Wittgenstein on Doubt

Ludwig Wittgenstein’s case against scepticism (or at least against global scepticism) is simple. We can't doubt without exempting some things from doubt. As Wittgenstein himself puts it in his On Certainty (##341-4.)

“The questions that we raise and our doubts depend on the fact that some propositions are exempt from doubt, are as it were like hinges on which those [doubts] turn.

“That is to say, it belongs to the logic of our scientific investigations that certain things are in deed not doubted…

“My life consists in my being content to accept many things.” 

To put this at its simplest. 

Say that you're doubting a person’s thesis in geology. You wouldn't, thereby, also doubt the meanings of your own words or the words of the person who's offering his geological thesis. That would be semantic doubt, not geological doubt.

Similarly, you wouldn't doubt that the geologist were a person rather than a zombie or a machine. That would be a doubt about other minds, not a doubt about (again) geology.

Even if the other doubts aren't philosophical, they still needn't be geological doubts. 

For example, you may doubt the geologist’s honesty or why he's saying what he's saying. (You may doubt that you put your underpants on. If you did, then perhaps you wouldn't pay attention.) Thus, these doubts must be (as the philosopher David Lewis once put it) "properly ignored". 

What's at the heart of these "exemptions" is the "context" in which the doubt (or the exemption of doubt) takes place. As Wittgenstein (again) puts it:

“Without that context, the doubt itself makes no sense: ‘The game of doubting itself presupposes certainty’; ‘A doubt without an end is not even a doubt.’” (On Certainty, #115; #625.)

If one doubts everything, then there's no sense in doubting anything. Doubt occurs in the context of non-doubt. 

According to Descartes, one thing one can't doubt is that one is doubting. (Or one can't doubt the meanings of one’s words or that one’s words mean the same today as they did yesterday.) Even psychologically speaking, one needs a context for one’s doubt.

The Things We Cannot Doubt

The important point to make about Wittgenstein’s position is not that, as Timothy Chappell puts it, 

“there is some special class of privileged propositions that we simply can’t doubt”. 

This isn’t a Cartesian or "foundationalist" position. The propositions we mustn't doubt could be of (just about) any kind. The general point is that there must be some propositions (of whatever kind) which we mustn't doubt in order to get the ball rolling. We can't start ex nihilo - as Descartes ostensibly did. We must bounce off certain propositions which we don't doubt. We can't doubt, then, literally everything - again, as Descartes supposedly did.

What we choose not to doubt (indeed what we also choose to doubt) will depend on our context. That will determine the nature of our doubts (or our lack of doubt vis-à-vis particular propositions or possibilities). 

Timothy Chappell gives some very basic, and non-philosophical, examples of this. He writes:

“[I]n each context, there is a very great deal that is not in doubt: the existence of the chessboard, the reliability of the atlas, the possibility of generally getting shopping sums right. This background makes it possible to have doubts, and possible (in principle) to resolve them. Where there is no such background, says Wittgenstein, the doubt itself makes no sense.” 

We can create a table of what we can't doubt, and what we can doubt:

1a) The existence of the chessboard. 
1b) The sincerity of our chess opponent’s naivety.

2a) The (general) reliability of the atlas. 
2b) Whether or not the atlas is up-to-date.

3a) The possibility of (generally) getting our shopping sums right. 
3b) That one’s hangover (today) is affecting one’s arithmetical judgement.

To put the above another way. One couldn't doubt the sincerity of our chess opponent’s naivety if before that we actually doubted the existence of the chessboard. We wouldn't doubt whether or not our atlas was up-to-date if we had already doubted its general reliability. We wouldn't doubt our arithmetical skills during a hangover if we had already doubted our skills in all contexts.

Not only that: we can only resolve our lesser doubts if we simply disregard the more global (or extreme) doubts which might have proceeded them. That is, I can go ahead and win my chess opponent only if I simply disregard the possibility of the chessboard simply not existing in the first place.

Wittgenstein also seems to say that total (or global) doubt simply “makes no sense” because there needs to be a reason to doubt. If one doubts everything, then there can be no reason to doubt at all – unless the act of doubting (everything) is itself the reason to doubt! Perhaps the sceptic would concede that (according to Wittgenstein) senseless position!

Descartes’ Fallacy?

Chappell then offers us a logical argument against Descartes’ global or total doubt. He argues that it rests on a fallacious argument. He writes:

“Descartes – you could say – begins his philosophy by arguing that since any of our beliefs might be false, therefore all of our beliefs might be false. But this is a fallacious argument. (Compare: ‘Any of these strangers might be the Scarlet Pimpernel; therefore every one of these strangers might be the Scarlet Pimpernel.’) What is true of any belief is not necessarily true of every belief. So – the claim would be – Descartes’ system rests on a fallacy (the ‘any/all fallacy’, as it is sometimes called.)”

In fact Chappell's argument does seem to follow. That is, “if any of our beliefs might be false, therefore all of our beliefs might be false”. He isn't saying that all are false if one is false; but that all of them may be false if one is (found to be) false. On the other hand, perhaps that doesn’t logically follow. 

One belief (or “any” belief) being false doesn't entail every belief being false, or even their possibly being false. However, doesn’t it leave open that possibility? 

The analogy with the Scarlet Pimpernel doesn't work because, by definition, only one person can be this person. There's nothing strange about saying that every (or all) our beliefs may be false - or even that they are all false. Not all our beliefs need to be numerically identical. However, there can only be one other person who is numerically identical with the Scarlet Pimpernel. 

So saying that

“any of these strangers might be the Scarlet Pimpernel; therefore every one of these strangers might be the Scarlet Pimpernel” 

isn't the same as the Cartesian example at all. Two beliefs may both be false. However, they needn't be identical beliefs. On the other hand, if there were two people who were the Scarlet Pimpernel, then they'd need to be identical – indeed numerically identical.

