Wednesday, March 31, 2010

NDPR Jacques Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign, Volume 1

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2010-04-01 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Jacques Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign, Volume 1, Geoffrey Bennington (tr.), U. of Chicago Press, 2009, 349pp., $35.00 (hbk), ISBN 9780226144283.

Reviewed by David Wills, SUNY-Albany


 

This is the inaugural volume of the proposed complete transcription of seminars taught by Derrida from 1959-2003, being published by Editions Galilée in French and the University of Chicago Press in English translation (the editors have helpfully provided page references to the Galilée edition in the margins of the Chicago volume). The Beast and the Sovereign, Volume 1 is the first part (2001-02) of a two-year series on the topic announced by the title, the second of which (from 2002-03, the last year Derrida gave his Paris seminar) is currently being translated. Volume I contains 13 sessions held from December 12, 2001 to March 27, 2002. The seminars will initially be published topic by topic in reverse chronological order. For the complete scope of the project see the Foreword and General Introduction; details regarding American editions are available at http://www.derridaseminars.org, website of the Derrida Seminars Translation Project (in which, I should disclose, I am a participant).

One could approach from various angles the gambit, and gamut, of Derrida's project in The Beast and the Sovereign. The question of sovereignty is an explicit concern of Politics of Friendship (1997) and Rogues (2004), and in the index of the seminars it can be traced back as far as 1984. From Rogues, especially, we know that sovereignty is for Derrida part of the larger question he calls "ipseity," the possibility of selfhood, which, for the ten-year period 1991-2001, was posed under the heading "Questions of Responsibility." A formal or textual origin for that question is identified in Benveniste's etymology, which relates the ipse to the exercise of power: "The sovereign, in the broadest sense of the term, is he who has the right and strength to be and be recognized as himself, the same, properly the same as himself" (66).

The explicit focus of the 2001-2003 classes, as reinforced by the posthumous publication of The Animal That Therefore I Am (2008), which dates from the 1997 Cerisy conference and one of whose chapters (on Lacan) is inserted into Session 4, is the animal. But, I would hasten to add, Derrida's treatment of the topic exceeds the perspectives generally represented by movements for or toward animal rights or animal studies, and develops a more radical critique of speciesism involving the status of what lives [le vivant]. Thus the work exposed in The Beast and the Sovereign can also be related back to the seminars on "La Vie la Mort [Life/Death]" of the 1974-75 academic year, which Derrida footnoted on more than one occasion, and which he seemed to have been wanting to rework for some time.

The book's self-presentation is formulated on a number of occasions throughout the seminars, so that the broad-reaching nature of Derrida's problematic is clear: "The choice of the title for this seminar . . . was designed in the first place to keep bringing us back . . . to the immense question of the living" (176), where "the living" is a matter not of "those who live" but literally "that which lives [le vivant]." Or, in another formulation:

As those who have been following this seminar for a few years know well, through what we have tried to think together under the title of forgiveness, pardon, the death penalty, and sovereignty, what we were attached to was always . . . to try to think the living in life (219).

For example, that goes as far as asking -- especially given the regularity with which mechanical animals are brought on stage whenever thinkers or writers evoke distinctions between the human and other species -- what the living in life of a marionette is; as far as assuming the consequences of the fact that "one must . . . inscribe death in the concept of life" (110).

Another angle from which to approach the analyses Derrida undertakes here, also made explicit more than once, is that of the systematic -- call it "classical" -- deconstructive critique of false oppositions that we associate with his work from its beginnings. The distinctions on the basis of which the human species is separated from other animal species, properties that the human is supposed to possess whereas animals don't, are all called into question by Derrida. And he extends most provocatively, to the point of calling it "necessarily indefinite" (130), the list of those distinguishing characteristics: language, speech, reason, response, logos, the sense of death, technique, history, convention, culture, laughter, tears, work, mourning, burial, institutions, clothing, lying, pretence of pretence, covering of tracks, the gift, respect (167, 130). However, to call those supposed or professed differences into question is by no means to say that there are no distinctions to be made, no differences between a human and an equine or canine or Cetacean animal, or between a protozoon and an amoeba. Instead, such a questioning calls upon thinkers to recognize new, more operative, better founded differences, to begin with by taking into account extraordinary advances in ethological research, but beyond that, by having thinking itself probe further into its own generic and specific reaches:

As always, to stick to the schema of my recurrent and deconstructive objections to this whole traditional discourse on 'the animal' (as though any such thing could exist in the general singular), one must not be content to mark the fact that what is attributed as 'proper to man' also belongs to other living beings if you look more closely, but also, conversely, that what is attributed as proper to man does not belong to him in all purity and all rigor; and that one must therefore restructure the whole problematic (56, my italics).

The importance, and "generalizability" of this basic principle cannot be emphasized enough, since it is something that many of Derrida's detractors seem to refuse to understand. Before we come to deal with the large apparatus of erudition through which discourses on the animal are here analyzed, there is this one, rather straightforward lesson that we should take away from his classes:

The only rule that for the moment I believe we should give ourselves in this seminar is no more to rely on commonly accredited oppositional limits . . . than to muddle everything and rush, by analogism, toward resemblances and identities. Every time one puts an oppositional limit in question, far from concluding that there is identity, we must on the contrary multiply attention to differences, refine the analysis in a restructured field (16-17).

The Beast and the Sovereign also publicizes, for those who were not fortunate enough to hear Derrida teach in Paris, Irvine, or elsewhere, the extent of his engagement in the pedagogical enterprise. At the simplest level that refers to the syntactical repetitions -- or even occasional lapses -- that signal the viva voce form of his prose; at another level he contextualizes matters for an audience of students who are not expected to have read his whole oeuvre, rendering the ideas more accessible sometimes simply by making shorthand reference to his other writings, but at other times by explaining something (such as the classical deconstructive strategy just discussed) in more detail than one would expect. At still another level, by obeying the particular temporal constraints of thirteen times two hours -- we know how his public lectures did or did not respect reigning protocols of duration -- these seminars demonstrate both the breadth and richness of Derrida's material and perspectives, and his attention to a necessarily long arc of logical development. Thus, although he is constantly deferring discussion of matters that he has repeatedly promised to address, and therefore considerably modifying his syllabus as he goes, each session still maintains an evident integrity and coherence, and covers as it were a finite set of data. That integrity and coherence were effected in practice by the discipline he imposed on himself, during by far the greater part of his teaching career, of writing out his lectures in long hand (handwritten from 1960-69, typed and annotated by hand from 1969-87, word processed from 1987-2003). The final level at which his pedagogy shows through is that of explicit references to teaching: relations between a seminar and a fable (24, 34-35), the professor and the sovereign (or werewolf) (78-79), philosophy and anatomical dissection (284-85), or a glimpse into his class preparation (335).

The opening session of this volume dates from just three months after 9/11. Derrida has persistent recourse to the figure of the wolf in order to insist on the sovereign's capacity for suspending the law, for therefore resembling an animal, an outlaw, acting like a wild beast, wolf or werewolf:

one cannot be interested in the relations of beast and sovereign, and all the questions of the animal and the political, of the politics of the animal, and man and beast in the context of the state, the polis, the city, the republic, the social body, the law in general, war and peace, terror and terrorism, national or international terrorism, etc., without recognizing some privilege in the figure of the 'wolf' (9).

His insistence is particularly topical in the period between invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq (the final seminar of his life, to appear in Vol. II, dates from March 26, 2003). In that respect he reinforces from the very first the explicit critique, inspired by Chomsky and developed in Rogues (whose essays date from summer 2002), of the United States' readiness to accuse other countries of being rogue states when it

is in fact allegedly the most rogue of all, the one that most often violates international right [droit, law], even as it enjoins other states (often by force, when it suits it) to respect the international law that it does not itself respect whenever it suits it not to. Its use of the expression 'rogue state' would be the most hypocritical rhetorical stratagem, the most pernicious or perverse or cynical armed trick of its permanent resort to the greater force, the most inhuman brutality (19).

And the example from Chomsky upon which Derrida shines the spotlight is the long and complex history of relations between the USA and Saddam Hussein, who, when he no longer conforms to American geopolitical strategy, finds himself transformed into "the Beast of Baghdad" (20). The three opening sessions of this seminar develop, against a background of Hobbes, Schmitt and Machiavelli, both a lycopolitics (lukos, Gk., wolf) of the sovereign as outlaw or brutal beast, and a profound calling into question, from various perspectives, of the concept of the nation-state: for example how the right to supersede it, as in a "humanitarian" intervention, relies on a problematic understanding of what is "proper to man" (70); or more troublingly, how, in Schmitt's terms, "in the name of the human, of human rights and humanitarianism, other men are then treated like beasts, and consequently one becomes oneself inhuman, cruel, and bestial" (73).

