Comments on Quine's 'Observation Sentences'

When one first comes across a description of an “observation sentence”, it would seem, prima facie, that such a thing doesn't exist.

How does Quine describe them? In the following way:

“... a sentence is an observation sentence if all verdicts on it depend on present sensory stimulation and on no stored information beyond what goes into understanding the sentence.” (From Quine's 1969 paper 'Epistemology naturalised'.)

Firstly, there are indeed sentences which we utter that do depend on “present sensory stimulation”. They also depend on “stored information”.

For a start, they require the stored information about the meaning of words and our memories (amongst many other things).

However, Quine does qualify his definition by the final clause: “beyond what goes into understanding the sentence”.

That means that the two things I mentioned (i.e., knowledge of the meanings of words and memories of, say, the objects and events in the observation) can be classed as “what goes into understanding the sentence”.

So even though these things are included in a Quinian observation sentence, it's still nonetheless the case that the sentence is about a current observation. (It's about what a person is a present experiencing or observing.) Yes, other things are needed in order to understand the sentence (things which came well before the observation). However, that doesn't stop the sentence - or what we utter - being an observation sentence if the content of that sentence is only about a present observation.

(This isn't that unlike Kant's acknowledgement that even the knowledge of a priori statements requires the experience of what words mean, etc. - and that's obviously, in Kant's terms, a posteriori knowledge.)

The sentence

“There is a rabbit running before me.”

is about a current observation. Nonetheless, I require previous knowledge in order to make such a statement. Still, the sentence isn't about that past knowledge (or those past memories or experiences). The sentence is about the rabbit. The past knowledge is simply required to make the statement and understand the observation. It's not the subject of the sentence.

Quine himself talks in terms of “stored information”. He writes:

“The very fact that we have learned the language evinces much storing of information, and of information without which we should be in no position to give verdicts on sentences however observational.” (298)

Quine stresses his position on observation sentences by writing:

“... an observation sentence is one on which all speakers of the language give the same verdict when given the same concurrent stimulation.” (298)

All that accepted, there can still be an argument against Quinian observation sentences. Indeed don't Quine's various arguments for holism automatically work against the existence of genuine observation sentences?

Why Observation Sentences?

The naturalistic or scientific bonus of observation sentences – at least according to Quine - is their inter-subjective nature. (Therefore their scientific nature.) In other words, we've moved beyond the first-person pronoun of the aprioristic epistemologist.

As Quine puts it:

“.... the observation sentences are the sentences on which all members of the community will agree under uniform stimulation.” (299)

If inter-subjectivity is stressed, then we must also have moved beyond experiences, sense-data (in the old style) and other personal mental happenings and be focusing instead on the world (or on objects and events in the world). The very fact that there's an element of communal agreement involved when it comes to observation sentences (with a stress on the word “observation”) means that “subjective sensory states” become less relevant or not relevant at all.

Quine put it this way:

“The old tendency to associate observation sentences with a subjective sensory subject matter is rather ironic when we reflect that observation sentences area also meant to be the intersubjective tribunal of scientific hypotheses.” (299)

This alone seems to lead immediately to not only naturalism; but perhaps also to some form of externalism.

Rabbits - rather the experiences of rabbits - are now given priority. (Or at least it seems that way.) Of course the Cartesian/internalist arrived at rabbits via his experience of rabbits. However, the Quinian still arrives at rabbits from communal agreement on the experience of rabbits. So the experiences of rabbits must still be part of the story. It can be said that we've moved to what Roger Scruton calls (if in a different context) a “first person plural” in that it's the grand “we” that determines the nature of rabbits. No single mind can find the truth on rabbits by doing, say, some kind of Cartesian (or Husserlian) reduction.

Clearly we've moved a long way beyond the “Cartesian subject” here. Yet the Cartesian subject ruled epistemology from Descartes (17^th century) to the 20^th century.

Theories of Consciousness Must be Biological

According to neuroscientist and Nobel laureate Gerald Edelman, consciousness “can only be understood from a biological standpoint, not through physics or computer science or other approaches that ignore the structure of the brain”.

When did consciousness become a (fit) subject for science?

According to the science journalist John Horgan (in his book The End of Science: Facing the Limits of Science in the Twilight of the Scientific Age), it was as recently as 1990 — only 32 years ago! This is how Horgan put his case:

“In 1990, Crick and a young collaborator, Christof Koch, a German-born neuroscientists [] proclaimed in Seminars in the Neurosciences that it was time to make consciousness a subject of empirical investigation.”

Following on from that, it could be said that when consciousness became a subject of science; it then became acceptable subject for (at least some) philosophers. (Or at least for those philosophers with scientific credentials or who had a commitment to a strong science-philosophy relationship.)