The Language Game of Scepticism

Wittgenstein brings in his notion of language games to make sense of global doubt. Again, his argument against doubt is simple. That argument is that philosophical (or sceptical) doubts simply don't arise in any of our language games (outside philosophy!). Therefore we should ignore them! Chappell writes:

“The trouble with crazy sceptical hypotheses, according to Wittgenstein, is that they don’t crop up in any of the various language games that make up the texture of ordinary life in the world. That is why it doesn’t make sense to discuss them.” 

This means that “crazy sceptical hypotheses” don’t have any context. If they have no context (outside philosophy!), then “it doesn’t make sense to discuss them”. However, the septic (or philosopher) may reply:

So what! I don’t care if scepticism has "no context" or if there's no sceptical "language game". What I'm saying may still be legitimate and even true! In any case, why can’t scepticism (or philosophy generally) itself be a language game?

After all, philosophy is a language game (if we insist on using Wittgenstein's words) which has been played for over two thousand years. And scepticism itself has been an important and influential language game in our culture generally. What better example of a language game could you have?

Moreover, does scepticism only exist in the language game of philosophy? What about the many conspiracy theories that are so much a part of culture in the U.K and the U.S? These theories can be deemed to be sceptical in nature – after all, they distrust the truths of the “Establishment” or the “status quo”, just as the philosophical sceptics (in part) did.

In addition, shouldn’t a Wittgensteinian say that the very fact that that “crazy sceptical hypotheses” have been discussed at all means that they must have been discussed in one (or various) language games? Every discourse - crazy or sane - needs its own language game. Indeed, wasn’t that one of Wittgenstein’s points about language games?

Despite saying all that, Chappell states that 

“the sceptic isn’t playing any legitimate language game in his discourse, and so is talking nonsense”. 

Again, who says that the sceptic isn’t playing a language game? And who says that if the sceptic is playing a language game, then his language game isn't "legitimate"? Is it because it's not the language game (or language) of the ordinary man speaking "ordinary language"? The sceptic may again say:

So what! Why should I care about ordinary language or the ordinary man?

So I’m not sure why - or how - Wittgenstein excluded scepticism from all language games or denied that it's a legitimate language game. Chappell too appears to agree with this position against Wittgenstein’s chauvinism against the sceptical language game. He writes:

“[S]ince the sceptic’s discourse makes sense, it must be part of a Wittgensteinian language game – a particular form of human linguistic activity with its own rules – called the ‘scepticism game’.” 

Perhaps Wittgenstein might have replied:

But that’s where you're wrong! The sceptic’s discourse doesn't make sense. It's meaningless. It's meaningless precisely because it's not ordinary language. (It doesn't use accepted terms in the way that we use them in everyday life.) Therefore, the sceptic’s discourse doesn't make sense. It's nonsense.

It's certainly true that sceptical “linguistic activity” does indeed have “its own rules”. Indeed it can hardly not do. And because it does have its own rules, then it must also be a bona fide language game. However, it just happened to be a language game that Wittgenstein didn't like. (Just as William P. Alston – in his paper 'Yes, Virginia, There Is a Real World' - likes religious language games, though he doesn't like the language games of "relativism" or "scientism".) If we truly believe in Wittgensteinian language games (that is, in their existence and autonomy), then we simply can't pick and choose which ones we accept and which ones we reject. If it's a “human linguistic activity with its own rules”, then it's a language game. (That's whether or not we like it or agree with its beliefs or theories.) Indeed, according to the theory of language games, it's irrelevant if you or I (who belong to other language games) agree or disagree with other language games (to which we don’t belong). After all, all language games - almost by definition - are autonomous and thus beyond the criticisms of other language games. That is the truly relativistic aspect of Wittgensteinian languages games. And that's despite the fact that Wittgenstein himself - and many others - mightn't have liked the relativist language game itself.

Functionalism Applied to Life

Believers in Strong AI believe (to put it very simply) that if computers behave in certain ways, then they have intelligence and even minds.

Not only can you be a functionalist when it comes to the mind, you can also be a functionalist when it comes to life itself.

According to John Horgan, Christopher Langton, of the Santa Fe Institute,

“described himself as a functionalist, who believed life was characterised by what it did rather than by what it was made of” (200).

Horgan elaborates:

“If a programmer created molecule-like structures that, following certain laws, spontaneously organised themselves into entities that could seemingly eat, reproduce, and evolve, Langton would consider those entities to be alive – 'even if they're in a computer'.” (200)

One can ask here why Horgan uses the words “seemingly eat” instead of the simple “eat”. If artificial beings eat, then they eat. That is, they gain some kind of energy or nutrition from what it is they eat – even if what they eat isn't organic.

In addition, why would artificial life automatically need to evolve? Since it would be artificial, there's no automatic reason that evolution should also apply to artificial life. Then again, there's no automatic reasons why such artificial entities shouldn't evolve either. It depends on the nature of the artificial beast.

Of course these artificial entities could do all the things mentioned above and still not be conscious or have minds. They could eat, reproduce and evolve and not have minds or display conscious states. Such things as eating, reproducing and evolving don't entail mind or consciousness.

However, it seems that such things do entail consciousness – or at least the possibility of pain. Langton says:

“I like to think that if I saw somebody sitting next to me at a computer terminal who is torturing these creatures.... I would try to get this guy some psychological help!”

I presume that if these 'creatures' can feel pain, then they must also display that pain. How would they do so? Again, artificial eating, artificial evolution and artificial reproduction don't entail consciousness or mind and therefore they don't entail pain. How would he (or we) know that his artificial creatures felt pain? (How would they know that even if they displayed 'pain behaviour'?)

Horgan goes into more detail as regards Langton's life-functionalism. He writes that he

“wanted people to realise that life might be a process that could be implemented by any number of arrangements of matter, including the ebb and flow of electrons in a computer” (200).

Horgan then quotes Langton:

“At some level the actual physical realization is irrelevant to the functional properties. Of course there are differences. There are going to be differences if there's a different material base. But are the differences fundamental to the property of being alive or not?”

