Debunking and testimony

An evolutionary debunking argument against theism can be employed defensively or offensively by an atheist. Applied defensively, it is a response to the theist’s offering an argument from the prevalence of belief in God. Applied offensively, it is suppose to show that whether or not God exists, because theistic beliefs come from a suspect source, they are not knowledge.

The focus of debunking argument tends to be on mimetic selection. The idea is that theistic (or maybe more generally supernaturalistic) beliefs confer some kind of a selective advantage on the communities or individuals exhibiting them, and hence we can explain naturalistically the prevalence of these beliefs. This explanation works whether or not God exists, and hence whether or not God exists, typical theists’ beliefs are not knowledge.

But there is a serious gap in this argument. Mimetic selection only operates on a belief once the belief is in place. But we still have to ask: Where did the belief come from in the first place? And I think that if we are to be honest, we have to say that not only is this something we don’t empirically know, but given how it concerns fine-grained details of events before written history, we have no empirical access to the answer. For any particular lineage of theistic beliefs, there was a first believer in the lineage. How did they come to believe? Well, we can make up a bunch of ideas:

1. They were philosophically inclined and came up with a good argument for theism (say, a good design argument).

2. They were philosophically inclined and came up with a bad argument for theism (say, a bad ontological argument).

3. They got an apparent perception of God from eating bad mushrooms.

4. They got an apparent perception of God from God.

5. They were bullied into believing in God by a tribal leader who claimed divine right of ruling.

6. They heard a fairy tale told by their parents and misunderstand it as history rather than fiction.

And a lot more. The point is that empirically we have no idea. And it may be that for different mimetic lineages the initial explanation is different.

Now notice that the options include ones that are friendly to theistic knowledge (1 and 4) as well as ones that are unfriendly (the others). Furthermore, if the lineage begins with one of the options friendly to theistic knowledge, then we might say that this knowledge was then testimonially transmitted. Of course, the selective facts helped with the transmission. But as long as the chain of testimony goes back to a case of genuine knowledge, the fact that the transmission was made possible by selective effects that are not as such truth conducive may not undercut the possibility that the chain actually does transmit knowledge.

I think this line of thought is most plausible if you have an irreducible view of testimonial evidence.

Abstract objects and the Nicene Creed

There are Christians who believe in the existence of abstract objects, such as properties, that are neither grounded in God’s mind (as on Augustine’s view) nor created by God. One challenge on such a view is to make sense of the doctrine of creation which says that God creates everything other than himself.

A natural response is to restrict the quantifiers further. God is not the only exception to being created by God. Abstract objects are also an exception. When our Christian and Jewish forebears said that God created everything, they were only thinking of more ordinary objects than the abstract ones.

I doubt this. Take the beginning of the Creed of Nicaea:

I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of all things visible and invisible [poiêtên oratôn te pantôn kai aoratôn].

Now, the Fathers at Nicaea were more than aware of Platonic philosophy and of a broad variety of neo-Platonic views on which there were all sorts of uncreated entities, perhaps emanating from the One. Against that background, it seems very plausible that their talk of creation of the invisible is not only meant to tell us about angels, but is also meant to rule out such views. What invisible things reality might contain was mysterious and contentious at the time, and remains mysterious and contentious to our day, and the explicit inclusion of the invisible makes it quite implausible to think that the Creed is meant to apply to a restricted class of beings (apart from the obvious exclusion of God himself).

Furthermore, I think the use of the concrete word poiêtês (maker), as opposed to some more general philosophical term like aitia (cause) or archê (origin, principle) carries the message that God the Father almighty is engaging in intentional agency in producing the visible and the invisible. The agentiality and intentionality implied by the word seems to me to rule out—and quite possibly with the specific intention of doing so—emanationist views.

We are used to reciting the creed in the later version from the Council of Constantinople, where “of heaven and of earth” is added between “maker” and “of all things”. It may be tempting to see “of heaven and of earth” as restricting the visible and the invisible to the concrete occupiers of heaven and of earth. I think that would be a mistake. The Council of Nicaea was an ecumenical council in its own right, and its creed is still normative. If I am right in thinking that the Fathers really wanted to rule all the exotic uncreated entities of neo-Platonism, that remains binding. I would instead say that the Fathers at Constantinople added a clarification that it is not only the mundane things that God created, but also the heavenly. They weren’t narrowing the scope of creation.

Theoretical parsimony

As is usual, distinguish ontological parsimony, namely positing fewer beings, from ideological parsimony, namely positing fewer fundamental undefined concepts.

The principle that we should assign higher probabilities to more ontologically parsimonious theories is wacky. It violates the Principal Principle. If you are flipping a coin and planning to have children if and only if you get heads, then you should assign a slightly higher probability to tails. (Granted, this argument fails if eternalism is false. But you can tweak it by supposing that a hundred years ago Alice flipped a fair coin with that intention, and now you should again assign a slightly higher probability to tails.)