But there is another important side to the relation between sovereign and beast, or rather two sides to another important side. Beginning with La Fontaine's The Wolf and the Lamb or Hobbes's Leviathan, the human in its most sovereign moments either borrows the trappings of a fable, or takes the form of an artificial animal, an artificial man that is an animal. The thesis of sovereignty, and the possibility of ipseity in general, is thus found to be inseparable from an idea of artificial contrivance. On the one hand, in the context of the reason of the strongest as incarnated by La Fontaine's wolf, Derrida advances the hypothesis of political rhetoric as a discourse of sovereignty that is inevitably "a strategy to give meaning and credit to a fable . . . to a story indissociable from a moral, the putting of living beings, animals or humans, on stage" (35). Yet he by no means limits such rhetoric to discursive operations, finding the same fabulous dimension to determine "political actions, military operations, the sound of arms, the din of explosions and killings, putting-to-death of military and civilians, so-called acts of war or of terrorism" (ibid.). In that context the contemporary example of teletechnologies of information mobilized in the cause of an interminably looped repetition of images, such as those of the collapsing Twin Towers, is understood to have effects as diverse as the affabulation of real death and suffering, the relegation of any number of other human catastrophes to lesser levels of newsworthiness, and especially the phantasmatic haunting of still worse attacks to come.

For what sovereignty trades on above all is fear. Thus, on the other hand, in Leviathan absolute sovereignty functions, and terrifies specifically as "the product of a mechanical artificiality, a product of man, an artifact; and this is why its animality is that of a monster as prosthetic and artificial animal" (27). Hobbes's commonwealth is a prosthesis, which leads Derrida to call it "prosthstatic [prothétatique]" and to emphasize again what is non-natural, and hence historical and deconstructible about it. Sovereignty as artificial soul (Hobbes again) is like an iron lung that both "amplif[ies] the power of the living" and functions as a "dead machine" (28). It is therefore conventional, contractual, institutional, and mortal; yet, thanks to its prosthetic endurance, it is at the same time posited as immortal. While it supposedly excludes the animal on one side, and God -- who has no need of it -- on the other, it appears, in its very technoprostheticity, as profoundly ontotheological. For however much Hobbes may have sought to introduce a purely secular conception of sovereignty, his concept of a commonwealth artificially created by a man who is the summit of a nature created as God's art, retains a structural relation with that divine model.

The articulation of sovereignty within a network that includes both the animal and the artificial, and the animal as artificial, again extends the question concerning the animal to include the relation of living to non-living, with all the political and ethical implications that are so brought to bear. As I suggested earlier,

it is not enough to say that this unconditional ethical obligation, if there is one, binds me to the life of any living being in general. It also binds me twice over to something non-living. . . . One must therefore inscribe death in the concept of life. And you can imagine all the consequences this would have (110).

The Beast and the Sovereign's treatment of the consequences of such a radicalization of the "what lives," is, as always in Derrida's work, developed through extensive and detailed readings of a variety of texts. The point regarding ethical obligation is made in the course of analysis of Lacan's presumption concerning the fellow. Besides others I have already mentioned, one finds readings of Aristotle, Rousseau, Valéry, Heidegger, Celan, D.H. Lawrence, Deleuze, Marin, and Foucault. Such readings can be more or less appreciative and more or less critical. In one case, however -- and the possibility of such lapses in tone may have been one reason why Derrida was always reluctant to have his seminars published in raw form -- a contemporary thinker of sovereignty, namely Agamben, comes to function for him as something of a bête noire. In a first passage, in Session 3 (92-96), Derrida is distinctly irritated by Agamben's philological one-upmanship (specifically his claims to being the first to say who was first to say this or that), but one suspects the irritation to be symptomatic of a deeper disagreement. Indeed, a number of pages of the Twelfth Session are dedicated to debate over the zōē/bios opposition on the basis of which Agamben "structure[s] his whole problematic" (315), but which Derrida, referring to both Heidegger and Aristotle, considers to be far less rigorously a distinction between bare life (an "audacious" [326] translation) and individual or group life than Agamben contends. By extension, Derrida finds himself fundamentally at variance with Agamben's understanding of the biopolitical (and here he both defends and critiques Foucault), implying that Agamben has failed to acknowledge the breadth of the question concerning "what lives" that Derrida develops over these 350 pages. Because Agamben's formulation has been accepted as common currency in much contemporary debate, no doubt partly thanks to his apparent philological authority, The Beast and the Sovereign should serve to relaunch that important discussion (I should add that Derrida's comments are restricted to Homo Sacer and he does not address Agamben's later development of the logic of the camp). For that reason, therefore, but more generally because the question of what lives has never been more important, this book is compulsory reading.

The Beast and the Sovereign is, of course, a translation. Translators, Derrida writes here, repeating something he has often said, "are always the most vigilant and formidable readers" (22). From the pen of one such reader, Geoffrey Bennington, comes this first rendition in a series that will require more than a single generation of scholars to produce. The standard is therefore set for many years to come.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

NDPR Denis G. Arnold (ed.), Ethics and the Business of Biomedicine

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2010-03-15 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Denis G. Arnold (ed.), Ethics and the Business of Biomedicine, Cambridge UP, 2009, 291pp., $29.99 (pbk), ISBN 9780521748223.

Reviewed by Lisa Newton, Fairfield University


 

Let me begin with some disclaimers and disclosures of interest. I have been proclaiming for years that such a book should be written. Denis Arnold and the contributors to this volume are surely among the best in the field, and picking up the book, I was sure that my effort in reviewing would be well rewarded. I was not disappointed. Arnold has managed to create a reunion of the first two fields of practical (applied, professional) ethics, biomedical ethics and business ethics, with all the drama of the dilemmas, and with no pretense at solutions.

In the introduction (unsigned; presumably by Arnold) the problem underlying its investigation is set out very clearly: the recent move of the professions of health care from a service orientation to market orientation. The price of health care has risen dramatically, consuming ever larger portions of the GDP, especially in the United States. Is this right? Is this just? These questions cannot be addressed without calling on the disciplines of bioethics and business ethics to work together, and as Arnold points out, they are seldom in conversation.

But scholars of both disciplines were apparently given the common task

to evaluate the practices of profit-seeking healthcare organizations, and business-friendly public policies regarding health care, and to offer normative guidance regarding the ethical delivery of healthcare products and services by profit-seeking organizations operating in a global marketplace. (p. 1)

Full stop. From the point of view of traditional bioethics, we have already trespassed over several lines. What's this "profit-seeking healthcare organization" we're supposed to take seriously? Is it anything like our local profit-seeking evangelical church whose pastor just went off for several years in jail? If health care seeks profit, it will surely find it -- there's nothing we want so much as freedom from pain and a long active life, and to the extent that we have money, we'll pay the earth to get them. People without money will not be able to get them, of course, but then they can't get expensive sports cars, either, and we don't mourn over that. Is health care radically different from sports cars, or even music lessons? If not, whence the controversy? And if it is different, then maybe pursuit of profit is totally alien to the profession.

Where is the baseline, the position from which we move when we try to bring the practice of medicine up to date? Edmund Pellegrino has always maintained that the heart of medicine is the physician-patient encounter, where the physician, drawing upon his scientific knowledge and experience with healing, helps the patient to make decisions that will aid his return to health. The physician's entire attention is focused on the patient's welfare. Alternative agendas -- money, political advantage, whatever -- are strictly ruled out of the decision making process, regarded as alien intrusions -- viruses -- infecting the practice of medicine.

Those of us with a history in the field find ourselves faced with a new vocabulary. "Healthcare" is a new word. We've been talking about the ethics of medicine for centuries, and since Hippocrates we have known that medicine could be practiced for disproportionate material rewards. In Sinclair Lewis' Main Street, the tale of a physician's wife in a small Midwestern town early in the 20th century, disapproving mention is made of one of the town physicians, who makes a few too many visits to the sick he attends, to gather a few more fees. The actual status of the physician of beloved memory, the general practitioner in small town America of the first half of the 20th century, closely parallels the status of the college professor in that time, a life of genteel poverty. Why? They probably knew how to make their profession more profitable, but, unlike the "Park Avenue doctor," who specialized, in the words of the immortal Tom Lehrer, in "diseases of the rich," they elected not to. Most physicians in independent practice now make the same choice. When they choose otherwise, we have the case of McAllen, Texas, charging Medicare much more than comparable areas for procedures that do not apparently improve the health of the patients. But what is "healthcare," in relation to medicine? Can "healthcare" be practiced for profit?

The challenge that Arnold presented to his writers, then, was controversial at its heart. To give the book a fair review, I will have to set aside for the moment the argument -- with which I have a certain amount of sympathy -- of those who feel that fundamental corruption is shown in the asking of his question. Arnold is on the crest of the wave of the future, and he has done a very good job of assembling its controversies and dilemmas. I'll come back to that fundamental corruption.

