Dignity, ecosystems and artifacts

1. If a part of x has dignity, x has dignity.

2. Only persons have dignity.

3. So, a person cannot be a proper part of a non-person. (1–2)

4. A person cannot be a proper part of a person.

5. So, a person cannot be a proper part of anything. (3–4)

6. If any nation or galaxy or ecosystem exists, some nation, galaxy or ecosystem has a person as a proper part.

7. So, no nation, galaxy or ecosystem exists. (5–6)

Less confidently, I go on.

8. If tables and chairs exist, so do chess sets.

9. If chess sets exist, so do living chess sets.

10. A living chess set has persons as proper parts. (Definition)

11. So, living chess sets do not exist. (4,10)

12. So, tables and chairs don’t exist. (8–9,11)

All that said, I suppose (1) could be denied. But it would be hard to deny if one thought of dignity as a form of trumping value, since a value in a part transfers to the whole, and if it’s a trumping value, it isn’t canceled by the disvalue of other parts. (That said, I myself don’t quite think of dignity as a form of value.)

Ontology and duck typing

Some computer languages (notably Python) favor duck-typing: instead of relying on checking whether an object officially falls under a type like duck, one checks whether it quacks, i.e., whether it has the capabilities of a duck object. You can have a dog object that behaves like a vector, and a vector object that behaves like a dog.

It would be useful to explore how well one could develop an ontology based on duck-typing rather than on categories. For instance, instead of some kind of categorical distinction between particulars and universals, one simply distinguishes between objects that have the capability to instantiate and objects that have the capability to be instantiated, without any prior insistence that if you can be instantiated, then you are abstract, non-spatiotemporal, etc. Now it may turn out that either contingently or necessarily none of the things that are spatiotemporal can be instantiated, but on the paradigm I am suggesting, the explanation of this would not lie in a categorical difference between spatiotemporal entities and entities that have the capability of being instantiated. It may lie in some incompatibility between the capabilities of being instantiated and occupying spacetime (though it’s hard to see what that incompatibility would be) or it may just be a contingent fact that there is no object has both capabilities.

As a theist, I think there is a limit to the duck typing. There will, at least, need to be a categorical difference between God and creature. But what if that’s the only categorical difference?

Ontology as a contingent science

Consider major dividing lines in ontology, such as between trope theory and Platonism. Assume theism. Then all possibilities for everything other than God are grounded in God.

If God is ontologically like us, and in particular not simple, then it is reasonable to think that the correct ontological theory is necessarily determined by God’s nature. For instance, if God has tropes, then necessarily trope theory holds for creatures. If God participates in distinct Platonic forms like Divinity and Wisdom, then necessarily Platonism holds for creatures.

But the orthodox view (at least in Christianity and Judaism) is that God is absolutely simple, and predication works for God very differently from how it works for us. In light of this, why should we think that God had to create a tropist world rather than a Platonic one, or a Platonic one rather than a tropist one? Neither seems more or less suited to being created by God. It seems natural, in light of the radical difference between God and creatures, to think that God could create either kind of world.

If so, then many ontological questions seem to become contingent. And that’s surprising and counterintuitive.

Well, maybe. But I think there is still a way—perhaps not fully satisfactory—of bringing some of these questions back to the realm of necessity. Our language is tied to our reality. Suppose that we live in a tropist world. It seems that the correct account of predication is then a tropist one: A creature is wise if and only if it has a wisdom trope. A Platonic world has no wisdom tropes, and hence no wise creatures. Indeed, nothing can be predicated of any creature in it. What might be going on in the Platonic world is that there are things there that are structurally analogous wise things, or to predication. We can now understand our words “wise” and “predicated” narrowly, in the way they apply to creatures in our world, or we can understand them broadly as including anything structurally analogous to these meanings. If we understand them narrowly, then it is correct to say that “Nothing in the Platonist world is wise” and “Nothing is correctly predicated of anything in the Platonist world.” But in the wide, analogical sense, there are wise things and there is predication in the Platonist world. Note, too, that even in our world it is correct to say “God is wise” and “Something is correctly predicated of God” only in the wide senses of the terms.

On this account, necessity returns to ontology—when we understand things narrowly. But the pretensions of ontology should be chastened by realizing that God could have made a radically different world.

And maybe there is an advantage to this contingentism. Our reasoning in ontology is always somewhat driven by principles of parsimony. But while one can understand why parsimony is appropriately pursued in study of the contingent—for God can be expected to create the contingent parsimoniously, both for aesthetic reasons and to fit reality to our understanding—I have always been mystified why it is appropriately pursued in the study of the necessary. But if ontology is largely a matter of divine creative choice, then parsimony is to be sought in ontological theories just as in physical ones, and with the same theological justification.

