On it's surface, it is a pop-culture expression of Cold War anxiety. But Cold War anxiety is just a symptom of a much deeper problem, and in this movie, is used as a mere cover story to ask essential questions: What does it mean to be human? What makes us so special? How did the Enlightenment change our understanding of ourselves as creatures in the universe: unique, and deserving of special regard because of that uniqueness? What would it matter if we did in fact "blow it all to hell"? What is the significance of our capacity to learn and understand, to communicate, to experience love and loss, to create, and to destroy? Planet of the Apes asks all of these questions, and more...
This book does far more than "inspire further investigation". It is a compact hand-grenade with the explosive power of an H-bomb. Anyone with the ambition and the sensitivity to the philosophical conundrums addressed in this book, could find himself on a life-long quest hunting down the splinters in the mind it leaves behind.... given a wise guide, and a group with which to discuss the men and ideas presented in this book, I think the book is a fantastic place to begin a journey, not just in the ideas of the Enlightenment, but in philosophy itself.
We're being robbed of our capacity for expression in more ways than just overt censorship. In the name of "liberation" from an ostensible "oppression" we are stripped of access to our cultural heritage, and denied the opportunity to learn the rules and principles that governed the creation of new art in previous generations. This is dangerous, and we ought to reject this.
The role of the private sphere of life has been drastically eroded and diminished over the last twenty-five years, by the exploitation of network technology in the form of social media... Where does this leave the status of the sphere of the private? When the only barrier left between public and private, is mere ignorance of your presence in this new ubiquitous public sphere, can it really be said that there is a private sphere anymore?
Unlike the old testament god of "power and might", the Christian God is great, precisely because he can choose to refrain from exercising his power, for the sake of something greater. The defining example of this, of course, is Christ's last moments on the cross, in which the Romans are permitted to murder his Son, and in a brief moment of his human frailty, Christ begs to know why. Thus, the God of Christianity has free will, and Christ answers Socrates Euthyphro dilemma, by suggesting that yes, there is a moral order written into the universe itself, that even God himself looks to for guidance.
The so-called problem of induction, plainly stated, comes down to this: inductive reasoning appears to have no rational justification. Unlike deductive reasoning, which offers apparent justification in its formal structure, the form of an inductive argument can at best only offer probabilistic confidence, and at worst, no justification at all, if we examine it’s application in the context of, say, a causal explanation. To see why this is the case, let’s examine some formal examples.
First, let’s have a look at a deductive argument to see why it appears to be rational:
P1: Thomas is a Catholic Monk
P2: Catholic monks believe in a triune God
C: Therefore, Thomas believes in a triune God
In this classic example of a deductive syllogism, the premises are propositional assertions that are independent of each other. That is to say, they are assertions about individual objects, to which a predicate coherently applies, that could be uttered individually, without reliance upon the other.
Yet, together, they share a common feature that links them in an important way. The shared feature is the property of “Catholic monkness”. In the first premise, that property is a predicate applied to Thomas. In the second premise, it is the object to which a belief in a triune God is applied. Understood this way, you could abstract the assertions into a kind of formula:
T(homas) = M(onk) = G(od belief). Or, mathematically: a = b; b = c.
This is what is known as the “transitive law” of logic (which has an analogue in math as well). This property is what gives our conclusion it’s deductive weight. If Thomas is a monk, and monks believe in God, then obviously, Thomas believes in God. To put it in formal logical terms: If aRb and bRc, then aRc.
There are indeed linguistic and ontological questions in philosophy that call into question the nature of the transitive property and logical necessitation, and by extension, the rational basis for accepting this law as read, but that is beyond the scope of this essay, and beyond the scope of everyday usage. Suffice it to say, the only point here is that relative to a valid deduction like this, we have even less reason to claim rationality for our inductive conclusions, if folks like David Hume are correct. Let’s now juxtapose an inductive syllogism against this, to see the problem in a more clear light:
P1: On Monday, Thomas made his morning offering in the chapel.
P2: On Tuesday, Thomas made his morning offering in the chapel.
C: Therefore, on Wednesday, Thomas will make his morning offering in the chapel.
This is what is known as a simple “enumerative induction”, because it simply enumerates instances, and infers a prediction from them. This form of argument suffers from two problems: first, despite the fact that the enumerative premises are independent of each other (like in the deduction), they do not share a transitive property between them. Nothing “logically links” the enumerations. They are like random pebbles on the beach.
Next, If you look at the conclusion, it too appears to be nothing more than another enumeration, with one difference: it is a prediction. Our premises are statements about the past, and our conclusion is a statement about the future. What, in the two premises, compels the conclusion? What makes it true, that Thomas will be in the chapel on Wednesday morning? Hume offered a tentative theory to explain this. He would have said that the “constant conjunction” of experiences of Thomas in the Chapel each morning, impresses upon us a psychological disposition to expect Thomas in the chapel on subsequent mornings. Perhaps this is so. But, if it is, it renders inductive inference a wholly irrational phenomenon, because rather than from our reasoning, we derive the expectation from phenomenal “impressions” that give rise organically to an idea of Thomas in the chapel on future mornings.
To be a bit more charitable, let’s restate this induction in a way that appears as deductive as possible:
P1: During his career as a monk, Thomas has always made his morning offering in the chapel.
P2: Presently, it is morning.
C: Therefore, Thomas will soon be making his morning offering in the chapel.
At first glance, this appears to contain a transitive relation between premise one and two, in the circumstance of the morning. But this is illusory. To see why, it will help to formalize this a bit more:
Let’s call “has made his morning offering”, “was-A”;
Next, let’s call “it is morning”, “is-B”
Finally, let’s call “will soon be making his morning offering”, “will-be-C”
Before I even formulate this, the problem should begin to whisper itself in how I labeled the terms. But, here is the formula: was-A = is-B = will-be-C. Surely, it’s obvious by now: deduction deals with what is, and only with what is. It cannot cope with movement through time, because it is not possible to formalize epistemic certainty about the future. This syllogism is attempting to masquerade as a deduction, in order to give deductive weight to modal ways of thinking. In other words, inductive inferences draw conclusions about what is possible, while deductive inferences draw conclusions about what is necessarily so. But the conclusion in our present argument is no more necessitated than in the first induction. There are extensions that have been made to classical logic, in an attempt to deal with this problem, with varying degrees of success, but none of them is definitive. This is again beyond the scope of this essay. So, the problem of induction remains for us.
