Monthly Archives: April 2015

Violence Against Women, And Violence Against Truth

Recently, I ended up in a discussion with a professor at the University of Oregon who shared this article from the feminist outlet Ms. Magazine titled, “Why Don’t We Talk About the Gender Safety Gap in the U.S.?”

The article quotes a recent U.N. report “documenting “alarmingly high rates” of gender-based violence against girls and women,” and it concludes with the following statements: “A formal commitment to gender equality in the law has yet to mean that men and women benefit equally from societal improvements like lower crime rates … or enjoy anywhere near parity rights to physical freedom and security. … women’s absorption of the gap’s costs continues to be largely taken for granted.”

There are two contexts in which this article quotes any actual figures pertaining to rates of violent crime. The first, and most emphasized context, is in discussion of who reports feeling safest. ““Most Americans,” researchers [behind a Gallup poll conducted in December of 2014] concluded, “continue to feel safe in their immediate communities, with 63 percent saying they would not be afraid to walk alone there at night.” However, the 63 percent number masks a difference: almost half of women, 45 percent, report not feeling safe, whereas 73 percent of men reported that they do [feel safe]. … [These] results lined up closely with European country results of that survey, which … found that 75 percent of men in Europe said they felt safe, compared to 55 percent of women. … these measures undoubtedly reflect different standards of safety, as well as commitments to women’s safety.”

Of course, feeling safe is no absolute measurement of actually being safe, and the article itself does at least half–heartedly takes a single second to notice this: “Men … may have an exaggerated sense of confidence about their safety and control…,” though it barely stops to consider the ramifications of this fact for the use of how safe men and women ‘feel’ as a measure for actual safety. In the one and only statement in the whole article to actually address the relative gender rates of victimization in violent crime, the article says this: “Historically, men were more likely to be the victims of violent crimes, however, according to the Department of Justice’s most recent crime report, between 2004 and 2013 rates of violent crimes against men and women reached equal levels of prevalence.”

What you’d never get a full impression of from reading this sentence is that, from 1980 to 2008, men were in fact a whopping 77% of all victims of violent crime. Historically and up until very recently, men have been the mass majority of those victimized by violent crime by far. Now, you might even get the impression that the article is telling you that “rates … reached equal levels of prevalence” because rates of violence against women have been increasing to match rates of violence against men. Certainly the article does nothing to clarify that this is not the case, and the alarmist tone (“deep structural gender inequities … continue to … perpetuate unconscionably high levels of socially tolerated gender-based violence”) most certainly lends to that impression, even if it isn’t said directly.

However, if this were the impression you gathered, you would be wrong.

First of all, rates of violent crime have in fact been decreasing all across the board.

And therein lies the clue to our “violent rates of crime … reach[ing] equal levels of prevalence.”

Let’s take a look at the actual data.

Violent Crime (per 1,000) –
2004: 25.5 (Female) / 30.2 (Male)
2013: 22.7 (Female) / 23.7 (Male)

Serious Violent Crime (per 1,000) –
2004: 8.4 (Female) / 10.6 (Male)
2013: 7.0 (Female) / 7.7 (Male)

Rates of crime are in fact dropping for both men and women across 2004–2013. They’re dropping relatively more for men than for women, but this hardly fits the narrative that “deep structural gender inequities … continue to marginalize women”—men are relatively more victimized by violent crime when it occurs in the first place (again: over recent decades, more than 3 out of 4 victims of violent crime have, in fact, been men). And as of 2013, those numbers still aren’t quite “equal.” Combining the two figures, we’ve gone from 6.9 more men per 1,000 victimized than women to 1.7 more men per 1,000 victimized than women. That’s still more men than women victimized. 

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

On the basis of all this, I predicted we would see that whether crime rates rise or fall, it is men who are most effected by the change. I settled on 1985–1990 and 1999–2001 as case examples of times when rates of violent crime rose.

The results of that search?

Across 1985–1990, crime rose from about 20,000 to about 25,000 total victims.

In 1985, there were 14,738 male victims and 4,707 female victims of violent crime.
In 1990, there were 19,128 male victims and 5,174 female victims of violent crime.

The number of male victims rose by 4,750. The number of female victims rose by 467.

Across 1985–1990, 90% of the increase in victims of crime were male.

From 1999 to 2001, crime rose from about 17,000 to about 21,000 total victims.

In 1999, there were 12,376 male victims of violent crime and 3,900 female victims of violent crime.
In 2001, there were 15,034 male victims of violent crime and 4,520 female victims of violent crime.

The number of male victims rose by 2,658. The number of female victims rose by 620.

Across 1999–2001, 81% of the increase in victims of crime were male.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Her response? “When you are comparing the % increase in violent crime victims you have to compare the increase in male victims vs. the increase in female victims. So if we take your example, victims in 1999 vs 2001, the male victims increased by 21% and the female victims increased by 16%. … we need to look at the % increase relative to the gendered total because you are claiming that if there were an increase in crime, men would be the preponderant victims. For the ratio to go back to the pre-2008 disparity, violent crimes against men would have to increase by by 58% and violent crimes agains women would have to increase by 0%.  No statistic I’ve seen would predict that.”

I answered: “It’s exactly the kind of derived statistic we would get if, say, crime rose by 5000 victims and around 5000 of them were men. That’s not that different from crime rising by 5000 victims and 4400 of them being men, which is exactly what happened in 1985–1990.” To that, she said: “You’re applying the numbers from your 1999–2001 homicide rate increase to the numbers from the 2013 total violent crime stats (over 3 million). If male crime victims increased by 4,400 in 2014 from their 2013 number of 1,567,070, that would be a 0.3% increase in male victims.”

Sounds implausible, right? She’s making it sound like my position is committing me to expect that there’s going to be a 58% increase in male victims—from 1,567,070 to 2,480,000; an increase of 909,000 new male victims—as soon as crime goes back up. But as far as I can tell, it’s an abuse of statistical reasoning. Why? Because it’s just the wrong statistic to look at, plain and simple. There’s absolutely no reason to look at it in the first place, unless you’re scrambling for any way of looking at the data that doesn’t seem to lead to the conclusion I’m presenting.

So I responded to that by drawing an illustration that should make that a little clearer:

“Start with 10 female and 1,000 male victims in a hypothetical year.

Suppose that I’m the “murders per year” monster, and I kill 200 women and 100 men every year.

That’s a trend, and I think we can all agree that that much is obvious. (If we don’t, I quit.)

Alright, so in the first year that’s a 2000% increase in victimized women and a 10% increase in victimized men. Next year, it’s a 95% increase in women and a 9% increase in men. Jump forward three hundred years, and next year we get a 0.33% increase in women and a 0.32% increase in men. Does the change from 2000% and 10% to 95% and 9% to 0.33% and 0.32% look like a trend? No. But we just started out acknowledging that a trend is there: I’m the “murders per year” monster, and I kill 200 women and 100 men every single year. The statistics you get when you compare percentage increases of men and women won’t show you that trend, but the way you measure what I do is by looking at what I doWhen I get angry, I kill more men than women. When I calm down, the gender ratio drops back down, because I’m no longer killing more men than women. That is what the data shows.” 

In the end, she just kept contorting herself to hold on to those secondary numbers as a way to avoid my conclusion with only the faintest hint of any bare thread of actual reasoning left remaining behind her rejection of it: “You can’t compare apples to oranges. Even in looking at your stats, there is a consistency in numbers which invalidates your argument. I’m sorry you can’t see that.”—and at this, she simply stopped respoding to me.

This wasn’t, in general, an unintelligent woman I was talking to.

It takes an ideology to make someone go this contortionist to avoid something this straightforward.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Stepping back again, we can look at the actual historical trends in what actually happened at previous times when crime fell. We looked, already, at what happened when homicide rose between 1985–1990 and beween 1999–2001. So what happened prior to those increases in crime? What happened during the times when crime fell?

In the five years between 1980–1985, crime fell from about 24,300 to about 19,900 total victims.

Thus, in 1980, there were 18,766 total male victims and 5075 total female victims.
And in 1985, there were 14,738 total male victims and 4707 total female victims.

Total male victims fell by 4,028. Total female victims fell by 368.

91% of the decrease in victims of crime between 1980–1985 were male. 

In the ten years between 1990–2000, crime fell from about 24,900 to about 16,800 total victims.

Thus, in 1990, there were 19,128 total male victims and 5169 total female victims.
And in 2000, there were 12,407 total male victims and 3799 total female victims.

Total male victims fell by 6,721. Total female victims felll by 1,370.

83% of the decrease in victims of crime between 1990–2000 were male.

By her reasoning, the male rate fell by 21.5% in 1980–1985 and the female rate dropped by 7.25%. This should have made it unlikely, somehow, for the male rate to have increased by 29.8% and the female rate to have increased by only 9.9% in 1985–1990. Similarly, the male rate fell by 35% in 1990–2000 and the female rate dropped by 26.5%. And this should have made it unlikely, somehow, for the male rate to have increased by 21.5% and the female rate to have increased by only 15.9% in 1999–2001. But that’s exactly what happened, and it’s exactly how the statistic that men are a full 77% of all victims of violent crime remained true across this entire span of time (1980–2008).

That most of the decrease in violent crime impacted men in 1980–1985 (91%) did not stop most of the increase across 1985–1990 from primarily impacting men (90%). Similarly,  that most of the decrease in violent crime impacted men in 1990–2000 (83%) did not stop most  of the increase across 1999–2001 from primarily impacting men (81%) once again. Either way, Ms. Magazine’s spin on the gender of crime remains hypocritical. The article complains that “formal commitment to gender equality in the law has yet to mean that men and women benefit equally from societal improvements like lower crime rates … or enjoy anywhere near parity rights to physical freedom and security. … women’s absorption of the gap’s costs continues to be largely taken for granted.”

We could just as easily state on the basis of this data that “a formal commitment to gender equality in the law has yet to mean that men and women are protected equally from societal disruption when crime rates rise … men’s absorption of the costs when violence grows continues to be taken for granted”. But feminists wouldn’t dare—the emphasis must be on women–as–the–unequivocal–victims and men–as–the–unequivocally–privileged–elite, no matter what violence must be done to the facts to keep them held within the frame of that narrative.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

That’s case study #1. I’ll be quoting a wide variety of further sources in the future to continue supporting the point: feminists don’t care half as much about gender disparities unless they can be spun as harming women most—even if the fact behind the spin is that violence is simply dropping more for men, who have historically been by far the most victimized by violent crime in the first place (and women are still benefiting from a decline). This selective focus, combined with wild exaggerations of those disparities where they are found, has left us in relative ignorance about a variety of disparities that do in fact impact men most, and left us with a wildly distorted and unrealistic impression of what the overall balance of gender disparities in the U.S. really looks like. The truth, in my view, lies somewhere inbetween the extremes of both “feminist” and “mens’ rights activist” narratives.

Feminists often attack anyone who chooses not to define themselves as “a feminist” by claiming that (Jezebel): “to identify as a feminist is simply to acknowledge that women are people, and, as such, women deserve the same social, economic, and political rights and opportunities as other styles of people (i.e., men-people). … If you are not a feminist …, then you are a bad person. Those are the only options. You either believe that women are people, or you don’t.” In practice, however, “feminism” is very clearly widely and largely defined by the belief that women unequivocally get the short end of the social stick. No feminist anywhere is going around defining Mens’ Rights Activism (which I might have more to say about in the future) as “the belief that men are people,” saying “If you are not a Mens’ Rights Activist, then you are a bad person. … You either believe that men are people, or you don’t.” It shouldn’t strike anyone as controversial to say that this is because Mens’ Rights Activism is seen as unnecessary—because of the implied belief that men are already unequivocally receiving all possible benefits of sitting comfortably on top of the social totem pole.

If we accept this as the real definition–in–practice of feminism, however, then the empirical accuracy of its actual premises can be called into doubt—and this article, once again, serves as just one in what will become a far–reaching series of case studies supporting the point that they should. We hear nothing in this article about the fact men are historically more than three out of four victims of violent crime. We hear no explanation that rates are becoming more similar simply because crime is falling right now in general—and falling for women, too. The male disparity in crime victimization simply isn’t worth discussing, for the vast majority of feminists, until it becomes (almostequal through falling faster for men (who were a far greater majority of victims to begin with) than for women—at which point we hear that “A formal commitment to gender equality in the law has yet to mean that … women … enjoy anywhere near parity rights to physical freedom and security.” Again, I want to emphasize just how absurd this statement actually is: men have historically been the mass majority of victims of violent crime by far. Now that crime is dropping, the fact that it is dropping faster for men than it is for women—causing the rates to become almost, and yet still not quite, similar—at least  for now—is taken to support the conclusion that women have “nowhere near equal rights to physical security.” The situation is, quite literally, and in plain point of fact, the reverse: men are still not quite equal to the low rate of victimization in violent crime that women experienced, as of 2013—and we have every reason to expect  that if violent crime rises, that ratio will change to the disadvantage of men once again. Men are almost experiencing the low violent crime rates that women are right now, thanks to a current overall drop in violent crime. The fact that men are almost being murdered as infrequently as women are right now—for the first time in recent United States history—is taken by these feminists to support the claim that women are “nowhere near equal.” Men for once being almost equal to women in enjoying a low violent crime rate is used to say that women are “nowhere near” equal to men. This reasoning couldn’t be any more ass–backwards.

If I may have the same right to define my own labels in my own terms as feminists claim for themselves, then I’d like to define choosing not to define as feminist as choosing to try to return some balance to the conversation.

Violence against women is terrible. Violence against men is terrible too. Why not just stop there?


This is what a feminist looks like. 

Consciousness (IX) — Obey Libet? No Way, José.

(Note: I still consider this entry to be in rough draft form. I haven’t exactly been in the clearest state of mind. Though the rest of the essay gets better, I think, rereading the first paragraph made that especially clear to me. I don’t post these on Patreon until they’re in a refined and finished form. However, so long as I’m capable of writing but not capable of editing for clarity, I’d rather write and have sub–par work already done and ready to be refined at some point later than sit and wait until I can pull off essays that feel to me like perfect tens.)

One of the best cases for showing just how deeply bad philosophy can corrupt perfectly reasonable scientific experiment, straining data through the filter of philosophical lenses of interpretation to create something that is now not just raw data, but philosophy generated only partially in reaction to data—and also partially through the lens of conceptual filters which are themselves justified not by data, but by rationalistic considerations about what constraints a satisfactory account of the phenomena in question would need to conform to in principle—and then pretending not to have done so; pretending that the end result of this process is just plain science, refusing to defend the philosophical premises involved in it on the philosophical terms they require, and implying that these concepts therefore have the full weight of authority of a finding of Science per se, is the “science ‘on’ free will.” I write this phrase in scare–quotes because this data, in and of itself, isn’t “on” free will at all—to interpret it as bearing relevance to the question of free will is a philosophical claim about the science, and not some simple and straightforward description of what the data of that scientific investigation itself is plainly doing. I think this will become clear as I proceed through the analysis and spell out the exact details of what I mean.

There is a great deal of science that is claimed to have relevance for the question of free will, from the “readiness potentials” found in experiments from neuroscience to the “situationist effects” found in experiments from social psychology. As I spell out the way these have been argued to undermine belief in the possibility of free will, it will become clear that the crucial steps of interpretation involve philosophical assumptions—and that with different philosophical assumptions we could very well interpret that very same data to significantly different results. The crucial questions, therefore, hinge on which set of philosophical assumptions can be most well–justified—and our understanding of the data will follow from these, rather than the reverse: these philosophical assumptions are not proven or disproven by the data[1], but stand independent from it and come first; these assumptions determine how we will read the data. It only ever appears to be otherwise—it only ever appears that empirical data conclusively proves answers to the philosophical questions that determine how we interpret that data—because people interpret the empirical data through philosophical assumptions which they do not explicitly identify and recognize and then—voilà; quelle surprise!—something comes out of the other end of the process that conforms with those very assumptions. The greatest value and import of philosophy is precisely to draw these implicit assumptions out into our explicit awareness so that we can acknowledge them as the assumptions that they are—recognize that they are not, in fact, the only option—and then evaluate them in actually appropriate terms against the relevant, real alternatives.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Notice: When I talk about “free will” in this post, I am talking about the robust sort of free will that entails that right up until the moment of my choice, nothing in the previous physical states of the Universe determines what my choice is going to be; and at the moment I make my choice, I alone determine what that decision will beThe idea that this is the sort of “free will” that most of us feel that we have is an empirical question, and it is separate from the question of whether we really have it. The technical term for the range of views which say that this is kind of “free will” that we feel ourselves to have (or want, or should want) is “incompatibilism.” “Compatibilists,” by contrast, argue that the only sense of the term “free will” that we do want, or should want, or perhaps that even means anything at all is the sense in which I make the decision because I want to, and not because someone else has a gun to my head—even if both my decision and my desire were absolutely set in metaphysical stone from the moment of the Big Bang. While compatibilism is a more or less uniform position, incompatibilists are divided between those who believe that we do have the metaphysical kind of free will they believe we intuitively feel ourselves to have (and these are called “libertarians”), and those who believe that we do not (and these are called “hard determinists.”)

I adopt the incompatibilist definition for two reasons: first, because given that it is the most “metaphysical” sense of the concept of “free will,” using it will even more forcefully demonstrate my point that metaphysical assumptions influence how we will interpret empirical findings of science to begin with far more than scientific findings will determine what metaphysical convictions we will come to hold, both in practice (because in practice, we are reading scientific findings through metaphysical assumptions even if we do not realize and acknowledge this at all) and in principle (because it is impossible in principle not to read scientific findings through metaphysical assumptions, and also impossible in principle to actually arrive at metaphysical convictions through scientific data alone without turning that data into actual concepts by filtering it through philosophical assumptions). This point will stand even if you think the idea that this kind of free will actually could in fact be possible is nonsense

Second, I adopt the incompatibilist definition because I think it is empirically correct. This 2010 study by Sarkissian (et al), Is Belief in Free Will a Cultural Universal? “extends previous research by presenting a cross–cultural study examining intuitions about free will and moral responsibility in subjects from the United States, Hong Kong, India and Colombia. The results revealed a striking degree of cross–cultural convergence. In all four cultural groups, the majority of participants said that (a) our universe is indeterministic and (b) moral responsibility is not compatible with determinism”—these findings, Sarkissian (et al) argue, imply “fundamental truth[s] about the way people think about human freedom.”

In the book, Free Will and Consciousness: A Determinist Account of the Illusion of Free Will, “hard determinist” Gregg D. Caruso writes: “ … I maintain that our phenomenology strongly supports an incompatibilist, libertarian, essentially agent–causal conception of free will. … compatibilists cannot simply neglect or dismiss the nature of agentive experience. … our phenomenology is rather definitive. From a first–person point of view, we feel as though we are self–determining agents who are capable of acting counter–causally. … we all experience, as Galen Strawson puts it, a sense of “radical, absolute, buckstopping up–to–me–ness in choice and actions” (2004, 380). …  In addition to experiencing a robust sense of self, we also perceive ourselves to be uncaused causes. When I perform a voluntary act, like reaching out to pick up my coffe mug, I feel as though it is I, myself, that causes the motion. We feel as though we are self–moving beings that are causally undetermined by antecedent events.”

So why does Caruso turn against these libertarian–incompatibilist intuitions? To quote from Jonathan M. S. Pearce’s review, “Caruso characterizes agent–causalism as a theory committed to a dualist picture of the self. And it is this alleged feature of agent–causal strategies that is his main target; he argues that agent–causation involves a violation of physical causal closure (pp. 29-42).” Obviously, it stands to reason that neither Pearce nor Caruso seriously consider the possibility that something like the dualist picture of the self could in fact be true—but we have already seen that this, itself, is a metaphysical question which depends on the truth or falsity of philosophical conceptual claims about the relationship between objectively measurable physical states and subjective states of conscious experience that cannot be established by “data” as such which by definition deals with only one half of this equation. Again summarizing the quotation from William James in the last entry, “In strict science, we can only write down the bare fact of concomitance [between conscious experiences and physical brain states]; and all talk about either production or transmission, as the mode of taking place, is pure superadded hypothesis, and metaphysical hypothesis at that, for we can frame no more notion of the details on the one alternative than on the other. Ask for any indication of the exact process either of transmission or of production, and Science confesses her imagination to be bankrupt.”

But notice that Caruso sees no need to defend the conception he holds of the nature of causal closure, which blithely rules out the possibility of conscious causal efficacy by definition—that this premise is both necessarily true, and necessarily true in a way that rules out the possibility of the dualist picture of the self he claims agent–causal theories depend on is simply taken for granted. And Pearce doesn’t question it either—he simply wonders if Caruso isn’t “sparring with a straw opponent,” because the notion that anyone could actually think with any degree of justification whatsoever that a dualist picture of the self just might be accurate is too absurd to even consider—so Pearce can only wonder if Caruso isn’t making the job too easy by imagining that that’s what his opponent thinks. (I’ll be exploring these arguments from causal closure in more detail later on. Suffice to say for now that I don’t think it’s anywhere near that easy. I stop just short of saying that the principle of causal closure, at least as ordinarily understood, can be downright refuted deductively.)

In any case, the point stands that these are philosophical considerations, and not anything proven by any kind of direct experiment—and notice that Caruso begins addressing them on page 15, well before the first mention of the usual introduction to scientific studies on the topic—the experiments conducted by Benjamin Libet in the 1980’s—begin to appear somewhere past page 100. The account is one which the advocate of agent causation cannot put forward “wholly without embarrassment” because it would “require giving up … one of the core principles of atomistic physicalism”: namely, that all the properties of any given thing are nothing more than the sum of its parts—and the properties which atomistic physicalism supposes the basic “parts” of reality to be composed of are all presumed by definition to be utterly mindless: lacking in intentionality, lacking experientiality, acting blindly as a passive result of inert ‘causes’ rather than ever for positively adopted ‘reasons,’ and so forth. That questioning this premise is deemed to be “embarrassing” for the advocate of agent causation, while no “embarrassment” is supposed to come for the physicalist from the complete and absolute absence of any working account of how anyone might even begin to try to derive those properties from ingredients supposed to be wholly lacking in them (see essays I–V in this series), is less a compelling argument than it is a striking illustration of intellectual fashion’s double standards. The non–physicalist is supposed to feel like a white daughter of the 1950’s confessing to her parents that she thinks she wants to date a black man: “Why, you just ought to feel ashamed of yourself!”—embarrassed for even having had the thought.

A final note: It is not my purpose here to positively “prove” that metaphysical free will does, in fact, exist—that would be too tall an order for an essay even several times this length; not least because even if consciousness is an irreducible phenomena in its own right, as I argue, this still leaves open the hypothetical possibility that consciousness could be “determined” according to its own unique kinds of rules. The question I’m concerned with here is more simply: if you do think your internal experience presents itself as possessing metaphysically free capacities for self–determining choice (and even if you don’t, that simply doesn’t change the fact that a large percentage of people very obviously do), does “science” give you overriding reasons to conclude that this sensation is nothing more than an illusion? If you really don’t share that sensation, or find any interest in the idea that the “scientific” facts may in fact still leave abundant room for the empirical possibility of it, then you can still derive value from this essay by reading them in light of the following question: “If we really should throw out the ordinary concept of free will, should that be for philosophical and conceptual reasons, or because of specific facts which rule out that possibility that have been demonstrated empirically true by ‘science’ without any involvement from or filtering through philosophical interpretations at all?” Either way, my argument is that—contrary to claims popular in some corners—“science” actually demonstrates strikingly little of direct relevance to these questions, either by “empirically” proving the inefficacy or epiphenomenal nature of conscious intention specifically or (as has been argued across the several entries preceding this one) by “empirically” proving the truth of the claim that subjective conscious intentionality and experience is either an epiphenomena of or just “identical to” the brain qua physical object in general: as William James wrote, this is as much a metaphysical hypothesis superimposed upon the mere empirical finding of “concomitance” as any other.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

If asked to describe our own internal experiences of our own “free will,” I think most of us would agree that our phenomenal experiences themselves indicate a difference between on the one hand our choices, and on the other hand our urges. Even those of us who feel as if we truly do have the power to ‘really’ choose between alternative decisions at the very moment of choice very clearly do not feel that we choose the moment when an urge submits itself to our conscious awareness and forces us to make a decision about it. I may believe that I have the power—at any given moment—regardless of the preceding physical states of myself and the world around me—to choose whether to continue writing this post, or to stop and take a break—without believing in any way that I control the moment at which the urge to get up and do something else will become present within my experience. If exploring the phenomenology of free will (e.g., how it ‘appears’ from the ‘inside’) is our goal, then clarifying the distinction between decisions and urges is one of the most rudimentary opening clarifications we ought to make right in the very beginning. And if you want to say that the way people experience the sense of possessing free will is inaccurate, then you have to get what it is that they feel that they experience right first. 

But this is a distinction that can only be made “from the inside.” Scientific investigation can identify physiological correlates with sensations of urge or the feeling of making a decision, but it can’t have any idea at all what sensation it is identifying physiological correlates withunless it relies on trying to correlate that physiology with a subject’s reports about their own internal subjective states. Without the intrinsic involvement of a subject doing their best to report what their own conscious experiences ‘feel like,’ scientific investigation of brain physiology can’t know what part of an individual’s concept of consciousness it is identifying aspects of. It can identify, for example, that activating a certain part of the visual cortex leads in turn to the activation of the amygdala and then leads to sweating, release of adrenaline, and so forth—but unless it relies on the subjective reports of an individual describing their own internal states of consciousness, it can’t know that “when you turned that thing on, it made me start flashing back to childhood traumas, and visualizing that made me start to panic.”

Without continually referring back to the subjective reports by subjects of their own internal states of consciousness, it would have been a mystery why activating that same location in a second subject instead lead to a release of endorphins—until they said, “when you turned that thing on, it made me start flashing back to how wonderful my childhood was, and visualizing that made me feel comforted”—and from here, we could infer that the region of the brain we were activating was probably linked to childhood experience. Now you may be thinking we could have found that the region of neurons in question which were being activated in the experiment are in some way connected to neurons that grow in either a healthy or deformed way during childhood, without relying on any subjective reports—but we just as easily could go on to find that in an equal number of subjects with childhood trauma, stimulating that part of the brain doesn’t lead to activation of the amygdala at all.And once again, we simply would have no way to form a clue about what was happening unless the subject said, “My childhood was so traumatic that I learned how to just deaden myself and stop feeling emotions at all.”

Again, you might propose that we could have identified historical differences between those subjects with traumatic childhoods in which the amygdala was activated and those with traumatic childhoods in which it was not which correlated with their “learning to stop feeling emotions,” but for any such account you might give, there is always some report that could be given that would potentially undermine that whole account (we’ve just given two examples), and you would simply have no reason to think that this had been the right place to look if you had not had the subjective report itself. Why wouldn’t you have hypothesized that the subjects with traumatic childhoods whose amygdalas did not activate were simply born with less interconnected amygdalas—a physical fact that would have nothing to do with their “response” to the trauma they went through? If you assume that the proper, correct answer would have to be in terms of the purely physical properties of the brain and that the “response” could not be a directly conscious choice of action on the part of the subject, but could only be their way of describing how what their brain, qua physical process, was doing ‘felt like’ after the fact, then you are making the philosophical assumption that epiphenomenalism is true. But there are overwhelmingly good philosophical reasons to think that epiphenomenalism is false—if it were true, then we wouldn’t even be capable of making ‘reports’ about what our conscious states of experience ‘felt like,’ because the brains that produce both our thoughts and capacity for verbal speech would have none of the capacity for causal contact with those epiphenomenal experiences that would be required in principle for it to “know” anything whatsoever about them at all. Likewise, if your answer is that it is merely an epistemological limitation that we have to rely on the reports of subjects because we can’t possibly have all the relevant physical facts, then like it or not, this is an inadvertent confession that the idea that the physical facts (construed, again, in purely mechanistic terms) would be sufficient to explain the phenomena in question is not something you “empirically” know.

Perhaps some day we will gain the ability to reconstruct what someone is visualizing simply by taking a measurement of their brain state and mapping that activity out to convert it directly into an image—but if we ever reach that day, it will only be because we spent a long stretch of time learning what brain states correlate with which aspects of subjectively experienced qualitative imagery by relying on subjects’ subjective reports in order to establish the brute facts about these correlations. This returns us, of course, to the general points established in the core philosophical part of this series in essays (IV) and (V) about qualitative experience and intentionality: physical states, qua physical states, simply are never “about” anything at all. And knowledge of physical causation cannot, in principle, give us direct knowledge about the qualitative state of subjective experience. Simply looking at the brain as a physical object doesn’t give us any reason to think any sort of stream of experience is taking place “inside of” it at all, and if we did not have the example of our own first–hand case to inform us that there appears to be some sort of correlation between subjective states of experience and physical states of brains, we would have no reason to make the inference into assuming any experiences were even happening to start with.

Not only can purely physical information not tell us what someone is experiencing, unless we already have a brute set of correlations between physical states and subjective experiences to go on which was necessarily established either by (1) first–hand knowledge of our own consciousness or (2) second–hand reports from someone else about their states of consciousness to begin with (the “knowledge argument” about “qualia”), but purely physical information cannot tell us what someone is thinking “about,” either (the “knowledge argument” applied to intentionality—see: What is it Like to be  Human (Instead of a Bat)? by Lawrence BonJour, or Bill Vallicella’s summaries of it here in Intentionality Not a ‘Hard Problem’ for Physicalists? and here in BonJour on Intentionality and Materialism). Consciousness is fundamentally and thoroughly composed of both phenomenal experience ‘on the edges’ and intentionalistic thought (which is also phenomenal) ‘at its core’—but physicalism cannot account for so much as the existence of either; and knowledge about the physical details of physical states cannot give us knowledge about the details of either[2], either—not unless we first rely on a subject’s verbal reports about their own internal state, and then simply accept whatever correlations we might happen to find between physical states and second–hand reports of intentional and experiential states as brute facts. But it simply is not clear what it is that finding these correlations establishes—not until we start the incredibly complicated intellectual work of trying very carefully to interpret them—which is fundamentally a philosophical project.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

 The story of “scientific” refutation of the possibility of free will begins in the 1980’s, with the scientific studies conducted by Benjamin Libet. Though now more than three decades old, these experiments still carry a large bulk of the “scientific” analysis of the implausibility of free will. In (New Atheist and practicing neuroscientist) Sam Harris’ 2012 book Free Will, he writes: “The physiologist Benjamin Libet famously used EEG to show that activity in the brain’s motor cortex can be detected some 300 milliseconds before a person feels that he has decided to move. Another lab extended this work using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI): Subjects were asked to press one of two buttons while watching a “clock” composed of a random sequence of letters appearing on the screen. They reported which letter was visible at the moment they decided to press one button or the other. . . . One fact now seems indisputable: Some moments before you are aware of what you will do next—a time in which you subjectively appear to have complete freedom to behave however you please—your brain has already determined what you will do. You then become conscious of this “decision” and believe that you are in the process of making it.”

Daniel Wegner is one of the most prominent social psychologists known for his continuation of experiments aiming to prove this general sort of idea. In his discussion of Libet’s experiments in the 2002 The Illusion of Conscious Will, he explains the picture of mind that he still believes the Libet experiments prove: “Does the compass steer the ship? … [not] in any physical sense. The needle is just gliding around in the compass housing, doing no actual steering at all. It is thus tempting to relegate the little magnetic pointer to the class of epiphenomena — things that don’t really matter in determining where the ship will go. Conscious will is the mind’s compass.” In other words, preceding unconscious brain events are the cause of both our future behaviors, and our later, illusory experience of making the “choice” of those behaviors over others—it isn’t even that our experiences of choice are determined; they’re also completely superfluous to the chain of events that even lead to the actual action which we associate with the experience of choice.

How well–justified is this claim? A variety of criticisms could and have been leveled at these experiments, but I want to focus on just one of them—one I consider most obviously decisive and fatal. I argued earlier that one of the most rudimentary distinctions we should make if we want to think seriously about the way ‘free will’ seems is between urges and decisions. The set–up of the Libet experiments looses this distinction completely.

To repeat the explanation in my words, the Libet–type experiments first have a subject sit down in front of a clock, while hooked up to an EEG (or fMRI). Then, they explicitly instruct that subject to perform some simple motor activity at random—absolutely nothing is at stake in the decision; there is no goal to achieve, there are no values or variables to weigh or choose between, and no number of button presses or wrist–flicks is too high or too low. There is no way to “win,” there is no way to “fail,” and there are no alternative outcomes in the experiment for the subject to pick between. With absolutely no goals or constraints, subjects in these experiments are told to sit back and perform a perfectly purposeless motion at random for which they have absolutely no reason in principle to choose one moment over another.

Stop right there.

What do you expect might happen if you were to do that? Imagine being told to spend several minutes flipping your hand back and forth from palm–up to palm–down at random. What do you think that might feel like? For just a moment, allow yourself to pause and imagine it—or even perform the experiment (presumably minus electrodes)—before continuing.

The shocking, startling discovery these experiments find is that when test subjects tell the conductors where the clock was when they “decided” to move, there was a type of activity they designated the “readiness potential” in the brain already detectably building in the milliseconds leading up to the moment they became aware of having made the “decision” to move.

Quite simply, without even touching any of the many other angles of critique that these arguments face at all: Why should anyone interpret this as the subconscious generation of the decision itself to begin with? The answer is a plain and straightforward: they shouldn’t. What does it feel like when you set the general intention to perform a purposeless movement at random? It feels like setting the intention to sit back and allow the urge to move to randomly appear, and then waiting for it—and then moving when it occurs. Does that not in fact feel exactly like waiting for a physical “urge” to appear before acting on it? So why should the fact that a kind of brain activity precedes the decision in this very peculiar kind of case lead us in any way to even suspect on this basis that decisions in general are determined by preceding unconscious brain activity?

