Infinite Metaphysics

                                               

 

 

 

Infinite Metaphysics

 

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.” (William Blake)

 

As Spinoza noted, we must not let metaphysics be shaped by the human perspective; we must maintain a resolutely objective stance. The human perspective favors the finite, mainly because of the limits of our senses—they are not geared to the infinite. We can conceive the infinite but we can’t perceive it. Thus we tend to think of the infinite as the finite stretched, extended or continued, instead of viewing the finite as the infinite condensed or truncated. We are skewed towards the finite, to the point of finding the infinite baffling. But that has nothing to do with ontological issues about the infinite—with its position in nature. Viewed objectively, nature has the infinite written into it at every turn; it hums with infinity. Space and time are infinite, both in their extension and their continuous structure. Matter may not be infinite in extension but it too has an infinitely divisible mathematical structure. Mathematics is par excellence the home of the infinite. Minds too are infinite in scope: consider the infinite potential of language and thought with their combinatory powers. Less obviously, meaning itself is infinite, as rules in general are, because it applies to indefinitely many cases. God is infinite (if there is such a being). Laws of nature are infinite, given that they extend over arbitrarily many natural events. The world is really the totality of infinities. We don’t tend to acknowledge the ubiquity of the infinite, owing to our perceptual and cognitive biases, but attention can be drawn to it: reality is steeped in the infinite, up to its neck in it.

            Blake is thus right that the infinite is written into the finite: there is always a deep structure of infinity in the most finite of things. Take that grain of sand: it is both part of an infinite spatial and temporal manifold and also infinitely divisible spatially. It does not stand apart from the infinite but incorporates the infinite into its being. Likewise we hold the infinite in the palm of our hand whenever we pick up an object, since every object is both a constituent of something infinite (space, the universe) and also a container of the infinite. What we call the finite is the infinite as it presents itself to us—a reflection or token of the infinite. Without the infinite the finite is nothing, something far less than a grain of sand. Pan-infinitism is true. When Berkeley speaks of “finite spirits” he perpetrates a falsehood: our minds may not be up to the level of God’s mind but there is plenty of infinity in the human mind both as to content and architecture (whatever may be said of animal minds). Even to speak of grains of sand as finite objects, by contrast with the infinity of the universe, is misleading, because grains are imbued with infinity too. It is not that infinity is cordoned off at the margins of things; it is woven into things.

            We tend to mystify the infinite, regarding it as somehow supernatural or awe-inspiring. We speak reverently of it, as of the divine. But really it is as natural and humdrum as anything else in nature. Nature simply is an infinite object. Only a misguided empiricism could blind us to this fact—a desire to reduce the real to the perceptible. Ontology cannot be dictated by epistemology. Even if infinity is beyond our cognitive capacities in some way, that implies nothing compromising as to its robust reality. In fact, it lies at the foundation of things. We might say that infinity is the most basic law of nature—what nature most fundamentally is. We are skewed away from it, but it is indifferent to that limitation. To a more discerning eye the universes swells with infinity, stretching out in every direction. Even if we had no conception of it at all, living in a totally finite conceptual world, it would still form the scaffolding of reality. To be infinite is to be to no more ontologically suspect than to be finite. Indeed, one can imagine a metaphysical system that regards the finite as merely the appearance of the infinite (Spinoza’s system is like this).  The infinite is a little bit like consciousness: mysterious from our human perspective but really a natural phenomenon like any other. After all, it is merely a question of size. The infinite is an ingredient of reality in good standing.

            We can raise ontological questions about infinity. How many kinds of infinity are there? Are some types of infinity abstract and some concrete? Did the big bang create infinity or did the universe already contain it? Does it play any explanatory role in the universe? Is there any possibility of defending a projective view of infinity? How is infinity related to necessity? Is there something inherently paradoxical about infinity?  Could there be a completely finite world? Are the things that are actually infinite necessarily infinite? Is all infinity really of one basic kind? Is the property of being infinite a unitary property (as opposed, say, to a family resemblance property)? Can infinity be destroyed? Can it be caused? Why does it exist? That is, we can undertake traditional metaphysics with respect to infinity. We don’t have to leave it to the mathematicians or be cowed by its majesty.         

            Blake’s lines raise an interesting question about perception. I said that we don’t perceive infinity, but Blake speaks of seeing the world in a grain of sand and holding infinity in one’s palm. What kind of seeing and holding might these be? It might just be metaphor, but I think the poet intends more. A natural suggestion is that Blake is speaking of a kind of seeing-as: we can see the grain as a world and feel something in the palm as infinite. But this strikes me as stretching the concept of seeing-as, because there is no experience of such things in the act of seeing a grain or holding a ball (say). Nor does Blake use the locution “seeing as”. What would it be like to see a grain as a world?  [1] What Blake says is that we might see a world in a grain of sand (or perhaps feel infinity in a ball). Presumably he means something like this: we can use our imagination to supplement what we are seeing or feeling. Given that the infinite is present in the finite object, we can strive to find it there. We can bring our understanding to bear on our senses in such a way that it is as if we are seeing or feeling the infinite—what we might call “seeing as-if”. Blake is stressing the proximity of the observable world to the world we are apt to think transcends it: these are not two realms cut off from each other, but closely intertwined. The infinite is woven into the fabric of observable reality not remote from it. It ought to be perceptible—even though it is not (literally). The grain of sand is an emblem of the infinite, a manifestation of it; the distinction between finite and infinite is not an ontological distinction. A finite segment of space, say, is not opposed to the infinity of space; it is a part of infinite space and it contains infinity within its boundaries (in the form of infinitesimal points). Similarly for an hour of time: finite but enmeshed in the infinite.

            It is an interesting fact that the question of the reality of the infinite is neutral among standard metaphysical systems: idealism, materialism, dualism, pluralism. All these systems are consistent with the full reality of the infinite. The infinite does not favor mind over matter or matter over mind; the world could be material and infinite, or mental and infinite, or both and infinite. Infinity has no ontological preferences. But a dualism of the finite and the infinite is quite misguided: the two are much too closely connected for that to be plausible. Each presupposes the other; they are not independent. A double-aspect theory suggests itself.

 

Coli

  [1] It is not as if the grain is ambiguous between a unit of sand and an entire world, like the duck-rabbit drawing, presenting one aspect and then the other; nor is there any sensory impression of a world when looking at a sand grain.

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Impressions of Existence

                       

 

 

Impressions of Existence

 

 

You wake up in the morning and you become conscious of the world again. For a while nothing existed for you, but now existence floods back. You become aware of external objects, of space, of time, of yourself, of your mental states. I shall say that you have impressions of existence. I am interested in the nature of these impressions—their psychological character. They are of a special kind, not just an instance of other psychological categories. I want to say they are neither beliefs nor sensations; they are a sui generis psychological state. They need to be recognized as such in both philosophy of mind and epistemology. Intuitively, they are sensory states without qualitative content—perceptual but not phenomenal (though these terms are really too crude to capture all the distinctions we need). Let me try to identify what is so special about them, acknowledging that we are in obscure conceptual territory.

            First, impressions of existence are not beliefs: existential beliefs are neither necessary nor sufficient for existential impressions. I might have the impression that there is a cat in front of me, but actually be hallucinating, and know it. My sense experience gives me the impression of an existing cat, but I know better, so I don’t believe a cat exists in my vicinity. Just as I can have an impression of an object with certain properties but decline to believe there is an object with those properties (I know I’m hallucinating), so I can have an impression that something exists and yet not believe it does. So existential belief is not necessary for existential impression. Nor is it sufficient because I can believe in the existence of things that I don’t have impressions of existence of—such as remote galaxies or atoms or other minds. These points make it look as if impressions of existence are standard perceptual states, like seeing red things and square things. But there is no quality that I see when I have a visual impression of existence: it strikes me visually that a certain object exists, but there is no quality of the object that is presented to me as its existence (this is an old point about existence). Redness and rectangularity can enter the content of my experience, but existence can’t. It isn’t a sensory quality, primary or secondary. I have the impression that a certain object exists—that’s how things seem to me—but there is no quality of existence that is recorded by my senses. Even theories of existence as a first-order property don’t claim that existence is perceptible in the way color and shape are; and theories that identify existence with a second-order property certainly don’t regard it as perceptible. I don’t see the existence of a thing, as I see its color and shape. Yet I have an impression of existence, and that impression belongs with my experience (not my beliefs). I describe myself as “under the impression” that various things exist—my experience is not neutral as to existence—but this impression is not a belief I have, and it is not a type of sensation either.