It seems quite incredible that Langton should argue that the 'material base' isn't fundamental. Or at least he says that it may not be fundamental. Then again, it may well be fundamental. After all, it's a simple fact that all living things are organic, not artificial. The inductive evidence supports the position that physical constitution is important and fundamental. That just seems obvious.

Indeed isn't it the case that functionally speaking we've already replicated many of the things about life and mind that we wanted to replicate? So why haven't we actually got life or mind at this juncture? What's the missing ingredient? The functional or computational realities of computers and whatnot are already highly complex – so what's missing? Is the missing link biology - or the special qualities of the organic - after all?

Perhaps instead of replicating functions (such as computations, etc.), the scientists of artificial life and artificial mind should attempt to replicate biological matter (or the brain) instead. Though of course that would be fiendishly complex and it's not in sight at the moment. And that's partly why functions (rather than material bases) are emphasised so much in the AI and AL literature.

Searle on Mind, Computations & Computers

The Mind as a Computer: Syntax and Semantics

The first thing you can say (in accordance with John Searle) is that when a computer manipulates 0s and 1s, it doesn't know what they mean, symbolise, stand for, or what their referents are. Indeed the 0s and 1s don’t have any semantic features. They're purely syntactical. The only thing that matters to the computer is the shape of '0' and '1' – nothing more. That's why, as Searle says, that “any old symbol will do just as well”.

At its most basic, a computer simply scans a tape. Or, if not literally a tape (as in a Turing machine), then it scans something or other. This tape (or this something) will only contain 0s and 1s. What can the computer (or computer ‘head’) do to these 0s and 1s? It can perform four operations:

1. It can move the tape one square to the left.
2. It can move the tape one square to the right.
3. It can erase a 0 and print a 1.
4. It can erase a 1 and print a 0.

Here’s where the analogy with logic comes in. Instead of logic’s rules of inference, we have a set of rules of the form “under condition C perform act A”. Rules such as "under condition C perform act A" are called the computer programme. And the purpose of the programme is to encode information. This information is encoded in the binary code of zeroes and ones.

The computer translates the encoded information (which is in the form of 0s and 1s) into electrical impulses. It then processes these electrical impulses (which are now bits of information) according to the rules of the programme. We can say that the computer programme is a set of rules for processing information (or for processing electrical impulses).

In a sense, if the computations or symbols have no meaning (or they don't actually symbolise anything), then they aren't actually symbols at all. Of course they're symbols for us; though not for the computer itself. The only thing that matters for the computer are the formal and syntactical features of the symbols; whether these symbols are 0s, 1s or whatever.

According to Searle, the human mind doesn’t just manipulate symbols (whatever those symbols are taken to be). What more is there to minds? Well, “minds have contents”. What does content mean? It means that if we're thinking in English (or even manipulating English symbols such as ‘y’ and ‘s’, ‘cat’ and ‘tail’ or ‘The cat has a tail’), it's not just a question of the forms, shapes or syntax of these symbols: we also need to know what they actually mean. Thus in the sentence “The cat has a tail” the words ‘cat’ and ‘tail’ have references, and “has a tail” is predicated of the subject (which is a cat). And so on.

Not only that: some of the words have a sense. The whole sentence has a sense (or meaning) and a truth-value. We have a semantics which includes meaning, reference and predication; none of which matter to a computer because this is a question of content not syntax. That is, formal symbols alone doesn't guarantee or provide semantic content. And without semantic content we have no mind. Thus computers (or their programmes) aren't minds.

Searle sums up his argument thus:

1. Programs are entirely syntactical.
2. Minds have a semantics.
3. Syntax is not the same as, nor by itself sufficient for, semantics.

     4. Therefore programs are not minds. Q.E.D. 

It follows that for minds, semantics is important. Or, more commonly, for minds meaning is important. Because computers (or their programmes) don't have meanings (or know what their symbols mean), then they can't be minds.

Strong Artificial Intelligence

It's not thought that the physical aspects of a computer can bring about or cause mind or consciousness: the programme itself is a mind. So this isn’t the case of emergence from the programme’s implementation in hardware. Mind is the programme. Mind is the software.

So if software (or the program) is enough in itself, then of course the hardware won’t matter when it comes to a computer being a mind or it having mental states. Anything could implement the programme. It doesn't really matter what does so because the programme itself constitutes mind or mental states. In computers it just happens to be silicon chips and electrical circuits. In human beings it just so happens to be biological brains. Of course the programme will need some kind of hardware; though it doesn't really matter which kind of hardware. (In the case of the brain it's ‘wetware’.)

Despite all that, many things can be said to be computers. So to say that the mind is like a computer (or even is a computer) may not amount to much. Searle writes:

“For example, the window in front of me is a very simple computer. Window open = 1, window closed = 0. That is, if we accept Turing’s definition according to which anything to which you can assign a 0 and a 1 is a computer, then the window is a simple and trivial computer.” 

Is it really just a question of anything we can assign 1s and 0s to being a computer (or should I say, a digital computer)? In any case, why is it simply just a case of 0s and 1s, why not 3s and 4s as well? Why not the letter ‘S’ or the words ‘hat’ or ‘Jack’? Indeed why not the symbols ‘/’ and ‘*’ instead? From what Searle has said, these shapes or syntactic marks could work just as well. After all, it’s all about syntax and not about what ‘*’ means or what it symbolises or signifies.

Brain Processes and Computations

Searle has said that the brain is a machine. And if the brain is a machine, it must have machine processes. So what are the brain’s machine processes? One example would be a neuron firing; which is like "internal combustion". However, neuron firing, internal combustion and other machine processes aren't like computation. Why is that? Searle writes:

“… computation is an abstract mathematical process that exists only relative to conscious observers and interpreters. Observers such as ourselves have found ways to implement computation on silicon-based electrical machines, but that does not make computation into something electrical or chemical.” 

This means that neuron firing and internal combustion don't “exist only relative to conscious observers and interpreters”: computations do. Computations need to be observed and interpreted because they're abstract mathematical processes. We can make a distinction between computations (or abstract mathematical processes) and the physical things which implement such things. However, we can't make a distinction between neurons firing (or internal combustion) and the physical things that implement them. Neuron firings just are their physical implementations. They aren't abstract and they're not intrinsically mathematical or intrinsically anything other than physical and biochemical.