The essential — and some would say obvious — point that the molecular biologist, biophysicist and neuroscientist Francis Crick made was that the study of consciousness must be a biological — therefore a scientific — study. That is, it isn’t about “arguing over psychological concepts and definitions” (which is what Crick believed philosophers do); but one of “lots of experiments”.

According to Crick, psychologists (as well as philosophers) have

“treated the brain as a black box, which can be understood in terms merely of inputs and outputs rather than of internal mechanisms”.

So consciousness is all about the brain.

In fact it’s even more specific than that in Crick’s case: it’s all about neurons.

As Horgan puts it, “[n]eurons must be the basis for any model of the mind”.

The biologist, neuroscientist and Nobel laureate Gerald Edelman (1929- 2014) is also said to have held the position that the mind

“can only be understood from a biological standpoint, not through physics or computer science or other approaches that ignore the structure of the brain”.

[Clearly all this chimes in well with the philosopher John Searle’s own “biological theory of consciousness” — see here. That said, the scientists mentioned in this essay will almost certainly have at least some problems with Searle’s philosophical positions on consciousness.]

To demonstrate his point, Edelman put the seemingly extreme position of “functionalists” (such as Marvin Minsky) who “say they can build an intelligent being without paying attention to anatomy”.

Two

There’s a simple reason as to why scientists and even philosophers must now concentrate of the brain when it comes to questions about the mind and consciousness. According to Horgan, it’s

“precisely because philosophical approaches to consciousness have all failed that scientists must focus on the brain”.

Indeed another way of putting that is to say that these philosophical theories of mind and consciousness all failed (if that’s truly the case) because they completely ignored the brain!

Perhaps most philosophers didn’t see the brain as being a fit subject for philosophy — or even for the philosophy of mind. Nonetheless, many 20th century philosophers certainly did utilise the findings of neuroscience; especially from the 1960s onwards.

The obvious reason as to why philosophical theories about consciousness — and perhaps the mind generally — are seen as problematic is that they’re all (according to Francis Crick) “untestable and therefore useless”. Indeed it’s been said that even highly-sophisticated philosophical theories of consciousness are in the same ball park as beliefs about the Holy Ghost. Or as the neurophysiologist and computational neuroscientist Christof Koch (1956-) once put it:

“Why don’t you just say that when you have a brain the Holy Ghost comes down and makes you conscious!”

In fact he said that to the Australian philosopher David Chalmers! Chalmers replied to Koch’s rhetorical question. He argued that a belief in the Holy Ghost is “unnecessarily complicated” and that “it would not accord with his own subjective experience”.

Minsky's Solution to the Problem of Consciousness: Higher-Order Processes

There are philosophers and scientists who believe that “the problem of consciousness” is solved.

One example is Marvin Minsky.

Or, more specifically, in response to John Horgan's claim (in his The End of Science) that there are “those who doubted whether computers could be conscious”, Minsky claimed that “consciousness is a trivial issue”. Moreover, he said: “I've solved it, and I don't understand why people don't listen.” (184)

Minsky's definition of “consciousness” is very simple and very counter-intuitive. Or perhaps it seems that way simply because I've never really heard it before. That is, I've never heard anyone define consciousness is such a specific and peculiar manner.

Horgan says that Minsky's definition includes the idea that consciousness is “merely a type of short-term memory”. Minsky himself says that consciousness is a “low-grade system for keeping records”. And here's where Minsky's Artificial Intelligence comes in. Horgan says that

“computer programmes such as LISP, which have features that allow their processing steps to be retraced” are, according to Minsky, 'extremely conscious'” (184).

Prima facie, in Minsky's account there are two things which are either being correlated with consciousness or which are being said to actually constitute consciousness: memory and what philosophers call “higher-order thoughts”.

It's clear that memory is certainly part of Minsky's picture. After all, he talks about “short-term memory” and “keeping records”.

In a sense, higher-order thoughts (or at least higher-order processes) tie in with the idea of memory in that memories can be about prior thoughts, processes and experiences.

So, yes, computers “keep records” of their previous computations or processes (as do humans). More specifically, programs such as LISP are said to “allow their processing steps to be retraced”. And that, according to Minsky, makes them “extremely conscious”.

The first response to this is to say that memory and higher-order processes are aspects of consciousness. They don't actually constitute consciousness.

In other words, is Minsky making a claim here of numerical identity (or definition)? Is he saying? -

consciousness = memory and higher-order processes (thoughts)

Again, higher-order processes are accompanied by consciousness or occur “within” consciousness. Acts of memory too are part of consciousness. Not consciousness itself.

It may indeed be the case that I'm getting bogged down with metaphors and analogies here in that phrases such as “processes are accompanied by consciousness” and “acts of memory are part of consciousness” may not be conceptually appropriate. They may not even make sense.

