each other, then there would be no law of non-contradiction at the level of propositions or sentences. Words cannot inherently exclude one another, and neither can concepts, construed independently of properties (as, say, dispositions to assent, or bits of syntax in the language of thought). The things that stand in logical relations at the most fundamental level are objects and properties; any other logical relations are transmitted upward from that basis. It is meaning that transmits logic from its original home in the world to language. If we try to view meaning as cut off from objects and properties, then

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we lose logic defined at the discursive level. Objects and properties are “logic- makers” as well as “truth-makers”—they are ultimately where logical truth and truth in general come from. Nothing is true but reality makes it so, as Quine said—even logical truth.

Frege described logic as “the laws of truth”, thus locating it at the level of truth bearers (“thoughts” in his terminology). But this very formulation points to a different conception, since truth turns on the condition of the world beyond representation—and likewise for logical relations. Just as a proposition is true in virtue of the way the world is, so its entailments hold in virtue of the way the world is—specifically, the logical relations between universals. The truth- makers are also the logic-makers. The laws of logic are not fundamentally laws of truth but laws of what make truths true—that is, the logical matrix in which universals are embedded: identity, exclusion, consequence, and combination. Logic does not exist independently of the world, as if confined to the level of propositions—as if it reflected the structure of human thought—but rather is immanent in the world, part of what constitutes it. It is not that we impose logic on the world, having first found it in thought; rather, logic imposes itself on thought, having its origin in the world beyond thought. The propositional calculus and the predicate calculus, as they exist today, are really encodings of a mind-independent logical reality, which exists outside of sentences and propositions; they are not the primary bearers of logical relations (the same goes for modal logic, etc).

This way of looking at things clearly depends on a robust ontology of properties or universals—they cannot be identified with predicates or even concepts in the mind, or else the contrast I am insisting on would collapse. The logic of universals would simply be the logic of predicates or concepts. Perhaps this kind of nominalism or psychologism about universals is part of the motivation for the view of logic I am rejecting; but I take it such views should not be accepted uncritically, and indeed are very implausible—for how then could objects have properties in a world lacking words or human concepts? Once we accept the reality of universals, fully and unapologetically, the approach I am defending begins to look attractive, indeed unavoidable.

This incidentally implies that the usual separation between first-order logic and second-order logic is philosophically misguided (though technically correct): we are essentially concerned with properties and their relations even at the level of first-order logic, because we need to interpret the predicates as denoting universals that form the basis of logical laws. Particulars and

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universals are the foundation of the whole logical edifice, even when we are not quantifying explicitly over the latter. Universals are ontologically basic and enter into all our thought: they are the original ground of logical laws, even when dealing with first-order logic.

Frege opposed psychologism about logic—the idea that logical laws have to do with the mind (apart from being apprehended by the mind). To this end he fashioned his ontology of objective “thoughts”—a clear oxymoron. These thoughts were taken to exist independently of the mind and to precede the existence of the mind. I won’t argue against this position here, merely noting itsextravagance; but I will say that I agree with the motivation behind it—we don’t want logic to depend on human constructions, whether psychological or linguistic. When logic is conceived as the deductive science of propositions there is a distinct danger of psychologism, but the way to avoid it is not to objectify propositions; rather, we should locate logic at a deeper level—in the world beyond thought. There is nothing at all psychological about universals, for a realist about universals—they exist quite independently of minds. They are the building blocks of reality, since there is no particular that precedes universals—there are no property-free objects. Thus psychologism is avoided by locating logical laws in the non-psychological world of objects and universals, not (pace Frege) in a supposed realm of objective transcendent “thoughts”.