I will begin with the contributions I found easiest to deal with, because that fundamental question does not reside at their hearts. Seven essays address the pharmaceutical industry and the dilemmas raised by its entanglements with health care providers and scientific research. The essays include: Paul Menzel's on patents (is the protection of intellectual property justified in the face of intractable disease among the developing nations?); Tom Beauchamp's on the tendency to exploit the disadvantaged in pharmaceutical research (who, after all, is going to become a "healthy normal volunteer" for the trial regimens?); Jason Hubbard's on the notorious corruption of the medical profession in the practices of pharmaceutical marketing ("detailing"); Denis Arnold's on the ramifications of "direct to consumer" marketing, (an excellent survey of the types of pharmaceutical marketing to consumers and the regulations supposedly governing them -- pointing out, among other criticisms, that the warnings of adverse effects are nowhere carried out with the precision that the law is assumed to demand); Carl Elliott's consideration of the role of industry-sponsorship in bioethics committee and IRB review -- industry sponsorship of IRB review?! (he suggests that there should be no financial ties between those who serve on such committees and the industries interested in their results -- and where there are such ties, they should be cut); and Richard DeGeorge's solid, if qualified, praise for the pharmaceutical industry. I find these essays excellent, and the problems they call attention to real, yet not fundamental to the problem of the book. At bottom, the pharmaceutical industry is a business, falling well within the purview of business ethics. Those of us who have been in business ethics for some years recognize the problems (the practice in question: harms consumers or the community; is a conflict of interest or at least appears to be such; violates law, harms the environment, or otherwise intrudes on the public). We know how to recognize and suggest appropriate remedies (the industry must be forbidden by law to engage in certain practices, or must employ means to disclose fully the nature of the product or the processes by which it is marketed; all deceptive practices must be stopped). As long as there is not a real human being, sick and in need of care, in the picture, we are on solid ground.

The most ominous of these essays, by Dan Wikler, explores the invasion of medical education and practice by the pharmaceutical industry and by all makers of medical devices that need government approval and professional acceptance to become profitable. He demonstrates, more thoroughly than I would have thought possible, the entangling corruption of the medical profession, a state that he finds to be on the brink of the utter destruction of our trust in our physicians. He comes closest to the deep wound of commercial involvement found in Arnold's initial question, and is sufficiently alarmed to call for a new review of all medical education and practice, a "Flexner II" that will recommend sweeping reforms for the entire profession. I'll get back to Flexner II at the end of the review.

This volume taps the long-standing ethics expertise of many of those mentioned above. Of its eleven essays, the first is by Dan Callahan himself, "Medicine and the Market," in which he undertakes to find a sensible framework for the "medicine market debate," so that we can at least argue intelligently about it. The anger of the old school medical ethicists (Edmund Pellegrino, Arnold Relman) at the commercialism of current practice has to be set against the inevitable rise in the costs of health care and the need for institutions outside individual medical practices to provide the efficiency, quality, and cost control demanded by the public. Callahan correctly identifies the central division on the question of health care as a conflict of values. On the individual level, does freedom/autonomy (the consumer's preference and choice) trump beneficence/welfare (the consumer's health and long life)? Is it right for me to indulge my taste for hamburgers, candy and beer, as my Type II diabetes worsens? And then, does the collective freedom of hamburgers, etc. trump the collective interest in keeping health care costs down? Callahan briefly examines the costs, and results, of health care in the US and in other developed countries, concluding, as have many others, that we seem to get less bang for the buck than we have every right to expect, noting the different habits of thought that divide us from the rest of the world. Europe, for instance, does not share our enthusiasm for advances in medical technology, responsible for up to 50% of our cost increases. Callahan concludes with the observation that the free-market rewards many practices, but not the promotion of human health. If health is what we want (and it is not clear that it is), the practices of the market must be subordinated to the goal of universal health care. Right now we have few ways of doing that.

Norm Daniels, whose contribution immediately follows Callahan's, has been evaluating health care systems through the value of justice for (he estimates) three decades now. His unsurprising conclusion is that market practices, general and specific, have not turned out to be and will not turn out to be compatible with justice. In the course of transforming healthcare, he argues, the arrival of profit-oriented institutions has been eased by the promises they made when they arrived. Examples of this include: that the onset of competition among healthcare providers would lower unit costs and save a lot of money (just as competition among handheld calculators in the early 1970s resulted in vastly lower prices for each); that competition among health plans would lower the cost of health insurance; that high-deductible healthcare plans would cause more rational purchasing and lower costs; that competition among drug plans would lower the cost overall; and finally, Daniels throws in the promise that the introduction of user fees and reliance on the private sector in developing nations would lower costs for the poorest people in the world. All these promises have been broken, he shows, leaving us with an unworkable healthcare system characterized by gross injustices. A lesson to be learned: it costs a for-profit entity nothing to make promises as vague and unsecured as the promises he cites, and there is no penalty for breaking them. Do we have any institutional way of making sure promises are kept? I don't think so.

One of the more significant essays in the book is "The Third Face of Medicine: Ethics, Business and Challenges to Professionalism," by Mary Rorty, Patricia Werhane, and Ann Mills. This trio has been arguing for the importance of "organizational ethics," a field that combines business ethics and bioethics, for some years. For a while we were able to maintain a journal of that title. It never caught on; possibly it was premature.

Or possibly its fundamental idea was incoherent. This essay is most useful for incorporating in its body the confusions that it accurately identifies. The authors point out in the first paragraphs that the new struggles with cost control threaten to displace the historical commitments of the physician to the welfare of the individual patient and to the progress of medical science through clinical research. (The analogy between the conflict of commitments embodied in the recruitment of patients, or people who at least thought they were patients, into clinical trials as research subjects, and the conflict embodied in the practice of "medicine" for physician profit, does not work.) They accurately track the corporatization of medicine, from the solo practice to the enormous complexity of the contemporary surgical suite, the enormous growth of the for-profit enterprises in the industry (and their triumph after the failure of the Clinton Health Care plan of the 1990s). They correctly point out that "market" mechanisms, premised on the freedom of every consumer to make "his own" choices and take full responsibility for them, do not fit the provision of health care in the U.S. now. The worst confusion, they point out, is in what they call the "bifurcation" of the health care consumer, where the employer (or the government) makes the purchases for unknown consumers, while the patient and physician, who may or may not be employed by the insurer, make the treatment decisions. They do not use the category of "moral hazard" to describe this condition, but it fits the definition: the person choosing to take the risks, or incur the costs, will not have to pay for the consequences. At some points they seem to recognize that the purpose of a for-profit enterprise is to make money, to arrange for income to exceed costs by a margin that will satisfy investors, and that this legal responsibility must trump concern for "quality of care" in all such enterprises. In the end, however, they come back to the belief that the for-profit enterprises can be "disciplined" into adopting goals aligned with traditional medical practice. They do not establish this belief, and their Stakeholder diagrams do not help. (If anything, the diagrams seem designed to show that the whole field of health care is much too complex to understand rationally. It is not.)

Is healthcare -- the term that has replaced "the practice of medicine" -- to be understood as a complex of profit-seeking institutions, individual and corporate, or as professional service, oriented to the health of the individual? In an interesting essay aimed at reconciling the two approaches, George Khushf characterizes the "traditional biomedical approach" not as the physician-patient encounter, but as the depersonalized practice represented by machines and tubes, invading the patient as object, identified as a case, not a person. He traces the rise of mechanical medicine to the Flexner Report, claiming that its emphasis on scientific medicine turned patients into things, and encouraged physicians to practice "paternalism," making all decisions for the patient, since only they knew the mechanics of the body. (Khushf characterizes the traditional biomedical model as it was exemplified by Michael Bayles in his paper, "Disease as Mechanical Breakdown, Physicians as Body Mechanics," delivered in London, Western Ontario, in the 1970s. The problematic rise of fragmentation of medical care came from the same insistence on science and the object; I do carburetors, not transmissions.) The bioethics response to such mechanical ways of looking at medicine re-emphasized the traditional understanding, and demanded a higher level of personal communication and concern. Paul Ramsey (The Patient as Person) and Eric Cassell (The Healer's Art), along with the continuing work of Edmund Pellegrino, typified the resistance to such mechanism. The insistence on patient autonomy, represented by the demand for informed consent to all medical procedures, came out of this counter movement. So far so good; that opposition was there.

