Dispositions and Perception

 

 

Dispositions and Perception

 

 

Let’s start with something easy, before we get to more difficult questions. Namely: dispositions cannot be seen. You can gaze at salt for as long as you like and you will not be able to see its disposition to dissolve in water. It has that disposition, and it has it at the time you are gazing at it, but the disposition will not reveal itself to your senses no matter how much you scrutinize the salt. Nor will using a microscope help. The only way to find out if salt is soluble in water is to place it in water and observe the outcome. Solubility is not a manifest property of salt, unlike its whiteness or salty taste—the senses can’t resonate to it. Why is that? Because solubility is a property that concerns the future and possible situations: salt will dissolve in water and it would if it were now placed in water—and we can’t see what will happen or would happen in certain possible circumstances. These facts are absent from your field of vision as you stare at the salt, involving other times and circumstances. If salt had only dispositional properties, it would be imperceptible; but it has various manifest properties as well as dispositional properties—as we are inclined to put it. Dispositions imperceptibly coexist with other non-dispositional perceptible properties. It is, indeed, in the very nature of dispositions not to be perceptible, since they bring in the temporally remote and merely possible. The same goes for powers, capacities, tendencies, aptitudes, and propensities. The merely potential is not a possible object of perception.

            Puzzlement begins when we consider color. It has been widely held that colors are dispositions to produce sense experiences, but dispositions are not perceptible and colors are. You can no more see a disposition to produce color experiences than you can see solubility, and for the same reasons—yet you see objects as colored. Doesn’t that prove that colors aren’t dispositions? But isn’t the dispositional view of color plausible? The key to resolving this puzzle is to distinguish the perceptible color property itself from the disposition upon which it depends (supervenes)—the latter being invisible.  [1] We can call these two properties “perceptual color” and “objective color” (the terms are not ideal), thus distinguishing two things that might be called color: color as we perceive it, and color as it exists in objects. The color property we perceive is not a disposition, and hence is perceptible; but the color property that objects have is a disposition, and hence is not perceptible. There are two things that are called “red”! Dispositional color doesn’t enter perceptual content, while perceptual color does (by definition). The latter is a kind of primitive monadic property deployed by the mind in perceiving the world, while the former is a complex relational property that cannot feature as a perceptual constituent. We could accordingly say that color terms are systematically ambiguous. The important point is that the dispositional theory cannot work as a theory of what we see when we see color—the quality that we see is not a disposition. Of course, the two properties are closely connected, but they are not identical, on pain of rendering color imperceptible.

            Now consider shape and other so-called primary qualities. Suppose we are attracted by the view that such qualities are best analyzed as dispositions (or powers).  [2] That view has its appeal because of the intimate connection between shape (say) and dispositions—what kind of holes things can fit into, et cetera. There is little daylight between such a property and the dispositions or powers that come along with it, so an identity thesis seems indicated. What is it to be round, say, but to be capable of rolling along a flat plane, fitting into a round hole, and so on? But now there is a question about perception: how can such properties be perceived if they are dispositions? Shouldn’t everything be invisible if the world consists au fond of dispositions? But the world is not invisible, so doesn’t that refute the dispositional theory?  Taking our cue from color, we can reply that this doesn’t follow once we distinguish perceptual shape from objective shape: there is the shape we see and the shape things are—the latter being dispositional, but not the former. We spread perceptual shape on the world as a primitive “categorical” property, but objective shape consists in an array of dispositions to act in certain ways: we perceive what we spread, but we don’t perceive objective shape. Objectively, shape is dispositional; subjectively, it is categorical. There are actually two sorts of shape property; “square” is systematically ambiguous.

            In the case of primary qualities we can say that objective shape properties come from the world (and are dispositional) while subjective shape properties come from the mind and are imposed on the world (and are not dispositional). Thus we can accept the dispositional view of primary qualities while agreeing that dispositions cannot be perceived, without rendering the world invisible—by postulating two levels of shape property. The shapes we see are not the shapes things objectively have; in fact we don’t see objective shape at all (except in some derivative sense).  [3] It isn’t that primary qualities are secondary qualities, since the dispositions that constitute them are not dispositions to produce shape experiences; but they are alike in that perceived shape is imposed on the world like perceived color. And it is fortunate that this duality of properties exists or else the world would be invisible to us, what with dispositions being invisible.

            It might be thought that the dispositional theory of shape (etc.) is not plausible because all dispositions need a “categorical basis” in virtue of which they hold. But this doctrine is not as pellucid as it may seem: for how cannon-dispositional properties give rise to dispositions? By what magic is this accomplished?  (Compare mind and body.) How can dispositions obtain “in virtue of” a categorical basis if that basis has no modal nature—if it concerns merely the present and actual? This isn’t to say that macro dispositions don’t have a basis in micro properties—as solubility has a basis in the properties of molecules—but this basis consists in turn of dispositionsof molecules not merely “structural properties”, as if mere geometry could give rise to power. The molecules are disposed to move and disperse in certain ways when salt is placed in water: that is the “categorical basis” of solubility—except that it isn’t “categorical”. Maybe there is some ultimate basis for all dispositions in nature that is not just another disposition, but the usual so-called categorical bases are really tacitly dispositional (they are about behavior not mere form or substance). It is true that perceived shape, like perceived color, is not dispositional, but that doesn’t stop objective shape from being dispositional; and the two are closely connected. It is as if perceived shape gives rise to dispositions but really the underlying objective shape properties are the things that operate as dispositions. Put simply: the world is the totality of invisible dispositions, but the mind imposes non-dispositional qualities on the world that render it perceptible. The mind supplies what is necessary in order to make the world perceptually accessible to us; if it did not, the world would be as invisible as solubility is.

            The position we have arrived at is distinctly Kantian. There is an objective reality of imperceptible dispositions (the noumenal world) and superimposed on that a layer of sensible qualities whose origin is the mind itself (the phenomenal world). The reason for the divide is the mismatch between dispositions and perception. The world consists of dispositional facts that cannot be experienced (metaphysics), but we gain perceptual contact with things by imposing from our own resources a layer of facts that are not dispositional (epistemology). There are thus two worlds tightly joined together. Think of it like this: when the physical world came into existence it consisted entirely of invisible dispositions; when conscious beings came along that needed to know about the world they overcame the problem of invisibility by inventing a whole new range of properties that they used to mediate between their minds and reality. They penetrated the cloak of invisibility by painting the world in colors they could recognize; or rather, they dealt with the inevitable invisibility of the world by substituting properties they could see. Perceptual systems didn’t make the dispositions visible (that would be impossible); instead they created another world connected to the first world that suited their receptive apparatus better. These beings then imagined that the world they created was the world that exists objectively, instead of being a proxy for it; but the world never became truly visible, because dispositions in their nature cannot be seen. We imposed our a priori geometry on the world along with our color space (and other sensory qualities), but we never gained perceptual access to the underlying realities. To repeat, it is not possible to see what would happen if  (or what is happening in close possible worlds), but that is what a disposition is. We have the illusion that we experience real shape and color, because we impose non-dispositional qualities that we do perceive; but really objective reality is perceptually closed off to us.

            Compare phenomenalism: for a table in the other room to be square is for certain counterfactual conditionals to be true, to the effect that I would have an experience of a square table if I had experiences of moving into that room. But such conditional facts cannot be perceived, so they cannot be what I see when I look at the table. So is the table invisible according to phenomenalism? Yes, if that is all there is to say: I cannot see a square table if that fact consists in having a disposition to appear in a certain way to perceivers, since I cannot see any such disposition. Likewise, if we decide on metaphysical grounds that reality is best understood as consisting entirely of dispositions (powers, potentials), then we face the question of how it can be perceived—and we are led to the kind of two-worlds Kantian view I have sketched.  [4]

            Ever since Plato we have been schooled to accept a realm of universals that serve to constitute reality as we experience it. The idea of a basic duality of universals is not part of that tradition. But our current reflections suggest that universals divide into two quite distinct groups: those that reduce to dispositions and hence are not perceptible, and those that are perceptible but don’t reduce to dispositions (I leave aside other categories such as the abstract and the moral). The latter have their source in the mind (“universals of the mind”), while the former exist in objective reality (“universals of the world”). The mind constructs a world by exploiting the first kind of universal, while the other world exists by dint of its own devices and is entirely dispositional. The two sorts of universal run in parallel while never merging and each belonging to a different layer of reality.      

