Permanence and meaning

Consider this strong meaning-permanence thesis:

1. There being a permanent end to all humanly relevant events would render all of our present activities meaningless.

And this weak one:

2. There being a permanent end to all humanly relevant events would render some of our present activities meaningless.

Here is a quick and easy argument that both are false. Let’s imagine that we believe in a narrative N where there are humanly relevant events that are go on forever and that render some of our present activities meaningful. After all, if there is no such narrative, then it is odd to say that a permanent end to humanly relevant events renders some or all of our present activities meaningless, since these activities would necessarily be meaningless even if there were no such end.

Now, let’s imagine that we came to think that the events and experiences in N exponentially speed up with respect to objective time, in such a way that the first “year”, by human reckoning (revolutions of the earth about the sun, say), described by N takes an objective year, but the second “year” takes half a year, the third “year” takes a quarter of a year, and so on. Thus, we come to think that all the events and experineces in N take place objectively in two years. This is then followed by a clean wipe of reality, and a new creation that has no meaningful connection to any humanly relevant events. Call this story N^*. I think it makes little human difference whether reality is described by N or by N^*. In terms of subjective time, the humanly relevant events of N^* take infinitely long. The only difference is that after the humanly relevant events there are other events that are not humanly relevant. Enriching reality with these events surely does not take away meaning.

So, none of our present activities lose meaning on N^*. But on N^* there is a permanent end of humanly relevant events. Thus, (1) and (2) are both false.

Perhaps this was too quick, though. What if your life project is to fill as much of time with humanity as you can? Then on N, if there are humans always, your project is successful, But on N^*, your project is not successful, because there is infinite humanless time after the end of humanity in two objective years, and so humans occupy only an infinitesimal fraction of time.

But I think it’s mistaken to think that it should be our project to fill up time or space with humans or human events. In other words, the filling-up project is meaningless regardless of success. Take the spatial analogue. Suppose somehow we didn’t know about other galaxies (maybe there are dust clouds shielding them from our view) and we have filled up our galaxy with humans. Would we lose any real meaning in our activities if we found out that reality is richer than we thought, and contains other galaxies beyond our reach? I don’t think so.

The above argument is compatible with a modified version of (1):

3. There being a permanent end to all humanly relevant events after a finite number of events would render all of our present activities meaningless.

For we might think that the reason ordinary stories about a permanent end have a tendency to make us think our activities are meaningless does not have to do with time, but with the idea that the narrative structure for humans requires infinity.

Spatiality and temporality

Here’s an interesting thing:

1. Learning that our spatiality is an illusion need not radically change the pattern of our rational lives.

2. Learning that our temporality is an illusion would necessarily radically change the pattern of our rational lives.

To see that (1) is true, note that finding out that Berkeley’s idealism is true need not radically change our lives. It would change various things in bioethics, but the basic structure of sociality, planning for the future, and the like could still remain.

On the other hand, if our temporality were an illusion, little of what we think of as rational would make sense.

Thus, temporality is more central to our lives than spatiality, important as the latter is. It is no surprise that one of the great works of philosophy is called Being and Time rather than Being and Space.

Curiously, though, even though temporality is more central to our lives than spatiality, temporality is also much more mysterious!

Aristotle on flourishing

Aristotle thinks that the flourishing of a kind of organism is primarily defined by the excellent exercise of the distinctive functions of the kind. This works great for us: our flourishing is primarily given by the excellent exercise of rationality.

But it doesn’t, I think, work well for other organisms. Think of cats and bears. It seems plausible that their primary flourishing is found in functions that they have in common, such as growth, reproduction, sensation, hunting, feeding, etc. They do have significant distinctive features, but these distinctive features are not central constituents of their flourishing.

One might take the above observations to be evidence for the three-species view of organisms, that there are three metaphysical species: plants, brute animals, and rational animals. But I think this runs into a problem with plants. For the flourishing of a plant is presumably constituted by growth and reproduction, which plants have in common with brute and rational animals.

I think we should reject the emphasis on distinctiveness in flourishing. Instead, we should probably say that the nature of an organism also specifies a prioritization in the functions of the organisms.