But the alternative to the mechanical model, advanced by those traditionalists, was a medical encounter characterized by a greater appreciation of human suffering and the patient's own values, to moderate the aggressive imposition of treatments by a newly confident scientific medicine. Khushf takes such discussions as "micro-ethical," making bioethics complicit with the Flexnerian model of "scientific" medicine, citing as evidence the rejection of Leon Kass's work by the bioethics community as "unscientific." (The rejections of Leon Kass's work that I am familiar with do not call him unscientific, they call him wrong. Possibly just ultraconservative, but anyway wrong.) Khushf suggests that the remedy for the insulated scientific model is not even approached by contemporary bioethics, which he takes to be, following Jonathan Imber, the "Public Relations branch of modern medicine." As evidence of the failure, he cites the SUPPORT study, which signally failed to improve, or even change, the practices of hospitals, practices that were in violation of informed consent and hospital policy. After a brief survey of the 1980s work of George Engel to re-conceive medicine as "biopsychosocial," which had, in his view, at least the merit of bringing society back into the picture, he then urges an integration of Engel with the "systems approach" of the IOM proposals of the 1990s. The normative agenda of organizational ethics requires a systems approach. But ways of constructing ethics are dependent on the dominant view of medicine, meaning that "The altered material conditions of medicine problematize not just medicine, but these dominant traditions of ethics."

Khushf concludes that healthcare is now practiced not by individuals but by institutions; therefore, we must understand health holistically. Healthcare is broader than medicine, and works toward the health of communities. As a result, there is a new dialectic between normative and scientific aspects of healthcare. We have moved away from the "doctor-patient" dyad, to the "healthcare institution-patient population" dyad, away from the paradigm of the patient's search for a "cure" and into the larger arena of institutional "care."

I wish I understood what he has in mind. If all he means is that blaming individuals for errors in treatment is not worthwhile, and that we must seek institutional means (like checklists -- you must read Atul Gawande's New Yorker article on Peter Pronovost, and on the way checklists save lives) to improve health care, that's fine. But if he means that institutional goals and priorities must take the place of the old medical priorities, I would note that most of the institutions now involved in healthcare have the priority of making money, and I tremble to think where medicine will go from here.

Let me try to pinpoint the major incongruity in the business/healthcare topic. In the manner of all other animals, we are born generally healthy, and if we have food and shelter supplied in the natural way, we will stay healthy until something happens (germs, falls, tumors, etc.) to damage that state. We all have grandfathers (Arnold is a different generation, so maybe I generalize inaccurately) who worked all their lives, and boasted that they had never seen a doctor. Unless you need to, there's no reason to. Health is natural; healthcare is not. And you never had to pay a penny for that health. Matter of fact, what you have to do to preserve that health doesn't cost anything either -- don't smoke, don't eat candy or fast food, walk to work -- in fact, they save money. So where does "healthcare insurance" figure in?

Contrast the clearer case of fire insurance. If you own a home, you paid a lot of money for it; that was a major investment. It makes sense to insure that investment, hence fire insurance. If you have a fire, the insurance should give you enough money to rebuild or replace. If you have no insurance, you are out every penny, without recourse. You have to pay the whole amount for a new home out of current income or savings. Fires are few and far between, so fire insurance does not cost very much. The whole arrangement makes sense.

But none of that makes sense for health. There was no investment, and unless evil things happen, there is no maintenance. You have no way of knowing how much (if any) insurance you will need, for you cannot put a price on your health and life (since you paid nothing to acquire them), even if you could foresee the future insults to your health, which you can't. For those who argue globally that the price of healthcare is "too high," there is a global answer: for the entire history of the human race, we have passionately desired freedom from pain and a long active life, for ourselves. We can't pay "too much" to have these. By a small extension, we want the same for friends, family, and, I'd wager, long-term patients. After life and health and painlessness, we want money. If the money comes at the expense of our own, or our friends' pain, or death, it's no go; life is worth more. But if it comes at the expense of a stranger's pain, some anonymous faraway person, we have traditionally seen no moral problem. Now that we are civilized, we are supposed to be ruled by charity and mercy, for the stranger as well as for our own, but the business system was not set up to be so ruled. What the current healthcare/insurance system does is import the "moral hazard" noted above to the entirety of dealings with patients. If we are an insurance company contemplating the effects of our policies and practices, we don't care about the pain they produce, or countenance, and as long as we have investors scanning the quarterly returns, it is impossible that we should. Has anyone raised the suggestion that the entirety of healthcare should be consigned to the third sector, supported by individual payments as possible, and by taxes as necessary, but under the governance of not-for-profit institutions? If not, let me be the first.

I promised I'd get back to Dan Wikler and his proposed "Flexner II." This might be a good way to finish this review: We need a thorough re-evaluation of the practice of medicine (or "healthcare") of every description, to separate it from the profit machines of the insurance industry, to re-orient patient care toward the health of the patient, and just possibly, to lay out a plan to keep people healthy with many, many fewer medical interventions. I think that Flexner II would be a very good idea.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

NDPR Uriah Kriegel, Subjective Consciousness: A Self-Representational Theory

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2010-03-14 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Uriah Kriegel, Subjective Consciousness: A Self-Representational Theory, Oxford UP, 2009, 333pp., $60.00 (hbk), ISBN 9780199570355.

Reviewed by Joseph Levine, University of Massachusetts, Amherst


Consciousness is a hot topic these days, what with online conferences, associations for its scientific study, and the like, and Kriegel's book is squarely in the middle of this ferment. Kriegel's aim is to provide a comprehensive theory of phenomenal consciousness. As a lot of what I have to say will be critical, let me state up front that in many ways I really like the book. For one thing, it combines an impressive attention to the empirical side of the matter with a genuinely philosophical treatment. And though the book is quite long, it reads easily and is not repetitive. There are new ideas and arguments in every section, far too many to survey and evaluate here. And though I find some of the arguments unconvincing and ill-considered, with Kriegel the rule is: you don't like that one, well I have three more for you to consider. The question is, what does it all add up to? So let me proceed to try to answer that question by first providing an overview of the main line of argument of the book. Kriegel has a complicated story to tell, so bear with me, as even a brief presentation of it can't be brief enough. I'll do my best.

We begin with a distinction that I myself emphasized in Levine (2001). Consider a paradigm conscious experience, such as the one you have when looking at a ripe tomato in daylight. What seems to be distinctive of this mental state as a conscious experience can be divided into two components: what Kriegel calls its "subjective character" (I called it "subjectivity") and its "qualitative character". One way to get at the distinction is by way of the standard "what it's like" locution. When we say that there is something it is like for me to see a ripe tomato on the kitchen counter in daylight, that there is something at all it is like for me is the subjective character, and precisely what it is like for me is the qualitative character. All conscious experiences share subjective character, but they differ in their qualitative character.

Phenomenal consciousness, according to Kriegel, is that feature of mental life that is responsible for the "explanatory gap" (Levine 1983) and the "hard problem" (Chalmers 1996). While most philosophers have grappled with qualitative character, Kriegel argues that it is really subjective character that is at the heart of the problem. Still, as phenomenal consciousness is composed of both kinds of character, and he seeks a fairly comprehensive theory of phenomenal consciousness, Kriegel provides an account of qualitative character alongside his principal account of subjective character.

Kriegel's theory is called the "self-representational" theory of phenomenal consciousness. Subjective character is that feature of a conscious state by virtue of which there is something it is like for the subject. But being "for the subject", according to Kriegel, means being something of which the subject is aware. Kriegel defends this claim by way of defending the "ubiquity thesis", the thesis that every conscious state is a state of which we are aware. Once we grant this, we then need to analyze "awareness", which, according to Kriegel, is best understood in terms of representation. As will become clear by the end of this review, it is this move that I believe leads to all the problems. Kriegel rightly notes that analyzing awareness in terms of representation is a substantive hypothesis, and defends it on the grounds that it is the only model for which we have a clear model and with which we have some prior familiarity, not to mention that the representational model more easily allows for physicalistic reduction. So the upshot of this first stage of investigation is the view that a state has subjective character by virtue of being represented to be a state of the subject.

Now this much had already been argued by "higher-order" theorists, most notably David Rosenthal (1997). Rosenthal emphasizes that conscious states are those we are conscious of, which turn out to be those represented by suitably related higher-order thoughts. Where Kriegel differs from Rosenthal is that Kriegel claims that the higher-order state and the first-order state are in fact one and the same; hence the self-representation referred to in the name of the theory. Kriegel offers several arguments for preferring the single-state self-representation theory to the standard two-state higher-order theory, a matter to which I'll return.