            Not all experience carries impressions of existence: not imaginative experience, for example. If I form an image of a unicorn, I am not thereby under the impression that a unicorn exists. Nor do I have existential impressions of fictional characters. There is sensory content to these experiences (note how strained language is here), but I would never say that I have impressions of existence with respect to imaginary objects. On the contrary, I would say that I have impressions of non-existence. Impressions of existence are not constitutive of consciousness as such, though they are certainly a common feature of consciousness. Do I have such impressions in the case of numbers and other abstract objects? That is not an easy question, but I am inclined to say no, which is perhaps why Platonism strikes us as bold. We might have an intuition of existence here (and elsewhere), but that is not the same as an impression of existence. We don’t say, “It sure as hell looks like there’s a number here!” Impressions of existence belong with the senses (including introspection) not the intellectual faculties. Do I have impressions of existence with respect to language? Well, I certainly have the feeling that words exist—I keep hearing and seeing them—but as to meanings the answer is unclear. The meanings of words don’t impress themselves on my senses in the way material objects do. Physical events impress me with their existence too, but fields of force not so much. We seem more or less inclined to believe in the existence of things according as they provide impressions of existence or not. We are impressed with impressions of existence, though we extend our existential beliefs beyond this basic case.       

            Impressions of existence undermine traditional conceptions of sense experience, such as sense-datum theory, sensory qualia, and the phenomenal mosaic, rather as seeing-as undermines these conceptions. Seeing-as is not to be conceived as a “purely sensory” visual state either. Sense experience contains more than qualitative atoms of sensation (“the given”); there is a variety and richness to it that is not recognized by traditional notions. Impressions of existence are not instances of Humean “impressions” or Lockean “ideas”. To be sure, there is something it is like to have an impression of existence, which is not available to someone that has only theoretical existential beliefs, and we can rightly describe such impressions as phenomenological facts; but we are not dealing here with what are traditionally described as “ideas of sensible qualities”, such as ideas (sic) of primary and secondary qualities. The impressions in question sit loosely between what we are inclined to call (misleadingly) perception and intellect, sensation and cognition, seeing and thinking. They are neither hills nor valleys, but something in between. It is thus hard to recognize their existence, or to describe them without distortion. Existence is woven into ordinary experience, but not as one thread intertwined with others (color, shape). One is tempted to describe such impressions as assumptions or presuppositions or tacit beliefs, but none of these terms does justice to their immediate sensory character—for it really is as if we are directly informed of an object’s existence, as if it announces its existence to our senses. As Wittgenstein might say, we see things as existing (even when they don’t). The sensory world is not an existentially neutral manifold. Seeing-as shows that seeing is not just a passive copy of the stimulus, and “seeing-existence” carries a similar lesson. It doesn’t fit the paradigm of seeing a color, but so what?

            This has a bearing on skepticism. It is not merely that the skeptic questions our existential beliefs; he questions our existential impressions. We don’t feel a visceral affront when someone questions our belief in galaxies, atoms, and other minds—we feel such things to be negotiable—but we jib when we are told that the very nature of our experience is riddled with falsehood. Our galaxy without other galaxies is one thing, but a brain in a vat is something else entirely. The brain in a vat is brimming with impressions of existence, as a matter of basic phenomenological fact, but these impressions are all false—there are no objects meeting the conditions laid down in its experience. Here, we want to say, the skepticism is existential—it shakes us to the core. How could our experience mislead us so badly, so dramatically? It is like being lied to by an intimate friend. How could experience do that to us! It seduces us into believing that things exist, but they don’t! So the shock of skepticism is magnified by the experiential immediacy of impressions of existence; it isn’t just theoretical, academic. It is different with skepticism about other minds, because in this case we don’t have such impressions of existence; so the skeptic isn’t contradicting ordinary experience, just commonsense assumption. We assume other people have minds, but we don’t have sensory impressions of other minds (pace Wittgenstein and others). We might then say there are two kinds of skepticism: belief skepticism and impression skepticism. The skeptic about other minds is a belief skeptic, but the skeptic about the external world (or the self) is an impression skeptic. Skepticism about the past, the future, and the unobservable falls into the former category, while the latter category might extend to include skepticism about our own mental states, as well as the self that has them. And certainly we have a very strong impression that our own mental states exist (not merely a firm belief). Of course, there is always a distinction between actual existence and the impression of existence, but it is surely indisputable that we have an impressionthat our own mental states exist—whether they really do is another question. In any case, the skeptic who questions the veridicality of our impressions, as opposed to our beliefs, is always a more nerve-racking figure.

            I will mention a few issues that arise once we have accepted this addition to the phenomenological inventory. First, animals: I take it that sensing animals enjoy impressions of existence, even though they may not be capable of existential beliefs. They may not have the concept of existence but they have a sense of it—the world they experience impresses them as real. If they have mental images, there will a contrast in this respect in their mind. This shows how primitive and biologically rooted impressions of existence are. Second, training: is it possible to train someone out of her impressions of existence? We can’t train someone not to experience perceptual illusions (the system is modular), but could we train someone to cease to experience the world as existing? It’s an empirical question, but I doubt it—this too is part of the encapsulated perceptual system, hard-wired and irreversible. Of course, beliefs can be readily changed by suitable training—as by pointing out their falsity. The brain in a vat will never be able to reconfigure its perceptual experience to rid itself of the impression of existence, even when thoroughly persuaded of its true situation. No matter how much it believes its experiences not to be veridical they will keep on seeming that way (we could always do an experiment to check my conjecture). Third, are impressions of existence capable of varying by degree? Can we have stronger impressions of existence in some cases than in others? A Cartesian might think that the impression is at its strongest with respect to the self, with external objects trailing. A Humean might deny any strong impression of existence for the self, but insist on it for impressions and ideas. Judging from my own case, it seems pretty constant: the impression itself is always the same, though the associated beliefs may vary by degree. Even when I know quite well that an experience is illusory, it still seems to assert existence, just as much as when I am certain an experience is veridical. So I am inclined to think the impression doesn’t vary from case to case. It is all or nothing. Fourth, are there other cases in which we have sensory impressions that fail to fit traditional categories? Are there impressions of necessity or identity or causation or moral rightness? That would be an interesting result, because then we could claim that these cases are still sensory in the broader sense without accepting that they belong with impressions of color and shape. We could thus widen the scope of the perceptual model. I leave the question open.

 

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Hume, Wittgenstein, and Kripke

                                   

 

 

Hume, Wittgenstein, and Kripke

 

 

 

In An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding Hume writes as follows: “It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us at a great distance from all her secrets, and has afforded us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of objects; while she conceals from us those powers and principles, on which the influence of these objects entirely depends. Our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever inform us of those qualities, which fit it for the nourishment and support of a human body. Sight or feeling conveys an idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that wonderful force or power, which carry on a moving body for ever in a continued change of place, and which bodies never lose but by communicating it to others, of this we cannot form the most distant conception. But notwithstanding the ignorance of natural powers and principles, we always presume, when we see like sensible qualities, that they have like secret powers, and expect, that effects, similar to those which we have experienced, will follow them…. It is allowed on all hands, that there is no known connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a conclusion concerning their constant and regular conjunction, by anything which it knows of their nature.” (Section VI, [16])

            Later he writes: “When we look about us towards external objects, and consider the operation of causes, we are never able in a single instance, to discover any power or necessary connexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause, and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the other.” (Section VII, [6]) Again: “The scenes of the universe are continually shifting, and one object follows another in an uninterrupted succession; but the power or force, which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible qualities of the body.” (Section VII, [8]) And again: “And experience only teaches us, how one event constantly follows another; without instructing us in the secret connexion, which binds them together, and renders them inseparable.” (Section VII, [13]) More: “Can there be a more certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation [voluntary motion] is performed, so far from being directly and fully known by an inward sentiment or consciousness, is, to the last degree, mysterious and unintelligible.” (Section VII, [14]) Also: “We are ignorant, it is true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other. Their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible.” (Section VII, [25]) As a result of our ignorance “so imperfect are the ideas which we form concerning it [causation], that it is impossible to give any just definition of cause, except what is drawn from something that is extraneous and foreign to it.” (Section VII, [29]) Referring to his own attempts to define cause, he confides: “But though both these definitions be drawn from circumstances foreign to the cause, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any more perfect definition, which may point out that circumstance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its effect. We have no idea of this connexion; nor even any distinct notion what it is we desire to know, when we endeavour at a conception of it.”(Section VII, [29])

