First of all it is important to keep in mind my initial disambiguation of intentional states and phenomenal states. It is already established that intentional states, since they are supervenient on physical states, can only be categorized operationally. Phenomenal states, as the friend of qualia has characterized them, cannot be categorized operationally (since they are beyond the reach of language). Of course an android could distinguish color surfaces without recourse to qualitative experience. We don’t think that there is “something that it’s like” for welder-directing robots in automobile factories to locate the seams with lasers. So when we are told that we can conceive of zombies it must be that we are meant to be conceiving of beings that are physically identical to humans but have no conscious experience. That functional descriptions can supervene on multiple physical descriptions has no bearing on the ontological status of qualia at all. I will make two arguments that are variations on the larger set of arguments presented here. First that the zombie counterfactual assumes something that it purports to show, and second that the zombie argument is an example of skepticism and is vulnerable to some counter-skeptical arguments.
The zombie counterfactual turns out to be question-begging: the friend of qualia has included qualia-body dualism as one of the premises. The claim is that we can conceive of beings that are physically identical to humans but that do not have immaterial phenomenal mental properties, unlike, presumably, the actual humans. To see this, try the same thought experiment only with the initial assumption (the most reasonable one, on the principle of parsimony) that qualitative experience will ultimately be explicable in wholly physical terms (that is, assume materialism as the default metaphysical position). The thought experiment now looks strikingly different.
Now (assuming materialism to be axiomatic, instead of dualism) the zombie argument is not question-begging: our initial assumption is that both the “blueness” of the surface of the plastic chair and the “blueness” of the phenomenal experience of the surface of the plastic chair are qualities had by virtue of the physical properties of the perceived chair and the perceiving body respectively. Now try this assertion on for size: “I can conceive of the plastic chair as having the identical physical properties that it now has (including its light-absorbing and –reflecting properties) but not having any color at all.” This is definitely inconceivable. When I try to conceive of an object with no color I for one try to imagine that the objects are transparent - I’m not sure if that counts as an object that has no color but it’s the best I can do. I cannot conceive of a physical object that is physically identical to an object that is colored but that has no color. This is just an application of the argument that to the extent that what I know, I know through “experience,” it makes no sense to draw a distinction between the phenomenal and the physical.
A second line of argument is suggested by the way Wittgenstein’s linguistic arguments can be deployed against skepticism. “Philosophical skepticism” is any argument to the effect that you don’t know something that you’re certain that you do know. Modern skepticism is closely connected to rationalism: Descartes thought that logical proof was the paradigm of “knowledge,” and it turned out, perhaps unsurprisingly, that by that standard we know very little. “The Problem of Other Minds” is a skeptical argument: you’re certain that other people have experiences and thoughts like yours but it seems that you can’t prove it. The Zombie problem is a variant on the problem of other minds: can’t you just see that other people are conscious? What would it be to doubt this? If the Zombie argument is an example of skepticism then we should be able to extend Wittgenstein’s treatment of skepticism to the Zombie argument.
A famous back-and-forth between Wittgenstein and G. E. Moore is good for illuminating this. In his essay “Proof of an External World” (1939) and elsewhere Moore is arguing in much the same philosophical spirit as Wittgenstein (they both think that skepticism is a pseudo-problem with roots in a faulty understanding of language), but Wittgenstein’s remarks on Moore’s arguments (included in On Certainty) make a crucial difference clear. Moore, presaging the “Ordinary Language” movement, wanted to show that “common sense,” by which he meant, roughly, ordinary talking and thinking about our physical selves in our physical world, was better defended with reasons than the speculative bases of skepticism and the “idealism” (really a kind of phenomenalism) still powerful in English philosophy at the beginning of the 20th century. Moore thought that our perceptions of our own bodies in the environment were instances – paradigmatic instances - of knowledge, not belief. Holding up his hand he would say, “I know I have a hand.” From the plain fact that I know I have a hand there arises similar knowledge of, ultimately, the external world: the keyboard is a reason for (believing in) the hand, the hand is a reason for the keyboard; the desk is a reason for them both and so on.
Wittgenstein’s response to skepticism is altogether different. Drawing on his premise that language must have operational criteria for determining appropriate conditions of use, Wittgenstein challenges the skeptic’s use of the verb “to know.” Take an ordinary (non-philosophical) instance of using that verb: “Do you know where your keys are?” The question makes sense because one might know or might not know, and “knowing” can be defined operationally: one can put one’s hands on one’s keys or one cannot. The question, “Do you know that the external world exists?” has no criterion for use: nothing could count as demonstrating that the external world either does or does not exist. That is, we neither “know” nor do we “not know” that the external world exists. The word “knowledge” has no place here. Where Moore proposed a kind of normative epistemology that would, if accepted, constitute an argument for the existence of the external world, Wittgenstein denies that there could be any argument one way or the other: Moore has taken the bait and tried to play a game that can’t be played.
Here we can see Wittgenstein’s “soft” arguments about language and his “hard” argument called “solipsism” come together. It is important also to see that Wittgenstein is much closer to Hume than Moore is. Hume (like Berkeley) stresses that the assertion that the external world “exists” is just as untenable as the assertion that it might not. Both sides of the disjunction are nonsense, if either side is.
The problem of other minds is exposed to the same treatment as a pseudo-problem. PI 246:
In what sense are my sensations private? – Well, only I can know whether I am really in pain; another person can only surmise it. – In one way this is wrong, and in another nonsense. If we are using the word “to know” as it is normally used (and how else are we to use it?), then other people very often know when I am in pain. – Yes, but all the same not with the certainty with which I know it myself! – It can’t be said of me at all (except perhaps as a joke) that I know I am in pain. What is it supposed to mean – except perhaps that I am in pain?
Other people cannot be said to learn of my sensations only from my behavior, - for I cannot be said to learn of them. I have them.
The truth is: it makes sense to say about other people that they doubt whether I am in pain; but not to say it about myself.
If I say “I know he’s conscious” and you challenge me by excluding all operational criteria from counting as justification for my claim, all you will do is change the ordinary meaning of the (public) word “conscious.” But then I’ll just have to start using another word for the same purpose, because what I have to say will remain exactly the same. PI 403:
If I were to reserve the word “pain” solely for what I had hitherto called “my pain”, and others “L. W.’s pain”, I should do other people no injustice, so long as a notation were provided in which the loss of the word “pain” in other connexions were somehow supplied. Other people would still be pitied, treated by doctors and so on. It would, of course, be no objection to this mode of expression to say: “But look here, other people have just the same as you!”
But what should I gain from this new kind of account? Nothing. But after all neither does the solipsist want any practical advantage when he advances his view!
As for “consciousness,” its meaning will now be anything you care to stipulate – in other words nothing - since you’ve stipulated that one can’t hear, see, smell, taste or touch anything that could even possibly indicate its presence: much like the word “god.” Thinking about the semantics of the word “god” brings us back to the first argument about the question-begging nature of the Zombie counterfactual. If the claim is that an operational theory of mind such as functionalism, specifically, has a problem with qualia, it must at least be a tacit assumption that there could be some non-operational theory of mind (a traditional one? a popular one? a philosophical one?) that does not: one that actually incorporates information about “what it’s like” into psychological descriptions and explanations. But there is no theory of mind like that, and if the arguments rehearsed in this chapter are correct there cannot be one.
Even after all of this, though, Nagel’s point still stands: there is “something that it’s like” for me to have a qualitative experience, and mine might very well be different from a Martian’s, or a dog’s or even yours. Although language cannot express these “qualia,” much less produce coherent claims that they are “properties” distinct from physical properties, our progress here has not been wholly destructive. I am now in a position to say a few things, after all, about the metaphysics of phenomenal experience.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Turning the Inverted Spectrum on its Head
The inverted spectrum argument is first found (remarkably full-blown) in Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding (II, xxxii,15, “Of True and False Ideas”):
"Neither would it carry any Imputation of Falshood to our simple Ideas, if by the different Structure of our Organs, it were so ordered, That the same Object should produce in several Men's Minds different Ideas at the same time; v.g. if the Idea, that a Violet produced in one Man's Mind by his Eyes, were the same that a Marigold produces in another Man's, and vice versâ. For since this could never be known: because one Man's Mind could not pass into another Man's Body, to perceive, what Appearances were produced by those Organs; neither the Ideas hereby, nor the Names, would be at all confounded, or any Falshood be in either. For all Things, that had the Texture of a Violet, producing constantly the Idea, which he called Blue, and those that had the Texture of a Marigold, producing constantly the Idea, which he as constantly called Yellow, whatever those Appearances were in his Mind; he would be able as regularly to distinguish Things for his Use by those Appearances, and understand, and signify those distinctions, marked by the Names Blue and Yellow, as if the Appearances, or Ideas in his Mind, received from those two Flowers, were exactly the same, with the Ideas in other Men's Minds."
Locke composed this counterfactual as part of his effort to show that “tertiary” properties (the properties of mental “ideas”) were different from secondary (the causal properties of the object of perception to cause ideas) and primary (the physical properties of the objects themselves). This was the property dualism repudiated by Berkeley and Hume. In the 20th century the inverted spectrum has had a strong career as a demonstration of the failure of functionalism to handle qualitative properties and, more to the point, as a supposed demonstration that there are such properties (in substance this is very much the same as Locke’s original application).
Imagine someone whose color spectrum was inverted (the “invert”): where normal people saw red, the invert saw blue, where blue, red. Such a person, raised among normal, English-speaking people, would be functionally indistinguishable from anyone else: asked to go out to the car and get the blue bag, say, they would perform this task exactly as anyone else would. Neither they nor anyone else would have any way of knowing that the invert’s experience of seeing the blue surface of the bag was the same experience that everyone else had when they saw a red surface, since the invert, like everyone else, would refer to such a surface as "blue." Since the invert would be functionally identical to a normal person, a functionalist is committed to the position that there is nothing different about their mental state. But (the argument goes) of course there is something different about their mental state: the quale, or phenomenal quality of the experience, is different. Thus functionalism is false.
Wittgenstein argues that the absent qualia argument demonstrates just the opposite of what the friend of qualia claims: since it is not even in principle possible for public language (the only kind of language there is) to pick out private sensations, phenomenal properties are not a problem for operationalist approaches. No theory of mind (or science of mind or description of mind) will ever include any actual discussion of the specific quality of any specific private sensations, because they cannot be discussed. As for the alleged discussion of phenomenal experience we find in philosophy, this is an instance of confusing mention with use - just as one can mention “all sentences that have never been expressed,” but cannot cite one. Outside of (misguided) philosophical conversation there is no context for use of indexically subjective language such as “blue-for-me” as opposed to the intersubjective “blue” which, like all words, necessarily has public criteria for appropriate contexts of use. This is why even the very best of the phenomenologists (Husserl, Merleau-Ponty) never seem to get beyond a sort of “Prolegomena to Some Future Actual Practice of Phenomenology”: after the manifesto there is nothing more that can be said.
So far this is a version of what I am calling the soft argument: the argument is about language, not about the ontological furniture of the world. It has conclusions that perhaps all non-philosophers would find definitive. Qualia do not constitute any sort of obstacle to the naturalization of psychology from the point of view of the scientist because science never could be expected to go beyond the limits imposed on language by its public nature in the first place. Nor is there anything inadequate about our ordinary, colloquial speech about qualitative experience (about, that is, the flavor of the sauce or the hue of the sunset), notwithstanding our individuality, for the same reason. But what about that ontological furniture?
The metaphysical argument will be about the identification of consciousness with experience. The Kantian will say (confining ourselves to the terms of the present discussion) that consciousness is a necessary precondition for the possibility of experience, hence not identical to it. This argument might gain some traction if we concede to the Kantian the point that “experiencing” an object entails bringing the object under a concept (although see the discussion of Kant in Chapter Two), but that very distinction between sensation and perception in the case of objects itself entails that sensation (phenomenal experience) is something prior to the formation of a Kantian “representation.” (If the reader is thinking of Aristotle’s nous at this point I beg your indulgence until Chapter Four.)
I have been using the word “consciousness” as synonymous with phenomenal experience, but the word is also sometimes used in regard to intentional states. Used in its intentional sense, to be “conscious” of an object is, on the traditional view, to form a representation of it or, on the view that I advocate, to be in some sort of relationship to it. But it is incoherent to say that to be conscious of pain, say, is to form a representation of pain or to be in a relationship to pain. In its phenomenal sense the word “consciousness” just refers to the sum of phenomenal experience: pain is a constituent of consciousness, not one of its objects. I may be intentionally conscious of pain at some higher level of psychological organization (one that can be picked out with operational criteria), but it makes no sense to say that I have to form a representation of pain or be in a relationship to pain to have an experience of pain.
The same is true for color qualia or for any qualitative experience. Kripke famously pointed out that the word “pain” just refers to the sensation of pain. “Blue,” in its phenomenal sense, just refers to the sensation of blue. It is one of the components of experience, not some object of experience. Experience is qualia; qualia are experience. So (to get back to the supposed metaphysical implications of the inverted spectrum) it makes no sense to say that experience has properties. Only the objects of experience have properties.
Where this leaves us is at the point of distinction between Frank Jackson’s “What Mary Didn’t Know” essay and Thomas Nagel’s equally famous essay “What is it Like to Be a Bat?” In that article Nagel makes an argument very close to but not identical to Jackson’s. No matter how much we come to know (physiologically) about the echolocation organ of the bat, Nagel argues, we will never know “what it is like” to experience the world in the way the bat does. The difference between Nagel and Jackson is that, granting the present argument that (qualitative) experience itself has no properties, experience itself does not constitute any sort of information (experience is rather the ground of information). We can concede that different conscious beings have different experiences without conceding that this entails any ontological implications.
Some writers have argued that the invert cannot, in fact, be conceived (Douglas Hofstadter holds this view, for example). I do not take that position. Since I do not see how to refute the Wittgenstein/Buddhism non-duality version of “solipsism,” I have no motive to try to prove that we do, in fact, grasp the qualitative nature of the experiences of others. Even if we could do so we could not express this “grasp” linguistically. However there is a different application of the “absent qualia” argument, one that holds that we can conceive of beings functionally (“behaviorally” is a more appropriate word here) equivalent to humans that have no qualitative experiences: “zombies.” David Chalmers’ entire argument for qualia-matter dualism hangs on this claim. I do not believe that we can “conceive” of any such thing.
"Neither would it carry any Imputation of Falshood to our simple Ideas, if by the different Structure of our Organs, it were so ordered, That the same Object should produce in several Men's Minds different Ideas at the same time; v.g. if the Idea, that a Violet produced in one Man's Mind by his Eyes, were the same that a Marigold produces in another Man's, and vice versâ. For since this could never be known: because one Man's Mind could not pass into another Man's Body, to perceive, what Appearances were produced by those Organs; neither the Ideas hereby, nor the Names, would be at all confounded, or any Falshood be in either. For all Things, that had the Texture of a Violet, producing constantly the Idea, which he called Blue, and those that had the Texture of a Marigold, producing constantly the Idea, which he as constantly called Yellow, whatever those Appearances were in his Mind; he would be able as regularly to distinguish Things for his Use by those Appearances, and understand, and signify those distinctions, marked by the Names Blue and Yellow, as if the Appearances, or Ideas in his Mind, received from those two Flowers, were exactly the same, with the Ideas in other Men's Minds."
Locke composed this counterfactual as part of his effort to show that “tertiary” properties (the properties of mental “ideas”) were different from secondary (the causal properties of the object of perception to cause ideas) and primary (the physical properties of the objects themselves). This was the property dualism repudiated by Berkeley and Hume. In the 20th century the inverted spectrum has had a strong career as a demonstration of the failure of functionalism to handle qualitative properties and, more to the point, as a supposed demonstration that there are such properties (in substance this is very much the same as Locke’s original application).
Imagine someone whose color spectrum was inverted (the “invert”): where normal people saw red, the invert saw blue, where blue, red. Such a person, raised among normal, English-speaking people, would be functionally indistinguishable from anyone else: asked to go out to the car and get the blue bag, say, they would perform this task exactly as anyone else would. Neither they nor anyone else would have any way of knowing that the invert’s experience of seeing the blue surface of the bag was the same experience that everyone else had when they saw a red surface, since the invert, like everyone else, would refer to such a surface as "blue." Since the invert would be functionally identical to a normal person, a functionalist is committed to the position that there is nothing different about their mental state. But (the argument goes) of course there is something different about their mental state: the quale, or phenomenal quality of the experience, is different. Thus functionalism is false.
Wittgenstein argues that the absent qualia argument demonstrates just the opposite of what the friend of qualia claims: since it is not even in principle possible for public language (the only kind of language there is) to pick out private sensations, phenomenal properties are not a problem for operationalist approaches. No theory of mind (or science of mind or description of mind) will ever include any actual discussion of the specific quality of any specific private sensations, because they cannot be discussed. As for the alleged discussion of phenomenal experience we find in philosophy, this is an instance of confusing mention with use - just as one can mention “all sentences that have never been expressed,” but cannot cite one. Outside of (misguided) philosophical conversation there is no context for use of indexically subjective language such as “blue-for-me” as opposed to the intersubjective “blue” which, like all words, necessarily has public criteria for appropriate contexts of use. This is why even the very best of the phenomenologists (Husserl, Merleau-Ponty) never seem to get beyond a sort of “Prolegomena to Some Future Actual Practice of Phenomenology”: after the manifesto there is nothing more that can be said.
So far this is a version of what I am calling the soft argument: the argument is about language, not about the ontological furniture of the world. It has conclusions that perhaps all non-philosophers would find definitive. Qualia do not constitute any sort of obstacle to the naturalization of psychology from the point of view of the scientist because science never could be expected to go beyond the limits imposed on language by its public nature in the first place. Nor is there anything inadequate about our ordinary, colloquial speech about qualitative experience (about, that is, the flavor of the sauce or the hue of the sunset), notwithstanding our individuality, for the same reason. But what about that ontological furniture?
