Thursday, April 30, 2009

NDPR Nicholas Rescher, Ignorance: On the Wider Implications of Deficient Knowledge

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-31 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Nicholas Rescher, Ignorance: On the Wider Implications of Deficient Knowledge, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009, 170pp., $19.95 (pbk), ISBN 9780822960140.

Reviewed by René van Woudenberg, VU University Amsterdam


Nobody knows the day on which the last Neanderthals died nor does anybody know what Caesar had for breakfast on the Ides of March. We are ignorant about these matters. Still, it is possible that the information required for knowing these matters becomes available in the future. Knowledge here isn't inherently impossible. Let ignorance that in principle (though perhaps not as a matter of fact) can be dispelled, be called contingent ignorance. Nicholas Rescher's loosely composed[1] recent book (I daren't say most recent book, for by the time this review appears another Rescher volume may have seen the light of day) is not on contingent ignorance. It is, at least in the main, on necessary ignorance, i.e. on ignorance of truths that, as a matter of principle, cannot possibly be dispelled -- not even by tons of new information.[2]

In this review I will focus primarily on Rescher's arguments for the existence of necessary ignorance -- but along the way will also address other elements of his book.

Rescher offers the following argument for the existence of necessary or, as he also seems to call it, inevitable ignorance[3]: "[I]f F1 is a fact that X1 does not know, and F2 a fact that X2 doesn't know, then there will be a fact, namely F1-and-F2, which neither X1 nor X2 knows. And this cognitive route to unknown facts will extend across the entire landscape of existing individuals." (p. 5) Spelled out, I suppose, the argument is the following:

P1: F1 is a fact that X1doesn't know

P2: F2 is a fact that X2 doesn't know

P3: F3 is a fact that X3 doesn't know

Pn-1: Fn-1 is a fact that Xn-1 doesn't know

Pn: Fn is a fact that Xn doesn't know

Therefore, there is a fact, namely F1&F2&F3&Fn-1&Fn, that nobody knows.

This argument supposes that if F1 is a fact, and F2 is a fact too, then there is a further fact that is composed of F1 and F2. But this is in no way an innocent assumption. It is far from obvious that if my car's being blue and your dad's being in his eighties are facts then there is some further fact of which these facts are parts.[4]

Offering an argument for the existence of necessary ignorance, of course, isn't offering examples of necessary ignorance. And there would even seem to be a problem in providing examples. The problem can be brought out by comparing two first-person utterances: (1) "I know that p is a truth that I am ignorant of" and (2) "I know there is a truth I am ignorant of". (1) is self-contradictory, (2) is not. It is self-contradictory to specify a truth and go on to say that one is ignorant of that truth. It is not self-contradictory, however, to assert without specification that there is a truth one is ignorant of. Rescher notes the difference between (1) and (2) (pp. 7-8), but it isn't entirely clear what moral he wants the draw from it. On the one hand he seems to suggest that it marks a distinction between specific and indefinite ignorance (p. 7), on the other hand that one's knowledge of one's ignorance can only be indefinite, never specific, and hence that there is no specific ignorance. (p. 8)

But can't our ignorance be, in some sense, specific? Can't I say without self-contradiction that there are specific things I am ignorant of? Can't I coherently say that I am ignorant of the specific proposition that Betty has a Buick (in case I don't know that proposition's truth value)? In order to discuss this question we should take note of two ways in which ignorance can be characterized. So far I have used one characterization, viz. ignorance as the failure to know truths. Rescher calls this propositional ignorance (p. 29), but it is more adequate to say that what we have here is a propositional characterization of ignorance. On a second characterization ignorance is the inability to answer questions. Rescher calls this erotetic ('question-oriented') ignorance (p. 29), but again it is more adequate to say that what we have here is an erotetic characterization of ignorance. According to Rescher, an erotetic characterization of ignorance has a certain advantage over a propositional characterization: it enables one to specify one's ignorance. As noted, we cannot say without self-contradiction (1) "I know that p is a truth that I am ignorant of", but we can say, without self-contradiction, (3) "I know there is a specific question Q that I cannot answer". So, one can't, says Rescher, specify one's ignorance when ignorance is characterized propositionally, but one can specify one's ignorance when it is characterized erotetically. But this is puzzling, because contrary to what Rescher seemed to suggest earlier on, this means that ignorance can, after all, be specific.[5] And not only can ignorance be specific when it is characterized erotetically, but also when it is characterized propositionally. For I can say (and know) that I am ignorant as to whether Jack has a Buick.

As was just indicated, one of Rescher's characterizations of ignorance is in terms of questions: ignorance is the inability to answer questions. But this can't be correct as it stands. For there are many cases in which an agent's inability to answer a question doesn't qualify as ignorance. If you ask me a question that I am unable to answer because my tongue is paralyzed, or because I am struck dumb by your overwhelming presence, or because moral scruples prevent me from doing so, then none of this is sufficient to qualify me as an ignoramus. Inability to answer questions is ignorance only if the inability is of a certain kind. Rescher doesn't specify that kind. But as a first approximation we may perhaps say that the inability must be of an intellectual kind.

Let us now turn to some of Rescher's examples of necessary ignorance. One has to do with the introduction of public safety measures, such as an inoculation campaign, or the setting of a certain speed limit, or the instalment of a certain traffic light. "There is no question", Rescher maintains, that through these measures

many lives are saved. But whose? Many among us would not be here if these steps had not been taken. Yet who are they? We know there are some who were saved by the measures but there is no way of telling who they are: this is something nobody knows or indeed can known. There are bound to be individuals of whom it is true that their life was so saved, and consequently there is a fact of the matter here: "X's life was saved" will be, and will have to be, true for certain values of X, for certain individuals. But there is no way for us ever to identify such an individual. (p. 9)

I am not convinced, however, that this is a case of necessary ignorance (a case of something that is inherently unknowable), as opposed to a case of contingent ignorance. In order to know that Sam's life was saved by the placement of a certain traffic light, one needs to have knowledge of counterfactual conditionals, such as the following, that involve both Sam and the traffic light.

(a) Had that traffic light not been in place, Sam would have been hit by a truck

(b) Had there been no traffic light, Sam would have taken the same route as he in fact did.

Knowledge of such counterfactuals may, in practice, be very hard for us to come by. But some such counterfactuals may in fact be known by us. They don't seem to be inherently unknowable. An all-knowing agent could and would know these counterfactuals. I therefore contend that if this is an example of ignorance, it is an example of contingent ignorance.

Another example of necessary ignorance that Rescher offers has to do with coin tossing. As we know, a coin will come up heads or tails, but we have no idea which it will be. So we are inevitably and necessarily ignorant of the outcome of the toss. (pp. 9-10) I doubt, again, whether this is correct. Laplace's supermind knows all the forces that operate on the coin were it to be tossed, and therefore knows the outcome in advance. So even if we are ignorant of the outcome, the ignorance isn't necessary -- it is contingent as it depends on the limitations of our cognitive capacities.

Both of these putative examples of necessary ignorance give reason to introduce a distinction that Rescher seems to have overlooked. We may think of necessary ignorance in a relativized as well as a non-relativized way. In a non-relativized way, necessary ignorance means 'intrinsically unknowable', but in a relativized way it means 'unknowable for agents of a certain sort' or 'unknowable given certain cognitive capacities'. So we can distinguish three types of ignorance:

·      Contingent ignorance (or C-ignorance): ignorance that could, in principle, be overcome; it is ignorance that is due, for instance, (i) to laziness, or (ii) to the fact that by sheer happenstance one has never come across certain evidences, or (iii) to lack of time to figure out something.

·      Relativized/necessary ignorance (or R/n-ignorance): ignorance due to the limits of human cognitive capacities; this is ignorance due to a thing's being unknowable for beings like ourselves.

·      Necessary ignorance (or N-ignorance): ignorance due to a thing's being inherently unknowable.[6]

As to the relation between R/n- and N-ignorance: N-ignorance entails R/n-ignorance, but the reverse doesn't hold. To return to the two examples discussed so far: if they are cases of necessary ignorance, they are cases R/n-ignorance, cases of ignorance due to the limits of human cognitive capacities. They aren't cases of N-ignorance.

Although, then, the examples discussed are not examples of N-ignorance, Rescher seems to offer various arguments for the conclusion that some ignorance is N-ignorance. One argument proceeds from the plausible Principle of Question Propagation that says that "the answering of our factual (scientific) questions always paves the way to further as yet unanswered questions." (p. 31) Suppose now that every answered question gives rise to many new questions at least one of which isn't yet answered; it then follows from the Principle that when inquiry advances and ever more questions get answered, the number of yet-unanswered (asked) questions will grow too. Hence our ignorance (erotetically characterized) will expand as inquiry progresses. So ignorance is unavoidable -- it is necessary. But we should be careful. For even though it is necessary that we are ignorant, this doesn't establish there is necessary ignorance; it doesn't establish that there are truths that nobody can possibly know, or that there are questions that no one can possibly answer. All that follows is that as inquiry progresses there will always be as-yet unanswered questions. But as-yet unanswered questions needn't be unanswerable questions, questions that no one can possibly answer. So this argument doesn't establish the existence of necessary ignorance, neither R/n-ignorance nor N-ignorance.