Nonetheless, there still seems to be something wrong with saying that consciousness simply is memory or higher-order processes (thoughts).

If we move away from computers here and concentrate on persons or human beings, this would be to say that introspection is consciousness. Many philosophers have indeed stressed the importance of introspection and indeed self-consciousness. Though I don't recall any who've said that introspection is consciousness. Again, I would say that introspection occurs within (forgive the spatial metaphor) consciousness or that it is an aspect of consciousness. Not that it is consciousness.

As for the words “self-consciousness”: that sort of gives the game away. It is, after all, meant to signify consciousness of the self. Thus there are two things: consciousness and the self. That means that self-conscious and consciousness can't be one and the same thing. Or, in other words, it is the self which is aware of consciousness or the self which is aware of the self. Again, the self is something given in (another spatial metaphor!) consciousness.

Quantum Dualism, Quantum Free Will & Quantum Consciousness

John Eccles's Quantum Free Will

Quantum mechanics is so sexy that it even explains free will and, therefore, mind-body dualism. Or at least John Eccles (who won the Noble Prize in 1963) thinks so.

This is how free will actually works and, up to a point, the account is completely scientific/biological in nature.

The first question is: How does the mind or self affect the brain?

Firstly, the story is about the brain itself. More specifically, the story is about how brain-cells fire.

Brain-cells fire “when charged molecules, or ions, accumulate at a synapse, causing it to release neurotransmitters” (John Horgan's The End of Science, page 173).

However, that accumulation of charged molecules (or ions) at the synapse doesn't automatically result in the release of neurotransmitters. It depends. What “triggers the firing of the neuron” depends on something else; not only on the accumulation of ions (molecules).

In this state of molecular accumulation, according to Eccles,

“the ions exist in a quantum superposition of states; in some states the neuron discharges and in others it does not”.

Thus the mind/self must “exert its influence over the brain by 'deciding' which neuron will fire and which will not”.

If all this is utterly physical, can we talk about “deciding” at all? Is it the brain (or the neurons) which decides or the mind/self? Is all this tied to a conscious decision? Is it, indeed, a physical explanation of a mental decision? Indeed Is this a modern version of Descartes' pineal gland explanation of the mind-body problem/relationship?

Another way of putting all that is to ask this question:

Can all these physical things occur (i.e., the accumulation of ions at the synapse and even the “quantum superposition” of physical states) without bringing on board either the mind/self or the notion of a “decision”?

In other words, can we accept this quantum explanation and still leave the mind/self out of the picture? Or is this quantum story part of a theory which successfully explains the interaction of mind/self and brain? (In this case, the self/mind itself fires the neurotransmitters and that interaction itself can be explained in terms of a “quantum superposition” of physical states.)

Despite all that neuroscience (or physical theory), John Eccles still says: “We have no proof of any of this.” (173)

So perhaps what's truly motivating Eccles (as John Horgan suggests) is his aversion to what he calls “cheap materialism”. Indeed Eccles classes himself as a “religious person”. Moreover, he says that

“the very nature of the mind is the same as the nature of life. It's a divine creation".

Roger Penrose's Quantum Consciousness

Whereas as quantum mechanics explains free will for John Eccles and Karl Popper, so it explains consciousness itself for Roger Penrose. In fact the two theories tie together in a vague kind of way.

For Eccles, quantum indeterminism (or the superposition of physical states at the synapses of a neurone) is explained by the “action” of the self or mind. With Penrose, the self is kept out of the picture; though quantum indeterminism is kept in.

More specifically,

“Penrose conjectured that microtubules perform non-deterministic, quasi-quantum computations that somehow give rise to consciousness” (176).

What are microtubules? They're “minute tunnels of protein that serve as a kind of skeleton for most cells, including neurons” (176).

The obvious question is: Why do or would non-deterministic, quasi-quantum computations give rise to consciousness? Is it this argument again? -

i) Quantum indeterminacy is mysterious.

ii) Consciousness is mysterious.

iii) Therefore these things must be related?

Could it simply be that because there's no other answer at present that it's seen that this must be answer? If that were the case, then other outrageous things may be the answer too. Why is this quantum stuff more feasible than ghost stuff or outright dualism?

Independent Properties & Ceteris Paribus Clauses

 

It can be said that a commitment to ceteris paribus clauses is also a commitment to “independent properties” or entities.

One way to argue for that would to be in terms of essences or natural kinds (which capture the essence) in regards to properties or things/objects/entities. Thus, even if peripheral aspects of entity/property X change (or peripheral stuff changes X), if “all things remaining equal”, then the essence of X will remain the same.

There are indeed what some people call “causal islands”: abstract objects such as numbers, propositions, etc. (If you accept such things.) In addition, if an object or a property has an essence, then that object will retain its essence “all other things remaining equal”. In other words, in this language, essences are indeed causal islands. They must also be independent. Indeed you can say that essences are also abstractions (if not exactly abstract objects).