What about ideological parsimony? It initially sounds a lot better to assign higher probabilities to more ideologically parsimonious theories. Indeed, I think there has to be something right about such a principle of simplicity. But I don’t at present fully know how to formulate it in a way that escapes objection.

For suppose that we are non-reductionists about biological species, so we think that species are fundamental undefined concepts. You are working with a bacterium in the lab, and on a whim plan to flip a coin. On heads, you will irradiate the bacterium, and on tails you will do no such thing. Irradiated, the bacterium is more likely to produce a new species when it reproduces. So on ideological parsimony it seems we should assign a slightly higher probability to tails, as then it is more likely that the true theory of the world posits fewer species, and hence fewer fundamental undefined concepts.

Objection 1: Reductionism is the right theory about biological species.

Response: Maybe it is. But it’s not the case that it certainly is. And as long as there is a non-zero probability that non-reductionism about species is right, we should assign a slightly higher probability to tails—for conditionally on reductionism, the probabilities are equal, while conditionally on non-reductionism, we should assign a higher probability on tails.

Objection 2: There are so many species that the difference from positing one more is negligible.

Response: Maybe it is. But now parsimony cannot do the work it’s designed to do, and hence it is largely unmotivated. Here’s an example of the kind of work it’s designed for. You observe the world’s koalas and see no significant differences in behavior or appearance. You could suppose there are two species of koalas and you just haven’t been able to tell them apart. But that’s not parsimonious. So you suppose one species. But given how large the number of species on earth is, positing one more makes little difference—assuming the objection is correct.

Objection 3: A full story of the world will include the causal powers in the world. If the radiation has the causal power C_S to produce a new species S of bacteria, then a full description of the world will contain a description of C_S, and hence of S, even if S has no members. Thus it makes no difference to the ideological complexity of the world whether the radiation is applied or not.

Response: This seems the most powerful objection. But it might undercut the applications of parsimony. Plausibly, the world has a first cause behind everything else. Now either the first cause’s causal powers are such that their complete description includes all possible kinds or not (this may depend on questions involving the first cause’s simplicity). If it has such causal powers, then ideological parsimony does rather less work than we thought, since the total description of reality already includes the concepts of the two species of koalas as per my previous response. Suppose now the first cause’s causal powers are not such that their complete description includes all possible kinds. Imagine that you make the following plan. You will flip a fair coin. On heads you will pray that the first cause produce a new kind of thing. Now, the first cause might not fulfill your prayer—indeed, perhaps you are not even confident the first cause is a person. But it is at least slightly more likely that the first cause will make a new kind of thing if you pray than if you don’t. And that’s enough to change the epistemic probabilities for your coin flip, in an implausible way.

Six-dimensional universalism

Four-dimensional mereological universalism has been proposed as a way of letting ordinary objects into our ontology. If all pluralities have a fusion, one should expect a fusion of simples (or maybe time-slices of simples or something like that) that exactly correspond to the four-dimensional career of a chair, a horse, and an oak tree. But then some philosophers started taking seriously the observation that it’s not enough to have a fusion of the simples in an oak to have an oak. For the fusion of simples may not have the same modal properties as the oak. This led to what I call five-dimensional mereological univeralism. Say that a modal profile is a function that assigns to each world an empty or non-empty collections of simples (or time-slices of simples, etc.)

The five-dimensionalist mereologist then holds that for any modal profile that has at least one non-empty assignment there exists an object that matches that profile—an object that exists in all and only the worlds that the assignment assigns a non-empty set to, and in these worlds is a fusion of the simples in the assigned set.

I just realized another thing. The ordinary objects that the universalist wants to have in their ontology include artifacts like tables and ships. The vagueness of artifacts is deeply embedded into our thinking about them. While we could become convinced of the idea (indeed, I am convinced of it) that living things have souls, and the metaphysics of the relationship of these souls to bodies ensures that living things have non-vague spatial, temporal and modal boundaries, the analogous thesis for tables and ships seems much harder to swallow.

But now modal profiles are sharp. Thus, to model the vagueness of artifacts, we not only need every modal profile to be be filled, but we need every non-trivial vagueness profile to be filled. What’s a vagueness profile filled by a possible object x? To a first approximation, it’s a set of modal profiles, so that an object x has vagueness profile V if and only if it is definite that x fits some profile in V, and definite that x does not fit any profile outside V, and for any profile in V it’s vague or definite that x fits that profile. In other words, for mereological universalism to save all of our common sense about ordinary objects, it needs to be a six-dimensional universalism.

But six-dimensional universalism is crazy. Consider the vagueness profile R corresponding to Rover the dog in England and the vagueness profile F corresponding to Felix the cat in Canada. Then take their union: R ∪ F. If this vagueness profile is filled, it’s filled by an entity such that it is vague that it barks and vague that it meows, but definite that it clearly barks or clearly meows. En entity such that it is vague that it is in England and vague that it is wholly in Canada, but definite that it is in exactly one of England and Canada. And so on.

(Things are even worse if theism is true. Take God’s vagueness profile and mine. The union of these two profiles would be filled by an entity that is vaguely divine and vaguely a sinner.)