An argument for the three-species view

Some contemporary Thomists have the idea that there are exactly three metaphysical species—three kinds differentiated by qualitatively different natures—of living things: plants (maybe broadly understood as non-sentient living things), mere animals, and rational animals.

Here’s a line of thought that yields two-thirds of the view, starting with a premise that most medieval Aristotelians would have accepted:

1. Our (metaphysical) species is rational animal.

2. Therefore, if there were a rational fish, it would be a member of our species.

3. And, a fortiori any rational ape would be a member of our species.

4. So, all rational fish would be the same species as all rational apes.

5. If all rational fish would be the same species as all rational apes, all non-rational fish are the same species as all non-rational apes.

6. The above generalizes from fish to all other animals.

7. So, all rational animals are the same species and all non-rational animals are the same species.

I don’t have an argument for 5, but it seems pretty plausible.

And the claim that all living non-sentients are the same species doesn’t seem implausible given 7.

I myself reject 1.

Divine timelessness and the A-theory of time

1. One can only know a proposition when it is true.

2. One can only know a proposition when one exists.

3. Thus, one can only know a proposition if it ever happens that one exists while it is true. (1 and 2)

4. If the A-theory of time is true, the proposition that it is a Wednesday is true only on Wednesdays.

5. God knows all objectively true propositions.

6. If the A-theory is true, the proposition that it is a Wednesday is objectively true. [I am posting this on a Wednesday.]

7. If the A-theory is true, God knows that it is a Wednesday. (5 and 6)

8. If the A-theory is true, God exists on a Wednesday. (3, 4 and 7)

9. If God exists on Wednesday, God exists in time.

10. So, if the A-theory is true, God exists in time. (8 and 9)

I conclude that the A-theory is false.

The above argument is similar to one that Richard Gale gives in On the Nature and Existence of God, though Gale's purpose is to provide an argument against theism.

Probably most people you know are more social than you

You might observe:

1. Most of the people I know are more social than me.

And then you might beat up on yourself, concluding:

2. I am less social than most people.

But the inference from (1) to (2) is obviously fallacious.

For whether you know a person is a function of how social you are and how social they are. Thus, the sample of people in (1) suffers from an evident sampling bias: it is skewed towards people who are more likely to be social.

How strong is this bias? Well, here is a model. There are N people. Each person has a sociality score between 0 and 1. Each person knows themselves. For each pair of distinct people, we independently decide if they know each other, with a probability equal to the average of their sociality scores. Then we calculate the fraction of people who have the property that most people they know have a higher sociality score.

Computer simulation gives us about 59% for N = 1000 or N = 1500 with sociality scores uniformly distributed from 0 to 1. I haven’t bothered to come up with a closed form solution.

So the bias isn’t that strong, but indeed most people are such that most people they know are more social than they are.

I just saw this more thorough related study.

Another infinite dice game

Suppose infinitely many people independently roll a fair die. Before they get to see the result, they will need to guess whether the die shows a six or a non-six. If they guess right, they get a cookie; if they guess wrong, an electric shock.

But here’s another part of the story. An angel has considered all possible sequences of fair die outcomes for the infinitely many people, and defined the equivalence relation ∼ on the sequences, where α ∼ β if and only if the sequences α and β differ in at most finitely many places. Furthermore, the angel has chosen a set T that contains exactly one sequence from each ∼-equivalence class. Before anybody guesses, the angel is going to look at everyone’s dice and announce the unique member α of T that is ∼-equivalent to the actual die rolls.

Consider two strategies:

1. Ignore what the angel says and say “not six” regardless.

2. Guess in accordance with the unique member α: if α says you have six, you guess “six”, and otherwise you guess “not six”.

When the two strategies disagree for a person, there is a good argument that the person should go with strategy (1). For without the information from the angel, the person should go with strategy (1). But the information received from the angel is irrelevant to each individual x, because which ∼-equivalence class the actual sequence of rolls falls into depends only on rolls other than x’s. And following strategy (1) in repeats of the game results in one getting a cookie five out of six times on average.

However, if everyone follows strategy (2), then it is guaranteed that in each game only finitely many people get a shock and everyone else gets a cookie.

