A Christmas Song

 

I thought it would be fun to write a Christmas song and this is what came out. Merry Christmas everyone!

 

Merry Christmas, Christmas

Christmas here, Christmas there

Christmas, Christmas everywhere!

Christmas, Christmas, where will you go

When the world’s so hot there is no snow?

Christmas, Christmas, do you care

If forest fires poison our air?

Christmas here, Christmas there

Christmas, Christmas everywhere!

Christmas, Christmas, does it make you morose

When a teenager dies of an overdose?

Christmas, Christmas, where will you run

When the next child is shot by an American gun?

Christmas here, Christmas there

Christmas, Christmas everywhere!

Christmas, Christmas, does it give you pain

When the truth loses out to a lie for gain?

Christmas, Christmas, does it make you weep

When a homeless man dies on a city street?

Christmas, oh Christmas, I know you mean well

I know you have a ton of merch to sell

You want us all to be merry and sweet

With our bellies full of turkey meat

Christmas, Christmas, how will it be

When they finally chop down the final tree?

Christmas, Christmas, where will we turn

When all we can do is burn, burn, burn?

Christmas here, Christmas there

Christmas, Christmas everywhere

Christmas, Christmas everywhere…

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And and Not

And and Not

Sharp thinkers (Frege, Russell, Wittgenstein, among others) have felt that there is something special about the classical logical connectives, and, or, not, and if. I will list the features commonly attributed to these concepts. They are truth-functional and referentially transparent. They are disquotational in the manner formulated by Tarski’s so-called recursion clauses (“p and q” is true if and only if “p” is true and “q” is true). They are inter-definable and permit reduction to just two primitive concepts (and and not are the most intuitive—I set aside the Scheffer stroke). They can be iterated indefinitely. They are logically central in that they form the structure of logical arguments. They are topic-neutral. They can be used to define the quantifiers all and some (more or less). They are constructive in that they build new propositions from old. They are universal in belonging to any language or system of thought worthy of the name. They have been thought to be unique in that no other linguistic constructions have the properties just listed, despite some superficial syntactic resemblance (“because”, “necessarily”, “believes”); and it is true that other locutions don’t have the full range of properties that mark the classical connectives. They do appear special. So, how are we to understand their special role in our thought and language—what do they do for us? I think the answer is as follows. The connective and (i.e., conjunction) operates so as to create totalities: these can be propositions or facts or objects (Bob and Ted and Carol and Alice). It is accumulative (additive, aggregative). This is why it is so closely connected to all, which also collects things together in thought. That is, and is the basis of set-theoretic thinking, which is the basis of mathematics and much of science. It is the foundation of classes and categories. With and we go from the particular to the general. We can even formulate ideas such as that of the whole world (the totality of facts—this fact and that fact and the other fact, etc.). Conjunction is a fecund operator. In the case of not we get the possibility of unreality—of not being. If you negate a proposition, you create a representation of something (purportedly) unreal—something that is not the case. Snow is white, but it might not be white. Thus, possibility enters our thoughts, our understanding of reality: reality contrasts with unreality, truth with error, presence with absence, life with death (not-aliveness). The existentialists were right to see in negation an expression of the human condition—our awareness that reality is suspended over an abyss of unreality. The false is as real as the true in the sense that error really exists. It is doubtful that other animals grasp this contrast; they live in the not-not, i.e., the is. So, and gives us the idea that reality forms collections and not gives us the idea that reality has alternatives: it isn’t that reality consists of nothing but unrelated particulars and what you can see with your eyes. There are totalities and non-actualities, wholes and absences. Logic is built around both ideas. So, andand not have a claim to being conceptually basic and indispensable to reason—hence as the essence of logic. Those sharp thinkers were onto something, even if they couldn’t quite say what it was. They gazed in wonder at conjunction and negation, and we can join them in that. As Frege might say, without and and not thought would be crippled, but with them it soars. They form the backbone of logic, which is the backbone of reason, which is the mark of humanity: and and not make us special.[1]

[1] I don’t mean they are projections of human nature—that would be psychologism. I mean our grasp of these objective operations is what sets us apart from the rest of nature, though I wouldn’t rule out some primitive grasp of them in other species, especially primates.  

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Imagination, Knowledge, and Other Minds