The Computer’s Simulation of Mind

If one were a behaviourist or a functionalist, then the behaviour of computers alone would tell us if they have minds. Though, according to Searle, this would be a simulation of minds. That's why we can simulate minds (or the workings of minds) more precisely in computers. But the simulation of mind is not mind. Searle writes:

“Computers are immensely useful devices for simulating brain processes. But the simulation of mental states is no more a mental state than the simulation of an explosion is itself an explosion.” 

That's why the zombie scenario is so popular in the philosophy of mind. In a sense, a zombie simulates a human person by behaving or acting like a human person. Though behaving or acting like a human person isn't the same as being a human person. Does the parrot which says "Hello John" act or behave like a human person simply because it simulates a greeting every time its owner arrives home from work? Does this verbal response make the parrot a person? Does it even have a mind simply because it can articulate the words "Hello John"? Does it understand these words? Does it know what they mean? Indeed does a computer know what the words "Hello John" mean? If a turd said "Hello John", would that turd have a mind? If, by accident, the pebbles on a sea shore spelled the words "Hello John Searle", would the sea shore or the beach have a mind?

Lamarck & Darwin Compared

 

The important distinction that must be made between Jean-Baptiste Lamarck's position and Charles Darwin's is that the former believed that animals acquired characteristics. In other words, organisms or animals can change while alive. Darwin, on the other hand, stressed the inheritance of characteristics, not their acquisition during the existence of animals.

Nonetheless, surely an animal has to acquire a characteristic before it can be passed onto - or be inherited by - future generations. Yes, that's true – though only over time. That is, individuals don't acquire characteristics over life-times. Though over time species may acquire characteristics. Those characteristics, though, will be too small to be noticed by one generation and will certainly not be noticeable over the lifetime of an individual animal.

Is this true of all species? What about the microscopic ones which have very short lifespans? Is is literally impossible for one such species to acquire a characteristic during its own lifetime?

The Lamarkian position is that “the constant craning of a giraffe to reach leaves high in a tree would alter its sperm or egg that its offspring would be born with longer necks” (114). This seems like a ridiculous idea – though only in retrospect! That is, only in the retrospect provided by knowledge of Darwin's theories. Nonetheless, the argument is still that repeated behaviours or habits of animals has a literal affect on sperms or eggs. Thus if the sperm or eggs are affected by this behaviour, then they will automatically produce offspring that will be different in some small or even large way.

Darwin's position, on the other hand, is that there is no direct relation between animal behaviour and changes in that animal's sperm or eggs. What actually is argued about behaviour X (say reaching the higher leaves) is that it's more likely to survive and thus pass on its genes because of behaviour X. The eggs or sperm aren't changed due to behaviour. Though the behaviour leads to a situation in which that animal, and animals like it, are more likely to survive. Thus giraffes with longer necks are more likely to survive. And, because of that, those giraffes which have longer necks are more likely to pass on the long-necked gene than those giraffes with shorter necks. Thus, over time, short-necked giraffes die out because less of them survive. And the less of them that survive (due to having short necks) means that they can't pass on their genes. Short-necked genes aren't passed on; though long-necked genes are.

Thus behaviour doesn't affect genes. What does affect genes, in fact, is entirely random. Though if a random change in the structure of genes produces giraffes with long necks, and long necks are more likely to secure survival, then the genes for long necks are more likely to be passed on simply because giraffes with longer necks are more likely to survive than giraffes with shorter necks.

Kurt Gödel's Theorems & Physics

It's often asked whether or not Kurt Gödel's theorems can be applied outside mathematics. John Horgan certainly applies them to the theories of physics. Or, more accurately, he writes that

 

“Kurt Gödel's incompleteness theorem denies us the possibility of constructing a complete, consistent mathematical description of reality” (6).

Clearly there's a jump here from Gödel's mathematical incompleteness theorems to physical reality. Or, more accurately, from Gödel's theorems to a “consistent mathematical description of reality”. Is that jump justified?

Well, for a start, physics is utterly dependent on mathematics. Thus if all descriptions of reality in physics involve mathematics, and mathematics is subject to Gödel's theorems, then that must pass over to the descriptions of reality which are offered by physicists. In other words, if a mathematical system must be incomplete (or not entirely provable), then that description of reality must be incomplete (or not entirely provable). The two must fall and rise together.

More meat is put on this idea of whether or not Gödel's theorems are applicable to theories about reality when John Horgan says that the “British physicist John Barrow argued that Gödel's incompleteness theorem undermines the very notion of a complete theory of nature” (69). We move again from mathematical systems to the incompleteness of a “complete theory of nature”. It can be said here that Barrow is simply transferring the incompleteness of mathematics to the incompleteness of a “complete theory of nature”. Again, does the former necessarily pass over to the latter?

In more detail: Godel established that "any moderately complex system of axioms inevitably raises questions that cannot be answered by the axioms". Then Horgan moves onto to say that the “implication is that any theory will always have loose ends”.

Many scientists accept this application of Godel's theorems to physics, including Moravec, Roger Penrose and Freeman Dyson. The latter says:

“Since we know the laws of physics are mathematical, and we know that mathematics is an inconsistent system, it's sort of plausible that physics will also be inconsistent.” (254)

Thus what we have here is a logical argument:

i) Physics is mathematical.

ii) Mathematics is an inconsistent system.

iii) Therefore physics must be an inconsistent system (or simply incomplete).

The only problem here is seeing the entirety of mathematics as a single system (which itself incorporates systems). Perhaps it is.
 