The above sounds plausible. But I have a hard time believing in ontology as a contingent science.

Reducing exact similarity

It is a commonplace that while Platonists need to posit a primitive instantiation relation for a tomato to stand in to the universal redness, trope theorists need an exact similarity relation for the tomato’s redness to stand in to another object’s redness, and hence there is no parsimony advantage to Platonism.

This may be mistaken. For the Platonist needs a degreed or comparative similarity relation, too. It seems to be a given that maroon is more similar to burgundy than blue is to pink, and blue is more similar to pink than green is to bored. But given a degreed or comparative similarity relation, there is hope for defining exact similarity in terms of it. For we can say that x and y are exactly similar provided that it is impossible for two distinct objects to be more similar than x and y are.

That said, comparative similarity is perhaps too weird and mysterious. There are clear cases, as above, but then there are cases which are hard to make sense of. Is maroon more or less similar to burgundy than middle C is to middle B? Is green more or less similar to bored than loud is to quiet?

Formas aristotélicas y leyes de la naturaleza

Rafael Abuchedid kindly translated my piece on Aristotelian forms and laws of nature into Spanish.

What I think of ontological nihilism

A commenter asked me what I thought of ontological nihilism, the view that there are no subjects. Here’s what I think: Everybody who accepts this view is wrong.

1. Ontological nihilism is true or false.

2. If ontological nihilism is true, nobody exists.

3. If nobody exists, then there is nobody who accepts ontological nihilism.

4. If nobody accepts ontological nihilism, then everyone who accepts ontological nihilism is wrong.

5. So, if ontological nihilism is true, then everyone who accepts it is wrong. (2-4)

6. If ontological nihilism is false, then everyone who accepts it is wrong.

7. So, everyone who accepts ontological nihilism is wrong. (1,5,6)

Towards a postcorpuscular ontology

My intuition is that quantum physics presents a picture of reality on which fundamental particles rarely if ever exist simpliciter. Most of the time, the world is in a superposition of the particle existing and not-existing, though perhaps with a much heavier weight being given to the one state rather than the other. Perhaps just at the moment of quantum collapse a particle simply exists. But immediately afterwards, there will be some interaction at the tail end of the wavefunction that makes the particle’s “existence” be in a superposition. And superposed existence is not real existence, since superposed existence comes in degrees, while real existence does not (at least not in the relevant sense of “degrees”).

If my intuition is right, then over the past hour, I take it that on a quantum picture at most instants of time no particles of my body were really existing. Maybe occasionally some particles flashed into being due to some collapse, but at most times there weren’t any particles there.

This means that at most times over the past hour one of the following was true:

1. I didn’t exist

2. I existed immaterially

3. I existed materially without having any particles.

Option (1) leads to ethical and theological difficulties. On that view, I am constantly popping in and
out of existence. But if so, then I am constantly dying and being resurrected. And that robs death and resurrection of their deep moral significance.

Option (2) leads to the interesting question whether I always exist immaterially, or only when none of my particles exist. If always, we get a very strong dualism. If sometimes, then we get a very funny semi-dualism: most of the time I’m immaterial.

Option (3) seems to me to be the most plausible. But on option (3), we should not think of material existence as a function of being constituted by particles. The kind of picture of material existence we get from van Inwagen, where living things come into existence by having their constituent particles get caught up in a life is untenable. Perhaps, instead, material existence is a function of having a certain kind of relationship to the wavefunction of the universe (perhaps a relationship of partly constituting or being partly constituted by that wavefunction).

If my argument is right, then Aristotelian metaphysicians should stop worrying very much about the pesky problem of what happens to the identities of fundamental particles when they get incorporated into our bodies. If there are ever any particles at all, then on quantum grounds independent of Aristotelian metaphysics, they are evanescent beings that do not persist long enough—for their existence soon becomes superposed—to cause much of a problem on that score. I suppose it could still be a problem if they come back into existence later. But it is dubious whether the numerically same particles can come back into existence. Indeed, the whole business of the particles “in the body” is so dubious on quantum grounds, that there is little theoretical cost to such seemingly absurd solutions as saying that there are no electrons in the body—for it seems we should anyway think that most of the time there aren’t any electrons in the body.