There is a second problem with our second induction. In the case of the deduction, part of what facilitates the transitive property, and imposes necessity upon our conclusion, is the definitional nature of our propositional assertions, and thus, the syllogism as a whole. Thomas must believe in the triune God, because by definition, Catholic monks believe in the triune God. But, there is nothing in the definition of a Catholic monk, that necessitates morning offerings in the chapel; nothing in the definition of morning, that necessitates that Catholic monks will be in chapels; and so forth. Thomas could just as easily make his offerings in his billet, or in the garden, or if he is ill, not at all, and he would still be a Catholic monk, and mornings would still occur (presumably).
So, the question becomes, is it only rational to believe things that can be derived from valid deductive arguments, or definitional tautologies? Or, contra Hume, is a man reasonable for belief in things that could only be, at best, probabilistically true? Intuitively, it seems insane to suggest that believing that the sun will rise tomorrow is irrational. Scientists, for example, often take the “regularity of nature” as an ontological given, or axiom. They do this, because they assume the truth of the optimistic meta-induction: inductive inferences have yielded many successful results in the past, so they will in the future. But this is circular reasoning. And yet, induction does seem to “work”. Even in the small things. Each time a breath in, my expectations are satisfied. Each time I put one foot in front of the other, on my way to the coffee shop, my foot lands on the pavement, and I move forward. Surely, this is a rational expectation?
But perhaps we are confusing the nature of the term “rational”, with something like “sane” or “acceptable” or “appropriate”. These are value-laden, normative terms. You’re a “right-thinking” or “sane” person, we might say, to expect that your pencil will not suddenly turn into an inflatable raft, or your girlfriend to suddenly turn into a cucumber. This is clearly an appeal to a psychological state, rather than a reasoned worldview. So, perhaps there is something to what Hume was suggesting. In which case, our task is to figure out what sort of irrational beliefs are also acceptable or appropriate to have, and on what sort of standard we would base this distinction between acceptable and unacceptable irrational beliefs. The alternative, is that we need to rationally account for expectation, which is to say, justify induction, in order to count inductive inferences among the rational set of beliefs, and escape the pit of irrationality we seem to be sliding into.
That justification will be the subject of my next post.
Welcome to the first episode of “Exiting The Cave”. My name is Greg. I am an amateur philosopher, studying philosophy part-time at the University of London, in their International Program. My “day job” is in tech, but my passion is philosophy. In case you’re not familiar with it, I have been writing a philosophy blog for about 5 years, now. You can find it at https://exitingthecave.com
This podcast is an attempt to extend that work, to challenge myself to do more, and to give readers of my blog more philosophy content. The blog has been, more or less, a running record of my attempt at a properly formal philosophy education. I’m hoping to take the podcast a bit further. Here, I want to explore ideas more freely, and delve a bit into subject areas I’ve studiously avoided on the blog. I’ll be venturing into the philosophy of aesthetics and music (as one of my keen hobby interests), and cracking open the Pandora’s Box of political philosophy and practical ethics. This way, I can sharpen the focus of the blog even further, creating a self-made resource for evidence, arguments, and other artifacts supporting the podcast.
To get things started, I want to use this podcast to benchmark the inspiration for the blog – Plato’s allegory of the cave – and talk a bit about why I have found myself sticking to the allegory, in spite of its cliché reputation these days. I’ll begin by telling the story, as portrayed in The Republic itself, and afterward, I’ll offer a few remarks about the many layers of meaning built into it, and why it resonates with me.
The Allegory of the Cave
Let’s get started. We’ll be entering Plato’s Republic, at Stephanos number 514a1, for those who want to follow along. Socrates’ dialectic partner throughout, is Glaucon, but the dialog is entirely in Socrates’ voice. I’ll be speaking in the first-person from this point on, as Socrates, then.
I said [to Glaucon], “make an image [in your mind] of our nature in its education and want of education, likening it to a condition of the following kind. See human beings as though they were in an underground cavelike dwelling with its entrance, a long one, open to the light across the whole width of the cave. They are in it from childhood with their legs and necks in bonds so that they are fixed, seeing only in front of them, unable because of the bond to turn their heads all the way around. Their light is from a fire burning far above and behind them. Between the fire and the prisoners there is a road above, along which see a wall, built like the partitions puppet-handlers set in front of the human beings and over which they show the puppets.” 514ab
“I see,” he said.
“Then also see along this wall human beings carrying all sorts of artifacts, which project above the wall, and statues of men and other animals wrought from stone, wood, and every kind of material; as is to be expected, some of the carriers utter sounds while others are silent.” c515a
“It’s a strange image,” he said, “and strange prisoners you’re telling of.”
“They’re like us,” I said. “For in the first place, do you suppose such men would have seen anything of themselves and one another other than the shadows cast by the fire on the side of the cave facing them?”
“How could they,” he said, “if they had been compelled to keep their heads motionless throughout life?”b
“And what about the things that are carried by? Isn’t it the same with them?”
“If they were able to discuss things with one another, don’t you believe they would hold that these things that they see, are the actual beings, to which they give names?
“And what if the prison also had an echo from the side facing them? Whenever one of the men passing by happens to utter a sound, do you suppose they would believe that anything other than the passing shadow was uttering the sound?”
“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I don’t.”
“Then most certainly,” I said, “such men would hold that the truth is nothing other than the shadows of artificial things.”c
“Most necessarily,” he said.
“Now consider,” I said, “what their release and healing from bonds and folly would be like if something of this sort were by nature to happen to them. Take a man who is released and suddenly compelled to stand up, to turn his neck around, to walk and look up toward the light; and who, moreover, in doing all this is in pain and, because he is dazzled, is unable to make out those things whose shadows he saw before. What do you suppose he’d say if someone were to tell him that before he saw silly nothings, while now, because he is somewhat nearer to what is and more turned toward being, he sees more correctly; and, in particular, showing him each of the things that pass by, were to compel the man to answer his questions about what they are? Don’t you suppose he’d be at a loss and believe that what was seen before is truer than what is now shown?”d
“Yes,” he said, “by far.”