When it comes to qualitative character, Kriegel holds a narrow representational view. According to a representational view, qualitative character is identified with the representational content of a perceptual or sensory representation. So, for example, the reddish qualitative character of a visual experience of a ripe tomato is the property of representing the tomato to be red. At this point, representational theories divide over how to understand the relevant representational content. Externalist representationalists take the relevant content to be something like a spectral reflectance, a mind-independent and response-independent property of the object (Dretske 1995 and Tye 1995). Kriegel opts for a different view. He identifies qualitative character with the representation of a certain response-dependent property of the object: that disposition of the object to cause certain neural states in organisms of the relevant type under normal conditions. As he notes, his view is internalist, in the sense that qualitative character supervenes on the physical structure of the perceiver, whereas for externalists it supervenes on the way the world is outside the head as well.

This is how Kriegel describes his view in chapter 3, but, as he warns the reader there, there is actually a crucial amendment to the view that appears in chapter 4. It turns out that the first-order content of the representational state does not determine the state's qualitative character after all. Rather, to find out what the qualitative character is, we have to look at the higher-order content of the state -- the self-representational component of the state's content.

To see how this works, consider again the visual experience of the ripe tomato. This conscious state has a first-order content that attributes a particular response-dependent property (among others) -- call it R -- to the tomato. At the second-order level, the state represents itself as having a certain content -- say, as attributing R to the tomato. The first-order content he calls the "schmalitative character" of the conscious state, and the content attributed to the state by the second-order content is the qualitative character strictly speaking. Of course in standard cases these contents will coincide, so the schmalitative and qualitative characters will be the same. But sometimes they may come apart. One's visual system may be representing the tomato as instantiating R, but one may be representing oneself to be representing the tomato as instantiating G. In such a case the qualitative character of the experience is G, not R.

Getting back to subjective character, an important part of the story for Kriegel involves a distinction between "peripheral" and "focal" inner awareness. As applied to normal, outer-directed perceptual attention the distinction is familiar. As I type this review on my computer, I see the words on the screen, but also the envelopes on my desk, the keyboard, and a number of other objects in my field of vision. I am visually attending to the words on the screen -- and not to all of them, of course, but the ones appearing as I type -- they occupy my focal attention. But I am also aware of the other objects; certainly in a way that I am not visually aware of the door behind my back. We can describe these other objects of which I'm visually aware as occupying the periphery of my visual attention.

The application to inner awareness is meant to capture the difference between standard cases of conscious perceptual experience, on the one hand, and full-blown introspective attention to experience, on the other. As I'm looking at the computer screen while typing I am consciously aware of the words as they appear on the screen, and it's clear that my attention is directed toward the screen, not myself or my experience. Yet, if this is to count as a conscious experience, there must be some sense in which it is "for me", and, for Kriegel, this means it's being represented by me. Kriegel captures the difference between the two objects of awareness - the screen and the experience of the screen - by appeal to the difference between peripheral and focal attention. I am focally aware of the screen, but only peripherally aware of my experience. Once we have this distinction in play, we can then say that what happens when I indulge in full-blown introspection is that an attention shift takes place. Whereas before I was focally aware of the screen and peripherally aware of the experience, now I am focally aware of the experience.

At the end of chapter 4, Kriegel provides a full-dress articulation of his account of subjective character, which goes like this:

(SR) Necessarily, for any mental state M, M has subjective character iff M is non-derivatively, specifically, and essentially self-representing.

Non-derivative representation is the sort that minds do, as opposed to the representation of the words on my screen. Specific self-representation involves picking out the state in question through a singular representation, as opposed to some general description it happens to fall under, such as "all the mental states I'm now occupying". Finally, essential self-representation is the sort one has with first-person indexicals like "I" and "me", as opposed to definite descriptions that happen to pick one out. So "the mental state representing the computer screen" doesn't count, while "this very mental state" does.

So does this theory work? Does it give a convincing account of phenomenal consciousness? I don't think so. In fact, I find the position riddled with holes. I will confine my critical remarks to three important issues: the argument for abandoning the two-state higher-order theory for the self-representational theory, the account of qualitative character, and the ontological structure of conscious states on the self-representational view.

1. Kriegel's principal argument that we need self-representation, as opposed to standard two-state higher-order representation, goes like this. On a two-state view, only the lower-order state is conscious, not the higher-order one (unless, as is usually not the case, it is targeted by yet a higher-order state itself). But clearly subjective character, the conscious state's being "for me", is itself "phenomenologically manifest", and thus must be conscious. If we grant this requirement, we are off on an infinite regress, unless we stop the regress in its tracks by the one-state self-representational move.

Why must we say that the higher-order state is conscious as well? Kriegel realizes that appealing to the intuition that it is phenomenologically manifest will not convince his opponents, so he trots out an interesting argument, which goes like this. If subjective character were not something itself of which we were conscious -- which, on the standard two-state view, it isn't -- then how would we know about it in the first place? That is, on what basis would we argue that all conscious states have subjective character? He discusses various options and dismisses them, leaving only the claim that it is because subjective character is phenomenologically part of every conscious experience do we know that it is an essential component of phenomenally conscious states.

One option Kriegel dismisses is that we know about subjective character through introspection. He has two objections to this view. First, since the vast majority of our conscious states are not explicitly introspected, the fact that we find subjective character in the ones we do introspect provides an insufficient inductive basis to project to the rest. But if every time we introspect we discover this feature of our conscious experience, under all circumstances, why wouldn't this be sufficient evidence? Why think the un-introspected ones are any different? This is where the second objection comes into play. Since when we introspect we are obviously making ourselves aware of our conscious state, there is reason to think that the sample is biased. Yes, we find subjective character when introspecting, but that's just what the introspecting itself is introducing, and therefore we shouldn't consider these cases as representative of all conscious states.

But this objection confuses two distinct levels of higher-order representation. On the standard higher-order theory, introspection involves three levels of representation: the ground-level perceptual state, representing whatever it does about the external world; the second-order state, representing the ground-level one, and thus making it conscious; and a third-order state, representing the second-order one (or maybe both second-order and ground-level), constituting the introspective state. True, the third-level state only appears when introspecting, but of course it isn't the state of which we are conscious in these circumstances (unless we go ahead and introspect the introspecting, thus introducing a fourth-order state). What we are conscious of when introspecting is the second-order state, and there is no reason to think that the introduction of the extra level of awareness through introspecting is responsible for introducing this second-order state that is found there. Thus there is no reason to think the introspected sample is biased. Hence, no real argument against the two-state view.[1]

2. Remember, for Kriegel qualitative character is the representation of a response-dependent property of the object. (For present purposes I'm ignoring the qualitative/schmalitative distinction.) Any such account has to find a way to independently characterize the relevant response, on pain of circularity. As mentioned above, Kriegel's move is to go neural. But then he notices a problem: namely, if we specify the relevant response neurally, then we lose multiple realizability. It will turn out that no two creatures who are physiologically different can ever have an experience with the same qualitative character. Kriegel's response is to claim that we can characterize the relevant response as a "conjunctive disposition". It's the property of eliciting R1 in creatures of kind K1 in circumstances C1, and R2 in creatures of kind K2, in circumstances C2, etc.

So, let's work out a case. Norma is looking at the sky and having an experience with bluish quality, Stella is looking at the sky and having an experience of the same quality, and Norman is looking at the sky and having an experience of yellowish quality. We want to say that all three experiences are (or at least can be) veridical. That means the sky must have both properties, what Norma and Stella represent it to have and what Norman represents it to have. These can't be the same property, for then it would follow that Norma and Norman are experiencing the same qualia, and, by hypothesis, they aren't. So they have to be two distinct properties instantiated by the sky at the time in question.

According to Kriegel, these are response-dependent properties. The issue then is to specify the response without appealing to qualitative character itself, on pain of undermining the reductive character of the account. As just mentioned, Kriegel proposes to use physical properties as the relevant responses, and then to deal with multiple realization of qualitative character by appeal to "conjunctive dispositions". So what makes Norma's and Stella's experiences both count as of bluish quality, given that Norma's involves physical state N1 and Stella's involves N2? Well, it's that they represent the same property B. What is B? It's the conjunctive disposition to cause N1 in Norma (and her relevant peers) and N2 in Stella (and her relevant peers).

Okay, so now we have Norma, Norman, and Stella all looking at the sky together. Each is responding with a different physical state, N1 for Norma, N2 for Stella, and N3 for Norman. However, Norma and Stella are experiencing the same quality by virtue of their representing B, which is defined in terms of causing N1 in Norma and N2 in Stella, but Norman's response is not among the dispositional conjuncts of B, so he isn't sharing their qualitative experience. But of course there's property C, which does include all three conjuncts. So what makes it the case that it's B they are representing and not C?

Perhaps Kriegel will say that you start out with an intuitive grasp of Norma and Stella sharing a quality and Norman not, and then fashion your specification of the response to fit this. But this seems unworkable for two reasons. First, on what theory of representation -- particularly some sort of nomic or teleological theory of the sort Kriegel likes -- are you going to get it to come out that it's precisely B and not C (or any other of the infinitely many conjunctive dispositions one can specify) that Norma and Stella are representing? Second, it clearly relies on an independent fix on qualitative character, one that is totally ungrounded on this account. Of course if you give up multiple realizability, so there's one response for each possible physical state caused by seeing an object, then this particular problem goes away, but then you get others.