The metaphysical argument will be about the identification of consciousness with experience. The Kantian will say (confining ourselves to the terms of the present discussion) that consciousness is a necessary precondition for the possibility of experience, hence not identical to it. This argument might gain some traction if we concede to the Kantian the point that “experiencing” an object entails bringing the object under a concept (although see the discussion of Kant in Chapter Two), but that very distinction between sensation and perception in the case of objects itself entails that sensation (phenomenal experience) is something prior to the formation of a Kantian “representation.” (If the reader is thinking of Aristotle’s nous at this point I beg your indulgence until Chapter Four.)
I have been using the word “consciousness” as synonymous with phenomenal experience, but the word is also sometimes used in regard to intentional states. Used in its intentional sense, to be “conscious” of an object is, on the traditional view, to form a representation of it or, on the view that I advocate, to be in some sort of relationship to it. But it is incoherent to say that to be conscious of pain, say, is to form a representation of pain or to be in a relationship to pain. In its phenomenal sense the word “consciousness” just refers to the sum of phenomenal experience: pain is a constituent of consciousness, not one of its objects. I may be intentionally conscious of pain at some higher level of psychological organization (one that can be picked out with operational criteria), but it makes no sense to say that I have to form a representation of pain or be in a relationship to pain to have an experience of pain.
The same is true for color qualia or for any qualitative experience. Kripke famously pointed out that the word “pain” just refers to the sensation of pain. “Blue,” in its phenomenal sense, just refers to the sensation of blue. It is one of the components of experience, not some object of experience. Experience is qualia; qualia are experience. So (to get back to the supposed metaphysical implications of the inverted spectrum) it makes no sense to say that experience has properties. Only the objects of experience have properties.
Where this leaves us is at the point of distinction between Frank Jackson’s “What Mary Didn’t Know” essay and Thomas Nagel’s equally famous essay “What is it Like to Be a Bat?” In that article Nagel makes an argument very close to but not identical to Jackson’s. No matter how much we come to know (physiologically) about the echolocation organ of the bat, Nagel argues, we will never know “what it is like” to experience the world in the way the bat does. The difference between Nagel and Jackson is that, granting the present argument that (qualitative) experience itself has no properties, experience itself does not constitute any sort of information (experience is rather the ground of information). We can concede that different conscious beings have different experiences without conceding that this entails any ontological implications.
Some writers have argued that the invert cannot, in fact, be conceived (Douglas Hofstadter holds this view, for example). I do not take that position. Since I do not see how to refute the Wittgenstein/Buddhism non-duality version of “solipsism,” I have no motive to try to prove that we do, in fact, grasp the qualitative nature of the experiences of others. Even if we could do so we could not express this “grasp” linguistically. However there is a different application of the “absent qualia” argument, one that holds that we can conceive of beings functionally (“behaviorally” is a more appropriate word here) equivalent to humans that have no qualitative experiences: “zombies.” David Chalmers’ entire argument for qualia-matter dualism hangs on this claim. I do not believe that we can “conceive” of any such thing.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Buddhism and Qualia
“Buddhism” is the name of an ancient tradition (with roots in the older Hindu tradition) that includes both philosophical and spiritual ideas and practices. After 2,500 years it is no surprise to find that classical Indian and Chinese philosophy, including Hindu and Buddhist philosophy, encompass a gamut of positions at least as diverse as those found in the European philosophical tradition. There are, in the philosophical senses of the terms, materialist Buddhists and idealist Buddhists, foundationalist Buddhists and relativist Buddhists. By titling this section “Buddhism” I do not mean to suggest that the arguments discussed here are characteristic of all of Buddhist thought. However these particular arguments do constitute a persistent and venerable thread and I will discuss several different sources. These arguments have roots in some of the most basic elements of Buddhist teaching. While I have chosen to concentrate on the Mahayana tradition that is not meant to suggest that other traditions and schools may not include similar arguments.
There is a complex mix of philosophical, psychological, spiritual and social motivations informing the life of Siddhartha Guatama and his ultimate focus on the nature of the self. The severe caste structure of Indian Hindu society was tightly tied to traditional Hindu concepts of karma and reincarnation. Souls rose and fell over the course of thousands of lifetimes, and humans were low on the scale of karmic life: overall the effect was fatalistic and conservative. At the same time the sixth century BC in India was a period of transformation when a vernacular Sanskrit brought cultural upheavals that included the beginnings of the Epic Hindu literature and the flowering of diverse Hindu sects, Jainism and other movements besides Buddhism.
The basic Buddha Dharma is the most well-known piece of Buddhist philosophy. These are the “Four Noble Truths”: All life is suffering (“duhkha”), says the Buddha; we suffer because we are caught in a cycle of sensual satisfaction and craving; this suffering can be alleviated and even brought to an end altogether; and the “Eightfold Path” of right attitudes and practices will lead to the cessation of suffering. From this starting point Buddhism developed, among other things, a philosophical tradition with a sustained interest in the nature of consciousness, experience and the relationship between the self and the world. The idea that the “ego”-self, the self that arises through the cycle of duhkha, is the encumbrance that the “bodhisattva,” or enlightened self, needs to lose in order to achieve nirvana is prominent in the earliest teachings attributed to Siddhartha.
It is a somewhat dangerous business bringing a discussion of Buddhism into a book focused on contemporary philosophy of mind. I want to stick closely to the line of argument that has brought us to this relatively exotic territory. The overall claim is that the metaphysical problem of the alleged existence of phenomenal properties as distinct from physical properties is a pseudoproblem. I have presented arguments of Hume and Wittgenstein that I think are persuasive versions of this claim. In the case of Wittgenstein I argue that the “solipsism” argument common to the early and late works entails that phenomenal properties do not exist (are not part of this world). The view that the self is “emptiness,” and that the overcoming of the duality between the self and the world constitutes nirvana (enlightenment) is extremely similar, if not identical, to Wittgenstein’s solipsism argument. I will describe the Mahayana version of the argument and then present some textual evidence for my interpretation from classical sources.
The earlier Abhidharma School taught that “dharmas” were individual, autonomous atoms of experience; something akin to Leibniz’s infinity of monads. This is idealist ontology: primary being was dharma which was understood as consciousness (more or less: the bulk of Abhidharma metaphysics consists of discussions of just what “dharma” is after all). Although the arising ego-self, on this view, dissolves into infinitude of discrete dharmas, these dharmas are constitutive of the world. Mahayana Buddhism attempted to go further and collapse the duality between the mental and the non-mental: a kind of ultimate erasure of the self from the world that resulted in freedom from the bonds of the karmic cycle, the traditional goal of both Hinduism and Buddhism. Their formula was
MIND = EXPERIENCE = WORLD
One must resist the Cartesian instinct to interpret this formula as stating that the world collapses into the mind (as it does on the idealist view). The idea is that each consciousness is a universe. That universe at the middle of which you are sitting is you: it/you came into existence when it/you became conscious. When you pass away the universe you inhabit will pass away: for that universe is you. This is a line that could be defended by Hume: he might point out, for example, that if all any talk about “the world” could possibly be referring to is experience, then it makes no sense to refer to “a world” beyond experience, and thus it is incoherent to speak of a common world for all of the “microcosms” – a pseudoproblem.
An account of nirvana as the realization of the non-duality of mind and world can be found in Mahayana Buddhism and its descendents. The Prajna-paramita, or Wisdom Sutra, was traditionally taken to be the word of the Buddha, but scholars trace its origins to the first century AD and it appears that it was composed over the next several centuries. In a chapter titled “Mara” (a malevolent deity who lays traps for spiritual seekers), we find:
Subhuti: Is it then possible to write down the perfection of wisdom?
The Lord: No, Subhuti. And why? Because the own-being of the perfection of wisdom does not exist, nor that of the other perfections, the emptinesses, the Buddhadharmas or all-knowledge. That of which the own-being does not exist, that is nonexistence; what is nonexistence cannot be written down by the nonexistent.
The spiritual goal here is to free the self from the cycle of satisfaction and craving, and that is accomplished by showing that the self is not part of the world (I am not claiming that our present question about phenomenal properties is what Mahayana Buddhism is all about!). The Wisdom Sutra emphasizes the nonexistence of “own-being,” the being of oneself in one’s world. I chose this passage because the topic is language, and the message conforms to Wittgenstein’s treatment of the alleged problem that arises when we think of phenomenal language, say the word “blue,” as referring to something internal (mental) versus external (physical). Here the predicate “exists” is understood as meaning “exists in this world,” the world of experience: but the experiencing subject is not in this world. This also conforms to Hume’s argument that it makes as little sense to speak of the physical as distinct from the mental as it does to speak of the mental as distinct from the physical. Both sides of the distinction drop away simultaneously.
In the chapter titled “The Exposition of the Nonexistence of Own-Being” the point is more explicit that karma (one’s involvement with duhkha, the cycle of satisfaction and craving) is based on “own-being” and “own-marks,” worldly characteristics of persons. “Dharma” means something in the area of “consciousness,” “self” or “view.”
Subhuti: If, however, these dharmas are empty of own-marks, how can with regard to dharmas which are empty of own-marks a difference or distinction be apprehended (to the effect that one says) “this one is a being of the hells, this one an animal,…this one a god, this one a human….” And as these persons cannot be apprehended, so likewise their karma or its karma result.
The Lord: So it is, Subhuti, so it is, as you say. In respect of dharmas which are empty of own-marks no karma or karma result can be apprehended....But when those too ignorant to cognize dharmas as empty of own-marks manufacture a karma…then, through badly done karma they are hurled into the three states of woe, through what is well done they are reborn among gods and men….Here the Bodhisattva, who courses in perfect wisdom, does not see those dharmas in such a way that, when seeing them, he apprehends any dharma whatever. Not apprehending them he sees that “all dharmas are empty.”
Hundreds of years later and thousands of miles away Eihei Dogen (1200-1253), the classic avatar of Japanese Zen Buddhism, had refined the teaching of the non-duality of mind and world into a meditation practice (“zazen”) and a literary genre (“koan”) that were more minimalist and practice-oriented than the ritual-encrusted, syncretic and generally more baroque Sanskrit and Tibetan traditions, although like Tibetan Tantric Buddhism, Zen and Chinese/Japanese Buddhism in general are descendants of the Mahayana tradition. In his Shobogenzo (“Treasury of the True Dharma Eye”) the solipsistic view has crystallized considerably. Here are quotations from the section “Actualizing the Fundamental Point” (written around 1230):
As all things are buddha-dharma, there is delusion and realization, practice, and birth and death, and there are buddhas and sentient beings.
As the myriad things are without an abiding self, there is no delusion, no realization, no buddha, no sentient being, no birth and death.
The buddha way is, basically, leaping clear of the many and the one.
To carry yourself forward and experience myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and experience themselves is awakening.
When you see forms or hear sounds fully engaging body-and-mind, you grasp things directly.
To study the buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the body and mind of others drop away.
Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.
When the fundamental truth of mind=experience=world is realized things are grasped directly. The idea that there are qualitative experiences that are distinct from the objects of experience reflects the same Cartesian duality of mind and world that underlies representational theories of mind; the Buddhist aim in criticizing this duality as a misconception is essentially spiritual. The Wittgensteinian position is clearly echoed in the Zenrin kushu, a 15th century Zen text, which describes consciousness as “Like a sword that cuts, but cannot cut itself; Like an eye that sees, but cannot see itself”: what is constitutive of the experienced world cannot be considered as part of, or as in, that world.
There is a complex mix of philosophical, psychological, spiritual and social motivations informing the life of Siddhartha Guatama and his ultimate focus on the nature of the self. The severe caste structure of Indian Hindu society was tightly tied to traditional Hindu concepts of karma and reincarnation. Souls rose and fell over the course of thousands of lifetimes, and humans were low on the scale of karmic life: overall the effect was fatalistic and conservative. At the same time the sixth century BC in India was a period of transformation when a vernacular Sanskrit brought cultural upheavals that included the beginnings of the Epic Hindu literature and the flowering of diverse Hindu sects, Jainism and other movements besides Buddhism.
The basic Buddha Dharma is the most well-known piece of Buddhist philosophy. These are the “Four Noble Truths”: All life is suffering (“duhkha”), says the Buddha; we suffer because we are caught in a cycle of sensual satisfaction and craving; this suffering can be alleviated and even brought to an end altogether; and the “Eightfold Path” of right attitudes and practices will lead to the cessation of suffering. From this starting point Buddhism developed, among other things, a philosophical tradition with a sustained interest in the nature of consciousness, experience and the relationship between the self and the world. The idea that the “ego”-self, the self that arises through the cycle of duhkha, is the encumbrance that the “bodhisattva,” or enlightened self, needs to lose in order to achieve nirvana is prominent in the earliest teachings attributed to Siddhartha.
It is a somewhat dangerous business bringing a discussion of Buddhism into a book focused on contemporary philosophy of mind. I want to stick closely to the line of argument that has brought us to this relatively exotic territory. The overall claim is that the metaphysical problem of the alleged existence of phenomenal properties as distinct from physical properties is a pseudoproblem. I have presented arguments of Hume and Wittgenstein that I think are persuasive versions of this claim. In the case of Wittgenstein I argue that the “solipsism” argument common to the early and late works entails that phenomenal properties do not exist (are not part of this world). The view that the self is “emptiness,” and that the overcoming of the duality between the self and the world constitutes nirvana (enlightenment) is extremely similar, if not identical, to Wittgenstein’s solipsism argument. I will describe the Mahayana version of the argument and then present some textual evidence for my interpretation from classical sources.
The earlier Abhidharma School taught that “dharmas” were individual, autonomous atoms of experience; something akin to Leibniz’s infinity of monads. This is idealist ontology: primary being was dharma which was understood as consciousness (more or less: the bulk of Abhidharma metaphysics consists of discussions of just what “dharma” is after all). Although the arising ego-self, on this view, dissolves into infinitude of discrete dharmas, these dharmas are constitutive of the world. Mahayana Buddhism attempted to go further and collapse the duality between the mental and the non-mental: a kind of ultimate erasure of the self from the world that resulted in freedom from the bonds of the karmic cycle, the traditional goal of both Hinduism and Buddhism. Their formula was
MIND = EXPERIENCE = WORLD
One must resist the Cartesian instinct to interpret this formula as stating that the world collapses into the mind (as it does on the idealist view). The idea is that each consciousness is a universe. That universe at the middle of which you are sitting is you: it/you came into existence when it/you became conscious. When you pass away the universe you inhabit will pass away: for that universe is you. This is a line that could be defended by Hume: he might point out, for example, that if all any talk about “the world” could possibly be referring to is experience, then it makes no sense to refer to “a world” beyond experience, and thus it is incoherent to speak of a common world for all of the “microcosms” – a pseudoproblem.
An account of nirvana as the realization of the non-duality of mind and world can be found in Mahayana Buddhism and its descendents. The Prajna-paramita, or Wisdom Sutra, was traditionally taken to be the word of the Buddha, but scholars trace its origins to the first century AD and it appears that it was composed over the next several centuries. In a chapter titled “Mara” (a malevolent deity who lays traps for spiritual seekers), we find:
Subhuti: Is it then possible to write down the perfection of wisdom?
The Lord: No, Subhuti. And why? Because the own-being of the perfection of wisdom does not exist, nor that of the other perfections, the emptinesses, the Buddhadharmas or all-knowledge. That of which the own-being does not exist, that is nonexistence; what is nonexistence cannot be written down by the nonexistent.
The spiritual goal here is to free the self from the cycle of satisfaction and craving, and that is accomplished by showing that the self is not part of the world (I am not claiming that our present question about phenomenal properties is what Mahayana Buddhism is all about!). The Wisdom Sutra emphasizes the nonexistence of “own-being,” the being of oneself in one’s world. I chose this passage because the topic is language, and the message conforms to Wittgenstein’s treatment of the alleged problem that arises when we think of phenomenal language, say the word “blue,” as referring to something internal (mental) versus external (physical). Here the predicate “exists” is understood as meaning “exists in this world,” the world of experience: but the experiencing subject is not in this world. This also conforms to Hume’s argument that it makes as little sense to speak of the physical as distinct from the mental as it does to speak of the mental as distinct from the physical. Both sides of the distinction drop away simultaneously.
In the chapter titled “The Exposition of the Nonexistence of Own-Being” the point is more explicit that karma (one’s involvement with duhkha, the cycle of satisfaction and craving) is based on “own-being” and “own-marks,” worldly characteristics of persons. “Dharma” means something in the area of “consciousness,” “self” or “view.”
Subhuti: If, however, these dharmas are empty of own-marks, how can with regard to dharmas which are empty of own-marks a difference or distinction be apprehended (to the effect that one says) “this one is a being of the hells, this one an animal,…this one a god, this one a human….” And as these persons cannot be apprehended, so likewise their karma or its karma result.
The Lord: So it is, Subhuti, so it is, as you say. In respect of dharmas which are empty of own-marks no karma or karma result can be apprehended....But when those too ignorant to cognize dharmas as empty of own-marks manufacture a karma…then, through badly done karma they are hurled into the three states of woe, through what is well done they are reborn among gods and men….Here the Bodhisattva, who courses in perfect wisdom, does not see those dharmas in such a way that, when seeing them, he apprehends any dharma whatever. Not apprehending them he sees that “all dharmas are empty.”