“And, if he compelled him to look at the light itself, would his eyes hurt and would he flee, turning away to those things that he is able to make out and hold them to be really clearer than what is being shown?”e
“So he would,” he said.
“And if,” I said, “someone dragged him away from there by force along the rough, steep, upward way and didn’t let him go before he had dragged him out into the light of the sun, wouldn’t he be distressed and annoyed at being so dragged? And when he came to the light, wouldn’t he have his eyes full of its beam and be unable to see even one of the things now said to be true?”516a
“No, he wouldn’t,” he said, “at least not right away.”
“Then I suppose he’d have to get accustomed, if he were going to see what’s up above. At first he’d most easily make out the shadows; and after that the reflections of the human beings and the other things in water; and, later, the things themselves. And from there he could turn to beholding the things in heaven and heaven itself, more easily at night—looking at the light of the stars and the moon—than by day—looking at the sun and sunlight.”516b
“Then, finally, he would be able to make out the sun—not its mere appearances in water or some alien place, but the sun itself by itself in its own proper place — and contemplate it as it truly is.”
“Necessarily,” Glaucon said.
“And after that he would already be in a position to conclude about it that this is the source of the seasons and the years, and is the steward of all things in the visible place, and is in a certain way the cause of all those things he and his companions had been seeing all along.”516c
“It’s plain,” he said, “that this would be his next step.”
“What then? When he recalled his first home and the wisdom there, and his fellow prisoners in that time, don’t you suppose he would consider himself happy for the change and have pity for the others?”
“And if in that time there were among them any honors, praises, and prizes for the man who is sharpest at making out the things that go by, and most remembers which of them are accustomed to pass before, which after, and which at the same time as others, and who is thereby most able to divine what is going to come, in your opinion would he be desirous of them and envy those who are honored and hold power among these men? Or, rather, would he be affected as Homer says and want very much ‘to be on the soil, a serf to another man, to a portionless man,’ and to undergo anything whatsoever rather than to opine those things and live that way?”d
“Yes,” Glaucon said, “I suppose he would prefer to undergo everything rather than live in that way.”e
“Now reflect on this too,” I said. “If such a man were to come down again and sit in the same seat, on coming suddenly from the sun wouldn’t his eyes get infected with darkness?”
“Very much so,” he said.
“And if he once more had to compete with those perpetual prisoners in forming judgments about those shadows while his vision was still dim, before his eyes had recovered, and if the time needed for getting accustomed were not at all short, wouldn’t he be the source of laughter, and wouldn’t it be said of him that he went up and came back with his eyes corrupted, and that it’s not even worth trying to go up? And if they were somehow able to get their hands on and kill the man who attempts to release them and lead up, wouldn’t they kill him?” 517a
“No doubt about it,” he said.
“Well, then, my dear Glaucon,” I said, “this image as a whole must be connected with what was said before. Liken the domain revealed through sight to the prison home, and the light of the fire in it to the sun’s power; and, in applying the going up and the seeing of what’s above to the soul’s journey up to the intelligible place, you’ll not mistake my expectation, since you desire to hear it. A god doubtless knows if it happens to be true. In any event, this is the way the phenomena look to me: in the knowable the last thing to be seen, and that with considerable effort, is the idea of the good; but once seen, it must be concluded that this is in fact the cause of all that is right and fair in everything—in the visible it gave birth to light and its sovereign; in the intelligible, itself sovereign, it provided truth and intelligence—and that the man who is going to act prudently in private or in public must see it.”bc
My Analysis of The Allegory
The Republic is itself a dialogue so layered and so subtle that one could spend an entire philosophical career on it (indeed, several have). The allegory of the cave embedded within the dialogue is one of several gems dotting the whole narrative, and is arguably the most brilliant of them. It is not hard to see why this dialogue has inspired so many philosophers throughout history. Notice, for example, the use of physical direction, and motion. At the opening of the the Republic, for example, Socrates’ first words are, “I went down to the Pireaus…”. In the allegory of the cave, we are following him down into the cave. By the time we get to the end of the allegory of the cave, we have risen not only out of the cave, but up to a plane of existence beyond mortal imagining — only to descend down into the cave again. In other words, the allegory becomes a meta-narrative describing the reader’s journey through the dialogue of the Republic, itself.
Many other examples of this sort of symbolism and allusion are present (such as, for example, the fact that Adiemantus, Glaucon, and Socrates are themselves representatives at times, of the three kinds of citizen populating in the ideal republic; or, for example that the cave and its escapee are a metaphor for childbirth, in the transition from womb to independent organism). But, for the purposes of this podcast, I want to focus on three insights of my own.
The Problem of the Forms
First, there is the role of Plato’s Forms in the allegory of the cave. It’s not clear whether and how much of Plato’s dialogues are Plato talking, or Socrates. But many agree that the Theory of Forms was entirely a creation of Plato, and his use of Socrates to elucidate it was purely dramatic. One problem with this, is how it confounds the Allegory of the Cave (which may have originally been Socrates’).
To briefly summarize the theory here, Plato’s Forms are transcendental universals out of which all particulars in the material changing universe derive their genuine, or ultimate, reality. They are not simply conceptual generalizations in the mind, encapsulating, say, the “idea of chair” or the “idea of justice”. They are permanent, unchanging casting dies, from which the demiurge presses the material instances of chairs, or acts of justice, or even particular properties like size, color, shape, and nature. This is what Plato is referring to, when he puts into Socrates’ mouth, the words “… the idea of the good …” 2
But, this raises a serious problem with the allegory. For, as Parmenides3 pointed out in his dialogue with Socrates, there is no method by which men could obtain knowledge of the Forms, while remaining in the mortal realm. The implication for the Allegory, is simply this, then: nobody ever, really, leaves the cave. But Socrates (or perhaps Plato?) seems to think we can. The allegory is explicit about this. The philosopher king dwells in the realm of the Forms, and then faces the choice of whether or not to return to the cave to rescue his comrades. If it were a one-way trip, no such choice would confront him. But, it could only be a one-way trip, if the Forms are as Plato insists they are. So, either the Forms are not eternal, or we cannot return to the cave.
