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T H O U G H TS
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Page ii
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Thoughts
Papers on Mind, Meaning, and Modality
ST E PHE N YABLO
1
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1
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Preface
• Q1
This volume contains most of my published work on mind and modality, along
with some related work on meaning. Papers in basic metaphysics—things, identity, causation, and the like—are left for a second volume, tentatively entitled
Things.i The main omissions are technical work on truth and logic, and some
muckraking, anti-ontological papers written in the last decade or so. One early
fictionalist effort has been included, since it concerns the metaphysics of possible
worlds.
David Lewis tells us in volume i of his Philosophical Papers that he set out to
be ‘‘a piecemeal, unsystematic philosopher, offering independent proposals on a
variety of topics’’ (p. ix). Unfortunately, ‘‘it was not to be’’. The story of Lewis’s
fall from unsystematicity can be told to a large extent in his own words. Already
in volume i he admits to the existence of eight(!) ‘‘recurring themes that unify
the papers in this volume’’ (p. xi) In volume ii, we get the full confession: he has
been conducting ‘‘a prolonged campaign on behalf of the thesis I call ‘Humean
Supervenience’ ’’ (p. ix).
I too set out to be a piecemeal, unsystematic philosopher. I must say that so
far I seem to be doing a better job of it. The papers collected here do not, to my
knowledge, reflect any Humean Supervenience-like larger vision. I had thought
that this would make the Preface easier to write. Rather than weaving the views
expressed into a harmonious whole, it would be enough to show that they were
not at war with each other.
I tried. I was going to explain why, if conceivability is such a good guide to
possibility, the conceivability of zombies doesn’t refute supervenience; and how, if
disembodied pain is possible, pain can be a determinable of its physical underpinnings; and more of the same general sort. But, considered as a research topic, Are
these papers consistent? has very little to recommend it, and I am now officially giving up. •and I am now officially giving up. (Your counterpart in the nearest world
where the boring introduction is completed would thank me on your behalf, if
she could get a message through.) Problems there may be with these papers, but
they’re to do with relations to the world, not relations with volume-mates.
Everyone mentioned in the footnotes: thanks again. Donald and George: you
made this book possible. Thanks to Isaac and Zina for not making it impossible.
(Here is the condensed version, just for them: blah blah, philosophy, blah blah,
philosophy.) Utmost love and gratitude to Mrs Kulkarni.
i
It may seem odd that the second paper here has ‘‘causation’’ in the title, while the second
volume’s first paper has ‘‘essence’’ in the title. But the ‘‘causation’’ is mental causation, and the
‘‘essence’’ paper is an attempt to make sense of contingent identity.
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Queries in Chapter 0
Q1. This sentence is repeating twice. Please check.
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Acknowledgments
I thank the editors and publishers who have granted permission to reprint the
papers appearing in this volume. Dates and places of first publication are as
follows.
‘‘The Real Distinction Between Mind and Body,’’ Canadian Journal of Philosophy,
supp. vol. 16 (1990): 149–201
‘‘Is Conceivability a Guide to Possibility?’’ Philosophy and Phenomenological
Research 53 (1993): 1–42
‘‘Textbook Kripkeanism and the Open Texture of Concepts.’’ Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 81 (2000): 98–122
‘‘Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda,’’ T. Gendler and J. Hawthorne (eds.), Conceivability
and Possibility (Oxford University Press, 2002): 441–492
‘‘Beyond Rigidification’’ appears for the first time in this volume
‘‘No fool’s cold: Notes on illusions of possibility,’’ M. Garcia-Carpintero and
J. Macia (eds.), Two Dimensional Semantics (Oxford University Press, 2006):
327–345
‘‘How in the World?’’ Philosophical Topics 24 (1996): 255–286
‘‘Mental Causation,’’ Philosophical Review 101 (1992): 245–280
‘‘Singling out Properties,’’ Philosophical Perspectives 9 (1995): 477–502
‘‘Wide Causation,’’ Philosophical Perspectives 11 (1997): 251–281
‘‘Causal Relevance,’’ Philosophical Issues 13 (2003): 316–329
No Fool's Cold:
Notes on Illusions
of Possibility
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Contents
1. The Real Distinction between Mind and Body
1
2. Is Conceivability a Guide to Possibility?
39
3. Textbook Kripkeanism and the Open Texture of Concepts
79
4. Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda
103
5. No Fool’s Cold: Notes on Illusions of Possibility
151
6. Beyond Rigidification: The Importance of Being Really Actual
171
7. How in the World?
191
8. Mental Causation
222
9. Singling out Properties
249
10. Wide Causation
275
11. Causal Relevance: Mental, Moral, and Epistemic
307
Index
321
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The Real Distinction between Mind and Body
. . . it [is] wholly irrational to regard as doubtful matters that are perceived
clearly and distinctly by the understanding in its purity, on account of mere
prejudices of the senses and hypotheses in which there is an element of the
unknown.
Descartes, Geometrical Exposition of the Meditations
I . S U B S TA N C E D UA L I S M
Substance dualism, once a main preoccupation of Western metaphysics, has
fallen strangely out of view; today’s mental/physical dualisms are dualisms of
fact, property, or event. So if someone claims to find a difference between minds
and bodies per se, it is not initially clear what he is maintaining. Maybe this
is because one no longer recognizes ‘minds’ as entities in their own right, or
‘substances’. However, selves —the things we refer to by use of ‘I’—are surely
substances, and it does little violence to the intention behind mind/body dualism
to interpret it as a dualism of bodies and selves. If the substance dualist’s meaning
remains obscure, that is because it can mean several different things to say that
selves are not bodies.
Any substance dualism worthy of the name maintains at least that
(1) I am not identical to my body;
and probably most dualistic arguments are directed at just this conclusion. But
philosophers have been slow to appreciate how unimpressive non-identity theses
can be. Assuming an unrestricted version of Leibniz’s Law (the indiscernibility of
This paper is dedicated to the memory of George Myro; an early version was read at the George
Myro Memorial Conference at UC Berkeley, and a later version at the University of Arizona.
Thanks to George Bealer, Jonathan Bennett, Paul Boghossian, Janet Broughton, David Copp, Sally
Haslanger, Keith Lehrer, Louis Loeb, Vann McGee, Joe Mendola, Sarah Patterson, Larry Sklar,
Barry Stroud, William Taschek, Bruce Thomas, David Velleman, Ken Walton, and two anonymous
referees for questions, discussion, and advice. Research supported by the National Endowment for
the Humanities.
First
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FN:1
The Real Distinction between Mind and Body
identicals), non-identity is established by any difference in properties, however
slight or insignificant. If, as seems likely, my body will remain when I am dead,
then that already shows that my body and I are not the same thing; and even if
my body is not going to outlast me, such could have been the case, which again
gives a difference entailing non-identity. You may say that this is dualism enough.
But bear in mind that analogous considerations show equally that a statue is not
identical to the hunk of clay which makes it up; and this is not normally taken
as grounds for a dualism of statue and clay. On pain of insignificance, self/body
dualism must mean more than just the non-identity of self and body.¹
What more could be at issue? For all that non-identity tells us, I might still be
necessarily realized in, or constituted by, my body. For this the obvious remedy is
to strengthen (1) to
(2) I could have existed without my body.
But even (2) might mean only that I could have been constituted by a different
body than actually: which leaves it open that I am necessarily always constituted
by some body or other (as the statue is necessarily always constituted by some
hunk of matter). Only with
(3) I could have existed in the absence of all bodies (= material objects),
FN:2
FN:3
it seems, do we assert a difference between self and body beyond that obtaining
already between statue and clay.
Implying as it does that my existence is not essentially owing to the way
in which the world’s matter organizes itself, (3) approaches on a genuinely
challenging form of dualism. Nevertheless the ambitious dualist will want more;
for the possibility remains that I am in an extended sense essentially embodied,
in that my existence depends on there being either bodies or entities analogous
to bodies (say, ectoplasmic entities of some sort) whose behavior gives rise
to my mental life.² Functionalists, for example, can allow that I could exist
unaccompanied by anything material, as long as there was something present with
the appropriate causal organization. But it would be a strange sort of dualism
which insisted on my aptitude for existing in the absence of physical bodies, only
to lose interest when non-physical ‘bodies’ were proposed in their place.
In the spirit of Descartes, let us speak of my ‘thought properties’ as all and only
those properties which I am directly aware of myself as possessing.³ To say that I
¹ Not that this has gone entirely unnoticed. Observing that not only modal but even temporal
differences ‘establish that a statue is not the hunk of stone, or the congery of molecules, of which
it is composed’, Kripke allows that ‘mere non-identity . . . may be a weak conclusion’ (‘Identity
and Necessity’, 101). That is putting it mildly. That people were not identical to their bodies was
supposed to be a powerfully antimaterialistic result; but in fact it is compatible with people being as
closely bound up with their bodies as statues are with the hunks of matter which compose them!
² For the development of this possibility, see Shoemaker 1984a, b, c.
³ ‘Thought. I use this term to include everything that is within us in such a way that we are
immediately aware of it’ (CSM II, 113; AT VII, 160). More needs to be said about ‘immediate
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am embodied in the extended sense seems at least to say that there is an entity,
my ‘body’, which plays host to activities of which I am not directly aware, which
activities somehow subserve my state of consciousness. Since these activities
are not objects of direct awareness, they ought presumably to be reflected in
properties which I possess in excess of my thought properties. So the truth of
(4) I could have existed with my thought properties alone,
should have the consequence that I am capable of existing not only without
material things, but in a purely mental condition (i.e., without benefit of anything
outside my consciousness). Indeed in a situation in which I possess my thought
properties only, it would seem that I exist not just without benefit of anything
outside my consciousness, but in the complete absence of any such thing. In
recognition of this, we can strengthen (4) to
(5) I could have existed, in isolation, with my thought properties alone,
FN:4
understood to mean that I could have existed with my thought properties alone
and in the company of no other particulars (or at least none which are not part
of me).
What more could be wanted? Notice that (4) and (5) speak only to how things
could have been with me, not, or not directly, to how they are. In particular,
(4) does not rule it out that as matters stand, I am constituted by my body, nor
even that my body and I are, in the actual circumstances, exactly alike in every
ordinary respect. Compatibly with (4) and (5), I might be indistinguishable from
my body in point of size, shape, weight, etc., and my body might share all my
feelings, thoughts, and desires.
Suppose we call a property categorical if its possession by a thing speaks exclusively to what it is like in the actual circumstances, irrespective of how it would,
could, must, or might have been (naively, my thought properties are predominantly if not exclusively categorical, and so are most if not all of the traditional
primary qualities); and hypothetical if it depends on a thing’s liability to have
been in a certain way different than it is actually (so dispositional, counterfactual,
and modal properties, whether mental or physical, are hypothetical).⁴ Then the
difficulty with (4) and (5) is that they seem to express a merely hypothetical
difference between myself and my body, whereas an ambitious dualism will want
to find us categorically unlike. Either I do not possess my body’s categorical
physical properties, like that of taking up space; or my body does not possess my
categorical mental properties, like that of experiencing pain; or both.
Beware of taking the point too far; no reasonable dualist believes that I have
no categorical physical characteristics, or that my body has no categorical mental
awareness’ to rule it out that I am directly aware, e.g., of whether my legs are crossed, but this is not
a problem I take up here.
⁴ For more on the categorical/hypothetical distinction, see Yablo 1987.
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properties. Obviously we do. Even if I do not occupy space myself, I do have
the physical property of coexisting, and presumably interacting, with something
which does (my body); and my body, though perhaps not itself experiencing
pain, coexists, and interacts, with something in which pain authentically resides
(myself). Thus the claim must be that my categorical physical properties, and
my body’s categorical mental properties, are always extrinsic (P is intrinsic to x
if x’s possession of P speaks exclusively to what x is like in itself, without regard
to what may be going on outside of x, and extrinsic otherwise). From this it is a
short step to
(6) All of my intrinsic, categorical, properties are mental rather than physical,
and
(7) All of my body’s intrinsic, categorical, properties are physical rather than
mental.
FN:5
Assuming that my intrinsic, categorical mental properties are exactly my thought
properties, the relation between (4) and (6) is as follows: where (4) postulates a
counterfactual condition in which I exist with just my thought properties, (6) says
that my actual condition is in all intrinsic, categorical, respects indiscernible from
that counterfactual condition of pure disembodiment.
No doubt the exercise could be taken further. For example, (6) and (7) are
somewhat overstated. Even the most extreme dualist will admit that she has (e.g.)
her existence, and her duration, intrinsically; and these are not plausibly regarded
as mental properties. But this is not something we need to bother about just now
(see note 15). Another thing we will be leaving aside is the articulation of still
stronger versions of dualism, for example the necessitations of (6) and/or (7).⁵
What I want to ask now is whether dualism in any of these forms, but especially
the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh, has any chance of being true.
Subject to correction by Descartes scholars, most of us suppose that Descartes
maintained dualism in all the versions given. Unfortunately, his principal
argument is nowadays seen as bordering on hopeless, and this on the basis of a
single apparently decisive objection, roughly to the effect that de re conceivability
is a defective guide to de re possibility.
In this paper, I want to pursue two ideas. The first is that Descartes’ argument
cannot be faulted simply for relying on an inference from de re conceivability
⁵ Obviously I disagree with Bernard Williams when he says that it ‘expresses the Real Distinction
in its strongest form’ to assert the necessitation of (1), i.e., to say that I am necessarily not identical
with my body (1978, 117). Assuming that Leibniz’s Law holds necessarily, the same can be said
of a statue and the hunk of clay which makes it up; for necessarily the one has different modal
properties, e.g., being essentially a statue, than the other. Since Kripke, most metaphysicians treat
(non-)identity theses as equivalent to their necessitations; if they are right, then what Williams calls
the strongest form of the real distinction is actually the weakest (or equivalent to it). Certainly it is
far weaker than the claim that necessarily self and body have fundamental categorical differences
(this is the necessitation of (6) and/or (7)).
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to de re possibility; that inference is implicated in too many de re modal
claims routinely accepted without qualm or question. So the standard objection
needs refinement: even if some de re conceivability intuitions justify de re
modal conclusions, others do not, and when the differences are spelled out,
Descartes’ argument emerges as unpersuasive. The paper’s second idea is that,
to the contrary, the more the differences are spelled out, the better Descartes’
argument looks.
I I . S TA N D A R D P RO B L E M S W I T H D E S C A RT E S ’
A RG U M E N TS
Descartes believed that he was importantly different from his body, and offered
what looks like a variety of arguments for this conclusion. Some of these are
less plausible than others. In The Search After Truth, there are indications of the
much ridiculed ‘argument from doubt’: I am not a body, ‘otherwise if I had
doubts about my body, I would also have doubts about myself, and I cannot
have doubts about that’ (CSM II, 412; AT X, 518). Since I can doubt that my
body exists, but not that I do, I am distinct from my body.
Whether Descartes intended precisely this argument or not, it is plainly fallacious, on any readily imaginable interpretation. Perhaps Descartes is reasoning
as follows:
Argument A
(1) I can doubt that my body exists, but not that I do.
(2) Therefore my body and I have different properties.
(3) Therefore I am not identical with my body.
(A)
(1)
(2)
However, (2) follows from (1) only if ‘I can doubt that x exists’ expresses a
property of x; which, to judge by its admitted referential opacity, it appears not
to do.
On the road to Descartes’ true argument is a reading which replaces doubt
with rational doubt:
Argument B
(1) It is not irrational for me to doubt that my body exists while believing that
I do.
(A)
(2) If I was identical to my body, this would be irrational.
(A)
(3) Therefore I am not identical to my body.
(1,2)
Again, there is a problem with the second step. Even if my self and body are
identical, reason does not constrain me from feeling doubts about my body
which I am unwilling to extend to myself, if I am unaware of their identity, and
unaware more generally that it is impossible for the one to exist without the other.
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• Q1
looks
fine to
me
FN:6
The Real Distinction between Mind and Body
Before I can draw any conclusions from the rational permissibility of doubting
body but not self, I need assurances that my essential properties cannot but make
themselves felt in my self-conception. Without these assurances, that I am not
irrational in maintaining contrasting attitudes toward self and body is as likely
due to my ignorance of my true nature as to anything else. Yet if the assurances
are somehow obtained, then I already have my conclusion and the argument is
no longer needed. For if I am unaware of being essentially accompanied by my
body, then I am not; and so we are distinct.
Even if (as is sometimes alleged) the argument from doubt cannot fairly
be attributed to Descartes, his other and more canonical arguments for the
mind/body distinction appear to incorporate a similar fallacy. Thus the crucial
assumption of the ‘Sixth Meditation•’ ’s dualistic argument is that
the fact that I can clearly and distinctly understand one thing apart from another is
enough to make me certain that the two things are distinct, since they are capable of
being separated, at least by God. (CSM II, 54; AT VII, 78)
Since I can understand, or conceive, myself clearly and distinctly apart from my
body, I and my body ‘are capable of being separated’; hence we are not identical.
As an initial guess about what is going on here, consider:⁶
Argument C
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
I can conceive myself as existing without my body.
If I can conceive x as existing without y, x can exist without y.
So it is possible for me to exist without my body.
So I am not identical to my body.
(A)
(A)
(1,2)
(3)
Before asking what might be wrong with this argument, notice an important
respect in which it improves on the argument from doubt. All that that argument
can hope to establish is that I am not identical to my body. But this goes
hardly any distance towards justifying the grand claims of Descartes’ dualistic
metaphysics: that I am capable of existing without my body, that I am capable
⁶ In interpreting the quoted passage, I follow the usual practice of disallowing any essential role
to God’s omnipotence. If we are to take seriously Descartes’ doctrine of God’s free creation of
the eternal truths, God can create anything apart from anything, even x apart from x; and this
without regard to what we may or may not find conceivable. Since that doctrine renders irrelevant
conceivability considerations which Descartes clearly sees as crucial, and lends itself to the derivation
of conclusions much stronger than he would accept, there is no option but to discount it in the
present context. Having done so, the divine power to create x without y essentially converges on
the metaphysical possibility of x without y. (Cf. Descartes’ remark in the ‘Geometrical Exposition
of the Meditations’ that ‘. . . I introduce the power of God as a means to separate mind and body
not because any extraordinary power is needed to bring about such a separation but because the
preceding arguments have dealt solely with God, and hence there was nothing else I could use
to make the separation’ (CSM II, 120; AT VII, 170), and in the ‘Sixth Replies’ that ‘to occur
‘‘naturally’’ is nothing other than to occur through the ordinary power of God, which in no way
differs from his extraordinary power—the effect on the real world is exactly the same’ (CSM II,
293; AT VII, 435).)
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of existing without any body, that I am unextended, and so on. Although
argument (C) terminates in the non-identity thesis, it reaches it by way of the
significantly stronger thesis that I am capable of existing without my body (and it
would not significantly detract from the argument’s plausibility if instead of ‘my
body,’ we had written throughout ‘any body’). So if it could be made to work,
this argument might yield a dualism worth bothering about.
Nevertheless it seems not to work, and for essentially the same reason as
before. According to (2), if I can conceive x as existing without y, then it can
exist without y. But this is plausible only if I can be sure that I am not, in this act
of conception, overlooking an essential property of x which renders its existence
without y problematic or impossible. As Sydney Shoemaker expresses the point,
the argument
FN:7
. . . involves a confusion of a certain sort of epistemic possibility with metaphysical
possibility. In the sense in which it is true that I can conceive myself existing in
disembodied form, this comes to the fact that it is compatible with what I know about
my essential nature (supposing that I do not know that I am an essentially material being)
that I should exist in disembodied form. From this it does not follow that my essential
nature is in fact such as to permit me to exist in disembodied form.⁷
Absent prior assurances that his potential for independent existence is not
obstructed by unappreciated necessary connections, Descartes is in no position
to argue from separability in thought to separability in fact.
Because of difficulties like these, not many philosophers would concede
Descartes’ claim to have established even so much as his distinctness from his
body, much less any interesting form of dualism. The problem with Descartes’
approach is supposed to be one of principle rather than detail, with the result that
most philosophers would now be gravely suspicious of any epistemic argument
for dualistic conclusions.
I I I . T H E I N D I S PE N S A B I L I T Y O F C O N C E I VA B I L I T Y
Then what kind of argument is available to the dualist? Encouraged by recent
advances in modal semantics and metaphysics, modern dualists prefer to base
their conclusions in modal rather than epistemic premises.
No doubt this is an advance of some sort, but it has worrisome aspects.
For one, it ignores that the modal premises stand themselves in need of
support, which typically they find in conceivability considerations of the sort that
Descartes is faulted for having taken seriously. Insofar as they suppress the role of
conceivability in modern-day modal arguments, today’s dualists let themselves
off the hook on which they hoisted Descartes. Second, once the indispensability
⁷ Shoemaker 1984b, 155.
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The Real Distinction between Mind and Body
of conceivability intuitions is allowed, explanations will be required of how it is
that some such intuitions may be relied on, even if others cannot. Thus grant
that the ancients’ ability to conceive (say) heat without motion should not have
been taken, even by them, to establish that this was possible. Even so, that I can
conceive of myself existing without the Washington Monument, does seem prima
facie to indicate that the one could have existed without the other (or else how
do I know that it could?). Presumably there are some unobvious principles at
work here that would explain why the one intuition may be relied on, though the
other may not. And so far, nothing rules out that when the operative principles
are discovered, Cartesian conceivability intuitions will be vindicated.
As already explained, the usual charge against Descartes’ argument from his
ability to conceive x as existing without y, to the conclusion that x can exist
without y, is that it seems just to take it for granted that x’s essential properties
do not go beyond those of which Descartes is aware. Objections of this kind
were put to Descartes repeatedly, most notably by Caterus in the First Objections
and by Arnauld in the Fourth. Arnauld asks,
How does it follow, from the fact that he is aware of nothing else belonging to his essence,
that nothing else does in fact belong to it? (CSM II, 140; AT VII, 199)
complaining that
if the major premise of this syllogism [that the conceivability of x without y shows the
possibility of x without y] is to be true, it must be taken to apply not to any kind of
knowledge of a thing, nor even to clear and distinct knowledge; it must apply solely to
knowledge which is adequate. (CSM II, 140; AT VII, 200; interpolation mine),
FN:8
where here ‘adequate knowledge’ of a thing is knowledge that embraces all the
thing’s properties (or at least all its essential properties).⁸
Undeniably this looks like an extremely strong objection, maybe even decisive.
How wonderful then that Descartes had the chance to hear it and respond. But
before looking at what he says, it’s important to see that the problem, if there
is one, is extremely general. To be consistent, Arnauld should hold that all de
re conceivability intuitions are suspect, unless the ideas employed are certifiable
in advance as adequate, i.e., as embracing all properties, or at least all essential
properties, of their objects. What is not often noticed is that if he is right in this,
then an enormous part of our de re modal thinking falls under suspicion.
Distinguish two types of de re modal claim: positive claims, to the effect
that something x has a property Q essentially; and negative claims, to the
effect that something y has a property R only inessentially or accidentally.
Naturally it is the positive claims which have attracted all the attention (e.g.,
natural kinds have their deepest explanatory features essentially, artifacts have
⁸ Certainly this is how Descartes read Arnauld’s use of ‘adequate’, and most modern commentators have agreed. However, true Arnauldian adequacy may be a subtler affair than Descartes
appreciated (see Bruce Thomas, ‘Conceivability and the Real Distinction’).
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their original matter essentially, etc.). But it is sometimes just as important if
something has a property only accidentally (if, for example, people have their
personalities, or their genders, only accidentally); and even where it is not
important, it is often true, and often, apparently, known to be true. No one
would doubt of herself that (e.g.) she could have been born on a different day
than actually; and outside of philosophy, no one would question that we know
such things. But how do we know them, if not by way of conceiving ourselves
without the relevant properties, and finding no difficulty in the conception?
What gives this question its force is the specter of an Arnauldian skeptic who
argues from the possible inadequacy of my self-conception, to the conclusion that
I am in no position to rule out even such obviously absurd essentialist hypotheses
as that I am essentially born on September 30, 1957. If I might, unbeknownst
to myself, be essentially accompanied by my body, however clearly I seem to be
able to conceive myself without it, why might I not equally be essentially born
on that day, however clearly I seem to be able to conceive myself born a day
earlier or later? In both cases, the skeptic continues, I have no basis to question
the deviant hypotheses unless I have prior assurances that my self-conception
embraces all my essential properties. Yet how could I?
In a curious way, this sort of objection reverses a more familiar challenge to
positive de re modal claims. Suppose I assert that something x has some property
Q essentially, e.g., that this bit of water essentially contains hydrogen. Of course,
I might be wrong in supposing that this, or any, water contains hydrogen at all.
But now I am interested in the allegation that I might be wrong in another way:
I am right that this, like all, water actually contains hydrogen, but wrong that
it could not have been hydrogen-free. In possible worlds very like this one, it is
agreed, it does contain hydrogen; but it is alleged that there may also be worlds
in which it contains only oxygen and helium, and yet other worlds in which it
contains only helium and aluminum, or helium and aluminum and lead.
Naturally you complain that no grounds have been given for thinking this
possible; but then no grounds have been given for thinking it impossible either,
and the claim was only that it was possible for all you know. After all, once you
have picked x out, what essential properties it has is no longer in your hands,
but depends entirely on what sorts of counterfactual changes x can as a matter of
objective modal fact tolerate. How could anything in your way of conceiving x
rule out that the thing in itself is capable of more extreme departures from its
actual condition than you had imagined?
Postpone for now the question whether this is a cogent thought, and notice
the parallel with Arnauld. Where the present objection is that one cannot
rationally exclude that the object of thought has fewer essential properties than
contemplated, Arnauld contends that one cannot rationally exclude that it has
more essential properties than contemplated. To answer either objection would
be to explain what licenses us in reasoning from premises about what we can
conceive of a thing to conclusions about what is possible for it. But let us
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concentrate on the Arnauldian worry that what I seem able to conceive regarding
x provides no firm basis for excluding properties from x’s essence.
Actually, there is a certain irony in Arnauld’s position. Leibniz, in his
correspondence with Arnauld, alleges that the essence of a thing x embraces all
of x’s properties whatsoever. Since Adam is such that Peter denied Christ some
thousands of years after his death, this holds essentially of Adam, who would
accordingly not have existed had Peter not gone on to be disloyal:
if in the life of some person and even in this entire universe something were to proceed
in a different way from what it does, nothing would prevent us saying that it would be
another person or another possible universe that God would have chosen. It would thus
truly be another individual. . . . (LAC, 60; my emphasis)
Unsurprisingly Arnauld objects:
. . . I find in myself the concept of an individual nature, since I find there the concept of
myself. I have only to consult it, therefore, to know what is contained in this individual
concept. . . . I can think that I shall or shall not take a particular journey, while remaining
very much assured that neither one nor the other will prevent my being myself. So I
remain very much assured that neither one nor the other is included in the individual
concept of myself. . . . (LAC, 32–3)
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be
Within limits, it seems obvious, we share Arnauld’s assurance. Nobody seriously
imagines that it is essential to Arnauld to take, or essential to him not to take,
the journey. Still it is hard to see what entitles him to the assurance that ‘neither
one nor the other will prevent me from being myself ’. How does Arnauld know
that his idea is adequate, i.e., that he is aware of all of his essential properties?⁹
Take the Arnauldian skeptic to be the one who questions Descartes’ right to
reason from separability in conjecture to separability in fact, on the basis that our
concepts may for all we know be inadequate; and take the Arnauldian believer
to the one who maintains, against Leibniz, that properly conducted thought
experiments can support de re inessentialist conclusions. If the skeptic’s doubts
are allowed to stand, then it is not obvious how the believer can hope to refute
Leibniz’s suggestion that my essence takes in all my properties whatsoever! Yet
surely we side here with the believer. Even without an answer to the skeptic, I
think we feel that he must be wrong. Somehow or other, I must be in a position
to refute the suggestion that I am essentially born on the day of my actual birth,
or, even more unbelievably, essentially surrounded by the entire course of actual
history.
⁹ To complete the irony, something uncomfortably like this Arnauldian point is put to Arnauld
by Leibniz himself: ‘. . . although it is easy to judge that the number of feet in the diameter is not
contained in the concept of a sphere in general, it is not so easy to judge with certainty . . . whether
the journey which I plan to take is contained in the concept of me, otherwise it would be as easy to
be a prophet as to be a geometer . . .’ (LAC, 59). Leibniz thinks that individual concepts frameable
by finite minds are rarely adequate, much less certifiably adequate. From this it seems to follow
that we must view all our conceivability intuitions with extreme suspicion. Nevertheless, Arnauld
confidently asserts that he knows that he might not have taken the journey.
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I V. T H E C O N C E I VA BI L I T Y A RG U M E N T
What I want to investigate is whether Descartes had even the beginnings of
an answer to the Arnauldian skeptic. For this the natural starting point is
Descartes’ historical controversy with Arnauld, which centers on the conceivability/possibility principle that
If I can conceive of x as lacking some property S, then it is possible for x to exist
without S.
For such a principle to be valid, Arnauld thinks, it ‘must be taken to apply not
to any kind of knowledge of a thing, nor even to clear and distinct knowledge;
it must apply solely to knowledge which is adequate’ (CSM II, 140; AT VII,
200). In response, Descartes appears willing to grant that the mere conceivability,
even the clear and distinct conceivability, of x as lacking some property S is not
itself convincing evidence of S’s inessentiality. As Arnauld suggests, x must be
conceived in a suitably comprehensive manner:
a real distinction cannot be inferred from the fact that one thing is conceived apart from
another by an abstraction of the intellect when it conceives the thing inadequately. It
can be inferred only if we understand one thing apart from another completely, or as a
complete thing. (CSM II, 155; AT VII, 220)
(Cf. also CSM II, 86; AT VII, 121.) But in Descartes’ view, Arnauld is wrong to
think that our conception needs to be certifiable in advance as ‘adequate’ (CSM
II, 155; AT VII, 220). Admittedly, he may have given a contrary impression
when he said that a real distinction could not be inferred by ‘an abstraction of
the intellect when it conceives a thing inadequately’; but he
did not think this would be taken to imply that adequate knowledge was required. . . . All
I meant was that we need the sort of knowledge that we have not ourselves made
inadequate by an abstraction of the intellect. (CSM II, 155–6; AT VII, 221)
To the question, ‘what manner of conception is required if we are to be able
to rely on the inference from conceivability to possibility?’ Descartes therefore
answers that we should conceive x ‘completely, or as a complete thing’; to which
it appears to be a corollary that our conception of x, even if not adequate in
Arnauld’s sense, is free at least of that specific type of inadequacy engendered by
intellectual abstraction.
In his day as in our own, Descartes’ readers have sensed a confusion in his
writings between (i) a conception of myself in which I do not credit myself with
corporeal features, and (ii) a conception of myself as lacking in corporeal features.
Sometimes it is said that only the former conception is claimed by, or even
available to, Descartes; though it is the latter he needs to argue for the possibility
of disembodiment. But Descartes could hardly be clearer that he possesses a
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self-conception of type (ii); and his repeated insistence on the importance of
‘complete conception’, and the avoidance of ‘abstraction’, is, as we will see,
directed against just the confusion to which he is so often thought to have
succumbed.
To conceive something in a complete manner, Descartes explains, he ‘must
understand the thing well enough to know that my understanding is complete’;
and his understanding of a thing x is called ‘complete’ if and only if he understands
x ‘to be a complete thing’ (CSM II, 156; AT VII, 221). On its face, this could
hardly look less enlightening; but let us pursue it. In general, Descartes calls a
thing complete if and only if it is a substance, that is, it is capable of existing
on its own (or, since nothing can exist without God’s concurrence, capable of
existing unaccompanied by anything but God).¹⁰ Intriguingly, though, he here
gives a more elaborate explanation, in which epistemological considerations come
strikingly to the fore:
. . . by a ‘‘complete thing’’ I simply mean a substance endowed with the forms or attributes
which enable me to recognize that it is a substance. (CSM II, 156; AT VII, 221; emphasis
mine)
From this it appears that a complete thing is a substance taken together with
a set of its properties meeting some further epistemological condition. And the
condition is, that those properties should enable him to recognize their bearer as
a substance.
Initially, at least, this is extremely puzzling. In Descartes’ view, substances are
never directly apprehended, but only by way of their properties (CSM II, 124;
AT VII, 176); and whenever we apprehend a property, we may infer that there is
a substance in which it inheres (CSM I, 210; AT VIIIA, 25). So when Descartes
speaks of ‘forms or attributes which enable me to recognize that it is a substance’,
he cannot, on pain of triviality, mean simply ‘forms or attributes which convince
me that there is a substance about’ (all properties do that much). Instead, the
properties with which the substance is to be thought of as endowed should
present to me the substance in a way that allows me not merely to recognize that
a substance is there, but also that it is a substance. Since to be a substance is to
be capable of solitary existence, the obvious thought is that x is recognizable as a
substance, if and only if it is presented by way of properties which reveal to me
how it is that x is capable of existing by itself. In other words, the properties by
which x is presented are such that I find it intelligible that it should exist with those
properties alone, in the absence, specifically, of any further properties such as might
¹⁰ Cf. CSM I, 210; AT VIIIA, 25, for the problem about God. Even putting that problem
to one side, the definition of substance in terms of capability for unaccompanied existence is still
misleading, since a substance is always accompanied by its primary attribute and modes thereof.
The natural remedy is to define a substance as an entity which can exist without other substances;
however, that would be circular. Some have suggested using another Cartesian notion of substance,
that of property-bearer, to give a non-circular definition of the first notion (cf. Loeb 1981, 94).
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13
require the existence of some other substance. If and only if x is thus presented, do I
conceive it in a complete manner, or as a complete thing.¹¹
Separability in conjecture does not argue for separability in fact if ‘one thing is
conceived apart from another by an abstraction of the intellect which conceives
the thing inadequately . . . [but] only if we understand one thing apart from
another completely, or as a complete thing’ (CSM II, 155; AT VII, 220). Thus
complete conceivers ‘need the sort of knowledge that we have not ourselves made
inadequate by an abstraction of the intellect’ (CSM II, 156; AT VII, 221).¹²
Intellectual abstraction is explained in a letter to Gibieuf; it
. . . consist[s] in my turning my thought away from one part of the contents of [a] richer
idea the better to apply it to another part with greater attention. . . . I can easily recognize
this abstraction afterwards when I look to see whether I have derived the idea . . . from
some richer idea within myself, to which it is joined in such a way that although one can
think of the one without paying any attention to the other, it is impossible to deny one
of the other when one thinks of both together. (K, 123)
Abstraction, then, consists in prescinding from some aspect of an idea, such that
one cannot deny the ignored aspect ‘when one thinks of both together’. Thus it
is important that Descartes thinks that he can avoid this with the ideas of himself
and his body:
If I said simply that the idea which I have of my soul does not represent it to me as being
dependent on a body . . . this would be merely an abstraction, from which I could form
only a negative argument, which would be unsound. But I say that this idea represents
it to me as a substance which can exist even though everything belonging to body be
excluded from it; from which I form a positive argument, and conclude that it can exist
without the body. (K, 152)
Evidently Descartes sees the reliability of his modal intuition as hinging on his
avoidance of abstraction in favor of exclusion; and, as we know, he attaches a
similar significance to his employment of a complete idea of self. Unsurprisingly,
then, the completeness of his self-conception as a thinking thing is strongly
associated with his ability to exclude his bodily aspects therefrom:
. . . the idea of a substance with its extension and shape is a complete idea, because I can
conceive it alone, and deny of it everything else of which I have an idea. Now it seems to
¹¹ Understanding complete things in this way sheds some light on Descartes’ otherwise enigmatic
remarks about ‘incomplete substances’, e.g., ‘a hand is an incomplete substance when it is referred to
the whole body of which it is a part; but it is a complete substance when it is considered on its own.
And in just the same way the mind and the body are incomplete substances when they are referred
to a human being which together they make up. But if they are considered on their own, they are
complete’ (CSM II, 157; AT VII, 222). On the other hand, pursuing the Aristotelian resonances
of this and similar passages, one might well arrive at a richer notion of ‘complete thing’ than that
suggested here, e.g., entity with an ‘internal principle of activity’ (see, for example, Metaphysics VII.
10 and De Anima II. 1).
¹² In these remarks about abstraction, I am greatly indebted to Bruce Thomas’s ‘Abstraction and
Complete Things’.
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me very clear that the idea which I have of a thinking substance is complete in this sense,
and that I have in my mind no other idea which is prior to it and joined to it in such
a way that I cannot think of the two together while denying the one of the other; for if
there was any such within me, I must necessarily know it. (K, 124)
(Cf. also K, 109.) So when Descartes tells us that in conceiving himself as a
thinking thing, his idea of himself is complete, he means (at least) that he is
capable not only of prescinding from thoughts of body in conceiving of himself,
but of conceiving himself as lacking in bodily aspects.
Now we should ask, exactly how is this supposed to contribute to the
reliability of Descartes’ modal intuition? Abstraction is not, for Descartes,
always and everywhere a bad thing. In Rules for the Direction of the Mind, he
emphasizes the beneficial effects of freeing our conception of a question ‘from
every superfluous conception’ (CSM I, 51 ff.; AT X, 430 ff.). Nevertheless,
abstraction can sometimes lead us astray. Indeed in its most extreme form, where
one prescinds in thought from all the attributes by which a thing is recognized,
abstraction is always problematic. Since ‘we do not have immediate knowledge
of substances’, prescinding in thought from all of a thing’s properties leaves us
without any proper grasp of what it is that we are thinking about (CSM II, 156;
AT VII, 222).