Again, in the causal flux, object/property X will keep its essence.

Does the belief in the aforementioned “self-subsistent” (as it were) entities (or properties) involve an automatic philosophical commitment to (or assumption of) the phrase “all other things being equal”? That is, that property or entity X would have exactly this nature regardless of all else?

It can be said that if you change one thing, then you change everything else too. (As various kinds of monist have argued.) Or, less dramatically, if you change one thing, then you must automatically change other things.

For example, if President Obama had an extra finger, then there would also be many other differences too. Even if President Obama had an extra molecule, many other things would be different. For one, that extra molecule would automatically affect other molecules. And that means that one tiny change (a different molecule) would bring about many other changes.

This means that X is dependent on other things. X will also affect other things.

Finally, surely saying that “X is an independent property” can't mean that X could exist without anything else. Although it can be said that X could exist without some of the things it now coexists with.

(Does all the above work against the various monistic theories - and theories of interdependence - in which no entity or property can ever have a nature apart from – all? - other things?)

Does Philosophy Impinge on Scientific Theory?

 

There can certainly be philosophical objections to scientific theories. Indeed there have been very many such objections over the years.

However, putting it that way may be to unduly separate science from philosophy in the first place. That is, the idea that firstly there's a scientific theory and then the philosophical objections follow. What if the scientific theories contain many philosophical assumptions or components from the very beginning? (I believe that they do.)

This isn't to say that science has never had an impact on what philosophers have argued or that scientific findings haven't made philosophical views untenable. They have. Though that simply means that those philosophical views were wrong; not that science always has the last word on matters (as such).

Some philosophers have argued that the final arbiter must always be science, not philosophy; though that itself would require a philosophical backup and argumentation. (This is the position of “naturalist philosophers” such as Quine, etc.)

Here again it can be said that philosophy and science don't move in non-contiguous parallel lines.

Analytic Philosophy & Argument

It's a mistake to conflate positions within analytic philosophy with the attitude that most analytic philosophers have to (doing) philosophy itself.

It's not really necessary for all analytic philosophers to explictly accept, say, that “beliefs require justification”, “adding ad-hoc hypotheses to an idea is bad”, or “that philosophers must have knowledge of logical fallacies” - even if most of them do!

What makes analytic philosophy superior to other traditions (in my view) is very simple (i.e., not very sexy): the commitment to argumentation. I suppose that this is broadly related to the idea that “beliefs require justification”; though that's a particular position within epistemology (at least as it's expressed above).

All statements about analytic philosophy and other traditions will of course involve generalisations. You can't escape that. All I can do is give examples of what I mean.

I've read a bit of Continental philosophy. Most of it doesn't seem to take argument very seriously at all. In that sense it becomes more like literature, poetry or political rhetoric than philosophy. Indeed some philosophers (such as Jacques Derrida) have made this point themselves.

For example, I read an article by Jean Baudrillard which is really just one long list of statements (rather than a piece of augmentation). All those statements are also expressed in an extremely poetic manner. It can be said, however, that arguments (or chains of reasoning) might have led up to those statements; though they aren't contained in the text itself. (This is also true, at least to some extent, of Wittgenstein's Tractatus.)

Thus, again, I would say that argumentation (as well as little rhetoric) sums up analytic philosophy. Not a commitment to specific positions within philosophy.

The Statements of Post-Structuralist (Etc.) Philosophy are Taken to be True

 

The philosophers who fall under the labels 'post-structuralist', 'post-modernist', 'structuralist', etc. (e.g., Derrida, Foucault, Baudrillard, Lyotard, etc.) are, in fact, pseudo-relativists, pseudo-historicists, pseudo-subjectivists, etc. because they take most of what they say to be true. If they didn't do so, then they'd be subject to what philosophers call “self-referential paradoxes”.

 

Basically, their relativisms, historicisms, subjectivisms, etc. are rhetorical moves intended to score various points against the traditions, political systems and philosophies they're trying to destroy. Nonetheless, they believe that what they say is true – absolutely.

 

They believe, for example, that equality and fairness are non-relative moral values. And their other political and philosophical views about racism, capitalism, Das System, imperialism, sexism, etc. are take to be true (i.e., non-relative). The pretentious prose and talk about “the deconstruction of the logos” is basically a lot of philosophical fluff hiding the underlying philosophical, political and moral beliefs and statements which they're very strongly defending and which they take to be true.

What is a(n Analytic) Philosopher?

Julian Baggini offers us psychological reasons and accounts to explain what a good philosopher should be like. He writes:

“Firstly, a good philosopher should not get so attached to our theory that we find ourselves committed to it and no longer subjecting it to rational scrutiny.” 

