Existence and Action

                                   

 

 

Existence and Action

 

 

The word “action” has both a narrow and a wide interpretation: in the narrow sense it means human (or animal) intentional action (OED “the process of doing something to achieve an aim”); in the wide sense it includes actions of inanimate objects (OED “the effect or influence of something such as a chemical”). Most simply an action is a “thing done”, where the agent can be a psychological creature or a physical object. In this latter sense we find such phrases as, “action at a distance”, “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”, “the action of acid on a substance”, “the principle of least action”, “chemical action and reaction”, “action potentials”, and so on. Clearly the concept of action can be applied quite broadly and without solecism.

            A comprehensive metaphysics should find a place for this broad notion. Not only are there physical objects, physical properties, and physical events (as well as psychological); there are also physical actions. Physical objects do things, as well as being a certain way. Matter acts as well as is. One can envisage a metaphysics in which action, both physical and mental, is given pride of place—not merely events but actions proper. We already have “process metaphysics” (contrast “substance metaphysics”) and there are some who would jettison the ontology of objects for one of events; well, we could have “action metaphysics”, or at least a metaphysics that includes actions as a fundamental general category. For some reason philosophers have tended to view matter as passive, in contrast to mind, but a more active view of it is certainly possible. This metaphysics would explore the nature of physical action, relate it to intentional action, and ask which interactions (nota bene) involve action. For example, it might be wondered whether all action is action on something and thus relational, or whether the concept of energy is integral to the concept of action, or whether causation is a type of action in the broad sense. Are there basic physical actions, how are physical actions individuated, is acting-on a transitive relation? One can imagine a whole philosophical industry devoted to “action metaphysics”.

            Delicious as that subject may be, I am concerned here with a more specific question. Be warned that it is, or will seem to be, a very odd question, possibly even a meaningless question. It is this: Is existence an action? Is existence a thing done? Is “exists” a verb of action? When something exists, is that an action performed by the thing? To be sure, it is not an intentional action, but is it an action in the broad sense just adumbrated? And the answer I propose to give (deep breath!) is that existence is an action: not simply that existing things act, let it be noted, but their existence is itself a type of action. We may speak of “the act of existence” and not merely of “the fact of existence”.  [1] Existence is not just an attribute; it is an active attribute. Why might anyone think such a thing?

The first point to note is that “exists” is a verb not a noun or adjective: thus it connotes activity—like “swims”, “lives”, “breathes”, etc. It is not like “red” or “male” or “tall”, which do not connote activity but simply property-hood. The second point to note is the etymology of the word “exists”: it comes from a Latin word meaning, “stand forth, come forth, arise”. These are action verbs, suggesting the onset of bodily presence or salience—as when an object looms up out of the fog boldly advertising its existence. Thus there is linguistic evidence for the active nature of existence, though such evidence is obviously far from conclusive. How might we bolster it?

First consider non-existence. Non-existence is no kind of action. It is not a thing done. It is an omission, a thing not done. Non-existence is like non-swimming: an absence of action. It takes no effort not to exist, nothing positive or creative. A non-existent thing does not need to do anything in order not to exist. Contrast the creation of an existent thing: that requires action, production. When a thing comes to exist an action is performed—something is brought actively into being. This is obviously true for human (and divine) artifacts, but it is also true of objects created by “acts of nature”—such as planets, volcanoes, animals, and selves. The act of creation is the act of converting non-existence into existence. The big bang was an act that created the entire physical universe. Who or what performed this act? According to some, it was an intentional agent; but we can also credit acts to nature itself—natural acts. Objects act, but nature also acts, through its objects. We may as well say that the universe acts when actions are performed within its precincts, though it does so via its several parts—just as we say that a human being acts, though only in virtue of certain of his or her parts. In any case, creation is active: but what about preservation? Once a thing comes to exist does its activity cease? Does it continue to exist without any further activity? No: it must constantly ward off the forces of destruction. This is obvious for organisms–hence the “survival of the fittest”, i.e. the continued existence of the organisms best capable of resisting destruction. But it is also true for inanimate objects; they too are subject to all sorts of destructive forces—weather, corrosion, collision, fire, decay, and entropy. Nothing is forever. Existence is one long battle against antithetical forces. Maybe the whole physical universe will one day vanish in a puff of smoke (“the big puff”). Things only continue in existence because they have destruction-resistant properties such as rigidity, impenetrability, and cohesion. If they didn’t, they would perish in short order.

So we can say that objects act  (operate) in such a way as to lead to their continued existence: they play an active role in their preservation (mainly by reaction). They don’t disintegrate at the first breath of air. Existence is active destruction-resistance. If you imagine history greatly speeded up, this fact would be more evident: you would see all the forces acting on the object over time from inception to destruction, and its dogged resistance against the onslaught. Consider a tree branch that survives being made into a piece of furniture, as well as all manner of bangs and scrapes, finally succumbing to fire: the branch would appear to be engaged in a frantic struggle against inimical forces. If things had no resistance to destruction, they would be gone as soon as they arrived; they persist only because they have properties that keep them in existence. But all this talk is action talk: objects actively preserve themselves—their very existence depends upon it. Some objects intentionally preserve themselves, but all objects naturally preserve themselves—it isn’t just a happy accident that things persist. The act of existence is an act of self-defense: the object must react to what it interacts with in such a way that it emerges intact–if dented, bent, scorched, or bloodied. Existence is an act because extinction is a threat. Nature acts on an object and it acts back. Our concept of existence is thus the concept of a positive achievement. To exist is to withstand the effects of time—to prevail against the agents of annihilation. That is no mean achievement, and it deserves the name of action. Existence is a feat–hence an act.  [2]

            Here is a potential counterexample: numbers. Numbers exist, but where are the forces of destruction they have defeated? Numbers have no need to ward off destruction, so what acts do they perform to ensure their continued existence? They exist blissfully without effort (they are not an endangered species). But aren’t numbers the exception that proves the rule? For numbers are precisely things for which the concept of existence has been disputed: numbers don’t really exist—not like tables and chairs, animals and stars. They are not active at all and so cannot exist in the verb-like sense—there is no activity in them (but there is activity in every natural thing). Numbers are, we can say, but they do not exist—so it has often been thought. If we are to apply the word “exists” to them, it must be in a second-class or metaphorical sense. This feeling is explained by the present theory of existence: numbers don’t act; they simply are. They don’t act on each other or on the physical world; their “existence” is a foregone conclusion not a positive achievement (note that they are also not created by any act). Numbers are beyond action, so beyond existence in its primitive sense. Existence in the natural world takes place against a background of non-existence—the nothingness before, the threat of nothingness during, and the nothingness after–but numbers don’t emerge from, are threatened by, or collapse into non-existence. The “language game” of existence-talk doesn’t apply to them. So they confirm, rather than confute, the account of the concept of existence suggested here.  [3]

            It has often been remarked that existence is not like other properties—not just another property alongside shape, color, weight, etc. This is sometimes thought to favor the second-order (quantifier) theory of existence and disfavor the first-order (predicate) theory, but the action theory has another explanation: existence is an act not a state (characteristic, feature, attribute). Being red or square or a man is not an action (hence these properties are ascribed by adjectives or nouns), but existing is an action and hence is expressed by a verb. Existence involves the action of self-preservation, and that is very different from other properties. From a metaphysical point of view, existence is sui generis: it is an act (a thing done)—not a quality or trait. Existing is something an object does, while being red or square or a man is something that an object is. Existence is a very unusual property—indeed, a very unusual act.  [4]

 

  [1] I came across the phrase “act of existence” in Nabokov’s King, Queen, Knave (1928), p. 202, and it set me thinking. It struck me as both surprising and apt (very Nabokovian). I could also cite Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” which hints at the idea of existence as action: it seems to mean, “Should I carry on being or should I put an end to being?” The question gains power by representing existence as a kind of decision—a revocable act, a project that could be abandoned.

  [2] We can imagine a world in which objects are powerless against the prevailing destructive forces, perishing as soon as they arrive on the scene; they just don’t have a nature that permits them to persist—a mere gust of wind will consign them to oblivion. In such a world there would be little use for the concept of existence.

  [3] There is a lot to be said about existence in mathematics that I have not gone into (especially the use of the so-called existential quantifier); my point is just that it is not clear that the case of numbers refutes the action theory of existence because it is such a special case.

  [4] It should be noted that categories such as “property” and “act” are highly general and in danger of blurring distinctions. There is so much variety within these categories, accompanied by a compulsion to seize on paradigms. I call existence a “property” and an “act” and immediately risk misguided assimilations; what I am really doing is drawing attention to similarities. I have put the point ploddingly by saying simply that existence is an act; I could say more cautiously that it is act-like or act-ish.

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Degrees of Knowledge

                                               

Degrees of Knowledge

 

 

Belief comes in degrees—one can believe something more or less strongly. But knowledge does not come in degrees—one cannot know something more or less strongly. We have all sorts of words for degrees of belief (“certain”, “confident”, “convinced”, “of the opinion that”, “suspect”, “surmise”), but we have no such words indicating degrees of knowledge: you either know or you don’t know. In this respect “know” is like “refer”: we don’t have degrees of reference either. How then can knowledge be a type of belief—the true justified kind? If that were so, wouldn’t it have to be capable of degrees, just like belief? If knowledge were meritorious belief, it would have to possess degrees just like belief and merit, but we can’t say that someone strongly or weakly knows that p. Thus the traditional analysis has to be mistaken.

            It might be replied that truth doesn’t come in degrees and that’s why knowledge doesn’t; the all-or-nothing character of knowledge reflects the all-or-nothing character of truth. But (a) that is not obviously true of truth, since we do sometimes talk of sentences (or propositions) being more or less true; and (b) the all-or-nothing character of truth doesn’t prevent belief from having degrees—so why should it have that effect on knowledge? If one can weakly believe a proposition that is definitely true, why can’t one weakly know a proposition that is definitely true? Nor can justification be the source of the difference between knowledge and belief, since it too admits of degrees. The all-or-nothing character of the concept of knowledge comes from the concept itself not from anything extraneous to it.