If anything, even those of us who think that the nature of first–hand experience offers prima facie justification for the belief that we might have the metaphysical kind of free will, sheer introspection alone should have led us to expect something like this: when we ride a bike, or type a sentence on a keyboard, or learn to play the guitar, it feels one way to initially learn how to perform the action, and it feels another way to perform once having learned. When I am learning to play the guitar, it feels as though I have to consciously deliberate each distinct individual action of placing my middle finger on the third fret of the bottom E string, my index finger on the second fret of the A string, and my ring finger on the third fret of the top E string; and then to move my middle finger to the second fret of the G string, my index finger to the second fret of the top E string, and my ring finger to the third fret of the B string; and then to move my middle finger to the second fret of the A string and my ring finger to the second fret of the D string. (Tedious!) With a little more practice, this begins to feel like “setting the intention to strum a G chord,” and then “setting the intention to strum a D chord,” and then “setting the intention to strum an Em chord” and allowing my hands to automatically fill in the rest—and with a little more practice, it simply feels like “setting the intention to play Freebird.” The more, in other words, that I consciously practice these motions, the less it feels as though I need to consciously deliberate each individual step—the more that the execution of the action becomes “automatic.” If neuroscience were to find that conscious deliberation plays no role the motion from G chord to D chord to Em when Gary Rossington plays the chords to Freebird, would that undercut anyone’s ordinary concept of free will in any way at all? I think not. And we shouldn’t look at cases where people are explicitly asked to sit passively and respond to random urges any differently—setting the general intention “to play Freebird” in advance and then allowing the details to physically carry through is no different in essence from setting the general intention “to flip my arm over at random, whenever I feel the urge” and then allowing those details to continue to physically carry through. I’ve already done the important intention setting at the point at which I decided either to begin playing Freebird, or chosen to walk inside Libet’s lab and passively follow his instructions. Anything that follows next is just quite simply categorically different—even at the most basic, subjective phenomenal level—from the kind of decision I made, at the beginning of either of these processes, to begin them.

There are, again, several other lines of critique that could be taken against drawing the determinist implications from Libet experiments—not least amongst them is that Libet himself went on to argue that we do in fact have the capacity to either allow the readiness potential to go through or to “veto” it even within the context of his own peculiar kinds of experiments (which in and of itself sounds like a confirmation of the fact that the “readiness potential” does not measure the decision itself but only a physical urge which is later decided upon). But I neither want nor need to explore that issue in the detail required here: anything further than this is simply an attempt to starve a dead horse to death. No matter what might hold true about the details of Libet–type experiments, there is just quite simply no reason nor justification for generalizing what happens when people are explicitly told to sit back and allow themselves to passively act on urges at random to what we should expect to hold true in any other sort of conscious state where decision plays a more active role at all—even if the situation is as, or more, dire in those conditions than Libet thought. The fact that a point this basic was so deeply missed by a study still hailed today as one of the most powerful pieces of “evidence” for the “scientific” impossibility of free will should give you some solid impressions about the quality of reasoning we’re dealing with when “science” is claimed to prove answers to philosophical questions about the nature of mind.

In conjunction with his claim about Benjamin Libet, you may have noticed that Sam Harris immediately followed up with a statement about “another lab [that] extended this work using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI)….” The lab he refers to is Chun Siong Soon’s[3], and the summary of the 2008 study published in Nature Neuroscience can be seen here. While the activity measured in this study was still, as before, purposeless, with no goals or constrains, it did change one substantial thing. According to the way Soon (et al.) summarized their own research—in a summary paper titled “Unconscious Determinants of Free Decisions in the Brain”—“There has been a long controversy as to whether subjectively ‘free’ decisions are determined by brain activity ahead of time. We found that the outcome of a decision can be encoded in brain activity of prefrontal and parietal cortex up to 10 s before it enters awareness.” The actual point this new study was supposed to add to the already–existent debate was that it was supposed to establish the capacity of these scientific measurements to predict not just the general timing of a single choice, but now in fact which of two—count them, two—equally meaningless choices the subject would choose between. And the conclusions we are supposed to draw from this are, again, wide–reaching—returning to the summary from Harris: “One fact now seems indisputable: Some moments before you are aware of what you will do next—a time in which you subjectively appear to have complete freedom to behave however you please—your brain has already determined what you will do. You (only) then become conscious of this “decision” and believe (falsely) that you (“you”) are in the process of making it.”

What do the particular new facts drawn by this study add to the picture? There is one thing that neither Harris’ reference to this study, nor Soon (et al.)’s own summary of it in Nature Neuroscience, will clearly tell you—quoting Alfred Mele: “ … the predictions are accurate only 60 percent of the time. Using a coin, I can predict with 50–percent accuracy which button a participant will press next. And if the person agrees not to press a button for a minute (or an hour), I can make my predictions a minute (or an hour) in advance. I come out 10 points worse in accuracy, but I win big in terms of time. So what is indicated by the neural activity that Soon and colleagues measured? My money is on a slight unconscious bias toward a particular button—a bias that may give the participant about a 60–percent chance of pressing that button next.”

Notably, this 60–percent figure is a drop from a predictive value of 80–90% in cases where the moment chosen to commit a single predefined action—such as Libet’s wrist–rotating—is what is being predicted in the study. Even with the increased understanding of neurophysiology developed over the past handful of decades, and even with refined neuroimaging techniques, the predictive power of the “readiness potential” in this study still immediately drops by 20%—down to fairly little over chance—with even a slight shift of the design of the experiment towards something that comes even marginally closer to resembling the kinds of decisions in which we actually deliberate—and feel as if we deliberate freely—over a choice.

But yet again, even if the predictive value of the “readiness potential” in these expanded cases were 100%, why should even that have concerned me? When I go into Soon’s laboratory, I am walking in deliberately setting the conscious intention in advance to sit back and think about nothing other than letting myself push either one or the other button at random—and absolutely nothing weighs on the decision; I am by definition putting myself in the peculiar conscious state of waiting to act on a random urge. Even with this meaningless “choice” between two absolutely meaningless options added to the scenario, it doesn’t even feel like the kind of deliberation that subjectively presents itself as containing the power to do otherwise. I am setting the conscious intention to sit back and act randomly on one or the other urge—which, no less, it even feels as though I am willing the generation of in the first place—in other words, the act of choice that actually seems to present itself as feeling as if it possesses the metaphysical kind of freedom seems to be my decision to activate a program that says something to my body like: “you, allow meaningless urges to generate at random”, and to my brain something like: “and you, be prepared to act on them after they appear.”

The skeptic might scoff at this description of how I think things ‘seem’ ‘from the inside,’ and ridicule my ‘assumption’ that how things ‘feel’ could possibly be any indication of how reality actually is at all. But if so, this would just exactly illustrate the very central fallacy I’ve accused him of: the use of experiments like those conducted by Libet to argue that the phenomonology of decision–making is illusory has been “scientifically” proven simply does not treat that phenomenology seriously in the first place—and given how poorly, unfairly, and inaccurately it does so, we in turn are left with no reason to take the claim seriously that it proves that that phenomenology is delusional.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

A future post will address the conceptual issues involved in the coherency of the basic notion of metaphysical free will, as well as the question of what the practical implications of reaching either conclusion might be, and add some more details on the “science” of free will beyond Libet by discussing The Illusion of Conscious Will from Daniel Wegner. But the general point involved in both the conceptual and the “scientific” rejection of free will is quite the same: its plausibility stands or falls with the fall or stand of the premise of “atomistic physicalism.” I have argued throughout this series that not only do we have not half as much epistemic justification for believing “atomistic physicalism” to be true as is often implied—“science” most certainly has not empirically proven it; a set of philosophical assumptions through which certain findings of science are interpreted, or through which it is assumed that if a principle performs a useful methodological role in scientific investigation, then we can be guaranteed that it represents a universal metaphysical principle that holds inviolable in all places and times are in fact what are doing all the work—but in fact that there are systematic reasons for thinking any such account must necessarily fail in principle, in just the same way that attempts to draw three–dimensional figures on flat two–dimensional canvases will no matter how creative “empirical” attempts to accomplish it might ever even conceivably become.

It is not so much that neuroscientific experiments like these convince people on the sheer basis of the data they’ve collected alone that metaphysical free will is an empirical impossibility. It is much rather that they hold the philosophical view from the outset that it can’t be possible, because the mind just can’t be like that—and with this premise held in place, it is simply a matter of filling in the details about how choice is determined—but this underlying view is in turn far from proven by “science” either—recall the words of William James: “If we are talking of science positively understood, function can mean nothing more than bare concomitant variation. When the brain–activities change in one way, consciousness changes in another; when the currents pour through the occipital lobes, consciousness sees things; when through the lower frontal region, consciousness says things to itself; when they stop, she goes to sleep, etc. In strict science, we can only write down the bare fact of concomitance; and all talk about either production or transmission, as the mode of taking place, is pure superadded hypothesis, and metaphysical hypothesis at that, for we can frame no more notion of the details on the one alternative than on the other.”

The idea that the possibility of metaphysical free will is ruled out by “science” ultimately rests on interpretation of that scientific data which is drawn from the assumption being held from the outset that the conception of the nature of consciousness required to ground it is ruled out by “science”—but this, too, quite simply rests on extrapolations from what “science,” properly understood, actually informs us is so which are performed with the crucial aid of philosophical assumptions which we have every right to subject to philosophical criticism. Given that it cannot actually be demonstrated—the only kind of evidence that does, or could, exist for it directly is in principle subjective, and a skeptical hypothesis where for example the actions of consciousness may simply be determined by a unique and inscrutable set of non–physical laws can be made—metaphysical free will is not the place I would choose to stake the debate against physicalism.

However, in a cumulative case, this series has argued that physicalism cannot account for any aspect of what we actually are, because it cannot account for any aspect of the conscious experiences that we both exist within and infer the very existence of a physical universe through, in principle—consciousness is essentially composed of qualitative experiences through–and–through, with intentionalistic states of conceptual thought “about” that world of experiences in its center—and an extremely important fact about these states that is revealed about them from the direct data available immediately within them is that they come in diachronically unified, fluid and unbroken streams—our experiences, quite simply, flow, and our experiences themselves reveal this to us directly as an immediate piece of data about them—and it is in this self–evident experiential unity across time that our personal identities are found.

Together, these three aspects comprise everything that we are: temporally unified streams of subjective, qualitative experience engaging in representational, conceptual thought “about” the qualitative world we feel, taste, and qualitatively experience around us—and if physicalism supposes by assumption that atomistic forces lacking which have no properties other than those responsible for predisposing them towards various inert patterns of blind motion throughout space, then it defines the world in a way that renders it incapable in principle of accounting either for these qualitative nature of these experiences, the intentionalistic nature of these thoughts, or the temporal unity of the fluid stream composed of both.

Yet, the image which physicalism presents to us of the ultimate nature of the world—with the properties which physicalism attributes to the physical world and restricts the physical world to possessing are—is in fact an idea which we formulated as an intentionalistic, representational concept purely to explain certain aspects of the nature of these very qualitative experiences. Physicalism, in postulating that blind and inert physical processes are the sole bedrock ingredient making up reality, cuts itself off in principle from any capacity whatsoever to explain the existence of the very phenomena which ever caused any of us to have the intentionalistic thought to posit the conceptual idea that blind and inert physical processes lying somewhere inscrutably behind our qualitative experiences even exist in the first place. If our subjective, first–hand conscious experiences also indicate that consciousness is capable of making active choices between truly metaphysically open and real alternatives, and the notion that the world is built out of nothing other than blind and inert physical processes invalidates this possibility, then this is simply additional circumstantial evidence that physicalism ultimately eliminates everything that makes us what we are and grounds what most of us care about. In any case, the crux will follow from where you come down on these philosophical preceding questions; and once you have those settled, “science” actually adds surprisingly little—in fact, practically nothing—into the picture, in striking contrast to the extravagance of many popular claims.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

[1] Alfred Mele thinks that a particular, very strong kind of study the likes of which has not in fact been conducted yet could potentially rule out the possibility of metaphysical free will, by proving that decisions are in fact 100% predictable well in advance before the individual is consciously aware of his decision, and he explains in comments that this is why he asked that his publisher change the title of his 2014 book Free from “Why Science Can’t Disprove Free Will” to “Why Science Hasn’t Disproven Free Will.” There is a certain kind of truth to this, and I think Mele chose the better rhetorical route, as well. But notice: even if actions are 100% predictable from preceding causes, this still simply does not rule out the possibility that it is freely activated conscious intentions which in the end finalize the decision to act—for it could still simply be that peoples’ free decisions are easy to guess when you understand the matrix of conditions within which they are choosing between the options facing them. Put it this way: if we can predict that 100% of people who are starving and given the option to eat or starve to death are going to choose the latter, or that 100% who are given a choice between fillet mignon and rotting roadkill possum will choose the former, our ability to predict their decision still does not prove that the decision they made was not made with a metaphysical capacity to have chosen otherwise. If it turns out that we could measure the urges forming in a person’s brain before these percolate up into conscious awareness and from these predict what urges people are going to act on, this may be different in degree but not in kind from situations like those just mentioned. Impressions to the contrary result from the fact that determinism entails that events should be predictable in principle; the fall of a row of dominos is determined, and therefore it is possible in principle for me to predict in advance exactly when and how the seventh domino is going to fall after I push the first one with a given velocity and angle of physical force. But this does not mean that determinism equals predictability in principle [PIP]. PIP is true if determinism is true, but PIP is not true if and only if determinism is true—in other words, even though PIP would follow from determinism is being true, the truth of PIP would not entail that determinism is true, because determinism is not the only way to get predictability.

This is analogous to saying: If (claim A) someone broke into my home and stole my keys last night, then (claim B) this morning my keys would not be where I thought I left them on the table yesterday, and (claim B”) my keys are not where I thought I left them on the table yesterday, therefore (claim A”) someone broke into my home and stole my keys last night. The step from claim B” to claim A” is fallacious, even though the step from claim A to claim B is valid, because claim A is not the only way that claim B could be true. Claim B could also be true if, for example, I did not in fact put my keys where I thought I put them on the table yesterday, and in fact I put them somewhere else and have misremembered.

To return to the case, it could simply be that people so rarely choose to act contrary to their impulses that prediction of behavior is almost always possible by measuring the impulses gathering in formation subconsciously anyway. This might make the possibility of the existence of metaphysical free will ‘trivial’ for practical intents and purposes, yes—but it still simply would not settle the metaphysical question itself, any more than an empirical limitation to our ability to try to predict future behavior (say, because there are certain levels of activity in the brain which we just can’t accurately scientifically measure) would settle the metaphysical question in favor of the existence of free will (although it might similarly make the possibility of the truth of determinism ‘trivial’ for practical intents and purposes, as well). Empirical data can only settle the question of how predictable behavior is—but either way that that question is answered, the answer simply doesn’t settle the question of why it is or isn’t predictable, and whether any part of the true full explanation of that answer does (or could) involve metaphysical free will.

I think Mele chose the right rhetorical path, because saying that science “can’t” disprove free will might sound superficially to an uninitiated audience like a retreat in reaction to the fact that science seems to have disproven free will insofar as empirical evidence could possibly make the potential existence of free will look implausible, and Mele’s choice of title shifts emphasis onto the fact that the scientific evidence hasn’t even come close to properly doing this yet. But even in the most severe cases, the metaphysical question of free will still simply stands logically independent of anything empirical evidence is capable of revealing about the matter one way or another—even where in the most severe cases certain empirical answers could make certain metaphysical answers either “look implausible” or just seem irrelevant for the particular practical intents and purposes we happen to be most concerned about. The question may get less and less interesting as some reasons for considering it interesting would progressively vanish the closer empirical evidence came to confirming these kinds of claims, but even when we go all the way to a hypothetical extreme which evidence has come nowhere close to confirming yet, and the question becomes the least interesting it can get, this still doesn’t alter the fundamental logical independence of philosophical interpretive lenses from the empirical data so filtered. The philosophical interpretive lenses still determine how that empirical data is filtered, and still cannot be strictly determined by the empirical data itself.

[2] I don’t intend to endorse knowledge arguments as stand–alone arguments here. I explained in a recent entry why I strategically avoided framing my arguments against the physical reducibility of qualitative subjective consciousness in terms of the “zombie argument.” I think knowledge arguments face similar strategic issues—so even though I think they go through, for the most part I think they go through because I accept these other supporting arguments. In other words, I think the points argued by these arguments are sound—it’s just that, dialectically, they’re not “where it’s at.” I add this footnote because I don’t want anyone to get the impression that they’re in and of themselves my reason for thinking these points hold. However, because I endorse all the arguments I have made up to here, I think the truth of these arguments follows.

[3] In the Harris excerpt I read, a mention of the Soon studies followed the break after this paragraph. He may have been referring to the studies of Haggard and Eimer in this part which preceded the break, but in any case, Soon’s is one of the most recent modern “replications” of this kind of finding.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Further Reading:

Free will debates: Simple experiments are not so simple (

A (Philosophical) Zombie Survival Guide

(Note: this entry is still in rough draft form.)

In my own essay IV where I argued my position on why subjective experience can’t be given any physicalist analysis in principle, I avoided any mention of “zombie arguments” by name completely. There are enough confusions about what the purposes of zombie arguments are, and how it is that they’re supposed to achieve them that I thought I could make my own points—which are in the end the same points that the “zombie arguments” ultimately get at—more efficiently simply without even invoking them and then setting up the task for myself of cleaning out all of their baggage. As a supplementary note for any interested readers, however, I’d like to do so in this separate footnote. In part, this will be a clarification of a few things that “zombie arguments” are and are not supposed to do; in part, it will be a clarification of where exactly I see them fitting into my own argument.

To begin, I want to offer a quick overview of the major misconceptions. For now, you’ll just have to take my word for it that they are, in fact, misconceived—the reasons why will become clearer and clearer as my explanation proceeds into what they actually try to do; what I think they can do much more effectively if we make certain small tweaks to the way the argument is presented that can get us around some massively irritating, excessively abstract technical quagmires that the argument often ends up in; and as I explain the arguments which I think get down to the root of what the “zombie arguments” actually want to say without those problems. In short, I think that the zombie arguments are sound—but I think they are a terrible strategic choice for making the conclusion they aim to prove “make sense” to the person whose position they reject. The argument has become hopelessly abstract, muddled by sub–arguments about things like the relationship between logical and metaphysical “possibility”—things I’m willing to bet that no one on Earth actually wants to talk about, and things I’d wager probably no one—I’d wager not even a philosopher—can actually reach any clearly understood conclusions in their mind by thinking about. But I think the argument doesn’t need to be this abstract. With only a few minor tweaks and clarifications, the issue can very easily become a lot more straightforward—and easier to understand—while still doing everything that the standard zombie argument ordinarily tries to achieve.

If conceptual clarity—turning “knowledge” into “understanding,” in P. M. S. Hacker’s words—is the goal of philosophy, then philosophers have been failing their job atrociously. Philosophy does, of course, require the invention of new and sometimes complex terminology in order to clarify the language we use to talk about concepts; ordinary language is often muddled and imprecise, and it is sometimes the needed task of philosophy to recalibrate it with clearer distinctions than everyday language ordinarily has—but it should aim for as much simplicity and clarity as possible except where abstract terminology is actually needed to make a point. If philosophy can’t learn to communicate clearly with non–philosophers, then the fault is not all on non–philosophical disciplines or the laity if the latter end up ignoring philosophy’s insights. And in ordinary formulations of the zombie argument, technical complications—much like the walking dead themselves—well outlive their actual usefulness.

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⌦ One of the most common misconceptions is that these arguments somehow either imply, try to prove, or rely on the assumption that zombies should actually be possible—taking the word “possible” to mean “actually possible in our particular world, under the peculiar laws of our particular world, whatever they are.” Not only is this misconception widely prevalent in countless “amateur” discussions I’ve seen firsthand (someone recently told me: “You also take as granted that zombies could exist, and behave exactly as if they were sentient, without being sentient. We have no experimental data to back this. …  I don’t think that zombies can exist. But … that is an experimental issue.”), it also exists in the literature.

⌦ The most significant complication that results from the way the argument is formulated is that, at least as Chalmers presents it, it requires justifying a premise which Chalmers defines as so: “If it is conceivable that there be zombies, it is metaphysically possible that there be zombies.” This, in turn, invites room for a complicated debate over the relationship between prima facie conceivability, logical conceivability, logical possibility, metaphysically possibility, and any number of related concepts that may or may not collapse into others that muddles the entire debate in hopelessly arcane abstraction. I doubt that anyone—even a philosopher—can reach clear conclusions in their mind by reasoning through concepts like these, and I’m equally confident that no one actually holds any intrinsic interest in that sort of conversation in the first place—but I think the argument can be only slightly reformulated in a very simple way that entirely avoids any need for any premise of this sort. 

⌦ One unnecessary complication that follows from the way that the argument is formulated is that it leads to the assumption that we have to imagine the possibility of zombies that behave exactly identical to the human beings that exist in our world. A corollary that follows from this confusion is the deeper confusion that the zombie argument could only succeed at establishing its point if epiphenomenalism were true—that is, the critic reasons that we could coherently imagine “zombies” who behave exactly as we do without having conscious experiences or intentions in the way required for the argument to go through only if conscious intention and experience played no role in our behavior.

⌦ Finally, the most basic objection is that the argument merely begs the question, because if physicalism is true, then zombies aren’t ‘metaphysically possible’ after all. I want to set the tone for that discussion with a quote from Dmitry Sepety: “Typically, begging the question is described as an “informal fallacy where the conclusion that one is attempting to prove is included in the initial premise of an argument, often in an indirect way that conceals this fact”. However, such a definition creates the problem of interpretation: how are we to understand the statement what in an argument, the conclusion is included in the initial premise in an indirect way that conceals this fact? The problem arises because in a sense, any valid argument (an argument where the conclusion logically follows from the premises) contains the conclusion in the conjunction of its premises; otherwise, it would be impossible to (validly) draw the conclusion. Logic is not a hocus-pocus: you cannot draw a “rabbit” from a “logical box”, if it is not there. That is why some logicians say that all valid arguments beg the question. However, if this is the case, then, obviously, begging the question cannot be a fallacy. On the other hand, if begging the question is a fallacy, then for an argument to beg the question, it is not sufficient that its conclusion is contained in the conjunction of its premises—some further conditions are needed. What are these conditions?”

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To start with, arguments from the conceivability of zombies have nothing to do with any notion that zombies should actually be possible in our actual world, given whatever particular laws or kinds of entities it actually has. This particular kind of “possibility” is what Chalmers refers to as either “natural possibility” or “nomological possibility” (the term “nomological” refers to the laws of nature). In Consciousness and Its Place In NatureChalmers plainly states: “Zombies are probably not naturally possible: they probably cannot exist in our world, with its laws of nature.” It couldn’t get any more clear than that.

“But the argument holds that zombies could have existed”—and pay very close attention to the phrase he follows this up with: “perhaps in a very different sort of universe.” The argument does not make any assumptions either about what kind of universe we are actually in, or about what kind of properties the stuff we think of as “physical” could perhaps surprisingly turn out to possess. It just says we can imagine worlds with physical properties like ours without being thereby logically compelled to assume that the entities that exist in that world have conscious experiences. And we most certainly can do this—even if it should turn out that all we’re really doing when we do this is abstracting away from the material entities our world actually has whatever properties it is in virtue of which they actually do end up producing consciousness.

In contrast, consider the relationship between the macro–behavior of water and the micro–behavior of molecules of H2O: you can’t conceive of a world that has H2O that behaves like the H2O in our world without thereby imagining a world that has water that behaves like the water in our world. If you imagine a world that has H2O that behaves exactly like the H2O in our world, you are logically compelled to imagine that the water in that world behaves exactly like the water in our world—because the fact that molecules of H2O form loose bonds (for example) just is demonstrably identical to the fact that solid objects ‘sink’ when placed in water—by slipping through the gaps in those molecular bonds. To spell this out in the most simplified possible terms, I can bring you with me to a giant chalkboard and draw a giant close–up view of the molecular interactions between molecules of H2O and molecules of some other substance slipping through the gaps between them. Then, I can bring you some twenty yards or so back away from the chalkboard, and you will see that what you have just drawn is literally “something sinking in water”—and you will see that there can be no other way.

On the other hand, I can draw all the neuronal interactions defined in external, objective physical terms I like, and no matter how detailed that drawing gets, there is no distance I can stand from that drawing at which I will suddenly see a subjective, privately experienced qualitative representation of something other than those interactions themselves “inside of” those interactions. No one has even the faintest hint of a clue how to so much as even begin hypothesizing about how such a thing might be the result of inert causal interactions of any kind whatsoever—not the slightest pitiful speck of progress has been made on that question since Leibniz posed it in 1714 when he wrote that: “ … perception, and that which depends on it, are inexplicable by mechanical causes, that is, by figures and motions, And, supposing that there were a mechanism so constructed as to think, feel and have perception, we might enter it as into a mill. And this granted, we should only find on visiting it, pieces which push one against another, but never anything by which to explain a perception.”

As I wrote in my essay (IV) — The Case of the Lunatic Fish, “We aren’t merely failing to see how an explanation from tools like these could be possible; we can positively see that an explanation of a phenomena like this with tools like this cannot be possible—in just the same way that we can see that a two–dimensional canvas is not capable in principle of allowing us to draw a three–dimensional object on its flat surface. Picture all the blind physical entities you like moving in any inert causal pattern you wish—at no point are you just going to be literally looking at a subjective private conscious experience. You don’t have to sit and contemplate the entire near–infinite combination of ways to picture blind physical forces moving through space in order to see why” — any more than you need to spend centuries drawing lines every which conceivable way on the flat canvas to justify the determined conclusion that getting any three–dimensional figure onto its surface is going to be, in principle, utterly impossible — “It’s right there contained within the very concepts themselves.”

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Notice, again, that Chalmers is not presupposing that the world is necessarily purely mechanistic in this way. What the argument aims to establish is simply that if it were purely mechanistic, then consciousness as we know it could not have appeared. Perhaps you might think this is true, but trivial—because no real materialist actually thinks the world is just made up of blind forces exerting causal influence over each other and nothing else.

Great! Chalmers doesn’t have to disagree, and the logic of the argument doesn’t imply that he should. The argument is not meant to settle the entire investigation; it merely aims to establish a sensible starting point: “If the world was like that, then consciousness as we know it could not exist. Alright, so what does the world have to be like, then? What—upon adding it in—would alter that picture in such a way as to render it intelligible that consciousness does in fact appear?”

For his part, Chalmers goes on to consider panpsychism—in other words, the possibility that the entire physical world might be full of experience all the way down to its most fundamental core—as a possible solution; and his ultimate answer is to suggest that we must simply posit a brute set of “psycho–physical” laws determining what experiences are had in our world alongside the ordinary “physical” laws determining what causal events take place. Both of these proposals work exactly by trying to find some way to suppose that the actual natural world we live in is not as the zombie argument itself has us imagine it might conceivably have been!

I happen to think that both of these solutions also fail in principle (panpsychism for reasons I explained in entry (VII) and Chalmers’ psychophysical law posit for reasons I haven’t discussed yet) and that the only plausible answer turns out to be that the thing we need to add to the picture is just simply consciousness itself—consciousness conceived as a basic phenomena in the same sense in which, say, the electromagnetic force is considered to be “basic” (see entry (III)) with a unique, basic defining nature of its own (represented in such concepts as subjectivity; intentionality—see entry (V); primitive identity—see entry (VI)—etc.) But either way, the point here is that as soon as Chalmers, I, or anyone else turns to consideration of these possible solutions or any others, we are moving beyond the zombie argument itself. 

So the idea that zombie arguments beg the question against materialism in the sense that they make assumptions about the internal composition of the material entities in our world and therefore rule out the possibility of the “emergence” of consciousness from “matter” out of hand because of this assumption rests on an absolutely fundamental misconception about the nature of the argument. This is simply not what the argument is actually even trying to do.

The point is not that we can conceive of worlds with material entities which are necessarily in all possible respects exactly identical to ours which do not have conscious entities by consequences, and that this is supposed to prove that nothing about the composition of our own material world as it is could potentially explain consciousness (not, at least, so far as the zombie argument itself goes); Chalmers is always intent to clarify that his only premise is that zombies are conceivable “perhaps in a very different kind of world”—so it is simply false to say that it begs the question because materialism implies that the material entities in our world produce consciousness as a logical consequence of their intrinsic composition. The point is simply that we can conceive of worlds that have only the causal mechanistic properties that the material entities in our worlds have—leaving entirely aside whether or not these causal mechanistic properties are the only kinds of properties that the material entities in our world actually have—without it following as any logically entailed consequence that subjective conscious experiences therefore exist. Even if the material entities in our world do have properties other than the raw causal mechanistic properties of physics, we can conceive of a world where they have only these properties.

So the conclusion properly drawn from this is that it cannot be in virtue of those causal mechanistic properties that subjective conscious experience exists. Perhaps, so far as the zombie argument itself is concerned, there are some entirely different sort of properties which the material entities in our world possess in virtue of which the appearance of subjective conscious experience out of such ingredients can be rendered intelligible. If so, of course, we should be able to specify what they are, or might be—and the debate can move on from there. But the actual premise here does not beg the question against the particular premise by which materialism assumes that consciousness will appear by logical necessity in light of some facts about the material entities in our world. The materialist himself, of course, does not think that causal mechanical properties logically necessitate the appearance of subjective conscious experiences either—and this is given by the fact that he himself thinks that atoms (or whatever micro–physical entities you may wish to substitute) are capable of possessing causal mechanical properties without having subjective conscious experiences.

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What would “moving forward from here” have to entail? First, I want to emphasize yet again that the moment I begin to discuss this question, I am moving on from the zombie argument itself. Still, I want to give the outline of my own answer.

To begin with, I think we have to establish the following premise “ … the plainest thing in the world to see is that the question of whether something is an experience or not is absolutely binary: the answer is either “yes” or “no,” and there are absolutely no steps in–between the two. The question of when a pile of sand goes from being a “heap” of sand to becoming a “mountain,” for example, is one that has rough edges: at exactly which point in the process of removing singular grains of sand from a “mountain” has it devolved into a “heap?” At exactly which point in the process of adding singular grains of sand to a “heap” does it become a “mountain?” Reasonable people could disagree, and there is no objective way to determine the answer. Some questions are like this: the question of when a new “species” has evolved has rough edges, and evolution can address the transition from one species to another through the small, gradual steps that are involved without needing to bridge any fundamental gap of absolute difference between an original “species” and a second. But the question of conscious experience is not like this—the difference between something being a subjective experience and something not being a subjective experience is as absolute as absolute can get. There may be various degrees of complexity or sensitivity or detail between experiences, but either something is an experience or it isn’t. There is no middle ground between the two—but this also means there is no ground that can be covered in any gradual steps as a means of bridging the gaps between the two. And there is, therefore, no way to proceed gradually in steps from non–experience to experience.”

Therefore, the only kinds of properties we can even propose as a candidate for attributing to microphysical entities in virtue of which subjective conscious experiences of the kind which compose our existence could coherently be supposed to “emerge”—just turns out to be subjective conscious experience itself, as Thomas Nagel argued in his 1979 article, “Panpsychism.” (Thomas Nagel is far from the only figure to argue for panpsychism, but he was one of the first in modern times to propose this particular type of panpsychism in motivation from these specific kinds of reasons.) I think panpsychism is a respectable attempt to answer these problems—it just turns out to fail for other systematic reasons of its own: namely, by either entailing epiphenomenalism (which can be refuted for its own separate reasons) or else implying its own equally insoluble and incoherent version of the ordinary Hard Problem, depending on the details of how it is formulated. I conclude in that entry, Panpsychism: Panacea, or Flash in the Pan? that “ … panpsychism doesn’t foot the bill. In fact, all it does is create the illusion of doing so by turning the tab upside down so that we might not so easily recognize the numbers that are now upside–down and on top of the tab instead of in ordinary, face–up recognizable form down at the bottom where we expect to see them. …

… We might say that the deep, fundamental conceptual gaps between “physical properties” as we have defined them (“mathematically describable geometric structures and mathematical–functionally describable tendencies towards patterns of spatiotemporal motion”) and the subjective, qualitative, phenomenal, intentionalistic (etc.) aspects of experiential consciousness are rather like the Grand Canyon. If the conceptual gaps are the Grand Canyon, then the intractable problems that appear on the ordinary materialist views which say that everything that makes up the human mind are at root ultimately ‘physical’ are the “jumping across the Grand Canyon from East to West” problem. 

cms-140128-grandcanyon-6a_ee7d809aed208419725ced570f11576bIf panpsychism appears to actually solve any part of the problems of consciousness at all, it merely does so by leaving the Grand Canyon entirely and then returning to the plains to the West. The “jumping across the Grand Canyon from East to West” problem might have been solved by this act of relocation, sure—but now we just have the “jumping across the Grand Canyon from West to East” problem—and it turns out that that is just exactly the same problem. The relocation doesn’t actually even begin to make bridging between the two a whit more plausible or coherent at all—you just have to look East instead of West now in order to see it again…. For my part, I’m going to defend the position that we’re simply dealing with two different kinds of territories. 

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So really, the only thing the zombie argument is supposed to prove straightforwardly is that any simplistic “identity theory” between physical and mental properties is false—from there, we’re free to try to find any alternative solution to it that we like. Does the premise that zombies are conceivable “beg the question” against the literal identity theory? 

I’m going to be lazy and just quote further from Dmitry Sepety’s excellent article, The Zombie Argument against Materialism Without the Conceivability–to–Possibility Inference again: “The zombie argument can start directly with the contention that phenomenal zombies are logically possible: there is no a priori contradiction in the idea of a zombie. Let us designate this contention as the Zombie Possibility Thesis.

Why the thesis is charged with begging the question against materialism (the identity theory)? There seems to be no other reason except that if the identity theory is true (that is, if mental states are identical with some brain states), then (it would follow that) the phenomenal zombies are logically impossible. However, it is arguable that this objection puts things on their heads.

Of course, it is really the case that if the identity theory is true, then the Zombie Possibility Thesis should be false―just like if the Zombie Possibility Thesis is true, then the identity theory should be false. The Zombie Possibility Thesis contradicts the identity theory; thus, they cannot both be true, and thus at least one of them is false.

We are to notice that this situation is not specific for the relationship between the Zombie Possibility Thesis and the identity theory―it is the situation that is common for all arguments. How otherwise can you argue against any theory? Any such argument is a contention (which may be a conjunction of simpler contentions) that we think to be true and that contradicts the theory at issue, from which we conclude that the theory is false. If the Zombie Possibility Thesis begs the question against the identity theory, then any argument against any theory begs the question, and if begging the question is a fallacy (as textbooks of logics usually tell us), then no nonfallacious argument against any theory is possible. If so, nonfallacious arguments for a theory are impossible too: any argument for a theory is an argument against all alternative theories and, therefore, begs the question against them, and, therefore, is fallacious. Thus, no nonfallacious argument is possible at all! On the other hand, if there are nonfallacious (not question-begging) arguments at all, then the fact that the Zombie Possibility Thesis contradicts the identity theory does not mean that the Zombie Possibility Thesis begs the question against the identity theory and that, therefore, an argument based on the Zombie Possibility Thesis is fallacious.

