Best Ever Tennis Player

Alcaraz and Sinner are clearly the best tennis players ever, as is generally acknowledged. Federer and Nadal wouldn’t stand much of a chance against them, even in their prime, and Djokovic is unable to best them now, or ever was. They are well ahead of their current rivals. They are the best by far (just look at the stats). But how do they compare to each other? I think yesterday’s US Open final established that Alcaraz is the better player right now and probably going into the future. He the better ball-striker, the better mover, the better server, the more creative and versatile. Sinner pretty much accepted it in his speech. But that doesn’t settle the hard question: is Alcaraz better by far? Now we are in contested territory: is Alcaraz better by far than a player who is better by far than anybody else, living or dead? For it is also clear that Sinner is better by far than anyone else who ever played the game, except for Alcaraz. That is certainly a strong claim, but I think it is supported by the facts. So, the claim about Alcaraz is doubly strong—that he is better by far than a man who is better by far than anyone else (except Alcaraz). I would not have thought this till yesterday—I didn’t know who would win before the match started. But as I watched the match it was borne in on me: Alcaraz is far better than Sinner shot by shot. He hits the ball better, he moves faster and more flexibly, he has more variety, and he serves better. That was the eye-opener: at least ten aces to one by Sinner. He simply looks like the more expert player. We are living in a new tennis age, considerably surpassing what we saw over the last twenty years during the domination by the Big Three (Roger, Rafa, and Novak). That is something remarkable.

But I want to say something even more surprising: Alcaraz is the first truly good player of tennis. No one else was really good at the game. He is the best, to be sure, but he has also mastered the game; he is actually good at tennis. What am I talking about? Tennis is a very difficult game for humans: the ball is constantly going out or into the net. There are many unforced errors, i.e., errors the player shouldn’t have made. Consider the serve: players need two tries to get it in; they miss all the time; they double fault regularly. These are professional players who can practice the serve, with the best coaching, all day and every day, from a standing position—and they still can’t get the ball in. Table tennis players have no trouble serving and experts never miss (they also have only one chance)—nobody double faults in table tennis. Obviously, the rules and dimensions of the game of tennis make it extremely hard to serve successfully (amateurs are absolutely useless at it). The service area is too small for human players, given their limitations. If an alien were to watch a tennis match for the first time, he would conclude that humans are crap at it—certainly not good. The same applies to the return of serve and to volleys and ground strokes generally. The game is too difficult to be really good at (except in some relative sense—some people are better than others at shot-putting to the moon). But with Alcaraz you get the sense that he finds it quite easy and natural; he is quite at home playing it. He isn’t frustrated as hell playing it, constantly berating himself for poor play, on the verge of smashing his racket or screaming at himself. Everyone else is actually quite bad at tennis, judged absolutely, but he is genuinely good at it. That’s why he is so happy when he plays. So, not only is he better by far than all past players, and better by far than Sinner (who is also better by far than all other players not identical to Alcaraz), he is actually a goodtennis player! I’m not saying he is really good, because he too makes mistakes (unforced errors), but he is a good player—about as good as I am at table tennis (there are very many good table tennis players).[1] Alcaraz is about as good at tennis as I am at table tennis—but he is also far better than even the player who is far better than anyone else but him. Congratulations, Carlos!

[1] I am absolutely terrible at tennis, not good at all, but far better than most people you see on the courts getting hammered by the game.

Airport Anecdote

On the way to Barbados, at the Miami airport, I joined a long shuffling line at 7 in the morning. After about an hour, we were close to security; an official instructed the person behind me to stand by my side so that we could walk a short distance together, as if a couple. She was a middle-aged black woman; I said hello. The walk took about 5 seconds. At the end I turned to her and said “A brief romance”. She instantly replied “But good while it lasted”. I thought this was hilarious and laughed openly. Then we went our separate ways, me to my flight and she to hers. At my gate I sat for a couple of hours reading till it was time to board. Meanwhile I kept thinking I wish I had been quick-witted enough to say “And we never had any trouble”, but it was too late now. Then, lo and behold, I saw the very same woman just ahead of me in line, and she saw me. I said, “I’m so glad to see you again because I wanted to say ‘And we never had any trouble’”. “Not yet”, she replied. Then she gave me her card and I reciprocated with mine. Again, we made our farewells. Then we met up again at baggage claim, but I don’t remember what we said (it was somewhat bathetic). We left the airport separately and I never saw her again. I went to meet the person I had come to Barbados to see. I wonder if she tells this anecdote to her friends.

On Being the Best

A few years ago, I came to the conclusion that I am the best philosopher who ever lived. It was hard to take in at first. But I had to accept it; I could no longer deny it. It was true. Facts are facts. I kept it to myself for a while and then decided to confess it. The response was mainly silence. But I have come to think that I was wrong. I have revised my opinion. I now believe that I am the best philosopher ever by far. Why do I say this? Compare the Beatles: it is generally agreed that they are not only the best band ever but the best band ever by far. They had it all; no one could compare. Four working-class blokes from Liverpool: the best ever by far. It is not seriously deniable after all this time. The Beatle mania was justified. Even they found it hard to believe. But you just have to look at their output—clearly the best by far. And they only existed for a few short years. I was forced to my own realization by my output of the last few years, written since I arrived (reluctantly) at my earlier judgment—it clearly makes me the best by far. Quantity, quality. No contest.