So, the argument goes like this. Mereological universalism only fully saves common sense if it is extended to six-dimensional universalism. The latter is absurd. So we’re not going to fully save common sense by going universalist.

I suppose one might be satisfied with stopping at five dimensions, at modal profiles, and ignoring our judgments of vagueness about artifacts. Maybe.

Some arguments against panpsychism

1. If pansychism is true, all organisms are always conscious.

2. We are not always conscious.

3. We are organisms.

4. So, some organisms are not always conscious.

5. So, panpsychism is not true.

We can get some more specific conclusions. It is very plausible that:

6. We are not conscious during deep sleep.

7. If we are not conscious during deep sleep, primitive plants are not conscious.

8. If primitive plants are not conscious, neither are particles.

9. So, neither primitive plants nor particles are conscious.

Why think (7)? Because our lower-brain functioning in deep sleep is surely still way more sophisticated than the coordinational functioning of primitive plants, and it is plausible there is a correlation between degree of functioning and level of consciousness. A similar line of thought yields (8).

Suppose it’s disputed that we are not conscious during deep sleep. Maybe we are conscious then, but don’t remember. Then I have another argument for the non-consciousness of primitive plants.

10. Right now I am now not directly conscious of the activity of my autonomous nervous system.

11. If right now I am not directly conscious of the activity of my autonomous nervous system, primitive plants are not conscious.

12. So, primitive plants are not conscious.

To deny (10) would to fall into wacky skepticism. It would posit that I may have conscious states that, as it were, I am completely unaware of. Note that I am often (always?) aware of various effects of the autonomous nervous system’s functioning, such as my breathing.

Premise (11) is where I think the hard work happens. But the thought is again about sophistication of coordinational functioning, and my guess is that my autonomous nervous system is more sophisticated than its analogues in primitive plants.

I think the general line of argument yields something potentially interesting. By knowing that we are not aware of what’s going on in our autonomous nervous system, we know how much coordinational sophistication is insufficient for consciousness.

I am not a biologist. Don’t ask me what primitive plants are. I just made that concept up, and I could be wrong in thinking that anything in reality corresponds to it.

An argument that organisms aren't wholly material

Here’s an argument for non-materialism about all organisms.

Start with these premises:

1. Organisms exist.

2. If organisms exist, it is possible to have two organisms that have all their matter in common.

3. Antisymmetry of parthood: Two distinct things can’t each be a part of the other.

4. Strong supplementation: If y isn’t a part of x, then y has a part that doesn’t overlap x.

Now suppose that x and y are two organisms that have all their matter in common. By antisymmetry of parthood, they can’t both be mutual parts of each other. Swapping labels if necessary, suppose y isn’t a part of x. Then by strong supplementation, y has a part z that doesn’t overlap x. But any material part of y is a material part of x by (2). Thus, y has a part that isn’t a material part. Hence:

5. It is possible to have an organism with a non-material part.

But this is weak in two ways. First, it doesn’t show that any actual organism has a non-material part. Second, even if we showed that, that wouldn’t show that all organisms have non-material parts. Moreover, I have given no argument for premise 2.

I will fix all these problems together. In a recent post, I gave a plausible construction of a world where there is a dog-like organism and a cat-like organism with all their matter in common. The same construction would give the following conclusion: there is a world where there is a mushroom-like organism and a grass-like organism thathave all their matter in common. Plugging that into the above argument yields:

5. Possibly a mushroom-like or a grass-like organism has a non-material part.

The likeness here is functional: the way of life of the organism is like that of mushroom or a grass plant. Then add:

6. If possibly a mushroom-like organism has a non-material part, all organisms have non-material parts.

7. If possibly a grass-like organism has a non-material part, all organisms have non-material parts.

From 5-7, we get:

8. All organisms have non-material parts.

Why believe 6 and 7? Here’s a thought. You might think that conscious animals have to have souls or something like that. But if a mushroom- or grass-like organism can have a non-material part, probably it actually does, and if it has a non-material part, probably all organisms do.

There is a lot in this argument that doesn’t personally convince me. In fact, I am skeptical of premises 2 and 4, and my main reason for accepting 6 and 7 is that I already accept anti-materialism about all organisms. But I think the argument has some force.

Irreducibly joint activity

I’ve long wondered what it means to say that a bunch of things are “irreducibly jointly producing an effect.” One place this comes up in contemporary metaphysics is strongly non-reductivist materialist theories of mind on which the particles of our bodies working together produce thought.

This irreducible production—if there is such a thing—is supposed to be different from the reducible way of how, say, four rocks can depress an analog spring-based scale. Yet I’ve always found it hard to grasp the difference. After all, no single one kilogram rock has the power to depress the scale to the four kilogram point. You need all four. Why is that not an irreducibly joint production of an effect?

A paradigm example of irreducible production would be something like this, however. Suppose the laws of nature ensure that when you arrange four spherical objects of equal size in a tetrahedron, they begin to whistle (I am adapting an example by Trenton Merricks). You arrange three or five or any other number of marbles, nothing like that happens. What’s the difference?