[Note: the part of Sepety’s argument which I fully concur with without my own qualification stops here.
I want to continue quoting him anyway. Just note that our positions don’t completely align past here.]

Now, let us consider things as they really stand on their “logical feet.” To begin with, there are several alternative theories about the mind–body relationship: several varieties of materialism (including the identity theory), dualism, idealism, and panpsychism. We look for arguments for and against these theories. Any such argument has premises. For an argument to be convincing, its premises should be plausible. Of course, their plausibility should be evaluated independently of the theories at issue. It would be really fallacious begging the question if we judge the plausibility of the premises of the proposed arguments by their consistency with our pet theory. On the contrary, we should (try as hard as we can to) begin with a neutral (with respect to the theories at issue) standpoint. To begin with, we do not know whether the identity theory, or interactionist dualism, or epiphenomenalism is true. Now, without assuming the truth of any of these theories, let us consider the question: are phenomenal zombies logically possible?

It seems that they are: imagine an exact atom-to-atom (or quark-to-quark, if you like) copy of your body, so that each atom of your zombie-twin is located and moves relative to its body exactly as the corresponding atom of your body relative to yours. There are all just the same physical interactions between atoms, and all just the same physical fields. Because neither atoms (quarks) nor physical fields experience anything, it is logically possible for all those processes to occur without any experiences.

If someone thinks otherwise, it is incumbent upon him/her to explain how those movements and interactions of atoms and physical fields can logically necessitate subjective experience. (A mere postulation of the identity of mental states with certain brain states does not count as an explanation.) If no such explanation is available, we should admit that there is no such logical necessity; that is, phenomenal zombies are logically possible. From this, we should proceed to what logically follows as to the truth/falsity of the theories at issue.

Unlike the Zombie Possibility Thesis, the identity postulate is not prima facie plausible at all. On the one hand, there are physical structures and processes―microparticles with certain spatial locations relative to one another that move (change their spatial locations) in certain ways and influence one another’s movements (interact according to the laws of physics) and physical fields (which are spatially distributed and changing with time in a law-abiding manner dispositions of influencing the movements of physical bodies―in particular, of microparticles). In all this, nothing implies (logically necessitates) subjective experiences. On the other hand, there are subjective experiences―what it is like, how it feels for a person to have a certain experience. The postulate that subjective experiences are identical with some physical structures and processes, as a mere postulate, without a substantial explanation of how subjective experiences can be identical with some physical structures and processes, is not merely prima facie implausible, but downright unintelligible.”

I found this article after writing my own entry (IV) — The Case of the Lunatic Fish. But in that entry, I expressed the point Sepetry concurs with in my own way: “ … circularity and ‘begging the question’ are not fallacies of thought, but fallacies of argument. An argument is circular and will ‘beg the question’ if it contains premises which will be seen with equal skepticism by someone who is skeptical of the conclusion of that argument for the same reasons they are skeptical of the conclusion. This is classified as a fallacy because the goal of an argument is to prove that skepticism wrong to the satisfaction of the skeptic—so an argument that begs the question fails at this task because it merely repeats implicitly the conclusion the skeptic doesn’t want to accept as one of its assumptions. The fact that the question-begging argument fails to objectively disprove the skeptic doesn’t mean, however, that any train of thought that is circular is either false or irrational for an individual to accept. The real question worth asking is: “Is this circle making contact with reality?”

And there very well may be true statements which we absolutely cannot, in principle, support in any way without at some point “begging the question.” To return to a previous example, … solipsism …. … You absolutely know without a shred of doubt that he is absolutely wrong—and yet, you just as absolutely have no conceivable way of “proving” it to him with any sound, non–circular argument. Appropriately, the example of solipsism deals (in different ways) with the same subject matter addressed in philosophy of mind: private subjective experience. The solipsist denies its existence anywhere but in the one case he experiences immediately and directly—his own. For this, the solipsist is universally considered absurd. Yet the eliminative materialist goes on to not only do that, but to deny it in even the one case he actually experiences indisputably, immediately and directly for himself—and for this he’s respected enough to publish in prestigious philosophy journals.”

In any case, I do think we can go one extremely important step further from here—I wanted to let Sepety speak first, because simply dismissing the argument as “question begging” is problematic in its own right and in a way well worth addressing on its own terms; because even if it was, that actually still wouldn’t be a reason to cast it aside as trivial or uninteresting. If all that we actually had here in the end was something like: [(intuition A) ⇆ (valid logic) ⇆ (intuition B)], then this can still be a valuable way to set the tone for a discussion over whether (intuition A) or (intuition B) is more plausible—for asking: which do we have more reason to accept, given that accepting it would mean rejecting the other? In the worst case scenario, if we couldn’t strictly prove either premise true, we still would have established that these are the two premises one has to choose between—and even if we couldn’t find any objective grounds by which to establish the truth of one or the other, then we would still have established that it comes down to a matter of intuition. The materialist wouldn’t be able to say against the zombie arguer that the zombie arguer is wrong unless he could prove his own choice of intuition true—he could only say “we begin from different starting points, because my gut instincts lead me to favor intuition B over intuition A, and yours lead you to start from intuition A. But who knows which of us is right? Is there any way we can find some neutral territory on which to settle the question, or is it really just so up in the air?” If the intuition that zombies are logically conceivable is, by default, to be considered untrue until proven true, then the same standards would have to go likewise for the so–called  “identity theory.” Otherwise, we’re just rigging the courts by treating one suspect innocent until proven guilty and the other guilty until proven innocent. And that wouldn’t be any fair trial.

But Sepety doesn’t make the point nearly strong enough: the “identity theorist” materialist does not actually think that causal mechanical properties and instances of subjective conscious experience really are just literally identical. Not even by his own lights! Consider: the materialist himself thinks that atoms (or substitute whatever microphysical entities you like) do—or at least could! which is the only premise we actually need in order to insist on logical conceivability of their conceptual separability—possess causal mechanical properties without having subjective conscious experiences. So this premise really doesn’t even beg the question in the weak sense against the identity theory, because the “identity theorist” himself is in fact caught in an internal contradiction, whether he recognizes it or not. The only option that the materialist actually has here is to say that it is some other property of the material entities in our world besides their purely physical geometric structural properties and blind physical dispositions towards various inert patterns of motion through physical space in virtue of which our subjective conscious experiences can be intelligibly supposed to appear.

First, this—again—simply is not contrary to what the zombie argument as such actually aims to establish. If the materialist has acknowledged the need to provide an account of this sort at all, the zombie argument has already succeeded at its quite modest aims and we’ve already moved beyond that argument itself. But second, my evaluation of this attempt to solve the question is as so: because the question of whether something is or is not a subjective conscious experience (distinct from the question of how complex or robust or detailed a given experience is) is an absolute binary, there is no way in principle to move in “steps” from something that is not an experience into something that is. So, the only possible candidate for what this “other property” could even conceivably be is in fact conscious experience itself—therefore, unless the “identity theorist” wants to take the alternative route of eliminating consciousness as we know it and convert his statement into something like “the brain (conceived of as a composition of entities with purely physical properties, as defined above) is identical to the brain” while leaving the mind out of it entirely, his only alternative option is to try to adopt panpsychism (which may or may not run into equally decisive problems of its own). Otherwise, the “identity theorist” himself is caught in an absolute self–contradiction given the fact that he himself fully (even if only implicitly) acknowledges that “physical properties” as defined here can in fact exist without subjective conscious experiences existing with them any time he supposes that microphysical entities can in fact possess these kinds of physical properties without therefore having subjective conscious experiences by logical necessity. (Note, however, that part of my own argument against panpsychism proceeds from the realization that the physical properties and the properties of subjective experience and intentionality still wouldn’t be “identical” even on panpsychism—as given by the fact that the panpsychist can still logically conceive of “zombie atoms!” Even universal concomitance wouldn’t constitute an “identity” claim. In a world with different chemical properties, it could have been the case that every molecule of (other–world) oxygen would universally come bound to two molecules of (other–world) hydrogen and never chemically decompose, and it could be naturally impossible for anyone to break them down—perhaps because there was nothing in this world other than (other–world) H2O; we could, perhaps, even imagine a world containing nothing besides one giant ocean—but this still wouldn’t make (other–world) hydrogen and (other–world) oxygen identical.)

Our ordinary concept of consciousness—derived from our immediate, first–hand acquaintance with it “from within” our experience as conscious centers of experience—simply contains ingredients which our concept of physical causation manifestly does not. An “identity theory” that simply declares the two “identical” is just literally incoherent—it literally does not even rise to the status of a position on philosophy of mind—it is “not even wrong.” (See the following section for further elaboration.) The only way to even try to begin to formulate it into a position at all is either by adding something fundamental to our ordinary concept of the “physical,” or by taking something fundamental away from our ordinary concept of “consciousness.” Simply declaring the two “identical” by fiat doesn’t even begin to attempt anything like this.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Of course, in my own writing up to here, I have made an explicit argument against the so–called “identity theory”—and the prevalence of well–ingrained misconceptions about the zombie argument is exactly why I made the strategic choice to simply go straight to those supporting arguments themselves, instead of presenting them explicitly in light of the zombie argument in particular: “ … the conceptual ingredients involved in efficient physical causation and the conceptual ingredients involved in subjective, qualitative, phenomenal, intentionalistic thought and experience simply are not identical. And providing an account which “identifies” them would require a conceptual unification of a sort that takes some third kind of phenomena and explains in those terms exactly how the concepts of subjective experience and physical causation are unified through it. To reiterate the analogy once again: to claim that the man who delivers my mail in the morning is identical to the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night is to take two spatiotemporally conceived events and then provide spatiotemporal terms that perform the actual substantive work required to actually link them in space and time—namely, it requires a story like this: “when the man who delivers my mail on mornings goes home, he changes clothes and heads out to the bar—and that is how the man who delivers my mail turns out to be the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night—discovering this additional fact is how know it turns out to be the same man at all.” If I don’t have an account like this, then I am simply not justified to declare that the two are the “same man.” And if I can actually see the two standing side by side at the same moment (as I can for my physical brain and my subjective stream of conscious experiences) and see that they very well don’t even look alike, no less, then the statement is just literally incoherent unless and until it gets a whole lot of justifying explanation.

In a proper account where two things that weren’t obviously identical at first later empirically turn out to be, a bridging spatiotemporal event links two other spatiotemporal events together in space and time; two events composed of the same basic category of ingredients are linked by an account which actually bridges them in the clearly explicable terms of that same exact ingredient. But without an actual bridge to actually connect these two things in common terms, calling them “identical” would simply be incoherent. I can potentially provide an account which “identifies” the man who delivers my mail in the morning with the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night, but I cannot even potentially provide an account which “identifies” the man who delivers my mail in the morning with the year 1977—the very terms involved in the two different concepts are simply different. And the notion of “identifying” subjective first–person qualitative experience with physical structure and causal process is a conceptual confusion more on par with the latter example than with the former, not merely because the two concepts are not prima facie the same, but because they are composed of such different basic conceptual ingredients that there are simply no common terms that could possibly perform the actual substantive function of actually bridging them. And it is clear on looking at them that no supporter of any so–called “identity theory” has ever actually attempted to pull off the required task. “Identity theories” do not in practice amount to surprising discoveries overturning ordinary intuition, but rather to basic conceptual confusions that come nowhere close to actually doing what they claim to do.”

Again, I think we can see that subjective conscious experience cannot be produced by any combination of blind inert causal interactions, in and of themselves, without something extra (whether that’s some extra mysterious properties possessed by the objects involved in these blind, inert causal interactions themselves, à la panpsychism; an additional set of types of laws, à la Chalmers’ proposal; or, as I argue, quite simply the fundamental phenomena of consciousness itself—a phenomena which does not “have” the properties of subjectivity, intentionality, etc., but rather quite simply “is” the un–quantifiable, qualitative phenomena of subjectivity and intentionality (etc.) extended across time—“I” am this temporally extended stream of subjective conscious experiences and intentionalistic thoughts, and this extended stream of experiences and thoughts is not “identical to” or “reducible to” anything other than itself. That, at least, is my position, and what you’re signing up to watch me defend in rebellion against the current zeitgeist if you should choose to follow me).

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

One partial problem with the way the argument is formulated is that it leads some readers to think that zombies might only be “possible” in the relevant sense if epiphenomenalism is true and the consciousness we experience plays no causal role in our behavior. Otherwise, so the reasoning goes, if we took consciousness out of the picture, then we wouldn’t have a behavioral duplicate of the human beings in our world—therefore, zombie duplicates of the people in our world aren’t really conceivable, and the argument from the conceivability of zombies fails.

I’ve argued that epiphenomenalism is not just implausible in the way that many think, but as decisively and conclusively refutable as anything could possibly be (see my essay (IV)). It is also quite obvious that I think the zombie argument is demonstrating something. What is going on here? Chalmers’ own most direct response to this peculiar point doesn’t help us much either: “…the possibility of zombies does not obviously entail epiphenomenalism. To see this, note that an interactionist dualist can accept the possibility of zombies, by accepting the possibility of physically identical worlds in which physical causal gaps (those filled in the actual world by mental processes) go unfilled, or are filled by something other than mental processes. The first possibility would have many unexplained physical events, but there is nothing metaphysically impossible about unexplained physical events.”

We … could insist on that premise, sure. But at least intuitively, it very obviously weakens the strength of the conceptual clarification we’re trying to make. And the key point is that I think we can get around it entirely, with a very simple tweak—and it turns out to be the same tweak that gets us around the other major set of unnecessarily technical, complicated objections that try to defeat some step of inference from the “conceivability” to the “metaphysical possibility” of zombies.

Such arguments may, for example, take some condition which we seem to be able to conceive—and then point out that, despite first appearances, it turns out that things we (supposedly) thought we could conceive of being true actually are not logically possible after all. Is 7,741 a prime number? What about 7,742? We don’t know, therefore—the argument goes—we can conceive of either being prime or not prime. But it turns out that 7,741 is prime, while 7,742 is the product of 72 x 98—therefore it is logically impossible for 7,742 to be prime, and logically impossible for 7,741 not to be. And therefore, conceivability is a useless guide to logical possibility.

Now, I could follow along with this argument and counter by denying that I actually can “conceive of” 7,742 being a prime number or of 7,741 not being a prime number in any meaningful sense at all. I could make still yet some other fresh new irritating distinction between “epistemic conceivability,” defined as the mere “ability to imagine that it might turn out to be the case that…,” and “robust conceivability” defined as “the capacity to actually hold two concepts clearly in mind and actually imagine them all the way through with or without each other”—and then say that I can robustly conceive of the notion of a philosophical zombie, whereas it is only “epistemically conceivable” for me before discovering the answer that 7,742 might be prime or that 7,741 might be composite—and then I can deny that what goes for epistemic conceivability in cases like these goes for robust conceivability as it applies in the zombie case.

But again: why even go there? Once again, I think we can get around all of these kinds of objections and wipe a great deal of technical obfuscation out of the argument in one fell swoop. Instead of arguing that “zombie worlds are conceivable” and then trying to justify a modal premise to allow us to go from “conceivability” to “metaphysical possibility” (or whatever), I can simply say the following: “If the premises of materialism were true (that the world is, at root, a blind process of inert forces—whatever the details of their structural composition or how they might causally operate—evolving through sheer causal mechanism; in other words, if whatever the “bedrock” ingredients of reality are, they intrinsically lack subjective experience or intentionality), it would follow that consciousness of the sort that we experience immediately could not have appeared out of such ingredients. In other words, the premises of materialism predict the non–existence of the sort of consciousness we experience. But since we do have the sort of consciousness we know first–hand that we experience, then, the premises of materialism are falsified by its existence.” 

Obviously, these premises would need to be justified. I think they can be—in exactly the ways I have summarized above, and elaborated on in extensive detail across this series. But the places where this argument would need support are just exactly the same places that the ordinary formulation already does; and notice that, for example, there is no basis anywhere in this presentation of the argument for anyone to even try to charge that it could only be sound if epiphenomenalism were true. On this formulation, if it follows that taking consciousness away would change our behavior, all this would mean is that materialism would be falsified both by the existence of the kind of consciousness we experience, and from the behaviors which we are capable of only because of its existence. This puts the dialectic back where it actually belongs (where it is, as I have explained, materialism which struggles to avoid either eliminating the mental or rendering it epiphenomenal as such)—and simply has no need to invoke any abstract, unintuitive modal premises whatsoever. This formulation obviously isn’t without its own need for complicated defense, but I think that defense can be provided—and as I see it, it takes away nothing that Chalmers’ formulation of the argument accomplishes, but it does save us a whole hell of a lot of wasted time by efficiently avoiding more than one redundant and exasperating detour that the argument as it is most commonly formulated so frequently ends up tied up in. We could address arguments like the epiphenomenalist critique and critiques of the step from “conceivability” to “possibility” on their own terms, and perhaps they do fail either way—but if we don’t need to, why even muddle the debate by adding them in? This reformulation focuses more clearly on the premises which actually form the crux of the debate: whether we can get subjective conscious experience and intentionality out of inert causal mechanism; and if not, what exactly we would need to add to the picture in order to be able to get it.

Bonus footnote: Philip Goff, Why Physicalists Have More to Fear from Ghosts than Zombies, which argues that Descartes’ original arguments for the conceivability of disembodied consciousness (the supposedly emergent macro–phenomena without its supposedly micro–reductive base) actually does have certain virtues in some instances, against a certain kind of physicalist position, over Zombie arguments for the conceivability of unconscious bodies (the supposedly micro–reductive base without the supposedly emergent macro–phenomena).

Consciousness (VIII) — Breaking (Down) Bad (Philosophy of Science)

(Note: this entry is still in rough draft form.)

It’s incredibly important that we try to stay clear on just what exactly the relationship is between philosophy and science if we want to properly understand either of them. A rudimentary misunderstanding of the relationship is frequently demonstrated when a critic of a philosophical proposal asks whether it makes any testable, falsifiable predictions—as if under the impression that any philosophical idea is nonsense unless it does what scientific theories do and makes concrete, empirical predictions about the future that could be tested and proven wrong. This not only fails to understand how philosophy and science stand in relationship to each other as will be discussed momentarily, it fails to understand the very philosophy of falsificationism—in a way that its founder, Karl Popper himself, objected to repeatedly within his own lifetime.

What Karl Popper actually did was propose falsification as a way to answer the question, “How do we draw the line between the particular domain of inquiry which is called ‘science’ and others?” What Karl Popper did not do was propose falsification as a way to answer the question, “How do we draw the line between statements that mean something and statements that don’t?” In Chapter 1, Section 6, and footnote 3 of The Logic of Scientific Discovery, Popper writes: “Note that I suggest falsifiability as a criterion of demarcation, but not of meaning. Note, moreover, that I have already (section 4) sharply criticized the use of the idea of meaning as a criterion of demarcation, and that I attack the dogma of meaning again, even more sharply, in section 9. It is therefore a sheer myth (though any number of refutations of my theory have been based upon this myth) that I ever proposed falsifiability as a criterion of meaning. Falsifiability separates two kinds of perfectly meaningful statements: the falsifiable and the non-falsifiable. It draws a line inside meaningful language, not around it.”

In a sense, “philosophy” is the term we use for the analysis of claims that attempt to “predict” why things are as they are right now, where some of the most fundamental disagreements are over what it is that these claims do, in fact, “predict.” My rejection of physicalism throughout this series, for example, rests on my reaching the conclusion through conceptual analysis that the premises of physicalism “predict” that it should be impossible for us to have the conscious awareness and intentionality that we know that we have, in principle, right here and now and is thus ‘falsified’ by their existence—and were I to debate this with a defender of physicalism, that debate would largely center: (1) on whether consciousness possesses the kinds of traits I describe it as possessing; or, since even most physicalists want to avoid eliminativism as even they acknowledge it to be self-defeating and absurd, (2) on whether or not the premises of materialism do in fact entail the “prediction” that the consciousness we experience should be incapable of possessing the particular aspects and dimensions we happen to know from the inside that it does.

Philosophy tries to account ‘backwards’ for why what we see happening now is happening (and what must be true in order for it to happen); science tries to project ‘forwards’ into what will happen later. While some suggest a picture on which philosophy is increasingly rendered irrelevant by, as it concedes ground to, an inevitably advancing science answering what we previously were resigned to think were just “armchair” considerations, in a sense the truth is just exactly the opposite: every time a scientific advancement projects forwards and increases our ability to predict what will happen, the “what will happen” just gets included into our “what we see happening now,” and it is left to philosophical consideration to form any interpretation at all of why what we see happening is happening—what would need to be true about the ultimate and underlying nature of reality in order for it to be possible, to begin with, that what happens can happen.

One of the places this is currently most obvious and easiest to see is in discussion of how to interpret quantum physics: Do we follow Von Neumann and conclude that the acts of observation from consciousness itself are what causes the “wave function” to collapse into a single determinate observation? Or do we follow Hugh Everett and conclude that the “wave function” never truly collapses at all; and that, rather, every possibility included within it represents a variety of universes all branching off simultaneously into an expansive multiverse from the original point of “collapse”? Or do we follow Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg and say that the “wave function” is just a theoretical construct that doesn’t signify anything other than our own epistemic ignorance?

Most thinkers of any degree of sobriety allow, that an hypothesis…is not to be received as probably true because it accounts for all the known phenomena, since this is a condition sometimes fulfilled tolerably well by two conflicting hypotheses…while there are probably a thousand more which are equally possible, but which, for want of anything analogous in our experience, our minds are unfitted to conceive. ([1867] 1900, 328) ~ John Stuart Mill, A System of Logic 

“Science” isn’t going to answer those question for us. In as much as “science” refers to “the practice of following the scientific method,” it means testing and refining hypotheses that entail empirical consequences in order to more accurately predict future empirical observations. The problem is that, by definition, all of the above interpretations of quantum physics entail the same empirical consequences. They all account for the same data—in different ways. Further discoveries in physics may end up answering that question, but if they do, it will only be by changing the details and handing over a new set of facts that it will be just as much left up to us, yet again, to interpret and hang together into a cohesive picture. (Perhaps an argument could be made that it won’t be, and that a completed physical account will necessarily only have one possible interpretation, but unless and until that actually happens, that argument too will necessarily also be a philosophical one.)

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Similarly, if we have a theoretical model of how the world works that allows us to have success in making further predictions, that no more proves that the theoretical entities suggested by that model are real despite being beyond the direct reach of our senses than the success of mathematics in allowing us to build things and predict their behavior proves that mathematical entities, too, exist in some literal realm beyond the direct reach of our senses (a position some do in fact defend: mathematical Platonism). And this is just the most basic of conundrums raised by philosophy of science—the most obvious of implicit contradictions resting in our beliefs before we’ve analyzed them philosophically and made a conscious effort to reshape them into something consistently coherent. Most of us will naturally want to accept that whatever entities are postulated by our best physical theories really exist, whether we are capable of directly observing them or not. Yet most of us—particularly the physicalists—won’t want to accept that mathematical entities exist in some literal fashion just because mathematics, which can be applied to such incredibly useful purposes, refers to them. There isn’t any immediately obvious answer here: if the entities posited by our most useful theories should be assumed to be real, then why shouldn’t mathematical entities rise with physical entities?

On the other hand, if we reject that underlying premise, then why shouldn’t really–existing physical entities fall along with mathematical entities? “Science” as the discipline of honing and refining predictions about future observation is simply not going to answer that question. This is a philosophical premise underlying our practice of science one way or another; held by us, and not the discipline of science itself. Philosophy deeply underlies even the most ordinary assumption that the scientific postulate of atomic forces as an explanation for empirical observations truly implies that the atom is even real. I repeat: no one has ever directly observed the existence of an atom. The idea is a hypothesis reached by “inference” to account for things like, for example, certain properties of the periodic table.

But is the fact that scientific theories are so effective at getting us places obvious proof that this could only be because the entities they describe are real? Absolutely not—even without adding philosophical analysis into the mix, it is scientifically well confirmed today that Newtonian mechanics most adamantly does not describe the world ‘as it is’—its conjectures about the underlying nature of how the world most essentially ‘is’ and works have been fundamentally superseded by the advances of quantum mechanics (“As experiments reached the atomic level, classical mechanics failed to explain, even approximately, such basic things as the energy levels and sizes of atoms and the photo-electric effect”). And yet, we can still use principles derived from its assumptions with all kinds of success in fields like engineering, celestial mechanics, and so forth. Just as there are mathematical Platonists who reason that the success of mathematics entails the real existence of mathematical entities in realms we can’t observe, so there are “scientific anti–realists” who reason that the success of physical science simply does not entail that we have any real descriptions of any really existing physical micro–entities just because our theories are useful. The dilemma can go either way.

Perhaps scientific anti–realism is false. I’m perfectly well content to accept that it is—if convinced by the right kind of argument. My actual point is far more basic than even that; my point is this: if anti–realism is false, proving it false is going to require philosophical defense and explanation. It is not and will never in principle be solved by an “experiment” that makes a falsifiable prediction in a laboratory. If scientific realism is true, scientific realism itself is not a fact proven by scientific data. It is an answer to a question about how we should interpret that very data, when both realism and anti–realism about scientific theory are each making the attempt to philosophically defend the claim that they more adequately and naturally predict whatever data see in front of us than the other. In an important sense, again, it is a question of reasoning “backwards” to ask what premise most adequately predicts and accounts for what we know is in front of us right now, rather than making more predictions about what we will see in the future (which, if confirmed, will just be added to a new collection of “what we know is in front of us right now.”) Both types of questions are relevant and important. And they require categorically different kinds of methods to address, because they are categorically different types of questions. 

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

P. M. S. Hacker, who along with the distinguished neuroscientist Max R. Bennett co–authored a volume titled Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience, writes that “Philosophy … is neither an empirical science nor an a priori one, since it is no science. … It is a quest for understanding, not for knowledge. … Philosophical questions cannot be circumscribed by their form. Nor can they be circumscribed by their content, since they can, in principle, be concerned with any subject matter at all – any subject matter that gives rise to conceptual confusions and unclarities. These questions cannot be resolved by the empirical sciences, since they are not empirical questions. They are all questions that are, directly or indirectly, solved, resolved or dissolved by conceptual investigation. One might therefore say, as above, that, in one sense, philosophy has no subject matter; but one might also say that, in another sense, philosophy has everything as its subject matter.… Philosophy is conceptual investigation.” I highly advise anyone reading this to take a break and read Hacker’s paper as well. He continues: “This assertion can easily be misunderstood. Does it mean that philosophy has a subject matter after all – namely concepts? That would be misleading. Being a conceptual investigation does not mean being solely about concepts. … questions of whether machines can think or whether the brain can think are philosophical. Neither can be answered by experimental science. To deny that they are about machines, brains, and what it is to think would be misleading. But to suggest that they are not, in a very distinctive sense, about the concept of thinking and its intelligible applicability or inapplicability to machines and brains would be to grossly misrepresent the investigation.”

One expression of the attitude of scientism is that scientist’s forays into philosophy can become treated with an absolutely undeserved degree of deference when we fail to recognize that the statements being made are even philosophical—and thus something the scientist qua scientist simply has no automatic special authority over—rather than scientific to begin with. From the implied (and utterly fallacious) assumption that the raw data of scientific investigation comes pre–packaged, so to speak, with its own conceptual categorization and interpretation, we might naively assume that anyone who is an expert on investigation of the empirical aspect of some topic is therefore automatically an expert on understanding anything there could possibly be to understand about any aspect of the subject in question. If we hold this assumption, we are wrong.

In discussing the origins of the Universe in The Grand Design, Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow write: “Because there is a law like gravity, the universe can and will create itself from nothing.” Could Hacker’s definition of philosophy as “a quest for understanding” applicable to “any subject matter that gives rise to conceptual confusions and unclarities” be any more relevant? Could any ‘empirical’ knowledge which either Hawking or Mlodinow might have about the science of cosmology or the workings of the law of gravity make the statement that “the universe can and will create itself” (which the skeptical reader might be inclined to think it could not do unless it already existed)—“from nothing,” no less, because “there is a law like gravity” (which the astute may have noticed is not “nothing”) any more respectable or any less conceptually confused and in need of philosophical clarification? Could there be any clearer demonstration that ‘knowing’ the “facts” simply does not suffice to prove that you understand what they mean? Even the most accomplished scientists on Earth can fail utterly at the most rudimentary level of philosophical—that is, conceptual—comprehension if they aren’t being careful.

Consider an artificial intelligence researcher who adopts the line endorsed by Ray Kurzweil in the fifth entry in this series that thinking ‘just is’ the execution of syntactical procedures (so that the man in the Chinese Room would “understand” Chinese in the only sense worth talking about—and so, by definition, would any machine, by definition, the moment it became capable of ‘appearing’ to understand Chinese through a programmed ability to manipulate Chinese symbols). Suppose he goes on to apply the Turing Test to a variety of robots to see which “understand” according to the philosophical definition of “understanding” which he has accepted on which the only thing it entails is the ability to execute appropriate functions anyway. So far, so good: our researcher has defined his philosophical premises, and he has begun empirical investigations in light of them which he plans to read through the lens of them. I would argue (as I do in extensive detail in that entry) that this philosophical premise would be horrendously confused and wrong, but he would—at least—be keeping his philosophical premises and empirical findings in proper relation to each other.

Where our researcher would begin specifically committing the epistemological fallacy of scientism, however, is when he begins telling anyone who doubted that the machines he was testing “truly understood” Chinese just because they were passing the test that they were wasting his time because, if they think so, they “clearly don’t understand science and need to understand the Turing Test better.” The researcher’s fallacy would be to assume that the plain data of this investigation contains within itself the philosophical premise that all that it means to ‘think’ is just to possess the ability to manipulate symbols—but this premise is completely external to his empirical investigations and requires an entirely different type of defense. What our researcher would be missing is that someone could perfectly well understand exactly what the Turing Test involves and exactly what our researcher’s data was revealing, and still disagree with that philosophical premise. And no amount of “data” drawn from experiment could settle the truth or falsity of it one way or another.

Our researcher would, of course, immediately recognize this fallacy were he to see it committed by someone who does not share his particular premises and assumptions. Imagine someone who adopts the philosophical position that everything is conscious in some degree (panpsychism) conjoined with the position that the “mind dust” of tiny particles become unified into the organized phenomenal consciousness of a singular mind whenever these particles become arranged to perform a function together. Now, suppose this panpsychist researcher went around testing plants, thermometers, etc. for their ability to perform unified functions, concluding on the basis of these tests that each entity either does, or does not, possess an organized singular “mind.” Again, so far so good: our researcher would be staking his philosophical premises out (however wrong we might think they are), and then conducting his empirical investigations, and so far apparently keeping them distinct and in proper relation to each other.

But if our panpsychist researcher were simply dismissing the skepticism of the artificial intelligence researcher because he doesn’t understand ‘science’, this would again be the same exact fallacy—and our artificial intelligence researcher would recognize it and realize immediately that his dispute with the panpsychist would not be over empirical results, but over philosophical premises. The question of whether a given physical entity is organized in such a way as to be capable of performing an organized function is one that can be answered empirically, sure; the question of whether capacity to perform a function is what it takes to have a singular organized conscious “mind” is not, and no result of the former experiment, in and of itself, would prove or even ‘support’ it—it requires a fundamentally different sort of analysis and defense altogether.

This example also goes to show that the materialist is not the only one who is capable of committing the epistemological fallacy of scientism; anyone who fails to grasp the actual relationship between philosophical premises and empirical findings and pretends that the latter contain and prove the former—no matter what the details might be—is committing it. The fallacy is to smuggle a peculiar conceptual interpretation of  some given bit of data into the data itself and then pretend that the data in question itself simply comes pre–packaged with that conceptual interpretation without any extra additional work, thus freeing the offender to shirk the obligation to defend these interpretations in the relevant philosophical terms and then dismiss anyone who questions them as “not understanding the scientific data” as an ad hominem means of dismissing anyone who questions the offender’s philosophical premises. The fallacy, in other words, is to engage in philosophy and then pretend not to have done so in order to shield one’s philosophical premises from the possibility of attack or any need for defense on the appropriate turf to which these premises actually do in fact properly belong—smuggling them in to escape these obligations illegitimately under the false guise of “science” when they are not actually “scientific” assumptions properly speaking at all.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

A similar fallacy is committed whenever anyone assumes that neuroscience, as such, just straightforwardly proves that consciousness ‘is’ the brain. In his 1994 The Astonishing Hypothesis, for example, the neuroscientist Francis Crick writes: ““You”—your joys and your sorrows, your memories and your ambitions, your sense of identity and free will, are in fact no more than the behaviour of a vast assembly of nerve cells and their associated molecules. As Lewis Carroll’s Alice might have phrased it: “You’re nothing but a pack of neurons.””

Incredibly enough, yet as so often happens, this very modern fallacy has already been addressed in detail by philosophers for decades, if not centuries—and the empirical findings of modern neuroscience, when we look at them a little more closely and in greater detail, actually add surprisingly little to what has already been said on the subject by very intelligent people for a very long time. As so often happens, philosophy—even ancient philosophy—not only still bears relevance; it takes down fallacies which are pervasive in modern assumption clearly.

We have, of course, addressed the conceptual issues involved in this claim already: the conceptual ingredients involved in efficient physical causation and the conceptual ingredients involved in subjective, qualitative, phenomenal, intentional experience simply are not identical. And providing an account which “identifies” them would require a conceptual unification of a sort that takes some third kind of phenomena and explains in those terms exactly how the concepts of subjective experience and physical causation are unified through it. To reiterate the analogy once again: to claim that the man who delivers my mail in the morning is identical to the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night is to take two spatiotemporally conceived events and then provide spatiotemporal terms that perform the actual substantive work required to actually link them in space and time—namely, it requires a story like this: “when the man who delivers my mail on mornings goes home, he changes clothes and heads out to the bar—and that is how the man who delivers my mail turns out to be the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night—discovering this additional fact is how know it turns out to be the same man at all.”

