Descriptions in Disguise

One might have thought that the description theory of names had been bashed enough; I propose to bash it some more. It hasn’t been bashed from every angle; indeed, it positively invites further bashing, given its audacity. The theory is quite disrespectful to names, insinuating that descriptions are the superior semantic citizen. We can break the question down into three parts, corresponding to three locutions that crop up in these investigations: disguise, synonymy, and abbreviation. Names are said to be disguised descriptions, synonymous with descriptions, and abbreviations of descriptions—are any of these statements true? Each locution denotes a two-place relation: are names and descriptions really related by these relations? I am not discussing the usual questions of speaker knowledge, referential rigidity, and scope distinctions; I am focusing on the correct characterization of the relation between names and descriptions—is it one of disguise, synonymy, and abbreviation?

First, disguise: is it true that a name is a description in disguise? This implies that you might be fooled by a name into thinking it is not a description when it really is one. It doesn’t look like a description, but we are told that it is one. But how is that possible given the theory? For synonymy is not open to the possibility of disguise: if “a” is synonymous with “b”, then anyone competent with both expressions will know that they are synonymous; it will be quite self-evident. If you know what “bachelor” means and you know what “unmarried man” means, then you know a priori and with certainty that they are synonyms; you can’t wonder whether they are. But you can wonder whether the name “Plato” is synonymous with the description “the teacher of Aristotle”—that is why it is a philosophical question whether it is. So, the name can’t be a description in disguise, because then it would be an open question whether the name is synonymous with the description; but it can’t be an open question if they are really synonyms. The two ideas are inconsistent. And how is the disguise supposed to work—is it like some sort of mask? How does a description disguise itself as a name—that is, how does the meaning of a description disguise itself as the meaning of a name? Does it pretend to belong to a different semantic category by curling up into a ball or by wearing a different outfit? The whole notion of disguise here is pure metaphor. How can meanings come in disguises? If they do, they can escape detection and pass for another kind of meaning; but that is incompatible with the description theory, which insists on synonymy. Synonymy is transparent, but disguise is opaque. And don’t say the disguise takes the form of a different word, because that is true of ordinary synonyms, which are semantically transparent. Theorists have opted for the word “disguise” because names are plainly not ordinary synonyms of descriptions, so they need to introduce some machinery to explain this fact. Are there any bona fide cases of semantic disguise in language—cases in which we would all agree that one kind of expression is disguising itself as another? Not that I can see; the idea is manifestly ad hoc. The word “bachelor” is not a simple noun that acts as a disguise for the adjective-noun combination “unmarried male”; there is nothing misleading or deceptive about it. We don’t have to rip off the disguise to reveal the synonymy.

Second, synonymy itself: are names and descriptions synonymous? We know about the counterexamples that have been produced against this claim (Kripke et al), but there is another way to question it. The relation of synonymy is symmetrical, so descriptions must be synonymous with names, actual or possible. So, why don’t we have name theories of descriptions? The description means the same as the name (suppose we started with a direct reference theory of names). Then we would have a non-descriptive purely referential theory of the meaning of definite descriptions! Dialectically, we have begged the question against the direct reference theory. But there is this further point: why aren’t all descriptions synonymous with names not just some? For every name there is a corresponding description (allegedly), but why not conversely? There could be if speakers wanted it that way—just introduce one! The name is really always loitering in latent form, waiting to be recognized; the semantic category of names is implicit in the semantic category of descriptions, in virtue of the alleged synonymy. But that seems implausible: names look like a genuine enrichment of the semantic resources of a language. And why bother with the category of descriptions if you already have the category of names that are synonymous with them? Surely, we are dealing with two distinct categories of expression. Descriptions are not disguised names! Why are some descriptions synonymous with (existing) names while some are not? That is puzzling under the description theory.