To avoid extreme abstraction, we must conceive our object in terms of some
suitable selection of its properties; presumably which properties depends on the
nature of the investigation. Then what if the investigation is into what is possible
for a thing? Given Descartes’ rejection of the Arnauldian adequacy requirement,
not all the thing’s properties are needed. But it would seem that we do risk
a problematic act of abstraction if we prescind in thought from such, or so
many, properties that our object cannot be understood as lacking the properties
prescinded from (CSM II, 276–7; AT IXA, 216). For this might tempt us into
thinking that x could exist with no properties other than those included in our
conception, when in fact the hypothesis of x without those further properties
was not fully intelligible. In some such cases, the distinction between x and some
particular omitted property is merely ‘conceptual’:
a conceptual distinction is a distinction between a substance and some attribute of
that substance without which the substance is unintelligible. . . . Such a distinction is
recognized by our inability to form a clear and distinct idea of the substance if we exclude
from it the attribute in question. . . . (CSM I, 214; AT VIIIA, 30)
In others, one assumes, what is ‘unintelligible’ is not x without some particular
omitted property (e.g., the wax without extension), but x as lacking each of
a class of omitted properties (e.g., the wax with no particular shape). Quite
generally, though, the complete conceiver must take pains not to exclude
from her conception of a thing such, or so many, properties that the thing is
‘unintelligible’ without them. Drawing on the discussion above, we take this
to mean that one avoids problematic abstraction by thinking of x in terms
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15
of properties such that the supposition of its existing with them alone is not
repugnant to reason.
Avoidance of abstraction, so understood, is necessary, but not quite sufficient,
for complete conception. Remember that complete conception requires knowledge of a thing sufficient to let us know that it is complete, and a complete
thing is described as ‘a substance endowed with the forms or attributes which
enable me to recognize that it is a substance’ (CSM II, 156; AT VII, 221). Thus
complete conception additionally requires that the possibility of x’s possessing
the indicated properties alone reveals it as a substance, i.e., as something that can
exist on its own. Gathering these threads together, x is conceived as a complete
thing, if and only if by way of properties P such that
Containment Condition:
Isolation Condition:
FN:13
x is clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing
the properties in P to the exclusion of all others.
For x to possess the properties in P to the exclusion of
all others is for x to exist alone (so that its capability
to possess the P properties exclusively shows that x
is a substance).¹³
To be a complete thing is accordingly to be a substance x taken together with
properties P in terms of which it is completely conceivable (there is no distinction
between being completely conceivable in terms of P, and being complete, qua
possessor of P).
Applying this account to the case of interest, to conceive myself as a complete
thing is to conceive myself in terms of a set P of properties such that I am clearly
and distinctly conceivable as possessing P alone, where to exist with P alone is to
exist unaccompanied by any other substance.
Does Descartes think that he can conceive himself as a complete thing in
this sense? Indications are that he does think that he can do this, by conceiving
himself in terms of what I have called his thought properties. Indeed, I suggest
that he finds, in the fact that he conceives himself, qua possessor of his thought
properties, as a complete thing, all that he needs to reach the conclusion that
he could have existed, in isolation, with his thought properties alone. Assuming
¹³ Notice how this account preserves the distinction, on which Descartes so much insisted
(CSM II, 155–6; AT VII, 220–1), between understanding something adequately, that is, in terms
of ‘absolutely all the properties which are in the thing’, and understanding it completely. To
understand x, qua P, in a complete manner, is not to know everything about it, but only enough so
that, at least from the subjective perspective, x does not appear to need more than what you know
about in order to exist. Thus if adequate ideas embrace all of a thing’s properties, then complete
ideas need not be adequate. (From the definition of completeness it admittedly follows that, at least
from the subjective perspective, no property outside of P is essential to x, so that P will seem to give
an upper bound on the set of x’s essential properties. If to be adequate an idea needs only to include
x’s essential properties, then a complete idea of x will at least appear to the thinker to be adequate.
Notice though that the thinker need not yet have any views about which of the properties in P are
essential to x and which accidental.)
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that by ‘that of which I am aware’, he means his thought properties, Descartes
indicates by his statement that
. . . it may be that there is much within me of which I am not yet aware . . . [but] that of
which I am aware is sufficient to enable me to subsist with it and it alone. . . . (CSM II, 155;
AT VII, 219; emphasis added)
FN:14
his satisfaction that his idea of himself as thinking thing meets the containment
condition on complete conception.¹⁴ On no further basis than this, he concludes
that
I am certain that I could have been created by God without having these other attributes
of which I am unaware. (CSM II, 155; AT VII, 219)
In other words, God could have created him with his thought properties alone.
Since he finds nothing in his thought properties to suggest the existence of any
other substance (CSM I, 213; AT VIIIA, 29), circumstances in which he has them
‘without these other attributes of which I am unaware’ will be circumstances in
which he exists in isolation (this is the isolation condition). Hence he is entitled
to conclude that he can exist, in isolation, as a purely thinking thing. And this
completes the argument.
Argument D
(1) Qua possessor of my thought properties, I am a complete thing.
(A)
(2) I am clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing my thought properties
to the exclusion of all other properties.
(1)
(3) If x is clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing exactly the P properties,
then x can exist with exactly the P properties.
(A)
(4) I can exist with exactly my thought properties.
(2,3)
(5) For me to exist with exactly my thought properties is for me to exist in
isolation.
(1)
(6) I can exist, in isolation, with exactly my thought properties.
(1,3)
Here (1) is the claim of completeness, (2) and (5) are the containment and isolation conditions on complete conception, and (3) is the conceivability/possibility
¹⁴ Although there may be a question whether Descartes is fully consistent in finding himself
clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing his thought properties exclusively. his idea of God,
together with certain principles revealed by the ‘natural light’, proves God’s existence as a nondeceiver, which implies in turn the reliability of his senses; whence his experience as of material
objects outside himself guarantees their existence. But then how can he clearly and distinctly
conceive himself with his actual thought properties, but without the properties that he possesses in
virtue of his relations to the external material objects which sense reveals, e.g., the property of having
a body? Perhaps the answer is that he conceives himself with no other intrinsic properties than his
actual thought properties (additional extrinsic properties are allowed); or that he conceives himself
in sole possession of thought properties other than those he possesses in actuality. But there is little
textual basis for either suggestion, and both sit poorly with the quoted passage (among others).
Thus Descartes’ dualistic arguments and his antiskeptical arguments appear to be in some tension;
and I am forced to ignore the latter in favor of the former.
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principle by which Descartes hopes to infer his aptitude for solitary mental
existence from his thinkability in that condition.
V. T H I N K I N G T H I N G S A S C O M P L E T E T H I N G S
FN:15
FN:16
Evidently argument (D) is formally valid, so its soundness depends on the
acceptability of its premises: the claim (1) that I am, qua possessor of my
thought properties, a complete thing, and the conceivability/possibility principle
(3) which enables me to conclude, on that basis, that I can exist with my thought
properties to the exclusion of all others.
To say that I am, qua possessor of my thought properties T, a complete thing,
is to make two claims: that I am clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing
the properties in T to the exclusion of all others; and that to possess the properties
in T to the exclusion of all others is to exist in isolation. Now the second of
these claims is extremely plausible. If I am not isolated, then there is something
y outside myself, in virtue of my relations to which it seems inevitable that I
should possess properties in excess of my thought properties. But the first claim
raises, to begin with, an interesting technical difficulty of which Descartes may
not have been explicitly aware.
Is it really conceivable that I should possess my thought properties to the
exclusion of all others?¹⁵ If we understand the word ‘property’ so that the class
of properties is closed under complementation, then nothing x can have the
properties in a set P to the exclusion of all others, unless for each property
S, P contains either S or its complement not-S (proof : if it contains neither,
then x possesses neither, which is absurd). Yet when Descartes claimed he
could have the properties of which he was aware but ‘without . . . these other
attributes of which I am unaware’, he certainly did not suppose that for every
property S, he was aware of himself either as possessing S, or as possessing
not-S (e.g., he didn’t think of himself either as extended or as unextended). For
present purposes, then, Descartes would not, or should not, have understood
the set of properties as closed under complementation. As it happens, he
observed a distinction, between positive and negative characteristics, or genuine
properties and mere privations, which will secure the needed result, if in the
definition of a complete thing we read ‘property’ as signifying genuine properties
only.¹⁶
¹⁵ Immediately one sees that what Descartes called the ‘transcendental’ or ‘common’ attributes
(existence, duration, unity, etc.) will have to be allowed as exceptions. For I am not readily
conceivable as, e.g., lacking duration. Henceforth, ‘property’ means non-transcendental property.
¹⁶ Specifically, if P is a set of genuine properties (= positive characteristics), then x is a
complete thing, qua possessor of P iff (a) x is clearly and distinctly conceivable as possessing the
(genuine) properties in P to the exclusion of all other (genuine) properties; and (b) only if it possesses
(genuine) properties beyond those in P can x fail to be alone.
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takes possibly, p as its
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Not to minimize its difficulties, several things may be said in defense of the
revised definition of a complete thing. For one, it relies on a distinction which
is, for all its obscurities, important to Descartes, both in his metaphysics (the
cosmological proof of God’s existence) and in his epistemology (his doctrine of
simple natures and materially false ideas). Second, what Descartes is looking for
in a complete thing is a substance fitted out with properties sufficient to render
it ‘intelligible’ as a self-standing entity; and intelligibility is aided not by the
accumulation of negative characteristics, but of positive. Third, the old definition
leads to results which Descartes clearly does not intend. Consider the negative
characteristic U of being unextended: since U is not a member of T, to conceive
myself as possessing T exclusive of all other characteristics is to conceive myself
as lacking U , and thereby as possessing corporeal properties after all! Fourth,
that Descartes never himself contemplates conceivability arguments which trade
on negative characteristics such as U , suggests that he implicitly understood
completeness in terms of positive characteristics. Fifth and lastly, by restricting
ourselves to positive characteristics in the definition of a complete thing, we do
not limit the definition’s generality so much as lessen its redundancy. Let S be
positive, so that not-S is negative; then whatever not-S might have accomplished
by its presence in P, is accomplished anyway by S’s (presumed) absence. So
much, at any rate, is to the credit of the revised definition. On the minus side,
the revised definition inherits all the obscurity of the distinction between positive
and negative characteristics. But let us see where it takes us.
Somewhat tentatively, I propose that to conceive it as possible that p is to
enjoy the appearance that p is possible, by intellectually envisaging a more or
less determinate situation in which p is understood to obtain.¹⁷ Clarity and
distinctness come in as follows: I conceive p’s possibility clearly in proportion
as I possess a comprehensive, explicit, and determinate, intellectual vision of
what the contemplated situation is like, and how it verifies the condition that
p; and I conceive it distinctly in proportion as whatever is not contemplated
as pertaining to the envisaged situation may consistently be understood not
to pertain (equivalently, nothing which is not contemplated as pertaining is
rationally required by factors which are contemplated as pertaining).
¹⁷ Read this not as an analysis, but only a partial explication, of conceiving; the idea is to give
some indication of what my conceiving it as possible that p adds to its merely seeming to me as if
it was possible that p (as it might if I was reliably informed that p was possible). Among the many
questions which I leave open are: what is the precise relation between conceiving (it as possible)
that p, and believing that it is possible that p? and, is conceiving to be understood as a non-modal
attitude which (sometimes) takes possibly,• p as its propositional content, or an intrinsically modal
attitude which takes p as propositional content? Without prejudice to this latter question, we use
‘conceive that p’ and ‘conceive it as possible that p’ as synonyms; both indicate an act that is veridical
if, and only if, it is possible that p (analogously, we can agree that the denial that p is correct iff
it is not the case that p, without settling whether denying that p is believing that it is not the case
that p). In this respect, our usage may differ from that of Descartes, who seems willing, at times,
to distinguish between conceiving that p, and conceiving that p is possible (CSM I, 299; AT VIIIB,
351–2).
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FN:19
19
Assuming that my conception of a situation in which I exist in a purely
mental condition is not manifestly incoherent, the role of distinctness is to show
that it harbors no latent incoherence, i.e., nothing that would generate manifest
incoherence if its consequences were followed out; and the role of clarity is to
show further that the conception is free of saving unspecificities which, however
resolved, would result in incoherence.¹⁸
Start with distinctness. Nowadays we are familiar with a range of arguments
purporting to show that there is a latent and unobvious incoherence in the idea
of myself existing with my thought properties alone. Arguments like this are
associated with Kant and Wittgenstein, and more recently with Ryle, Strawson,
behaviorism, and externalist theories of mental content. Those unaware of, or
unconvinced by, the considerations offered may claim to find it conceivable that
they should exist with only their mental properties; but if those considerations
are finally cogent, then they expose all contrary conceptions as incoherent.
Obviously Descartes gave little thought to (e.g.) the Private Language Argument;
but the general problem of unobvious entailments and the attendant risk of
latent incoherence is one to which he was very much alive. As he observes
in several places, ‘. . . there are many instances of things which are necessarily
conjoined, even though most people count them as contingent, failing to notice
the relation between them’ (CSM I, 46; AT X, 422). Nevertheless, Descartes
is convinced that his conception of himself with only his thought properties is
relevantly distinct, and so deeply coherent if superfically so.¹⁹ Speaking of his
idea of himself as a thinking substance, he claims that he can
conceive it alone, and deny of it everything else of which I have an idea . . . [I have] no
other idea which is prior to it and joined to it in such a way that I cannot think of the
two together while denying the one of the other; for if there was any such within me, I
must necessarily know it. (K, 124)
Of course, this is the very claim that Kant, Wittgenstein, and the others would
want to question (could he deny external objects, if he understood their role in
internal time-consciousness, or public language, if he appreciated its connection
to the normativity of thought?). Since Descartes understands the distinctness
¹⁸ Two remarks. First, on this reading, there is little real prospect of an absolutely clear and
distinct conception of the possibility that p, but only of a conception appropriately and sufficiently
clear and distinct to allay anxieties about incoherence (notice that Descartes regularly treats clarity
and distinctness as matters of degree, e.g., at CSM II, 22, 24; AT VII, 33, 35). Second, Descartes’
view that there can be clarity without distinctness, but not conversely (CSM I, 208; AT VIIIA,
22), fits naturally with our account; an unclear conception, because it is silent about how certain
matters stand, must be indistinct, since it would be incoherent to suppose that they stood in no
way. Nevertheless, it is convenient to follow Descartes in treating clarity and distinctness as separate
requirements.
¹⁹ Admittedly there is a question, already alluded to, how Descartes hopes to reconcile this
conviction with his argument for an external world; despite their enormous differences, Descartes,
no less than Kant, thinks he sees an unobvious entailment from his subjective condition to external
material objects (see note 14).
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claim as central to his argument, the issues they raise are exactly those on which he
would, or should, have thought the matter rested. Unless we want to speculate on
Descartes’ response to the Refutation of Idealism, Private Language Argument,
etc., the question cannot be pursued much further here. Suffice it to say that
there is a question, and that anyone who champions Descartes’ reasoning has got
to assume that it will ultimately be answered in the negative.²⁰
To clearly conceive of a situation in which I enjoy purely mental existence
is to have a full, explicit, and determinate conception of what that situation
would be like, in particular a conception free of saving unspecificities which
however resolved would result in incoherence. At one time, I suppose I found
it conceivable that there should be a town whose resident barber shaved all and
only the town’s non-self-shavers.²¹ But this conception escaped inconsistency
only by remaining unclear; once the barber’s shaving habits were specified, the
contradiction became obvious. Is my conception of myself as a purely mental
being likewise saved from incoherence only by its inexplicitness?
Usually when we are asked to conceive a situation contrary to the actual, we
are working to highly partial specifications. Sometimes this leads to trouble, as
in the barber case above; but trouble is the exception rather than the rule (which
is why nobody complains if my conception of a situation in which Humphrey is
President is silent on questions with no apparent bearing on Humphrey’s office,
e.g., the outcome of the Indian Mutiny). Thus it is all the more striking that
when I am asked to conceive myself with exactly my thought properties, this
comes very near to providing me with a complete specification of the situation
intended: namely, one in which I possess all of the properties which I am in
the actual situation directly aware of myself as possessing, and no more. Since
the properties with which I credit myself in this conception are fixed by my
actual state of consciousness, it is not easy to imagine where the problematic
indeterminacy could be thought to reside. (Perhaps it goes too far to claim that
my conception is fully explicit on every point; certainly, though, it compares
extremely well with the competition.)
Tentatively, then, I conclude that I am, qua possessor of my thought properties,
a complete thing, and specifically that I can clearly and distinctly conceive myself
in a purely mental condition. Postpone for a moment the question whether this
²⁰ Keep in mind that, unless Descartes can be faulted for not anticipating revolutionary
developments to come, it was not unreasonable for him to claim distinctness for his self-conception
as purely thinking thing; and also that there is no consensus, even among contemporary philosophers
aware of those developments, that Cartesian solipsism is latently incoherent. In any case, the usual
charge against Descartes’ argument is not that he was wrong, or irresponsible, to claim consistency
for his self-conception as purely thinking thing, but that he was wrong to think that such a claim
could bear in any convincing way on his aptitude for purely mental existence.
²¹ Sometimes ‘conceivable’ is used ‘factively’, so that from p’s conceivability as possible, its
possibility follows. On this usage, I did not conceive it as possible that the town’s barber should
shave all and only non-self-shavers; I only seemed to do so. As I use ‘conceivable’, that p is
conceivable amounts roughly to its seeming to be conceivable in the first sense.
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21
is enough to justify me in believing that I could exist in that condition; and
ask instead, does it show, at least, that there can be no justification for doubting
that I could? That depends on a subtle issue of modal epistemology. Descartes
thinks that modal opinions are generated by reason; and this faculty he credits
with a certain sort of priority relative to the other faculties: its deliverances are
correctable only through the further exercise of reason, never by imagination or
sense.²² Thus correction is impossible if the grounds of our opinion are free of
‘internal’ difficulties, i.e., difficulties in principle disclosable through the exercise
of reason. Insofar as clarity and distinctness are the ultimate ‘internal’ virtues, that
my self-conception as purely thinking thing possesses these virtues would seem
to show that nothing could justify me in doubting that purely mental existence
is possible for me.
For Descartes, ‘internal’ deficiencies provide the only basis on which a modal
opinion can be criticized as inaccurate. In recent years, through the work of
Saul Kripke, an entirely different basis for criticism has come to light. What
Kripke saw, and established beyond reasonable doubt, is that modal opinions are,
Descartes notwithstanding, correctable through the exercise of sense (e.g., unaided
reason finds no difficulty in the conception of a situation involving heat but not
motion, but empirical research has turned up facts given which this is seen to be
impossible). As a result, purely ‘internal’ virtues like clarity and distinctness are no
longer enough to secure modal intuitions against attack; the most conscientious
and clear-headed conceiver can be refuted in a moment by the dullest observer of
the passing scene. Obviously this raises new problems, unimagined by Descartes,
for the inference from conceivability to possibility, and indeed transforms the
issues on which that inference depends in the profoundest way. Nevertheless, the
essential lines of his thinking continue to hold up, or so I shall maintain.
V I . C O N C E I VA B I L I T Y A N D P O S S I B I L I T Y
Whether p’s lucid conceivability makes it irrational to doubt that p is possible is
one question; whether it rationalizes the belief that p is possible is another. Why
should what I am able to conceive of as occurring be any sort of guide to what
can actually occur? Specifically, why should the possibility of my existing in a
purely mental condition be thought to follow from my conceivability as existing
in that condition? Here there are really two questions, one about why Descartes
thought it followed, the other about why we should think so. On the first, I have
nothing much to add to what Descartes says himself. In Descartes’ view, all of
his faculties are the handiwork of an all-powerful, all-knowing, and undeceiving
God; and such a God ‘surely did not give me the kind of faculty which would
²² See Loeb 1990.
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ever enable me to go wrong while using it correctly’ (CSM II, 37–8; AT VII,
54). Not only his general faculty of judgment, but also its specific application to
matters of mind and body, is said to be authorized by the veracity of God. To
Gibieuf he writes that
. . . I do not deny that there can be in the soul or the body many properties of which I
have no ideas; I only deny that there are any which are inconsistent with the ideas that I
do have . . . for otherwise God would be a deceiver. . . . (K, 125)
Not that Descartes supposes that divine veracity entirely precludes erroneous
judgments about these topics. Through carelessness, inattention, or failure of
imagination, unobvious consequences of my self-conception may escape my
notice, with the result that I credit as possible a state of affairs which could never
arise. But what apparently cannot happen, compatibly with God’s veracity, is that
the impossibility of this state of affairs should be forever undetectable, i.e., that
what I conceive as possible is not possible, though there is no appreciable defect
or difficulty in the conception. Mistakes can indeed arise, but when he reflects
carefully on the fact ‘that God is not a deceiver, and the consequent impossibility
of there being any falsity in my opinions which cannot be corrected by some other
faculty supplied by God’, Descartes sees that none of these are mistakes which
he lacks the means to put right (CSM II, 55–6; AT VII, 80; see also K, 124).
So much for Descartes; why should we accept the inference to my possibly
existing in a purely mental condition from its conceivability as possible? Strange
as it may seem in view of his appeal to God’s veracity, Descartes’ account contains
the seeds of a solution that may find favor even today. Two Cartesian ideas will
be important. First, Descartes believes that it is only by way of our ideas that we
can attain knowledge of what is possible; so that if these ideas are unreliable, then
modal knowledge must remain out of reach. Insofar, then, as we credit ourselves
with modal knowledge, there is no alternative but to take our ideas as a guide
to the modal facts. Already this is hinted at by the continuation of his remark
to Gibieuf, quoted above; he says that soul and body cannot have properties
inconsistent with his ideas, or else ‘God would be a deceiver, and we would have
no rule to make us certain of the truth’ (K, 125; my emphasis). But the point recurs
throughout the letter to Gibieuf, intricately interwoven with the appeal to divine
veracity that was featured above:
[you may object that] . . . although I conceive the soul and body as two substances which
I can conceive separately, and which I can even deny of each other, I am not certain that
they are in reality such as I conceive them to be. Here we have to recall the principle
already stated, that we cannot have any knowledge of things except by the ideas we
conceive of them; and consequently, that we must not judge of them except in accord
with these ideas, and we must even think that whatever conflicts with these ideas is
absolutely impossible and involves a contradiction. (K, 124)
In effect, Descartes is saying that we have no other option than to rely on what
we find conceivable in drawing conclusions about what can, and what cannot,
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23
happen. To be sure, God sees to it that this procedure will not lead us too far
wrong. But it is a completely separate point that the vehicle of modal knowledge,
if that knowledge can be obtained at all, must be our ideas.²³
That modal intuition must be accounted reliable if we are to credit ourselves
with modal knowledge, is a point that retains its plausibility even for those
who disagree with Descartes about how that reliability should be accounted for.
Unless we are willing to give up our claims to knowledge about what could have
happened, though it did not, it seems unavoidable that we treat conceivability as
a respectable, if not an infallible, guide to possibility. No doubt we are unhappy
with Descartes’ attempt at a justification for this policy, and hope to find another,
but that is a separate question.²⁴ The point for now is simply that this is our policy;
within limits, what we are able to conceive as possible, it is our practice to admit
as possible. Simple consistency obliges us to consider whether my conception of
myself existing with my thought properties alone falls within these limits.
At this point another Cartesian idea becomes important, that we can never
reach false conclusions, about modal matters or matters of any other kind, except
through the misuse of our faculties. According to the usual story, Descartes
claims certain knowledge of this principle on the basis of his certain knowledge
of God’s veracity. Lacking that recourse, I can’t pretend to the same knowledge.
Nor do I even believe the principle as stated. What I do think is that something
like a ‘no gratuitous error’ claim is implicit in our daily practice, in the form
of a ban on gratuitous attributions of error. Not that doubts must always be
backed up by a story about how the thinker has misused her faculties; obviously
²³ Cf. K, 123: ‘I am certain that I can have no knowledge of what is outside me except by means
of the ideas I have within me. . . . But I think also that whatever is to be found in these ideas
is necessarily also in the things themselves (emphasis added). Notice too that Descartes considers
the argument from his ideas of self and body to be acceptable by ordinary standards even without
the invocation of God’s veracity: ‘. . . had I not been looking for greater than ordinary certainty, I
should have been content to show in the Second Meditation that the mind can be understood as
a subsisting thing despite the fact that nothing belonging to the body is attributed to it, and that,
conversely, the body can be understood as a subsisting thing despite the fact that nothing belonging
to the mind is attributed to it. I should have added nothing more in order to demonstrate that there
is a real distinction between the mind and the body, since we commonly judge that the order in
which things are mutually related in our perception of them corresponds to the order in which they
are related in actual reality’ (CSM II, 159; AT VII, 226). (See also CSM II, 272 ff.; AT IXA, 207 ff.)
²⁴ Traditional conceptualism about modal truth might provide one such justification, but other
forms of anti-realism could also serve. Neither is anti-realism forced on us; there are options
in the theory of knowledge as well. The account in the text is meant to be neutral between
these various possibilities, and indeed to allow that none of them is finally convincing. The
problem of justifying reliance on our faculties is quite general, and the potential solutions similar,
and similarly unsatisfying, across faculties (e.g., perception, memory, logical and mathematical
intuition). Obviously it is not, and could not be, our policy to postpone assent to a faculty’s
deliverances until its reliability is philosophically assured. (In any case, the complaint against
Descartes has always been that his appeal to conceivability involves certain specific errors, in light of
which the proposed conclusion cannot be drawn in this case; it should not be allowed to degenerate
into a general modal skepticism according to which we are never justified in relying on conceivability
considerations, and so never justified in regarding the non-actual as possible.)
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it is possible to reach a false conclusion through no fault of one’s own. But the
suspicion that a judgment, modal or otherwise, is erroneous does ordinarily need
to be grounded in a reason to think that error in this case was significantly likely.
Such a claim is of course commonplace as regards perception (the analogy
with perception is meant to be suggestive, not probative). Absent specific and
overriding grounds for doubt, perception affords a (defeasible, but that goes
without saying) basis for belief. Doubts are of course legitimate if we have
independent reason to think that the facts are not as reported, or not of the right
kind to be perceived; or that the observer is reckless, or incompetent; or that even
competent observers are, on this occasion, liable to go astray. Quite often we can
cite some prior error or oversight, which explains the appearances even better
than the hypothesis that the facts are as maintained. But what plainly cannot be
used to justify incredulity is the abstract possibility of error. Obviously this is
not meant to constitute any sort of answer to skepticism. The point is only that
doubts not backed up in these ordinary ways are skeptical doubts; and where
skepticism is not at issue, perceptual reports not subject to any but skeptical
doubts are accepted, and I will suppose acceptable, as prima facie accurate.
Not to minimize their differences, conception seems analogous to perception
in this respect: absent specific grounds for doubt, p’s conceivability as possible
prima facie justifies me in the belief that p is possible. Outside of philosophy, this
would hardly require argument. Imagine that you claim to be able to conceive of a
situation in which you exist, but the Washington Monument does not. Assuming
that we ourselves find no difficulty in the conception, are we still in a position
seriously to question the possibility of yourself without the Monument? Only, it
seems obvious, if we can point to some complicating factor of a kind not yet envisaged (imagine your reaction if we said, ‘nevertheless, we wonder whether it is really
possible’, though no further complication suggested itself!). Unless we have it in
mind to play the skeptic, and dissent from received standards of evidence, to resist
now, without grounds for doubt or the prospect of them, would simply be to reveal
ourselves as ignorant of what counts as sufficient reason for belief in cases like this.
With these lessons in mind, return to my conception of myself in a purely
mental condition. Naturally I wonder whether this conception is veridical, i.e.,
whether it is the conception of a real possibility. Presumably this is because
I have heard of cases of falsidical conception, cases where people conceived
something as possible which was not in fact possible; and I wonder whether
my own case might not be like that. For example, I suppose that the ancients
had no difficulty in conceiving it as possible that Hesperus should have existed
without Phosphorus. From this they might erroneously have concluded that the
contemplated situation could have obtained (erroneously, because Venus cannot
exist without Venus). Maybe I am making an analogous mistake when I conceive
myself as a purely thinking thing, and conclude that this is truly possible for me.
But is the analogy a good one? Remember that the ancients found it conceivable
that Hesperus should have existed without Phosphorus, only because they falsely
Conceiving
"mis-conception"
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25
believed that Hesperus and Phosphorus were distinct. What is the mistaken belief
which accounts for my erroneous intuition, as the ancients’ misjudgment belief
that Hesperus was not Phosphorus accounts for theirs?
Reflection on the ancients’ mistake points toward the following model of
modal error. First, I conceive it as possible that p, although p is necessarily false.
Second, that p is necessarily false emerges from the truth of some proposition q.
Third, I do not realize this, believing instead either that q is false, or that it is false
that if q, then p is impossible; and that is how I am able to conceive, erroneously,
of a situation in which p. Thus:
(a) q;
(b) if q, then ! ∼ p; and
(c) my ability to conceive it as possible that p is explained by my denial of (a),
or else by my denial of (b).
FN:25
(‘!p’ means: necessarily, p.) Subject to a qualification to be mentioned presently,
every instance of erroneous conception that I am aware of fits this pattern.²⁵ For
example, the ancients could conceive it as possible that Hesperus should exist
without Phosphorus (that p) only because they denied the truth (q) that they
were identical; if some contemporary philosophers, aware of this identity, find
themselves capable of the same conception, that must be because they deny the
conditional truth that if the identity holds, then Hesperus is impossible without
Phosphorus (that q only if ! ∼ p). Similarly, Oedipus may suppose that he
could have been King even if Jocasta had never lived (that p). But that is because
he believes that he is not her son (that q); and if he persists in his error, that is
because he denies, what for argument’s sake we assume to be true, that if she is
his mother, then he could not have existed unless she had (that q only if ! ∼ p).
Examples are easily multiplied, but let us return to the case of interest.
Conceivings are prima facie veridical; so I am prima facie entitled to think
that I am capable of purely mental existence. The question is whether this prima
facie entitlement can be defeated along the lines just indicated. For my modal
intuition is erroneous, if there is a proposition q such that
(a) q;
(b) if q then ! (I possess more than my thought properties); and
(c) my ability to conceive it as possible that I should possess no more than my
thought properties is explained by my denial of (a), or of (b).
Certainly it would establish that my modal intuition was erroneous if someone
was able to prove that it could be explained away in the manner indicated. But
²⁵ Although such a claim might well be correct, I do not claim that all modal error whatsoever fits
the model (indeed, I leave it open that there might, in principle, be absolutely undetectable modal
errors, to which, a fortiori, the model would not apply); my concern is more with the assertability,
than the truth, of ‘x is mistaken in conceiving it as possible that p’.
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so much is not required. To raise legitimate doubts about the intuition, it ought
to be enough to find a proposition q for which there is good reason to think
that the model may apply (for in that case, the intuition is potentially explicable
on some other basis than that it is true). Call q a defeater if there is, plausibly,
a significant chance that (a), (b), and (c). Then the objector’s challenge is to
find a proposition which defeats my intuition of the possibility of purely mental
existence.
Admittedly, it may be difficult for the objector to present me with a subjectively
convincing example of a defeater. For no proposition q will strike me as a defeater
unless I can be brought to recognize that I deny something (that q, or that q only
if ! ∼ p) that is not improbably true. And this is not something I am likely to
admit.²⁶ But this complication need not detain us for long. For I ought to be
able to recognize a proposition q, if there is one, such that it is because I deny
that q, or that if q then ! ∼ p, that I am able to conceive it as possible that p.
Having done so, I must admit that if, contrary to what I suppose, it is true that
q, and that q only if ! ∼ p, then what I find conceivable is not in fact possible.
Whether the objection succeeds must now depend on whether the propositions
that q, and that q only if ! ∼ p, possess credibility sufficient to overcome the
presumptive reliability of modal intuition.
Certainly there are very many propositions q such that I deny that q is a truth
which shows me to be incapable of purely mental existence; for example, I deny
this of the proposition that I was born on the planet Neptune. Most such denials
are irrelevant, since there is no significant chance that they are in error. But when
we turn to propositions q such that it is not wildly improbable that q is a truth
given which purely mental existence is impossible for me, e.g., that I possess
more than my thought properties, or that my mental life is grounded in my
physical condition, or that I necessarily possess more than my thought properties,
or that I am identical to my body, we are met with a certain difficulty. Going
into my thought experiment, I do not deny that these are truths which rule out
the possibility of my purely mental existence; rather, I come to these denials as
a result of the thought experiment. In some cases, the thought experiment leads
me to deny q’s truth, in others its tendency is to show that I am incapable of
purely mental existence. But in all cases, the conception precedes, and so cannot
be explained by, the denial.
To illustrate, it cannot be said that I am able to conceive myself with my
thought properties alone only because I initially deny that I possess physical
properties, or that my mental life is grounded in my physical nature; or because
I initially deny that if these things are true, then I am incapable of purely mental
²⁶ Perhaps this is why the gap between conceivability and possibility can seem so hard to
appreciate from the first-person point of view. Intuitively, ‘I can conceive it, but it isn’t really
possible’ has something in common with ‘I believe it, but it isn’t really true’. If the assertability of ‘x
can conceive that p, but it isn’t possible that p’ is connected, as I am suggesting, with the assertability
(for some r) of ‘x believes that not-r, but r’, then the reasons for the analogy become clearer.
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FN:27
unaware
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existence. When I attempt my conception, I acknowledge that I possess more than
my thought properties, and acknowledge too that my mental life is grounded in
my physical nature. And even if I do not acknowledge that these facts reveal me
as essentially unfit for purely mental existence, neither do I deny it; indeed, I
attempt the thought experiment in order to discover whether denying it would
be unreasonable. Similarly I acknowledge that if I am identical to my body, then
purely mental existence is impossible for me; and although I do not antecedently
acknowledge, neither do I antecedently deny, that I am identical to my body.
That is what the thought experiment tells me. So far, then, my conception is not
in danger of being explained away.²⁷
Someone might object as follows. To erroneously conceive it as possible that
p, why should I have to go so far as to deny the proposition q given which p
is impossible, or to deny the proposition that p is impossible if q is true? Isn’t
it enough if I am simply ignorant, that q, or ignorant that if q is true, then p is
impossible? Thus consider a less demanding model of how erroneous conception
can arise: there is a proposition q such that
unaware
(a) q;
(b) if q then ! ∼ p; and
unawareness of the fact
(c) that I can conceive it as possible that p is explained by my ignorance that (a),
unawareness
of
the
fact
or else by my ignorance that (b).
Perhaps 'unawareness'
the ‘ignorance’ model does do a certain justice to cases which the ‘denial’
model leaves unaccounted for. Imagine, for example, that the medievals, rather
than denying that whales were mammals, simply had no opinion either way.
Mightn’t they still have conceived it as possible, erroneously of course, that they
should have been something else (say, fish)? If so, then this gives an example of a
false
falsidical conception whose explanation lies not in the fact that q is denied, but
in the fact that it is not believed. Or take the stock example of the conceivability
of Goldbach’s conjecture, on the assumption that it is, unbeknownst to anyone,
unaware
false; then it is not because I deny, but because I am
ignorant, that some even
number is not the sum of two primes, that I can conceive it as possible that the
FN:28 conjecture holds.²⁸
²⁷ Following Kripke, many philosophers believe that (K) for all z, if z is the zygote from
which I actually derive, then I am necessarily derived from z. George Bealer observes that if (K) is
independently credible, the proposition q that I derive from z (my actual zygote) looks like a defeater
of my modal intuition; for q is independently credible, and given the independent credibility of
(K), so, apparently, is the conditional proposition that if q, then ! (I posess more than my thought
properties). The problem is avoided if by ‘I could have existed in a purely mental condition’, I mean
only that I could have existed in that condition over some considerable part of my life. Admittedly
this response is superficial, if, as may appear, I am now open to a second ‘reduplication’ argument
of the sort typically offered for (K). But that argument, or so I claim, proves difficult to formulate.
²⁸ Not everyone agrees that I can conceive it as possible that Goldbach’s conjecture is false.
Some will see me as confusing conceivability as metaphysically possible with some sort of epistemic
possibility, e.g., it is not known, or not knowable a priori that, not-p; and others will claim to find
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Now we have a less demanding, and perhaps (see the last note) a more realistic,
model of how modal intuition goes wrong. The objector’s challenge is to identify
a proposition q for which there is a significant chance that the model applies.
Now you may say that nothing could be easier. Let q be the proposition that I
am incapable of purely mental existence; then as long as my intuition is still sub
judice, there might seem to be a significant chance that (a) q is true, (b) if q, then
I am incapable of purely mental existence (this is obvious), and (c) my ignorance
of (a) explains my ability to conceive myself in a purely mental condition.
Nevertheless, I take it that it gives me no real reason not to trust my intuition
that I am capable of purely mental existence, to be told that that intuition might
be due, in part, to my ignorance of what might, for all I know, be the fact that
I am incapable of purely mental existence. After all, it could equally be said that
I am able to conceive it as possible that I should have had a different birthday,
only because of ignorance about the necessity of my actual birthday. In either
case, the most that can be claimed is that if the alleged defeater is true, and, e.g.,
it is necessary that I am born on September 30, then if I had not been ignorant
of that fact, I would not have found any earlier birthday conceivable. And that
is hardly an objection; no more than it is an objection to the veridicality of my
perceptual impression that there are ducks present, that if I am wrong, and they
are decoys, then my ignorance of that fact would figure in the explanation of
how I was able to suppose that they were ducks.