            Hume’s position seems clear enough, being a conjunction of three main theses: (a) causation consists in the objective presence of causal power (“necessary connexion”) in the objects; (b) we have no direct knowledge of the nature of such power (no “impression” of it); and (c) all we know of causation is constant conjunction, which is “extraneous and foreign” to causation itself. It is constant conjunction, combined with our natural instinct to project it into the future, that furnishes us with the only notion of causation that we possess—a notion that fails to capture the actual nature of the causal relation. Causation essentially involves necessary connexion between individual causes and effects, but our knowledge of it is confined to a mere symptom of such connexion, viz. constant conjunction. We don’t grasp what causation objectively is, though we have causal beliefs as a result of natural propensity—as do children and animals. As Hume sometimes puts it, we don’t reason from cause to effect, but merely find ourselves inferring effects from causes as a result of our innate disposition. His position might be put this way: God has knowledge of the objective nature of causation (those actuating powers dwelling in objects) and can therefore reason a priori from cause to effect, but we have no such penetrating knowledge and hence no basis from which to reason in this way. We rely in daily life on causal inference but we have no understanding of the nature of that on which we rely—we just blindly follow the regularities we have observed.

            Now I don’t wish to go into a defense of this interpretation of Hume here (others have done so), though I think it is clearly correct; my aim is to use it in application to Kripke’s discussion of Wittgenstein’s views on meaning.  [1] Kripke compares what he takes to be Wittgenstein’s view of meaning with what he takes to be Hume’s view of causation, hoping thereby to illuminate Wittgenstein’s tantalizing discussion. I disagree with both of his interpretations as interpretations, but that is not my current concern; I want to develop a new and better comparison between Hume and Wittgenstein. Kripke contends that Wittgenstein’s position is that there is no individual fact of meaning but that meaning ascriptions have social assertion conditions. Analogously, Hume is said to hold that there is no individual fact of causation—nothing in the cause-effect pair considered intrinsically that could constitute causation—but that causal statements have assertion conditions that pertain to constant conjunctions, so that causation is a “social” matter. Thus there cannot be purely individual rule following and there cannot be one-off causal relations: meaning and causation are not located in individuals but in collections—societies of speakers or groups of events. We are tempted to believe that meaning is an individual matter and that causation resides in the particular events that are causally connected, but in reality there are no such localized facts—both things involve wider collections of speakers or events (via assertion conditions). They are extrinsic and plural.

            Obviously the interpretation of Hume that I gave earlier contradicts these ideas: there is an individual fact of the matter about causation—actual local necessary connexion—but we have no cognitive access to it, no knowledge of it, and no definition of it. It exists all right but it doesn’t “discover” itself to us—so we can’t form an “adequate idea” of it. All we can do is follow our natural instinct to make causal inferences based on constant conjunction, even though this is “extraneous and foreign” to causation in itself. Our notion of necessary connexion, such as it is, arises through this natural instinct (what Hume calls “custom”) and not through any kind of rational examination of individual causes and effects—for we have no “impression” of necessary connexion as it exists in objects. The question I want to ask is what an analogous theory of meaning would look like: What should we say about meaning if we model it on what the real Hume says about causation? Is there anything to be said in favor of such a theory? What if we become Humeans (real Humeans) about meaning?

            A real Humean about meaning accepts the following three propositions: (a) there is an objective individual fact of meaning, involving “normative connexion” (cf. necessary connexion); (b) we have no direct knowledge of this fact, no “impression” of it, and no adequate definition of it; and (c) our notion of meaning, such as it is, derives from our observation of symptoms of meaning that are “extraneous and foreign”. Meaning is thus something that undoubtedly exists in the objects (human speakers), but it doesn’t present itself to us; our idea of meaning is solely derived from circumstances merely associated with meaning. Meaning as it is in itself is “mysterious”, “incomprehensible”, and “secret”. Nature “has kept us at a great distance” from meaning, which counts among its many secrets; yet we do mean things and we can even talk about meaning. We just don’t have the kind of knowledgeof meaning that we have of other things: our idea of it is not derived from acquaintance with it—we believe in its existence but we can’t comprehend its inner nature. It is objectively real but hidden.

            Hume thinks that constant conjunction results from necessary connexion—indeed, necessary connexion is the cause of constant conjunction. Constant conjunction, however, is all we are acquainted with and all that we know of causation—yet it is “extraneous and foreign”. What is the analogue in the case of meaning? Here we cannot do better than to follow Kripke’s discussion: external linguistic behavior, inner states of consciousness, and dispositions. None of these can be said to constitute meaning, though they are certainly closely “associated” with it. This is all we directly know of meaning, which lies “behind” these symptoms, and it is what enables us to talk meaningfully about meaning—but it is not what meaning is. We don’t know what meaning is, as we don’t know what causation is. We may have sensations associated with meaning, as we have sensations associated with causation—inner and outer sensations in both cases—but they are not the essence of meaning. Observing someone’s linguistic behavior over time is no more observing their meanings than observing constant conjunctions over time is observing causation. Meaning and causation transcend such observable matters. Behavior is to meaning as constant conjunction is to causal power—related but not constitutive. You can examine behavior from dawn till dusk and you will not see meaning there; and the same is true of mental images, sudden feelings of understanding, or sensations of hesitation (as the meaning of “or”). Meaning is simply not given in this way, as causation is not: it cannot be seen with the inner eye any more than causation can be seen with the outer eye.

            We can compare this view of meaning and causation with another issue discussed by Hume: the self. A analogous Humean about the self holds (a) that the self undoubtedly exists as one and the same entity over time, despite psychological fluctuations; (b) that we have no direct knowledge of the self, no “impression” of it, and no definition of it; and (c) that we talk of the self by adverting to what are merely extraneous symptoms (the body, mental states). Our natural instincts lead us to believe in a continuing self, even though we have no “impression” of such continuity and no real conception of that of which we speak; our idea of the self, such as it is, doesn’t come from up-close confrontation with the self, or from a priori reasoning, but just from a natural tendency to assume personal continuity beneath psychological fluctuation. We are ignorant of the inner being of the self, but we compensate for that ignorance by blindly following our instinctive inclinations. Similarly, the real nature of meaning is hidden from us, because of what Hume describes as the “surprising ignorance and weakness of the understanding” (55). Our ignorance should on no account be confused with non-existence: there is a hard fact of meaning, as of causation and the self, but it happens not to be presented to the (“weak”) human understanding. Hume’s question was how we could have an idea of causation if we have no acquaintance with it, and this is what led to his “skeptical solution” in terms of custom and instinct. In the case of meaning we have the same question, and the analogous answer is that we are acquainted with the symptoms of meaning, though not with the thing itself, which allows us to possess a working concept of meaning (inadequate as that concept is).

            It is an interesting question whether there is more than an analogy between causation and meaning. Might we not think of meaning as a kind of inner causal power? What we mean governs how we use words—the ability to mean is an ability to speak. Linguistic competence is a power to produce certain kinds of effect—meaningful utterances appropriate to the occasion (“performance”). So it is a special case of a causal power; and we don’t grasp the nature of causal power, according to Hume’s view of causation. Meaning is a kind of norm-governed potentiality—a source of unlimited linguistic use. How meaning is able to achieve this remains difficult to fathom, but it does. So maybe we should think of use (performance) as effect and meaning (competence) as cause, and then note that causal relations are ultimately impenetrable. And in addition to that general opacity, there is the problem of understanding the nature of semantic norms—how use conforms to meaning. In virtue of what is one use correct and another incorrect?

