Mechanism, generally, is the view that all of the operations, interactions, and sensible qualities of natural bodies are causally dependent upon the mechanical qualities of those bodies. Laws which govern the behavior of the mechanical parts and properties can be explained by being deduced from the attributes possessed essentially by all bodies qua bodies.
The application of such a model of explanation to the relationship between mental and physical properties of fitly disposed systems of matter is of concern to the magisterial commentator on Locke, Michael Ayers. He motivates the query by comparison with how Locke viewed the phenomenon of gravity.
Locke took there to be something inexplicable to human observers about the relation between two bodies which accounted for gravitation. There are four ways of interpreting what Locke might take the inexplicability to imply:
(a) There is a deeper medium for a mechanism which creates a necessary connection which is not occult. The appearance of action at a distance is only an appearance.
(b) Knowledge of matter qua matter is not yet adequately refined to license perspicacious deductions of laws of nature from the mechanisms of matter. Such deductions are possible, in principle, but not with the present state of physics which is ignorant of the real essence of matter.
(c) There are some laws—viz., gravitation, that are not deducible from the essence of matter. Such laws depend on the direct, continuous, and systematic agency of God—viz., a continual miracle.
(d) Action at a distance turns out, after all, to be part of the real essence of matter—viz., mechanism is false after all.
While Locke’s views on gravity do not make it obvious which of the implications he embraces, Ayers thinks there is a clear case for Locke’s rejection of (d) in Locke’s correspondence with Stillingfleet, the Bishop of Worcester. Ayers ultimately takes Locke to accept either (b) or some combination of (a) and (b). In either case, the hope for a deduction of the laws of gravitation from the essence of matter is preserved, despite the epistemic limitations.
I think there is a similar dialectical structure present in the allegedly inexplicable connections between the mental and physical properties of fitly disposed systems of matter.
(i) There is a deeper medium for a mechanism which creates a necessary, non-occult connection between the fitly disposed physical properties and mental properties. The appearance of sui generis connections is only an appearance.
(ii) Knowledge of matter qua matter is not yet adequately refined to license perspicacious deductions of mental properties from the mechanical, fitly disposed physical properties of matter. Such deductions are possible, in principle, but not with the present state of physics which is ignorant of the real essence of fitly disposed matter.
(iii) There are some laws—viz., psychophysical laws, that are not deducible from the essence of matter. Such psychophysical laws depend on the direct, continuous, and systematic agency of God—viz., a continual miracle.
(iv) Occult, sui generis psychophysical laws turn out, after all, to be part of the real essence of matter—viz., mechanism is false after all.
For Locke to be a materialist, his position on thinking matter needs to reside somewhere between (i) and (ii).
Take M to be a fitly disposed material system.
(1) M thinks.
(2) M’s mental properties are deducible from M’s physical properties.
The challenge for Ayers is to argue that Locke affirms (2). The kind of deduction Ayers has in mind is a very strong sort. Assuming idealized epistemic conditions, where human cognizers know the real essence of matter and the real essence of fitly disposed material systems of kind M (i.e., they possessed wholly adequate concepts of matter), cognizers should be in a position to determine the necessity of mental properties arising from M’s particular arrangement of physical properties. What would be the form of such a deduction?
(3) There is a true description P of M’s real essence qua fitly disposed matter.
(4) Q.
(5) Therefore, M thinks.
The crucial premise is (4), where Q stands for a proposition which must discharge two duties—Q’s content must refer to the physical (primary) qualities of M, and Q must imply, in conjunction with P, the conclusion (5). In short, the deductions must be like geometric inferences.
For various reasons (which may end up in later posts), I'm seriously pessimistic that Locke would go this far.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
why can't we all just get along?
When I walk through the hallways, I always overhear conversations. It's not intentional. That's just what happens when I walk through public areas where people are having conversations.
I ran across an interesting conversation. I only heard a very brief bit. It went something like this.
Student A says to another: "I really like the philosophy readings that we're doing. But it doesn't connect with me. It doesn't connect with life, you know? Life. And so it's not important. It's kind of meaningless really."
That caused me to wonder what it means to say that some particular philosophy or subfield of philosophy doesn't connect *with life*. I completely understand what it may mean to say that some particular subfield of philosophy (say, philosophy of science or epistemology) does not connect *with me*. I guess that would mean something like *I don't like it* or *it doesn't appear to have anything to do with anything that I'm interested in* or *it doesn't address the kinds of things that I take to be important to me*.
