Resignation

People sometimes assume that my resignation twelve years ago was an admission of guilt. Nothing could be further from the truth. It is very naïve to think otherwise. The decision was carefully considered and took in many factors, some unrelated to the situation at hand. Chief among them was the aggravation and cost entailed by fighting a lengthy legal battle with the university, especially given that I had no desire to stay there. I judged it wiser to resign and go elsewhere, which I fully expected to do. What I didn’t expect was the complete stupidity and ill-will of my colleagues in the American philosophy profession. A lot of the blame lies with them. And they are still doing it—stupidly, unjustly, viciously, ignorantly.

Intellectual Romance

What is an intellectual romance? A romance of the intellect, of course; it isn’t a romance between intellectuals, as in a love affair between intellectual people. Here is a standard definition: “The connection between two people in a relationship where they share ideals, thoughts, and opinions, finding stimulation and enjoyment in each other’s intellect”. That sounds about right: it is a relationship, often quite intense, in which people click intellectually; they enjoy talking about intellectual matters together. It is perfectly possible, indeed common, to have an intellectual romance with someone of the sex you are not attracted to sexually or romantically. The word “intellectual” in the phrase “intellectual romance” cancels the ordinary meaning of the word “romance”, like “decoy” in “decoy duck”. An intellectual romance is not a romance tout court. That is surely obvious, a matter of simple semantics. Thus, a rule against romance is not a rule against intellectual romance. To infer “A and B are in a romantic relationship” from “A and B are in an intellectual romance” would be a non-sequitur of numbing grossness (as philosophers like to say): it would be tantamount to supposing that because A and B like talking philosophy together they must be having sex! And notice that having an intellectual romance does not imply having a Platonic romance either: that is a quite different thing. These distinctions need to keep straight.

Many universities have rules governing relationships between faculty and students. Sometimes romantic or amorous relationships are banned altogether; sometimes it is required that such relationships be reported to an administrator, so that the student is not evaluated by the faculty member (the same thing applies to inter-faculty relationships). But no university prohibits intellectual romances, or requires that they be reported so that the teacher is no longer allowed to evaluate the student. No one thinks that if two people enjoy intellectual discussions together they should be prevented from being in a teacher-student relationship. Sometimes a degree (or type) of affection is created in such relationships—it would be strange if it were not—but no one thinks this a reason to discourage or ban such relationships. On the contrary, we generally think intellectual romances are a good thing—they foster intellectual engagement. It would be totally bizarre to introduces rules that require reassignment when people enter into such relationships. No sane person would think that the existence of an intellectually romantic relationship is a good ground for disciplinary action against either teacher or student; in fact, a degree of such attachment is extremely common (I have had many such relationships, mainly with other men). No faculty handbook ever contains a rule restricting the development of intellectual romances (so-called): that would be equivalent to banning intellectual friendships or partnerships or companionships.

Suppose a university administrator were to argue that A and B were having a romance, Platonic or sexual, because they had described their relationship as an “intellectual romance”. That is, A and B used this phrase in order to distinguish their relationship from a romance proper (a “love affair”), but the administrator cited their use of this phrase as evidence that they were really having a straightforward romance. Wouldn’t this be an obvious logical fallacy (of numbing grossness)? Suppose the administrator then used this to discipline the teacher, perhaps to the extent of firing him or her (revoking tenure etc.). Wouldn’t that be completely absurd—just a bad pun? Surely, no intelligent person could be guilty of such poor reasoning and mental confusion. What if the teacher’s career was destroyed because of this fallacious reasoning? Wouldn’t that be patently unjust, comically so? The administrator thinks he can detach “romance” from “intellectual” and derive the conclusion that A and B are in violation of the rules against (unreported) romantic relationships. Isn’t this laughable nonsense? It’s like supposing that a teacher violated the rule against bringing ducks into the classroom by bringing a decoy duck in.

