Knowledge of Mind (and the Mind-Body Problem)

I have the distinct feeling that the root of the mind-body problem is the nature of self-knowledge. If we could figure that out, we would be halfway to solving the problem. But that problem—the problem of what we call introspection—is deep and infuriatingly elusive. However, I think I have a new way to think about the problem, which I propose to sketch. First, let’s look at our knowledge of the external world, including perception. Many words have been used to describe this relation; for my purposes, conversion is a good word.[1] Our epistemic systems convert a physical stimulus, distal or proximate, into a mental item—a belief, a sense-datum, an experience, a concept, a mental representation. The external physical thing is transformed into something of a different order for which we have various names (none altogether satisfactory). The process is a kind of transmutation or metamorphosis—related things, but distinct and modified. Think of the external stimulus as a larva and the internal response as a butterfly; the former is colorless and curiously abstract; the latter is vividly colored and startlingly concrete. The two are correlated and causally connected, but by no means identical or even similar. They are distinct entities, distantly related; one is outer, the other inner. The outer we call objective; the inner we call subjective. There is a fundamental duality at work. It is through grasping this duality that we understand knowledge of the external world. The epistemology proper to this kind of knowledge is predicated upon the duality in question. We thus have a fairly clear picture of the structure of the fact. We can compare it to other structures: spatial relations, linguistic reference, biological metamorphosis, energy transfer, family relations. One thing here, another thing there, but related intelligibly. Let’s call this “epistemic dualism”. It is essential to our epistemological outlook. It is rather like metaphysical dualism in relation to mind and body–different things somehow connected. The knowing and the known, related by an act of conversion (translation, transmutation).

But this whole way of thinking, of conceptualizing, falters when it comes to self-knowledge—knowledge of sensations, thoughts, emotions, etc. For we have no clear conception of any such relation at the heart of this kind knowledge—no idea of a spatial relation or a generative relation or a non-mental causal relation. Above all, we can’t think of introspective knowledge as a kind of conversion of one bit of the mind into another—say, pain converted into a belief about pain. We have no model of the conversion operation; the two seem too close for that kind of conception to get a grip. The model of metamorphosis seems unavailable here; it is nothing like the alteration of one physical thing into another. We might invoke a causal relation, but we don’t know how this relation is supposed to work—for one thing, it doesn’t hold across space. So, epistemic dualism doesn’t apply to introspective knowledge—we have no conception of what it is supposed to consist in. But then, we don’t have a conception of introspective knowledge we can work with, get our minds around. Actually, the model struggles even with respect to knowledge of the external world, but when it comes to knowledge of the internal world it doesn’t even get off the ground. Hence, the tendency to deny introspective knowledge altogether and go for an expressivist approach, or an outright denial of the mental as an object. We are unable to form a picture of the duality in question, so the idea of duality is brought into question. Yet surely pain and the knowledge of pain can’t be identical! We are in a muddle (as Wittgenstein would say). The putative relation seems completely opaque. Thus, we have no adequate epistemology of self-knowledge. We have no conversionist epistemology of self-knowledge comparable with our conversionist epistemology about external knowledge. We have no conception of the knowledge-forming process.

This means that one sort of knowledge does not map onto the other sort as a matter of deep principle. The way we know one doesn’t apply to the way we know the other. How, then, can we map one thing onto the other? Of course, we can find correlations, but we can’t find an explanation of mind in terms of matter or vice versa; the two are differently conceived (constituted)—one subject to epistemic dualism, the other not. Logically, it is a bit like the subjective-objective distinction, but now we are saying that mind and body differ with respect to their epistemic character. Starkly put, we have the beginnings of an epistemology for knowledge of the external world, but nothing for the epistemology of knowledge of the internal world. So far as we can see, it has no epistemology—no half-way decent theoretical articulation. It has the null epistemology. How can something with no epistemology emerge from something with someepistemology? How is introspective knowledge possible in a world governed by conversionist epistemology? The simple fact is that the physical world, including the brain, has an intelligible epistemology, but the mental world has noepistemology worthy of the name. Our knowledge of pain is really nothing like our knowledge of physical objects. Nor do we seem capable of constructing such a unified epistemology, leaving the mind-body problem in a state of paralysis.