It is a consequence of the position advocated here that some knowledge of extra-mental reality is a priori: for we know the laws of logic a priori, and yet these laws characterize the world beyond the mind. Again, this consequence may be part of the motivation for a propositional view of logical laws, because then we can confine a priori knowledge to the contents of the mind (with language reckoned to the mind). If we think of logical necessity as analytic, and construe analyticity as arising from language and concepts, then we will be inclined to suppose that logical laws arise from the inner nature of mental representations or words. But again, such views must not be accepted uncritically or assumed without acknowledgment—and upon examination they are very problematic. I won’t undertake a criticism here, merely noting that we need to take seriously the possibility that some a priori knowledge just is knowledge of the structure of extra-mental and extra-linguistic reality. We know from our grasp of the nature of universals that they have certain kinds of exclusion and consequence relations—however jarring that may sound to certain kinds of empiricist or positivist assumptions. We have a priori knowledge of logical laws, and these laws characterize the objective nature of

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independent reality. This is just the way things are, like it or not. Sorry!

Finally, does the notion of logical form rest on a mistake? Philosophers and logicians have been apt to speak of the logical form of propositions or sentences, but an astute follower of the logical realism defended here might protest that this is a category mistake, since logical form properly belongs to states of affairs not to sentences or propositions about states of affairs. I agree with the spirit of this protest, and admire its extremism, but I think it goes a bit too far. We can agree that universals themselves exhibit logical form, in the sense that they are arranged in a logically determined totality, as defined by identity, exclusion, consequence, and combination. But there is nothing to stop us from supposing that this form is reflected in the structure of propositions themselves. The subject-predicate form, say, is a reflection of the object- property form: two complementary elements in a relation of mutual entanglement (predication and instantiation, respectively). Nor is there any objection to selecting a class of expressions designated as logical constants, and then defining a notion of logical form on that basis (though this may be more arbitrary than has been recognized). What is mistaken is the composite idea that logical relations depend on logical form and that logical form is an intrinsic feature of propositions, considered independently of reality. That is just the dogma of logical representationalism (to give it a name) stated another way. Logical relations, to repeat, cannot be defined purely over representations, as a matter of their very nature: so they cannot result from the logical form of representations. Any logical form that propositions have must be derivative from a more basic logical reality—the logical form inherent in the underlying universals.

If the position of this paper is correct, we should stop talking of propositional and predicate logic (though we may still speak of the propositional and predicate calculus—this being a type of notation). For that gives the metaphysically misleading impression that logic is grounded in propositions or predicates, not in the logical order of the world itself. We have different symbolic systems for representing (a fragment of) natural languages, but logical reality itself has nothing essentially to do with these systems. Logical reality is external to such systems, being essentially not a matter of symbols at all (so “symbolic logic” is misleading too). Logical laws per se exist in the world outside of all representation, and it is the job of our systems of representation to reflect their nature as best we can. They may do so without claiming to be constitutive of logical laws. The laws of logic stand outside of any notation for

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less perspicuously.

(3) Love of Logic

Résumé. L’auteur cherche à répondre à une question négligée: d’où vient notre amour pour la logique? On fait valoir que la logique représente l’esprit humain dans sa correspondance essentielle avec la réalité logique objective, ce qui affirme que nous sommes des êtres rationnels.

ملخّص. يسعى المؤّلف للإجابة عن سؤال مهمل : من أين ينبع حّبنا للمنطق ؟ إّنه من الواضح أ ّن المنطق يص ّور الذهن البشري في مطابقته المركزية للواقع المنطقي الموضوعي م ّما يثبت أ ّننا كائنات عقلان ّية.

Abstract. The author seeks to answer a neglected question: whence our love of logic? It is argued that logic depicts the human mind in its essential correspondence with objective logical reality, thus demonstrating that we are rational beings.