            Yet meritorious belief appears to have something to do with knowledge; it is not irrelevant to the concept of knowledge. It is just that it can’t analyze knowledge: we can’t paraphrase a knowledge claim by using the concept of belief in the traditional way. But knowledge does somehow depend on the state of a person’s beliefs: what you know is a function of what you believe and how you believe it. Generally, if a person has a true justified belief that p, then he knows that p (putting aside Gettier cases). We thus seem to be heading for a paradox: knowledge can’t be a type of belief because it doesn’t come in degrees, but it must be a type of belief because that is what it depends upon. Here is a possible way out: knowledge supervenes on true justified belief, but it is not identical to true justified belief. The property of knowing is not identical to the property of having a true justified belief, but the former property depends (exclusively) on the latter property. We have dependence without reduction, as in other instances of supervenience. The traditional definition (sic) of knowledge confuses analysis with supervenience; the former does not follow from the latter.  [1]

            This diagnosis fits the account of knowledge I have suggested elsewhere, namely that knowledge is a relation to a fact and belief is a relation to a proposition.  [2] The two states take different objects, which is why we can say, “John believes the proposition that p” but not “John knows the proposition that p”, and why we can say, “John knows the fact that p” but not “John believes the fact that p”. The state of knowledge refers to a fact but the state of belief refers to a proposition: the thing known is a fact but the thing believed is a proposition (the two states have different “intentional objects”). This theory fits the present diagnosis because it regards knowledge as conceptually separate from belief, involving a quite different relation (to a fact not a proposition), but it allows that there is a dependency between knowledge and belief. The state of being in the knowing relation to a fact supervenes on the state of being in the belief relation to a proposition (a true and justified belief), but the states are not identical or analytically equivalent. You get into the knowing relation to a fact by getting into the appropriate belief relation to a proposition (compare the mental and the physical), but we can’t reduce the former to the latter. Knowledge is thus not a species of belief, which is why it doesn’t come in degrees; but it does supervene on belief in the way articulated by the traditional definition. And intuitively, we have no wish to say that one can know a fact to one degree or another (just as we have no wish to say that one can refer to a thing to one degree or another), while we are more than happy to allow that propositions can be believed to this or that degree. Thus the factive theory of knowledge is consonant with the point that knowledge doesn’t come in degrees, while the doxastic theory of knowledge is inconsistent with that point. Still, there is a systematic dependence of knowledge on belief; it is just that the dependence is a matter of supervenience not analytic equivalence.  [3]

 

Colin McGinn   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  [1] This means that the concept of knowledge is left primitive by the traditional theory: we have not yet said what knowledge is (intrinsically, essentially).

  [2] See my paper, “Knowledge and Belief”.

  [3] Supervenience specifies sufficient conditions not necessary conditions, so it is consistent with it to suppose that there can be knowledge without belief. This is desirable, since there are convincing examples of knowledge without belief (some animal knowledge, some unconscious human knowledge). A mongoose might know (the fact) that a snake is nearby without having any belief to that effect, belief being a matter of reasons and rational deliberation not instinct or direct perception.

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Consciousness and Synthesis

                                   

 

Consciousness and Synthesis

 

 

How does conscious intentionality differ from the unconscious kind? How does the intentionality of our conscious thoughts, in particular, differ from such unconscious representations as there might be? Even if there is no real intentionality of the latter kind, but only derivative intentionality or quasi-intentionality, we can still ask what is characteristic of conscious intentionality. I shall here ask what unconscious intentionality would be like if there were any—how it would differ from conscious intentionality. No doubt many replies are possible, but I shall focus on just one, which I believe has been neglected.

            Suppose I think, consciously and reflectively, that John is a bachelor. Then my thought can be analyzed as having the content that John is an unmarried man. The intentional objects of my thought consist of John and the property of being a bachelor, but this property resolves into two further properties (which may themselves resolve into yet further properties upon deeper analysis). The intentionality of my thought is capable of analysis. If I had simply thought that John is a man who is unmarried, then my thought would not have had such an analysis: it would already be analyzed (compare thinking that the king of France is bald and thinking that there exists a unique king of France and he is bald). We can think a proposition in an unanalyzed form or in an analyzed form. If we thought every proposition in an analyzed form, then there would be no need for (or possibility of) conceptual analysis. So some of our intentionality is analyzable and some is not. The kind that is analyzable involves an operation we can call synthesis: a number of conceptual elements are brought together in thought so as to produce a unified concept that combines them. The elements have been synthesized into a whole, where before they were unconnected. There can be analysis only where there has been synthesis. There are three levels of conceptual connectedness: possession, conjunction, and synthesis. Thus a sequence of concepts C1…Cn can be jointly possessed by a subject, just when he has each of them; but it is also possible for the subject to conjoin the possessed concepts in thought, simply by use of the mental equivalent of “and”: however, there is still a stronger relation, which consists in the fact that the concepts may be synthesized into a concept—where this goes beyond mere conjunction. Conjunction is not sufficient for synthesis. This means that complex analyzable concepts are not psychologically equivalent to mental conjunctions. When I think that John is a bachelor I don’t think the conjunction of unmarried and man—I think the concept that synthesizes these two concepts. Similarly for more interesting cases of conceptual analysis, such as Russell’s theory of descriptions or Suits’ definition of games. The mind has performed the operation of synthesis to produce a complex concept, where using this concept is not reducible to thinking just the conjunction of the conditions that define it. It is because of this operation that analysis is possible: the seeming primitiveness of the concept is shown by analysis to conceal a hidden conceptual complexity. The surface unity is backed by an underlying diversity. This apparent unity is the upshot of the operation I am calling synthesis.

No doubt synthesis is somewhat puzzling and mysterious. How can the generation of complex concepts be anything other than composition by conjunction? How can synthesis produce unity from disparate elements? I shall come back to this question, but for now the point is that synthesis is a real psychological phenomenon: when we have a conscious thought of the analyzable kind synthesis has occurred. I shall accordingly speak of “synthetic intentionality”, meaning that the intentionality in question is the product of synthesis—as with my thought about bachelors. I shall contrast this with what I shall call “associative intentionality”, meaning that kind that is involved in consciously thinking that John is a man who is unmarried. This latter kind of intentionality can be understood as employing the mental operation of conjunction, without any accompanying synthesis into a new unity. We might think of the process of complex concept formation as a two-stage process: first, the possessed concepts C1…Cn are combined according to conjunction; second, the conjunction is subject to synthesis, whereupon we have a new concept C* that unifies the conjoined elements into a conceptual whole. When the second stage is complete the concept C* no longer looks like a conjunction, or feels like one introspectively—nor is it expressed by a syntactic conjunction in ordinary language. It has its own primitive predicate and its own phenomenology—yet it has an analysis in which the conjunction figures. We might say that it masquerades as primitive and could turn out to be primitive—but it is in reality complex and analyzable.

I hope I have said enough to establish the reality of synthesis as it applies to the concepts we employ in conscious thought. My thesis, then, is that conscious intentionality involves synthetic intentionality, while unconscious intentionality (if there is any) involves merely associative intentionality. More exactly, conscious intentionality has the power of synthesis, while unconscious intentionality does not have this power. We need to put it that way because not all of conscious intentionality involves synthesis—notably, thinking that involves primitive concepts. Only complex analyzable concepts involve synthesis, not simple concepts. Then the idea is that consciousness has the power to synthesize simple intentionality into complex intentionality, but nothing else does. In effect, unconscious intentionality is just a conjunction machine: it can only bring concepts together by conjunction—it cannot really form synthetic wholes. In a certain sense, abbreviation is possible for conscious intentionality but not for unconscious intentionality. Abbreviation, then, turns out to be a lot more interesting (and mysterious) than we thought: it results from the power to transcend conjunction in forming complex concepts. To put it differently, consciousness is what permits the possibility of analysis—while unconscious representations have no analysis. The unconscious representation that John is a bachelor is just the representation that John is a man and unmarried—there is no defining to be done. More interestingly, an unconscious representation that the king of France is bald just consists in the representation that someone is a unique king of France and is bald. The unconscious representation is already analyzed, so permits no analysis. Consciousness is what conceals underlying structure, and hence makes analysis possible.

Let me note, as an aside, that according to this conception philosophy is possible only for conscious beings with the power of conceptual synthesis. Because of synthesis our knowledge of the analysis of our concepts is not an introspective given—we can’t just read the analysis off by introspecting our thoughts. Abbreviation is necessary to the possibility of philosophy (conceived as conceptual analysis). A being without synthetic consciousness would have no use for philosophy, because the analyses of its concepts would already lie open to view. Or better: if all complex concepts appeared in thought as conjunctions of their primitive components, then the job of analysis would not need to be performed. If a being had all our complex concepts, but lacked the power of conscious synthesis, then those concepts could only exist in its mind as conjunctions, in which case the analysis has already been done. This being could still pursue science in much the same way we do, but philosophy would be a dead end—because already complete! This is perhaps why some analytic philosophers have supposed that our task is to discover the language that lies unconsciously beneath our conscious thinking—for in that language all is revealed. Ironically, consciousness makes philosophy more difficult. The reason is that conscious intentionality typically involves synthesis, and synthesis is what blocks the immediate recognition of conceptual structure. An unconscious thinker is a better philosopher than a conscious one (i.e. Mentalese is more logically transparent than the natural languages we consciously use).

What is my ground for making this distinction? I think it is apparent upon inspection that conscious intentionality is synthetic, but inspection is not so possible for unconscious intentionality. My reason for insisting on merely associative intentionality for unconscious representations is simply that I cannot see what could generate synthesis in the absence of consciousness: how do we get the surface-deep distinction for unconscious representations? We can’t appeal to introspection, because the representations are unconscious. How couldcomplexity of representations in the unconscious ascend above the level of conjunction? All complexity there has to be, in a word, serial—a matter of concatenation—without the benefit of genuine synthesis. Computer code, say, resolves into a series of 1’s and 0’s: these basic representations never disappear into a higher unity as conscious concepts do. Unconscious intentionality can only mechanically combine; it cannot creatively synthesize. The conscious mind has the power to convert a conjunction into a synthesis (a mysterious power: see below), but the unconscious cannot perform this operation—it must sluggishly conjoin and concatenate. The synthetic power gives rise to the appearance of simplicity in our complex concepts, but unconscious representations cannot have this appearance-reality distinction—there is no representational appearing down there. In the unconscious a conjunction is just a conjunction.