But Rescher has yet another argument for N-ignorance, a convincing one this time -- one that involves so-called 'vagrant predicates'. Such predicates apply to objects but are such that they cannot be known to apply. The reason for this can be paradoxically stated thus: the moment they are known to apply, they stop being applicable. Here are some examples:

a) . . . is an idea that never occurs to anybody

b) . . . is an event that no one ever mentions

c) . . . is an integer that is never individually specified

d) . . . is an ever un-stated theory

e) . . . is a never-mentioned truth

f) . . . is someone whom everybody has forgotten.

There must be an idea to which predicate a) applies, that is, there must be an idea that never occurs to anybody. But we don't know, and can't possibly know, what that idea is. For, so to speak, the moment we know which idea it is, the idea stops being an idea to which predicate a) applies, for when we know what the idea is, the idea occurs to us. So here our ignorance is, finally, necessary -- we are necessarily ignorant of that to which this vagrant predicate applies. Rescher holds that all the predicates on the list (they can all be found on pp. 32-5) are vagrant, and hence such that we cannot know to what they apply. But that cannot be right. For what holds for a), for example, doesn't hold for b). I know that a certain event took place at time t1 of which I was the only human witness: while hiking in the Yukon at t1, I saw a hare jumping in the water. I never mentioned this event to anybody -- at least not until a moment ago, a moment that I shall refer to as t3. It is clear that at t2, which is a moment prior to t3 but posterior to t1, I knew of a specific event (a hare jumping in the water at t1) that no one had ever mentioned. Surely, ". . . is an event that so far no one had ever mentioned" (=b*) is not ". . . is an event that no one ever mentions" (=b). But the event in question could easily be such that b) applies to it. For there is a possible world in which what I saw in the Yukon is the same as what I saw in the actual world (viz. a hare jumping in the water), but in which I hadn't mentioned that event for purposes of example to anyone and kept silent about it my entire life. In that world I would know of a specific event of which it is true that no one ever mentions it. In that world I would not be ignorant of a specific event to which b) applies. An analogous point can, of course, be made about e), ". . . is a never mentioned truth". So, there are items to which predicates b) and e) apply, and to which we furthermore know that they apply. And so, contrary to what Rescher implies, we are not necessarily ignorant of specific items to which b) and e) apply. My conclusion is that predicates b) and e) aren't really vagrant.[7] (I am not suggesting there are no vagrant predicates.)

Rescher offers a further argument for the existence of necessary ignorance, one involving what he calls, referring to the Old Testament prophet, Isaiah's Principle. This principle, which he claims is a 'fundamental law of epistemology', is that "a mind of lesser power is for this very reason unable to understand the workings of a mind of greater power." (p. 64) A weaker mind, Rescher says, can of course acknowledge that a stronger mind can solve problems that she can't. But she can't understand how the stronger mind is able to do so. A mind that can barely master tic-tac-toe can't possibly comprehend the ways of a chess expert. A mathematical tyro can't understand a mathematical prodigy like Ramanujan. Now Rescher's argument for the existence of necessary ignorance is this:

(1) Physical reality is reflective of the work of a mind more powerful than ours (p. 66)

(2) A mind of lesser power is unable to understand the workings of a mind of greater power (=Isaiah's Principle)

(3) Therefore, an adequate apprehension of nature is beyond our grasp. (p. 66)

Since Rescher offers nothing by way of argument for (1), all that can be claimed for (3) is that it follows provided one accepts (1). Apart from this there is a problem with the argument in that some kind of equivocation is going on. The first premise involves the notion 'the work of a mind more powerful than ours', the second premise the notion 'the workings of a mind of a greater power'. But 'work of a mind' and 'workings of a mind' aren't the same; the first notion denotes a certain result of mind activity, the second one mind activity itself. If we de-equivocate the argument, we get two arguments. When the notion of 'work' is used throughout, however, the second premise, Isaiah's Principle, is no longer true. For a mind of lesser power may be able to understand a (relatively) simple work, say a written inscription in the sand, of a mind of greater power. Will the argument be sound when the notion of 'workings' is used throughout? Only if we can make sense of the new rendition of the first premise. And I, for one, can't.

Another area of necessary, or as Rescher says unavoidable, ignorance has to do with what lies in the future. Many obstacles prevent us from having 'predictive foreknowledge', which is the topic of the longest chapter of the book, chapter 6. It is somewhat unfortunate that Rescher doesn't explain what the contrast of predictive foreknowledge is supposed to be. Is it non-predictive foreknowledge? And what is the nature of such non-predictive foreknowledge supposed to be? Is it knowledge that, say, at some future time a certain specific event will happen, where this foreknowledge has not the nature of a prediction? But then: what is a prediction? It is a statement of the proposition that at some future time something will happen, or something will be the case. But if this is a prediction, then all foreknowledge is predictive in nature and hence 'non-predictive foreknowledge' is an oxymoron. I therefore tentatively conclude that 'predictive foreknowledge' is a pleonasm -- it doesn't single out a subsector of foreknowledge; it covers the entire sector.[8]

As Rescher convincingly argues, there are many obstacles to the possession of foreknowledge -- many impediments to the acquisition of true predictive propositions. Some are ontological, others epistemological in nature. Ontological obstacles exist insofar as the future is developmentally open -- i.e. causally undetermined or underdetermined by the existing realities of the present and open to the development of wholly new unprecedented patterns owing to the contingencies of choice, chance, and chaos. Epistemological obstacles exist insofar as the future is cognitively inaccessible -- either because we cannot secure the data, or because it is impossible for us to discover the operative laws, or even possibly because the requisite calculations outrun the reach of our capacities.

Rescher specifies seven obstacles to foreknowledge and I propose to look at some of them in some detail. My focus, as before, will be on necessary ignorance. Says Rescher: "The situation where there just are no laws -- rather than there being mere ignorance about them -- is clearly fatal for prediction." (p. 102) But is this true? Is it correct to say that in situations where there are no laws, ignorance about the future is necessary? For theists at least there is reason for doubt. For God may have knowledge of the future free actions of humans even if there are no laws that connect their past and present states with future actions. What is needed for that is that God has knowledge of what Alvin Plantinga has called 'counterfactuals of creaturely freedom'. If this is correct, then God isn't necessarily ignorant in a situation where there just are no laws. But even apart from this there may be reason for doubt. There is no law that connects my son's past and present behaviour to what he will do tomorrow. Still, I may truly predict, and hence foreknow, on the basis of a couple of counterfactuals of freedom (specified to him) in conjunction with knowledge of their antecedents, what he will do tomorrow. If I am ignorant of my son's behaviour tomorrow, I am not necessarily N-ignorant of it.

Even if there are laws, there may be obstacles for foreknowledge, says Rescher. For there may be situations in which laws don't permit a secure inference of particular conclusions but leave outcomes undetermined due to chance. Hence chance is an obstacle to foreknowledge. My question is again this: is, in a situation like this, ignorance N- or only R/n-ignorance? The answer all depends on what we take chance to be. The context of the discussion indicates that Rescher is thinking here of 'chance' as an ontological phenomenon. An event in a system is 'chancy' if it is not determined by the laws of nature and the initial state of the system. Some theorists speak of deep chance here. The question is whether deep chance is an obstacle to foreknowledge, whether deep chance is fatal for prediction. Theists, again, may have reason for doubt. For it could be thought that just as there are true counterfactuals of freedom, there are what Del Ratzsch has called true counterfactuals of chance[9] -- counterfactuals that God may know. If such counterfactuals exist, then deep chance doesn't lead to necessary ignorance on God's part. Since to us the counterfactuals of chance are inaccessible, we are ignorant wherever there is deep chance. Our ignorance then is R/n-ignorance; it isn't mere contingent ignorance.

The epistemological obstacles to foreknowledge that Rescher lists are clearly obstacles that hold for beings like us. So, the reality of such obstacles cannot be used in an argument for N-ignorance -- at best for R/n-ignorance. The epistemological obstacles that Rescher lists are real enough: (1) ignorance of laws, (2) ignorance of data and (3) incapability to carry out the needed reasoning even when we are neither ignorant of laws, nor of data. But none of these obstacles make for N-ignorance.

The penultimate chapter (chapter 7) discusses the question "Are there any significant cognitive questions that computers cannot answer?" Rescher answers it in the affirmative by providing an example of just such a question: "When next you [you computer!] answer a question, will the answer be negative?" When the computer says "Yes", the computer says that the next answer will be "No" -- an answer that is contradicted by its actual "Yes". But when the computer answers "No", the computer says that the next answer will be "Yes" -- an answer that is contradicted by its actual "No". And hence the computer is unable to answer the initial question.

At the very end of his book Rescher suggests a very short argument for the conclusion that "ignorance betokens realism" (p. 150), where 'realism' is the thesis that mind-independent things exist. The argument he presents, however, is question-begging. Still, there might be an argument that saves Rescher's intuition and at the same time begs no question against the antirealist, viz. the following IBE:

(1) There are many facts about real things that we are ignorant of. <ass.>

(2) That there are many facts about real things that we are ignorant of is best explained by assuming that real things are mind-independent.

(C) Therefore, real things are mind-independent.