In the above, I allowed that perhaps when we have the right eigenstate, for a very short time a particle exists. But even that, I think, is dubious. The change from the system being in an eigenstate of particle number and not being in an eigenstate of particle number seems to be a merely quantitative change in the wavefunction, and hence we have little reason to think it corresponds to substantial generation or corruption.

There is one way out of all of the above: to accept a Bohmian interpretation of quantum mechanics. If I am right, then much contemporary metaphysics is being done on the implicit assumption that something like Bohmianism is right. But why assume that?

Constructive empiricism and pairs

Van Fraassen thinks that when we accept a scientific theory, we should be bracket the theory’s claims about unobservable entities, but believe everything else.

An oddity has occurred to me. Suppose a theory talks about certain microorganisms that are just under the minimum size for human visual observation. But when you have two things that are just under the minimum observable size side-by-side, the pair is observable. So, oddly, we will believe in pairs without believing in individuals.

For further oddity, now imagine that Alpha and Beta are such a side-by-side pair. Then we believe in Alphabeta, the pair of Alpha and Beta. Suppose Alpha swims a little away from Beta. Now, Alphabeta disappears from view. But Alphabeta is still observable. To observe Alphabeta, all we need to do is to coax Alpha and Beta to swim to each other. So on van Fraassen grounds, we should still continue to believe in Alphabeta even when temporarily we cannot see it due to the separation of Alpha from Beta. (Compare: a very thin sheet is still observable when it is edge-on, even though it can only be seen when tilted to the line of sight.)

But it is absurd to believe in a pair of organisms, at different ends of a test-tube, without believing in either organism.

One way out for van Fraassen is to adopt a sparse ontology on which there are no pairs. But while I like such an ontology, I don’t think van Fraassen will want to do that, as he wants to believe in observable objects that science talks about, such as planets.

Van Inwagen's ear

Van Inwagen holds that:

1. All and only things whose activity constitutes a life (properly) compose a whole.

2. Whether a plurality of things composes a whole depends only on their internal relations.

He considers a counterexample to (1) and (2) of the following sort. Let the xs be the particles in van Inwagen outside the right ear.

3. If van Inwagen were to have lost the right ear, the activity of the xs would have constituted a life (his life) and composed a whole (namely, van Inwagen).

4. But in fact, the activity of the xs does not constitute a life, but only partly does so, along with the activity of the right ear particles.

5. However, the internal relations between the xs were he to have lost his right ear would have been the same as they are now.

This is a problem: for by (4) and (1), the xs do not compose a whole, but by (3) they would have had he lost his right ear, and by (5) they would have had the same internal relations then, which contradicts (2).

Van Inwagen attempts to escape this problem by denying (5), saying that the internal relations between the particles in his body in the vicinity of the right ear would be affected by the ear not being there. For they would no longer experience forces from the ear particles.

But let d be the closest distance between a right-ear particle and a van Inwagen particle not in the right ear (i.e., one of the xs). But now if God were to suddenly annihilate the right ear, then it seems that none of the xs would be in any way affected until influences traveling at the speed of light could bridge the distance d. I.e., until d/c (where c is the speed of light) had passed, the xs would be without the ear just as they are with the ear. Hence, if we specify that the time of severance in (3) is less than d/c ago, van Inwagen’s response seems to fail.

One might try to get out of this by invoking (non-Bohmian) quantum mechanics, and saying that all particles have fuzzy positions, and the ear particles overlap positionally with the non-ear particles, so that the disappearance of the ear particles affects the non-ear particles instantly. But the instant part of the effect is slight. We can imagine that the disappearance of the ear is so orchestrated as to never split any molecules or atoms. But particles in different molecules are fairly localized to their respective molecules, and the effect of the tails of the wavefunction on what is going on in a neighboring molecule will presumably be negligible.

Of course, a negligible effect is still an effect. But we could imagine a third scenario: van Inwagen loses his ear, and God miraculously tweaks the movements of the xs in a slight and biologically negligible way during the d/c period so that they behave just as they do in the actual world where the ear is attached. In that scenario, the xs would compose van Inwagen, but they would have exactly the same internal relations as they do in the actual world.

Artifacts and non-naturalism

One of the reasons to be suspicious of artifacts is that it seems magical to think we have the power to create a new object just by thinking about things a certain way while manipulating stuff. If Bob gets some clay and exercise his fingers by randomly kneading it, he doesn’t make a sculpture or any other new object out of it. But if his identical twin Carl intends to shape the clay into a sculpture, and in doing so moves his fingers in exactly the same way that Bob did, and produces exactly the same shape, then—assuming artifacts exist—he creates a new object, a sculpture. It seems magical that our thoughts should affect what object exists in the world, even when the thoughts make no difference to our manipulation of the world.

