Animal Worship

If you google “animal worship” you will get some surprising results (I did). It turns out that animal worship (“zoolatry”) was much more widespread than might be supposed. It is present in nearly all ancient religions and extends right across the animal kingdom. I made a list: bears, whales, cattle, sheep, goats, dogs, horses, elephants, hares, deer, wolves, foxes, cats (big and small), tigers, monkeys, hippopotami, birds, serpents, crocodiles, fish, scorpions, dung beetles—but not kangaroos or mice or worms or butterflies. In those bygone days there were no supernatural gods of vaguely human caste, multiple or unitary; it was just ordinary animals divinized. Early humans saw divinity in nature. They revered and worshipped the natural world. But this form of religion was steadily erased over time (or so we are taught), discarded as the primitive thinking of primitive humans, eventually leading to a religion of supernatural semi-humans. In the end we had God in the singular—viewed as not animal at all (scarcely human).  The natural world was left behind as an object of worship, ritual, inspiration, awe. This process was gradual, with traces of zoolatry retained. The Greek gods had animal associates or counterparts (Zeus had the eagle). The Abrahamic religions made the firmest break with zoolatry, though Judaism did make use of lions, deer, and birds in its symbolism. Even in the New Testament we find reference to the lamb, the dove, and the serpent. Still, animals were no longer worshipped for themselves and as such. Religion had progressed beyond these crude beginnings, moving on to more rarified deities and dogmas. You wouldn’t be caught dead giving thanks to a monkey or a crocodile, or even depicting them in your shrines. Oh no, we had advanced well beyond all that; now it was angels and omniscient omnipotent beings existing outside space and time. Zoolatry was a species of idolatry (the golden calf, etc.). We might choose to think of the Holy Spirit as a dove, but that was only to give this hazy idea a concrete relatable form; we didn’t think that the Holy Spirit is a dove (that very bird). We passed from zoolatry to theism, as it is understood today.

But there is one marked difference between these two belief systems: animals exist but supernatural beings don’t. That’s a big difference. There are no agnostics or atheists regarding animals; you don’t need faith to believe in them. Thus, a lot of people don’t believe in gods anymore. They are then left with no religion at all—nothing to worship, revere, celebrate, idealize, emulate. This lack of existence is a bit of a loss compared to more primitive times: the new religion of supernatural beings is difficult to believe in, existentially. It’s a far cry from naturalistic zoology in this respect. Indeed, the entire history of religion since its Abrahamic formulations has been fraught with ontological questions—quantifier hesitation, as it were. What if this kind of anxiety eventually undermines the whole enterprise? What if agnosticism and atheism come to be orthodox? Religion, as we now know it, will be gone, extinct. Whatever feelings motivate it will be left to dangle, robbed of suitable objects. This is likely to be the situation if current trends continue. The advance of religion from its animalistic beginnings will lead inevitably to its collapse after a few thousand years of dominance. Is this an entirely good thing? Is there a way to keep the good and discard the bad? Can there be a non-theistic religion worthy of the name?