The crucial premise here is, of course, the second one. A proper discussion of it would blow the bounds of this review. But I am inclined to think it is eminently defensible.[10]



[1] The chapters of the book stand more or less on their own and they don't constitute 'one long argument'; they do not cross refer to each other. The book even contains repetitions without the author drawing attention to that fact. An example is the (in itself highly interesting) discussion of Pythia, an all-purpose prediction machine, introduced in chapter 6 (more precisely, pp. 94-100), that is repeated without any substantive new points being made in chapter 7 (more precisely, pp. 132-8). Another example of the book's loose composition is this: on pp. 32-6 so-called 'vagrant predicates' are discussed; on p. 134 an argument is launched that involves such a predicate, but the reader isn't referred back to the earlier discussion. Another example: the book's title speaks of 'deficient knowledge', but there is no real discussion of that notion.

[2] That the book is on necessary ignorance can be distilled from a passage like the following: "The issue of contingent ignorance -- of what people are too lazy or too incompetent to find out about -- does not hold much interest for cognitive theory. What matters from the theoretical point of view are those aspects of ignorance that betoken inherent limits to human knowledge." (p. 3)

[3] One drawback of Rescher's book is that the relationships between various terms and expressions are not made explicit. A case in point is 'necessary ignorance', 'inevitable ignorance' and 'unavoidable ignorance'. I assume these expressions are semantically equivalent, although Rescher nowhere explicitly says so.

[4] One might think that Rescher might make, for repair, the following move. He might propose to substitute 'proposition' for 'fact' in the argument and claim that the problem I raise for the argument in terms of facts doesn't arise for the argument when stated in terms of propositions. For if p and q are propositions, there is a further proposition r of which p and q are the parts (conjuncts). However, there would seem to be problems also for the idea that propositions have parts; conjuncts in a conjunction aren't parts of the conjunction.

[5] There is, perhaps, some room in Rescher's text to avoid this conclusion, for the following reason. Whereas Rescher earlier uses the specific/general distinction (pp. 5-7), later on he works with the concrete/generic distinction (p. 28). However, these distinctions seem to be made to do the same work. I therefore take there to be only one distinction.

[6] On p. 40 it would seem that Rescher is groping for this threefold distinction. This threefold distinction can also be put as follows. Subject S is C-ignorant of p provided S is ignorant of p in some but not in all possible worlds in which S exists; subject S is R/n-ignorant of p provided S is ignorant of p in all possible worlds in which S exists due to certain limitations in S's capacities; subjects are N-ignorant of p provided p is inherently unknowable (i.e. provided there is no possible world in which a subject exists who knows p).

[7] This line of reasoning also holds for d), ". . . is an ever un-stated theory", if by 'un-stated' is meant 'un-mentioned'. It does not hold if by 'un-stated' is meant 'un-thought'.

[8] But perhaps there is a way to think of predictive foreknowledge as a subsector of foreknowledge. One could think that predictive foreknowledge is foreknowledge that is based on predictions that are based on knowledge of past and present facts in combination with knowledge of the laws of nature. Non-predictive foreknowledge, by contrast, would then be foreknowledge that is not so based. The difference would then be between inferential and non-inferential foreknowledge. Examples of the latter would, perhaps, be clairvoyance, and the sort of foreknowledge that God is supposed to have. If this is how Rescher wishes the phrase 'predictive foreknowledge' to be understood, then he surely hasn't made that explicit.

[9] Del Ratzsch, Nature, design, and Science: The Status of Design in Natural Science. NY: SUNY, 2001.

[10] For comments and discussion I should like to thank Martijn Blaauw, Anthony Booth, Rik Peels and Giedre Vasiliauskaite.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

NDPR W. V. Quine, Confessions of a Confirmed Extensionalist and Other Essays; AND, Quine in Dialogue

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-29 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

W. V. Quine, Confessions of a Confirmed Extensionalist and Other Essays, Dagfinn Føllesdal and Douglas B. Quine (eds.), Harvard University Press, 2008, 521pp., $45.00 (hbk), ISBN 9780674030848.

W. V. Quine, Quine in Dialogue, Dagfinn Føllesdal and Douglas B. Quine (eds.), Harvard University Press, 2008, 378pp., $39.95 (hbk), ISBN 9780674030831.

Reviewed by Gary Kemp, University of Glasgow


Here are eight hundred ninety-nine pages from the great man, covering interviews, articles and reviews, and sundry bits and bobs, including a facsimile of a poem. Decidedly, the first title -- Quine in Dialogue­ -- is much lighter, as measured both by weight and intellectual substance; readers interested only in Quine's philosophy would not miss a great deal in sticking only to Confessions. This latter work contains previously unpublished pieces ranging from 1946 to 1997, and previously published but in some cases hard to find articles from 1939 to his last article published in 2001, which contributes its name to the title of the book. Inevitably, this volume does not have the finish of the books published during his lifetime; it is -- largely due to repetition -- somewhat less than the sum of its parts. But not only do various points regarding the development of Quine's views for which he is elsewhere famous emerge quite strikingly, certain points, which only became clear to Quine after the publication of the second edition of Pursuit of Truth in 1992, emerge as essential to Quine's overall picture.

I'll attempt to convey some of the novel substance below, but first some of Quine in Dialogue. It is divided into three sections: Interviews, Quine on Other Philosophers, and Popular Pieces (which might well have been called 'Miscellaneous'; it includes pieces on atlases and dictionaries -- both well-known Quinean interests -- introductions to speakers including Kripke, Dummett, Church, Skinner and Piaget, addresses and memorials, remarks on politics, advice to graduate students, and other pieces including the aforementioned poem, and even remarks on God, which as always are condensed and measured). The first section is basically what you'd expect when the questions are largely chosen with a general audience in mind, not Quine specialists. Still Quine offers some worthwhile ways of putting his views, such as an acknowledgement of the fact, which one might think that his rigid empiricism would force him to deny, that some sentences are incapable of being tested but must be accepted as true and cognitively significant on the grounds that they serve to 'fill out' a theory (pp. 78-9; see also p. 199 and p. 225).

The middle section -- itself divided into four parts, entitled 'Correspondence', 'Articles', 'Reviews', and 'Responses' -- will provide more philosophical stimulation. 'Correspondence' is restricted to Quine's exchanges with Bertrand Russell. Eventually, one presumes, a great deal more of Quine's correspondence will become available (although there is already a volume of Quine's correspondence with Carnap: Dear Carnap, Dear Van: The Quine-Carnap Correspondence and Related Work, ed. by Richard Creath, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), but the exchange with Russell was published in 1988 and then again in 1989, so it must have made sense to include it here. The principle whereby an article was published here under 'Articles' rather than in Confessions was, I take it, that it was previously published but not mainly concerned with development or statement of Quine's own views. Highlights here are the discussion of Carnap and especially that of Davidson, about which more below. Highlights of the 'Reviews' section include his 1950 discussion of Nelson Goodman's The Structure of Appearance and his 1984 discussion of Charles Parsons' Mathematics in Philosophy. He is out of sympathy with much of the latter but, although he can't help letting a few impish remarks onto the page, gives a responsible and concise summary, if admittedly slanted towards points of contact with his own views.

The last part of the middle section -- 'Responses' -- contains many telling remarks. Truth is not transcendental but immanent, of course, but that just means that truth is no less real than light-rays, not that there is no such thing (p. 226). Quine takes back the declaration of 'Two Dogmas of Empiricism' that any sentence may be held true come what may -- a more moderate holism is sufficient and more plausible -- and comes to terms, in naturalistic terms, with analyticity (p. 233). These remarks are from the mid-1990's, and are significant because there remains a tendency to identify Quine with the radical holism and anti-analyticity of 'Two Dogmas' -- from 1953 -- when much of it came to be strategically disowned over the next forty-seven years in favour of a more nuanced view as his positive commitment to naturalism gradually took told.

His naturalism was evident in Word and Object (1960), but continued to grow as he coped with various challenges thrown up, and learned to discount others. Confessions consists of two sections of articles, one of twelve previously unpublished articles and the other of thirty-four previously published. It is peculiarly valuable for the illumination it provides for his shifting attitudes towards ontology -- especially that of abstract objects -- and the post-1992 sewing up of a persisting gap in his naturalized epistemology.

In 1946, in a piece written for the Harvard Philosophical Colloquium and which is included here, Quine wrote that he 'should like to be able to accept nominalism' (p. 9), and attempts to make a little progress up that imposing face. But over the next decade Quine came to accept abstract entities -- sets -- largely because no way was evident of doing without them. And then gradually he came to feel this reluctance was baseless. Partly this was implicit in his idea that, in the final analysis, all objects are posits. Even physical objects, from the point of view of a mature theory, should be regarded as in some sense optional, and the usual reason for seeking to avoid numbers and sets -- that they are evidently unperceivable -- evaporates with the rejection of perception as the locus of epistemology in favour of a more complicated scheme involving stimulus meaning, observation sentences and the rest of the 'apparatus of reference'. But a more radical move is well in evidence here: Ontology, he came to hold, though necessary because, roughly, we have to talk about something or other, any structurally similar ontology -- for example an ontology solely of sets -- is equally good as any other. This 'global structuralism' -- which is not a 'structuralist ontology', that is, it is not an ontology of structures; p. 406 -- is ultimately simply a corollary of naturalism: since ontological commitments are themselves commitments from within a theory of reality, they are real, but, as the existence of proxy-functions for example illustrates, genuine alternatives are always available. So any lingering distaste for abstract ontology must give way, perhaps surprisingly, to naturalism. The only viable argument for nominalism would have to show, not just that we can do without abstract objects, but that their postulation is contradictory or in some other way positively ruled out. See pp. 189, 281, 317, 339, 381, and 470.