            Why might we jib at this Humean picture of meaning (a form of agnostic realism)? I think it’s because we have a tendency to suppose that we know more about meaning than we really do, as Hume remarked regarding causation—we overestimate our degree of insight. But why is that? In the case of causation we have been long drilled in the practice of following constant conjunctions: that works fine for most purposes, so we don’t notice how shaky are its foundations (until someone like Hume brings up the problem of induction). We have adequate practical knowledge, and (as Hume also remarks) nothing can disrupt our instinctive tendencies. We therefore suppose that we understand more about causation than we do. In the case of meaning the source of complacency is simply that we have first-person knowledge of meaning: I know what I mean by my words. But that doesn’t imply that I know the nature of meaning in its deep essence. It is just the reflection of a practice that works and which is underpinned by instinct. I cannot gaze at my meanings and drink in their essence—as I can gaze at my pains and grasp their nature. As Wittgenstein insisted, meaning and understanding are nothing like experience and sensation—they are not “contents of consciousness”. Meanings are elusive, slippery, hard to pin down. Hence they baffle us—and hence there is an inclination towards skepticism about their very existence. Just as many people see in Hume’s reflections about the impossibility of sensing necessary connexion a reason to doubt that necessary connexion exists, so many people find the elusiveness of meaning a reason to doubt the existence of meaning. In both cases they are illicitly drawing a metaphysical conclusion from an epistemological premise—something that Hume himself emphatically does not do.

            What goes for meaning presumably goes for concepts: these too are intrinsically unknowable (directly), though they are real enough, and we form ideas of them by recourse to their symptoms. What are their symptoms? Chiefly, they are thoughts: we ascribe concepts to ourselves by ascribing thoughts to ourselves; and we never encounter a concept except in the context of a thought. Thoughts are to concepts as constant conjunction is to causation—and as use is to meaning. Concepts are what make thought possible, as causation is the foundation of regularity: but both are elusive to direct detection. When was the last time you introspected a concept?  [2] Concepts bear an obscure relation to thought, as meaning bears an obscure relation to use: in neither case should we try to reduce the one to the other. We can’t inspect our concepts per se (have “impressions” of them), though we know they are there, just as we can’t inspect causal necessity, though we don’t doubt its existence.

            A Humean view of certain facets of reality is evidently consistent, but is it attractive? It is certainly radical, as Hume recognized with respect to his view of causation; it is not what we naturally assume. We tend to think that we can observe necessity in the objects, or else we suppose that if we can’t that must prove non-existence, leaving only constant conjunction. The idea that causal necessity is real but inaccessible, and that our causal inferences arise from animal instinct not reason, is repugnant to us. Similarly, we tend to assume that meaning is open to introspection, or can be heard in words as sounds are heard. Once this naive position is called into question there a tendency to lapse into skepticism about meaning. The idea that meaning is real but inaccessible, and that our talk of meaning is derived only from extraneous symptoms of it, is also repugnant to us. The same is true of the self, where again it is hard to accept inaccessible realities combined with a non-rationalistic account of our discourse about selves. Still, there is a lot to be said for this kind of view, especially in the light of the troubles occasioned by other views. The idea that our practice might be sustained by something other than direct knowledge of the thing in question, something merely instinctual, is particularly striking. Constant conjunction is quite far removed from the real nature of causation, and mere custom is not what we expect from causal inference; but that is what our ideas of causation ultimately involve, if we follow Hume. This is what he calls a “skeptical solution”—“skeptical” because it finds no rational basis for ordinary belief (hence the problem of induction) and a “solution” because it tells us where our concept comes from and why the practice works. An analogous view of meaning has it that our practice of speaking of meaning is one step removed from meaning itself, which remains elusive, hidden, and mysterious; instead we go by observable symptoms extraneous to meaning. This is a skeptical solution because it suggests that our talk of meaning does not result from rational insight into the nature of meaning but from non-rational natural facts.

            Hume believes that causality (“in the objects”) is fully present in individual instances, so that the effect could be inferred from the cause alone had we the requisite knowledge of the cause. Constant conjunction does not create causal connexion, and indeed can never establish connexion as opposed to mere conjunction. There is, for Hume, nothing to prevent a single instance of causation that is never repeated. And yet we have no knowledge of causation except by experiencing constant conjunctions and feeling the tug of instinct to venture beyond them. In the case of meaning an analogous view would insist that meaning is present whole and entire in every act of meaning, with regular linguistic use a mere contingent accompaniment. And yet we cannot form an idea of meaning except by recourse to what is contingent and dispensable (behavior or states of consciousness), and then letting nature do its work. Meaning in itself is real, singular, and inherent, but our knowledge of it perforce relies upon symptoms that don’t do justice to its nature. If causal powers could look at constant conjunctions, they would not recognize themselves therein; likewise, if meanings could look at linguistic behavior and states of linguistic consciousness, they would not recognize themselves therein. Causation is really nothing like constant conjunction, and meaning is really nothing like its symptoms (inner or outer); yet we are condemned to conceive of them both in terms “extraneous and foreign”.  [3]

 

  [1] Saul Kripke, Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language (Basil Blackwell: Oxford, 1982). I discuss this book in Wittgenstein on Meaning (Basil Blackwell: Oxford, 1984).

  [2] I mean a concept in isolation, not connected to other concepts. It is true that we can try to analyze a concept, but when we do we position it within a thought—we can’t just gaze at it independently of the thoughts in which it might occur. Concepts come to us as constituents of propositions (this is a version of Frege’s context principle). We can’t be conscious of concepts as pre-propositional units.

  [3] The same thing cannot be said of consciousness or typical conscious states: here we do have an “adequate idea” of that of which we speak. In Hume’s language, we understand the nature of “impressions and ideas”—these are not hidden like causation or the self.

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Human Contingency

                                   

 

 

Human Contingency

 

 

There are two views about the existence of humans on this planet: one view says that human existence was inevitable, a natural culmination, just a matter of time; the other view says that human existence is an accident, an unpredictable anomaly, just a matter of luck (I am discounting theological ideas). I can think of myself as the kind of being whose existence was built into the mechanism of evolution, or I can think of myself as a bizarre aberration of evolution. The first view is often defended (or found natural) because evolution is thought to produce superiority, and we are superior—the pinnacle of the evolutionary process. Evolution is conceived as a process that tends towards superior intelligence, and we are the most intelligent creatures of all. The second view notes that our kind of intelligence is unique in the animal kingdom and therefore hardly a prerequisite for evolutionary success; indeed some of the most successful animals as judged by biological criteria are the least intelligent (bacteria do pretty well for themselves). Big brains are biologically costly and can be hazardous, hardly the sine qua non of survival and reproductive success. I hold to the second view of the evolutionary process (which is standard among evolutionary biologists) but I won’t try to defend it here; my aim is rather to adduce some considerations that support the view that human existence (and human success) are highly contingent in quite specific ways—we really are a complete anomaly, an extremely improbable biological phenomenon. It is a miracle that we are here at all (though a natural miracle). We might easily not have existed.

            First, there are no other mammals like us on the planet: upright, bipedal, ground dwelling. Most land animals are quadrupeds (with the obvious exception of birds, whose forelimbs are wings, and who spend a lot of time in the air), and that body plan makes perfect sense given the demands of terrestrial locomotion. Our body plan, by contrast, makes little sense and no other species has followed us down this evolutionary path. Even our closest relatives don’t go around on their hind legs all the time existing in all manner of environments (are there any apes that live on the open plains or in the arctic?). There is no evolutionary convergence of traits here, as with eyes or a means of communication. Natural selection has not favored our bipedal wandering in other species (contrast the vastly many species of quadruped). This is by no means the natural and predictable mode of locomotion and posture that evolution homes in on. It is strange and unnatural (and fraught) not somehow logical or design-optimal. No sensible god would design his favorite species this way—unbalanced, top-heavy, swollen of head. (Note how slow even our fastest runners are compared to many other mammalian species.) Nor does evolution seem to have a penchant for large ingenious brains; it prefers compact efficient brains that stick to the point.  Whatever the reason for these characteristics, it is not that our bodily design is a biological engineer’s dream: evolution has not all along been dying to get this design instantiated in its proudest achievement (as if expecting huge applause from the evolutionary judges of the universe—“And the first prize goes to…”).  Cats, yes, who have been a long time in the making; but hardly humans, who arrived on the scene only yesterday and never looked the part to begin with.