A bridging spatiotemporal event links two other spatiotemporal events together in space and time; two events composed of the same basic category of ingredients are linked by an account which bridges them in the clearly explicable terms of that same exact ingredient. But without an actual bridge to actually connect these two things in common terms, calling them “identical” would simply be incoherent. I can potentially provide an account which “identifies” the man who delivers my mail in the morning with the man who drinks at the bar on Friday night, but I cannot even potentially provide an account which “identifies” the man who delivers my mail in the morning with the year 1977—the very terms involved in the two different concepts are simply different. And the notion of “identifying” subjective first–person qualitative experience with physical structure and causal process is a conceptual confusion more on par with the latter example than with the former, not merely because the two concepts are not prima facie the same, but because they are composed of such different basic conceptual ingredients that there are simply no common terms that could possibly perform the actual substantive function of actually bridging them. And it is clear on looking at them that no supporter of any so–called “identity theory” has ever actually attempted to pull off the required task. “Identity theories” therefore do not amount to surprising discoveries overturning ordinary intuition, but rather to basic conceptual confusions that come nowhere close to actually doing what they claim to do.

So in practice, an “identity theory” would therefore either have to entail eliminativism towards the aspects of consciousness we know directly and immediately from the same first–hand experience we know everything else through, and the same first–hand experience which is the only thing we know anything else through (thus “identifying” the brain’s physical processes with something other than subjective, qualitative, intentionalistic consciousness and thus in reality just denying the latter’s actual existence outright altogether), — or else it would have to ‘build’ subjective experience and intentionality out of nonintentional and nonexperiential ingredients (but this approach necessarily fails in principle too, as explained in my essays IV — and V), — or else it could try to redefine the physical to say that it intrinsically contains these very ingredients within itself in already live and present form at the deepest levels of reality, as in panpsychism, and “identify” mind with a redefined “brain” that way (but we see in VII that this merely runs into one of the same exact fallacies already plaguing the other accounts, rejection of which was the only reason we ever even considered panpsychism as a potential solution to begin with).

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But I don’t just want to address the claim that mind–brain “identity theory” is true, here—I want to address the particular epistemological fallacy involved specifically in the claim that neuroscience proves it. This fallacy was, in fact, addressed all the way back in 1889 by the pre–eminent American philosopher, psychologist, and physician Wiliam James: “When the physiologist … pronounces the phrase, ‘Thought is a function of the brain,’ he thinks of the matter just as he thinks when he says, ‘Steam is a function of the tea–kettle,’ ‘Light is a function of the electric circuit,’ ‘Power is a function of the moving waterfall.’ In these latter cases the several material objects have the function of inwardly creating or engendering their effects, and their function must be called productive function. Just so, he thinks, it must be with the brain. Engendering consciousness in its interior, much as it engenders cholesterin and creatin and carbonic acid, its relation to our soul’s life must also be called productive function. …

… But in the world of physical nature productive function of this sort is not the only kind of function with which we are familiar. We have also releasing or permissive function; and we have transmissive function. The trigger of a crossbow has a releasing function: it removes the obstacle that holds the string, and lets the bow fly back to its natural shape. So when the hammer falls upon a detonating compound. By knocking out the inner molecular obstructions, it lets the constituent gases resume their normal bulk, and so permits the explosion to take place. In the case of a colored glass, a prism, or a refracting lens, we have transmissive function. The energy of light, no matter how produced, is by the glass sifted and limited in color, and by the lens or prism determined to a certain path and shape. Similarly, the keys of an organ have only a transmissive function. They open successively the various pipes and let the wind in the air–chest escape in various ways. The voices of the various pipes are constituted by the columns of air trembling as they emerge. But the air is not engendered in the organ. The organ proper, as distinguished from its air–chest, is only an apparatus for letting portions of it loose upon the world in these peculiarly limited shapes.

My thesis now is this: that, when we think of the law that thought is a function of the brain, we are not required to think of productive function only; we are entitled also to consider permissive or transmissive function. And this the ordinary psycho–physiologist leaves out of his account. …

… Isn’t the common materialistic notion vastly simpler? Is not consciousness really more comparable to a sort of steam, or perfume, or electricity, or nerve–glow, generated on the spot in its own peculiar vessel? Is it not more rigorously scientific to treat the brain’s function as function of production? … The immediate reply is, that, if we are talking of science positively understood, function can mean nothing more than bare concomitant variation. When the brain–activities change in one way, consciousness changes in another; when the currents pour through the occipital lobes, consciousness sees things; when through the lower frontal region, consciousness says things to itself; when they stop, she goes to sleep, etc. In strict science, we can only write down the bare fact of concomitance; and all talk about either production or transmission, as the mode of taking place, is pure superadded hypothesis, and metaphysical hypothesis at that, for we can frame no more notion of the details on the one alternative than on the other. Ask for any indication of the exact process either of transmission or of production, and Science confesses her imagination to be bankrupt. She has, so far, not the least glimmer of a conjecture or suggestion—not even a bad verbal metaphor or pun to offer. Ignoramus, ignorabimus, is what most physiologists, in the words of one of their number, will say here.

… Into the mode of production of steam in a tea–kettle we have conjectural insight, for the terms that change are physically homogeneous one with another, and we can easily imagine the case to consist of nothing but alterations of molecular motion. But in the production of consciousness by the brain, the terms are heterogeneous natures altogether; and as far as our understanding goes, it is as great a miracle as if we said, Thought is ‘spontaneously generated,’ or ‘created out of nothing.’ … The theory of production is therefore not a jot more simple or credible in itself than any other conceivable theory. It is only a little more popular. All that one need do, therefore, if the ordinary materialist should challenge one to explain how the brain can be an organ for limiting and determining to a certain form a consciousness elsewhere produced, is to retort with a tu quoque, asking him in turn to explain how it can be an organ for producing consciousness out of whole cloth.”

James expresses more conceptual clarity and insight here about what findings of mind–brain correlation (“concomitance”) would or would not actually prove well over a century ago than many have who know more about the details of what those “concomitances” are than James ever possibly could have. The point couldn’t be more elementary—indeed, it may at first seem anticlimactic that it is as simple as it is. Yet one of the most basic rules of, say, population studies in nutritional science is that correlation does not equal causation. If we want to read causation out of a nutritional population study, we have to acknowledge that we are interpreting that data and be highly careful about our assumptions and the reasoning we follow them through with. But the data itself just does not plainly ‘give us’ causation—we have to interpret it and make further inferences to try to get at causation, and this is additional work that can’t be simplistically achieved just by acquiring more empirical data on the same correlation we’re trying to interpret. And what goes for properly understanding what (if anything) nutritional science might have to say about how we should eat if we want to be healthy goes every bit as much for properly understanding what (if anything) neuroscience might have to say about the true nature of “consciousness” or of the “self.”

A critic might ask where the “evidence” for such a hypothesis is—and if so, he once again utterly misses the point: either we should say that there is none, but realize that by the same token there would be no “evidence” for the “productive hypothesis” either—or else we should say that the “evidence” for it found in correlations between states of the brain and states of subjective experience is just exactly the same data claimed as “evidence” for the “productive hypothesis.” The point is that data of this sort is open to interpretation. And it takes philosophical, conceptual analysis—“concerned” in Hacker’s terms “with what does or does not make sense”—to decide how to interpret it. More of the same data we’re asking how to interpret in the first place can’t settle the question any more than collecting ever increasing amounts of data on the correlation between ice cream consumption and the murder rate can settle the question of how it makes the most sense to assume the two are causally related (if at all). The required sort of conceptual analysis is exactly what I have been aiming to offer throughout this series.

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The common conviction is of course that neuroscience empirically validates the claim that the mind “just is” the brain. Yet, if any investigation seems to potentially support or require some non–materialistic interpretation of the relationship between the mind and the brain (say, apparent experiences of seeing one’s body from outside during Near Death Experiences), these potentially empirical findings are most often rejected immediately out of hand purely because of the a priori assumption that consciousness (or the brain) just can’t work that way. But wait—on exactly what basis was that claim supposed to have been justified in the first place? The empirical findings of neuroscience?

The circularity in this way of reasoning runs deep; and a similar dynamic is noticed by David Chalmers in regards to interpretation of quantum physics and questions about where those interpretations end up leaving the mind when he writes: “It is interesting that philosophers reject interactionist dualism because they think it is incompatible with physics, whereas [quantum] physicists reject the relevant interpretations of quantum mechanics because they are dualistic!” Which is it, then, that actually comes first? And where should we actually start? I might also quote the philosopher Lawrence BonJour here when he says that: “One of the oddest things about discussions of materialism is the way in which the conviction that some materialist view must be correct seems to float free of the defense of any particular materialist view. It is very easy to find people who seem to be saying that while there are admittedly serious problems with all of the specific materialist views, it is still reasonable to presume that some materialist view must be correct, even if we don’t know which one.”

What is left of the substance of the claim of materialism?

One might have thought that given the intensity with which the belief is often held, there was at least some strongly compelling argument someone had come up with by now—even if only as an after–the–fact rationalization—for either the conclusion that some form of materialism must be true, or that dualism must be false. There turns out to be far less than the tenacity of popular conviction in the belief might have led us to expect—and even the materialists can frequently be found, in various forms, admitting it. As we previously saw, Daniel Dennett admits in Consciousness Explained that he holds the “apparently dogmatic” rule that dualism is to be avoided “at all costs” even though he does not think that he “can give any knock-down proof that dualism […] is false or incoherent.” And he continues holding to this (only “apparently” dogmatic) rule even as it pushes him towards the conclusion that it must lead him to dismiss the very existences of experience and intentionality altogether as mere fictions. So, as we have seen, does Alex Rosenberg in The Atheist’s Guide to Reality. 

Consider John Searle’s puzzlement over the obvious absurdity of so many of the popular views in philosophy of mind: “No one would think of saying, for example, “Having a hand [should] just [be defined as] being disposed to certain sorts of behavior such as grasping” (manual behaviorism), or “Hands can be defined entirely in terms of their causes and effects” (manual functionalism), or “For a system to have a hand is just for it to be in a certain computer state with the right sorts of inputs and outputs” (manual Turing machine functionalism), or “Saying that a system has hands is just adopting a certain stance toward it” (the manual stance).” In Rediscovering the Mind, he writes: “How is it that so many philosophers and cognitive scientists can say so many things that [are] obviously false? … Acceptance of the current [physicalist] views [in philosophy of mind] is motivated not so much by an independent conviction of their truth as by a terror of what are apparently the only alternatives. That is, the choice we are tacitly presented with is between a “scientific” approach, as represented by one or another of the current versions of “materialism,” and an “unscientific” approach, as represented by Cartesianism or some other traditional religious conception of the mind.”

Fear of religion? Thomas Nagel had something to say about that in The Last Word in 1997: “Even without God, the idea … that the relation between mind and the world is something fundamental makes many people in this day and age nervous, I believe this is one manifestation of a fear of religion which has large and often pernicious consequences for modern intellectual life. In speaking of the fear of religion, I don’t mean to refer to the entirely reasonable hostility toward certain established religions and religious institutions, in virtue of their objectionable moral doctrines, social policies, and political influence. Nor am I referring to the association of many religious beliefs with superstition and the acceptance of evident empirical falsehoods.  I am talking about something much deeper—namely, the fear of religion itself. I speak from experience, being strongly subject to this fear myself: I want atheism to be true and am made uneasy by the fact that some of the most intelligent and well-informed people I know are religious believers. It isn’t just that I don’t believe in God and, naturally, hope that I’m right in my belief. It’s that I hope there is no God! I don’t want there to be a God; I don’t want the universe to be like that. My guess is that this cosmic authority problem is not a rare condition and it is responsible for much of the scientism and reductionism of our time.”

Is it a coincidence that, by and large, the only kinds of people who see reason to advocate views of this sort are people openly identifying with and representing “atheism”—one of the “Four Horsemen of the New Atheism,” the author of “The Atheist’s Guide to Reality?” It begins to seem entirely plausible that the atheist doesn’t want to face up to the depth of the problems with physicalist accounts because this would have to result in the conclusion that those religious conceptions of the mind perhaps weren’t so far off the mark after all—and granting even that much could just be too much for the atheist to bear. Here lies the problem, which I’ve already alluded to in entry (I): the atheist most typically wants to present atheism as the “default” epistemic position; as a mere “lack” of belief, and not a positive philosophy—comparable to simply lacking the belief that there is a teapot orbiting the moon (as in a popular analogy coined by Bertrand Russell). Yet, if it turns out that advancing a consistent atheism does in fact require advancing a specific positive philosophy—that is, physicalism about human minds—then atheism might begin to look more like a positive worldview which carries the epistemology and therefore all the burdens of a positive “religious” worldview than the ‘negative–default’ atheist had hoped. (But note that I will analyze the antecedent of this conditional in much greater detail at some later point.)

Why stay awake at night wondering how to fit consciousness as you directly know and experience it into a theory you’ve invented about the nature of the world when you can just settle all cognitive dissonance securely in advance by pretending the issue is settled and convincing yourself that you have the authoritative weight of science unquestionably on your side? I think we can acknowledge that “fear of religion” is one of the most ultimate reasons for the materialist prejudice without implying that this fear is necessarily valid. On the one hand, James P. Moreland argues that “…there has been a connection both historically and theologically between the existence of a substantial soul and the supernatural realm. If the soul exists, then this is very good reason to think that a personal, self–aware being—God—exists.”

On the other hand, when one of the most influential philosophers of the 20th century, A. J. Ayer—the founder of logical positivism who wrote his philosophical treatise at 26, and was certainly one of the most prominent atheists of the last hundred years—had a near death experience which he said “weakened [his] conviction that [his] genuine death, which is due fairly soon, will be the end of [him],” he went on to write that: “A prevalent fallacy is the assumption that a proof of an afterlife would also be a proof of the existence of a deity. This is far from being the case. If, as I hold, there is no good reason to believe that a god either created or presides over this world, there is equally no good reason to believe that a god created or presides over the next world … If our lives consisted in an extended series of experiences [e.g. across multiple afterlives], we should still have no good reason to regard ourselves as spiritual substances. … [and]  I continue to hope that [my genuine death] will be [the end of me].

Notice how often we see the words “hope” here: Ayer even admits that he hopes that his death will be the end! Could that not be every bit as powerful a motivating force behind physicalism as hope for continuation of life after death might be for dualism? I think we can admit that the “fear of religion” identified by both Searle and Nagel plays a substantial role in the prejudice towards physicalism without taking any stance one way or the other on whether or not this fear is justified. Or at least without taking any stance on the question yet—I plan to explore it in more detail later. For now, let’s return to the arguments for and against dualism and materialism. William G. Lycan, a distinguished professor of philosophy at UNC, has written a valuable paper titled “Giving Dualism Its Due.” The paper, he tells us, is “an uncharacteristic exercise in intellectual honesty [which] grew out of a seminar in which for methodological purposes I played the role of a committed dualist….” 

He goes on: “I have been a materialist about the mind for forty years, since first I considered the mind–body issue. … My materialism has never wavered. Nor is it about to waver now; I cannot take dualism very seriously … I have no sympathy with any dualist view, and never will. … Being a philosopher, of course I would like to think that my stance is rational, held not just instinctively and scientistically and in the mainstream but because the arguments do indeed favor materialism over dualism. But I do not think that, though I used to. My position may be rational, broadly speaking, but not because the arguments favor it  … the standard objections to dualism are not very convincing; if one really manages to be a dualist in the first place, one should not be much impressed by them. My purpose in this paper is to hold my own feet to the fire and admit that I do not proportion my belief to the evidence. … Arguments for materialism are few. … J.J.C. Smart was perhaps the first to offer reasons …[he wrote that]: “[S]ensations, states of consciousness,…seem to be the one sort of thing left outside the physicalist picture, and … I just cannot believe that this can be so….  The above is largely a confession of faith….” …

… The materialist of course takes the third–person perspective; s/he scientistically thinks in terms of looking at other people, or rather at various humanoid bags of protoplasm, and explaining their behaviour. But the dualist is … in the first–person perspective, acquainted with the contents of her own consciousness, aware of them as such. Notice carefully that we need not endorse many of Descartes’ own antique and weird views about the mind … The point is only that we know the mind primarily through introspection. Duh! That idea may, very surprisingly, be wrong … [but] to deny it is a radical move.

…  suppose … that you are a Cartesian dualist. … There are nine objections to your view. Of course there are; any interesting philosophical view faces at least nine objections. The question is, how well you can answer them? And I contend that the dualist can answer them … respectably. … I shall start with the Interaction Problem … [and] what … is the problem? I believe it is that even now we have no good model at all for Cartesian interaction. … I agree that the lack of a good model is a trenchant objection and not just a prejudice. But … for one thing, the lack results at least partly from the fact that we have no good theory of causality itself. …  [Paul Churchland argues that] neuroscience explains a great deal and dualism explains hardly anything. But the comparison is misplaced. Dualism competes, not with neuroscience (a science), but with materialism, an opposing philosophical theory. Materialism per se does not explain much either.  … the objections [to dualism] are not an order of magnitude worse than those confronting materialism in particular. … The dialectical upshot is that … going just by actual arguments as opposed to appeals to decency and what good guys believe, materialism is not significantly better supported than dualism.” And none of this even addresses the arguments I have posed in this very series—except for footnote 3, where Lycan does in fact write: “For the record, I now believe that there is a more powerful argument for dualism based on intentionality itself: from the dismal failure of all materialist psychosemantics….” (See my essay (V) for a full explanation of why this argument is so forceful.)

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In any case, this discussion should be sufficient to set the tone for the articles to come—consider this a general, broad overview introduction to the next category of articles. In these, I plan to explore in more detail the objections against dualism, especially those drawn from “science,” while including some supportable speculations on how to formulate a “working picture” of what dualism actually entails. I plan to explore studies claimed to have relevance for the question of free will in combination with a discussion of whether the concept of free will is coherent and possible, psychological disorders claimed to have relevance for the unity of personhood, objections against the possibility (or plausibility) of dualism from “causal closure,” and more. Having spent articles (I)—(III) defending the background possibility that dualism could be true, and having spent articles (IV)—(VII) explaining why I think we’re justified on a priori conceptual grounds to believe that it is, the next series will explore whether there are any overriding reasons sufficient to convince you—if you’ve followed me up to here—to believe it turns out ‘empirically’ not to be true after all.

Consciousness (VII) — Panpsychism: Panacea, or Flash in the Pan?

A great deal of clarity can be achieved in philosophy of mind if we simply clarify the concepts of experience and physical properties. Experience can acquire its definition by direct observation of the operations of consciousness itself “from the inside.”[1] Meanwhile, the definition of “physical property” which I assume is something like: “abstract geometric structural properties and blind (e.g., non–‘purposeful’) dispositions towards patterns of inert cause and effect.”[2] Think of it like this: if I look at the wall next to me, I do not ordinarily assume that the wall has any of the dispositions to move or be moved by other objects in space that it has because it is blue. Rather, the modern picture of science would have me assume that I perceive it to be blue because of the way that the wall’s spatial–structural properties cause it to be disposed to reflect or absorb various mathematically definable frequencies of light. What is the relationship between its “blueness” and the abstracted geometric structures and inert causal dispositions towards blind patterns of spatial movement that correlate with me experiencing it as “blue?” Does that “blueness” exist in the atoms of the wall itself, or does “blue” only exist inside my mind itself as a function of my own conscious act of synthesizing a perception from those physical ingredients? Does it make sense to call the two properties “identical?” Does one “emerge from” or “reduce to” the other? That is the basic heart of the problem the existence of phenomenal consciousness poses. None of these answers are obviously correct; each has at least some apparently significant difficulties; and yet some answer has to be true. 

My argument throughout this series has been that if we assume that physical objects are described through and through by “physical properties” as just defined—and we assume that the world as a whole is composed of no other essential ingredients at its ultimate core than physical objects as so defined—then it becomes simply incoherent to conceive of how any of the properties of experience which we know directly and immediately through our very acts of experiencing (and, no less, through which we we make all our inferences, without exception, about the world we can only assume—even with great justification—lies outside of those experiences themselves) could come to exist. While some physicalists may swear that future science will somehow ‘eventually’ resolve that question even if we can’t see how from here, I argue that this is exactly like realizing we have been trying to draw a robust 3D figure onto a flat 2D canvas, and realizing we need an entirely new medium in order to get the kind of figure we’re looking for to “fit” into the picture at all—that we are therefore absolutely justified to throw out the canvas completely, while what physicalists are doing is swearing that we’ll figure it out if we just keep trying, and that we’re shirking our intellectual obligations if we don’t spend the rest of eternity drawing lines every which conceivable way on the canvas until we figure it out, because we’re inferentially justified by the success of all our previous drawings of 2D figures on that canvas to believe that this one will eventually be able to fit, as well.

The ordinary physicalist would have it that science is progressing so thoroughly towards a complete understanding of the world that we should assume it is inevitable that it will eventually account for the nature of consciousness and the human organism in nothing other than those very terms. On the contrary, I contend: (1) that we are not understanding the world at all unless we are coming to understand the nature of our own consciousness’ place within it; and (2) that in an important sense, the only aspects of the world which we know directly at all are the qualitative and intentionalistic aspects of consciousness known to our most direct and unmediated awareness of existing which physicalism simply erases by fiat and by definition out of the picture of what it is that “reality” is most ultimately composed of. I think accounting for the nature of the human organism and consciousness is something like a marathon, and I think all physicalist attempts to even begin to account for it fail in principle so extremely that they are tripping on their own shoelaces and slamming themselves into a concussion on the pavement at the literal very first step. What the philosophers call “qualia” (and intentionality) are not some mere incidental detail(s) that we need to find some way to tidy up into our otherwise successful picture of the world; the only thing we know with the kind of knowledge that knows with immediacy are the “qualia” (and intentionality) that compose the entirety of our very existence, from every single sensory field that we experience what we take to be an external world through, to the physical sensation of “being in (or part of) a body” to emotions to the feelings of exerting mental effort (to, in the case of intentionality, every single thought we ever have “about” absolutely anything whatsoever at all). And the physicalist or materialist account simply erases these from its understanding of the natural world—and then simply can’t ever coherently get them back, in principle, once having done so. Yet, not only do we know that they are there—they are actually the only thing we know at all. The entire notion of “a physical entity” as we ordinarily conceive of it is purely an abstracted concept—and physicalism cannot even account for the existence of “concepts,” since these inherently “refer” to something and have “meaning”—but no physical object defined by its purely abstract disposition to move this way or that through space when pushed this way or that by a physical object with similar dispositions is ever “about,” “refers” to,  or “means” anything. 

The conscious life we all know and experience is like a chicken pot pie we’re all tasting at every single moment. Physicalism is like the philosophy that the only ingredient that ever went into creating that pie was sugar—refuted in reverse by the fact that if that were true, it would predict that the chicken pot pie we all know we’re tasting and doing nothing other than taste at every moment simply could never have come to exist. We know, from the final products we are all observing and doing nothing other than observe at every moment through unmediated awareness of awareness itself, that that in principle can not be the only kind of ingredient that the world is built out of. It isn’t some small technicality that needs to be chopped up into some hacksawed form that can be stuffed into our ordinary physical picture of the world. It’s a failure to account for the fundamental existence of the only phenomena our awareness of which ever even causes us to postulate the independent existence of any sort of external physical world at all. To return to the earlier example: I never see the world of inertly interacting particles that physics supposedly tells me describes how the wall “really is” at all. The only thing I ever see is exactly the component that the physical picture of the world tells me is not part of how the world really is down deep at its root at allits “blueness. And the very notion that “physical” objects exist in this abstracted sense at all is purely a theory devised purposefully in order to account for the “blueness” and subjective felt sensation of texture which I do know by direct, unmediated awareness unquestionably does exist. Supposing that this is ultimately what the world is built out of renders us incapable in principle of accounting for every single aspect and component of the one and only thing that composes all of our actual direct knowledge of the nature of reality. It is a concept derived by subjective conscious awareness for a reason, when physicalism cannot even account for the existence of “concepts” or the notion that things are ever done “for reasons” (that is, to achieve purposes as opposed to because it was pushed) at all.

If we want to even begin to understand what 3D reality might actually look like, we simply have no choice but to throw out that canvas entirely. The conscious, subjective, ‘private,’ qualitative and sensational, purposeful, intentionalistic, logical and conceptually thinking minds we know firsthand are themselves basic parts of the ultimate “furniture” of what reality itself most ultimately is. And we have no choice but to start from there. No other starting point can even get us to arrive at the fact that it exists, when its existence is the only thing we actually know directly—and the one and only medium through which we postulate the existence (however justifiably) of anything else whatsoever at all.

We might sketch a diagram of the connection between the various possible positions as so:


Pinpointing the central core of the question in this way helps us to understand how all the positions relate, and why they are organized in the order in which they are. Phrased in this way, interactionist dualism is hardly an ad hoc or arbitrary thesis—it is simply a “Yes” answer to ‘Do conscious experiences and intentionality exist?’, followed by a “No” answer to ‘Can conscious experience and intentionality be understood as identical to / reducible to / emergent from (all of these phrases ultimately amount to different ways to verbally express the same ontological claim) anything other than themselves (especially physical properties in particular)?’ followed by a “No” answer to ‘Can conscious experience and intentionality be understood as epiphenomenal with respect to the world?’ Each of these answers can be extremely well supported with extensive and detailed argument. They are not “arguments from ignorance” about how the materialist claims are true any more than the atheistic argument from evil is an “argument from ignorance” about how it is true that God is omnibenevolent despite the existence of apparent evils (well, I suppose that one might argue that it is—but one would have to argue that it is and at least prove that that argument is successful in order to justify the right to claim so).

The ultimate question which all of these positions provide differing answers to is the very straightforward one of how the physical, causally disposing properties of physical objects (and forces) and subjective/qualitative experience ‘hang together’ in the world. And the “mind–body problem” exists as an objective problem regardless of what anyone ‘feels’ about it: we really don’t know how the two should fit together in our general picture of the world, and there are a strictly limited number of logical possibilities for what the answer could be, each of which faces at least some immediately apparent difficulties. Physical objects (and forces) are what they areobject–ively,” in a way that is fully visible to all outside observers—yet, if you look inside of my brain, you aren’t going to encounter anything like the subjective taste of chocolate which I’m experiencing. How the hell does it ‘sit’ “in there,” then? That’s mysterious, whether you think there’s a materialist answer for it or not. In a sense, that already—just plain in and of itself—looks a hell of a lot like a “ghost” inside of a “machine.”

If we use loose terminology like “mind” and “brain,” it’s easy to formulate pseudo–‘positions’ in philosophy of mind in terms so loose as to be meaningless enough to be worth neither defending nor refuting. “The mind is what the brain does,” goes one of the popular slogans. For God’s sake, what does that mean?! It could mean entirely different things depending on how exactly you define “mind” and how exactly you define “brain”—nevermind how you define the word “is,” nevermind the word “does.” But if we think of physical properties in the way I’ve defined them (without necessarily making assumptions about whether “physical properties” as defined are the only kinds of properties physical objects and forces have—if there are others, we can specify them and add them in later and see if they change anything) and focus clearly on the subjective, qualitative (and intentionalistic) aspects of consciousness which create the problematic mysteries, we can begin to chart a space of logically possible ways of holding them together. And then maybe we can start to get somewhere.

As I have drawn the situation, what we have is a train moving from eliminativism to reductive/emergentist/identity accounts to epiphenomenalism to interactionist dualism. In the broadest sense, we might define a “physicalist” as someone who is intellectually disposed to want to try to jump off of this train as soon as the leap doesn’t look suicidal. If the “physicalist” thinks he can swallow eliminativism, he does so—and if he can’t, then he prepares to jump off at the very next possible spot in order to stay as far away from interactionism as he conceivably can. It’s as if we’re all immigrants crossing the border by hopping a train headed for the Central Arizona Detention Center—the sooner we can get off this thing, the better; and if it eventually turns out that the jumps all look fairly equally suicidal, well, we’re just going to have to pick one and jump—anything is better than letting it ride all the way into the station.

“Dualism is to be avoided,” per Dennett, “at all costs.” And when Jaegwon Kim concludes that experience can’t be reduced to or “identified with” physiological processes and therefore decides to settle for epiphenomenalism, he doesn’t apologize for giving us a horror story narrative of the human condition wherein we’re all locked in streams of experiences that have no causal influence over anything whatsoever (where the mind is, as I described it before, like someone tied up with eyelids taped open in the back of our heads with arms and legs dismembered, passively forced to watch a screen, with no control or even slight influence over any part of the body or mind at all)—he doesn’t apologize for defining a psychiatric disorder (depersonalization disorder) as the fullest state of enlightenment about the true nature of reality—no; he apologizes for the fact that he had to deviate slightly from ordinary physicalism in order to get something he could even consider coherent: “The position is, as we might say, a slightly defective physicalism … [but] I believe that this is as much physicalism as we can have….  Physicalism is not the whole truth, but … near enough should be good enough.” [3]  It would hardly be unreasonable to say that the entire motivating premise behind almost all mainstream philosophy of mind is the attempt to answer the question, “What’s the best way not to be a dualist?” (Or, “what is the best way to reduce us all to inert physical mechanisms?[4]”)

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

I have throughout this series, however, held the caveat that I am defining “physical objects” as possessing only “physical properties” as I have defined them in order to make my way up to here. This does not invalidate what I have said up to here, even if by redefining “physical objects” to possess more than just “physical properties” we end up finding answers—I have been making only the assumptions of ordinary physicalism itself (and physicalists aren’t even the only ones who share the assumption). I’ve done this for a specific reason—as I think the particular nature of the critique I am going to make here can only be understood clearly if the dialectic as I have presented it up to here has been understood first.

Panpsychism is a position whose adherents will likely accept almost everything I have said up to here. Panpsychism presents itself as a solution to the mind–body problem—indeed, it presents itself as a solution to the problems exactly as I have defined them. I attacked the idea that the concept of “emergence” holds promise for making consciousness explicable on physicalism, for example, in my entry (IV). In Thomas Nagel’s 1979 article, ‘Panpsychism,’ he formulates panpsychism as a solution to exactly the same problem, writing: “ … there are no truly emergent properties of complex systems. All properties of complex systems that are not relations between it and something else derive from the properties of its constituents and their effects on each other when so combined.” The panpsychist solution? Posit that conscious experience is nothing new whose sudden appearance in the world needs any explanation because matter, all the way to the deepest “rock bottom” level, is experiential to the core to begin with—and explain that we’ve created the very difficulty of the mind–body problem itself by defining consciousness out of the ‘core (physical) ingredients’ of reality. So the sudden appearance of consciousness in human beings out of “physical” processes doesn’t need to be explained—consciousness is everywhere, embedded right in the very center of those ‘physical’ processes themselves.

Note, of course, that the panpsychist can’t say anything less than that conscious experience and intentionality themselves reside all the way down to the deepest levels of the entities in reality—there is simply nothing “in between” an experience and a non–experience. There may be varying degrees of robustness and detail within experiences, but something quite simply either is an experience or it isn’t. It may be that what it ‘feels like’ to be an electron is more like what it feels like to toss and turn during a deep sleep than what it feels like to be a wakened human being, but it must ‘feel like’ something. So long as experience rests in the roots, we can get experience to grow in the branches in more refined forms. We can’t evolve through stages from non–experience to experience, but we can evolve through stages from less robust and detailed to more robust and detailed experience just as long as we start with any kind of experience at all. To take my previous analogies in Does the World Pantry Stock More than Sugar?, the panpsychist solution would be to say that while the bag labeled ‘sugar’ was the only one in the pantry, it turns out that flour was mixed in with sugar in the bag all along. That certainly sounds promising. And indeed, I spent a long time thinking panpsychism was at least an equally probable answer aa dualism to the problems I’ve identified in other accounts, myself.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

I ended up reaching the conclusion, however, that panpsychism doesn’t foot the bill. In fact, all it does is create the illusion of doing so by turning the tab upside down so that we might not so easily recognize the numbers that are now upside down and on top of the tab instead of in ordinary, face–up recognizable form down at the bottom where we expect to see them. To realize why panpsychism fails to advance anything on the Hard Problem over materialism, we’ll have to try to imagine the numbers we recognize normally in inverted visual form in order to recognize them once we see them. Taking the paradigm which I have outlined above will be extremely helpful as an aid for seeing this.


The first key point to recognize is this: the fundamental core of the problem of consciousness is the question of how subjective, qualitative experience (and intentionality) could possibly relate to the physical causally disposing properties of the world. To say that consciousness exists everywhere, in conjunction with all instances where physical properties exist, is—in fact—not even an answer to this question. So far, the position specified is not even a response to the mind–body problem. Now, that’s not to say in any derogatory way that the fact that the bare claim of panpsychism (that consciousness in at least some form exists “all the way down” to the physical bedrocks of reality) hasn’t been formulated into a robust position yet on the actual mind–body problem itself just because that bare claim has been made immediately renders it inadmissable. To say that the bare claim is “not even a response” to the mind–body problem is not to imply the tone of the statement that it is “not even wrong.” It just means we have to actually formulate it before we are dealing with an actual position on the mind–body problem. But it is absolutely crucial to see that just because we specify that consciousness exists everywhere, we have not formulated any answer to the question of how the experiential properties of reality (wherever they may be) and the physical properties of reality actually stand in relation to and relate to each other. If we trace back through the chart, however, we can simply invert every single one of the positions there and see that exactly the same points apply! 

In the most superficial form, what makes the existence of consciousness seem mysterious at its first glance is the fact that, when we look in someone’s brain, we don’t see their experience of “tasting chocolate”—we just see physical structures and motion. The most basic issue is that we clearly seem to be dealing with two different types of properties, and it’s a mystery how they stand in relation to one another. If the bare claim of panpsychism is true, then the mystery that holds for the question of how instances of subjective conscious experience and physical dispositional properties to causally interact with other physical structures relate within a human mind/brain simply holds in exactly the same form for material micro–entities everywhere: when I look at an atom, I don’t “see” a feeling. So how does that ‘sit in there’ with the physical properties?

The basic thrust of the branching series of arguments earlier was as follows: either instances of experience and physical properties can be “identified” with each other, or else one can be “reduced to” (e.g., “claimed to be ‘emergent’ from”) the other, or else we can eliminate one or the other (eliminating the physical would be idealism, which I also bracket aside in the current analysis for reasons I will eventually discuss), or else one is epiphenomenal with respect to the other—or else it must be the case, by process of elimination, that interactionism is true. What are the panpsychist’s most viable options? In exactly which of these ways is consciousness ‘everywhere?’

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

The panpsychist, even on his own terms, simply does not have the option of saying that experiences and physical properties are identical. We arrived here precisely because of the Hard Problem of consciousness in the first place: if it is even conceivable that we could imagine having a “zombie” world, then it follows that the properties of experience and physical causal dispositions are not identical. But forget zombie worlds; even the materialists will agree with the point when formulated thusly:  if we can even imagine that panpsychism could conceivably not have been true, then the physical properties of the world around me and the experiential properties of the world around me are not simply literally identical. 