The persisting epistemological gap was this. An observation sentence must be keyed to an individual's sensory receptors, and be such that any two witnesses to an event or situation would agree to a verdict. The agreement is necessary for communication, language-learning and translation. But why do in fact we find so much agreement? What accounts for intersubjectivity? It cannot be that two people receive the same or similar excitations of their sensory receptors, for that surely ought not to matter, and presumably does not actually happen, at least not normally. Davidson had long urged Quine to drop his insistence on his 'proximal' scheme which speaks of sensory receptors in favour of his 'distal' scheme, whereby the epistemologically basic phenomenon is a triangle whereby two people agree on the reference of a term to an object in the scene. Quine quite appropriately resisted, since it's difficult to see how reference could be admitted from the outset to epistemology without renouncing naturalism. But he had no alternative explanation to offer of the phenomenon as late as 1992.

The problem began with the 1960 Word and Object definition of observation sentence, and was becoming apparent by 1965. Although he was close to the solution long before 1992 -- as for example in 1975, 'The Nature of Natural Knowledge', p. 263 -- the exact problem was not quite clear to him until the mid-1990's. The problem as conceived in 1996 is to account for a 'preestablished harmony of standards of perceptual similarity, independent of intersubjective likeness of receptors or sensations' (pp. 474-5). He does so in terms of natural selection, 'Darwin's solvent of metaphysics':

We have . . . an inductive instinct: we tend to expect perceptually similar stimulations to have sequels that are similar to each other. This is the basis of expectation, habit formation, and learning. Successful expectation has always had survival value, notably as the elusion of predators and the capture of prey. Natural selection is accordingly favored innate standards of perceptual similarity which have tended to harmonize with trends in the environment. Hence the success, so much better than random, of our inductions and expectations. Derivatively, then, through our sharing of an ancestral gene pool, our innate standards of perceptual similarity harmonize also intersubjectively.

. . . Harmony without interaction: that was the subtlety. We take its ubiquitous effects for granted, not thinking them through. (p. 475; see also pp. 178, 184, 263, 371, 376, 464-5, 494; and also Quine in Dialogue pp. 254, 259, 346)

So it is gratifying that the last significant manoeuvre of the leading exponent of naturalism of the twentieth century involves a straightforward appeal to considerations made standard by the leading naturalist of the nineteenth, Charles Darwin; it's a neat stitch. Of course there is much more in the book, as shown by the titles of the articles. Of particular remarks, some of them are genuinely new, especially Quine's having raked over again the oft-tweaked definition of 'observation sentence' (pp. 476-7; cf. pp. 231, 273, 319, 411, 465, 477, 490). Less new but interesting all the same are his remarks about Naturalism (pp. 166, 176, 239, 260, 285, 320, 322, 363 and 467); about cognitively significant theoretical sentences that nevertheless play no role in the testing of theory, called 'outliers' (pp. 169, 190, 241, 270, 320, 395, 467-8); about the underdetermination of theory (pp. 366, 362-3, 384, 385, 433-7); and about the indeterminacy of translation (pp. 284, 346, 448). His 'Lectures on David Hume's Philosophy' (1946) are a tour de force that show both how relevant and how irrelevant Hume's philosophy was to him, and very nicely culminates in the observation that ultimately for Hume the question of science versus religion boiled down, bathetically and surely mistakenly, to one of faith versus faith. It is also instructive to realize that the sharp distinction between logic on the one hand and mathematics and set-theory on the other, which we take for granted, took a while to win acceptance. Quine of course was very much in the middle of it, especially in his Mathematical Logic of 1951 but also from much earlier; a reworked version of his Ph.D. thesis came out in 1934 as A System of Logic. Gödel had published his great theorems unknown to Quine in 1930 and 1931, but by the time A System of Logic appeared in 1934 Quine had met Carnap and read Gödel. It took a while for Quine to decide that the right place to draw the line dividing mathematics from pure logic is between those statements that are formally valid in virtue of the arrangements of truth-functions and quantifiers -- for which there is, as Gödel showed, a complete proof-procedure -- and those statements that are not formally valid in that sense, but which are true in virtue of the role of the sign for set-membership -- for which there is no proof-procedure, as Gödel showed; this is in 'Where Logic is Going' (1947).

I've concentrated on what is relatively new even for Quineans, but the clearest scholarly reason for the existence of Confessions of a Confirmed Extensionalist is simply that the book collects together important things that one may well have come across but only in journals or collections, including 'On the Reason for Indeterminacy of Translation', 'On Empirically Equivalent Systems of the World', 'Facts of the Matter', 'Progress on Two Fronts', and 'I, You, and It: An Epistemological Triangle'. The book takes its place alongside other collections that Quine published: From a Logical Point of View, Ontological Relativity and Other Essays, The Ways of Paradox, Selected Logic Papers and Theories and Things.

Dagfinn Føllesdal is a well-known philosopher and was once a student of W. V. Quine. Douglas B. Quine is not a philosopher but is of course Willard Van Orman's son; he provided much of the material that went into Quine in Dialogue, and keeps an ever-burgeoning mass of material of all philosophical and non-philosophical kinds appertaining to his father on his website, www.wvquine.org, which is well worth visiting. There are some glitches. On page 191 of Confessions we read 'then say of it. That it is a theorem of the system'; obviously that should be corrected to 'then we say of it that it is a theorem of the system'. On the same page we read 'finding the teat of them questionable anyway on other counts'; presumably we should treat 'teat' as 'treatment'. The word 'propositional' appears, no less than thirty-two times, as 'prepositional'; I would blame reliance on spell checkers but the word appears correctly at other times. The practice concerning what to do with sentences originally published but marked by W. V. Quine for deletion in his personal published copy appears to be inconsistent (p. 320 vs. p. 348). And on page 316 of Quine in Dialogue line 10 down read 'Refutation of an' for 'Refutation or an'.

The books are physically of excellent quality and refined appearance, and the use of footnotes rather than endnotes is welcome. Not everyone will like Steve Pyke's pictures on the jacket; the wide angle lens perhaps overemphasizes the near over the far, making philosophers into bug like creatures too much in keeping with popular preconceptions of other worldliness. But these are excellent additions to the Quinean corpus, not least because they are full of Quinean economical precision and wit; one likes to think that one is on the right side of Quine's rhetorical question about potential misreadings: 'Why write for a person who cannot read?' (Quine in Dialogue, p. 1).

NDPR Terry Eagleton, Trouble with Strangers: A Study of Ethics

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-30 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Terry Eagleton, Trouble with Strangers: A Study of Ethics, Wiley-Blackwell, 2008, 347pp., $29.95 (pbk), ISBN 9781405185721.

Reviewed by Gopal Balakrishnan, University of California, Santa Cruz


Trouble with Strangers is the latest reflection on ethics from the distinguished literary critic Terry Eagleton. Best known for his witty and sympathetic popularizations of critical theory, Eagleton once claimed that its main contemporary currents -- Marxism, deconstruction, and psychoanalysis -- were devoid of practical ethical corollaries, thereby contributing to a wider condition of relativistic malaise. Eagleton was probably the only proponent of post-structuralism at the time to be troubled by this. But even if it were true that the main variants of post-structuralism once exhibited such nihilist tendencies, one could say that they have all subsequently sought to make amends, for after their 80's heyday, all of them made a turn towards ethical inquiry, along lines laid out by Levinas, Derrida and the late Foucault. Indeed, even Lacanians like Žižek who dismiss the post-structuralist ethics of difference and undecidability, invariably do so in ethical terms. It might also be noted that this development seems to conform to a broader trend that has brought us bio-ethics, professional ethics, and ethical consumerism. Eagleton has addressed this broader ideological context in other works, but in Trouble with Strangers, he limits himself to providing a comparative overview of some of the different conceptions of ethics coming out of that mixture of continental intellectual traditions that is still called 'Theory'.

The plan of the book might initially seem whimsical: the author divides ethical philosophies into categories drawn from Lacan's schema of psychic relations -- the Imaginary, Symbolic and Real -- here offered as little more than a loose framework of classification. Indeed the book's architrave is not even specifically Lacanian, and replicates the terms of Kierkegaard's familiar account of three existential worldviews -- the aesthetic, ethical, and religious. While lumping different bodies of thought together in this way might fail to capture the problems they raise on their own terms, Eagleton often employs this heuristic device to good effect, bringing to light shared assumptions, rhetorics, and blind spots.