 

What is this power of synthesis, of generating or recognizing unities within pluralities? It is as if the conscious mind sees in a set of concepts a higher-level unity or coherence and then produces a synthesis of the elements. For example, the concepts truth, belief, and justification are apprehended as forming the complex concept knowledge(assuming this is a good analysis of the concept)—and not merely as capable of being conjoined with and. We can combine any old concepts with and and not thereby produce anything with conceptual unity—as with “false and warm and triangular”. What we want to say here is that “true” and “believed” and “justified” form a special unity—which we describe as “knowledge”. We thus see these three concepts as parts of a whole. What kind of capacity is this? Here we may be reminded of the Gestalt psychologists: they studied the way the human conscious mind imposes or discovers unities in arrays of stimuli, concentrating on perceptual unities. They tried to ascertain the particular laws of association that produce apprehended unities, such as propinquity and continuity. They viewed consciousness as a unity-detecting device—something that takes mere plurality and converts it into unity. Using their terminology, we can describe the synthesis of concepts, as in the knowledge case, as one kind of Gestalt detection (or imposition). I would say that the perception of Gestalts is only possible for the conscious mind—because this is a matter of how the world appears in consciousness. The unconscious could only compute geometric relations and possibly deliver verdicts as to function; it could not experience perceptual unity. Genuine Gestalt perception is essentially conscious. This is because the power of true synthesis is unique to consciousness—finding unity in plurality. Thus conscious perceptual intentionality is different from unconscious perceptual intentionality—the former being synthetic, the latter associative. The phenomenological Gestalt is the province of conscious perception; unconscious perception can only generate a simulacrum if it—a calculated unity not an apparent unity. If this is right, then conceptual synthesis is special case of Gestalt synthesis—the ability to find unities in pluralities. And the general thesis is that consciousness is the sine qua non of synthetic unification. It is not an accident that the Gestalt psychologists concentrated their efforts on conscious perception, because unconscious perception (if there is such a thing) has no Gestalt dimension—just as unconscious thoughts (if there are any) lack the kind of conceptual synthesis characteristic of conscious thoughts.

 

I don’t think we have any very good theory of how synthesis works. It has a kind of magical feel to it—getting something from nothing, spontaneous generation. It goes beyond mere conjunction, but we have no other model for how the simple gives rise to the complex in the conceptual domain. Consciousness just seems to whisk the new unity into existence—a kind of emergence takes place. (It is not unlike the way consciousness itself is mysteriously whisked into existence by the brain, apparently emerging from something insufficient to accommodate it.) But this very mysterious quality supports the thesis I am defending—that synthetic intentionality belongs exclusively to consciousness. Unconscious intentionality is not so mysterious, being both unconscious and lacking in magical-seeming synthesis. The kind of synthesis I am discussing is akin to that identified by Frege, who puzzled over the unity of the proposition: why is a proposition (or sentence) not just a list of elements—whence the unity? It is certainly made of parts, which may be detached from it—so how come the parts manage to cohere into new type of whole? Frege invoked the mysterious notion of “saturation” to handle this problem. I am talking about a psychological analogue: how the constituents of a complex concept cohere together into the higher unity represented by the concept itself—how do the parts arrange themselves into the whole (if not by simple conjunction)? We want to speak here, not of composition, but of gestation—the parts give birth to the whole by the mysterious mechanism of synthesis. But my aim in this paper is not to explain synthesis; it is merely to use it to distinguish two kinds of intentionality. I can put the proposal very simply by saying that conscious intentionality is the kind that admits of analysis, whereas unconscious intentionality does not. Contrary to Freud, the unconscious has no analysis; but the conscious is deeply analyzable. That is, in the unconscious everything is analytically explicit, but consciousness contains implicit content—hidden by the synthesis it has imposed on sets of primitive concepts. Thus Brentano may be wrong to think that intentionality is the mark of the conscious mind, but we can easily amend his thesis to say that synthetic intentionality is the mark of the conscious mind. Only the conscious mind directs itself to things outside itself by synthesizing its more primitive states of intentionality.

 

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What the Mind Does: Internalization and Externalization

 

 

 

What the Mind Does: Internalization and Externalization

 

 

The concepts of internalization and externalization are found with some frequency in psychology. It is said that the child internalizes the surrounding culture, including moral and social norms (the same can be said of an adult transplanted into a hitherto alien culture). It is also said that the child internalizes the rules of grammar of the language he or she grows up to speak. In clinical psychology we hear that a person has internalized family conflicts or role models or patterns of response. On the other hand, psychoanalysts have suggested that people externalize their own psychological traits, as with classic projection; and it can be added that animism and anthropomorphism are instances of the same phenomenon. Linguists speak of public communicative language as the externalization of an (innate) internal language system.  [1] Art and technology are sometimes held to be externalizations of the mind. These are certainly suggestive ways of talking, but what do they really mean? How literally should they be taken? Can they be elevated into a general theory of the mind?

            As always the dictionary provides a useful starting point. The OED gives us this for “internalize”: “make (attitudes or behavior) part of one’s nature by learning or unconscious assimilation; acquire knowledge of (the rules of language)”. For “externalize” we have: “give external existence or form to; project (a mental image or process) onto a figure outside oneself”.  Merriam-Webster has: “to make external or externally manifest”. The idea of internalization is that something originally external to the mind is rendered part of the nature of what is internal to the mind: it was “out there” and now it is “in here”, shaping it, forming its inner architecture. Thus what was once merely the code of one’s society becomes one’s own inner code—a sort of cultural invasion has occurred (often unconsciously).  The language spoken by others is incorporated into one’s own symbolic faculty, made internal. The mind is evidently capable of this internalization operation, converting what is perceived externally into a feature of one’s interior landscape. In the case of externalization the governing idea is that what is originally inner is expressed outwardly: the external comes to have the form of the internal—it is the internal made manifest. The nature of the external thus reflects the nature of the internal. Evidently the mind is capable of this feat of externalization, converting mind into world, inner into outer. The internal is made external, as the external can be made internal. The mind pushes outward as it also pulls inward. Notice that this is not the same concept as the concept of causation: it is not merely that the external can cause the internal and the internal can cause the external; rather, the external can determine the nature of the internal and the internal can leave its imprint on the external. We might say that there is in both cases an “internal relation” between the inner and the outer: each side reflects the other. A sort of isomorphism obtains, as well as a kind of dependence. This is a strong relation, in which the mind is said to literally internalize what lies outside its boundaries, as well as literally to externalize what is within it. Clearly an exceptionally tight and intimate relationship is envisaged, a kind of overlapping of internal and external.

            It might be wondered whether others parts of nature can be said to internalize and externalize. The idea is not preposterous; indeed, the term “internalize” is used in biology to describe the cell pulling external material across its membrane and into its interior (“endocytosis”). The justification for using this term is obviously that a boundary exists across which certain items flow, so changing the nature of the entity they flow into. There is the internal landscape of the cell and there is its external environment, and the latter can penetrate the former, molding it in the process. I suppose we could extend the use of the term to feeding: the external in the form of food is taken in and converted into tissues of the body, shaping them—though here the idea of changing the nature of the body seems strained. But the abstract notion of an entity with boundaries being shaped by and shaping its environment, by dint of a transfer of elements, seems generally applicable. Even in physics and chemistry we could justify talking this way, though to my knowledge physicists and chemists don’t: the atom absorbs and expels energy, internalizing and externalizing a transferable ingredient; heat is absorbed into a system altering its behavior, also seeping out to alter the surrounding world; osmosis is the passage of molecules from inside a physical system to outside it (and vice versa). There is what is internal to an entity and what is external to it; and the activity of the entity, in conjunction with its environment, involves various kinds of internalization and externalization. We might, indeed, contrive a metaphysical system from this basic structure: The world is the totality of internalizations and externalizations. There are these entities called “monads” and they operate by internalizing what is around them and externalizing what is within them. They are not isolated atoms but essentially interacting entities whose nature is fixed by acts of internalization and externalization. There is a dialectic between internalization and externalization that defines the ontological structure of reality. We might even conjoin this metaphysical picture with panpsychism: the psychic units that constitute so-called physical reality internalize what exists around them and they also externalize themselves in the form of perceptible matter. The metaphysical possibilities are endless: history is the externalization of the internalized; God internalizes everything and his creation is the externalization of his nature; mind is matter internalized and matter is mind externalized…

            Putting that metaphysical flurry aside, we can focus on the mind and its capacity to engage in both sorts of operation. Clearly we must assume some sort of boundary in order to make sense of the concepts of internalization and externalization. The external must lie on the further side of this boundary in order to be capable of crossing it from elsewhere. The mind must be bounded by something or else there would be nothing external to it. This boundary could be conceived in many ways, depending on further ontological commitments: it might just be the boundary of the brain or the body, or it might be conceived immaterially. A dualist would suppose that the immaterial substance could internalize extended substance by that substance crossing an immaterial boundary—not presumably by actual spatial transfer but by some sort of extraction of form. Similarly, the mental substance could externalize itself by imparting its form to material substance: but not by itself becoming material. In the case of language the talk of externalization is motivated by the idea that both the internal language and its outer expression share their grammatical structure (and maybe lexicon), so that we can say that the internal structure is manifested in the structure of outer speech. Thus outer public language has a derivative structure determined by copying the original structure of the internal language (perhaps supplemented by other sources of structure). Likewise, if we thought that inner speech were the internalization of outer speech, we would suppose that the derivation goes the other way. On either view we have an isomorphism of grammatical structure. We don’t tend to think this way about knowledge in general, as if all knowledge is a kind of internalization of the outer—as if knowledge of the universe were the internalization of the universe. We internalize the rules of English, say, but we don’t internalize the planets (those rocky entities). But that may be a reflection of a misguided internalist view of the mind: wouldn’t an externalist say that (some) mental states are (partly) individuated by objects in the environment, so that it is acceptable to say that the mind internalizes the external world? On earth we internalize water (H2O) in our thoughts and meanings, while on twin earth we internalize retaw (XYZ). So we could in principle extend the idea of knowledge-as-internalization to the full range of knowledge, not just knowledge of language or cultural norms. We internalize objects and facts as well as rules and attitudes.  [2]

            Similarly for externalization: why should we not extend the idea of externalization further than is customary? Why not view all behavior as the externalization of the mind? An action is an intention externalized. Art and artifacts count as externalizations, so what about the actions that lead to them? The notion of expressionencourages this thought: we express our emotions in our body, and this expression is surely a form of externalization (consider facial expressions). There is a natural “fit” between inner feeling and its bodily expression, not merely a causal connection. Just as perception can be viewed as the internalization of objects, so action can be viewed as the externalization of desires (etc.). The mind takes in and it also gives out. It isn’t just that reasons cause actions; actions externalize reasons—embody them, lend them material form (consider a chess move). And it isn’t just that objects cause perceptions; perceptions internalize objects. The relation is a lot more intimate and internal than we have tended to suppose—not logical perhaps, but certainly structural.  [3] Maybe it is a general property of mind to be an internalizing externalizer. The mind absorbs things across its boundary and it extrudes things in the opposite direction. For instance, the mind internalizes the rules of grammar to achieve mastery of a particular language, but this mastery is externalized in actual speech. In the case of innate knowledge of the universal rules of grammar, there is no such internalization, since the knowledge is present ab initio; but there is still externalization as the internal language faculty hooks up with sensorimotor systems. It is natural to suppose that there exists an innate internal mental apparatus prior to any internalization of the environment, and that this apparatus interacts with the environment to lead to internalized knowledge; this composite system then interlocks with sensorimotor systems to make externalization possible—spoken language and maybe action in general (as well as art and technology). We have a transition from the internal to the internalized to the externalized. There are internal and external domains and there are operations that cross these boundaries, thus producing mixed domains of the internalized and the externalized. Not everything in the internal domain is internalized (we are not empiricists) and not everything in the external domain is externalized (we are not idealists): but there is a good deal of internalized and externalized stuff in the world—intersections of the internal and the external mediated by the operations of internalization and externalization.