De Re Consciousness of the Brain

Do I have de re consciousness of my brain when I have de dicto consciousness of my mind? I speak of de reconsciousness not of de re belief or perception: the locution “conscious of” admits of a de re-de dicto ambiguity—does it mean a relation or a content? Suppose I am conscious of my left hand: does that mean I am conscious of it as my left hand or just that my left hand is something I am conscious of, though not necessarily under that description? There is a scope distinction to be made, according to whether the description falls within the scope of “conscious of” or outside its scope (as in “concerning my left hand, I am conscious of it”). In the former case, the description occupies a referentially opaque position; in the latter, a referentially transparent position. Clearly, both readings are possible, as with belief and perception. Now suppose I am conscious of a pain in my hand: we can say that I am conscious of my pain as an instance of pain—I would describe it thus—but can we say I am conscious of the correlated C-fiber firing? We certainly can’t say that I am conscious of the C-fiber firing as C-fiber firing: no such content enters my mind—I might never even have heard of C-fiber firing. But that doesn’t settle the question of whether I am conscious de re of the C-fiber firing: is it true of the C-fiber firing that I am conscious of it? Can we say “Concerning the C-fiber firing, I am conscious of that state”? Am I aware of my brain de re when I am aware of my mind de dicto? I am not aware of my brain de dicto when I am aware of my mind, but that is logically compatible with being aware of my brain de re. Is the case like beliefs about Hesperus and Phosphorus? I can have a belief about Hesperus quaHesperus (de dicto) and also have a belief about Phosphorus (de re) that contradicts the first belief, not realizing that Phosphorus is Hesperus. Following that case, we could try saying that I have a de re belief about my brain when I have a de dicto belief about my mind just in case my mental state is identical to a brain state. De dicto belief plus identity gives de re belief. Thus, I am conscious de re of my C-fibers firing if and only if I am conscious de dicto of my pain and the pain is identical to the C-fiber firing. I am conscious de re of anything that is identical to what I am conscious of de dicto. That is, the identity theory of mind and brain entails that I have de re attitudes towards my brain, including the “conscious of” attitude. It is true of my brain that I am conscious of it whenever I am conscious of my mind—though I am never conscious of my brain de dicto (as a content of my consciousness). In other words, I am relationally conscious of my brain but not propositionally conscious of it (conscious that my brain is thus and so). My brain is not a content of my consciousness, but it is an object of it, by virtue of psychophysical identity.

At this point we might spot a vulnerability in the identity theory: can’t we contrapose and deduce the falsity of that theory? For (we might contend) it is not true that I have de re attitudes towards my brain—I am not aware of my brain whenever I am aware of my mind. I am no more aware of my brain in such cases than I am aware of the non-conscious parts of my brain. I can become conscious of my brain by looking at it in a mirror—then I have both de dicto and de re consciousness of it; but I don’t become aware of it just by being conscious of my mind. That would be a theoretically juicy argument: we can derive the falsity of materialism from the non-existence of de re attitudes towards the brain! If the two were identical, then we would have to say that de reattitudes towards the brain follow from de dicto attitudes towards the mind; but that is not plausible; therefore, they are not identical. The intuitive data are more compatible with dualism, since then there is no possibility of deriving de re attitudes towards the brain (there being no identity). It would be like inferring that we have de rebeliefs about planets by introspection given that mental states are identical to states of planets—better to give up the identity theory. However, it is not so easy to refute the identity theory, because the intuition of no de reconsciousness of the brain is not so firm as to ground such an inference. Is it really self-evident that I don’t have de re attitudes towards my brain? Is the case really different from theoretical identifications common in science—water with H2O, heat with molecular motion, etc.? We can truly say, “Concerning H2O, John believes it is good to drink”, even though this may sound strange in the early stages of scientific discovery (most people would never have heard of “H2O”). How can we refute this position for mind and brain? Certainly, mental states and brain states have a lot to do with each other, unlike planets and mental states. If we are to refute the identity theory, we need a stronger argument, e.g., Kripke’s modal argument or the knowledge argument. Conjoining such an argument with the argument from de re consciousness would be an attractive package, but the latter argument alone is pretty weak. What is the right thing to say?

Compare the following case: fictional characters and the real people they may be based on. Suppose I have a belief about a fictional character that is derived from a certain real individual X: can we infer that I thereby have a de re belief about X? Intuitions waver: the two are not identical, so we get no easy derivation; yet there is some inclination to be less strict. If I have a belief about a statue, do I thereby have a de re belief about the piece of bronze it is made from, even though the two are not strictly identical? We might feel inclined to say yes. If the relation between two things is sufficiently close, sufficiently formative, we might stretch a point and allow for the inference to a de re attitude. Similarly, if the mental state and the brain state are intimately joined, though not strictly identical, we might feel some pressure to allow a de re ascription—we have an approximation to an identity-based de re attitude. Thus, a semi-materialist position is consistent with our shaky intuitions about the de re ascription. The fact that we feel agnostic about it would suggest a degree of materialism, if not the simple identity theory. A double aspect theory, for example, would be consistent with our uncertainty. It doesn’t matter if the believer disbelieves any such materialist position—the truth of an identity claim always allows for a deduction of a de re attribution. The facts determine what objects you have de rebeliefs about not your beliefs about the facts. I find myself genuinely unsure whether I have de re beliefs about my brain when I have de dicto beliefs about my mind—I could go either way. Of course, the mind-brain connection is deeply mysterious, so we shouldn’t be surprised at this kind of uncertainty; the question of whether we do have such de re attitudes is one way to approach the problem. If we do, the case for materialism is strengthened; if not, not. In any case, it is an interesting puzzle to think about: “A Puzzle About De Re Belief (About the Brain)”.[1]