Relating this intuitive response to the formal model takes some care; two points
need to be distinguished. Even if we allow there is a significant chance that I am
incapable of purely mental existence, there seems little chance that my ignorance
of this fact could constitute the explanation of how I was capable of a contrary
conception; the explanation must cite some other error or oversight to which
my mistaken conception can then be attributed. But that is not the important
a confusion between the conceivability of p, and its not being inconceivable (van Cleve 1983). To
the former, let me say that although ‘conceivable’ can be used to indicate epistemic possibility, what
I mean by it is ‘conceivable as metaphysically possible’. To the latter, my response is to question
the existence of any sharp or principled distinction between its being conceivable, and its not
being inconceivable, that p. Practically all conception is in some degree vulnerable to defeat; as the
vulnerability increases, and our consciousness of it grows, we back off the ‘conceivability’ claim and
incline more and more to the ‘not inconceivable formulation. But we do this in response to the
gradual intensification of a concern that is never wholly absent, the concern that our intuition is
liable to defeat by eventualities which we are not yet in a position to rule out. In the example given,
this concern is deeply felt, and that accounts for our admitted hesitation in calling it conceivable that
Goldbach’s conjecture should be false. But I submit that I feel the same sort of hesitation, to a lesser
degree, in claiming the conceivability of a situation in which I exist but my car does not (skeptics
should consult their TV listings for reruns of the situation comedy ‘My Mother the Car’). Having
said that, I agree that in the Goldbach example we feel so much hesitation that the conceivability
claim is at least tendentious. If anything, this strengthens my argument: the ‘ignorance’ model
extends the ‘denial’ model only in cases where I simply cannot tell whether (q & (if q then ! ∼ p));
but in those cases, I am presumably reluctant, anyway, to claim that p is conceivable. Thus it is
mainly in connection with uneasy conceivability intuitions that the ‘ignorance’ model opens up new
possibilities for criticism (this is a point I return to).
'unawareness'
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mistaken
misleading
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point; for even if a more informative explanation is constructed, it carries little
force if its plausibility depends on the prior concession that my conception is not
improbably falsidical (this would be like explaining away my perception as of
ducks by saying that they were not improbably decoy ducks, decoy ducks being
the usual explanation of falsidical duck appearances). If there is any point to
saying that the faculty of modal intuition is presumptively reliable, it is that one
may not assume that a given intuition is untrustworthy, in making the case that
it should not be trusted. Only if there is some basis independent of the issue under
dispute to suspect that my refusal of some relevant proposition s really does put me
out of touch with the facts, does the allegation that s provide a reason for doubt.²⁹
To summarize, the objector’s challenge is to identify a proposition q for which
there are independent grounds to suspect that my conceivability as a purely
thinking thing is explained by my ignorance of the following fact: that q is a
truth which shows that this is impossible for me. To see some of the difficulties
involved, compare our imaginary medievals’ intuition that whales could have
been other than mammals, with my own intuition that I am capable of existing
in a purely mental condition. Believing (as I will suppose) that whales might
after all turn out to be mammals, and that if so they are mammals necessarily,
these medievals should at least have felt some considerable uneasiness about
their conception of whales as possibly not mammals. After all, they knew of
a hypothesis q, amenable to straightforward empirical verification, whose truth
would, by their own lights, reveal their conception as not veridical. However I
know of no empirical hypothesis q, for which it is antecedently at all probable
that if q is true, then I couldn’t have existed as a purely mental being (which
is why I do not feel the same sort of mistrust of my modal intuition as I am
supposing that the medievals must have felt of theirs). Insofar, indeed, as q is
an empirical hypothesis with some reasonable chance of coming out true, it is
antecedently highly unlikely that if q, then I couldn’t have existed as a purely
mental being. And something like this holds more generally, I claim, of proposed
defeaters q of my modal intuition: the better the chances are that q is true, the
²⁹ Someone might object that any consideration with the power to exhibit my unacceptance
of the proposition that q, or that q only if p is impossible, as putting me out of touch with the
facts, is, eo ipso, not ‘independent of the issue under dispute’ (since that issue is whether or not p
is possible). But for s to be credible independently of the issue whether it is possible that p does
not mean that s, if credible, cannot confer credibility on the thought that p is impossible; it means
that s’s credibility is not owing to the prior credibility of that thought. Undoubtedly the distinction
here alluded to raises fascinating and difficult problems, but its reality seems unmistakable. For
example, observation gives me evidence that this swan is black, and this then confers credibility
on the thought that not all swans are white. But the fact that ‘this swan is black’ would not be
credible, if ‘not all swans are white’ were not also credible, has no tendency whatever to show that
the former owes its credibility to the latter; and it would be absurd to complain, on the ground
that my observation is misleading if all swans are in fact white, that I have failed to supply a reason
‘independent of the issue’ whether all swans are white, to think that this swan I am now looking at
is black. So I see no in principle difficulty about finding reasons independent of the issue whether p
is possible, for propositions which, if credible, would call p’s possibility into question.
of
of
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worse the chances for truth of the conditional proposition that if q, then purely
mental existence is impossible for me.
Let us consider cases. Maybe q is the proposition that I have physical properties,
where these may be either intrinsic or extrinsic. Since there is independent reason
to think that I possess at least extrinsic physical properties, q is independently
probable. But I am not aware of any independent reason to think that if I possess
physical properties, even if only extrinsic ones, then I am incapable of purely
mental existence. Someone might claim that there is independent reason to
suspect that I have intrinsic physical properties, specifically, extension; and that
there is independent reason to think that if so, then I am extended necessarily,
and therefore cannot exist in a purely mental condition. About the second half
of this, I am extremely doubtful. Like most people, I regard it as significantly
likely that I am extended; somehow, though, this does not seem to inhibit me in
conceiving myself as a purely thinking thing. But then I need positive argument
that this intuition of being possibly-but-not-actually unextended is accountable
to some prior error, before I can accept that any independent credibility attaches
to the conditional hypothesis stated; otherwise, the objection comes to nothing
more than the unsubstantiated allegation that my intuition may be wrong.³⁰ Of
course, the conditional hypothesis becomes virtually certain if we let q be the
proposition that I am necessarily extended. But now it is q itself which wants
independent evidence.
Better, then, to look for a proposition q which, though not itself modal in
character, has modal consequences (specifically, that I am incapable of purely
mental existence). Perhaps there are independent grounds to suspect that I am
the same thing as my body; and that if so, I am incapable of existing with my
thought properties alone. (Certainly we seem to have an awful lot in common:
shape, size, mass, and so on.) But what is meant by ‘same thing’? If it means
‘identical’, then the first conjunct needs some reason to believe it. However
categorically similar my body and I may be, this gives grounds to suspect only that
we are coincident, not that we are identical.³¹ Evidence that we were moreover
identical would presumably be evidence that my body and self agreed on a wide
range of non-categorical or hypothetical properties, specifically on those for which
the agreement is not readily accounted for in terms of our admitted categorical
similarity. Counterfactual and dispositional properties are therefore of limited
importance, and evidence of identity must to a large extent be evidence of modal
³⁰ Some philosophers may find it tempting to argue as follows: whatever is extended is some sort
of body; and whatever is a body is necessarily so, and so necessarily extended. But this reasoning is
vitiated by an ambiguity in ‘is a body’. If it means ‘is of the metaphysical kind << body >>’, then
it is not antecedently plausible that whatever is extended is a body; if it means ‘has the categorical
properties of something of that kind, e.g., extension, mass, solidity . . . ,’ then it is not antecedently
plausible that bodies are necessarily bodies (see section VII).
³¹ See Yablo, 1987. Assume for the sake of the objection that there are no temporal differences
between my self and my body, e.g., my body doesn’t antedate me, nor is it going to outlast me.
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similarity; yet this can only come from conceivability considerations, which seem
in fact to argue the other way! If ‘same thing’ is understood so as to require
sharing of categorical properties only, the problem is merely relocated. Now the
apparent categorical similarity of my self and my body does give independent
grounds for suspecting that we are the ‘same thing’; only there is no longer any
reason to think that our being so rules out the possibility of my purely mental
existence.
So there seems to be at least this much difference between our imaginary
medievals’ intuition of the possibility that whales are not mammals and my
intuition of the possibility of purely mental existence: unlike the medievals, I
am not aware of any independently credible hypothesis whose truth might be
supposed, on independent grounds, to have the consequence that my intuition
is incorrect. Surely it would be absurd and irrational for me to defer, in these
conditions, to the abstract possibility that I am in error?
Maybe not. To this point, I have been pretending that the medievals were aware
of certain specific issues (e.g., are whales mammals?), amenable to independent
investigation, whose unfortunate resolution would, by their own lights, have
exposed their modal intuition as incorrect. But it may be truer to the normal
progress of our dialectic that the conceiver is not specifically aware of her
conception’s vulnerability to its eventual defeater, until the defeater comes along
and does its work. Before the discovery of genes, for example, the thought may
not have been readily available that scenarios in which animal life was organized
along some non-genetic basis risked exposure as not only false, but impossible, by
the progress of science. None of this is to deny that the concept of an animal must
somehow ‘prepare the ground’ for the eventual recognition that (e.g.) animals
necessarily propagate their kind by way of genes. But it is striking how unaware
it is nevertheless possible to be of the vulnerability of one’s modal intuition to
what emerges, in the end, as its defeater. And now the objection comes, can’t
that be how it is with my intuition of the possibility of purely mental existence?
Ideally lucid conception, were it obtainable, would anticipate, I suppose,
every possible scenario for defeat (even before Mendel, ideally lucid conceivers
would have realized that such-and-such discoveries would rule it out that animal
life could be organized on a non-genetic basis). So understood, ideally lucid
conception is not within our powers; but what we are being asked to consider
is how very far short of ideal lucidity our conceivings can fall, and how risky
it therefore becomes to assume that no defeater would come into view, if it
were somehow obtained. Of course this risk cannot be generally prohibitive,
or no modal intuition would be trustworthy; so the idea must be that there is
something in the nature of the thought that I exist in a purely mental condition
to encourage the suspicion that in this case, if ideal lucidity were achieved, defeat
would follow.
What might that something be? Recent work in the theory of content
has turned up a variety of cases in which there is a significant gap between
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grasping a thought content, and appreciating the truth-conditions it induces.³²
Misidentifying a cunningly groomed shrub as Brendan Sullivan, I entertain the
content that that individual is not a potted plant; although I consider that I have
thought something true in just those worlds in which Sullivan is not a potted
plant, I am mistaken: it is the shrub’s (actual and counterfactual) condition
that matters. In this example, indexicality appears to be the culprit. But the
same phenomenon can arise with contents that are not on their face indexical:
for example, contents involving natural kind concepts; or concepts sensitive to
community consensus regarding the use of their standard linguistic expression;
or, more generally, concepts whose contribution to truth-conditions is affected
by factors potentially unavailable to the thinker.
Since conceivability is a matter of thought content, and possibility a matter
of truth-conditions, contents for which this gap is especially large (call them
‘schematic’ contents) seem peculiarly apt to figure in delusive conception.
Continuing the example above, I experience no difficulty in conceiving as
possible a situation in which that individual employs dishonest methods, because
I fail to see that that must be a situation in which the shrub does this. And now
the objector argues that if my conception of myself in a purely mental condition
is similarly schematic, then that should provoke concern about its accuracy. For
as content grows more schematic, it constrains truth-conditions less and less;
and the risk accordingly grows that the truth-conditions present difficulties to
which the content offers no clue. Defeat is therefore to be expected, in the form
of a proposition q spelling out the worldly facts which guide the transition from
(benign) content to (malignant) truth-conditions.
However, I will need an argument before I concede that my I-thoughts
are dangerously schematic. Remember that conceivability intuitions vary in
subjective insecurity, according to how seriously one regards the threat of defeat.
Ideally the potential defeaters have been identified, and then our confidence
depends on the probability we attach to their being truths incompatible with the
intuited possibility. But even when the threat is open-ended, subjective insecurity
continues to track expectation of defeat, via our sensitivity to schematic elements
in the content entertained.³³ Other things being equal, one would expect the
perilously schematic character of my I-thoughts to express itself in a pronounced
insecurity about my intuition of disembodied existence. Then why do I not feel
this insecurity? Various explanations may be possible; but the natural explanation
is that my I-thought is not perilously schematic after all.
³² By ‘thought content’ I mean something peculiarly suited to the classification of the thinker’s
subjective condition or internal point of view; and by ‘truth-conditions’ I mean something which
determines truth-values over all possible worlds. Depending on context, a given content can induce
a variety of truth-conditions; the larger this variety, the larger the gap referred to in the text.
³³ Thus I feel far more confident of my intuition that there could have been a planet without
mountains, than of my intuition that there could have been (e.g.) a force proportional to the mass
of the object it acted on (as gravity was supposed to be).
square root of the
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Even if true, the allegation that my I-thoughts are schematic could hardly
be decisive. After all, an I-thought serves as the content of my intuition that I
could have existed without Margaret Truman; yet this does not suffice to call
the intuition into serious doubt. Thus the abstract possibility of trouble en route
from content to truth-conditions, unsupplemented by a plausible scenario about
how that possibility might be finding expression in the actual case, seems not to
be enough. But when we will need a proposition spelling out how the envisaged
complications are supposed to arise (maybe I am Margaret Truman); and this
proposition would seem to be none other than a defeater, whence a defeater is
required in any case. To consider the obvious example, someone might believe
that my I-concept picked out the entity, whatever it was, activities in which
constituted the ultimate basis of these thoughts; and she might attempt to explain
my modal intuition away by citing my failure to bear in mind that: I am the
entity so described, and the entity so described is my body (but for this, I would
see that the possibility of my enjoying purely mental existence is ruled out by
my body’s inability to do the same). But this is just to offer as defeater the
proposition q just formulated, which must then be subjected to the same scrutiny
as any other proposed defeater. Like them, it is found wanting.³⁴
Vague and circumstantial worries about its potential for defeat cannot overcome the prima facie credibility of the Cartesian intuition. Pending the discovery
of a specific defeater, I propose to acquiesce in the intuition, and to conclude
that purely mental existence is possible for me.
V I I . C AT E G O R I C A L D UA L I S M
Maybe you think that this conclusion is in order, or maybe you think it goes too
far; in either case, it is important to remember that the full-blooded Cartesian
dualist maintains something even stronger. At the outset I distinguished between
the hypothetical dualism which asserts the separability of selves from bodies and
the categorical dualism which claims to find fundamental categorical differences
between self and body, such as would imply their separation in fact (as statue and
clay are not separate in fact). In the Meditations, at least, Descartes betrays little
appreciation of this crucial distinction:
[because] I know that everything which I clearly and distinctly understand is capable of
being created by God so as to correspond exactly with my understanding of it . . . the fact
³⁴ As I see it, no independent credibility attaches to q’s first conjunct r: I am the entity activities
in which constitute the ultimate basis for these thoughts. Like many people, I acknowledge that my
thoughts are owing to occurrences in my body; yet this does not inhibit me in conceiving myself in a
disembodied state. Absent positive argument for r, to offer it as independently credible is simply to
forget the presumptive reliability of this modal intuition. Perhaps the needed credibility is thought
to flow from an (acknowledged?) a priori equivalence between my I-concept and the descriptive
condition given. But if this a priori equivalence obtained, then presumably I ought to know it; and
not-r ought accordingly to strike me as a priori false (which I submit it does not).
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that I can clearly and distinctly understand one thing apart from another is enough to
make me certain that the two things are distinct. (CSM II, 54; AT VII, 78)
FN:35
If by ‘distinct’, Descartes means non-identical, then from the premise that x and
y ‘can be made to exist in separation’, it does indeed follow that they are distinct.
But if by ‘distinct’ he means categorically unlike, then he simply does not explain
how this is supposed to follow from mere separability. Thus Descartes’ argument
for hypothetical dualism, even if accepted, is far from establishing the categorical
dualism which asserts actual separation on the basis of fundamental categorical
dissimilarity.
Now Descartes does of course believe that there are important categorical
differences between mind and body, in particular that minds are not extended, and
that bodies do not think.³⁵ To be sure, the situation is somewhat complicated by
his contention that there is something—the mind/body union, sometimes called
the ‘human being’ or the ‘man’—which is both thinking and extended. But this
latter doctrine should not distract us from Descartes’ repeated assertions that the
components of this union are in categorical respects utterly disparate; the body
is extended and unthinking (‘I have never seen or perceived that human bodies
think; all I have seen is that there are human beings, who possess both thought and
a body’ (CSM II, 299; AT VII, 444)), and the mind is unextended and thinking
(‘I deny that true extension as commonly conceived is to be found in God or in
angels or in our mind or in any substance which is not a body’ (K, 239)). As for
the man, he is thinking and extended only in the sense that he has disjoint parts
of which one is an unextended thinker and the other unthinking and extended:
. . . the question is whether we perceive that a thinking thing and an extended thing
are one and the same by a unity of nature. That is to say, do we find between thought
and extension the same kind of affinity or connection that we find between shape and
motion, or understanding and volition? Alternatively, when they are said to be ‘‘one and
the same’’ is this not rather in respect of unity of composition, in so far as they are found
in the same man, just as bones and flesh are found in the same animal? The latter view is
the one I maintain. . . . (CSM II, 286; AT VII, 424; emphasis added)
Apparently, then, no single thing is both thinking and extended, in the way that
triangularity and rectilinear motion can jointly inhere in a single thing. Adapting
Descartes’ terminology slightly, we can say that the mind thinks by nature, the
man by composition, that is, by inheritance from a proper part which thinks by
nature; similarly the body is extended by nature, the man by composition. Then
Descartes’ view is that the thing which thinks by nature is not extended, and the
³⁵ This is not to say that the ‘real distinction,’ as Descartes conceives it, expresses a categorical
dualism; indeed in its canonical statements (e.g., CSM I, 213; AT VIIIA, 28–9) it sounds decidedly
hypothetical. What I do think is that, first, Descartes was a categorical dualist, second, he was
seriously unclear about how far categorical dualism outreaches hypothetical, and, third, he had some
tendency to read his arguments for the real distinction as having established categorical dualism
inter alia.
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thing which is by nature extended does not think. Using ‘I’ for the thing which
thinks by nature, and ‘my body’ for the thing which is by nature extended,
Descartes maintains that I am not extended, nor does my body think.³⁶
Given the centrality of these ideas in his thought, it is little short of astonishing
that our problem here is not so much to evaluate his reasoning, as to discover what
his reasoning could have been. In a work as late as the Principles of Philosophy
(1644), Descartes still shows a tendency to slide over from separability into
separateness:
. . . even if we suppose that God has joined some corporeal substance to . . . a thinking
substance so closely that they cannot be more closely conjoined, thus compounding them
into a unity, they nonetheless remain really distinct. For no matter how closely God may
have united them, the power which he previously had of separating them, or keeping one
in being without the other, is something he could not lay aside. . . . (CSM I, 213; AT
VIIIA, 29)
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From this one surmises that Descartes takes mind’s separability from body to
indicate that even in the actual circumstances, soul and body are at best ‘closely
conjoined’. If ‘conjoined’ is understood so as to permit overwhelming categorical
similarity (i.e., if statue and clay are ‘conjoined’), then the conclusion follows, but
has no tendency to show that mind is actually unextended, or that body does not
think. But if, as seems enormously likelier, ‘conjoined’ entities are categorically
unlike, then it needs an argument to show that my separability from my body
entails that we are, as matters stand, at best ‘conjoined’.
Most reconstructions of Descartes’ reasoning make appeal here to the premise
that whatever is embodied is necessarily so.³⁷ If accidental embodiment is
impossible, then from my possible disembodiment, my actual disembodiment
evidently follows. Whether Descartes takes the impossibility of accidental embodiment as a premise or not, in the present context its plausibility owes entirely
to a confusion between (a) being a body, in the sense of belonging to the
kind << body >>, and (b) being embodied, in the sense of being categorically
(almost) indiscernible from something of that kind. Admittedly bodies are necessarily bodies (and so necessarily embodied); thus if embodiment implies being a
body, nothing can be embodied without being necessarily so. But to assume that
³⁶ Three remarks. First, someone might question whether Descartes would assent to ‘I am
unextended’, on the ground that ‘I’ refers not to the mind but to the man. Actually, Descartes’ usage
is unclear on this point, but even if I were the man, it would remain that I was categorically distinct
from my body, for I think, and my body does not. In the text, we use ‘I’ for the thing which thinks
by nature; on that usage, Descartes does of course think that he is unextended. Second, Descartes
does sometimes allow that mind can be in a very weak sense ‘extended’, simply by being in union
with body (we might say that mind can be extended ‘by union’); however, he makes it very clear
that extension by union is not extension in any real or familiar sense (K, 119, 143). Third, when x is
said to possess an attribute P ‘by nature’, this does not mean that P is a nature of x, and in particular
it does not mean that P is a property that x cannot exist without, or a basis for its other properties.
(For example, it is by nature that the plank is warped, but being warped is not the plank’s nature.)
³⁷ See van Cleve 1983; Hooker 1978; and Schiffer 1976.
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only bodies can be embodied is simply to beg the question against the categorical
monist who alleges that what I am is not a body but an embodied person, whose
categorical properties are (approximately) those of a certain thinking body, but
with modal characteristics all its own.
Nothing remains for Descartes but a last-ditch appeal to the idea that thought
excludes extension, i.e., that nothing can possess both ‘by nature’.³⁸ Since I
undoubtedly think, it would follow that I am not extended. Some slight evidence
that Descartes is attracted to this reasoning comes from his response to a 1647
pamphlet published by his former disciple Regius. Regius remarks that:
. . . if we are to follow some philosophers, who hold that extension and thought are
attributes which are present in certain substances, as in subjects, then since these attributes
are not opposities but merely different, there is no reason why the mind should not be a
sort of attribute co-existing with extension in the same subject, though the one attribute
is not included in the concept of the other. . . . (CSM I, 294–5; AT VIIIB, 342–3)
Descartes replies that if we are talking about
. . . attributes which constitute the natures of things, it cannot be said that those which
are different, and such that the concept of the one is not contained in the concept of the
other, are present together in one and the same subject; for that would be equivalent to
saying that one and the same subject has two different natures—a statement that implies
a contradiction, at least when it is a question of a simple subject (as in the present case)
rather than a composite one. (CSM I, 298; AT VIIIB, 350)
(Cf. also CSM II, 159; AT VII, 227.) Apparently, then, whatever is both thinking
and extended must be composite:
A composite entity is one which is found to have two or more attributes, each one of
which can be distinctly understood apart from the other. For, in virtue of the fact that
one of these attributes can be distinctly understood apart from the other, we know that
the one is not a mode of the other, but is a thing, or attribute of a thing, which can
subsist without the other. A simple entity, on the other hand, is one in which no such
attributes are to be found. . . . [Hence] that which we regard as having at the same time
both extension and thought is a composite entity, namely a man—an entity consisting
of a soul and a body. (CSM I, 299; AT VIIIB, 350–1)
Ignore as irrelevant the question why a composite of soul and body should be
expected to inherit thought and extension, strictly understood, from its thinking
and extended parts (or why, if it did, its unthinking and unextended parts should
not equally confer on it thoughtlessness and unextension!). Our problem is much
more basic. If by a ‘composite’ entity, Descartes means a subject of distinctly
comprehensible attributes, then that reduces his complaint against Regius, that
whatever has distinctly comprehensible attributes is composite, to the triviality
³⁸ Notice that this assumption, if Descartes were prepared to make it, would render his
subtle conceivability argument entirely superflouous. But then why bother with the conceivability
argument at all?
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that whatever has distinctly comprehensible attributes, has them. To restore the
complaint’s substance, ‘composite’ needs to be returned to its original meaning,
namely ‘divisible into disjoint parts’. But now the same old worries recur. How
does Descartes know that only what is divisible into disjoint parts can possess
both thought and extension? What is the argument which rules it out that some
things, for example, people, are thinking and extended by nature, that is to say,
otherwise than by separate inheritance from categorically disparate components?³⁹
Obviously it would be disappointing if Descartes had to resort here to a
neo-scholastic prejudice according to which every undivided entity must be
characterized by a single fundamental nature, of which all of its other (nontranscendental) properties are modes. For positive argument, he seems driven
back on his apparent conviction that nothing is conceivable as thinking and
extended, except by postulating a separation of that thing into purely extended
and purely thinking parts; in a word, that nothing is conceivable as thinking and
extended by nature.⁴⁰ Whatever the precise bearing may be of inconceivability
on impossibility (this is something we have not discussed), the problem with
this lies elsewhere: it is simply not obvious, if it ever was, that nothing is
conceivable as by nature both thinking and extended. In the Essay Concerning
Human Understanding, Bk. 4, Ch. 3, Part 6, John Locke proposes that it is
not much more remote from our comprehension to conceive that God can, if he pleases,
superadd to matter a faculty of thinking, than that he should superadd to it another
substance with a faculty of thinking.
FN:41
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From the ensuing controversy, it emerges that Locke was at any rate not simply
wrong about this, even for his own time.⁴¹ Even if subsequent discussion has
done little to relieve the obscurity of bodily thought, it has tended to confirm
Locke’s judgment that the combination is not strictly inconceivable. But then I
am still without a reason to believe that I am not extended, or that my body does
not think.
³⁹ Admittedly, the clear and distinct comprehensibility of thought without extension does
establish that the former is not, in Descartes’ sense, a mode of the latter (for modes are not
intelligible without their associated attributes (CSM I, 210–1; AT VIIIA, 25)). But on an intuitive
level, that we can understand thought without extension shows at most that thought is not necessarily
a way of being extended, not that it is necessarily not a way of being extended. Thus there is
room, which the categorical monist may want to take up, for the view that it is in fact by being
appropriately extended that one thinks, though thinking can in principle proceed on some other
basis, or on no basis at all (thought remains an attribute, since it does not presuppose extension).
On such a view, we do indeed possess distinctly comprehensible attributes by nature. But it is
equally open to the categorical monist to say that we possess thought and extension both by nature,
although thinking is not a way of being extended, nor conversely.
⁴⁰ Perhaps Descartes’ ‘incompatibilist’ remarks in the 1647 Notae, and his 1648 statement to
Burman that we possess clear conceptions of mind and body ‘as two substances which not only do
not entail one another but are actually incompatible’ (CB (28); emphasis added), reflect a belated
recognition of the gap between his premises and his conclusion.
this
⁴¹ See Yolton 1983, for a detailed history of the debate Locke provoked by his innocent remark.
suggests
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R E F E R E N C E S A N D A B B R EV I AT I O N S
page #s
Adam, C. and Tannery, P. (eds.) (1964–76). Œuvres de Descartes. Paris: Vrin/C.N.R.S
(= AT).
correctCleve, J. van (1983). ‘Conceivability and the Cartesian Argument for Dualism’, Pacific
Philosophical Quarterly 64, •pp. 35–45
• Q3
Cottingham, J. (ed.) (1976). Descartes’ Conversation with Burman (Oxford: Clarendon
Press) (= CB).
Cottingham, J., Stoothoff, R., and Murdoch, D. (eds.) (1985). The Philosophical Writings
of Descartes (I, II) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) (= CSM).
Hooker, M. (1978). ‘Descartes’ Denial of Mind–Body Identity’. In Hooker (ed.),
Descartes: Critical and Interpretive Essays, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, pp. 171–85
Kenny, A. (ed.) (1981). Descartes: Philosophical Letters (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1981) (= K).
Kripke, S. (1977). Identity and Necessity’. In Schwartz (ed.), Naming, Necessity, and
Natural Kinds. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, • pp. 66-101
• Q4
J., Essay Concerning Human Understanding (Indianapolis,
•
• Q5 Locke,(1996)
IN: Hackett Publishing Company)
Loeb, L. (1981). From Descartes to Hume: Continental Metaphysics and the Development of
Modern Philosophy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, pp. 3–43.
(1990). ‘The Priority of Reason in Descartes’, Philosophical Review 99.
pp. 3-43
Mason, H. T. (ed.) (1967). The Leibniz–Arnauld Correspondence. Manchester:
Manchester University Press (= LAC).
Schiffer, S. (1976). ‘Descartes on his Essence’, Philosophical Review 85, pp. 21–43.
Shoemaker, S. (1984a). ‘Embodiment and Behaviour’. In Shoemaker, Identity, Cause,
and Mind, New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 113–138.
(1984b). ‘Immortality and Dualism’. In Shoemaker, Identity, Cause, and Mind,
pp. 139–158.
(1984c). ‘On an Argument for Dualism’. In Shoemaker, Identity, Cause, and Mind,
pp. 287–308.
Thomas, B. ‘Abstraction and Complete Things’ (unpublished manuscript, University of
Michigan).
‘Conceivability and the Real Distinction’ (unpublished manuscript University of
Michigan).
Williams, B. (1978). Descartes: The Project of Pure Enquiry. Atlantic Highlands, NJ:
Humanities Press, pp. 293–314.
Yablo, S. (1987). ‘Identity, Essence, and Indiscernibility’. Journal of Philosophy 84.
pp.293-314
Yolton, J. (1983). Thinking Matter. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Stephen Yablo
Q1.
Q2.
Q3.
Q4.
Q5.
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Queries in Chapter 1
Please check and confirm the author correction here.
Author edit is not clear. Please check.
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or not.
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This reference seems incomplete, Please check.
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. . . because I find absence of incompatibility, because, that is, I am without
a certain perception, I am to call my idea compatible. On the ground of my
sheer ignorance, in other words, I am to know that my idea is assimilated,
and that, to a greater or lesser extent, it will survive in Reality.
F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality
I . I N T RO D U C T I O N
FN:1
FN:2
Some propositions are ‘‘possible’’: the way they represent things as being is a way
things metaphysically could have been. Other propositions are not in this sense
possible. How do we tell the difference? Or more particularly, of the possible
propositions, how do we tell that they are possible?¹ Hume’s famous answer is
that it is
an establish’d maxim in metaphysics, That whatever the mind clearly conceives, includes the
idea of possible existence, or in other words, that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible.²
And if there is a seriously alternative basis for possibility theses, philosophers
have not discovered it. So it is disappointing to realize that Hume puns on
Research for this paper was supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the
Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. For discussion and comments I
am grateful to Paul Boghossian, Jim Brown, Jim Conant, John Devlin, Graeme Forbes, Hannah
Ginsborg, Danny Goldstick, Sally Haslanger, David Hills, Eileen John, Gideon Rosen, Larry Sklar,
William Taschek, David Velleman, Ken Walton, Nick White, Crispin Wright, Catherine Wright,
and audiences at Davidson College, Queens University, Wayne State University, and Ohio State
University.
¹ Sometimes, of course, this is easy. If a proposition p is true, and known to be, then its possibility
can be inferred from p itself. The problem is to find grounds for thinking a proposition possible
which is not known to be true, most obviously because it is false.
² Hume 1968, p. 32. The maxim seems to say that conceivability suffices for possibility. This is
implausibly strong, so I propose to (mis)interpret Hume as claiming only that the conceivable is
ordinarily possible and that conceivability is evidence of possibility.
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‘‘establish’d’’. What the maxim is, is entrenched, perhaps even indispensable. But
our entitlement to it has often been questioned.³
Doubts about Hume’s maxim have a variety of historical sources. Some date
back as far as Descartes’s claim that, since he can conceive himself in a purely
mental condition, his essence is only to think. ‘‘How does it follow’’, Arnauld
asks, ‘‘from the fact that he is aware of nothing else belonging to his essence, that
nothing else does in fact belong to it?’’⁴ Others are as recent as the discovery by
Kripke and Putnam of necessary truths knowable only a posteriori:
we can perfectly well imagine having experiences that would convince us . . . that water
isn’t H2 O. In that sense, it is conceivable that water isn’t H2 O. It is conceivable but it
isn’t logically possible! Conceivability is no proof of logical possibility.⁵
Between times we find Reid and Kneale warning that if a proposition is true ‘‘for
all you know’’, then you will find it conceivable whether it is possible or not.
More than can be appreciated from a few examples, though, pessimism about
conceivability methods has been a consistent theme in philosophy. When Mill
says that
FN:6
our capacity or incapacity of conceiving a thing has very little to do with the possibility
of the thing in itself; but is in truth very much an affair of accident, and depends on the
past history and habits of our own minds,⁶
he sums up the position of many authors and the instinctive assumption of
many more.
Yet throughout this complicated history runs a certain schizophrenia in which,
the theoretical worries forgotten, conceivability evidence is accepted without
qualm or question. Hume’s own famous applications of his maxim are a case in
point. There is nothing necessary about the uniformity of nature, he says, for
FN:7
We can at least conceive a change in the course of nature; which sufficiently proves, that
such a change is not absolutely impossible.⁷
Causes are not strictly necessary for their effects, because the latter are
conceivable as uncaused; nor are they sufficient, since it is always conceivable
that the effect should not ensue. Whatever our other differences with Hume,
these arguments are normally credited with a good deal of persuasive force. Or
consider a case from the philosophy of language. As everyone knows, ‘Alexander’s
teacher’ is not a rigid designator. How, though, does everyone know this? Well,
we imagine a counterfactual situation in which Aristotle refuses Phillip’s call, or
³ Arthur Pap writes that ‘‘there is no objection to the imaginability criterion simply because
there is no alternative to it’’ (1958, p. 218). As the advice not to abandon a leaky lifeboat, this has
its points. As factual observation, though—well, such objections are extremely common.
⁴ CSM II, p. 140.
⁵ Putnam 1975, p. 233. See Putnam 1990, pp. 55–7, for second thoughts.
⁶ Mill 1874, book II, chapter V, section 6.
⁷ Hume 1968, p. 89.
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dies of dysentery on the way to Macedonia. Such imaginings would be irrelevant
to the rigidity of ‘Alexander’s teacher’ if they gave no evidence of possibility.
In the actual conduct of modal inquiry, our theoretical scruples about
conceivability evidence are routinely ignored. Double-think, though, is not the
method of true philosophy. Those of us willing to be persuaded of p’s possibility
by our ability to conceive it (and that is most of us, most of the time) should face
the issue squarely: is this procedure ill-advised? There will be just one constraint
on the discussion. Because the topic is not knowledge in general but knowledge
of possibility, we will confine ourselves to problems or supposed problems
peculiar to conceivability arguments. Such arguments have been charged, for
instance, with trading on a confusion between two senses of ‘could’; with implicit
circularity; and with misclassifying most or all a posteriori impossibilities as
possible.
Other, more sweeping, objections have also been raised. Two in particular
deserve mention now, if only to put them aside for purposes of this paper. First
is the traditional skeptical lament that
(S)
No independent evidence exists that conceivability is a guide to possibility—no
evidence obtainable without reliance on the faculty under review.
indent like
(A) on p50
True enough. But there is no independent evidence either that perception is
reliable about actuality; and if the worst that can be said about conceivability
evidence is that it is as bad as perceptual evidence, that may be taken as grounds
for relief rather than alarm. Now though comes the objection from naturalism:
(N)
FN:8
FN:9
FN:10
1993, p.52
Yablo 1992
Granted the unavailability of any philosophically satisfying reason to think that
perception is adequate to its task, we see at least how it could be. In fact perception
itself brings word of sensory mechanisms seemingly hard at work monitoring
external conditions. By contrast ‘‘we do not understand our own must-detecting
faculty’’.⁸ Not only are we aware of no bodily mechanism attuned to reality’s
modal aspects, it is unclear how such a mechanism could work even in principle.⁹
Taken in a suitably flat-footed way, these claims are again true enough. But the
same could be said about various other faculties, notably logical and mathematical
intuition; and to judge by our reaction there, they constitute a reason less for
mistrusting the faculty than for reconsidering either the nature of the target facts
or the nature of our access to them.¹⁰
So much for the grand-scale objections. Ultimately they are going to require
answers, but answers of a kind that the experience of philosophy has accustomed
us to doing without. At any rate they are not the objections that concern me, or,
I think, Arnauld, Reid, Kneale, etc. Two differences seem important. First, these
⁸ Blackburn 1986, p. 119.
⁹ Cf. Wright 1986, pp. 206–7.
¹⁰ For a sense of the possibilities, see Coppock 1984; Forbes 1985, chapter 9; Bealer 1987;
Sidelle 1989; and Yablo, forthcoming.
indent like
(A) on p50
such as
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philosophers seem prepared to bracket worries that arise also with other accredited
ways of knowing, the better to focus in on what might be specially problematic
about conceivability. Second, rather than simply deploring the absence of reason
to think that conceivability is a guide to possibility, Arnauld and company
offer positive evidence that it is not a guide. If the problem with conceivability
methods was only that we could not prove, or explain, their reliability, then
maybe we could live with that. But the problem is supposed to be that they are
demonstrably unreliable.
I I . C O N C E I VA B I L I T Y A N D T H E M O D A L - A P PE A R A N CE
TEST
this is a quote and
should be in small type
as on p39
FN:11
What conceivability is, is a question I hope to put off as long as possible. For now
we can get by on a single assumption, one perhaps implicit in Hume’s remark
quoted above:
whatever the mind clearly conceives, includes the idea of possible existence, or in
other words, . . . nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible.
As often when Hume takes himself to be saying the same thing twice, he seems
here to be saying two quite different things:¹¹
(a) what we imagine or conceive is presented as possible;
(b) what we imagine or conceive is possible.
FN:12
Where (b) claims for conceivability a certain external relation with possibility,
(a) looks more like a partial analysis of conceivability, namely, that to conceive
or imagine that p is ipso facto to have it seem or appear to you that possibly,
p. Without suggesting that Hume would go quite so far, I take the idea to be
that conceiving is in a certain way analogous to perceiving. Just as someone who
perceives that p enjoys the appearance that p is true, whoever finds p conceivable
enjoys something worth describing as the appearance that it is possible.¹² In
slogan form: conceiving involves the appearance of possibility.
¹¹ The classic example: ‘‘we may define a cause to be an object, followed by another, and where all
the objects similar to the first are followed by objects similar to the second. Or in other words where, if
the first object had not been, the second never had existed’’ (Hume 1963, section VII, part II).