            Second, imagine what would happen if you drove gibbons down from the trees. Up there they are well adjusted, at home, finely tuned, grasping and swinging; but down on the ground they would be miserably out of place, athletically talentless, scarcely able to survive. Indeed, they would not survive—they would go rapidly extinct. They evolved to live in the trees not on the ground, and you can take a gibbon out of a tree but you can’t take a tree out of a gibbon. Yet we (or our ancestors) were driven down from the trees and forced to survive in alien territory, subject to terrifying predators, cut off from our natural food supply, poorly designed to deal with life on level ground. We should have gone extinct, but by some amazing accident we didn’t—something saved us from quick extinction (and it is possible to tell a plausible story about this). Descending from the trees is not something built into the evolutionary trajectory of tree-dwelling animals, as if it is a natural promotion or development, life on the ground being somehow preferable, like a fancy neighborhood and upward mobility. That’s why other species have not followed us—those gibbons are still happily up there, as they have been for millions of years. Our descent and eventual success was not a natural progression but a regression that happened to pan out against all odds. It could easily not have happened. There is certainly no general evolutionary trend that favors animals that make the descent—which is why birds haven’t abandoned their aerial life-style and taken up residence on the ground. There is no biological analogue of gravity causing animals to cling to the earth’s surface. That we made a go of it is more a reason for astonishment than confident confirmation.

            Third, and perhaps most telling of all, the other evolutionary experiments in our line have not met with conspicuous success. We are the only one left standing (literally). We now know there were many hominid species in addition to the branch called Sapiens, which flourished (if that is the word) for a while, but they are all now extinct—things just didn’t work out for them. And it’s not like the dinosaurs where a massive catastrophe caused the extinction (of them as well as innumerable other species); no, these hominid species went extinct for more local and mundane reasons—they just couldn’t cut it in the evolutionary struggle. They just weren’t made of the right stuff, sadly. Slow, ungainly, unprotected, weak—they simply didn’t have what it takes. Yet we, amazingly, are still here: we made it through the wilderness despite the obstacles and our lack of equipment. How did we do it? That’s an interesting question, but the point I want to make here is that it is remarkable that we did—no other comparable species managed it. Evolution experimented with the hominid line and it didn’t work out too well in general (most mammal species living at the time of our early hominid relatives are still robustly around), but somehow we managed to beat the odds. We look like a bad idea made good—here by the skin of our teeth. The characteristics that set our extinct relatives apart from other animals did not prove advantageous in the long run, but by some miracle the Sapiens branch won out—we did what they could not. And we didn’t just survive; we dominated. Not only are we still here; we are here in huge numbers, everywhere, pushing other species around, the top of the pile. We have unprecedented power over other animals and indeed over the planet. But this is not because evolution came up with a product (the bipedal brainy animals descended for the trees) that had success written into its genes–most such animals fell by the wayside, with only us marching triumphantly forward. And notice how recently our dominance came about: we weren’t the alpha species for a very long time, a sudden success story once our innate talent shone forth; instead we scraped and struggled for many thousands of years before we started to bloom—the proverbial late developers. None of it was predictable: only in hindsight do we look like the evolutionary success we have turned out to be. Anyone paying a visit to the planet before and after our improbable rise would exclaim, “I never saw that one coming!” You could safely predict the continuing success of cats and elephants, sparrows and centipedes, given their track record; but the spectacular success of those weedy two-footed creatures seems like pure serendipity. You would have expected them to be extinct long ago! You would want to inquire into the reasons for their unlikely success, looking again at their distinguishing characteristics (language, imagination, a tendency to congregate, dangling hands). These characteristics turned out to be a lot more potent than anyone could have predicted. Certainly there is no general trend in evolution favoring animals designed this way. It is not as if being driven from one’s natural habitat and being made to start over is a recipe for biological success.

            For these reasons, then, the existence and success of homo sapiens was not a foregone conclusion, a mere natural unfolding. It was vastly improbable and entirely accidental. It was like making a car from old bits of wood and newspapers that ends up winning the Grand Prix.  [1]

 

Colin McGinn             

  [1] This essay recurs to themes explored in my Prehension: The Hand and the Emergence of Humanity (MIT Press, 2015). Of course, there is an enormous literature dealing with these themes. I think there is room for a type of writing about them that emphasizes the human significance of the scientific facts (one of the jobs of philosophy). It matters to us whether we are an accident or a preordained crescendo.

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How Mysterious?

                                               

 

 

 

How Mysterious?

 

We distinguish problems and mysteries: questions that we can in principle answer and questions that exceed our cognitive capacities. It is natural to interpret this distinction ontologically: some things are mysterious while others are merely problematic. The world divides up into entities that are mysterious and entities that are merely unknown. Thus it may be supposed that mind is mysterious but matter is not. But this may be underestimating the pervasiveness of mystery: perhaps everything is mysterious—everything physical, everything mental, and everything abstract. To be sure, there exist mere problems, many of which have been solved or will be solved, but these relate to aspects of things not the thing itself. For example, there are problems of calculating the motions of bodies that can be solved, but the origins of motion and the nature of what moves may be irresoluble mysteries. Perhaps nothing is totally mysterious, but then nothing is totally non-mysterious either.  Everything presents both problems and mysteries. Some aspects of consciousness are not mysterious, such as the kinds of conscious state there are, but there are also mysterious aspects of consciousness, such as its relation to the brain. Accordingly, science (the human kind) might apply to some aspects of everything but not to all aspects. Newton’s theory of gravity combined these two features: he gave us a science of motion with predictive mathematical laws but he left the origin and basis of motion a mystery—gravitational force is thus both intelligible and unintelligible. Might this be the general state of things—understanding combined with incomprehension? A single thing has both mysterious and transparent aspects; it is not that some things are mysterious and other things transparent. The two properties are intertwined not exclusive. We live in a generally mysterious world but certain aspects of it yield to our understanding. That is presumably the position of other animals: they can solve many problems but the world is generally mysterious to them. Hume thought that all causation is mysterious, and causation is everywhere, so everything has a mysterious aspect—but other aspects of things are intelligible to the human mind. Physics provides intelligible theories (more or less) but it doesn’t plumb the mysteries of matter; it limits itself to certain aspects of matter. Mathematics presents an ideal of intelligibility but the nature of numbers remains obscure. Psychology enables us to understand each other (to some degree) but its constructs are baffling. We have only a partial understanding of everything we understand: some aspects of things remain mysterious.  At any rate, we should distinguish this view from the view that some things in nature are mysterious while other things merely present soluble problems. Mystery might thus be universal but not total. To put it differently: for any problem there is a correlated mystery.  [1]

 

Colin McGinn

  [1] These brief remarks are not intended to persuade anyone of the mysterian position; they are only for the initiated. There are many interesting questions about the nature and types of natural mystery and about its extent once one has become persuaded of the general truth of the position.

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Good Works, Bad People

                                   

 

Good Works, Bad People

 

 

What should we do about people who do bad things but produce good works of art? What about a child-molesting composer, say? Should his works be banned? The question is not simple and I shall work up to an answer by considering some thought experiments.

            Suppose a man, call him Bill, has produced distinguished musical compositions but is guilty of unsavory and unethical conduct (theft, pedophilia, defamation, what have you). His nefarious deeds were unknown while his musical fame grew; he became extremely popular and admired. Then his bad behavior is revealed (we can suppose that there is no doubt about this). Boycotts are urged. There isn’t any question of rewarding him for his evil ways for the simple reason that he has been dead for ten years, but still some people feel that his work is now tainted and that it would be wrong to play his music, even in private. In fact there was always something funny about Bill, which is brought to light in the midst of the controversy: Bill had a split brain! He was born that way—separate non-communicating hemispheres. Indeed, inside Bill there lurked two distinct selves, one in the left-brain, and the other in the right. And, stranger still, it was the left-brain self that committed the crimes not the right brain self—that self was innocent of all wrongdoing. True, these two selves had the same name, the same birth certificate, and so on, but they were two different individuals sharing the same body. The person who composed that marvelous music was not identical to the person who committed those horrific crimes, despite appearances. Doesn’t that change the situation? We can’t hold the musical individual responsible for the misdeeds of the non-musical individual! So there is no ground for a boycott after all: the composer did none of the things his evil cohabiting self did. The works came from one source, the misdeeds from another.