The book begins with a consideration of reflections on the psychology of moral sentiments from a number of writers associated with the 18th century Scottish Enlightenment. For Adam Smith, moral sentiment was a form of empathy that took shape in a society based on commercial and status competition, whose members regularly had to confront the possibility of either placing themselves in the shoes of others, disavowing such identification or tuning out the suffering of those too unlike themselves. Eagleton suggests that an ethics based on the limits of our imaginary empathetic identification with other beings can be understood by analogy to what Lacan called the 'imaginary', or the mirror stage of the pre-linguistic infant who knows no sharp boundary between itself and the world. In both instances, imaginary openness can be seen as a kind of infantile closure within which even the loftiest moral feeling comes to rest on fortuitous resemblances and associations between an individual and his fellow creatures. Moral experience in this register is essentially aesthetic. Of course, some moral philosophers of the 18th century did possess a new term -- 'the sublime' -- to designate a form of experience that transcended the sphere of this ordinary moral-aesthetic experience and judgment. But the sublime, in this view, far from being an opening to a dimension of freedom beyond the senses, merely reveals a tendency of the imagination to find meaning in those experiences that momentarily overwhelm it. Put this way, it becomes difficult to distinguish between imaginary and presumably more authentic experiences of the overcoming of this egoistic enclosure.

The second section groups together figures whose understanding of ethics is grounded in a vision of an arduous self-determination directed against the spontaneous tendencies of appetite and imagination. Ethics in this essentially Kantian mold is a rigorous practice of determining our moral commitments through universalizing precepts against the grain of our crooked nature. Eagleton aligns this understanding of ethics with Lacan's symbolic order, in that both presuppose a subject whose autonomy depends on its capacity to stand outside and in permanent opposition to its inclinations and determinations. Both Kant and Lacan seem committed to an impossible autonomy, and thus a tragic conception of the subject. Although moral rigorism of this kind has the appeal of attempting to construct an impartial vantage point from which all human beings can be accorded equal worth -- regardless of whether they are intimates or strangers -- Eagleton ultimately judges it to be too far removed from the capacities of ordinary people to provide a very useful approach to determining the structure of our socially relevant commitments to others.

The last group considered in this book embraces two figures who are often thought to uphold diametrically opposed conceptions of ethics, and so their proponents may not be happy to see them lumped together here. But Eagleton claims that both Emmanuel Levinas on the one hand, and Alain Badiou on the other, subscribe to versions of what Lacan called an 'ethics of the real'. It is only in this third part that the Lacanian terminology becomes significant for the argument, and it is against the authors considered in this part that Eagleton ultimately directs his argument. The 'real' for Lacan does not designate some pre-subjective, pre-social ultimate level of reality, but something like the contradictions in the symbolic order that appear in the form of unintelligible excesses and self-destructive drives. The Antigonean flavor of what Lacan meant by an ethics of the real is captured in the following passage.

All of Sophocles' mighty protagonists . . . have strayed beyond the protective shell of the symbolic order into some trackless territory of the spirit, thrust by some implacable demand or preternatural purity of being outside the stockade of civil decency to take a place of extreme solitude and self-exposure in which they are set apart in the manner of the sacred. (TwS)

This image of wandering out of the confines of camp captures the unusual form of autonomy that comes from sticking with a desire and being transported by it beyond what is meaningful and socially legible. The ethics of the real might be thought of then as a recalcitrant fixation on a seemingly irrational demand that changes the socio-symbolic coordinates within which that action can be judged. The opposition of good and bad is thereby replaced by another opposition of authentic and inauthentic. According to Eagleton, the problem with this understanding of ethics is that it leads to a spiritual vanguardism that he sees as common to both Levinas and Badiou. The former upholds an impossible commitment to the Other, whose enigmatic face implores us to assume responsibility for his existence as an irreducibly unique, because mortal, being. Levinasian ethics seems to commit us to an infinite responsibility and guilt before the suffering of others, provided that their imploring faces speak to us. By contrast, Badiou is both a Leninist and Nietzschean in his complete rejection of this ethics of finitude and suffering, the unheroic morality of western sentimentalists and shoppers. In frontal opposition to this Levinasian ethics of the minimization of suffering, he affirms a superhuman ethics of living like an immortal, indifferent to death, for it is the absolutization, that is, the fear of death, that keeps us in thrall, he claims. What unites these seemingly counterposed ethics? For Eagleton, both Levinas and Badiou are aestheticists of extreme situations, and the real or Absolute to which their respective ethics are purportedly oriented is not so different from the imaginary experience of the sublime. Neither are very interested in the ordinary problems of everyday social life that would be at the center of the more Aristotelian kind of ethical theory that Eagleton would endorse. Such an ethics, he argues, would have the advantage of bridging the gap between the everyday and the civic-political, and this gap is the crux of our contemporary ethical impasse. Eagleton ends Trouble with Strangers with the argument that such an ethics would necessarily be reformist, but perhaps he would be open to the idea that today even revolutionaries should become Aristotelians.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

NDPR Thomas M. Lennon, The Plain Truth: Descartes, Huet, and Skepticism

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-28 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Thomas M. Lennon, The Plain Truth: Descartes, Huet, and Skepticism, Brill Academic Publishers, 2008, 255pp., $145.00 (hbk), ISBN 9789004171152.

Reviewed by Gianni Paganini, Università del Piemonte Orientale


Pierre-Daniel Huet (1630-1721), Bishop of Avranches, earned an important place in the history of modern scepticism thanks to Richard H. Popkin's classic History of Scepticism (which went into its third and last edition in 2003; on Huet see Ch. 17, pp. 254-73). He has now gained a deserved place in the history of Cartesian and post-Cartesian philosophy with this book by Thomas Lennon, which awards Huet a place that up to now, as a "minor" author, he had never enjoyed. Strictly speaking, we should say that the book concerns Descartes as much as Huet (as the subtitle says) and possibly the former more than the latter. Indeed, Lennon starts from Huet's criticism of Cartesian philosophy (first and foremost Censura philosophiae cartesianae [1689] of which he gave us an English translation with introduction and annotations [2003]). But he is continually concerned to demonstrate how little these objections grasped the true substance of Descartes' theory, and to show that the theory already contained effective replies to many of the objections. Not by chance are the last words of the book a true celebration of Descartes' "superiority": "The heroic, the defensible, the responsible Descartes" (p. 244).

It is known that Censura triggered a long-running polemic, with repeated revivals, between Huet and the Cartesian philosopher Pierre-Sylvain Regis. Regis published a Réponse au livre . . . Censura philosophiae cartesianae in 1691 and Huet took it into account for the new edition of Censura that appeared in 1694. Huet made a minute examination of Regis' book in a work (La censure de la réponse faite par M. Regis au livre intitulé Censura philosophiae cartesianae) that has never been published but is preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris in a manuscript that is extremely difficult to read. Lennon carefully reconstructs the exchanges in the Huet-Regis polemic, as well as providing copious illustration of what we might call the side episodes, represented by the sceptical-academic production of Simon Foucher, and by the publication of Malebranche's much more innovative Recherche de la vérité. But above all he is concerned with getting directly to the source of Huet's objections, that is to Descartes' actual works and to the sets of Objections and Replies that followed Meditations, in which the replies to the problems that were to be raised by Huet are already frequently foreshadowed.

Were it not a complete historical anachronism, we could say that the true argument, or dominant theme, of Lennon's book is Descartes' "replies" to Huet. For evident chronological reasons Descartes could neither know nor still less reply to the doubts of his future critic, but many pages in this volume show that most of the objections made in Censura could have easily been resolved through a more careful reading, and above all one that stayed closer to the spirit of Descartes' epistemology and his metaphysics.

Lennon's starting point is the negative image that Huet paints of Descartes: a philosopher who, despite his initial doubts, emerges as a dangerous "dogmatic" ready to subjugate the truths of the faith to the reasons of philosophy; an arrogant thinker, guilty of "excessive self-regard and false confidence", in a word of "pride". "This pride is the source of many errors in Descartes' philosophy, according to Huet, for example the doctrine of created eternal truth" (p. 25).

Lennon believes it is difficult to decide between a "Pyrrhonian" and an "Academic" interpretation of Huet's positions. In other words he considers that it would be problematic to determine whether the arguments he puts forth surrounding substantial questions about the cogito, doubt, criteria, and the circularity of Meditations, make him "a Pyrrhonian interested in something other than the truth" (that is in the peace of the mind and in ataraxia), "or an honest Academic who just does not see it [the truth]" (p. 54). Although it is not closely linked to Huet's interpretation, what Lennon calls the "standard interpretation" of Descartes "supports his [Huet's] position by construing the linchpin argument of Descartes's system as a colossal failure". Apparently each of these two interpretations is the complete opposite of the other. Whereas for Huet, Descartes began as a sceptic but ended up as a dogmatic, for the "standard interpretation", here represented by Popkin and identified with the thesis of the "epistemological turn", although Descartes presented himself as the "conqueror of scepticism", he ended up becoming a "sceptique malgré lui" (to quote the titles of two chapters that Popkin dedicated to Descartes, Ch. 9 and Ch. 10). As is known, the question of the "absolute falsity" evoked in the Second Objections was more dissolved than resolved by Descartes, who liquidated it with an almost pragmatic resoluteness ("Why should this alleged 'absolute falsity' bother us, since we neither believe in it, nor have even the smallest suspicion of it?") -- but that is why Popkin takes it as the "objection of objections". In other words, despite the certainties proclaimed in Meditations, "there is a mismatch between our beliefs about the world and the world itself" (p. 59). In Lennon's view, this is a modern parallel of Huet's critique, since scepticism, never really having been overcome, becomes the "truth" underlying Descartes' apparent dogmatic posture.