We can even say that such theoretical open-mindedness is essential for a good philosopher. It is, after all, the case that many people often fiercely commit themselves to their own theories and truths and rarely, if ever, subject them to any kind of critical scrutiny.

Not only that: I think that Bertrand Russell once said that for very many people it's often the case that most of their theories and beliefs are acquired relatively early in life and thereafter become objects of irrational faith. In other words, too many people stick to their old beliefs for basically the emotional reasons of epistemic security and metaphysical comfort.

For example, the belief, for example, that ‘X is a good thing’ makes the subject both epistemically secure and in a state of emotional and cognitive equilibrium that would only be shaken if he or she began to genuinely question the epistemic and political validity and truth of their now entrenched belief.

Moreover, many people simply go out of their way to back up and nurture their old beliefs with more arguments and data. They do this while systematically ignoring or automatically rejecting any arguments or data that clearly shakes the cognitive and emotional equilibrium which is largely constituted by old and rigidly-held beliefs and theories. Sometimes it's simply too emotionally and cognitively disadvantageous to sincerely take on board arguments which may unsettle or even refute one’s otherwise cherished and static beliefs and theories.

In terms of the subject’s own mind: he or she will think it wise to keep the status quo. It's simply too much cognitive effort and emotional reassessment that frighten people away from self-scrutiny. So many times when we confront the beliefs of others it's often the case that one’s adversary doesn't genuinely listen to one’s counterarguments by either simply turning away or drowning out such counterarguments with the noise of their own arguments.

For example, very few people make a political or philosophical volte-face as a result of face-to-face argumentation. And that also true in the case of hours of face-to-face discussion. What often happens is that if there's any kind of volte-face or Damascene conversion, it's likely to occur when the subject is on his own or when he's free from the cognitive rigour and emotional flux of much face-to-face discussion. In a state of emotional equilibrium, the subject’s cognitive skills can more readily tackle the previously discussed counterarguments.

That's why such self-scrutiny "requires courage". It's not nice to jettison one’s old beliefs if they've provided emotional comfort and security.

Similarly, not many people can be bothered with the amount of cognitive activity required to question and then possibly jettison one’s long-held and cherished beliefs. One’s philosophical, ethical and political principles, after all, are so complicated in essence that a strong challenge to them would require a lot of cognitive energy. And that level of intellectual engagement is rarely possible for many people outside professional politics and philosophy departments.

It can even be said that it's not the theories and beliefs that the philosopher upholds and critically defends which are of importance to being a good philosopher: it's the ability to reason well about any subject, belief or theory. It's also the logic of clear thinking (in any domain) that's of importance, not the fact that the philosopher can offer us powerful theories about reality or all-encompassing philosophical systems. Indeed it can even be said that many hard-headed analytic philosophers (especially post-grad students) don’t really have philosophical theories at all. Instead they take their prime purpose to be the analysis of theories, beliefs and problems, not the creation of them.

Interestingly enough, this was Wittgenstein’s position on the role of philosophy in the 1920s and beyond. He believed that philosophy “should leave everything as it is”. More specifically, a philosopher shouldn't even come up with his own propositions: he should simply describe and analyse the propositions of science, logic and mathematics.

Moreover, Wittgenstein believed that the only propositions that one can accept are those of science, logic and maths. Thus, by definition, philosophy couldn't come up with its own genuine propositions. All propositions were either world-directed (or scientific) or essentially tautological or analytic (as in logic and maths).

Clearly, then, analysis and description was of paramount importance to Wittgenstein during this and his later period. The idea of philosophical theories, for example, disgusted him, as did philosophical propositions earlier. Only in science can there be genuine theories. Philosophical theories, on the other hand, are but examples of "meaningless metaphysics".

This deflationary attitude towards philosophy was passed on to “linguistic philosophers” like J.L. Austin and others and also, earlier, to other schools of philosophy such as logical positivism. However, even though logical positivism and linguistic philosophy are dead, and since the 1960s metaphysics has begun to thrive again, this deflationary attitude to philosophy as a whole is still (to a large extent) upheld by nearly all analytic philosophers – even by arch-metaphysicians such as Saul Kripke.

What is (Analytic) Philosophy?

This is a short and personal take on analytic philosophy. Therefore it generalises quite a lot and offers a very broad outline on matters.

The way analytic philosophy is defined in the following is by seeing how it differs to other kinds of philosophy. Though again, as ever, there'll be many exceptions to the points made.

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It's sometimes somewhat frustrating to hear what many other people think philosophy is.

For example, one man I once spoke to said she thought philosophy to be far too “mystical” and “airy-fairy” for her otherwise quite scientific mind.

Another person believed that Nostradamus was a philosopher and thus that philosophy is about all things prophetic and esoteric.