Perhaps you see where this is headed. What about a return to zoolatry? Aren’t the seeds already there? Have we ever really left it behind? For we have always been fascinated by animals, drawn to them, in awe of them, fond of them, slightly afraid of them, mystified by them, symbolically obsessed by them. They are like us but curiously different—rather like the Greek gods, in fact. Isn’t the King of the Jungle a sort of zoological Zeus? Animals are capable of amazing feats, superior to us in many ways, also beautiful. Just think of birds: they sing, fly, dazzle, and delight. Some of them even talk. There are people who spend their lives observing them. The eagle, in particular, excites feelings of transcendence and awe (but let’s not forget the humble budgerigar). It isn’t that God created these marvelous creatures; rather, they created God—in that they suggest the idea of God to us in embryonic form. Zoolatry led naturally to theism, because it incorporates the religious impulse. Angels are thought to fly and even have wings. Then too, we have a thriving pet culture, which taps into ancient emotions. After all, we depend on animals, or did: to feed us, clothe us, move us around, keep us warm, keep us company. They perform many of the functions traditionally ascribed to God. They give us each day our daily bread and deliver us from evil. They deserve our worship, or at least gratitude. Children love them. They are different from us, but not too different; we almost know what it is like to be them. Who does not thrill to the sight of a lion or tiger, or whale or elephant? We are primed to admire them. They populate our thoughts, shape our feelings, entertain and amuse us. Above all, they exist, observably, warmly; and they are willing to be our friends. Like God, they never let us down. It is really quite surprising that we insist on viewing God as a member of our own species, though vastly magnified and upgraded; why not think of God as bird-like or elephant-like, but much enhanced? God might be a woman, but he also might be an eagle. Why are we so sure God is a man? Isn’t this suspiciously speciesist of us? If we think that we have spirits in some sense, why not extend this privilege to other animals? Many people have thought that animals have souls—and I don’t doubt that they do (though not immortal ones, sadly). All in all, animals are suitable subjects for a religious attitude, though not the attitude encouraged by our modern Abrahamic religions (and what good have they done us?).[1]

What would such a religion look like concretely? Black Beauty and the Dr. Dolittle books would be sacred texts, required reading, sources of moral instruction—as would many other animal stories. Moby Dick would be for adults. Zoology at school would be mandatory. Animal rights would be normal and accepted. There would be animal holidays—Bird Week, Cat Day, Dogmass. There would be get-togethers on Sundays devoted to animal studies and hymns. Darwin would be revered. Children would be made aware of historical animal abuses in school. There would be iconography devoted to animals of different kinds; art galleries of animal portraits and scenes. There would be a Mona Lisa painting of a beautiful gazelle or horse. We would be steeped in animal imagery, animal literature, animal science. We would have animal friends. There might even be animal religious denominations. Imagine an animal-centered Catholicism! It sounds pretty nice to me: good for them, good for us. It would be a return to our religious past, but with all the modern trappings of civilization. We never really left this past psychologically, nor should we have. It might lead to saving the planet. It might end religious conflict. It might even revolutionize politics (though given human nature, that may remain a den of vipers). You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.[2]

[1] Let’s remember that Jesus was part animal, because part human; and we have worshipped him. God could have inserted part of himself into another species of animal, say a bear, and then we would have worshipped that animal. The incarnating species is contingent. After all, God is supposed to have created animals and thus installed something divine in them, as in us; so, even from a theistic perspective, there is nothing wrong in according them due reverence. Now subtract God: what really changes? Are guide dogs any less estimable?

[2] Actually, as far as I know, I am the only one to contemplate such a religious revolution, though I suspect John Lennon would have approved of it (“I am the walrus”). I wonder what Nietzsche would have thought. From a lofty historical perspective, the Abrahamic religions might be seen as an unfortunate meme that lasted way too long—like racist supremacy, the patriarchy, and puritanical sexual repression. In a state of nature, we are natural animal worshippers (lovers, admirers).

Assertion and Command

There is such a thing as speech act theory, but ought there to be? Philosophers and linguists usually distinguish assertion, command, and question: these are the three main types of speech act. Questions are often assimilated to commands (requests) because they can be construed as requests for information (“Please tell me whether it’s raining”). I will follow this practice for simplicity, though my points go through even if we keep questions as a separate category. The idea is that these categories of speech act are exclusive and exhaustive—so that what is an assertion is not a command and what is a command is not an assertion (and these categories exhaust the territory). The question, then, is whether this is true.