Why do we love the predicate calculus?1 Because it is a diagram of thought as it reflects the logical order of the world. It depicts thought in its essential relation to logical reality. So it does not depict thought as a psychologist might; it depicts thought as it conforms to the objective logical order. That order is not itself a matter of psychology: it pre-exists the human mind. It would not be wrong to say that the predicate calculus depicts this logical order, since it records objective logical truths. But that is not why we love it: we love it because it depicts us as logical, as bound to the logical order. Predicate calculus is the proof that we are a rational species; it is not merely a means to formulate proofs concerning logical reality. It diagrams the logical scaffolding of our thought—it pictures human reason (physics does not do that). Its symbols and structures remind us of our inherent rationality (res cogitans), and thus enhance our self-love. We love logic because it confirms our elevated self-image, and rightly so (“proper narcissism”). If we had never invented logic, we would be able to doubt our power of reason; but logic assures us that we swim in the

1 I choose the predicate calculus as an example; other logical systems can be loved too, e.g. modal logic. I am raising the question of our logical affections because it is never raised in the philosophy of logic—yet it is surely a familiar fact of human psychology. We have emotions about logic, positive ones: we find logic adorable, beautiful, “sexy”. I am asking why we have such emotions.

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medium of reason–that we occupy logical space as well as physical and temporal space. The formulas of predicate calculus are the precise expression of our nature as logical beings. As we gaze at great paintings and recognize our status as aesthetic beings, so we gaze at logical formulas and recognize our status as rational beings—that is, as beings that reflect the logical order of the world. Love of logic is bound up with love of ourselves: but this love of ourselves is a rational love, being the love of rationality.1

(4) Is

Résumé. La question est de savoir si « est » possède deux significations (comme le mot anglais « Bank »). On fait valoir que contrairement aux idées reçues il n’y a pas une bonne raison de discerner une ambiguïté entre le “est” de la prédication et le “est” de l’identité. Il est assez facile d’offrir des paraphrases des propositions pertinentes selon lesquelles « est » a un sens unifié. L’analyse montre que le « est » signifie toujours la prédication.

ملخّص. السؤال المطروح هو ماذا لو كان لكلمة “يوجد” معنيان (على غرار كلمة “بنك” في الانجليزية) ، ّفمن الواضح أ ّنه دون اعتبار غاية البحث عن الصواب ، فإ ّنه ما من سبب وجيه لرفع اللبس فإ ّن الوجود في كلمة “يوجد” غير ذلك الحادث بين كونها آداة للحمل أو آداة لمبدأ الذاتية أو الهوّية بالمعنى المنطقي. إ ّنه من السهل تماما تقديم جمل تفسيرية مت ّممة للجمل التي تكون فيها لكلمة “يوجد” دلالة واحدة. و قد أظهر التحليل أ ّن المعنى المقترن دائما

بكلمة “يوجد” هو عمل ّية الحمل.

Abstract. The question is whether “is” has two meanings (like “bank”). It is argued that contrary to received wisdom there is no good reason todiscern any ambiguity in “is”, as between the “is” of predication and the “is” of identity. It is quite easy to offer paraphrases of the relevant sentences according to which “is” has a unitary meaning. Analysis reveals that “is” always means predication.

The standard view, enunciated by Russell, is that “is” is ambiguous between the “is” of predication and the “is” of identity (we might also add the “is” of composition, as in “this state is bronze”). Thus we have, “the cup is red” and

1 Our love of logic is thus not like our love of other subjects, such as geology or astronomy, which do not depict us. Logic is special in that it depicts us as reflective of the objective order of logical relations—it is a kind of ideal psychology. It tells us how we think (in one sense), as well as what is logically correct.

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“Hesperus is Phosphorus”, where the two occurrences of “is” have different meanings. To claim that “is” has the same meaning in both occurrences would produce absurd consequences. If the “is” in “the cup is red” expressed identity, then the sentence would mean that the cup is identical to redness, which is false and absurd. If the “is” of “Hesperus is Phosphorus” expressed predication,then the sentence would mean that Hesperus has the property of Phosphorus, which verges on the meaningless and is certainly not true—“Phosphorus” is not a predicate but a singular term. So “is” must be ambiguous between the two cases, sometimes meaning identity and sometimes meaning predication. That would be a serious failing in natural language, requiring linguistic reform: our language systematically confuses two very different concepts.