[1] We can also formulate the converse question: if I have a de dicto attitude towards my brain, say by perceiving it, do I thereby have a de re attitude towards the correlated mental state? According to the identity theory I do, since the two states are one: if I see my C-fibers firing, I also see (de re) the pain with which my brain state is identical. Does that seem plausible? It’s not an easy question: we feel pulled in two directions. It all depends on whether we accept the identity: yes, if we do; no, if we don’t. I think our first inclination is to say that I don’t have that belief, but then we wonder if that is just a prejudice born of a lack of knowledge. It would be interesting to do a survey. I have to confess that I like the idea that we have such odd de re beliefs, perhaps because it underscores the aporias of the mind-body problem. I am always thinking about my brain but don’t know it! My brain is an object of my consciousness though a fugitive object! It brings my mind closer to my body, especially the part most responsible for me. Much the same is true of external objects: I may not apprehend them as they are de dicto, but I apprehend them de re just as they are. I see (de re) the objects of physics: I am in the perception relation to them as they objectively are, in addition to seeing them as they are subjectively to me. Likewise, whatever mental states are in themselves (their real essence), I have consciousness of these things—I am not cognitively cut off from them. De reattitudes allow for contact with an unknown reality. Even the skeptic cannot deny that I stand in these relations (this is not to say that I can establish that I do). Attitudes de re are compatible with deep ignorance of their objects.

Origins of Intentionality

What is the origin of intentionality? There are three main areas to consider: perception, thought, and language. In the twentieth century it was fashionable to take linguistic intentionality as basic; the other two are then derived from it. The classical empiricists took perceptual intentionality as basic with thought and language parasitic on that. A third possibility would be that the intentionality of thought is basic with perception and language dependent on thought. These appear to exhaust the options, though in principle there could be combinations (e.g., language and perception are independently intentional and together they fix the intentionality of thought). Further formulations might introduce the concepts of behavior and consciousness: linguistic behavior fixes intentionality, or consciousness does. In other words, it might be linguistic use that fixes intentionality, or it might be conscious experience. In either case the origins of intentionality lie in facts we are aware of—outer acts of speech or inner acts of mind. But there is a third possibility: intentionality derives from something we are not aware of, something pre- or sub-conscious. This was in effect the view of the rationalists or nativists: the mind is innately equipped with subconscious mechanisms that develop into what we know as mature intentionality. These “innate ideas” are the real source of perceptual, cognitive, and linguistic intentionality. The interesting point here is that the origins of intentionality are taken to be unconscious. They derive from genetically determined states of the brain of which we have no conscious awareness. It isn’t consciousness per se that gives rise to intentionality, or observable linguistic use per se, but the underlying representational states of the brain that are encoded in the genes. The innate ideas shape sense experience and linguistic behavior, so producing what we are aware of; but they themselves exist in a state of unconsciousness. Perhaps this is why this type of theory has not attracted much attention: it deals in unobservable entities whose nature eludes us. These are the hidden springs of intentionality. Even if the empiricist theory is true, the intentionality of consciousness derives from an outside source; consciousness doesn’t itself produce intentionality. Neither does language use produce its own intentionality (how could it?); that comes from the innate store of representational items (ideas, concepts). We know there are unconscious processes involved in generating perceptual experience and linguistic use; according to the nativist theory, these include devices for generating intentionality. The origins of intentionality are thus hidden not open to inspection. They are hidden as the genes are hidden—and the genes are the things that generate bodies and minds. It isn’t that language creates conscious experience, or that conscious experience creates language; rather, both are created by unconscious innate ideas (plus some). Humans and animals are subject to the same biological law: pre-experiential and pre-linguistic intentionality that reveals itself in observable phenomena.[1]

[1] From a wider perspective, we may say that the linguistic theory of intentionality is itself an empiricist theory, since it locates the origin of intentionality in observable facts about the world—speech acts we can see and hear. The nativist theory, by contrast, traces intentionality back to its unconscious roots deep in the brain and the genes; the causes of intentionality are hidden causes—not perceptible by the senses. The linguistic turn took place within the empiricist circle. But the nativist-rationalist theory abandons such empiricism, even to the point of making the causes of intentionality unknowable (hence mysterious). Moreover, this theory is actually true.