It is important to distinguish types of speech act from types of sentence. We certainly have three distinct grammatical categories of sentence: indicatives, imperatives, and interrogatives. An indicative sentence is not an imperative sentence, and so for the others. But types of speech act are another thing altogether: they relate to intentions, context, and consequences. Thus, theorists speak of illocutionary force: the illocutionary force of an assertion is not the same as the illocutionary force of a command and vice versa. The act of assertion is not the act of request and the act of request is not the act of assertion. The act of assertion, it may be said, is intended to impart information, while the act of request is intended to produce behavior. These are acts of different types, so the utterances have different illocutionary force. A single speech act does not have bothsorts of force. But is this true? Suppose I utter the sentence “It’s raining”, directing my remark at a particular person, intending to convey the information that it is raining. Don’t I also intend to get my interlocutor’s attention and bring about a certain action? I want the hearer to act in a certain way—attentively and prudently (e.g., to take an umbrella). I could equally have said, “Listen, it’s raining, so take an umbrella”. This is a request, or even a command if I have the requisite authority; I don’t just want to convey information. We sometimes say, “Look at me” when we want to secure the full attention of our interlocutor, which is clearly a request or command. The speech act of assertion is also a speech act of command; indeed, it is the former in virtue of the latter. I am not just asserting a proposition into the void with no action in mind on the part of the hearer. We might also say that I am requesting that my hearer take me seriously and believe what I am telling him (“Believe me, John, it’s raining buckets!”). Assertion and request are bundled together, inseparably joined. The same is true in the other direction: commands build in assertion (though imperatives don’t build in indicatives). If I say to you, “Please shut the door”, I am requesting an action, but I am also conveying the information that the door is open and that I’d like it closed. If the hearer questioned these propositions, I would assert that the door is open and that I would like it closed (I am freezing). I convey information in making the request—I am tacitly asserting certain things (actually, not so tacitly). I could just as well say, “The door is wide open and letting in a draught, so please close it”. I am not only commanding but also asserting—intentionally conveying information. The two types of speech act are not mutually exclusive; on the contrary, they are woven together. So, the central idea of speech act theory is mistaken: assertion and command are not separate categories of speech act; they are aspects of the same speech act. They are different ways of describing a single act—an act of intentional utterance.

There is a deep point here: speech is governed by a multitude of intentions (and desires and beliefs); it is not possible to read the speaker’s intentions off the grammatical form of the sentences he utters. What he meansis not deducible from what he says (literally). This is essentially what speech act theory tries to do—infer intention from grammar. I have many intentions when I utter even a simple sentence like “It’s raining”; I don’t have just one that lines up with the grammatical category of the sentence. Pragmatics is not semantics (still less syntax). So-called speech act theory is really a mishmash of grammar and psychology; and the psychology is a lot more complex than the semantics. It is really quite misleading to speak of “assertoric utterances” and “imperatival utterances”, as if referring to separate categories of speech act. All acts of speech are both, inextricably. It is not that there are a great many more types of speech act than assertion and command (also question), as Wittgenstein insisted; there are actually less—because each speech act incorporates several aspects (intentional descriptions). There is really just the act of utterance, which falls under many descriptions—or two if we boil them all down to these basic categories. There is no assertive speech act that excludes other speech acts; there is just utterance backed by various intentions, all mingling together. There is no neat system here, no firm taxonomy of acts of speech. The idea of the illocutionary force of an utterance is a myth. There is no such thing as speech act theory as commonly conceived.[1]

[1] We use sentences to achieve certain ends, motivated by assorted intentions. These ends are multiple; each corresponds to a description of the act. When I assert something, I have a variety of intentions, some concerning actions on the part of the hearer. When I make a request, I also have a variety of intentions, some pertaining to information I need to convey. There is overlap of illocutionary force in both cases. It might be said that one of these illocutionary forces is primary and the others secondary, but still there is more than one involved. All speech acts can be variously described in respect of illocutionary force, depending on what we choose to focus on. In other words, communication is complex.

Bathroom Blues

The president was loitering in one of the many bathrooms of the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. As a construction person, he was much interested in the décor of this palatial retreat. So much fine marble! So much ornate gold! It made Mara Lago look paltry and poor in comparison. He was having a hard time with respect to envy, he admitted. This royal bathroom was Yuge and had several toilets each separately designed, so you could take your pick. There was a large fridge in it full of soft drinks (he had already taken a diet coke). The floor to ceiling mirrors made him look small, insignificant. His ego was taking a bruising in the envy area. The White House now struck him as cramped and cheap—a place where a loser might live (if live is the word). Gloomily, he exited.