Imagination, Knowledge, and Other Minds

We don’t know what it is like to be a bat, a shark, or an octopus. There are facts of the matter—phenomenological facts—about these things, but we don’t stand in the knowledge relation to them. We don’t grasp them, apprehend them, conceptualize them. Our knowledge reaches its limits with these facts; we can only be ignorant of them. This is a truth of epistemology, like the truth that we don’t and can’t know certain facts about the past, or remote regions of the universe. But why don’t we know these facts? What is the source of our ignorance? The answer is that we cannot imagine them. Our imagination hits a brick wall when we try to get our minds around such facts—facts about (some) other minds. We know no such limitation when it comes to our own mind; that mind we know by direct acquaintance. If we had a similar acquaintance with the minds of others, we would not be so limited; nor would we need to use imagination to grasp the facts in question. We resort to imagination to know the minds of other creatures, there being nothing better to go on, but imagination will not serve us in the present instance. The reason is that our imagination proceeds from a basis in our own self-acquaintance, and cannot radically transcend that basis; but the minds of bats, sharks, and octopuses are too different from our own mind for our imagination to provide what is needed. We suffer from cognitive confinement brought on by imaginative poverty. Notice that we cannot hope to sidestep imagination by relying on pure reason—the faculty by which we know mathematics, among other things. We have perceptual faculties and rational faculties, but they don’t cover all of reality; imaginative faculties enable us to plug the gap in some cases—minds similar to our own—but not in all cases. All three faculties have their limitations, overcome (partially) by the other faculties we possess, but in the case of alien minds we encounter a region of reality that resists all of our epistemic faculties. And it took lowly creatures (as we think) to teach us this lesson, as if they are saying, “Just try to understand us—you won’t get far”. But perhaps we can analyze the reasons for our imaginative failure: what exactly is it about the minds of these creatures that bars us from imagining their phenomenological interior? A natural suggestion is that they have sensations we don’t have—as sighted people have sensations blind people don’t have. So, there is a kind of localized epistemic transcendence: it isn’t that all of a bat’s consciousness is off limits for us limited humans. We know quite well what being a bat is like in other respects, of which there are a great many more; we only partially don’t know what it is like to be a bat. About this some have retorted that even it is not so clear: perhaps the bat’s echolocation sensations are similar to our visual sensations (they function the same way and have the same abstract structure), or they are like our auditory sensations (being processed through the bat’s ears), though higher pitched. But I think there is a deeper point to be made: we don’t know what it’s like to be a bat in a broader sense—whether or not we can grasp the nature of their sonar sensations. We don’t know (can’t imagine) what it’s like to be a bat, not merely what it’s like for a bat to use its sonar sense (same for the shark and the octopus). In this sense we don’t know what it’s like to be a bird (or a whale or a porcupine or a snake). For these creatures are just too different from us physically and psychologically for us to be able imaginatively to enter into their mode of consciousness. At any rate, we don’t fully grasp it (some of it we can grasp). What is it we can’t grasp or imagine? There is no obvious label for this thing, or short description of it, but maybe I can point us in the right direction by saying that we don’t grasp the animal’s mental organization—its way of combining the elements that make up its mind. We don’t grasp the kind of complex self that the animal inhabits—its lived world, its overall condition of consciousness (“form of mental life”). As Descartes says, we can’t imagine a thousand-sided figure (though we can intellectually grasp the concept), not because we can’t imagine the nature of its elements, but because we can’t form a mental picture of a figure with precisely that many sides. Likewise, we can’t imagine the total mental life of an animal that is very remote from our own awareness of things, including our specific mental organization—thought patterns, sensory acuities, memory capacities, range of knowledge, linguistic mastery, and emotional make-up. It isn’t just a matter of a particular type of sensation but of the animal’s essential being. In fact, there are few if any animals whose minds are fully imaginable by us (and the same applies to human infants and earlier versions of hominids). Our ignorance here is widespread and systematic; and it stems from our imaginative limitations. Knowledge of other minds by means of imagination is inherently fragmentary and glancing. And it isn’t going to be improved upon any time soon, since our imaginative faculties are pretty much fixed and finite (stemming from our perceptual faculties). It certainly won’t be overcome by acquiring scientific knowledge of the brain: this kind of propositional physical knowledge is not sufficient to provide for imaginative representation of an alien mind. Imaginative knowledge is sui generis and not derivable from perceptual and ratiocinative knowledge. One might be tempted to adopt an empiricist theory of imagination (as did Locke and Hume), holding that mental images are faint copies of sensory impressions; but that theory has many problems, notably that images have different properties from perceptions.[1] It may be that perceptions provide necessary conditions for images to arise in the mind, but perceptions are not sufficient for images, even with an attenuation process added. So, imaginative knowledge operates by its own principles and has its own limitations, different from those of perception and pure reason. We are accustomed to the twofold distinction between a priori and a posteriori knowledge, but really, we need to add a separate category—knowledge based not on pure rational insight nor on sense experience (or both) but on exercises of the imagination. Then, what else might be so based, and so limited? An obvious case would be knowledge of fiction: we use our imagination to mentally picture fictional characters and their situations, and this affords us knowledge of them (e.g., Hamlet is weak-willed and vacillating). Also, imagination enters into the production of modal knowledge, as we imagine states of affairs that test a claim to necessity or contingency. It seems plausible that ethics involves imaginative deployment too, because we have to think through possible scenarios to arrive at ethical conclusions. Here our imaginative faculties may let us down, given the complexities of the real world (imagination is not at its best with complexity and nuance, the quantitative and the subtle). In some areas we are compelled to resort to imagination for want of anything better, e.g., knowledge of other minds, but the faculty is faltering and often feeble, leading to areas of irremediable ignorance. As a thought experiment consider the following: we visit a planet on which lives a people radically different from us mentally, so different that we can gain only the vaguest idea of what goes on in their heads (our imagination draws a blank). Their political system is shaped by this (to us) alien form of consciousness, so much so that our political scientists would like to explain its origins and workings. But they are prohibited from arriving at the explanation they seek because that would require psychological knowledge they don’t and can’t have. They might well become mysterians concerning this planet’s politics, simply because the explanandum exists in an area of reality they are barred from understanding. I think we often have only the faintest understanding of the social behavior of terrestrial species, because we fail to grasp the make-up of the minds of the animals in question: the sociology of sharks eludes us because their psychology does (it’s a strange world they live in—for us). Much of the biological world is hidden from us by the boundaries of our imagination, which cannot be overcome by perception and reason. We don’t know what it’s like to be a bat (emotionally, personally, existentially), so we don’t know how bats relate to each other—not completely, not in the way we understand our own social relations. Cognitive closure thus afflicts zoology as much as brain science (in as much as it seeks an explanation of the conscious mind). Indeed, we don’t understand a lot of the behavior of our house pets, individual and social, precisely because their minds are a (partially) closed book to us; and we know that we don’t. There are pockets of mystery in them as far we are concerned: what it is psychologically to be a cat, say, is beyond our comprehension. We just can’t imagine what goes on in their secret cat minds, and we might be very wrong even in our more confident assumptions. This ignorance might well be permanent, pending an upgrade to our imaginative faculties. Imagination is certainly liberating in some respects, but it is also confining. It is not a font of unlimited understanding.[2]