¹² Two notes about terminology. First, here and below I use ‘conceive that p’ and ‘find
p conceivable’ essentially interchangeably. (But see note 59.) Second, ‘conceive’ has a factive
sense—in which I don’t find p conceivable unless it is possible—and ‘perceive’ is normally
factive—I don’t perceive that p unless p. In this paper, both terms are to be understood nonfactively.
Thus ‘I perceived that p but it wasn’t true’ and ‘although I found p conceivable, it turned out
to be impossible’ are perfectly in order. Out of order, though, will be the following: ‘I veridically
perceived that p, but p wasn’t true’ and ‘although I veridically conceived that p, it turned out to be
impossible’.
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FN:14
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Before trying to make the slogan clearer, let me stress that I am not touting
the ‘‘appearance of possibility’’ as all there is to conceiving,¹³ or the only thing
conceiving can ever be. Far from trying to give the notion’s one true meaning,
my aim right now is only to distinguish conceiving in the sense that matters
from various other cognitive operations doing business under the same name.
For as I will be interpreting it, the question whether conceivability is a guide
to possibility concerns the kind of conceivability that advertises itself as such a
guide. This means that if there are kinds of conceivability that do not portray
p as possible—and there are—then for my purposes it will not matter if their
modal guidance should prove unreliable.
Following in the tradition of Brentano, Husserl, and most recently Searle,¹⁴
suppose we take seriously the idea that many intentional states and acts—beliefs,
desires, and perceptual experiences, for instance—have satisfaction conditions.
And let us agree that these satisfaction conditions are at least in some cases
the conditions under which the state in question is true or veridical. So, your
belief that DeGaulle liked cheese is true just in case he did, and my perceptual
impression that rain is falling is true just in case rain is falling.
From examples like these, one obvious conjecture would be that the truth
conditions of an intentional state (assuming it has some) are a function of its
content.¹⁵ But consider someone who, rather than believing that DeGaulle liked
cheese, inwardly denies that he did. This person’s state has the same content as
the believer’s, yet unlike the believer’s state it is correct just in case DeGaulle did
not like cheese. So, the truth conditions of an intentional state cannot be read off
its content alone; as the examples of denial, expectation, and memory show, the
state’s psychological mode or manner is also relevant. This is crucial because one
thing I will be taking ‘‘conceivability involves the appearance of possibility’’ to
mean is that the truth conditions of an act of conceiving that p include, not the
condition that p, as in perception, but the condition that possibly p. From now
on I will express this by saying that p’s possibility representatively appears to the
conceiver.
Maybe the analogy with perception can be carried a little further. Perceiving
that p has in general the effect of prima facie justifying, to the subject, the belief
that p, and thereby prima facie motivating that belief. Here the parenthetical ‘‘to
the subject’’ is to indicate that the perceiver need only feel himself to be prima
facie justified, that is, to cancel any suggestion that he is prima facie justified in
fact. Thus someone convinced that he can judge sexual orientation at a glance
might feel justified, on the basis of casual inspection, in believing a neighbor
¹³ Later I’ll suggest that the conceiver enjoys this appearance in a certain way —by imagining a
more or less determinate situation of which p is held to be a correct account.
¹⁴ See Dreyfus 1982, ‘‘Introduction’’ and passim; and Searle 1983.
¹⁵ Thus Searle: ‘‘To know the [representative content of an intentional state] is already to know
[its satisfaction conditions], since the representative content gives us the conditions of satisfaction,
under certain aspects, namely those under which they are represented’’ (Dreyfus 1982, p. 266).
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FN:16
FN:17
FN:18
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to be heterosexual, yet without possessing the slightest real evidence that this is
so. That his neighbor is heterosexual epistemically appears to this person, even
though his feeling of justification is quite misplaced. To have a word for this,
let’s say that p epistemically appears to me when some representative appearance
I enjoy prima facie motivates me to believe that p, by making that belief seem to
me prima facie justified.¹⁶
That our two readings of ‘‘appears’’ are compatible should be clear; the
state that moves me to believe that rain is falling can surely be one with
the truth conditions that rain is falling. Perhaps it could even be argued that
the representative reading entails the epistemic one, for instance, that a visual
experience with the truth conditions that p cannot help but move the experiencer
to believe that p.¹⁷ However that may be, the readings are distinct, for the
converse entailment fails: for me and I assume for others, it is only epistemically
that the bull looks as though it is about to charge, or the car sounds like it’s
not going to make it through the winter.¹⁸ (Suppose that your car does make it
through the winter. Then your experience has tempted you into a false belief,
but it’s not as though you were the victim of a sensory illusion!)
Back to the slogan ‘‘conceivability involves the appearance of possibility’’,
should ‘‘appearance’’ here be taken in the representative sense or the epistemic
one? Both senses are intended. Just as to perceive that p is to be in a state that (i) is
veridical only if p, and that (ii) moves you to believe that p, to find p conceivable
is to be in a state which (i) is veridical only if possibly p, and (ii) moves you to
believe that p is possible.
With this background I can state my position. When we look at the standard
objections to Hume’s maxim, we find that they presuppose conceivabilitynotions that are neither mandatory nor particularly natural relative to the
purposes at hand. Not natural, because none of them involves the appearance of
possibility. Not mandatory, because there is an alternative notion, philosophical
conceivability, that does involve this appearance and that sustains Hume’s maxim
¹⁶ For brevity, I’ll speak simply of being moved to believe that p. (Why not define epistemic
appearance in purely motivational terms? Because I do not want to say that p epistemically appears in
cases where my motive for believing it is nonepistemic. Suppose I enjoy a representative appearance
of someone offering to settle my debts if I will agree that p; this might tempt me to believe that p,
but p does not epistemically appear to me.)
¹⁷ Objection: Someone confronted with the Müller–Lyer diagram enjoys the representative
appearance that the lines are unequal, but unless the diagram is completely new to her, she does not
believe that they are unequal. Reply: What epistemically appears to a subject turns not on her beliefs
but on what she is moved to believe. And why speak of a Müller–Lyer illusion if typical observers
aren’t moved to believe the lines unequal?
¹⁸ Admittedly it is hard to draw a definite line between representative and (merely) epistemic
appearances. Experts (matadors and mechanics) can enjoy representative appearances which to most
of us are available only epistemically. But expertise is acquired gradually, and on the road to it there
will be appearances not happily classified either way. For our purposes the indeterminacy doesn’t
matter; what will matter is the contrast between cases where p appears in both senses and those
where it appears in neither.
that
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against the objections. So the story has a negative part (sections III–IX) and also
a positive one (sections X–XIV). At the end (section XV) I draw some tentative
morals for the issue of realism vs. antirealism about modality.
III. THE CONFUSION OBJECTION
FN:19
FN:20
FN:21
FN:22
FN:23
Strangely prevalent in philosophy is the idea that to find a proposition conceivable
is to find that it is true for all you know. Since Reid explained conceiving p as
‘‘giving some degree of assent to it, however small’’,¹⁹ the idea has been repeated
by many authors; to choose a source almost at random, William Kneale says or
implies that to find p conceivable is to ‘‘have in mind no information which
formally excludes’’ that p is true.²⁰ Ignoring minor differences of formulation,
suppose we let the proposal be that p is conceivable iff it is not unbelievable, or for
short believable.²¹ (Remember that this is not to say that we see p as particularly
likely, but just that we feel unable to rule it out.)
From an ordinary language perspective, the proposal is hard to argue with.
Writing in the spring of 1990, Elizabeth Drew observed that German reunification had ‘‘become conceivable only in the last few months’’.²² Anyone reading
this would take it to mean, not that our powers of imagination had suddenly
improved, but that reunification could no longer be regarded as out of the
question. Likewise if I call it inconceivable that there is a largest prime number,
but conceivable that there is a largest twin prime, I am saying that although it is
certain that the primes are infinite in number, with the twin primes, things are
not so clear.
Suppose I find p conceivable in the sense of believable. Does this give me reason
to think that p is metaphysically possible? In other words, do I acquire evidence in
favor of a proposition’s possibility, by finding myself without evidence against its
truth? That would be very strange, to say the least. Among other things it would
have the result that there is a necessary limit on how bad my epistemological
position can get: the poorer my evidence for p’s truth, the better my evidence for
its possibility.²³ (In the limit of perfect ignorance about p’s truth, its possibility
¹⁹ Reid 1969, essay IV, chapter III. This isn’t Reid’s preferred account. Usually he says that to
‘‘conceive a proposition . . . is no more than to understand distinctly its meaning’’ (loc. cit.). Since
one can distinctly understand the meaning of a contradiction, this is an obvious nonstarter as an
analysis of the kind of conceivability which purports to discover possibilities. (For early discussion
of the ‘‘some degree of assent’’ theory, see Mill 1874, book II, chapter V, section 6, and Mill 1868,
vol. I, chapter VI.)
²⁰ Kneale 1949, p. 213.
²¹ Cf. Pap 1958, pp. 37–8, and van Cleve 1983, p. 37.
²² New Yorker, March 19, 1990, p. 104. (At the time of writing reunification was far from a sure
thing; to everyone’s surprise it occurred just a few months later.)
²³ Compare Bradley’s sarcastic remark that ‘‘merely because I do not find any relation between
my idea and the Reality, I am to assert, upon this, that my idea is compatible’’. The epigraph is in a
similar vein: ‘‘On the ground of my sheer ignorance . . .’’ (Bradley 1969, pp. 345–6).
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would be absolutely assured!) Yet the fact is that I can be completely in the dark
about truth and possibility simultaneously, as for example with the twin prime
conjecture.
Apart though from the sheer oddity of arguing from ignorance to substantive
modal conclusions, how reliable are such arguments? Already in Reid we find the
only plausible answer:
FN:24
will it be said, that every proposition to which I can give any degree of assent is possible?
This contradicts experience, and therefore [Hume’s] maxim cannot be true in this
sense.²⁴
Reid doesn’t say what sort of ‘‘experience’’ he has in mind, but perhaps he was
thinking of something he mentions later:
FN:25
FN:26
Mathematics afford[s] many instances of impossibilities in the nature of things, which
no man would have believed if they had not been strictly demonstrated [that is, their
impossibility would not have been believed if it had not been proved].²⁵
So propositions to which people once gave ‘‘some degree of assent’’, say, the axioms
of naive set theory, have often turned out later to be impossible. As an example
of Kneale’s shows, it is not always necessary to wait. Speaking of Goldbach’s
conjecture that every even number is obtainable as the sum of two primes, Kneale
says that although it ‘‘looks like a theorem, . . . it may conceivably be false’’.²⁶
Likewise it may conceivably be true. But if true, it is necessarily true, and if
false, necessarily false. Thus either the conjecture or its denial is a conceivable,
that is to say a believable, impossibility. And the gimmick generalizes: we get
a present-tense counterexample to the possibility of the believable whenever a
proposition’s truth-value is necessary but still unknown.
As a guide to possibility, then, conceivability qua believability is unreliable in
the extreme. The fact that p might, for all I know, be true in the actual world,
is just irrelevant to the issue whether it is true in some possible world or other.
This leaves a puzzle, however: if the argument is as bad as that, why does there
so much as seem to be an evidential connection? The answer is supposed to be
that terms like ‘‘could’’ and ‘‘might’’ are ambiguous, which leads us into a certain
confusion. Neglecting the distinction between what could be so in the sense that
one is in no position to rule it out, and what could be so in the sense that it is
metaphysically possible, we jump straight from the one to the other. According
to the confusion objection, once this equivocation is noticed the appearance
evaporates that conceivability argues for possibility.
1969,
• Q1
²⁴ Reid, T. and Hamilton, W. and Walker, J. (1855): Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man.
JC Derby.• essay IV, chapter III.
²⁵ Ibid.
²⁶ Kneale 1949, p. 80.
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I V. B E L I EVA B I L I T Y
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Without a doubt, sliding from epistemic to metaphysical ‘‘could’’ is something
we sometimes do, though we really should not. But, could a mix-up this
elementary²⁷ really be all there is to the conceivability maxim?
Probably the locus classicus of the supposed confusion is Descartes’s argument
in the Meditations for the possibility of disembodied existence. Finding in the
‘‘First Meditation’’ that there might, for all he knows, be no material things,
he suggests in the ‘‘Second’’ that he can exist without them. Isn’t Descartes
reasoning here that since he ‘‘could’’ in the believability sense exist without
benefit of matter, he ‘‘could’’ do it in the metaphysical sense as well?
Part of the problem with such an interpretation is just that the attributed
argument is so awful. But never mind that: if Descartes is attracted to this
sort of argument, why does he not use it more often? At this point in the
Meditations, remember, Descartes finds virtually everything believable, including
for instance that he is essentially a body, and that God does not exist. Shouldn’t
he then conclude that these other things are possible as well? To answer that
he doesn’t conclude that they are possible, because he doesn’t believe that they
are possible, treats Descartes as rather more arbitrary than his position requires.
Surely it would be better if we could make him out to mean something other
than ‘‘believable’’ by ‘‘conceivable’’, such that he does not find it conceivable, in
the sense he means, that he is essentially a body, or that God does not exist.²⁸
²⁷ Among the many who have noticed it are Moore 1966, pp. 228 ff.; Sellars 1963, pp. 76 ff.;
and Kripke 1980, p. 141.
²⁸ Consider in this connection Michael Hooker’s challenge to Descartes’s argument: Existence in
the absence of bodies is no more conceivable than existence in the absence of persons not identical
to bodies. On his own principles, then, Descartes could have been identical to a body. But whatever
is possibly a body is a body essentially; so, although Descartes’s actual position is that he can exist
without bodies, he could equally have concluded that he is essentially a body (my précis of Hooker
1978, section II).—But why think that Descartes finds it conceivable that he should have been
identical to a body? The only evidence Hooker offers is that ‘‘he does not know at this point in his
inquiry that there are any disembodied minds’’, and that if ‘‘reflective consideration . . . leads one
to doubt that p, then the truth of not-p is at least conceivable’’ (p. 181). However, this is just to
say that (reflective) believability suffices for Cartesian conceivability, which is exactly what I deny.
Hooker might counter that it is still mysterious why existing as a body should be any less conceivable
than existing without bodies. Here is a suggestion: If all possible bodies are essentially bodies, and
Descartes knows this, then to conceive himself identical to a body will be to imagine a world relative
to which he is a body in every world. But how is Descartes to tell whether he can imagine a world
like that without first attempting to imagine worlds in which he is not a body? Finding that he can
imagine such worlds, Descartes is unable to conceive himself identical to a body. (Analogy: asked
to think of a number such that all numbers are prime, you first consider whether you know of any
nonprime numbers. Realizing that you do, you find numbers of the first type unthinkable.)
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Given
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Or take the example of our finding it conceivable, in the sense of believable,
both that Goldbach’s conjecture holds and also that it fails. If the inference
from epistemic ‘‘could’’ to metaphysical ‘‘could’’ were so inviting, then it
ought to seem strange that not a single author has concluded that although
in some possible worlds, every even number is the sum of two primes, in
others one or more of them stops being the sum of two primes.²⁹ Was it just
that they knew that, in this case, such a conclusion would be counterintuitive? Again, a more sympathetic interpretation would be that conceivability,
in the sense relevant to possibility, is a different thing from believability,
and that neither Goldbach’s conjecture nor its negation is conceivable in the
relevant sense.
Earlier I agreed that ‘‘conceivable’’, as it occurs in daily conversation, usually
does mean ‘‘believable’’. In fact more is true. As G. E. Moore noticed in an
early paper,³⁰ not only ‘‘conceivable’’ but even ‘‘possible’’ normally indicates
believability. Suppose, for example, that I tell you ‘‘it is possible that I was
born on the moon’’. Assuming that I metaphysically could have been born on
the moon, why does my statement sound so incredible? The reason is that ‘‘it
is possible that p’’, where the embedded sentence is in the indicative mood,
expresses uncertainty that p is false.³¹ Thus ‘‘it is possible that I was born on
the moon’’ says, not that this could have happened although it didn’t, but that I
am not entirely convinced I was born on Earth. (To assert genuine possibility, I
must use the subjunctive mood: ‘‘it is possible that I should have been born on
the moon.’’)
None of this is really very interesting except as a reminder that philosophers
sometimes use words differently from other people. In metaphysics, for example,
‘‘possible’’ is often used for something other than believability, and this whether
the subjunctive mood is used or not. Mightn’t something similar be true
of ‘‘conceivable’’? The view I called strangely prevalent above is not that
‘‘conceivable’’ ever means believable, but that this is what it always means,
including in conceivability arguments. For the truth is that in conceivability
arguments, or at least competent ones, ‘‘conceivable’’ rarely if ever means
believable.
There are two directions to this: conceivable propositions need not be
believable, and believable propositions need not be conceivable. The easy
direction is the first. An old Jewish saying runs: ‘‘Life is so full of misery
and woe; how much better it would have been never to have existed at all; yet
how many of us are that lucky?’’ Thinking about this, I find it conceivable that I
should never have existed. Never for a moment, though, do I find it believable
²⁹ Compare Reid: ‘‘I have never found that any mathematician has attempted to prove a thing
to be possible because it can be conceived . . .’’ (Reid 1969, essay IV, chapter III).
³⁰ ‘‘Certainty’’ (Moore 1966).
³¹ To a first approximation, anyway. See DeRose 1991 for a more sophisticated treatment.
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FN:33
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that I have never existed. So here is an example of a conceivable proposition
that isn’t believable.³² Notice the underlying point: if conceivability entailed
believability, then whenever one was certain that something was not the case,
one would be unable to conceive it even as a possibility! This being absurd, the
entailment does not go through.
Of believable propositions that aren’t conceivable, it is difficult to give a pure
example, if this means a believable proposition which is positively inconceivable.³³
After all, if p is believable, then the actual world might for all I know be a pworld. So I am unlikely to have it appear to me that p cannot be true in any
possible world.
Perhaps there can be an impure example though. Sometimes when we find
ourselves unable to conceive a proposition, we don’t find it inconceivable either;
its modal status is undecidable on the available evidence.³⁴ Despite what you often
hear, this is how it is with Goldbach’s conjecture. No thought experiment that I, at
any rate, can perform gives me the representational appearance of the conjecture
as possible or as impossible, or the slightest temptation to believe anything about
its modal character. So this is already an example of a believable proposition that
is not conceivable. But let me suggest some more interesting cases.
According to legend, the queen of Sheba tested Solomon’s wisdom by
challenging him to distinguish a flower from a wax facsimile thereof constructed
in the royal workshop. As an aid to thought, suppose that she introduces these
look-alikes to Solomon as Jacob and Esau—without, of course, telling him
which is the artifact and which the flower. Then initially, before he determines,
with the help of a bumblebee from the garden, that Jacob is the waxen artifact,
Solomon finds it believable that Jacob should sprout new petals. Does he find
this conceivable, though, in the sense relevant to possibility? Not if the stories
about his wisdom are correct; he finds it undecidable on the available evidence.
‘‘If I assume that Jacob is a flower,’’ Solomon might reflect, ‘‘then I can conceive
it sprouting new petals; and if I assume that it is an artifact, then this becomes
inconceivable for me. As it is, though, the petal hypothesis is neither conceivable
nor inconceivable.’’ Another story has Solomon ruling on a maternity case: is
Mary, or Martha, the mother of this baby? Eventually he resolves the issue in
Mary’s favor, by offering to saw the baby in half. But initially, when Solomon
found it believable both that Mary was the mother and that Martha was, did
it appear to him that the baby’s ancestry was metaphysically contingent? Only
³² This gives, incidentally, another reason not to interpret Descartes as meaning ‘‘believable’’ by
‘‘conceivable’’. Probably there is nothing that Descartes finds more unbelievable than that he does
not exist; yet for every created thing, Descartes finds it conceivable that it should not have existed.
( Thanks to John Devlin for the next two sentences and the next note.)
³³ Although consider Tertullian: ‘‘Credo quia absurdum est.’’
³⁴ van Cleve 1983 distinguishes in a similar vein between strong and weak conceivability—‘‘seeing’’ that p is possible vs. not ‘‘seeing’’ that it is impossible—and he describes Goldbach’s
conjecture as only weakly conceivable.
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subscripted 'b's
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they are
crucial!!!!! if such an appearance were compulsory could one maintain that believability
b
b
entailed conceivability.
Two senses of ‘‘conceivable’’ have been distinguished: the believability sense
(call it conceivability)b and the philosopher’s sense, the one that involves the
appearance of possibility. Where the objector goes wrong is in failing to
appreciate this distinction. Having uncovered a confusion about ‘‘could’’ in the
argument from conceivability,b to possibility, he falls into a confusion of his own
when he offers this as a refutation of conceivability arguments.
this is correct as is,
sans subscript
V. S O M E C I RC U L A R I T Y O B J E C T I O N S
Suppose that we are careful to keep believability and conceivability apart, and
that we conclude to p’s possibility only when p is conceivable. Even this would
be bad procedure, if it could be shown that
conceivability is a guide to possibility only as constrained by prior modal information
tantamount to the information that p is possible.
FN:35
This is roughly what the circularity objection alleges. Because the objection is
easily misunderstood, let me consider some things it had better not be saying
before working up to what I think it is saying.
Even the staunchest defender of Hume’s maxim would not insist that the
conceivable was always possible, or that p’s conceivability proved its possibility.
Everyone is well aware of cases where impossible propositions have been found
conceivable notwithstanding. The position to be defended, then, is only the
following: that what is conceivable is typically possible, and that p’s conceivability
justifies one in believing that possibly p.³⁵ Objection (A) does little more than
reiterate these concessions in an accusing tone:
(A) Since your argument is by admission fallible, you yourself recognize that
it might fail in any given case. Therefore you should refuse to draw the
conclusion, until you get prior assurances that it won’t fail in this case. And
that means: prior assurances that p is possible. So the argument becomes
circular.
What is unconvincing here is the move from ‘‘the conclusion might be false,
compatibly with the truth of the premise’’ to ‘‘you should refuse to draw the
conclusion until you’re sure that it is not false’’. Arguments like this usually lead
from truth to truth, so unless there is reason to think that truth is not preserved,
it makes sense to suppose that it is.
³⁵ Further only prima facie, or defeasible, justification is claimed. Again, everyone knows of cases
where additional evidence turns up that convinces us, or ought to, that p was not possible after
all.
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Do conceivability arguments have a deeper problem than ordinary fallibility?
Maybe there is something special about their failures. If we think of an argument’s
premises as stating the evidence for its conclusion, it is an initially unsettling fact
about conceivability arguments that when they fail, the evidence’s very existence
can be due to the conceiver’s ignorance of the fact that her conclusion was
false. So, Aristotle might not have been able to conceive matter as indefinitely
divisible, if he had known that it could be divided only so far; ‘‘contingent
identity’’ theorists like J. J. C. Smart might not have found mental and physical
phenomena conceivable as distinct if they had realized that they were identical as
a matter of necessity; and so on. For evidence to be in this sense fragile is hardly
the usual thing. When Russell’s chicken, for example, concludes from having
been fed for months that he will be fed tomorrow, his evidence would still have
existed even had he known his true fate. All the more striking, then, that when I
conceive something in fact impossible, if I had appreciated its impossibility, then
the misleading evidence might not have been:
(B) For all you know, you would not have found p conceivable if you had
been better informed, specifically, if you had known that p was impossible.
But evidence that might, for all you know, be dependent on ignorance
is inherently untrustworthy. To be sure that your evidence is not thus
dependent, you need to know that p is possible. But then your argument
becomes circular: you must already know that p is possible, before you can
conclude that it is from your ability to conceive it.
FN:36
Now, it is a difficult question how fragile conceivability evidence really is.
Whether foreknowledge of p’s impossibility would have prevented me from
conceiving it seems to depend on how fully I grasp the reasons why p is
impossible, and how revealing those reasons are. But let’s assume, for argument’s
sake, that whenever I find an impossibility conceivable, I would not have done
so, had I but realized the proposition’s impossibility. The problem is to see why
this should reduce my confidence that this conceivable proposition is possible.
After all, I draw the modal conclusion because I take it that given my evidence,
it’s probably true. And how is that probability affected, if I agree that in those
occasional cases where my conclusion is false, my evidence would not have existed
if I’d somehow fastened on the truth beforehand? Such a circumstance makes my
errors more embarrassing, perhaps, but it doesn’t seem to make them any more
common.³⁶
Some of the propositions I find conceivable are (I suppose) impossible, though
of course I don’t usually realize this in particular cases. Objection (B) tried to
amount
³⁶ Note that a certain degree of fragility is only to be expected with arguments of the it appears
that p / therefore p variety. For instance, the dishes displayed outside some Japanese restaurants stop
looking like food when you are told that they’re plastic models. So it is not just conceivability
appearances that sit uneasily with a full and proper appreciation of their deceptiveness.
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find a problem in the fact that my not realizing it is a necessary condition of my
finding them conceivable. Maybe this gets things backwards, however. Maybe
the problem is that my ignorance of these propositions’ impossibility would
sufficiently explain my ability to conceive them:
(C) How can you infer to p’s possibility before you have ruled out alternative
explanations of its conceivability? Since for p to be unbeknownst to you
impossible would sufficiently account for your ability to conceive it, this
is one of the alternative explanations you need to rule out. To rule it out,
though, you need to know that p is possible, thus rendering the argument
circular.
What is true in the objection is that when you base a claim on such-and-such
evidence, the claim can be challenged by pointing to alternative explanations of
the evidence which you are unable to exclude. They may have looked like ducks
in the pond, but if there are known to be convincing decoy ducks about, you
cannot assume that they were ducks unless you have something to say against the
decoy hypothesis. There are limits, though. You are not required to rule out the
alternative ‘‘explanation’’ that although they for some reason looked like ducks,
in fact they were not, that is, that your evidence was somehow misleading. For
one thing, this can hardly be considered an explanation of your evidence at all; for
another, it is so far just allegation without the slightest reason to believe it. But
how is objection (C) any better? The suggestion is that perhaps I had it appear to
me that p was possible only because I somehow missed the fact that p was not
possible. In short: perhaps my evidence is misleading. Perhaps it is, but don’t I
need a reason to think so before taking the idea seriously?
V I . T H E C I RC U L A R I T Y O B J E C T I O N
FN:37
Actually, the last two objections were bound to fail. For notice a feature they
have in common: they propose accounts of such conceivability errors as in fact
occur but without addressing the issue of whether their occurrence is at all to be
expected. When you do conceive an impossibility, they say, a necessary and/or
sufficient condition for this is that you did not realize that it was impossible. But
this is compatible with your conceiving impossibilities rarely or never. To make
the case that you conceive them often, the premise the objector needs is not that
ignorance of impossibility is all it takes to explain a conceivability error, assuming
it made, but that such ignorance is all it takes to make one. This stronger premise
can be motivated by looking at a second alleged fallacy in Descartes’s argument
for dualism—this one rather more interesting than the last.³⁷
³⁷ See also Yablo 1990.
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From his conceivability as existing without a body, Descartes concludes that
disembodied existence is possible for him. The fallacy is said to lie in the fact that
he simply takes it for granted that he has no essential properties beyond those
that he knows of.
Objections like this were put to Descartes repeatedly, most notably by Arnauld
in the ‘‘Fourth Meditation’’. Arnauld’s view is that
FN:38
if the major premise of this syllogism [that the conceivability of x without y shows the
possibility of x without y] is to be true, it must be taken to apply not to any kind of
knowledge of a thing . . .; it must apply solely to knowledge which is adequate.³⁸
By adequate knowledge of a thing, Arnauld means knowledge of all of its
essential properties. Although what is possible for Descartes depends on his
essence in its entirety, what he can conceive of himself is constrained by just
that portion of his essence that he knows of. Unless his self-knowledge is
adequate, then, his capacity for incorporeal existence might, for all the thought
experiment tells him, be obstructed by unappreciated necessary connections.
Here is Shoemaker in the same spirit:
FN:39
In the sense in which it is true that I can conceive myself existing in disembodied
form, this comes to the fact that it is compatible with what I know about my essential
nature . . . that I should exist in disembodied form. From this it does not follow that my
essential nature is in fact such as to permit me to exist in disembodied form.³⁹
What concerns me here is not the viability of Descartes’s specific argument, or the
truth of its conclusion, but the strategy which Arnauld’s (Shoemaker’s) objection
represents. To be consistent, Arnauld should hold that no de re conceivability
intuitions are trustworthy, unless the ideas employed are certifiable in advance
as adequate—as embracing every essential property of their objects. But then an
enormous part of our modal thinking falls under suspicion.
No one would doubt of herself that (e.g.) she could have been born on a
different day than actually, or lived in different places; and outside of philosophy,
no one would question that we know such things. But how do we know them,
if not by attempting to conceive ourselves with the relevant characteristics and
finding that this presents no difficulties?
What gives this question its force is the specter of an Arnauldian skeptic who
holds that, given the possible inadequacy of my self-knowledge, I am in no
position to oppose even such patently absurd essentialist hypotheses as that I am
essentially born on September 30, 1957. If I might, unbeknownst to myself, be
essentially accompanied by my body, however clearly I seem able to conceive
myself without it, why couldn’t I also be essentially born on that day, however
clearly I seem able to conceive myself born a day earlier or later? Equally open
to question are conceivability intuitions about objects other than oneself, like my
³⁸ CSM II, p. 140; my interpolation and emphasis.
³⁹ Shoemaker 1984, p. 155.
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intuition that Humphrey could have been born on a different day or that the
Eiffel Tower could be painted yellow; for here too the adequacy of my ideas has
not been demonstrated. Really, the skeptic says, I have no basis to quarrel with any
essentialist hypothesis about any object—even the superessentialist hypothesis
that it could not have been different in any way —until I get assurances that none
of the object’s essential properties are hidden from me.⁴⁰
At this point the restriction to de re propositions begins to seem artificial. If
ignorance of an individual’s essential properties can generate modal error, why
not ignorance of a property’s essential properties? Imagine that my grasp of a
property S fails to reflect the fact that it is essentially uninstantiable (S might
be the property of being sodium-free salt). Nothing to prevent me, then, from
conceiving it as possible that Ss should exist: a de dicto conceivability error rather
than a de re one. Likewise the de dicto impossibility that some Qs are Rs will
be conceivable, if my understanding of Q omits its essential property of having
no Rs in its extension. Probably there is no proposition for which a worry like
this cannot be raised. In skeptical moods, Arnauld will always be able to point
to a potential gap in my modal information that would enable me to find p
conceivable despite its impossibility. This suggests one final generalization of his
objection to Descartes:
(D) If all it takes to find a proposition conceivable is to be unaware that it is
impossible, then since impossibilities go unappreciated all the time, they
are just as often conceivable. Before relying on conceivability evidence in
any specific instance, then, you need a reason to think that in this case,
p’s conceivability signifies that it is possible rather than that, although it is
impossible, you are unaware of this. That is, you need a reason to deny that
(∗ ) although you are unaware that p is impossible, p is impossible.
Because (∗ )’s first conjunct is true, and known to be—you are unaware that
p is impossible—you can be reasonable in denying (∗ ) only if you are in
a position to deny its second conjunct. But its second conjunct is that p
⁴⁰ This brings out a seeming historical irony in Arnauld’s position. Leibniz, in his correspondence
with Arnauld, proposes that none of a thing’s properties is accidental to it. Since Adam is such
that Peter denied Christ some thousands of years after his death, this holds essentially of Adam,
who would accordingly not have existed had Peter not gone on to be disloyal. Arnauld objects: ‘‘I
find in myself the concept of an individual nature, since I find there the concept of myself. I have
only to consult it, therefore, to know what is contained in this individual concept. . . . I can think
that I shall or shall not take a particular journey, while remaining very much assured that neither
one nor the other will prevent my being myself ’’ (Mason 1967, pp. 32–3). Within limits, we
share Arnauld’s assurance, but it is hard to see what entitles him to it. How does he know that his
self-conception is adequate, i.e., that he is aware of all of his essential properties? To complete the
irony, something uncomfortably like this Arnauldian point is put to Arnauld by Leibniz himself:
‘‘. . . although it is easy to judge that the number of feet in the diameter is not contained in the
concept of a sphere in general, it is not so easy to judge with certainty . . . whether the journey
which I plan to take is contained in the concept of me, otherwise it would be as easy to be a prophet
as to be a geometer . . .’’ (op. cit., p. 59).
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is impossible! So you must already know that p is possible before you can
conclude that it is from its conceivability.
(D) is the strongest form I know of the circularity objection; my only doubts
are about its opening sentence. That conceivability arguments are fallible is of
course admitted. But all the Humean need claim is that they are reliable enough
for me to say: I’m justified, because probably, if my evidence holds, then so does
my conclusion. Have conceivability arguments really been shown to be so fallible
that this can no longer be said?
Without claiming to know exactly how fallible that is, I use the word ‘‘often’’
so that if impossibilities are often conceivable, then conceivability evidence is not
per se justifying. Here is the opening lemma spelled out more fully:
(E1) Almost always, when I am unaware that p is impossible, I find it conceivable.
(E2) Often, when p is impossible, I am unaware that it is impossible.
(E3) Often, when p is impossible, I find it conceivable.
The first sign of trouble is that (E)’s logical form
(F1) Almost all Bs are Cs.
(F2) Many As are Bs.
(F3) Many As are Cs.
is deductively invalid. From the premises we know only that there is a high
concentration of Cs among Bs, and a significant concentration of Cs among
As; what we don’t know is whether these two concentrations line up to any
significant extent. Thus it might be that although half of all As are Bs, only 1%
of the Bs are As, and it is the other 99% of the Bs which make it the case that
nearly all Bs are Cs. More generally, the Bs which are also As might form a small
enough fraction of the total B-population to be subsumable under the allowable
exceptions to the general rule that almost all Bs are Cs. This is illustrated by
argument (G):
(G1) Almost all swimmers are fish.
(G2) Many mammals are swimmers.
(say, 95%)
(say, 50%)
(G3) Many mammals are fish.
(0%)
The conclusion is false because the mammalian swimmers—the ABs—are one
and all exceptions to the generalization that swimmers are usually fish—that
almost all Bs are Cs.
As a rough but workable guide to when this kind of trouble arises, an argument
of form (F) is acceptable just in case premise (F1) can be rewritten as
(F1∗ ) Almost all Bs, whether they are As or not, are Cs
Bs
as
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without loss of plausibility. Argument (G) is bad because, when we rework the
first premise as indicated, we get something false:
(G1∗ ) Almost all swimmers, whether mammals or not, are fish.
Applying the rule to argument (E) yields
(E1∗ ) Almost whenever I am unaware that p is impossible, whether it is impossible
or not, I find it conceivable.
FN:41
The question, then, is whether unawareness of impossibility is uniformly conducive to conceivability—whether the relation holds regardless of p’s modal status.
Take first propositions such that I am unaware that they are impossible and
they are possible. Surely I do find a great many of these conceivable, including
almost every possibility I claim knowledge of: that I could have been taller, for
example, or a better dancer, or born on a different day.⁴¹ But the critical claim is
that this generalizes to the impossible propositions:
(E1× ) Almost always, when I am unaware that p is impossible, and it is impossible,
I find it conceivable.
Because (E1× )’s antecedent says that I fail to appreciate the fact that p is
impossible, this can be simplified to: unappreciated impossibilities are almost
always conceivable.
Dialectically, at least, (E1× ) is in a rather weak position. Remember that the
objector is trying to convince someone not initially convinced of it that
(E3) Often, when p is impossible, I find it conceivable.
But anyone doubtful of (E3) will be doubly suspicious of (E1× ), for understandable reasons. No one supposes that impossibilities appreciated as such are often
conceivable; so to be doubtful that impossibilities are often conceivable is already
to be doubtful that unappreciated impossibilities often are. And anyone doubtful
that they are often conceivable will hardly be in a mood to concede (E1× )’s claim
that they are almost always conceivable!
However, the problem is more than dialectical. The objector makes a statistical
hypothesis: that almost whenever you fail to appreciate a proposition’s impossibility, you find it conceivable. Normally such hypotheses are advanced on the
strength of confirming instances. Why not now? Part of the reason might be that
hardly any exist. At least, almost every unappreciated impossibility one knows
of—Goldbach’s conjecture (or its denial), Jacob’s sprouting new petals, Martha’s
maternity, etc.—is not conceivable but undecidable. Rather than enumerating
cases, though, I issue a challenge: if we are as prone as the objector suggests to
⁴¹ Do I find conceivable almost every possibility such that I am not aware that it is impossible?
Hardly—there are infinitely many unobvious arithmetical truths to the contrary—but let that
pass.
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conceiving unappreciated impossibilities, I would like to know what some of
them are.⁴²
V I I . B E L I EVA B I L I T Y O F P O S S I B I L I T Y
Where does the objector get his confidence that unappreciated impossibilities are
almost always conceivable? Perhaps for him this is not a statistical hypothesis at
all, but a consequence of what he means by conceivability.
To see what his definition might be, look again at Arnauld’s complaint against
Descartes: ‘‘how does it follow, from the fact that he is aware of nothing else
belonging to his essence, that nothing else does in fact belong to it?’’ What is
striking here is Arnauld’s assumption that Descartes thinks it follows. After all,
Descartes’s premise is not that he is unaware that he is essentially embodied, it
is that he can conceive himself in a disembodied condition. That Arnauld puts
the one premise for the other suggests that at some level, he takes them to say
the same: a conceivable proposition is just one not known to be impossible.
Shoemaker is more straightforward:
in the sense in which it is true that I can conceive myself existing in disembodied form, this
comes to the fact that it is compatible with what I know of my essential nature . . . that I
should exist in disembodied form.
Apparently both authors equate conceivability, at least of the kind they find in
Descartes, with what I will call conceivabilitybp : the believability of p is possible.
Now, on this interpretation of conceivability, (E1× ) looks awfully plausible.
In fact it becomes something on the order of a conceptual truth: namely, that
someone who doesn’t realize that p is impossible will find its possibility believable.