After a two-mile walk, he came upon the prince himself—a tall regal man dressed in flowing robes. Telegenic. He was the center of all he beheld. He shook the hand of the president, the latter’s hand limper than he liked. He didn’t know whether to bow. “How are your accommodations?” the prince asked. “Magnificent”, the president replied. “Top quality fittings everywhere—beautiful, beautiful”. The prince beamed with royal benign. “And how is the president’s wife?” “Oh, she’s doing marvelously, so popular, so devoted”, replied the president. He couldn’t help reflecting that the Crown Prince had no indictments against him and had never had to appear in court even once. Nor was he ridiculed by TV comedians and harassed by the press. Come to think of it, the man had never done a day’s work in his life, or owed any bank money, or had ever gone bankrupt. Really, there was no comparison between the two with respect to the success and winning. The president was reduced to thinking about his military and his TV celebrity and his superiority over the pope.

The president was mounting his plane feeling low. It was a great visit, he was praised by everyone, a total success like the world had never seen before. So much respect! But he couldn’t stop thinking about that bathroom—so much beauty, so much class! He settled into his seat and tried not to think about it. He ordered a burger and gazed listlessly out of the window. He knew he would never be completely happy again.

Certainty

As a topic in the philosophy of mind, as opposed to epistemology, certainty has not received much attention. I intend to put that right. What kind of mental state is certainty? What is its analysis? I will be asking a series of questions, this being a new field—certainty studies. First, what is the relation between certainty and consciousness? There has always been a vague feeling that the two belong together (see Descartes), but how exactly? The following is an appealing thesis: consciousness is a necessary condition for certainty, but not sufficient. You can’t be certain unless your certainty is conscious, but you can be conscious without being certain. There is no such thing as unconscious certainty, but there is such a thing as conscious uncertainty. Here we must bring in the concept of belief: there can be unconscious beliefs (most beliefs are unconscious most of the time), and conscious beliefs can be uncertain. So, certainty is not the same as belief, even strong belief. This implies that certainty is not analyzable in terms of belief: it is a different kind of mental state. I will come back to this; I am still asking questions not providing answers. Is certainty perhaps the highest degree of belief, or something quite different and sui generis?

Is certainty voluntary? Can we decide to be certain? It is generally agreed that we can’t decide to believe, but can we decide to be certain of what we believe? Can the true believer decide to be certain that God exists? Is this subject to the will? That sounds both possible and impossible. I can apparently decide to be certain of my wife’s fidelity for reasons of marital harmony, not letting any doubts creep into my mind, but I surely don’t believe that her infidelity is impossible. We speak of moral certainty, but we acknowledge that we might be wrong. Didn’t Hume decide to adopt an attitude of certainty when he left his skeptical study? I can decide to be strong in the face of the world’s hostilities, so can’t I decide to be certain in the face of its uncertainties? Can’t I adopt an attitude of confident conviction, firm resolve, calm assurance? Didn’t Descartes decide to doubt—so why can’t he decide to not doubt? What is going on here?[1]

Can there be Kripke puzzles about certainty?[2] Pierre believes that London is pretty and he also believes that London is not pretty, but can he be certain that London is pretty and also certain that London is not pretty? He isn’t certain that London is pretty in Kripke cases, because it might only be pretty in places, and Pierre knows this. It seems a lot harder to have contradictory certainties than contradictory beliefs, because there is no room for ignorance when certainty is present. Could someone be certain that 2 is even and also certain that 2 is not even? It is hard to imagine a case in which this situation is possible. No such case has ever been presented. Could I be certain I am in pain and also certain that I am not in pain?