When I discussed arguments with this in my Mid-Sized Objects graduate seminar, I found, however, that there was a lot of friendliness towards the view that, yes, we are capable of this magic, though some demurred at the word “magic”. And in particular, a student pointed out that we are in the image of a God who can create.

This has made me think that a non-naturalist can think that our thoughts have effects that are not screened by the movements of our bodies. Thus, it could well be that Carl’s thoughts causes the world to be different. For instance, on a hylomorphic view, Carl could have the power to create a scu;tural form for a piece of clay by his thoughts. Or on a variant of Markosian’s brute composition view, Carl could have the power simply to cause a new object composed of the clay.

In fact, this suggests an interesting new argument against physicalism, where physicalism is understood as the claim that all causal powers reduce to those of physics. Intuitively, the correct ontology includes more things than van Inwagen’s ontology of particles and organisms and but not all the things from the mereological universalist’s bloated ontology. In particular, intuitively, the correct ontology does include Carl’s new sculpture, but Bob hasn’t produced anything new, and hence the correct ontology seems to require a non-natural “magical” power over composition facts to be found in Carl’s (and presumably, albeit in this context unexercised, Bob’s) mind. And if our ontology is to include, as common-sense would suggest, galaxies, planets, mountains and rocks, we need powers in things to produce such objects—i.e., to ensure that their particulate parts do compose something—and these powers are not to be found in physics.

Markosian’s apparently preferred version of the brute composition view can almost accommodate this. On that version, the composition facts supervene on the arrangement of particles: there are infinitely many necessary truths that specify which arrangements of particles compose. But these necessary truths would include lots of arbitrary parameters (e.g., encoding the difference between some stones that are just lying there and a hillock). We don’t want necessary truths with arbitrary parameters. It is much better if any such arbitrary parameters are relocated to the laws of nature or, better, the causal powers of things.

Ordinary language and "exists"

In Material Beings, Peter van Inwagen argues that his view that there are no complex artifacts does not contradict (nearly?) universal human belief. The argument is based on his view that the propositions expressed by ordinary statements like “There are three valuable chairs in this room” do not entail the negation of the Radical Claim that there are no artifacts, for such a proposition does not entail that there exist chairs.

I think van Inwagen is right that such ordinary propositions do not entail the negation of the Radical Claim. But he is wrong in thinking that the Radical Claim does not contradict nearly universal human belief. Van Inwagen makes much of the analogy between his view and the Copernican view that the sun does not move. When ordinary people say things like “The sun moved behind the elms”, they don’t contradict Copernicus. Again, I think he is right about the ordinary claims, but nonetheless Copernicus contradicted nearly universal human belief. That was why Copernicus’ view was so surprising, so counterintuitive (cf. some remarks by Merricks on van Inwagen). One can both say that when people prior to Copernicus said “The sun moved behind the elms” they didn’t contradict Copernicanism and that they believed things that entailed that Copernicus is wrong.

People do not assert everything they believe. They typically assert what is salient. What is normally salient is not that the sun actually moved, but that there was a relative motion between the rays pointing to the elms and to the sun. Nonetheless, if ordinary pre-Copernicans said “The sun doesn’t stand still”, they might well have been contradicting the Copernican hypothesis. But rarely in ordinary life is there occasion to say “The sun doesn’t stand still.” Because of the way pragmatics affects semantics (something that van Inwagen apparently agrees on), we simply cannot assume that the proposition expressed by the English sentence “The sun moved behind the elms” entails the proposition expressed by the English sentence “The sun doesn’t stand still.”

Something similar, I suspect, is true for existential language. When an ordinary person says “There are three chairs in the room”, the proposition they express does not contradict the Radical Thesis. But if an ordinary person says things like “Chairs exist” or “Artifacts exist”, they likely would contradict the Radical Thesis, and moreover, these are statements that the ordinary person would be happy to make in denial of the Radical Thesis. But in the ordinary course of life, there is rarely an occasion for such statements.

This is all largely a function of pragmatics than the precise choice of words. Thus, one can say: “Drive slower. Speed limits exist.” The second sentence does not carry ontological commitment to speed limits.