            Now consider a person, call him Jack, with multiple personality disorder: he contains several distinct selves. When one self is uppermost Jack paints beautiful pictures; when other selves emerge wicked actions result. Should Jack’s paintings be banned or destroyed? Wouldn’t that be blaming one self for the actions of another? Jack can do nothing about which self has control at any given time, and each self is a genuinely distinct individual—so it would be hard lines to punish one of these selves for the misbehavior of the others. Think Jekyll and Hyde: should we refuse to teach the medical findings of Dr. Jekyll just because of the terrible things Mr. Hyde got up to? Again, that presupposes an identity of source, which fails in the present instance. You can’t blame X for what Y did. Given that Jack’s good self produced outstanding works of art, surely we don’t want to deprive ourselves of them just because of his unfortunate association with other unethical persons (over which he has no control). What if everybody was like this? We all go through a bad phase in which we do bad things, but then we get beyond it and turn into model citizens. Maybe a remnant of our earlier bad self survives in our mature good self, but we no longer act in those bad old ways. We each have some pretty nasty skeletons in the closet, but thankfully we grow out of all that to produce worthwhile work. Should we all be banned and boycotted? Wouldn’t that be manifestly unjust and leave us with nothing good to do with our time, culturally speaking? That old self is ancient history, of no relevance to what we are now, so it has no role in creating our good works. The good works don’t come from the same place as the earlier bad actions (we shudder to think of them now).

            Next we have Jill, a world-famous moral philosopher: not only are her works intellectually distinguished, she is also highly regarded morally. She lives a blameless life (outwardly) and dies a celebrated thinker and writer. However, unknown to everybody, Jill had a truly vile imagination: it was a cesspool in there—murder, torture, perversion, you name it. Her dreams were unspeakable and her daily imaginings disgusting. But she kept this secret fantasy life to herself—wise, because if her associates knew about it they wouldn’t want to go near her. Soon after her death, however, Jill’s dairies are discovered and they contain ample evidence of her deranged imagination, so skillfully kept under wraps during her lifetime (though people were sometimes disconcerted by a wicked look in her eye while daydreaming). Now we are made privy to her inner life and we find ourselves repelled. Should we ban Jill’s books and take down her plaque? We should certainly accept the modification in her image that the revelations indicate, but what about the work? It bears no mark of her horrible imagination, stemming from a quite different place in her psyche—the place of reason not fantasy. So we are not endorsing her imaginative excesses by applauding her intellectual productions—these are separate spheres of Jill’s mind. Her atrociousness was localized to her imagination and didn’t spill over into other aspects of her life. If we want to get technical about it, we could say that her intellectual mental module was distinct from her imaginative mental module. Jill had different aspects to her mind that functioned separately, so we shouldn’t pin on one what properly belongs to the other. Intellectually, she was exemplary; imaginatively, she was a monster.  We should not conflate one part of her mind with another part.

            Here is another kind of case: a popular singer, Paul, is secretly an active pedophile. He is an icon of popular culture, his music much loved. He dies and his pedophilia is exposed. Should we say that his music module was separate from his erotic module as a way to preserve his musical legacy? But suppose that, in the light of the new revelations, several songs once regarded as innocent can now be interpreted (correctly) as expressions of pedophilia—so that’s what he was talking about! Should those songs be banned? I think we are inclined to say yes, because those songs tap into his unsavory immoral side: they can no longer be listened to in the same spirit, and enjoying them endorses their repugnant content. Here the work comes from the same place as the bad part of the person: the lyrics directly reflect the emotions and activities that characterized Paul’s secret life. Similarly, if Jill’s fantasy life incorporated anti-Semitic tropes, which found their way into her published works, those works should be boycotted. That is, we are inclined to treat cases differently according as they separate or connect the good and the bad: if the work is insulated from the author’s bad character, we are okay with it; but if the bad character feeds into the work, we are far less tolerant. Call this the insulation principle: then we can say that works should be banned (boycotted, frowned upon  [1]) if and only if they are not insulated from the badness of the person producing them. That principle is clearly reflected in cases of numerically distinct persons, as with Bill and Jack, but it also applies to single persons and their multiple faculties, as with Jill and her evil imagination. Paul is the test case because here we stipulated that the insulation principle is violated. The very trait that constitutes Paul’s badness contributes to the works in question. But when there is insulation we have grounds for leniency. To put it differently: persons are not simple unitary entities but complex assemblies of traits and faculties; and a work can result from one of these and not the others. We can endorse some of a person’s traits without endorsing all of them. Since everyone has some bad traits, this allows us to preserve their meritorious works, because we are not thereby showing any toleration for what is bad in a person. If we are inclined to accept multiple selves as the correct account of so-called personal identity, this becomes a lot more straightforward—all the interesting cases then approximate to the cases of Bill and Jack. At any rate, there is always a question about who created what: the self that created the great work may be distinct from the other selves that constitute what I refer to as “me”. Thus ethics connects with metaphysics: you can only be blamed for things that you do, not some prior self or simultaneous self existing alongside the self at issue. If Paul actually had two selves, an artistic self and an erotic self, then the productions of the former self would be insulated from the bad actions of the latter self. Hence we should not prohibit his works because of his dirty deeds, because they weren’t really his. But if Paul has one self that simultaneously writes songs covertly about child sex and indulges in it, then the right response is to let disapprobation fall on the songs as well as the person. Expressions of evil inherit the evil of what they express, and the same person is doing both.

            In actual real-world cases there will no doubt be difficulties, empirical and conceptual, as to a person’s guilt and its implications for his or her work; but the general principle that we must keep in mind is that if the work is separable from the heinous aspects of the person whose work it is, then it is not in general a good idea to ban that work. By all means boycott work that is intrinsically unethical, or which springs directly from unethical traits, but don’t extend this principle to work that stems from some source other than the bad traits in question. A person may have good parts and bad parts, and his or her work may partake purely of the good parts. No one should have their work judged by their worst traits, but only by the traits that generated it.  [2]

 

  [1] I am trying to avoid the question of legal prohibition because that raises questions of free speech; for my purposes here we can limit ourselves to self-policing, i.e. what you allow yourself to consume.

  [2] I have not attempted to adjudicate the numerous actual cases in which the issue comes up; that would require considerable factual knowledge of the details of such cases. I have restricted myself to teasing out the general principles that should guide our judgment, by considering hypothetical cases in which the facts are clear.

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Freedom Within Necessity

 

 

 

Freedom Within Necessity

 

Suppose the compatibilist is faced with the following objection: human actions can’t be free because movements of the body are not free. More fully, if we consider the nature of bodily movements, we see that they have sufficient physiological causes and that from the point of view of physiology no freedom can be discerned therein. If we examine a bodily movement as such, we find nothing that could suggest the idea of free will; but human actions are such movements; therefore, there is no free action. My arm going up is not a free action, but then the act of raising my arm cannot be free either, since it is that movement. The body is a machine with not a hint of freedom in it, but that is not consistent with supposing that we act freely, because actions are movements (not counting omissions). If we are trying to describe a body, we will not have any use for the concept of freedom; but that rules out the idea that we act freely, given the role of the body in typical human action. Bodily actions can’t be free if bodily movements are not.

            We can imagine different responses to this argument. One response would be to give up the compatibilist position: human actions are not free after all. Another response would be to insist that bodily movements are free, odd though it may sound to say so (“My arm going up was a free action”). Here I want to recognize the possibility of a third response: actions are not movements. This allows us to hold that actions are free but movements are not free—which looks like the intuitive thing to say. My raising my arm was free but my arm going up was not, because these are not the same thing. That is, identity is not the relation between actions and movements. What the relation is precisely is not easy to say, but let us stipulate that the movement is a constituent of the action, not the whole of it. In addition to the movement we might include an act of will or a trying or a decision—something psychological. Then Leibniz’s law will not compel us to transfer freedom to the body or deny freedom to the will. The will is free, and so in consequence is action, though action is partly constituted by a bodily movement that is not free. The arm rising was a constituent of the arm raising and is indeed not free, but the arm raising brings in other psychological factors that render it free (it was prompted by a certain desire, say). Thus we reconcile the freedom of the agent with the un-freedom of his body, by distinguishing actions from movements (even when the action involve the movements).

            We must beware of an ambiguity in the phrase “movements of the body”. It is clearly true that I can perform the action of moving my body in a certain way, and this act can be free (for a compatibilist)—in this sense actions just are bodily movements. I can obviously move my body freely, as when I raise my arm. But this notion is not the same as that of a bodily movement in the non-agential sense, as when my body moves because of a muscle spasm or the wind. That is my body’s movement not my movement—my will played no role in its production. It is movements in this sense that are not free, even when they are part of a free action. Muscle contractions and efferent nerve impulses are not free, even though they make up an essential part of a free action. Actions are not bodily movements in this sense.