In the case of the rocks and the scale, it is tempting to say that the outcome is just a matter of “summing forces”. But as we learn from Nancy Cartwright and by reflecting on Hume’s insights, summing forces is not as innocent as it sounds. The world could have been so that when multiple forces impinge, they average, or the greatest force carries the day, or the weakest does. Thus the laws of nature seem to have to include some clause like

1. When a number of objects act on an object with forces, the latter accelerates in proportion to the vector sum of the forces.

But now consider.

2. When a number of spherical objects are arranged, whistling results with an intensity equal to one if the objects are four in number, equal in size, and tetrahedrally arranged, and intensity zero otherwise.

The main difference seems to be that “vector sum” is a simpler and more mathematically natural description than “one if the objects are four in number, equal in size, and tetrahedrally arranged, and zero otherwise”. And that’s just a difference of degree, while the difference between reductively and non-reductively joint action is not a difference of degree.

Here is a thought. Perhaps the worry arises out of a mistaken way to think about the case of the scale. The force on the scale’s platform (subsequently transmitted to the spring) is not the sum of the pressures imposed by the four rocks. In the Newtonian setting, each particle of the platform is affected by gravitational attraction to every other particle with mass in the universe, as well as affected by interaction via other forces (e.g., electromagnetic) with countless particles. There are no small closed systems. Perhaps, then, we should rethink the ordinary case: it isn’t a case of reducibility either. On the contrary, it is a case of an irreducible interaction with, basically, everything else—or, in a relativistic context, everything else in its past light cone.

The difference between the whistling tetrahedron of balls and the scale’s depression then isn’t that the whistling is irreducibly jointly effected by multiple things and the scale’s depression isn’t. It is, rather, that the scale’s depression is jointly effected by vastly more things, most of which have only a slight effect, while the magical-seeming whistling is produced only by the four things.

On this picture, what would reducible joint influence be like? It would have to be a case of independent production, where maybe object x produces property P in object z while object y independently produces property Q in z, so that x and z reducibly jointly produce P ∧ Q in z. But it’s not clear that this ever actually happens in our world—all we have are better and worse approximations to such causally independent production.

Some non-reductivist materialists will want to say that our particles, through irreducibly joint activity, produce mental states. Can we accommodate this in the above story? Yes, but only if we suppose that the mental states are in no way directly affected by anything outside our body.

Here is a worry about what I said. Suppose that the four rocks are sufficient to push the scale to a position where the indicator needle is right around the middle of the 4 kg dashmark, while the sum total of the other forces in the universe is insufficient to shift the needle to the outside of the 4 kg dashmark. Then while the exact position of the needle isn’t effected by the four rocks alone, the fact that the needle points somewhere within the 4 kg dashmark on the scale seems to be accounted for by the four rocks alone. Thus, with respect to the coarse grained event of the needle being within the 4 kg dashmark, the four rocks are sufficient to produce the effect. And if that’s right, then we’ve lost the distinction between the four rocks depressing the scale and four marbles causing whistling.

Conjecturally, I answer as follows. The coarse-grained event of a needle’s being in some range (given by the thickness of the 4 kg dashmark) has an identity dependence on fine-grained event of the needle’s being exactly where it is. Thus, had the fine-grained event been different, the coarse-grained event would have been a numerically different event. Hence the coarse-grained event does actually depend on vast numbers of things.

Completely overlapping lives

Van Inwagen thinks that the very same particles cannot have their activities constitute two life events. I am not so sure.

Pretend for the sake of simplicity that our world is made of fundamental particles with well-defined positions in three-dimensional space, with n basic quantities Q₁, ..., Q_n (mass, charge, etc.), otherwise interchangeable, and with no particles coming in and out of existence. And suppose we have dogs and cats (or something like them).

Suppose, further, that our world contains Rover the dog and Felix the cat. No particle that is ever a part of one of them is a part of the other. Finally, we have a very odd coincidence. There is a one-to-one correspondence ϕ between the particles that are ever a part of Rover and those that are ever a part of Felix such that particle c is a part of Rover at time t if and only if ϕ(c) is a part of Felix at that time. This last condition can be assured if we assume that Rover and Felix don’t change in what particles they have and they have the same number, but we don’t need such a strong assumption.

Now imagine a six-dimensional world made of fundamental particles, with 2n basic quantities U₁, ..., U_n, V₁, ..., V_n. Now suppose:

1. The first three coordinates of the particle positions and the quantities U₁, ..., U_n over time are physically related by laws exactly like the ones that govern the three coordinates of the particle positions and (respectively) the quantities Q₁, ..., Q_n in our world are.

Thus, if we project the six-dimensional space of this world to our three-dimensional space by ignoring coordinates 4–6, and relabel U_i as Q_i, the behavior of the particles will look just like the familiar behavior of particles in our world.

Then add:

2. The last three coordinates of the particle positions and the quantities V₁, ..., V_n over time are physically related by laws exactly like the ones that govern the three coordinates of the particle positions and (respectively) the quantities Q₁, ..., Q_n in our world are.