But most common of all, many laypersons believe that philosophy is an attempt to explain “the meaning of life” or “life’s ultimate purpose”.

Very few analytic philosophers have concerned themselves with such areas and questions. Virtually no 20th century philosopher saw himself in this mould. Perhaps only the philosophical Stoics took the meaning (or purpose) of life to be the prime object or subject of philosophy (as also with the Epicureans). To some extent both Plato and Aristotle also concerned themselves with these issues. However, both branched out into many other areas.

No doubt the layperson would be very suspicious of both the style and content of much contemporary analytic philosophy. The use of logic alone (along with the symbolism) would surely surprise the kind of layperson who takes the question ‘What is the meaning of life?’ to be philosophy’s ultimate question. Similarly, analytic philosophy’s close relation to science and mathematics would prove enlightening. (Not least, the logical positivists, the naturalisers of epistemology, ‘scientism’ or the subservience - if that’s what it is - to physics, etc.)

Similarly, contemporary philosophy no longer sees its primary role in terms of the discovery of the fundamental nature of reality or of Man. Such a pursuit - almost by nature - would render the philosopher an old-fashioned “system-builder” in the manner of, for example, Hegel.

Instead analytic philosophers often adopt what Bertrand Russell called a “piecemeal approach” to philosophy. That is, only small problems are tackled that don't bear strong relations to any larger metaphysical issues/systems. It isn't the philosopher’s job, they may think, to tie everything together into a philosophical system and thus gain access to what the 19th century idealists called the 'Absolute’.

Analytic philosophy is, well, analytic.

We can also say that it is fundamentally atomist in nature even when the philosopher concerned is a holist of some description! That is, even though Russell’s ‘logical atomism’ and sense-data theories are no longer upheld in analytic philosophy (because of the holistic realisation that such atomism couldn't be sustained or justified in its old crudely quasi-scientific way), there's a sense in which analytic philosophy is still atomistic in nature – or if not atomistic, then, again, analytical. In other words, analytic philosophy is rarely synthetical in the Continental manner. Even holists (at least when it came to the philosophy of science) like W.V.O. Quine looked askance at, for example, Hegel’s ostensibly extreme syntheticism or holism. Holism, therefore, can still be endorsed and utilised within a philosophical framework that's still, nevertheless, largely analytical in nature. Indeed Quine’s logical and scientific biases clearly make this the case.

Quine, therefore, can be seen as the archetypal analytic philosophy. That said, many other analytic philosophers had a problem with both his ideas and his concentration on logic. This basically means that analytic philosophy is very much a broad church. However, it's more of a broad church when it comes to philosophical content than when it comes to philosophical techniques/ways of arguing.

Finally, this piece on analytic philosophy is itself contextual, synthetic and (slightly) holistic. This simply goes to show how problematic many neat philosophical divisions really are.

Analytic Philosophy's Intertextuality of Proper Names

 

We get a good idea of the reality of what Continental philosophers call intertextuality when John Passmore discusses Michael Dummett’s theory of proper names:

“… to discuss, let us say, Dummett’s theory of proper names, one would have to take into account what Frege himself says, what Dummett says about Frege, what Kripke says about both Frege and Dummett, together with Dummett’s replies to, and his independent criticism of, Kripke. And this is clearly impossible in any reasonable compass.” (75)

In order to understand what Dummett says about proper names we would need to see what Frege says about them. Then we should see what exactly Dummett says about what Frege says about proper names. That isn't enough. We would also need to see what Kripke says “about both Frege and Dummett” on this issue because of Kripke’s own importance to this debate. Then we would also need to read Dummett’s replies to Kripke’s replies to Dummett, who was, in a sense, replying to Frege.

We know that Frege influenced Dummett. However, if we must read Frege and Kripke as well, what about the philosophers who influenced them? And so on.

Strangely, this extreme research on proper names is said to be “clearly impossible in any reasonable compass” (75) by Passmore. Though this is precisely the sort of research that is expected from the average post-graduate student at an average philosophy department which specialises in analytic philosophy. Philosophers too are expected to drop as many names as possible – especially fashionable up-to-date names. We must also bear in mind that Passmore wrote the passage above in 1985 – twenty three years ago. Since that time lots more has been written on proper names and indeed on Frege and Dummett’s stance on proper names. What would Schopenhauer think of all this philosophical parasitism?

A Short Piece on Dummett’s Theory of Meaning

What, exactly, did Michael Dummett mean by “a theory of meaning”?

Firstly, it concerns the “implicit knowledge we have of our language”. Dummett says:

“It must issue in principles which will make explicit the implicit knowledge we have of the language we use, the knowledge we display in our practice, in such a way as to show that these principles do adequately reflect that practice.” (78)

This is not, then, unlike Chomsky’s enterprise of showing us the “implicit knowledge” we must have in order to generate an infinite possibility of grammatical sentences from a limited stock of linguistic material. This is accounted for, in Chomsky’s theory, by our “language faculty” which is built into our brains and thus also our minds.