Hundreds of years later and thousands of miles away Eihei Dogen (1200-1253), the classic avatar of Japanese Zen Buddhism, had refined the teaching of the non-duality of mind and world into a meditation practice (“zazen”) and a literary genre (“koan”) that were more minimalist and practice-oriented than the ritual-encrusted, syncretic and generally more baroque Sanskrit and Tibetan traditions, although like Tibetan Tantric Buddhism, Zen and Chinese/Japanese Buddhism in general are descendants of the Mahayana tradition. In his Shobogenzo (“Treasury of the True Dharma Eye”) the solipsistic view has crystallized considerably. Here are quotations from the section “Actualizing the Fundamental Point” (written around 1230):
As all things are buddha-dharma, there is delusion and realization, practice, and birth and death, and there are buddhas and sentient beings.
As the myriad things are without an abiding self, there is no delusion, no realization, no buddha, no sentient being, no birth and death.
The buddha way is, basically, leaping clear of the many and the one.
To carry yourself forward and experience myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and experience themselves is awakening.
When you see forms or hear sounds fully engaging body-and-mind, you grasp things directly.
To study the buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the body and mind of others drop away.
Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.
When the fundamental truth of mind=experience=world is realized things are grasped directly. The idea that there are qualitative experiences that are distinct from the objects of experience reflects the same Cartesian duality of mind and world that underlies representational theories of mind; the Buddhist aim in criticizing this duality as a misconception is essentially spiritual. The Wittgensteinian position is clearly echoed in the Zenrin kushu, a 15th century Zen text, which describes consciousness as “Like a sword that cuts, but cannot cut itself; Like an eye that sees, but cannot see itself”: what is constitutive of the experienced world cannot be considered as part of, or as in, that world.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Non-duality as a response to the "hard problem"
The respective ideas of Hume, Wittgenstein and Mahayana Buddhists are interrelated and are characterized by empiricism and naturalism. Not surprisingly the response they invite most prominently is a Kantian one. But Kant deduced that there had to be necessary preconditions for the possibility of representational experience: it was the representation of the world that had to be “conditioned.” None of these thinkers – not even Hume on my reading – defines experience as involving the formation of representations in the first place. Furthermore remember that the subject of this chapter is consciousness, and consciousness is not obviously amenable to a representational “explanation” even for those who are inclined to address intentionality that way. In any event if one balks at, say, the “solipsism” argument I certainly agree that it is a bit breath-taking, but I wouldn’t introduce it here if I knew of an argument that refuted it.
The present set of arguments, that will now be deployed against the “absent qualia” arguments that purport to show that there is a metaphysical problem about phenomenal properties, can all be attributed to some combination of Hume, Wittgenstein and/or Buddhism. The first two arguments are “soft”: they start with two respective points about the nature of language and conclude that private qualitative experience, whatever its ultimate ontological status may be, cannot be the subject of language. This is a soft conclusion because it sets aside the question of whether there really is anything that can coherently be regarded as “inner,” private experience. The remaining arguments are “hard”: they start with the inseparability of mind, experience and world and conclude that it is incoherent to posit the existence of phenomenal properties if these are taken to be mental properties distinct from the physical properties of the experienced world. However although the first two arguments are soft they do, if persuasive, suffice for the naturalization of psychology, because they demonstrate that qualitative experience, whatever that may be, could never have been a subject for natural science, and so is not a problem for natural science.
1) If language needs inter-subjective criteria of appropriate conditions of use then the phenomenal vocabulary, like all language, cannot function in virtue of referring to anything “private” to the individual. This argument is explicit in Wittgenstein, a case can be made that it is implicit in Hume’s verificationist epistemology. It is “soft”: it leaves the ontological status, if any, of qualitative experience alone. It naturalizes psychology the way that classical, early 20th century behaviorism naturalized psychology: an operationalist protocol excludes reference to the “inner” from science, so understood.
2) If the “meaning” of language/symbols is nothing more nor less than everything that has been accomplished through the use of individual, concrete tokens, then the phenomenal vocabulary cannot function by referring to anything private. This is functional-role semantics and it is unique to Wittgenstein among this group (although other philosophers, such as Pragmatists, also develop this sort of operationalist account of language). It is soft; the ontological status of qualia is not addressed directly.
3) If the self is nothing neither more nor less than the experiences of the world by the self, then there can be no duality between the “self” and the “world.” This is Wittgenstein’s “solipsism” argument, first presented at the end of the Tractatus, and the same idea is found in the Mahayana sutras of classical Buddhism and in Zen Buddhism. This is a “hard” argument: on this view the existence of phenomenal properties is denied. It is another argument that seems implicit in Hume, but Hume does give a very explicit argument to the same effect:
4) If experience defines the limit of what can be known, it is absurd to posit a distinction between the “mental” and the “physical.” Hume’s version is quite as hard as #3 because it produces the same conclusion that it makes no sense to speak of either side of the duality of mind and matter: both concepts collapse simultaneously. It is neither materialist nor idealist, but a position of non-duality. This view is shared by Berkeley.
5) Consciousness cannot be located in the world, so consciousness cannot be said to have any properties. This argument follows from #3. It is explicit (and elaborated at great length) in its Buddhist version but also clearly implicit in both Hume and Wittgenstein. It does not follow from this that consciousness cannot be a property. Just what we mean when we predicate consciousness of a thing is what is at question, although I take it as now established that the criteria for predications of consciousness are necessarily operational.
If the most tempting line of rebuttal to all of this is a Kantian one, remember that these arguments are here deployed to show that there are no phenomenal properties. This question about consciousness has been disentangled from the problem of intentionality. The motivations of the three sources of the set of arguments are varied: Hume fills out the radical implications of empiricist epistemology as far as they go; Wittgenstein has a vision about the foundations and limits of logic; and the classical Buddhists appear to take the metaphysical implications of non-duality both literally and seriously. Whatever one makes of these sources (or of my interpretations of them), it is at least fair to say that they place the burden on those who would say that there are phenomenal properties, metaphysically distinct from physical properties, to articulate reasons why anyone should think so.
However the discussion is far from over. Having assembled this set of arguments I now need to apply them to the various “absent qualia” arguments that have been the backbone of the critique of functionalism and the emergence of consciousness as a problem for cognitive science over the past thirty years.
My aim is not to show that operationalist theories such as functionalism are adequate to address the problem of consciousness; I am not “defending” functionalism from the “absent qualia” critique. My view is that intentional predicates must be handled operationally, while phenomenal predicates cannot be – that is, they cannot be to the philosopher’s satisfaction, notwithstanding the fact that all predication, to be intelligible, must adhere to intersubjective operational criteria. Functional descriptions abstract away from hardware: they include no physical descriptions. In the same way they abstract away from consciousness: they include no phenomenal descriptions. Of course this is true because there is no such thing as “phenomenal description” if by that one means reference to “private” experience. But a further point is that there is no reason to think that phenomenal experience is multiply realizable (supervenient), while intentional states are self-evidently so.
The point of the following discussions of the inverted spectrum problem and the zombie problem (both variants of the “absent qualia” problem) is not, then, to vindicate functionalism as a theory of consciousness. Theories don’t address pseudo-problems. The significance of the “absent qualia” arguments in the present context arises when they are offered as evidence that physicalism is ontologically incomplete.
The present set of arguments, that will now be deployed against the “absent qualia” arguments that purport to show that there is a metaphysical problem about phenomenal properties, can all be attributed to some combination of Hume, Wittgenstein and/or Buddhism. The first two arguments are “soft”: they start with two respective points about the nature of language and conclude that private qualitative experience, whatever its ultimate ontological status may be, cannot be the subject of language. This is a soft conclusion because it sets aside the question of whether there really is anything that can coherently be regarded as “inner,” private experience. The remaining arguments are “hard”: they start with the inseparability of mind, experience and world and conclude that it is incoherent to posit the existence of phenomenal properties if these are taken to be mental properties distinct from the physical properties of the experienced world. However although the first two arguments are soft they do, if persuasive, suffice for the naturalization of psychology, because they demonstrate that qualitative experience, whatever that may be, could never have been a subject for natural science, and so is not a problem for natural science.
1) If language needs inter-subjective criteria of appropriate conditions of use then the phenomenal vocabulary, like all language, cannot function in virtue of referring to anything “private” to the individual. This argument is explicit in Wittgenstein, a case can be made that it is implicit in Hume’s verificationist epistemology. It is “soft”: it leaves the ontological status, if any, of qualitative experience alone. It naturalizes psychology the way that classical, early 20th century behaviorism naturalized psychology: an operationalist protocol excludes reference to the “inner” from science, so understood.
2) If the “meaning” of language/symbols is nothing more nor less than everything that has been accomplished through the use of individual, concrete tokens, then the phenomenal vocabulary cannot function by referring to anything private. This is functional-role semantics and it is unique to Wittgenstein among this group (although other philosophers, such as Pragmatists, also develop this sort of operationalist account of language). It is soft; the ontological status of qualia is not addressed directly.
3) If the self is nothing neither more nor less than the experiences of the world by the self, then there can be no duality between the “self” and the “world.” This is Wittgenstein’s “solipsism” argument, first presented at the end of the Tractatus, and the same idea is found in the Mahayana sutras of classical Buddhism and in Zen Buddhism. This is a “hard” argument: on this view the existence of phenomenal properties is denied. It is another argument that seems implicit in Hume, but Hume does give a very explicit argument to the same effect:
4) If experience defines the limit of what can be known, it is absurd to posit a distinction between the “mental” and the “physical.” Hume’s version is quite as hard as #3 because it produces the same conclusion that it makes no sense to speak of either side of the duality of mind and matter: both concepts collapse simultaneously. It is neither materialist nor idealist, but a position of non-duality. This view is shared by Berkeley.
5) Consciousness cannot be located in the world, so consciousness cannot be said to have any properties. This argument follows from #3. It is explicit (and elaborated at great length) in its Buddhist version but also clearly implicit in both Hume and Wittgenstein. It does not follow from this that consciousness cannot be a property. Just what we mean when we predicate consciousness of a thing is what is at question, although I take it as now established that the criteria for predications of consciousness are necessarily operational.
If the most tempting line of rebuttal to all of this is a Kantian one, remember that these arguments are here deployed to show that there are no phenomenal properties. This question about consciousness has been disentangled from the problem of intentionality. The motivations of the three sources of the set of arguments are varied: Hume fills out the radical implications of empiricist epistemology as far as they go; Wittgenstein has a vision about the foundations and limits of logic; and the classical Buddhists appear to take the metaphysical implications of non-duality both literally and seriously. Whatever one makes of these sources (or of my interpretations of them), it is at least fair to say that they place the burden on those who would say that there are phenomenal properties, metaphysically distinct from physical properties, to articulate reasons why anyone should think so.
However the discussion is far from over. Having assembled this set of arguments I now need to apply them to the various “absent qualia” arguments that have been the backbone of the critique of functionalism and the emergence of consciousness as a problem for cognitive science over the past thirty years.
My aim is not to show that operationalist theories such as functionalism are adequate to address the problem of consciousness; I am not “defending” functionalism from the “absent qualia” critique. My view is that intentional predicates must be handled operationally, while phenomenal predicates cannot be – that is, they cannot be to the philosopher’s satisfaction, notwithstanding the fact that all predication, to be intelligible, must adhere to intersubjective operational criteria. Functional descriptions abstract away from hardware: they include no physical descriptions. In the same way they abstract away from consciousness: they include no phenomenal descriptions. Of course this is true because there is no such thing as “phenomenal description” if by that one means reference to “private” experience. But a further point is that there is no reason to think that phenomenal experience is multiply realizable (supervenient), while intentional states are self-evidently so.
The point of the following discussions of the inverted spectrum problem and the zombie problem (both variants of the “absent qualia” problem) is not, then, to vindicate functionalism as a theory of consciousness. Theories don’t address pseudo-problems. The significance of the “absent qualia” arguments in the present context arises when they are offered as evidence that physicalism is ontologically incomplete.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Wittgenstein on Qualia
Anyone who has read this far understands that Wittgenstein, for better or for worse, is the canonical philosopher who has had the most influence on the arguments that I am advancing here (even if I am merely Wittgenstein’s ape, as I rather suspect, from what I have read of him, that he would say I am). But when I started drafting this book Wittgenstein worried me. My strategy is to analyze the mind-body problem into separate problems that admit to separate solutions. But Wittgenstein seemed to be addressing both the problem of intentionality and the problem of consciousness, sometimes simultaneously. Perhaps I was mistaken to try to separate them?
Wittgenstein gives us a general treatment of language, and my method is essentially grounded in linguistic analysis as well. Metaphysics is brought down to Earth when regarded as a semantic inquiry: I don’t know, after all, what “primary being” is, or the limits of nature or anything like that. The only way to naturalize psychology is to develop a natural semantics for the psychological vocabulary. If the metaphysical theory of physicalism is right then our psychological talk has had natural, physical referents all along, and we should be able to determine what those are. Wittgenstein gives us, with his functional-role semantics, what is basically an operationalist account of meaning (“meaning is use”), and an operationalist semantic is a kind of naturalist semantic.
Now we can see the apparent problem: Wittgenstein argues that all language must have operationalist criteria of meaning, including the phenomenal vocabulary. But I have conceded that the “absent qualia” problem persuasively shows that operationalist theories of mind such as functionalism can’t handle the problem of consciousness. Isn’t there a contradiction in, on the one hand, embracing Wittgenstein’s argument that the word “blue” is meaningful (as it has intersubjectively verifiable criteria of use) while the construction “blue-for-me” is not, and on the other hand insisting that the naturalization of the phenomenal vocabulary requires a different treatment than the intentional vocabulary requires?
The tension is resolved by considering two other arguments of Wittgenstein’s, both of which are common to the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus and the Philosophical Investigations, unlike functional-role semantics (developed in the PI) which represents the major difference between the earlier and later work. A popular misconception is that there is no continuity between Wittgenstein’s two major works; this is an effect of the strikingly radical operationalist treatment of “meaning” in the PI, and a consequently radical difference in method of composition. However much is missed when one misses the common themes.
Compare these quotations, first, the famous closing sentence of the Tractatus: “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.” Then PI 296: “’Yes, but there is something there all the same accompanying my cry of pain. And it is on account of that that I utter it. And this something is what is important – and frightful.’ – Only whom are we informing of this? And on what occasion?” (Italics in original). Granting that at the end of the Tractatus he is speaking broadly about something he calls “mystical,” it is apparent that he takes ethical, aesthetic and spiritual experiences to be varieties of qualitative experience that, like pain, cannot be expressed by language. (This was the point, regarding ethical “propositions,” that W. was making when he got into that brawl with Karl Popper.)
The explicitly operationalist account of language in the PI develops from this earlier awareness of the limits of language (but note that this is not the same argument as the one tagged by his famous dictum “The limits of my language are the limits of my world.” That is the other argument, discussed below). If language is necessarily intersubjective (that is, worldly) then there must be public criteria for its use, but the insight that the quality of experience is inexpressible comes before, not after, this treatment of language. Functional-role semantics is a response to the inexpressible nature of qualitative experience.
So the great logical behaviorist turns out to acknowledge qualitative experience after all? The short answer is yes: he never denied it. At PI 296 his imaginary interlocutor is unchallenged when he says “this something is what is important.” Maybe the most important thing in life: remember that value itself is part of the inexpressible (and see Chapter Four). This does not involve him in a contradiction, although it needs some more consideration here.
One objection is that Wittgenstein is what was earlier called an “atheistic” or “philosophical” behaviorist: he denies that it makes sense to think of the mental in terms of something “inner” vs. the “outer” world. But aren’t qualitative experiences essentially “inner” in this sense? Not necessarily. The nature of qualitative experience is what is at question.
More importantly and more to the point of this discussion, Wittgenstein’s claim is not about qualitative experience, it is about language. The quality of personal experience is not expressible because of the intersubjective, public nature of language. Here is a link with the argument as deployed in Chapter Two: language (representation in general) does not exist “in the head,” either literally or figuratively. We saw in Chapter Two that the notion of the “inner” as something representational was vacuous, explaining nothing. Language (symbols, “meaning”) is something that exists only in the “outer” world. Thus whatever we make of qualitative experience, all language use has public criteria.
The two related arguments, that language must have public criteria for use and that what we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence, are sufficient to show that the problem of consciousness is not a problem for science (this point will be discussed at greater length below). But by themselves they give us only “agnostic,” methodological behaviorism, which may satisfy the empirical psychologist but will not satisfy the philosopher. The philosopher still has a question about ontology. In this discussion of Wittgenstein’s first two arguments I have been careful to use the phrase “qualitative experience,” leaving open the question of what it is of which such experience consists.
The third argument of Wittgenstein’s, one that is also common to the early and later work, goes further and demonstrates that “qualia,” understood as real properties that are non-physical properties, do not exist. It gives us the “atheistic,” philosophical behaviorism that we need to naturalize the phenomenal vocabulary. As with Hume it will turn out that there is no coherent distinction between “qualitative” experience and just plain experience. (Note also that in this section I am using the word “behaviorism” rather than the word “operationalism.” Since “behaviorism” is more the standard term in the Wittgenstein literature this makes it easier to situate the present discussion in that literature, besides being much less clunky. And anyway the arguments discussed so far are in fact about language; “behaviorism” in the sense that we can use that word to describe Wittgenstein’s view is not really a “theory of mind,” although it may be a theory of psychological talk.)
The third argument is known as the “solipsism” argument, and it is found in the Tractatus at 5.6 through 5.641. The most famous aphorism from this passage is 5.6, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world” (italics in original), but for the present argument 5.621, “The world and life are one,” and 5.63, “I am my world. (The microcosm)” may make the point most clearly. In fact on my view 5.6 is frequently misinterpreted in a sort of obvious way, a recognizably Kantian way: if one represents the world linguistically (this interpretation goes), then the world as one represents it will be limited as a function of the limits of ones’ language. This is backwards. “The limits of my language” (italicized) is the phrase under analysis, and it can only mean (it is defined by) the limits of my world, which are, exactly as in Hume, coextensive with the limits of my experience.