In other words, likewise if we ignore coordinates 1–3, and relabel V_i as Q_i, the behavior of the particles will be like that of our world’s particles.

Note that the U_i and Q_j quantities don’t interact, and the particle positions with respect to coordinates 1–3 and coordinates 4–6 don’t interact. This is like two non-interacting universes in one, except that the particles are shared between them.

Now suppose that there is a one-to-one correspondence f between the particles of our world and those of the six-dimensional world such that:

3. If at time t, particle c is at (x,y,z) and has basic quantity values Q₁ = a₁, ..., Q_n = a_n, then at t in the six-dimensional world, particle f(c) is at (x,y,z,u,v,w) for some u, v and w, and has basic quantity values U₁ = a₁, ..., U_n = a_n.

And there is also also another one-to-one correspondence g such that:

4. If at time t, particle c is at (x,y,z) and has basic quantity values Q₁ = a₁, ..., Q_n = a_n, then at t in the six-dimensional world, particle g(c) is at (u,v,w,x,y,z) for some u, v and w, and has basic quantity values V₁ = a₁, ..., V_n = a_n.

In theory, these correspondences f and g could be the same. But they are not. There is a twist:

5. If c is ever a particle of Rover, then g(c) = f(ϕ(c)) and if c is ever a particle of Felix, then g(c) = f(ϕ⁻¹(c))

where ϕ is our correspondence between Rover and Felix’s particles. This twist implies that g maps Felix’s and Rover’s particles to particles that f respectively maps Rover’s and Felix’s to.

We can mathematically arrange all this.

Now, fix a time t. If the cs are Rover’s particles at t, let the es consist of the particles corresponding to them under the mapping f. Note that the es are also the particles corresponding to Felix’s particles under the mapping g.

Here’s the fun thing. With respect to their first three coordinates and the quantities U₁, ..., U_n, the es behave just like Rover’s particles. With respect to their last three coordinates and the quantities V₁, ..., V_n, the es behave just like Felix’s particles.

It seems right to say this: the es in our six-dimensional world have two lives, a canine-style life just like Rover’s and a feline-style life just like Felix’s. There is no interaction or unity between these two lives other than due to their being realized in the very same particles.

Suppose someone insists that there must be only one canine-feline hybrid life here because the particles are the same. Modify the mappings slightly, so that the Rover-like life is realized by particles e₁, ..., e_N while the Felix-like life is realized by particles e₂, ..., e_N + 1. Now the particles are not the same, but they are mostly the same. Now we have the same life event but no longer the same particles (just an overlap, like in the case of conjoint twins). But two particles should make little difference here. The slight change in mapping shouldn’t make a difference between having a canine-type life and a feline-type life on the one hand, and having a hybrid canine-feline life.

Note that I am not doing Aristotelian metaphysics here. By “life events”, I mean the kind of empirical event a biologist might talk about, not a form or anything like that. I doubt that the same matter could have two different substantial forms.

Myth of passage

Donald Williams in his famous “The Myth of Passage” argued that time cannot flow, because if it did, then it would require either a meta-time to flow in or would flow at a rate of 1 (i.e., one second per second = one hour per hour = etc.) I’ve always been puzzled by what’s supposed to be wrong with the second option. Is it that if something flows at some rate, then it could have flowed at a different rate? But light appears to be a counterexample to that—it cannot flow but at c.

Here’s another take on what’s wrong with time flowing at a rate of 1. The flow of time is supposed to be intrinsically directional. But there is nothing intrinsically directional with a flow at a rate of one. Imagine that, somehow, our universe is divided into two halves, and in one of them time flows in one direction and in the other in the other direction. In our half, from 1 to 3 pm, it flows at a rate of 2 hrs / 2 hrs = 1. In the other half, from their 3 pm to their 1 pm it flows at a rate of  −2 hrs / −2 hrs = 1. So regardless of the direction that time flows, the rate is 1: it is never −1, say. And that makes the flow of time as measured against time itself a kind of triviality that cannot capture the myth of passage.

It seems that only when we measure the flow against a meta-time do we have a non-trivial flow. That said, perhaps Williams is wrong that we need a regress of meta-times. Maybe time’s flow can be measured against a meta-time that itself does not flow.

Occurrent memory of color experience

Many people when occurrently remembering what a tomato looks like have a mental image, with a degree of vividness and precision differing from person to person, of a red round thing. But not everyone. Visual aphantasiacs don’t have visual images at all in their memories. Presumably, too, there are partial cases: some may have visual images of shapes but without color. Nonetheless, it seems correct to say that such people still know what red is like.

I conjecture that most people have some kinds of experience where they know what the experience is like, but when they remember what the experience is like their memory does not contain a phenomenal copy of the experience. Maybe for you it’s certain kinds of tastes, or smells, or feeling hot water on your body.

For definiteness, suppose that for Alice it’s redness. She has seen red tomatoes. She knows what it’s like to see red, and she remembers what a red tomato looks like, but when she makes her memory occurrent, it does not contain a phenomenal copy of the experience.