 

  [1] See my “Another Look at Color”.

  [2] I am thinking of Sydney Shoemaker’s work on properties as powers.

  [3] This allows us to say such things as that perceptual geometry is Euclidian while physical geometry is not—the two dealing with different classes of geometrical properties.

  [4] Actually the view sketched is closer to Schopenhauer than to Kant, since it posits an active world of powers (“Will”) as constituting objective reality; what Schopenhauer would call “Ideas” corresponds to the level I am calling perceptual properties. Other variants of the general bipartite structure are conceivable: the noumenal as constituted by natural laws (also imperceptible) or supernatural spirits (ditto).

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Differentiation and Integration

                                   

 

Differentiation and Integration

 

 

According to standard embryology, the process of ontogenesis is characterized by organic differentiation. From an initially homogeneous collection of cells tissues of various kinds are formed. This is no doubt powered by genetic instructions from within the original uniform cells. Maturation is thus a transformation from sameness to diversity as tissues develop in the body according to a fixed schedule. The end result is an organism composed of many organs each equipped with a characteristic type of cell and associated physiology—heart, lungs, bones, kidneys, etc. As differentiation occurs there is a need for coordination between the new types of tissue and the organs that tissue serves, and the adult organism clearly contains components that need to be integrated into a functioning whole. Thus there is no differentiation without integration (and vice versa). These are the twin pillars of biological development: genetically driven diversification and concomitant integration of the elements thereby generated.

            This basic picture can be applied to language development. Initially there are just undifferentiated cooing sounds existing alongside the inarticulate sounds of crying, but these soon come to be replaced by language-like sounds (consonants and vowels) without structural complexity. These in turn are replaced by one-word sentences (“dada”, “milk”) that display the rudiments of language. Only later do these come to be combined into two-word strings, and subsequently into the full range of syntactic and semantic categories. The details don’t matter for present purposes: what concerns us is that language development follows a pattern of differentiation analogous to that undergone by the body.  [1] A relatively formless initial state is gradually transformed into a highly structured system of elements that combine together. Anatomy develops by differentiation, but so does grammar. When the initial unstructured sentences are transformed into noun phrases and verb phrases there has been a process of differentiation comparable to the formation of heart and lungs (or the internal anatomy of each). This is not surprising once we accept that language is itself a biological phenomenon—an aspect of the human organism. And it makes logical sense: you derive an intricately structured organism from unstructured beginnings by a process of differentiation (it would be difficult to implement such differentiation in the sperm and egg). Language doesn’t emerge fully formed in the child but matures in the brain by a process of increasing structure and complexity. It grows by splitting into different functional units—that must nevertheless be integrated if they are to achieve their purpose. We are accustomed to the idea that language is a system built for integration—producing sentences by combinations of words—but we must also recognize that it is a system that arises by differentiation from something more primitive.  [2] It was once a growing thing in the child and only reaches stasis after a lengthy sequence of differentiating stages—just like other human organs. Language is a product of gradual ontogenesis, which only later achieves its full combinatorial power. The adult language faculty enables integration ad infinitum, but at one time it was without much in the way of internal structure (relatively speaking). So let us add to the productive power of language its origins in a simpler form of living tissue. Grammar is the form that linguistic differentiation takes in human ontogenesis—just like anatomy and physiology. Linguistic differentiation is biologically at one with histological differentiation. Language thus follows the same basic pattern of organic growth. How else could the architecture of language arise?

            But if this is true of language, isn’t it also true of the mind more generally? The various components (“organs”) of the mind must be integrated in order to function as a unity, but first they had to develop by some sort of maturational process. Perception, cognition, emotion, will—all need to emerge as distinct systems during ontogenesis, to be integrated later (or pari passu). But what was the initial state? Some may speak darkly of a blank state, but that would need to be supplemented by an account of how such a state could be progressively differentiated. Something has to turn into the various faculties of mind—some state of the pre-natal brain. About this process we know little to nothing, yet it must be so in some way. What is the analogue to the one word sentence or those even more primitive cooing sounds? And how did concepts emerge by differentiation? They were not present fully formed in the fetus’s brain but arose by a maturational process to become the vast combinatorial system we now deploy with such consummate ease. Presumably they arose by a process of differentiation: from William James’ “blooming, buzzing confusion” (whatever that means) to an articulated array of combinable elements. This maturational differentiation must be genetically driven, like other biological growth, but it results in a psychological faculty far removed from the initial state of the organism. Again, we know little to nothing about how this works, but we have good grounds for supposing a distinct path of differentiation and integration. One can certainly imagine that unstructured thoughts might with time transform into thoughts with a subject-predicate structure—and thence into more complex forms. First there were feature-placing thoughts (the mental counterpart of “It’s raining”) and later they turned into structured thoughts (along the lines of “There is heavy rain in London now”). Conceptual differentiation created the panoply of concepts we now take for granted.

            Coordinating conceptual differentiation and integration is a highly non-trivial task, as it is in the case of the body and language. Once you have the plurality you need to keep it under control. The brain is the ringmaster here. Grammar is encoded in the brain and it sets the rules for combining words; in the case of concepts something analogous must be true—rules that combine concepts in certain acceptable ways (not just arbitrary lists or jumbles). So differentiation combined with integration requires rules or principles of coordination. The heart must be coordinated with the lungs to produce satisfactory aerobic performance; similarly concepts must be coordinated in the right way to produce intelligible thoughts. Integration doesn’t happen by magic. The more differentiation there is the greater the demands of integration. An organism with very simple thoughts doesn’t need much apparatus to keep its thoughts on track, but an organism like us relies on mechanisms that prevent thoughts from forming defectively or randomly. In aphasia these mechanisms can fail, leaving words to fail to link up correctly; in principle the same thing could happen to thoughts—concepts fail to link up to form coherent thoughts. It is surprising that more breakdowns of this kind don’t occur.  [3] If there is a language of thought, there ought to be aphasia in that language if the brain is suitably damaged, which produces aphasic thought. The differentiation and integration of concepts will be tied to linguistic differentiation and integration in the language of thought.       

            The innate language faculty thus has two basic properties: (a) it permits unbounded productivity in its mature form, and (b) it enables a stupendous feat of differentiation as it guides the maturation of language in the child’s brain. It is as creative in the latter respect as in the former (though it doesn’t get as much credit for the latter). The adult lexicon is the product of maturational differentiation (how, we don’t know); sentence production is the outcome of integration rules. Both are built into the genetic blueprint for language. Nor does differentiation cease at normal linguistic maturity, since we continue to make linguistic and conceptual distinctions. The differentiation machine doesn’t go completely offline, its job done; it allows us to make ever-finer distinctions that aid thought. So it isn’t that one kind of creativity completely ends to be replaced by another; we are still able creatively to generate distinctions (though it doesn’t come as naturally as during childhood). Distinction making is as crucial to language development as the growth of the ability to combine existing elements. So I propose conceiving of the language faculty (and the conceptual faculty) as a union of differentiation and integration: it allows the combination of pre-formed elements, to be sure, but it also generates those elements by a (mysterious) process of differentiation. When abnormalities arrest language development we see in sharper outline the maturational stages speakers go through—we see how the differentiation process can be blocked (the same is true of human bodily growth). As adults we tend to forget this early history, but it is as essential to our mastery of language as the growth of the heart is to our survival. The language faculty is as much a creative product as it is a creative producer.