Epistemology and Motivation
Second, there is a problem with why any particular person in the cave would actually undergo such an ordeal as being extricated from his shackles. This is not just a practical question. I’m not simply saying that because nobody sane would bother, then neither should we as philosophers. Rather, I’m saying that the allegory skirts the question of motivation by putting us already in the “deus ex machina” position of having extracted the captive — and, that motive is key, because it calls into question the whole project. What, exactly, are we seeking? How did it come about that we knew to seek it? How will we know when we’ve found it?
So, in addition to the ontological problem that the Forms present us with, we’re now saddled with an epistemological one as well. Not having access to the Forms (assuming they do exist), and having no awareness of anything but the cave shackles into which we’ve been born, how could we possibly have any awareness to even ask the question of what is “beyond the cave”, or any motivation to question our experience of the cave itself? Socrates admits as much in the retelling of the allegory itself. We are cave dwellers ourselves, and would have no means of unshackling ourselves or the object of the allegory. Were we to tell him we could unshackle ourselves and him, he would surely tell us that we were lunatics for suggesting such a project — and he would be justified in doing so, without some rational standard for believing that such a thing is not only possible, but likely to yield what we claim, if attempted.
The Forced Rescue
There is an addendum to the traditional allegory story, that is often not included in its retelling. Recall that the largest part of The Republic, is Plato’s argument for what a just polis would look like, and by analogy, what a just soul would be. Socrates imagines three classes of men in The Republic: the men of everyday appetitive concerns (the craftsmen), the men of honour (the warriors), and the men of wisdom (the “Guardians”). For Plato, the “Guardian” is the man who has ascended from the cave, and dwelt in the realm of the Forms. Having both the capacity for, and the acheivement of, this enlightenment, he is the class of man who is best equipped to rule the rest of us, because he can see things that we cannot. But there is a problem with this part of the theory. Plato hinted at it already, in the reading above4, but later gets more explicit about the implications of this. Let’s have a look at that, here, beginning at 517d:
“Come, then,” I said, “and join me in supposing this, too, and don’t be surprised that the men who get to that point aren’t willing to mind the business of human beings, but rather that their souls are always eager to spend their time above. Surely that’s likely, if indeed this, too, follows the image of which I told before.”
“Of course it’s likely,” he said.
“And what about this? Do you suppose it is anything surprising,” I said, “if a man, come from acts of divine contemplation to the human evils, is graceless and looks quite ridiculous when—with his sight still dim and before he has gotten sufficiently accustomed to the surrounding darkness—he is compelled in courts or elsewhere to contest about the shadows of the just or the representations of which they are the shadows, and to dispute about the way these things are understood by men who have never seen justice itself?”
“It’s not at all surprising,” he said.
And, further on, at 519c, Plato explains what would happen to such men:
…Isn’t it likely,” I said, “and necessary, as a consequence of what was said before, that those who are without education and experience of truth would never be adequate stewards of a city, nor would those who have been allowed to spend their time in education continuously to the end—the former because they don’t have any single goal in life at which they must aim in doing everything they do in private or in public, the latter because they won’t be willing to act, believing they have emigrated to a colony on the Isles of the Blessed while they are still alive?”
“True,” he said.
“Then our job as founders,” I said, “is to compel the best natures to go to the study which we were saying before is the greatest, to see the good and to go up that ascent; and, when they have gone up and seen sufficiently, not to permit them what is now permitted.”
“What’s that?”, Glaucon asked.
“To remain there,” I said, “and not be willing to go down again among those prisoners or share their labors and honors, whether they be slighter or more serious.”
“What?” he said. “Are we to do them an injustice, and make them live a worse life when a better is possible for them?”
“My friend, you have again forgotten,” I said, “that it’s not the concern of law that any one class in the city fare exceptionally well, but it contrives to bring this about in the city as a whole, harmonizing the citizens by persuasion and compulsion, making them share with one another the benefit that each is able to bring to the commonwealth. And it produces such men in the city not in order to let them turn whichever way each wants, but in order that it may use them in binding the city together.”
“That’s true,” he said. “I did forget.”
So, Plato’s philosophers would not naturally wish to return to the cave on a voluntary basis. They would, rather, wish to “remain and not be willing to go down again“. Glaucon rightly supposes forcing them to go down would be an injustice against them as individuals, since this sort of compulsion would be imposing a form of evil on the enlightened man. But, Plato reminds us, the goal here is not to maximize the individual’s own happiness. It is to harmonization the polis as a whole. To put it in modern parlance, they would be forced to return for the greater good. They would not return because they had any sort of love for their former cave mates. Plato understood the difference between love and pity, and the difference between love and duty.
But, the point here, is not to take issue with Plato’s totalitarianism, or to argue the efficacy of an idea like a tripartite polis (I will do this, in a later podcast). Rather, it is to say that the allegory of the cave is clear evidence of a problem with Plato’s theory. As a thought experiment, it has exposed an irrationality in his design. The moment one must resort to compulsion, and to apologetics for the use of force, one has abandoned reason. But Plato cannot see this, because he has so fallen in love with his own idea, that its flaws are invisible to him. Two of those flaws have been outlined here already. But there are dozens of other problems as well; not only within the confines of Plato’s own logical structure, but also across the span of three thousand years of hind-sight. Analysis of those additional mistakes will have to wait for another discussion.
Given my criticisms of the allegory of the cave, why would I adopt it as a defining feature of my philosophical “brand”, as it were? Clearly, I recognize how deeply flawed it is, in spite of how inspiring it is. So, why venerate it with a permanent reference built into the podcast? Good question.
One feature of Plato’s dialogues that I find compelling, and in many ways preferable, to the writings of, say, Aristotle, is precisely the fact that they are dialogues. Aristotle goes to great lengths in the Nicomachean Ethics to explain and to argue the necessity of practice in the formation of a virtuous character. He is right, of course. But, ironically, by engaging in didactics, rather than dialectics, Aristotle does not practice what he preaches. Plato, again ironically, is doing precisely this. Rather than explaining to us how and why we ought to prefer reason to appetite, Plato shows us the art of reason in the form of a drama, expecting us to take that example and employ it ourselves, in our own dialectics in the present. He is encouraging us to think and introspect by way of example, not simply enjoining us to do so.