The only real argument in the panpsychist arsenal in the first place is that panpsychism is a solution to the problem of emergence (e.g., categorically new things can’t appear out of ingredients categorically unlike themselves, which are different not merely in degree but in kind; but if we posit that the “bedrock” entities reality is composed of are essentially ingredients of the same ‘kind’ as consciousness, the human consciousness–pie can then be accounted for in terms of the “ingredients” in reality’s pantry)—but the problem of emergence doesn’t even appear (and there would therefore be zero motivation to even consider panpsychism) unless we have rejected the “identity” of subjective conscious experiences with physical structures and causal dispositions to begin with. The two kinds of properties simply are not the same thing, in any case—that follows from a mere analysis of the conceptual content of both ideas alone, even if their existence does in fact coincide absolutely everywhere. But even if someone disagrees with that point, they are still left with no legitimate reason to go beyond the ordinary materialist mind–brain “identity” theory and into panpsychism anyway.

The physical properties as such clearly can’t be eliminated. That would leave us with a very bizarre sort of idealism, wherein the only kind of interaction that actually ever happens is psychic telepathy: your couch is a soul telepathically transmitting the experience to you of softness, green visual qualia, etc (or else we would be headed in the direction of a Berkeleyan sort of theistic idealism). Eliminating the experiential properties as such is even more obviously moot. And this point in the discussion brings us to the two remaining ways that the panpsychist might try to actually formulate the relationship between consciousness (as such) and physical properties (as such). The spread of conceptually possible options now looks like: Eliminate the mental, eliminate the physical, “identify” the mental and the physical, “reduce” the mental to, or have it “emerge” from, the physical; “reduce” the physical to, or have it “emerge” from, the mental; or treat the mental as an ontologically ‘extra’ property to the physical in a causally closed world—or interactionism. First and most plausibly, on the last approach of those just mentioned, the panpsychist may wish to hold to the causal closure of the physical properties of reality and say that consciousness exists everywhere as an effete tag–along—where experiences, as such, have no causal efficacy in their own right. We might think of this as the ‘property dualist’ version of panpsychism.

The problem, of course, has been thoroughly investigated already in the original opening discussion of subjective qualitative conscious experience in this series—“[I]f we represent causality with arrows, causal closure with parentheses, physical events with the letter P and experiences with the letter e, the world would look something like this:

… e1 ⇠ (((P⇆P))) ⇢ e2 …

Everything that happens within the physical world—illustrated by (((P⇆P)))—would be wholly and fully kept and contained within the physical world, where conscious experiences as such do not reside; the physical world is Thomas Huxley’s train which moves whether the whistle on top blows steam or not. And e1 and e2 float off of the physical world—for whatever reason—and then merely dissipate into nothingness like steam, with no capacity in principle for making any causal inroads back into the physical dimension of reality whatsoever. This follows straightforwardly as an inescapable conclusion of the very premises which epiphenomenalism defines itself by. But since the very brains which produce all our experienced thoughts are contained within (((P⇆P))), in order to have any experienced thought about conscious experience itself, these (per epiphenomenalism) would have to be the epiphenomenal byproducts of a brain state that is somehow reflective or indicative of conscious experience. But brain states, again because per epiphenomenalism they belong to the self–contained world inside (((P⇆P))) where no experiences as such exist, are absolutely incapable in principle of doing this.

… The fact that we do this, then—the fact that we do think about consciousness as such, and the fact that we write volumes and volumes and volumes and volumes philosophizing about it, and the very fact that we produce theories (including epiphenomenalism itself) about its relation to the physical world in the first place—proves absolutely” that epiphenomenalism is false. 

Alright, well … what alternative does that leave?

It isn’t pretty.

(Back to the list: Eliminate the mental, eliminate the physical, “identify” the mental and the physical, “reduce” the mental to, or have it “emerge” from, the physical; “reduce” the physical to, or have it “emerge” from, the mental; or treat the mental as an ontologically ‘extra’ property to the physical in a causally closed world—or interactionism.)

The only alternative is for the panpsychist to propose an inverted version of emergentism. He could say, for example, that whereas the physicalist proposed physical substances whose underlying operations naturally result in the appearance of “conscious experiences” by logical consequence in the same way that the underlying behavior of H2O molecules naturally results in the appearance of what we would recognize as the behavior of water, so he proposes that consciousness is in fact the substance of all reality—which leaves his theory with the need to account for the appearance of physical properties as emergent from the base root of consciousness in a parallel yet inverted way.

Just what would this actually entail?

To say the least, nothing better. We’d have to assume that the real “substances” that make up the world are something like  ‘minds’ or ‘selves,’ and that the velocity of a particular electron—for example—“emerges” in either the weak or strong sense from something like the electron’s felt desire to go a particular speed, or the electron’s feeling of a certain subjectively registered qualitative degree of felt “anxiety.” If the Hard Problem left materialism incapable of working to get experience coherently out of physical processes, then this ‘emergent’ form of panpsychism is equally absurd and inadmissible and fails just as much to offer any conceivable way of getting physical processes out of experiential roots. And the only alternative that would allow us to avoid that is, again, to make the substances physical and tack the experiential properties on as a universal tag–along—which would result in epiphenomenalism, which is every bit as incoherent and inadmissible.

(Back to the list: Eliminate the mental, eliminate the physical, “identify” the mental and the physical,“reduce” the mental to, or have it “emerge” from, the physical; “reduce” the physical to, or have it “emerge” from, the mental; or treat the mental as an ontologically ‘extra’ property to the physical in a causally closed world—or else interactionism.)

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

The upshot of all this?

Any conceivable reason one might actually have for reaching the point where panpsychism would appear worth considering as a potential solution to the mind–body problem will end up exactly being a reason why panpsychism itself fails to solve those very same problems. Just as “the mind is what the brain does” is a catchy slogan empty of any real substantive content and therefore worth neither defending nor refuting in terms as vague as those—and just as the materialist owes us some actually meaningful account of the actual relationship between consciousness and physical processes (as well as how it is that he actually understands the nature of each)—and just as performing this exercise will leave us with a variety of different positions which might stand or fall separately according to the particular merits or demerits of each, so the same goes for panpsychism.

“Experience is everywhere” is every bit as much a catchy slogan that is simply empty of the real substantive content needed to say that one has an actual position on the relationship between consciousness and the physical world. It stands every bit as much in need of being spelled out through some specified, actually meaningful account of what it means to say that that is true. What makes the notion of a brain that is seemingly all consciousness on the inside yet also seemingly purely physical from the outside mysterious goes every bit as much for the notion of a conscious boson.

And it turns out, in the end, that there is simply no way to actually formulate panpsychism coherently any more than there was any viable way to do so for materialism—at the very minimal least, one cannot say that any virtue of panpsychism is that it overcomes the problems had by ordinary physicalism, for actually formulating the claim that experience is everywhere into any meaningful details of how it is that that is so will inevitably result in one having to defend exactly the same premises one would have to reject in order to reject physicalism and see any possible reason to even try to adopt panpsychism in the first place. If we reject physicalism for its inability to both make sense of the relationship between “private” subjective conscious experience and “public” physical structure plus causal disposition and also avoid the modus tollens–forming dead end of epiphenomenalism, then panpsychism is no viable detour away from those problems.

Specifically, we have no reason to contemplate panpsychism at all unless it seems to be a viable solution to the problem of emergence. But no problem of emergence even appears to begin with unless we reject the mind–brain “identity thesis” on which subjective experiences and physical causal dispositions are literally identical and we therefore acknowledge a “hard problem” about the relationship between consciousness and the physical as our starting point. This leaves the panpsychist without the choice to say that the two types of phenomena are just literally identical (and the claim is transparently false, anyway, simply because we can even conceive of panpsychism failing to hold), and it means that the only possible ways of formulating the details of panpsychism left either result in epiphenomenalism or else result in a Hard Problem that was even more confused and ridiculous than the original one.

Pessimistically, I expect one predominant response to come from most panpsychists who consider this argument. Just as “emergent” materialists predominantly respond to the critiques of materialism by ignoring the fact that they charge, for good reason, that the inert causal patterns of internally ‘blind’ structural physical entities will never account for the appearance of subjective conscious experience in principle and ignoring the fact that science (per assumptions which they share) is never going to uncover anything other than more inert causal patterns and blind structures in principle, shirk the obligation to actually formulate materialism into something actually workable and coherent, and shrug while telling us that science will work out all of the details some day, so we should all shut up and stop trying to think philosophically—so I expect the panpsychists to primarily respond by simply refusing to accept the burden of formulating panpsychism into any specific workable and coherent form. But the issue stands, whether they accept the challenge or not: one of these actual relationships has to hold true between subjective experiences and physical causal properties. Panpsychism seems to fail for exactly the same reasons materialist accounts fail, no matter which of them we might try to pick.

So anyone who can swallow the materialist premises has no reason to contemplate panpsychism in the first place, and non–materialists turn out to have no reason to consider it any likely solution to the problems that the premises of materialism create after all. Accept the underlying assumptions of the materialist positions? You’re left with no reason to postulate panpsychism to begin with. Reject the underlying assumptions of the materialist positions? You’re left with no reason to think panpsychism actually offers a way out of them. While this may seem like a short order dismissal for a philosophy with roots stretching as deep into the past of philosophy as panpsychism, most of the work has already been done over the preceding entries—in the rejections of physicalist emergentism, identity theory, et cetera. All that was needed here is to point out that panpsychism actually has to be formulated into a claim, damn it and then show that it fails to solve the problems it billed itself to begin with as the solution for. The previous 20–30,000 words in entries (IV) through (VI) exist to explain why those problems truly are problems serious enough to disqualify a position from serious consideration.

Eliminating either the mental or physical? Neither are options for the panpsychist, by default. “Identify” conscious experiences with physical properties? (1), they simply aren’t identical kinds of properties—by the panpsychist’s own lights as well, if he admits that it is even logically conceivable that panpsychism might have been false; (2), the panpsychist would have no reason to posit panpsychism in the first place if he could identify them, because the problem of emergence that forms panpsychism’s sole valid motivation disappears if we don’t have to get anything to emerge because the two can be considered ‘identical’ to begin with. If the panpsychist finds this at all plausible, it is because things that are ‘identical’ and things that are (posited to) coexist everywhere at all times feel similar to naive intuition. “Reduce” physical properties to, or have physical properties “emerge from,” conscious experiences by supposing all that exist are mental substances, with emergent physical properties? This just turns the hard problem of getting subjective sensation out of neural movement into the absolute batshit absurdity[5] of trying to get an electron’s velocity out of how it’s been feeling. Treat the physical object as the substance, with the mental properties tacked on—the same regular old property dualism as ever, except that it posits that those properties exist everywhere? Well, that leads—once again—to the inexcusable conclusion of epiphenomenalism. Panpsychism makes a nice offer to foot the bill and puts a sincere effort into writing a check, it just turns out it doesn’t actually have any cash in its bank account.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

We might say that the deep, fundamental conceptual gaps between “physical properties” as we have defined them (“mathematically describable geometric structures and mathematical–functionally describable tendencies towards patterns of spatiotemporal motion”) and the subjective, qualitative, phenomenal, intentionalistic (etc.) aspects of experiential consciousness are rather like the Grand Canyon. If the conceptual gaps are the Grand Canyon, then the intractable problems that appear on the ordinary materialist views which say that everything that makes up the human mind are at root ultimately ‘physical’ are the “jumping across the Grand Canyon from East to West” problem.


If panpsychism appears to actually solve any part of the problems of consciousness at all, it merely does so by leaving the Grand Canyon entirely and then returning to the plains to the West. The “jumping across the Grand Canyon from East to West” problem might have been solved by this act of relocation, sure—but now we just have the “jumping across the Grand Canyon from West to East” problem—and it turns out that that is just exactly the same problem. The relocation doesn’t actually even begin to make bridging between the two a whit more plausible or coherent at all—you just have to look East instead of West now in order to see it again: it just now takes a slightly different form of ‘looking.’

Panpsychism, in the end, turns out to be a pointless act of relocation pretending to be a bridge. If what we need is an actual bridge, then this simply isn’t it. For my part, I’m going to defend the position that that’s simply not a jump that can be made because we actually are dealing with two separate territories. 

_______~.::[༒]::.~ _______

[1] For all complaints that “introspection” is too unreliable to be of any use here, I refer to my previous entry (VI). In sum: “introspection” is unreliable at forming theories about why the data of conscious experience is what it is, but it is not even sensible to suggest that it could be unreliable at identifying what the data of conscious experience is. And while we may be mistaken as to whether we’re identifying plain data directly or crafting a theory to account for it in an given case, it takes an equal measure of both refining our ability to craft accurate hypotheses through falsification and “introspection” to determine this—but some piece of incontrovertible data will lie somewhere underneath all acts of theoretical “introspection.” If I think something that someone said made me feel ill, and it turns out that I only began to feel ill at that moment because an uncooked piece of meat hit my stomach right as they finished speaking, I can be mistaken in all my “introspection” about why what they said made me feel so ill, but I can’t be mistaken in my “introspection” of the fact that I do feel ill. 

All ordinary talk about illusions makes a distinction between an appearance, and the reality underlying that appearance which gives rise to it: ‘a stick half–placed in water appears to be bent; but it isn’t really bent.’ Thus, all ordinary talk about illusions precisely takes consciousness for granted, because consciousness itself is the very medium in which the misleading “appearance” exists—and it is simply incoherent to suggest that consciousness itself could be an “illusion” in anything like the same way, because where consciousness is concerned, the very existence of “appearances” is a major defining component of the “reality” we’re interested in: the reality of the existence of “appearances” themselves. We have to be careful, yes, but we can distinguish between the acts of “introspection” that could, in principle, be fallible; and those which, in principle, can’t. And I have only claimed three basic things as candidates for what falls into the category of things that can be known infallibly through “introspection”:

(a) that our experiences are of a subjective and qualitative nature, composed all the way through proprioception to the combination of sensory fields to emotions of absolutely nothing other than “raw” feelings and sensations—(and these can’t be analyzed in terms of abstract geometric structure and blind dispositions towards patterns of inert cause and effect);

(b) that our conceptual thoughts are “about” things; that thoughts have intrinsic “meaning” and semantic “content”—quoting Rosenberg, “Suppose someone asks you, “What is the capital of France?” Into consciousness comes the thought that Paris is the capital of France. Consciousness tells you in no uncertain terms what the content of your thought is, what your thought is about. It’s about the statement that Paris is the capital of France. That’s the thought you are thinking. It just can’t be denied. You can’t be wrong about the content of your thought. You may be wrong about whether Paris is really the capital of France. … You might even be wrong about whether you are thinking about Paris, confusing it momentarily with London. What you absolutely cannot be wrong about is that your conscious thought was about something. Even having a wildly wrong thought about something requires that the thought be about something.”—(and this can’t be analyzed in terms of physical causation either: again quoting Rosenberg, “[but] science has to deny [this]. Thinking about things can’t happen at all. The brain can’t have thoughts about Paris, or about France, or about capitals, or about anything else for that matter. … How can the first clump—the Paris neurons in my brain—be about, denote, refer to, name, represent, or otherwise point to the second clump—the agglomeration of Paris? … How can one clump of stuff anywhere in the universe be about some other clump of stuff anywhere else in the universe—right next to it or 100 million light-years away?”)

(c) that our experiences are of experiences overlapping across time; and thus that our awareness itself includes awareness of the fact that our identities as conscious subjects depends on this stream continuing to persist—and, therefore, that what makes me “me” is a fact about my consciousness itself; e.g., whether or not it continues persisting in the way that it usually does in waking life—(and this can’t be analyzed in terms of any third–person–verifiable facts, even if third–person–verifiable facts may covary with it and are the best that third parties can have—in some cases, if we kept all the third–person–verifiable facts between me and someone who looks and acts exactly like me identical, there would still be some plain unanalyzable fact about which one was “me.” Quoting Swinburne, “Using the word ‘experience’ for a brief moment in a wide sense, we may say that the succession of perceptions is itself a datum of experience; S experiences his experiences as overlapping in a stream of awareness. … [And] it is in the unity of a stream that we primarily discern the identity of a subject.’”)

[2] In assuming this definition, I do not assume that the “physical properties” as so defined are all that there are—or even necessarily that what we call “physical” objects (and forces) must be composed all and only of what I have defined as “physical properties.” But I happen to think that they are the only kinds of properties which “physical” objects (and forces) do have, and I happen to expect that any physicalist reading will naturally agree: the thesis of physicalism is often defined, after all, through the thesis of “causal closure of the physical.” In other words, physical entities are defined by their dispositions to act causally on the equivalently defined physical properties of other physical objects (and forces). Analogies might be made that the fundamental nature of the world is that of a mechanical clock, or a table of billiard balls, but these analogies can be misleading in that they would seem to imply that deterministically defined pushing and pulling is the only kind of physical causation that exists. Thus, the existence of quantum indeterminacy (for example) might be used to argue that this picture is a red herring. However, probabilistic determination is still blind and inert physical determination. A formula that specifies a metaphorical dice roll to determine the input of one of its variables is still, in the sense relevant here, “determined.” The details of how these blind and inert cause and effect dispositions operate is entirely beside the point, so analogies of this sort are as likely to be misleading as helpful.

[3] David Chalmers writes an amusing comment. “This calls to mind a counterfactual book called Straight, Or Something Near Enough subtitled I Just Fool Around With Guys on Weekends.  “The position is, as we might say, a slightly defective heterosexuality … but near enough should be good enough, right?”

[4] Is it really so illegitimate for me to wonder why preserving physicalism at all costs is a priority this high to begin with? At exactly what point—if any—would it no longer be so naive and philosophically inexcusable for me to ask, “What about preserving a little bit of fucking humanity? What about something that preserves even just the tiniest sliver of any kind of ‘purpose’ or ‘meaning’ for the existence of conscious life at all?” It’s one thing to reject the entire body of evidence for evolution wholesale because you want to believe you were specially designed by a personal loving creator, but does it really leave me in the same boat with them to feel uneasy about this degree of dehumanizing everything that makes us ‘human’ (using the word in the sense of ordinary person’s mush–headed connotation) to begin with?


What is it like to be bat–shit?

Consciousness (VI) — The Fire That Cannot Burn Itself

In entry (IV), I identified three central aspects of the nature of consciousness: “The first: phenomenal experience—which is private, subjective and qualitative (and suffuses absolutely everything contained in and expressed by the first–person perspective of conscious awareness); the second: intentionality—the ‘world–reflective’ nature of thought as well as the ability of representational symbols such as the words composing this page to possess “meaning” (derivative of the fact that thoughts contain and represent intrinsic meaning); and the third: the uniqueness of our personal identities (over time) as conscious beings—consciousness entails a referent for the indexical “I” which is unique from all other “I”s in a way that physical entities as ordinarily understood are not unique from each other. In consciousness as we in this world know it, each of these separate aspects tie together at once to create a singular unity of all of these in one phenomena; and we can only get an attempt at ‘pointing at’ the unified phenomena of consciousness as a whole indirectly, by attempting to ‘point at’ each of these elements of the phenomena separately in turn (and each, once again, even more indirectly).”

I save the third aspect for last because it is, argumentatively, the weakest, and I believe acceptance of it hinges on acceptance first and foremost of the other two aspects first (or at least of the first of them). If we can accept that consciousness itself is a subjective, first–person phenomena—that consciousness is the very appearance of subjective phenomenal experiences to the first–person perspective—that “subjectivity is precisely the form in which [consciousness] has its existence”—and that the very mystery of consciousness is that the subjective phenomena presenting to my first–person conscious awareness cannot be seen in third–person by peering inside my physical brain (whereas there is nothing about any physical object, force, or event as ordinarily understood which cannot in principle be seen from an outside, third–person perspective)—then it is hardly unreasonable to accept that some further aspects of what consciousness is can only be known from first–person observation of it, in principle.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

“Introspection” has become a dirty word—and for perfectly good reason: psychology has proven nothing for the past hundred years if not that we do not always accurately know the true reasons why we do the things that we do or desire the things we desire or like the things that we like simply by ‘glancing inside of ourselves.’ Subconscious motivations affecting the course of one’s entire lifetime pattern of behavior can sometimes become uncovered only by the use of extensive psychotherapy to draw them out into an individual’s conscious awareness, and the whole myriad of biases we all hold without having awareness of them further identified by years of psychological study have most definitely deepened the problem profoundly. To take just one of the million possible examples, “In a classic study, college students watched a video interview with a university instructor who had an unfamiliar foreign accent. In one version of the video, his responses were warm and likable; in the other, they were cold and unlikable. Students who saw the warm and likable version later rated the instructor’s accent as more pleasant than did those who saw the other version. However, they were unaware that his likability influenced how they perceived his accent and even confidently claimed that the reverse had occurred—that his accent made them like (or dislike) him. This experiment … suggests people’s false confidence in [introspection’s] reliability.” Furthermore, we all seem to weigh our observations of others’ behavior far more highly than we do their own ‘introspective’ reports of themselves when trying to analyze their motives (“Even when one is privileged enough to have access to others’ introspections, such as when those others share their thoughts about a particular judgment, that access is of an indirect sort. Consequently, one may value it less—e.g., ‘I know you think his cold personality didn’t affect your perception of him, but I have to weigh that against how harsh you were about his accent.’”) even while giving our own acts of introspection a rating of infallibility we refuse to extend to others (Source: The Introspective Illusion (pdf), Emily Pronin).

We must carefully try to distinguish, however, between what are the direct datum of conscious experience, and what are theoretical attempts at explaining those datum. There really is a sense of the word “introspection” in which it is describes something that is, in principle, infallible. And there is also a sense of the word “introspection” in which it is as imprecise and fallible as using a paper towel ‘telescope’ to try to measure sunspots.

We use “introspection” in both senses of the word, interchangeably (call them observational “introspection1” and theoretical “introspection2”); and sometimes when we think we’re doing only the former type of “introspection1” we are nonetheless blending in elements of the latter—rendering what we might think are purely the former observational types of “introspection1” fallible in direct proportion to the amount of theoretical “introspection2” which we’ve unconsciously mixed and blended into the act. But “introspection1” itself can allow us to clarify when and where what we are doing is truly “introspection1” as opposed to “introspection2”—and indeed may even be absolutely instrumental for our doing so.

To see this simple point, suppose someone with schizophrenia suffers from severe auditory hallucinations. “Introspection1” would be utterly impotent at being able to reveal whether or not the statement that “the air vent believes I will drown on Tuesday” is true—the inference that the air vent actually does believe this would be a theoretical explanation to try to account for the direct data of observed experience, and it might not be the best one. It would, however, at exactly the same time, be every bit as true that “introspection1” would be absolutely infallible at revealing whether or not the statement that “I am having an experience as if of hearing the air vent tell me it believes that I will drown on Tuesday” is true—because this is the direct data of observed experience.

A science that took the former kind of “introspection2” as infallible and treated every such claim as unquestionable would never be able to get off the ground. But so, too, would a science that treated the latter kind of “introspection1” too lightly. If we did not take seriously peoples’ claims to know “by introspection1” that they are hearing voices, we would never even have identified schizophrenia as a real psychological disorder. It took a combination of both trusting “introspection1” and distrusting “introspection2” in order to both recognize schizophrenia as a real psychological disorder and begin trying to learn how to treat it. And all other reports of experience will be the same. In every case in which “introspection2” fails, there will be both elements of theoretical inference which are responsible for the error, as well as elements of infallible “introspection1” from which these inferences were made.

To return to the example quoted from The Introspective Bias above, the participants of this study were wrong when they made guesses about why they disliked the instructor’s accent—but they could not be wrong when they claimed that they disliked the instructor or his accent. The only reason we are even able to draw a contrast between the participants’ reports of why they believed they disliked the instructor’s accent and what the study gives us reason to believe actually happened is because we take for granted that they are giving us infallible information when they tell us  whether they did in fact like or dislike the instructor’s accent—because only once we grant from these “introspective1” reports that participants in the second case came to dislike the “cold” instructor’s accent while those in the first case had no dislike of the “warm” instructor’s identical accent can we infer that the proper explanation of what happened is that, contra “introspection2,” disliking the instructor is what caused dislike of his accent. But the accuracy of “introspection2” is only even capable of being challenged in this case to begin with because we take the accuracy of “introspection1” for granted.

In other words, it simply is not possible to even mount a challenge for “introspection2” of the theoretical–explanatory sort without absolutely granting the capacity of “introspection1” to have unquestionable access to at least some certain direct, immediately present contents of consciousness. The difficulty simply rests in clearly identifying which category given acts of “introspection” properly belong to, and in refining one’s ability to “introspect1” while keeping these acts clearly distinct from one’s theoretically “introspective2” fallible interpretations of what is thereby infallibly immediately and directly seen.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Having—I believe—settled this background, I am prepared to open my argument. Language, evolved as it was to navigate the world revealed by the contents of consciousness, is as before and always a clumsy and inefficient tool for trying to discuss the nature of consciousness itself; but I can begin to gesture in the direction of the what I want to show by saying something like this: Revealed through “introspection1” as a direct and unmediated datum of subjective experience, we can become aware that the subjectivity of experience invariably brings along with it something worth calling subjecthood—and  the uniqueness of every conscious subject of experiences is absolutely uniquely unique to that particular subject.

It is striking to me that so many questions that children are known to frequently ask turn out to revolve around some of the deepest philosophical questions there are. One of these is a question that can be phrased variously either as: “Why am I me?” or as something like: “If I had been born to different parents, would I still have been me?” I think it can be demonstrated that this question is absolutely both meaningful and profound, and refers to yet another categorical difference between consciousness and physical objects—and I have an original thought experiment for helping to draw out more clearly for intuition just what it is that the question points us in the direction of.

A common response to a question like this is to attempt to “demystify it” into the much more trivial and uninteresting question, “Why is any particular thing the particular thing that it is?” As before in entry (IV)’s discussion of phenomenal experience and entry (V)’s discussion of intentionality, ‘purpose,’ and the ‘meaningful’ nature of conscious thought, arguments against the direct and immediate datum of conscious experience often proceed from the assumption that these data must not be true, because materialism is true—were materialism true, these data could not be what they appear to be; therefore, since materialism is true, these data just can’t be what they seem to be and we must dismiss them whether we can find independently justifiable grounds for doing so or not. It is this approach, however, which gets things ass–backwards.

The direct data of consciousness can’t be dismissed out of hand just because they conflict with what would have to be true if materialism were true. We do not know with any kind of automatic certainty that materialism is true—not even by following the premises of naturalism itself, as I have labored to argue across more than 30,000 words so far: even those very premises are perfectly compatible with the possibility of arriving at the conclusion that consciousness itself could be a unique, fundamental phenomena of its own—and as these are the very data which challenge the claim that materialist claims about the mind can be true, they cannot be dismissed simply by saying the equivalent of “that‘s false because materialism is true.”

Now, to be absolutely clear, I am not saying that anyone knows it to be true by sheer introspection alone that they actually ‘could’ have been born to different parents—really ‘could’ in the sense in which the Powerball lottery machine, when it turns on, really ‘could’ dispense their ticket’s number in a few moments. The deeper point lies in this: thinking about the nature of what is conceptually “possible” can, if not directly reveal truths to us about the world, reveal to us the direction in which certain kinds of truth will have to lie—truths which will have to exist in order to explain why that conceptual “possibility” does not in fact hold true.

The nature of an argument with this form shouldn’t be hard to understand; we all perform this kind of reasoning in obvious ways in everyday life, without thinking of it quite in these terms. I may very well reason starting with the premise that “I can conceive of the sky having been some other color than blue,” for example, and adapting this into the language of philosophy we could phrase the point by saying that there is no inherent logical contradiction in the possibility of there being an Earth in a possible world without a blue sky. Since I am correct in this—nothing logically requires a sky to be blue on principle—this means I can only be right that there must be some empirical answer to the question, “Why is it blue, then?” The answer turns out to lie, of course, in a combination of things like shorter wavelengths of light—such as blue—having a greater tendency to bounce around as well as the make–up of our eyes. But what matters for our purposes here is the fact that our ability to simply conceive of the sky having been a different color is a valid guide to help point us in the right direction to find the explanation for why it is, after all, the color that it is: eventually, we get an account in which we can’t conceive of—for example—shorter wavelengths of light not bouncing around more—and only then do we say that the reason the sky is the color that it is has been ‘explained.’  [1]

The argument in my entry (IV) revolves, without stating or presenting what is said there in these explicit terms, around the point made through what is known in modern philosophy as the “zombie argument.” To summarize the whole thing in brief, what the “zombie” in the zombie argument asks us to imagine is not the Hollywood brain–eater, but something much different: an entity with all the abstract, geometrical structural build and blind physical cause–and–effect dispositions of the human body and brain—who is without any internal conscious experiences. Since this is conceivable, the argument goes, internal conscious experience is something ‘extra’ to the ordinary “physical” properties just listed—and so, unless we can explain how it turns out to be the case that these physical concepts really do conceptually entail subjective conscious experience (despite appearances!) as I explain and refute even the conceptual possibility for in my discussion in entry (IV) of emergentism, then it really is something extra, and physicalism is false. [2]: Note on why I did not phrase my own argument in these terms.

The form followed by the “zombie argument” gives us a convenient way to draw out the precise sense in which that question absolutely does turn out to be profoundly meaningful. While it doesn’t in and of itself immediately reveal a truth to us, it unquestionably reveals to us the direction in which a certain kind of truth will have to lie in order to explain why what is conceptually “possible” turns out not, in fact, to be the actual truth. Just as the fact that a zombie world is conceivable demands that we give reasons why we turn out not to be in such a world, and the search for what those reasons would have to be leads us to see the necessity of rejecting physicalism itself (because further argument establishes that the types of facts which we ourselves have defined to be the nature of “the physical” facts—abstract geometric structure and blind cause and effect disposition—render it impossible by that very definition of what “physical” is conceptualized to mean that physical facts can account for what that difference is), so it is with the question, “Why am I me?

The question does not presuppose anything about the metaphysical nature of “the self.” The question refers first and foremost to something which we bloody well can conceive of as a conceptual possibility, and then asks us to consider what would have to be the case about reality as it actually is in order to account for the fact that that conceptual possibility is not an actual reality. If conclusions about the metaphysical nature of “the self” are finally entailed as a conclusion at this point, the mere fact that the physicalist does not want to accept such a conclusion does not mean that the argument “begs the question.” A fallaciously question–begging argument is not one that establishes a conclusion that its opponent does not want to accept; but one which includes that conclusion in its premises more or less explicitly. If it is in fact the case that I can conceive of a world where “I” was not “me” (or more properly, where “me” was not “I”—I’ll explain in a moment), and my ability to conceive of this compels me to refer to some kind of fact that would be capable of accounting for the fact that that conceptually possible outcome turned out not to be an actual one, and it turns out that the only kind of fact that could possibly hold together such an account is one which makes reference to something like a metaphysical “self”—then the mere fact that the argument entails conclusions which the physicalist wants to reject is simply not a fact that establishes that original premise to beg the question. It is, in fact, the physicalist who must find some way to reject those premises which does not beg the question in favor of physicalism.

As I said before, the common approach to ‘deflating’ and ‘demystifying’ this question is by making analogy with material objects: “Why is any particular object the particular object that it is? If it wasn’t that one, it would be a different one. So what?” But what the question actually attempts to hint at is a difference in the identity criteria for consciousness as contrasted with identity criteria for physical objects. Simply asking us to think of it as if the question when directed towards consciousness was no different from that question when directed towards physical objects is worse than begging the question—it doesn’t even form an argument with premises; it simply comes bald–faced and asks us to imagine there isn’t a problem.

Just as the “zombie argument” has us imagine a world containing all the geometric–structural and blind–cause–and–effect–dispositional properties of our world, and points out that it is conceivable that a world with only those kinds of properties could exist without containing any subjective experiences—in order to proceed from there—so a parallel adaptation of that argument establishes a similar point here: For any given physical object, to have the particular structural and causal–dispositional properties that that object has is just simply to be that object. I very clearly cannot even conceive of the world I am in right now as having been such that a particular atom inside my left finger right now could have taken an identical causal path throughout time as it did in this universe, and had exactly the same structural and dispositional properties as it had in this one, without its—simply by definition—thereby having been that same exact particular atom. What the “deflationist” of the question wants us to do is take the same attitude towards conscious experience which we would take towards those physical entities—summed up in essence as:

However, what I most absolutely can conceive of is this: a world identical to this one in both the physical and experiential events which it contains in which the man named “Aedon” writing this essay right now exists every bit as much as he does right now—and has an identical set of not only physical traits, but also an identical set of subjective experiences as “I” qua conscious subject of experiences have had in my life, and took a identical course through time as I have taken in this world—in which “I” qua conscious subject of experiences am not  the one who was the subject of those experiences. It is not even possible to conceive of this in reference to ordinary physical objects; it can’t even be imagined.

But I can conceive of it in reference to my–“self.” I can perfectly well conceive of a world in which all the facts about what physical cause–and–effect events occur and what experiences are had in which “I” did not have any experiences—indeed, whenever I imagine parallel universes or possible worlds in which “Aedon” exists, I am doing just exactly that: imagining a world containing “me” (as entity) in which “I” (as conscious subject) do not exist. I cannot conceive of this world having been such that a given atom traced an identical causal path through history without, by definition, conceiving of a world where “that atom” was just exactly that atom. But I can conceive of a world where a person who bore my name existed, did everything I did, and had every experience I ever had, without thereby simply by definition conceiving of a world where I as the conscious subject of those experiences came to be. The existence of “I” simply does not follow logically from the existence of “me;” and so the question of why “I” exist simply remains unmoved after a full explanation has been given for the existence of “me.”

A question directed towards a physical object along the lines of, “Why is that particular apple that particular apple?” can therefore be fully satisfied by a causal description of how those particular atoms arrived at the particular place in time and space they did. But a description of the physical formation of this body—and even a description of all the subjective experiential states of this mind—simply does not satisfy the question, “Why am I me?” and something more is undeniably needed. Something that could account for the existence of facts about identity which are not entailed by abstracted facts about experiences described in impersonal terms—something that could account for the fact that this “I” is something profoundly distinct from every other “I” that exists.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Someone like David Chalmers will sometimes speak, as he does in Consciousness and its Place in Nature, of the “zombie argument” through the metaphor that “If God could have created a zombie world, then (as Kripke puts it) after creating the physical processes in our world, he had to do more work to ensure that it contained consciousness.” In putting the point in this way, Chalmers does not express belief in the existence of God—he uses the metaphor to emphasize a certain way of illustrating the relationship between physical processes and consciousness—to say that the relationship is such that something like this could have been how it would have worked in a different universe. Likewise, we can do something similar here. Just as I can imagine God creating possible worlds and use the metaphor to illustrate a conceptual relationship (without thereby committing one way or another with regards to the actual existence of God), so I can perfectly well imagine sitting outside of the Universe, looking on it as a collected series of every moment of time that ever passed within it, omniscient with regards to every impersonal physical event that takes place within that Universe and every impersonal fact about what experiences are ever felt or perceived by the subjects within that Universe.