Now we reach the nub of the description theory of names: names are said to abbreviate descriptions. The disguise comes from this because an abbreviation doesn’t look or sound like what it abbreviates; and the reason names don’t exist for every description is that speakers don’t need convenient abbreviations for all descriptions. Names exist in the presence of descriptions because they are a handy condensation of their lengthier brethren. It is a pragmatic matter. Names are not semantically useful—there is nothing they can do semantically that descriptions can’t do better–but they are pragmatically useful. That is the reason for the apparent difference, and the excuse for the metaphor of disguise. But this is a terrible idea—absolutely pathetic, in fact. There are two points, both perfectly obvious, yet devastating. First, names are not syntactically or orthographically or aurally abbreviations of descriptions—they look and sound nothing like descriptions. The name “Mike” is an abbreviation of “Michael”, but it is not an abbreviation of “the guy who owns the local pawn shop”; it is a distinct expression entirely. Second, names are not always shorter than descriptions, and certainly not necessarily shorter: people sometimes have long names! Even when they are relatively short people sometimes prefer to use a description, because it is more informative. Names are not short forms of descriptions in any meaningful sense. This is just a lazy label cooked up to paper over a glaring weakness in the description theory, namely that names are nothing like descriptions syntactically. We concede too much to the description theory if we let this patch-up job pass.

There is a more general point to be made: if a description theory of demonstratives is incorrect and seldom advocated, why should a description theory of names be thought compulsory? Names are naturally akin to demonstratives, so why not group them with demonstratives instead of descriptions? Neither type of expression requires extensive knowledge of the referent; names are commonly introduced via a demonstrative (“this child”); and context plays an important role in both cases—so why not align these two categories semantically? This is a semantic natural kind, unlike the natural kind of definite descriptions, which belongs with indefinite descriptions and other descriptive devices. It would surely be highly implausible to suggest that a demonstrative like “that man” is synonymous with some description referring to the person’s famous deeds or some such. Does “he” as uttered on an occasion mean “the guy drinking a martini”? So, it is a reasonable challenge to the description theorist to explain why he insists on that theory for names but not for demonstratives. There are clearly more referential devices in natural languages than those provided by the definite description, which anyway seems destined for a Russellian paraphrase and doesn’t refer at all. Enough bashing.[1]

[1] Why is that in philosophy all the best theories are false? The description theory is a nice theory, but it is riddled with problems. Likewise, materialism is an excellent theory, if it weren’t for the falsity. Ditto for emotivism, nominalism, panpsychism, phenomenalism, and all the rest.

Breeding and Evolution

The most obvious theory of animal existence is one I have never heard mentioned. The standard theories are (i) that a divine being created all the species independently and (ii) that the existing species all evolved by natural selection from earlier species with no rational agency involved. We now know that the second theory is true. But there is a third alternative that never seemed to gain any adherents or even proponents, viz. that all the species are the result of intentional breeding. Darwin drew attention to the human breeding of animals and made an analogy to evolution by natural selection, but what about the idea that someone in the distant past bred all the animals that now exist? Wouldn’t that be the natural way to think before we knew much about world history? Some enterprising animal breeder decided to breed a massive variety of animal types, perhaps starting with something pretty unimpressive, say a mongoose (a pair of them). This theory is highly explanatory and fits the facts of breeding as we know it. Prima facie it is better than the two theories we are familiar with—less speculative and gappy. Why wasn’t this the dominant theory up till the time of Darwin? It would be possible to combine it with a religious theme: the original breeder was a type of god, perhaps on the level of the Greek gods (special but not that special). This theory doesn’t seem difficult to figure out. We could call it “breederism”. There could be a myth about how the breeder came up with the idea—say, his wife grew bored with mongooses and craved some variety in her animal companions, so she petitioned her powerful husband, Xeus, to do something about it. It all happened underground and then the species were let loose on the planet’s surface. I rather like this myth and I wonder why it was never invented. It’s not true, of course, but when did that ever deter people from framing and accepting theories? We have a puzzle in the history of ideas—why people didn’t come up with breederism.

Bertrand Russell and Me

When I was young, I idolized Bertrand Russell—I idolized the man. It was largely because of him that I fled psychology into the arms of philosophy. But I am not the same kind of philosopher as Russell: my interests are different and always have been. I find his interests somewhat chilly and unnatural. I would say his main interest (his only interest really) is knowledge and skepticism. Everything else grows out of that: he is obsessed with doubt and the skeptical challenge (how can we know anything?). That question has never really troubled me, except academically; it isn’t a living problem for me. It doesn’t pulsate within me or keep me awake at night. Why this difference? Why the difference of intellectual temperament?