5.632: “The subject does not belong to the world: rather, it is a limit of the world.”
5.64: “Here it can be seen that solipsism, when its implications are followed out strictly, coincides with pure realism. The self of solipsism shrinks to a point without extension, and there remains the reality co-ordinated with it.”
5.641: “Thus there really is a sense in which philosophy can talk about the self in a non-psychological way.
What brings the self into philosophy is the fact that ‘the world is my world.’
The philosophical self is not the human being, not the human body, or the human soul, with which psychology deals, but rather the metaphysical subject, the limit of the world – not a part of it.”
The word “qualia” is a “grammatical” (to use a word ubiquitous in the PI) reification of qualitative experience, which is constitutive of the world, “the limit of the world - not a part of it” (experience is not in the world). Naturalizing psychology does not require what cannot be done, naturalizing metaphysics. “The world and life are one.” As a living being I am constitutive of my world; my life and my world cannot be distinguished: 6.431: “So too at death the world does not alter, but comes to an end.”
The ontological idea of a Leibnizian parallelism between properties of the world and properties of experience makes no sense and it is the assumption of such a parallelism (of the coherence of such a parallelism) on which the alleged problem of consciousness rests. Kant, to be fair, is not so far from this insight himself (and Wittgenstein professed admiration for Kant): the rational mind, for Kant, is not a part of the phenomenal world. Only Kant’s followers did not heed his epistemological warnings.
This crucial Wittgensteinian appropriation of the word “solipsism” remains intact and unchanged decades later in the Philosophical Investigations. In the discussion of the multiplicity of uses of language (the fact that there are many different “language-games”) that opens the book Wittgenstein writes at #24:
“If you do not keep the multiplicity of language-games in view you will perhaps be inclined to ask questions like: ‘What is a question?’ – Is it the statement that I do not know such-and-such, or the statement that I wish the other person would tell me…? Or is it the description of my mental state of uncertainty? – And is the cry ‘Help!’ such a description?
Think how many different kinds of things are called “description”: description of a body’s position by means of its coordinates; description of a facial expression; description of a sensation of touch; of a mood.
Of course it is possible to substitute the form of statement or description for the usual form of question: ‘I want to know whether…’ or “I am in doubt whether…” – but this does not bring the different language-games any closer together.
The significance of such possibilities of transformation, for example of turning all statements into sentences beginning “I think” or “I believe” (and thus, as it were, into descriptions of my inner life) will become clearer in another place. (Solipsism.)”
All statements can be rendered “as it were, into descriptions of my inner life,” and this shows the actual vacuity of the allegedly significant distinction between “the inner life” and “the outer world.” The sense of the parenthetical “solipsism” is the same as in the Tractatus. It is important to see that Wittgenstein is not (as he admits) using the word “solipsist” in its usual metaphysical sense. In fact he inverts the ordinary sense of the word. Ordinarily the solipsist is understood to be saying that he only knows that one mind exists, his own (this is the Cartesian skeptical sense of the word). Wittgenstein is saying, with reference to certain uses of the first-person “I,” that one’s own mind is the only one that cannot be conceived as something in the world.
From the Blue Book (pp. 66-69):
“There are two different cases in the use of the word ‘I’ (or ‘my’) which I might call ‘the use as object’ and ‘the use as subject.’ Examples of the first kind of use are these: ‘My arm is broken,’ ‘I have grown six inches.’…Examples of the second kind are ‘I see so-and-so,’…’I’ have a toothache’…We feel then that in the cases in which ‘I’ is used as subject, we don’t use it because we recognize a particular person by his bodily characteristics: and this creates the illusion that we use this word to refer to something bodiless, which, however, has its seat in our body. In fact this seems to be the real ego, the one of which it was said, ‘Cogito, ergo sum’.”
In fact this use of the first-person pronoun does not “refer” to anything in the world at all. PI 404:
“’When I say “I am in pain,” I do not point to a person who is in pain, since in a certain sense I have no idea who is.’ And this can be given a justification. For the main point is: I did not say that such-and-such a person was in pain, but ‘I am….’ Now in saying this I don’t name any person. Just as I don’t name anyone when I groan with pain. Though someone else sees who is in pain from the groaning.
What does it mean to know who is in pain? It means, for example, to know which man in this room is in pain: for instance, that it is the one who is sitting over there, or the one who is standing in that corner, the tall one over there with the fair hair, and so on. – What am I getting at? At the fact that there is a great variety of criteria for personal ‘identity.’
Now which of them determines my saying that ‘I’ am in pain? None.
“Personal identity theory” is a branch of metaphysics: the study of the criteria by which we identify a particular entity in the world as the “self.” But the subject, on Wittgenstein’s version of solipsism, is not an entity in the world at all, insofar as we are thinking of the subject as having qualitative experience. The experiencing subject is metaphysically identical with the experienced world.
So far I have presented two versions of this argument, Hume’s and Wittgenstein’s. I am not piling up these various demonstrations that the problem of consciousness is a pseudoproblem in order to commit the informal fallacy of the argument from authority: I have my own reservations about Hume, Wittgenstein and empiricism in general but I am persuaded by these particular arguments that the alleged metaphysical problem of phenomenal properties is a pseudoproblem. It is striking that Wittgenstein’s “solipsism” is very close, perhaps identical, to arguments found in an ancient tradition with origins very far from those of empiricism.
Wittgenstein gives us a general treatment of language, and my method is essentially grounded in linguistic analysis as well. Metaphysics is brought down to Earth when regarded as a semantic inquiry: I don’t know, after all, what “primary being” is, or the limits of nature or anything like that. The only way to naturalize psychology is to develop a natural semantics for the psychological vocabulary. If the metaphysical theory of physicalism is right then our psychological talk has had natural, physical referents all along, and we should be able to determine what those are. Wittgenstein gives us, with his functional-role semantics, what is basically an operationalist account of meaning (“meaning is use”), and an operationalist semantic is a kind of naturalist semantic.
Now we can see the apparent problem: Wittgenstein argues that all language must have operationalist criteria of meaning, including the phenomenal vocabulary. But I have conceded that the “absent qualia” problem persuasively shows that operationalist theories of mind such as functionalism can’t handle the problem of consciousness. Isn’t there a contradiction in, on the one hand, embracing Wittgenstein’s argument that the word “blue” is meaningful (as it has intersubjectively verifiable criteria of use) while the construction “blue-for-me” is not, and on the other hand insisting that the naturalization of the phenomenal vocabulary requires a different treatment than the intentional vocabulary requires?
The tension is resolved by considering two other arguments of Wittgenstein’s, both of which are common to the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus and the Philosophical Investigations, unlike functional-role semantics (developed in the PI) which represents the major difference between the earlier and later work. A popular misconception is that there is no continuity between Wittgenstein’s two major works; this is an effect of the strikingly radical operationalist treatment of “meaning” in the PI, and a consequently radical difference in method of composition. However much is missed when one misses the common themes.
Compare these quotations, first, the famous closing sentence of the Tractatus: “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.” Then PI 296: “’Yes, but there is something there all the same accompanying my cry of pain. And it is on account of that that I utter it. And this something is what is important – and frightful.’ – Only whom are we informing of this? And on what occasion?” (Italics in original). Granting that at the end of the Tractatus he is speaking broadly about something he calls “mystical,” it is apparent that he takes ethical, aesthetic and spiritual experiences to be varieties of qualitative experience that, like pain, cannot be expressed by language. (This was the point, regarding ethical “propositions,” that W. was making when he got into that brawl with Karl Popper.)
The explicitly operationalist account of language in the PI develops from this earlier awareness of the limits of language (but note that this is not the same argument as the one tagged by his famous dictum “The limits of my language are the limits of my world.” That is the other argument, discussed below). If language is necessarily intersubjective (that is, worldly) then there must be public criteria for its use, but the insight that the quality of experience is inexpressible comes before, not after, this treatment of language. Functional-role semantics is a response to the inexpressible nature of qualitative experience.
So the great logical behaviorist turns out to acknowledge qualitative experience after all? The short answer is yes: he never denied it. At PI 296 his imaginary interlocutor is unchallenged when he says “this something is what is important.” Maybe the most important thing in life: remember that value itself is part of the inexpressible (and see Chapter Four). This does not involve him in a contradiction, although it needs some more consideration here.
One objection is that Wittgenstein is what was earlier called an “atheistic” or “philosophical” behaviorist: he denies that it makes sense to think of the mental in terms of something “inner” vs. the “outer” world. But aren’t qualitative experiences essentially “inner” in this sense? Not necessarily. The nature of qualitative experience is what is at question.
More importantly and more to the point of this discussion, Wittgenstein’s claim is not about qualitative experience, it is about language. The quality of personal experience is not expressible because of the intersubjective, public nature of language. Here is a link with the argument as deployed in Chapter Two: language (representation in general) does not exist “in the head,” either literally or figuratively. We saw in Chapter Two that the notion of the “inner” as something representational was vacuous, explaining nothing. Language (symbols, “meaning”) is something that exists only in the “outer” world. Thus whatever we make of qualitative experience, all language use has public criteria.
The two related arguments, that language must have public criteria for use and that what we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence, are sufficient to show that the problem of consciousness is not a problem for science (this point will be discussed at greater length below). But by themselves they give us only “agnostic,” methodological behaviorism, which may satisfy the empirical psychologist but will not satisfy the philosopher. The philosopher still has a question about ontology. In this discussion of Wittgenstein’s first two arguments I have been careful to use the phrase “qualitative experience,” leaving open the question of what it is of which such experience consists.
The third argument of Wittgenstein’s, one that is also common to the early and later work, goes further and demonstrates that “qualia,” understood as real properties that are non-physical properties, do not exist. It gives us the “atheistic,” philosophical behaviorism that we need to naturalize the phenomenal vocabulary. As with Hume it will turn out that there is no coherent distinction between “qualitative” experience and just plain experience. (Note also that in this section I am using the word “behaviorism” rather than the word “operationalism.” Since “behaviorism” is more the standard term in the Wittgenstein literature this makes it easier to situate the present discussion in that literature, besides being much less clunky. And anyway the arguments discussed so far are in fact about language; “behaviorism” in the sense that we can use that word to describe Wittgenstein’s view is not really a “theory of mind,” although it may be a theory of psychological talk.)
The third argument is known as the “solipsism” argument, and it is found in the Tractatus at 5.6 through 5.641. The most famous aphorism from this passage is 5.6, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world” (italics in original), but for the present argument 5.621, “The world and life are one,” and 5.63, “I am my world. (The microcosm)” may make the point most clearly. In fact on my view 5.6 is frequently misinterpreted in a sort of obvious way, a recognizably Kantian way: if one represents the world linguistically (this interpretation goes), then the world as one represents it will be limited as a function of the limits of ones’ language. This is backwards. “The limits of my language” (italicized) is the phrase under analysis, and it can only mean (it is defined by) the limits of my world, which are, exactly as in Hume, coextensive with the limits of my experience.
5.632: “The subject does not belong to the world: rather, it is a limit of the world.”
5.64: “Here it can be seen that solipsism, when its implications are followed out strictly, coincides with pure realism. The self of solipsism shrinks to a point without extension, and there remains the reality co-ordinated with it.”
5.641: “Thus there really is a sense in which philosophy can talk about the self in a non-psychological way.
What brings the self into philosophy is the fact that ‘the world is my world.’
The philosophical self is not the human being, not the human body, or the human soul, with which psychology deals, but rather the metaphysical subject, the limit of the world – not a part of it.”
The word “qualia” is a “grammatical” (to use a word ubiquitous in the PI) reification of qualitative experience, which is constitutive of the world, “the limit of the world - not a part of it” (experience is not in the world). Naturalizing psychology does not require what cannot be done, naturalizing metaphysics. “The world and life are one.” As a living being I am constitutive of my world; my life and my world cannot be distinguished: 6.431: “So too at death the world does not alter, but comes to an end.”
The ontological idea of a Leibnizian parallelism between properties of the world and properties of experience makes no sense and it is the assumption of such a parallelism (of the coherence of such a parallelism) on which the alleged problem of consciousness rests. Kant, to be fair, is not so far from this insight himself (and Wittgenstein professed admiration for Kant): the rational mind, for Kant, is not a part of the phenomenal world. Only Kant’s followers did not heed his epistemological warnings.
This crucial Wittgensteinian appropriation of the word “solipsism” remains intact and unchanged decades later in the Philosophical Investigations. In the discussion of the multiplicity of uses of language (the fact that there are many different “language-games”) that opens the book Wittgenstein writes at #24:
“If you do not keep the multiplicity of language-games in view you will perhaps be inclined to ask questions like: ‘What is a question?’ – Is it the statement that I do not know such-and-such, or the statement that I wish the other person would tell me…? Or is it the description of my mental state of uncertainty? – And is the cry ‘Help!’ such a description?
Think how many different kinds of things are called “description”: description of a body’s position by means of its coordinates; description of a facial expression; description of a sensation of touch; of a mood.
Of course it is possible to substitute the form of statement or description for the usual form of question: ‘I want to know whether…’ or “I am in doubt whether…” – but this does not bring the different language-games any closer together.
The significance of such possibilities of transformation, for example of turning all statements into sentences beginning “I think” or “I believe” (and thus, as it were, into descriptions of my inner life) will become clearer in another place. (Solipsism.)”
All statements can be rendered “as it were, into descriptions of my inner life,” and this shows the actual vacuity of the allegedly significant distinction between “the inner life” and “the outer world.” The sense of the parenthetical “solipsism” is the same as in the Tractatus. It is important to see that Wittgenstein is not (as he admits) using the word “solipsist” in its usual metaphysical sense. In fact he inverts the ordinary sense of the word. Ordinarily the solipsist is understood to be saying that he only knows that one mind exists, his own (this is the Cartesian skeptical sense of the word). Wittgenstein is saying, with reference to certain uses of the first-person “I,” that one’s own mind is the only one that cannot be conceived as something in the world.
From the Blue Book (pp. 66-69):
“There are two different cases in the use of the word ‘I’ (or ‘my’) which I might call ‘the use as object’ and ‘the use as subject.’ Examples of the first kind of use are these: ‘My arm is broken,’ ‘I have grown six inches.’…Examples of the second kind are ‘I see so-and-so,’…’I’ have a toothache’…We feel then that in the cases in which ‘I’ is used as subject, we don’t use it because we recognize a particular person by his bodily characteristics: and this creates the illusion that we use this word to refer to something bodiless, which, however, has its seat in our body. In fact this seems to be the real ego, the one of which it was said, ‘Cogito, ergo sum’.”
In fact this use of the first-person pronoun does not “refer” to anything in the world at all. PI 404:
“’When I say “I am in pain,” I do not point to a person who is in pain, since in a certain sense I have no idea who is.’ And this can be given a justification. For the main point is: I did not say that such-and-such a person was in pain, but ‘I am….’ Now in saying this I don’t name any person. Just as I don’t name anyone when I groan with pain. Though someone else sees who is in pain from the groaning.
What does it mean to know who is in pain? It means, for example, to know which man in this room is in pain: for instance, that it is the one who is sitting over there, or the one who is standing in that corner, the tall one over there with the fair hair, and so on. – What am I getting at? At the fact that there is a great variety of criteria for personal ‘identity.’
Now which of them determines my saying that ‘I’ am in pain? None.
“Personal identity theory” is a branch of metaphysics: the study of the criteria by which we identify a particular entity in the world as the “self.” But the subject, on Wittgenstein’s version of solipsism, is not an entity in the world at all, insofar as we are thinking of the subject as having qualitative experience. The experiencing subject is metaphysically identical with the experienced world.
So far I have presented two versions of this argument, Hume’s and Wittgenstein’s. I am not piling up these various demonstrations that the problem of consciousness is a pseudoproblem in order to commit the informal fallacy of the argument from authority: I have my own reservations about Hume, Wittgenstein and empiricism in general but I am persuaded by these particular arguments that the alleged metaphysical problem of phenomenal properties is a pseudoproblem. It is striking that Wittgenstein’s “solipsism” is very close, perhaps identical, to arguments found in an ancient tradition with origins very far from those of empiricism.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Hume on Qualia
Hume, a thoroughly modern anti-philosophy philosopher, argued that much confusion and intemperate speculation could be got rid of by acknowledging that knowledge, and therefore philosophy, had limits. There are what I call a “soft” and a “hard’ interpretation of Hume. On the soft interpretation, Hume flags an eternal question mark hanging over the limit of experience: we cannot know what lies beyond and we must simply accept that fact. This is Hume the cheerful skeptic, reassuring us that it’s alright that there are things we cannot know and cannot prove. On the hard interpretation, Hume defines knowledge as the output of experience. Belief is only habituation. In Of Miracles, for example, Hume is not telling the reader that Hume does not believe in miracles: he is arguing that the reader does not believe in miracles by virtue of the very definition of “belief.”
Hume says, "For as to the notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically different from our perceptions, we have already shown its absurdity" (Treatise 1.4.2, Of scepticism with regard to the senses). Hume is not a skeptic whose empiricism entails codifying Cartesian scepticism as irrefutable. To the contrary, Hume takes the position that Cartesian scepticism is a pseudo-problem. An idea that unifies the Treatise is that, contrary to the rationalists’ assertion that logical proof is the paradigm of knowledge, there are in fact no logical proofs for anything we “know” (and Hume is very much focused, as any good epistemologist should be, on the appropriate conditions for the use of the verb “to know”). To “know” something, for Hume, is to be habituated to have a certain expectation of potential future experiences by the regularities of past experiences.