            People speak of stimulus-response psychology and of computational psychology to characterize a general conception of how the mind works and what it does; we can likewise speak of internalization-externalization psychology (or I-E psychology) to capture the general conception of how the mind works we are exploring. This is quite a specific conception, incorporating as it does the idea that the mind is a device for internalization and externalization—not for mediating stimulus and response or for performing computations (though these ideas need not be regarded as simply false, just incomplete). It depicts the mind in a particular way—not just as an input-output device, but as something that performs a characteristic kind of operation of conversion. Not that the conversion operations in question are well understood or free of mystery; indeed, they are quite puzzling. For how is it possible to internalize the external or to externalize the internal? Isn’t this contradictory? It seems like a peculiar form of mental alchemy—yet it is evidently what happens. Nor can we draw comfort from those non-psychological analogues I mentioned earlier, because abstract similarity is not identity of mechanism: how the mind contrives to internalize and externalize is left unexplained. It is not just a matter of absorbing molecules across a membrane or emitting energy from an atom; these are specifically psychological processes—a sort of mimicry, perhaps, whereby the outer is converted to the inner and the inner is converted to the outer. It is not like inserting a marble into a box or ejecting a marble from a box, in which the ideas of internalization and externalization have literal spatial meaning; but it is not entirely unlike that either. It is as if the external world is inserted into the mind, or extruded from it. People speak of the extended mind; well, this is the externalized mind. Similarly, we can speak of the “internalized world” to capture the power of the mind to bring the world into its domain (the world extends beyond its own natural boundaries to take up residence in minds). The mind protrudes into the world in acts of externalization, but the world also protrudes into the mind in acts of internalization. Each visits the other’s territory, leaving its distinctive mark. That is the essence of the mental—internalizing and externalizing, crossing an interface.

            Let me illustrate how this conceptual framework applies by considering two unrelated topics: music and sense. Music is closely associated with the emotions, and this gives it a unique place in the operations of internalization and externalization. On the one hand, music is easily internalized, as if it is designed to be: we hear a tune with our outer ear and instantly it enters our inner musical landscape. Its emotional resonance plays a role in this ready internalization. On the other hand, audible music expresses inner feeling perfectly, so lending itself to the externalization of emotion—in the form of dancing, singing, playing an instrument, humming, etc. We internalize tunes and we externalize what is thus internalized. And there is an especially intimate connection between the internal and the external in the case of music: we repeat the external tune silently in our head, and we externalize our inner experience in forms that precisely mirror what is going on internally (notably when singing). The psychology of music is thus steeped in internalization and externalization, and would hardly be conceivable without them. In the case of sense, Frege supposed that senses are objective external entities, but he also supposed that they shape the very nature of thoughts: we internalize senses in such a way that they enter our cognitive landscape (the same could not be said of references as Frege conceived them). At the same time grasp of sense is externalized in public symbolic systems—these systems make sense manifest. So senses are both internalized and externalized—and this is essential to their identity, what they are. If we think of senses as existing in our environment (in some extended sense), then the task of thought is to internalize them; but once internalized they are available for externalization in language, so that language becomes sense externalized. That is the psychology of sense: first internalization, then externalization—internal absorption and external expression. And that is psychology generally: internalizing the world and then externalizing what has been made internal. It isn’t just that an outer stimulus elicits an overt response via an internal process, or that information flows from the environment into the brain and then out to behavior. Rather, the mind possesses a specific set of capacities that we call “internalization” and “externalization”; and these capacities deserve the names they have been given. If we want a single word to express this general conception, analogous to “behaviorism” and “computationalism”, we might choose “conversionism” for want of anything better.  [4]

 

Colin McGinn                 

 

 

  [1] This is the position taken by Chomsky: the primary instantiation of language is as an internal system connected initially to thought; only later is language hooked up to sensorimotor systems that produce a spoken communicative language. When that happens the internal system is externalized, i.e. its properties are transferred to an outer capacity. Outer language has structure because inner language has structure—the former is derivative from the latter. See Why Only Us, Robert C. Berwick and Noam Chomsky (MIT Press, 2016).

  [2] I don’t say we should endorse this proposal, only that it is worth considering. An alternative would be to divide all knowledge into two classes: internalized knowledge and non-internalized knowledge. Then we could have debates about where given types of knowledge fall—what about knowledge of mathematics or ethics? Similarly, there will be a division between externalized facts about the world and non-externalized facts (which are presumably much more numerous, if we keep God out of it).

  [3] One approach would be that perception involves building a mental model of the perceived object, thus replicating its structure internally. Or we might go full externalist and insert the object itself into perceptual content, expanding the mind into physical space. And there are other approaches too that could be used to justify the word “internalize”.

  [4] I suppose we could try for something catchy like “int-ext psychology” or “outside-in theory”, but it might be best to stick with the more cumbersome description.

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What is it like to be a Human?

What is it like to be a Human?

 

 

Imagine an intelligent bat contemplating the mind-body problem, name of Tim Nigel.  [1]  Nigel has noticed that humans have an auditory sense not possessed by bats (of his species): they can hear various pitches. This enables them to appreciate music (unlike Tim and his conspecifics) and also to have other types of auditory experience not available to bats. We can suppose that bats hear only a single pitch and only echoes of their own monotone shrieks, impressive though their sense of echolocation is. Thus Nigel concludes that he doesn’t know what it is like to be a human, at least so far as hearing is concerned. He has some inkling, to be sure, because he does have an auditory sense, but the range and variety of human hearing makes this sense alien to him—just as humans have an auditory sense that provides only partial insight into the auditory sense of bats. He thinks that if he could hear pitch variations in the manner of humans, then he would know (fully) what it is like to be human; but as things stand he cannot grasp the nature of human experience. This is a region of reality he cannot get his mind around (Nigel is a resolute metaphysical realist). He expresses his conclusion by saying that human experience is “subjective” and can only be grasped “from a particular point of view”, in contrast to “objective” things that can be grasped “from many points of view, i.e. from no specific point of view”.

            Having come to this conclusion he notices an implication for the mind-body problem, namely that experiences like those of humans cannot be reduced to physical facts about the human body and brain. For such physical facts can be grasped from many points of view and don’t require that one shares the point of view of the organism having the experience. Tim can know what it is to be a human, i.e. to belong to the human biological species, but he can’t grasp what it is like to belong to the psychological type exemplified by humans, i.e. beings sensitive to pitch differences. But that means that it is not possible to analyze experiences as physical states, because the former are subjective and the latter objective. He has uncovered a feature of mental concepts that renders them incapable of analysis into physical concepts. Tim’s inability to know what it is like to be a human thus leads him to reject materialism. The essential point of his reasoning is the contrast between concepts of experience and concepts of the physical world–the point, namely, that the former are accessible only to beings that share the experience in question while the latter are not dependent in this way. You can know what it is to be a member of the human species without yourself being of that species, but you can’t know what it is like to have human experience without having that kind of experience. And you can grasp the properties of a human brain without yourself having that kind of brain, but you can’t grasp the experiential properties with which these brain properties correlate without having those properties yourself.

            That is what Tim Nigel concludes from his reflections on human experience (and which he publishes a paper on with the title of the present paper—which quickly becomes classic of bat philosophy). I would like to rephrase the gist of his argument in a way that brings out its logic more clearly than in Nigel’s original formulation (not that there’s anything wrong with it!). Instead of talking about subjectivity, objectivity, and points of view, I shall say that the relevant feature of (concepts of) experience is self-acquaintance dependence (SAD). The term needs some unpacking. We are familiar with the idea of concepts that depend for their possession on acquaintance with members of their extension—it is a cornerstone of empiricism. Thus it may be said that the concepts red and square are acquaintance-dependent—you have to experience red and square things before you can have these concepts. Putting aside the plausibility of that position, we know what it means; well, the present idea is that certain concepts require for their possession acquaintance with instances of the property in oneself. That is, you have to be aware of the property as instantiated by you if you are to have the corresponding concept. So to have a concept of a certain type of experience you have to be acquainted with instances of that type in your own person: for example, you can only have the concept of an experience of red if you have yourself had experiences of red. You have to be an instance of the general property the nature of which you aspire to grasp. Such a property is what I am calling self-acquaintance dependent: you can grasp it only if you are acquainted with it in yourself. Thus for Tim Nigel the concept of pitch perception is SAD: it requires him to have a certain type of experience that he doesn’t possess. He can’t grasp human auditory experience because he lacks that type of experience, while he can grasp what it is to be human (i.e. that biological species). He can grasp the nature of P-fibers in the human brain but not the type of experience these fibers underlie. Thus experiences can’t be brain states since the former concepts are SAD while the latter are not. The argument is by Leibniz’s law: experiences have a property that brain states don’t have, viz. self-acquaintance dependence of the relevant concepts.

            Having got this far the astute Nigel wonders whether his argument generalizes: are all mental states SAD? He concludes that they are, since it is not possible to grasp what these states involve unless you yourself share them—emotions, memories, thoughts, bodily sensations, desires, volitions, etc. It is true that, like perceptual experiences, all these phenomena have non-SAD aspects: neural correlates, functional properties, non-mental causes and effects, number and duration. But these aspects don’t exhaust their nature, which always has a bit of SAD in it. For example, how could you know—fully know—what anger is if you had never been angry? How could a non-thinking being know what thinking is? How can memory be fully grasped if you have never remembered anything? Moreover, Nigel concludes, no other types of concept are SAD: only mental concepts depend for their possession on instantiating them oneself—not mathematical concepts or moral concepts or color concepts or shape concepts or aesthetic concepts. SADness is the mark of the mental (cf. intentionality or privacy or rationality). So, at any rate, Tim Nigel contends in his famous paper “What is it like to be a Human?”, and his argument seems clear enough.