Suppose we could contrive such an epistemology for the mind: we come to see how the mind and our knowledge of it could stand in a conversion-like relation, analogous to perception and the physical stimulus—adding to it but also preserving it. Then, we would have brought mind and brain closer together; they would at least exist in the same conceptual territory. We would still have many of the same old problems, but we would have a clearer vison of what’s going on. However, that seems quixotic and well-nigh impossible, because no such epistemology seems on the cards: how can a belief about pain be a reconfiguration of pain? How can my knowledge that I am conscious be like liquid water turning into ice or a caterpillar turning into a butterfly? What internal sensory system transforms a mental state into another mental state, related but distinct? How can a mental state act as a distal stimulus in relation to knowledge about it? The only way this could happen is if the mental state were quite different from how it appears to us, but that looks impossible (for well-known reasons). The mind-body problem is so hard because the two have totally different epistemologies. It is like trying to reduce ethical facts to physical facts while accepting that the two have completely different epistemologies. The main obstacle to solving the mind-body problem, on this view, is that the mind lacks a dualist epistemology, or one that we can imagine contriving. Neither can we conceive of a null epistemology of the external world, specifically the brain. That is why we are in such a pickle (or one of the reasons). Contrast explanatory reductions of the usual kind—say, water to H20 or heat to molecular motion. In such cases the reduced and the reducing have the same kind of epistemology, viz. the dualist kind; it isn’t that water or heat have a non-existent epistemology (you simply know “directly” that you are drinking water or that the radiator is hot). But with pain and C-fiber firing, the latter is known by means of physico-psychic conversion (i.e., perception), while the former is known in the mysterious “direct” way. That makes the situation very different in the two cases.[2]

[1] Carl Jung spoke of the senses “translating” outer physical stimuli into psychic phenomena, and he was also fond of the idea of one sort of energy being “converted” into another. These are stronger notions than mere causation. Causal theories are really too weak, as the plethora of counterexamples to them shows.

[2] Thus, the standard models of the psychophysical identity theory are seriously flawed, as others have pointed out. I am merely adding to the asymmetries. It was always obvious that these models were misleading, but they were essential to the case for the identity theory. They are deeply disanalogous to the mind-brain relation. The epistemology of the mental is not the same as the epistemology of the physical, so the two are not identical. We have epistemological dualism as well as metaphysical dualism to contend with. That is the essence of the mind-body problem.

Chapter 8

The End of Skill?

Is it possible that skill will wither and die? Then what? For all their life-enhancing qualities, might skills disappear? Might we become a species devoid of skill? Might we be left with only the skill-free part of our nature intact? Might other animals become more skilled than we are? It could be argued that this is already happening, or has happened: for we have been steadily handing over of our old skills to machines for donkey’s years—handwriting to typewriters and then computers, calculating to calculators, artifact construction to machines, car washing to car washes, etc. But there is a brand-new threat on the horizon: artificial intelligence and robots. There may soon be AI doctors, lawyers, accountants, psychotherapists, teachers, professors, sex partners, spouses, priests, and presidents. These all possess skills that could in principle be duplicated in an artificial system. If the biological brain is a computer, couldn’t a man-made computer run the same programs? It might know more, cost less, be indefatigable, less annoying, friendlier. And couldn’t this lead to robot actors, comedians, news anchors, artists, scientists, philosophers? After all, intelligence and creativity are based in the brain, so all we need is an equally capable artificial brain, whether squishy or hard. Doesn’t this lie somewhere in our not-so-distant future? In which case our own skills will atrophy and become extinct.

The question is how bad this would be. In some ways it sounds like utopia, in others dystopia. I don’t mind losing my ability to sign checks, launder clothes, and sweep floors. What about clerks, cashiers, and bag handlers? Of course, they will need other employment or simply live idly off the robot-run state—but their skills will hardly be missed. The issue is whether our present skills can be replaced by other more agreeable skills, given that humans need some skills if they are to flourish and be happy. Here the picture doesn’t seem so bleak: people can simply play games of skill, take up ballroom dancing, learn to play musical instruments, sing. Let AI do all the boring, heavy, dangerous stuff; we can just do the fun stuff. We may also develop a new type of economy in which you can choose to have your house cleaned by robots or by real humans (the latter being more expensive)—regular and premium service. The same for actors, doctors, lawyers, philosophers, etc. This is what we see in many science fiction films, and it seems to work nicely. It might even be good for marriages. Consequently, skill will not disappear from the human race; it will simply shift its location. Human life might be better than ever. Organic versus non-organic—take your pick.