I mean this as a psychological question, specifically a child-psychological question. What is it about our background and upbringing that explains the difference? Why was he so obsessed with doubt and the possibility of knowledge? The answer is staring us in the face, though it wasn’t appreciated in Russell’s day. Namely: he lost both of his parents at an early age. His mother died of diphtheria in 1874 when he was 2 and his father died in 1876 of bronchitis (possibly also a broken heart) when he was 4. This was a double blow: he must have suffered acutely from maternal deprivation and paternal deprivation, even though he would have little or no memory of either parent. This is traumatizing stuff, inflicted on a barely rational infant. Just think of the shock to his heart and brain. No mother to hold and be close to and love; then, no father to admire and depend upon. His father’s deep depression over his wife’s early death would have hung heavy in the air, underscoring little Bertie’s own loss. His mother would have been an absent presence, actively non-existent. He knew of her, but he hardly knew her. In later life his parents would have seemed like Meinongian objects: subsisting in the recesses of memory but never robustly existing. Simply put, he didn’t know his parents—not as you and I know ours. He didn’t grow up with them around, save for a few short years, only surrogates for them. Wouldn’t it be natural for him to yearn for knowledge of what had been lost—long to be acquainted with those vanished figures? He might well grow skeptical of anything remaining in existence. He might be riddled with uncertainty in the marrow of his being. He would certainly not be psychologically normal. He might even find refuge in the certainty of mathematics and its ability to stay the course—as he confessed about his childhood (Euclid was his parental substitute). He was a lonely little boy, parentless, adrift, stricken with doubt and fear. Numbers became his Mum and Dad—and they are not too warm as parents. I, on the other hand, had a normal upbringing in this respect: my parents were always around, never in doubt, a source of security and certainty, enormously salient. So, I am not riddled with doubt, obsessed with existence and non-existence, in need of knowledge I don’t and can’t have. For children do need knowledge, particularly with regard to parental presence, and I had it but Russell didn’t. Accordingly, I am not deeply troubled by skepticism; it doesn’t frighten me. I am more interested in the nature and origin of things—not in their mere existence. Thus, my early interests were in chemistry and biology not mathematics and logic. I took existence for granted. Baby Bertie woke up one day and found his mother was dead; two years later the same thing happened with his father. Gone, just like that, never to return. I had no such soul-shattering experience. I gravitated towards butterflies and their life-cycle not numbers and their everlasting existence.

But there is a more perplexing part to this epistemological story: for Russell was deeply ambivalent about doubt and certainty. He craved certainty, needed it, felt it in his bones (at least in some areas—though here too doubts would creep in); but he also distrusted it, excoriated it, spurned it. His entire ethical and political life revolved around questioning dogma and extolling skepticism; not for nothing was he called a passionate skeptic—he was passionately skeptical. He hated certainty—while not being able to live without it. Why? The answer is not hard to find: his mother wanted Bertie raised as an agnostic, but his grandmother had other ideas and raised him as a dogmatic Christian. She raised him to believe that he was justifiably certain about highly uncertain things; not surprisingly, when adolescent rationality set in, he began questioning all of that and ended up an atheist. So, we have skeptical forces at work in his psyche combined with the love of logical and mathematical certainty: he was both certain of some things and profoundly skeptical about others. He wasn’t a passionate skeptic about logic! We might call this “Russell’s paradox”: certainty is to be deplored and avoided, on the one hand, but it is to be adored and celebrated, on the other. It was both good and bad, virtuous and vicious. It would be psychologically more harmonious to adopt a uniform attitude: either nothing is certain or everything is. Mathematics is certain but everything else (especially religion) is uncertain. Of course, his position is logically consistent, but psychologically there are stresses and strains at work (“cognitive dissonance”). And things get murky when we consider the paradoxes of set theory and the questionable epistemic status of atheism: the former undermines mathematical knowledge, the latter impugns the right to be certain of the non-existence of God. None of this is psychological plain sailing, especially if you have serious hang-ups about knowledge deriving from parental death.[1]