[1] See my Mindsight (2004) in which I itemize the many differences between images and percepts.

[2] To what extent our imaginative limits affect our ability to solve the mind-body problem is an interesting question, but I have nothing useful to say about it at this time.

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What is a Mental State?

What is a Mental State?

The first-person viewpoint is apt to skew our conception of what a mental state essentially involves. We introspect the state and think we have attained a pretty comprehensive picture of what it is, intrinsically, constitutively. Fundamentally, this is a confusion (conflation) of epistemology and metaphysics—privileging one mode of knowing over other modes. The nature of a thing is unlikely to reveal itself fully to a single viewpoint. The introspective viewpoint is so familiar, so natural, and so automatic that we easily fall into overestimating its revelatory power. Phenomenology becomes comprehensive insight, not just one perspective among others. Enormous amounts of philosophy have flowed from this movement of thought (we might even call it “the introspective fallacy”). But there are two other viewpoints that need to be taken into consideration, which have no natural names: I mean the viewpoint of an observer of the behavior of another, and the viewpoint of the brain scientist (including brain surgeon). Both are third-person, but they differ markedly—one being natural and shared by all, the other esoteric and specialized. They should be sharply distinguished. I will characterize the former in a variety of ways, as befits its complex nature: it is functional, action-oriented, teleological, biological, dynamic, and behavioral (the catch-all term). It is the mind in action, engaged, goal-directed; it is where the biologically adaptive nature of the mind shows itself (not so much from the introspective viewpoint). It is the reason the mind exists at all—its evolutionary sine qua non. It is also where the social dimension of our psychological discourse belongs: how we think of each other (animals too). It is not to be forgotten or downplayed. Mental states have causal roles, purposes, interactions, bodily expressions. It is quite wrong to think of them as purely “inner”; they have an outer nature too. Behaviorism, in its many varieties, is by no means wildly off-target: it stems from a deep truth about the nature of the mental. The mental, like all biological phenomena, is an active functional reality; the deed is woven into it. But this nature is not immediately available from the introspective standpoint, which confines itself to feeling, subjective appearance, what-it’s-likeness. That standpoint has to be prescinded from in order to grasp the functional-teleological aspect of mental states. In addition to this conception of the mind we have the unfamiliar and artificial standpoint employed by the student of the brain. For most of us this is obtained only from books: we don’t observe brains every day, with the naked eye or under a microscope (etc.). Truth to tell, this cerebral (cortical, neural) standpoint is quite alien, even alienating: it taxes our normal ways of understanding people and animals. Yet the involvement of the brain in the mind is undeniable, obscure as it may be: somehow the mind is rooted in the brain, dependent on it, impossible without it. The brain is as essential to the mind as its phenomenology is, though this is not apparent to us in ordinary life. Mental states must have a cerebral nature; they don’t exist outside the brain, as if owing nothing to it. In the vernacular, the brain is up in the mind. Thus, materialism is also not a wild and gratuitous imposition on reality; it is based on the sound perception that the mind is deeply indebted to the brain and must indeed be a brain state (of some sort). Mental states have a nature that is revealed by adopting the viewpoint of the brain scientist (or surgeon). So, they have a triple nature—a tripartite architecture. A triple aspect ontology is what they demand. But these three aspects don’t easily slot together: they don’t entail each other, not by a long chalk. Indeed, they are fundamentally conceptually distinct, seemingly jammed together, barely on speaking terms. Integrating them takes serious work (and may not be possible for us). But they are not inconsistent with each other, just heterogeneous. Mental states are therefore not like regular natural kinds: water is just H2O and heat is just molecular motion, neither more nor less, but pain is a feeling plus a functional kind plus a brain state. It is a composite being, existing on three plains, as it were. It is a phenomenological-teleological-corporeal kind, part feeling, part purpose, part neurology. The mind-body problem is really the problem of integrating these three aspects without denying or shortchanging any of them. For how can the same thing be all three, and how are they connected? Once we see the triple nature of mental states, we can make sense of the various positions that have been adopted towards them. Dualism, behaviorism, and materialism are all exaggerated responses to the threefold being of the mental; they select one aspect and make too much of it, neglecting the other aspects. Thus, the history of psychology goes from the introspectionist (phenomenological) school to the behaviorist school to the neurological school (what is now called neuroscience), each declaring that it alone is true to the real essence of the mental. But the mind has three aspects, intrinsically, essentially, irreducibly. We also see how various thought monsters insinuate themselves: the disembodied mind, the mindless zombie, the free-floating mental stuff supposed to constitute physical reality (purposeless, non-biological). These all involve detaching one aspect of the mind from the other aspects and declaring it autonomous. The truth, however, is that all three are equally integral to the nature of a mental state: the phenomenal, the causal, the physical. Disciplinary boundaries don’t correspond to real ontological divisions. The mind needs three disciplines to study its complex nature (plus a fourth to integrate them). Above all, we must not let epistemology dictate metaphysics: just because we have three different epistemic perspectives on the mind doesn’t entail that the mind itself must fall into three separate non-communicating compartments.[1] Mental states are not as cleanly divisible objectively as the viewpoints we take to them. We could in principle have one of these viewpoints without having the others, but the mind itself couldn’t exist in such a divided state: it necessarily has each of them. It has a physics, a biology, and a phenomenology—each as essential as the other two. It can’t therefore be modeled on cases in which only a single level exists (water, heat, light, etc.). Idealism is thus impossible, as is reductive (eliminative) materialism: mental states can’t exist without a biological function and a cerebral realization, and they can’t exist without an introspectively known phenomenology (the brain can’t swallow up the mind). Nor can behaviorism, however relaxed, provide a complete account of the mind. Each is part of the truth, but not the whole truth. Biological traits have two aspects, physical and teleological, while physics and chemistry have just one, but psychology has three. The concept of mind, then, can be analyzed into three parts, each with its own proprietary conceptual apparatus, somewhat as the concept of knowledge can be analyzed into three parts (roughly). No one scheme of concepts will suffice, and no one is more central than the others. In particular, concepts of the brain are essential in giving a full accounting of the mind, despite their general invisibility. Much of the mind is hidden, though some is out in the open. That’s just the way the mind is: the hidden part is as vital as the open part. In other terminology, the mind is subjective and objective.[2]