 

Colin McGinn        

 

  [1] For the uninitiated this paper takes off from Thomas Nagel’s famous paper “What is it like to be a Bat?” (1972). My purpose is expository: to rephrase Nagel’s argument so as to bring out its structure. 

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Varieties of Sanity

                                               

 

 

Varieties of Sanity

 

 

Mental illness comes in several varieties: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, neurosis, eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, paranoia, impulse control disorder, tic disorder, sexual disorders. These illnesses can be possessed independently (though there are certain correlations): you can have one without having the others. I take the big three to include psychosis, manic-depression, and lack of impulse control: these are the three main ways in which the mind can assume pathological traits. At any rate, I shall focus on these three in what follows. My question is: Does sanity have a similar structure? Are there different types of sanity? You can be insane in several different ways, but can you be sane in several different ways? And what does this tell us about the nature of sanity and its possible enhancement?

            What is sanity? The OED defines it thus: “of sound mind; not mad”. This suggests that the primary concept of the pair saneinsane is the latter: the concept of sanity was introduced by way of contrast with the concept of insanity, of which salient instances had been observed. To be sane is to not have any of the ailments classified as mental illnesses. To be normal is not to be abnormal. Compare the concepts of bodily health and ill health: to be of “sound body” is not to have various bodily ailments. To be healthy is not to be ill. But we can surely do better than this, since there must be traits that constitute sanity, as there are traits that constitute health of the body. To be sane is to have these traits, or to have them in good measure. Compare the traits that constitute bodily fitness (or one aspect of it): strength, endurance, and flexibility. To be unfit is to be weak in these dimensions, but to be fit is to possess them in good measure. So what are the traits variations in which constitute mental health and mental ill health?

We can take our cue from the types of mental illness listed above. The affective instability characteristic of manic-depression suggests that affective evenness is a type of sanity: affective sanity is keeping on an even keel, not being too happy or too sad. As we might say, it is having rational emotions—ones appropriate to objective circumstances. Not being deliriously happy about nothing very much or cast down by the slightest setback. The sane person has good emotional regulation. In the case of psychosis (schizophrenia) the natural thought is that it is the hallucinations and delusions of the psychotic that qualify him as mad; so the sane person is one who is notdeluded or hallucinated. More precisely, it is someone who is free of delusion in good measure (everyone might be a bit deluded—as in romantic love). I shall say simply that cognitive sanity consists in being non-delusional in one’s beliefs—being a good curator of one’s beliefs. Not being subject to fantasy beliefs or delusions of persecution or under the impression that one is the messiah. It is being “sound of intellect” (as distinct from affect). Third, a person with impulse control problems cannot help acting in ways that may not be in his or her best interests (or the interests of others): blurting things out, reaching repeatedly for the cookie jar, obsessively washing your hands, hitting the cat for no reason. Then being sane in respect of impulse control is simply acting with restraint—sensibly, prudently, moderately, and maturely. It is not acting on any passing whim or harmful urge. This is to be sound of will (as distinct from affectively or intellectually): having a well regulated will. Here it is action that can be pathological not emotion or thought. It is what the agent does, not what he thinks or feels that makes him fall into the category of the mentally ill.

So we have three aspects of the mind—emotion, thought, and will—that can vary in certain ways, and these ways determine whether the person is sane or insane, mentally well or ill. Let us then say, for the sake of brevity, that sanity consists in evenness, truthfulness,  [1] and self-control. These are the virtues proper to emotion, thought and will (to put it in Aristotelian terms); and sanity consists in possessing these virtues while insanity consists in lacking them (or not having them in good measure). So now we can return to our original question and answer as follows: there are three types of sanity, which can in principle be possessed independently of each other—sanity of emotion, sanity of thought, and sanity of action. Affective sanity is evenness of emotion; cognitive sanity is truthfulness of belief; and conative sanity is restraint in action. You may be strong in one area but not in the other two (as you may be physically strong but not flexible or have much endurance): you might, say, be generally truthful in your beliefs but prone to emotional instability or impulsive actions; or you might be cautious in action but prone to depression; or you might be emotionally even but deluded and impulsive. No doubt there are correlations between the components of sanity, as there are for the types of mental illness, but we can discern three distinct dimensions of sanity—three sorts of mental wellness. So sanity is not just a unified blank state of not having various mental ailments; it is a positive composite state made up of discrete components (it has “modularity”). Strictly speaking, we should not describe a person as sane without being prepared to specify what type of sanity we are talking about—just as we must not describe a person as insane without being able to specify what type of insanity we have in mind. For the sake of linguistic accuracy, we might speak of emotional sanity, cognitive sanity, and active sanity (“Oh yes, he is quite sane cognitively but pretty crazy actively”).

I have not taken a stand on whether sanity and insanity differ merely by degree, though clearly there are degrees of evenness, truthfulness, and restraint. The point is that just as insanity has varieties so too does sanity: mental wellness is modular in roughly the way mental illness is. The psychological faculties can be independently subject to breakdown or disease, but they can also be differently developed in different individuals (or the same individual at different times). For it is not true that any deficiency in a psychological faculty constitutes a mental illness. I may be less physically strong than you, but that doesn’t mean I am physically ill; and I may be less fleet of thought than you, but that also doesn’t mean I am mentally ill. Sanity can vary both in type and in degree of excellence. I might be perfectly well in all three departments but still striving for improvement—I want to be even saner than I already am. So we need to distinguish psychotherapy (or psychiatry) from what might be called “sanity training”: the former aims to rectify mental illness while the latter aims to promote mental wellbeing to yet higher levels of excellence. The distinction mirrors the distinction between physiotherapy and athletic training: fixing injuries versus improving performance. You can work on your strength, flexibility, and endurance; and you can work on your evenness, truthfulness, and restraint—without any suggestion that you are ill. There are three things to work on in each case, corresponding to the three faculties that admit of breakdown or improvement. The varieties of mental wellness correspond to varieties of mental training method—ways to enhance or improve sanity (not merely cure insanity).

I am suggesting that we tend not to think of sanity in a sufficiently structured way—as we used not to think of insanity in a sufficiently structured way. It wasn’t till the nineteenth century that we started to recognize the varieties of mental illness, relying instead on some undifferentiated notion of “mental fugue” or perturbation of the “animal spirits” (or a grievous moral failing); similarly, today we tend to think of the sound mind in an undifferentiated way, as if it is just one kind of seamless thing. Hence we have the simplistic binary opposition of sane and insane, with sanity as just the negation of its opposite. Our habitual concepts are too crude to capture the psychological reality: sanity is a multifaceted thing not just a uniform state of overall mental wellbeing. I am not denying that a certain kind of holism might characterize mental wellness, according to which all three types of wellness presuppose the others; but that doesn’t defeat the thesis that there are three types of mental wellness—just as holism about meaning or belief doesn’t imply that there are no such things as separate meanings or beliefs. The ancients tended to think that Reason alone could ensure mental health, so that cognitive sanity would bring with it affective and conative sanity; that seems unduly optimistic (and not consistent with the facts of mental illness), but in any case it is acknowledged that there are three areas of wellness to consider. They are certainly conceptually distinct, and apparently distinct in psychological realization. No doubt the brain areas responsible for each faculty are distinct, as are their biological pathologies. In principle, a virus could target one area and not the others, thus producing radical dissociation of mental functioning—insane in one way but not in others. Just consider phobias: it is certainly possible to have a phobia with respect to one sort of stimulus but not with respect to others—“insane” in one way but not in other ways. There is no such thing as a generalized phobia, merely specific types of phobia. Phobias are highly modular.

What is the cause of sanity? The question is not unreasonable. We can ask what the cause of insanity is—organic damage, the genes, parental upbringing, excessive studying—so why can’t we ask what the cause of sanity is? Or better, to reflect the complexity of sanity, what the causes are: what leads to sanity (or greater sanity) in the three areas mentioned? Once we have a clearer idea of causes we can pursue methods of treatment or training. Suppose cognitive sanity is caused by a rigorous training in mathematics (the Platonic theory of sanity): then that is how we should train our young in order to produce high levels of sanity. If emotional evenness is caused by proper parental praise and blame, then that is what we should emphasize in producing it. If impulse control is caused by meditation, then meditate away. All over the world we now have centers for combatting psychological ill health, but why not invest in centers that promote good mental health? Just as we have gyms as well as hospitals for aiding physical health, why not have places you go to in order to work on your mental health? You might do a workout devoted to emotional stability one day and then on another day work on your truthfulness or your impulse control. You might want to get really good at all three! I don’t have any specific suggestions for exercise routines, but the idea is not intrinsically absurd. One possibility that suggests itself is to use dramatic enactments in order to develop your level of sanity: you act out various scenarios that test your ability to be even, truthful, and restrained. My point is that this is the kind of thing that suggests itself once we have become attuned to the varieties of sanity–and to the fact that sanity is a positive achievement not merely the absence of insanity. We might even say that it is a skill—a talent that can be nurtured and improved upon. You could undertake to become saner every day, to pay attention to your level of sanity, and not take it for granted (especially when it has been challenged by events in your life).  [2] Sanity is something to be prized and enhanced, not simply assumed and left to its own devices. I wouldn’t be opposed to weekly sanity classes in school to supplement the usual student counselor. Sanity coach seems like a worthwhile occupation (the educational requirements would have to be stringent, however).  

 

  [1] I am using this word in an extended sense to include not only sincerity in speech but also accuracy in thought. It is odd that we have no natural word for this property, the property of having a propensity to form true beliefs. Some people are better than others at forming true beliefs, and the psychotically insane are particularly bad at it; truthfulness in this sense is critical to cognitive sanity. Someone who forms his beliefs by following his fantasies is not a sane person. (The question of what it takes to be a good curator of one’s beliefs is a complex one.)

  [2] The idea of psychological wounds strikes me as real and important: these can cause states of insanity, or borderline insanity, or at least emotional trauma, and they need to be properly treated. Just as the body needs to be rehabilitated after injury, so does the psyche; and the injury might be selective and specific, requiring a specially designed kind of treatment. Mental health needs to be preserved in the face of such wounds, which means that the sinews of sanity must be suitably ministered to (and the right language for the ailment is vital for recovery.)   