But if (E1× ) is true on the new interpretation, then the critique of the last section
no longer applies. What is my response to the circularity objection read in terms
of conceivabilitybp ?
What response? I share the objector’s doubts about conceivabilitybp arguments.
In fact let me throw in some additional doubts of my own. To find a proposition
conceivablebp is to find oneself unable to rule its possibility out. But you do
not acquire justification for believing that something is possible simply through
lacking justification for denying that it is. Otherwise, there could be no such
thing as a person completely in the dark about p’s modal status; the less she knew
against p’s possibility, the better her grounds would be for concluding that it
was possible. (Recall that the argument from straight believability to possibility
was criticized on similar grounds. If that argument was bad, the one from the
believability of possibility is worse, for the new premise is strictly weaker than
the old.)
⁴² Bearing in mind that not to find a proposition inconceivable is not yet to find it conceivable.
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So nothing as complicated as the circularity objection is needed to see
that a proposition’s possibility is not inferable from its conceivabilitybp . But
the objection’s real problem is rather this: it makes no difference to Hume’s
maxim whether the inference goes through, for conceivabilitybp fails the modal
appearance test on both counts. Thus suppose that I have no idea whether p is
possible (p might be Goldbach’s conjecture). Then I find p conceivablebp —it
is possible for all I know—but I have no inclination whatever to think it
possible, nor have I misrepresented anything should it turn out not to be. In
the end, then, the seemingly deeper circularity objection comes down to the
same sort of misunderstanding as its predecessor: except that where the one
mistook conceivability for the believability of truth, the other mistakes it for the
believability of possibility.⁴³
V I I I . T H E A POSTERIORITY O B J E C T I O N
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Up to now we have been looking at traditional criticisms of Hume’s maxim. But
some may feel that the really decisive difficulty came to light only recently, with
the discovery by Kripke and Putnam of a posteriori necessary truths: that cats are
animals, that Hesperus is identical to Phosphorus, and so on.⁴⁴ This would be
strange if true, since for their own part these authors use conceivability methods
all the time. But that is a separate issue; what is the problem that a posteriori
necessary truths can seem to raise for the conceivability maxim?
Take any a posteriori necessity and negate it; the result is a necessary falsehood
whose falsity is knowable only through experience, for instance, that cats aren’t
animals, or that water is distinct from H2 O. But, if it takes experience to
show that these propositions are false, there ought to be alternative courses of
experience that would have revealed them as true:
we can perfectly well imagine having experiences that would convince us (and
this should be in
that would make it rational to believe) that water is not H2 O. In that sense, it is
smaller type; it'sFN:45
a conceivable that water isn’t H2 O.⁴⁵
direct quote
Putnam’s conclusion is only that conceivability is no proof of possibility, but
there is a more damaging result in prospect:
⁴³ This is not to say that Descartes’s argument goes through. Perhaps Shoemaker is right that it
is only in the believability-of-possibility sense that Descartes can conceive himself as disembodied.
(Yet I assume that Descartes, for his part, would claim conceivability in a stronger sense; and so far
we have no reason to doubt him.)
⁴⁴ See, for one, Teller 1984. By an a posteriori necessary truth I mean a necessarily true proposition
whose truth is knowable a posteriori but not a priori; an a posteriori impossibility is the denial of an
a posteriori necessary truth, in other words a metaphysical impossibility whose falsity is knowable
only a posteriori.
⁴⁵ Putnam 1975, p. 233. For discussion purposes, I assume that water is necessarily H2 O.
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(G1) Whenever p is a posteriori false, I find it conceivable whether it is possible
or not.
(G2) Often, a posteriori falsehoods are impossible.
(G3) So a posteriori falsehoods are often found conceivable despite their
impossibility.
This objection doesn’t purport to embarrass all conceivability arguments, notice,
only those where the conceived proposition is a posteriori false. But that is bad
enough. For example, I should not argue from the conceivability of my sleeping
late this morning, to the conclusion that this could really have happened. Even
if it was not possible for me to sleep late, still I was going to find it conceivable
that I should do just that.
I X . E PI S T E M I C P O S S I B I L I T Y
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To conceive a proposition, in Putnam’s sense, is to imagine acquiring evidence
that justifies you in believing it: call this conceivabilityijb . But the definition is
silent on a crucial point.
Distinguish three subtly different ways in which the thought experiment might
go. Either the evidence is imagined to be disclosive of how things in the imagined
situation really are; or it is imagined as for all its persuasiveness misleading; or
whether the evidence is misleading is left unspecified. Speaking for myself, I can
imagine being rationally persuaded of almost anything, provided I am allowed
to imagine that the thing I am persuaded of is true, false, or of unspecified
truth-value, as I please.⁴⁶ To imagine a situation in which p is false, though, or
one leaving p’s truth-value unspecified, is not a way of having it appear to me
that p could have been true. So the only relevant case, the only one where I
am in danger of conceiving an impossibility, is the one where I imagine myself
believing p justifiably and truly. That understood, justification becomes a side
issue. For if the belief is imagined as true, then whether it is imagined as justified
or not, my evidence for p’s possibility would seem to be exactly the same. (How
could the imaginability of my knowing that p be better evidence of possibility its
than the imaginability of my truly believing it?)
Based on this reasoning, suppose we define conceivabilityitb as the imaginability
of veridically or truly believing that p. But, granted that this is different from
conceivabilityijb , aren’t a posteriori impossibilities also conceivable in the new
⁴⁶ Thus I can imagine some leading number theorist announcing an error in Euclid’s proof from
which it emerges that there is a largest prime number after all; the error takes years of training to
understand, but the authorities are convinced, and I, naturally, defer to their superior knowledge.
Although my imagined self is convinced, my actual self is not; I find a largest prime unimaginable,
and so I suppose the imagined authorities to be mistaken.
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sense? Can’t I imagine truly believing that cats are robots, that Hesperus is
distinct from Phosphorus, and so on?
Lurking just in the background here is a popular misunderstanding of Kripke’s
famous distinction between epistemic and metaphysical possibility. First it is
emphasised that for Hesperus to have been other than Phosphorus is metaphysically impossible; it could not have been that Hesperus was not Phosphorus. Then
it is explained that their nonidentity is nevertheless epistemically possible, since it
could have turned out that they were not the same.
All of this is correct but the last step: the explanation of what epistemic
possibility consists in. ‘It could have turned out that p’ claims, I assume, either
the possibility, or the imaginability, of our coming to believe that p and believe
it truly. On the first reading, as Kripke says, ‘‘it could have turned out that p
entails that p could have been the case’’.⁴⁷ Since it could not have been the case
that Hesperus and Phosphorus were distinct, they could not have turned out to
be distinct. But, and this is the point, the explanation in terms of imaginability
fares no better. To imagine myself truly believing that Hesperus and Phosphorus
were distinct, I would have to imagine them being distinct; and that I cannot do,
no more than I can imagine Venus’s being distinct from Venus.⁴⁸
Now it is a given that all of the usual a posteriori impossibilities⁴⁹ are to come out
epistemically possible; this is the result for which Kripke introduced the notion.
Since not all of these a posteriori impossibilities are conceivableitb —Hesperus !=
Phosphorus was our counterexample—conceivabilityitb cannot be what Kripke intends by ‘‘epistemic possibility’’. For much the same reason, though,
conceivabilityitb is not a good reading either of ‘‘conceivable’’ as it occurs in the
a posteriority objection. Unless we find a posteriori impossibilities ‘‘conceivable’’,
the objection proceeds from a false premise; and to repeat, we do not seem to
find them conceivableitb .
Still it is hard to shake the feeling that there is some worthwhile sense in
which we can imagine truly believing that Hesperus is not Phosphorus, that
cats aren’t animals, and so on. Since that might be the sense the a posteriority
objection is looking for, let us consider the matter one more time. What is it
to imagine yourself truly believing something? To believe truly is to believe a
truth, so you imagine a situation in which you believe some true proposition.
On reflection, though, it is not completely obvious how this proposition is to
be identified. Is it the proposition that your hypothetical self entertains when
it inwardly pronounces, say, ‘water != H2 O’, or the one that your actual self
entertains? For these can be different.
⁴⁷ Kripke 1980, pp. 141–2.
⁴⁸ ‘‘But we could imagine veridically believing them to be distinct, back when we thought they
were distinct.’’ True but irrelevant; it remains that Hesperus != Phosphorus is now epistemically
possible, but not now conceivableitb .
⁴⁹ Water != H2 O, gold is a compound, cats are robots, this lectem was originally made of ice,
and so on.
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Recall that the paper in which Putnam calls ‘water != H2 O’ a conceivable
impossibility contains in addition a story about how propositional content is
fixed. Which proposition I believe, Putnam says, is a function not only of what
goes on ‘‘in my head’’—my narrow psychological state—but also of extrinsic
contextual factors, including, for instance, facts about my causal interactions
with the larger world. Thus the narrow psychological state, internal mental act,
or what have you, constitutes only my subjective contribution to propositional
content.⁵⁰
How to fit beliefs themselves into the picture is a further question, and a
disputed one. Some would individuate beliefs so that as long as the subjective
contribution holds steady, the belief does too; variation in context affects not the
belief per se but only the proposition believed. Others think of beliefs as having
their propositional contents essentially: if I had believed a different proposition,
then let my subjective condition be as similar as you like, I would have had
a different belief. Rather than taking sides in this debate, suppose we concede
the term ‘‘belief’’ to the second camp, and use ‘‘thought’’ to stand for the subjective contribution only. Thus my thought will be the internal state or act that
determines, in context, which proposition I believe—what I will call the proposition expressed by the thought in that context. For instance, the thought which
in the existing context expresses the proposition that Hesperus != Phosphorus
would have expressed a different proposition, a proposition with the truth
conditions that Venus != Mars, if Mars rather than Venus had been responsible for the appearances by which the referent of ‘Phosphorus’ is canonically
identified.
All of which brings us back to the original question: in imagining, or seeming
to imagine, myself truly believing an a posteriori impossibility p, do I imagine
myself believing the proposition that my p-thought actually expresses? or believing
some other proposition, the one that my p-thought would have expressed had the
imagined situation obtained?⁵¹
Start with the first option: imagining myself believing the proposition that
my p-thought actually expresses. Since the proposition actually expressed by my
p-thought is the proposition that p, this is just conceivabilityitb again. What
about the second option? Well, I can imagine believing something true with
my Hesperus != Phosphorus-thought, for as I said, I can imagine it expressing a
proposition with the truth conditions that Venus != Mars. Since I cannot imagine
myself truly believing that Hesperus != Phosphorus, we have uncovered a new
⁵⁰ See, for example, Dennett 1982 and White 1982.
⁵¹ Depending on one’s theory of propositions, the same proposition p could be expressible, in the
same world and context, by distinct thoughts t and t " (so, the thought that the Morning Star != the
Evening Star might express the same proposition as the thought that Venus != Venus). But then if
someone thinks both t and t " on a given occasion, the phrase ‘‘her p-thought on that occasion’’ will
be ambiguous between t and t " . I will not bother about this problem except to say that it vanishes if
we treat epistemic possibility as a property directly of thoughts.
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kind of conceivability: p is conceivableep if one can imagine, not truly believing
that p (that very proposition!!), but believing something true with one’s actual
p-thought.⁵²
How does the a posteriority argument look in light of these distinctions, in
particular its leading premise that all a posteriori falsehoods are conceivable? Read
in terms of conceivabilityijb or conceivabilityep , the premise is not unreasonable.
For an a posteriori falsehood to be conceivable in these senses therefore says little
for its possibility. Remember, though, that Hume’s maxim claims evidential
import only for the kind of conceivability that portrays p as possible. And
the kinds just mentioned do not: the appearances they convey are rather that
you could have been justified in believing that p, and that you could have
believed some truth or other via the thought you actually use to believe that
p.⁵³ That leaves conceivabilityitb . This does seem to involve the appearance of
possibility, so Hume has some explaining to do if for all a posteriori falsehoods
p, one can imagine truly believing that p. But this has not been argued,
and as regards a posteriori impossibilities I doubt there are many who would
even defend it. What we can do is imagine believing them justifiably, and
believing related propositions truly; what we cannot do is imagine believing
them, truly.
⁵² The subscript ‘‘ep’’ is for epistemic possibility. Some will regard the analysis as too weak, others
as too strong.
Too weak: ‘‘What I find epistemically possible ought to be constrained by my immediate
evidential situation. For instance, if I know my visual field to be wholly red, then it should not
be epistemically possible that it is wholly green. Yet this is conceivableep ; I can imagine believing
something true with the thought that my visual field is wholly green, for I can imagine its being
wholly green.’’ To accommodate this intuition we might try the following. Define a thought as
Cartesian if it constitutes certain knowledge of the proposition it expresses, and it could not have
expressed any other proposition; and let c be the conjunction of all propositions one thinks by way
of Cartesian thoughts. Then p is conceivableepc if the conjunction of p with c is conceivableep .
Too strong: ‘‘Epistemic possibility ought to be a weaker notion than conceivability. Roughly it
should be conceivability unconstrained by empirical beliefs. But some conceivable propositions are
not conceivableep , for instance, the proposition that there are no thoughts.’’ To accommodate this
intuition, we need to arrange it so that thoughts continue to express propositions even in worlds
where they do not exist. Say that the proposition a thought expresses in such a world is the one it
expresses in the most natural expansion thereof to a world in which the thought does exist. Then
p is conceivableepw if one can imagine a world that verifies the proposition that one’s p-thought
expresses therein.
Kripke offers no explicit definition of epistemic possibility, but his idea is that ‘‘under appropriate
qualitatively identical evidential situations, an appropriate corresponding qualitative statement might
have been [true]’’ (op. cit., p. 142). This goes over into conceivabilityepc if by ‘‘qualitatively identical
evidential situations’’ we understand situations satisfying the conjunction of all propositions one
thinks by way of Cartesian thoughts; and by ‘‘corresponding qualitative statement’’ to p we
understand a proposition p∗ such that p∗ is true at a world w iff one’s p-thought expresses a truth
there.
⁵³ And these things presumably are possible when p is a posteriori false.
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X . W H AT C O N C E I VA B I L I T Y I S
Before attempting a positive account of conceivability, let me say something
to lower expectations about what such an account should involve. Almost
never in philosophy are we able to analyze an intentional notion outright, in
genuinely independent terms: so that a novice could learn, say, what memory
and perception were just by consulting their analyses. About all one can normally
hope for is to locate the target phenomenon relative to salient alternatives,
and to find the kind of internal structure in it that would explain some of
its characteristic behavior. This at any rate is all I have hopes of doing for
conceivability—and so much the better, in my view, if it can be done while
remaining as neutral as possible on other issues. This section and the next
propose an account that locates conceivability proper with respect to the various
subscripted impostors; makes for a revealing contrast with inconceivability and
undecidability; predicts that a conceived proposition will appear as possible; and
does little else besides.
Here are the five main conceivability-notions that we have considered so far.
Each should really be relativized to a person and an occasion, but we will be
sloppy:
•
•
•
•
•
p is conceivableb iff
it is (not un)believable that p.
p is conceivablebp iff
it is (not un)believable that possibly, p
p is conceivableijb iff
one can imagine justifiably believing that p.
p is conceivableitb iff
one can imagine believing p truly.
p is conceivableep iff
one can imagine believing something true with one’s actual p-thought.
What I have been calling philosophical conceivability is none of these. Conceivability in the imaginability-of-true-belief sense comes closest, but has the
following problem. I cannot imagine truly believing anything that conflicts with
the hypothesis of my believing it: that I do not exist, for instance, or that no
one has any beliefs. Yet many such propositions are philosophically conceivable,
including the ones just mentioned.
From the way I have presented the problem you can guess its solution: I
find p conceivable if I can imagine, not a situation in which I truly believe
that p, but one of which I truly believe that p. This is the approach to be
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developed in what follows. And the obvious place to begin is with the nature of
imagination.⁵⁴
Imagining can be either propositional —imagining that there is a tiger behind
the curtain—or objectual —imagining the tiger itself.⁵⁵ To be sure, in imagining
the tiger, I imagine it as endowed with certain properties, such as sitting
behind the curtain or preparing to leap; and I may also imagine that it has
those properties. So objectual imagining has in some cases a propositional
accompaniment. Still the two kinds of imagining are distinct, for only the second
has alethic content—the kind that can be evaluated as true or false—and only
the first has referential content—the kind that purports to depict an object.⁵⁶
Objectual imagining, I said, may be accompanied by propositional imagining.
But it is the other direction that interests me more: propositional imagining as
accompanied by, and proceeding by way of, objectual imagining. To imagine
that there is a tiger behind the curtain, for instance, I imagine a tiger, and I
imagine it as behind the curtain. Quite possibly though I imagine the tiger as
possessed of various additional properties—facing in roughly a certain direction,
having roughly a certain color, and so on—and I imagine besides the tiger
various other objects—the curtain, the window, the floor between them—all
arranged so as to verify my imagined proposition. In short I imagine a more or
less determinate situation which I take to be one in which my proposition holds.
This is a closer approximation to what I mean by finding p conceivable; but
‘‘more or less determinate situation’’ is not quite right.
When I imagine a tiger, I imagine it as possessed of some determinate
striping—what else?—but there need be no determinate striping such that I
imagine my tiger as striped like that; the content of my imagining is satisfiable by
variously striped tigers, but not by tigers of no determinate striping. Likewise for
situations: even if there is much about my tiger-situation that I leave unspecified
as irrelevant to the proposition at hand (e.g., the distance from the tiger’s nose
to the curtain), still I think of these things as fully definite in the situation itself.
Thus a situation in which the tiger stands at no particular distance from the
curtain, supposing that one can imagine this at all, is not what I have in mind.
⁵⁴ For a fuller discussion that supports on some points the approach taken here, see Walton
1990.
⁵⁵ Some philosophers use ‘‘imagine’’ so that imagining a thing is imaging it, that is, conjuring up
an appropriate sensory presentation. I do not require a sensory-like image for imagining, and certainly
not a distinct such image for distinct imaginings. (Compare Descartes on the unimaginability of
chiliagons at CSM II, pp. 50, 69, 264.)
⁵⁶ ‘‘Can’t the content of objectual imagining be truth-evaluable as well, if what one imagines is a
proposition?’’
This shows the importance of distinguishing the object of an imaginative act from its content.
In the case described, the object of my imagining is a proposition. But its content is no more a
proposition than the content of my tiger-imagining is a tiger. Rather it is something more on
the order of a concept, the concept of being the proposition that a tiger behind the curtain is
about to leap. Concepts being referential rather than truth-bearing, the criterion gives the right
result.
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By a determinate object, I mean one that possesses for each of its determinable
properties an underlying determinate (it is not merely triangular, but in addition
scalene, isosceles, or equilateral).⁵⁷ To imagine an object as determinate is to
imagine it as possessing the higher-order property stated, that of possessing a
determinate property for each of its determinables. There is a world of difference,
then, between imagining an object as determinate —as possessing determinates
for each of its determinables—and determinately imagining it—specifying in
each case what the underlying determinate is. What I have been urging is that
objectual imagining is determinate in the first sense but not the second. The one
remaining question is whether the imagined object is itself indeterminate, as the
phrase ‘‘more or less determinate situation’’ seems to suggest.
Suppose that it is, so that I imagine an indeterminate tiger rather than a
determinate one. Then were a real, determinate, tiger to step out from behind
the curtain, I ought to say that I had something more indeterminate in mind;
whereas if an indeterminate tiger (!!) emerged, I ought to welcome it as just
what I’d imagined. This of course get things exactly backwards. Do I imagine
a determinate tiger, then? Not if this means that I am en rapport with one of
all possible tigers, striped in one of all possible ways, etc. But to repeat a point
already made, it is one thing to imagine an object as being of such-and-such a
type, another for there to be an object of that type such that one imagines it.
Understood on the first and more natural model, ‘‘I imagine a determinate tiger’’
describes the case perfectly.
Why should it be different, if the imagined object is a situation rather than a
tiger? What we are tempted to describe as imagining a more or less determinate
situation, is better described as imagining a fully determinate situation whose
determinate properties are left more or less unspecified.
When I imagine a situation, I imagine a completely determinate one. Is this
the same as imagining a possible world? Unfortunately not quite. Possible worlds
are situations complete in every respect: spatially, temporally, and ontologically,
for instance. But from determinacy alone these other dimensions of completeness
do not follow. I may indeed imagine my tiger-situation as part of a complete
situation, including, besides the tiger and its immediate neighbors, everything
that coexists with them all laid out in some nameless pattern. But although
this larger reality is in a sense acknowledged —I think of my tiger-situation as
embedded in it—the point of calling it larger is that I do not imagine the whole
of it in imagining the tiger-situation per se.
That I imagine my tiger-situation as limited is slightly awkward for our plan
of explaining conceivability as the imaginability of a situation in which the
⁵⁷ Compare Locke’s account of the ‘‘general idea of the triangle’’ as triangular but ‘‘neither
oblique nor rectangular, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor scalenon’’ (Locke 1959, book IV,
chapter 7, section 9). Lockean general ideas, if they existed, would be indeterminate in the sense
intended; likewise ‘‘arbitrary objects’’ as discussed in Fine 1983.
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conceived proposition is true. On the usual theory, propositions have truthvalues not in limited situations, but in the complete situations I have identified
with possible worlds.⁵⁸ Luckily there is a way of correcting for this: As a rule,
objectual imagining radically underdefines its object; so in principle it should be
possible to imagine a p-verifying world while leaving matters visibly irrelevant to
p’s truth-value unspecified. Granted that this is not itself to imagine a (limited)
p-verifying situation, the two imaginings are closely related and it would seem
natural for them to occur together. To look at the matter from the other
direction, even if imagining my tiger-situation is not the same as imagining
its larger world, I may well imagine the larger world in addition. This latter
imagining is of course hopelessly unforthcoming about events outside the tiger’s
immediate neighborhood, but so it would be if its mission was to arrange for the
truth of a proposition indifferent to those events; and so it should be, if it is to
go proxy for imagining a situation in which those events have no part. I propose
that the work that might have been done by the imagining of situations in our
analysis can be done instead by the imagining of worlds understood mainly as
containing those situations.
Now the pieces begin to fall together. Conceiving that p is a way of imagining
that p; it is imagining that p by imagining a world of which p is held to be a true
description. Thus p is conceivable for me if
(CON) I can imagine a world that I take to verify p.⁵⁹
Inconceivability is explained along similar lines:
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(INC) I cannot imagine any world that I don’t take to falsify p.⁶⁰
Obvious as this account may seem, it leads in interesting directions; and as it is,
it fares better than any other account I know with the modal appearance test.
⁵⁸ Sense can also be made of truth-in-a-limited-situation, but it would be distracting to try to
harmonize the two approaches here.
⁵⁹ It would be closer to ordinary language to distinguish ‘I conceive that p’, ‘p is conceivable
for me’, and ‘I find p conceivable’ as follows: (a) ‘I conceive that p’ iff I imagine a world which I
take to verify p; (b) ‘p is conceivable for me’ iff I can conceive that p; and (c) ‘I find p conceivable’
I find that I can conceive that p, presumably, by attempting to conceive it and finding that I
this looksiff
succeed. But although my usage in this paper is roughly in accord with (a) and (b), to reduce clutter
have used ‘I find p conceivable’ and ‘I conceive that p’ more or less interchangeably. (Compare: ‘I
correct Ifind
it desirable/regrettable/acceptable . . . that p’ is sometimes just a lengthier way of saying that I
desire/regret•/accept . . . that p.)
• Q2
⁶⁰ Objection: Suppose p is the proposition that Socrates is a rain cloud. Then p is inconceivable
to me; but I can imagine worlds that I don’t take to falsify p, for I can imagine worlds in which
Socrates doesn’t exist. Reply: ‘‘Falsify’’ in (INC) is short for ‘‘fail to verify’’. For any world you can
imagine, you take that world not to verify the proposition that Socrates is a rain cloud; hence you
take it to ‘‘falsify’’ that proposition in the sense intended. To stress, on the intended reading (INC)
is equivalent to the following: for every world I can imagine, I take that world not to verify p.
(Brevity is not the only reason for using ‘‘falsify’’ rather than ‘‘fail to verify’’. The other reason is to
discourage confusion with the much weaker condition that: for every world I can imagine, I do not
take that world to verify p. This latter condition defines nonconceivability.)
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Tigers with round-square striping are not imaginable; neither can we imagine
tigers that lick all and only tigers that do not lick themselves, or tigers with
more salt in their stomachs than sodium chloride, or indeed any tigers that do
not strike us as capable of existing. Assuming that this is no coincidence, two
explanations suggest themselves:
(1) one cannot imagine an X unless it already appears to one that an X could
exist; and
(2) to imagine an X is thereby to enjoy the appearance that an X could exist.
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Which of these is more plausible? If (1) were correct, then we could never arrive
at the view that X s are possible by succeeding in imagining one. Surely, though,
this is the usual way of coming to regard X s as possible. For instance, it is only by
learning how to imagine such things that we admit the possibility of, say, justified
true beliefs that do not rise to the level of knowledge, or physical duplicates of
ourselves that mean different things by their words. This shows that it cannot
be a prerequisite of imagining an X to be under the prior impression that X s
can exist. Which leaves (2) as the likelier explanation: it comes to me that X s are
possible in the act of imagining one.⁶¹
Assuming that objectual imagining works the way (2) says, it is no mystery
why conceiving, in the sense of (CON), involves the appearance of possibility.
By (2), when I imagine a world of such-and-such a type, it appears to me that a
world of that type could really have existed. But when I take it to verify p, I take
it that if a world like that had existed, then p would have been the case. So, when
I imagine a world which I take to verify p—and this is what it is to conceive that
p on the proposed account—I have it appear to me that p is possible.
XI. UNDECIDABILITY
Part of the appeal of (CON) and (INC) taken together is that they leave room
for a third conceivability-status, such as undecidability was supposed to be. At
least there is no obvious contradiction between
(CON) I cannot imagine a world that I take to verify p, and
(INC) I can imagine worlds that I don’t take to falsify p;
and since these are the denials of (CON) and (INC), their conjunction defines
undecidability. But although (CON) and (INC) are formally consistent, someone
might still wonder how both could be true at the same time. For this would
require that in attempting to conceive that p, I find myself imagining worlds
⁶¹ Or, if this seems debatable, I hereby stipulate that ‘‘imagining an X ’’ will denote type-(2)
imagining.
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such that it is obscure to me whether they verify p or falsify it. And do cases like
this actually arise?
According to (CON), the task of conceiving p divides into two sub-tasks:
imagining a possible world, and satisfying oneself that p is true in it. Often the
world can be stipulated to be one in which p is true, as for example when Kripke
stipulates that the man imagined to be President is our own Hubert Humphrey;
then the verification task is trivial. But for some values of p, worlds in which
p is clearly true are not clearly imaginable, or, what comes to the same thing,
in clearly imaginable worlds p’s truth-value seems somehow uncertain. So, given
his problems imagining a world in which Jacob sprouts new petals, Solomon
may seek firmer ground in the hypothesis of a world where Jacob acquires
petal-like appendages—whether these are petals is left obscure in deference to
the possibility that Jacob is an artifact. Because he can imagine no world that he
is ready to count as one in which Jacob sprouts new petals, the Jacob-proposition
is not conceivable for him; but neither is it inconceivable, for he can imagine
worlds which he is unready to describe as ones in which the proposition is false.
Another proposition I have called undecidable is not-GC, the denial of
Goldbach’s conjecture. Many philosophers have suggested that not-GC is rather
conceivable. Michael Hooker, for instance, writes that one can
FN:62
imagine the discovery by computer of a counterexample to the conjecture, the attendant
discussion of it, the subsequent revision of philosophical examples, etc.⁶²
To explain where I think this goes wrong, let me describe some scenarios I clearly
can imagine and then show how imagining these falls short of imagining that
not-GC. For instance, I find it easy to imagine a computer printing out some
unspecified even number n, and this being hailed on all sides as an authentic
counterexample. Why wouldn’t this be a case of imagining that not-GC? Because
it suffices for the veridicality of this imagining for the following to be possible:
GC has no counterexamples, but the computer produces a number n widely
though erroneously hailed as a counterexample. Thus the truth of my imagining
does not depend on there being a world in which not-GC, as it would if I had
succeeded in imagining that not-GC.
Maybe I do better to imagine the computer producing something widely
acknowledged as a proof that n is a counterexample. But again, the proof can
help me to enjoy the appearance that possibly not-GC only if it is imagined to
be correct; and since it is inconceivable to me that addition facts should vary
between possible worlds, my ability to imagine the proof as correct is limited by
my confidence that some number is in fact unavailable as the sum of two primes.
Alas, I have no idea whether such a number exists, and neither (I assume) does
anyone else. How then can I treat the computer’s output as a correct proof? Am
I to imagine it set out in convincing detail? But if the detail is only imagined to
⁶² Hooker 1978, p. 178.
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be convincing, it does nothing to increase my actual confidence in the proof ’s
correctness. Am I to imagine the proof set out in actually convincing detail? If I
could, I would call a press conference to announce my refutation of Goldbach’s
conjecture! So no Hooker-type thought experiment that I’m aware of shows
the conceivability of not-GC. What the thought experiments do suggest is that
not-GC is not inconceivable; accordingly it is undecidable.
X I I . M O D A L E R RO R
Ordinarily we treat perceptual appearances as prima facie accurate, and absent
specific grounds for doubt we accept them as a basis for reasonable belief. What
about conceivability appearances? Outside of philosophy, at least, they are treated
in a similar fashion. Suppose that you claim to be able to imagine a world in
which Oxford University exists but Cambridge does not. Perhaps we can point
to some complicating factor of a kind you had not considered, e.g., one was
originally a college of the other, that takes our own modal intuitions in a different
direction. But if nothing of the kind occurs to us, and if attempting the thought
experiment ourselves we find no difficulty in it, we are in a poor position to
dispute your claim. (Imagine your reaction if we said, ‘‘still, we wonder if it is
really possible’’, though no further complication suggested itself.)
So common sense sees appearances of both kinds as prima facie accurate and
prima facie justifying. About conceivability appearances philosophers have taken
a different view, but for unconvincing reasons. Can we stop worrying, then, and
modalize with a clear conscience?
What makes us hesitate is not that conceiving can sometimes lead astray, but
that we have so little idea how this happens. Modal error is a fact of life, and
although perceptual error is too, our firmer grip on its etiology allows us to feel
less the helpless victim than in the modal case. Misperception is something that
we know how to guard against, detect when it occurs, and explain away as arising
out of determinate cognitive lapses. That there is nothing remotely comparable
for conceivability is a measure of our relative backwardness on the subject of
modal error. Of course, the analogy with perception can be taken too far; a more
realistic comparison might be with mathematics. Yet the system of checks and
balances in mathematics is in its way most impressive of all and certainly well
beyond anything encountered in the modal domain.
No wonder the advice to ‘‘trust your modal intuitions’’ sounds overeasy. Until
our imaginative excesses are brought under something like the epistemological
control we have in other areas, we modalize with right, perhaps, but without
conviction.
Whatever their other problems, our objections at least had models to offer of
how modal intuition goes wrong. Probably the most familiar is the one associated
with the circularity objection: because you didn’t appreciate p’s impossibility,
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there was nothing to prevent you from finding it conceivable. Even if this
particular explanation disappoints, some such explanation is badly needed.
How does it happen that people find (what are in fact) impossible propositions
conceivable? Maybe it looks like I’ve ruled modal error out altogether! Because
what I’ve said is that when a proposition is unbeknownst to me impossible, it is
not normally inconceivable for me but undecidable.—Normally, but not always.
The ancient Greeks, believing that Hesperus and Phosphorus were different
planets, might well have found it conceivable for the one to outlast the other.
That was a mistake; Hesperus is identical to Phosphorus, so they could not have
been different in any way. Or suppose that Oedipus, upset with Jocasta, finds
himself imagining what life would have been like without her. Even if she had
never existed, he decides, he could still have been king. Assuming with Kripke
that ancestry is essential, he could not have been anything if she had never existed;
so here is another example of modal intuition misfiring.
Sure as I might be, then, that my modal intuitions are largely reliable, in
any particular case I have the following worry. Sometimes people have found
impossibilities conceivable. Maybe I am making an analogous error when I
imagine myself born on October 1, or six feet tall, or a Rosicrucian, and conclude
that these things are possible for me.
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X I I I . M O D E L S O F M O D A L E R RO R⁶³
Is the analogy a good one, though? Remember that the ancients found it
conceivable that Hesperus should outlast Phosphorus only because they took it
that Hesperus and Phosphorus were distinct. What is the prior misapprehension
that accounts for my erroneous intuition, as the ancients’ denial of Hesperus’s
identity with Phosphorus accounts for theirs?
That the request for a backing misapprehension sounds so reasonable suggests
the following model of modal error.⁶⁴ First, I find p conceivable, when as a
matter of fact it is impossible. Second, that p is impossible emerges from the
truth of some proposition q. Third, I do not realize this, believing instead that
q is false, or else that it is false that if q, then p is impossible; and this is how I
am able to conceive p despite its impossibility. Explicitly, there is a proposition
q such that
(a) q;
(b) if q, then ! ∼ p; and
⁶³ This section and the next are based on Yablo 1990.
⁶⁴ Note: I do not say that all modal errors are captured by the models to be given here, only that
many are, and especially the type most often discussed in recent modal metaphysics (see also note
67 below).
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(c) that I find p conceivable is explained by my denial of (a) and/or my denial
of (b).
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FN:66
(‘! s’ means: necessarily, s.) So, the ancients conceived it as possible for Hesperus
to outlast Phosphorus because they denied the truth that Hesperus is identical
to Phosphorus. If some contemporary philosophers, aware of this identity, find
themselves capable of the same conception, the probable explanation is that
they deny that identicals are modally indiscernible, and more particularly that
Hesperus’s identity with Phosphorus makes a difference in lifespan impossible. In
our other example, Oedipus’s false belief that Jocasta is not his mother explains
how he can conceive himself being king even if she had never lived. Should he
persist in his error after his ancestry is revealed, this is because he denies that if
Jocasta is his mother, then he could not have been king without her.
Whatever you find conceivable, you are prima facie entitled to regard as
metaphysically possible. The question is whether this prima facie entitlement
can be defeated along the lines just indicated. Of course, if someone can prove
that the model applies, then since (a) and (b) entail that p is impossible, your
conclusion is refuted. But to raise legitimate doubts about the conclusion, reason
to think that the model may apply ought to be enough. Thus we call proposition
q a defeater if there is a reasonable chance that (a), (b), and (c).⁶⁵, ⁶⁶ The objector’s
challenge, in any particular case, is to find a defeater q of the conceiver’s modal
intuition.
Someone might object as follows. To erroneously conceive p as possible, why
should I have to go so far as to deny the proposition q given which p is impossible,
or to deny the proposition that p is impossible if q is true? Isn’t it enough if I am
simply unaware that q, or unaware that if q is true, then p is impossible? Thus
consider a second, less demanding, model of modal error: there is a proposition
q such that
(a) q;
(b) if q then ! ∼ p; and
(c) that I find p conceivable is explained by my unawareness that (a), and/or by
my unawareness that (b).
Arguably this unawareness model does do a certain justice to cases which the
denial model leaves untouched. At one time, for example, I suppose I found it
⁶⁵ Although it would be more in accord with existing usage to let the defeater be the conjunction
of (a), (b), and (c). See note 67.
⁶⁶ How do I test the credibility of the conditional claim (b) that if q, then p is impossible? With
any other indicative conditional, I use the Ramsey test: I pretend that I am reliably informed of
the antecedent, and then I consider, under that pretense, how plausible I find the consequent. The
same method works here. Suppose I want to decide whether, if salt = sodium, it is impossible for
the ocean to contain more sodium than salt. Pretending that salt = sodium, I find it inconceivable
that the ocean should contain these in different amounts; abandoning the pretense, I endorse the
conditional.
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conceivable that there should be a town whose resident barber shaved all and
only the town’s non-self-shavers. However, it was not because I denied that the
scenario was implicitly contradictory that I found the town conceivable; it was
because I was not aware of the contradiction. Or imagine that the medievals,
rather than denying that dolphins were mammals, had no opinion on the matter;
suppose if you like that the concept of a mammal was unknown to them.
Mightn’t they have conceived it as possible, erroneously mind you, for dolphins
to be fish? If so, then this would be another example of a false intuition whose
explanation lay not in the fact that something was denied, but in the fact that it
was not believed.
As before, the objector’s challenge is to identify a proposition q for which
there is a reasonable chance that the model applies.⁶⁷ Nothing could be easier,
you might think. Just let q be the proposition that p, the proposition conceived,
is impossible. Then since the conceiver’s intuition is still sub judice, there would
seem to be a reasonable chance that (a) q, that (b) if q, then p is impossible (this
is a tautology), and that (c) the conceiver’s ignorance of (a) explains how she
managed to conceive p as possible.
Yet I take it that it gives me no reason to mistrust my intuition that p is
possible to be told that it might, for all I know, be due to ignorance of what
might, for all I know, be the fact that p is not possible; for instance, that my
ability to conceive myself with a different birthday might derive from my failure
to appreciate the necessity of my actual birthday. At best the objector can argue
that if I am necessarily born on September 30, then my failure to realize this
may be relevant to my finding a later birthday conceivable. And this hardly
constitutes an objection, no more than it is an objection to the accuracy of my
impression that there are ducks around that if I am wrong, and they are decoys,
then my ignorance of that fact might help to explain how I managed to take
them for ducks.