I hear the screams of protest: what an egotist, narcissist, deluded fool! But, my friends, you have got me wrong: because I am really not that good. Being the best at something doesn’t logically entail being good at it. Being the best is completely relative to a chosen group—e.g., being the best ant high-jumper. My potential rivals all have glaring weaknesses, recognized in hindsight. I won’t enumerate the various failures, limitations, and humiliations (e.g., the pineal gland). It is very easy to be wrong, short-sighted, and tunnel-visioned. Who now thinks that Plato and Aristotle got everything right? This is a familiar story. In fact, I think that the best philosophers were all too aware of their limitations—because philosophy is so hard. We are so confined by our time and place, not to mention our biology. Mistakes are easy to make. The very best philosophers don’t really think they are that good at the subject. I myself am acutely aware of this, though I admit I am actually pretty good. But I can see philosophy in the distance laughing at me—“What, you think you are good at this!” Humans are also quite bad at physics, though some are better than others. So, ok, I’m better by far than my fellow philosophical laborers, big fucking deal. If I am a narcissist (I don’t spurn the label), I am one in the land of the disfigured.

But let me return to “by far”, because that is the interesting question (the rest is obvious). What makes me by far the best? I think there are two main factors: my command of the English language and my refusal of orthodoxy. I really cannot bear to think as others do. And I am vain about my writing style. These are the motors, the mechanisms. (I also value creativity, but that is harder to pin down). I have always had abnormal powers of expression, and I never like to go with the crowd (in fact it makes me sick). When I survey my contemporary rivals, the problem is always a lack of style and a propensity to conformity. I might almost say it is a lack of (healthy) narcissism.

As I read this over, I think what rubbish it really is; but it is a lot better than other people’s rubbish. It is a better class of rubbish. And some of it is not rubbish at all. I am the least rubbishy philosopher ever, by far.[1]

[1] Let’s remember too that I have been doing philosophy continuously for over fifty years—no breaks, no wars. And my lifetime has corresponded with the best period that philosophy has ever had in terms of resources and opportunities, as well as fellow practitioners. I have had the benefit of all this. And someone has to be the best—if not me, then who? Would it be agreed that I am the best philosopher ever who started off as a psychologist? Am I clearly the broadest? Am I the best of my height? Etc.

Material Selves

The self and the mind: what are they? Are they material or immaterial? These questions are usually discussed separately: one under the heading “personal identity”, the other under the heading “the mind-body problem”. Thus, we discuss whether the self is the body and whether mental states are physical states. But these questions are surely connected—the nature of the self and the nature of the mind. The reference of “I” and the reference of “pain” must be connected questions. I will contend that they are connected to the point of identity, but this is not as obvious as you might think; it is a substantive philosophical thesis.

If the self is the body (the physical organism), are mental states necessarily physical states? And if mental states are physical states, must the self be identical to the body? Is there room for the idea that the physical self might have non-physical states? And if mental states are physical, could the self be non-physical, perhaps immaterial? To be concrete, if the human person is identical to the human physical organism, could his pains be other than C-fibers firing? And if his pains are his C-fibers firing, could he be something other than his physical body? Does materialism about the self entail materialism about the mind, and does materialism about the mind entail materialism about the self? Let’s take the second question first. Could an immaterial self have material attributes in the shape of mental states? It could clearly have immaterial non-physical attributes, but could it have material attributes? Wouldn’t this make it material? For such attributes would constitute it as material, would they not? You might think there is some wiggle room here, because the self has a body and itcould instantiate its mental physical attributes: wouldn’t the self then be immaterial but the mind be material? However, the reply to this is not hard to find: the self doesn’t have those physical attributes, the body does, these being distinct entities. The self is merely associated with a body that has physical attributes; it doesn’t have them (directly, intrinsically). If it had them, it would itself be material. So, the situation envisaged is not metaphysically possible: granted that the self has physical attributes, it must be physical—the body or brain. Materialism about the mind entails materialism about the self (the person, the subject, the “I”). You can’t be a Cartesian dualist about the self and a materialist about the self’s mind. The materiality of pain logically implies the materiality of the subject of pain: if my pains are material, so am I. I have to be my body or brain if my mental states are physical states. So, if I am not my body or brain, then my mental states cannot be physical states. The logical (metaphysical) connection between self and mind generates a possible refutation of materialism about the mind. If you don’t like materialism about the self, you can’t like materialism about the mind. You can’t have an identity theory of the mind and a non-identity theory of the self. You can’t be a physical reductionist about mental events and a non-reductionist about selves (given that such events occur inselves). This is a non-trivial result.