            I said that differentiation and integration are the basic laws of biology (so far as concerns ontogenesis), but they are also relevant to evolutionary change. For what is species evolution but biological differentiation? Natural selection causes species differentiation (along with other factors), though mechanically not by pre-set program. There is no predetermined evolutionary schedule like the maturational schedule. Thus simpler forms evolve into more complex forms, splitting off to make a new kind of biological entity. Phylogeny recapitulates ontogeny. However, there is no real analogue to integration, since the different species don’t operate together to form a larger whole. True, it used to be thought that this might be so, as if each species had its functional role in the super-entity called Nature (“the biosphere”); but these days we tend to think that the entities that have arisen by evolutionary differentiation are independent entities subject to no coordinating principles. They are not like organs in a body or words in a language. There is no “grammar of nature”.  The evolution of species is differentiation withoutintegration.  [4]

 

  [1] This point of view is defended by Eric Lenneberg in Biological Foundations of Language (1967), esp. Chapter Seven.

  [2] This is in no way incompatible with the nativist account of language acquisition: the genetic instructions for generating full-fledged language are present at birth, but that is consistent with the existence of a maturational schedule that involves cellular and cognitive differentiation. Similarly, instructions for building a heart at a certain maturational stage are present at birth, but it takes time for the actual organ to be constructed by a process of differentiation. Nouns and verbs emerge at a certain maturational stage (the second year of life), but the program for making them was written in the genes.  

  [3] Drunkenness can cause breakdowns of motor coordination analogous to earlier stages of motor development (a kind of regression), including speech difficulties; but it doesn’t appear that drunkenness can derail the performance of the language of thought—we keep thinking coherently as we stagger and trip, slur and mumble.

  [4] Suppose there was a symbiotic parasite that entered the brains of host species and conferred language on the host—the parasite contains grammar. The parasite might instigate a series of maturational stages of language development in the host just like those of humans. It is functioning as an organ of the host’s body/mind—much as symbiosis in general has this character. This would provide a sense in which different species might operate as a unity.

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Consciousness and Qualities

                                               

 

 

Consciousness and Qualities

 

 

There are good reasons to suppose that the qualities we perceive the world to have do not belong to it objectively. The most obvious example is color, but it can also be argued that perceived shape is not an objective property of things.  [1] I am concerned here with the consequences of this position for the nature of consciousness and for the general veracity of our view of reality. So suppose that color and shape, as we perceive them, are indeed projected qualities of things, not belonging to the austere objective conception of reality; in particular, suppose that we do not derive such perceptual categories from the antecedently existing physical world. What does that tell us about the powers of consciousness and about the relation between appearance and reality?

            It tells us, first, that the sensible qualities of things originate in the mind: consciousness is the cradle of these qualities. Consciousness creates these qualities; it doesn’t find them existing already in the observable world (nor are they handed down by God). The qualities are projected outward, but they have an inward origin. This is a remarkable power: qualia (if there are such) depend for their existence on consciousness, but so too do the qualities that we sense in the external world. How does consciousness generate these qualities? It doesn’t itself instantiate them, but it manages to conjure them from somewhere—or nowhere. If it is puzzling how the physical world generates consciousness, it is also puzzling how consciousness generates the external world of color and shape (and other qualities). Before consciousness came to exist there were no such qualities, but with consciousness they blossomed into being—as flowers once did in evolutionary history. If physical reality consists wholly of powers, which are not themselves perceptible, then qualities were introduced by the mind in order to render the world perceptible; but how is this achieved—how are qualities manufactured? Whatever theory of consciousness we develop, it needs to explain how consciousness has this originative power. I don’t think we have even the beginnings of such a theory.

            How closely does the world of perception correspond to the objective world? Is the world the mind projects the same as the world that independently exists? No, it is not the same, since the projected qualities don’t exist in the world as it is in itself. So much is commonly accepted: the qualities that constitute appearance are not found in the reality that appears (considered independently of appearing). There may well be structural correspondences, but the two worlds diverge in what they contain. What I want to draw attention to is a point not often (if ever) noted, concerning the nature of instantiation. Our understanding of instantiation must be shaped (likely constituted) by the way qualities strike us in perception—by how things look, primarily. What it is for an object to instantiate a quality is exemplified by things looking red to us (say): this is how instantiation appears to us. But such qualities are projected from our own mode of sensibility not derived from reality, as it exists independently; so it is to be expected that instantiation, as we conceive it, is likewise projected. It is not just the quality red that is projected but being red. The mode in which objects have properties is conceived on the model of perceptual seeming, which results from the way we impose qualities onto reality. But there is no guarantee that objective instantiation will conform to this aspect of appearance—maybe the way things actually instantiate properties is remote from the way we represent such instantiation in perception. What this means is that the structure by which we grasp reality is conditioned by our mode of sensibility—the structure of objects instantiating properties. To put it differently, our notion of a fact is an offshoot of subjectively imposed qualities. The paradigm of a fact is an object being red or square, but if these facts reflect projected qualities, not objective conditions, then our whole conception of reality is shaped by our psychological make-up. The very idea of objects having properties, as we conceive of it, is infected with subjectivity, i.e. the mode of sensibility we bring to the world. We try to extend our notion of instantiation beyond the appearances, but it is bound up with appearances from the beginning, because the qualities that appear originate in us.

            Suppose the picture of the world presented by current physics is on the right lines: physical reality consists of fields of force exhibiting certain powers at certain spatiotemporal points. Does the presence of these powers in a field mirror the way objects appear to us to be red or square? Is that the way powers are instantiated in objective physical reality? Certainly we can’t sense these powers as we sense color and shape, so we can’t apprehend their mode of instantiation in that way. Powers are not qualities and fields are not perceptible objects, so the mode of instantiation involved will not mirror the kind that we perceive; perhaps we have little idea of what it involves. We vaguely think of it as like colors-as-perceived, but it may not be like that at all. Thus the physical facts don’t necessarily have the structure of the facts we perceive—facts that arise by projection. Our concept of instantiation may be as parochial and subjective as the qualities we project onto the world.

            There is something Kantian about this picture of things, but it is not committed to the total inaccessibility of the objective world. Nor does it regard space and time as merely subjectively imposed categories. It says rather that the world of appearance is constituted by qualities and structures that derive from the conscious mind not from objective reality. These qualities and structures are not “copies” of the world, derived by some sort of imprinting, as classical empiricism supposed; they are products of human consciousness (mysteriously so). The mind needs to find a way to cope with the world, to represent it, and the imposition of perceptible qualities is the way it has come up with. If the world consists purely of powers, something like the imposition of qualities is necessary, because powers cannot be perceived. The point I have wanted to make here is that consciousness must have the power to generate the imposed qualities, in addition to its other characteristics. Further, the structure in which these qualities feature inevitably reflects their status: the instantiation of projected qualities is itself projected—and whether objective instantiation fits this model is a moot point. Consciousness has to be the origin of (perceived) instantiation as well as of the qualities instantiated—form and content. The world we perceive is thus an upshot of consciousness not of antecedently existing reality—which can only be described as a type of idealism. I don’t doubt that there is an objective world and that it stands in some sort of correspondence relation to how things appear to us, but the constituents of our perceptual experience—of the world as we perceive it—derive from the mind’s own resources (ultimately from the brain). In this respect perceptual representation resembles language: language is a product of the mind, constrained by the mind’s inner nature, not some sort of imprint of objective reality—similarly for the structured qualities that form our perceptual world.

 

Colin McGinn

    

  [1] This has to do with the geometry of space, relativity theory, and so on; I won’t get into this now. I will only say that there is really no a priori reason to suppose that how we perceive extension and its modes coincides with the actual structure of matter (though there may be a correspondence of sorts). Do other species perceive the real objective nature of matter and space accurately? Are the qualities that mice attribute to the world in their perceptual experience the very qualities that feature in the correct objective conception of reality? Is the correct geometry of the universe already written into the forms of animal experience?