            We thus arrive at the following position: actions can be free even though they are composed (partly) of movements that are not free. No movement of the body (in the second sense) is free, despite the fact that the actions of agents are free. For actions can be in accordance with the agent’s desires, rendering them free, despite the fact that movements are the body cannot be in accordance with desires. Of course, we can transfer or extend the concept of action to the movements that compose actions, saying that they are derivatively free; but that is consistent with supposing that strictly speaking no bodily movement is free. What is interesting is how much this position concedes to the traditional incompatibilist without accepting his conclusion that human action is not free. For it allows that no movement of the human body (in the second sense) is ever free while insisting that human actions are free (or can be). The body can be as “mechanical” as you like, all its movements devoid of anything deserving the name of free, and yet human bodily action is free. This is because actions are not identical with, or reducible to, bodily movements. When I think of myself as a body I can find no room for freedom, but when I shift to thinking of myself as an agent with psychological properties, freedom enters the picture. It is almost as if the very same thing—a bodily movement—is both free and not free: but that contradiction is avoided by scrupulously distinguishing between what I do and what my body “does”. It moves; I act. The incompatibilist was quite right that movements of the human body cannot be free, but he overplayed his hand when he concluded that free action is impossible. Free actions do indeed incorporate un-free movements, so they have an un-free dimension; nevertheless, they are free. The embodied agent has a body whose movements (in one sense) are not free, but he and his actions are still free. The incompatibilist is pointing to an important truth, namely that the human body is not free; but he is wrong to infer from this that actions cannot be free, despite the involvement of the body.

            Some libertarians seek to make the body free in order to make human action free—they postulate some sort of indeterminism in the movements of the body (or brain). This produces absurd results, but their instincts were not completely wrong, because it is easy to move from the un-freedom of the body to the un-freedom of the agent, given the close connection between actions and movement. We can prevent this freedom-destroying step by carefully separating action from movement—raising from rising. Raising my arm is something I do to satisfy certain desires, but my arm rising is something that happens in virtue of physiological events in my muscles and nervous system. The former can be free while the latter cannot—even though the latter is an essential part of the former. It is because I am more than a body that I can be free; the incompabilist is right that the body itself cannot be free. If actions were simply movements, then freedom of action would be impossible; but that is not an identity we are compelled to accept.

            The resulting picture looks like this: the body is thoroughly deterministic and un-free, including all of its movements; actions are also thoroughly determined, both physically and psychologically—and yet actions are free. Freedom exists within necessity not in opposition to it. Freedom for the compatibilist is fundamentally a matter of acting on one’s desires, but that can happen even when encased in a thick shell of determinism that includes even the un-free bodily movements in which freedom is expressed. Nearly everything about us is not free, but not quite everything. To put it as paradoxically as possible: my moving my body is free but the movements of my body are not free. We thus have a new form of compatibilism: freedom of action is compatible with un-freedom of the acting body.  [1]

 

Colin McGinn 

  [1] Of course, the body does not strictly act, the agent does; but it is still true that the body that is essentially involved in action is not free, though the actions are.

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Forms of Analysis

                                   

 

 

Forms of Analysis

 

 

Since Plato inaugurated conceptual analysis a certain pattern has recurred. His first stab at an analysis of knowledge broke it down into two parts: truth and belief. To know something you had to believe it and it had to be true. Neither element alone was sufficient (though both were necessary) but the conjunction of them added up to knowledge. We have a kind of conceptual equation: x plus y equals z. But then he noticed that this simple combination wasn’t enough for knowledge; it needed an extra ingredient. For it is possible to have true beliefs that aren’t knowledge, as when you accidentally hit on the truth. So he added a further element: justification. Now knowledge is a triadic concept: x plus y plus j equals z. The sufficiency of this was in turn questioned, but let us stop here for the moment. We could say that Plato discovered that truth and belief had to be coordinated in some way in order to add up to knowledge: you have to believe the truth justifiably (rationally, non-accidentally, for adequate reasons, reliably, etc.). Truth and belief had to be suitably connected not just exist side by side—you must have the belief because of the truth in order to have knowledge. Instead of belief and truth, we need belief because truth. Knowledge breaks into two parts, but the parts don’t just sit there separately; they meld in some way. Knowledge is the kind of belief that results from truth. Thus a structure emerged: the concept breaks into two basic parts joined in a certain way, where this way features as an extra ingredient added to the basic ones. Knowledge is not a simple thing, but it is not a serial thing either; it is a composite thing—parts coordinated. 

            This structure is not confined to knowledge. What is perception? It consists of two parts: experience and object. In order to see an object you have to have an experience (a “sense-datum”) and the experience must be veridical, i.e. there is a suitable object answering to it. You seem to see a table and there is a real table in front of you: neither is sufficient for seeing but if you combine them the upshot is seeing. There are two sides to seeing, as there are two sides to knowing–an internal side and an external side, a subjective side and an objective side. Seeing is a two-factor state, as we can see from conceptually analyzing it. But on further examination we see that seeing must be more than that, because these two conditions are not sufficient for seeing: there needs to be some connection between experience and object; they can’t just be accidentally joined, as when you hallucinate a table but there happens to be a table just where you seem to see one. Thus it becomes natural to require that the two elements be causally connected: the object has to cause the experience. Again, this triadic analysis itself runs into problems of sufficiency, but let’s not be detained by that: what we must note is that perception breaks into two parts and the parts must be properly coordinated. Perception is experience because of object. There is an internal side and an external side, along with a relation of dependence. The form is: x because of y equals z. This is beginning to sound like a kind of law of conceptual analysis—a recurrent pattern. And further inquiry confirms that diagnosis: for the same thing is true of memory. To remember a past event is to have both a memory impression and for the past to be a certain way: neither alone is sufficient for remembering but together we get memory. Mind and world supply the necessary ingredients–internal and external, subjective and objective. But again, the two elements cannot merely be conjoined, since you don’t remember something simply because you have a memory impression of it and it actually occurred—that could be so and yet you have completely forgotten the past event (the memory impression has some other source). You have to have the impression because of the past event (if you have it because someone randomly stimulates your brain, you don’t really remember). Once again, the concept has the form: x because of y equals z. Memory impression because of past event equals memory. Again, problems of sufficiency can be produced, but we won’t go into that. What we can say is that we now have three important concepts whose analysis follows the same pattern—quite an impressive record for the enterprise of conceptual analysis. Our putative law, in brief, then is this: Epistemic concepts break into two coordinated parts. Their analysis has the form: x because of y equals z, where x is subjective (internal) and y is objective (external).

            Emboldened by this result we might wonder whether other concepts follow the same pattern. In the history of the subject this claim has not been ventured, but I propose to extend the pattern into other areas of the mind. First, and somewhat familiar, there is the concept of action: an action consists of an internal component and an external component, both necessary and (on the face of it) sufficient. To perform an action it is necessary (a) to will it and (b) for a bodily movement to occur, as when I open a car door. I don’t open the door if I merely will it and my body doesn’t move, and similarly if my body causes the door to open but not because of any decision or intention of mine (a sudden spasm, say). Action is willing plus moving—subjective and objective, inner and outer. The concept bifurcates into two. But again, these conditions need to be augmented to deal with a familiar problem, namely that both elements could occur and yet I don’t act. What if I decide to open the door and my body is caused to open it by some accidental event? Then we can’t say that I opened the door: I performed no action, though I tried to and my body did what I was trying to do (because of some random outside stimulus). Again, the cure for this is to require that the agent’s body moved because of the internal willing: the willing has to cause the moving. Now the causation is going from inner to outer instead of outer to inner, but the structure is the same: x because of y equals z. Moving because of willing equals acting. Again, there are going to be problems of sufficiency (deviant causal chains and so on), but we won’t worry about that here. The important point is that yet another concept falls under our generalization: the concept of acting emerges as a composite concept consisting of two elements, internal and external, joined by a coordinating factor. The mere conjunction of the two elements is never enough; we always need to add the extra ingredient. Is this perhaps the general form of psychological concepts? That would be an interesting discovery in conceptual science, would it not?