[1] For some reason it feels natural to describe the introspective perspective as the view from above, the cerebral perspective as the view from below, and the behavioral perspective as the view from the side. Or is it just me?

[2] This paper follows on from my earlier paper “A Triple Aspect Theory” with some changes of emphasis. I now see the functional aspect as more indispensable than I did.

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Are There Psychophysical Correlations?

Are There Psychophysical Correlations?

The orthodox view is that mental states or attributes are correlated with physical states or attributes. For every mental state M, there is a physical state P such that M is correlated with P (not so in the opposite direction). That is, every mental distinction has a corresponding physical distinction, down to the last detail. By “physical” we are to mean “couched in the vocabulary of brain science”, so neurons, dendrites, action potentials, neurotransmitters—cell anatomy, brain chemistry, electric charge, blood flow, metabolism, connectivity. The classic example is “pain is correlated with C-fiber firing”. This thesis is taken to be both true a priori and also established by empirical investigation—both sound metaphysics and solid science. It is the first dogma of neuroscience. Is it true? What explains it, if true? Two interpretations immediately come to mind, which I will call correlation by identity and correlation by causation. The former models itself on so-called theoretical identifications such as “heat is molecular motion” and “water is H2O” (apologies for the cliched examples). Pain is correlated with C-fiber firing in just the way heat is correlated with molecular motion—by identity. Everything is self-correlated, so we can speak of correlation as identity under different modes of presentation: it is in virtue of identity that water is correlated with H2O. In this sense, Hesperus is correlated with Phosphorous. Such statements are sometimes referred to as bridge laws. This is an awkward way to speak, to be sure, but anyway it isn’t the best way to understand psychophysical correlation, as it is commonly understood. For it is highly doubtful that such identities obtain in the psychophysical case; at any rate, we don’t want correlation to depend on the truth of an identity thesis. Not all correlation is by identity, as a matter of definition or necessity. So, we might move to correlation by causation: brain states cause the mental states with which they are correlated. The correlation is a matter of causal law. There are three possible types of causal relation here: from physical to mental, from mental to physical, and by common cause. We can dismiss the last alternative because there is nothing that could be the common cause—mental and physical exhaust the field. The most favored candidate is physical to mental: brain states cause the corresponding mental state. There are three problems with this idea: the problem of simultaneity, the problem of intelligibility, and the problem of asymmetry. Such causation would make the effect simultaneous with the cause, which is a no-no. Such causation would be unintelligible, which is a disadvantage. Such causation would be asymmetrical, which is arbitrary (why not say the mental state causes its physical correlate?). I won’t labor these points, as the causal model of correlation is not generally accepted, and for good reason (no one wants to say that C-fiber firing is the efficient cause of pain). I mention it to get it out of the way. What people are inclined to believe—and it is a prima facie attractive viewpoint—is that the putative correlation is brute—it is not by anything. It just so happens that pain and C-fiber firing are correlated, but not in virtue of anything. There is no explanation of it, but then again, all explanation comes to an end in primitive facts—basic laws of nature, or brute psychophysical laws in this case. The correlation is projectible in that it extends beyond the observed and even actual cases; it supports counterfactuals, in the lingo. It has the force of necessity, nomological if not metaphysical (that seems a bit strong). Pain is everywhere and always correlated with C-fiber firing, as a matter of natural law. The problem with this is that it is unprecedented: in all other cases of correlation, we have an explanation of the correlation—sometimes by identity, sometimes by causation (over time), sometimes by common cause. Thus, we observe that health is correlated with longevity, height with fertility (Karl Pearson’s example), intelligence with adequate nourishment, strength with size of muscle. In all these cases we can say why the correlation obtains. But not in the psychophysical case—and this is hardly because we are dealing with elementary facts of nature (electrons, protons, etc.). The assertion of bruteness seems ad hoc, arbitrary, and none too credible. Such an association cries out for explanation: there has to be a reason why it is so. It can’t be just a primitive inexplicable fact that pain is correlated with C-fiber firing in all nomologically possible worlds. What is it about C-fiber firing that makes it correlated with pain in particular, and with nothing except pain? Surely, we don’t want to say that it could equally have been the neural correlate of pleasure or deep thoughts of God. We want to avoid such a bizarre conclusion if we can. We might then think to weaken the correlation to avoid problems of explanation: why not say the correlation is completely accidental, utterly contingent, inherently arbitrary? Then there is no nomological regularity to explain, no