Back to Russell and me. We both love to write and we are both good at it. We both love philosophy, though we were initially trained in other subjects. We were both cancelled (by American zealots in both cases) and accused of all manner of nonsense. We both agonize over the folly of mankind and despise uncritical convention. We both enjoy humor (too much for our own good sometimes). We are both haughty and contemptuous where fools are concerned (that is, everywhere). But I am not obsessed with skepticism and human knowledge (its scope and limits), though I am interested in what is mysterious and what is not. I am more interested in the mind than he was, and more artistically inclined (music seems to have had little appeal for him). I like to know the make-up of things as opposed to knowing their existence or otherwise. I like fiction but not “logical fictions”. I wonder how things would have gone if our roles had been reversed: what if I came first and he started reading me in his late teens? What if he had been studying mathematics but found myautobiography inclining him in a philosophical direction? What if he had never lost his parents at an early age? Allow me, please, to fantasize that he would have become a philosopher in my mold and left skepticism to the existentially insecure (in both senses). In splendid old age he would then write about my influence on him and our philosophical differences. He might be heavily into ethics and aesthetics and wonder why I spent so much time worrying about what we can and cannot understand—why all the tormented mysterianism? Were my parents perhaps mysteries to me, though always around?[2]

[1] If the skeptic is right, your parents might never have existed; they might have always been dead. They might be illusions like everything else. You might have always been maternally deprived, despite appearances.

[2] It gives me pleasure to write about Bertie and me after all this time, a perk of old age. I never knew him, though I did once receive a letter from him, but he has been a continuous presence my whole life.

My Honest Views II

I see that my innocuous post “My Honest Views” has rubbed some people up the wrong way. I confess I find this very amusing. Clearly, my little poem was meant as partly tongue-in-cheek and set to trap the unwary reader (I made a large catch). I notice that people don’t seem to object to the truth of my remarks, only to the person they think is making them—all about my “arrogance” etc. Who cares if I am arrogant—what skin is it off your nose? I confess too that I had been reading a lot of (and about) Nabokov lately, whose scathing views on hallowed writers were notorious and sometimes excoriated (but always bracing and largely correct). Also, I like to try out new literary forms of philosophical discourse designed to challenge and provoke. But let’s get boringly factual and prosaically pedestrian (there will be no backing down, I’m afraid). Everyone thought that David Lewis’s views on possible worlds were bonkers, as he explicitly recognized (those “incredulous stares” were genuinely incredulous). Now I don’t mind the consideration of bonkers views in philosophy and I thought his views on the ontology of possible worlds were well worth thinking about (I wrote about them seriously). But come on, really, they were completely bonkers. As to Quine, all the crack logicians (I’m thinking of Saul Kripke in particular) thought Quine was a pretty amateurish mathematical logician (Quine’s theorem anyone?). Outside of that he confined himself to a very narrow strip of philosophy and seemed to have little interest in, or knowledge of, other strips. He wasn’t what you might call a generalist. And his philosophical views were pretty out there and not exactly lucidly defended (I reviewed him once and also wrote about his attack on the analytic-synthetic distinction). Quine basically thought that most traditional philosophy was rubbish, and he said as much (see “Epistemology Naturalized”). He was an unreconstructed positivist and behaviorist. Hardly anyone agreed with him. Now consider Strawson, my dear teacher and friend: a very able and significant philosopher, but baffled by tracts of the subject. When I first met him as a student, he asked me how advanced my formal logic was; I said not very. He smiled broadly and said “Good!” He found that subject difficult (don’t we all?). I don’t believe he ever mastered Tarski’s theory of truth—all the rage in Oxford at the time. I don’t think he had much of a grip on large parts of the philosophy of language and mind, let alone existentialism. Fine, understandable; but a fact. He was no philosophical polymath. Dummett, for his part, knew very little about large areas of contemporary philosophy; I remember him being quite baffled when I brought up Jerry Fodor. And yes, Jerry Fodor: brilliant man, fast as a speeding bullet and just as deadly, but completely deaf to most of philosophy, which he thought was a total waste of time and shouldn’t even be taught. He was a psychologist without a lab. Academics are apt to be narrow, and can be pretty clueless outside of their specializations. And so with the other philosophers I concisely characterized. I’m not seeing the problem that my critics are so up in arms about; they just don’t like me saying it. I wasn’t writing an academic reference for these chaps after all, just giving my own sincere thoughts about them. You got a problem with that? Free speech and all that muck. I even gave an unflattering description of myself in the comments following my post. We all have our blind spots, our philosophical scotomas.[1]

[1] In case you think I am getting soft in my old age, let me add that the comments I have seen have been absolutely ridiculous (and so depressingly American). Why-oh-why do people insist on being so plain dumb? Is thought really that difficult?