The very idea of a distinction between “external existence” and “perception,” Hume says, is absurd. The idea that we are stuck inside our heads, unable to see around our mental representations, is absurd. At 1.2.6, Of the idea of existence, and of external existence, Hume writes: “Now since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and since all ideas are deriv'd from something antecedently present to the mind; it follows, that 'tis impossible for us so much as to conceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from ideas and impressions.” It is meaningless to talk about some “reality” beyond the reality of experience since on the empiricist criterion of “meaningful” a statement is significant to the extent that it can be confirmed or disconfirmed on the basis of experience. This is exactly Berkeley’s view, stated in less paradoxical language: the Humean version of the argument that the problem of phenomenal properties is a pseudoproblem hinges, as Berkeley’s version does, on the absurdity of stating that there are physical properties when these are taken to be properties separate from the properties of experience.
This is not at all equivalent to saying that there is an external world to which we do not have access, trapped as we are within the conceptual framework of our representation (remember it is Kant who insists on that): empiricism rules out any such speculation. When Hume says that there can be no proof of the external world he is simply iterating another example of his refutation of Cartesian rationalism: if there are no rational proofs of anything than the word “knowledge” cannot refer to beliefs grounded in rational proof as distinct from experience.
“The world,” understood in any meaningful way, refers to the world of experience. It is literally inconceivable that there might be a world distinct from experience, or experience distinct from the world. Technically the position is nominalist: “the world” is the name of the category of all experiences. And on that point, Hume, in a footnote to 1.2.6, explicitly cites Berkeley: “A great philosopher (Berkeley)...has asserted, that all general ideas are nothing but particular ones, annex'd to a certain term, which gives them a more extensive signification, and makes them recall upon occasion other individuals, which are similar to them” (1.1.7, Of abstract ideas: the “external world” is an abstract idea of this kind).
Perceptual states, on Hume's view, are not “copies” of external reality (this has been shown to be absurd by extension of the absurdity of the concept of “external reality” itself). Rather they are states of the body: the (physical) process of perception has caused a (physical) change to the body (the “impression”). Crucially the impression is not identical to the experience. The formation of the impression is one physical part of the larger physical event of experience. There can be no metaphysical distinction between the mind and the body for Hume, who denies the possibility of any metaphysical distinctions whatsoever (exactly as Berkeley does). When we talk about our “impressions” we are talking about states of our own bodies; this need not involve us in the concept of representation. This is why Hume says that we cannot even assume a numerical correspondence between impressions and “actual objects”: impressions, understood as the physical effects of physical causes, cannot be assumed to perform a representational function in the first place.
Aren’t we discussing qualia here, as distinct from mental representations? Can we sort them out? Yes: there are, on Hume’s view, no representations, but there certainly are experiences. Experiences don’t represent the world; they are constitutive of the world. So the qualities of experience are identical to the qualities of the world, nothing more or less. That is, if it makes no sense to speak of “qualities of the world” if these are meant to be distinct from the qualities of experience then by the same token it makes no sense to speak of “qualities of experience” either.
What remains is to decide how to talk (philosophy often comes down to making decisions about how to talk). Berkeley and Chalmers propose radical solutions: say that the world is constituted by “ideas” rather than by “matter” and say that the qualities of experience are non-physical properties, respectively. However, to accept Berkeley is to reject Chalmers and vice versa, because where Chalmers would codify the metaphysical distinction between mind and matter Berkeley would abolish it. I’m guessing most readers will agree that abolition is a better solution than codification, because codification amounts to simply throwing in the towel and conceding that naturalization is impossible. For myself, I am a staunch abolitionist.
Hume, writing with Berkeley well-digested, develops the essential argument without the outré metaphysical language. Hume collapses the subject-object distinction into the subject as Berkeley did before him. But Hume recognized that once the distinction was collapsed neither of the categories “materialism” or “idealism” made any sense. The distinction simply vanishes. If there are no “physical” properties when these are meant to be separate from “phenomenal” properties the argument works with equal force in the other direction as well. It is on this point that the early 20th century empiricists misinterpreted Hume so grievously, understanding him as a “phenomenalist,” one who holds that we can refer only to “phenomena” as distinct from the “actual” (else why use the word at all?). On empiricism properly understood there is no meaningful (semantic) distinction on which to hang the metaphysical language. This insight is also the crux of the next two versions of the argument, but both are worth considering in detail by virtue of differences in language and emphasis, and to cement the point.
Hume says, "For as to the notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically different from our perceptions, we have already shown its absurdity" (Treatise 1.4.2, Of scepticism with regard to the senses). Hume is not a skeptic whose empiricism entails codifying Cartesian scepticism as irrefutable. To the contrary, Hume takes the position that Cartesian scepticism is a pseudo-problem. An idea that unifies the Treatise is that, contrary to the rationalists’ assertion that logical proof is the paradigm of knowledge, there are in fact no logical proofs for anything we “know” (and Hume is very much focused, as any good epistemologist should be, on the appropriate conditions for the use of the verb “to know”). To “know” something, for Hume, is to be habituated to have a certain expectation of potential future experiences by the regularities of past experiences.
The very idea of a distinction between “external existence” and “perception,” Hume says, is absurd. The idea that we are stuck inside our heads, unable to see around our mental representations, is absurd. At 1.2.6, Of the idea of existence, and of external existence, Hume writes: “Now since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and since all ideas are deriv'd from something antecedently present to the mind; it follows, that 'tis impossible for us so much as to conceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from ideas and impressions.” It is meaningless to talk about some “reality” beyond the reality of experience since on the empiricist criterion of “meaningful” a statement is significant to the extent that it can be confirmed or disconfirmed on the basis of experience. This is exactly Berkeley’s view, stated in less paradoxical language: the Humean version of the argument that the problem of phenomenal properties is a pseudoproblem hinges, as Berkeley’s version does, on the absurdity of stating that there are physical properties when these are taken to be properties separate from the properties of experience.
This is not at all equivalent to saying that there is an external world to which we do not have access, trapped as we are within the conceptual framework of our representation (remember it is Kant who insists on that): empiricism rules out any such speculation. When Hume says that there can be no proof of the external world he is simply iterating another example of his refutation of Cartesian rationalism: if there are no rational proofs of anything than the word “knowledge” cannot refer to beliefs grounded in rational proof as distinct from experience.
“The world,” understood in any meaningful way, refers to the world of experience. It is literally inconceivable that there might be a world distinct from experience, or experience distinct from the world. Technically the position is nominalist: “the world” is the name of the category of all experiences. And on that point, Hume, in a footnote to 1.2.6, explicitly cites Berkeley: “A great philosopher (Berkeley)...has asserted, that all general ideas are nothing but particular ones, annex'd to a certain term, which gives them a more extensive signification, and makes them recall upon occasion other individuals, which are similar to them” (1.1.7, Of abstract ideas: the “external world” is an abstract idea of this kind).
Perceptual states, on Hume's view, are not “copies” of external reality (this has been shown to be absurd by extension of the absurdity of the concept of “external reality” itself). Rather they are states of the body: the (physical) process of perception has caused a (physical) change to the body (the “impression”). Crucially the impression is not identical to the experience. The formation of the impression is one physical part of the larger physical event of experience. There can be no metaphysical distinction between the mind and the body for Hume, who denies the possibility of any metaphysical distinctions whatsoever (exactly as Berkeley does). When we talk about our “impressions” we are talking about states of our own bodies; this need not involve us in the concept of representation. This is why Hume says that we cannot even assume a numerical correspondence between impressions and “actual objects”: impressions, understood as the physical effects of physical causes, cannot be assumed to perform a representational function in the first place.
Aren’t we discussing qualia here, as distinct from mental representations? Can we sort them out? Yes: there are, on Hume’s view, no representations, but there certainly are experiences. Experiences don’t represent the world; they are constitutive of the world. So the qualities of experience are identical to the qualities of the world, nothing more or less. That is, if it makes no sense to speak of “qualities of the world” if these are meant to be distinct from the qualities of experience then by the same token it makes no sense to speak of “qualities of experience” either.
What remains is to decide how to talk (philosophy often comes down to making decisions about how to talk). Berkeley and Chalmers propose radical solutions: say that the world is constituted by “ideas” rather than by “matter” and say that the qualities of experience are non-physical properties, respectively. However, to accept Berkeley is to reject Chalmers and vice versa, because where Chalmers would codify the metaphysical distinction between mind and matter Berkeley would abolish it. I’m guessing most readers will agree that abolition is a better solution than codification, because codification amounts to simply throwing in the towel and conceding that naturalization is impossible. For myself, I am a staunch abolitionist.
Hume, writing with Berkeley well-digested, develops the essential argument without the outré metaphysical language. Hume collapses the subject-object distinction into the subject as Berkeley did before him. But Hume recognized that once the distinction was collapsed neither of the categories “materialism” or “idealism” made any sense. The distinction simply vanishes. If there are no “physical” properties when these are meant to be separate from “phenomenal” properties the argument works with equal force in the other direction as well. It is on this point that the early 20th century empiricists misinterpreted Hume so grievously, understanding him as a “phenomenalist,” one who holds that we can refer only to “phenomena” as distinct from the “actual” (else why use the word at all?). On empiricism properly understood there is no meaningful (semantic) distinction on which to hang the metaphysical language. This insight is also the crux of the next two versions of the argument, but both are worth considering in detail by virtue of differences in language and emphasis, and to cement the point.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Qualia and Operationalism
“Phenomenology,” the study of the qualities of experience, has a long history in both Eastern and Western philosophy. In its modern European version phenomenology has two post-Enlightenment roots. First, in its claim that experience has its own structure that can (and must) be explicated in order to establish the foundations of epistemology, the phenomenology of Husserl and Heidegger is thoroughly Kantian (by way of 19th century German transcendental idealism), as are the subsequent “Continental” movements of structuralism, deconstructionism etc. (Merleau-Ponty, with his emphasis on the role of the whole body in defining the phenomenal field, is an exceptional character in this community, and I will have something to say about Sartre in the discussion of Buddhism below.) Second, modern phenomenology is a response to the dramatic development of modern science and particularly to the perceived threat posed to humanism by the potential triumph of empiricism and the resulting absorption of the study of human nature into physical science.
It is not hard to see, then, why the naturalist movement in philosophy of mind, primarily a movement of English-language philosophers and scientists, resisted acknowledging the troublesome significance of phenomenology through the middle of the 20th century. A partisan narrative developed where the “Continentals” were resolutely non-scientific (holding, as they mostly did, that phenomenology was wholly autonomous from physical science) and often anti-scientific while the “Analytics” studiously ignored phenomenology and developed materialist philosophy of mind as part of a larger interdisciplinary (and largely empiricist and scientific) movement that eventually came to be called cognitive science, and that for its first fifty years or so had a strong ideological commitment to operationalism, and to some extent still does. Only in the past few decades has “consciousness studies” become an active area for cognitive scientists.
This doesn’t mean that phenomenology didn’t bedevil the naturalists from the first. The first major operationalist movement, behaviorism, had many variants, a lively theoretical literature and was an impressive generator of experimental protocols, but as a popular psychology (a theory of psychology intuitively persuasive to the average person) behaviorism was never really even a candidate for widespread acceptance, and the essential (popular) problem was, without doubt, behaviorism’s manifest failure to accommodate ordinary intuitions about qualia.
The primary motivation for behaviorism was to make a science of psychology. The primary strategy was methodological: strictly hew to the methods of empirical science and ipso facto science will be the result. This operationalist ideology entailed the elimination of reference to “unobservables.” Behaviorism developed a semantic for psychological words that held that psychological predicates referred to intersubjectively observable dispositions to behave. There is more to be said for this approach than is commonly recognized nowadays; Wittgenstein, who had much to tell us about the problem of meaning, also advanced what I find to be persuasive arguments about qualia and I will return to him in what follows. However at the moment we want to see how behaviorism, popularly understood, floundered over the problem of qualia.
Consider the word “pain.” If we take the behaviorist line in its literal, popularly-understood sense the word “pain” refers to wincing, grimacing, certain vocalizations (such as “ouch!”) and so forth. One problem with this is that the set of behaviors that might be identified as pain behaviors is indefinitely large (that is, it is not apparent what parameters fix the extension of the set), and there are other problems, but the crucial problem in the current context is that most people have a strong intuition that wincing, grimacing and so forth are caused by pain, that is that the word “pain” in fact refers to the feeling of pain and furthermore that this feeling is playing a causal role in the production of the “pain behavior.”
Behaviorism’s more sophisticated descendent, functionalism, turned out to be no better able to handle the issue of conscious qualitative experience. Consider this problem for functional-role semantics, which holds that the “meaning” of a word is nothing more or less than what the speaker achieves by its utterance: imagine a person whose color spectrum is inverted. Where ordinary people see red, this person sees blue and vice versa. However, growing up in the same linguistic community, this person would use color words exactly like the rest of us. Ask the inverted-spectrum person to, say, go out to the car and get the blue bag and they will return with the correct bag just as reliably as anyone else. But, the defender of phenomenology argues, what everyone else means by “the blue bag” is the bag with that quale, which is the ordinary person’s experience of the color blue: and the “invert” does not have that experience.
Here one might respond by pointing out that we have no way of knowing if any two people experience “blue” surfaces the same way. This is Wittgenstein’s point with the analogy of the beetle in the box: it can’t be that the phenomenal word refers to an individual’s private experience. At this point the defender of qualia ups the ante. Suppose there was a person who behaved, responded and so forth in appropriate ways such that they seemed to take psychological predicates just as naturally as everyone else. Imagine further, however, that this person had no private experience: a non-conscious “zombie.” Surely, the argument goes, one couldn’t consider such a creature to be a “person”? Surely we mean by “person” a being that has some experience? Aldous Huxley in his novel Brave New World, an early critique of operationalism’s qualia problem, is making the same point: when the quality of experience comes to be considered simply insignificant for “psychology” then that discipline is no longer what most people would consider to be psychology at all.
This whole genre of thought experiments comes together as the “absent qualia” argument. The argument is that complete functional descriptions fail to capture the quality of experience just as utterly as complete physical descriptions do. One of the biggest successes in philosophy of mind in recent years has been the work of David Chalmers, who argued in The Conscious Mind that, faced with the problem of qualia, we have no choice but to concede that materialism is false and that reality includes at least two kinds of properties, physical properties and phenomenal ones.
The philosophy of mind community acknowledged the problem of consciousness in the 1970s and 80s through some seminal work by Ned Block, Frank Jackson, Saul Kripke, Thomas Nagel, John Searle and others. Prior to Chalmers the “mysterians” such as Colin McGinn had argued for a kind of epistemological (or “property”) dualism (we must concede that consciousness cannot be incorporated into physical science, but maybe we can concede this without giving up materialism). But Chalmers’ sporting brief for metaphysical dualism represents a kind of apotheosis for the problem.
I read Chalmers as writing in a Berkleyan spirit. John Locke elaborated a system of various “properties.” There were primary properties, the essential physical properties of the object; secondary properties, the causal properties of the object such that it caused the mental representation to be as it was; and tertiary properties, the properties of the representation (Locke would say “impression”). In other words a fairly messy tangle. Berkeley, whose views appear strange when presented out of context, made what was in fact a common-sense (and thoroughly empiricist) suggestion: if the mental representation (the “idea”) is the only thing that we, in actual fact, experience, and there is an intractable problem about the relationship between the idea and the “material world,” why don’t we cut the Gordian knot by simply saying that ideas are constitutive of the world, and be done with the problematic “matter” altogether? After all we can only know about the ideas. So let’s just call our ontology “idealism” and move on. Chalmers’ move is very similar: embrace mind-body dualism so that we can forget about it.
I appreciate Chalmers not only because he is audacious, but because he focuses on the metaphysics, which is where the problem and any possible solution of the problem of consciousness lie. The key strategic move in the present book is to point out that “mind” is a heterogeneous concept. Thus we have not one “mind-body problem” but (at least) two. Granting this we can apply different theories to different problems without self-contradiction. In the last chapter I advanced a version of meaning externalism as the right semantic of intentional predicates, to replace the representationalist account. The view that intentional predicates refer not to mental contents but to relationships between whole persons and their environments is essentially an operationalist view. At the same time I do not think that any kind of operationalism will do for phenomenal predicates; that is, I agree that the absent-qualia problem cannot be overcome by any operationalist strategy. The problem of consciousness needs an entirely different treatment than the problem of intentionality.
However the only sort of “dualism” that I am willing to consider seriously is the dualism of form and matter to which I appealed in the discussion of rationality (and I take that to be a major concession). The question of the form-matter distinction is an interesting question for general metaphysics (and physics), and it is at the level of general metaphysics that it will have to be resolved one way or another: it is not ultimately, I argue, a problem particular to the metaphysics of mind. So the hope for a natural semantic of psychological predicates is still alive, granting that human beings may be possessed, like everything else in nature, of formal properties that are different from physical properties. Other than that (admittedly major) caveat, it is my view that there are only physical properties. So I will now have to argue that there are no phenomenal properties. A successful argument will have to persuade the reader that the absent-qualia problem has been satisfactorily addressed.
In fact three arguments (or perhaps three versions of one argument) will now be presented, drawing from three separate canonical sources. As in the discussion of Plato in the last chapter, it is not so much my goal to explicate the canonical sources with an historian’s precision as it is to use some excellent philosophy as a springboard and inspiration. This does not mean that I am giving myself a license to anachronism or idiosyncrasy. I am simply asking the reader to consider the arguments (and the interpretations) on their merits as they pertain, if at all, to the problem of phenomenal properties. The second part of the chapter will again appeal to heterogeneity and explore the implications of recognizing that consciousness, unlike intentionality, is not a supervenient quality. When this is recognized it turns out that we can avail ourselves of a kind of materialist theory that fails when used to address intentionality
It is not hard to see, then, why the naturalist movement in philosophy of mind, primarily a movement of English-language philosophers and scientists, resisted acknowledging the troublesome significance of phenomenology through the middle of the 20th century. A partisan narrative developed where the “Continentals” were resolutely non-scientific (holding, as they mostly did, that phenomenology was wholly autonomous from physical science) and often anti-scientific while the “Analytics” studiously ignored phenomenology and developed materialist philosophy of mind as part of a larger interdisciplinary (and largely empiricist and scientific) movement that eventually came to be called cognitive science, and that for its first fifty years or so had a strong ideological commitment to operationalism, and to some extent still does. Only in the past few decades has “consciousness studies” become an active area for cognitive scientists.