Part of my point here is just that ignorance of the fact that p is impossible
does not itself do much to explain why I would conceive it as possible. But that
is not all. Even if a fuller explanation is provided, it carries little dialectical force
if it depends on the prior concession that my intuition has a significant chance
⁶⁷ This is a good place to acknowledge that the models given here cannot claim to accommodate
all defeaters. Suppose we distinguish rebutting defeaters, propositions s such that (con(p) & s) is a
reason to think that p is impossible; offsetting defeaters, propositions s such that (con(p) & s) is not a
reason to think p possible; and undermining defeaters, propositions s such that s is a reason to deny
that con(p) is a reason to think p possible. And suppose we refer to conjunctions of (a), (b), and (c) as
standard defeaters. Then standard defeaters are rebutting and offsetting (in virtue of (a) and (b)) and
also undermining (in virtue of all three conjuncts). But none of our three categories is exhausted by
the standard defeaters. For instance, intuition recognizes offsetting and undermining defeaters that
are not rebutting. Some such are obtainable by generalizing the models to allow standard defeaters of
con(p∗ ), where p∗ is a fuller description than p of the imagined world as the conceiver understands
it. But even this leaves no room for defeaters like the following: you conceived that p while under
the influence of a mind-expanding drug; your modal intuitions are famously inaccurate; everyone
but you finds p undecidable.
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of being false. (With equal plausibility one could explain away my perceptual
impression of ducks by saying that they were produced by decoy ducks, these
being the usual explanation of erroneous duck-impressions.) Only if there is
independent reason to suspect that my refusal of some relevant proposition really
does put me out of touch with the facts, does that refusal call my intuition into
question.
X I V. M O D A L D I A LO G U E
FN:68
To see how this works in practice, consider again my Cartesian intuition that
I can exist in a purely mental condition. Someone might object that it is
independently plausible that I am embodied, and that if so, I am embodied
necessarily and so incapable of purely mental existence. About the second half of
this, I have my doubts. Like most people, I take it for granted that I am embodied.
Somehow, though, this does not seem to inhibit me from conceiving myself
as disembodied. This intuition of being actually-but-not-necessarily embodied
prima facie rationalizes my rejection of the conditional hypothesis stated; so
I cannot regard that hypothesis as independently credible. Of course, the
conditional hypothesis becomes virtually certain if we let q be the proposition
that I am necessarily embodied. Now, though, it is q itself which wants for
independent evidence.
Another candidate for the role of defeater is that I am the same thing as my
body. But what does ‘‘same thing’’ mean here? If it means identical, then I
doubt that the defeater is independently plausible. However categorically similar
my body and I may be, this suggests at most that we are coincident (as a statue
might be coincident with the hunk of clay that makes it up).⁶⁸ Evidence that
we were moreover identical would be evidence that we agreed on a wide range
of hypothetical, and especially modal, properties. Yet this can only come from
conceivability considerations, which seem in fact to argue the other way! If
‘‘same thing’’ is understood so as to require sharing of categorical properties
only, then the problem is just relocated. For now I need a reason to think
that if I am categorically similar to my body, then I cannot exist without it.
And to insist that categorical similarity has this consequence seems to beg the
question against the otherwise intuitive view that what I am is a person, whose
categorical properties may be those of a certain body, but with modal properties
all my own.
Obviously the debate could be taken a lot further. To mention just two of
the more promising possibilities, someone might try to extract a defeater from
⁶⁸ On coincidence and the categorical/hypothetical distinction, see Yablo 1987. I assume for the
sake of the objection that there are no temporal differences between myself and my body—for
instance, that my body isn’t going to outlast me.
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Kripke’s claim that my biological origins are essential to me, or from some version
of the mental/physical supervenience thesis. But already we have enough to see
how modal dialogue typically proceeds on the picture I have in mind:⁶⁹
•
•
•
X finds p conceivable and calls it possible;
if Y chooses to challenge X ’s intuition, she proposes a defeater q to explain
how X was capable of it despite its falsity;
if X is unable to accept this explanation, he takes issue either with q itself, or
with Y ’s claim that it casts doubt on his intuition’s accuracy.
What to say—what it means—when the dialogue breaks down is the topic of
the next section.
X V. FAC T UA L I S M A B O U T M O D A L I T Y
FN:70
FN:71
To defeat a modal intuition, the objector tries to motivate on independent
grounds the suspicion that it derives from some prior error or oversight. Yet
if conceivers disagree on fundamental enough matters—color incompatibilities,
say, or the modal properties of mathematical objects—it may be difficult
for either to discern on the other’s part a prior lapse at all, still less one
independently recognizable as such. This raises the specter of brute modal error
and disagreement. Too much of that, someone might say, and we lose the right
to speak of error and disagreement at all.
Supporting this accusation is a theory of what it is for the statements in
a given region of discourse to be genuinely factual, viz. that ‘‘differences of
opinion about such statements . . . will have to be traceable back to some breach
of ideal rationality or material difference in the subjects’ respective states of
information’’.⁷⁰ Reason to think that there is just no saying how the opposition
comes by its seemingly equally well-supported conclusions despite their falsity is
‘‘reason to think that the statements disagreed about are not objective, and so
not apt to be substantially true or false’’.⁷¹
Roughly, then, the proposal is to define factual discourse by its intolerance
of brute error and disagreement. There are stronger and weaker versions of this,
of course, and much that could be debated in all of them, but it is hard not to
feel some sympathy for the basic idea. Unless the positions one would like to
call incorrect show some tendency to be reproachable on separate grounds, the
faith that there is anything genuinely at issue can indeed become strained. The
⁶⁹ For reasons explained in note 67, the framework cannot be regarded as fully general. For
instance, it doesn’t cover the case where Y challenges X ’s intuition on the basis that he was drugged,
or that he has often been wrong before. But I believe that it covers most modal disputes of the kind
that arise between basically competent conceivers.
⁷⁰ Wright 1986, p. 198. This is what Wright used to call the ‘‘rational command’’ criterion and
now calls ‘‘cognitive command’’.
⁷¹ Wright 1988, p. 39.
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alternative is to insist on there being ‘‘facts of the matter’’ that only oneself and
one’s coreligionists are privy to—that others, through no fault of their own, get
consistently wrong. And although facts like that may not be unintelligible, they
do have something of a credibility problem. This is especially so when, as in the
modal case, our best idea of the type of fact in question is that of an external
constraint on the outcome of a certain type of investigation: in the modal case,
investigation by imagination. For then our confidence that there are facts of that
type in play will be limited by our confidence that an external constraint really
operates; hence by our resources for explaining how, despite the constraint, we
are able to arrive at opposing views.
So, our entitlement to modal factualism turns on the effectiveness of our
strategies against conflicts, or seeming conflicts, of conceivability intuition.⁷²
(Here and below I use ‘‘conceivability intuition’’ broadly, as covering conceivability and inconceivability intuitions both.) What are those strategies? From the
discussion above we have the following:
(1) try to show that there is no conflict of conceivability intuitions because what
looked like p’s conceivability was really only its believability, or epistemic
possibility, or . . .; or what looked like its inconceivability was really only its
unbelievability, or epistemic impossibility, or . . .;
(2) admit that there are conceivability intuitions on either side but try to show
that they are not in conflict because what seemed to be the conceivability
(inconceivability) of one proposition was really that of some closely related
other;
(3) admit that there is a conflict of conceivability intuitions but try to show that
at least one of them has a defeater and is therefore open to doubt.⁷³
(1) was the strategy we used with Goldbach’s conjecture, when we said that it was
‘‘conceivable’’ only in the believability or the believability-of-possibility sense.
The supposed intuition that Hesperus might not have been Phosphorus can
be met with (1)—you find their nonidentity not conceivable but epistemically
possible—or, what comes to the same in this case, (2)—it is not their nonidentity
that you find conceivable, but only that you should have thought something true
⁷² At least, a certain degree of factualism might be in order if the condition were met. In
his 1988 and elsewhere, Wright sketches a system of increasingly ambitious factualisms, and
offers criteria appropriate to each. Here I employ a variant of his weakest criterion. Whether
modal discourse is factual in his more ambitious senses I do not discuss; Wright himself is
skeptical.
⁷³ To apply this strategy on the conceivability side of the conflict, we use the (a) (b) (c) model
as presented in the text; to apply it on the inconceivability side, we extend the (a) (b) (c) model to
inconceivability intuitions in the obvious way. Suppose that historians discover that Cicero was in
reality Tully’s older brother (that q), but that unaware of this I continue to find it inconceivable that
the one should have outlived the other (that p). My intuition is defeated because (a) q is true; (b) if q
is true, then p is possible; and (c) I find p inconceivable only because I am under the misimpression
that q is false.
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with your Hesperus != Phosphorus-thought.⁷⁴ Another, more mundane, version
of strategy (2) is to say that because of unnoticed idiolectic differences, the
disputants talk past each other. Thus if we seem to disagree on the conceivability
of a wet mop that holds no water, a possible explanation is that owing to
differences in our concepts of wetness, the proposition I find inconceivable is
not the one you find conceivable. (Sadly it is all too easy to believe that much of
the current controversy over conditions of personal identity and survival—are
teletransportation, brain transplant, mitotic division, etc. survivable?—owes
more to our meaning slightly different things by ‘‘person’’ and ‘‘survive’’ than to
any real clash of modal intuition.)
When the dissolving strategies fail, our one remaining option is to explain
the conflict as arising out of some antecedent error or omission on one side or
the other. To the newly crowned Oedipus, it seemed possible that he should
have been king even if Jocasta had never existed; but what would you expect
of someone deceived about his ancestry? The reason why some can conceive
a barber who shaves all and only the non-self-shavers, while others find this
inconceivable, is that the first group needs to learn more logic. And so on.
But I have been putting off the essential question: what if, after all the
strategies have been tried to the best of current knowledge and ability, there
remains a residue of so-far-irreducible disagreement? Well, the factualist can say,
there is still such a thing as committing ourselves to applying them in ever more
inventive ways until one finally succeeds, or, failing that, to devising new and
better strategies in a similar spirit. Such a commitment could of course come to
seem awfully lame, if the failures proved stubborn and the successes too minor
to balance them off. But there is another scenario I like better.
How is it that substantive modal metaphysics, after years in the doldrums, has
lately been making headway again? Part of the explanation might be that our
methods of modal conflict management have been in a real sense improving.
Already it takes an effort to recall the dispiriting conditions of, say, thirty
years ago: the various half-related ideas jumbled unconsciously together under
the headings of possibility and conceivability; how crude the controls were
on propositional content; the anxiety about collateral information as a factor
in imaginability. Especially one forgets how much easier it was then for the
conversation to bog down at the first clash of modal intuition. The extent to
which we have moved beyond this should not be exaggerated (more often than
not we still bog down), but meanwhile it seems that modal dialectic has achieved
an unaccustomed degree of clarity and system in a surprisingly short time. All
of this has been a tremendous boost to the factualist’s morale; sufficiently more
of it and her commitment above might well be vindicated. ‘‘But what is the
⁷⁴ In the case of the ancients, who really did find it conceivable that Hesperus should have been
distinct from Phosphorus, strategy (3) is used: they were capable of this conception only because
they were empirically and/or philosophically misinformed.
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verdict? Can modal metaphysics be brought under the discipline characteristic of
a fact-finding enterprise or can’t it?’’ I have no answer, but just a suggestion: we
should try to impose that discipline in the hope that it might eventually take.
REFERENCES
Bealer, G. (1987). ‘‘The Limits of Scientific Essentialism’’. Philosophical Perspectives 1.
Blackburn, S. (1993). ‘‘Morals and Modals’’, In Essays in Quasi-Realism pp. 52–74,
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bradley, F. H. (1969). Appearance and Reality. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
•pp. 119–141.
• Q3
Cleve, J. van (1983). ‘‘Conceivability and the Cartesian Argument for Dualism’’. Pacific
Philosophical Quarterly 64, pp. 35–45.
Coppock, P. (1984). ‘‘Review of N. Salmon, Reference and Essence’’. Journal of Philosophy
81, pp. 261–70.
Cottingham, J., Stoothoff, R., and Murdoch, D., eds. (1985). The Philosophical Writings
of Descartes (I, II). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (= CSM).
Dennett, D. (1982). ‘‘Beyond Belief ’’. In A. Woodfield (ed.), Thought and Content,
Oxford: Clarendon Press. pp. 1–95.
DeRose, K. (1991). ‘‘Epistemic Possibilities’’. Philosophical Review 100, pp. 581–605.
Dreyfus, H. (ed.) (1982). Husserl, Intentionality and Cognitive Science. Cambridge,
Mass.: Bradford.
Fine, K. (1983). ‘‘A Defense of Arbitrary Objects’’. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society,
supp. vol. 17.
Forbes, G. (1985). The Metaphysics of Modality. Oxford: Clarendon Press. pp. 55–77.
pp.171-85
• Q4 Hooker, M. (1978). ‘‘Descartes’s Denial of Mind–Body Identity’’. • of Hooker, M., ed.,
pp. 171–185 Descartes: Critical and Interpretive Essays ( Johns Hopkins, Baltimore,
1978, p/b)
Hume, D. (1963). An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. La Salle, Ill.: Open
Court Press.
(1968). Treatise of Human Nature. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Kneale, W. (1949). Probability and Induction. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Kripke, S. (1980). Naming and Necessity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
Locke, J. (1959). An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. New York: Dover.
Mason, H. T. (ed.) (1967). The Leibniz–Arnauld Correspondence. Manchester: Manchester University Press.
Mill, J. S. (1868). An Examination of Sir William Hamilton’s Philosophy. Boston: W.
V. Spenser.
(1874). A System of Logic. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Moore, G. E. (1966). ‘‘Certainty’’. In his Philosophical Papers, New York: Macmillan. pp.227-51
Pap, A. (1958). Semantics and Necessary Truth. New Haven: Yale University Press .
pp. 227–251.
Putnam, H. (1975). ‘‘The Meaning of ‘Meaning’’ ’. In his Mind, Language, and Reality,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp.215-71
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• Q5
• Q6
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Putnam, H. (1990). ‘‘Is Water Necessarily H2 O?’’. In his Realism with a Human Face,
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, pp 54–79.
Reid, T. (1969). Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
Searle, J. (1983). Intentionality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Sellars, W. (1963). ‘‘Phenomenalism’’. In his Science, Perception, and Reality, London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul.pp.60-105
Shoemaker, S. (1984). ‘‘Immortality and Dualism’’. In his Identity, Cause, and Mind,
New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 60–105. pp.139-58
Sidelle, A. (1989). Necessity, Essence, and Individuation. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University
Press, pp. 139–58.
Teller, P. (1984). ‘‘A Poor Man’s Guide to Supervenience’’. Southern Journal of Philosophy,
supp. vol. 22. pp.137-62
Walton, K. (1990). Mimesis as Make-Believe. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 137–62.
White, S. (1982). ‘‘Partial Character and the Language of Thought’’. Pacific Philosophical
Quarterly 63, pp. 347–65.
Wright, C. (1986). ‘‘Inventing Logical Necessity’’. In J. Butterfield, ed., Language, Mind
and Logic, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 187–209.
(1988). ‘‘Realism, Antirealism, Irrealism, Quasi-realism’’. Midwest Studies in Philosophy, xii, pp. 25–49.
Yablo, S. (1987). ‘‘Identity, Essence, and Indiscernibility’’. Journal of Philosophy 84,
pp. 293–314.
(1990). ‘‘The Real Distinction Between Mind and Body’’. Canadian Journal of
Philosophy, supp. vol. 16: 149–201; Ch. 1 above.
•
1992 (forthcoming). ‘‘Review of Sidelle, Necessity, Essence and Individuation’’.
Philosophical Review, 878–881.•
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Q2.
Q3.
Q4.
Q5.
Q6.
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Queries in Chapter 2
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3
Textbook Kripkeanism and the Open Texture
of Concepts
[one imagines producing] an exhaustive list of all the circumstances in which
the term is to be used so that nothing is left to doubt . . . construct[ing] a
complete definition, i.e., a thought model which anticipates and settles once
for all every possible question of usage . . . in fact, we can never eliminate the
possibility of some unforeseen factor emerging . . . and thus the process of
defining and refining an idea will go on without ever reaching a final stage.
F. Waismann (1965)
1 . I N T RO D U C T I O N
A lot of people appear to have drawn the same ‘‘good news–bad news’’ lesson
from their reading of Saul Kripke on conceivability. The bad news is that
conceivability evidence, particularly of a ‘‘conceptual’’ or ‘‘a priori’’ sort, is highly
fallible. Very often one finds a statement E conceivable when, as a matter of fact,
E-worlds cannot exist. So it is, for instance, with the conceivability of water in
the absence of hydrogen, or of Hesperus without Phosphorus.
The good news is that (although conceivability evidence is fallible) the failures
always take a certain form. A thinker who (mistakenly) conceives E as possible is
correctly registering the possibility of something, and mistaking the possibility of
that for the possibility of E. There are illusions of possibility, if you like, but no
outright delusions or hallucinations.
The good news is important because it gives a way of living with the bad. That
a statement E is conceivable may not itself be proof that E is possible; but proof
is what it becomes in the absence of an E ∗ such that it was really E ∗ that was
possible, and E ∗ whose possibility was misread as the possibility of E.
I am grateful to George Bealer, Paul Boghossian, Tyler Burge, David Bzdak, David Chalmers, Mark
Crimmins, Eric Funkhouser, Tamar Gendler, Sally Haslanger, Robin Jeshion, Eric Lormand, John
O’Leary-Hawthorne, and Christopher Peacocke for comments and advice.
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Now, what is the relation between E and E ∗ whereby the one’s possibility is
so easily misread as the possibility of the other?
The quick answer is that E ∗ maps out the way the proposition that E is
presented in thought; it is, for short, a presentation of E. The usual sort of
presentation takes proper names in E and replaces them with descriptive and/or
demonstrative phrases that, as Kripke says, fixes their reference; so, ‘‘water’’ might
be replaced by ‘‘the predominant clear local drinkable stuff ’’.
But the essential point is that E ∗ delivers the propositional content of E as a
function of the circumstances that obtain where E is uttered. What E actually
says, assuming the actual world is w, is the same as what E ∗ says about w, i.e.,
what it says considered as a description of w.¹ Suppose for instance that E is
‘‘water is plentiful’’. Then what E actually says, pretending that the actual world
is a w whose watery appearances are appearances of XYZ, is what E ∗ = ‘‘the
clear drinkable stuff is plentiful’’ says about w, viz. that its clear drinkable stuff is
plentiful, viz. that XYZ is plentiful.
Now, it comes as no surprise that the possibility of a presentation of E should
be confused with the possibility of E. A world of which E’s presentation is true is
a world such that, had it really obtained, E would have expressed a truth. But an
understandable confusion is a confusion nevertheless. The possibility of ‘‘water
is plentiful’’ expressing a truth is one thing—it’s the possibility of there being
lots of watery stuff—the possible truth of what it does express is another—it’s
the possibility of there being lots of H2 O.
Two notions of possibility, then. Our job as philosophers is (i) to clearly
distinguish the two notions, and (ii) to explain how they are related. The first
part is easy:
(i) an E that could have expressed a true proposition is ‘‘conceptually possible’’,
while an E that does express a proposition that could have been true is
‘‘metaphysically possible’’.
The second part is not too difficult either. By (i), E is conceptually possible iff it
expresses a truth in some w-considered-as-actual. By definition of ‘‘presentation’’,
the truth E expresses in w-considered-as-actual corresponds to a true description
its presentation E ∗ gives of w-considered-as-counterfactual. By (i) again, for E ∗
to be true of a counterfactual world is for E ∗ to be metaphysically possible. Hence
(ii) E is conceptually possible iff E ∗ is metaphysically possible.
And now comes the philosophical payoff. From (i) we see why it is so often
a mistake to infer a statement’s metaphysical possibility from its conceivability.
Conceivability (particularly of a conceptual or a priori sort) tracks in the first
instance conceptual possibility, not the metaphysical sort. It appears from (ii),
though, that the inference is not a mistake when no obfuscating presentation can
¹ Better: the same as what E ∗ says about w on a ‘‘referential’’ reading.
character
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be found, that is, when there is nothing to play the role of E ∗ but E itself. In
that case, (ii) tells us that E is possible in the one sense if and only if it is possible
in the other.
2. TEXTBOOK KRIPKEANISM
FN:2
FN:3
The story just told can be called Textbook Kripkeanism about conceivability and
possibility. How well it corresponds to any actual belief of Kripke’s is hard
to say, and something I take no stand on. What I do think is that Textbook
Kripkeanism is not right. The ‘‘good news’’ that E’s conceivability ensures its
possibility whenever no obfuscating presentation suggests itself is too good to
be true.
About sixty years ago, the philosopher Charles Hartshorne put a neat twist
on Anselm’s ontological argument for God’s existence.² Granted, he said, that
existence is part of God’s essence does not itself show that God exists; it
implies only that if God were to exist in some world, then he would exist
necessarily. God in other words is either necessary or impossible. But, God is
not impossible, since we can easily conceive him. Hence God is necessary, and so
actual.³
A response that was given even at the time is that Hartshorne is punning on
‘‘possible’’. All God’s conceivability establishes is his conceptual possibility. The
premise needed to establish his necessity, however, is that he really could have
existed. Only if there is a possible world that really contains him can we say:
he exists in w, so his essence is satisfied in w, so he has the property of necessary
existence in w, so he exists in every possible world, this one included.
All of this is very familiar. The reason for mentioning it is that assuming
Textbook Kripkeanism, it fails to block the argument. Let it be that God’s
conceivability establishes only that he is conceptually possible. Still, the gap
here is not very large. A statement’s conceivability suffices for its metaphysical
possibility except in those cases where all we have cottoned on to is an E ∗ -world
passing itself off as E.
The question is: can we find a presentation of E = ‘‘there is a being whose
essence includes existence’’ such that it is really only this presentation that is
possible, not the proposition that it presents? The presentation would replace
name-like expressions in E with nonrigid descriptive phrases spelling out how
we identify their referents in thought.
But, and this is putting it mildly, it is hard to think what the reference-fixing
descriptions could be, or what they would replace; the statement ‘‘there is a being
² Hartshorne (1941). The relevant bits are reprinted in Plantinga (1965).
³ ‘‘If ‘God’ stands for something conceivable, it stands for something actual’’ and ‘‘The necessary
being, if it is not nothing, and therefore the object of no possible positive idea, is actual’’ (Plantinga
1965, p. 135).
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whose essence includes existence’’ seems already to be about as conceptually
articulate as one could want. Another way to put it is that it is hard to see
what the genuine possibility is that we mistake for the possibility of an essentially
existent being. Without a separate possibility ‘‘in the neighborhood’’ to point to
as what was confusing us, it seems we have to conclude that it is E = ‘‘there is a
being whose essence includes existence’’ that is possible. And now it follows that
a being like that truly exists.
In case anyone is not alarmed by the story so far, let me stretch it out a
little. Another thing that seems clearly conceivable is that there should fail to
be a being whose essence includes existence; it seems conceivable, in fact, that
there shouldn’t be anything whatsoever. Once again, it is hard to think of a
presentation of ‘‘there isn’t anything’’ such that it is really this presentation that
is possible, and this presentation whose possibility is mistaken for the possibility
of emptiness.
Now we have talked ourselves into a contradiction. Textbook Kripkeanism has
the result that (Hartshorne’s) God exists in some worlds but not in others. But
it is a conceptual truth about this God that he exists in every world or none. The
same problem arises for other ‘‘modally extreme’’ entities: numbers, pure sets,
transcendent universals, and so on. Given Textbook Kripkeanism, they are not
merely recherché, they are paradoxical. Nor can the paradox be evaded by saying
that numbers and sets do not exist; it flows from the very concepts involved.⁴
3. CONSCIOUSNESS
FN:5
If Textbook Kripkeanism could be seen at work only here, in connection with
God and other modally extreme entities, it might not be worth making a fuss
about. But it plays a role too in an increasingly popular objection to physicalism
pressed by Frank Jackson and David Chalmers.⁵
Any physicalism worthy of the name says that the world’s mental aspects are
necessitated by what goes on here physically. But there is at least one sort of mental
phenomenon—consciousness —that we can conceive going missing in a world
that is physically just like ours. In a word, zombie worlds are conceivable. Doesn’t
this run directly against the physicalist’s necessitation claim? Not according to
most people. All that follows from the conceivability of zombie worlds is that
they are conceptually possible; it would take their metaphysical possibility to
bother the physicalist.
⁴ Someone might say that in a contest between the intuition of possible existence and the
intuition of possible nonexistence, the intuition of nonexistence should win out. If that’s right, then
the contradiction becomes a proof that God, numbers, universals, and so on do not exist.
⁵ Jackson (1994); Chalmers (1996). References to Chalmers and Jackson are always to these
two works. Jackson’s From Metaphysics to Ethics: A Defense of Conceptual Analysis (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998) had not yet appeared when this article was written.
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FN:7
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All of this is again very old news. The effect of Textbook Kripkeanism,
however, is to call it into question. Space between conceptual and metaphysical
possibility can open up only under fairly special conditions. And, it will be said,
these conditions aren’t met in the present case. Zombie worlds had better be
conceptually impossible, then, if physicalism is to have a chance.
Now, as it happens, Jackson and Chalmers have slightly different reasons
for thinking that the zombie scenario is one where the conceptual/metaphysical
distinction finds no foothold. The crucial point for Jackson is that we are
considering a world stipulated to be physically just like ours. He thinks he can
get the physicalist to admit that when physical premises a posteriori necessitate
nonphysical conclusions, additional physical premises can be found to make
the necessitation a priori. Since in the zombie scenario we are allowed complete
physical information, the additional physical premises have ‘‘already been added.’’
So physical premises conceptually necessitate consciousness if they necessitate
it at all. What makes the zombie scenario special for Chalmers is less the
nature of the (physical) premises than that of the (phenomenal) conclusion.
Like Kripke, he is impressed by the fact that the way the proposition that
I am in pain is presented in thought is scarcely to be distinguished from
the proposition itself. To put it in terms of presentations, E ∗ = ‘‘I am in
a state that hurts’’ is necessarily equivalent to E = ‘‘I am in pain’’.⁶ And if
statements are true in the same possible worlds,⁷ then there is little prospect
of explaining away the apparent possibility of one as the genuine possibility of
the other.
4 . J AC K S O N AG A I N S T T H E PH Y S I C A L I S TS
The Textbook Kripkeanism of Chalmers’ strategy is plain to see. How Jackson
fits in will take a little explaining. His essential claim, remember, is that if pain
is necessitated a posteriori by physical premises, then an expanded set of physical
premises necessitates pain a priori.
The argument for this begins with a puzzle. At first we are inclined to
think of understanding as knowledge of truth conditions: for our purposes,
knowledge of which worlds a sentence truly describes. If that is the correct
theory, though, then understanding a necessarily true sentence E should suffice
for appreciating its necessity. And it clearly does not. I can understand ‘‘where
there is H2 O, there is water’’ without having any idea of its true modal
status.
⁶ This is not an absolute assumption for Chalmers; see below where he tries to get by on weaker
premisses.
⁷ The relevant statements are not the ones in the text exactly but built on these: ‘‘things are
physically like so and I am not in pain’’ and ‘‘things are physically like so and I am not in a state
that hurts’’.
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But the reason for my oversight is no great mystery, says Jackson. The reason
is that I am under- or misinformed about what chemical substance is (in the
present context) picked out by the reference-fixer of ‘‘water’’; I am aware only
in a potential or hypothetical sense of the truth conditions that E in fact
possesses. That this does not prevent me from understanding E suggests that
understanding is a matter not of knowing the conditions under which E is true,
exactly, but
knowing how the conditions under which it is true depend on context, on how things
are outside the head. (p. 39)
• Q1
A little more explicitly, it is knowing the meaning function Em mapping contexts
in which E might be uttered to its truth conditions in those contexts. Since one
can grasp this meaning function without knowing E’s actual truth conditions,
simply through ignorance of which context actually obtains, the puzzle dissolves.
One can’t be expected to see E’s necessity if one doesn’t know its truth conditions.
•Notice what this implies, however. If it is ignorance of context that enables
me to miss E’s truth conditions, then once this ignorance is remedied, I am out
of excuses. Semantic competence in other words should enable me
to move a priori from . . . statements about the distribution of H2 O combined with the
right context-giving statements, to information about the distribution of water. (p. 39)
This takes Jackson close to his desired conclusion that whatever is metaphysically
necessitated by the full physical story is conceptually necessitated by it. But a
detail has been left hanging.
Why should the context-giving information be physical information? Couldn’t
the reference-fixer for ‘‘water’’ mention, say, the fact that it is supposed to be
something clear and tasteless? Of course it could. But remember, Jackson says,
we are asking after the consequences and commitments of physicalism. And the
physicalist of all people is in no position to doubt that context is ultimately to be
described in physical terms. Assuming physicalism, then, whatever is necessitated
by physics is conceptually necessitated by it. This applies in particular with to
psychology:
the physicalist is committed to there being an a priori story to tell about how the physical
way things are makes true the psychological way things are. [Note,] the story may come
in two parts. It may be that one part of the story says which physical way things are, P1 ,
makes some psychological statement true, and the other part of the story, the part that
tells the context, says which different physical way things are, P2 , makes it the case that it
is P1 that makes the psychological statement true. What will be a priori accessible is that
P1 and P2 together make the psychological statement true. (p. 40)
Obviously, though, there are various psychological statements that are not a
priori necessitated by physical ones, such as the statement that there is conscious
experience. So, they are not necessitated by physical statements at all, so
physicalism is false. That completes the argument.
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5. THE LINK WITH TEXTBOOK KRIPKEANISM
FN:8
FN:9
FN:10
The puzzle that Jackson uses to disprove physicalism is really just the puzzle of
a posteriori or nonconceptual necessity. Why isn’t all necessity the conceptual
kind? It can equally well be stated in terms of the ‘‘dual’’ notion of conceptual
possibility, where E is conceptually possible if, roughly, it is not a priori that
not-E.⁸ How can E be conceptually possible without being really possible?
Textbook Kripkeanism has a view about this combination of features.⁹ The one
and only way for E to be conceptually possible but not ‘‘really’’—metaphysically
—possible is for something else to be really possible, namely E’s presentation E ∗ .
This presentation being an a priori equivalent of E that specifies what E says as
a function of worldly context, the claim is that uttered in the right context, E
would have expressed a truth.
But this is very close to what Jackson tells us. According to him, the reason we
don’t see that not-E is impossible is that the meaning function Em telling us what
proposition E expresses in a given worldly context occasionally yields the result
that it expresses a true proposition.¹⁰ Thinking of the Textbook Kripkean’s E ∗
as an attempted linguistic expression of Jackson’s meaning function Em , the two
stories basically agree.
6 . K N OW I N G W H I C H
So, then: Jackson’s argument is an example of Textbook Kripkeanism. The
connection here is suggestive in both directions. Having seen earlier that Textbook
Kripkeanism overgenerates modal ‘‘truths’’, e.g., it yields the contingency of
theism, the suspicion is that Jackson’s strategy may overgenerate as well. Having
not seen earlier where the Textbook Kripkean goes wrong, it becomes tempting
to look for signs in the Jackson argument of what might be misleading Textbook
Kripkeans more generally. Our basic question, remember, is: how can an
impossibility go unnoticed except under color of a suitable presentation, or now,
meaning function?
⁸ I am finessing something here. Jackson’s puzzle is about conceptual necessity in a particular
sense. E is conceptually necessary iff understanding E reveals it as necessary. The cognate notion of
conceptual possibility is: understanding E leaves it open that E might be possible. The notion in
the text is weaker; there, E is conceptually possible iff understanding E leaves it open that E might
be true. A fuller treatment would distinguish conceptual truth from conceptual necessity. But the
overall argument would not be affected.
⁹ I’m taking it that to be conceptually possible and to be conceptually conceivable are about the
same.
¹⁰ He would say ‘‘a possible proposition’’. But he shouldn’t. The conceptual possibility intuition
is compromised if Em (w) is nonempty but never true in w itself, as with ‘‘not all horses are actual
horses’’.
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FN:12
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Start with the matter of why the ‘‘contextual information’’ needed to boot an
a posteriori necessity up into a conceptual one should be physical information.
Jackson says that the physicalist of all people is in no position to deny that context
is physical. But there has to be more to it than that. The physicality of context
is one thing, the physicality of information about context—the information
speakers need to parlay their understanding of E into knowledge of its truth
conditions—is another.
So let’s ask again: why should physicalists think that the contextual information
is physical? They are not deniers of nonphysical information, after all. They merely
insist that it be necessitated by physical information.¹¹ If the necessitation were
conceptual, then no problem; information that is conceptually necessitated by
physical information can be considered itself physical.¹² But to insist that the
necessitation is conceptual would seem to beg the question at issue.
Or maybe not. Suppose that a physical description P of the context necessitates
a nonphysical description Q. (P and Q might be ‘‘H2 O plays such and such a
role’’ and ‘‘H2 O is water’’.) Then the conditional ‘‘if P then Q’’ threatens to be
the very sort of necessary truth that Jackson says he finds puzzling. Why isn’t
it conceptually necessary? The only possible answer is that it has necessary truth
conditions in this context, nonnecessary ones the next context over.
This is reintroducing a complication we had thought to be done with. Given
that P and Q were brought in to pin down the context of E enough to settle its
truth conditions, it seems only fair to allow that they do not bring with them
further context-sensitivities. And now the thinker has no excuses; ‘‘if P then Q’’
has got to be conceptually necessary, in which case the physicalist may as well
concede that context-giving information Q is indeed physical.
Notice the underlying assumption: the puzzle about nonconceptual necessities
is such an extremely puzzling puzzle that it’s not allowed to even exist except when
Jackson’s preferred strategy of solution is available. Anyone who really and truly
knows which worlds ‘‘if P then Q’’ is true at has got to realize that it is true at all
worlds. I want to flag that assumption because it’s going to come up again. How
does the argument fare from this point on?
Understanding E = ‘‘there is pain’’ is knowing how its truth conditions vary
with context. The physicalist is allowing that it takes only physical information
to know which context one is in, nearly enough at least to be able to compute
E’s truth conditions. So, someone who understands ‘‘there is pain’’ and possesses
the relevant physical information knows which worlds are E-worlds. But (and
let’s flag this assumption too) anyone who really knows which worlds are E-worlds
thereby knows whether the E-worlds include all worlds physically just like this one.
¹¹ I mean information about this world. Physicalism being a contingent thesis, there may be
nonphysical information about other worlds that fails to be necessitated by physical information
about those worlds.
¹² Alternatively, we could plug the necessitating physical information in for the contextual
information, and let the contextual information be a priori deduced.
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Putting the pieces together, anyone who really understands ‘‘there is pain’’ is in a
position to parlay purely physical information about context into the knowledge
that zombie worlds are impossible.
Both stages of the argument depend on hypotheses about what ‘‘else’’ ought to
be known by someone who knows which worlds a statement truly describes. And
indeed, the puzzle itself depends on such a hypothesis; knowing which worlds a
necessary statement is true of is supposed to suffice for knowing that it is true of
every world. Here is the general schema:
(+) knowing which worlds are E-worlds suffices for knowing that the E-worlds
are (include, etc.) the F -worlds, assuming they in fact are.
FN:13
FN:14
This seems like asking a lot. For one thing, I may not have a very good idea
of which worlds are F . Take for instance the worlds that are physically just like
this one. Unless I know which worlds these are—and given how little I know
about the physical nature of this world it seems an open question—knowing
which worlds contain pain is clearly not going to tell me whether the pain-worlds
include them. Or let the F -worlds be the class of all possible worlds bar none. If
I am uncertain about which worlds are really possible (and I am), then there is
nothing to prevent me knowing which worlds physically just like ours contain
pain while still failing to know whether all worlds fall into this category.
But the real reason (+) doesn’t work is one that applies even when we know
which worlds are F . The real reason is that the standards for ‘‘knowing which’’ are
themselves so intentional and context-driven as to prevent any easy conclusions
about what the knower is now in a position to appreciate.¹³
This much seems plausible: for me to know which worlds make E true, I need
a way of picking out the E-worlds in thought, and not any old way will do. But
the sort of way that suffices is not a function of the set of worlds alone. It depends
(among other things) on its being the sentence E that is used to designate the
set as opposed to some necessarily equivalent alternative. I know which worlds
E = ‘‘there is pain’’ is true of by knowing that they are the worlds in which there
is pain. (If more than that is required, I don’t understand ‘‘there is pain’’.) I know
which worlds F = ‘‘things are physically as in our world’’ describes by knowing
that they are the worlds in which matters are physically as in our world—and
here I might be able to reel off some specific physical requirements. Obviously
though to know in these sorts of ways which worlds E and F are true of does not
put me in a position to tell whether E is true in every F -world, even if in fact
it is.¹⁴
¹³ Whether or not the space of worlds can serve as a final all-purpose matrix for commensurating
meanings, the idea of using grasp of world-sets to explain grasp of meaning doesn’t seem to get us
much further ahead.
¹⁴ Jackson brushes up against this issue without noticing its application to his own case:
Suppose I hear someone say ‘‘He has a beard.’’ I will understand what is being said without
necessarily knowing the conditions under which what is said is true, because I may not know who
shouldn't quoted
material such as this
be in smaller type?
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7. CANONICAL CONCEPTION
One line of response would be to equate understanding with some sort of
unmediated, perhaps acquaintance-like, grasp of which worlds make your sentence
true; that will be postponed for a bit, until after Chalmers. Another is to insist
that understanding a sentence is a matter of knowing which set of worlds it
expresses in a special canonical way: a way that better responds to what worlds in
their innermost nature are.
Some such adjustment might seem called for anyway, since otherwise the
equation of understanding with knowledge of truth conditions flirts with
triviality. No doubt understanding ‘‘France is a democracy’’ goes with knowing
that the worlds it is true of are the ones where France is a democracy. But this
sort of explication doesn’t seem to take us very far. It would be better (one might
think) if the verifying worlds could be identified not as whatever makes it the
case that E, but, well, as the worlds they are.