Yet, even knowing these facts, if God tells me next that am going to be born into that world to experience the subjective flow of time as one of those subjects, I will simply have no basis within the facts that I know for guessing when and where or as whom I am going to be born—and wherever it is that I am born, it will end up being a surprise. Just as Chalmers’ metaphor indicates that the facts about experience are additional to the physical facts without committing us in any way to the literal truth or possibility of the truth of the metaphor, so this one illustrates that the facts about the identity of conscious subjects exist over and above even the facts about experiences themselves.

In fact, it seems as though even if we picture God creating a series of nonphysical angelic conscious minds, without even confounding the picture by imagining them in interaction with a physical plane, even after the creation of one of these particular streams of consciousness something more would still be needed to warrant that any particular angelic mind will be “me.” In other words, suppose God creates ten minds in a row: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j. What makes his creation of c any different from a, b, d, e, …  such that c in particular but not any of these others ends up being me? Why doesn’t c end up coming into existence without his existence being my existence in just exactly the same way that all the others do?

This argument doesn’t beg the question. We can conceive of a scenario like this with regards to the subject of conscious experiences; we cannot even conceive of a scenario like this with regards to ordinary ‘public’ physical objects. So something—some kind of fact—has to exist that has the capacity to explain why these possibilities do not hold. But in principle, whatever that fact is, it simply cannot rest in the ordinary physical facts—nor even the facts about qualitative experiences.

Subjective experiences simply do not come to exist without being “owned” by “subjects.” Whatever it might ultimately turn out to mean to be a ‘subject,’ subject–ivity intrinsically and invariably entails “subject–hood.” And this is not, ultimately, some new fact over and above the facts about those experiences themselves—it is entailed by the very concept of the existence of experiences, as the very notion of subjective experiences existing without a subject of those experiences existing is simply—on reflection—incoherent. The mystery of consciousness, therefore, is not just the mystery of why “experience” exists as a general phenomena, but is also the mystery of why “I” uniquely exist as the unique particular that I do.

Looking back, I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that this is one of the philosophical questions children are known to so frequently ask—it really does strike straight into the very core of the mystery of existence itself: “Why do I exist?” A causal account of the formation of a body and brain—and even one that explains how a mind came to be—simply won’t suffice to answer it, as I will always be able to fully coherently conceive of that mind coming to exist without it being mine—just as occurred for the millions of minds that came before me, and the millions that came to be at the same time mine did—and I will therefore always be perfectly well within my rights to ask and wonder, “Okay, but—why am I me?”

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Much is often made by those who advocate reductionism towards the “self” of Hume’s application of his “bundle theory”—in which objects have no substance beyond the mere coincidences of their collected properties—to deconstruct the notion of the “self” by what Hume presented as nothing other than sheer introspection.

“There are some philosophers who imagine we are every moment intimately conscious of what we call our self … [But f]or my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. … If any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection, thinks he has a different notion of himself,… [a]ll I can allow him is, that he may be in the right as well as I, and that we are essentially different in this particular. … But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions….”

But what goes often ignored in discussion of Hume’s “bundle theory” is that Hume himself turns against his own conclusions in the appendix to that very chapter:

“Upon a more strict review of the section concerning personal identity, I find myself involv’d in such a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. … In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are borrow’d from preceding perceptions. … When I turn my reflection on myself, I never can perceive this self without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing but the perceptions.

… So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus loosen’d all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us attribute to them a real simplicity and identity; I am sensible, that my account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence of the precedent reasonings cou’d have induc’d me to receive it. If perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are ever discoverable by human understanding. We only feel a connexion or determination of the thought, to pass from one object to another. It follows, therefore, that the thought alone finds personal identity, when reflecting on the train of past perceptions, that compose a mind, the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally introduce each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem, it need not surprize us. Most philosophers seem inclin’d to think, that personal identity arises from consciousness; and consciousness is nothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy, therefore, has so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when I come to explain the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which gives me satisfaction on this head.

In short there are two principles, which I cannot render consistent; nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz, that all our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences. Did our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there wou’d be no difficulty in the case.”

What seems to have happened here is actually quite strikingly contrary to the popular “self”–eliminating reading of Hume. Rather than conclude on the basis of his bundle theory that the “self” does not exist, Hume seems to have in fact realized that the fact that we can even possess a concept of a “self” (whether that concept even accurately reflects reality or not) establishes a formidable modus tollens against the very empiricist epistemological view—that all ideas are derived from sensory impressions—that formed the basis for his entire bundle theory of substances in general, which he had just applied to the mind in particular, in the first place.

Notice that what Hume had challenged in his original argument was that anyone has “a different notion of himself” than the one which he had just described, in which the very concept of the “self” is composed of nothing but discrete, uncollected “perceptions.” Notice that in the appendix, he reiterates his underlying epistemological premise that “All ideas are borrow’d from preceding perceptions.” “Introspection1” seems to have resulted in Hume doubting his own account of knowledge, given the realization that it would predict that we could never even form an idea of the “self” at all which we manifestly do possess—and which even his own account—in fact—appealed to implicitly. The dilemma was this: Hume’s epistemology entails that no one can ever even have ideas which are not formed out of perceptions themselves. And yet, something must account for our tendency to even attribute the existence of a common owner to these successive perceptions: but “my account is very defective … all my hopes vanish, when I come to explain the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or consciousness.” And he even ends with the conclusion that “Did our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual [e.g., an enduring self] … there wou’d be no difficulty in the case.”

Quoting from Wade L. Robison’s “Hume on Personal Identity,” “… we all think we have an idea of the self … [and] Hume has to explain this fact, [yet] … the sort of explanation he used [ends up appealing] to the existence of … [a] self distinct from any bundle of perceptions….” Quoting from Stephen Nathanson in “Hume’s Second Thoughts on the Self,”

“Since there are five distinct (though related) positions here, one may easily go wrong in specifying the part of Hume’s theory that is the source of his dissatisfaction. The five theses are (1) that the mind is no more than a collection of perceptions; (2) that the mind is not a simple entity possessing strict and proper identity; (3) that we have no notion of the mind distinct from our ideas of particular perceptions; (4) that our perceptions do not inhere in anything simple; and (5) that there are no real connections among perceptions. … If we look back at the sections of the Treatise where Hume explains the apparent unity of the mind, we find that his explanation committed him to the existence of persisting tendencies or dispositions of mind which, if acknowledged, give a meaning to the phrase “the mind” which is not exhausted by talk about bundles of perceptions. … Hume’s answer to the question of why we mistakenly believe in a single, persistent self is that there is a propensity of the mind to mistake instances of successive objects for instances of identity.

[Quoting Hume] “The feeling of contemplating a single object is so like the feeling of contemplating a succession of related ones that the resemblance Makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead of that of related objects. However at one instant we may consider the related succession as variable or interrupted. we are sure the next to ascribe to it a perfect identity … Our propensity to this mistake is so great … that we fall into it before we are aware; and tho’ we incessantly correct ourselves by reflexion, and return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our philosophy, or take off this bias from the imagination.”

Hume stresses that the tendency to confuse successions of related objects is a deep one, which is not eradicable by philosophical reflection. This and other “seemingly trivial principles of the imagination” (2S4n) are basic, persistent features of the mind. … What Hume says here is no mere slip nor slight departure from his bundle theory, for in effect the basic theory of the Treatise is precisely a theory of the mental dispositions that constitute human understanding and which give rise to our beliefs about space, time, physical objects, causation and the self. The fundamental problem that Hurne begins to recognize in the appendix is the incompatibility between his analysis of the self and his central explanatory principles. If there are basic, persisting dispositions of mind, then the self is no mere bundle of perceptions.

… Hume’s explanatory apparatus gives content to the idea of self or mind in terms of its dispositions without requiring that there be a direct awareness or impression of the self. Dispositions are not introspectible items, and the idea of self (distinct from a perception–bundle) to which Hume is committed has its basis in theory, not immediate experience. We can at this point well appreciate Hume’s sense of frustration. His psychological theory generates an idea of the mind distinct from perceptions. This conflicts not only with his bundle analysis of the self, but also with his empiricist doctrine of the dependence of all ideas on prior impressions. The roots of the difficulty that Hume has stumbled on lie deep within his philosophy. … Hume’s problem arises because his theory requires that there be mental dispositions or propensities … [but] Propensities are not perceptions [and] To have an idea of a self with propensities is to have an idea of a self which is more than a bundle of perceptions.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

If we think of “the self” as merely a collection of discrete, frozen photo snapshots, then there is simply no way that these snapshots could reference each other. Only if we include a camera into the picture do we then have an object capable of taking a snapshot of any collected part of the preceding series of snapshots—but then we have an inevitable duality between the camera and its snapshots; and this duality helps to capture a strong metaphor for the duality between “the self” and Hume’s discrete ‘snapshot’ moments of perception.

Contra Hume’s original attempt at introspection, an awareness of something which is not itself subject to “perpetual flux and movement” is absolutely revealed to us by our awareness itself—and is the precondition of our even being able to perceive this flux at all. Experience does not just consist of isolated snapshots described as (awareness of a C chord) and then (awareness of a F chord) and then (awareness of a G chord), hanging discretely as isolated events—it consists of {awareness of the transition from (awareness of a C chord) into (awareness of an F chord)}; {awareness of the transition from (awareness of an F chord) into (awareness of a G chord)}; And it is in this absolutely continuous flow of awareness that awareness of the flux of change becomes the experience of melody instead of just singular notes and chords—and is why the experience of hearing a melody is different from the experience of hearing singular notes and chords. The very capacity for awareness of the flux itself is therefore exactly what presupposes and entails the existence of a continuous observer partially beyond that flux with the capacity to witness it.

The problem Hume faced is that the continuous observer simply can’t take itself as a direct object of its observations in the same way that it can all its other observations—just as (to quote Alan Watts) “you can’t look into your own eyes without a mirror, you can’t bite your own teeth, you can’t taste your own tongue and you can’t touch the end of one finger with the same finger,” even though eyes are nevertheless a precondition of vision, teeth a precondition of biting, tongues a precondition of tasting and fingers preconditions of touch—or as the camera required in my analogy to take snapshots of a collection of the preceding series of snapshots can’t capture a photograph of itself, but whose existence could only be inferred from the existence of snapshot photographs containing members of the previous set of photographs.

Or just as fire can’t, in principle, burn itself.

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

 Physicalist accounts of the nature of identity therefore fail in principle to be capable of capturing something that is basic and fundamental and revealed directly and immediately by “introspection1” to each and every single one of us at every single moment of our existence. Inevitably, a physicalist attempt to account for the nature of identity must resort itself to ‘reducing’ identity to some purely causal relationship or physical resemblance or other. One of the most common criteria chosen for this purpose is physical storage of memory, and I will stick to this example alone for my illustration here because I do not think the essentials of the problem change in any way whatever purely physical relationship we might choose. In effect, what accounts like this end up with no way to avoid saying is that there simply no deep sense in which the person called “Aedon” at any given time–1 “is” the person called “Aedon” at time–2 and not the person called “John” at time–2 except that the person called “Aedon” at time–2 happens to possess some of the memories and some of the personality traits of the person called “Aedon” at time–1—that there is, in other words, merely a certain kind of ‘similarity’ or other which holds between the two.

Like attempts to reduce the phenomena of qualitative subjective experience to “a logical construct out of peoples’ judgments that they are having [experiences]” (where we pretend that these jugments about experiences are not being made because the experiences themselves actually exist) and to reduce the phenomena of intentionality to “a pragmatic matter of how best to talk, when talking metaphorically [about patterns of events]” (where the very existence of language itself presupposes the existence of intentionality in a very deep sense which this account shows no suggestion of being capable even in principle of accounting for at all), so accounts of this kind smuggle an illegitimate facade of seeming plausibility in for themselves by identifying something that typically comes along with the phenomena of identity itself while utterly ignoring the thing itself. Is there anything more obvious to anyone than that his “identity” consists in nothing other than the continued persistence of his experiences—in and of itself, regardless of what physical criteria might or might not covary with or follow from experiential persistence or contingently cause or allow the flowing stream of subjective experiences to continue to persist?

As with the absurdity of the solipsist who flagrantly denies that anyone else has any subjective experiences whatsoever besides himself, and the absurdity of the eliminative materialist who goes a whole step even further into lunacy from solipsism and denies the existence of even his own directly self–manifested subjective experiences as well, positions which flatly deny basic enough datum of observation simply can’t be refuted with any argument that isn’t technically ‘circular’ (however much this “circle” may only be a circle making, and asking the “skeptic” to return to making, contact with reality). Likewise here: I do not imagine the following example to form an “argument” that could possibly be sufficient to convince someone who denies the plain datum I hope to use it to help point attention to. I am limited by the principle of the case such that all I can say is that I think it points us to the truth of something that all of us can plainly and easily see for ourselves if only we look at it—and that anyone advocating for any alternative account is simply failing or refusing to ‘look at it.’

Suppose in a few years we come upon a newly invented device that appears to be something between a teleportation device and something that appears to produce either one or two physiological ‘clones’ of the teleportee during the act of apparent teleportation. I deliberately use the word “appears” here to emphasize that we will not know the objective truth about what the device actually does: all we actually know is that someone steps into the entry–device we’ll call T1, and then two people who appear in all respects to be physically and psychologically identical to the person who stepped in appear in two separate output terminals we’ll call T2 and T3 no less than a single Planck second later (the shortest conceivable duration of time), so that the relationship between the person who steps in at T1 and both the persons who appear at T2 and T3 is no different in any respect from the relationship that holds in everyday life between any past version and any future version of any given individual. Perhaps some type of quantum event even occurs, so that two different parallel universe “you”s branch off together in one universe.

On this scenario, any conceivable physical or psychological criterion of identity will have it the case that it is just trivially true that the “you” who steps out at T2 will be the same “you” as the “you” who stepped in at T1 no more and no less than the “you” who steps out at T3. And this is equally true no matter what particular relational criteria we might pick. Yet, isn’t it obvious that any such account must necessarily leave out the one singular core defining aspect of what we actually want to know? I’ve emphasized throughout these arguments that third–person approaches to categorizing consciousness will often miss central elements of its very essence given the fact that consciousness itself is a first–person phenomena. The same is true here: no matter what relational, physical, or psychological criteria you might give me, they will leave out the question of what happens to my first–person, subjective stream of experience as I step in at T1. 

Do my experiences come to an end? Is my experience one of stepping in at T1 and stepping out at T2, while a duplicate or quantum parallel of me faces me from T3? Is it one of stepping in at T1 and stepping out at T3, while a duplicate or quantum parallel of me faces me from T2? Is it something even more bizarre—say, of coming to receive sensory input from and direct intentional control over two bodies instead of one? Whatever might empirically hold true here, any relational criteria whatsoever will absolutely leave this question unanswered—will leave any answer to the question above still perfectly meaningful. Thus, no causal account of identity can capture the essence of identity—period. Personal identity depends on the continuance of the subjective stream of conscious experience itself to continue just as we know that it does in the ordinary course of life—period. While some physical, causal, or psychological criteria might reliable correlate with, covary with, or strongly indicate as a matter of fact—that is, a fact of the “so it happens to turn out” kind—what these criteria might be simply cannot be revealed by armchair philosophizing about the nature of identity. (Ironically, I’m the one insisting that ordinary philosophical accounts of the nature of identity—including materialistically motivated, reductionist ones—are pushing thought experiment beyond any reasonable limitations in terms of how much they can actually tell any of us about reality!)

Further, suppose the “you” who steps out at T2 receives a lifetime of luxury from the conductors of this experiment, while the “you” who steps out at T3 is harvested for horrific human medical experiments. Unless you are such a thoroughgoing utilitarian that you give no moral weight to rational self–interest over maximizing global pleasure over pain as a principle at all, the question of whether your experience ends, or else you become the “you” at T2 or the “you” at T3 (or some even more bizarre alternative) could not be of more central importance. Whichever might be the case, the idea that the people at both T2 and T3 will look like you and act like you might leave a quandary for third–person perspective–holding parties who may be able to reason that “identity for all practical intents and purposes” is as good as they’re going to get and thus treat both of the new clones exactly as if they were the same ‘real you,’ this simply has no reason to give you, the conscious subject stepping into the terminal, any reason for comfort. What are you going to experience when you step into T1?

It is a plain datum of experience itself that experience continues discretely across time and thus could in principle either persist or fail to persist regardless of any sort of physical or psychological continuity or discontinuity, you will be not just perfectly justified to wonder which scenario will actually happen—to wonder whether your experience persists at all, or ceases; and if it persists, in which of the two new subjects you will experience yourself persisting as—but absolutely irrational not to. Your life would literally depend on it. And if physicalist theories don’t allow for this option, then it’s too bad for physicalist theory. Physicalist accounts, if they leave out this fundamental feature of consciousness, simply prove themselves incomplete theories to account for the reality of what we are—and it is our theories which must expand to include capture of all of reality; reality will not always shrink to fit cramped boxes of theory. There is a fact about whether your experience ceases as you step into T1, or continues at T2 or T3 (or something else). Physicalist accounts literally cannot even account for the fact that there is a fact. 

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Sad to say, this isn’t as hypothetical a thought experiment as it sounds—and should be. Large swaths of transhumanists advocate the idea of “mind uploading” as the secular equivalent to Christianity’s pre–tribulational rapture: the idea goes that immortality is soon going to be guaranteed—by science—perhaps as early as 2045, as soon as we develop the technology needed to duplicate brain functioning in computers.  An article by one Kenneth Hayworth, ironically titled “Killed by Bad Philosophy,”  gives us an example of the disturbing line of thought: “Our intuition tells us that being me (Ken) right now staring at these words on my laptop screen is fundamentally different from being another person, say my friend John, staring at these words on his laptop screen. Of course there is truth to this, … [b]ut our intuition also tells us that being Ken right now staring at these words is somehow fundamentally similar to being Ken driving in his car to work. … I submit that this intuition is wrong, and that it is fundamentally incompatible with our computational view of the brain’s functioning [See my previous entry (V) to this series for what I consider an absolutely decisive refutation of this “computational view of the brain”]. …

… The debate over mind uploading revolves around a central question, “What do you consider to be you?” … “You” [is nothing more than a] unique set of declarative memories (semantic and episodic), [a] unique set of procedural “memories” (memories for how to react both physically and mentally under particular circumstances), and [a] somewhat unique set of perceptual “memories” (circuits for how, for example, we recognize that this particular arrangement of spots on our retina is a straight line).” Therefore, any place whatsoever where these physical patterns are replicated would automatically qualify as “you” in the only sense that can even be talked about. Forget asking whether your experience will persist in this altered form—making any sense of that question would require a rejection of the premises of physicalism, and we absolutely can’t have that—indeed, the only reason anyone ever even considers it is because they have been “brainwashed by … religious belief systems … to reject … scientific materialism….” Hayworth continues: “[I] feel as protective of my future uploaded self as I do my future physical self. I look forward to … [being uploaded into]  a robotic body…. mind uploading is a … cure for death….”

Thus, to return to my teleportation example, I think anyone attending plainly to the facts of experience itself sees that it is most absolutely a question—and again, the most important question I could possibly ask, were I faced with the decision—whether my subjective stream of experiences would continue upon stepping into T1. On a view like Hayworth’s, however, there literally isn’t even a question: both the copies at T2 and T3 are “you” simply by trivial definition given the fact that they contain your “declarative memories, … procedural ‘memories’, … [and] perceptual ‘memories.’” Because those are all that exist—or at least all that the physicalist story can account for.

I’m not sure whether I will find it more terrifying or depressing once they actually do start blowing their brains out.

Sad as it may be for me as a non–theistic individual with a mild distaste for religion to say, I think it’s unquestionable that there really are times when many theistic philosophers turn out to have a hell of a lot more plain fucking sense than many atheists—and this is one of them. Quoting Richard Swinburne, “Using the word ‘experience’ for a brief moment in a wide sense, we may say that the succession of perceptions is itself a datum of experience; S experiences his experiences as overlapping in a stream of awareness. … It is in the unity of a stream that we primarily discern the identity of a subject.’” And what third–person detail empirically might happen to determine, or indicate, as a contingent matter that identity has continued is simply indeterminate in principle from the third–person perspective which physicalism by definition has to take—just as with the existence of subjective experiences and of thoughts with intrinsic “meaning,” as previous entries explored. The identity of a conscious subject rests in his consciousness itself. The implications of views like Hayworth’s provide a reductio ad absurdem of his own very premises—as so many of the physicalist proposals which we’ve explored do.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Sam Harris is one of many who invoke Buddhism in the process of telling is that what introspection really reveals is the lack of any “owner” of one’s conscious experiences at all—that it takes “look[ing] … with sufficient rigor” to realize “the illusoriness of the self.” Harris tells us that “… the Buddhist tradition, taken as a whole, represents the richest source of contemplative wisdom that any civilization has produced. … the ascendance of Buddhism would surely be a welcome development. …  the core insight into the illusoriness of the self can be found there … And cutting through this illusion does not require faith …. It’s disconfirmable through meditation … you can actually look for this thing you’re calling your “self” and fail to find it in a way that’s conclusive.…You can have the sense that there is a center of experience … drop away.”

He means to interpret this, of course, in a sense fully compatible with his own interpretation of the implications of neuroscience, and reductionistic (if not eliminative) materialism more generally. (And he hastens to add the caveat that “the continued identification of Buddhists with Buddhism lends tacit support to the religious differences in our world … [so] merely being a self-described “Buddhist” is to be complicit in the world’s violence…”). The problem is that people like Harris have probably gotten the basic doctrines of Buddhism profoundly distorted and confused.

Whether or not the doctrines of Buddhism are true, my interest in it here is entirely secondary to the question, “What do people generally come to feel about the nature of their experienced ‘self’–hood when they examine it deeply?” If Buddhism represented an unbroken stream of subjective realization by those setting the resolution to examine it with ‘rigor’ throughout centuries of human history that the entire notion of the persisting conscious subject is an illusion, then this would at least imply a deep divide within subjective phenomenology itself and weaken the case that “introspection” points towards the existence of an enduring ‘self.’ But people like Sam Harris, in making arguments like these about Buddhism, have—at the very least—tremendously oversimplified the picture. What follows will be disorganized, as my goal is less to establish my own linear thesis about what Buddhism says as to expose holes in the thesis espoused by the likes of Harris from a variety of angles (I honestly suggest anyone not familiar enough with Buddhism and the claims about Buddhism I am countering to follow me simply skip over this section—prefacing with the requisite background is simply beyond my scope here).

One of the most immediately obvious problems with nihilistic interpretation of Buddhism is this: Buddhist texts very clearly define the state of Nirvana as somethingBut if the perspective Buddhism encourages is there is no possibility for the continuation of experience whatsoever because there is no continuing subject of experiences in any sense, then how could the state of Nirvana mean anythingBuddhist texts even use a specific word—parinirvana—which literally translates “completed nirvana” to refer to the nirvana attained after death: “[L]ike all beings, [someone who has experienced nirvana in life] must die. But unlike other beings, who have not experienced ‘nirvāṇa,’ he or she will not be reborn into some new life … [I]nstead of being reborn, the person ‘parinirvāṇa-s’ … Modern Buddhist usage tends to restrict ‘nirvāṇa’ to the awakening experience and reserve ‘parinirvāṇa’ for the death experience” (Rupert Gethin, Foundations of Buddhism).

It seems perfectly reasonable to ask: if Buddhism (1) were as reductionist about the nature of the ‘self’ as someone like Sam Harris seems to believe, and (2) held as its ultimate goal the cessation of suffering through entrance into ‘parinirvana,’ why would there be no schools of Buddhism anywhere advocating mass suicide as the most direct possible route to that goal?

Introductions to Buddhism often state things like: “According to [the Buddha], [man] was merely a ‘bundle of perceptions’ (sankharapunja) or a group of aggregates (khandha)” (David Kalupahana, Buddhist Philosophy, p.39) and “What we call a ‘being’, or an ‘individual’, or ‘I’, is only a convenient name or a label given to the combination of these Žfive [khandha]” (Walpola Rahula, What the Buddha Taught, p.51). If this were entirely true, and the achievement of nirvana were supposed to be the result of extinguishing attachment to these “khandhas”—behind which nothing (according to statements like these) exists—then what it does it mean when the Buddha speaks of those who have achieved parinirvana in experiential terms, as in the Samyutta Nikaya (22.87) where he says: “[T]hrough unestablished consciousness[,] Vakkali the clansman has become totally unbound”? And what does it mean when, in Udana (8.3), the Buddha is quoted saying: “There is, monks, [something] unborn [and] unfabricated. If there were not …, [it] would not be the case that emancipation … would be discerned. But precisely because there is [that which is] unborn [and] unfabricated, emancipation from the born [and] fabricated is discerned”?

The Mahaparinirvana Sutra, which tells the story of the Buddha Gotama’s own death, even quotes the Buddha as saying: “When I have taught non–Self, fools uphold the teaching that there is no Self. The wise know that such is conventional speech [vyavahara-vat] and they are free from doubts.” What could he have meant by that? Kosho Yamamoto, translator of the text, writes (in Mahayanism: A Critical Exposition of the Mahayana Mahaparinirvana Sutra) that: “[The Buddha] says that the non–Self which he once taught is none but of expediency … He says that he is now ready to speak about… the affirmative attributes of nirvana, which are none other than the Eternal … [and] the Self….” He goes on: “the Buddha says: ‘O you bhiksus [monks]! Do not abide in the thought of the non–eternal [and the] non–Self … as in the case of those people who take the stones, wooden pieces and gravel for the true gem [e.g., who take lesser truths for the truly important one] ….” Tony Page, likewise tells us in Affirmation of Eternal Self in the Mahayana Mahaparinirvana Sutra that the sutra’s claims are that: “The Self (atman) is reality (tattva), the Self is permanent (nitva), the Self is virtue (guna), the Self is eternal (sasvata), the Self is stable (dhruva), the Self is peace (siva).(Trans. Hodge, 2006) … You should know that all beings do have it, but it is not apparent, since those beings are enveloped by immeasurable klesas [defects of mind, morality, and character] … (Trans. Hodge, 2005).” And the Nirvana Sutra isn’t a special case: Michael Zimmerman, in his 2002 analysis of the Tathagatagarbha Sutra (A Buddha Within), tells us that “[T]he existence of an eternal, imperishable self, that is, buddhahood, is definitely the basic point of [the sutra] … [furthermore] the Mahaparinirvanasutra and the Lankavatarasutra characterize the tathagatagarbha explicitly as atman [an imperishable self]….” 

So what is the difference between “no Self” and “non–Self?” Miri Albahari writes (in Against No–Atman Theories of Anatta) that “It is notable that whenever the Buddha did warn against identiŽcation, it was invariably in connection with the conditioned khandhas [the group of physical and mental aggregates which are in a constant state of flux, none of which can be identified with a ‘self’]  … not the unconditioned Atman beyond name and concept.” The Girimananda Sutra offers a direct response to the question, “What is the perception of not–self?” And the answer which follows is:  “[A] monk — having gone to the wilderness, to the shade of a tree, or to an empty building — reflects thus: ‘The eye is not–self, forms are not–self; the ear is not–self, sounds are not–self; the nose is not–self,  aromas are not–self; the tongue is not–self, flavors are not–self; the body is not–self, tactile sensations are not–self; the intellect is not–self, ideas are not–self.’ Thus he remains focused on not–selfness with regard to the six inner & outer sense media. This is called the perception of not–self.” The implication seems to be that the doctrine the Buddha is promoting is to avoid identifying with things that are not ‘the self’ in order to escape suffering—not that there is not a ‘self’ in any sense at all.

Thus, in the Culamalunkya Sutra, we read of a disciple of the Buddha’s who comes to consider a number of “speculative views have been left undeclared by the Blessed One, set aside and rejected” and desire the Buddha’s answers. The Buddha’s response comes as so: “Suppose, Mālunkyāputta, a man were wounded by an arrow thickly smeared with poison, and his friends and companions, his kinsmen and relatives, brought a surgeon to treat him. The man would say: ‘I will not let the surgeon pull out this arrow until I know whether the man who wounded me was a noble or a brahmin or a merchant or a worker.’ … So too, Mālunkyāputta, if anyone should say thus: ‘I will not lead the holy life under the Blessed One until the Blessed One declares to me [these answers,] that would still remain undeclared by the Tathāgata and meanwhile that person would die. … Whether there is the view ‘the world is eternal’ or the view ‘the world is not eternal,’ there is birth, there is ageing, there is death, there are sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair, the destruction of which I prescribe here and now. …

… Therefore, Mālunkyāputta, remember what I have left undeclared as undeclared, and remember what I have declared as declared. And what have I left undeclared? ‘… ‘The soul is the same as the body’—I have left undeclared. ‘The soul is one thing and the body another’—I have left undeclared. ‘After death a Tathāgata exists’—I have left undeclared. ‘After death a Tathāgata does not exist’—I have left undeclared. ‘After death a Tathāgata both exists and does not exist’—I have left undeclared. ‘After death a Tathāgata neither exists nor does not exist’—I have left undeclared. Why have I left that undeclared? Because it is unbeneficial, it does not belong to the fundamentals of the holy life, it does not lead to disenchantment, to dispassion, to cessation, to peace, to direct knowledge, to enlightenment, to Nibbāna.”

Likewise, Hane Htut Maung, author of Consciousness: An Enquiry into the Metaphysics of the Self, writes: “it is apparent, on exploration of the Pali Canon, that the Buddha never denies the existence of the self. To the contrary, he very clearly rejects annihilationism. In the Alagaddupama Sutta, he states: “Speaking in this way, teaching in this way, I have been erroneously, vainly, falsely, unfactually misrepresented by some brahmans and contemplatives [who say], “Gotama the contemplative is one who misleads. He declares the annihilation, destruction, extermination of the existing being.” But as I am not that, as I do not say that, so I have been erroneously, vainly, falsely, unfactually misrepresented by those venerable brahmans and contemplatives [who say], “Gotama the contemplative is one who misleads. He declares the annihilation, destruction, extermination of the existing being.” (MN 22, trans. Thanissaro, 2004)”

Also striking is that in passages in which the Buddha’s words are read as denying the existence of the self or of existence beyond death, what he actually does is refuse to answer. As Thanissaro Bikkhu points out, “the one place [in the Pali canon] where the Buddha was asked point–blank whether or not there was a self, he refused to answer. When later asked why, he said that to hold either that there is a self or that there is no self is to fall into extreme forms of wrong view that make the path of Buddhist practice impossible.” Thanissaro concludes: “In this sense, the anatta teaching is not a doctrine of no–self, but a not–self strategy for shedding suffering by letting go of its cause … [until] questions of self, no–self, and not–self fall aside. Once there’s the experience of such total freedom, where would there be any concern about what’s experiencing it, or whether or not it’s a self?”

Another plausible answer also suggests itself: as the Tibetan Buddhist scholars and meditation masters Palden Sherab and Tsewang Dongyal write in Opening to Our Primordial Nature, “The true nature of mind is beyond conception, yet it is present in every object. The true nature is always there, but due to our temporary obscurations we do not recognize it … The primordial nature is beyond conceptions; it cannot be explained … cannot be encompassed by words. … you cannot see it or touch it; it is beyond expression.” Perhaps the Buddha believed that the nature of the true ‘self’ could not be grasped through concepts, and therefore any conceptual answer whatsoever would be misleading—leading him to respond to such questions at times with an attempt to throw the questioner out of the state of trying to conceptualize it at all. Perhaps the “not–self” strategy was comparable to the “neti neti” (translated, “not this, not that”) of Hinduism and the via negativa of Western theology in that the strategy was to try to encourage an experience of the ineffable by guiding the mind away from false concepts of what it is. The Wikipedia entry for via negativa notes that “An example can be found in the 9th-century theologian John Scotus Erigena‘s assertion: ‘We do not know what God is. God Himself does not know what He is because He is not anything. Literally God is not, because He transcends being.’” Certainly, Erigena’s purpose in making a statement like this was not to commit to atheism—however easy it might be to commit the mistake of reading him this way. “Our plight, on this reading, is that we perceive the conditioned world with a deeply rooted bias. We falsely project, both emotionally and intellectually, ideas of a ‘self’ qua I–permanent–non–suffering, upon what is inherently not–self, the khandhas.” (Miri Albahari)

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Those who argue against the notion of an enduring conscious self get the basic order of knowledge wrong—as with the denial of both qualitative/subjective experience and intentionality, they start with metaphysical theories extrapolated to explain their conscious experiences, rather than keeping their theories in reference to the plain data continually revealed directly by those experiences themselves, and they reason backwards from “the metaphysical theory is true; therefore, the data must be denied and rejected because the theory is true” even if we can find no independently reasonable justification for rejecting the offending premises to dismiss any problem–data which doesn’t seem to fit into the theory they’ve created about the ultimate nature of the world. On the contrary, any sane account of consciousness must account for the primary data which conscious experience reveals; and amongst the primary data revealed by conscious experience is that experience itself persists across time—and can either continue or fail to continue persisting.

At the same time as they get the basic order of knowledge itself backwards, they also further frequently misrepresent both Hume and Buddhism in support of the misguided claim that what “introspection” actually reveals is the lack of any common subject to one’s stream of subjective experiences. On the contrary, what introspection into the nature of conscious identity actually reveals is that the mystery of consciousness is not just how something so categorically and fundamentally different from ordinary physically described entities should exist in general, but of why I should exist as the absolutely unique particular conscious subject I unavoidably am at this particular point in all of time and space and no other.