This seems to be an interesting case where self-interest gets everyone to go for strategy (1), but everyone going for strategy (2) is better for the common good. There are, of course, many such games, such as Tragedy of the Commons or the Prisoner’s Dilemma, but what is weird about the present game is that there is no interaction between the players—each one’s payoff is independent of what any of the other players do.

(This is a variant of a game in my infinity book, but the difference is that the game in my infinity book only worked assuming a certain rare event happened, while this game works more generally.)

My official line on games like this is that their paradoxicality is evidence for causal finitism, which thesis rules them out.

Theism and presentism

Suppose presentism is true and truths about other times are grounded in tensed facts, such as the fact that there were once dinosaurs.

Given presentism and theism, God is in time. Suppose, as the Abrahamic religions hold, that God created all contingent things a finite amount of time ago. Before God created them, it was contingently true that God will create them. This truth would be grounded in a contingent tensed fact. Hence before God created all contingent things, there already was a contingent thing—the tensed fact that God will create. A contradiction.

So the presentist needs to have a different solution to the grounding problem than positing tensed facts. The best alternative is positing tensed properties. Thus before creation something will have to have the property of being such that God will create. There is only one candidate for that something—God. For nothing else exists before creation. So God has a contingent property, contrary to divine simplicity. Thus presentist theists need to deny divine simplicity. That’s a big price!

One solution is a restricted presentism like Feser’s on which everything that exists is either present or timeless. Then we can suppose that time begins with creation. There may be other problems there.

Growing Block and a time bias

Here’s a curious argument against Growing Block. Other things being equal, it is better to receive goods earlier in life and to receive bads later in life if Growing Block theory is true. For the earlier you receive X in life, the larger the portion of your life during which X is a part of your life. For X becomes a part of your life at its time, and on Growing Block remains a part of your life forever.

Thus, if you live to 70, and eat a chocolate cake at age 10, then for the next 60 years you are alive with a life that includes that happy event. But if you eat the cake at age 50, then it is only for 20 years that you are alive with a life that includes that happy event.

On Growing Block, this seems to be a good reason to put good things earlier in life and bad things later. But surely one does not have such a reason! So, we have evidence against Growing Block.

Two kinds of time bias

In our philosophy of time seminar, we have been thinking about time biases. Humans appear to discount future goods and bads so that a good or bad with value λ at temporal distance T in the future has effective value f(T)λ for some monotonically non-increasing function f. We might call this a relational time bias—the bias is based on the temporal relation between us-now and the goods and bads we are thinking about.

But there are also structural or non-relational time biases. Thus, as is well known, we think that a life of improvement is better to a life of deterioration, even if the total amount of good is the same. In other words, we think it’s better if the goods are rearranged in life to go closer to the end of life. Putting them closer to the end of life is also usually putting them further in the future, but the concern here is purely structural, not about how far or close the goods are to the present as such.

What is real change?

I am starting to think that it’s rather mysterious what real change—i.e., non-Cambridge change—is. (Cambridge change is illustrated by examples like: Alice became shorter than her son Bob because Bob grew.)

It is tempting to say:

1. x undergoes non-Cambridge change if and only if there is an intrinsic property that x gains or loses.

But it could well turn out that one can undergo non-Cambridge change with respect to relational, and hence non-intrinsic, properties. The radical, but I think quite possibly correct, example is that it could turn out that all creaturely properties are relational because they all involve participation in God. (Thus, to be green is to greenly participate in God.)

However, there could be less radical cases. For instance, plausibly, shape properties are constituted by relations between an object’s parts and regions of space. But an object’s changing shape is a paradigm example of a non-Cambridge change. Or it might be that a Platonism on which we have an “eye of the soul” that changingly gazes at timeless Platonic objects. It seems like the change in the eye of the soul in coming to gaze on Beauty Itself could be entirely relational and fundamental. In particular, the “gaze” might not be constituted by any non-relational features of the eye of the soul. And yet the change is not a Cambridge change.

It seems to me that this worry gives one some reason to accept this Aristotelian account:

2. x undergoes non-Cambridge change if and only if x has a passive potentiality that is actualized.

I would rather not do that—I have long tried to avoid passive potentialities—but I don’t right now know another alternative to (1). I dislike passive potentialities sufficiently that I am actually tempted to deny that there is an account of the difference between Cambridge and non-Cambridge change. But that would come at a serious cost: it would be hard to account for divine immutability.