This doesn’t mean that phenomenology didn’t bedevil the naturalists from the first. The first major operationalist movement, behaviorism, had many variants, a lively theoretical literature and was an impressive generator of experimental protocols, but as a popular psychology (a theory of psychology intuitively persuasive to the average person) behaviorism was never really even a candidate for widespread acceptance, and the essential (popular) problem was, without doubt, behaviorism’s manifest failure to accommodate ordinary intuitions about qualia.
The primary motivation for behaviorism was to make a science of psychology. The primary strategy was methodological: strictly hew to the methods of empirical science and ipso facto science will be the result. This operationalist ideology entailed the elimination of reference to “unobservables.” Behaviorism developed a semantic for psychological words that held that psychological predicates referred to intersubjectively observable dispositions to behave. There is more to be said for this approach than is commonly recognized nowadays; Wittgenstein, who had much to tell us about the problem of meaning, also advanced what I find to be persuasive arguments about qualia and I will return to him in what follows. However at the moment we want to see how behaviorism, popularly understood, floundered over the problem of qualia.
Consider the word “pain.” If we take the behaviorist line in its literal, popularly-understood sense the word “pain” refers to wincing, grimacing, certain vocalizations (such as “ouch!”) and so forth. One problem with this is that the set of behaviors that might be identified as pain behaviors is indefinitely large (that is, it is not apparent what parameters fix the extension of the set), and there are other problems, but the crucial problem in the current context is that most people have a strong intuition that wincing, grimacing and so forth are caused by pain, that is that the word “pain” in fact refers to the feeling of pain and furthermore that this feeling is playing a causal role in the production of the “pain behavior.”
Behaviorism’s more sophisticated descendent, functionalism, turned out to be no better able to handle the issue of conscious qualitative experience. Consider this problem for functional-role semantics, which holds that the “meaning” of a word is nothing more or less than what the speaker achieves by its utterance: imagine a person whose color spectrum is inverted. Where ordinary people see red, this person sees blue and vice versa. However, growing up in the same linguistic community, this person would use color words exactly like the rest of us. Ask the inverted-spectrum person to, say, go out to the car and get the blue bag and they will return with the correct bag just as reliably as anyone else. But, the defender of phenomenology argues, what everyone else means by “the blue bag” is the bag with that quale, which is the ordinary person’s experience of the color blue: and the “invert” does not have that experience.
Here one might respond by pointing out that we have no way of knowing if any two people experience “blue” surfaces the same way. This is Wittgenstein’s point with the analogy of the beetle in the box: it can’t be that the phenomenal word refers to an individual’s private experience. At this point the defender of qualia ups the ante. Suppose there was a person who behaved, responded and so forth in appropriate ways such that they seemed to take psychological predicates just as naturally as everyone else. Imagine further, however, that this person had no private experience: a non-conscious “zombie.” Surely, the argument goes, one couldn’t consider such a creature to be a “person”? Surely we mean by “person” a being that has some experience? Aldous Huxley in his novel Brave New World, an early critique of operationalism’s qualia problem, is making the same point: when the quality of experience comes to be considered simply insignificant for “psychology” then that discipline is no longer what most people would consider to be psychology at all.
This whole genre of thought experiments comes together as the “absent qualia” argument. The argument is that complete functional descriptions fail to capture the quality of experience just as utterly as complete physical descriptions do. One of the biggest successes in philosophy of mind in recent years has been the work of David Chalmers, who argued in The Conscious Mind that, faced with the problem of qualia, we have no choice but to concede that materialism is false and that reality includes at least two kinds of properties, physical properties and phenomenal ones.
The philosophy of mind community acknowledged the problem of consciousness in the 1970s and 80s through some seminal work by Ned Block, Frank Jackson, Saul Kripke, Thomas Nagel, John Searle and others. Prior to Chalmers the “mysterians” such as Colin McGinn had argued for a kind of epistemological (or “property”) dualism (we must concede that consciousness cannot be incorporated into physical science, but maybe we can concede this without giving up materialism). But Chalmers’ sporting brief for metaphysical dualism represents a kind of apotheosis for the problem.
I read Chalmers as writing in a Berkleyan spirit. John Locke elaborated a system of various “properties.” There were primary properties, the essential physical properties of the object; secondary properties, the causal properties of the object such that it caused the mental representation to be as it was; and tertiary properties, the properties of the representation (Locke would say “impression”). In other words a fairly messy tangle. Berkeley, whose views appear strange when presented out of context, made what was in fact a common-sense (and thoroughly empiricist) suggestion: if the mental representation (the “idea”) is the only thing that we, in actual fact, experience, and there is an intractable problem about the relationship between the idea and the “material world,” why don’t we cut the Gordian knot by simply saying that ideas are constitutive of the world, and be done with the problematic “matter” altogether? After all we can only know about the ideas. So let’s just call our ontology “idealism” and move on. Chalmers’ move is very similar: embrace mind-body dualism so that we can forget about it.
I appreciate Chalmers not only because he is audacious, but because he focuses on the metaphysics, which is where the problem and any possible solution of the problem of consciousness lie. The key strategic move in the present book is to point out that “mind” is a heterogeneous concept. Thus we have not one “mind-body problem” but (at least) two. Granting this we can apply different theories to different problems without self-contradiction. In the last chapter I advanced a version of meaning externalism as the right semantic of intentional predicates, to replace the representationalist account. The view that intentional predicates refer not to mental contents but to relationships between whole persons and their environments is essentially an operationalist view. At the same time I do not think that any kind of operationalism will do for phenomenal predicates; that is, I agree that the absent-qualia problem cannot be overcome by any operationalist strategy. The problem of consciousness needs an entirely different treatment than the problem of intentionality.
However the only sort of “dualism” that I am willing to consider seriously is the dualism of form and matter to which I appealed in the discussion of rationality (and I take that to be a major concession). The question of the form-matter distinction is an interesting question for general metaphysics (and physics), and it is at the level of general metaphysics that it will have to be resolved one way or another: it is not ultimately, I argue, a problem particular to the metaphysics of mind. So the hope for a natural semantic of psychological predicates is still alive, granting that human beings may be possessed, like everything else in nature, of formal properties that are different from physical properties. Other than that (admittedly major) caveat, it is my view that there are only physical properties. So I will now have to argue that there are no phenomenal properties. A successful argument will have to persuade the reader that the absent-qualia problem has been satisfactorily addressed.
In fact three arguments (or perhaps three versions of one argument) will now be presented, drawing from three separate canonical sources. As in the discussion of Plato in the last chapter, it is not so much my goal to explicate the canonical sources with an historian’s precision as it is to use some excellent philosophy as a springboard and inspiration. This does not mean that I am giving myself a license to anachronism or idiosyncrasy. I am simply asking the reader to consider the arguments (and the interpretations) on their merits as they pertain, if at all, to the problem of phenomenal properties. The second part of the chapter will again appeal to heterogeneity and explore the implications of recognizing that consciousness, unlike intentionality, is not a supervenient quality. When this is recognized it turns out that we can avail ourselves of a kind of materialist theory that fails when used to address intentionality
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Resolution to the Problem of Rationality
To summarize, the proposal is that the property humans (and any number of other probably-existing forms of life) have of “being rational” is a formal property, “formal properties” understood as mathematical (relational) properties that can be formalized (another way of saying they supervene on physical things). If this is correct then the metaphysical problem will be about formal properties: is materialism incompatible with the existence of formal properties?
Form/matter dualism is the only plausible version of dualism that I know of, and Plato’s arguments for the immortality of the soul from the eternal nature of form are the only plausible arguments for dualism I know. One doesn’t get as much out of it as one might think. One doesn’t even get one’s very own soul, because there’s really only one indivisible soul. Not much of an account of freedom, either: being as rational as possible is being optimally free.
What can be said is that the present argument locates the problem of form in the general area of “metaphysics,” showing that it is not in any metaphysically unique way a particular problem for “philosophy of mind.” While that may seem a fairly innocuous conclusion I think it does have some merit. The conclusion shows that predicates like “rational” and “computational” need not entail reference to representations, only to formal organization (and isn’t that Fodor’s goal?) If this is right then the Platonic resolution to the problem of rationality is not only compatible with the operationalist elimination of mental representation, it reinforces it with the observation that formal organization is ubiquitous in nature. The argument that rationality is a formal property blocks human exceptionalism, when exceptionalism is argued for from the supposed (ontological) uniqueness of rationality.
I don’t know what I think about the cosmological question about the innate organization of the universe or the lack thereof. I don’t know enough. But I have made a little progress on the dilemma seemingly posed by Plato and Wittgenstein. The key move was to see that “mind” is a heterogeneous enough concept that different psychological predicates turned out to be about very different things. The technical expression of the dilemma was that although mental representations seemed untenable, rationality understood as grasping and respecting the logical relations that obtained between the propositions seemed ineliminable. If form is accepted into our ontology then we can see how logical relations are “built in” to states of affairs themselves. What would it mean to say that a Platonist was a realist about “states of affairs” if he or she didn’t think that states of affairs had the same logical relationships with each other as those shared among propositions?
The interpretation of form/matter dualism that I have developed here holds that there is only one ontological fact aside from the fact of the physical world itself. This is Aristotelean in that there is nothing other than the physical particulars, only they are formally organized to a degree that seems contingent (I take Aristotle’s substances to be like this). This view might be incompatible with a strict interpretation of materialism (like Daniel Dennett’s prohibition of “skyhooks”). For me that would not be traumatic. There is the question of just what a sophisticated physicist or cosmologist might say about what primary being is. That is a worthwhile question but unfortunately I fear that I may already have strayed too far from the metaphysics of mind. The short answer is that you will not find a great deal of unanimity.
Meanwhile the real caper here is to try to square the operationalist account of representation offered in the first half of the chapter with this Greek-revivalist story about rationality. The idea is that the operationalist picture of language as use is one that can be developed in the context, if you will, of a world with some formal organization. In fact locating formal organization in the world looks like another way to eliminate representations, since part of their justification was that their semantic contents were needed to explain logical relations.
Form/matter dualism is the only plausible version of dualism that I know of, and Plato’s arguments for the immortality of the soul from the eternal nature of form are the only plausible arguments for dualism I know. One doesn’t get as much out of it as one might think. One doesn’t even get one’s very own soul, because there’s really only one indivisible soul. Not much of an account of freedom, either: being as rational as possible is being optimally free.
What can be said is that the present argument locates the problem of form in the general area of “metaphysics,” showing that it is not in any metaphysically unique way a particular problem for “philosophy of mind.” While that may seem a fairly innocuous conclusion I think it does have some merit. The conclusion shows that predicates like “rational” and “computational” need not entail reference to representations, only to formal organization (and isn’t that Fodor’s goal?) If this is right then the Platonic resolution to the problem of rationality is not only compatible with the operationalist elimination of mental representation, it reinforces it with the observation that formal organization is ubiquitous in nature. The argument that rationality is a formal property blocks human exceptionalism, when exceptionalism is argued for from the supposed (ontological) uniqueness of rationality.
I don’t know what I think about the cosmological question about the innate organization of the universe or the lack thereof. I don’t know enough. But I have made a little progress on the dilemma seemingly posed by Plato and Wittgenstein. The key move was to see that “mind” is a heterogeneous enough concept that different psychological predicates turned out to be about very different things. The technical expression of the dilemma was that although mental representations seemed untenable, rationality understood as grasping and respecting the logical relations that obtained between the propositions seemed ineliminable. If form is accepted into our ontology then we can see how logical relations are “built in” to states of affairs themselves. What would it mean to say that a Platonist was a realist about “states of affairs” if he or she didn’t think that states of affairs had the same logical relationships with each other as those shared among propositions?
The interpretation of form/matter dualism that I have developed here holds that there is only one ontological fact aside from the fact of the physical world itself. This is Aristotelean in that there is nothing other than the physical particulars, only they are formally organized to a degree that seems contingent (I take Aristotle’s substances to be like this). This view might be incompatible with a strict interpretation of materialism (like Daniel Dennett’s prohibition of “skyhooks”). For me that would not be traumatic. There is the question of just what a sophisticated physicist or cosmologist might say about what primary being is. That is a worthwhile question but unfortunately I fear that I may already have strayed too far from the metaphysics of mind. The short answer is that you will not find a great deal of unanimity.
Meanwhile the real caper here is to try to square the operationalist account of representation offered in the first half of the chapter with this Greek-revivalist story about rationality. The idea is that the operationalist picture of language as use is one that can be developed in the context, if you will, of a world with some formal organization. In fact locating formal organization in the world looks like another way to eliminate representations, since part of their justification was that their semantic contents were needed to explain logical relations.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Wittgenstein and Aristotle?
I’m afraid that some readers will be growing impatient as they read the foregoing discussion of a kind of Platonic resolution to the problem of rationality. Hadn’t I just, in the first half of this same chapter, argued for an operational theory of intentional predicates? Not only that, but when one suggests that the non-physical property of “meaning” can be washed out of the ontology of mind and language (replaced with an externalist account of intentional predicates as describing relations between persons and environments), that would be about as nominalist as one could go, surely?
Maybe not. The Platonism that I am offering has only one element of basic ontology besides matter. Form is indivisible, not divisible; a unity, not a multiplicity. There is only one form really: only one (perhaps inexplicable) ontological fact beyond the fact of the existence of something rather than nothing. Putting the question of Plato and Aristotle’s own views of species as “fixed natural kinds” to the side in favor of a view of species informed by evolutionary biology, it can be seen that putative “forms” such as the property of “cowness” or “lyrehood” are not genuine examples of form. Some categories (types of species, types of artifacts) come-to-be and pass away.
In its Aristotelian version Platonic form-matter dualism becomes a kind of non-reductive materialism: primary being is substance, the unity of form and matter. From the doctrine of the unity of form, though, it appears that this must be a kind of “non-reductive formalism” as well, as every particular with a formal property has that property, not by virtue only of the formally-organized parts of that particular, but by virtue of the entire formal organization of the material world: all geometric shapes (for example) are tokens of the one thing.
We know that by this point Wittgenstein would be fuming, but as usual with him we might not be certain exactly why. Of course Wittgenstein would have none of this Platonic talk. “The idea that in order to get clear about the meaning of a general term one had to find the common element in all its applications has shackled philosophical investigation; for it has not only led to no result, but also made the philosopher dismiss as irrelevant the concrete cases, which alone could have helped him to understand the usage of the general term. When Socrates asks the question, ‘what is knowledge?’ he does not even regard it as a preliminary answer to enumerate cases of knowledge.” (Blue and Brown Books; italics in original). Wittgenstein’s operationalist account of functional-role semantics is an arch-nominalist position: there is human behavior, a highly-adaptive and plastic process that changes over time, whose constants are determined by the biological (probably the best choice) nature of the human body and the human “mode of life.” “Property” names (like all names) really pick out parts of language, and the criteria for the proper application of language are essentially operational. Insofar as this line is developed as a strategy to naturalize meaning I think it’s a good one.
But I have never thought that philosophy of mathematics was a particularly strong point for empiricists, and that is troubling considering that Wittgenstein devoted a considerable portion of his writings to the development of an operationalist theory of mathematics. In any event I am unpersuaded by Wittgenstein’s view that extending the known proofs of mathematics is nothing more than an elaboration of a kind of “language game,” specific to humans by virtue of our particular “form of life,” such that there was no such system of entailments until some human (for example) elaborated it. It’s counterintuitive: isn’t the fact, that we can work our way from one part of mathematics to another, evidence that mathematical reasoning is coherent? Doesn’t Wittgenstein’s ultra-nominalist view of mathematics overstate the possibility space: the different ways “mathematics” could go?
However, it may be that the two treatments of the two different parts of intentionality - an eliminativist, operationalist argument to the effect that mental representation/content is not part of the reference of intentional predicates, on the one hand, and an Aristotelean argument to the effect that rationality is nothing more nor less than a formal property and that formal properties, if they exist at all, are ubiquitous – are compatible. According to Wittgenstein there are no abstract entities, of course, but it is important to appreciate how far Wittgenstein went in his naturalization of meaning, and how central to this were his ideas about mathematics. Wittgenstein saw mathematical behavior as a “technique,” a technique for living. “Living” is the operational verb that replaces the Cartesian verb “knowing”: a case of knowing how rather than knowing that. Wittgenstein rejected the passivity of the representational theory and insisted on viewing language as a physical behavior that aimed at getting on with the business of life.
Granted that the Aristotelean world is one where every concrete particular is a union of matter and form, the “form of life,” understood as the vital activities of a being of that kind, would exhibit formal properties. In fact “behavioral ecology” develops an entire narrative, largely mathematical, about the ratio of nutrients per square meter to species population per square meter, showing the correlations between these functions and genetic transmission and so forth. The human “form of life,” if it is anything at all, is a product of the same natural history as that of the human organism; the rationality of humans, like the harmony of musical instruments, is an expression of form.
Within this form of life, that stress made no more emphatically by anyone than Wittgenstein himself, the criteria for use of psychological predicates can be understood operationally such that no mental content is implied. In fact Wittgenstein and Aristotle come together in a sense around “form of life” or what Aristotle would call the telos of an organism. They both suspected that explanations about what sort of thing a thing was and what sort of life a thing led were more informative than explanations about what sort of things a thing thought. Wittgenstein thought that the notion of mental content made no sense. I take the argument from the form-matter distinction to show that “computation” need not necessarily entail mental representations; organizational complexity equivalent to the syntactical complexity of language is found throughout nature. Finally, Wittgenstein’s functional-role semantics and Aristotle’s teleological account of biological explanation are very similarly motivated. They come together in the area where functionalism replaces reductive materialism as a response to the supervenient nature of the functional property.