The ultimate nature of the world quite simply has to be profoundly more bizarre than the physicalist is willing to consider for it to even be conceivable that things could be the way that they are. As before, reality won’t shrink to fit our theories about the nature of reality; it is our theories which will have to expand—and it is only the beginning of the necessary expansion to admit room for something strikingly close to the traditional notion of an enduring metaphysical “self.” And on my view, even if it does turn out to be the case that consideration of the evidence revealed to us by consciousness itself should push us towards some broadly “religious” vision of the world, the only appropriate response to that discovery is: “So be it.” Rejecting plain evidence simply because of where it leads is precisely the offending mistake that garners religion what contempt it does deserve—and it is a sad irony that atheists who oppose religion for this reason would commit the same mistake in so many fundamental ways.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

[1] We can always conceive of a different qualitative color being subjective experienced after the eye is stimulated by a particular quantitative wavelength of light (and even after this stimulation becomes activation of a particular region of the brain), but this just gets us back into the center of the mind–brain problem itself, and so I set it aside for my current purposes here. A future entry will explore the nature of perception in more detail.

[2] Crucially, note the point that, as I have presented this form of argument, the only premise needed for it to go through is mere conceptual “possibility.” If we can even coherently imagine it, then these arguments, as stated here, go through—without invoking any premise more than ‘what can we conceptually conceive?’ And then asking why what we can conceive is not the case. I avoided presenting my own argument in the terms established by the “zombie argument” in my own essay in (IV) because I don’t consider it the most effective way to illustrate the core of what the argument is actually trying to get at—it invites a debate over varying notions of “possibility,” “conceivability,” “necessity” and all the complex relations between them that simply are not needed in order to make the actual point: it is far more effective, I think, to phrase it along the lines that the premises of materialism deductively predict that we should in fact be in a so–called “zombie world”—and that those premises are therefore falsified by the plain fact that we are notWe don’t need to say that it is “conceivable” that a world containing all the geometric–structural and blind–cause–and–effect–dispositional properties possessed by our world “could” have contained zombies and invite some complicated debate about the nature of modal concepts and relationships between them; we can simply say that it is a straightforward prediction of the materialist premises that if these were true, then we would be in a “zombie world”—so these premises are falsified by the fact that we manifestly are not such zombies. In this, we can invoke the words of the “eliminative materialists” themselves—who thoroughly agree with the entailment, yet remain so committed to the abstract premises of materialism that rather than abandon them at this point, they prefer to conclude that they actually really are in fact zombies devoid of subjective experiences or intentionality of any kind themselves. And from there, we can point out the utterly incoherent equivocations inevitably involved in every possible “emergentist” or “reductivist” attempt to “have” the “cake” of consciousness kept intact by avoiding eliminativism while “eating it” by retaining the premises of materialism that inevitably lead to eliminativism whether they like it or not, too. This leaves us with the stark decision of either embracing pathetic, rank absurdity by eliminating the very basis from which we derived the concept of materialism itself in the first place through eradicating subjective experience and intentionality entirely as the eliminativists do, or else accepting that the very premises of physicalism have been falsified. Still, despite not being the most efficient way to make the point clear, I think that the argument does succeed. And while the form that the argument follows is not, in my estimation, the most efficient way to illustrate that point, I believe it can be adopted much more efficiently in the present context

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Further Bibliography on the Nature of Conscious “Selfhood”:
Indexical Thisness as a Basic Property — Kevin Vallier

Consciousness (V) — Thinking Thoughts About the “Aboutness” of Thought

Previous Posts:
(I) — Atheism, Science, Philosophy: The Origins of the Conflict
 (II) — Digging Up the Conflict’s Roots
 (III) — Does the World Pantry Stock More than Sugar?
 (IV) — The Case of the Lunatic Fish

 “In the beginning, there were no reasons; there were only causes. Nothing had a purpose, nothing has so much as a function; there was no teleology in the world at all.” — Daniel C. Dennett, Consciousness Explained

“[W]e are here discussing a fundamental and irreducible feature, or rather presupposition, of all thought, all conceptual activity and all action, and … our aim is simply to bring it to people’s notice, to try to help them grasp what we are talking about. It can only be noticed or grasped, or not; it cannot be further described or defined.” — Alan Gault and John Shotter on Intentionality in Human Action and Its Psychological Investigation (1977)

Physicalist interpretation of the world and human consciousness is often implicitly supported by the impression that whatever the case may be about “qualia” (that queer, overly abstract–sounding term for the one phenomena we could not know more intimately, indeed the one and only phenomena we ever know “intimately” at all, subjective conscious experience), everything else about the human mind can be explained with only the physicalist account’s conceptual resources. That is to say, even when the physicalist wants to grant that “qualia” may hang awkwardly in his picture of the nature of human consciousness and reality in a way he admits he doesn’t know how to resolve [1], he still expects that descriptions in terms of form, structure and motion and can at least explain everything that mind–brains do. 

The picture of the situation suggested by this is that the human entity can be understood as something like a computer—we just don’t know how to explain why experience comes along for the ride with its physical processes. However much wrapping up subjective experience within a physicalist account may be impossible in principle, the impression that it could be reasonable to expect that that could be done extends from the belief that physicalist accounts of mechanism can at least explain everything that mind–brains do—and ‘if it can explain everything that they do,’ the reasoning goes, ‘why shouldn’t it eventually be able to explain what they are?’

That’s the impression, at least. But is it so? A crucially important distinction needs to be made here between, one the one hand, asking whether we could replicate a particular process with a procedurally defined mechanism; and on the other hand asking whether that particular procedure and mechanism accurately describes the way that the process being replicated is actually performed in the real world. In principle, we could most certainly replicate anything that we witness any mind–brains in our world doing through procedurally defined mechanisms that don’t make reference to consciousness—in principle, for example, we could build robots who are programmed to do things like scream “Ow, I’m in pain!”—and substitute any behavior other than independent logical reasoning (for reasons that will hopefully later become clear) you like, and in principle we should be capable of designing a robot to perform that behavior,too.  However, this simply doesn’t entail that executing procedurally defined mechanisms which don’t make reference to, or involve the participation of, consciousness itself is how the human mind–brain actually does it.

In other words, the physicalist’ impressions about the otherwise viability of physicalism in explaining the ultimate nature of the human organism outside the question of “qualia” is aided by the fact that we seem to at least be able to imagine the functions which minds execute being performed without the active causal participation of consciousness itself—and this is what allows us to theoretically bracket off the “hard problem” of why conscious experience comes along with the causally eventful world from all the “easy problems” of detailing how it is that that causally eventful world operates—a distinction which even David Chalmers concedes in his challenges to materialism. But the problem is that even if we can imagine this—even if consciousness doesn’t seem metaphysically necessary for the performance of these functional operations (e.g.: even if they could conceivably exist even if consciousness didn’t)—consciousness may still be naturally necessary for the performance of these functional operations, nonetheless (e.g.: given the way our world actually is, consciousness is involved when these functional operations are performed in our actual world anyway, and those functions just aren’t going to happen otherwise in our world given the way our world is). Suppose in this Universe, I was born trapped inside a brick cube with no tool to get out besides a fiftyfive pound sledgehammer: a fiftyfive pound sledgehammer would not be a metaphysically necessary means of breaking out of the cube—in some other Universe where I was given something else, a twenty pound sledgehammer would have been fully sufficient for the job—but given the way our Universe as we know it was actually set up, I just wasn’t going to be breaking my way out of there any other way. And more than that: in any Universe where a fiftyfive pound sledgehammer is what I was given, the fiftyfive pound sledgehammer will be naturally necessary in every single one of them, however metaphysically necessary it isn’t. So this is a case where the lack of metaphysical necessity that the physicalist intuition is based on simply does not prove the lack of natural necessity that he actually needs, which his intuition actually needs to be based on in order to be relevant to supporting the claim that we can understand the nature of our own world by analyzing the nature of “easy problems” separately from the “hard” one. The fact that we can treat the functions of the “easy problems” as mere functions (supposing we really can) just wouldn’t prove that doing so was actually the best or even viable way for us to understand the nature of the reality we are actually in.

Of course, simply stating that it isn’t proven won’t get us very far. Are there reasons to positively think that it is not through the execution of procedurally defined mechanisms which don’t make reference to, or involve the direct participation of, consciousness itself that the human mind–brain does what it does? Yes—and in fact, we have already seen the clear hints of one in the discussion in the last entry on the self–detonating nature of epiphenomenalism: what is happening when I talk about experiencing a feeling of pain? In general, what is happening when I talk about the subjective dimensions of my experience in specific distinction from the physical properties that come along with them in general? While we might be able to program a robot to ask questions about philosophy of mind, or scream “Ow, I’m in pain!” without it actually knowing what it is that these terms mean, this is clearly not how it happens with us: clearly(*), we do these kinds of things because we subjectively have the actual experience of pain, and because our comprehension of the conceptual difference between subjective experience and physical phenomena is what allows the problems of philosophy of mind to occur to us. Hence, it is apparent on the basis of this alone that conscious experience itself is playing some role in even the functions that our mind are seen to perform in the world. And with no barrier left in principle to the idea that consciousness as such plays a role in the function of human minds, the only questions remaining are the empirical ones of “what roles?” and “to what extent?” 

(*) When I say “clearly,” I do not mean that intuition alone is sufficient to prove this to be true. I refer, rather, to the refutation of epiphenomenalism in the previous entry.

Intentionality is a concept which can help expand our understanding of the role that conscious experience as such plays in the functioning and operation of the human mind. Once again, as with “qualia,” what we have in intentionality is a word that refers to a wide class of phenomena that are related by some very subtle aspect which they possess in common, which it is—every bit as much as before—extremely difficult to pick out in ordinary language even though it should eventually be easy to see that it refers to something with which all of us could not be more directly and immediately familiar, once the concept becomes clear.

Intentionality refers to a class of phenomena ranging from the fact that when you desire something, your desire is “for” that thing—to the fact that when you believe something, your belief is “in” the truth of an idea—to the fact that when you consider what to eat for breakfast, your thoughts are “about” ideas like food: there is something in terms like “of,” “for,” and “about” in phrases like these that emphasize a certain way that conscious experiences and intentions can be “representations of,” or “directed towards,” certain aspects of—or even towards currently nonexistent possible future states of—the world. This is going to turn out to be a kind of relationship that is not only difficult to explain in physicalist terms, but just as impossible for physicalism to account for in principle as we concluded was the case in the entry (IV) for subjective experience.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______ 

Intentionality can be difficult to think about in part because, in the flow of actual conscious experiences in reality as we know them, the elements of privacy/qualitativeness/subjectivity and intentionality are united simultaneously in one event. So, when you were thinking about private/qualitative/subjective experience in the previous post, you were probably also thinking about a state possessing intentionality without even realizing it. However, while the term intentionality picks out something that can be (and almost always is) a component of our qualitative, subjective experiences, not all qualitative subjective experiences possess intentionality. If we focus on these examples for a moment in isolation, the added element that intentionality brings to the table might be a little easier to see.

Imagine reaching a deep state of meditation in a sensory deprivation tank with your eyes closed, ears plugged, and so on in which you suppress all verbal or conceptual thought and focus wholly and single–mindedly on, say, a raw sensation of pleasure, without retaining any connected concept of the source of where that sensation is coming from. Deep enough in this state, you would be having an experience composed thoroughly of “qualia,” but possessing no intentionality: nothing that is “reflective of” or “directed at” any state or any aspect of the world outside of the experience itself. Similarly, you might become lost in deeply imagining something like an undifferentiated field of color, and the same could be said. Now, while these states would involve experiences “of” pleasure or color, we should be careful not to be misled by that language: there is no “of–ness” relationship in this example—the important point is that these experiences would be neither directed at, nor reflective of, anything outside of the experience itself. 

So, perhaps one helpful way to think about what intentionality adds to the picture is to imagine a physical duplicate of our world with all subjective experience stripped out, containing all and only physical phenomena: the organisms in this universe look like us, and act like us, but they don’t have any sort of inner experiences whatsoever. Now imagine that without adding such things as conscious beliefs about, desires for, intentions to, thoughts about or knowledge of anything, we add to this world only raw experiences like those just described. Just as comparing our world to an otherwise physical duplicate containing no conscious experiences at all helps us to obtain an intuitive mental grasp on what it is that conscious experience adds to the physical picture, so comparing it to a world possessing conscious experiences, but only those which fail to possess intentionality, may help us get a grasp on intentionality. Just as the “zombie world” cases help us to see that physical functions are not all that we need to explain about our world in order to understand consciousness, so an example like this should help us to see that it doesn’t stop at “qualia,” either.

Of course, we should realize that what we’ve just done is arrive again at the epiphenomenalist scenario from the opposite direction! A world of physical duplicates containing only experiences like that of our “deep meditator” could perform physical movements and perhaps even speak, but they could never do so because of their experiences: the only way the world could be like this is if experiences were just something that came alongside physical processes ‘for the ride’ in a sort of metaphysical back seat—without the capacity of thought to be “about” its conceptual contents which in turn are “directed at” states of the world, the inhabitants of this world would have no capacity to self–referentially acknowledge their subjective experiences as a phenomena within the world. When the phenomena of consciousness as a whole is construed by some materialists to be characterizable as a process with a physical capacity to make “self–referential” reports of their own states (see Higher Order Theories of Consciousness), this notion poaches intuitively plausibility for itself by smuggling intentionality in without clearly acknowledging and admitting it as such. What we have begun to demonstrate is that these aspects of consciousness in reality ‘go together:’ despite their abstract conceptual differences, arguments that work for one generally work for others at the same time.[2]

Just as the non–mechanistically describable phenomena of private subjective experience itself appears to be fundamental to the world and a part of the explanation of some of our behaviors (demonstrated by the fact that we ever think and talk about subjective experience, in conceptual distinction to any accompanying physical processes, at all), a powerful case can be made that intentionality—this capacity of consciousness to “direct itself towards” concepts and ideas which are “reflective of” things beyond themselves—is simultaneously and equally fundamental (and also part of what we’re exhibiting when we “direct” our thoughts “towards” and then express ideas “about” those conscious experiences). Just as we have argued previously that materialist accounts must either call a subjective experience and a physical process “identical” (or do this in effect under the slightly different, and in my analysis simply more misleading, terminology of “emergence”) or else eliminate the phenomena altogether—and argued that if conscious experience can neither be reduced to and explained in the terms of non–conscious physical ingredients nor eliminated, then its existence simply refutes the materialist hypothesis (and something “non–physical” turns out not only to exist, but to be the one and only thing whose existence we know directly, and which turns out to be the one window through which we infer anything else we may believe at all, as a result of how the materialist account chooses to define “physical”)—so the same argument can be made every bit as strongly for intentionality.

When these arguments are applied to intentionality, however, they can be much harder to intuitively ‘see’ and take hold of at first as a result of the fact that anything that an intentional state does could hypothetically be performed by a robot which does it because it is mechanistically programmed and not because of its possessing any capacity for intrinsic intentionality—and it is easy to think about the function performed by an intentional state without thinking about the intentionality of that state by imagining that function taking place through a causal process simulating the original process while lacking its own intentionality, explain the function performed in causal–physical terms, and then simply fail to see that the intentionality of the actual original phenomena itself has not thereby been accounted for. Yet, as we will see shortly, the only reason we can even imagine a physical process duplicating a procedure which simulates intentionality to begin with at all is because of our own intrinsic intentionality which we can project (itself an intentionalistic process) into physical processes in which it does not actually reside apart from our own irreducibly conscious and intentionalistic projections. 

One of the most famous thought experiments in philosophy of mind is the Chinese Room argument from John Searle. Of the argument, David L. Anderson writes, “It is probably safe to say that no argument in the philosophy of mind (or in any area dealing with the nature of thought and cognition) has generated the level of anger and the vitriolic attacks that the Chinese Room argument has.” Stevan Harnard, editor of the journal the argument was first published in (in 1980), informs us that “The overwhelming majority still think that the Chinese Room Argument is dead wrong.” I am more than convinced that the overwhelming majority simply miss the point that is being made by the argument and are responding in fear resulting from the false impression of something being proven (about the impossibility of the success of a certain kind of artificial intelligence program) that the argument was never trying to show in the first place.[3] In my estimation, the thought experiment is simply doing no more than clarify the conceptual distinction between intentionality and function. In the words of Searle himself, the point is this: “syntax is insufficient for [because it is not identical with] semantics.” In other words, merely reordering a number of symbols according to a set of rules—performing a function—is not identical with consciously understanding the meaning of those symbols (or performing the function of manipulating those symbols because of a conscious understanding of their conceptual meaning and of the logical relationships between their meanings).

The thought experiment goes as so: “Imagine a native English speaker who knows no Chinese locked in a room full of boxes of Chinese symbols (a data base) together with a book of instructions for manipulating the symbols (the program). Imagine that people outside the room send in other Chinese symbols which, unknown to the person in the room, are questions in Chinese (the input). And imagine that by following the instructions in the program the man in the room is able to pass out Chinese symbols which are correct answers to the questions (the output). The program enables the person in the room to [look and sound like someone who understands] Chinese, but he does not understand a word of Chinese.”

I think most ordinary readers, on seeing this argument, will immediately “get” the point the thought experiment is illustrating and agree that a physical ability to manipulate a set of symbols is simply not the same identical thing as a conscious ability to understand their meaning. The arrant confusion of the critics of the argument is most illuminatingly revealed by one particularly ludicrous counter–argument—which so happens to be the most popular: ‘the man might not understand Chinese, but the room as a whole does.’ As Ray Kurzweil puts it, “the man is acting only as . . . a small part of a system. While the man may not see it, the understanding is distributed across the entire pattern of . . . the billions of notes ( . . . ) .”[4]

Rather than actually addressing the point of conceptual distinction which the argument clarifies, these critics simply beg the question in a most obliviously vacuous way by defining “understanding” to mean something other than what Searle is getting at – as “the (mere) ability to manipulate symbols.”  But the very point the argument illustrates is that the physical ability to manipulate symbols just isn’t simplistically identical to the conscious ability to understand their meaning! What these critics fail to understand is that this is an argument about first–person consciousness (and the intentionality which goes along with it): again returning to the words of Searle, the point is that “Computational models of conscious [experience and intentionality] are not sufficient by themselves for conscious [experience and intentionality].”

No one makes the counter of suggesting that “the room” or “the system” actually understands Chinese because they actually think “the room” or “the system” is a subject of internal, concept–representational subjective experiences (which is just simply what Searle means here when he uses the word “understanding”). They do it because they simply flat–out ignore the distinction which Searle asks them to see and go on to define “understanding” to literally just mean the physical ability to manipulate symbols anyway, while ignoring intentionality entirely—and then they substitute this sense of the word “understanding” into Searle’s sentences without even allowing him to tell them what he actually means by his own choice of words himself. Thus, they derive a meaning from Searle’s point that is tautological, but is not at all what Searle meant.

And seeing why it is obviously implausible if not impossible that “the room” should have any subjective inner conscious representation of any meaningful concepts entailed by Chinese symbols should precisely help demonstrate why the very notion these critics appeal to in their defense that we are just such “rooms” composed of just such individually mechanical and non–representational parts as the pieces of paper held by the man in the Chinese room is implausible if not impossible for just the same reason. We’re back in Leibniz’ mill! In other words, the premise that this is how reality works would seem to entail the prediction that conceptual ‘understanding’ as we know it to exist isn’t possible, and to thus be refuted by the incontrovertible fact that it does. 

The capacity to grasp the meaning of symbols appears to be a basic property of consciousness itself (and a very clear example of intentionality—the capacity of experiential conscious states to somehow ‘reach out’ and direct themselves towards or reflect within themselves, intrinsically, things or ideas which lie beyond themselves). And the argument is more than successful to show that this capacity is simply not plainly identical to the physical ability to manipulate those symbols according to a rule–based pattern. However, the problem should now start to become clearer: as elaborated in the previous entry, physical mechanism is the only “ingredient” physicalist philosophy has to build any “pies” that exist from. How could intentionality, on a physicalist picture, ever even ‘get there’ at all?

 _______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

I’ve quoted the materialist Daniel Dennett and the “near–enough” physicalist Jaegwon Kim, previously, to support the point that I am not inventing the problem which subjective conscious experience poses for materialistic and physicalist accounts of the nature of the human mind on my own: the materialists and physicalists themselves lay out for us what the options are, and they choose their own bullets with regards to how to try to square the “two–dimensional” canvas of their physicalist premises with the “three–dimensional” conscious reality we all live, breathe, and know to try to avoid expanding that canvas to include any added dimensions. Here, I quote Alex Rosenberg, author of The Atheist’s Guide to Reality as an example of an outright eliminativist about intentionality—later, I’ll discuss Dennett’s attempts to account for (a reduced form of) it in roughly “emergent” terms.

“[S]everal of the most fundamental things that ordinary experience teaches us about ourselves are completely illusory. Some of these illusions are useful for creatures like us, or at least they have been selected for by the environmental filters that our ancestors passed through. But other illusions have just been carried along piggyback on the locally adaptive traits that conferred increased fitness on our ancestors in the Pleistocene. [ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

Suppose someone asks you, “What is the capital of France?” Into consciousness comes the thought that Paris is the capital of France. Consciousness tells you in no uncertain terms what the content of your thought is, what your thought is about. It’s about the statement that Paris is the capital of France. That’s the thought you are thinking. It just can’t be denied. You can’t be wrong about the content of your thought. You may be wrong about whether Paris is really the capital of France.

The French assembly could have moved the capital to Bordeaux this morning (they did it one morning in June 1940). You might even be wrong about whether you are thinking about Paris, confusing it momentarily with London. What you absolutely cannot be wrong about is that your conscious thought was about something. Even having a wildly wrong thought about something requires that the thought be about something.

It’s this last notion that introspection conveys that science has to deny. Thinking about things can’t happen at all. The brain can’t have thoughts about Paris, or about France, or about capitals, or about anything else for that matter. When consciousness convinces you that you, or your mind, or your brain has thoughts about things, it is wrong.

Don’t misunderstand, no one denies that the brain receives, stores, and transmits information. But it can’t do these things in anything remotely like the way introspection tells us it does—by having thoughts about things. The way the brain deals with information is totally different from the way introspection tells us it does. Seeing why and understanding how the brain does the work that consciousness gets so wrong is the key to answering all the rest of the questions that keep us awake at night worrying over the mind, the self, the soul, the person.

We believe that Paris is the capital of France. So, somewhere in our brain is stored the proposition, the statement, the sentence, idea, notion, thought, or whatever, that Paris is the capital of France. It has to be inscribed, represented, recorded, registered, somehow encoded in neural connections, right? Somewhere in my brain there have to be dozens or hundreds or thousands or millions of neurons wired together to store the thought that Paris is the capital of France. Let’s call this wired-up network of neurons inside my head the “Paris neurons,” since they are about Paris, among other things. They are also about France, about being a capital city, and about the fact that Paris is the capital of France. But for simplicity’s sake let’s just focus on the fact that the thought is about Paris.

Now, here is the question we’ll try to answer: What makes the Paris neurons a set of neurons that is about Paris; what make them refer to Paris, to denote, name, point to, pick out Paris? To make it really clear what question is being asked here, let’s lay it out with mind-numbing explicitness: I am thinking about Paris right now, and I am in Sydney, Australia. So there are some neurons located at latitude 33.87 degrees south and longitude 151.21 degrees east (Sydney’s coordinates), and they are about a city on the other side of the globe, located at latitude 48.50 degrees north and 2.20 degrees east (Paris’s coordinates).

Let’s put it even more plainly: Here in Sydney there is a chunk or a clump of organic matter—a bit of wet stuff, gray porridge, brain cells, neurons wired together inside my skull. And there is another much bigger chunk of stuff 10,533 miles, or 16,951 kilometers, away from the first chunk of matter. This second chunk of stuff includes the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, the Louvre Museum, and all the streets, parks, buildings, sewers, and metros around them. The first clump of matter, the bit of wet stuff in my brain, the Paris neurons, is about the second chunk of matter, the much greater quantity of diverse kinds of stuff that make up Paris. How can the first clump—the Paris neurons in my brain—be about, denote, refer to, name, represent, or otherwise point to the second clump—the agglomeration of Paris? A more general version of this question is this: How can one clump of stuff anywhere in the universe be about some other clump of stuff anywhere else in the universe—right next to it or 100 million light-years away?

[ . . . ] What is going on [ . . . ] is just input/output wiring [ . . . ]. The brain does everything without thinking about anything at all. And in case you still had any doubts there is Watson, the Jeopardy playing computer, storing as much information as we do, without any original intentionality.”

What Rosenberg suggests, in other words, is that (in order to coherently hold on to the premises of physicalism, one must believe that) it turns out that all of us actually are the man inside of Searle’s Chinese Room: we may think we understand Chinese, but science shows that all we are is neurons—and neurons, like all physical objects as modern physics understands them generally, can only execute blind procedures by the inert force of causality; they don’t do things for “reasons.” And no physical entity moving through space “represents” any other physical entity. So whatever it is you may “think” you are, “science” proves that you’re the man in the room who doesn’t understand “the meaning” of Chinese after all.

The most basic problem that arguments like these leave out is this: consciousness itself is a subjective phenomena; subjectivity is precisely the form in which it has its existence.  It existsas a subjective phenomena. While our experiences can in certain kinds of cases mislead us about what is happening in the external world, these cases involve a distinction between an appearance within subjective experience and the nature of the underlying reality beyond range of our perception which contributes that appearance into our awareness: obviously and undeniably, when it comes to understanding the external world, appearances can be misleading. However, when we deal with most of the internal phenomena of consciousness as such, it is the very existence of appearances, in the first place, which we are concerned with: “the appearance” very literally just is the reality we want to explain, because the fact of the existence of the phenomena of consciousness is, in many ways, the fact of the existence of the phenomena that things ever “appear” to anyone at all. Hence, when dealing with the properties of consciousness proper, no distinction between “appearance” and “reality” can even be made, and the very concept of “illusion” is therefore rendered meaningless. 

All that it means to have had a conscious experience is just literally to “seem” to have had a conscious experience. “Well, it just seems like you have seemings” is not an answer to any question about the nature of  “seemings” themselves. The seemings themselves really exist; that part simply can’t coherently be denied. All other examples of “illusions,” outside the realm of consciousness itself (such as the fact that a stick placed in water will seem to be bent), precisely take consciousness itself for granted because within consciousness itself is where the illusion resides. Consciousness simply can’t even in principle be “an illusion” in anything like the same way. And what goes for conscious experience also goes for intentionality: to “seem” to have a concept in your conscious awareness and “understand” the “meaning” of what it refers to and what it is that it is “about” is just—literally—what it means to have a concept whose referentiality and meaning you understand. Calling that an “illusion” is, in fact, just literally meaningless. If Rosenberg were right, we wouldn’t be capable of reading and understanding the ‘meaning’ of the words he wrote; and he wouldn’t have been capable of writing them to express the idea in the first place. We would never have been able to grasp the conceptual distinction between understanding the (semantic) ‘meaning’ of words and ‘understanding’ how to manipulate them procedurally (syntax). And yet, anyone understanding the concepts that these intrinsically meaningless patterns of lines somehow refer to has all the evidence they could possibly ever need that—in fact—we do. 

But Rosenberg’s claim is false for an even more interesting reason, and illustrating the falsity will get us even closer to an intuitive picture of the heart of what intentionality is and the role that it plays in conscious life (and, via consciousness, the world as a whole). The suggestion that “information” in the purely physical sense we see exhibited in computers could replace the role of intentionality and thoughts “about” ideas with intrinsic propositional content in understanding the nature of thought trades off a naïve intuition that all of us probably share about how it is, and what it means to say, that computers even “compute” to begin with. What turns out to be the case is that computers, strictly speaking, are not in fact “computing” at all—rather, it is solely because of our capacity for intentional acts of understanding and representing concepts that we can use the physical processes of a “computer” as placeholder for our own intentionalistic ability to grasp and express and understand both logic and “meaning.”

The Chinese Room thought experiment previously illustrated the point that, in Searle’s words, “syntax is insufficient for semantics.” In other words, the physical manipulation of symbols by procedural rules is insufficient for conscious understanding of any meaning that may be referred to by those symbols. Searle eventually went on to realize, however, that this thought experiment actually smuggled a form of intentionality into the premises in its own way, and thus failed to show how deep the problem with intentionality actually does go. To quote the words of Searle: “Computation does not name an intrinsic feature of reality but is observer-relative and this is because computation is defined in terms of symbol manipulation, but the notion of a `symbol’ is not a notion of physics or chemistry. Something is a symbol only if it is used, treated or regarded as a symbol. The Chinese room argument showed that semantics is not intrinsic to syntax. But ( . . . ) syntax is not intrinsic to physics. There are no purely physical properties that zeros and ones or symbols in general have that determine that they are symbols. Something is a symbol only relative to some observer, user or agent who assigns a symbolic interpretation to it. So the question, ‘Is consciousness a computer program?’ lacks a clear sense. If it asks, ‘Can you assign a computational interpretation to the processes which are characteristic of consciousness?’ the answer is: ‘you can assign a computational interpretation to anything.’ But if the question asks, ‘Is consciousness intrinsically computational?’ the answer is: nothing is intrinsically computational. Computation exists only relative to some agent or observer who imposes a computational interpretation on some phenomenon. This is an obvious point. I should have seen it ten years ago but I did not.”

To see this even more clearly, we’ll take the simple example of a calculator. Even if we don’t think the calculator ‘understands’ any concept of the meaning of ‘2 + 2’ when it calculates, we still ordinarily assume that it is, on some physical level, actually at least in some sense “calculating” ‘2 + 2.’ But this assumption is false—and what goes for calculators goes for absolutely every other form of physical calculation besides. To bolster the claim that intentionality can be dispensed with because “Watson, the Jeopardy playing computer, stor[es] as much information as we do, without any original intentionality” turns out to be meaningless, because the physical patterns that Watson actually stores turn out not to be actual “information”—not even in an unconscious sense—at all.

To see this, we’re going to have to scrape the symbols off of the buttons of the calculator, leaving all of them blank. Physically, after all, the shape ‘2’ is just literally nothing whatsoever other than a series of spilled dots of ink. And per Rosenberg, “How can one clump of stuff anywhere in the universe be about some other clump of stuff anywhere else in the universe—right next to it or 100 million light–years away?”  The problem for the physical clumps of stuff that we use to represent concepts like numbers goes even deeper: the concept we use the symbol ‘2’ to refer to is not even a physical entity present anywhere as such, and yet it could be described as existing nearly anywhere. How could any physical shape created by dropped bits of stuff landing in certain places on a surface possibly be ‘about’ such an abstract concept as that? The physical pattern of the symbol is only said to “represent” that because we use itfor the purpose of representing it. So after removing the symbols off the buttons on the calculator, let’s alter the programming of the calculator to ensure that each shape that was previously programmed to be displayed on the calculator’s screen becomes a random new shape instead.

Now, when something presses a few of the blank buttons on the surface of the calculator, and a shape resembling something Japanese appears on the screen, what is the calculator—as a physical entity—doing? Is it calculating? The answer is a surprising, but now obvious “no.” The “calculator” goes through a series of electrical state transitions, which process is completely determined by the physical properties of electricity—and that’s it. Everything that is happening within this system is determined purely by the laws of physics—by the physical properties of electricity, which do not coincide even with any procedural laws of syntax. The reason this physical object is able to become a “calculator” is solely because we, as conscious observers possessing intentionality, can see that these physical properties would make it a convenient tool to use for this purpose[12]—and we in turn apply the symbols in the correct way not only to allow us to calculate the meaning of the concepts entailed by the pattern ‘2 + 2’ which the calculator as a physical object has no awareness of, but even to cause it to happen to be the case that the pattern of inputs and outputs will now coincide with any sort of logical rules about syntactical manipulation!

Suppose instead of scraping the physical patterns of dropped ink off the surface of the calculator’s buttons, we switch the ‘+’ symbol with the ‘3,’ the ‘÷’ symbol with the ‘9,’ and the ‘2’ symbol with the ‘4.’ Now, an input of “2 + 2” will cause the screen to display physical shapes in a pattern that looks like “434,” and an input of “43÷” will cause the screen to display the shape “11,” and an input of “93” will display “ERR.” The “calculator,” as a physical object, isn’t doing a single thing differently than before.  But now, simply by altering a few of the physical shapes on its surface, it isn’t even following rules of syntax at all. And what this should cause us to realize is that that is just because it never was following such rules in the first place. We understand rules of syntax. We observe the causal inputs and outputs of the physical states of a given way of wiring up the calculator. We devise a way to apply the symbols to the surface of the buttons of calculator in such a way that the “calculator” will only be “following syntactical procedures,” nevermind calculating the concept “2 + 2” to derive the concept of “4,” purely incidentallyand not as a result of any physical property of the system.

The implication of this is that unless we can accept that we are just required to posit intentionality itself as a fundamental category of the world in its own right [10] , analogies to try to explain human consciousness through analogies with “computers” are useless—because the very concept of computation itself presupposes the existence of a conscious observer with the capacity for intentionality in the first place, and simply does not exist as a physical phenomena in the world without one—just precisely like the “sound” the falling tree never makes in the forest if there isn’t a conscious subject of private, subjective experiences around whose mind can translate the physical vibrations of molecules resulting from the collapse of the tree into sound. So it is, likewise, with the forms of “computation” which are “performed” by “computers.”

You might say that when it comes to the relationship between consciousness and computation, it’s the thought that counts. 

Unfathomably useful tools though they may be, they can only be said to process “information” of any kind whatsoevereven unconsciously—because we are around to attribute any kind of “meaning” whatsoever (even that of its being a “symbol” that has any place in any logical system of syntax or grammar) to the intrinsically meaningless physical patterns that physical causality allows us to display on their outputs, and which we apply to their inputs (whether in the form of specific conceptual content, or even solely the basic fact that that pattern even represents a “symbol” of any kind that must be manipulated according to logical rules of any sort at all.) [6] (All of these points go for verbal language, as well.[7]) To quote William Hasker in Metaphysics: Constructing a World View, “Computers function as they do because they have been constructed by human beings endowed with rational insight. And the results of their computations are accepted because they are evaluated by rational human beings as conforming to rational norms. A computer, in other words, is merely an extension of the rationality of its designers and users; it is no more an independent source of rational thought than a television set is an independent source of news and entertainment.” 

But this goes not merely for “rationality” in the sense that requires “understanding” of the concepts referred to by symbols, it goes every bit as much as well for even the syntactical manipulation of the symbols themselves, because even symbol manipulation exists only as a concept which minds impute over the physical world—and not as a physical state of the world itself. What, physically, does “information” consist of in the first place? The very idea of “information” is an intrinsically intentionalistic concept that can only be made sense of in terms of a conscious mind who is “in–formed” by whatever process is in question—who is able to have intentionalistic concepts “formed” “in” his mind through understanding the relationship between one sequence of facts and another.