A compositional fine-tuning argument

Assume naturalism about the human mind. Our best naturalistic account of the human mind is functionalism. But functionalism faces multiple too-many-minds problems. The most famous of these are the Chinese Room and its variants like Schwitzgebel’s consciousness of the United States argument. But a more troubling bevy of problems comes from abundant ontologies. Thus, as Dean Zimmerman noted (building on Unger), where I am there are many clouds of atoms that differ from me in an insignificant way—say, an atom in some insignificant skin cell. On functionalism, each of these clouds should have the same conscious states as I do. Or, as Johnston argued, I have many personites—temporal parts of my life that are intrinsically just like the life of a person could be. On functionalism, they will have the same conscious states as me. The clouds of atoms and personites are not just a consequence of functionalism but also of other naturalistic accounts of mind.

But why are the too-many-minds problems problems, beyond the fact that they are counterintuitive? After all, we have good reason to think that the mind is mysterious enough that the true theory will have some counterintuitive consequences.

I think the best answer is ethics. If a country has a person-level mind, then it would be a murder-suicide for the citizens to vote to dissolve the country. But it is not wrong for the citizens to vote to dissolve a country for, say, economic reasons. If the Zimmerman argument is right, then where there is a person feeling pain, there are many other beings with human-level consciousness feeling the same pain. But the number of being that coincide with a specific person rapidly increases with the size of the person—the more cells they have, the more clouds of atoms there are that differ with respect to a few insignificant atoms. Consequently, if we have a choice between relieving an equal pain in two smaller persons or one much larger person, we should always relieve the pain in the larger one, because the number of conscious atom clouds coinciding with the larger person is likely much larger than the total number of atom clouds coinciding with the smaller ones. In other words, crucial intuitions about equal treatment of people are undercut. Something similar is true on the Johnston arguments if the number of personites is finite, and if it’s infinite we have other ethical problems. On the other hand, there is no immediate serious ethical problem in saying the Chinese Room is conscious.

Given functionalism, I think there is only one way to block the ethically problematic too-many-minds cases: deny that the alleged entities exist. There are no countries. There is only one human-shaped cloud of atoms where I am. There are no personites. But we better not go all the way to blocking all complex objects—we will get other ethical problems if we conclude with the early Unger that humans don’t exist. In other words:

1. If functionalism and ethical realism are true, restricted composition is true.

Restricted composition says that some but not all (proper) pluralities of atoms compose a whole. Note that (1) also applies to some other naturalistic theories than functionalism.

But it’s not enough that restricted composition be true. What we need is a carefully fine-tuned restricted composition. If we restrict composition too much, there will be no humans—and that’s ethically unacceptable. If we don’t restrict composition enough, there will be too many minds of an ethically problematic sort. In other words, restricted composition must be fine-tuned to fit with human ethics.

That’s difficult to do. For instance, van Inwagen’s life-account—that a plurality composes a whole if and only if it has a life together—has the problem that clouds of atoms that differ from me insignificantly have a life together just as I do.

Given naturalism, I think any restricted composition account that fits with ethics will involve seemingly arbitrary choices. Thus, one might start with van Inwagen’s account, but have an incredibly fine-grained account of what counts as “a life together” such that only one of the clouds of atoms nearly coinciding with me has a life together—namely, the cloud constituting me. But such a fine-grained account will have a ton of free parameters, and will be an implausible candidate for a metaphysically necessary account of restricted composition. Thus, the account will not only be fine-tuned but will likely be contingent.

How do we explain the fine-tuning of restricted composition for ethics? It’s hard to see how to do it other than by supposing that fundamental reality is value-driven. There are two main value-driven theories of fundamental reality: theism and axiarchism, where the latter is something like the view that reality must be for the best. Thus we have an argument for theism or axiarchism. And axiarchism, as Rescher noted, plausibly implies theism, since it’s for the best that there be a perfect being. So, either way, we get theism.

We can also run this argument in a Bayesian way. Assume naturalism about the earth ecosystem as a background belief, and assume as part of the background that the physical simples are arranged as they are. On atheism, it is extremely unlikely that composition is fine-tuned for ethics. On theism, it is at least moderately likely. So, we have significant evidence for theism.