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Conceptions of God

                                   

 

Conceptions of God

 

 

According to orthodox Christian theology, God plays three main roles: he is the creator of the universe; he acts as moral judge; and he is our divine benefactor. These roles are combined in a single entity, though they are different roles. There would be no contradiction in the roles being possessed by distinct entities. Creating the universe requires one sort of capacity, meting out justice another, and caring about human welfare another. In normal human life such roles are assigned to different people. But God is multi-talented: he can perform all three. There is some tension between the role of judge and the role of benefactor: if God decides to punish us (justly) by sending us to hell, he is not acting as our benefactor; and benefactors are not ipso facto agents of justice. He cares about us, but apparently not enough to spare us the flames of hell. A theology that invoked distinct individuals to play these roles would be more intelligible. Yet we have become accustomed to monotheism. True, God is sometimes divided into sub-gods, as with the Holy Trinity (God the father, God the son, and God the holy ghost): but it is supposed that these are somehow aspects of a single entity. How can we be sure of this? Whether there is any god is a commonly asked question, but what about the question of the cardinality of gods? Why exactly do we posit a single god?

            This raises the issue of the criterion of identity for gods. Different tribes can worship different gods, and the ancient Greeks worshipped many gods, so it is not as if the concept of God logically implies unity; so why do we amalgamate the three roles I mentioned into a single being? What are the grounds for asserting identity? Has anyone ever seen the being that performs these roles and observed that they proceed from a single source? Is there any deduction from them to the identity of their bearer? Clearly not: it looks like a dogma. Presumably there are many different types of divine ontology in logical space: three gods, twenty-seven gods, an infinity of gods. Yet we have settled on the single-god ontology (with possible subdivisions). But how are gods to be counted? We know how to count apples and humans, but how do we count gods? In Greek mythology the implicit criterion is in terms of role performed (the god of love, etc.), but in Christian theology that principle is abandoned. What is put in its place? Nothing, so far as I can see. Why exactly don’t we entertain the proposition that three different beings perform the jobs of creator, judge, and benefactor? Why not a divine committee? It can’t be because the members of the committee might disagree, because that can be ruled out by means of an omniscience clause. Is it an affront to the dignity of a god that there should exist other gods? But why is it less dignified to exist alongside other gods than to exist alone? God could certainly create other gods, being omnipotent, so why does he practice divine solipsism? He created Jesus, and angels too, so why not another god like him? Why not propose a theology in which monotheism is relaxed? Why the obsession with singularity? After all, we pray to our benefactor for help, but not to the creator of the universe, still less our stern moral judge. Don’t the three roles naturally call for different entities to perform them? Holiness need not be confined to a single individual. Isn’t the idea of a single god a holdover from the days of monarchy (there was never more than one king)? Doesn’t modern democracy fit better with a divine collective—a kind of supernatural cabinet? Isn’t there something cultish about a single unique super-being? What about checks and balances, distribution of powers, division of labor? What about an executive god, a legislative god, and a god of welfare? Isn’t there at least a possible world in which godliness is thus divided? Is it not an epistemic possibility that God is not one but many? How can we rule out discovering at the pearly gates that there is more than one god? Couldn’t we discover that God has more than one child, contrary to what we now tend to believe? Monotheism hardly seems like a certain and necessary truth. We should keep an open mind on the question.

            We have a certain conception of God, though it tends to be hazy and undefined: he exists outside space and time and is not as other mortal beings. He stands apart from us in a special realm of his own, imperceptible, immaterial, and incorruptible. He doesn’t walk the streets or travel on the subway like the rest of us. Why do we think like this? What led us to conceive of god in this removed and elusive way? Suppose you had read the tales of Sherlock Holmes and took them to be reports of actual events. That is, you mistakenly think that Holmes is real not fictional. You think Arthur Conan Doyle combed police records and discovered an amazing detective who lives on Baker Street, has a friend named Dr. Watson, etc. You become fascinated by this remarkable man and want to meet him, not realizing that his fictional status precludes such a thing. Given this, you might haunt Baker Street in the hope of sighting him and making his acquaintance. However, diligent research and ceaseless surveillance fail to turn up the famous detective—he is nowhere to be found. Nor, you discover, has anyone else ever seen him. You might draw the conclusion that your initial assumption was wrong: Holmes is fictional not factual. But suppose you are too far-gone for that, too emotionally invested, so you persist in your initial belief. How then to explain the great detective’s absence from the scene? Is he just remarkably adept at eluding detection, slipping in and out of his residence on Baker Street without ever being observed by anyone? No, that is too implausible—no one could be that elusive and yet dwell on planet earth. So you come up with a radical hypothesis (indeed a strong conviction), namely that Holmes is not as other men—he is not a concrete earth-dwelling being at all. He actually lives (if that is the word) elsewhere, in a special realm reserved only for superlatively gifted detectives—and indeed there was always something otherworldly about him. He is, you might say, a…god. That is, he is a special type of being that lives in a special place outside space and time, though he contrives to intervene in worldly affairs. Admittedly, this belief requires some reinterpreting of the Doyle texts, but it is not beyond the powers of human imagination to conceive. The reason Holmes is never seen about the place is that he is not a mortal being at all.

            Clearly, this explanation, though intelligible, is not correct. You started with the false assumption that Holmes is non-fictional and then erected your theory to explain his lack of earthly presence, while you should have reconsidered your belief that he is a real person. You believed that a fictional character was real and then invented a wacky theory to explain his lack of presence in the empirical world. Couldn’t something like this be true of our conception of God? We read a text about a fictional entity and believe that entity is real (we are told as children that it is), but then we are perplexed by his absence from the observable world, so we invent a theory to explain this disparity. What else could explain why a real entity isn’t evident in the observable world? It’s because this entity is not of this world, but of another world. There are two possible explanations of God’s absence from the empirical world: (a) he is a fictional character and so doesn’t exist in reality, and (b) he isn’t a fictional character and exists in a special unobservable realm. If our transcendent conception of God arose in the way the transcendent conception of Sherlock Holmes arose, then we can see how we came to conceive God in the way we did—it is a natural response to his lack of empirical presence. I am not claiming that this is how it arose, only that if it did our manner of conceiving God would be explained. That is, if there is no God—he is a fictional character—and yet we believe in his existence, it is natural that we should conceive of him in the transcendent way we do. Believing in the reality of fictional entities is apt to generate wacky theories about their whereabouts. If I believe in unicorns but find that none ever reveal themselves, I might form the theory that unicorns exist elsewhere—in a special unicorn meadow far far away. It is no accident that Santa Claus is supposed to live at the North Pole, because if he lived in Neasden it would be a puzzle why no one ever spots him. The North Pole is sufficiently far removed that inquisitive children can be palmed off with the information that he lives far way, so that’s why he is never spotted around town. Fictional entities that are objects of belief need special places to exist that are hard to access—unicorn-land, the North Pole, heaven. No one is going to believe that a mythical being exists if he said to live around the corner. Mythical beings that are believed to exist must be supposed to live where their non-existence can’t be detected.

 

Colin McGinn

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Colored Surfaces: A Puzzle

                                               

 

 

Colored Surfaces: A Puzzle

 

 

Colors appear to be on the surfaces of things. The surface seems saturated with color, as if the color has been painted on. Colors seem as much an intrinsic property of surfaces as textures. They are not experienced as properties of the perceiver’s body or of the intervening medium. They coincide with the object spatially.  [1] Yet, according to tradition, they are projections of the mind, arising from the perceiver’s inner resources: they are transferred from inside to outside—from “in here” to “out there”. In the cinema we experience the film image as on the screen in front of us, though it emanates from somewhere behind us in the projection room. Similarly we see color as inhabiting the surface of objects while in fact it issues from somewhere in our minds (unlike shape or texture). According to some views, colors are dispositions to produce experiences; but dispositions are not perceived as if they are on things, so there is a mismatch between appearance and reality. Colors are creatures of the mind and yet are perceived as distal features of objects.