Reasoning well is not something that can be imparted as a complete package, and by explanation alone. It must be done, repeatedly, and with expert guidance, in order for mastery of the art to be achieved. Aristotle provides us with a useful toolset in the form of the syllogism, and the model of generalizations from particulars. But he does not give us sufficient examples of these tools actually in use. Plato’s dialogues are the kinds of examples that are needed. We can see this here, in both the example of the Republic, and the Parmenides. Learning to reason is like learning to swim, or learning to sing. You must feel what it’s like to have a moment of rational clarity, must remember the state you are in when that happens, and must learn how to repeat that state. The dialogues are the meditations needed to facilitate that work.
When you take your first steps in philosophy, at least traditionally, you are confronted with dialogues like the Euthyphro or the Meno. Dialogues that are not simple or superficial, by any stretch. But dialogues that are narrowly focused on one particular idea. The apprentice philosopher learns to examine one idea, and explore all of its facets, before he is tasked with looking at two or three in relation to each other. The Republic (and arguably, The Parmenides), represent the culmination of that effort. These works demand that the thinker examine numerous inter-related ideas, all in relation to each other, and on several levels of analysis. The allegory of the cave embedded in The Republic, then, is as I have said before, the metaphor for the intellectual and emotional journey of the philosopher.
As I have shown in this critique, Plato must have understood that the attainment of full communion with the Form of The Good is not something that is possible for finite, incomplete beings such as ourselves. And yet, he did think that glimpses were possible. The allegory of the cave, then, represents not the attainment of enlightenment, but the striving for it. The pursuit of truth is a sort of “Zeno’s Paradox” for the problem of enlightenment. Through study, introspection, and the practice of dialectic, we slowly learn that we are shackled, we gradually gain the knowledge to unshackle ourselves, and we slowly stumble our way in the dark cave, toward the dim light high above, coming from the cave mouth. Yet, we can never quite achieve the threshold, as it always seems just that much further away. We are always exiting the cave, and this is why my blog and my podcast are so named.
- Republic, 514a ↩
- “Idea” is often a substitute for the word “Form” in translations of the dialogues. I generally prefer not to use it, because of the confusion it causes as a result of our modern notion of “idea”. But this translation used it. So, I’m sticking with it in this quote. ↩
- Parmenides, beginning at 133c, “…when ideas are what they are in relation to one another, their essence is determined by a relation among themselves, and has nothing to do with the resemblances, or whatever they are to betermed, which are in our sphere, and from which we receive this or that name when we partake of them. And the things which are within our sphere and have the same names with them, are likewise only relative to one another, and not to the ideas which have the same names with them, but belong to themselves and not to them… if God has this perfect authority, and perfect knowledge, his authority cannot rule us, nor his knowledge know us, or any human thing; just as our authority does not extend to the gods, nor our knowledge know anythingwhich is divine, so by parity of reason they, being gods, are not our masters, neither do they know the things of men. Yet, surely, said Socrates, to deprive God of knowledge is monstrous.…” ↩
- Republic, 516d-e ↩
The following notes are an attempt at outlining my basic thought process, to document my progress in the study of metaphysical realism, and offer the reader some food for thought. I offer it, as is. If there are any actual arguments in this post, it is purely by accident. If there are any answers to the problem of realism within this text, the reader is free to take them.
A (Very) Brief History of What Is
The first question in metaphysics, the fundamental question, is “What is there?” Putting this more succinctly, in order to rely on fewer linguistic crutches, you could just say, “What is?”. In order to answer this question — or even to imagine an answer is possible — we have to ask ourselves a few other questions first. To begin with, why is this the question?
Somehow, we are beings. Somehow, we are beings aware of being, and of our own being. What is that awareness, and why do we have it? Descartes1 took that awareness as axiomatic (a “clear and distinct idea“, in his terms). It was the fundamental feature of his entire ontology, famously captured as “Cogito, Ergo Sum“. Awareness, thinking, not only implies being, it entails it. Descartes speculated that sense experiences were just another kind of thinking: they are the ideas that come to us as sense experiences. Berkeley posited this speculation as a fact.2 Experiences just are ideas in the mind, including the mind of God. Locke3 agreed that sensations are ideas in the mind, but insisted in a world apart from those ideas, a mindless mechanical world, in which inhered powers to populate the mind with the ideas of experience. Our bodies function as a reception medium, upon which reality makes its impressions, and the mind records those impressions. There are whispers of Hume in this language.
Tying this back to the germ of “awareness“, it seems from the preceding paragraph, that there are two different forms of awareness taking shape: thoughtful awareness, and experiential awareness. This vague duality corresponds with several well known distinctions in philosophy. The “subject-object dichotomy”, the “analytic-synthetic” distinction, and the “rationalism-empiricism” distinction. Described in various ways, by various philosophers, these two forms of awareness are said to give us a complete set of tools for discovering “what is“. As I see it, then, the core dispute amongst metaphysicians of modern philosophy, has been over whether experiential awareness just collapses into thoughtful awareness, and whether it makes sense at all to talk about the being of things beyond the reach of either thoughtful or experiential awareness. In the first case, this is the argument between rationalists and empiricists. In the second case, this is the argument between the realists and the anti-realists. The realists, so-called counterintuitively, because they accept as “real”, any number of beings beyond the reach of thoughtful or experiential awareness. The anti-realist, so-called because he does not accept anything as real, other than what can be grounded in thoughtful or experiential awareness. The Idealist may find it hard to locate a fit for himself within this schema. On the one hand, the Berkeleyan Idealist will want to say that it makes no sense to talk of beings that are beyond the reach of thoughtful or experiential awareness, thus placing him in the anti-realist camp. The Platonic Idealist, on the other hand, could be seen as defending realism, as against Parmenides 4 , by insisting both that the Forms exist, and that they are beyond our worldly apprehension.
How Do We Know?
Lurking in the background of this outline, lies a third major component. Namely, the problem of knowledge. When I speculate about tools for answering questions of an ontological nature, I am talking not just about whether the answers to those questions are true or false, as compared to a reality. I am also asking how we know “what is“? I have left it an unspoken assumption up to this point, that thoughtful and experiential awareness constitutes knowledge of being, whether that being is a complete entity or merely some particular property of a complete entity. Despite the confusing label of “conceptual realist“, Berkeley would deny that anything like an entity or properties of an entity could be known without an idea of it, because it is a bald absurdity to say that what is unknown is also known. On this basis, one could count Berkeley amongst the anti-realists, though also an idealist.