3. Perhaps the most serious question Kriegel addresses is how to understand the self-representation relation itself. That is, what makes it the case that a state represents itself? If Kriegel were not interested in a reductive theory of consciousness he could avoid the problem and just take the representation relation as primitive, and thus self-representation as primitive as well. But Kriegel wants a naturalistic theory, so he must rely on a naturalistic account of representation.

Unfortunately, the only candidates we know of are causal/nomic accounts on the one hand, and functional accounts on the other. The former don't help much with self-representation, since states don't cause themselves. (The problem is basically that either everything represents itself on such a view or nothing does.) Functional role accounts might work, but then we lose something else that is crucial to Kriegel: the categorical, or manifest nature of self-awareness. After all, straight representationalist theories of phenomenal consciousness -- without any explicit higher-order representation -- handle subjective character in terms of a disposition to be available to various high-level processes, such as report and action planning.[2] Kriegel's main reason for insisting on explicit higher-order representation is that without it the self-awareness of subjective character loses its status as a categorical state, and thus ceases to be the sort of thing that can be phenomenologically manifest. But if we adopt a functional account of self-representation, then we lose this advantage over the straight representationalist position, and we might as well abandon any appeal to higher-order representation, whether of the two-state or the one-state variety.

Note that the two-state view doesn't have this problem. The two-state view can help itself to whatever causal or nomic theory of representation eventually wins out, since there is no obvious reason one mental state couldn't stand in this relation to another. So what Kriegel does to solve his problem is to compromise a bit with the two-state view. That is, rather than what I will call a "one-vehicle-one-state" view, Kriegel holds a "two-vehicle-one-state" view. On the former, though the physical state realizing the self-representational mental state has physical parts, it does not break down into representational components with one representing the other. On the latter model, however, there are separable parts of the state, such that one part represents the distal situation and the second represents the first part. Since there is a physical distinction between the two parts of the one state, it is possible to employ some sort of causal account of representation to ground the second part's representing the first part.

Of course now the problem is to distinguish this two-vehicle-one-state view from the standard two-state view. After all, calling two states "one state" doesn't make them so, and since the representational contents of these two parts of the one state are distinct, there seems to be every reason to consider them two states. Kriegel responds in two ways. First, he claims that there is a difference between a view that treats two states as parts of one state merely by "summing" them, and one that treats them as parts of one state by virtue of their standing in a relation that genuinely integrates them into a "complex" state. The integration he has in mind involves the kind of "binding" of two representations that we see in normal perception. In perception the visual system must integrate a representation that something is red with a representation that something is square -- representations realized in different visual sub-systems -- to get a representation of something that is a red square, and one hypothesis for how this is done has to do with synchronous firing in the two sub-systems. Kriegel proposes that just this sort of integration occurs between the first-order and the second-order representations involved in a conscious perceptual experience (hence he calls this "cross order integration"), and he speculates that synchronous firing could be the mechanism that implements the integration in this case as well.

The second element in the response is to introduce the idea of "indirect representation". The point is that we want the entire state to be what's represented, not just one part by another, for otherwise we wouldn't have any advantage over the standard two-state view, since the subjective character would not itself be phenomenologically manifest, since not self-represented. But we can only get a causal account going if we have one part representing the other, and therefore not representing itself. The way out is to claim that the causal account gives us the "direct" representation of the first-order part by the second-order part, and the entire state counts as self-represented by virtue of the second-order part's "indirectly" representing the entire, complex state. A case that exemplifies the distinction is the way a picture can represent a house, indirectly, by directly representing (picturing) the front of the house. Similarly, the visual system always has only partial access to what's being viewed, yet, by directly representing what's in the field of vision, it indirectly represents an entire object, including parts that are occluded from vision. Basing his account on this sort of analogy, Kriegel claims that the second-order part of the conscious state indirectly represents the entire state by directly representing the first-order part.

It seems to me that neither the appeal to cross-order integration nor to indirect representation works.[3] Consider again the way that representations of color and shape are bound together. It's supposed to work something like this. We start with two distinct representations of the form "x is red" and "y is square", where the singular terms are keyed to features maps. Through some implementing mechanism (maybe synchronous firing) the two representations become one and we get "z is red and square". The point is that the latter representation, with "z" representing the object, is distinct (functionally, that is) from either of the other two. Now, what sort of merging of first-order and second-order contents on Kriegel's view is supposed to work like that? We are given no idea how the relevant contents are supposed to be merged.[4] What's more, if they were integrated in anything like the way that standard binding works, we'd have a one-vehicle model after all.

Let me elaborate on this last point. When individuating mental states, there are (at least) two levels of aggregation to consider: the physical implementation level and the psychological level (the level of the virtual machine). What are counted as individual psychological states may be implemented by extremely complex physical states, containing physical state parts that are integrated in various ways. The part-whole structure of the physical implementation, however, does not automatically transfer to the psychological state(s) implemented. It depends on whether these physical parts receive a psychological interpretation.

Now, on Kriegel's story we start with two states, S1 and S2, where S1 is a representation of a ripe tomato, and S2 represents that S1 is occurring. Now suppose that they are integrated via something like synchronous firing. The physical integration is irrelevant to the question of whether or not we have one state unless there is a genuine merger of the contents of the two states. But what sort of merger are we talking about? If it's still the case that S1 represents the ripe tomato and S2 represents S1, in what sense do we have a single psychological state? If, however, the S1 and S2 contents genuinely merge -- so that either, as in the binding case, a representational element from both parts functions as a single symbol[5], or somehow the two parts function to spread the two representational contents over the entire combined state -- then it's unclear why the psychological state is considered to have two distinct parts. Again, the two-part structure at the physical implementation level is irrelevant. Kriegel's attempt to have it both ways -- two states in one -- exchanges the mystery of consciousness for the mystery of the Trinity.

But suppose this could work. (After all, many people do believe in the Trinity.) There is still the question of what precisely is being represented at the higher-order level. Does S2 represent just S1, or the combined S1-S2 state? As mentioned above, Kriegel needs it to be the latter, for if it isn't, then the advantage over the two-state version is lost. The principal advantage of the one-state view over the two-state view is supposed to be that it makes subjective character itself phenomenologically manifest. Being phenomenologically manifest, on Kriegel's theory, is to be represented. So the representing of S1, done by S2, must itself be somehow represented. This is where the appeal to indirect representation is supposed to do the job.

But how does this work? Again, we are given examples that are importantly unlike the situation at hand. Pictures and perceptual experiences represent entire objects by picturing (or seeing) their parts. But is that what happens? True, I say I see the house when I see its front, but does that mean my visual system is literally representing the whole house by virtue of representing the front of it? And is the whole house phenomenologically manifest to me? It seems to me that one might say I represent the entire house in thought based on the visual presentation of the front, thus yielding two representations, not one with both direct and indirect contents. The problem is that we just have no clear model of indirect representation that would help us determine if its application in this case yields a position that meets the necessary desiderata.

On page 230 Kriegel worries about this problem, but treats it as relatively unimportant. To my mind this issue strikes at the heart of his theory. Again, if the higher-order (part of the) state is not represented, then we aren't aware of it, and then we have no fundamental difference between this view and standard higher-order theory. It's not enough that somehow the entire state is indirectly represented if that doesn't amount to an awareness of the subjective character itself. In fact, at an earlier point in his argument a similar problem arose, and there too it seemed to me that Kriegel brushed it off too quickly with an expedient that doesn't really speak to the problem.

When initially laying out his argument against the two-state view, Kriegel set it up as a dilemma: either the higher-order state is itself unconscious (bad, for reasons discussed above) or it's conscious, but then we invite a regress of increasingly higher-order states. At that point he considers an objection that his view is subject to a regress of sorts as well. After all, even if there's one state, aren't there two contents, the first-order one and the second-order one? But can't we ask whether a content, as well as a state, is conscious? If so, then the same dilemma ought to work against Kriegel's own view. His response is to say that for a content to be conscious is just for it to be the (or a) content of a conscious state. So the higher-order content needn't be itself represented by another content to be conscious, since it is already a content of a conscious state; that is, of a state that is the explicit target of the higher-order content itself.

But while this move allows Kriegel to call the higher-order content "conscious", and I can't object to a stipulation here, it doesn't seem to do the work we need done, which is to get subjective character into our awareness. If we're going to understand awareness as representation, then the content of awareness has to be identified with representational content. I don't see how we can allow something to count as what we're aware of by, as it were, proxy -- which is what this move and the indirect representation move seem to have in common.

