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.