Empiricists like Locke seem far more willing to take certain beings as real, independently of any conception of them. Locke posited two kinds (“primary” and “secondary”) of properties of objects. His “secondary” properties were a kind of experiential awareness of an object that did not derive directly from the object, but from powers or features hidden from experiential awareness, yet inherent in the objects nonetheless. It is not hard to see why Berkeley would have had a complaint with Locke. How could he claim this reasonably, with no recourse to any demonstration, logical or empirical? The paradigm example of such a thing, is color. An apple is not red, says Locke, but hidden features of the apple and its surrounding environment conspire to produce the experiential awareness of red within our minds. Berkeley (I think rightly) asks, if we are going to posit such mechanisms for color or smell, then why not for shape, or heft, or motion, as well? He insists it is a distinction without a difference. If the idea of red is in the mind, then so is the idea of the shape of the apple, and the idea of it’s girth in our hand, and this is what makes the apple and all of its properties real.
As it turns out, later discoveries about light, the eye, and color have all apparently vindicated Locke over Berkeley. It is indeed a hidden feature of the apple, interacting with hidden features in the environment, that give us the experiential awareness of a red apple. However, further discoveries about the neurology of the eye and the brain, and subsequent discoveries about the quantum behaviors of light, that also seem to vindicate Berkeley. We know from neuroscience, for example, that experiential awareness is actually a coordinated composition of numerous asynchronous events. Nerve signals from the retina, from the ear drum, from the skin in our fingertips, from the olfactory nerves, and the tongue, all arrive in the brain as a more-or-less disordered collection of snap-together parts, often in different orders of arrangement and time, requiring the waiting for parts to complete the assembly of each moment of experiential awareness into a coherent composite image. This is often cited by determinists as a strong reason to reject free will (a question I will not address here). Why is this not also a strong reason to accept Berkeley’s “conceptual realism“? If this composite picture is not in fact, an idea, what is it?
But I digress. The present question, is what constitutes a justification for a claim that some entity or property is “real”? How can I make a claim about “what is” or “what is not”, that will carry at least the force of believability if not also deductive and epistemic certainty? The anti-realist insists not merely that an assertion about something be logically justifiable, but that it is also amenable to some sort of experiential validation. I cannot concoct just any story about what exists and have it accepted merely because I can demonstrate the validity of the logic. My story cannot be “evidence transcendent“5, as the philosophers like to say. To be true or false — to even be able to judge as true or false — my assertions must be subject to some sort of comparison with some sort of object of the senses. As the dominant epistemologists would say, they must be subject to validation by way of correspondence with a reality6 about which my assertions make reference. Parmenides’ complaint to Socrates comes to mind here. How could the gods know us, or we them, if the world of the gods is impenetrable by the sensible world of instances? Descartes’ “clear and distinct idea” is no help here, either, since it just reiterates this very problem.
What Do We Mean?
The semantic philosophers would say that I am on the right track to ask about assertions, and what they mean, or in wondering how utterances about reality are justified in terms of their meaning. But I think this is a different problem than the questions I have been asking so far. The semantic philosophers are concerned with the assignment of a property to a thought. The description of a value belonging to a relationship between a thought and the object of that thought. They are unconcerned with objects beyond the fact that objects must be there to somehow give substance or experiential content to the relationship. A kind of equation: Thought == Object. (Interestingly, Hume frequently referred to events – both in reality, and in the mind – as “objects”7). This is the structure that Blackburn gives to truth8. Not so much a correspondence, as an equation. And he goes further than this. He wants to say that some objects come into being by thier having been thought about. Realizing the dangerous territory he is in, he is quick to draw clear lines of demarcation. Only certain things are “real” by virtue of our having thoughts of them; moral properties, or the value that inheres in money, for example. He calls this “quasi-realism”. In moral philosophy, this has come to be known as “projectivism”. This is different from Humean emotivism, because for Blackburn, the qualitative and quantitative value properties he’s describing really do exist. It’s just that the source of their existence is entirely mind-dependent. This mind-dependence is collective like Berkeley’s but it requires at least one human mind. For example, as long as at least one person sees the “value” in a dollar, the dollar has that value.
This question of the direction of flow between thought and object is fascinating to me. In Locke and Berkeley, it is fairly obvious that a substantive reality (be it a universal mind, or a mindless material) is producing experiences, and giving rise to the ideas of experiences, which we then express with varying degrees of specificity and accuracy with language. The only difference between Lockeans and Berkeleyans seems to be the nature of that substantive reality: is it mindless material governed by immutable laws in a mechanical clockwork universe, or is it a manifestation of the universal mind of God, intelligible to us because we share in that mind in some way? Both of these views puts the “ultimate” reality outside ourselves, while Blackburn wants to place at least some of it — or the responsibility for some aspects of it — squarely in our own minds. Does the source of an object or its properties affect how we answer “what is?” or even “is it real?” What sorts of properties constitute the full status of “real”? What things can be said to attain the property of existence (if being is a property, say, and not an absolute state)? For that matter, what is “existence”? The matrix of reality, within which individual beings are located? The “substrate” (as Berkeley’s Hylas would put it) that grounds all objects? Scientists (at least, the Einsteinians) would say, in a broad sense, that “existence” means some identifiable, finite accumulation of matter and energy at a locatable point in space-time. The planet Earth “exists”, for example. But this is too concrete, and thus too limiting, says someone like Blackburn. To say that because the value of a dollar has no spacio-temporal location, it therefore is non-existent, is to make us all into crazy people. So, returning to the question of direction, thoughtful and experiential awareness may be impressed by the objects in existence, or it may manifest the objects of existence, or both, or neither. Those are the choices, it seems. The last is some sort of extreme nihilism or Pyrrhonism. Locke (and Hume) take the first option, Berkeley takes the second, and Blackburn takes the third. Which of these is the correct choice?
Truth, Meaning, and Being
Crispin Wright9 takes us one level up, and asks the meta-linguistic question of whether truth is a substantive property of thoughts. Wright argues for the “deflationist” view of truth, and his is the first explication of the position that didn’t seem to me to be nothing more than a truism, or a complaint of superfluousness. The deflationist, he says, isn’t just suggesting that we economize our use of phrases like “is true” by retreating to implication only. Rather, the deflationist is denying that truth is a property of sentences at all. He is saying that it is a “disquotational tool” for making an agreement between thinkers, explicit. Since truth is either the assignment or the identification of a value property to a relationship between thought (subject) and reality (object), this would make the deflationist a kind of anti-realist about truth.