Dummett is clearly doing something similar in his theory of meaning. Indeed we must have implicit knowledge of “the language we use” in order to account for that use. After all, not many non-philosophers know about truth-conditions, sense, reference, proper names and so on. Dummett must be arguing that we do have implicit knowledge of such things; just as Chomsky argues that we must have implicit knowledge of what he calls “universal grammar” and the “universals” contained in that grammar. This knowledge of truth-conditions, sense, etc. “we display in our practice” (78). Again, we wouldn’t display what we do display without such implicit or tacit knowledge.

These “principles”, however, must “adequately reflect that practice” (78) because Dummett isn't carrying out a normative or revisionary project. He is uncovering what we must actually know – even if only implicitly. Thus he mustn't “ascribe to us knowledge we could not possibly have” (78).

Many philosophers (for example Gilbert Ryle) have also distinguished “knowing how” from “knowing that”. The former is non-propositional or non-theoretical, unlike the latter.

Is our implicit knowledge of language a case of knowing how or of knowing that? Passmore writes that

“we have an implicit knowledge, for example, of the physical principles which are manifested in our capacity to ride a bike”. (78)

Didn’t Ryle and others argue that we couldn't even express or formulate our implicit knowledge of how we can ride a bike even if we were asked to? In that case, would knowing how actually be a case of implicit knowledge at all? Or perhaps we have implicit knowledge without being able to express of formulate it.

In Dummett’s case, does he think, or expect, the layperson to express or formulate his implicit knowledge about his language or does he still have such knowledge even when he or she can't do so? In that case, is implicit knowledge, as it were, mechanical and non-propositional (or non-theoretical)? If that's the case, again, why is it knowledge at all and not something else? Does it matter to Dummett whether or not we can express or formulate our implicit knowledge?

Passmore reiterates Dummett’s position by talking in terms of our understanding. He writes:

“A good theory of meaning, then, will be a theory of what it is to understand, of what one knows when one knows a language, so that, for example, ‘Meaning is use’ could serve as a thesis in such theory only if to know the meaning is to know the use – implicitly or explicitly.” (78)

To put this simply. Why and how is it that we understand what it is we understand when we hear or read examples of our own language? What enables us to understand such examples of our language? Another way of putting this is to ask, “what one knows when one knows a language” (78). After all, we must know something about our language and its sentences and words otherwise we wouldn’t understand our language. And what we know must be more than what we've learned at school. What we know, in a sense, must have come before our formal training (or our adult training) otherwise perhaps we couldn’t have even learned the basics in the first place (never mind the higher levels of grammar and vocabulary).

Interestingly enough, Passmore writes that the “meaning is use” thesis could be a part of Dummett’s overall theory of meaning. However, that would only be the case if “to know the meaning is to know the use – implicitly or explicitly” (78). That is, it's still about our knowledge or understanding of meaning. In this case, what we know is how we use words and sentences. These uses of words and sentences provide us with their meanings. Thus use-theory can become a part of Dummett’s general theory of meaning – that is, if he were to accept it in the first place.

Michael Dummett on Frege’s Attempt at a Perfect Language

 

Why was Gottlob Frege so concerned with the determinacy of sense and its objectivity as well and the precise and explicit explication of what it is that makes a true sentence true?

For a start, this particular enterprise was part of a larger enterprise – that of creating a perfect language. Dummett explains:

“… I think that Frege dreamt of a perfect language in which such difficulties could never arise. There’d be no ambiguity, no vagueness, no need for interpretation.” (221)

One suspects, at least provisionally, that this is what Dummett wanted too. After all, why would he have invested so much energy on Frege if this were not the case? I would suggest the idea of ‘interpretation’ when it comes to making our utterances and sentences explicit creates problems for the idea of (Fregean) thoughts and propositions in that we may choose different interpretations of the same proposition or simply get it completely wrong in the first place. That is no doubt why Frege tried to create a semantics in which there would be “no need for interpretation” at all.

Is it even a possibility that Frege, or anyone else for that matter, could have created a language that is free from ambiguity, vagueness, and the rest? Perhaps one can create such an artificial language. However, as many philosophers later found, such languages were woefully inadequate when it came to clarifying and precisyfying natural languages and indeed any kind of language. Perhaps the creation of a language with no vagueness and ambiguity would be an indefinite – perhaps infinite – task. Perhaps even if it could be achieved no one, except perhaps its creator, would understand it.