            The point I want to make is that they are unique in being thus outwardly perceived: among so-called secondary qualities they are the only ones experienced as being literally on the object of perception. They are the only secondary qualities experienced as objective features of things (in one sense of “objective”). This is puzzling. Why aren’t they experienced as the subjective phenomena they really are, like other secondary qualities? Couldthey be so experienced? We don’t perceive smells and tastes as on things: smells are experienced as in our nose not in the remote object, and tastes only coincide with the object tasted because it is typically in our mouth (it would be different if we tasted things remotely). Likewise we don’t hear sounds as if they are on objects—we don’t project the sound out onto the source of the sound (the noise is loud not the object making it). We hear sounds as in the proximity of our ears (consider the flash of a distant cannon followed a few seconds later by the sound of the shot). Indeed, we hear sounds not objects, so we don’t experience sounds as remote qualities of objects. In the case of heat and cold we locate these qualities in our body not in the object. It is true that hot and cold objects are typically touching the body, so that the qualities are experienced as spatially coincident with the object, but again that is a contingent circumstance—and there are cases in which we have such sensations emanating from remote objects (e.g. the Sun). When I feel the heat of a remote object I don’t project the hotness onto the object; I feel the hotness in the region of my body. The object causes my body to feel this way, to be sure, but I don’t perceive it as having the sensory quality in question on its surface. Thus we are not so inclined to make an error about the status of such secondary qualities: we recognize that they are subjectively constituted (unless we are philosophically opinionated). There is no illusion of objectivity for these cases. Someone might be of the opinion that objects are intrinsically hot or cold, independently of perceivers, but it would be pushing it to claim that they experience these qualities to be on objects, as they perceive colors to be on them. I perceive the Sun as yellow on its surface, but I don’t perceive it as hot on its surface.

            It is an interesting question whether this is a contingent truth or a necessary truth. Could there be a perceiver that experienced color as he experienced other secondary qualities? Is the perception of color necessarily outward in the way it actually is? Here are two reasons to doubt that. First, we can ask whether all organisms that perceive color perceive it as intrinsically qualifying the surface of objects. Do insects see colors as intrinsic properties of surfaces? Might they not have sensations of color that are detached from sensations of surfaces, perhaps because they have deficient spatial perception? Color sensations are triggered in them by external objects, but they don’t engage in full-blooded projection onto distal surfaces, so that they perceive color rather as we perceive smells or sounds. This seems logically possible. Second, not all of human color experience involves distal projection onto physical surfaces—consider mental images, after-images, and those sensations you get when you press your eyeball or close your eyes. In these cases you don’t experience a remote surface as suffused with color, alongside shape and texture; the experience is felt as more internal, more subjective. If so, it would be possible for objects to elicit such color sensations without the perceiver painting their surfaces with color. So color could be perceived in the way other secondary qualities are perceived, not as it is now for us in ordinary color vision.

            And herein lies the puzzle: why is color perceived as on surfaces, suffusing and saturating them, as if it were an objective property like texture, when it could be perceived as other subjective qualities are? Why is it accorded special treatment? Why is the projection so extreme? One possible answer is biological utility: it is more effective or convenient to experience color in this external objectifying way. But why is that—why does color differ from other secondary qualities? Why don’t they follow the model of color if it is so effective and convenient? And what does this biological utility consist in—what selective advantage does it incur? Another possible answer is that vision has a special kind of phenomenology that requires the qualities that are perceived to be perceived as distal. But why should that be, given that not all of visual experience involves projection onto remote surfaces? It is perplexing why we perceive color as a property of surfaces in the way we do—why we perceive colors as onobjects. Colors are not really on surfaces, objectively speaking, so why make an error in color perception when other secondary qualities involve no such error (or not one of the same magnitude)? Why paint the world with color it doesn’t have when you could stick to a mode of experience that involves no such effort and illusion? Why not see the world more as you feel it or smell it, without the projection of secondary qualities beyond their proper sphere? This is the puzzle presented by colored surfaces.

 

Colin McGinn   

 

 

 

  [1] If you place a colored filter in front of a white surface you will see the surface as having the color of the filter. The eye projects the color from the proximal filter onto the remote surface. Thus you see the surface as being (say) pink in virtue of an act of projection performed by the visual system. But projection operates even in cases where there is no such intervening medium.

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Causation and Motion

 

 

Causation and Motion

 

 

Consider a universe containing just two objects, A and B (suppose they are tennis balls). They are moving relatively to each other at 30mph and are a million miles apart. Conventional opinion has it that it is arbitrary to declare one at rest and the other in motion; we can only regard one as at rest while the other moves in relation to it. We cannot suppose that one might be genuinely (objectively, absolutely) at rest and the other genuinely (objectively, absolutely) moving—that is, moving relative to space itself. Motion is coordinate-dependent, and we get to choose what is to be the coordinate. But suppose we apply a force to one of these objects, say A—we throw the ball in a certain direction. It moves relative to B; but B also moves relative to it, with no force applied. That is, we cause A to move, but not B. It would be bizarre to suggest that we also applied a force to B making it move relative to A. Isn’t this a non-arbitrary reason to suppose that A is in motion and not B? We can’t tell just by looking which is really at rest and which really moving, but once we know the causal history we can make such a judgment. The object B did not have its state of motion changed by the act of throwing it, but the object A did. Thus causation and motion are linked, both ontologically and epistemologically: causation gives rise to motion and we use this fact to determine what is moving (objectively, absolutely). This is how we ordinarily think of actual motions in our universe: when things are observed to move relatively we use causal facts to decide which is moving absolutely (i.e. relative to space). That is the epistemic basis for judgments of non-relative motion.

            Generally speaking, causation produces non-relative changes in an object, as in changing the color or shape of an object. We don’t suppose that painting an object red, say, could effect a color change in some other remote object—the analogue of causing motion in ball B by throwing ball A. Causation brings about local changes in the object acted on. Nor do we suppose that it is somehow arbitrary which object changes color or shape—as if we are free to say that some object a million miles distant changes color or shape when we apply a paintbrush to an object in front of us or hit it with a hammer. So if motion is anything like these properties it is a local property of the object acted upon, objectively and absolutely, not a property that can be decreed to hold of a remote object in relative motion with respect to the given object. Of course, relative motion is relative, but causation gives us reason to suppose that there is also non-relative motion—motion that reflects the causal order of things. If I order you fetch me an apple, thus causing your body to move in certain ways, it would be bizarre to suggest that I have thereby caused the whole material universe to move relatively to your body, which I have taken to be at rest for the nonce; though it is quite true that your body and the universe have been in a state of relative motion, and that I could have chosen to make your body my frame of reference for the purpose of describing this relative motion. Intuitively, your body was caused to move by my command, not the rest of the universe, even though there was a state of relative motion between them. In a universe equipped with causation, then, there is absolute motion (as well as relative).

            The difference between motion and color or shape is just that we can see changes in the latter but not in the former just by looking at the object in question. But this is not a deep fact about motion: absolute motion could be imperceptible yet real. And not seeing is not the same as not knowing: we can know that absolute motion has occurred by knowing what the operative causes are. Movement through absolute space is not perceptible because of the featureless nature of space, but it can be inferred by knowing the causal history of the object (e.g. whether it was recently thrown). In a sense, then, absolute motion is not an empirical property in the way that color and shape are: but it can be real nonetheless. Only a form of idealism would deny this possibility.