It seems to me, there are at least three ways to think about this problem:
- Truth is a real property of the relationship between thought and object, that only manifests in our asserted language through the disquotational device: “P is true, if and only if P”
- Truth is a real property of the relationship between thought and object, and is manifest in our asserted language whether or not we employ the disquotational device: either “P” or “P is true, if and only if P”
- Truth is not a real property of the relationship between thought and object, and any use of a disquotational device is misleading at best: “P” is merely the expression of an attitude or a
Perhaps it is misguided to attempt to apply the question “what is?” to such things as sentences, and the valence meanings applied to them. Do sentences “exists”? My use of phrases like “such things” suggests they do. What about thoughts? Can they have properties like an apple or a table? Can they have properties unlike an apple or a table? Can those properties be “primary” or “secondary”, as in Locke’s empiricism? The semantic philosophers are asking these questions from an analytical point of view (the view I have been taking throughout this post). But the questions have application far beyond understanding the instrumental components of linguistic meaning.
Applying my earlier question to the idea of truth makes this fairly clear: What is the “direction of flow” of the instantiation of these properties? Do we impose truth as a property on our relationship with reality? Is the relationship itself what imposes the truth? Is conceptualizing a “relationship” itself unreasonably imposing a meaning on experiential and thoughtful awareness? Where do we draw these lines, and why? More to the point, how do we draw these lines? Should we be drawing lines? As beings, as parts of the whole of being itself, there is the fundamental question of how it is we can tell the difference between the two, and even more significantly, how there can even be a difference? To put it in more concrete terms, how can mindless, mechanistic material being (the reality of Locke and Newton), give rise to a mindful, thoughtful, intentional beings? This is the kind of question that leads many philosophers into positions like animism, theism, and panpsychism.
One of the most frustrating features of the study of metaphysics, is it’s capacity to pull you down an endless rabbit hole, strip away all your certainties, dissolve all your boundaries, and leave you with endless questions, the answers to which you have almost no hope of answering. This disorienting effect, instinctively, sends most people screaming in the opposite direction. Many philosophers who are not metaphysicians, will simply draw lines arbitrarily, and insist we go no further than them. Scientists do this, too, for professional reasons. I can’t say that I blame them. There is great value in the mechanistic, dualistic view of the universe and our place within it. It has yielded many benefits to the human species. But the philosopher cannot help asking the question, “what if we’re wrong?”, and based on some of the work going on in physics and astronomy, it seems like we just might be.
- Discourse on Method, 1637 ↩
- Three Dialogues Of Hylas and Philonous, 1714 ↩
- Essay Concerning Human Understanding, 1689 ↩
- Plato, The Parmenides ↩
- Realism, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy ↩
- Correspondence Theory of Truth, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy ↩
- Treatise on Human Nature, 1739 ↩
- Spreading The Word, 1984 ↩
- Truth and Objectivity, 1994 ↩
In a previous post, I outlined some significant differences between Mill and Plato on the question of Pleasure, that I think are grounded in a misreading of Plato. Here, I present a few differences between Mill and Aristotle on the summum bonum, right and wrong action, and pleasure.
When considering the arguments in Utilitarianism, and the obvious allusions to Plato and Aristotle within it, many seem to me to be incomplete at best, and misguided at worst. The main disagreement, almost from the start, is on the question of both what constitutes a “chief good” (and how its justified), and what the chief good actually is. Namely, what is happiness. As we’ll see, this divergence is immediate, and catastrophic. Mill is clearly adopting Aristotle’s framing of the problem of morality, as one in which we must identify the highest good, and then justify our actions relative to it:
“All action is for the sake of some end, and rules of action, it seems natural to suppose, must take their whole character and colour from the end to which they are subservient.” — Mill
But Aristotle takes this a step further in his introduction, positing the summum bonum almost immediately:
“Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and choice, is though to aim at some good; and it is for this reason, the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim… If, then, there is some chief end of the things we do, which we desire for its own sake (everything else being desired for the sake of this)… clearly this must be the chief good. Will not knowledge of it, then, have a great influence on life? Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what is right?…” — Aristotle
Mill agrees that the question of how we decide right action from wrong is the same as the identification of the summum bonum; or, the explication of the foundations of morality, but:
“…a test of right and wrong must be the means… of ascertaining what is right and wrong, and not a consequence of already having ascertained it…” – Mill
To the question of determining right and wrong action, prior to knowing the chief good, Aristotle argues that this is not as easy as it sounds:
“Noble and just actions… exhibit much variety and fluctuation, so they may be thought to exist only by convention, and not by nature. But goods exhibit a similar fluctuation because they bring harm to many people; for in the past, men have been undone by reason of their wealth, and others by reason of their courage…” — Aristotle
Mill responds, stretching the problem by arguing that there is no special faculty by which we can know what the chief good is:
“…the existence of a [natural] moral instinct is itself one of the matters of dispute… our moral faculty, according to all those of its interpreters… supplies us only with the general principles of moral judgment; it is a branch of our reason, not of our sensitive faculty; and must be looked to for abstract doctrines of morality, not for perception of it in the concrete…” — Mill
But Aristotle insists that what is evident to us by reason should be enough to at least recognize the summum bonum as Eudaemonia:
“…both the general run of men, and people of superior refinement, say that [the summum bonum] is [Eudaemonia] and identify living well and flourishing with this; but with regard to what [Eudaemonia] is they differ, and the masses do not give the same account as the wise. For the former think it is something plain and obvious, like pleasure, wealth, or honour… let us not fail to notice, however, that there is a difference between arguments from an those to the first principles… while we must begin with what is evident, things are evident in two ways – some to us, some without qualification. Presumably, then, we must begin with things that are evident to us…” — Aristotle
Mill seems to agree that a first principle is necessary, but insists it cannot be Eudaemonia, arguing for the pleasure principle instead:
“…[Aristotelians hold] that morality must be deduced from first principles to support their pretensions that there ought to be either some fundamental principle or law at the root of morality, or if there be several, there should be a determinate order of precedence among them… the non-existence of an acknowledged first principle has made ethics not so much a guide as a consecration of mens actual sentiments. Still, as mens sentiments, both of favor and aversion, are greatly influenced by what they suppose to be the effects of things upon their happiness [pleasure], the principle of utility, or as Bentham latterly called it, the Greatest Happiness Principle…” — Mill