So, how can we check whether an ordinary person believes that tables and chairs exist? I think the best way may be by ostension. We can bid the ordinary person to consider:

1. People, dogs, trees and electrons.

2. Holes, shadows and trends.

We remind the ordinary person that we say “There are three holes in this road” or “The shadow is growing”, but of course there are no holes or shadows, while there are people (we might remind them of the Cogito), dogs, trees and (as far as we can tell) electrons. I think any intelligent person will understand what we mean when we say there are no holes or shadows. And then we ask: “So, are tables and chairs in category 2 or in category 1? Do they exist like people, dogs, trees and electrons, or fail to exist like holes, shadows and trends?” This should work even if like Ray Sorensen they disagree that there are no shadows; they will still understand what we meant when we said that there are no shadows, and that’s enough for picking out what we meant by “exist”. To put in van Inwagen’s terms, this brief ostensive discussion will bring intelligent people into the “ontology room”.

And I suspect, though this is an empirical question and I could be wrong, once inducted into the discussion, most people will say that tables and chairs exist (and that they have believed this all along). But, van Inwagen should say, this nearly universal belief is mistaken.

This story neatly goes between van Inwagen’s view that ordinary people don’t believe things patently incompatible with the Radical Theory and Merricks’ view that ordinary poeple contradict the Radical Theory all the time. Ordinary people do believe things patently incompatible with the Radical Theory, but they rarely express these beliefs. Most ordinary “there exist” statements—whether concerning artifacts or people or particles—do not carry ontological commitment, and those of us who accept the Radical Theory normally aren’t lying when we say “There are three chairs in the room”. But the Radical Theory really is radical.

Creation and artifacts

Analytic metaphysics is widely thought a dry discipline. I want to show how it could be used to connect with some deeply devotional theological claims.

Here is a valid argument:

1. If artifacts exist, we created them.

2. Only God creates.

3. So, artifacts don’t exist.

This argument suggests that there can be a deeply devotional connection to the arguments of those metaphysicians, like Merricks and van Inwagen, who deny the existence of artifacts.

Here is another devotional line of thought towards this. Some radical theologians say that God doesn’t exist. They do this to emphasize the radical difference between God and creatures. But they do so wrong. The right way to emphasize this difference is to say that we don’t exist. (Recall how God is said to have told St. Catherine of Siena: “I am he who is and you are she who is not.”) Only God exists.

So, the things that God creates don’t exist—at least not in the same sense in which God exists. By analogy, it should be no surprise if the things we make don’t exist—at least not in the same sense that we exist.

Objection 1: We can create organisms in the lab, and organisms surely exist.

Response: Maybe we should say that their life comes from God.

Objection 2: The distinction between God’s creating and our making is sufficiently accounted for by noting that God creates ex nihilo and we make things out of preexistent stuff.

Response: God doesn’t always create ex nihilo. He made Adam out of the dust of the earth. And anyway the more differences we see between God and us, the more God’s transcendence is glorified.

Aristotelian metaphysics and global physics

Too much of the contemporary ontological imagination is guided by the idea that the fundamental physical stuff in the world is discrete particles. Yet this is clearly dubious, since quantum mechanics (on non-Bohmian interpretations) suggests that the world is full of superpositions of states with different numbers of particles, while if discrete particles really exist, there had better be a well-defined number of them. Quantum mechanics instead suggests an ontology of the physical world where there is exactly one entity, “the Global Wavefunction”, whose physical state can be aptly represented as a vector in an infinite-dimensional vector space. And even if we didn’t have quantum mechanics’ vector-based approach on the table, we still wouldn’t be in an epistemic position to know that the right physics is based on particles rather than fields.

An ontology of material objects that composes these objects out of particles is held hostage to a particle-based physics that may well not be true. It would be best if one could work on the ontology of material objects without presupposing an answer to the question whether fundamental physical reality is field-like, vector-like or particle-like. I do not know if this is tenable. If it’s not, then the ontology of material objects needs to be done conditionally: If fundamental physical reality is of this sort, then material objects are like this.

Interestingly, some metaphysical problems may become easier given a non-particulate physical substratum. For instance, one of the hardest problems for a contemporary Aristotelian metaphysics has been the problem of what happens to particles that get incorporated into a substance, in light of the axiom that a substance cannot be composed of substances. But if we do not see fundamental physical reality as made of apparently substantial particles, the problem dissolves.

Today I want to sketch two Aristotelian approaches that take globalized vector- and field-approaches seriously. On the vector- and field-approaches, fundamental physical reality consists of a mere handful of entities: a single vector-like entity or several (hopefully no more than a dozen, and ideally only one) field-like entities. But being Aristotelian, we will think there are at least billions of substances: every organism is a substance. If these substances are to be related to fundamental physical entities, billions of them will have to be related to the same fundamental physical entities.