            The relativity of motion is a central tenet of Einstein’s relativity theory, both special and general. But it is noteworthy that no other science treats its central properties as similarly relative. Einstein’s (supposed) revolution in physics has not been mirrored in geology, biology, psychology, economics, etc. There has been no replacement of absolute notions by relative ones—as if an animal could only be a mongoose in relation to another animal, or a belief something you can have only relative to someone else. Objects simply have intrinsic non-relative attributes; they don’t have to be regarded as elements of systems that confer on them whatever properties they possess. This makes Einstein’s mechanics anomalous among the sciences: only it deals in properties that (allegedly) consist in relations to a coordinate system. We don’t, for example, think that Darwin’s theory of natural selection makes evolution relative to a choice of coordinates. Animals are not said to evolve with respect to one reference frame but not with respect to another. Why should the motion of bodies be an exception to this rule? It would be different if Einstein’s “revolution” had carried over to the other sciences, but it hasn’t. Only in certain (dubious) branches of anthropology could anyone say that we have discovered that certain apparently absolute properties are really relative—viz. ethical properties—but that would be a wholly superficial analogy. So mechanics alone traffics in the kind of relativity proposed by Einstein. No one ever says that an animal could be a mongoose relative to one set of animals but not relative to a different set, or that individuals have beliefs relative to one set of people but not relative to another set. There is nothing arbitrary in the claim that a certain animal is a mongoose or that a given person believes that the sky is blue—as if we could with equal right describe things differently by simply changing our frame of reference. Recognizing the existence of absolute motion, because of causation, thus brings physics into line with the other sciences. In trying to free physics from supposed “metaphysical elements” by banishing the idea of absolute motion (and absolute space and time) relativity theory makes physics exceptional among the sciences.  [1]

 

Co

  [1] This is, of course, quite contrary to the erroneous lay idea that Einstein transferred the general relativity (subjectivity) of all our supposed knowledge into that bastion of objectivity known as physics. In fact, he claimed a relativity in physics not found elsewhere.

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Can There be Subjective Facts?

 

 

 

Can There Be Subjective Facts?

 

 

I invite you, intrepid reader, to accompany me on a journey into the heart of darkness—into a region of utter obscurity. It will test us both, but it should be worth the effort, including the bouts of sickness and insanity. No, it won’t be that bad—just a bit of a headache and some mild nausea.  [1] For I propose that we explore the question of whether reality could include facts that can only be grasped subjectively. By that last phrase I mean grasp that depends on occupying a particular point of view. The background is familiar from bats and blind people and alien forms of consciousness: we can’t grasp what it’s like to be a bat because we don’t share bat experience (we don’t occupy the bat’s “point of view”) and blind people can’t grasp the nature of color experience because they don’t have color experience (they don’t occupy the “point of view” of color perceivers). Some facts (properties, meanings) can be grasped without oneself instantiating them—for example, being an elephant or being a dodecahedron—but others (allegedly) can’t be grasped without being an instance of them oneself. You can’t know what it is like to see red without seeing red yourself, though there is no difficulty about knowing what a mountain is without oneself being a mountain. This suggests that there are subjective facts—facts that can only be grasped subjectively, i.e. from a specific point of view, i.e. by instantiating those facts oneself. It suggests that it is in the nature of certain facts that they can be apprehended only by beings equipped with specific types of experience, viz. those they are endeavoring to apprehend. Such facts might be called “intrinsically subjective”. By contrast, there are other facts that are “intrinsically objective”, i.e. they have a nature that allows them to be grasped from many points of view (or from nowhere). Thus some facts are subjective and some are objective, and this classification is written into them, part of their essence. The facts dictate the conditions of their being known (grasped, apprehended). My question is whether this is the right way to look at the matter.

            Facts about consciousness are supposed the primary kind of subjective fact. If we define consciousness as consisting of the realm of facts there is something it is like to obtain, then we can say that facts about what states of consciousness are like are subjective facts, i.e. they can only be grasped by sharing them. It will be convenient to introduce some abbreviations here, so let us call facts about what it is like “W-L facts” and let us call knowledge that depends on sharing the facts in question “S-I knowledge” (short for “self-instantiation-dependent knowledge”). Then we can say that W-L facts are intrinsically known in an S-I manner: that is, we can only grasp facts about what an experience is like by ourselves having experiences of that phenomenological type. In brief: W-L entails S-I. This is a move from the metaphysical to the epistemological: it is built into the nature of the facts (metaphysical) that they are grasped or known subjectively (epistemological). This thesis figures in an argument against materialism: mental facts can’t be physical facts because the former are S-I while the latter are not, i.e. the former are subjective while the latter are objective (understood in the epistemic way defined).  [2] One response to this argument is to maintain that so-called objective facts are not as objective as you might think; in fact, they are subjective. This is because what we call the “physical” really consists of facts about consciousness, though consciousness of a primitive and alien type (I am talking about panpsychism and its spiritual cousins). The thought is that the problem of emergence can be solved by supposing that matter is shot through with mind, perhaps ismind at a fundamental level. That certainly looks like a promising strategy: straddle the mind-body gulf by edging the body in the direction of the mind. Mind arises from mind—not so inconceivable a feat. The point I want to make about this sort of approach is that it sharpens a more fundamental problem about consciousness, viz. how it is that consciousness has being at all. If reality consists of consciousness, and consciousness is W-L, and W-L requires S-I, then reality is intrinsically such as to be knowable only from a specific point of view. If the basic mental level of reality consisted of elementary consciousness of the type exemplified by bats, then only beings equipped with this type of consciousness could grasp the nature of reality. Reality would be intrinsically subjective in the sense that only certain types of being could have an adequate conception of it—and that could be a small subclass of the class of all possible knowing beings. Reality would (could) exist only for this privileged class of being—for everyone else it would be strictly inconceivable. The question is whether that is intelligible: could reality consist of such essentially subjective facts, partially or totally? Could there be facts that could only be grasped from a particular point of view? Could there be facts that rule out any objective conception? Specifically, could W-L facts rule out a non-S-I mode of conception? In yet other words, could facts about consciousness resist any attempt to include them in an “absolute conception” of reality? Are they inconceivable objectively? My thesis will be that this is wrong—such facts cannot be intrinsically subjective. Facts about consciousness are not necessarily grasped subjectively: even W-L facts must be graspable objectively. To put the point as strongly as possible, everything about consciousness must be conceivable objectively—and this is a fundamental metaphysical truth. There cannot, as a matter of metaphysical necessity, be purely subjective facts. There can be purely subjective conceptions, and we might well be confined to conceiving consciousness in this subjective way, but no fact (property, states of affairs) can be subjective in the intended sense. It is a category mistake to describe facts as subjective of objective; those appellations belong only to conceptions of facts—thoughts, representations, or ideas. The subjective-objective distinction is an epistemic distinction not an ontological one. But this leaves us in a very precarious position with respect to our understanding of what consciousness is, as will emerge.

            First, let us note that experiences admit of several types of objective characterization drawn from within our current conceptual scheme. We can bring conscious experiences under causal descriptions (“the cause of this”, “the effect of that”), and we can express their relations with physical facts (such as correlated brain states). It is also possible to characterize them in abstract structural terms as well as mathematical terms (as in psychophysics). There is more to a conscious experience than what it is like for the subject: we can conceive such states in many different ways. The hard question is whether the W-L aspect can in principle be conceived in a way that doesn’t depend on sharing the point of view implicit in it. Is there a way of conceiving it that is available to beings that do not themselves instantiate the property in question? We naturally think of God here, but that raises questions it would be best to avoid (Does God instantiate all points of view? What is his knowledge like anyway?). One possibility is that this property exists but is completely ineffable (recall my warning about dark obscurity at the beginning): there are objective W-L facts, but no being could ever conceive them. All beings must conceive these facts subjectively or not conceive them at all: if the latter, then reality contains ineffable ingredients. A less alarming position is that possible beings might be able to grasp W-L facts without reliance on their own point of view: they might be able to form a conception that captures these facts and yet is independent of how they view things.  [3] For example, they might be able to forge structural descriptions that encapsulate the facts and yet can be grasped by anyone whether they instantiate these facts or not. Then the nature of the facts would not dictate adopting a subjective conception of them; an objective conception would be available too. Of course, we find it hard to understand what such a conception would look like, given our own concept-forming faculties, but the general idea is intelligible enough—other beings (or us in the future) might be able to conceptualize consciousness in ways that transcend our current self-centered subjective conceptions. Then reality would not contain properties that can only be conceived subjectively; it would not be populated by properties that inherently favor one way of viewing the world over another.