            One might suppose that it could not be the general form of psychological concepts: for consider belief itself. Is that concept triadic in the way described? Where are the two elements here, and what might coordinate them? We now venture into virgin territory, but not without some prior preparation. Here is an analysis of belief with respectable credentials: For a subject X to believe that p is for X to stand in a certain relation R to a sentence s and for s to mean that p. Intuitively, the subject assents to a sentence in the language of thought that means the content of his belief. For me to believe that the sky is blue is for me to internally assent to the sentence “the sky is blue” (or some synonym) and for that sentence to mean that the sky is blue. Thus belief is assent plus meaning: it is assenting to sentences with propositional content. These are two distinct conceptual elements that together add up to the concept of belief (we are supposing). One is psychological; the other is semantic. If you assented to a meaningless sentence, that would not be a belief, while the mere fact of a sentence meaning something confers no beliefs on anyone. Belief requires both things. But now comes the big question: do we need in addition a coordination condition? Is the mere conjunction enough? That would spoil our generalization (though not entirely), so we anxiously inquire whether our law can be preserved in this case. I think it can be preserved, happily, because the conjunction is not enough, and in a familiar way: you could assent to a sentence that means that p without thereby believing that p because you might not know what that sentence means. Suppose you are in a foreign country and hear the natives talking: you might accept what they are saying as true, and their sentences certainly have meaning, but you don’t know what they mean, and hence don’t believe what they say. You have to accept what they say because of what the sentences mean, not merely because the speakers look like a reliable bunch. You have to understand the sentences, not merely assent to them independently of understanding them. So the conjunction of assent and meaning is not enough.

But what if the sentence occurs in your very own language of thought? Here we must wax more recherche: suppose you have a psychological disability that prevents you from understanding the sentences coded into your genes, yet you have a credulous tendency to assent to these sentences anyway (maybe you think they wouldn’t occur in your mind if they were false, given the ways of natural selection). The sentences have meaning (inherited from your ancestors) but you don’t grasp this meaning—yet you blithely and blindly assent. If that were possible, this would be a case in which assent to sentences in your own language of thought would not suffice for having the corresponding belief; and conceptually there is clearly daylight here. What is needed to plug the gap is that your understanding of these sentences should play a role in your assent to them: that is, your assent must be because of their meaning (among other things). The two factors can’t just operate independently; they must be connected in the right way. Maybe we will find ingenious counterexamples even when this extra condition is added, but again that is not to the point—we have uncovered the same basic pattern in the case of belief too (given the suggested analysis of belief). Belief is assent because of meaning, to put it simply. (This means, of course, that the two-factor concept of knowledge embeds the two-factor concept of belief; or three-factor if we include the coordinating condition.) Belief might have struck us initially as logically simple, but upon analysis we see that it exhibits the same kind of structure that Plato long ago uncovered in the concept of knowledge (it only took us two thousand years). There are two parts to the concept, psychological and semantic, and a condition on their combination; put together we have the composite whole that is the concept of belief (and belief itself). Perhaps we reach conceptual bedrock with the concept of assent, or perhaps not, but there seem to be many ordinary psychological concepts that break down in the way described.    [1] Just to have a grand label for our would-be law, let us call it “The Law of Coordinated Duality”, or more colloquially “The Mixed Doubles Law”. It is a law about how psychological concepts are constituted (or some of them), which is to say how the mind is constituted.

            What about purely mental actions? Bodily actions divide neatly into two, inner and outer, but what about actions that go on entirely within the mind? Again, we need to get imaginative if we are to discern a comparable structure. Consider mental calculation—calculating in the head. Since this is an action, it is willed—you intend to perform a certain calculation and proceed to do it. But there is also the event of calculation: symbols going through your mind. Someone observing these processes could use them to arrive at the same result you arrive at. So there is a willing and an execution of this willing. You perform the mental act of calculation if both things go on; thus mental action has the same fundamental structure as bodily action. But could there be a case in which the two elements are not properly connected, so that it is false that the person did the calculation? Imagine an alien scientist who uses your brain as a calculator: he punches in questions and recruits your brain circuits to perform calculations, thus sparing himself the trouble of doing them himself. From the inside you experience symbols passing through your consciousness, but no feeling of willing the process to occur. You feel, as we say, alienated from the calculation, because the alien is willing it not you (compare his causing mental images in your mind against your will). A calculation was occurring in your consciousness, but it wasn’t an action of yours. This is the analogue of the externally imposed bodily movement of opening the car door. Now suppose we add to this scenario your willing to do the calculation, but this willing is not the cause of calculation itself—the cause is still the alien. Intuitively, you still didn’t do the calculation: you willed it and it was done, but you didn’t do it. It just so happened that the alien caused the calculation immediately after you willed it yourself. The two together don’t add to your doing mental arithmetic—the calculation wasn’t your action. What is missing, obviously, is that the calculating didn’t occur because of your willing it, but because of the alien. So we need to amend the simple two-factor account by adding that the mental event of calculation was caused by the mental event of willing it. Calculation because of willing equals performing the mental act of calculating. Suppose that the calculation would not have occurred if the alien had lost interest in it, despite the fact that you willed it (maybe your brain’s executive functions are down); then you wouldn’t have done any actual calculating. Adding the alien-caused calculation doesn’t change this; you still didn’t perform the calculation. So again we have the two-factor analysis supplemented with a coordination condition. If you perform a calculation partly in your head and partly on paper, this result is more intuitively obvious, because now we can clearly separate the two side of the action: logically, inner calculating is just like outer calculating. It’s mixed doubles in the head.

            Finally, we reach the hardest case: having an experience. Does this break down into two separable components coordinated together? It may not; it may just be primitive (something has to be). At first sight two logically separable elements may be discerned: the experience and the having of it. To have an experience e is for eto exist and for you to have e. Experiencing is an experience and the having of it. But in this case there seems no logical gap between the experience and the having of it: one entails the other. There is no separating the components, as there is in all the other cases. However, consider this strange scenario: your brain is hooked up to someone else’s brain in such a way that when he has an experience you automatically do, irrespective of what else is happening in your mental life (you know this is the set-up). For example, you have an experience as of a green truck because this other guy sees a green truck (you are at home lying in bed and think, “Oh boy, here we go again!”). The experience occurred in your consciousness but was it your experience? One wants to say that it was his experience intruding on your consciousness; you endured it but you didn’t have it—it didn’t belong to you. That may sound wrong, because you certainly were the subject of an experience as of a green truck, but the question is whether it was your experience. The case is rather like possession: you are the subject of experiences that belong to the possessing demon, but it doesn’t follow that these experiences are (experienced as) yours—they are the demon’s experiences occurring in you. If it is logically possible for someone else’s experience to occur in you, then we have a possible case in which the experience occurs in you but isn’t had by you in the relevant sense. That would be the logical analogue of truth without belief or object without percept or past event without memory or bodily movement without willing or mental calculation without mental calculating. Conceivably the mind of a baby is like this: experiences occur in its consciousness, but we can’t say that it has the experiences, perhaps because a self has not yet fully formed. So there could be experience without the possessing relation holding between it and the subject.    [2] Conceptually, it looks as if there is a logical chink here separating an experience occurring and its being possessed by a subject. No doubt this is all very obscure and difficult to pin down, but there is some sense of the kind of structural duality I have discerned. In any case, the matter is worth considering further if we are to determine how far our law of analysis extends. It is possible that the same basic conceptual architecture exists in this case but that it differs in significant ways from case to case. That would certainly be an interesting finding of conceptual science—a kind of structural universal found across a wide range of psychological concepts. Knowledge would then not be a unique case but simply one instance of something much more general. Two factors in combination would be a general feature of mental life.

 

Colin McGinn     
  

    [1] We might say that members of this family of concepts have the same body-plan, to borrow a term from biology—the same architecture, the same geometry.

    [2] Could the possessing relation exist without the experience? That would be the logical analogue of belief without fact or percept without object, and so on. It seems hard to make sense of, since it would be the mind shorn of all experience. But maybe it does correspond to some sort of psychological reality in that the mind presumably has a pre-existing capacity to host experiences of different kinds—something like a blank slate. Whether it could exist in a state of pure possessing without anything possessed is hard to contemplate, but conceptually it seems like a distinction exists here. There is the experience and there is the fact that I have it.

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