dangling counterfactual. It’s just like the correlation between coins having the property of being in my pocket and being all dimes—pure chance. Here we might turn to the dictionary (that philosophical treasure house): the OED defines “correlation” as “a mutual relationship of interdependence between two or more things”, or again “mutual close or necessary relation of two or more things”. But mere contingency doesn’t measure up to that kind of definition: where is the dependency, the mutuality, the necessity? C-fiber firing has to be correlated with pain, not just any mental state type. Why, we don’t know, but somehow it has to be. So, the brute contingency position is not recommended: it gives us mere juxtaposition not genuine correlation (interdependence). Our options are rapidly running out. A desperate option would be to go eliminative: there are no mental states to be correlated! The whole thing is a myth, like the correlation between witches and old lady traits—there is no correlation of real things to explain. But let’s not go there yet (or anytime), because there is another possibility: there are no correlations of the kind commonly alleged. The mind exists all right, but it does not stand in correlation relations to states of the brain. Yes, I know that’s a big pill to swallow, but let’s give it a run for its money (we don’t have much else to fall back on). What kind of conception of the mind would lead to such a view? I can think of three possibilities: dualism, behaviorism, and externalism. Dualism locates the mind in a separate realm cut off from the brain; it doesn’t make the brain a necessary foundation for the existence of mental states. Anything could be going on in this immaterial mind quite independently of the brain, so no correlation is to be expected: pain occurring in the mind might be accompanied by X-fibers firing on weekdays and C-fibers firing on weekends, or by no firing at all. Behaviorism locates the mind in overt behavior, so that there is mind if and only if there is suitable behavior, irrespective of what might be going on inside the body (nothing, possibly). Such a position could take in both Skinner and Wittgenstein (see Wittgenstein on the seeds[1]). There need be no correlation between mental states and internal brain states, just identities between mental states and episodes of behavior. Externalism (social or environmental) maintains that the world surrounding the mind (head) fixes what is in the mind, the brain not being in on the act: if thoughts are causally connected to water, they are about water, irrespective of the neural facts. It is the idea that thoughts are purely internal that leads to the brain correlation hypothesis, but once we go external that motivation lapses. So, those are three colorable conceptions of mind that might see fit to abandon the correlation hypothesis, indicating that it may not be compulsory. But we can also step back and notice that there is no real empirical evidence for the metaphysical thesis being advanced: no one has ever observed a precise neural correlate corresponding to a specific thought, for example. How do thoughts about London differ cerebrally from thoughts about Paris? Such empirical evidence as we have concerns gross cerebral localization not precise mapping from mental states to specific brain states. That there is such a granular mapping is a matter of metaphysical faith not established scientific fact. Where is the neural correlate of predication or conjunction or the concept of an even number? What brain properties specifically might stand in such correlation relations—chemical, electrical, anatomical, vascular, metabolic? Is it the shape of a neuron that is correlated with a specific mental attribute? All this is left hazy at best. Granted, the brain plays a vital role in mental functioning, but does it really map so neatly and systematically onto the elements of the mind? Is it true that neural classifications are point-by-point correlated with mental classifications? Why exactly should we believe this? Notice that we can preserve a good deal of materialism by sticking to a token identity theory without presupposing any correlation between mental and physical attributes (our token monism might be completely anomalous).[2] If that were so, there would simply not be the psychophysical correlations that so perplex us—and so nothing that we are failing to explain. There might well be associations, accompaniments, alignments, but not quasi-lawlike projectible generalizations linking mental and physical types. True, this would put us in uncharted territory, sailing towards some sort of dramatic Dualism (that dark and dreamy continent); but we might be willing to explore it given the trouble we are having with the idea of psychophysical correlation. As Kripke once poignantly remarked, the mind-body problem is “wide open and extremely confusing”, so we should be prepared for fundamental upsets in our accustomed ways of thinking. At any rate, the question is worth pondering: can the anti-correlation thesis be defended? Is the brain an adjunct to the mind or a foundation, a partner or a progenitor, servant or master? Are we even thinking about it in the right way?  Is anti-correlational mysterianism the way to go? The mind-body problem is still wide open and extremely confusing, despite valiant efforts.   

[1] Zettel 608. The idea is that two seeds could produce different plants without any internal difference between them. “It is thus perfectly possible that certain psychological phenomena cannot be investigated physiologically, because physiologically nothing corresponds to them” (609).