            Here it is important to make a distinction between two ways in which a fact might resist being conceived objectively. We have the modal truth: Necessarily it is impossible for us (fully) to conceive consciousness otherwise than subjectively. That truth might, however, have two possible sources: it might stem from the very nature of the fact in question—it decides how it can be known; or it might be that our faculties restrict us to subjective conceptions—not the facts themselves. And we must not assume that just because we can’t conceive of W-L properties in objective terms that it is in the nature of those properties that this is so—the reason might stem from our own cognitive make-up. We necessarily can’t conceive them in any other way, but they impose no restrictions on how they can be conceived; it is how we interact with them not what they are in themselves that gives rise to the necessity. It seems to us that it is in the nature of color experiences to preclude a blind man from grasping them, but it may be that the difficulty arises rather from our distinctive human way of forming concepts of experience. Perhaps the blind man in other types of cognitive being has no trouble conceiving of experiences that he happens to lack. What is a necessary truth for us need not be true for everybody; in particular, it may not be the property itself that is the source of the problem. Thus the facts in question can be grasped objectively as a matter of principle even though we can never so grasp them. Then we would not have to admit that reality contains facts that are intrinsically tied to a specific point of view.

            The general point here is that the terms “subjective” and “objective” are not descriptive of facts themselves but of ways of conceiving facts: no facts are subjective or objective considered in themselves. Physical facts can be conceived subjectively or objectively, relatively or absolutely, and the same is true of mental facts. If we are confined to subjective conceptions of mental states, that is a truth about us not about them: “subjective fact” is an oxymoron, unless it means “fact we happen to know about subjectively”. So consciousness exists neutrally between subjective and objective, despite our bias in conceiving it towards the subjective. But that means that we don’t grasp the manner of its existence: how we conceive it doesn’t tell us how it exists in reality, as an objective conception of it would. Thus we have an inadequate grasp of consciousness—in an important sense we don’t know what it is. What it is would be revealed from an objective standpoint, but that standpoint is inaccessible to us; we are limited to a standpoint that gives at best a partial conception of it. So we don’t understand what the existence of consciousness amounts to—what it is for it to exist. That is the really hard problem: trying to figure out what we are talking about—trying to arrive at an adequate conception of consciousness itself. Even if we could solve the problem of emergence, say by invoking panpsychism, we would still be left with the more fundamental problem of discovering what the existence of consciousness really consists in. Granted, we know something about consciousness, but we don’t know the most vital and basic thing—what its mode of existence is. We only grasp its existence-for-us not its existence tout court. It must, as a matter of metaphysical necessity, have an existence apart from our subjective mode of conceiving it, but we are blocked from discovering what this objective existence amounts to; at any rate, we presently have no conception of what it might be. This means, of course, that we don’t grasp the nature of our own experiences, let alone the bat’s, since they too must have an existence qua experiences that is accessible from all points of view. We don’t grasp what it is like to be us (as that would be represented in an objective conception of what it is like to be us).

            I have drawn a sharp line between two concepts: the concept of what an experience is like and the concept of a subjective conception. The former does not entail the latter: what it is like pertains to the nature of consciousness (its metaphysics) while the subjectivity of a conception pertains to how we think of a certain subject matter (epistemology). It is a substantive claim that the metaphysical property requires a subjective conception; and I have disputed this, suggesting instead that all facts must be accessible to an objective conception, even if not one of which we are capable. This logical point is lost if we carelessly use the world “subjective” to refer to a feature of consciousness itself and to the way we tend to conceive of it (by using our own case as model). Consciousness cannot be necessarily conceivable only via a subjective conception, i.e. one that relies on self-instantiation, because that is an unintelligible idea of what reality is like. To repeat, reality cannot be relative to a particular point of view—only conceptions of reality can be. Facts are just facts: how we conceive them is another matter. This means that idealism cannot be restricted to how we now think of the mental: if the world is really the mind, then mental facts can’t be limited by the ways we generally conceive of them. Mental reality would have to be conceived objectively not subjectively, because its existence must be independent of the point of view a given type of creature brings to it. We may not be capable of acquiring the concepts needed to make sense of the objective existence of mental reality. At any rate, mental facts must have a nature that goes beyond what is contained in our present subjective conceptions. Those conceptions cannot even reveal what it is like to be a bat, though that latter fact is something that must be accessible in principle to different points of view. There must be a way of conceiving bat experiences that is accessible to beings that lack such experiences, on pain of making reality point-of-view-dependent. In other words, it is only a contingent fact that bat experiences can only be grasped by beings that share those experiences. There are no inherently subjective facts; subjectivity is in the eye of the beholder (which is not to say it is unreal).  [4]

 

Colin McGinn                   

 

 

 

 

  [1] Note to American readers: tongue is in cheek here.

  [2] This argument is presented in Thomas Nagel’s “What is it like to be a Bat?” (1972), as is the general notion of subjective and objective I am working with.

  [3] Nagel discusses the possibility (necessity) of objective descriptions of mental facts in The View From Nowhere(1986), chapter II.   

  [4] Of course there are subjective facts in other senses of the word: there are facts about conscious subjects, mental facts, facts about personal opinions.

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Biology and Culture: an Untenable Dualism

 

 

 

Biology and Culture: An Untenable Dualism

 

 

The concept of the biological engages in three conceptual contrasts: the biological versus the physical (inorganic, inanimate); the biological versus the divine (supernatural, godlike); the biological versus the cultural (invented, constructed). I am concerned with the last of these contrasts: the idea that the cultural falls outside the scope of the biological—that culture is essentially non-biological. I wish to question this contrast, maintaining instead that culture is a special case of biology. Properly understood, biology includes culture, so that cultural studies are a type of biological studies. Culture is as much a biological fact of the human species as anatomy and physiology. This is not intended as a reductive claim but simply as correct taxonomy; it is a claim about the extension of the concepts as ordinarily understood.

            The question obviously turns on what is meant by the word “biological”. The OED has “relating to biology or living organisms”. This gives the desired result quite straightforwardly: culture is clearly an aspect of living organisms, since humans are organisms that live. The culture of a community is part of its way of life (compare Wittgenstein’s “form of life”)—culture is a living thing. There is no culture where there is no life—there is no culture of rocks or electrons. Culture is thus a biological trait of humans, like speaking or walking or breathing. It certainly isn’t a physical trait or a divine trait; it’s how certain organisms live. Arts, customs, religions, and so on are woven into the life of certain evolved organisms. But, it may be objected, this is too quick, since culture is not instinctive or innate or genetically fixed—hence not part of our biology. We invent culture; we acquire it; we construct it. Culture is not prefigured in the genes but freely created, which is why it varies from place to place and time to time. This is the intended contrast, not captured by the dictionary definition. In a word, culture isn’t genetic.

The point may be conceded, though with the insistence that culture depends upon genetically transmitted capacities (such as the human power to create, stipulate, and legislate). It is true that the contents of a particular culture are not written into the genes, though its enabling conditions no doubt are—just as English is not written in the genes, though the general capacity for language is. There is no gene for literary modernism or surrealism in painting or punk rock. However, it is far from clear that this is the right way to define the biological. For, first, many aspects of the life of organisms count as biological that are not genetically encoded: for example, local knowledge and specific actions. The genes don’t determine what an animal will know of its local environment or which particular individual it will mate with—these are contingencies of its particular history. But it would be strange to deny that they are biological facts: they are certainly not physical (inanimate) facts or divine (spiritual) facts. When a predator strikes this token event is not preordained in its genes but is nevertheless a fact of natural biological history. The sentence “The lion killed the antelope” records a particular biological (zoological) event. Similarly for such facts as the spread of a species across a continent—this too is a biological affair. This is because these facts concern the life of organisms, and life is more than what is contained in the genes.  [1] They are, in the jargon, epigenetic—yet still plainly biological in nature. A wound is also a biological business, though not genetically predetermined. There is clearly much more to biology than strands of DNA. Indeed, DNA itself is not clearly a living thing, but simply a complex molecule; only in the context of an organism’s life does it count as part of biology (the same is true of other molecules in the body). We had the concept of the biological before we knew anything about genes and DNA, or even inheritance, so that concept can’t be tied by definition to the genes; intuitively, it is simply the concept of what is alive.