Objection: God can’t control which cloud of atoms composes a whole, because whatever is the answer, the answer is metaphysically necessary.

Response: First, as noted above, it is likely that any ethically fine-tuned restricted composition theory has a bunch of parameters that appear contingent, and hence is likely contigent. Second, God is creator and has power over being itself. It seems quite plausible that where there is a bunch of particles God can lend his power to create an entity composed of the particles. Third, if God exists, likely modality itself is grounded in God—all reality necessarily reflects the goodness of God. But if so, then divine goodness may help to explain surprisingly good features of necessary truths, such as a fine-tuned but necessary theory of composition. Fourth, we don’t need to be certain of any of the above. All we need is that one of these stories is an order of magnitude more likely on theism than the fine-tuning of restricted composition is given naturalism (where the probabilities are all epistemic).

If my argument succeeds, it yields a dilemma:

2. Either naturalism about humans is false or God exists.

One may ask whether some variant of the above fine-tuning argument applies if naturalism about humans is true. I expect it does, but the exact shape of the bump under the rug will be different for different non-naturalistic stories. For instance, on Cartesian theories, there will be the question of why there is exactly one soul per human body. On strong emergence, we can ask why consciousness arises in exactly one of the human-shaped clouds of atoms where I am.

Avoiding temporal parts of elementary particles

It would be appealing to be able to hold on to all of the following:

1. Four-dimensionalism.

2. Elementary particles are simples.

3. There is only kind of parthood and it is timeless parthood.

4. Uniqueness of fusions: a plurality of parts composes at most one thing.

But (1)–(4) have a problem in cases where one object is transformed into another object made of the same elementary particles. For instance, perhaps, an oak tree dies and then an angel meticulously gathers together all the elementary particles the oak ever has and makes a pine out of them, which he shortly destroys before it can gain any new particles. Then the elementary particles of the oak seem to compose the pine, contrary to (4).

One common solution for four-dimensionalists is to deny (2). Elementary particles have temporal parts, and you can’t make the old temporal parts of the oak’s particles live again in the pine. But there are problems with this solution. First, you might believe in a patchwork principle which should allow the old temporal parts to get re-used again. Second, it is intuitive to think that elementary particles are parts of the oak. But on the temporal part solution, this violates the transitivity of parthood, since the elementary particles will have temporal parts that outlive the oak. Third, the temporal parts of particles seem to be just as physical as the particles, and you might think that it’s the job of physics and not metaphysics to tell us what physical objects there are, so positing the temporal parts steps on the physicist’s toes in a problematic way. Fourth, and I am not fully confident I understand all the ramifications here, we need some kind of primitive relation joining the temporal parts of the particle into a single particle, since otherwise we cannot distinguish the case where two electrons swap properties and positions (and thereby reverse the sign of the wavefunction) from the case where they don’t.

The second common solution is to deny (3), distinguishing parthood from an irreducible parthood-at-t, and then say that trees are merely composed-at-t from elementary particles. I find an irreducible parthood-at-t kind of mysterious, but perhaps it’s not too terrible.

I want to offer a different solution, with an unorthodox four-dimensionalist Aristotelianism. Like orthodox Aristotelianism, the unorthodox version introduces a further entity, a form. And now we deny that a tree is composed of the elementary particles. Instead, we say that a tree is composed of form and elementary particles. One minor unorthodox feature here is that we don’t distinguish the parthood of a form in a substance and the parthood of a particle in a substance: there is just one kind of parthood. The more unorthodox thing will be, however, that we allow elementary particles to outlive their substances. The resulting unorthodox four-dimensionalist Aristotelianism then allows one to accept all of (1)–(4), since the pine is no longer composed of parts that compose the oak, as the oak’s form is not a part of the pine.