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Truth-Value Gaps and Meaning

 

 

Truth-Value Gaps and Meaning

 

 

Sentences exhibiting truth-value gaps would appear to pose a significant problem for truth-conditional semantics. Such sentences evidently have meaning, yet they are neither true nor false. In this respect they resemble non-indicative sentences such as imperatives. But imperatives can be handled by adopting a parallel concept like obedience conditions and proceeding in the usual way.  [1] How do we deal with sentences like “The king of France is bald” or “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously” or “All my parakeets are asleep” (said when I have no parakeets). These sentences are as meaningful as any, yet they lack truth-value.  [2] And there are infinitely many of them, as many as there are sentences with truth-value. Should we conclude that Tarski-style semantics for them is impossible? They don’t even have falsity conditions, so how could they submit to a recursive definition of the kind Tarski showed how to provide? We understand such sentences—our linguistic mastery encompasses them—and we also appreciate that they lack truth-value, so how can truth-based semantics apply to them?

            It is an interesting fact that there is no simple predicate capturing the condition of being neither true nor false, so theorists adopt the makeshift “gappy”, or we could stipulate a use for “vacuous” applied to whole sentences (as in “vacuous names”). For convenience I will abbreviate “neither true nor false” to “NTF”, so that I can say that a sentence s is NTF if and only if p, where p is some sentence in the meta-language yet to be specified. The question is what that sentence will be. For truth we simply repeat the sentence of the object language (or a translation of it), for falsehood we prefix the sentence on the right with negation—what do we do for “NTF”? What we need is a necessary and sufficient condition for the semantic predicate “NTF” to apply. It seems fairly obvious what this should be: s is NTF if and only if it is not the case that either p or not-p, where p is (or translates) s. For example, “The king of France is bald” is NTF if and only if it is not the case that the king of France is either bald or that he is not bald. That is, the law of excluded middle doesn’t apply to the sentence in question. If there is no king of France, he can’t be either bald or not bald, so a sentence affirming that he is bald is neither true nor false.  [3] Notice that the condition on the right hand side is not meta-linguistic, so it resembles the usual disquotational conditionals made famous by Tarski. We could say that “snow is white” is made true by the fact that snow is white, “snow is black” is made false by the fact that snow is not black, and “The king of France is bald” is made neither true nor false by the fact that he is neither bald nor not bald. Similarly, it is not a fact that colorless green ideas sleep furiously or that they don’t, so the sentence stating this is neither true not false. When a speaker understands such a sentence she knows that the facts don’t give it a determinate truth-value, and her understanding is displayed by the biconditional enunciated. We have the usual mention-use pattern of classical truth theories, but the right hand side doesn’t just repeat the left—it provides a more complex condition. The same is true for falsity, because there we have to add negation. Not all semantic biconditionals are “homophonic”.

            Employing this basic format, we can provide recursive clauses in the usual manner.  Thus “p and q” is NTF if and only if both p and q are NTF; “p or q” is NTF if and only if either p or q is NTF  [4]; “not-p” is NTF if and only if p is NTF. To deal with quantified sentences we introduce the notion of a “true of” (satisfaction) gap: the predicate is neither true nor false of a putative object (such as a French monarch). The reference of the description is neither bald nor not bald, since there is no such reference. Compare “Vulcan revolves”: the putative planet Vulcan neither revolves nor fails to revolve, so it doesn’t satisfy “revolve” or dissatisfy it. Thus we can apply the standard Tarskian apparatus to the concept of a truth-value gap, mutatis mutandis. We can therefore provide a recursive disquotational definition of the predicate “NTF”. We could call the form of this definition “Convention NTF” and require that for any sentence of the object language such a meta-language sentence be derivable. Thus we have Convention T for truth, Convention F for falsity, and Convention NTF for neither truth nor falsity: the first simply repeats the sentence, the second introduces negation, while the third deploys negation plus disjunction. For “snow is white” to be true is for snow to be white, for “snow is white” to be false is for snow not to be white, and for “snow is white” to be neither true nor false is for snow neither to be white nor not white. Thus we bring sentences exhibiting truth-value gaps within the fold of Tarski-style theories—not by subsuming them under the concept of truth but by extending the apparatus beyond that concept. We might call this generalized truth-theoretic semantics.

            It is a question whether every sentence has an NTF condition, not just those that are actually neither true nor false. Do we, in understanding “snow is white”, grasp under what conditions it would be neither true nor false, as we grasp its truth conditions and its falsity conditions? We grasp this for sentences that are NTF because we recognize their “gappy” status, but do we also grasp it when we know that there is nothing gappy going on? I rather think we do: for we grasp what it would be for them to be NTF. I know that “snow is white” would have a truth-value gap if snow were neither white nor not white—though I also know that it is actually one way or the other. If you ask me under what conditions the sentence would be NTF, I can tell you—if there’s no fact of the matter about the color of snow (as there is no fact of the matter about the color of Hamlet’s hair). So NTF conditions are pervasive in the understanding of language: they are part of what every speaker (tacitly) knows. Every sentence has conditions under which it would be NTF, say by the subject-term lacking a reference (and this is always an epistemic possibility  [5]), and this is something speakers grasp at some level. So a semantics for the predicate “neither true nor false” is applicable everywhere. We all grasp something of the form: “snow is white” would be neither true nor false if and only if snow was neither white nor not white (possibly by not existing). NTF conditions are as much grasped as truth conditions and falsity conditions.

 

  [1] I wrote about this in my 1977 paper “Semantics for Non-Indicative Sentences”, Philosophical Studies.

  [2] I am going to assume the existence of meaningful sentences with truth-value gaps without arguing for it. My question is what happens to semantics if we accept such sentences. I will also not discuss all the possible examples that have been offered: vague sentences, future contingents, empty names and demonstratives, ethical sentences, etc. What I propose will carry over to these cases.

  [3] It is worth noting that empty descriptions can also occur in imperative sentences such as “Kill the king of France!”, so we have obedience-value gaps as well as truth-value gaps. Then too we have “Bring me some colorless green ideas!”

  [4] Actually this clause is too simple given the case in which p is true and q is NTF, since this will make the disjunction come out true. We could append “unless p is true” to cover this case, but for simplicity I will stick with the condition as stated in the text.

  [5] In the extreme case in which we are brains in vats and our noun phrases are empty of reference, truth-value gaps will be ubiquitous, and hence the correct semantics for our language will be largely a NTF semantics.

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The Uniformity of Evil

                                   

 

 

 

The Uniformity of Evil

 

 

Evil comes in many varieties. A typical list would include: genocide, murder, torture, terrorism, slavery, sadism, the sexual and physical abuse of children, slander, betrayal of trust, desecration of the sacred, disfiguring, maiming, and crippling. We might count as evil the willful destruction of great works of art or architecture, in addition to such standard examples as the extermination of innocent populations. Physical harm to persons is not always involved, though it often is, along with emotional pain. Given this variety, we might be tempted to suppose that the class of evil acts is irreducibly heterogeneous, united by nothing more than brute disjunction or family resemblance. That is, we might deny that there is any one feature common and peculiar to all evil acts. The concept of evil, it may be said, is just too vague and open-textured to admit of informative definition. We must accordingly accept the diversity of evil.

            I shall suggest, to the contrary, that evil is a unitary quality common to all acts rightly classified as evil. Moreover, it is quite a simple quality, which is not to say that it is easily identified in practical life. My definition of evil, to get right to it, is that it is the intentional destruction of the good—but this will need some unpacking. First, destruction: by this I simply mean, “causing to cease to exist”. The world contains a certain entity or quality at a certain time and to destroy that entity or quality is to bring about its cessation. This may be done violently or insidiously, quickly or slowly. It is the opposite of creation: instead of causing something to exist, it removes that thing from reality. So destruction is explained through the notion of existence and its negation. It is therefore a highly general notion applicable a wide variety of cases—people, animals, artifacts, states of mind, social movements, bits of nature.

            Second, the good: by this I mean any good state of affairs. Without going into the matter fully, the following list will serve our purposes (we could add to it if need be): life, happiness, knowledge, innocence, freedom, friendship, and aesthetic quality. If you think some of these items reduce to others, or should not be on the list of intrinsic goods at all, by all means amend as you see fit; the definition of evil will remain the same, even if its extension differs. I favor keeping the list fairly long and non-reductive, because I think that the good is best seen in all its variety; we don’t want theories that try to reduce every basic value to one (such as pleasure). Despite the variety of the goods, there is something they all having in common—that they are precisely good—and that is what matters to the definition of evil.

            Third, intentional: by this I mean that the act in question must be intended in a certain way. If an agent destroys something good by accident, through no fault of his own, and is horrified by what he has wrought, he cannot be adjudged evil, merely unlucky. So we should say that an evil act is one that is intentional under the description “destruction of the good”: the agent foresees and intends the destruction of the good and acts as he does in order to bring this destruction about. He “knows what he is doing”. In a typical case he plans the destructive act and self-consciously carries it out.

            Thus an evil act is one that involves an agent intentionally destroying what he knows to be good. The mental state of the agent incorporates the concepts of destruction and goodness—this is the content of his intention in acting. It is the intention that defines the evil agent. Is there a second-order intention associated with this first-order intention? Grice argued that communicative acts require a second-order intention—not only the intention to produce a belief in one’s audience, but also an intention that the first intention should be recognized by the audience. Thus the basic intention is transparent, not concealed and secret. In the case of the evil agent, there is also a second-order intention, but it is not a transparency intention—it is an opacity intention. The agent intends that his first-order intention should not be recognized by observers (he may even try to shield himself from knowledge of his intention). The evil agent is trying to destroy the good, but he doesn’t want people to know that this is what he is doing, possibly including himself. Even if he feels safe in his actions, fearing no repercussions, he does not want it to be apparent that his aim is precisely to destroy something good. So he will often characterize his actions in other ways—say, by arguing that he is serving a greater good. I might put it by saying that there is always a level of shame about evil actions, and hence a desire for concealment. The agent is not proud of what he does, even if he tells himself it is somehow necessary. For the agent has set about intentionally destroying what he acknowledges to be good, and this is not something he can happily admit. That is why there is often a degree of self-deception involved in evil actions (not so for virtuous actions). For this reason there will typically be a second-order intention to conceal the first-order intention. The easiest way to fulfill that intention is to commit the evil act secretly, away from prying eyes—as it might be, in a dungeon or concentration camp or in the dark. The evil agent is by nature deceptive; secrecy is his cover, his protection.