But this conclusion is far too hasty; there is no need to adopt the ambiguity thesis in order to account for the meaning of “is”. For, first, it is not difficult to construe the “is” in identity statements as simply the predicative “is”, by expanding such statements in the obvious way, viz. “Hesperus is identical to Phosphorus”. Here we have a predicate expression, “identical to Phosphorus”, coupled with the “is” of predication, so that the sentence is saying “Hesperus has the property of being identical to Phosphorus”. We don’t need a separate meaning for “is” to account for its use in identity statements; we just need to fill out the predicate in the obvious way. Clearly “is” cannot express identity in the expanded version, or else the sentence would be saying that Hesperus is identical to identity with Hesperus, which is nonsense. The point is even clearer if we add a sortal term to statements of identity, as in “Hesperus is the same planet as Phosphorus”: here “same planet” carries the attribution of identity, with “is” just acting as the predicative copula. When we use “is” alone in an identity statement this is just a shorter version of the explicit expansion thatemploys the identity concept directly. There is no “is” of identity.

Can we enforce uniformity of meaning from the other direction? That is, can we claim that “is” always expresses identity? It would certainly be difficult to do that if we read the sentences in question naively, as saying (for example) that the cup is identical to redness; but a simple paraphrase can resolve this problem. What if we rephrase “the cup is red” as “the color of the cup is(identical to) red”? That is a straightforward identity statement, and it is straightforwardly true. The same trick can be applied to all predicative uses of “is”, as in “the species of Felix is cat” or “the job of John Smith is philosopher”. Put in stilted philosopher’s language, we are paraphrasing “a is F” as “among the attributes of a is F-ness”, where “is” expresses simple numerical identity. We can take this as a quantified statement along the following lines:

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“there are attributes F that a instantiates and one of these F’s is identical to G- ness”. Thus: “there is a (unique) color C such that the cup has C and C is identical to redness”. This sounds rather ponderous, no doubt, but it corresponds quite well with the intuitive meaning of the original statement, more colloquially expressed as, “the color of the cup is red”. (As to “the statue is bronze”, this comes out as, “the material composing the statue is (identical to) bronze”. Equally, we could paraphrase the sentence as, “the statue is composed of bronze” where the “is” here is just the usual “is” of predication, not a special “is” of composition.)

So there is nothing compulsory about finding ambiguity in “is”; in fact, it is quite easy to provide paraphrases that employ “is” in one meaning for all sentences that contain “is”. And surely that is the preferable position, since it is hard to believe that natural language could harbor such a disreputable ambiguity—why not simply have two words for such very different concepts? There is the question which of the two theories we should prefer, given that both appear adequate. I incline to a mixed position, combining both types of paraphrase. The second type offers a convincing expansionary analysis, spelling out the underlying meaning of the sentence; but the first type makes it clear that the so-called “is” of identity is really short for “is identical to” or “is the same as”, which contains the “is” of predication. Thus “the cup is red” has the same meaning as, “the color of the cup is identical to red”. We turn the original sentence into a statement of identity, but that statement itself contains in its expansion a predicative use of “is”, with identity conveyed by the attached predicate “identical to red”. Predicative sentences turn out to be identity sentences, but identity sentences turn out to contain the “is” of predication. So in the final analysis “is” is always predicative, but ordinary predicative sentences are equivalent to identity sentences.