What about the other way round—can you be a reductive identity theorist about selves but a non-reductive duality theorist about minds? Could the self be a physical thing (the body or brain or the whole physical organism) and yet its mental states be irreducibly mental? Isn’t that combination of views actually held by some people? They don’t like immaterial egos lurking inside the body (as they would put it) but they are not freaked out by property dualism or some other non-materialist position. But again, this position is dubiously coherent: for how could immaterial properties inhere in a purely physical substance? Wouldn’t they stop it from being completely material? Of course they would, since they would constitute part of its nature and hence make it partly immaterial. You can’t be completely material and yet instantiate non-material properties. Here someone might invoke double aspect theories: the self has two aspects, one material, the other immaterial. Okay, fine, if you think this makes sense, but it doesn’t solve the problem, because the self is not then completely material—it has an immaterial aspect or nature or essence. And there is nothing yet to suggest that this is not basic to the ontology of selves—in which case they are not fundamentally physical. You can’t be a reductionist about selves and a dualist about minds, because selves have minds. Indeed, their minds are integral to their identity, at a time and through time. That’s how they are individuated. Thus, the choice is stark: either materialism about selves and minds or immaterialism about both. Persons and mental events must share their ontology. One can therefore argue against materialism about the mind by urging anti-materialism about the self and vice versa. It comes in a single package. (I am anti-materialist about both.) The two questions should not be debated separately.

What about identity through time? We are excessively familiar with all the thought experiments and empirical findings that adorn the study of personal identity, yet we don’t apply this apparatus to the mind: but are the questions really so distinct? Granted, mental events don’t persist through time (they occur over time), so we can’t ask what constitutes their identity through time; but can’t we ask the question about mental states? Do I have the same pain now that I had a minute ago? What constitutes this identity? States do persist through time, and presumably in virtue of something. A materialist will say that it consists in the persistence of an underlying physical state—the state of the nervous system has not changed (the C-fibers are still firing away). The pain, we might say, has survived, by dint of the continued existence of the brain state. But what if we consider a fission case? The C-fibers split apart, thus producing two nerve centers each realizing a pain. Has the original pain survived? There is some inclination to say yes: one pain has become two (just as in a split-brain personal identity case). But then, the survival of pains doesn’t require that the future pain be identical with the earlier pain—there can be pain survival without pain identity.[1] And we could mount the same argument about thoughts, emotions, etc. The personal identity literature could be redeployed in the area of the mind-body problem; and the diehard dualist will resist inferences drawn from brain physiology. He may even deny that pains can be divided, though C-fibers can be. The two subjects should not in any case be pursued separately (can minds survive without identity?). The subject of personal identity is just one subject in a class of similar subjects: we have the persistence of persons over time, the persistence of mental states over time, and the persistence of whole minds over time.[2]

Returning to the topic of materialism, I should say a few words about the eliminative view of selves or minds. Can we be eliminativists about one but not the other? It is not as easy as it sounds. Would it be possible to eliminate the mind but keep the self (“pain” doesn’t refer but “I” does)? Evidently not: what is a self without a mind to keep it company? There are no zombie selves. There can be organisms without minds but none of these qualifies as a self (still less a person). The I cannot exist as a psychologically bare physical particular; at a minimum it requires a primitive consciousness. But many people seem to think that they can get rid of the self and retain the mind in all its glory, as a kind of selfless heap of mentality. It is quite true that there is no need to go full Cartesian about the self, still less immortal-soulish, but how can mental states be thought to inhere in nothing, or in mere bodily tissue? Instead of saying “I believe in ghosts” should we say “There is nothing that believes in ghosts, but there are beliefs in ghosts in this vicinity” or “This bodily tissue believes in ghosts”? Really? Beliefs need believers, and believers are not (non-self) bits of tissue. Nor are they replaceable by brains: I don’t allude indirectly to my brain when I say “I”, even though my brain is necessary for saying anything. What the “I” is is a difficult question, but it isn’t dispensable in favor of my brain or some segment of it. The self emerges from the brain in some mysterious fashion, but it isn’t reducible to a chunk of brain, or nothing at all. No, if you want to hang onto the mind, you have to accept the self along with it; and if you want to preserve the self, you have to accept the mind. You can’t eliminate one but hold fast to the other. The mind and the self are too closely intertwined to be forced apart; nor is there any good reason to do so. There are no thinkers without thoughts or thoughts without thinkers—even if this is hard to understand.[3]

[1] There can be a pain Parfit as well as a person Parfit.

[2] We also have questions about the persistence of raindrops, plants, and statues over time: can there be survival without identity in these cases too? I leave these aside here, having discussed them elsewhere.

[3] Of course, this is the purest common sense, but it is amazing how ready people are to abandon it on the flimsiest of grounds. It is really quite obvious that materialism about the self and materialism about the mind are logically connected doctrines. Once again mysteries lead to ontological panic or mayhem. There is a mind-body problem about the self, as there is a mind-body problem about the mind (and about its contents). Is there something it’s like to be a self?