One of the principal themes in Lennon's book (contra Popkin) "is not only that the standard interpretation is mistaken, but that no such lengths as those above need to be taken in the interpretation of Descartes". Lennon's approach is, as he himself says, "very deflationary, beginning with an interesting fact about texts: scepticism, at least as such, is not much talked about" (p. 61) and such references to it "as do appear are made incidentally". Lennon concludes: "The clear upshot is that scepticism is simply not important to Descartes as a threat, as an obstacle to overcome, or for any other reason. As a philosophy, Descartes has only contempt for scepticism" (p. 61). Now it is difficult to reconcile this statement with all the recent research that, going beyond Popkin's reconstruction, has tried to highlight the seventeenth-century context of scepticism. The error, made by much of the critical literature (but not by Popkin), has been to measure Descartes with the yardstick of the "ancient" forms of scepticism (be they Academic or Pyrrhonian), whereas the philosopher's main concern was clearly aimed at the forms of "modern" scepticism, as his replies to VII Objections show. In these, unlike his interlocutor Bourdin, Descartes is concerned not that doubt is too extensive, but that it is not extensive enough. Since he believes he must align himself not so much with the ancients but with "today's sceptics", whose characteristic is that of casting doubt on the existence of God and the soul, "pushing doubt beyond all limits", if he does not want to lay himself open to their derision, the philosopher must be equally radical in exercising doubt, to reach a demonstration of undoubted certainty. His interlocutors are neither the ancient Pyrrhonians with their isosthenia, nor the religiously-moderate Academics, but rather those whom Descartes calls the "sceptical atheists" and who were none other than the libertine sceptics of his time. Although, unlike many studies, Lennon carefully uses the VII Objections and the replies to them (see for example pp.71-72), he nevertheless fails to grasp the epistemological and metaphysical importance of this declaration of Descartes and he reduces it to an essentially moral question: "The problem, then, is not epistemological, but religious, and ultimately moral, especially since those doubting such truths were thought, correctly or not, to be liable to wild antinomianism" (p. 72). But are not objects like God and the soul first and foremost "metaphysical" (and as such the principal and declared objects of Meditations on First Philosophy)? And is not Cartesian metaphysics itself, for the very reason that it employs doubt even to the point of hyperbole, closely linked to the epistemological theme?

On the other hand, Lennon's peremptory liquidation of scepticism is effectively denied a few lines further on. After reminding readers of the evident truth that Descartes is not interested in doubt but in certainty, Lennon recognises: "Skepticism, at least skeptical argument, is a tool for arriving at certainty, and a touchstone of its authenticity" (p. 62). Thus the key position of the sceptical argument, which the previous sentences seemed to have definitively denied, is re-established.

The volume reviews all the main spheres on which Huet's criticism touched: the role and character of doubt, the rules to recognise evidence, the accusations of circularity (both in the relationship between the cogito and clarity and distinctness, and between the latter two and the demonstration of the existence of God), and the relationship between human knowledge and divine knowledge. It is impossible to examine all of these spheres in detail. For each sphere Lennon reconstructs, with clarity and remarkable historical penetration, not only Huet's position but also those of Descartes, his followers (Regis, Malebranche) and his interlocutors (Mersenne, Gassendi, Arnauld and in general the authors of the Objections). To illustrate the merits of Lennon's interpretation, I will concentrate on one point, in connection with which the book shows that Huet's criticism of Descartes reveals a total lack of understanding, deriving from the Bishop of Avranches' adherence to the canons of the ancient sceptical tradition, whereas Descartes carefully distances himself from this tradition. This is the classical question of the "criterion" and its validation. Huet intends clarity and distinctness as "criteria" of certainty and thus brings them within the famous trilemma of Sextus Empiricus (dogmatic arrest at the criterion itself, regression to infinity in the search for the criterion, vicious circle between demonstration and criterion), such as to impugn the validity of any criterion that may be selected. But in the case of Descartes -- continues Lennon -- the "standard label interpretation", whereby clarity and distinctness are to be understood as "detachable labels" that indicate criteria for the reliability of knowledge, does not hold. Although on this point Descartes' positions appear sometimes to oscillate, Lennon holds that the true novelty consists in using clarity and distinctness as adverbial forms that indicate the perception of truth: recte, evidenter. From this standpoint it would be a mistake to make them substantivates and use them, indeed, as though they were "labels", which would in turn require guarantees. Correctly, Lennon quotes Descartes' reply to Gassendi, from which it is clear that the very fact of having passed the test of doubt, of having thus eliminated all prejudice, leads to the evidence: thus to judge involves the responsibility of the subject in using judgment, and does not require a more or less automatic or artificial mechanism of guarantee (and of guarantee of the guarantee . . .), as the sceptics, Gassendi and Huet, would have liked. Elsewhere (pp. 200 ff.) Lennon states that Descartes' position suggests the notion of intentionality: "Intentionality is required, to put it simply, in order to be talking about something" (pp. 202-3).

The book ends with a section whose title ("Descartes as Methodological Academic Skeptic", pp. 242-4) might seem provocative, though in reality Lennon is referring to the Academic doctrine of "integra judicandi potestas" that implies the rejection of prejudice, the responsible use of judgment, and the exclusive commitment to the search for truth. In the final analysis, Descartes' response to "sceptics" like Huet is that "there is no formula for truth, or even for avoiding error", since "the truth ultimately is just seen". But just this "integrity" of judgment "is a matter of responsibility, of accepting ownership of one's judgments" (p. 242). Seen through the lens, often a deforming one, of scepticism, Descartes shows himself more than ever a Cartesian.

The volume is accompanied by a useful index nominum and also rerum; whereas it is a pity that references to the classical Adam Tannery edition of Descartes do not appear in the text, but only those to the English translation.

Monday, April 27, 2009

NDPR Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do with Our Brain?

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-27 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do with Our Brain?, Sebastian Rand (trans.), Fordham University Press, 2008, 104pp., $18.00 (pbk), ISBN 9780823229536.

Reviewed by Pete Mandik, William Paterson University


There's little doubt of the increasing significance of the brain sciences for the rest of our contemporary culture, though there's much to explore about what this all amounts to. It is appropriate for the portions of the academy beyond the centers of neuroscientific activity to take note of and absorb the significance of the advances made about such a crucial literal part of each of us. Neuroscience has already received relatively widespread attention from philosophers, most notably from philosophers of mind and of science (though neuroethicists seem to be growing in number), well versed in the technical details of functional magnetic resonance imaging, dopamine, the lateral geniculate nucleus, and long-term potentiation. However, to my knowledge, the resultant philosophy produced by philosophers attending to the neurosciences has been overwhelmingly done in the tradition of analytic philosophy, a few references to Merleau-Ponty notwithstanding. The item under current scrutiny is not part of this neuroscience-influenced strand of contemporary analytic philosophy. The volume appears in Fordham University Press's series Perspectives in Continental Philosophy, is authored by a previous co-author of Derrida's, and has as one of its back-cover blurbs one from Žižek (which I cannot resist pointing out starts off like this: "As a rule, neuroscientists avoid two things like a vampire avoids garlic: any links to European metaphysics, political engagement, and reflection upon the social conditions which gave rise to their science"). What we have here, for better or for worse, is a piece of continental neurophilosophy.

What should we do with What Should We Do with Our Brain? For starters, let us not doubt that the titular question is a good one. The question does however admit of multiple readings, some of which hinge on how to take the 'should'. Reading it as asking a practical question renders it akin to "What should we do with our abs?" Closer, however, to Malabou's purposes is a reading more political, if not moral, making it more along the lines of "What should we do with our homeless?" Or closer to the actual question at hand: "What should we do with ourselves?" Malabou's answer may be summarized concisely in her own words: We should

refuse to be flexible individuals who combine a permanent control of the self with a capacity to self-modify at the whim of fluxes, transfers, and exchanges, for fear of explosion . . . To ask "What should we do with our brain?" is above all to visualize the possibility of saying no to an afflicting economic, political, and mediatic culture that celebrates only the triumph of flexibility, blessing obedient individuals who have no greater merit than that of knowing how to bow their heads with a smile. (pp. 78-79)

If that's the answer then, one might wonder, what's any of this got to do with brains? Couldn't someone who didn't even know we have brains nonetheless make such a moral/political recommendation? Malabou's answer arrives very close to the end of her 82-pages of main text. However, despite being a short journey, one nonetheless wonders if the destination really needed a route that took a detour through neuroscience.