Now, since the physicalist thinks that worlds are in their innermost nature
physical, he will presumably insist on a physical specification. But then it can’t
be that the speaker ‘‘misses’’ the fact that any world physically like ours is a
pain-world simply through failing to think of the pain-worlds in physical terms.
Thinking of them in physical terms is a condition of understanding, and we are
talking about a speaker who understands.
The claim is that, if physicalism is true, then to understand E one must
be able to decide (i) on the basis of physical information (ii) how to make
the cut between E- and non-E-world in physical terms. (If physicalism is
true, then understanding is ‘‘physical’’ understanding.) This plugs the gap in
Jackson’s argument, and his conclusion is now reinstated. Whatever physical
premises necessitate at all, an expanded set of physical premises conceptually
necessitates. Merely to understand the sentences is to appreciate their truth
relations.
shouldn't
quoted material
be in smaller
type?
shouldn't quoted
material such as
this be in smaller
is being spoken of . . . [Nevertheless] I am much better placed than the Russian speaker [because]
I know how to move from the appropriate contextual information, the information which in this
case determines who is being spoken of, to the truth-conditions of what is said. (p. 38)
In a footnote he worries that perhaps
I do know who is being spoken of: I know something unique about [that] person, namely, that
he is being spoken of and is designated by a certain utterance of the pronoun ‘‘he.’’ But this is
‘‘Cambridge’’ knowing who.
Is it, though? It seems to me that it may or may not be, depending on circumstances. Suppose a
radio at the very same moment intones the words ‘‘he has a beer’’. It is hard to tell which words
come from which source, and hence whether the speaker is talking about the one being described as
bearded or the one being described as beered. To realize that the speaker (as opposed to the radio)
is talking about the referent of H1 (the utterance of ‘‘he’’ that goes with ‘‘has a beard’’) as opposed
to H2 (the one going with ‘‘has a beer’’) might be enough in this context for knowledge of who the
speaker, as opposed to the radio, is talking about.
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Quite right, but so what? The intuition the physicalist has got to be careful
not to flout is that a normal understanding of ‘‘things are physically like so’’ and
of ‘‘there is pain’’ should leave open the possibility of zombie worlds. That a
physical understanding of the same sentences should leave this possibility open is
not intuitive at all. On the contrary: a physical understanding of ‘‘there is pain’’
is by definition an ability to tell whether worlds presented in physical terms do
or do not contain pain. The only physicalist who should be bothered by the
refurbished argument is the one (if he exists) who thinks ordinary understanding
is physical understanding as defined by (i) and (ii). And that sort of physicalist
deserves to be in trouble.
Everything here goes back to the assumption that the physicalist will insist
on a physical specification of the verifying worlds. Why should he? Physicalism
was supposed to be an ontological theory, not a theory of understanding. This
distinction is trampled on when understanding is equated with canonical grasp
of truth conditions. It now becomes a ‘‘consequence’’ of physicalism that typical
speakers, to the extent that they find zombie worlds conceivable, don’t really
understand ‘‘there is pain’’! The physicalist presumably finds this as bizarre as
anyone else. Why should one’s claim to understand ‘‘there is pain’’ depend on
such an arcane and out of the way matter as the possibility of zombie worlds?¹⁵
8 . C H A L M E R S AG A I N S T T H E PH Y S I C A L I S TS
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A word first about Chalmers’ semantical framework. He and Jackson agree in
associating with E (as employed in a particular context) a propositional content
made up of the worlds which E (as used in that context) truly describes; this
content is in Jackson’s terms the ‘‘truth conditions’’ of E, in Chalmers’ terms E’s
‘‘secondary intension’’. They agree, too, in assigning E an additional semantical
value intended to bring out how E’s interpretation varies with context.
The difference is that where Jackson’s ‘‘additional’’ value is a meaning function
from contexts to propositions (sets of worlds), Chalmers’ ‘‘primary intension’’ is
just another proposition.¹⁶ A world gets into E’s secondary intension if E is true
of that world considered as counterfactual, and into E’s primary intension if E
is true in it considered as actual. For short,
|E|1 = the set of E-verifying worlds, the ones making E true.
|E|2 = the set of E-satisfying worlds, or just E-worlds.
Both of these intensions can be seen as arrived at compositionally from the
intensions of E’s component terms. The reason that ‘‘water = H2 O’’ has a
¹⁵ You can let it depend if you like. But don’t blame the results on the physicalist; it wasn’t he
who told you to make understanding such a counterintuitive thing.
¹⁶ Save for a complication about ‘‘centered’’ worlds, which we’ll get to later.
s
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necessary secondary intension and a contingent primary one is that ‘‘water’’ and
‘‘H2 O’’ agree in secondary intension only. With ‘‘water = the watery stuff ’’, it’s
the other way around; the primary intension is necessary, because ‘‘water’’ and
‘‘the watery stuff’’ co-refer in all worlds-considered-as-actual, but the secondary
intension is not, because a counterfactual stuff (Putnam’s XYZ), describable as
‘‘the watery stuff’’, may not be describable as ‘‘water’’.
To calibrate the three accounts: E’s primary intension |E|1 = the set of w
belonging to Em (w) = the set of worlds in which E expresses a true proposition.
(Some will recognize this as Stalnaker’s ‘‘diagonal proposition’’.¹⁷) Its secondary
intension |E|2 = Em (@), the set of worlds falling into the proposition that E
actually expresses. The connection with Kripke is that |E|1 is the set of E ∗ -worlds,
while |E|2 is the set of E-worlds. All in all, then, we have
Chalmers
E’s primary int. |E|1
E’s secondary int. |E|2
Jackson
the set of w in Em (w)
the set of w in the Em (@)
Kripke
the set of E ∗ -worlds
the set of E-worlds
What is special about ‘‘there is pain’’ for Chalmers is that its primary and
secondary intensions are the same. Unlike, say, ‘‘water is H2 O’’, the worlds in
which an utterance of ‘‘there is pain’’ expresses a truth are the worlds at which
there is pain. This is because our instinctive reference-fixer for ‘‘pain’’ (unlike
‘‘water’’) identifies its referent by a necessary and sufficient feature. Pain is the
thing that hurts.
Now to the argument. If someone claims to find it conceivable that E although
E is not really possible, the explanation is as follows. Conceivability intuitions
track conceptual possibility, which
comes down to the possible truth of a statement when evaluated according to the
primary intensions involved . . . The primary intensions of ‘‘water’’ and ‘‘H2 O’’ differ, so
it is [conceptually] possible . . . that water is not H2 O. ‘‘Metaphysical possibility’’ comes
down to the possible truth of a statement when evaluated according to the secondary
intensions involved . . . The secondary intensions of ‘‘water’’ and ‘‘H2 O’’ are the same,
so it is metaphysically necessary that water is H2 O. (p. 132)
But this sort of story is not available for ‘‘pain is distinct from c-fiber firings’’ or
‘‘there are such-and-such physical goings-on without any pain’’, because
with consciousness, the primary and secondary intensions coincide . . . The difference
between the primary and secondary intensions for the concept of water reflects the
¹⁷ Stalnaker (1987).
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fact that there could be something that looks and feels like water in some counterfactual world that in fact is not water, but merely watery stuff. But if something
feels like a conscious experience, even in some counterfactual world, it is a conscious
experience. (p. 133)¹⁸
9 . “ F O RG E T T H E S E M A N T I C S ”
Suppose though that someone disagrees (as they have done with Kripke) and
says that the way the referent of ‘‘pain’’ is presented in thought can potentially
come apart from the state itself; maybe ‘‘pain’’ stands for a condition of the brain
importantly implicated in our suffering, a state that could in principle occur
without phenomenal accompaniment.
This wouldn’t necessarily bother Chalmers; his basic and underlying point,
which he repeats again and again, is meant to be without prejudice to the
proper semantics for phenomenal terms. The point is that we surely conceive
some kind of world when we seem to conceive a zombie world; and that world
constitutes a counterexample to physicalist supervenience whatever we say about
the semantical issue:
. . . nothing about Kripke’s a posteriori necessity renders any [conceptually] possible worlds
impossible. It simply tells us that some of them are misdescribed, because we are applying
terms according to their primary intensions rather than the more appropriate secondary
intensions . . . It follows that if there is a conceivable world that is physically identical
to ours but which lacks certain positive features of our world, then no considerations
about the designation of terms such as ‘‘consciousness’’ can do anything to rule out the
metaphysical possibility of the world. We can simply forget the semantics of these terms,
and note that the relevant possible world clearly lacks something, whether or not we call it
‘‘consciousness’’ . . . the mere possibility of such a world, no matter how it is described,
is all the argument [against physicalism] needs to succeed. (p. 134)
This is Textbook Kripkeanism at its purest and best: even the illusion of a zombie
world is a correct perception of something, and that something is all we need to
put physicalistic supervenience to rest.
¹⁸ If Chalmers is right about the primary and secondary intensions coinciding, this gives him
a small advantage over Jackson. Jackson had to convince us that the contextual information
needed to home in on the relevant secondary intensions was physical information. But a sentence’s
primary intension is (like Jackson’s meaning-function from which it can be defined) independent
of context, and so no contextual information is needed to home in on it. Agreement between
the two intensions in this case means that no extra information is needed to home in on the
secondary intension either. Just by understanding the sentence ‘‘there are zombies’’, we know what
proposition it expresses. It follows that if modal intuition appears to detect a zombie world, there
is no chance whatever that it is really fastening on some other sort of world which it is then
misidentifying as one that contains zombies. Our grip on the notion of a zombie world is just too
good for that.
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1 0 . D E R E A N D D E D I C TO
Now, let’s grant Chalmers that the difference between conceptual and metaphysical possibility is all at the level of statements, not worlds: where worlds are
concerned the two sorts of possibility are really just one. His reasoning then
appears strong:
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(1) it is conceptually possible for there to be zombies, so
(2) zombie worlds are conceptually possible, so
(3) zombie worlds are metaphysically possible.¹⁹
But although (2), on a natural reading, follows from (1), and (3) follows from a
natural reading of (2), I wonder whether the two readings agree. The version of
(2) entailed by (1) is
(2! ) it is conceptually possible that there be zombie worlds.
(If you can imagine zombies, then you can imagine them plus their surrounding
worlds.) But what you need to get (3) is
(2!! ) there are conceptually possible zombie worlds.
And the de dicto possibility of zombie worlds asserted by (2! ) would seem to fall
well short of the de re possibility asserted by (2!! ).
The principal charm, as I see it, of Chalmers’ procedure is that he has found a
way of reaping the rewards of this de re/de dicto fallacy without actually having
to commit it. He maintains, remember, that
(x) conceptual possibility ‘‘comes down to the possible truth of a statement
when evaluated according to the primary intensions involved’’ (p. 132).
This allows him to reach (2!! ) directly from (1):
(1) it is conceptually possible that there be zombies, so (by (x))
(1! ) there are worlds in the primary intension of ‘‘there are zombies’’, so
(1!! ) there are worlds which if actual make ‘‘there are zombies’’ true, so
(since worlds like that would seem to be all you could want in the way of a
conceptually possible zombie world)
(2!! ) there are conceptually possible zombie worlds.
The point is that it is (x) that saves the argument from being a straightforward
modal fallacy. And if we now ask, why believe (x), the reasons turn out to be
essentially Jackson’s: they trace back to the assumption (+) that to know which
¹⁹ Although ‘‘zombie world’’ may not be quite the right description. I’ll ignore this.
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worlds E is true in is to know a lot of other things besides. Here is how I imagine
the argument going.
Chalmers tells us that we can ‘‘think of the primary and secondary intensions
as the a priori and a posteriori aspects of meaning, respectively’’ (p. 62). What
is understanding, though, if not grasping ‘‘the a priori aspect of meaning’’?
It follows that what a speaker understands by E is given by E’s primary
intension: the worlds which, considered as actual, confer truth on E. If E is
conceptually possible, that’s because the speaker’s understanding—her grasp of
the truth-conferring set of worlds—leaves it open that E might be true. But,
and this is where (+) comes in, it would not leave this open if E was true in
no worlds whatsoever. Hence we can be assured that E’s primary intension is
nonempty.
But now wait. To understand ‘‘there are zombies’’, I have to know that it is
true in a world w iff w has such-and-such physical features with no consciousness.
I don’t have to know, though, whether that condition is satisfiable. It would
be just as well, in fact, if I didn’t know; any knowledge that I might have on
the topic should be kept under wraps in this context. (Imagine that someone
wants to test my understanding of ‘‘there are zombies’’ by asking which worlds
it is true in; the reply ‘‘no worlds’’ would be silly even if it were correct.)
Understanding is knowing what a world has to be like for ‘‘there are zombies’’
to be true in it, regardless of how easy or difficult it may be for worlds like that
to exist.
Here is the response I expect. Just as earlier we abstracted away from
controversies about primary vs. secondary intensions, let us now abstract away
from the doctrine of intensions altogether. Forget about (1) in other words; we
can arrive at (2) another way. All we need is the Kripkean lesson that as far as
worlds are concerned, conceptual and metaphysical possibility are one and the
same. To the extent that I see no conceptual obstacle to a world—to the extent
that I find it conceivable—I have to admit it as possible in the only sense of the
word that applies.²⁰ That leaves the question of course of how to describe this
world. Chalmers is confident, though, that under any reasonable description, it
constitutes a counterexample to physicalism.
But it is no doctrine of Kripke’s that I first conceive worlds, and only later stop
to ask what might be true of them. What would it be to find a world conceivable
‘‘in itself’’, as opposed to finding it conceivable that there should be worlds of
some specified type? I take it that the latter phenomenon is the only real one, and
that the talk of conceivable worlds always being possible has to be understood
as code for something else: the claim that if E is conceivable, then something is
possible, only perhaps not E itself. And that is just Textbook Kripkeanism, the
view we are trying to find reason to believe.
²⁰ Chalmers: ‘‘every conceivable world is logically possible’’ (p. 66).
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1 1 . W H Y T E X T B O O K K R I P K E A N I S M ( O N LY ) S E E M S
RIGHT
At the heart of Textbook Kripkeanism lies thesis (x). What is the evidence for
it? Nobody doubts that a primary-intension-like notion has shown itself to have
some predictive value in this area. But the inference from (1) to (1! ) presupposes
that there is no way whatever of arranging for conceptual coherence short of
including a world in the primary intension. Here is my best shot at a supporting
argument.
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1.
2.
3.
4.
E is conceptually possible. (P)
Understanding E leaves it open that E might be true. (1)
Understanding is knowing how truth depends on worldly context. (P)²¹
Knowing how E’s truth depends on context leaves it open that E might be
true. (2, 3)
5. E is true in some worldly context: some possible w considered as actual. (4)
6. E is true in w, considered as actual, iff w is an |E|1 -world. (Def. of |E|1 )
7. So, |E|1 contains at least one world. (5, 6)
This at least has the right shape to advance us from de dicto to de re possibility.
The problem is that, everything above it granted, line 5 doesn’t follow. All we
get from 4 is that my way of thinking of {w | w makes E true} leaves it open that
the set might have members. And that is compatible with its being the empty set
in fact.
Suppose for example that E is P & -C, where P = ‘‘everything is physically
like so’’ and C = ‘‘there is consciousness’’. To understand E, it’s enough to
understand its conjuncts, that is, to know that P is verified by the worlds
that are physically like so, and that C is verified by the worlds where there is
consciousness. To know in these ways the truth conditions of P and C does not
begin to tell me whether a world verifying the first can avoid verifying the second.
Once again, understanding is knowing what a world has to be like to verify a
statement; how easy or difficult it may be for worlds like that to exist is another
matter entirely.
1 2 . I M M AC U L AT E C O N C E P T I O N
The gap in the argument has to do with disparate ways of conceiving the
same worlds. One could close it by requiring the understander to conceive the
²¹ Jackson would say: how its truth conditions depend on context. But the difference isn’t
important here.
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truth-conferring worlds in a single fixed way, or, alternatively, in no way at all.
The first strategy has already been tried; let me not repeat it here. The second
or ‘‘immaculate conception’’ strategy tries to relate speakers to sets of worlds
directly, by which I mean not under this or that mode of presentation. Rather
than knowing a condition that the E-worlds satisfy, you ‘‘know which worlds the
E-worlds are’’ iff you know how to recognize an E-world when you encounter it.
Encounter it where? The encounter had better not be in imagination, because
worlds are imagined under descriptions and it is the relativity to description that
we are trying to get beyond. The idea has got to be that plopped down in w with
the mission of determining E’s truth value there, I would conclude that E is
indeed true. Here is Chalmers:
What would we say if the world turned out this way? What would we say if it turned
out that way? For instance, if it had turned out that the liquid in lakes was H2 O and the
liquid in oceans XYZ, then we probably would have said that both were water. . . . (p. 58)
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FN:23
The suggestion more generally is that the primary intension of my expression E
is the mapping from worlds w to the extensions I would assign to E as an actual
inhabitant of w. This will have to be a me that is idealized in various respects:
computing power, mobility, ability to withstand high temperatures, and so on.
But the general shape of the strategy should be clear enough.
If intensions are understood like this, then the original relativity in which I
know the membership of a set of worlds under one description but not another
is indeed mitigated.²² It is replaced, though, by an immanent relativity in which
E’s extension at a world varies according to my in-world representative’s point
of view.
An initial reason for this is that extensions tend to be presented in indexical
terms. ‘‘Water’’ refers to the predominant clear and drinkable liquid around here.
Hence if w has different such liquids in different places, there will be no simple
answer to what ‘‘water’’ would/should be seen as referring to in w. This is why
Chalmers says that it is not worlds simpliciter that go into primary intensions,
but centered worlds fitted out with a marked space-time point or a designated
individual and time.
No sooner do we recognize the need for a center, though, than we notice ways
in which it needs to be enriched and expanded. Some referents are identified by
their psychological effects (whatever causes this sensation), so room will have to be
made for aspects of the speaker’s psychology.²³ The center should probably also
include some indication of which direction is left, and which right, and perhaps
also what the speaker is attending to at any given moment, the figure/ground
²² Why ‘‘mitigated’’ and not gone? (1) It’s not clear that my descriptive dispositions in a given
world are a priori accessible to me. (2) It’s not clear that the range of worlds in which these
dispositions are to be exercised is a priori accessible to me. (3) It’s not clear that either sort of access
can be arranged without making ourselves again vulnerable to mode-of-presentation worries.
²³ A point that Chalmers happily acknowledges.
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relations in her visual field, and what may be occurring to her in memory. All of
these factors can and do figure in the interpretation of the indexical phrases by
which the speaker fixes the referents of her terms.
A quite different way for perspective to intrude is mentioned in a footnote
attached to the passage quoted—a footnote which reinforces the impression of
an investigator hypothetically parachuting down into a world with the mission
of deciding what there falls into the extensions of his words. It sometimes
happens that
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whether we count an object as falling under the extension of a [word] will depend on
various accidental historical factors. A stimulating paper by Wilson (1982) discusses such
cases, including for instance a hypothetical case in which druids might end up classifying
airplanes as ‘‘birds’’ if they first saw a plane flying overhead, but not if they first found
one crashed in the jungle. (p. 365)²⁴
The center thus needs to take notice of the order in which various sorts of cases are
presented. And this calls to mind lots of other factors capable of influencing the
agent’s referential inclinations in not overtly indexical ways: her hunches at any
particular point about how representative the observed cases have been, her larger
theoretical and practical projects, her beliefs about which sorts of classifications
are going to serve these projects, how anxious she is to avoid multiplying entities,
how physicalistic she is—the whole sorry mess of presumptions and prejudices
that guide us in our application of old words to new cases.²⁵
All right, but why should this be a problem? The reason for going hypothetically
native was to secure for ourselves an unmediated grasp of primary intensions; the
primary intension of a statement found conceptually possible would then have to
contain at least one world, which world could then be used (in the case of interest)
as a counterexample to physicalism. If primary intensions are made up not of
worlds per se, but worlds-as-experienced-and-theorized-from-such-and-such-astandpoint, then this rationale springs a large leak. For it could happen that
whenever w as seen from one perspective (as fitted out with one center) makes it
into the primary intension of E, w as seen from another perspective does not. In
that case there is no determinate fact of the matter as to the emptiness or not of
E’s primary intension. (To say that the primary intension determinately contains
w-as-seen-from-such-and-such-a-perspective achieves nothing; our interest as
modal metaphysicians is in the possibility of w as such, unelaborated.)
An example might be this. Suppose that my idealized self takes up residence
in a world where events that I am inclined to call pains occur on all the same
occasions as events that I am inclined to describe as c-fiber firings. Whether
I decide that ‘‘pain’’ and ‘‘c-fiber firing’’ pick out one and the same type is
hardly likely to be settled by my competence with the relevant terms; a lot will
²⁴ The paper by Wilson is ‘‘Predicate Meets Property’’ (1982).
²⁵ Some semi-pertinent cognitive science literature is summarized in Smith and Osherson (1995).
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depend on background attitudes about ontological economy, modal intuition, the
transparency of the mental, and so on. This is clear from the great identity debates
of the 1950s, when it was widely assumed that mental/physical correlations would
soon be found and the question was what ontological conclusions to draw.²⁶
The claim is that it is utopian to expect unaided understanding to decide philosophically loaded questions, even given a full statement of pertinent facts—up
to, but not including of course, facts about how those very questions are to
be answered. A lot is going to depend on factors that are hard to see either
as semantical or factual, with the result that a world that is counted into E’s
primary intension on one accounting is liable to find itself counted out under
another. This seriously limits the metaphysical use that can be made of our alter
egos’ in-world judgments. If the dualist is allowed to claim w as a world in
which pain and c-fiber firings are distinct, because that is a conclusion that a
well-informed inhabitant of w could reasonably draw, why shouldn’t the identity
theorist be allowed to claim w as a world in which they are identical, for the same
reason?
The dualist could reply as follows. Look, you may be right about some
possible worlds; there is no determinate answer to whether they in themselves, as
opposed to they-as-judged-from-this-or-that-perspective, are to be described in a
way that favors physicalism or in a way that doesn’t. But there are other worlds
whose anti-physicalistic import is so clear and unmistakable that all well-informed
observers are going to agree. Take a zombie world, for instance; no one could
think that pain was identical to c-fiber firings there, because that world doesn’t
have any pain.
But to assume that zombie worlds are indeed possible just forgets the reason
we handed descriptive authority to our in-world representatives. Their role was
to clear the path to a nonempty primary intension, i.e., to a zombie world. For
my representative to be told outright whether w verifies E (whether others feel
pain) obviously defeats the purpose, since I would be reclaiming his descriptive
authority for myself. If he is not told outright, however, then a zombie world
has no better claim to membership in |there are zombies|1 than does a world
like ours; after all, my representative cannot tell them apart. To the extent that
the ‘‘immaculate conception’’ strategy buys us a world, then, physicalism is
unbothered. The world might be our own, consciousness and all.
1 3 . C O N C E I VA B I L I T Y
One thing is clear: modal intuitions are fallible, and defeasible by reference to
empirical data. If Textbook Kripkeanism isn’t the way to deal with our occasional
misjudgments, what is?
²⁶ One doesn’t think of these debates as driven by differences about the meaning of ‘‘pain’’.
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I suspect that Textbook Kripkeanism is the best we can do, if we persist in
seeing modal intuition as a capacity that is at bottom conceptual in nature.
Let’s distinguish three progressively less implausible versions of the conceptualist
thesis.
FN:27
Extremists say that conceptual conceivability²⁷ is the only kind there is. Since
conceivability is a function of concepts alone, our conceiving faculty is absolutely
informationally encapsulated. The role of defeaters on this view is not to educate
modal intuition—like perceptual intuition in the Müller/Lyer case, it’s quite
unteachable—but to alert us that circumstances obtain in which it is not to be
trusted. Learning that local water contains hydrogen doesn’t make XYZ-water
less conceivable; it just stops us from drawing the wrong conclusions from
the same old mistaken intuition. It accomplishes that by slotting into a priori
conditionals along the lines of ‘‘if the stereotypical features of water are grounded
in property BLAH, then water is essentially BLAH’’ to enable results contrary to
what our error-prone intuitions continue to suggest.
The objection to this is phenomenological. It is not that we are forced to admit
that water necessarily contains hydrogen against the evidence of modal intuition.
When we learn the empirical truth, our intuitions change, and what we used to
find conceivable we find conceivable no longer.
Moderate conceptualists agree that empirical information has its influence; it fixes
the value of the BLAH-parameter in a priori conditionals like the one mentioned
above. The difference is that where the extremist sees these conditionals as external
correctives to intuition, for the moderate they are internal to our conceiving faculty
and indeed what drives it. We find E conceivable to the extent that we are aware
of no information to suggest via a priori conditionals like ‘‘if water is made of
BLAH, then it is essentially made of BLAH’’ that E is impossible. The role of
defeaters on this view is not to overrule an inherently error-prone faculty, but
to supply a badly served faculty—or rather the modal schemata that the faculty
relies on—with a better quality of input.
This is certainly an improvement over extremism. But there is a problem
about order of explanation. According to the moderate, we are forced by a
priori schemata issuing from our concept of water to find hydrogenless water
inconceivable. Surely, though, it’s the other way around. Rather than the schema
determining what we find conceivable, our faith in this (or any) schema derives
from the fact that when we assume its antecedent, its consequent becomes modally
intuitive. The schema is better cast as a (clumsy) post facto rationalization of a
preexisting readiness to let our intuitions evolve in such-and-such ways under
the impact of new information.
²⁷ Roughly definable as the non-apriority of not-E.
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Weak conceptualists concede that the dispositions come first, the articulated
modal schemata second. But they think that moderates are correct to say
that modal intuition evolves under the influence of something a priori and
conceptually guaranteed; their only mistake was to identify this ‘‘something’’ as
the schemata rather than the update dispositions themselves. Weak conceptualists
maintain that anyone with our concept of water is obliged to greet the news
that existing water samples have such-and-such a microstructure with the same
intuitional shift that we did. Of course, it is quite likely beyond our discursive
powers to articulate in full detail the function from possible empirical findings
to intuitional shifts that a particular concept dictates; one well-known source
of perplexity is how to formulate fall-back norms, e.g., the norms telling us
how to react if an aspiring natural kind concept (like that of jade) fails to pan
out. It remains, however, that there is a conceptually determined truth of the
matter about what modal intuitions a given evidential diet would/should evoke
in relevantly endowed thinkers.
FN:28
FN:29
FN:30
This is again an improvement. But the link that weak conceptualism postulates
between concepts and evidential dispositions is implausibly tight; not enough
room is left for the phenomenon of two people sharing a concept while differing
in their response to evidence bearing on its application. The worry is that weak
conceptualism skates dangerously close to the verificationist idea of ‘‘logical
probability’’ relations between statements²⁸—relations that all thinkers have got
to respect, on pain of irrationality, when deciding how much credence to assign
a hypothesis H given evidence E.²⁹
How is it that weak conceptualism comes dangerously close to logical probability? That a close association would be ‘‘dangerous’’ shouldn’t need a lot of
argument. Hardly anyone today thinks that there is a single objectively best
epistemic response to a given body of evidence—never mind a best response
settled by logic and concepts.³⁰ The usual view is that rational thinkers, let their
concepts be as similar as you like, are liable to range widely along a number of
dimensions relevant to their subsequent probabilities. There will be differences,
for example, in their personal evidence thresholds; in the kinds of tradeoffs
they favor between simplicity and strength; in the importance they assign to
avoidance of error as against acceptance of truth; in their attachment to perfect
accuracy as against verisimilitude; in how ontologically abstemious they are; and
so on and so forth without obvious limit. Rational thinkers will therefore draw
different conclusions from the same evidence, blamelessly but in defiance of
logical probability.
²⁸ For more on logical probability, see Keynes (1921), and Kyburg (1970).
²⁹ The idea is slightly improved by demanding with Carnap that E take in all of the evidence
bearing on H —the ‘‘total evidence’’ requirement. And in fairness to Chalmers, this is all he needs.
³⁰ Compare Putnam’s characterization (somewhere) of the idea of an a priori inductive logic as
‘‘intellectual Walden Two’’.
Putnam puts Carnap-style inductive logic on his list of "fantasies of the
positivist, who would replace the vast complexity of human reason with a
kind of intellectual Walden II" (Putnam 1983, 234)
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It remains to be explained how weak conceptualism comes ‘‘close’’ to logical
probability. I will argue contrapositively that anyone against logical probability
should reject weak conceptualism—that if there can be differences in conditional
credence between (rational) subjects with relevantly similar concepts, then
there can be differences in conditional conceivability between such subjects,
and hence differences in their subsequent modal intuitions. The reason is
simply that our modal intuitions are influenced by our beliefs. Learning that
Twain = Clemens, or that water contains hydrogen, I cease to find the alternative
conceivable. Hence if conceptually congruent thinkers form different beliefs in
response to the same evidence, they are going to differ too in what they find
conceivable.
1 4 . E R RO R A N D D E F E AT
FN:31
in principle
leading me astray
FN:32
Our conclusion so far is that not even the weakest form of conceptualism
about modal intuition has any plausibility.³¹ This brings us back to our original
question about how to deal with fallibility and defeasibility. What is the role of
defeaters, if it is not to overrule an incurably error-prone faculty, or to correct
the input to a faculty that is (when not abused) error-proof?
I uncover my modal errors the same way I uncover intuitional errors generally:
by noticing how my intuitions evolve as I become better educated, while working
with the people around me to free myself of errors and oversights that may be
misleading me. Here is a first stab at how the process works:
If X finds it conceivable that E, then she is prima facie justified in believing
that E is possible. That justification is defeated if someone can provide her with
reason to suspect the existence of a D such that (i) D is true, (ii) if D is true, then
E is impossible, and (iii) that X finds E conceivable is explained by her failing to
realize (i) and/or (ii).³²
Hammurabi was able to conceive it as possible for Hesperus to exist without
Phosphorus only because he didn’t realize that the two were identical, and (maybe
also) that identicals necessarily coexist. The medievals were able to conceive it
as possible for dolphins to be cold-blooded only because they didn’t realize that
dolphins were mammals, and that mammals have got to be warm-blooded. And
so on.
Now, it is tempting to suppose that Hammurabi and the medievals were even
at the time aware of certain specific issues, open to independent investigation,
• Q2
³¹ This section borrows from Yablo (1990) and Yablo (1993).
³² Likewise, if Y finds it inconceivable that E, then he is •primafacie justified in believing that E
is impossible. That justification is defeated if there is reason to suspect the existence of a defeater,
that is, a D such that (i) D is true, (ii) if D is true, then E is possible, and (iii) that Y finds E
inconceivable is explained by his failure to realize (i) and/or (ii).
detect intuitive
miscues more
prior
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whose unfortunate resolution would have exposed their intuition as wrong. But
it seems truer to the normal progress of modal inquiry that the conceiver is not
specifically aware of her intuition’s vulnerability to its eventual defeater, until
the defeater comes along and does its work. Before the discovery of genes, the
thought may not have been readily available that scenarios in which animal
reproduction was organized along some other, non-genetic, basis were at risk of
being exposed as impossible by some experiments with peas. Before it was shown
how to account for locomotion, respiration, and so on in biochemical terms,
the problem with a scenario in which the property of being alive is randomly
distributed over physical duplicates must have been hard to appreciate as well.
None of this is to deny that the concept of an animal, or of life, must somehow
prepare the way for the eventual recognition that animals necessarily propagate
their kind by way of genes, or that physics guarantees aliveness. But it is striking
how unaware it is nevertheless possible to be of the vulnerability of one’s intuition
to what emerges, in the end, as its defeater. All we have to go on in cases like
this is a generalized and undirected sense that defeat is quite possibly on the way,
and corresponding feelings of unease about the doomed intuition—feelings that
are so strong in some cases as to shift one’s intuitive alliances before the defeater
even arrives.
1 5 . ZO M B I E S
FN:33
Am I the only one who feels the intuition of zombies to be vulnerable in this way?
I am braced for the information that is going to make zombies inconceivable,
even though I have no real idea what form the information is going to take.³³
Of course, as with the concept of life, there has to be something in our
understanding of consciousness that ‘‘prepares the ground’’ for the eventual
discovery that anyone just like me in physical respects must also be conscious. I
guess, then, that there is room in principle for the project of looking for features of
our concepts—of what we understand by the relevant words—that will prevent
this discovery from ever being made. Such a project looks a lot less realistic,
however, when we realize that grasp of meaning is not a normative crystal ball
telling us what modal conclusions are to be drawn from every new empirical
finding, however unforeseen or unforeseeable. One could stipulate, I suppose,
that a fully lucid understanding of E would ‘‘anticipate’’ in some way the bearing
of all possible observations on E’s modal status, in all possible methodological
climates (etc.). But that’s not the kind of understanding we have, and I imagine
not the kind anybody would want.
can take
³³ Some may think that I should know what formsit is going to take—that defeating information
should slot neatly into some pre-identified schematic element in my concept of consciousness
in such a way as to make zombies a priori unthinkable. This for me would be an example of
overlooking, or underestimating, the open texture of concepts.
I expect to be told
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REFERENCES
• Q3
• Q4
• Q5
Putnam, H. (1983). “Why
Reason Can’t Be
Naturalized”. In his
Philosophical Papers,
Volume 3, pp. 229–247
Chalmers, D. (1996). The Conscious Mind. New York: Oxford University Press.
Hartshorne, C. (1941). Man’s Vision of God. New York: Harper Row; excerpted in
Plantinga (1965) pp. 122–135•.
Jackson, F. (1994). ‘‘Armchair Metaphysics’’, in M. Michael and J. O’Leary-Hawthorne
(eds.), Philosophy in Mind, Dordrecht: Kluwer pp. 24–42•.
Keynes, J. M. (1921). A Treatise on Probability. London: Macmillan.
Kripke, S. (1980). Naming and Necessity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard, University Press.
Kyburg, H. (1970). ‘‘Degree-of-Entailment Interpretations of Probability’’, in his Probability and Inductive Logic, London: Macmillan •Chapter 5 pp. 54–67.
Plantinga, A. (ed.) (1965). The Ontological Argument. New York: Doubleday.
Smith, E., and Osherson, D. (eds.) (1995). Thinking. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
Stalnaker, R. (1987). ‘‘Semantics for Belief ’’, Philosophical Topics 15, pp. 177–90.
Waismann, F. (1965). ‘‘Verifiability’’, in A. Flew (ed.), Logic and Language, New York:
Doubleday, pp. 122–51.
Wilson, M. (1982). ‘‘Predicate Meets Property’’, Philosophical Review 91, pp. 549–89.
Yablo, S. (1990). ‘‘The Real Distinction between Mind and Body,’’ Canadian Journal of
Philosophy, supp. vol. 16, pp. 149–201; Ch. 1 above.
(1993). ‘‘Is Conceivability A Guide to Possibility?’’ Philosophy and Phenomenological
Research 53, pp. 1–42; Ch. 2 above.
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Looks OK to me!
I don't know
Oxford's policy on
italicizing latinate
phrases.
Fine
Corrected in situ.
Q1.
Q2.
Q3.
Q4.
Q5.
Queries in Chapter 3
Please check and confirm the correction marked by author in pencil here.
Please check and confirm whether this word should be in Italics or in
Roman, we have captured it in Italics.
Please check and confirm whether the page numbers inserted by us is fine
or not.
Please check and confirm whether the page numbers inserted by us is fine
or not.
Please check and confirm the author correction here.
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4
Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda
1 . T E R M I N O LO G Y
A main theme of Saul Kripke’s Naming and Necessity (1980) is that metaphysical
necessity is one thing; apriority, analyticity, and epistemic/semantic/conceptual
necessity are another. Or rather, they are others, for although the relations among
these latter notions are not fully analyzed, it does emerge that they are not the
same notion.
‘Apriority’ and ‘analyticity’ are for Kripke nontechnical terms. They stand in
the usual rough way for knowability without appeal to experience, and truth in
virtue of meaning. Examples of apriority are given that it is hoped the reader will
find plausible. And a schematic element is noted in the notion of knowability
without experience; how far beyond our own actual cognitive powers are we
allowed to idealize? Beyond that, not a whole lot is said.
Analyticity, though, does come in for further explanation. The phrase ‘true in
virtue of meaning’ is open to different interpretations, Kripke says, depending
on whether we are talking about ‘meaning in the strict sense’ or meaning in the
looser sense given by a term’s associated reference-fixing description. A sentence
like ‘Hesperus is visible in the evening’ comes out loosely analytic but not strictly
so, since the meaning proper of ‘Hesperus’ is exhausted by its standing for
Venus.
Kripke stipulates that ‘analytic’ as he uses the term expresses strict analyticity, and he takes this to have the consequence that analytic truths in
his sense are metaphysically necessary truths (‘an analytic truth is one which
This paper owes a lot to discussions over the years with Ned Block, Alex Byrne, Tamar Szabó
Gendler, Sally Haslanger, John Hawthorne, Frank Jackson, Joe Levine, Brian Loar, Jim Pryor,
Gideon Rosen, Sydney Shoemaker, and Robert Stalnaker. A larger debt is to David Chalmers; if I
still haven’t got two-dimensionalism right, Lord knows the fault is not his. I thank him for years
of patient explanation and good-natured debate. May heaven smile on Tamar and John for their
extraordinary work on this volume, and in particular for the excellent Introduction. I am grateful,
finally, to Saul Kripke for Naming and Necessity, three lectures so inconceivably great as to hardly
seem possible.
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depends on meanings in the strict sense and therefore is necessary’ (1980: 122
n. 63)). He notes, however, that one might equally let the word express loose
analyticity, and that on that definition ‘some analytic truths are contingent’
(ibid.).