[2] We could also keep supervenience, since it calls for no correlation between mental and physical attributes, only determination of the mental by the physical, which could be quite holistic. Abandoning psychophysical correlation is not the end of the world for materialism in some form. Then too, there might be higher-order properties of the brain that constitute mental states and hence correlate with them, despite the variations at the basic neural level. The absence of genuine correlations at the level of neurons-as-we-now-conceive-them would explain a lot about our modal intuitions, the possibility of multiple realization, and the force of the knowledge argument. There just isn’t the kind of close bond between mental types and brain types that the usual discussions assume. I wonder when people started to talk this way, and why—was it an offshoot of the development of statistics with its notion of the correlation coefficient? I doubt it originated in direct investigation of the brain. This is a derivative form of description based on unrelated paradigms. We certainly can’t see psychophysical correlations.

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Are There Psychophysical Laws?

Are There Psychophysical Laws?

This question has been much debated since the publication of Davidson’s 1970 article “Mental Events”.[1]Here I will give my current take on the question. First, we must distinguish strict laws from statements that are lawlike or law-ish, i.e., those that have some nomological force but don’t achieve the status of basic laws of nature. A strict law is fixed, inexorable, universal, and exceptionless; it ensures that “a particular natural or scientific phenomenon always occurs if certain conditions are present” (OED)—with special emphasis on “always”. A non-strict law (better to say “generalization”) is only probabilistic or ceteris paribus—not inexorable and universal. Our question, then, is whether there are any strict psychophysical laws, not generalizations with some degree of nomological force. What would be an example of a strict law? The question might be debated, but prime candidates would be Newton’s law of gravitation, or his three laws of motion, or the laws governing electromagnetism (Lorentz’s force law, Ampere’s law, Faraday’s law of induction, Lenz’s law: you can look them up if you don’t know them by heart). Let’s focus on the gravitational law (it is familiar and intuitive): the mass of the sun (say) acts on the earth over the intervening space and the degree of force it exerts is proportional to that mass and the distance separating the two bodies (the shorter the stronger). What is important is that the law operates continuously, reliably, and without exception—there is no deviation from it. Mass and distance are the only variables involved, and nothing can interfere with the law’s operation—things always work that way. Physical forces are like that: they never let you down, never slacken, never permit exceptions. So, the question is whether psychophysical generalizations are like that—have that kind of regularity, uniformity, simplicity. Consider first belief formation—in science, politics, ethics, aesthetics, etc. Do people believe the same things when confronted by the same evidence? Does the stimulus constituted by the evidence invariably lead to the same belief as response? It does not. No way, no how. The reason is that people form their beliefs based on a variety of factors apart from the objective evidence: their other beliefs, their desires, their personality, what they had for breakfast—and so on. Does everyone arrive at the theory of evolution by natural selection just by looking around at the animals of the world? Of course not; Darwin only arrived at it because he had vastly more evidence than other people, was more intelligent, had greater intellectual integrity, etc. We all live in basically the same world but we form very different beliefs about it. There is no strict law relating sensory input (whatever that is) and beliefs formed; it’s not like the sun’s mass and the earth’s consequent motion. The same physical stimulus does not invariably lead to the same belief formed. The process is more holistic than that, more context-dependent, messier. It is a whole lot more complex. We can’t single out a specific factor and move from that to a prediction about what will happen belief-wise. This is obvious, and it shows that there are no psychophysical laws of that type. Whoever thought there were? But what about perception—are there strict laws governing perception? Here things become less obvious but the consensus is that perception is a lot more like belief formation than has been traditionally supposed: there is no simple automatic transition from physical stimulus, distal or proximal, to eventual conscious percept. I won’t go into the details but we now know that an elaborate quasi-inferential process is at work that supplements and modifies the physical input to the senses. This process is subject to error, breakdown, individual variation, and outright illusion. There is no strict law leading from physical stimulus to veridical perceptual response; there is only the rough generalization “People generally see what’s in front of them”. Even perceptual constancies can be easily disrupted (as psychologists have shown). Not for nothing have perceptual psychologists described perception as a species of hypothesis construction analogous to scientific inference. The perceiver makes an enormous contribution to what is seen; it isn’t a kind of immediate imprinting on the senses—analogous to the influence of the sun’s mass on the earth’s motion (or the effects of magnetism). The earth doesn’t have to interpret the sun’s impact on it in order to know how to move; it’s more like the patellar or blink reflex.[2] Perception is thus like belief formation in respect of its etiology (though not its propositional character) and unlike gravitational influence. Hence there are no strict perceptual psychophysical laws. The causal lines are far more complex and susceptible to subversion; it is not a matter of a single force uniformly doing its thing. The same is true on the output side, and more widely recognized: specific beliefs and desires don’t lead inexorably and universally to a given action; the mind gives rise to behavior in a much more holistic fashion. Again, I won’t labor the point: causal holism is generally accepted where intentional rational action is concerned. But that means that there is no strict law linking specific belief-desire pairs to action types, so there is no strict psychophysical law of this kind either (a fortiori, one might say). The causal sequence is far more circuitous and easily subverted than in cases like gravitation and electromagnetism (we have nothing like “Like poles repel and unlike poles attract”). At best we have probabilities and rules of thumb, not rigid rules and hard determinism. The interface of mind and action is as friable and elastic as the interface between stimulus and percept, more so. Let me sketch an analogy to biology: are there any biophysical laws? Specifically, are there such laws linking survival with physical conditions in the environment, as in the case of shark survival and physical conditions of the ocean? It is well known that temperature and other physical parameters affect plankton proliferation, which affects sardine populations, which affect tuna populations, which affect shark diet (they eat tuna), leading to higher or lower survival rates in sharks. So, we can say that physical conditions in the oceans cause sharks to survive in high numbers or low numbers, as the case may be. But obviously there is no strict law linking these two things, because the intervening variables are so numerous and susceptible to outside influences. We have a huge web of interconnected causal factors at work in producing shark survival or its opposite. Well, the causation of action by the mind is a bit like that: the “stimulus” afforded by a particular belief-desire pair is filtered through a vast network of other mental states that operate in concert to produce a particular behavioral “response”. We don’t have an isolated force capable of producing effects without the cooperation of other variables. In fact, this is the normal state of things: many factors combine to produce particular effects, unlike the pure cases exemplified by gravity and electromagnetism. It would be strange if psychophysical generalizations had the single-minded simplicity of basic physical forces. So, we shouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that strict psychophysical laws are not to be found in nature. Causation is seldom simple and straightforward, and it attains a high degree of complexity in the relations between mind and physical reality. Gravity and electromagnetism are special cases: they obey laws that really are strict and unbending, tunnel-visioned and obsessive-compulsive, uncooperative and go-it-alone. Strict laws have a localized causal structure, but the causal structure of psychophysical generalizations is global and diffused—multi-causal not uni-causal.[3]