Finally, now that we have Kriegel's two-vehicle-one-state model presented, we can return to the other argument I mentioned in note 1 against the two-state view. The problem is that on the two-state model it ought to be possible for the higher-order state to occur even though there is no lower-order state it is actually representing. We can think of this as a kind of internal hallucination. I represent myself as having an experience I'm not actually having. The problem is that it seems to undermine the relational character of the higher-order view. If, as we assume would be the case on this view, what it's like for one suffering such an internal hallucination is just the same as what it's like for someone really having the represented experience, then it seems that the internal hallucinator is really having the experience as well. But this then makes the lower-order state superfluous.

Whether or not one finds this problematic, Kriegel thinks it is, and therefore he argues that his self-representational account is better since it isn't subject to this objection. Since the state is representing itself, the higher-order representation cannot occur without the lower-order state it is representing, namely, itself. But once we adopt the two-vehicle version of the one-state view, the objection reappears. Why couldn't S2 occur without S1? Now Kriegel will say that since S1 isn't there, and so there is no state with which S2 can integrate, there is no basis for the indirect representational content; therefore the relevant higher-order representational content does not appear without the state it's representing -- that is, the integrated state consisting of S1 and S2. While that's certainly right, we still want to know, according to Kriegel, what it's like for the subject. Is there any reason to think he can avoid the same dilemma that faces the two-state view? I don't see why. Remember, given his view that qualitative character, the "what" of what it's like, is identified by the representational content of the higher-order state, not the lower-order one, is there any basis in his theory for thinking that in an S2-without-S1 situation it would be any different for the subject than it is when we have the full-fledged S2-with-S1 situation?

What then to make of these various problems with the view? Is there a lesson here? To me, the lesson is that consciousness really is like the Trinity in the end. Somehow conscious awareness has a differentiable act-object structure but of a sort that involves genuine, not superficial, unity. This is why I have come to believe that the awareness relation involved in conscious experience cannot be explicated in terms of representational states, at least not reductively, as one must either sacrifice the phenomenology or sacrifice the representation relation. Kriegel has done us the service of showing us the limits of the representational approach through his long and arduous attempt to make it all work.

References

Chalmers, D. (1996). The Conscious Mind. Oxford: Oxford UP.

Dretske, F. (1995). Naturalizing the Mind. Cambridge, MA: Bradford Books/The MIT Press.

Levine, J. (1983). "Materialism and Qualia: The Explanatory Gap", Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 64, 354-361.

Levine, J. (2001). Purple Haze: The Puzzle of Consciousness. New York: Oxford UP.

Rosenthal, D. (1997). "A Theory of Consciousness", in Block, N., Flanagan, O., and Güzeldere, G. eds., The Nature of Consciousness: Philosophical Debates, Cambridge: MIT Press, 729-753.

Tye, M. (1995). Ten Problems of Consciousness: A Representational Theory of the Phenomenal Mind. Cambridge, MA: Bradford Books/M.I.T. Press.


[1] There is actually another argument Kriegel employs to establish the superiority of the self-representation theory over the two-state theory, which is its ability to avoid the possibility plaguing the two-state view of there being a kind of internal hallucination, with the higher-order state occurring without an appropriate lower-order target. I will return to this question after developing my criticism of his position on the ontological structure of conscious states below.

[2] As in Tye's (1995) so-called PANIC account, where the "P" stands for "poised".

[3] In both cases I'm tempted to use the dachshund joke to exemplify the problem. (Don't know it? Ask Louise Antony, it's her favorite joke.)

[4] This is the relevance of the aforementioned joke: it's just like the standard binding case, just different.

[5] In the binding case the two singular terms come to function as one.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

NDPR Bret W. Davis (ed.), Martin Heidegger: Key Concepts

Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

2010-03-13 : View this Review Online : View Other NDPR Reviews

Bret W. Davis (ed.), Martin Heidegger: Key Concepts, Acumen, 2010, 288pp., $24.95 (pbk), ISBN 9781844651993.

Reviewed by Lee Braver, Hiram College


 

How does one make Heidegger accessible? Explaining philosophers to non-experts is often a tricky business, courting the perils of either dissipating the ideas in trite slogans or merely circulating jargon-like secret passwords known only to the initiated. But with Heidegger, the passage between these dangers is particularly treacherous, as Bret W. Davis acknowledges on the first page of Martin Heidegger: Key Concepts. His solution is to select a number of important ideas that range across great swaths of Heidegger's work, and have prominent scholars "clearly and concisely articulate . . . their understanding of the key concepts of their particular areas of expertise" (xi). Each discussion guides readers through a specific topic; combined in a roughly chronological order, they offer an overview of his oeuvre. The essays are fairly short (usually 10-12 pages) and are broken into bite-size portions, allowing readers to find quick clarifications of particular subjects. Moreover, the editor has inserted references to the relevant chapter when its topic appears in a different essay, enabling the reader to follow up on ideas that catch their attention. Many of the chapters interweave nicely, combining for a total greater than the sum of the parts.

Davis' goal is to present essays valuable both to those first approaching Heidegger and to those who know his work well. Obviously, "this daunting balancing act" (xi) is difficult to achieve since these aims tend to pull in opposite directions. The more an article succeeds in giving a general introduction to a topic, the less it usually offers to those conversant with the subject. Conversely, the more an article aims at expanding the knowledge of experts, the more likely it is to leave the uninitiated behind. Davis admits that many of the essays emphasize the one aim at the expense of the other (xii), and it would be difficult to reach any other conclusion. However, most do accomplish one of the goals -- no small achievement in itself -- and some succeed in pleasing both audiences by following a single thread throughout Heidegger's various texts and periods, orienting new readers while simultaneously providing the experienced with a helpful overview of the development of a topic. In general, I think that it would have been more beneficial for new readers had the authors covered less ground but with more detailed elucidation. The individual entries, as with most collections, vary in quality and in how they negotiate the trade-off between accessible elucidation and esoteric disquisition. It is to these that I now turn.

Davis opens the book with a very brief biographical sketch that only partially fulfills his promise of being written for "compellingly Heideggerian reasons" (2), and which does not actually show how the events of Heidegger's life affect his thinking. Davis then gives a short discussion of Heidegger's central, constant concern: the question of being. He correctly points out that Heidegger came to adopt a three-part ontology consisting of beings, their beingness (or the being of beings), and being itself. Respectively, these are individual entities, the metaphysical definition of what it means to be (e.g., existing meant being a divine creation in the Middle Ages, or a substance in early modern epoch), and the basic fact that entities appear to us at all. Davis finishes the introduction by briefly covering a few features of being that are certainly important, but all of which get their own essay in the collection, making this quick examination rather superfluous. He also contributes a rather odd final chapter made up of passages, primarily from Heidegger's writings, concerning Christianity and divinity. Davis selected and organized this list of quotations which can certainly aid research, but he chose simply to present them instead of doing the kind of expository work that I thought this book was supposed to offer.

Drawing on his vast knowledge, Theodore Kisiel traces the hermeneutics of facticity from earlier philosophers through Heidegger's work up to 1930. His discussion of the way phenomenology relates to this topic and to authenticity is particularly good, although he skirts an issue I have always found problematic. Heidegger's early approach to traditional philosophical ideas is to dismantle them in order to gain access to "the original experiences from which they have developed" (24). As Husserl argued in "The Origin of Geometry", we need to dig up Plato and Aristotle's vivacious experiences before they became mummified in terminology. This phenomenological project seems incompatible with the hermeneutic idea that one always interprets "in accord with the unique temporal context in which each individual is situated" (30). Hermeneutic situatedness ruins a 20th century German professor's attempt to have the same experiences as Aristotle. I certainly cannot demand that essays answer my questions, but the conflict appears within Kisiel's exposition and I would have liked to hear his take on it. While not terribly difficult, the essay does not seem designed to introduce these concepts to novices.

Charles E. Scott approaches care and authenticity by taking the myth of care in Being and Time seriously, wringing philosophical insights from this passage which often strikes readers, including myself, as rather hokey. His paper covers virtually all of Being and Time -- an impressive feat -- although discussing fewer ideas in greater depth might have been more helpful to the beginner. The paper ends with the intriguing suggestion that authenticity could form the basis for an ethics and political philosophy, but a full treatment of this deserves its own article. Charles Bambach investigates the "philosophical meaning" of Heidegger's involvement with National Socialism (102), showing how his views might have primed him for this terrible alliance, and how its failure reverberates in his later thought. Bambach presents a fair account, dispensing blame and absolution where merited.