Will speech survive the AI revolution? I think probably not, because speech is an effort and subject to all sorts of limitation and malfunction. It will be better to have a unit inserted into the brain that sends out the intended messages with no need to employ the larynx and lungs. Deafness will no longer be a problem, because actual ears are not involved; the message just goes straight into a brain receiver. Speech skills, as we know them, will not be needed and will fade away. Skill at kissing, though, that will not disappear, because no one wants to kiss with a device’s artificial lips—they want to use their own. Same for other sensitive parts of the body. In the case of language, we use a rather ramshackle piece of apparatus originally designed for other purposes, mainly eating, and nothing much would be lost by switching to something more streamlined—telepathic, in effect. I would love to be able to communicate with other people and animals without moving my mouth—and my old ears are long past their prime. Give me a pair of artificial internal ears and I’ll be a happy camper, but don’t ask me to eat with an artificial mouth that tastes nothing. It’s a mixed bag, but not a depressing or terrifying one.

What about competitive sports? What if an AI tennis racket is designed that can deliver pace and topspin more effectively than the human arm? Moreover, everyone can afford to buy the racket, so the playing field will be level. That does seem rather dismal: you just need to get your racket on the ball and it rockets into the corner. That would ruin the game. Already rackets have remarkable powers that have changed the face of tennis—what if we went back to wooden rackets that require more from the player? Some players may want to switch to the new AI-enhanced racket, while others will stick to old-fashioned rackets. What about bowling balls equipped with a homing device? Human imperfection and fallibility seem to be part of the appeal—who wants to see a ballet of robots making perfect pirouettes? The world will doubtless be changed by AI; skill will not be what it was. But it may not drive human skill to extinction, just transform it. Our skill set has changed over time, and it will do so again. I wouldn’t mind living in a world of super-fast and expert dentists that never keep you waiting and get you out of there in five minutes flat; same for surgeons. On the other hand, I’m not so thrilled at the idea of robot lovers that feel nothing and just go through the external motions.

Human skills may yet reach their high point with the advent of AI—no more tedious soul-destroying labor that takes years to acquire. It will be replaced by skills people love to exercise. It will be like retirement only much better. That is, if AI doesn’t destroy us first.[1]

[1] Someone should write a history of skill from ancient times to the present (and beyond). What have we lost and what have we gained? What is the best skill of all time? It seems that human skills are getting better all the time (is the same true of tiger skills?). Is there an upper limit to human skill such that at some future time we reach a permanent plateau?

Chapter 6

Work, Leisure, and Skill

Skill belongs in both work and leisure. Probably these two types of skill evolved together, as they do in animals (there are also unskilled work and unskilled leisure). Both types of skill can be enjoyed and promote human flourishing. We do jobs and we play games. Our need for skilled action is satisfied in both areas. But skill opportunities are not evenly distributed: some people have more access to skills than others. If you have no access to work skills, you will not develop them and prosper accordingly; if you have no access to leisure skills, you will not derive value from them. Ideally, equal access for all should be guaranteed. This is a way of saying that educational opportunities should be equal in a perfect world. The politics of skill leaves much to be desired, as things actually are. In an ideal world people at work would benefit from a fulfilling skill life—their nature as skilled beings would be respected and catered to. Similarly, in an ideal world people would have access to leisure skills that fulfill their lusory needs. But things are far from ideal in both ways. We need to talk about this, having sung the virtues of skill competence.

Capitalism has narrowed down the range of skills that take up work time. Adam Smith recognized and celebrated the division of labor as an engine of economic prosperity; it leads to greater productivity than being a skill-generalist. In his famous example, a nail sharpener is an ideal economic cog: this worker becomes highly skilled at the job and leaves other jobs to other people. Capitalism leads to skill-confinement. This is boring and ultimately soul-destroying, as Marx pointed out. Before the industrial revolution workers could engage in a variety of skills that allowed their nature a fuller range of skilled activity. So, efficient capitalism is inimical to human nature. This point is by now old hat. You might think that skill impoverishment at work could be rectified by diversity of leisure skills, but that requires time, energy, and money. My ancestors toiled in coalmines their whole working lives, doing repetitive jobs with minimal skill required; they were in no fit state for a game of tennis after a grueling day down the pit—and anyway there were no tennis courts or the money to pay for lessons. They suffered from Skill Deficiency Disorder, otherwise known as skill death. The values accruing from skill didn’t come their way terribly much. They had hobbies that gave them some relief—gardening, bird watching, stamp collecting—but it was meagre gruel for their skill appetites. Skill starvation was the rule.