[1] I wrote about it in my 1978 paper “Mental States, Natural Kinds, and Psychophysical Laws”.

[2] Notice the law of gravitation doesn’t say that some global state of the sun is the cause of the earth’s motion; it says that mass is, and mass alone. But in the case of the mind many causal factors are at work simultaneously.

[3] This way of looking at things does make the denial of psychophysical laws seem unsurprising and rather banal, not bold and exciting (as it perhaps seemed to Davidson—and to my earlier self). Still, it has the advantage of being demonstrably true (Davidson always admitted that his arguments against psychophysical laws were less than conclusive). Strict covering laws are the exception rather than the rule in the universe as we have it.

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Refuting the Identity Theory

Refuting the Identity Theory

Suppose someone were to make an outrageous identity claim—say, that Donald Trump is identical to Barack Obama. It would be easy to refute that by pointing out that the two men are to be found in different places, so cannot be the same man—following the principle (beloved of detectives) that one person can’t be in two places at the same time. It is not so easy to refute it by asserting that Obama and Trump look different, sound different, and have a different educational history, because that leaves it open for the identity claimer to say that one person can disguise himself and appear as if two people (Superman and Clark Kent, for example). One person can have two modes of presentation but not two locations. The same point applies to two events: if someone claims that the explosion was the same event as the fireworks display, you can refute this by pointing out that the events occurred two miles apart—though it isn’t so easy to argue that the appearances were of different events. Such identity claims are vulnerable to what we might call the “location argument” (as opposed to the “appearance argument”). They are thus falsifiable by recourse to location. However, in the case of the mind-brain identity theory this recourse is not available, because the mental event has no identifiable location: you can’t point to it in space and observe that its location differs from that of its correlate in the brain. If someone says C-fibers are identical to D-fibers, you can point to the D-fibers and observe that they are not where the C-fibers are, thus refuting the identity claim. But you can’t do that with pain: it has no identifiable location. So, the primary method for falsifying identity claims about empirical particulars is not available. You are left weakly protesting that pains don’t appear like states of the brain—to which the identity theorist will retort that one thing can have two appearances (though not two locations). This gives the identity theorist an unfair dialectical advantage: no matter how preposterous his claim is he cannot be refuted in the standard fashion. Even if the pain exists in a separate immaterial substance, you cannot demonstrate this by pointing to its different location. Not because it has the same location as the brain state but because it has no location, or none that can be pointed out. It is simply in the nature of the case that it lacks a distinct observable location, not because the identity theory is true. One suspects that identity theorists have got a good deal of mileage from that fact: they can complacently point out that no one has ever refuted their claim in the only way it can be, conclusively anyway. But this is nothing to their credit, since it follows equally from the dualist perspective: the pain could be as ontologically distinct from its neural correlate as you could wish and still not be capable of being located elsewhere. The location argument thus can’t be used against the identity theorist, but not because there is any truth in his position. Once this is recognized we can lean more heavily on such arguments as that pains and brain states seem very different, or that you can know all about the latter and not know about the former, or that in some possible worlds there are pains and no C-fibers. It shouldn’t worry you that you can’t falsify the identity claim in the canonical way.[1] It should worry the identity theorist that he can’t locate pains in space at all, independently of the truth of his identity claim. The case is not like a single mountain seen from different perspectives.

[1] If it turned out (per impossibile) that your pains exist in the back of your closet, you would have a cast-iron proof that they cannot be brain states (no sign of your brain in there); and then it would be perfectly clear why pains and brain states should have such different appearances—they are totally distinct entities. You might then wonder about the properties of your closet—does it have a peculiar aura of subjectivity about it?