The ordinary substances on my stories will be organisms. There are billions of them. In addition to the ordinary substances, there are extraordinary substances: one for each of the handful of fundamental physical entities (fields or a vector).

My stories now diverge. On the first story, the billions of ordinary substances each encode and ground local features of the global fundamental physical entities. On a field version of the story, you encode and ground the features that the global fields have where you are located and your dog encodes and grounds the features that the global fields have where your dog is located (I am less clear on how to describe the vector version). This is not enough. For there aren’t enough organisms in the universe to ground all of the richness of the global fundamental physical entities: too much of the universe is lifeless. Thus, I propose that there are additional substances located where the organisms are not, and the features of these substances ground the rest of the features of the global fundamental physical entities. One way to run this story is to say that there is one of these additional substances per global fundamental physical entity, and each grounds the features of its corresponding global fundamental phsyical entity away from organisms. These additional substances are like swiss cheese, with the holes being filled with organisms like people and dogs.

On this version of the Aristotelian story—which can be varied in a number of ways—the global fundamental physical entities are not metaphysically fundamental. They are grounded in the many substances of the world.

On the second story, the global fundamental physical entities are substances. They are global substances. These global substances interact with the ordinary substances (there are many ways to spell out this interaction). We can now identify the matter of an ordinary substance x either with x’s powers and liabilities for interaction with the global substances or with the plurality of these global substances qua interacting with x.

There are many options here. Much detail to be worked out. Some options may be inferior to others, but I doubt in the end we will come to a single clearly best option.

Yet another bundle theory of objects

I will offer a bundle theory with one primitive symmetric relationship. Moreover, the primitive relationship is essential to pairs. I don’t like bundle theories, but this one seems to offer a nice and elegant solution to the bundling problem.

Here goes. The fundamental entities are tropes. The primitive symmetric relationship is partnership. As stated above, this is essential to pairs: if x and y are partners in one world, they are partners in all worlds in which both exist. If x and y are tropes that exist and are partners, then we say they are coinstantiated.

Say that two possible tropes, existing in worlds w₁ and w₂ respectively, are immediate partners provided that there is a possible world where they both exist and are partners. Then derivative partnerhood is defined to be the transitive closure of immediate partnerhood.

The bundles in any fixed world are in one-to-one correspondence with the maximal non-empty pluralities of pairwise-partnered tropes, and each bundle is said to have each of the tropes that makes up the corresponding plurality. We have an account of transworld identity: a bundle in w₁ is transworld identical with a bundle in w₂ just in case some trope in the first bundle is a derivative partner of some trope in the second bundle. (This is a four-dimensionalist version. If we want a three dimensionalist one, then replace worlds throughout with world-time pairs instead.) So we have predication (or as good as a trope theorist is going to have) and identity. That seems enough for a reductive story about objects.

We can even have ersatz objects if we have the ability to form large transworld sets of possible tropes: just let an ersatz object be a maximal set of pairwise derivately partnered tropes. An ersatz object then is said to ersatz-exist at a world w iff some trope that is a member of the ersatz object exists at w. We can then count objects by counting the ersatz objects.

This story is compatible with all our standard modal intuitions without any counterpart theoretic cheats.

Of course, the partnership relationship is mysterious. But it is essential to pairs, so at least it doesn’t introduce any contingent brute facts. And every story in the neighborhood has something mysterious about it.

There are two very serious problems, however:

1. On this story we don’t really exist. All that really exist are the tropes.

2. This story is incompatible with transsubstantiation—as we would expect of a story on which there is no substance.

So what’s the point of this post? Well, I think it is nice to develop a really good version of an opposing theory, so as to be able to focus one’s critique on what really matters.

Artifacts, Aristotelianism and naturalism

One of the main reasons I don’t believe in (complex) artifacts is that the existence of an artifact would have to depend on our intentions. Whether some stones make up a sculpture depends on whether they were piled with the intention of making a sculpture or just tossed in a heap to provide raw materials. And it is incredible that just because one thinks about something in a particular way while executing a series of physical actions, a material object comes into being, and if one doesn’t think in this way, but executes the same series of physical actions, there are just raw materials in a heap rather than a thing. This just seems like magic.