Mill goes much further in his skepticism, as well, insisting that first principles cannot be justified:
“…questions of ultimate ends are not amenable to direct proof. Whatever can be proved to be good, must be so by being shown to be a means to something admitted to be good without proof. The medical art is proved to be good by its conducing to health, but how is it possible to prove that health is good?…” — Mill
To which Aristotle retorts that Mill has forgotten to infer the Telos from the design or function of man, himself:
“…Let us return to the good we are seeking, and ask what it can be… Surely that for which sake everything else is done. In medicine this is health… it is for the sake of the [chief good] that all men do whatever they do. Therefore, there is an end for all that we do, this will be the good achievable by action… the chief good is evidently something final… we call final without qualification that which is always desirable in itself, and never for the sake of something else… Eudaemonia above all else, is held to be [final], for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else; honour, pleasure, reason, and every virtue, we choose indeed for themselves, but we choose them also for the sake of Eudaemonia, judging that through them, we shall achieve a life of Eudamonia…” — Aristotle
Mill rejects this, insisting that Eudaemonia is a myth, and simply asserting that all this ever really meant, was pleasure:
“…every writer from Epicurus to Bentham, who maintained a theory of utility, meant by it, not something to be contradistinguished from pleasure, but pleasure itself, together with the exemption from pain; and instead of opposing the useful to the agreeable or the ornamental, have always declared that the useful means these, among other things…” — Mill
But Aristotle did make this “contradistinction” (and, arguably, so did Socrates). He adopts a similar tripartite psychology to Plato’s, even while disputing Plato:
“…Let us separate, then, things good in themselves from useful things, and consider whether the former are called good by reference to a single Form… of honour, wisdom, and pleasure. Just in respect of their goodness, the accounts are distinct and diverse. The good, therefore, is not something common answering to one idea. But what then do we mean by the good?…” — Aristotle
Aristotle’s answer to this question is Eudaemonia, as mentioned before. And the three goods of honour, wisdom, and pleasure, answer to it.
Mill completely ignores the idea of Eudaemonia, blithely ploughing ahead with his equation of happiness and pleasure. He did concede, at least, two kinds of pleasure (a trap that Socrates also laid for Callicles in The Gorgias, and as I mentioned in my previous post, Mill also chose to ignore):
“…Human beings have faculties more elevated than the animal appetites, and whence once made conscious of them, do not regard anything as happiness which does not include their gratification…” — Mill
The trap, is that this implies a standard by which “high” and “low” pleasures can be judged. Aristotle partly agrees, and again, articulates his tripartite view. But says that Mill is mistaken to think that high borns aren’t susceptible to low pleasures:
“…the mass of mankind are evidently quite slavish in their tastes, preferring a life suitable to beasts, but they get some ground for their view from the fact that many of those in the high places share the tastes of Sardanapallus. A further consideration of the prominent types of life shows that people of superior refinement and of active disposition identify Eudaemonia with honour; for this is, roughly speaking, the end of political life… the third kind of life, is the contemplative life…” — Aristotle
Mill’s task, then, is to name this standard, and explain why pleasure is to be adopted to the exclusion of honour or wisdom, and Eudaemonia is to be jettisoned altogether. He never really does this. The best he can offer, is a slightly better enumeration of the kinds of pleasure, than Callicles could offer, in the Gorgias:
“…of two pleasures, if there be one to which all or most give a decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable pleasure… if one of the two [pleasures] is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so far above the other that they prefer it even though knowing it to be attended with a greater amount of discontent… we are justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority in quality…” — Mill
So, there is no standard beyond a democratic vote, among the “competently acquainted”. Mill never explains what would constitute competent acquaintance, or why a democratic majority constitutes a standard for “superiority in quality”.
Aristotle differed from Mill dramatically on the question of pleasure. He did not reject it as the ascetics did. He did not elevate it to the summum bonum the way Mill has. Rather, in addition to conceding it as one pathway or life among the three that leads to Eudaemonia, he also saw it as an instrumental good. It is an “instrument reading” telling us whether we’re achieving what we hold valuable (what we love). To wit:
“…pleasure is a state of the soul, and to each man, that which he is said to be a lover of, is pleasant; for example, not only is a horse pleasant to a lover of horses, and a spectacle to a lover of sights, so too in the same way are just acts pleasant to the lover of justice and in general virtuous actions to the lover of virtue… the lovers of what is noble find pleasant the things that are by nature pleasant; virtuous actions are such, so that these are pleasant for such men as well as in their own nature… the man who does not rejoice in noble actions is not even good, since no one would call a man just who did not enjoy acting justly…” — Aristotle
The question of Mill’s disagreement with Aristotle on the topics of virtue and justice is so large and complicated that I’m going to have to address it in another post. Suffice to say here, that the divergence between Aristotle and Mill after the question of the summum bonum and the pleasure principle is so great, that by the time we get to virtue and justice, the two are utterly unrecognizable.
Ultimately, I think Plato and Aristotle in combination, have actually presented a far richer and more sophisticated picture of moral psychology, than Mill has. His idea, even while borrowing Aristotle’s good-centered morality, is heavily dependent upon appeals to Victorian sentimentality, and an implicit reliance on progressive notions of the development of history and human society that require utopian optimism. What’s more, as I’ve outlined here and in the previous post, he reduces all of human motivation to a single variable — pleasure — and fails to explain why his conception of the pleasure principle is impervious to the objections presented by Plato and Aristotle — the two philosophers beyond Bentham that lurk constantly in the background of everything Mill did.
Thus, while Utilitarianism may provide some utility (pun not intended) in very localized and immediate circumstances, I do not think it is sufficient as a theory of morality in general, nor a palatable model for moral decision-making.
The authors of this hoax have engaged in precisely the kind of disingenuous scholarship that they claim to be exposing. That this is hypocritical is not the main problem, however. It is the fact that *even more disingenuous scholarship is getting published*. Polluting the journals doesn’t make them better. Adding even more pollution doesn’t make them better either. Getting rid of the pollution does.