Maybe not. The Platonism that I am offering has only one element of basic ontology besides matter. Form is indivisible, not divisible; a unity, not a multiplicity. There is only one form really: only one (perhaps inexplicable) ontological fact beyond the fact of the existence of something rather than nothing. Putting the question of Plato and Aristotle’s own views of species as “fixed natural kinds” to the side in favor of a view of species informed by evolutionary biology, it can be seen that putative “forms” such as the property of “cowness” or “lyrehood” are not genuine examples of form. Some categories (types of species, types of artifacts) come-to-be and pass away.
In its Aristotelian version Platonic form-matter dualism becomes a kind of non-reductive materialism: primary being is substance, the unity of form and matter. From the doctrine of the unity of form, though, it appears that this must be a kind of “non-reductive formalism” as well, as every particular with a formal property has that property, not by virtue only of the formally-organized parts of that particular, but by virtue of the entire formal organization of the material world: all geometric shapes (for example) are tokens of the one thing.
We know that by this point Wittgenstein would be fuming, but as usual with him we might not be certain exactly why. Of course Wittgenstein would have none of this Platonic talk. “The idea that in order to get clear about the meaning of a general term one had to find the common element in all its applications has shackled philosophical investigation; for it has not only led to no result, but also made the philosopher dismiss as irrelevant the concrete cases, which alone could have helped him to understand the usage of the general term. When Socrates asks the question, ‘what is knowledge?’ he does not even regard it as a preliminary answer to enumerate cases of knowledge.” (Blue and Brown Books; italics in original). Wittgenstein’s operationalist account of functional-role semantics is an arch-nominalist position: there is human behavior, a highly-adaptive and plastic process that changes over time, whose constants are determined by the biological (probably the best choice) nature of the human body and the human “mode of life.” “Property” names (like all names) really pick out parts of language, and the criteria for the proper application of language are essentially operational. Insofar as this line is developed as a strategy to naturalize meaning I think it’s a good one.
But I have never thought that philosophy of mathematics was a particularly strong point for empiricists, and that is troubling considering that Wittgenstein devoted a considerable portion of his writings to the development of an operationalist theory of mathematics. In any event I am unpersuaded by Wittgenstein’s view that extending the known proofs of mathematics is nothing more than an elaboration of a kind of “language game,” specific to humans by virtue of our particular “form of life,” such that there was no such system of entailments until some human (for example) elaborated it. It’s counterintuitive: isn’t the fact, that we can work our way from one part of mathematics to another, evidence that mathematical reasoning is coherent? Doesn’t Wittgenstein’s ultra-nominalist view of mathematics overstate the possibility space: the different ways “mathematics” could go?
However, it may be that the two treatments of the two different parts of intentionality - an eliminativist, operationalist argument to the effect that mental representation/content is not part of the reference of intentional predicates, on the one hand, and an Aristotelean argument to the effect that rationality is nothing more nor less than a formal property and that formal properties, if they exist at all, are ubiquitous – are compatible. According to Wittgenstein there are no abstract entities, of course, but it is important to appreciate how far Wittgenstein went in his naturalization of meaning, and how central to this were his ideas about mathematics. Wittgenstein saw mathematical behavior as a “technique,” a technique for living. “Living” is the operational verb that replaces the Cartesian verb “knowing”: a case of knowing how rather than knowing that. Wittgenstein rejected the passivity of the representational theory and insisted on viewing language as a physical behavior that aimed at getting on with the business of life.
Granted that the Aristotelean world is one where every concrete particular is a union of matter and form, the “form of life,” understood as the vital activities of a being of that kind, would exhibit formal properties. In fact “behavioral ecology” develops an entire narrative, largely mathematical, about the ratio of nutrients per square meter to species population per square meter, showing the correlations between these functions and genetic transmission and so forth. The human “form of life,” if it is anything at all, is a product of the same natural history as that of the human organism; the rationality of humans, like the harmony of musical instruments, is an expression of form.
Within this form of life, that stress made no more emphatically by anyone than Wittgenstein himself, the criteria for use of psychological predicates can be understood operationally such that no mental content is implied. In fact Wittgenstein and Aristotle come together in a sense around “form of life” or what Aristotle would call the telos of an organism. They both suspected that explanations about what sort of thing a thing was and what sort of life a thing led were more informative than explanations about what sort of things a thing thought. Wittgenstein thought that the notion of mental content made no sense. I take the argument from the form-matter distinction to show that “computation” need not necessarily entail mental representations; organizational complexity equivalent to the syntactical complexity of language is found throughout nature. Finally, Wittgenstein’s functional-role semantics and Aristotle’s teleological account of biological explanation are very similarly motivated. They come together in the area where functionalism replaces reductive materialism as a response to the supervenient nature of the functional property.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Materialism and the Two Existential Questions
It is hard to see the import of a metaphysical argument that has no epistemological implications. If dualism about body and mind is correct an interaction problem will have to be dealt with. By the same token if materialism is to be taken seriously it will have to provide a naturalized account of causal explanation. I take this to mean that to espouse materialism is to commit oneself to the view that a “closed” physical explanation, that is an explanation that refers only to physical causes, is possible. Many materialists understand this to mean that there can only be one “existential question,” if an existential question is one that might not have an answer: “Why is there something rather than nothing?” The idea is that there must be absolutely nothing inherently organized about the something that exists, because materialism is the bare claim that only matter exists and must accomplish everything starting from that sole axiom. Remember, too, that early modern materialism was closely linked with empiricism, forged in opposition to the classical tradition of Neo-Platonism, Christianity and rationalist philosophy and programmatically hostile to metaphysics.
Consider, for example, the argument traditionally called “the teleological proof for the existence of God” or more recently “the intelligent design argument.” Put in currently popular terms, the argument is that the complex design of the natural universe is evidence for an intelligent designer. In this context there is a significant difference between this sort of view and double-aspect theories that see mind and matter as one ontological being, under two kinds of description. (In addition to Spinoza many Hindi and Buddhist philosophers develop versions of double-aspect theory.) In so far as the design argument is an argument meant to demonstrate the existence of another being, the intelligent agent nominally responsible for the design of nature, the argument fails. The design argument starts by asserting that any finely-organized entity must have some sort of explanation. In the case of the natural world, an evidently finely-organized entity, the explanation offered is that there exists an intelligent designer. But the advocate of the intelligent design argument, in so far as he or she takes the argument to show that an intelligent designer ontologically distinct from the natural world exists, now looks committed to the need for an explanation of this finely-organized entity in turn.
To read this back into theory of mind, a materialist theory of mind has to get to mind from no-mind. The intelligent design argument fails because it is intelligence itself (in Platonic terms, the intelligibility of the universe) that we are trying to explain, and pushing the problem back a step is a failure to explain, just as saying that representations are interpreted in your head fails to explain how you, an actual person out in the world, actually interprets anything.
However, it may be that some materialists have over-reacted to the danger posed by the slippery slope that supposedly leads from recognizing that the physical universe may have some innate organization to…what? Say, full-blown Roman Catholicism? Perhaps it is simply a matter of two existential questions, not one. In addition to “Why is there something rather than nothing?” maybe “Why is the something that there is organized such that complex physical systems with formal properties arise?” To come to accept that the universe is a formally organized place can be an entirely secular resolution, after all. Materialist biologists arguing against creationism in the public schools don’t want to work themselves into an even weirder position than that of their religiously-motivated, intelligent design-espousing opponents.
The question then becomes, does accepting that there are two existential questions, not one, entail conceding that materialism is false? I think that in a way it does. If it makes sense to say that formal organization a) exists (“obtains”: I take the Aristotelean view that formal organization, if it is real, is a feature of the physical universe) and b) is a further, contingent fact (that is, there could have been a physical universe that was not formally organized to any degree) then materialism in its most orthodox version is false. I will go so far as to say that this appears to me to be the most plausible resolution to the problem of rationality, and that I do not think that it would be the end of the world if materialism were modified in this way. It is often pointed out that contemporary physics’ picture of “matter/energy” is now so strange that the concept of “materialism” probably can’t do much reliable reductive work anyway. And it is striking that physics has become more and more mathematical as the modern movement of physics has progressed over the passed one hundred years or so.
I think, though, that I can have my resolution to the problem of rationality without settling the cosmological question about the existence (or lack thereof) of innate universal order. The orthodox materialist might be able to explain how complex, self-replicating forms emerged from random, chaotic interactions, such that there is no need for “innate order.” Or materialism may fail to do this. It is enough for my thesis if formal properties are ubiquitous in worlds where rational beings evolve. How those worlds got that way is irrelevant to the point, which is that rationality is (just) another formal property and, although rational beings may be breathtaking examples of finely-formed entities, they are not therefore ontologically distinct from the rest of the physical universe.
Consider, for example, the argument traditionally called “the teleological proof for the existence of God” or more recently “the intelligent design argument.” Put in currently popular terms, the argument is that the complex design of the natural universe is evidence for an intelligent designer. In this context there is a significant difference between this sort of view and double-aspect theories that see mind and matter as one ontological being, under two kinds of description. (In addition to Spinoza many Hindi and Buddhist philosophers develop versions of double-aspect theory.) In so far as the design argument is an argument meant to demonstrate the existence of another being, the intelligent agent nominally responsible for the design of nature, the argument fails. The design argument starts by asserting that any finely-organized entity must have some sort of explanation. In the case of the natural world, an evidently finely-organized entity, the explanation offered is that there exists an intelligent designer. But the advocate of the intelligent design argument, in so far as he or she takes the argument to show that an intelligent designer ontologically distinct from the natural world exists, now looks committed to the need for an explanation of this finely-organized entity in turn.
To read this back into theory of mind, a materialist theory of mind has to get to mind from no-mind. The intelligent design argument fails because it is intelligence itself (in Platonic terms, the intelligibility of the universe) that we are trying to explain, and pushing the problem back a step is a failure to explain, just as saying that representations are interpreted in your head fails to explain how you, an actual person out in the world, actually interprets anything.
However, it may be that some materialists have over-reacted to the danger posed by the slippery slope that supposedly leads from recognizing that the physical universe may have some innate organization to…what? Say, full-blown Roman Catholicism? Perhaps it is simply a matter of two existential questions, not one. In addition to “Why is there something rather than nothing?” maybe “Why is the something that there is organized such that complex physical systems with formal properties arise?” To come to accept that the universe is a formally organized place can be an entirely secular resolution, after all. Materialist biologists arguing against creationism in the public schools don’t want to work themselves into an even weirder position than that of their religiously-motivated, intelligent design-espousing opponents.
The question then becomes, does accepting that there are two existential questions, not one, entail conceding that materialism is false? I think that in a way it does. If it makes sense to say that formal organization a) exists (“obtains”: I take the Aristotelean view that formal organization, if it is real, is a feature of the physical universe) and b) is a further, contingent fact (that is, there could have been a physical universe that was not formally organized to any degree) then materialism in its most orthodox version is false. I will go so far as to say that this appears to me to be the most plausible resolution to the problem of rationality, and that I do not think that it would be the end of the world if materialism were modified in this way. It is often pointed out that contemporary physics’ picture of “matter/energy” is now so strange that the concept of “materialism” probably can’t do much reliable reductive work anyway. And it is striking that physics has become more and more mathematical as the modern movement of physics has progressed over the passed one hundred years or so.
I think, though, that I can have my resolution to the problem of rationality without settling the cosmological question about the existence (or lack thereof) of innate universal order. The orthodox materialist might be able to explain how complex, self-replicating forms emerged from random, chaotic interactions, such that there is no need for “innate order.” Or materialism may fail to do this. It is enough for my thesis if formal properties are ubiquitous in worlds where rational beings evolve. How those worlds got that way is irrelevant to the point, which is that rationality is (just) another formal property and, although rational beings may be breathtaking examples of finely-formed entities, they are not therefore ontologically distinct from the rest of the physical universe.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Plato and the Metaphysical Problem of Rationality
Plato, like Kant, was reacting to contemporary currents of thought that he regarded as dangerous. He took seriously an epistemological problem that he thought was posed by Heraclitus’ doctrine of universal flux (Plato disregards Heraclitus’ view that “all things happen in accord with the divine Logos” and sets Heraclitus up as the materialist foil to Parmenides). In a world where nothing was eternal, unchanging and universal, knowledge with those qualities was also not possible: it had no object. To try to compose a description of an ever-fluxing world was like “shooting after flying game” (as Socrates says in the Theatetus). That sort of knowledge was a snapshot of a mere moment, quickly passed. Plato’s strategy for addressing this epistemological problem was metaphysical: identify the eternal, unchanging and universal object.
Plato also opposed the reductive materialism of Anaxagoras and the other Melisians, early natural scientists (Aristotle, who shared Plato’s opposition to reductive materialism, addresses Democritus’ atomism). The word “reductive” in the phrase “reductive materialism” is also epistemological in its import: the idea is that macro-level phenomena (such as the minds of persons) will ultimately be explained in terms of micro-level phenomena (such as the parts of bodies). Materialism understood this way is committed to the view that properties are caused by matter. The materialist answer to the question “Why is this property what it is?” is “Because the underlying matter is what it is.” Both Plato and Aristotle argued that causation (and thus explanation) ran the other way.
Plato and Aristotle hold respective versions of the form-matter distinction, the view that basic ontology includes both form and matter. Plato’s version is patently dualist. He holds that form is primary being, that it is mind- and matter-independent, and that formal being acts on material being such that matter can only be said to be something to the degree that it is involved in form. Aristotle, objecting to what he saw as Plato’s ontological promiscuity, argued that substance, a union of matter and form, was primary being. Among other advantages this resolved the interaction problem that afflicts Plato’s dualism. On the other hand, the price of collapsing matter and form together into substance in this axiomatic way was that one had to accept that primary being was heterogeneous. This is counter-intuitive, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Close attention to Aristotle’s metaphysical differences with Plato is rewarded with any number of insights into subtleties of the mind-body problem (for example notice the resonance with Spinoza). We will return to Aristotle and De Anima, his own great work on the philosophy of mind, in Chapter Four.
However I will argue that these differences, significant as they are, are not relevant to the present, relatively broad point I want to make about the form-matter distinction, materialism, and the problem of rationality. Ultimately I’m more of an Aristotelian than a Platonist, but I think Plato’s more explicitly dualist discussion makes this broad point best so I will discuss two passages from Plato, the “analogy of the sun” at Republic 507b-509c and the treatment of the materialist argument that “soul is an attunement of the body” at Phaedo 93a-94e.
The Sun, Plato says, makes the universe a visible place. Our eyes take advantage of this (Plato and Aristotle resisted Empedocles’ arguments for natural selection, which they saw as reductive, but the reader should join me in helping ourselves to evolutionary biology wherever it helps to fill things in here). We can see each individual visible thing because the whole universe is suffused with that one element, light, which emanates from the Sun. Analogously Plato claimed that something he called “the Good” suffused the universe with order and made it an intelligible place. The Sun is to vision as the Good is to rationality: both vision and rationality are possible because of the existence of a more general feature of the universe. Plato takes the analogy farther. The Sun’s light is necessary for the growth of plants and the Good’s order is necessary for the emergence of definite (definable, intelligible) things. The Sun is the source of warmth; the Good is the source of value. Darkness is the absence of light; badness is the absence of order.
Describe any concrete particular thing. You will describe it (you can only describe it) in terms of its properties. Concrete particulars, as Heraclitus pointed out, are constantly coming-to-be and passing away. Properties (forms, universals) are eternal. The epistemological challenge posed by Heraclitus’ doctrine of universal flux is met with the Platonic doctrine that formal knowledge (knowledge of formal properties), as distinct from material knowledge (knowledge of concrete particulars), constitutes true understanding.
However there are properties and then there are properties. I stated at the beginning of the book that I don’t like a lot of loose talk about “properties” and that ultimately I think that physical properties are the only kind of properties that there are. If I am going to qualify that at all (and at the end of this discussion you will be left with your own judgment to decide how far I have gone in that direction, and if too far), then I had better try to be a good deal more precise about what I mean by “formal properties.”
Consider two putative properties: the property of “cowness” (or “being-a-cow” or what you will) and the property of circularity. According to Plato, as matter approaches nearer to form it comes to be something, “being” meaning “being intelligible,” which to Plato is a legitimate ontological category (Plato posits degrees of being, contrary to the materialist’s zero-sum understanding of being). However, while there are certainly well-formed cows and malformed cows, even a cow still-born with deformity is a cow (if someone comes into the barn and asks, “What is that?” the right answer is “That’s a cow.”). Plato and Aristotle thought that species were fixed natural kinds (to use the standard phrase), but we (well, I) don’t think so: species are the kinds of things that come-to-be and pass away, just as individuals do. With circularity the situation is different. Being a circle just is having (instantiating) that property, and there is a threshold of trueness short of which we will say that the concrete particular isn’t a circle in a sense that it cannot be said, of any animal born of cows, that it “isn’t a cow.” Once a cow, always a cow, but a concrete particular can gain and lose the property of circularity.
The extension of the set of all formal properties can only be understood in the context of Plato’s central metaphysical thesis of the Good. Plato is clear on the difference between material being and formal being. Material being is divisible (Socrates’ body can be chopped up into pieces and scattered like leaves or burnt and blown away like smoke), it is a multiplicity (I am one body, you are another), and it comes-to-be and passes away (“All men are mortal, Socrates is a man…”). What part of reality is indivisible, a unity (oneness), and eternal?