It has, however, just occurred to me that I may have been thinking too much like a naturalist. We human beings already have a broad array of amazing non-natural powers. By promising, I create an obligation for myself, and by requesting, I create a reason for you. By reproducing, two humans produce a new thinking being. Why couldn’t human beings (and perhaps other tool-using animals) also be gifted with the basic power to create a form for a bunch of physical objects, a power which they exercise by executing some physical movements with particular intentions, much as I change my own normative status by using my vocal chords with particular intentions?

That our intentions should affect what material objects there are is also a bit less magical when one has an Aristotelian ontology. For on an Aristotelian ontology, “material objects” are not purely material: they have immaterial form. Yes, all this is a bit magical. But on Aristotelian ontology, all beings are a little magical, and we are especially so, being minded.

That said, I still find it hard to believe that we can create artifacts.

But all this suggests an interesting argument against naturalism:

1. We can bring complex artifacts into existence.

2. Mereological universalism is false.

3. If naturalism is true, we can bring complex artifacts into existence if and only if mereological universalism is true.

4. So, naturalism is not true.

But I am still not sure (1) is true.

Goods arranged evilly

St Augustine holds that God creates and sustains everything that exists other than God himself. Thus, he reasonably and correctly concludes:

1. Everything that exists is good.

Augustine then concludes further:

2. Evils are privations of goods.

I think (2) doesn’t follow from (1). Compare van Inwagen’s view on material composition:

3. Everything that exists is simple or alive.

But we shouldn’t conclude from (3) that:

4. Ordinary artifacts are privations of simple or living things.

Granted, it follows from (3) that ordinary artifacts don’t really exist, and it likewise follows from (1) that evils don’t really exist. But that does not mean that ordinary-language sentences affirming the existence of artifacts or evils should be analyzed as sentences affirming a privation.

On the contrary, famously, van Inwagen suggests that the ordinary claim that there is a table here is to be understood as claiming that there are simples arranged table-wise. As far as (1) goes, then, it could be that analogously a claim affirming the presence of an evil could be understood as claiming that there are goods arranged evilly. And in some cases this seems a better story than the privation theory. For instance, suppose Alice thinks that platypuses do not exist. What makes there be an evil here is not the lack of something, but the presence of two kinds of discordant good things: Alice’s mental acts of thinking platypuses not to exist and the platypuses themselves. The mental acts and the platypuses are jointly arranged evilly. But there is no evil.

This much more neatly handles the two-nose problem for Augustine’s theory, a problem I once came across in an article that I don’t remember the author of. It is an evil for a human to have two noses, but that evil does not seem to consist in the lack of anything. (We could say: a lack of harmony, but the harmony here doesn’t seem to be a real being, but is entirely just a matter of the arrangement of things.) But we can certainly say that there are two goods, the noses, but they are arranged evilly by virtue of being on the same face. There isn’t, however, a third thing beyond the noses, an evil. There is no ontological problem with God creating the two-nosed human. He creates two goods, the two noses. He foresees that they will be discordant, but he does not will them qua discordant. So he does not intend the evil. There are further theodical questions, but the Augustinian problem is solved.

Of course, there are privative evils. The person who has zero noses suffers from a privative evil, and perhaps when Bob thinks unicorns do exist, the evil of his mistake fits with the privative theory (this depends on the exact formulation of the privative theory).

Ownership and ontology

We can own dogs, trees, forests, cars, chairs, computers and cupcakes, but of these examples, only dogs and trees really exist. Many of the things we own do not really exist. This makes me sceptical of the idea that there are strong property rights independent of positive law.

You might stop me by saying that my ontology is simply too restrictive. Maybe forests, cars, chairs, computers and cupcakes all really exist. I doubt it, but the examples of non-existent things we can in principle own can be multiplied. It is just as reasonable to talk of owning the vacuum inside a flask as it is to talk of owning the cocoa inside a cup. In both cases, labor was needed to generate the “thing” owned, and there is a reasonable moral expectation of non-interference with respect to it. (I would be destroying your property if I beamed a gas into your vacuum flask.)

What does this have to do with scepticism of strong property rights independent of positive law? First, it becomes very difficult to draw a principled line between ownables and non-ownables. Second, once we recognize that we can own things that don’t exist, such as vacua, it becomes difficult to distinguish “things” we have created and own from other kinds of outcomes of our activity. It then becomes plausible that the relevant right is one that should apply to outcomes of activity without much regard for whether that outcome is a thing that exists, a “thing” that doesn’t exist, or some other kind of outcome, such as a mountain’s being enchanted. There seems to be some kind of a right not to have the intended outcome of one’s virtuous activity destroyed without good reason. But how good the reason has to be will vary widely from case to case, so it is unlikely that this kind of a right will ground a strong view of property rights independent of positive law.