Nowadays things are appreciably better. People live richer lives, are healthier, enjoy themselves more. You might wonder how I had the time and energy necessary to develop my extensive range of skills. The answer is that I was a professor and so had greater flexibility with respect to time (and wasn’t worn out from a long shift down the pedagogical pit). But things really improved when I retired at age sixty-three and my leisure skills took off: much more time for tennis, skateboarding, knife throwing, guitar, singing, etc. I took voice lessons for over a year and had time to practice (no need to exercise my teaching skills anymore). My skill life significantly improved. I recommend this for all retirees—get out while you still have time. I have been wallowing in the life of skill for the last fourteen years. It also stopped me from drinking so much—I was better on the tennis court without a hangover (surprise, surprise). I don’t really know what retirement life would be like without skills to acquire and develop. I believe that as the population ages (and AI takes over—see chapter 8) the development of late-life skills will become ever more desirable. We need to give serious thought to what a life of leisure skills will be like when we are all skill-maxing. Watching TV and walking the dog are not going to be enough. I don’t much like vacations for the simple reason that I can’t do much on them—too much sitting around, drinking cocktails, chatting away. The only vacations I really like are tennis vacations and water sports vacations (I have never tried knife throwing vacations). The idea of a cruise leaves me cold, unless there is a tennis court on board, or at least a bowling alley. I think far too many people are unaccustomed to a life of skill, having been subjected to the division of labor during their working lives; we need to find room for a myriad of skills. They make life worth living (you can’t just eat and drink all day or travel to foreign lands). Pickleball has lately been filling this niche. It is widely felt that there is a malaise at the heart of western capitalist societies (and maybe eastern too)—lassitude, despair, feelings of pointlessness. God knows what I would feel like if I couldn’t pursue my athletic and other interests. Skill is a large part of the meaning of my life (not the only part). I look forward to each day because I know skill will be exercised and improved upon. Of course, I also write a lot, but this is a skill too—the skill of arranging words into patterns and flexing my vocabulary. I regard myself as a highly skilled punctuationist as well as percussionist. I play guitar as I watch TV in the evenings. I always play the drums for a few minutes each day. I generally sing a few songs. I do these things alone or with others and always enjoy the experience. I no longer distinguish work skills and leisure skills, because leisure is defined as freedom from work—and I no longer work. My skills are just my skills, not divided into work skills and leisure skills. I like it that way.

The human being is a skill machine, a skill organism, a skill spirit—the naked skill ape. We have been that way since deep in prehistory. Whether at work or play we like to cultivate our skills, live in them. This fact should shape politics, ethics, education, and social life. Freedom is largely the freedom to exercise one’s skills—not just loaf around. When P.G. Wodehouse was asked what he did before he started writing at five years old, he replied “I don’t know, just loafing I suppose”. I have been working on my skills for as long as I can remember, at work or outside of work. We picture James Bond as working assiduously at his special espionage skills, not just gazing vacantly into the middle distance, smoking and drinking. The meaning of life is not just pleasure and moral duty but acting skillfully. Of course, pleasure and moral duty have their place, but skill is central and vital—not that you would think so from the teachings of classical hedonism and orthodox religion. The idle rich man and the self-abnegating monk are not the ideal figures to emulate. Who is richer, the incompetent billionaire or the person rich in skills? I leave that for homework. Discuss.[1]

[1] I once knew a billionaire (name withheld) who had remarkably few skills. He played a bit of tennis but wasn’t that good (he didn’t even take lessons). He couldn’t do anything involving skill. I myself have too many skills and not enough money…

Chapter 4

Acquiring a Skill

Now we know what skills are, how they are distributed, and how they evolved; next we must ask how they are acquired. This topic is more practical than the previous topics, and probably more appealing to the reader interested in improving his or her skills. What is the best way to become good at something? Of course, the answer will vary according to the skill, but some general lessons can be identified. I will focus on tennis, using a story about myself. My right shoulder and arm had been in trouble for a while—pain and reduced mobility. I had to have physical therapy for it and steroid injections; I wanted to avoid surgery for obvious reasons. It had got to the point that I was no longer able to serve in the standard overhead manner; it hurt and my arm was reluctant to go up that high. I had ceased serving in the usual manner. Not good for a tennis player. The diagnosis was arthritis with no cure. I googled it and found that three activities lead to this kind of problem: tennis (check), drumming (check), and kayaking (also check). I restricted myself to non-serve shots and got by reasonably, enduring the pain and weakness. Then things got much worse: I had to have an operation on my neck (cancer) which damaged the nerves to my right arm, rendering it semi-paralyzed. I couldn’t hit a decent right-handed shot anymore. I realized that my tennis days were over unless I learned how to play two-handed, i.e., trained my left arm. This was not easy, because I am strongly right-handed. Still, I persisted.