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On Drumming

On Drumming

My thesis is that all playing of musical instruments is drumming. Drumming is what they all have in common, what constitutes their underlying real essence. It might be thought that this cannot be right, because drums are a rhythm instrument and other instruments are used to produce melody. But actually, drums also produce melody in that they have different tones or pitches (drums proper as well as cymbals). Without these tonal differences a drum set would be a poor musical instrument (monotonous, boring). The pitches succeed each other musically and can be superimposed to produce chords. And clearly, we can envisage drum sets that are more tonally designed, with each drum tuned to a specific note and melodies played by striking these drums. There is nothing atonal about drums and drumming. A good drummer (especially a jazz drummer) will use pitch and timbre differences to accentuate and enliven his or her playing. But how can other instruments be forms of drumming? Consider first the xylophone: it is very similar to a set of drums and clearly the act of striking the plates is a type of drumming. The OED gives us the following for “drum” (verb): “beat or play (as) on a drum; make a continuous noise by rapidly repeated blows”. For “drum” (noun) we get: “a percussion instrument sounded by being struck with sticks or the hands”. These definitions fit the xylophone perfectly—and you just have to look at a xylophone player to see the similarity to paradigm drummers. A device (“stick”) is used to strike or tap or otherwise impact a surface that responds by making a particular sound the purpose of which is to produce music. There would be no essential difference if the plates were replaced by drums. True, we don’t call xylophone players drummers, but that is because such a description would be misleading for conversational implicature reasons; however, it is literally true that they employ drumming motions in playing their instrument. Now the piano: the hands are brought down on the keys which then produce notes by way of the instrument’s mechanism. The fingers work percussively (OED: “the action of playing a musical instrument by striking or shaking it”). The pianist is a species of drummer: he hits keys that produce sounds in response. You might say that he also touches or depresses keys, but remember that drummers sometimes use brushes not sticks—it’s not all vigorous banging. And some pianists are highly percussive (e.g., Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard). What about stringed instruments, which may be picked, plucked or bowed? Well, they too are operated by means of percussive actions, more or less vigorous (think of Pete Townsend’s slamming chords). Again, we have a striking action performed on a responsive medium—but a string not a membrane (the drum head or skin). It would be possible to stretch a string over a drum head and pluck it so as to make it strike the drum; that would still be a type of drumming.[1] So, playing guitar, say, qualifies as a form of drumming, as does violin playing. The interior of the instrument (resonance chamber) resembles the interior of a drum, and the action of playing it is like striking (or brushing) the skin of the drum (you can drum your fingers on a table, remember). There is no reason of principle why you couldn’t bow the head of a drum; to be a drummer it is not necessary to drum—you can also scrape, stroke, and palpate. You could be a drummer and never actually drum, or use a drum for that matter. So, logically, pianists and guitarists could be drummers without using drums or even drumming. Still, I prefer the strong and simple thesis that all instrumentalists are drummers, all instruments are drums, and all playing on instruments is drumming. Any oddity in these propositions arises from conversational implicature; logically, drumming is the rule, the universal. Drumming is the underlying essence of all these activities; it is the natural kind that subsumes them. But surely (you protest) wind instruments are not drums and playing them is not drumming—there is no use of hands or feet! By now my response to this will be predictable: first, the hands and fingers are used in depressing the pistons or blocking the holes; but second, air is forcibly expelled into the instrument causing it to vibrate and respond with a particular sound. Drums could be played this way too: a burst of air could be directed at the drum head and a sound elicited. We have a physical (mechanical) stimulus and a musical response—an impact producing a sound in the course of making music. What if the trumpet player were to produce a series of sharp bursts of air that impact the reed and produce rhythmic sounds—wouldn’t that be very like playing the drums? It might even be synchronized with the drummer; the trumpeter has joined the rhythm section. Bass players and rhythm guitarists are already there, striking strings. Finally, the voice: again, this is not difficult to slot into place—the singer drums (percusses) by propelling air into the vocal cords (really vocal membrane) and producing musical sounds. We are familiar with beat-box voicing—imitating the sound of drums with the mouth—so it is not much of a stretch to include ordinary singing in our natural kind. Singing is a variety of percussion—one thing hitting another to produce musical sounds. Tap dancing is also a type of drumming and may be used musically; singing is really not all that different—vocal tapping (using the larynx to produce music by physical impacts). So, all music-making is really drumming: this is its hidden architecture, its compositional make-up, its basic anatomy. There is a continuum from regular drums through xylophone, piano, violin and guitar, wind instruments, and voice—with no natural break or division. Probably drums are the oldest of these instruments, and most primordial, but other instruments build on the same basic idea.[2] That is why it is natural to pick drums out as paradigmatic, but really, we have a family of instruments all united by a common principle—by the mechanism of percussion. We hit things to make sounds and then we string these sounds together to create rhythm and melody. All music is drumming refined and extended. The drummer is the progenitor of all music. Ringo Starr was well-named: he made the Beatles possible.[3]

[1] The snare drum consists of a bunch of wires stretched tight over the reverse side of the drum, so the snare is stringed in much the same way a guitar is.

[2] I suspect that football (soccer) plays a similar role in the genesis of other sports: all other sports are variations on it or developments of it. Don’t say that football isn’t played with the hands, as many other sports are. First, football is partly played with the hands (throw-ins, goalkeeper); and second, the feet are always involved in hand-centered sports, because players have to run around. The basic form of sports consists of an object (often a ball) that is moved around in a competitive activity. Kicking a ball is one of the first sporting activities kids learn. But I won’t go into this further.

[3] Does it surprise you to learn that I was originally a drummer who moved onto guitar, harmonica, and voice? I always kept my love of drums, however. I believe that drumming is a basic human need. Drummers don’t get the respect they deserve. Drummers are close to the World Spirit (as I’m sure Charlie, Keith, and Ringo would agree, all singular figures). Drummers are cool.

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