So, I get that. What I don't get is the less qualified statement that some particular philosophy or subfield of philosophy doesn't connect *with life* itself. I mean, why can't we all be axiologically pluralistic on this issue? For those who are intensely interested in social justice, perhaps social and political philosophy is what matters to them. For those who are intensely interested in personal existential issues, perhaps existential philosophy is the kind of philosophizing to which they ought to gravitate. It seems completely innocent a point so far. For those who are interested in X, then they should pursue a philosophy of X, so far as studying philosophy goes. But why would that impact the value of Y and the philosophy of Y?
It's when that innocent point (i.e., that a person who is interested in X should generously pursue the philosophy of X) is somehow transformed into a normative claim that *all* philosophy should conform to that particular model that I begin to be puzzled. Suppose a person finds it intensely interesting to study the theoretical advantages and disadvantages of logical models of probability in the philosophy of science. Suppose also that this person derives great personal pleasure and a sense of meaning from doing so. Suppose that this person takes this subfield of philosophy to be intrinsically valuable in and for itself, perhaps purely for the sake of learning or coming to know something that was not known before. Why should it be the case that this endeavor either is by definition *not connected with life* or in need of any defense for its legitimacy at all?
No doubt, someone may reply: But isn't Philosophy (note the capital "P") supposed to be about ________?" Generally, the blank is filled in by some qualifying feature that (inadvertently in most cases) is rigged to rule out things like technical subfields concerning analytic epistemology, Anglo-American philosophy of language, or analytic ontology. (And I do recognize that this kind of intolerance or ignorance goes in both directions... if we use the increasingly meaningless Continental-Analytic divide.)
The reply to this reply is: "Why should anyone else accept your totalizing conception of Philosophy?" [My actual reply would be to deny that there is anything that we call "Philosophy" (note the capital "P").]
So, I guess I wonder why we can't all just get along. Why can't we adopt an axiological pluralism with respect to what counts as legitimate philosophy or philosophy that is *connected with life... you know, life.*
From a personal perspective, there are entire swaths of philosophy that I find completely not connected with *my life*. But what relevance does that have to do with anyone else who loves those swaths and whose love of philosophy reverberates with and against those swaths? And what relevance does that have to do with philosophy vis-à-vis *Life* (whatever that is). Answer: seems to me none at all.
I wonder why we shouldn't all return the favor with respect to each other, our choices, and the fragments of inquiry that we conveniently label "philosophy."
I ran across an interesting conversation. I only heard a very brief bit. It went something like this.
Student A says to another: "I really like the philosophy readings that we're doing. But it doesn't connect with me. It doesn't connect with life, you know? Life. And so it's not important. It's kind of meaningless really."
That caused me to wonder what it means to say that some particular philosophy or subfield of philosophy doesn't connect *with life*. I completely understand what it may mean to say that some particular subfield of philosophy (say, philosophy of science or epistemology) does not connect *with me*. I guess that would mean something like *I don't like it* or *it doesn't appear to have anything to do with anything that I'm interested in* or *it doesn't address the kinds of things that I take to be important to me*.
So, I get that. What I don't get is the less qualified statement that some particular philosophy or subfield of philosophy doesn't connect *with life* itself. I mean, why can't we all be axiologically pluralistic on this issue? For those who are intensely interested in social justice, perhaps social and political philosophy is what matters to them. For those who are intensely interested in personal existential issues, perhaps existential philosophy is the kind of philosophizing to which they ought to gravitate. It seems completely innocent a point so far. For those who are interested in X, then they should pursue a philosophy of X, so far as studying philosophy goes. But why would that impact the value of Y and the philosophy of Y?
It's when that innocent point (i.e., that a person who is interested in X should generously pursue the philosophy of X) is somehow transformed into a normative claim that *all* philosophy should conform to that particular model that I begin to be puzzled. Suppose a person finds it intensely interesting to study the theoretical advantages and disadvantages of logical models of probability in the philosophy of science. Suppose also that this person derives great personal pleasure and a sense of meaning from doing so. Suppose that this person takes this subfield of philosophy to be intrinsically valuable in and for itself, perhaps purely for the sake of learning or coming to know something that was not known before. Why should it be the case that this endeavor either is by definition *not connected with life* or in need of any defense for its legitimacy at all?