Could a person be certain of everything he believes? Or does certainty require the presence of uncertainty elsewhere? Does it need the contrast? What would it be like to be certain of even the most doubtful things, never letting doubt creep in? Surely, there has never been such a person. Total uncertainty sounds far more possible, as with the confirmed skeptic. Certainty is arguably inherently exceptional not routine and automatic. Must a person be uncertain of most things? Isn’t the Cogito the exception not the rule? Could someone be certain of all inductive inferences, knowing what they involve?

Does certainty have a distinctive neural correlate, a neural signature? How does it differ from a belief correlate? Does this correlate overlap with the neural correlate of consciousness? What would a neuroscience of certainty look like? Is it something like a high level of neural excitation? Is there a certainty neuron or brain center?

Could a person discover he was certain of something? Could he be ignorant of his certainty and then come to know that he is certain? That sounds impossible; if so, why? What does it tell us about the intrinsic nature of certainty? A person could discover what he believes—truly believes, as we say—but the same does not seem true of certainty. Is it because certainty cannot be unconscious whereas belief can be?

Is certainty free-floating or must it be tied to particular examples? I am certain of my own mental states but not of the external world, but could another being invert this pattern? Could you be brought up to be certain of external things but uncertain of internal things? If you were indoctrinated in such a certainty system, wouldn’t you eventually rebel? Doesn’t a proposition have to be certain in order for you to be certain of it? And yet certainty seems to some extent subject to the will. It is a slippery thing, apparently, modally ambiguous.

Does certainty come in degrees, like belief? Can I be more certain of this than that? Could I have a low degree of certainty about something? That sounds distinctly off, conceptually. Certainty seems all or nothing—you either have it or you don’t. There are no borderline cases.

Is certainty identifiable with the highest degree of belief—is such a conceptual reduction possible? It sounds reasonable enough, but is it really an analytic truth? Couldn’t there be an unconscious belief of maximum degree? And couldn’t a person consciously believe something to the max and yet not feel certain about it? He has the belief but he doesn’t have the accompanying attitude of certainty—perhaps he is certainty-phobic because he has been let down in the past, or the part of his brain responsible for certainty has been damaged but not the part responsible for degrees of belief. There seems to be daylight between these two concepts.

Is there such a thing as certainty-how as well as certainty-that? There can be knowledge-how as well as knowledge-that, but is the same true of certainty? The two concepts have been closely associated, but does certainty admit of the “how” construction? Can I say “I am certain how” as I can say “I know how”? That sounds a bit iffy, not quite grammatical, and yet not beyond the semantic pale—we do say “I’m not sure how to fix this”. But can we say “You clearly are not certain how to do that” as we can say “You clearly don’t know how to do that”? We definitely cannot say “I believe how to do this” and the like. Certainty seems to hover between knowledge and belief in this respect; it is certainly happier with the “that” construction.

Here is a suggestion: certainty is to belief what intention is to desire. Intention is clearly close to desire, and it is tempting to analyze intention in terms of desire; but careful reflection recommends distinguishing the two concepts—no reduction of the former to the latter is plausible. Similarly, certainty and belief are close cousins, even mutually dependent, but certainty is a condition unto itself, not reducible to belief. It is exalted belief, as intention is exalted desire—transformed, elevated, metamorphosed. It is really a thing apart, though indebted to its conceptual relative. We might say that certainty is belief crystallized, as intention is desire crystallized—a new level of mental being. This is revealed in behavior:  intention triggers action and certainty triggers decision. Both are motivational attributes, closely bound up with the will.