Imagine (if this is the sort of thing that can be imagined) that one’s sole mathematical practice was to name one set, {x,x}, let’s call it “2.” Now we reflect on our named set and it occurs to us that we need a name for the constituent set, {x}, so we call it something: “1.” It is now impossible not to notice a pair of functions, “+” and “=.” From these we will inevitably get to the other functions, and we also now have a practice of naming all sets; we have the set of natural numbers. In fact all of mathematics is entailed by any part of mathematics. Mathematics cannot be cut into pieces. To have it is to have, at least implicitly, all of it, including all of those proofs that no human has as yet discovered (it is mind-independent). Nor can any part of mathematics be considered, as physical objects can, in isolation from the rest. I can imagine a universe consisting only of this desk chair floating in the vast emptiness of space (I think), but if the proof of the infinity of prime numbers is floating out there, so is all the rest of mathematics. It is one, not a multiplicity of separable propositions. Not only that, but it looks like it is floating out there, since we discover the entailments. And those proofs would be valid, undoubtedly, whether or not there was any matter and energy at all. Mathematics is indivisible, a unity and eternal.
At this point it is possible to be more specific about what a “formal property” is. I take formal properties to be mathematical properties, essentially. For what it’s worth, I even think that this may not be far from Plato’s actual theory, reflecting as it does the metaphysical influence of Pythagoras and Parmenides. To say that a thing has a formal property is to say that there is an aspect or part of that thing that can only be described in terms of mathematical or logical relationships that can be formalized without reference to the contingent physical properties of the thing. For example the property of circularity is a formal property. The set of circular things includes wooden things, clay things, bone things and metal things, but circularity is supervenient: its mathematical description is about the spatial relationship between one of its parts and another and this formalizable (mathematical) relationship does not “reduce” to any contingent properties of wood cells or clay particles etc. That is, “formal properties” are properties that can be formalized. All formal properties are supervenient on matter: there is no physical criterion that fixes the extension of the set of physical things that instantiate the property.
Another way of saying the same thing is to say that any physical object might potentially be involved in any formal property. Formal properties are universal (sometimes they are called “universals”). A critical point here is that strictly speaking there is only one formal property, that property that the universe has of being formally organized by the Good. To speak of a plurality of “forms” (“circularity,” “rationality”) is figurative. There is only one form in which all formally organized things participate; only its expression in matter is multifarious as for example in the various geometrical shapes. (In the next section I will discuss whether and how much this literalist Platonism can coexist with materialism in general and particularly with the Wittgenstein-influenced eliminativism about mental content that I sketched above.)
At Phaedo 93a-94e Socrates is responding to a kind of materialist theory suggested by Simmias. Simmias acknowledges that Socrates can raise difficulties for the identification of the soul with the body by pointing out apparently metaphysical differences between them (for example with the argument from “recollection,” which is Socrates’ term of art for innate knowledge), but Simmias argues that the soul might nonetheless be a kind of “attunement” of the body. This is an emergentist view: when all of the physical properties come together in the right way, a non-physical property emerges, not identical to but dependent on (caused by) the underlying physical properties. Emergentism is a creature of that murky area, populated by refugees and smugglers, where “non-reductive materialism” and “epistemological dualism” share a hopelessly porous border. People who wind up here wanted the goodness of materialism without the badness. Plato’s (dualist) response to the emergentist challenge provides the last link in my argument for a Platonic resolution (I don’t say “solution”) to the problem of rationality.
Consider a musical instrument and the harmonious sounds it makes. On Simmias’ view the harmonious sounds are caused by the particular physical properties of the instrument. Thus while it’s true that the harmony is not identical to the body of the instrument, it is also true that with the passing away of the instrument’s body there will be a simultaneous passing away of the harmony. Socrates responds that harmony is a formal property. That is, harmony itself is not more or less harmonic, any more than circularity is more or less circular. It is physical particulars that can gain or lose circularity, gain or lose harmony. One can get more or less harmonious, but once a lyre always a lyre. The harmony, then, is nothing particular to the lyre; the lyre may have a particular sound in some other aspect, but qua harmonious it participates in the same harmony as every other harmonious object. “Harmonious” is the type, and the extension of the set of physical tokens (musical instruments) cannot be fixed with physical criteria; harmony is formalized in musical notation.
In fact causation runs the other way. Instruments were developed (over a more or less long period of time involving trial and error) according to how well various materials, constructions, forms and so forth achieved harmony. Musical instruments come to be, and are caused to have the physical properties that they have, by virtue of the principles of harmonics. Music is a clear case where the formal property (of harmony) is the antecedent cause of the formation of a set of physical particulars (musical instruments) that exist because they participate in the property. If someone asks, “Why is the lyre shaped like that?” the right answer is, “Because that shape is harmonic.”
Here is the argument towards which I have been working: Consider the three properties circularity, harmony and rationality. They are all formal properties: they are all supervenient and they are all formalizable. The property of rationality is a very fancy formal property compared to circularity, to be sure. But rationality does not constitute, relative to circularity and harmony, any new ontological category. A circular object is an example of an object that possesses both physical and formal properties (in fact both Plato and Aristotle thought that all physical objects possessed formal properties). Meanwhile “immortality of soul” is neither more nor less than “immortality of form.” Remember that ontologically speaking there is only one form: form is a unity, matter a multiplicity. That both a rational human and a circular piece of chalk are involved in the same dualism of form and matter seems difficult to dispute.
Although Plato never, to my knowledge, uses panpsychist language to the effect that non-living objects such as pieces of chalk have souls (a view more explicit in the double-aspect ontology of Spinoza), neither does he say they don’t. Anyway he could be using the word “soul” to refer specifically to rationality and that wouldn’t affect the basic argument here. Socrates comforts his human friends with the argument that humans are constituted out of both matter and rationality, a formal property, and as form is immortal, so that element of humans will never pass away. But obviously a circular object is constituted out of both matter and circularity, and so anything said about a rational object also follows for a circular object as both are understood as possessing a formal property, and the argument turns on the immortality of form.
The result is that what we have been calling “the problem of rationality” turns out to be an instance of a quite general metaphysical problem, the form/matter problem. Now I can discuss the “resolution” to the problem of rationality that this constitutes, but first there are two discussions that are owed to those who have read up to here. The first discussion is about the relationship between the form-matter distinction and materialism: is materialism unable to give a naturalistic account of the formal properties of the universe, including the mind? The second discussion is about whether or not an eliminativist, externalist solution to the problem of representation (such as the one I proposed in the first half of this chapter) can coexist with a Platonic resolution to the problem of rationality.
Plato also opposed the reductive materialism of Anaxagoras and the other Melisians, early natural scientists (Aristotle, who shared Plato’s opposition to reductive materialism, addresses Democritus’ atomism). The word “reductive” in the phrase “reductive materialism” is also epistemological in its import: the idea is that macro-level phenomena (such as the minds of persons) will ultimately be explained in terms of micro-level phenomena (such as the parts of bodies). Materialism understood this way is committed to the view that properties are caused by matter. The materialist answer to the question “Why is this property what it is?” is “Because the underlying matter is what it is.” Both Plato and Aristotle argued that causation (and thus explanation) ran the other way.
Plato and Aristotle hold respective versions of the form-matter distinction, the view that basic ontology includes both form and matter. Plato’s version is patently dualist. He holds that form is primary being, that it is mind- and matter-independent, and that formal being acts on material being such that matter can only be said to be something to the degree that it is involved in form. Aristotle, objecting to what he saw as Plato’s ontological promiscuity, argued that substance, a union of matter and form, was primary being. Among other advantages this resolved the interaction problem that afflicts Plato’s dualism. On the other hand, the price of collapsing matter and form together into substance in this axiomatic way was that one had to accept that primary being was heterogeneous. This is counter-intuitive, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Close attention to Aristotle’s metaphysical differences with Plato is rewarded with any number of insights into subtleties of the mind-body problem (for example notice the resonance with Spinoza). We will return to Aristotle and De Anima, his own great work on the philosophy of mind, in Chapter Four.
However I will argue that these differences, significant as they are, are not relevant to the present, relatively broad point I want to make about the form-matter distinction, materialism, and the problem of rationality. Ultimately I’m more of an Aristotelian than a Platonist, but I think Plato’s more explicitly dualist discussion makes this broad point best so I will discuss two passages from Plato, the “analogy of the sun” at Republic 507b-509c and the treatment of the materialist argument that “soul is an attunement of the body” at Phaedo 93a-94e.
The Sun, Plato says, makes the universe a visible place. Our eyes take advantage of this (Plato and Aristotle resisted Empedocles’ arguments for natural selection, which they saw as reductive, but the reader should join me in helping ourselves to evolutionary biology wherever it helps to fill things in here). We can see each individual visible thing because the whole universe is suffused with that one element, light, which emanates from the Sun. Analogously Plato claimed that something he called “the Good” suffused the universe with order and made it an intelligible place. The Sun is to vision as the Good is to rationality: both vision and rationality are possible because of the existence of a more general feature of the universe. Plato takes the analogy farther. The Sun’s light is necessary for the growth of plants and the Good’s order is necessary for the emergence of definite (definable, intelligible) things. The Sun is the source of warmth; the Good is the source of value. Darkness is the absence of light; badness is the absence of order.
Describe any concrete particular thing. You will describe it (you can only describe it) in terms of its properties. Concrete particulars, as Heraclitus pointed out, are constantly coming-to-be and passing away. Properties (forms, universals) are eternal. The epistemological challenge posed by Heraclitus’ doctrine of universal flux is met with the Platonic doctrine that formal knowledge (knowledge of formal properties), as distinct from material knowledge (knowledge of concrete particulars), constitutes true understanding.
However there are properties and then there are properties. I stated at the beginning of the book that I don’t like a lot of loose talk about “properties” and that ultimately I think that physical properties are the only kind of properties that there are. If I am going to qualify that at all (and at the end of this discussion you will be left with your own judgment to decide how far I have gone in that direction, and if too far), then I had better try to be a good deal more precise about what I mean by “formal properties.”
Consider two putative properties: the property of “cowness” (or “being-a-cow” or what you will) and the property of circularity. According to Plato, as matter approaches nearer to form it comes to be something, “being” meaning “being intelligible,” which to Plato is a legitimate ontological category (Plato posits degrees of being, contrary to the materialist’s zero-sum understanding of being). However, while there are certainly well-formed cows and malformed cows, even a cow still-born with deformity is a cow (if someone comes into the barn and asks, “What is that?” the right answer is “That’s a cow.”). Plato and Aristotle thought that species were fixed natural kinds (to use the standard phrase), but we (well, I) don’t think so: species are the kinds of things that come-to-be and pass away, just as individuals do. With circularity the situation is different. Being a circle just is having (instantiating) that property, and there is a threshold of trueness short of which we will say that the concrete particular isn’t a circle in a sense that it cannot be said, of any animal born of cows, that it “isn’t a cow.” Once a cow, always a cow, but a concrete particular can gain and lose the property of circularity.
The extension of the set of all formal properties can only be understood in the context of Plato’s central metaphysical thesis of the Good. Plato is clear on the difference between material being and formal being. Material being is divisible (Socrates’ body can be chopped up into pieces and scattered like leaves or burnt and blown away like smoke), it is a multiplicity (I am one body, you are another), and it comes-to-be and passes away (“All men are mortal, Socrates is a man…”). What part of reality is indivisible, a unity (oneness), and eternal?
Imagine (if this is the sort of thing that can be imagined) that one’s sole mathematical practice was to name one set, {x,x}, let’s call it “2.” Now we reflect on our named set and it occurs to us that we need a name for the constituent set, {x}, so we call it something: “1.” It is now impossible not to notice a pair of functions, “+” and “=.” From these we will inevitably get to the other functions, and we also now have a practice of naming all sets; we have the set of natural numbers. In fact all of mathematics is entailed by any part of mathematics. Mathematics cannot be cut into pieces. To have it is to have, at least implicitly, all of it, including all of those proofs that no human has as yet discovered (it is mind-independent). Nor can any part of mathematics be considered, as physical objects can, in isolation from the rest. I can imagine a universe consisting only of this desk chair floating in the vast emptiness of space (I think), but if the proof of the infinity of prime numbers is floating out there, so is all the rest of mathematics. It is one, not a multiplicity of separable propositions. Not only that, but it looks like it is floating out there, since we discover the entailments. And those proofs would be valid, undoubtedly, whether or not there was any matter and energy at all. Mathematics is indivisible, a unity and eternal.
At this point it is possible to be more specific about what a “formal property” is. I take formal properties to be mathematical properties, essentially. For what it’s worth, I even think that this may not be far from Plato’s actual theory, reflecting as it does the metaphysical influence of Pythagoras and Parmenides. To say that a thing has a formal property is to say that there is an aspect or part of that thing that can only be described in terms of mathematical or logical relationships that can be formalized without reference to the contingent physical properties of the thing. For example the property of circularity is a formal property. The set of circular things includes wooden things, clay things, bone things and metal things, but circularity is supervenient: its mathematical description is about the spatial relationship between one of its parts and another and this formalizable (mathematical) relationship does not “reduce” to any contingent properties of wood cells or clay particles etc. That is, “formal properties” are properties that can be formalized. All formal properties are supervenient on matter: there is no physical criterion that fixes the extension of the set of physical things that instantiate the property.
Another way of saying the same thing is to say that any physical object might potentially be involved in any formal property. Formal properties are universal (sometimes they are called “universals”). A critical point here is that strictly speaking there is only one formal property, that property that the universe has of being formally organized by the Good. To speak of a plurality of “forms” (“circularity,” “rationality”) is figurative. There is only one form in which all formally organized things participate; only its expression in matter is multifarious as for example in the various geometrical shapes. (In the next section I will discuss whether and how much this literalist Platonism can coexist with materialism in general and particularly with the Wittgenstein-influenced eliminativism about mental content that I sketched above.)
At Phaedo 93a-94e Socrates is responding to a kind of materialist theory suggested by Simmias. Simmias acknowledges that Socrates can raise difficulties for the identification of the soul with the body by pointing out apparently metaphysical differences between them (for example with the argument from “recollection,” which is Socrates’ term of art for innate knowledge), but Simmias argues that the soul might nonetheless be a kind of “attunement” of the body. This is an emergentist view: when all of the physical properties come together in the right way, a non-physical property emerges, not identical to but dependent on (caused by) the underlying physical properties. Emergentism is a creature of that murky area, populated by refugees and smugglers, where “non-reductive materialism” and “epistemological dualism” share a hopelessly porous border. People who wind up here wanted the goodness of materialism without the badness. Plato’s (dualist) response to the emergentist challenge provides the last link in my argument for a Platonic resolution (I don’t say “solution”) to the problem of rationality.
Consider a musical instrument and the harmonious sounds it makes. On Simmias’ view the harmonious sounds are caused by the particular physical properties of the instrument. Thus while it’s true that the harmony is not identical to the body of the instrument, it is also true that with the passing away of the instrument’s body there will be a simultaneous passing away of the harmony. Socrates responds that harmony is a formal property. That is, harmony itself is not more or less harmonic, any more than circularity is more or less circular. It is physical particulars that can gain or lose circularity, gain or lose harmony. One can get more or less harmonious, but once a lyre always a lyre. The harmony, then, is nothing particular to the lyre; the lyre may have a particular sound in some other aspect, but qua harmonious it participates in the same harmony as every other harmonious object. “Harmonious” is the type, and the extension of the set of physical tokens (musical instruments) cannot be fixed with physical criteria; harmony is formalized in musical notation.
In fact causation runs the other way. Instruments were developed (over a more or less long period of time involving trial and error) according to how well various materials, constructions, forms and so forth achieved harmony. Musical instruments come to be, and are caused to have the physical properties that they have, by virtue of the principles of harmonics. Music is a clear case where the formal property (of harmony) is the antecedent cause of the formation of a set of physical particulars (musical instruments) that exist because they participate in the property. If someone asks, “Why is the lyre shaped like that?” the right answer is, “Because that shape is harmonic.”
Here is the argument towards which I have been working: Consider the three properties circularity, harmony and rationality. They are all formal properties: they are all supervenient and they are all formalizable. The property of rationality is a very fancy formal property compared to circularity, to be sure. But rationality does not constitute, relative to circularity and harmony, any new ontological category. A circular object is an example of an object that possesses both physical and formal properties (in fact both Plato and Aristotle thought that all physical objects possessed formal properties). Meanwhile “immortality of soul” is neither more nor less than “immortality of form.” Remember that ontologically speaking there is only one form: form is a unity, matter a multiplicity. That both a rational human and a circular piece of chalk are involved in the same dualism of form and matter seems difficult to dispute.
Although Plato never, to my knowledge, uses panpsychist language to the effect that non-living objects such as pieces of chalk have souls (a view more explicit in the double-aspect ontology of Spinoza), neither does he say they don’t. Anyway he could be using the word “soul” to refer specifically to rationality and that wouldn’t affect the basic argument here. Socrates comforts his human friends with the argument that humans are constituted out of both matter and rationality, a formal property, and as form is immortal, so that element of humans will never pass away. But obviously a circular object is constituted out of both matter and circularity, and so anything said about a rational object also follows for a circular object as both are understood as possessing a formal property, and the argument turns on the immortality of form.
The result is that what we have been calling “the problem of rationality” turns out to be an instance of a quite general metaphysical problem, the form/matter problem. Now I can discuss the “resolution” to the problem of rationality that this constitutes, but first there are two discussions that are owed to those who have read up to here. The first discussion is about the relationship between the form-matter distinction and materialism: is materialism unable to give a naturalistic account of the formal properties of the universe, including the mind? The second discussion is about whether or not an eliminativist, externalist solution to the problem of representation (such as the one I proposed in the first half of this chapter) can coexist with a Platonic resolution to the problem of rationality.
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