Putnam on the Virtues & Vices of Ordinary Language

Perhaps it follows from Hilary Putnam's critique of obsessive formalism (in philosophy) that he would also have championed the use of ordinary language, if not of the ‘ordinary language' school and its actual doctrines. Putnam himself says:

“One is that philosophy can and should for the most part be done in ordinary language, about which I agree with Austin enormously. The other is that it’s about ordinary language, which I don’t agree with. I think there’s a tendency not to separate the two.” (233)

The idea that philosophy should be done in ordinary language (at least when that's possible) isn't in itself a commitment to ‘ordinary language philosophy’; or a commitment that philosophy should only study ordinary language (or ordinary language concerns/issues).

This also follows from Putnam’s suspicion of the formalising tendencies in philosophy; as well as the strong attention to the efficacy - and indeed glorification - of mathematical logic.

Of course the ordinary language philosophers were indeed primarily concerned with the minutia of ordinary language. That was certainly the case with J.L. Austin; though not someone like Peter Strawson (e.g., with his ‘descriptive metaphysics’).

This commitment to ordinary language isn't just a question of making one’s prose-style clear and understandable to the layperson. It's also a question of the idea that if you don't (or can't) use ordinary prose to say what you want to say in ordinary language, then that should make you suspect the legitimacy of what you're saying. If you use language in a way that's radically at odds with ordinary language, then you commit “a plain violation of ordinary language” and “that’s at least a bad sign” (234).It's a sign that something has gone wrong with your philosophy somewhere along the line.

Putnam gives some examples of these ‘violations’ that not only use language that's at odds with ordinary language, but also say things which are themselves philosophically suspect. For example:

“The fact that we never speak of 'directly perceiving' and 'not directly perceiving' in everyday language in the way that traditional epistemologists do was a sign that something was really quite wrong with the traditional philosophy of perception, something already noticed in the eighteenth century by Thomas Reid, by the way. Reid sounds very Austinian when he fulminates against the strange ways philosophers talk about perception. I think that’s a corrective one should apply to one’s own thought.” (234)

The problem with this position is that it may not (or will not) allow philosophers any leeway to say anything new because that would be bound to go against the dictates of everyday language. Would we say the same kind of thing to poets when they use a strange (or any kind of) metaphor – that they too are going against everyday language? I hope not. In addition, the very fact that philosophy is an academic disciple (that is, a specialism) surely means that it's bound to say novel things in novel ways. Indeed Rorty, for example, says that it is almost the duty of philosophers to say strange things in strange ways. This is parallel to the situation with metaphors, he argues. That is, if metaphors were indeed literally translatable into everyday language, then they would simply loose their point.

Can we really have such a radical position on philosophical discourse as the one Putnam suggests? Perhaps Putnam is really against plain philosophical pretentiousness rather than radical philosophical prose itself. Of course many philosophers try to show off with mathematical logic, schematisations, gratuitous use of logical symbols/variables and the rest. This, however, isn't a point about philosophical prose: it's about philosophical pretentiousness. And pretentiousness, of course, is a failing we can find not just in philosophy but in all other academic disciplines. Indeed we can find it in all walks of life. (Including from the pretentiously self-conscious practitioner of being ‘down-to-earth’.)

I’m not even sure about Putnam’s examples. Is it really the case that the phrase “directly perceiving” is suspect from an everyday language point of view? It makes sense even if it's philosophically suspect. It would even make sense to the layperson.

These examples (given by Putnam) aren't like some of the stuff you can read in the academic journals of contemporary analytic philosophy (especially if written by postgraduate philosophy students!). So although I agree with Putnam to some extent, I think he goes a little too far. In addition, he should make a distinction between plain pretentiousness and the unavoidable fact that a disciple like philosophy is bound, at times, to be written in a prose-style that will make the layperson’s head buzz. You can’t do anything about that; at least in certain areas of philosophy.

Putnam seems to agree that we can't become the Khmer Rouge of philosophers. He says:

“But on the other hand, if another philosopher uses an expression in an extraordinary way or violates its ordinary use, I would never immediately conclude that he or she is talking nonsense. Then the idea of ordinary language become a kind of straightjacket – we know what ordinary language is, we know when it’s violated and we know that when it’s violated nonsense results – I don’t accept any one of those three statements.” (234)

Just as we may say that philosophers shouldn't be too hasty or keen to say that a layperson’s utterances are ‘meaningless’: perhaps the layperson himself shouldn't be too keen (or hasty) to call the writings of philosophers ‘meaningless’ or ‘violations of everyday language’. In that sense, perhaps philosophy is like poetry in that if the poet is to say something truly knew, he may have to say it in a novel way. The same may be true of the philosopher. Indeed some laypersons think that other laypersons are abusing language simply because they don’t understand their new ideas or the way that they're expressed. Perhaps it's really because they don't like what it is that's being expressed and thus cynically claim that it's the way they say it that's the problem.

So these issues don't only arise in philosophy or even only in other academic disciplines.

For example, many people say that ‘newage-ers’ speak nonsense – perhaps they do. Other say that animal rights activists don't even make sense – perhaps they don’t. What about what is said (in everyday language) about ‘super-strings’ or ‘quantum indeterminacy’? Surely that's ‘nonsense’ to the layperson if he can't even be bothered giving the physicist the benefit of the doubt.

In any case, do “we know what ordinary language is” (234)? Do we know “when it’s violated” if we don’t really know what it is in the first place (at least not formally)? Have we got the skills and the right to say when it's violated and that when it is ‘nonsense results’? Should we even be in the business, as philosophers or laypersons of putting “a kind of straightjacket” on our language? If we do, then perhaps all sorts of negative things would result: such as the sterility of thought, a lack of innovation, and, basically, the death of the imagination. Perhaps ordinary things can only be said in ordinary language and extraordinary things can only be said in extraordinary language. After all, language itself has never been static and much of what we said in the past is nonsense by present standards; just as what we say today would have been nonsense to our ancestors. Indeed much of what we say today will be deemed nonsense by future generations.

Quick Thoughts on the Identity of Indiscernibles

The law of the Identity of Indiscernibles is said to be the converse of Leibniz’s law. This is the Indentity of Indiscernibles:

If a and b have all their properties in common, then they are one and the same thing.