The main intersection between neuroscience and Malabou's project has to do with the notion of plasticity. At the core of the notion under discussion is, as stated in a quotation Malabou provides from Richard Gregory's Oxford Companion to the Mind: "Plasticity in the nervous system means an alteration in structure or function brought about by development, experience, or injury." But in Malabou's hands, the notion of plasticity becomes even more, well, plastic. Going considerably beyond relatively non-controversial points of etymology, such as that "plasticity" is from the Greek "plassein" for "to mold," Malabou seeks to mine an association between "plasticity" and "plastique," that is, that moldable mixture of nitroglycerine and nitrocellulose also known as "plastic explosive":

The word plasticity thus unfolds its meaning between sculptural molding and deflagration, which is to say explosion. From this perspective, to talk about the plasticity of the brain means to see in it not only the creator and receiver of form but also an agency of disobedience to every constituted form, a refusal to submit to a model. (p. 6)

I must confess that I find a bit hard to swallow the suggestion that neuroscientific discourse is infected by a poetic association between "brain plasticity" and "plastic explosives." The "plastic" in "brain plasticity" doesn't mean "explosive." Not even the "plastic" in "plastic explosive" means "explosive." It's the "explosive" in "plastic explosive" that means "explosive."

I think that this connection of Malabou's between brains and bombs is relatively representative of the rest of the book. How seriously a reader is prepared to take these sorts of associative links is, I think, going to be pretty indicative of how seriously a reader will take the larger project of which they are a part. For some, the brain-bomb association may seem like a potentially enlightening metaphor, for others, this is just the sort of thing that will make one's brain explode.

I want to return to a question I posed earlier, namely, the one along the lines of "what's neuroscience got to do with it?" Of course one might here raise Humean worries about deriving "ought"s from "is"s given the descriptive content of the neurosciences and the normative content of the author's main question (and answer). But this is not my main lingering worry, since Malabou has the resources for addressing it, at least partially. She holds that at least some of what the neuroscientists have to say has normative content: that "any vision of the brain is necessarily political" (p. 52). I remain unconvinced. And I have serious doubts that this is the only reason the neuroscience is brought into the discussion. (As Malabou herself says: "We must acknowledge an enormous discrepancy between the descriptive and the prescriptive scope of neuroscientific discourses" (p. 67).) My lingering worry is that technical results from contemporary science are brought in to lend an air of authoritativeness to the points being urged (one of the key lessons that the Sokal hoax served to teach) and less to point out a genuinely fruitful application of natural scientific achievements to questions arising in the humanities.

One indicative portion concerns forays into the basic mechanisms of synaptic plasticity. Malabou provides discussions peppered with mention of cellular bodies, dendrites, axons, and the modulations of synaptic efficacy known as "long-term potentiation" and "long-term depression." Malabou discusses not just synaptic plasticity (modulational plasticity), but also developmental plasticity and reparative plasticity (including some brief discussion of how an emphasis on plasticity is not entirely universal within the neurosciences). But to what end? Malabou quotes neuroscientist Marc Jeannerod (who also provided the book's foreword) for one of the main points she wants to press into service: "We are dealing here with a mechanism of individuation that makes each brain a unique object despite its adherence to a common model" (p. 7). But did it really take a 21st century neuroscientist to advance the proposition that each individual is shaped into a unique being by a unique life history? Couldn't an ancient Greek or an 18th century European have said pretty much the same thing?

Another use to which Malabou puts neuroscience is not just to mine its findings for insight and authority but to also use neuroscience as a target for critique. She aims "to develop a critique of what we will call neuronal ideology" (p. 11). Malabou is worried about one of the darker implications of plasticity, and no, it's not explosiveness that's the aspect of concern, but instead, flexibility. That is, flexibility as in

flexibility on the job, of one's schedule (flex time, conversion), flexible factories . . . The problem is that these significations grasp only one of the semantic registers of plasticity: that of receiving form. To be flexible is to receive a form or impression, to be able to fold oneself, to take the fold, not to give it. To be docile, to not explode. Indeed, what flexibility lacks is the resource of giving form, the power to create, to invent or even to erase an impression, the power to style. . . . [M]ost of the time flexibility superimposes itself on plasticity, even in the midst of scientific discourses that take themselves to be describing it entirely "objectively." . . . The error is in thinking that neuronal man is simply a neuronal given and not also a political and ideological construction (including of the "neuronal" itself). One notes that many descriptions of plasticity are in fact unconscious justifications of a flexibility without limits. (pp. 12-13)

Further connecting plasticity to a critique of capitalism hinging on flexibility, Malabou writes:

Employability is synonymous with flexibility. We recall that flexibility, a management watchword since the seventies, means above all the possibility of instantly adapting productive apparatus and labor to the evolution of demand. It thus becomes, in a single stroke, a necessary quality of both managers and employees. If I insist on how close certain managerial discourses are to neuroscientific discourses, this is because it seems to me that the phenomenon called "brain plasticity" is in reality more often described in terms of an economy of flexibility. Indeed, the process of potentiation, which is the very basis of plasticity, is often presented simply as the possibility of increasing or decreasing performance. . . . Suppleness, the ability to bend, and docility thus appear to join together in constituting a new structural norm that functions immediately to exclude. . . . In effect, anyone who is not flexible deserves to disappear. (p. 46)

Malabou's concern with neuroscience as target is that it not be allowed to serve as a tool of a pernicious global capitalism. But what remains unclear, among other things, is how Malabou's concern with neuroscience as a source of insight (instead of a source of authority) really serves her, given that her central concern is to pose questions like the following.

Does brain plasticity, taken as a model, allow us to think a multiplicity of interactions in which the participants exercise transformative effects on one another through the demands of recognition, of non-denomination, and of liberty? Or must we claim, on the contrary, that, between determinism and polyvalence, brain plasticity constitutes the biological justification of a type of economic, political, and social organization in which all that matters is the result of action as such: efficacy, adaptability -- unfailing flexibility? (pp. 30-31)

There are lines of argument in Malabou's text that I neither understand individually nor as contributions to the text as a whole. One line of argument has to do with the way that political structures and managerial structures have both become more "neural," which includes an emphasis on connectivity and distribution and a de-emphasis on centrality and localization. It's lost on me how this metaphorical parallel between decentralized brain control in brains and decentralized control in states and corporations serves to support the author's favored answer to the titular question. The other line of argument has to with something I especially didn't follow: a claim of a resolution of the mind/body problem along Hegelian lines that involves a transition from the neuronal to the mental arising from a dialectical struggle between the two.

I think there have been, elsewhere in the literature, many fruitful intersections of neuroscience and philosophy. I think further that there is room for plenty more. I applaud Malabou for attempting to address the potential moral and political implications of "neuroscientific discourses." That is no doubt an important thing to do. But I must say that my overwhelming reaction to Malabou's book is negative and my reaction is largely due to the methodology therein employed. A critique of neuroscience should provide more historical and textual evidence of neuroscience's alleged missteps than this critique provides. And an application of neuroscience should be more careful than the present text to distinguish itself from a mere invocation of neuroscience designed to lend authoritative airs.

NDPR Kathrin Koslicki, The Structure of Objects

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2009-04-26 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Kathrin Koslicki, The Structure of Objects, Oxford University Press, 2008, 288pp., $90.00 (hbk), ISBN 9780199539895.

Reviewed by Paul Hovda, Reed College


Overview

From the Preface: "The main purpose of this book is to give an analysis of ordinary material objects, those material objects to which we take ourselves to be committed in ordinary, scientifically informed discourse." The focus is on the mereological aspects of such an analysis: composition, constitution, the relation of part to whole, etc. The thesis is that the proper analysis will accord a prominent place to structure, in a rather robust neo-Aristotelian manner: objects have formal as well as material components. While her defense of this thesis is plausible and original, a fair amount is left open about the exact nature of the formal components of objects. Along the way to her end, Koslicki gives useful discussions of other contemporary and ancient approaches to her problem. While a fair amount of her discussion derives from her previous journal papers, much of it is new.

The book has four main Parts. In the first, Koslicki presents and discusses what she refers to as the "Standard Conception" of composition, which is, roughly, that a certain formal theory, here called Classical Extensional Mereology (CEM), gives a correct general characterization of our mereological concepts of part, compose, and so on. Koslicki is largely critical of the Standard Conception.

Part Two presents and criticizes a contemporary alternative to the Standard Conception, due to Kit Fine. While it gives a prominent role to structure, Koslicki finds that it involves too many mysterious primitives, has a far too liberal conception of structure (and hence posits a super-abundance of objects -- trout-turkeys and worse), and seems not to respect the Weak Supplementation Principle, which Koslicki thinks is plausibly essential to the notion of parthood.

Part Three goes back to Plato and Aristotle, discussing and finding inspiration in some of their main mereological ideas.

Part Four develops Koslicki's own structure-based approach. Material objects come in kinds, and for each kind K there is "a sort of recipe" for making a K, a recipe that specifies two main requirements: a list of types of ingredients, and a structure imposed on the ingredients. Some objects compose an object of kind K just in case they have the types and structure prescribed by the K-recipe. The recipe is somehow given by some entities called formal components, and such entities are parts of typical objects. For example, Koslicki's analysis of a particular broom would go roughly like this: The broom has two main material parts, a particular handle and a particular brush. It also has some formal components as parts, ones that specify, among other things, that (as a member of the kind broom) its material parts must include a handle and a brush, and that the former must be suitably attached to the latter. Part Four includes a general discussion of the need to recognize both material and formal parts of objects, a defense of the idea that objects generally fall into kinds, and an elucidation of the nature of the formal components, or the structure, of objects.