The story now gets interesting (not just tragic): I practiced regularly, almost every day, and my left arm steadily improved—slowly, gradually. It took a couple of years before I could hit a two-handed backhand tolerably well. Meanwhile I had taken up knife throwing and had to use my left arm; gradually I began to throw decently with my left hand. This seemed to help with my tennis. To cut a long story short, I am now a better tennis player than I have ever been in my whole life (at 76)—with a defective right arm. My left arm has come into its own, proved its worth (it used to be so shy). What lessons can we draw from this inspiring story? Persistence pays. Recovery can be slow. You must keep at it. Don’t give up if there is a way forward. Learning a new skill is time-consuming. It’s never too late. Use your intelligence. These cliches have their point. Listen to your body and make it listen to you. Bend sinister[1] if necessary.

What is the best way to teach a skill like tennis? I favor a granular approach: teach the components of a skill separately; don’t try to do it all at once. Break the skill down and practice its elements in isolation. Then try to put them all together. I often tell people to practice in their living room with no ball; just learn to move your body in the right way—hands, feet, torso. By all means try to hit whole shots on the court, but accompany this with a more analytical strategy; otherwise, you will never reach true competence, let alone excellence. A complex skill involves a variety of simpler sub-skills and these need to be learned and absorbed separately. Reject holism! Skill atomism is the way to go. Apart from anything else, there is just too much to remember if you try a more holistic approach. Your unconscious will take care of the basics if given time; then you can concentrate on the whole situation, including what your opponent is up to. I would say a forehand in tennis has around ten components to get right—too many for the conscious mind to handle simultaneously. Repetition is of the essence, the simpler the better. I also believe in combining the intellectual with the practical: don’t just practice a movement blindly; understand why it is the right movement. Know why you are doing what you are doing. Knowing-how should be accompanied by knowing-that. Knowing about spin, say, is essential, not just causing it. Intelligence as well as physical ability. Skill is a subtle mix of the intellectual and the practical. There are no dumb professional tennis players.

I have two further precepts: concerning proprioception and imitation. You need to be aware of your body and its movements as much as of the environment—you need to know what your body is doing. Are your feet correctly spaced, are you rotating your torso properly, are you well balanced, what is your non-dominant arm up to? Tennis players are exquisitely aware of their posture and movement; they walk athletically. Proprioception should become second nature. Imitation, too, is vital: we learn by copying experts. Discursive instructions are important, but simple imitation will get you there sooner. So, you need to become observant and a good mimic. Don’t let anyone tell you that we all play differently, and you must find your game. This is rubbish—you need to absorb the game of expert players. Mimic everything about them (I say the same about learning philosophy). Unashamedly copy your heroes, then you may become one. I do a nice impersonation of Jannick Singer’s walk, and I swear it helps me hit better (I used to do a decent Rafa Nadal).

Finally, transfer of training: one skill affecting the acquisition of another. Psychologists distinguish positive and negative transfer of training—the kind that helps and the kind that hinders. Mostly skill transfer is positive, but it can produce negative effects. Thus, if you are already a proficient table tennis player, this will help you with some of the basics of tennis—eye-hand coordination, ball understanding, spin, etc. But it may also cause you to strike the ball in an overly contracted manner, limiting the power of the shot. The swing in tennis is much larger and more energetic, because the tennis court is much larger than a table tennis table. Each skill has its specific demands, some like other skills, some different. Be aware of this and correct your technique if necessary. Most tennis players are poor table tennis players (Roger Federer is an exception), and vice versa, so beware of transfer of training—it can screw you up. I learned both skills separately, so I don’t confuse them. Still, I feel one whenever I play the other, because both are wired in.

Let me add that learning skills is a fairly mysterious process; there is no solid science of it. Still, there are general principles that are well established. Generally speaking, the better you have learned a skill the less conscious you are of it. Skill is the domain of the unconscious. I will come back to this in chapter 7. For now, I will say that I have been entranced by the way my body and brain adopt the skills I try to instill in them, mysterious as it is. I want to say thank you to them.[2]

[1] Bend Sinister (1947), a novel by V. Nabokov.

[2] This chapter is shorter than I would have liked because little is known of skill acquisition of any substance and it is a subject of great fascination to me. I wish I had an algorithm I could convey. I am reduced to saying you should play several times a week over several years if you want to become a decent tennis player—and get a good coach.