            The conception of evil I am suggesting limits it to creatures capable of certain kinds of “sophisticated” attitudes. I doubt that animals are capable of evil in the sense I have defined, though they are certainly capable of impressive feats of destruction. Animals may maim or kill but they don’t do so with the kinds of intentions I have described (some of our primate relatives may have such intentions, in which case my claim applies to non-primate animals). They may cause great suffering and death but they do not do so under the description “destroy the good”. They just don’t have the concept. Evil is what results when a creature acquires such abstract concepts, so it is a uniquely human achievement. Perhaps, indeed, the very acquisition of the concept of the good (as well as the concept of destruction) is what opens the human species up to feats of evil not possible for other species. We do evil things precisely because we know what good is; we destroy the good because we apprehend things as good. Evil thus requires a certain intellectual attainment. The necessity to conceal evil acts also requires a cognitive sophistication absent in other animals (possibly with certain exceptions). It is not that animals do less harm than we do—though that is doubtless true—but rather that the harm they do does not spring from evil motives and intentions.

            Now we must see how the definition fits the various types of evil I have listed. Let’s start with a hypothetical example. Suppose a university administrator, call her Eva, receives a complaint against a distinguished professor, call him Carl. The complaint is completely fictitious, being motivated by malice and a bad grade. Eva knows this, but she also knows that taking disciplinary action against Carl will, in the current climate, score her political points, help with funding, and appease the radical feminists. She decides to initiate dismissal proceedings against Carl, fully aware that this will ruin his reputation, take away his livelihood, and prevent him from any further achievements as a scholar and teacher. She also knows that he cannot fight her actions legally because it would bankrupt him to do so. Eva thus uses her power, quite cynically, to destroy Carl in order to advance her political and personal goals. Carl is duly forced out of his position, becoming impoverished and bitter. I hope we can agree that Eva was evil in acting as she did, and the reason is clear: she intentionally destroyed something good. Carl was an innocent man, a good man, and also a productive and brilliant scholar. Eva destroyed his ability to work and teach, as well as his happiness and security, along with that of his family. She did so deceptively, unethically, and callously. Her evil actions fit the definition perfectly.  [1]

            Next consider an artist who is tired of being unfavorably compared to another artist, whose work is vastly superior. He decides to destroy the superior artist’s work, stealing into his studio one night and burning all his paintings. Let’s suppose that he manages to destroy every one of the great artist’s works and also to prevent him producing any more (he is so traumatized by the destruction). Now the second-rate artist gets more attention and makes more sales, with his main rival eliminated. Again, these actions are clearly evil, and they fit the definition perfectly: the evil artist has intentionally destroyed works of great aesthetic value for his personal gain and out of envy.

            David is a bitter man and a failure in life. He lashes out at anyone he can, belittling and insulting people. His young son Patrick becomes a target of his ire because David cannot stand the thought that his son might succeed where he failed. He sets out to damage Patrick psychologically, even going to the extreme of raping his five-year old son. He succeeds in his aim and Patrick is so traumatized that he becomes a heroin addict and eventually commits suicide. Again, the evil is obvious, and again we can see why: David has destroyed Patrick’s innocence and happiness in order to satisfy his own warped needs. His express aim was to prevent his son from achieving anything good in life, including any chance of happiness: he destroys the good in order not to suffer the pangs of his own sense of failure.  [2]

            Terrorists bomb a city center, killing dozens of innocent men, women, and children. They do so because the people they have targeted practice a different religion from theirs and appear to be happy and prosperous doing so, making their own religion look shabby and regressive. Their aim is not just to kill and maim but also to undermine the peace of mind of people living in the city in question. Their actions are evil and for the usual reason: they have destroyed life, happiness, and peace of mind among the target population, because of their misguided religious zealotry.

            The Nazis undertake a program of mass extermination against the Jews. Their motivation is that the Jews are far too successful in German society, owing to their intellectual and cultural superiority. The Nazis covertly acknowledge the qualities of the Jewish minority and wish to rid themselves of a people that challenge their sense of racial superiority. They accordingly murder six million Jews by means of starvation, gunshots, and poison gas. They are defeated before they can realize their project of total genocide, but they would have carried it through to the end if they could. No one can doubt the evil of the Nazis, and their actions clearly conform to the theory: they intentionally destroyed the good—life, well-being, culture, achievement—in order to gratify their own (shaky) sense of superiority.

            Liz is a friend of Susan, who is also friends with Wendy. But Liz doesn’t like the friendship between Susan and Wendy; she wants Susan to herself. She decides to undermine the friendship between Susan and Wendy by telling lies about Wendy to Susan, to the effect that Wendy has been making advances to Susan’s boyfriend. Liz convinces Susan of this falsehood, using doctored photographs and what not. Susan consequently drops Wendy as a friend, causing her considerable distress. This is not evil on a grand scale, like the previous example, but it is evil nonetheless. Here the good that has been destroyed is friendship.

            Iago sets out to destroy Othello, who is respected as a great general and honorable man (Iago’s reasons are obscure), by making him jealous. He succeeds in reducing the normally unflappable Othello to a blubbering heap and a murderer of Desdemona, his wife. Iago’s evil consists in this act of destruction, more of the soul than the body, in the case of Othello. Macbeth betrays the trust of King Duncan, murdering him while he sleeps, in order to advance his own ambitions, and then murders others to cover his crime. He doesn’t think Duncan is a bad king; on the contrary, he likes and admires Duncan. So he has knowingly destroyed something good. Judas betrays Jesus, despite believing him to be the Son of God, for fifty pieces of silver; he thus destroys the embodiment of goodness for a tawdry sum.

            I don’t think I need to multiply examples any further: it is easy to see how the definition of evil I have presented works, and indeed it is an intuitive and natural way to characterize evil. The definition is simple and straightforward; and it offers a uniform account of what evil is. Are there any counterexamples to it? Someone might suggest that the definition does not provide a necessary condition for evil, since some evil consists in positively producing harm, not just removing the good. The evil of torture, say, is that it produces a lot of harm, either pain or injury. But I take it that this is just another way to phrase the theory under discussion: to produce harm is just to annihilate a good, i.e. the good of not being harmed. Harms are defined relative to goods: for example, pain is bad because it is good not to be in pain. The trouble with stating the theory in terms of harm is that it loses generality—not all cases involve an intention to harm. The envious artist was not attempting to harm his rival exactly, though he did; his intention was to destroy the good—the harm to his rival was just a by-product.  The same can be said of the desecration of sacred sites or buildings. The harm formulation gets the emphasis wrong: the evil agent recognizes the good in something and seeks to destroy it despite this; he is not just out to do harm. A run-of the-mill thug might be out to create harm by punching anyone within range, but he is not evil in the sense I am trying to capture. Evil is the intentional abolition of the good, recognized as the good. Iago, say, is not interested in bringing down some undistinguished nobody; what incites him is Othello’s distinction—the good that he embodies. And what marks Judas out is not just a betrayal of any old goat-herder from Palestine, but the fact that he betrayed the Son of God (allegedly). The harm caused might be the same in both cases, but the evil agent is doing more than just maximizing harm—he is destroying that which is indisputably good. It is true that one way to destroy what is good is to cause harm, as in crippling an athletic rival, but the evil resides in the negation of goodness, not in the harm as such. Nor is it clear that negating the goodness of a person is always harming her: if a scientist reduces the intelligence of a rival by putting a chemical in her drink, this is definitely evil, but it is not clear that the target has been harmed—she might be quite happy having average intelligence. I might set out to make you happier by chemical means, so that you spend less time at home working, and more time out having fun—as a way to lessen your intellectual output. This would be evil, but it is not clear what harm I have done to you—you might even decide you want to change your life-style in that direction anyway. What if I introduce you to a very seductive partner so as to distract you from your important intellectual work—have I harmed you?

            Now it might be claimed that the conditions are not sufficient for evil, since it is possible to intend to destroy the good for morally praiseworthy reasons. Thus we have vaccination and surgery—we remove a person’s tranquility and freedom from suffering by subjecting them to these procedures. Are dentists necessarily evil? The obvious answer is that the agent is aiming for the greater good of the patient, and rightly so: the short term removal of the good is justified by the long term creation of the good. It wasn’t that Iago believed that only by destroying Othello and Desdemona could he save the city of Venice from a terrible fate: he did not commit his harmful acts with a heavy heart, with everyone’s best interests in mind. So we should add that evil is the intentional destruction of the good all things considered—that is, when the destruction of one good is not justified by the production of a further good. Of course, this is not to deny that some evil agents use such justifications spuriously, as the Nazis did to excuse their genocidal actions. But in cases like dentistry it is clear that no evil is committed, since the intention is to produce long term dental goodness in the (temporarily) suffering patient. The dentist is promoting the good not negating it.

            Let me return for a moment to the destruction of reputation, because I think it is particularly instructive. This does not involve physical harm or death, so it doesn’t fit a crude definition of evil as simply “causing suffering”. A person can no doubt suffer from the unjust destruction of his reputation, but that suffering does not pinpoint wherein the evil lies. The slanderer is taking aim at a manifest good and seeking to annihilate it: the good character or good standing of the person unjustly accused. Suppose the target’s reputation is well earned and fully justified—it is backed by undeniably good qualities. Then the slanderous accuser is attempting to negate this manifest good—say, with a view to preventing the person accused from gaining employment. The intention is precisely to destroy a human good—that is its exact focus. This epitomizes evil, perhaps more clearly than any other case, because the good that is destroyed is specifically targeted as such. It is close to another paradigm of evil—the intentional undermining of trust. If an evil agent sets out to gain the trust of another person, himself without evil intent, by encouraging such trust, with a view to betraying it later, she has attacked a deep and central human good—the ability to trust another person. A person treated in this way may never be able to trust again, which undermines many other human goods. The betrayer has destroyed something precious and precarious, and we rightly reserve our severest criticism for such actions. This is precisely what Iago and Macbeth do. It is particularly heinous because it specifically targets a central human good for annihilation. Just as a person values his good name, so he values being able to trust other human beings: to destroy these things is evil in the purest sense. Neither of these forms of evil is calculated to cause pain or death (though they may cause both of these things); what they are calculated to do is to take a certain kind of good from a person that is highly valued. Both involve depriving the target of normal social relations. The evil here consists in destroying a fundamental social good—being well thought of and kindly received, and being able to place one’s trust in another. Hence these are my paradigms of evil, not the usual cases of torture and murder—because they exemplify the abstract form of evil so clearly.    