In any case, Dummett himself realises that the idea of an ideal language is futile:

“Well that’s a dream. We don’t have such a language and I don’t think we could have such a language.” (221)

Despite saying that, Dummett goes on to say that that “doesn’t inhibit the communication of thoughts”. He continues:

“It just requires communication to be something which engages the intelligence of the hearer as well as the speaker.” (221)

With this statement Dummett moves into the second half of the 20th century and perhaps even commits himself to something like Grice’s theory of ‘speech acts’.

Additionally, just as the indeterminacy of meaning doesn't “inhibit the communication thought” (i.e. non-Fregean thoughts!), so a lack of a perfect or ideal language doesn’t inhibit communication. What matters, and what Frege failed to realise, is that the hearer, as well as the speaker, must be brought into the equation. We can't ever have a perfect language or sentence which even an ideal hearer will not be required to interpret in some way. There could never be some kind of algorithmic relation between an utterance or a sentence and our understanding of it as if its meaning (or the thought contained in it) simply passed from the utterance (or sentence) into our minds without picking up at least some dead wood along the way.

The hearer is as much part of the relation as is the speaker. The former must work as hard at understanding as the latter does at correctly communicating what it is he wants to communicate. Perhaps also the speaker or writer is required to assume certain things about the hearer or reader. Similarly, the context of the utterance as well as how it is articulated and stressed may also come into the picture when it comes to understanding an utterance or a sentence. More concretely, perhaps the speaker has to apply the “principle of charity” to the hearer and similarly the hearer has to apply the principle of charity to the speaker. Only then will both get something out of an individual act of communication.

Michael Dummett on Donald Davidson's Radical Interpretation

 

The way Michael Dummett puts Davidsonian ‘interpretation’ makes it sound far too complex and even ludicrous.

“I’m not using 'interpretation' is the way that Davidson does. For Davidson, the hearer’ interpretation is constructing a whole theory of meaning for the speaker, selecting between the possible interpretations, the interpretations which language leaves us to do on the basis of probability and so on.” (222)

Fancy being required to “construct a whole theory of meaning” before one could possibly understand what it was the speaker actually said.

Wasn’t Donald Davidson primarily talking interpretation as it occurs between a member of the home language and that of an alien language of some kind? In that case, it's a feasible and believable idea that one would be required to construct a whole theory of meaning for the utterances of the alien speaker. If it's only about understanding our fellow English speakers, on the other hand, this can’t be the case.

It's of course the case that even in the case of our fellow English speakers that there may be many possible interpretations we can adopt of what it is the English speaker is saying. This too seems to reinforce the other position of the “indeterminacy of meaning”; though that may not be that directly connected to that thesis.

In addition, Dummett talks says that in Davidson the interpretation we choose is found on the “basis of probability”. That is, the probability that the speaker was saying x rather than y. And, according to Davidson’s ‘principle of charity’, we are much more likely to choose x rather than y if our interpretation y commits us the belief that the speaker is, say, irrational or speaking about something that's obviously false.

The implication again seems to be that the existence of abstract thoughts or propositions will get us out of this Davidsonian bind in that if such things exist, then this will severely limit the number and type of interpretations available to us or which we will choose. Perhaps it follows from this that if Davidson didn't believe in propositions or thoughts, then it is bound to be the case that we will have many possible ways of interpreting what it is the speaker has said. However, this can also applied to Dummett’s position even though he believes in thoughts or propositions. Dummett himself concedes this point. That is, even if abstract thoughts or propositions do in fact exist, their existence alone doesn't guarantee the fact that we will get them right or interpret their linguistic expressions correctly.

Dummett then goes on to offer his own alternative to Davidson’s position:

“That’s not at all what I mean. He would be very silly if he were saying that, you realise. You do so without thinking, you rule out interpretations which would make someone else’s remarks just silly.”

It's a very strong claim to say that non-Davidsonian interpretation occurs “without thinking”. Really? How would that work? How can one interpret a speaker without thinking? Does he mean this literally? If he does, then it doesn't seem to make sense at all. Perhaps any thinking that does go on in interpretation is ‘tacit’ or ‘implicit’ thinking; though thinking nonetheless. Interpretation is, after all, an act of thinking or of thought.

Dummett also seems to borrow Davidson’s ‘principle of charity’ when he says that “you rule out interpretations which would make someone else’s remarks just silly” (222). That is, we may initially think that the speaker has indeed made a “silly remark”. However, we come to realise, quite quickly, that he or she simply couldn’t have said or meant what we thought he or she said or meant. Clearly this would apply to a sentence such as “I’m going to swallow the colour blue”. However, things aren't quite that simple with sentences such as “I die every day” or sentences which contain other metaphors or poeticisms. We interpret such utterances both routinely and easily without even for a second believing that the speaker really thinks that he dies every day. There are of course locutions that are even more subtle and difficult than that. For example, “I can’t do that!” Does the speaker really mean that he can’t do something; or, say, that he simply doesn't want to do something (perhaps breaking a law).