How then should we analyze “Hesperus is Phosphorus”—what is its underlying logical form? It turns out to mean the same as, “Among the attributes of Hesperus one of them is that of being identical to Phosphorus”. We quantify over attributes and declare one of them to be identical to identity with Phosphorus—where “is” occurs in its predicative meaning. Thus: “There are attributes that Hesperus has and one of them is identical to identity with Phosphorus”. This sentence expresses an identity proposition concerning the attribute of identity with a given object, but in order to state that identity we need to use “is” predicatively. Given that the “is” in an identity statement so clearly means, “is identical with”, this seems to be just what we would expect on the assumption that identity is at the root of all predication. All propositions

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are really identity propositions, on this view, formed by quantifying over attributes or properties. The recipe for constructing the underlying identity proposition is simply to refer to a property and declare it one of the properties an object has, as in “the color of the cup is (identical to) (the color) red”. If the cup has many colors, it would be better to say, “a color of the cup is red”, so as to avoid falsely imputing uniqueness, which can then be expanded into, “there are color properties that the cup has and one of them is identical to the property of being red”. Second-order quantification plus identity therefore enter even into ordinary subject–predicate sentences—which is not what we have been taught to expect. But, as we know from Russell’s theory of descriptions, language can be more complex than it seems on the surface when it is properly analyzed. First-order logic really embeds second-order logic (with identity) in underlying logical form. Still, “is” remains uniformly a device of predication, even as it occurs in second-order identity sentences. The impression that “is” is ambiguous disappears once we carry out the requisite analysis.

(5) Mereological Arithmetic

Résumé. Il est très commun de parler des nombres comme s’ils possédaient des parties composées d’autres nombres. Mais il s’avère qu’une fois nous aurons mis au clair la nature de la relation partie-tout, il s’avérera qu’il s’agit bien là d’une erreur qui résulte de la confusion entre les nombres et les marques que nous utilisons pour nous référer à eux.

ملخّص. إ ّنه من العاد ّي ج ّدا القول بأ ّن الأعداد تعتبر جزءا مك ّونا لاعداد أخرى ، غير أ ّن ذلك يكون خاطئا متّى و ّضحنا طبيعة الجزء و الك ّل. يظهر الخطأ من ج ّراء الخلط بين الأعداد و العلامات الدالة على تلك الأعداد.

Abstract. It is common to speak as if numbers have parts consisting of other numbers. But it turns out that this is a mistake, once we are clear about the nature of part-hood. The error appears to arise from a confusion of numbers with the marks we use to refer to them.

The way we talk about numbers resembles the way we talk about physical objects in one respect: we talk as if numbers have parts. This is written into the language of arithmetic. Just as we say that a cake can be divided into parts, so we say that a number can be so divided. We also speak of adding and subtracting in relation to numbers, as we speak of adding and subtracting in

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relation to a physical thing or collection of things. You can subtract a slice from a cake or some marbles from a pile of marbles, or add to the cake or the marbles, as you can add or subtract numbers. Thus we think mereologically about numbers.

Pursuing this mereological way of thinking, we can (and some do) push it further. Take the number 15: this number can be divided by 3 to give 5, so we can say that 15 divides into three equal parts of 5. These parts are traditionally called “aliquot parts”, meaning that 5 divides into 15 exactly three times, where 3 is a whole number (an aliquot part of a number is defined as an exact divisor of that number). This notion is also used in chemistry, where it means dividing a chemical sample into parts of equal quantity. Mathematicians also speak of “aliquant parts”, which do not divide to produce whole numbers—8 divides into the aliquant parts of 5 and 3. The numbers into which a given number divides can themselves be divided, ending in the whole number 1. Thus every whole number can be divided by 1, which is thus a part of every number. But these are not the smallest parts, because whole numbers can be divided—hence fractions. In the limit each number has infinitely many parts, as we keep dividing. The picture here is that a number is like a physical object in that it can be divided successively into smaller and smaller parts, the sum of which add up to the number in question. Thus there are part-whole relations between numbers, as there are part-whole relations between chemical quantities.