And, second, what if we encountered a species (perhaps on another planet) that had the same art, customs, religions, etc. as us but these were all innate in that species? What if the species had its culture as a result of genetic endowment? Would that mean that they had no culture, because culture by definition is gene-independent? I don’t think so: they simply have a culture that is caused differently from ours. The contents are the same though the origin is different, so the right thing to say is that they have a culture very like ours. The concept of the cultural does not logically exclude genetically based culture, on pain of denying that this species has a culture. It isn’t that this “culture” is biological but is not really a culture; rather, the culture exists as a result of a certain kind of biological fact, viz. the genes. Indeed, it could turn out that our culture is genetically determined (contrary to current theory)—this is an epistemic possibility. If that turned out to be true, would we conclude that we never had a culture all along? No, we would conclude that our culture is genetically based, contrary to what we thought. So the concept of culture does not require freedom from genetic influence, and the concept of the biological does not require dependence on such influence. The conceptual pair biological-cultural cuts across the conceptual pair genetic-acquired (invented). Thus we can’t rule out the thesis that culture is a special case of biology by observing  (truly) that culture is not innate.

            On what grounds could we deny that culture is a form of biology? Well, we could claim that it is merely physical, or alternatively that it is positively supernatural. Presumably the size and weight of an organism is not a biological property of it but a merely physical property, since you don’t have to be a living organism to have size and weight. True enough, but culture is not possessed by non-living objects, only by living organisms. So culture belongs with the life of organisms not with the inanimate world of objects having size and mass. Culture is an attribute of life not of lifeless matter in motion. On the other hand, if we had a divinely created immortal soul that exists independently of the evolutionary process, and culture grows from that supernatural entity, then indeed culture would not be properly designated biological. The soul would not be biological (as God is not  [2]) and culture is its special province. But I take it such a view is just empirically false: we have no such supernatural part or essence, any more than other animals do. The point is that given this fact culture must be rated biological; it can’t be non-biological unless we have a divine part of the sort suggested. Thus once we accept that culture is not physical and also not divine the only thing left for it to be is biological.

            Granted, there are potent conversational implicatures at work here. In many contexts if I assert, “Culture is biological” I will be taken to assert (or be committed to holding) something false, namely that culture is genetic or somehow just like reproduction and digestion, or as subscribing to some form of biological reductionism (“it’s all in the genes”, “there is nothing to humans but their bodies”). But such implicatures are not part of the very meaning of the term “biological”, as the dictionary confirms, which term merely captures the notion of a living organism. It is the same with psychology: psychology is really part of biology (the part concerned with the minds of organisms), though it could be misleading to say this in certain contexts, suggesting perhaps that psychology is reducible to physiology or that the mind is wholly in the genes. Implicatures, as always, are not logical implications; pragmatics is not semantics. Since we are here in ideological territory, it would not be surprising if the entire resistance to subsuming culture (and psychology) under biology derives from these fraught implicatures and not from the mild thesis under consideration. That thesis, to repeat, is just the anodyne suggestion that culture is part of the life of a particular animal species—not a divine infusion or a chunk of inanimate nature. Part of the life of the human species is reproduction and digestion, part comprises the various compartments of the mind, and part is the culture we have invented (with some input from the genes). Our inventions are as much part of our natural form of life as our anatomy; they are not somehow “above” it or discontinuous with it. And note that culture is a species universal, even if its form varies from case to case: all human societies have a culture. Martian scientists would add it to our phenotype along with our other traits and study it as such. The idea of a radical discontinuity here is really a relic of discarded religious conceptions of the nature of human beings, with their dualist views of the mind and body. It is a kind of superstition.

            It is a question whether other species have anything deserving to be called culture. Evidently Neanderthals did and probably other hominid species too, but some existing species may also possess rudiments of culture—language, an aesthetic sense, rituals, tools, social hierarchies. We can certainly easily imagine other species with a culture resembling ours (they are the stuff of science fiction). The important point is that in these cases we would be ready to accept that culture is continuous with biology: for there is nothing in the content of culture that precludes a biological perspective on it. If bees had a primitive culture, we would not jib at the suggestion that this is part of bee biology (certainly not a manifestation of the god of bees). And what we call culture is clearly woven into accepted biological aspects our nature—just consider eating and courting, dressing and dancing. Where does biology stop and culture begin? It is all just part of life’s rich pageant, as the saying goes—what constitutes the life of a particular species on a particular planet at a particular time. Human culture grew over time and its early manifestations were obviously dependent on the biological nature of our ancestors—there is no point at which biology ceased and culture took over as a separate force. Culture is just a new twist on biology.  [3] Anthropology is a branch of biology, but directed at a particular aspect of our nature. If other species had more in the way of culture, as might be true on distant planets, there would have to be several branches of anthropology (and a new name for it), with a blurring of the boundaries between biology and these other studies. The physical sciences deal with the inanimate, inorganic world, while the biological sciences deal with the animate, organic world—with life in all its dimensions (cellular, psychological, cultural). The biological character of culture should not be a controversial thesis, despite those looming implicatures. The OED defines “culture” as “the arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively”. Nothing in that definition opposes culture to biology, and indeed the reference to human intellectual achievement places culture firmly in the biological domain, because human intellect precisely is a biologically based species characteristic. Culture is certainly not an imposition from outside, as if infused by God’s magic finger. Ultimately, of course, it depends on the brain, a biological organ of the body.

            It might be protested that culture differs from biology in one crucial respect, viz. that it is not functional. Biological traits contribute to survival (of the genes ultimately) or they are eliminated by natural selection, but culture rises above these crude laws of nature—it serves no biological purpose. It is splendidly unconcerned with mere survival; it might even operate counter to survival (e.g. religious martyrs). Let us agree that culture is not biologically adaptive, at least in every respect: does that show it is not biological? No, because many traits of organisms are biological but not adaptive—they are side effects of adaptive traits. Plausibly, culture is a side effect of human intelligence (see the dictionary definition), which is adaptive; so it is a side effect of something biologically functional. If so, it is biological in just the way other side effects of adaptive traits are—heavy coats, fragile feathers, tottering bipedal walkers, and energy-hungry brains. The underlying traits confer advantages, but they also carry costs—biological costs. In any case, the non-functionality of culture is no proof of its non-biological status. There is really nothing to inhibit us in accepting the banal truth that culture is as much part of life as anything else in biology.  [4]

 

  [1] Natural selection itself is not encoded into the genes of nature (there are no such genes), but it is still a biological process, because it concerns life. It isn’t determined by genes (though it does determine them), but it is the biological process par excellence. The same might be said of mutation: there are no genes for mutation, but it is a biological event nevertheless. Being biological and being in the genes are not coextensive properties, let alone synonyms.

  [2] Actually the question is not entirely straightforward: as a matter of theology, we can agree that God is not a biological being, but is he not alive? He isn’t dead and he isn’t inanimate, so isn’t he a living thing in some sense? I won’t pursue the question.

  [3] One consequence of this perspective is that English (that particular natural language) is as biological as the innate universal grammar that underlies it.

  [4] Biology used to be called natural history (compare physics as natural philosophy): in that nomenclature we could say that culture is part of natural history—as is history itself. The same could be said employing the phrase “life sciences”. The word “bio” comes from a Greek word meaning “life”, so that “biology” just means “study of life”.

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