Jonathan Dronsfield takes on the work of art, covering the entire "The Origin of the Work of Art" in eight pages, which inevitably leaves some important ideas less than fully explained. Personally, I would have liked a fuller exposition of the rift, a topic I have always found elusive. He discusses how Heidegger's views apply to abstract art well (133), although this does raise the specter of Heidegger's worries about representation. Dronsfield also makes the claim that an artwork's opening of a world "happens once only, in the 'original' siting of the work" (131). It's certainly true that a work's ability to open a world can end (similar to the discussion of historical equipment at Being and Time 431-2/380), but the claim that it only happens once appears to contradict the role of later "preservers", a topic Dronsfield discusses (135). Daniela Vallega-Neu focuses on Ereignis, helpfully distinguishing three senses of the term (145-6) and how it changes between the "middle" and "late" Heidegger. This essay seems more appropriate for Heidegger scholars than first-time readers.

Peter Warnek delves into the history of being, admirably explaining that the epochs cover over what is essential. He expounds Heidegger's claim that the history of metaphysics has exhausted all possible variations (164-5), but without addressing the way this rather Hegelian idea presupposes a determinate set of understandings of being, which seems incompatible with Heidegger's frequent attempts to free this sequence from any kind of logic or necessity. Unlike most of the contributors, John T. Lysaker examines the way Heidegger's writings phenomenologically point us to experiences of language rather than tracing the development of this topic idea throughout his career (195). He focuses on the claim that language speaks, that is, that we always already find ourselves within language in a way that is not up to us. Neither our linguistic nature nor particular word choices are within our control; rather, we respond to things' solicitations and words' meanings, something poets do especially well. This "anti-humanism" is essential to the later work.

Andrew J. Mitchel faces the daunting task of making sense of the fourfold, perhaps the most obscure idea in all of Heidegger's work. He makes the rather surprising claim that Heidegger's discussions of this topic represent "his most phenomenological thought" (209), although the way this occurs remains implicit in the essay. Mitchel opens with a good explanation of the way Heidegger's ontology expanded beyond Being and Time's three ways of being in the direction of further "desubstantializ[ing]" things (209), that is, making them holistically interdependent on other things and their environment instead of self-sufficient substances. He gives an excellent treatment of mortality, showing how it both extends and alters Heidegger's early views on death. However, his account of the next three parts of the fourfold did not clarify matters for me. My failure to understand may be entirely my fault -- I have never really grasped the fourfold -- but my difficulty may be representative of reader's reactions. Mitchel ends with the intriguing suggestion that we should read Heidegger's talks in the context in which they were given, though he does not do this here.

Ben Vedder argues that we must examine Heidegger's views on ontotheology and gods in the context of his early experiences with religion (219), though I'm not sure how much these biographical details actually inform his account. Vedder traces the changing relationship between philosophy and religion across Heidegger's works, as well as how particular religious notions (such as kairos) inform certain writings. These explanations are helpful, although the distinctions he draws among the holy, god, godhead, and divinities frankly lost me (229). I was rather surprised that Kierkegaard makes no appearance. Authors must leave out a great deal to write such brief accounts, of course, but no one has thought more about religion as a matter of one's facticity than Kierkegaard, whose influence on Being and Time Heidegger acknowledges.

I must confess that I found Günter Figal's discussion of Heidegger's take on phenomenology, especially insofar as it relates to the Greeks, quite thorny. This is not helped by phrases like, "this ontologization of phenomenology -- and phenomenologization of ontology" (36), which contrast with the way most of the authors strive to write accessibly. Figal attributes the importance of phenomenology to our historical position as heirs to Greek thinkers who wielded this method avant la lettre. But he also calls it "nothing but the very possibility of thinking. . . . It is the unnamed -- and thus usually also the unknown -- in all thinking" (33-4). This "anonymization and universalization of phenomenology" (34) makes the historical explanation redundant and possibly misleading. Figal also argues that Heidegger, in thrall to the Greeks, defines being as physis in the sense of beings spontaneously emerging out of concealment which, Figal contends, only applies to natural entities, not to artifacts made by us (38-9). However, the idea of the artifact (formal cause), the suitability of certain materials for it (material cause), and its desirability (final cause) arise spontaneously. The fact that these thoughts "strike us" is Heidegger's main argument against the idea that we created the essence of technology.

I must say, with great reluctance, that I was disappointed by Thomas Sheehan's essay on the turn, though this is at least partially due to my high opinion of his work (I have long considered "A Paradigm Shift in Heidegger Research"[1] one of the best pieces written on Heidegger). He begins with the interesting and slightly provocative thesis that Heidegger never underwent a turn (82). Once he has distinguished three meanings of the turn, however, this claim turns out to be largely semantic. Sheehan accepts the idea (which he calls Kehre-2) that Heidegger abandoned his early transcendental treatment of Dasein to focus on being's claim upon us (89-91, 98n. 14), precisely the change that most scholars mean when they speak of the Kehre. Sheehan's point is that Kehre-1 -- the mutual reciprocity between Dasein/man and being -- remains Heidegger's central topic throughout his career (92). This is true and helpful, but I found that framing it in terms of the meanings of terms obfuscated rather than clarified it. Little accommodation is made for those new to the topic, with German and Greek phrases liberally sprinkled throughout. At one point he instructs those readers "uncomfortable with the translation" to substitute "the traditional Heideggerian code words", assuming more familiarity on the reader's part than appropriate given the intent of this collection (84). Whereas Sheehan's prose is pellucid elsewhere, here we find sentences like, "the genitive in such phrases as Wesen/Lichtung/Wahrheit/Da des Seins indicates a pleonasm: Sein selbst is its Wesen/Lichtung/Wahrheit/Da" (84). The point he's trying to get across is important and difficult to state, and he gives a brief gloss in the next sentence, but I don't think the exposition is helped by phrases like this. Again, I have the highest regard for Sheehan's work; I just did not find this piece to be up to his usual standards. The essay does contain a good discussion of the danger of anthropomorphizing being (93-4) and of technology (95-7).

Happily, I can praise several articles for successfully navigating the dangers inherent in expository writing. Davis himself contributes a wonderful piece on will and Gelassenheit. He guides the reader with a light but sure touch through Heidegger's development from early ambivalence on the topic, to outright voluntarism in the early 1930's, only to emerge from his catastrophic involvement with National Socialism and long engagement with Nietzsche to find our age disastrously defined by will. He also lays out the paradox inherent in attempts to effect Gelassenheit very clearly.

Richard Polt opens his discussion of the relationship between being and time with an instructive contrast with Plotinus, standing in for the long line of philosophers who consider the two mutually exclusive. To paraphrase Epicurus, where temporal change is, true being is not; where true being is, there time cannot be. Heidegger's point is that even when metaphysicians denounce time as merely an indication of unreality, they are still using it to understand reality; in Heidegger's terms, time forms the horizon for understanding Being. Polt does a very good job of showing how temporality unifies Being and Time, and then traces its evolution into Ereignis in the 1930's and giving ("Es gibt") in the late work. This piece strikes a friendly, informal tone well-suited to students.

Daniel O. Dahlstrom unpacks Heidegger's understanding of truth, helpfully identifying the master three-step argument -- from correspondence to unhiddenness to the clearing, where each step presupposes the next -- that repeatedly crops up in his work (116-7). Dahlstrom offers a particularly illuminating explanation of the clearing, and a masterful, compressed analysis of the changes between Being and Time and the works of the mid 1930's, tucked away in an endnote (126n. 5). I have quibbles with a couple of Dahlstrom's claims -- he appears to equate the hiddenness-unhiddenness pairing with the earth-world strife of "The Origin of the Work of Art" (117) although Heidegger cautions against this identification[2]; he says that the open realm between unconcealed entities and man first appears in 1937-8 lectures (119), whereas I find it in 1930's "On the Essence of Truth" (ibid. 121) -- but these are minor concerns. It's a very good essay that can benefit students greatly.

Timothy Stapleton explains being-in-the-world with forceful sentences, defining all technical terms and illuminating the ideas with helpful examples (47). He shows a real knack for explaining tough ideas. Hans Ruin's account of technology starts by walking the reader through Aristotle's account of technē and the way Being and Time departs from Heidegger's earlier views. Ruin then shows how and, more importantly, why Heidegger abandoned both positions to develop an entirely new idea, partially inspired by the way artworks escape Being and Time's categories. He claims that Heidegger's later work can be read in terms of divergent meanings of technology (188), and then delivers on this promise in an account that does perhaps the best job in the book of squeezing new insights from well-travelled paths. These authors demonstrate superb skill in explaining difficult ideas in ways that are accessible to those approaching them for the first time, and valuable to those familiar with the subject matter. One can only hope for more work like this.


[1] Continental Philosophy Review, 34 (2001), 183-202.

[2] Basic Writings, Revised ed. Ed. David Farrell Krell. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993, p. 180.