But there is a crucial disanalogy here, which undermines this whole way of thinking. Suppose I divide a cake or chemical sample into thirds: none of these third parts are identical to the others—we have three separate physical entities, which together compose the original object. But if I divide 15 into thirds I get the number 5, which is identical to the other (alleged) parts. The parts areidentical to each other, being just the number 5. If we call the parts “P1”, “P2” and “P3”, we have “P1 = P2 = P3”. It actually makes no sense to speak of combining 5 with itself–all that could ever give is 5. If it did make sense, we would have to conclude that 15 = 5. Similarly, if each number divides into 1 when divided by itself, we would have to say that every number is identical to 1, since every number would resolve into a collection of 1’s, i.e. the number 1. It is of course true that adding 5 to itself three times gives 15, but adding is not mereological combining—combining 5 with itself can only give 5. What are called aliquot parts are not parts at all: 5 is indeed a divisor of 15, but it is not literally a part of 15. By contrast, aliquot parts of a chemical sample are genuine parts of that sample, being numerically distinct from each other, and combinable into the whole sample. If we think about it in terms of set theory, the set {5, 5, 5} is really just the set {5}, since 5 = 5; but the set {five molecules

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of C, five molecules of C, five molecules of C} is not identical to {five molecules of C}, since the former set specifies fifteen molecules of C. The set {5, 5, 5} is just like the set {Aristotle, Aristotle, Aristotle}—a peculiar way to represent the set whose only member is 5 or Aristotle. Combining Aristotle with Aristotle gives you only Aristotle, and similarly for the number 5.Numbers really don’t have other numbers as parts, not literally.

How could this error have arisen? I suspect confusion between use and mention lurks behind it. I can certainly write down fifteen tokens of the numeral “1”, and the set or aggregate of these tokens is not identical to a set or aggregate consisting of a single token of “1”. We can rightly view these inscriptions (physical marks) as wholes with parts: the aggregate of the tokens is composed of each token or sub-aggregates of tokens. A collection of written tokens of a given numeral does indeed have aliquot parts, just like a chemical sample. The set {“5”, “5”, “5”} is not the set {“5”}, since each token is distinct from the others. But we must not confuse tokens of numerals with numbers, which do not form aggregates in this way. Of course, to claim that a number like 15 is an aggregate of numeral tokens is both highly implausible and also not what those who speak mereologically of numbers intend. But if we fall prey to a use-mention confusion we could easily slip into the error I have identified. Then we will find ourselves saying things like, “Consider three occurrences of the number 5”, which is really quite meaningless. In short: fifteen tokens of “1”are not fifteen parts of 15. And the number 1 is not a part of 15 at all, but simply one of its divisors.

Another source of potential confusion is that numbers can be attached to collections and the collections can be distinct from each other. Thus a collection of fifteen dogs can be divided into three collections of five dogs, where these collections are not identical with each other. We could reasonably assert that the fifteen-dog collection is made up of three five-dog collections. But again, it doesn’t follow that the number 15 is itself made up of three fives; and there is really no such thing as “three fives” (unless that means “three times five”), since 5 is just itself and no other thing (there is only one five). If we confuse numbers with collections that numbers number, then we will be prone to misplaced mereological thinking about numbers themselves. To repeat: numbers cannot be composed of their divisors because the divisors don’t aggregate in the right way. The number 5 is a divisor of 15, but there are not three of these numbers that aggregate to give 15. Aggregates of physical objects have part-whole relations, but numbers are not like that.

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Finally, we must not confuse arithmetic with geometry. Abstract geometrical figures can be conceived in mereological terms, as when we divide a triangle into two parts by drawing a line from one angle to the midpoint of the opposite side. Here the two parts really are parts that aggregate to form a whole, neither being identical to the other. But we cannot likewise say that 10 can be divided into two non-identical equal parts, since 5 is simply identical to 5. We cannot think of 10 as literally composed of two halves both consisting of 5, because those halves would simply be 5. It is quite true that 5 is a half of 10, but it is not true that 10 is composed of 5 twice (whatever that may mean). It is really a category mistake to describe numbers in part-whole terms. But it is a very tempting category mistake, being embedded in the very language we employ to describe arithmetic relations, and abetted by perennially tempting confusions, particularly the use-mention confusion. At best talk of part and whole in relation to numbers is a metaphor, and a highly misleading one.

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