What’s going on? Here is one possibility. Even though the memory of a colored object has no visualized color in it, it has some other distinctive phenomenal quality that encodes the specific color. Thus, while neither remembering a red tomato nor a blue plum involves visualizing a color, remembering a red tomato involves a non-color phenomenal quality that encodes the redness, while remembering a blue plum involves a different non-color phenomenal quality that encodes the blueness. It is by having that encoding non-color quale that one knows what the encoded color quale is. The encoding non-color quale is presumably not a sound, or a smell, or any other sensory quale, but a distinctive memory-of-color quale.

(One might conjecture that this is so even for those aphantasiacs who deny any phenomenal quality to their memories, because perhaps it is possible to mistake not having sensory qualia in one’s memories for not having any qualia in them.)

(One might also wonder if it goes to meta levels. If you remember remembering a red tomato, do you have a memory-of-memory-of-red quale, rather than just a memory-of-red quale? I don’t think it needs to do that. If you’re capable of having a memory-of-red quale, that can just figure in your memory of remembering.)

It seems very plausible that on this suggestion, the memory-of-X qualia can differ from person to person, even if the X qualia do not. One reason to think this is that some people do visualize colors, and for them a memory-of-red quale will just be a red quale (or a visualized-red quale, which might not be exactly the same). But a more interesting question is this: Can two people be such that one person’s memory-of-X quale is just like the other person’s memory-of-Y quale? The answer could be negative even if the memory-of-X qualia differ from person to person, for it could be that nonetheless there is a person-independent way to recover the X quale from its encoding in the memory-of-X quale. There can be multiple ways of encoding the same thing while yet each one can be uniquely decoded.

Maybe. But what if it turns out that there is no person-independent mapping from a memory-of-X quale to an X quale? I think this endangers the idea that having a memory-of-red quale in conjunction with one’s remembering is what makes one count as occurrently knowing what a ripe tomato looks like.

Is there a different way to account for what happens when one occurrently remembers what it’s like to see a red tomato when one cannot visualize colors, without positing some kind of memory-of-X qualia?

Here’s a suggestion inspired by David Bernhardt’s comment (but perhaps with I misunderstood the comment). Our thoughts can make de re reference to objects and events and the like. Perhaps when I think “Ripe tomatoes look like this”, the “this” makes a de re reference to my past experience of red. But just as the word “this” does not reflect the specific character of its referent, and indeed sounds and looks the same regardless of what it refers to, neither do the intrinsic features of the thought reflect the specific character of the past experience of red. Imagine you’re an almost exact twin of mine, except that you always wore glasses that swapped red and blue. Then you could have an intrinsically exactly similar “Ripe tomatoes look like this” thought to mine, but in your case the “this” would refer to an experience of blue.

Could something like this be how we have occurrent memories of how tomatoes look, a mere demonstrative de re thought? If so, then the knowledge argument against materialism is in trouble. For Mary, raised in her black and white room, could have a de re thought that ripe tomatoes look like this, where her “this” refers de re not to her own experience but to mine! After all, if you and I are both pointing to the same horse, and you think “This animal is lovely” and I think “This animal is lovely”, we seem to be thinking the same thought, precisely because our “This” has the same referent. So if Mary thinks “Tomatoes look like this” and I think “Tomatoes look like this”, and the “this” in both cases refers to my experience of red, then we seem to be thinking the same thing.

This suggests to me that we have three options:

1. People who can’t visualize colors don’t know what colors are like when they aren’t currently perceiving colored things.

2. They know it by means of memory-of-color qualia, which have an unambiguous mapping onto color qualia.

3. They know by means of de re thoughts that get their content from past experiences that are not reflected in the intrinsic character of the thought.

I think (1) and (2) leave the knowledge argument against materialism in place, but (3) endangers the argument.

I don’t know what the right story is.

Persons (and a remark on fine-tuning)

Here’s a speculative theory of persons:

• A person is an individual of a sort that pursues the good as such.

What’s interesting on this theory of persons is that mental life is not directly a part of the definition. For pursuit as such does not require a mind: plants pursue particular goods like nutrition and reproduction (but while they pursue particular goods, they don’t pursue the good as such).

I conjecture that pursuit of the good as such requires a mind and will. If this is right, then that brings my teleological definition closer to intuitive accounts of persons. Interestingly, though, I also conjecture that pursuit of the good does not require a conscious mind—just a mind with intention, intentionality and intensionality (funny how different the meanings of these three similar-sounding words are). Since personhood implies dignity, it follows that dignity does not require consciousness. (An important observation for thinking about people in persistent vegetative states.)

But this is all super conjectural.

What if it turns out that one can pursue the good as such without mind? Should I then modify the definition of a person to replace “pursues” with “intentionally pursues”?

I think it depends on whether the kind of being that pursues the good as such without mind still has the kind of dignity that persons have. If so, then I am happy to leave my definition unchanged. But if dignity requires mind, and mind doesn’t follow from pursuit of the good, then I will insert “intentionally” into my account.