            We need to make a minor amendment to the definition. I have been speaking of evil agents, but there are also those who are passively complicit in evil—bystanders or onlookers. There are not just those who do the deeds, there are those who allow them to be done. It is not only the agents of the action who are evil but also the observers of it: the wife who lets her husband rape his son, those who tolerate atrocities committed by others, people who make no protest when those with power persecute the innocent—the whole sorry crew of cowards, toadies, and the morally numb. These enablers of evil should also be included under the concept. It is easy to do so: just add “or those who tolerate the destruction of the good”. We thus recognize two categories of evil: active and passive.

            We should also make a distinction between ideological evil and non-ideological evil. Iago and Macbeth are not evil ideologues, like Stalin or Hitler. They stop when the count of corpses reaches the double figures, and no general ideology drives their homicidal tendencies. But the evil ideologue envisages a much wider field of operations—sometimes totaling in the millions. Here entire sections of the population are targeted for destruction: Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, the bourgeoisie, heretics, racial minorities, and many others. The guiding ideologies are by now very familiar to us, but it is easy to miss them when they emerge, because they masquerade as moral crusades. It is often only in retrospect that an evil ideology reveals itself for what it is. Ideological evil allows people to destroy the good while telling themselves they are working for a greater good, so it is especially sinister and dangerous. They make people think that their evil acts are not evil at all. Whenever you see people justifying destructive acts by reference to an ideology be on the lookout for ideological evil. One sees in the ideologue a wild-eyed enthusiasm, a disregard for basic principles of fairness and justice, violent imagery and extreme response, blanket condemnation, sloganeering, demonizing, prejudice and pre-judgment, sectarianism, and social conformity. The psychology of ideology is murky, but the human mind clearly has a weakness for ideology, and the results can be devastating (consult history). I don’t doubt that one of their principal attractions is that they permit people to do evil in the guise of promoting the good.

            It is important for any conception of evil to distinguish it from merely bad or immoral acts. Evil acts are always immoral, trivially, but not all immoral acts are evil. It is not ipso facto evil to break promises or steal or tell lies or defraud or assault. In certain circumstances all these can be evil, but they are not evil in all circumstances. So we had better hope that they don’t turn out to be evil according to our definition. Nor do they: breaking a promise or stealing things are not intentional under the description “destroying the good”. They are not even cases of intending to do harm, even if they do in fact do harm. When I break a promise to you I have not identified a good in you that I proceed intentionally to eliminate; I simply act selfishly or lazily. Nor is it my aim in stealing from you to remove a good from your life; it is simply to add a good to my life. I would be quite happy to enhance my life by leaving yours undisturbed, so long as I get what I want; taking your things is just my means to enhancing my life. It is entirely contingent that my gain is your loss.

By contrast, if I decided to steal from you in order to deprive you of something precious to you, even if it meant nothing to me, then I would be acting evilly. But ordinary instrumental theft, in which I am merely trying to accumulate more goods for myself, does not exemplify the evil schema; I am not so much destroying a good as transferring it from you to me. Even assaulting another person, say in the course of robbery, is not evil by the criterion laid down here, since this is merely a means for me to get what I want. I am not trying to obliterate a good that you have; I am simply using the means necessary to my obtaining a good that I want. I would be quite happy to get what I want without assaulting you, but as it happens I have to. If I assault you intending to destroy your happiness and future, then I am acting evilly; but not all assault is so motivated. A crime it may be, and it is certainly immoral; but it is not evil, intuitively or according to our theory. It all depends on the motive behind the assault.

This is why, if the assault is disproportionate to the intended theft, it veers into the realm of the evil. If all I need to do is twist your arm, but I hit you on the head with a brick, then I have acted evilly, because I have removed more good from you than if I had used the minimal means to enact the theft. My action is immoral either way, but it is only evil when I destroy a good as an end in itself. Just war and self-defense both involve destroying good things, notably lives, but they are not evil because there is no intention to destroy the good as an end, just as a (proportionate) means. I would even distinguish between very bad acts and the subclass of bad acts I am calling evil acts. It is very bad to steal from helpless old ladies, and more so to assault them, but this is not a case of downright evil, as when you decide to terrorize old ladies for its own sake. It is when you take aim at their wellbeing itself that you become evil. The hardened criminal is not necessarily opposed to the good of others; he is merely out for his own good, irrespective of the deprivations he brings to others.  But Iago is not just a self-centered criminal using Othello for his own enrichment; his intention is rather to destroy Othello, mind and body, without regard for how he might benefit. A career criminal would find Iago irrational, given the risks and potential payoffs, but Iago is quite rational given his real aims. He is in the business of removing the good not in acquiring goods.

            The evildoer is therefore often quite difficult to distinguish from the mere criminal or immoralist. The actions look the same from the outside; it is the inner attitude that makes the difference. The same act of violence can be motivated by evil intentions or by merely criminal intentions. It would be easier if all evil actions were purely evil, i.e. motivated by nothing more than a desire to destroy something good. But some evil is instrumental—the agent expects to get something out of it himself. Here is where evil can shade into mere criminality or wrongdoing. Suppose I have a selfish aim and I am not too particular about how I achieve my aim: then I am not ipso facto evil, just rather unscrupulous. I might cheat people or coerce them or rob them to get what I want. This is not yet to act evilly towards others, because my focus is not destroying what is good for them. It is said by historians that the Germans at the beginning of their persecution of the Jews sought only to have them leave Germany: they made life difficult for Jews in the hope that they would voluntarily leave the country. These were no doubt deplorable and vicious policies, but they do not compare to the policies that succeeded them. If the Jews were not willing to leave voluntarily, then they would have to be exterminated. At first this was achieved by mass executions conducted wherever Jews lived, using bullets, but that was deemed inefficient, so special extermination camps were set up, where starvation and gas were used to kill people. Here the intentions of the Germans were nakedly sadistic and designed to bring about extreme degradation. They wanted to remove as much as possible of what makes life good from the Jews in their captivity. In this they entered the realm of evil quite decisively. They began to make the destruction of soul and body an end in itself. At the beginning they had an instrumental desire to force Jews into exile, but as time went on this was replaced by a desire to annul everything Jewish. They went from the merely criminal and bad to outright evil and depravity. They sought systematically and ruthlessly to destroy the good as exemplified in a population of people.  

            We find evil shocking in a way we don’t find routine crime shocking. Why? The theory gives us the answer: because the evil will is aimed at the destruction of the good. The criminal will is not: it is aimed rather at the good of the criminal, with indifference towards the good of others. But the evil agent is bent on the destruction of the good as such—in the purest case, he wishes simply to destroy what is good without any benefit accruing to himself. This is shocking, because we normally think that the pursuit of good states of affairs is what human motivation is all about. The evil agent inverts that assumption and aims to annihilate the good, not create it (in himself or others). We wonder why anyone would do anything so negative; hence the evil agent strikes us as a monster, a freak, even a paradox. The merely self-interested criminal, by contrast, is normal in his motivation, just unscrupulous. We wonder what the point of evil is, if it is aimed solely at the reduction of the amount of good in the world. No one’s utilities are being maximized. This raises the question of motivation, which I don’t want to get into here. Suffice it to say that envy, competition, and Schadenfreude often play a role. There is also, apparently, a brute appetite for destruction for its own sake—a kind of generalized vandalism. It may have to do with assertions of power, and certainly evil shadows power. In any case it is the opposite of the normal desire to bring about the good.  [3]

            Let me end with the question of natural evil, i.e. the kind that arises in the world independently of anyone’s will—earthquakes, floods, fires, disease, etc. This appears to be a counterexample to the theory defended here, since the natural destruction of the good is not an intentional destruction. Of course, if there is an agency behind it (say, Satan), then it fits our definition—these events are instances of intentional action. But suppose they are purely natural—what should we say about this kind of evil? My answer is that this is not a kind of evil; it is simply the occurrence of bad states of affairs. Talk of evil here is just a holdover from antiquated ways of thinking about the natural world, as if everything that happens must be willed by somebody. There are evil agents, but there aren’t evil facts or events or conditions. So the notion of “natural evil” is an oxymoron, unless we explicitly postulate an agent behind the bad events. A child dying of cancer is no doubt a horrible thing, but it is not an evil thing. What is called “the problem of evil” only arises when we introduce an agent like God. The problem is usually posed by asking why God allows horrible things to happen, as if he is a passive bystander too lazy or indifferent to lift a finger; and indeed, that is a form of evil (“passive onlooker evil”). Then evil is involved, but only because of an assumed agent—not because of the horrible event in itself.

But there is also the problem of active divine evil if we suppose that God is responsible for everything that happens—if he is the cause of all natural events. Then it looks as if God is actively, intentionally, and knowingly producing very bad states of affairs—that is, he is destroying the good on a grand scale. He then appears as an evil agent. This problem of evil  (“active agent evil”) is even worse than the kind in which God is conceived as a mere onlooker, since it is his will that actively creates the bad state of affairs. How can God be good and yet he intentionally produces very bad states of affairs? The only conceivable answer relies on the model of the benevolent dentist, but that rings very hollow to most people. In any case, there is no counterexample here to the definition, since God would be evil if he intentionally destroys the good (without some excusing instrumental explanation). In either case (God or no God) the existence of “natural evil” poses no problem for our theory.

            I hope that the theory I have presented strikes the reader as natural and intuitive, almost a truism. Truism or not, it still serves to bring order to our thinking about evil, by providing an account that discerns uniformity in the many varieties of evil. We don’t have to fall back on a disjunctive analysis or a vague family resemblance story, i.e. no definition at all. We now know what to look for when we are keeping our eye open for evil. Thus a theoretical advance might lead to a practical advance: we might become better at detecting evil, and hence preventing it. It is also good to reserve a special label for one particular kind of human badness, and we need to be able to justify the use of the concept of evil in our classifications of human actions. We need to know that the word “evil” denotes a coherent and well-defined natural kind—a distinctive moral natural kind. My view is that the concept of evil is a vital part of our moral conceptual scheme, corresponding to a very real type of human act. My aim has been to buttress the concept by providing a clear and straightforward definition of it, applicable to the major kinds of evil that exist. Absolute precision may not be possible, and borderline cases can no doubt be constructed, but I hope to have shown that the concept of evil deserves a place in our repertoire of moral concepts. Actually getting rid of evil may not be so easy.         

 

  [1] I do not intend to describe any actual case here; it is purely fictitious. This paper is philosophy not history.

  [2] This case is based on, but departs from, the novel sequence The Patrick Melrose Trilogy by Edward St Aubyn, a study of evil.

  [3] I discuss evil motivation at length in Ethics, Evil and Fiction (Oxford University Press, 1997). Here I am defining what evil is; in that book I was concerned with its psychology.

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