The shadows cast by a sundial allow me to determine the time of day, but the shadow itself does not represent any actual kind of “information” except in the most trivial way that it happens to be the kind of thing that a mind could conveniently use as a marker for determining some other physical state. While the relationship between the shadow and the sun which the shadow allows us to gather “information about” is, superficially, a causal and physical one, the key point is that every so–called “informational” state is going to have a diffferent causal description—the physical relationship between time and the rings that accumulate within tree trunks over time is going to be completely different from the physical relationship between the time of day and the shadows cast over a sundial as a result of the movement of the sun, and so practically by definition there is simply no way to physically specify what it is that these examples hold in common. The only common feature is that minds can come to understand (e.g., with intentionality) that relationship, whatever its particular details may be.

So the concepts of physical “information” or “information processing” hold zero hope for explaining anything about the conscious human exercise of intelligence as we know it, because at the physical level of reality, none of these even exist; and the sole sense in which they do exist is one that can only be made sense of through presupposing the existence of conscious minds with the capacity to “understand” and think in terms of concepts in the first place; calculators can only be said to “calculate” at all because conscious minds understand not only the concepts referred to by symbols such as “2,” “+,” and “4,” but even rules of syntactical symbol manipulation in such a way as to allow us to slap these physically meaningless patterns onto the right inputs and outputs of the calculator so that, in following its literally meaningless series of physical state transitions, “rules of mathematics” will be happen to be “followed” by the physical operations of the calculator completely by coincidence and not as a result of anything it is doing as a physical object.

This can be seen most clearly by realizing, again, that switching a few of the symbols around on the calculator’s surface will immediately cause it to be no longer even following rules of syntax, despite nothing about the internal physical processes of the calculator changing whatsoever. The only thing that makes a “calculator” physically useful is that its physical properties allow given inputs and outputs to be consistently linked, and we can see that this would make it convenient to use for this purpose. But then, for any “calculation” in any sense whatsoever to take place at all requires us mapping symbols (that only minds possessing intentionality even know are “symbols,” because the very concept of “symbol” refers not to any physical fact, but to how those facts are interpreted and used by minds) to those inputs and outputs in such a way that logical rules of any sort are being “followed” by the calculator at all. And what goes for calculators goes for any other form of physical “computation” whatsoever: it exists in the only sense in which it has “existence” solely through the intentionalistic interpretations of a conscious mind.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

Previously, we took an argument from Daniel Dennett, who said (paraphrasing) “If [materialism—reality at its root is all and only blind and mindless causal process], and [the emergence of subjective experience from unconscious physical process doesn’t make sense], then [subjective experience can’t exist]—and [materialism is true], therefore [subjective experience does not exist]” and we kept the skeleton of the logic (If P, then Q. P, therefore Q), but established that since subjective experience can’t be dispensed with, if emergentism can’t work then it is the materialist premise that has to go (If P, then Q. Not–Q, therefore Not–P), so we should do the same thing here. Rosenberg, in essence, tells us: “if [materialism—reality at its root is all and only blind and mindless causal process], and [emergentism of intentionality from unintentional but only causal process can’t work], then [intentionality can’t exist].” Well, the intentionality that we know as an intrinsic part of our experience can’t be eliminated any more than experience itself can. Where the eliminative materialists think they’re producing modus ponens arguments justifying conclusions that eliminate ordinarily understood aspects from human consciousness and self, they’re actually creating perfect modus tollens arguments against the truth of their own starting premises. Rosenberg concludes “P [materialism is true], therefore Q [intentionality cannot exist].” What we are actually required by dictates of truth to conclude, if the skeleton of this logic is correct, is “Not–Q [intentionality exists], therefore Not–P [materialism is false.]”

Next, we’ll begin to look at an attempt to explain intentionality as something which “emerges” from processes which don’t of themselves possess intentionality, to highlight the inescapable flaws that any such account in principle will run into. But first, I want to detour through a discussion of the general point which that example will serve to support.

It should have become relatively clear in light of the arguments explained in the previous entry that for all the verbal and linguistic posturing, there really aren’t, in the end, multiple ways to be a materialist after all—all the different ways of trying to categorize it really do, in the end, just end up amounting to the same ultimate claim. The eliminative materialist says, “X doesn’t exist. Only Y’s exist.” In contrast to that, what the “emergent” materialist thinks he can get away with saying in order to retain his materialism while avoiding eliminativism is: “Sure, X exists, but X [which looks one way, and appears to have a certain set of x–traits] is really a Y [which looks totally different, and actually only has y–traits].”

My conclusion, to state it frankly, is that this is genuinely little more than an outright expression of cognitive dissonance in response to (1) wanting desperately to hold on to the materialist or physicalist premises, and (2) realizing in eliminativism how absurd their very clear consequences actually are. To help see this, let’s replace these claims with examples. The eliminativist says: “Flour doesn’t exist. Only sugar exists.” The emergentist however, realizing that this is plainly absurd, tries to say hold on to reductionism without eliminativism by saying: “Sure, “flour” exists, but “flour” is really sugar.”

How is this claim actually any different? Despite the superficial brush of appearances, it isn’t! The truth is that the reality that both of these statements describe turns out to be exactly the same: sugar is the only thing that actually exists. The only thing we actually have here is a minor dispute about language—about the most appropriate way to speak about the situation where sugar is the only thing that exists—about how to use the word “flour” now that we believe that the concept we previously used it to refer to doesn’t exist).  But in either scenario, sugar is quite plain and simply the only ingredient that we’re postulating exists, and if it turns out that consciousness has properties (and in fact, even merely the “appearance” of properties) of a “chicken pot pie” [see entry (III)], then this should rightly cast extreme doubt on (if not count as an absolute disproof of) the claim that the “sugar” of blind, causally brute physical forces are the only ingredients stocked in reality’s pantry.

To spell this out with another substitution, where the eliminativist says,  “Unicorns don’t exist. Only horses exist.” The emergentist tries to say,  “Sure, “unicorns” exist, but “unicorns” are really only horses.” It is abundantly clear now that both claims eliminate the substance of the concept referred to by the word “unicorn.” The two camps on this question would merely be in disagreement on what to do with the empty skeleton container of a word that is left over after the elimination. The emergentist thinks he can get by with holding on to his materialist premises while refusing to perform the absurd eliminations that the eliminativist explains follow from materialism (e.g., that nobody ever has any conscious experiences, or thinks thoughts “about” anything whatsoever), and he tries to create the optical illusion that this verbal mirage somehow changes something about the substance of the situation, when—in reality—it doesn’t at all, and thus there is simply no way in principle this can alter any ultimate analysis of where the reality of the situation stands. And this is why all accounts of “emergence” are just inevitably going to turn out to be inherently self–contradictory—the only work that remains is to perform various levels of tedious technical work to expose the contradictions in new varieties of attempts, depending on how technical and tedious a particular effort to conceal them is.[8]

Because it is for systematic reasons that the contradictions will inevitably appear; it simply turns out, in the end, that the core problem at the central root of the basic physicalist picture of the world is the lack of any logical identity between subjective conscious experience, and blind and unconscious physical ingredients; or between the phenomena of intentionality, and unintentional causal process [5]. At some point, we should begin treating such claims as the philosophical equivalent of an engineering student claiming to have discovered how to create a perpetual motion machine: it isn’t just “something we’ve not yet proven possible.” It’s something we’ve discovered is impossible because we’ve discovered the systematic reasons which prevent it from being possible even in principle. You can’t create a machine that produces work without the input of energy, and you can’t derive conscious experience from purely unconscious processes or intentionality from purely causal processes. The eliminativist sees this clearly, and actively decides to bite the bullet and deny that we “understand” “ideas” or “concepts” or otherwise have any thoughts which are “about” (or make reference to) anything at all or otherwise even have any kind of subjective experiences. Yet every physicalist who tries to reject eliminativism (as rightly they should) is attempting an inevitably doomed project—trying to have their cake and eat it too. And the only answer is simply to abandon the physicalist premise itself and admit conscious experience and intentionality themselves as fundamental, “bedrock” aspects of the nature of reality itself all in their own right.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______

As a case example in attempts to argue for “reductionism” about intentionality, we’ll return to the case of Daniel Dennett (who in this case, intriguingly enough, turns out to be making at least a shallow attempt to avoid eliminativism about intentionality). In the paper Evolution, Error, and Intentionality, Dennet tries to make the argument that we can ‘build our way up’ to the intentionality of human consciousness through gradated steps beginning from the “proto–intentionality” of evolution.

Throughout, his account is only able to appear to get anywhere at all off of the ground because he projects intentionality into places where it only “exists” as a result of human intentionality “placing” it there. In the process he must, as always, try to have the cake of conscious experience and intentionality (whether he wants to explicitly admit it or not, the premises will have to slip it back in somewhere in order not to devolve into even more blatantly concentrated absurdity than is currently at least dispersed throughout a more subtle series of equivocations) and eat it through reductionist “explanations,” too. In one place, he summarizes his position as so: “[W]e [have] no guaranteed privileged access to the deeper facts that fix the meanings of our thoughts, [because] there are no such deeper facts [and therefore—placing Dennett precisely in agreement with Rosenberg—no real meanings of our thoughts at all].”

Yet, in another, he begins: “A shopping list in the head has no more intrinsic intentionality [e.g., actual meaning] than a shopping list on a piece of paper.” But as he goes on, notice the attempt to point back in the refrigerator at the cake he suddenly pretends not to have just pulled out and eaten: “What the items on the list mean (if anything) is fixed by the role they play in the larger scheme of purposes [there’s intentionality popping its head in, again!]. We may call our own intentionality real, but we must recognize that it is derived from the intentionality of natural selection, which is just as real—but just less easily discerned because of the vast difference in time scale and size. So if there is to be any original intentionality—original just in the sense of being derived from no other, ulterior source—the intentionality of natural selection deserves the honor. What is particularly satisfying about this is that we end the threatened regress of derivation with something of the right metaphysical sort: a blind and unrepresenting source [my emphasis] of our own sightful and insightful powers of representation. [ . . . ] While it can never be stressed enough that natural selection operates with no foresight and no purpose, we should not lose sight of the fact that the process of natural selection has proven itself to be exquisitely sensitive to rationales, making myriads of discriminating “choices,” and “recognizing” and “appreciating” many subtle relationships. To put it even more provocatively, when natural selection selects, it can “choose” a particular design for one reason rather than another ( . . . ).

His argument is that what intentionality really consists of is just the ability to hold what he calls “the intentional stance” towards an object or pattern, in which we interpret phenomena “as if” they do things because of ‘beliefs,’ ‘reasons, ‘desires’ and so on—and this is justified as a kind of fiction, in Dennett’s view, by its empirical success in making accurate predictions: “Certainly we can describe all processes of natural selection without appeal to such intentional language, but at enormous cost of cumbersomeness, lack of generality, and unwanted detail. We would miss the pattern that was there, the pattern that permits prediction . . . ” What this suggestions gets backwards is that the very notion of “holding an interpretive stance” towards something itself presupposes intentionality, whether we’re talking about the ‘intentional stance,’ the ‘physical stance,’ or any other: even if we try to speak, as Dennett does, of “Mother Nature” as a fiction, the development of this fiction as a representational concept and the language used to represent and communicate it to other intentional agents is intentionality. The account simply presupposes exactly what it is meant to try to explain—as any attempt must.

This is similar in ways I will explore to Dennett’s redefining of the very phenomena of subjective experience itself as nothing other than “a logical construct out of peoples’ judgments that they are having [experiences] . . . [where] such judgings [are] constitutive acts which, in effect, bring the [so–called] [experience] itself into existence” in the paper, Quining Qualia, discussed in the last entry: if this definition of conscious experience seems plausible to anyone, it can only be because they are taking for granted subliminally that people communicate judgments about their experiences because they are having experiences. There is a relationship between the two, but it is most definitely not that the judgment creates the “experience” (where “experience” is just defined as statements about experience[11]).

In Quining Qualia, Dennett proposed this ludicrous suggestion as a “solution” to the “problem” of two people, Chase and Sanborn, who begin to dislike the coffee they’ve been drinking every morning for years, one of whom thinks the coffee itself has grown worse over time, the other of whom thinks his own tastes have simply changed. What Dennett suggests this thought experiment proves is that one of them has to be mistaken about what they are experiencing—therefore, he reasons, there are no such thing as subjective experiences which we know so intimately that experiment cannot refute them, and therefore we are best off concluding that no such thing as experience exists at all, and all that actually needs to be explained is the fact that people ‘talk’ about[11] experiences.

So he concludes, “the infallibilist line on qualia treats them as properties of one’s experience one cannot in principle misdiscover, and this is a mysterious doctrine (at least as mysterious as papal infallibility) unless we . . .  treat qualia as logical constructs [of ] judgments . . .  Yet, what Dennett obviously has utterly misunderstood right from the very beginning of his discussion is that the experience his coffee drinkers are having is that they no longer enjoy the coffee. And his example does nothing to undermine the fact that they cannot in principle be wrong about this. What Dennett has gotten confused is an unbelievably basic distinction between an experience and the subject of that experience’s further rational inferences about why[11] they are having it.  

Either of the coffee drinkers might be—indeed, one will have to be—mistaken about what fact it is that explains why they are having the experience they are having. But that poses no challenge whatsoever to the idea that they cannot be mistaken about the experience of no longer enjoying the coffee, itself. Indeed, we all expect that if Chase and Sanborn devise the empirical tests that Dennett mentions to test and refute their competing hypotheses about whether the coffee has changed, their tastes have changed, or something else, they will find one of these answers—precisely because something will have to provide the explanation for why they are having the experience of no longer enjoying the coffee—because the thing they cannot even in principle be mistaken about is that. 

And so he weaves a similar tale here regarding the intentionality of conceptual thought and language: “Consider then the members of a Putnamian tribe who have a word, “glug,” let us say, for the invisible, explosive gas they encounter in their marshes now and then. When we confront them with some acetylene, and they call it glug, are they making a mistake or not? All the gaseous hydrocarbon they have ever heretofore encountered, we can suppose, was methane . . .  Of course once we educate them, they will have to come to mean one thing or the other by “glug,” but in advance of these rather sweeping changes in their cognitive states, will there already be a fact about whether they believe the proposition that there is methane present or the proposition that there is gaseous hydrocarbon present when they express themselves by saying “Glug!”?”

With yet another “problem” in hand, Dennett is ready with yet another “solution:” just as before, we simply have to do away with the assumption that their statement actually refers to any concept at all: “It is not just that I can’t tell, and they can’t tell; [it’s that] there is nothing to tell.” Now, as such examples often do, this one tries to get us to eliminate something we previously thought we knew about first–person consciousness by cutting our internal first–person awareness of the first–person phenomena of consciousness out of the equation from the start, by having us look at the behavior of a third party from the outside, in third–person, where by definition that person’s external behavior (and not any internal experiences which might drive or explain them) is all that we’re able to consider for the sake of the example to begin with. So, let’s re–situate the analogy back into the first–person perspective again and see what happens.

Suppose you were born a male in an all–male society, where you’ve been taught to refer to everyone you see as a “man.” With this scenario clearly in mind, suppose a female missionary visits your tribe—and when you refer to her as a “man,” she corrects you and tells you that she is, actually, a “woman.”  Now, it is clear that one of two or three scenarios have to take place. In the first, you will respond with something roughly like: “No, you have a face, two legs, and two arms, you walk and talk—clearly you are a man” to which she might respond, “no, look: I don’t have a penis.” To which you would be most naturally inclined to say something like: “Wow. You’re a strange kind of man. I’ve never known a man who didn’t have a penis before” to which she would respond: “that’s not how we use the word ‘man.’ You use the word ‘man’ like we use the word ‘person.’ But when we use the word ‘man,’ we mean to refer (roughly) to someone with the traits which allow them to play the ‘male’ role in reproduction, in distinction from ‘women.’” To which you will respond: “I see. The word ‘man’ means something different to you than it means to us. I’ll change the way I communicate to reflect that [or else, you can change yours to reflect what I have now told you that mean].”

Otherwise, in the second scenario, you will respond with something like: “Bullshit. Let me see your penis” to which, let us assume, she does so—at which point you will say: “Oh, my God. That isn’t a penis. You really aren’t a man after all!” Alternatively, for the third, you might not have consciously meant anything like either of these. You might realize that the word “man” is just something you have always said out of sheer habit during conversation all along, wiithout intending to refer to any clear concept by it one way or another. But in either case, you were absolutely using the word in a specific way; even if, in a scenario like the third, that specific way was not “to refer to a specific concept.” What Dennett turns out to really be saying here is that we must do away with the notion that statements mean anything or are used in any determinate ways by people ‘on the inside’ at all, simply because these meanings can’t be determined conclusively beforehand ‘from the outside:’ “there is no ground to be discovered in their past behavior or current[ly observable] dispositions [emphasis mine] that would license a description of their glug-state as methane–detection rather than the more inclusive gaseous–hydrocarbon–detection.”

To return to our own example, it is true that there is nothing in your past behavior (or currently observable dispositions) that makes it clear according to any externally quantifiable third–person set of criteria whether you are using the word “man” to mean “person” or “biological male,” prior to the interaction that is bound to ensue after the woman denies that she is a “man.” Thus, an outside observer (such as Dennett has us take the role of for his version of the thought experiment) isn’t capable of knowing what you meant by the word prior to that interaction. However, just because it is true that, prior to the interaction, your disposition was not currently observable, it does not follow that you did not at that point have a current disposition. In fact, it is precisely during that ensuing interaction that the disposition which in fact existed previously will become observable, and the existence of that disposition is precisely why the interaction will go one way or the other. And that disposition is represented by what your intention was in using the word. 

There is no justification in this supposed “problem” for doing away with the notion that people have ideas in mind and intentions any more than there was justification in the supposed “problem” in the example of coffee drinkers in Quining Qualia to do away with the notion that people do have subjective first–person experiences which they alone have first–person access to and which, as such, they cannot be mistaken about (even if they can draw mistaken inferences about why they are happening). If externally quantifiable criteria can’t suffice to account for intentionality, the only thing this actually proves is that intentionality is something distinct from what can be externally quantified.

However, the primary data, which we know immediately from directly observing the intrinsic contents of our own first–person experiences first–hand, that our conscious thought operates by picking out and representing inherently intentionalistic concepts, is a fact that Dennett must try to find some means of denying in order to try to dilute “intentionality” into something that the only tools which any evolutionary approach to explaining it can even attempt to use, since he recognizes that these tools would be incapable of accounting for it otherwise: after discussing the example of a machine designed for the purpose of detecting U.S. quarters which eventually ends up by mistake in Panama, where it turns out to be equally capable of detecting the Panamanian quarter–balboa, he asks whether the machine is ‘mistakenly’ identifying quarters all the while, or rather at some point begins to ‘accurately’ identify quarter–balboas. Suddenly ignoring the fact, which he previously recognized [9] that this simply depends on the conscious intentions of the people who are using the machine for either one or the other purpose at any given point in time, he concludes that “[since] the two–bitser is just an artifact[, i]t has no intrinsic, original intentionality, so there is no “deeper” fact of the matter we might try to uncover. This is just a pragmatic matter of how best to talk, when talking metaphorically.”

But since “We are artifacts [of natural selection]. . . survival machines for genes that cannot act . . . in their own interests,” it follows that “the same pragmatic rules of interpretation [must apply] to the human case.” And “if we are such artifacts, not only have we no guaranteed privileged access to the deeper facts that fix the meanings of our thoughts, but there are no such deeper facts [and therefore, it would follow, no meanings to our thoughts at all!]” But Dennett, in extending this analogy, misses the very point (which again he previously conceded to[9]) that the only fact that determines which state the machine is “in” is precisely defined by the deliberate purposes for which human beings are using it in the first place. 

The argument gets everything precisely backwards, by assuming the absoluteness of precisely the very unproven physicalist premises that the observed aspects of consciousness cast under question, drawing conclusions that eliminate plainly, directly observed data about how consciousness operates (e.g., by understanding ideas through having thoughts which are intrinsically “about” the concepts to which they refer), and then blithely proceeding to eliminate those fundamental aspects of thought, consciousness, experience, and the self in sacrifice to the premises with hardly a moment’s pause—“A shopping list in the head has no more intrinsic intentionality [e.g., actual meaning] than a shopping list on a piece of paper.” Yet it does this, no less, while projecting things we can only describe as possessing “intentionality” because human beings project their intentionality into them when using them for conscious purposes—to try to “explain” human intentionality and purpose.

What Dennett has created here turns out to be an argument whose conclusion refutes its own premises. There is no  “deeper fact” about whether the quarter–detector in Panama is “really” detecting quarters or quarter–balboas—because this depends on the purpose to which it is being intentionally adopted by intention–driven, purpose–adopting human minds[9]. Therefore, since human beings are artifacts as well (resulting from a process that doesn’t even craft them in the ways that it does for literal “reasons”—a fact that Dennett equivocates around by using the metaphorical language that the mindless process of evolution “selects . . . [a] design . . . [for] reason[s]” rather than simply describing this in the more accurate literal language that traits end up proliferating as a result of given causes), human beings do not have intentional concepts or purposes, either. But then it would follow that no one was ever adopting the quarter–detector for either the purpose of detecting quarters or the purpose of detecting quarter–balboas, either—a claim that even Dennett himself seems not to believe is true! And we circle right back around yet again to the very phenomena that Dennett is pretending that any of this is somehow explaining.

Thus, for Dennett, conscious experience itself just is literally nothing more than the fact that people talk “about” their experiences—nevermind that they do so because there are experiences for them to talk about. And intentionality itself just is literally nothing more than the fact that people can “hold intentional stances” towards things and interpret them in ways that help them predict the future—nevermind that they are able to do this in the first place only precisely because of the very capacity of human minds to interpret and represent meaning, which is exactly the phenomena of intentionality Dennett somehow thinks he’s reducing. But notice that if Dennett is right about intentionality, then it follows that he pulls the rug out from under even his own reduction of conscious experience to statements “about” fictional conscious experiences, because even the appearance that these statements are “about” experiences or anything else is merely a fiction, too! As is the notion that any of this even “appears” to be any sort of way at all—for there are no appearances; you simply speak about the world as if there are. But—again—you don’t ever actually speak or think determinately “about” anything, either. Yet it can’t even be quite right to describe any of this as a “fiction,” because fictions are representational narratives, and the brain—being a physical object—doesn’t operate through semantic, propositional narratives or through “representing” anything. Despite the illusion that it does—which doesn’t exist either, because all that actually exists are your statements “about” experiences. But not only do the experiences not exist, the statements aren’t even “about” anything. How is it even possible to get things this wrong?!

The ultimate motivation for all this absurdity is, of course, that “either you must abandon meaning rationalism—the idea that you . . . not only hav[e] access, but . . . privileged access to your meanings—or you must abandon the naturalism that insists that you are, after all, just a [blind physical] product of [blind, physical] natural selection.” And Dennett sides with abandoning the idea that we ever know what we “mean” by anything (while delivering this in a paper which tells us that he means this). But we have far more overwhelming evidence for the fact that thought expresses meanings which our conscious minds are capable of understanding than we do for the claim that “[we] are, after all, just [blind physical] product[s] of [blind physical processes of] selection [acting on blind physical entities].”

The case of Dennett proves that the non–physicalist is not inventing these inherent problems and contradictions. Even those who are committed to physicalism end up seeing them—and no less than that, even when they see the rank absurdity entailed by those premises, many continue stubbornly defending these premises against every notion that makes conscious thought and experience comprehensible at all, and even well past the point that they can only continue to press the point through contradicting themselves repeatedly at the deepest and most fundamental levels.

The entire article containing Dennett’s argument, itself—representing nothing other than the use of language which represents thoughts that are “about” concepts and the abstract logical relationships between them—is itself fundamentally all and nothing other than an exercise which originates in the “objective,” “real” intentionality present in Daniel Dennett’s conscious mind the entire time. The physicalist is simply left with no option but to deny subjective experience from concepts he derived from his own conscious experience, and deny the conceptual and representational nature of thought through thoughts “about” the logical consequences of the concepts, expressed in representational symbols. [7] This is the most overwhelming refutation of physicalism there could possibly be.

_______ ~.::[༒]::.~ _______ 

[1] Because he recognizes explanations of material structure and inertly caused motion can’t in principle explain private, subjective experience (and explanations of form, structure and motion are by definition the only tool that the physicalist account has)—points which the previous entry, “The Case of the Lunatic Fish,” labored in detail to make, with reference to physicalists themselves expressing difficulty with it, while Jaegwon Kim—for example—openly defends the position that subjective experience just ‘dangles’ off the physical processes of the world awkwardly.

[2] Compare the Knowledge Argument, for example, to Lawrence Bonjour’s martian.

[3] Even if Searle is perfectly correct, the accuracy of his point that “computational models for consciousness stand to consciousness in the same way the computational model of anything stands to the phenomena being modeled. Nobody supposes that a computational model of rainstorms in London will leave us all wet” simply poses no necessary challenge to the possibility that we could eventually create a fully working model of human intelligence.

[4] Kurzweil follows this up with the elaboration that: “I understand English, but none of my neurons do. My understanding is represented in vast patterns of neurotransmitter strengths, synaptic clefts, and interneuronal connections. Searle appears not to understand the significance of ( . . . ) emergent properties.” This is the assumption from which the “systems reply” is supposed to proceed. But the hidden linking premise between “understand English” and “none of my neurons do” which is supposed to bridge this claim in defense of the systems reply is that “My understanding [in the specifically intentionalistic rather than functional sense] consists of nothing other than physical neurons which operate solely by causal function without any intrinsic capacity for intentionality.” Unlike the questions I admit to have technically had to beg at points throughout my discussion due to the nature of the cases they involved, Kurzweil begs the question in favor of a point that is a strong empirical claim about the world, and is not accessible through introspection by anyone’s claim (not even Kurzweil’s). Nor is it in any sense something which has been proven empirically.

Furthermore, it is exactly the assumption that the reasoning this argument presents actually provides reasons to reject. It should be fair to say that there are more and less offensive ways to ‘beg the question.’ Bluntly ignoring an argument that gives reasons to think a certain conclusion is false only to flatly reply that “those reasons are incorrect, because the conclusion is true” while giving no other reason to reject them (not even “because I know by immediate awareness that the conclusion is true, and I’m sorry that that leaves me in the inescapable position of having to technically beg the question as the only way I can try to ‘point towards’ what I know to be true”) is surely among the most offensive and least defensible, but it is what any critic who tries to take Kurzweil’s approach would in principle have no choice to resort to.

If a critic actually wanted to try to take this approach in anything so much as resembling a reasonable way, they would admit the unbearably obvious conceptual distinction between a physical ability to execute a procedure and a conscious ability to intentionalistically ‘understand’ which the thought experiment serves to draw out, and then suggest some way how—to our surprise—there is some way to bridge the gap from physical procedure to intentionality with the tools offered by physical procedure alone. The whole point of this entry, however, is to explain the systematic reasons why this is impossible and incoherent in principle. Kurzweil simply fails to demonstrate any concrete appreciation for any kind of actual understanding of the “significance of ( . . . ) emergent properties” of his own; he merely uses the term as a means of hand–waving—with arrogance.

[5] A particularly tedious technical attempt to get around this is to appeal to the Kripkean notion of “a posteriori necessity.” Anyone who thinks Kripke’s idea is relevant here has simply been, in the words of this article, “misled by language”: “[I]t is important not to confuse conceptual analysis with metaphysics. [A common interpretation] is that Kripke made a metaphysical discovery: that he discovered really interesting modal metaphysical facts (e.g. water is necessarily H2O) that we come to grasp through empirical discovery (i.e. water’s molecular structure).” Thus, the defendant of physicalism who appeals to this notion suggests that we can “discover” that the mind and the brain are identical empirically (a posteriori), even though they aren’t identical conceptually (a priori), in the same way Kripke is supposed to have discovered this for something like the identity of water and H2O. However, “ . . . this is not quite right. . . although Kripke discovered something philosophically interesting (two empirical facts plus the law of identity), he didn’t discover anything metaphysically interesting.”

This is why Kripke himself repudiated the idea that conscious states and physical brain states were or could be “identical” for variations on precisely the same reasons in essence which I have defended throughout this series. If there’s no conceptual identity, there’s no identity. And the notions of conscious experience and physical process, or of intentionality and causal procedure lack conceptual identity completely—a truth which simultaneously renders it true for all the same reasons that it is impossible in principle to “build” either of the former out of any combination of ingredients made up solely of the latter. The differences are not a matter of degree, but of category. The dimensions in which the phenomena of consciousness are measured represent fundamentally different categories from those which the physicalist defines “physical” phenomena as possessing. If the physicalist chooses to do this, then the physicalist has defined himself into a corner.

The moment we admit that consciousness truly does possess these properties (that is, the moment we reject eliminativism), physicalism has failed by definition—but these are the definitions provided by the physicalist himself, not those invented by critics. So this argument, despite being true “by definition,” does not “beg the question” except at the step at which the only way we can “point at” these properties of consciousness is by introspection—which in turn is true regardless of the quality or lack thereof of any publically verifiable argumentation that can be made because consciousness itself is a subjective phenomena—is the very existence of the phenomena of subjectivity itself—to begin with. If someone wants to side with Dennett and deny his own subjective experiences (or with Rosenberg and deny that he ever thinks “about” anything), while pretending he did not arrive at these conclusions by thinking “about” things he knew solely because he observed them within his own subjective stream of experience to begin with, I can no more formally argue against him without “begging the question” than I can do so against the solipsist. But the falsity of the central claim of physicalism as a whole ultimately turns out to follow from nothing more than this.

[6] Similar analogies with computers are sometimes made towards qualia: in defense of “emergence,” the arguer will point out that “the color blue” is not physically represented inside the processing unit, and yet it still manages to appear in the screen—and this is supposed to prove, by analogy, that “the color blue” could appear in consciousness without being physically represented inside the neurons. However, the only “color blue” that “appears in the computer screen” is just exactly the one that exists within and as an aspect of your subjective conscious experience in the first place. The “color blue” as such isn’t physically in the screen, either, any more than it’s in the CPU.

[7] Just as what happens inside of a calculator is not, in and of what it intrinsically is, actually any sort of physical act of “calculation” apart from the attributions of conceptual–representational “meaning” by convention to symbols which are laid on top of the physical processing as such by intentionalistic conscious observers themselves, so there is nothing about a word, as a physical object, that is intrinsically “about” anything. Words are only “about” something by proxy: because conscious minds have the power to invest and derive “meaning” in and from the world. If I write the word “Hungry”, it means something. If grains of sand blow in the wind and land in the shape of the word, it is meaningless. And it is meaningless because the wind possesses no intrinsic intentionality. When and where the shape does ever mean anything, it means something because it expresses conceptual thought “about” the world within the conscious mind of an observer, and the only time we read intentionality of any sort out of the physical world, it is because it was “put there,” so to speak, by a conscious observer, intentionally—not just “due to” a mechanical “cause,” but rather “for” a “reason.” 

Purposes and intentions and representationally experienced understandings of concepts are simply an irreducible part of any explanation that would be capable of giving any sense to what we do when we “understand” language. There would, of course, be a very different sort of causal process—with different causal connecting details—between a human being arranging physical matter into certain shapes and a mindless physical process like the wind arranging the same matter into the same shapes. The question is whether this can possibly be accounted for without intentionality itself as an irreducible part of that sequence of causation—whether the only relevant causal difference rests in anything other than the fact that the wind would not be consciously intending to perform the act that it does for a reason which reason intrinsically involves reference to the fact that the idea which those words represent is “about” something it wants to express something about. The point is that blind physical causality which does not happen for “reasons” at all appears to be incapable in principle of accounting for this.

[8] Hypothetically, we might conceive of an identity theory whose “X is identical to Y” claim is more accurately represented by an analogy like “The mailman named John who comes to your front door every morning is identical to the man named John you see at the bar on Friday nights.” In a case like this, recognizing that two things are “identical” doesn’t mean reducing one to the other. However, what we have in a case like this is one category of event defined in spatio–temporal terms, and what we do in a case like this is recognize a spatio–temporal relationship between a (spatio–temporally defined) thing in that category which we identified at one place and time, and a (likewise spatio–temporally defined) thing in that same category which we identified at a different place and time. In other words, two spatio–temporal events are united by a specifically detailed spatio–temporal relationship between them which can be expressed in a claim like: “When the mailman goes home, he changes clothes and heads out to the bar to drink all night.” In practice, it simply is not possible to extend a theory of this sort to consciousness, because the basic properties we appear to observe within consciousness (subjective experience, intentionality, etc.) seem to belong to different categories altogether than the basic properties the physicalist has defined physical entities as possessing (causality without intentionality, blind process without experience)—and this means the options are either to deny that consciousness really does possess those properties, or else “reduce” them—these are quite simply the only ways to secure a so–called “identity theory,” and so again, any “identity theory” must collapse into either eliminativism or reductive emergentism. Those are the only two options from there—but reductive emergentism collapses, in turn, into eliminativism for the reasons explained above.

[9] “I would say […] that whether its Panamanian debut counts as going into [a state of (inaccurately) identifying quarters] or [a state of (accurately) identifying quarter–balboas] depends on whether, in its new niche, it was selected for its capacity to detect quarter–balboas—[…] by the holder of the Panamanian Pepsi–Cola franchise.”

[10] Or at least try to explain how it could “emerge,” but we’re still getting around to the critique and rejection of that notion. In my view, the only basic form which any proper solution can possibly follow is to accept that intentionality itself represents a fundamental, innate capacity of consciousness, which is accepted as a fundamental phenomena within the world in its own right in turn.

[11] Note, no less, the intentionality that is merely presupposed even here! As we see, for Dennett there are ultimately no thoughts or statements which are determinably “about” anything, either!

[12] Itself a notion intrinsic to intentionality, and not explicable in terms solely of brute causality: thus, Rosenberg rightly derives the conclusion that physicalism would require us to eliminate even this too: “If the physical facts fix all the facts, however, then in doing so, it rules out purposes altogether, in biology, in human affairs, and in human thought-processes too. . . [therefore,] the mind is no more a purpose driven system than anything else in nature. This is just what scientism leads us to expect. There are no purposes in nature; physics has ruled them out . . . If the brain cannot be the locus of original intentionality, then original intentionality just doesn’t exist. But without intentionality, we have to recognize that most of our conceptions about ourselves are also illusions. If plans, projects, purposes, plots, stories, narratives and the other ways we organize our lives and explain ourselves to others and ourselves, all require intentionality, then they too are all illusions.”


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