As I said, this is all speculative. But one thing I am fairly confident of: being the sort of individual that pursues the good as such is a necessary condition for being a person.

An interesting consequence is this. One could have a kind of being with advanced agency, problem-solving ability, and abstract thought, without its being a person. Indeed, I think such a being might even have the abstract concept of the good, but if it wasn’t of a sort to pursue the instances of that concept as such, it wouldn’t be a person.

If I am right at least about the necessary condition, I think we make some progress on the fine-tuning argument for theism. One of the objections to the fine-tuning argument for theism is this: “Why should we think that a personal designer would want there to be life?” Well, if a person is the sort of being that pursues the good in general, the good as such, and if life is eminently valuable, it is not astronomically unlikely that a personal designer would want there to be life. And given how ridiculously narrow some of the life-compatible ranges in the fine-tuning argument are, “not astronomically unlikely” is all we need.

Existing for all times is still puzzling

Let’s assume causal finitism is false, and that the past can be infinite.

If an object pops into existence ex nihilo at a specific time t, that feels objectionably arbitrary, since we want to know why did it pop into existence then rather than earlier or later (or if it couldn’t have done that, for essentiality of origins reasons, why didn’t something just like it do that).

But if the object has existed for infinite time, that does not feel arbitrary, and some people have the intuition that the object does not call out for an explanation even if it is metaphysically contingent.

This failure to be puzzled is I think based on a mistake. For even if the object existed for an infinite time, we can ask why it didn’t exist for a longer infinite time. That question makes sense. After all, if the object existed on days ...,  − 3,  − 2,  − 1, 0, where 0 is today, then we can ask why before all those days it didn’t exist on an earlier day, one which we might denote  − ω, where ω is the first infinite ordinal.

One might answer: “Well, it didn’t exist on day  − ω, because time does not include day  − ω.” But that doesn’t solve the puzzle. After all, imagine that on day  − 18 an object popped into existence, and when we are puzzled by this, we are told: “Well, day  − 18 is the first day of time. The object couldn’t have existed on day  − 19 because there was no such day.” But now we want to know: Why did time itself begin on day  − 18 rather than on day  −19 or day −10⁹⁴? And similarly, we should want to know why time extends only to the dates ...,  − 3,  − 2,  − 1, 0 and not to day  − ω, or day  − ω − 1, or day  − 2^ω₉₄.

In fact, there is a sense in which the first of the following questions might be less puzzling than the second:

• Why did time begin on day  − 18 rather than day  − 10⁹⁴?

• Why did time extend only to days ...,  − 3,  − 2,  − 1, 0 rather than beginning with day  − ω, inclusive?

For if time is relational, then there might be no real metaphysical difference between time beginning on day  − 18 and time beginning on day  − 10⁹⁴, but even so there is a metaphysical difference between time extending only to days ...,  − 3,  − 2,  − 1, 0 and its starting on  − ω. If time extends only to days ...,  − 3,  − 2,  − 1, 0, then it has no first day, but if it starts on day  − ω, then it has a first day, namely  − ω.

In fact, there are infinities of different possible temporal orders, all of them linear (i.e., reflexive, transitive and total). Why is time one of these rather than another? If times are representable as real numbers (as classical physics assumes), why? Why not merely as rational numbers? Or, more expansively, why not as hyperreals? Or why not as an order that looks like the real numbers with zero removed?

Whatever is the time sequence occupied by an object, even if the object fills the time sequence, it calls out for an explanation why the time sequence that it fills is this one rather than another one.

Restricting the PSR to things with a finite past

A correspondent asked me why not to simply believe in a restricted Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) that says that everything contingent that has a beginning in time has an explanation. (Graham Oppy has once proposed such an idea.)

One of the reasons for accepting the PSR is that without it we fall into skepticism. If violations of the PSR are possible, they have no meaningful probabilities, and in particular cannot be said to be unlikely. E.g., without the PSR, we have to say it is not unlikely that we just popped into existence five minutes ago for no reason at all, and so we cannot say that skeptical hypotheses about the past are improbable.

There are two types of skepticism. On weak skepticism about X, we conclude we can’t know about X. On strong skepticism about X, we conclude that we can’t have a reasonable belief about X. Weak skepticism is not a big deal. Strong skepticism is. This is strong skepticism about the past.

The specific case of the five minute past doesn’t survive if we have the PSR restricted to things with a beginning. But another argument does. Suppose the full PSR is false but the restricted PSR is true. Now consider the scenario where reality consists of a large number of persons who for an infinite amount of time have been caught in an endless five minute loop of experiences just like mine. Violations of the PSR have no meaningful probabilities, so we cannot say that this hypothesis is unlikely. So, we get skepticism. Of the strong kind.