No doubt, someone may reply: But isn't Philosophy (note the capital "P") supposed to be about ________?" Generally, the blank is filled in by some qualifying feature that (inadvertently in most cases) is rigged to rule out things like technical subfields concerning analytic epistemology, Anglo-American philosophy of language, or analytic ontology. (And I do recognize that this kind of intolerance or ignorance goes in both directions... if we use the increasingly meaningless Continental-Analytic divide.)
The reply to this reply is: "Why should anyone else accept your totalizing conception of Philosophy?" [My actual reply would be to deny that there is anything that we call "Philosophy" (note the capital "P").]
So, I guess I wonder why we can't all just get along. Why can't we adopt an axiological pluralism with respect to what counts as legitimate philosophy or philosophy that is *connected with life... you know, life.*
From a personal perspective, there are entire swaths of philosophy that I find completely not connected with *my life*. But what relevance does that have to do with anyone else who loves those swaths and whose love of philosophy reverberates with and against those swaths? And what relevance does that have to do with philosophy vis-à-vis *Life* (whatever that is). Answer: seems to me none at all.
I wonder why we shouldn't all return the favor with respect to each other, our choices, and the fragments of inquiry that we conveniently label "philosophy."
Friday, November 2, 2007
The Metaphysics of Albus Dumbledore
I’ve long been a fan of the Harry Potter books, and I’ve long been puzzled by the metaphysics of fictional characters. These two things came to a head for me recently when J.K. Rowling, the author of the books, mentioned that Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, invaluable mentor to Harry, and perhaps the most powerful wizard alive (up until the end of the sixth book), is gay. Which raises the question: What does it mean for a fictional character to be gay? (Not a thing about Dumbledore’s sexuality is mentioned in the books, and it’s not like Dumbledore had a life “behind the scenes,” did he?) For that matter, what does it mean for a fictional character to be anything—tall, male, human, kind? What are fictional characters anyway? And who determines what properties a fictional character really has?
Perhaps the natural answer to that last question is that the author determines what the character is like. But it’s not as easy as that: what if the author changes his or her mind, or hasn’t decided on some important feature like the height of the character? Besides, some may disagree that the author has this power. Consider, for example, Andrew Rothstein’s response to Rowling’s announcement from a recent article in the New York Times.
But it is possible that Ms. Rowling may be mistaken about her own character. She may have invented Hogwarts and all the wizards within it, she may have created the most influential fantasy books since J. R. R. Tolkien, and she may have woven her spell over thousands of pages and seven novels, but there seems to be no compelling reason within the books for her after-the-fact assertion. Of course it would not be inconsistent for Dumbledore to be gay, but the books’ accounts certainly don’t make it necessary. The question is distracting, which is why it never really emerges in the books themselves. Ms. Rowling may think of Dumbledore as gay, but there is no reason why anyone else should.
So is Dumbledore gay? Perhaps there is literally no answer to that question. For my part, I’m with Rothstein. Sexuality doesn’t really figure into the Harry Potter books at all, even if romance and marriage do. The issue is distracting, and when in a few years I read the books with my kids, I probably won’t bring it up.
Perhaps the natural answer to that last question is that the author determines what the character is like. But it’s not as easy as that: what if the author changes his or her mind, or hasn’t decided on some important feature like the height of the character? Besides, some may disagree that the author has this power. Consider, for example, Andrew Rothstein’s response to Rowling’s announcement from a recent article in the New York Times.
But it is possible that Ms. Rowling may be mistaken about her own character. She may have invented Hogwarts and all the wizards within it, she may have created the most influential fantasy books since J. R. R. Tolkien, and she may have woven her spell over thousands of pages and seven novels, but there seems to be no compelling reason within the books for her after-the-fact assertion. Of course it would not be inconsistent for Dumbledore to be gay, but the books’ accounts certainly don’t make it necessary. The question is distracting, which is why it never really emerges in the books themselves. Ms. Rowling may think of Dumbledore as gay, but there is no reason why anyone else should.
So is Dumbledore gay? Perhaps there is literally no answer to that question. For my part, I’m with Rothstein. Sexuality doesn’t really figure into the Harry Potter books at all, even if romance and marriage do. The issue is distracting, and when in a few years I read the books with my kids, I probably won’t bring it up.
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