Discussion

Many of the critical points in Part One will be familiar to researchers in the field. Koslicki is against the unrestricted composition principle of CEM (according to which for any things, there is at least one object composed of those things) for its infamous "generation" of lots of bizarre objects. She also charges that, on the Standard View, "there is no difference between a heap of unassembled motorcycle parts piled up in someone's garage and the motorcycle in running condition that results from assembling these parts in a particular way" (p. 4.). This charge doesn't quite stick, I think, for neither of the two main representatives of the Standard View that Koslicki discusses (Thomson and Lewis) actually holds that if a motorcycle is composed of some motorcycle components (wheels, engine, etc.) at some time, then, at every time at which those components exist, that motorcycle also exists and is composed of those components. (Roderick Chisholm is a more appropriate target -- see Chapter III of Person and Object.) Those who hold views on which a statue and a lump of clay can be identical even though it is true to say such things as "the statue would not have survived being squashed" and "the lump would have survived being squashed" should read Koslicki's Chapter III, for she has an interesting criticism and challenge for such views. In short: such views say that some predicates cannot be used in Leibniz'-Law style substitution; but it is impossible to find a principled way to rule out the "bad" substitution inferences while retaining the "good" ones.

Koslicki's discussion of Plato and Aristotle, in Part III, is rather interesting, and presents mereological ideas that, to the modern philosopher, are somewhat alien, but are, as Koslicki puts it, "amazingly subtle and ambitious." The scholarly detail in the chapter on Aristotle is impressive, but will make for tough going to those unfamiliar with Aristotle; they might begin with section VII.2.12 of Koslicki's book, which provides a nice summary of some of the issues Koslicki discusses in the Plato and Aristotle chapters, in connection with her own approach. In fact, that section is not a bad place to begin to be introduced to Koslicki's own view.

Now let us turn to the positive view Koslicki develops in Part IV. Here she makes an interesting suggestion about the methodology of mereology and its role in metaphysics (see esp. p. 171). Roughly put: ontology comes first, mereology second. (And we can take "ontology" here in a fairly broad sense, including existence and persistence conditions and perhaps more.) Our philosophical theory of mereological notions should be constrained in advance by our ontology, and should not make an independent contribution to ontology. We start off by recognizing, on the basis of "common sense" and science, certain objects like tables, table-legs, cats, and legs of cats. To engage in philosophical mereology, we then theorize about the part-to-whole connections among these given objects. Mereology connects the dots given by ontology. It should not give us reason to introduce further dots for the sake of systematic elegance, which is what the theories rejected in Parts One and Two -- including David Lewis' four-dimensionalist CEM, J.J. Thomson's three-dimensionalist temporalized CEM, and Kit Fine's hylomorphic theory -- seem to do. (One might suggest that Peter van Inwagen, in Material Beings, is guilty of making the same error in the other direction: in order to get a systematic mereology, he removes dots from the ontology.)

This methodology allows that theoretical considerations like systematicity can influence our judgments about the "shape" and "extent" of the web of connections on the dots: we may be moved to introduce (or discover) connections on the basis of such considerations. This is the kind of argument by which Koslicki arrives at her claim that objects have formal, as well as material, parts. Her argument (see pp. 179-81) is roughly this: (1) a lump of clay may constitute a statue without being identical with it; (2) in this situation, the lump is part of the statue, but overlaps every material part of the statue; (3) but, in general, if x is a proper part of y, there must be a z disjoint from x that is also part of y; thus (4) there must be some non-material part of the statue that is disjoint from the lump. Premises (1) and (2) are given prior to mereological theorizing, while (3) is the Weak Supplementation Principle, which, arguably, is a systematic or conceptual truth about the part-whole relation.

Given the general methodology, any part should be an item already given, not a pure postulate of mereology. Koslicki argues that we do have independent reason to recognize structures or formal components as potential parts of objects. Her argument is not compelling, however, for not enough is made clear about the nature of these entities.

Koslicki distances herself from Plato and Aristotle, saying that her formal components come with none of the theological and teleological cobwebs of ancient forms. She then argues at length that we should recognize kinds of things, natural kinds especially, but perhaps others as well. But Koslicki does not put forward kinds themselves as formal components; rather, kinds may be just (distinguished) pluralities of things, and the suggestion is that, associated with each kind, is "a sort of recipe" for making a thing of that kind. The recipe specifies both the sorts of material components, and the arrangement of them, required to create something of that kind. (Koslicki seems to regard the manner by which the components came to be appropriately arranged as irrelevant to the resulting thing's kind; this seems to make Swampman of the same kind as Davidson, and makes an accidental "chair" of the same kind as an artifact.) When an object belongs to a kind, then, its formal components are like the recipe appropriate to that kind: they specify what sorts of material parts it must have, and the required manner of their arrangement.

Suppose we grant that things come in kinds, and that each kind has something like a recipe associated with it. Still, we have been given very little to go on to identify entities which function (individually or jointly) as a recipe. The last chapter of the book is devoted to elucidating a notion of structures that would function this way.

There is a further metaphor: structures "make available" "slots" into which things of certain types may go, and do so in such a way that, by "filling" these slots, certain relationships are thereby required to hold among the things in the slots. For example, here is a certain structure for seating people at a dinner party: the slots are arranged in a circle, as it were, and are to be filled with people, but in such a way that the people alternate by gender, so that each woman (man) is sitting between two men (women). Further, a structure is, by its nature, associated with a class of alterations or transformations on which it is invariant. For example, suppose we have a seating assignment for our dinner party which conforms to the structure just mentioned. Now, that structure is preserved if we switch any of the women with any other woman; the structure is invariant under such switching. But it is not invariant under a switching that switches one man with one woman (assuming there are more than two diners).

Koslicki brings out the fact that the fields of mathematics, logic, chemistry, music theory, and linguistics, each in its own way, use some notion of structure, and of structure-preserving transformations. While there is no denying that the various uses of "structure" in these fields have some similarities, these uses are different enough that the thing-in-common-to-all-of-them would be rather abstract. While the comparison is somewhat suggestive, one does not get a firm grip on what this thing-in-common would be. As Koslicki admits, the overview of the various fields leaves a fair amount open as to what the nature of the structures, taken as entities that are supposed to be the formal components of objects, is: for example, whether they are universals (properties or relations) or particulars (objects). (See section IX.4.)

Too much, it seems to me, is left open. I don't know how to begin to answer the following questions: Is there a formal entity (self-identity, perhaps) that is part of every thing? (Then the Weak Supplementation Principle has to be abandoned; but what about the argument for formal parts?) Does something whose normal development and activity involve internal change, like a cat, have different formal parts at different times over the course of its life? And the problems of giving a systematic theory of such entities, with principles of existence, individuation conditions, principles governing the mereological relations among them, and so forth, are never really engaged.

Nor does Koslicki discuss the concern that recognition of structures as fundamental in mereology will exert theoretical pressure to "add more dots" to the ontology. It is hard not to think of Koslicki's project as including something like the giving of an interesting and explanatory answer to Van Inwagen's "Special Composition Question": under what conditions do some things compose something? (See Material Beings, esp. Chapter Two.) Her answer would seem to be roughly this: the xs compose something when there is a structure associated with a kind, such that the xs include that structure and some things that have that structure, and include nothing else. Now take a problematic structure, like the dinner-party structure or the structure of a trout-turkey (recipe: put in one slot the head of a trout and in a second slot the body and tail of a turkey; then do nothing more -- impose no, or a trivial, constraint on their arrangement). Is there anything in Koslicki's account to explain why things with such a structure do not compose an object (or why there are no such structures, or why, and why it matters ontologically that, there is no kind for such a structure to be associated with)? I doubt that there is, but cannot argue the case here.

Suppose there isn't. The question then is to what extent this is a problem. One might well think it is a problem to the extent that Koslicki's account is supposed to provide something like a positive explanation of why some things compose an object. For if the features that Koslicki identifies are taken to explain, in each case in which some things compose something, why those things compose something, then, by a plausible principle about explanation, we should get that when some things fail to compose something, that feature is absent. (The general principle here is roughly: if, in general, A explains B, then, in general, the presence of A requires the presence of B.) (Cf. Remark Three in Chapter Seven of Material Beings.)

At any rate, if one is moved to keep the ontology "normal" (tables, table-legs, cats, legs of cats, no trout-turkeys) and is also moved by questions of the form "Why do these things compose something while those things don't?" one will not, I think, find satisfying answers in Koslicki's book. Perhaps, as might be entailed by a more radical version of Koslicki's methodological suggestion, such questions are misguided. (Compare Ned Markosian's "Brutal Composition.") And perhaps Koslicki did not see her account as relevant to such questions. But she began by complaining that a main problem with the Standard Conception is that it "sees no difference" between unassembled motorcycle parts and assembled ones; it is natural, as a theorist, to want an explanation, not just an acknowledgment, of the difference.

Philosophers interested in mereological issues will profit from Koslicki's book, despite the lack of specificity about the nature of structures. There are some interesting strands of argument in Koslicki's positive account of composition that I have not mentioned, including one concerning the "Grounding Problem." Here there is room only to acknowledge, not to engage with them.

References

Chisholm, Roderick. Person and Object. Open Court (1976).

Markosian, Ned. "Brutal composition," Philosophical Studies 92 (1998), pp. 211-249.

van Inwagen, Peter. Material Beings. Cornell University Press (1990).