Randomness and identity

Suppose an amoeba biologically symmetrically splits into two cells, A and B. Here are the main options for what happens metaphysically:

1. The parent perishes and the child cells are new organisms.

2. The parent becomes a scattered two-celled organism.

3. The parent becomes A, and B is a new organism.

4. The parent becomes B, and A is a new organism.

Typically, philosophers dismiss options (3) and (4) as arbitrary in cases where the splitting is symmetric. Option (2) is implausible, so that leaves option (1).

But now consider an option that the above argument for (1) does not consider:

5. Indeterministically, the parent has chance 1/2 of becoming A, with B being new, and chance 1/2 of becoming B, with A being new.

(Technically, this is not another option, but a further specification of (3) or (4).) Rule (5) is perfectly symmetric between A and B, so there is no arbitrary preference in the rule—though of course the random result may be said to be arbitrary.

I expect that the main reason (5) is usually not considered is that it is assumed that the answer as to which of (1)–(4) happens supervenes on qualitative biological features of the amoeba and offspring system. But if we have a “further fact” view about identity, or if we are dualists about amoebae—say, because we think that an amoeba has a non-physical soul or form that—then I think (5) is not at all crazy. There could well be indeterministic laws of how the “further fact” behaves or where the soul goes.

Of course, (5) is not the only indeterministic symmetric option that avoids scattered individuals. One could have a view where there is a 1/3 chance for each of options (1), (3) and (4). Or where there is a 2/3 chance of (1) and a 1/6 chance of each of (3) and (4).

Some people will think that amoebae do not have “further facts” or souls, but are entirely physically reducible. I am far from confident of that. But in any case, whether the indeterministic solution works for amoebae, it could well work for humans, whether in actual cases of early twinning or in science-fictional brain splitting thought experiments.

Here is another metaphysical difficulty where an indeterministic answer might work. Consider beginning and end of life issues: when do constituents come together as a new organism and when do organisms depart from life? It feels arbitrary to suppose, say, that when the damage exceeds some threshold, the organism must die there and then. But what if we suppose that there is a continuous distribution—say, something like an exponential one—with parameters continuously depending on the degree of damage, governing the random point at which the organism departs from this life if the damage is not changed? Of course, this kind of a story only makes sense on a non-naturalistic picture where there is some further unobservable fact about life.

I wonder what other metaphysical questions might have random answers.

The antisymmetry of temporary parthood

Sider suggests this four-dimensionalist characterization of “temporary parthood” in terms of temporal parts:

1. Necessarily, x is part of y at t iff x and y each exist at t, and x’s temporal part at t is part of y’s temporal part at t.

Somehow I never noticed something that is probably pretty obvious to people who work on this: temporary parthood defined thus is not antisymmetric (where a relation R is antisymmetric provided that xRy and yRx implies x = y). For consider myself, x, and my temporal part, x_t, at t. Then x_t ≠ x, but x_t is a part of x and x is a part of x_t, assuming plausibly that the temporal part of x_t at t is x_t (otherwise, we get a weird infinite regress where each temporal part at t has a distinct temporal part at t).

Is this a problem? I think so. We do after all seem to have an ordinary notion of parthood at a time, and that notion is antisymmetric: two distinct objects can’t be mutually parts of each other at the same time. If you are a part of a club at t, the club isn’t a part of you at t, even if you are the only member at that time.

We can avoid the above temporal part counterexample to asymmetry by modifying (1) to be:

2. Necessarily, x is part of y at t iff x and y each exist at t, and x’s temporal part at t is part of y’s temporal part at t, and y is not a proper part of x.

But that’s not good enough. For consider non-instantaneous temporal parts, such as myself from time a to time b (both inclusive): x_[a,b]. Then x_[0,3] and x_[1,4] have the same temporal part at t, and so by (2) they are still mutually parts of each other at t, since neither is a proper part of the other simpliciter.

But perhaps we can argue that temporary parthood is not antisymmetric. Consider this story:

• t₁: you have a lump of unbaked clay

• t₂: the clay has been formed into a statue

• t₃: the statue has just been gilded

• t₄: the gilding has just been removed

• t₅: a piece of the clay has been pinched off in order to improve the appearance of the statue’s nose.

Consider the cloud of molecules of the original lump of clay. This cloud persists through the whole story. Initially, it does not form a statue, and at the end it forms more than the statue (since the pinched off bit is a part of the cloud but not the statue then). It seems clear that:

1. The cloud is a part of the statue at t₃, with the gold being the other part at t₃

But the cloud did not become a temporary part of the statue when it was gilded. Thus:

2. The cloud is already a part of the statue at t₂.

Conversely:

3. The statue is a part of the cloud at t₅.

But the statue does not become a temporary part of the cloud when a bit is pinched off. Thus:

4. The statue is a part of the cloud at t₄.

But there is surely no difference in the temporary relationships between the statue and the cloud at t₂ and t₄, so:

22. The statue is a part of the cloud at t₂.

But since the statue is not the cloud, (ii) and (v) imply that parthood at t₂ is not antisymmetric.

If we have a strong intuition that temporary parthood should be antisymmetric, the above example suggests that we should have a restricted view of composition, one on which at least one of the cloud and the statue does not exist.