In symbols:

(x) (y) (F) ((F) x ≡ F (y) ⊃. x = y)

The basic question is:

Imagine two steel balls which have all their properties in common. Could they still be two?

Intuitively, most people (I think) would say 'yes'. It doesn't seem inconceivable prior to modal philosophising.

For a start, wouldn’t the balls still be spatially or temporally separate? If that is the case, then surely they wouldn't have all their properties in common. (That's if you accept spatial and temporal properties, which many philosophers do.)

Now we go deeper into this thought experiment.

One could say (I suppose) that if the balls were suddenly frozen in space, then their positions would be different. Hence they'd have different spatial properties. However, what if the balls will never be frozen in space and never have been frozen in space? (Is that a hypothetical scenario about a hypothetical scenario?)

As they are now, and in five minutes, etc., the balls are constantly on the move relative to one another. Thus they have all their spatial (as well as temporal) properties in common. And because they're both in an empty world, there can be no relational properties (care-of other objects, conditions, events, etc.). Any relational properties a has relative to b, b has relative to a. Thus they have all their properties in common.

This, then, appears to break Leibniz’s law in that the balls are indiscernible; though not identical!

Leibniz’s Law & Intensional Contexts

What is Leibniz’s law? This:

If a is the same as b, then everything true of a is also true of b.

Or in symbols: (x) (y) (F) (x = y ⊃. F (x) ≡ F (y))

There's at least one way in which it can be taken to be false. Take Roger Scruton’s example:

“Suppose John is thinking tenderly of Mary, and Mary is the person who, unknown to John, ate his beloved cat. Is John thinking tenderly of the person who ate his cat?” 

This is primarily a question of John’s beliefs about Mary (de dicto): not about Mary herself (de re). It's indeed the case the cat-eater is the same person as the person thought tenderly of by John. However, John doesn't know that Mary ate his cat. This is a fact about John; not a fact about Mary. (Can there be psychological facts?)... Unless what is thought by other people about Mary also constitute facts about Mary. In that case, there would be a multitude of facts about Mary that she and others (as individuals) couldn't know about Mary (which isn't in itself implausible).

Does this story break Leibniz’s law? No.

What we would require to save the day is a theory of contexts: 'intensional' contexts. Do we need such intensional (or belief contexts) at all? Quine said no – at least not in science, logic and perhaps in philosophy too. That is, what John is thinking of doesn't belong to this particular extension (or reference) – that is, to Mary. Thus it plays no part in science or logic. (Though it would, perhaps, play a part in the psychological descriptions of John.) Then again, it could also be said that Mary (as a single person or human being) couldn't really play a part in science or logic either.

James Ladyman & Don Ross on Metaphysicians' Intuitions

 

You will note how important the criticism of the (analytic) metaphysicians' reliance on 'intuitions' is in James Ladyman and Don Ross's paper/book.

Since I've read many analytic philosophers (if not analytic metaphysicians) criticising not only the notion of “intuitions” - but also the philosophical reliance on them, I find it hard to make sense of Ladyman and Ross's stress on such a thing.

Sure, some philosophers have noted and even relied on intuitions; though many haven't. Though, as I argue later, it's almost impossible not to begin one's philosophical pursuits without utilising one's intuitions. And, it may follow from that, that if one's intuitions are acknowledged as a starting point, that starting point is bound to have an affect on much of what follows.

Having said that, it's indeed ironic, at least prima facie, that metaphysicians rely at all on intuitions. Isn't it far more likely that an epistemologist or a philosopher of mind (for reasons I hope are obvious) would stress or even rely on intuitions?

                          A Case for Intuitions

There are many arguments in favour of intuitions... and not all of them use intuitions.

For example, you must start from somewhere. And the best - or even the only - place to start from in philosophy (as in most things) is from one's own intuitions. Indeed it's hard to even make sense of the idea of starting from anywhere else. And if you start from your own intuitions (I stress the word 'start'), then it may be equally - or more - wise to take on board collective (as it were) intuitions as well.

Bearing all that in mind, it's hardly a cardinal sin when metaphysicians begin by using phrases such as "it is intuitive that..." or "it is counter-intuitive that..." (the examples given by Ladyman and Ross) when, presumably, such people won't end their philosophical pursuits with such phrases.

So when Ladyman and Ross say that intuitions aren't scientific data, the metaphysician may simply say: “Yes, I know. And?”

On the one hand, it may be understandable to argue against intuitions regarding, say, quantum mechanics or the nature of DNA. However, many mathematicians and scientists (ranging from Kurt Godel and Alan Turing to Roger Penrose) have happily stressed the importance of intuitions in both mathematics and physics. (Though, admittedly, perhaps not in quite the same way the guilty metaphysicians do.)

You can also defend the existence and utilisation of intuitions without using the phrase (which I noted in Ladyman and Ross's paper and elsewhere) “the faculty of intuition”. That sounds like the kind of reification that Gilbert Ryle warned against some seventy years ago. Indeed if people do believe in such a faculty, it will take on a role similar to that of Kant's a priori 'categories' or even the amygdala. In that case, just as philosophers could have asked Kant why he thought that the mind's concepts or categories were a-historical and universal; so a contemporary critic can ask why (some) metaphysicians think that our faculty of intuition is reliable and/or static from (say) an evolutionary or biological point of view.

Though, again, our intuitions need not be seen as a priori, a-historical or even as constituting a faculty as such.

It would be wise to say, then, that when contemporary metaphysicians appeal to intuitions, they don't (or, at least, they ought not to) refer to some magical ability which only they possess. Rather, they're simply using semi-rhetorical language; of which there are many other examples in analytic philosophy (such as "surely...", "it is obvious that...").

The Basics of Ladyman and Ross's Case Against Analytic Metaphysics

It can be seen that the basic idea is simple.

Before the rise of modern science it was philosophers who investigated “the fundamental structure and nature of physical reality” (as it's often put). However, after the rise of modern science, philosophers shouldn't be still doing this without the help of science.... at least not in 2015!

As a consequence of that, The Every Thing Must Go position is against any “a priori metaphysics” or the search for “a priori truths”.