What is the phenomenology of certainty (we dealt with its physiology—obscure)? Here we reach the nub. Is it the same as the phenomenology of belief? For it seems right to say that certainty is, or involves, a feeling—the feeling of being certain. But there is no such feeling of belief. We feel a rush of certainty, but not a rush of belief—a wave, a throb. We crave certainty; we are unhappy with uncertainty. Certainty is pleasurable (though not always), but uncertainty is not—it can be painful. There could be a certainty drug that produced the feeling in question, and people might pay good money for it. It is tempting to say that there is a sensation of certainty, located in the gut as well as the head. Thus, the thrill of certainty—the headiness, the excitement. Not for nothing do people seek certainty and are reluctant to relinquish it. Russell longed for the certainty of mathematics in other areas of his life—certainty made him happy. He kept searching for it, needing a shot of certainty. Let’s admit it: certainty is an emotion—a peculiar one, to be sure, but an emotion nonetheless. It is akin to love, or at least lust. We lust after certainty. Certainty is a certain kind of ecstasy. Uncertainty is a kind of torment. Certainty removes anxiety, creates confidence, tranquility. Certainty is at the emotional center of human life. We love certainty. An age without certainty is an age of anxiety.

What is the explanation of this positive valence? I have a speculative idea: certainty is what precedes satiation. The animal doesn’t know where its next meal is coming from; its belly lets it know the problem. It is full of existential doubt. It searches desperately for food. When food is finally within its grasp it feels a wave of certainty: now I am going to eat! This feeling of certainty means survival for another day. The animal knows it is about to be fed—it is certain of it. It isn’t yet satiated, but the moment is nigh, and the animal knows it. Certainty is what you feel when you are about to be fed, and hence saved from starvation. We want the feeling because we want what it leads to; the two are associated in our minds (brains). Certainty is yet another strategy of the selfish gene: these are the biological roots of our craving for certainty. That is my speculative idea anyway. It must have some function.

Does certainty have a bodily expression? Does it reveal itself in the face? I believe it does: shining eyes, a slight smile, a smug look. This is the characteristic expression of the convinced religious believer—a lack of natural human anxiety. I think I have that look when I reach a philosophical conclusion that strikes me as unassailable. Oh, how often—every few years, or every day? I will have to investigate. Mere belief doesn’t configure the face so markedly. Certainty is an emotion, so it has a bodily expression—a somewhat rarified emotion sometimes, but a real one.

When does the child develop the feeling of certainty? A good question for the child psychologist. I doubt it is present in the early months, what with all the crying and grimacing; but I suspect it doesn’t take long to evolve. Perhaps it first manifests itself when the breast heaves into view and the baby knows it is in a for a hearty meal. Before that it was full of Cartesian doubt (“Was I just dreaming of that creamy nipple?”), but then the joy of tactile immediacy—all doubt is banished. Later in life there is all manner of uncertainty to contend with, occasionally relieved by episodes of pleasurable certainty, recalling those blissful days at the mother’s breast. A philosopher eventually sprouts, eager to explore the topic of certainty.

The topic of certainty thus has its logic, semantics, metaphysics, phenomenology, folk psychology, and child psychology—like any topic in the philosophy of mind. It also plays a role in epistemology in relation to knowledge and justification. Ideally, one would like to integrate these two perspectives. In epistemology we are concerned with whether certainty is ever justified and whether knowledge requires certainty, among other topics; now we know more about what certainty actually is—what kind of mental state it is. It is a type of passion, in the old terminology, as well as a cognitive phenomenon. It is not reducible to brain states or behavior or belief, but is a sui generis denizen of mind. It belongs as much to emotion and the will as to thought and knowledge. It merits careful scrutiny.[3]

[1] The OED gives us “completely convinced of something” for “certain”. This doesn’t give us much to go on, though it does offer the nice example of a convinced pacifist under “convince”. The word “convince” carries connotations of persuasion, as in interpersonal dialogue. We don’t normally speak of the physical world as convincing or persuading us of anything. Perhaps the paradigms of certainty involve persuasive arguments. The concept of certainty is not very revealing from an analytic point of view.

[2] See “A Puzzle About Belief”.

[3] I have not discussed certainty and the a priori, certainty and self-knowledge, certainty and necessity, certainty and skepticism, animal certainty, certainty and faith, certainty and assertion, and no doubt other things. These are all worthwhile topics to investigate.