But we still have to account for parthood-at-t. After all, it just is true that some electron e is a part of the oak at some but not other times. And this surely matters—it is needed to account for, say, the mass and shape of the oak at different times. How do we that? Well, we might suppose that even if in our unorthodox Aristotelianism particles can outlive their substances, they get something from the substance’s form, even if it’s not identity. Perhaps, for instance, they get their causal powers from the substance’s form. (We then still need to say something about unaffiliated particles—particles not inside a larger substance. Perhaps when a particle, considered as a bit of matter, gets expelled from a larger substance and becomes unaffiliated, it gains its own substantial form. It loses that form when it joins into a larger substance again. At any given time, it gets its causal powers from the substance’s form.) So we can say that e is a part of the oak at t if and only if e gets its causal powers from the oak’s form at t.

Aristotelianism and fundamental particles

A number of contemporary Aristotelians hold to the view that when a fundamental particle becomes or ceases to be a part of an organism, the particle perishes and is replaced by another. The reasoning is that the identity of parts comes from the whole substance, so parts are tied to their substances.

I’ve long inclined to this view, but I’ve also always found it rather hard to believe, feeling that a commitment to this view is a significant piece of evidence against Aristotelianism. I think I may now have found a way to reduce the force of this evidence.

Consider one of the main competitors to Aristotelianism, a non-Aristotelian four-dimensionalism with standard mereology that includes strong supplementation:

1. If y is not a part of x, then y has a part z that does not overlap x.

Together with antisymmetry (if x is a part of y and conversely, then x = y), it immediately follows that:

2. If everything that overlaps x also overlaps y and conversely, then x = y.

Now, suppose that we have a chair made of some fundamental particles. The planks from the chair are ripped off and reassembled into a model trebuchet, with no fundamental particles added or gained. Suppose the fundamental particles are simples. Then any z that overlaps the chair had better overlap at least one fundamental particle u of the chair (the Aristotelian will deny this: it might instead overlap the form) and since fundamental particles are simples it must have u as a part. But u is also a part of the trebuchet. Thus z overlaps the trebuchet, and so anything that overlaps the chair overlaps the trebuchet. And the converse follows by the same argument. Thus, the chair is the trebuchet, which is absurd.

Here is a standard solution to this: fundamental particles are not actually simples, because they have proper temporal parts, and temporal parts are parts. What are the true simples are the instantaneous slices of fundamental particles. Thus a z that overlaps the chair in a fundamental particle u need not overlap the trebuchet as the overlap can happen in disjoint temporal parts of u.

The main competitor to Aristotelianism, thus, has to suppose that fundamental particles are actually made up of their instantaneous slices. Now suppose the Aristotelian accepts this ontology of instantaneous slices of fundamental particles, but denies that there are fundamental particles composed of the slices. Problem solved! We don’t have the problem of fundamental particles persisting beyond the substances that they are parts of, because there are no fundamental particles, just instantaneous slices of fundamental particles.

Is there much cost to this? Granted, we have to deny that there are electrons and the like. But our non-Aristotelian four-dimensionalist mereologist either also denies that there are electrons or else has to construct the electrons out of electron slices, presumably by supposing some sort of a diachronic relation R that relates slices that are to count as part of the same electron. But if we have such a relation, then we can just paraphrase away talk of electrons into talk of maximal sets of electron-slices interrelated by R. If anything, we gain parsimony.

And if we cannot find such a diachronic relation that joins up electron-slices into electrons, then our non-Aristotelian four-dimensionalist has a serious problem, too.

Beyond persons?

I wonder if creation includes beings that are qualitatively as high above mere persons like us as mere persons are qualitatively above non-persons. Persons have agency and intellectuality (let’s say) and that gives them a dignity above non-persons. Is there some quality Q that is even more impressive than agency and intellectuality and that is actually found in some creatures?

We have no idea what that quality Q would be, and just as personhood is surely inconceivable to a non-person, Q would likely be inconceivable to us.

I think our only approach to the question is through divine revelation, and it may be that divine revelation just does not include enough information.

Here is my best line of thought towards a negative answer. Jesus Christ is king of creation. Moreover, plausibly, he is king of creation not just as God, but as a human being. As God, he presumably would have Q. But as a human being, he lacks Q. But just as having personhood seems a prerequisite for being king over persons, it seems that having Q would be a prerequisite for being king over those with Q.

On the other hand, one might think that God might want to make the possessors of Q humble, and being ruled over by a human being might be a good way to do that. So I don’t think we have a decisive answer.