Prima facie, it's hard to make sense of this because I can't really believe that there's a 21st-century (or 20th century) metaphysician who would claim to be engaged in an entirely a priori pursuit. (Though perhaps I'm wrong.) In fact I'm not even sure what the words “a priori metaphysics” mean or if it would be achievable (in principle).

Anyway, if such a thing does exist, then James Ladyman and Don Ross class it as “neo-Scholasticism”.

Sometimes Ladyman and Ross's main criticisms of analytic metaphysics seem rhetorical – at least as they stand. For example:

i) That metaphysics "contributes nothing to human knowledge”.
ii) That metaphysicians are "wasting their talents”.
iii) That metaphysics “fails to qualify as part of the enlightened pursuit of objective truth, and should be discontinued”.

Sure, these positions can be argued for. However, it must now be said that some commentators say that they aren't argued for by Ladyman and Ross: they're simply stated.

What may happen here, then, is that those who follow the every-thing-must-go position will simply end up talking a different language to those who practice analytic metaphysics (or just plain metaphysics). And then it will come as no surprise that there's no mutual ground between them (or even a conversation). It will become like the situation between much Continental philosophy and analytic philosophy (at least until, say, the 1980/90s).

What Ladyman & Ross Do

The central metaphysical position of the everything-must-go school (if there is such a thing) is one of “ontic structuralism realism”. The fundamental aspect of this is the importance it gives to the mathematical relations or structures which capture the nature of physical reality (i.e., in physics). Clearly, then, if one wants to explore this position, then that's where to begin.

ETMG philosophers also class themselves as “neo-positivists”. They acknowledge that there were big problems with the original logical positivist school (if it ever was a school). That's not a problem because the logical positivists themselves realised that there was a problem with (much of) logical positivism. In fact it was mainly - or only - former logical positivists who destroyed logical positivism. (I doubt that other philosophers would have had the knowledge or skill to carry out that feat.)

It also seems that Ladyman and Ross are saying that metaphysicians should be scientifically-literate holists who should try to show us “how everything fits together in a broad sense” (as Nelson Goodman or Wilfred Sellars once put it).

In other words, the “ontological structure” of the universe is the domain of physics and science generally. Metaphysics, on the other hand, should attempt to find a unified and “cross-disciplinary” philosophical synthesis and analysis of how the sciences tell us the universe is structured. (Put that way, it's similar to Quine's position; though he didn't really emphasise cross-disciplinary unification as such.)

The Debate?

When a metaphysician says that analytic metaphysics is concerned with problems which aren't (strictly speaking) scientific (as well as when he says that it uses analytical and logical methods that aren't those of of science), then, I suppose, Ladyman and Ross may give the obvious reply:

The problems and tools of metaphysics shouldn't be distinct from science – even if they aren't identical.

Though if you were to take this position too far, metaphysics will simply become physics/science; or, at the least, a part of science/physics.

The problem is that no only may Ladyman and Ross throw out metaphysics and even all philosophy (if you follow their logic), it may even be the case that much science will also be thrown out too. (This point was famously made against certain positions advanced by the logical positivists.)

For example, what about empirically-untestable string theory? Is that “neo-Scholasticism”? What about some of the well-known mathematical and logical problems? That is, the ones which can be seen as “intellectual puzzles” and nothing more?

Everything must go?

Michael Loux & Philip Goff Discuss Nominalism About Universals

 

[Although the quotations in this piece have page numbers, I can't remember the books or papers from which they were taken. Some readers may know.]

Nominalist Primitivism

The realist as regards universals believes that many particulars exemplify a particular universal and that this is a ‘primitive’ or ‘basic’ fact about the world. The nominalist, on the other hand, thinks more or less the same about the fact that “different objects agree in attribute by all being triangular” (1).

The question now is: What do they mean by ‘primitive’ or ‘basic’?

Is anything in the world that is truly primitive? What is the ‘exemplification’ of universals in things? What do the nominalists mean by ‘agree’ in ‘different objects agree in attribute’? Perhaps Michael Loux will explain:

“… we are to take agreement in attribute to be a fundamental or unanalysable feature of the world… There are no prior facts that serve to explain these facts; they constitute the primitive materials out of which we construct our story of the world.”

Of course the notion of fundamentality or unanalysability has been used many times before in the history of philosophy. For G.E. Moore, for example, the property goodness was deemed to be unanalysable. For Wittgenstein (in the Tractatus), simple objects were seen in the same way. In addition, truth is seen this way by many philosophers.

There must be a reason (or reasons) why we “take agreement in attribute” between different particulars. Surely we can't get away with simply saying that this agreement is ‘fundamental’ or ‘unanalysable’ – why should anyone else accept these predicates at all? Aren’t they cop-outs or neat sidesteps of the issue? Just to argue that “every ontological account must take some facts as primitive or basic” (or that physics does the same) is simply not enough of a reason or answer. We need to ask why and how they are primitive or unanalysable. There may, for example, be an argument that such things halt some kind of infinite regress. However, we still need to know why we have chosen the agreement in attributes between objects - or the exemplification of universals as properties - as such primitives.

Just as the nominalist takes the Platonic position "one step earlier" by taking “the original fact that certain things are triangular as basic” rather than relying on the basic fact of the exemplification of universals in particulars, why can’t we also take the nominalist position one step earlier by giving a more substantive and descriptive account of agreement, resemblance or whatever?

Nominalist Reformulations

The problem is linguistic, according to the nominalist. That is, we believe in the existence of universals because sentences like

“Sphericity is a shape.”

have a property (or attribute) as the subject-term (or noun-phrase) of a subject-predicate sentence. And because the name ‘Tony Blair’ in

“Tony Blair is a liar.”

refers to the person Tony Blair, we assume that the ‘sphericity’ in “Sphericity is a shape” must refer to a universal – or at least to something.

Some philosophers (including Michael Loux) believe that nominalists “deny the existence of properties” (1). If that's indeed the case, then the nominalist

“is obliged to offer analyses of all sentences which contain words apparently referring to properties in terms of sentences which contain no such words” (1).