But the difficult is not the impossible. For it may be that although it would be difficult to make the needed distinctions, these distinctions could be grounded in highly detailed facts encoded in our natures.

Evil artifacts

Short version of my argument: Artifacts can be evil, but nothing existent can be evil, so artifacts do not exist.

Long version:

1. Paradigmatic instruments of torture are evil.

2. Nothing that exists is evil.

3. So, paradigmatic instruments of torture do not exist.

4. All non-living complex artifacts are ontologically on par.

5. Paradigmatic instruments of torture are inorganic complex artifacts.

6. So, non-living complex artifacts do not exist.

The argument for 1 is that paradigmatic instruments of torture are defined in part by their function, which function is evil.

The argument for 2 is:

7. Everything that exists is either God or created by God.

8. God is not evil.

9. Nothing created by God is evil.

10. So, nothing that exists is evil.

I think 4 is very plausible, and 5 is uncontroversial.

(My argument nihilism about artifacts is inspired by a rather different but also interesting theistic argument for the same conclusion that Trent Dougherty just sent me, but his argument did not talk of evil.)

Acting without existing (any more)

Thesis: It is possible for an object to be acting while it does not exist.

Argument:

Imagine a rattlesnake that is ten light-years long, all stretched out. For all one hundred years of life it has been deliberately rattling its rattle. And then at the end of its hundred years, its head is destroyed, and I assume that the destruction of the head of a snake is sufficient for its death.

Rattling continues for at least about ten years even after the snake is dead, since the nerve signals the brain had sent while the snake was alive are continuing to rattle.

If this post-mortem rattle counts as the snake’s activity, the Thesis is established. But it is not clear that this ten years of post-mortem rattle is the snake’s activity.

But now consider the last year of pre-mortem rattling, call it R₉₉ (since it starts in year 99 of the snake’s life). Whatever one says of the post-mortem rattling, clearly R₉₉ is the snake’s activity. However, there is a reference frame—the way I set the length of the snake and the times in the story guarantees this—in which R₉₉ occurs after the snake’s head has been destroyed, and hence occurs after the death of the snake. But R₉₉ is the snake’s activity. Hence, there is a reference frame where an activity of the snake occurs after the snake is dead.

Scholium:

Obviously, only existent things can act. But while existence simpliciter is important for activity, existence-at-a-time does not have the same kind of significance. Obviously, often an actor’s action has a relationship R to some thing x that the actor itself does not have. For instance, an agent’s action may be known by me without the agent being known by me (here, R is being known and x is me).

Now, when we say that Elizabeth II exists as Queen of Canada, that is just an awkward way of saying that she has a monarchic relationship to Canada, rather than being a claim about that mysterious thing deep ontology studies: existence. I think we should think of existing-at-a-time as not really existence but simply as a particular kind of relationship—an occupation or presence relationship. It is not surprising in general that activities can stand in relationships that the agents do not. So, why can’t an activity stand in an occupation relationship to a time that the agent does not?

I think much confusion in philosophy comes from thinking of existence-at-a-time and existence-in-a-place as something special, somehow deeply ontologically different from other relations.

Variety and ontology

A major part of the ontologist’s dream has always been to find a small number of fundamental categories—maybe one, maybe two or three or maybe ten—into which everything falls.

Aristotle says somewhere that the philosopher knows all things—in general terms. That’s the kind of knowledge the ontologist’s dream accomplishes. But I worry: isn’t there a deep hubris in thinking we can categorize fundamental reality? And aren’t we destroying the deep richness of reality by pushing into into a handful of categories?

Well, maybe not. After all, all books could be seen as finite sequences of a small number of symbols. (Recall the lovely argument in Plato’s Euthydemus that one can’t learn from books, because if you don’t know the alphabet, you can’t read, and if you know the alphabet, you already know all that is in the books, namely letters.) And yet among these arrangements—all of which are ontologically the same sort of thing—there are the Summa Theologiae, The Deluge, Hamlet, the Psalms, the best of the scientific literature… and the latest tweets from world leaders, too. One doesn’t destroy the richness of literature by noting that ontologically it’s all of a piece. Being all of a piece ontologically is compatible with great variation.

That said, I still have the worry. While there is great richness in literature, culture be impoverished if there weren’t painting, sculpture, dance, etc. Similarly, even if there can be enormous richness among monads, their apperceptions and their appetitions, wouldn’t reality be impoverished if monads, perceptions and appetitions were all there is?