For a start, do nominalists really deny the existence of properties or do they simply think that they're not the instantiations of universals and are thus only found in objects?

In any case, how will a simple reformulation of a sentence alone get rid of universals or properties? If I choose never to refer to God (or use the word ‘God’), that won't take God out of existence. If no one used the word ‘God’, and if everyone reformulated all the sentences which refer to God in a bona fide atheistic manner, that alone wouldn’t get rid of God (as it were).

Loux goes on to explain the nominalist position thus:

“… the sentences appear to express claims about universals, but are really just disguised ways of making claims about familiar concrete particulars… For every sentence incorporating an abstract singular term, it is possible to identify a sentence in which the term does not appear but the corresponding general term does, such that the latter sentence gives the meaning of the former.” (1, Loux, 2002: 65-66)

Of course to the layperson the sentence “Sphericity is a shape” doesn't “appear to express [a] claim about [a] universal”. It simply makes a claim about spherical objects (or, less likely, about the property being spherical). However, if ‘sphericity’ is a noun (or an abstract singular term), then this may not be logically or philosophically acceptable.

In any case, perhaps the layperson is tacitly or implicitly referring to the universal. In that case, both the realist and the nominalist are offering us (or discovering) the true logical form of the aforementioned sentence. The nominalist is arguing that the sentence is a disguised way of making a claim about a universal. The realist is saying that the logical form is apparent; though not (as it were) taken literally when it's not taken as a claim about a universal.

More technically, Loux makes a distinction between the nominalistically-unacceptable abstract singular term (‘sphericity’) and the nominalist general term which will be its substitution. What would that general-term substitution of the abstract singular term ‘sphericity’ be?

What is the substitution of

1) “Sphericity is a shape.”

that's given by the nominalist? This:

2) “All spherical things are shaped things.”

Prima facie, it's very hard to accept the latter as an analysis (or anything else) of the former! There are many differences between the two.

For a start, 2) is about spherical things. 1) isn't about things at all. In fact 1) is about a shape, not about a thing or things. 1) attributes or predicates something to the property sphericity; whereas 2) predicates something to things. We can even say that 2) is analytic (or partly analytic) in that the subjects (‘spherical things’) are by definition ‘shaped things’. 1), on the other hand, seems to offer us information about sphericity itself – that it ‘is a shape’. However, we can say that this is partly analytic too; though not in the direct manner of 2).

The bizarre thing is that 2) still contains what can be taken as references to universals anyway. Spherical things and shaped things are themselves universals, aren’t they?

Philip Goff writes that

“analysing all sentences which make reference to properties into sentences which do not make reference to properties is a tricky business”.

Isn’t it the case that in

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

the predicates ‘spherical’ and ‘shaped’ do indeed “make reference to properties”? It's just the case that ‘spherical’ and ‘shaped’ are adjectival terms; whereas ‘sphericity’ is an abstract singular term or a noun. Does that difference alone make the above fully nominalist or even nominalist at all? Surely adjectives like ‘spherical’ and ‘shaped’ are just as parasitical on universals as the abstract singular term ‘sphericity’ is!

I would say that

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

proves Goff’s point that there

“are true sentences containing reference to properties which are not analysable into sentences which do not contain reference to properties” (2).

Yes, the above ‘analysis’ is proof of this. Goff calls this the principle of semantic irreducibility (PSI). The “reference to properties” is unavoidable in the nominalist analysis. Thus it's semantically irreducible.

Despite the problem for such nominalist reductions, Loux argues that such reductions or analyses are “essential for avoiding a commitment to properties” (2). That is, not properties per se; but property-terms which are abstract singular terms which themselves can’t help but refer to universals. Thus we can ask if Loux is against both ‘sphericity’ and ‘spherical’ (or ‘shaped’) or only against the nominalist use of ‘sphericity’. It must be both because in

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

the nominalist does get rid of the predicate ‘sphericity’. The question is, is it an acceptable analysis (or reduction) and is it the case that the predicates ‘spherical’ and ‘shape’ don’t refer to properties and therefore to universals? According to Goff, then, Loux is committed to the principle of the necessity of reduction (PNR). Or, rather, Loux thinks that the nominalist must, or should, be committed to this principle and thus be able to formulate an acceptable reduction of all the questionable sentences which include references to universals. If the nominalist can't carry out such a reduction, according to Loux, “then properties exist” (2).

Isn’t all this very linguistic in nature? That is, even if the nominalist can’t successfully offer us reductions or analyses of the suspect sentences which include references to universals, does that automatically mean that universals must therefore exist? Similarly, if the nominalist can (or could) carry out such reductions, would that automatically mean that universals don't exist? Surely what we can and can't do with our sentences (or with our grammar) doesn't affect the existence or non-existence of universals. People use the predicates ‘God’, ‘Pegasus’ and even ‘the round square’, Quine uses the word ‘meaning’ and Paul Churchland uses the word ‘belief’. These people don't believe that these things exist. So why should the sentence “Sphericity is a shape” bring the universal sphericity into existence (as it were)? Likewise why should the sentence

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

stop universals from existing or even prove their non-existence (even if the above is an acceptable analysis or reduction)? Perhaps, then, such concerns are normative and grammatical in nature. That is, if you think that universals don't exist, then say

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

and that will be fine. On the other hand, if you think that universals do exist, then say

“Sphericity is a shape.”

and that too will be fine. Your particular formulation will show other people your ontological commitments. It will neither prove nor disprove the existence of universals, just as Bertrand Russell's

“There is at least one thing, such that this none thing is king of France.”

didn't prove (or even show) that the king of France did not in fact exist. It showed us, instead, that the formulator himself doesn't believe that the king of France exists. (Perhaps the formulation alone doesn't show us that the king of France doesn't exist.) And neither does

“All spherical things are shaped things.”

show us that the universal sphericity doesn't exist, just as

“Sphericity is a shape.”

doesn't show us that the universal sphericity does exist.