Given the care Kripke takes in distinguishing the kind of analyticity that
entails metaphysical necessity from the kind that doesn’t, one might have
expected him to draw a similar distinction on the side of apriority: there would
be an apriority-entailing kind of analyticity and a kind that can be had by non-a
priori statements. ‘Hesperus is Phosphorus’ is not a priori, but since its meaning
is a proposition of the form x = x, and any proposition of that form is true, it
could be considered true in virtue of meaning. I am not endorsing this particular
example, just pointing out a move that could have been made.
Kripke seems, however, to take it for granted that analytic truths will be a
priori knowable. In his characterization of loose analyticity he speaks, not of
statements whose truth is guaranteed by reference-fixing descriptions, but ones
whose ‘a priori truth is known via the fixing of a reference’ (1980: 122 n. 63;
italics added). A non-Kripkean line on the apriority of analytic statements will
be elaborated below.
I said that apriority and analyticity were for Kripke (relatively) ‘ordinary’
notions. There are intimations in Naming and Necessity of a corresponding
technical notion: a notion that explicates apriority/analyticity as metaphysical
necessity explicates our idea of that which could not be otherwise. This technical
notion—potentially a partner in full standing to metaphysical necessity—needs
a name of its own. What should the name be?
‘Epistemic necessity’ is best avoided because, as Kripke says, to call S epistemically possible sounds like a way of saying that it is true (or possible) for all
one currently knows.¹ A notion explicating apriority/analyticity should not be
so sensitive to the extent of current knowledge. One doesn’t know how to prove
Goldbach’s conjecture today, but one might tomorrow; it would then turn out
to have been necessary (in the partner sense) all along.
‘Semantic necessity’ too is liable to mislead, since for some people, Kripke
included, ‘Hesperus’ and ‘Phosphorus’ are semantically just alike, yet it is possible
in the partner sense that Hesperus != Phosphorus. As Kripke says, one is inclined
to think that it could have turned out either way.
If a name is to be given, then, to the nonmetaphysical modality that features
in Naming and Necessity, ‘conceptual’ is probably the least bad. It is true that
Kripke doesn’t use the word ‘conceptual’ and doesn’t talk much about concepts.
But his nonmetaphysical necessities do have their truth guaranteed by the way
¹ DeRose (1991) argues that this familiar condition is not enough. If contrary information is
there for the taking, and/or possessed by relevant others, then S is not epistemically possible, even if
it could be true for all I myself know.
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we have represented things to ourselves; and we can think of ‘concept’ as just
evoking the relevant level of representation. Conceptual necessity will then be
the technical or semi-technical notion that Kripke runs alongside, and to some
extent pits against, metaphysical necessity.
2 . C O N C E P T UA L N E C E S S I T Y
An enormous amount has been done with the metaphysical/conceptual distinction. Yet, and I think this is agreed by everyone, the distinction remains
not terribly well understood. One reason it is not well understood is that the
conceptual side of the distinction didn’t receive at Kripke’s hands the same sort
of development as the metaphysical side.
This might have been intentional on Kripke’s part. He might have thought
the conceptual notion to be irremediably obscure, but important to mention lest
it obscure our view of metaphysical necessity. Certainly this is the attitude that
many take about the conceptual notion today. It could be argued that much of
the contemporary skepticism about narrow content is at the same time skepticism
about conceptual possibility. Narrow content, if it existed, would give sense to
conceptual possibility: holding its narrow content fixed, S could have expressed a
truth. If one rejects narrow content, one needs a different explanation, and none
comes to mind. Going in the other direction, one might try to define S’s narrow
content as the set of worlds w whose obtaining conceptually necessitates that
S. Lewis remarks somewhere that whoever claims not to understand something
will take care not to understand anything else whereby it might be explained.
If you don’t understand narrow content, you will take care not to understand
conceptual possibility either.
But, although many people have doubts about conceptual possibility, a
number of other people are entirely gung ho about it. Some even treat it (and
narrow content) as more, or anyway no less, fundamental than metaphysical
possibility (and broad content). An example is David Chalmers. He calls S’s
narrow content its ‘primary intension’, and its broad content its ‘secondary
intension’. One suspects that the order here is not accidental. And even if
the suspicion is wrong, the primary intension is certainly a partner in full
standing.
In this paper I try not to take sides between the skeptics and the believers. My
topic is how conceptual possibility should be handled supposing it is going to be
handled at all. If I do slip occasionally into the language of the believers, that is
because I am trying to explore their system from the inside, in order to see what
it is capable of, and whether it can be made to deliver the advertised kinds of
results. (I should say that my own leanings are to the skeptical side, though I
think the issue is far from settled.)
did not
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3 . I N I T I A L C O M PA R I S O N S
Kripke’s theory (or picture) of metaphysical modality is familiar enough. He
says that it holds necessarily that S iff S is true in all possible worlds. The word
‘in’ is, however, misleading. It suggests that S (or an utterance thereof ) is to be
seen as inhabiting the world(s) w with respect to which it is evaluated. That is
certainly not Kripke’s intent. His view is better captured by saying that S (that
well-known denizen of our world), to be necessary, should be true of all possible
worlds. Every world should be such that S gives a correct description of it. Every
world should be such that the way S describes things as being is a way that it in
fact is.
Conceptual possibility too is explained with worlds. To be conceptually
possible is to be in some appropriate sense true with respect to—or, for short,
true at —w for at least one world w. But what is the appropriate sense? Everyone
knows the examples that are supposed to bring out how conceptual modality is
different. It is conceptually possible, but metaphysically impossible, for Hesperus
to be distinct from Phosphorus. This is because ‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ is true
at a world that it fails to be true of. The metaphysical/conceptual contrast thus
hangs on the contrast between true-of-w as just discussed and the notion of
true-at-w that we must now attempt to develop.
Here is the obvious first stab: S is true at w iff S as uttered in w is true
of w. ‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ uttered here in the actual world means that
Venus isn’t Venus; uttered in w, it might mean that Venus isn’t Mars. If,
in w, Venus indeed isn’t Mars, then ‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ is true at w.
And so w testifies to the conceptual possibility of Hesperus not being Phosphorus.
Compare now an S that strikes us as not conceptually possible: for instance,
‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’. Uttered in w, this means that Mars != Mars. Since
that is false of Mars, in w or anywhere else, w does not testify to the conceptual
possibility of Phosphorus not being Phosphorus. Unless there are worlds where
uttering ‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’ is speaking the truth, that Phosphorus !=
Phosphorus is not conceptually possible.
But, and here is where the trouble starts, there are worlds like that. For there
are worlds in which ‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’ means something other than
what it actually means (say, that Phosphorus is identical to Phosphorus) and
in which the other thing is true. So it looks like we reach the wrong result. It
should not make ‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’ conceptually possible that there
are worlds in which ‘!=’ expresses identity!
One remembers this sort of problem from Kripke’s discussion, not of conceptual possibility, but metaphysical possibility. Let it be, he says, that w contains
speakers (maybe our counterfactual selves) who understand S eccentrically from
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our point of view. That has no bearing on the issue of whether S is true
of w:
when we speak of a counterfactual situation, we speak of it in English, even if it is part
of the description of that counterfactual situation that we were all speaking [another
language] . . . We say, . . . ‘suppose we had been using English in a nonstandard way’.
Then we are describing a possible world or counterfactual situation in which people,
including ourselves, did speak in a certain way different from the way we speak. But still,
in describing that world, we use English with our meanings and our references. (1980: 77)
By ‘tail’, for example, the inhabitants of w might mean wing. If so, then
assuming w’s horses resemble ours, they speak falsely when they say ‘horses have
tails’. That is irrelevant, Kripke says, to the metaphysical necessity issue. ‘Horses
have tails’ is as true of w as of the actual world. This is crucial if statements are to
come out with the right modal status. ‘One doesn’t say that ‘‘two plus two equals
four’’ is contingent because people might have spoken a language in which ‘‘two
plus two equals four’’ meant that seven is even’ (1980: 77).
How much of this still applies on the conceptual side? Worlds where
‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ means that Venus != Mars can (as we saw) bear witness
to the conceptual possibility of Hesperus not being Phosphorus. So in judging
conceptual contingency, we do want to look at w-speakers who, in a broad sense,
mean something different by S than we mean by it here.
But there are limits; we are not interested in w-speakers who by ‘Hesperus !=
Phosphorus’ mean that Hesperus is identical to Phosphorus, or that it’s snowing
in Brooklyn. It thus becomes important to know in what ways the meaning of
S in the mouths of w-speakers can differ from the meaning of S in our mouths,
for the truth of S as uttered in w to be relevant to the conceptual possibility of S
here. Something has got to be held fixed, but what?
4. HOLDING FIXED
First try: S has got to mean the very same in w as it means here.
This holds too much fixed. ‘Hesperus’ and ‘Phosphorus’ as they are used here
both mean Venus, and ‘!=’ expresses nonidentity. A counterfactual utterance of
‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ that respected these facts would have to mean that
Venus != Venus; and so the utterance would not be true. But then it will not
come out conceptually possible that Hesperus != Phosphorus, as it should.
Second try: Corresponding expressions should mean the same, or have their
references fixed by the same or synonymous descriptions.
This is all right as far as it goes, but there is a problem of coverage. If a
reference-fixing description is one that picks out the referent no matter what,
then reference-fixing descriptions are hardly ever available. One doesn’t know
of any description guaranteed in advance to pick out the referent of ‘Homer’ or
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‘water’. So the second proposal reduces in most cases to the first, which we’ve
seen to be inadequate.
A third approach puts conditions not on S in particular, but on w as a whole:
w bears on S’s conceptual possibility if and only if it is an ‘epistemic counterpart’
of our world, in the sense of confronting the speaker with the same evidential
situation as he confronts here. If w is an epistemic counterpart of actuality, then
S’s meaning can change only in ways that leave the evidential situation as is; that
is what it takes for S’s truth in w to bear witness to its conceptual possibility here.
A seeming advantage of the proposal is that it no longer attempts to specify
the relevant aspects of meaning (the ones that are supposed to be held fixed)
explicitly. The thought is that those aspects, whatever they are, are fixed inter
alia by fixing the entire evidential situation. This is also the proposal’s problem,
though. Mixed in with the semantical material we want to hold fixed will be
nonsemantic circumstances that should be allowed to vary. One doesn’t want
to hold fixed that there seems to be a lectern present, or there seeming to be
a lectern present will be classified as conceptually necessary. That is clearly the
wrong result. Appearances are conceptually contingent if anything is.
5. SUBJUNCTIVES
The kind of necessity we are calling conceptual is left by Kripke in a precarious
state. Judging conceptual necessity is judging whether S as uttered in w is true
of w. This collapses into triviality unless certain aspects of S’s meaning are held
fixed. And it is unclear which aspects are intended.
Why do the same problems not arise for metaphysical necessity? The usual
answer is that with metaphysical necessity, one needn’t bring in a counterfactual
utterance at all. One considers whether our utterance, saying (or meaning) just
what it actually says (means), gives a true description of w. But this doesn’t give
us much guidance in some cases.
Suppose we are trying to evaluate ‘horses have tails’ with respect to w. You
maintain, reasonably enough, that what ‘horses have tails’ actually says is that
tails are had by Northern Dancer, Secretariat, . . . (fill in here the list of all actual
horses). You conclude that ‘horses have tails’ is true of w iff Northern Dancer,
Secretariat, . . . (or perhaps just those of them that exist in w) have tails in w.
Someone else maintains, just as reasonably, that ‘horses have tails’ says that if
anything is a horse, then it has a tail. She concludes that ‘horses have tails’ is true
of w iff the things that are horses in w have tails in w. The two of you disagree,
then, about how to evaluate ‘horses have tails’ at a world that contains all our
horses (complete with tails) plus some additional horses that lack tails.
Who is right? What is really said by an utterance of ‘horses have tails’ and how
do we tell whether it is true of a counterfactual world? These questions have no
clear answers. One might, I suppose, look for answers in the theory of what is
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expressed, or what is said, by sentences in contexts. But it would be with a heavy
heart (and not only because the notion of what is said is so slippery and vague).
Almost every question in semantics can be framed as a question about what some
S expresses in some context. It would be nice if we didn’t have to do the full
semantics of English before the truth-conditions of ‘necessarily S’ could be given.
If there were no way around this problem, I doubt that Kripke’s approach
would have found such widespread acceptance. One imagines, then, that the
Kripkean has a response. Here is how I imagine it going: ‘You are taking the
‘‘saying what it actually says’’ phraseology too seriously in some way. If any real
weight were going to be laid on that way of putting it, then yes, a story would be
needed about how it is determined what is said. But ‘‘saying what it actually says’’
is just a heuristic. It reminds us that it doesn’t matter, in considering whether S
is true of w, what the citizens of w mean by S. How in that case is true-of to
be understood, you ask? One option is to treat it as primitive. But this option
is problematic. It gives the skeptic about metaphysical possibility too big an
opening: she can claim to find the primitive incomprehensible. It would be better
if we could explain truth-of in terms that the skeptic, as a speaker of English,
already understands. This can be done using the subjunctive conditional. To say
that S is true of a world w is to say that had w obtained, it would have been that S.’²
Consider in this light the ‘controversy’ about horses and their tails. When we
evaluate ‘horses have tails’ with respect to w, is it only the actual horses that
matter, or do horses found only in w have to be taken into account as well?
Suppose that although actual horses have tails, w’s additional horses include
some that are tail-less. Is ‘horses have tails’ true of w?
The subjunctive account makes short work of this conundrum. Had w
obtained, it would not have been that horses had tails; there would have been
some horses with tails and some without. So ‘horses have tails’ is false of w.
Return now to the case of a w where ‘tail’ means wing. Does the fact that
w-people speak falsely when they say ‘horses have tails’ show that ‘horses have
tails’ is false of w? It doesn’t, and we can now explain why in a theoretically
uncontroversial way. The question is whether horses would still have had tails, if
people had used ‘tail’ to mean wing. They clearly would have; how people talk
doesn’t affect the anatomy of horses. Had ‘tail’ meant wing, ‘horses have tails’
would not have been true, but horses would still have had tails.
6 . D I S PA R I T Y
All this is to emphasize the disparity, in the immediate aftermath of Naming
and Necessity, between metaphysical and conceptual necessity. The first was in
² See in this connection Chalmers (2000).
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good shape—because it went with ‘S is true of w’, which could be understood
as ‘it would have been that S, had it been that w’. The second was in bad
shape—because it went with ‘S is true when uttered in w’, which had to be
understood as ‘it would have been that S was true, had it been that w, and had S
retained certain aspects of its actual meaning’.
Then a brainstorm was had that seemed to restore parity.³
Recall what we do to judge metaphysical necessity. We ask of various worlds
w whether S (our S, natch) is true of w. The Kripkean tells us that to judge
conceptual necessity, we need to ask, not whether S is true of w, but whether it is
true (as spoken) at w. But maybe it wasn’t really necessary to move S over to w.
A different option is to move w over to actuality: to the place where the token of
S that we want evaluated in fact occurs.⁴
All right, but how do we do that? It looks at first very simple. Just as,
when judging metaphysical necessity, we consider w as counterfactual, so, when
judging conceptual necessity, we consider it as counteractual. We consider it as a
hypothesis about what this world is like. Of course, we do not in general believe
the hypothesis. But that should not deter us; we are masters at working out how
matters stand on hypotheses we reject. Evaluating S with respect to counteractual
w is asking whether S holds on the hypothesis that w is (contrary to what we
perhaps think) this very world.
For example, it is conceptually possible that Hesperus != Phosphorus because,
if we suppose for a moment that this world is one in which Hesperus-appearances
are due to Mars and Phosphorus-appearances to Venus, then clearly (on that
supposition) we are wrong to think that Hesperus = Phosphorus. It is not that
counterfactual people are wrong about their world. It is we who are wrong about
our world, on a certain hypothesis about what our world is like.
This sounds like progress, but we should not celebrate too soon, because the
disparity with metaphysical modality is not entirely gone.
I said that everyone would (should!) have been unhappy if they had been
asked to treat ‘true of counterfactual w’ as a semantic primitive. We are willing
³ At least three ideas were involved. (1) Instead of moving S over to w, bring w back to S. To do
that, (2) evaluate S on the hypothesis that w actually obtains. To do that, (3) evaluate the indicative
conditional ‘if w actually obtains, then S’. (1) and (2) are present to some degree in Evans (1979)
and Davies and Humberstone (1980), and are explicit in Chalmers (1994). I am not aware of any
discussion of (3) before Chalmers (1996, 2000). See also Segerberg (1972), White (1982), and
Stalnaker (1972, 1990, 1991).
⁴ A third option is to leave S and w where they are, and treat ‘true if ’ as a trans-world primitive.
This is one possible reading of Chalmers’s remark (1994) that ‘we can retain the thought from the
real actual world and simultaneously ask its truth-value in other actual-world candidates without any
loss of coherence’. He adds in a footnote that ‘Doing things this way . . . avoids a problem . . . raised
by Block (1991) and Stalnaker (1991). The problem is that of what must be ‘‘held constant’’ between
contexts . . . On my account, nothing needs to be held constant, as we always appeal to the concept
from the real world in evaluating the referent at [an actual-world candidate]’ (1994:42). This is
certainly one way to go. But it has its costs. If taking ‘true of ’ as primitive is obscurantist, primitivism
about ‘true if ’ borders on mysticism (our pre-theoretical grip on the second is that much weaker).
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to rest so much on true of because of the explanation we have been given of that
notion: S is true of w iff, had w obtained, it would have been that S. It is this
biconditional, with ‘true of ’ on the left and a counterfactual on the right, that
convinces us that there’s a there there.
Apart, though, from some suggestive talk about what to say ‘on the supposition’
that w obtains, we have no comparable explanation of what is involved in S’s
being true with respect to counteractual w. If we use ‘true if w’ for truth with
respect to a world conceived as actual, the problem is that ‘true of ’ has been
translated into English and ‘true if ’ has not.
7 . I N D I C AT I V E S
FN:5
One proposal about this suggests itself immediately. Since ‘true of ’ goes with a
counterfactual conditional, ‘true if ’ perhaps goes with the corresponding indicative
conditional. ‘S is true if w’ says that if w in fact obtains (evidence to the contrary
notwithstanding), then S.⁵
The proposal is intriguing because it offers to link two deep distinctions:
metaphysical versus conceptual necessity, on the one hand, and subjunctive
versus indicative conditionality, on the other. The reason it is only metaphysically
necessary that Hesperus = Phosphorus is that there are worlds w such that,
although Hesperus would have been Phosphorus had w obtained, it is not
Phosphorus if w does obtain.
Do the two conditionals really ‘predict’ the two types of necessity? Before
attempting to decide this, we need to remember how we got here. It was
important for metaphysical necessity to keep what-is-said fixed as we evaluate S
at w. Subjunctives are valued because they in effect do this, without dragging us
into controversies about what is in fact said. It is not important to conceptual
necessity to keep what-is-said fixed; indeed, we are willing and eager that it
should change in certain respects under the impact of this or that counteractual
hypothesis. (For example, we are eager for ‘Hesperus = Phosphorus’ to take
on a content having to do with Venus and Mars.) Crucially, though, we
do not want S’s meaning to be changeable in all respects. (We don’t want
‘Hesperus = Phosphorus’ to acquire a content having to do with nonidentity.)
Indicatives are attractive because they seem to deliver an appropriate measure of
meaning-fixation, just as subjunctives did on the metaphysical side.
Indicatives appear to deliver an appropriate measure of meaning-fixation. But
when you look a little closer, the appearance fades. Indicatives don’t in fact
deliver anything in the way of meaning-fixation. The meaning of S as it occurs
in the consequent of an indicative conditional can be changed all you want by
⁵ Chalmers (2000).
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putting the right kind of misinformation into the antecedent. Example: If ‘tail’
had meant wing, horses would still have had tails. But suppose that ‘tail’ does
mean wing; it has meant wing all along, not only in others’ mouths but also our
own; a brain glitch (or demon) leads us systematically astray when we reflect on
the meaning of that particular word. Then, it seems clear, horses do not have
tails. If ‘tail’ as a matter of fact means wing, then to say that horses have tails is to
say that they have wings. Horses do not have wings. So if ‘tail’ means wing, then
horses do not have tails.⁶
FN:6
You may say: why should it be a problem if there are counteractual worlds at
which horses lack tails? That is not the problem. The problem is that there are
worlds where horses lack tails not for anatomical reasons but on account of ‘tail’ not
wing meaning tail. If horses can lose their tails that easily, then take any S you like, it is
true in some counteractual worlds and false in others. It is true in worlds where S
means that X, and X is the case, and false in worlds where S means Y, and Y is not
the case. This spells disaster for the indicative approach to conceptual possibility.
It should not make ‘Hesperus != Hesperus’ conceptually possible that there are
worlds where people use ‘!=’ to express identity.
8 . N A R ROW C O N T E N T
The indicative is not the conditional we want. But it is close. We want a
conditional A → C that is like the indicative except in one crucial respect: C is
protected from a certain sort of meaning shift brought on by A.
An example of the ‘good’ or ‘permitted’ sort of meaning shift is the kind
exhibited by ‘Hesperus != Phosphorus’ on the supposition that Phosphorusappearances are caused by Mars. An example of the ‘bad’ sort of meaning shift
is that exhibited by ‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’ on the supposition that ‘!=’
expresses identity.
It may seem that the answer is staring us in the face. The ‘bad’ kind of meaning
shift is the kind that mucks with S’s narrow content. Our conditional should
be such that S’s narrow content is the same when we condition on w as when
we don’t. (The indicative is wrong because the narrow content of ‘horses have
tails’ is one thing if ‘tail’ means wing, another thing if it doesn’t.) Calling the
⁶ Indicative conditionals are conditionals with antecedent and consequent in the indicative
mood. Philosophers have proposed various theories of these conditionals. One, defended by Grice
(1989), is that they are ‘material’, or truth-table, conditionals. Another, defended by Adams (1975),
is that they are probability conditionals. Chalmers in recent work declares a preference for the
material conditional, regardless of its relation, if any, to the indicative. (He requires the material
conditional to hold a priori.) The objection in the text applies regardless. However the indicative
is interpreted, A’s a priori entailing C suffices for the apriority of ‘if A then C’. The conditional ‘if
horses are wingless and ‘‘tail’’ means wing, then horses do not have tails’ has A a priori entailing C,
so the conditional is a priori.
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actual narrow content NC, attention is to be restricted to worlds such that w
obtains → S (still) means NC.
But, although helpful as an intuitive constraint, this doesn’t solve our problem.
This is partly because one doesn’t know what the narrow content in fact is; NC
has been pulled out of a hat. Second, though, to appeal to narrow content in this
context gets things the wrong way around. The reason for being interested in
‘S is true if w’ was to get a better handle on conceptual necessity. But, as noted
above, conceptual necessity and narrow content are two sides of the same coin.
The idea is to explain narrow content using →, not → using narrow content.
9. TURNING OUT
Our problem now is similar to one faced earlier in connection with metaphysical
necessity. It seemed that an account of true of would have to appeal to the notion of what is said. That would be unfortunate, because it would reverse the intended
order of explanation. The what-is-said of an utterance (its broad content, nearly
insert
enough) is given by the worlds of which it is true. The special case in which S’s
hyphen
broad content takes in all worlds is what is otherwise known as metaphysical
necessity. That is why we don’t want to use broad content to explain true of. Our current worry is the same, except that it concerns true if rather than true of, - and narrow content rather than broad.
How did we deal with that earlier problem? By calling in the subjunctive.
We said that S is true of w iff it would have been that S, had w obtained.
The claim was that this construction automatically targets the agreement or lack
thereof between w and S’s broad content. Can a construction be found that
automatically targets the agreement or lack thereof between w and S’s narrow
content, as the subjunctive does for broad content?
One that comes pretty close occurs in Naming and Necessity itself. Kripke notes
that we’re at first inclined to think that Hesperus and Phosphorus (although in
fact identical) could have been distinct. Then we learn about metaphysical versus
other types of necessity, and we lose the inclination; Hesperus and Phosphorus
could not have been distinct. Even now, though, apprised of the metaphysical
facts, we are still inclined to think that it could have turned out that Hesperus was
distinct from Phosphorus.
It is this phrase ‘could have turned out’ that I want to focus on. Kripke is
right to represent us as still inclined to think that it could have turned out
that Hesperus was distinct from Phosphorus, even after we have taken on board
that it could not have been that Hesperus was distinct from Phosphorus. The
inclination persists even among practicing modal metaphysicians (who ought to
know better, if there is better to know). This suggests that ‘could have turned
out’ is special in ways we should try to understand.
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It suggests it to me, anyway. Kripke apparently does not agree. He maintains
that the second inclination is just as mistaken as the first. Not only could it not
have been, it could not even have turned out that Hesperus was distinct from
Phosphorus. This is only to be expected if ‘it could have turned out that S’
means, as Kripke hints it does mean, ‘it could have been that: S and we believed
that S and with justification’. This interpretation, however, leaves it a mystery
why the second inclination outlasts the first—why we persist in thinking that it
could have turned out that Hesperus wasn’t Phosphorus even after giving up on
the idea that Hesperus could have been other than Phosphorus.
I propose that the persisting thought is correct. Kripke to the contrary, it could
indeed have turned out that Hesperus wasn’t Phosphorus. That is what would
have turned out had it turned out that Phosphorus-appearances were appearances
of Mars. It could not, however, have turned out that Phosphorus != Phosphorus,
even granting that ‘!=’ could have turned out to express identity. That is a way
for it to turn out that that ‘Phosphorus != Phosphorus’ is true, not a way for it
to turn out that Phosphorus != Phosphorus.⁷
1 0 . C O N C E P T UA L P O S S I B I L I T Y
It would have turned out that C, had it turned out that A shares features with
both the indicative conditional and the subjunctive. It resembles the indicative
in making play not with counterfactual worlds, but with suppositions about our
world. It resembles the subjunctive in that the consequent C is protected from
a certain kind of semantic influence on the part of A. The way C (narrowly)
represents things as being is left untouched by ‘had it turned out that A’. The
role that the antecedent plays is all on the side of whether things are, on the
hypothesis that A, the way that C (in actual fact, given that the hypothesis is
false) narrowly represents them as being.
If ‘tail’ means wing, we said, then horses lack tails. → is supposed to be
different in this respect. It should not be that w (in which ‘tail’ means wing)
obtains → horses lack tails. That is the result we get if → is a ‘would have turned
out’ conditional. For it is not the case that horses would have turned out to lack
tails, had it turned out that ‘tail’ meant wing. It is not for linguistic reasons that
⁷ Chalmers employs similar wording when he introduces primary intensions: ‘there are two quite
distinct patterns of dependence of the referent of a content on the state of the world. First, there is
the dependence by which reference is fixed in the actual world, depending on how the world turns
out: if it turns out one way, a concept will pick out one thing, but if it turns out another way, the
concept will pick out something else’ (1996: 57; italics added). I applaud the use of ‘turns out’, but
I think the mood should be subjunctive—if it had turned out—rather than indicative—if it does
turn out. If it turns out that ‘tail’ means wing, then horses lack tails. But that ‘tail’ means something
different in w should be irrelevant to the question of whether w’s horses have tails. Otherwise
conceptual necessity is trivialized. See also Jackson (1994, 1998).
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horses have tails; so they are not deprived of their tails by the linguistic facts
turning out differently.
One can come at → from the other direction. If Phosphorus-appearances
had been due to Mars, Phosphorus would still have been Hesperus. → is
supposed to be different in this respect too. We want there to be worlds w
such that w obtains → Hesperus "= Phosphorus. That cannot happen unless the
broad content of ‘Hesperus "= Phosphorus’ can be changed by conditioning it
on the hypothesis that w obtains. Here too, ‘would have turned out’ delivers
the goods. Had it turned out that Phosphorus-appearances were due to Mars
and Hesperus-appearances (still) to Venus, it would have turned out that
Hesperus "= Phosphorus.
What these examples suggest is that ‘would have turned out’ conditionals
exhibit just the right combination of (i) openness to shifts in broad content, and
(ii) intolerance of shifts in narrow content. I therefore propose it would have
turned out that C, had it turned out that A as the proper interpretation of A → C.
And I make a hypothesis:
(M) It is metaphysically possible that S iff some world w is such that it would
have been that S, had w obtained.
(C) It is conceptually possible that S iff some world w is such that it would have
turned out that S, had w turned out to be actual.
More simply, S is metaphysically possible iff it could have been that S, and
conceptually possible iff it could have turned out that S.
1 1 . A N A LY T I C I T Y A N D A P R I O R I T Y
A priori truths are truths that can be known not on the basis of empirical
evidence. How well that accords with the Kripkean notion of apriority depends
on one’s theory of justification. There is a danger, though, of its according very
badly.
One theory says that all spontaneously arising beliefs start out justified. They
can lose that status only if evidence arises against them. Suppose that this view is
correct, and suppose that, on pulling the curtains open, I spontaneously come to
think that the sun is shining. (I don’t infer that it is shining from premises about
how things perceptually appear to me.) Then I know that the sun is shining,
and not on the basis of empirical evidence. And yet it certainly isn’t a priori, as
Kripke uses the term, that the sun is shining.
Another theory has it that our most ‘basic’ beliefs lack empirical justification,
because they are epistemically prior to anything that might be said in their
support. So, the belief that nature is uniform lacks empirical backing. If we know
that nature is uniform, and let’s assume we do, the knowledge is not empirical.
But it isn’t a priori in Kripke’s sense that nature is uniform.
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Apriority, then, is not any old kind of not-empirically-based knowability,
as judged by any old theory of justification. That would let far too much in.
A (very familiar) objection from the other side helps us to clarify matters. If
experience cannot be appealed to at all, then shouldn’t it be enough to stop S
from being a priori if it is through experience that we understand S? The answer
to this is that our interest is in how S is justified, our understanding taken for
granted.
If that is the one and only concession made, then we wind up with a roughly
Kripkean notion of apriority. S is a priori iff it is knowable just on the basis of
one’s understanding of S. Or, better, it’s a priori for me iff I can know it just on
the basis of my understanding of S. This is why the originator of a name is apt
to know more a priori than someone picking the name up in conversation. The
mental state by which Leverrier understands ‘Neptune’ tells him that Neptune,
if there is such a thing, accounts for the perturbations in the orbit of Uranus.
The mental state by which others understand ‘Neptune’ is liable to be much less
informative about Neptune’s astronomical properties.
Apriority is knowability on the basis of understanding. Understanding is, one
assumes, knowing the meaning. But what meaning?
Perhaps understanding is knowing meaning ‘in the strict sense’: the sense
that ignores reference-fixing descriptions. But Kripke calls it a priori that
Hesperus = Hesperus, and a posteriori that Hesperus = Phosphorus, though
the strict meanings are the same. More likely, then, it is knowledge of meaning in
the loose sense that makes for understanding. The closest thing to loose meaning
in our framework is narrow content. So it does not do too much violence to
Kripke’s intentions to say that S is a priori iff one can know that it is true just on
the basis of one’s grasp of its narrow content.
Kripke calls S analytic iff ‘it’s true in virtue of meanings in the strict sense’.
This definition has to be treated with some care, since the strict meaning of
‘Hesperus = Phosphorus’ is a singular proposition of the form x = x, and Kripke
does not want ‘Hesperus = Phosphorus’ to come out analytic. (It is not a priori,
and Kripke thinks that analytic truths are a priori.) Then what is his intent in
speaking of ‘meanings in the strict sense’? He cannot have been trying to include
statements (‘Hesperus = Phosphorus’) that are true in virtue of strict meaning
as opposed to loose. He must have been trying to exclude statements (‘Hesperus
is visible at night’) that are true in virtue of loose meaning as opposed to strict.
This is, in effect, to limit analyticity to ‘Fregean’ sentences: sentences to which
the loose/strict distinction does not apply. S is analytic iff it is true in virtue of its
Fregean meaning, that being the only meaning it has.
Now, though, one wants to know: why should it stop S from being analytic
if in addition to its truth-guaranteeing Fregean meaning, it has a (possibly not
truth-guaranteeing) Kripkean meaning? Or, to put it in narrow/broad terms, if
S has a truth-guaranteeing narrow content, why isn’t that enough to make it
analytic, quite regardless of whether it has a broad content in addition?
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True-blue Kripkeans will reply that narrow content is not (except per accidens,
when it agrees with broad) part of meaning. Narrow content is metasemantical,
not semantical.
But this, one may feel, is just terminological fussiness.⁸ Even Kripke considers
FN:8
it a kind of meaning—meaning in the loose sense—and he says explicitly that
some might want to define analyticity as truth in virtue of that. So, it does not
do too much violence to Kripke’s intentions to let analyticity be truth in virtue of
narrow content. (This fits with our account of Kripkean apriority as knowability
in virtue of grasp of narrow content.)
Now, finally, we can ask the question that matters: Is conceptual necessity a
kind of apriority, or a kind of analyticity, or both?
I do not think there can be much doubt that it is a kind of analyticity.
A conceptually necessary sentence is one true in all counteractual worlds.
These worlds comprise what Chalmers calls the sentence’s primary intension,
and primary intension is his candidate for the role of narrow content. So, a
conceptually necessary sentence is one whose narrow content is such that, no
matter which world is actual, it comes out true. Truth guaranteed by narrow
content is analytic truth.
Is conceptual necessity also perhaps a kind of apriority? As just discussed, the
narrow content of a conceptually necessary sentence is such as to guarantee its
truth. Does it follow that someone grasping the content is thereby in a position
to see that S is true?
That depends on what is involved in grasping a content (let ‘narrow’ be
understood). S’s content is, roughly, a bunch of conditionals of the form: it
would (or wouldn’t) have turned out that S, had w turned out to be actual.
knows how to evaluate the
Someone who grasps the content is in a position to know the conditionals. So if
S is conceptually necessary, then she is in a position to see, for each w, that had
w turned out to be actual, it would have turned out that S. Doesn’t this show
that she can determine a priori that S?
No; in fact, we are still miles from that conclusion. Let it be that the speaker
knows for each w that w obtains → S. It is wide open so far whether thisthe resulting
can tell,
knowledge is a priori. Someone who grasps S’s meaning is in a position to come
to know the conditionals somehow or other. A priori or a posteriori is an open
a further
question.
You might think that the knowledge has to be a priori. If grasping S’s content
gives me knowledge of the conditionals, then I know the conditionals based
on my grasp of S’s content. Knowledge based on grasp of content is a priori
knowledge.
, however.
, however. This is entirely unconvincing. Grasping S’s content ‘gives me’ knowledge of
the conditionals only in the sense of putting me in a position to come to know
tell on inspection
that they are true.
⁸ I myself feel it is more than that, but this is the charge made by the narrow content enthusiast
whose part I am playing.
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make this judgment.
them; my advantage over non-graspers is that I have ‘what it takes’ to know. That
is roughly to say that understanding S is necessary if one wants to know whether S
if w, or the most important necessary condition, or the only necessary condition
one has to worry about. Apriority requires that understanding be sufficient. I have
granted that understanding suffices for being in a position to work out whether
S if w. If the working out involves experience, though, then the knowledge will
not be a priori.
1 2 . PE E K I N G
I said that our understanding of S might not be enough to go on, when it comes
to working out whether S holds in a world w. The ‘official story’ about evaluation
at counteractual worlds strongly denies this. But the possibility has a way of
sneaking in uninvited. Here is Chalmers:
[A]s an in-principle point, there are various ways to see that someone (a superbeing?)
armed only with the microphysical facts and the concepts involved could infer the
high-level facts. The simplest way is to note that in principle one could build a big mental
simulation of the world and watch it in one’s mind’s eye, so to speak. (1996:76)
Say that this is right; I am able to build a mental model of w, and judge
whether S is true in w by viewing the model with my mind’s eye. The question
is whether viewing a model of w and asking myself ‘how it looks’ S-wise is a way
of coming to know S’s truth-value in w a priori.
Here is a reason to think not. Asking yourself how something strikes you is
using yourself as a measuring device. Information acquired by use of an external
measuring device is a posteriori on anybody’s account. Information acquired by
use of an internal one seems no different. What matters is that an experiment is
done, the outcome of which decides your response.
It might be argued that mental experimentation is different. Knowledge gained
from it is acquired within the privacy of one’s own mind. You determine that S
without appealing at any point to information about the outside world. Shouldn’t
that be enough to make the knowledge a priori?
No, for you determine that you have a headache the same way. Knowledge
of headaches is certainly not a priori. The modal rationalist in particular should
agree, for my headache, if a priori, would be a counter-example to the proposed
equation between apriority and truth in all counteractual worlds. ‘I have a
headache’ fails in some counteractual worlds. A priori truths are supposed to
hold everywhere.
Some internally acquired knowledge presumably is a priori. If you think up a
counter-example to argument form F in your head, then you know a priori that
F is invalid. What distinguishes this sort of case, where you do know a priori,
from the case of looking at a mental model with the mind’s eye?
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Two things. First, when you conjure up an image of w, you are simulating the
activity of really looking at it. Simulated looking is not a distinct process, but the
usual process run ‘off-line’. Knowledge gained by internal looking is not a priori
because it is acquired through the exercise of a perceptual faculty rather than a
cognitive one.
Second, some imagined reactions are a better guide to real reactions than
others.⁹ Imagined shape reactions are a good guide, you say, and you are
probably right. But it is hard to see how the knowledge that they are a good
guide could be a priori. If the mind’s eye sees one sort of property roughly as
real eyes do, while its take on another sort of property tends to be off the mark,
that is an empirical fact known on the basis of empirical evidence. I know not
to trust my imagined reactions to arrangements of furniture, because they have
often been wrong; now that I see the wardrobe in the room, I realize it is far too
big. It is only because they have generally been right that I am entitled to trust
my imagined judgments of shape.
The temptation to think of simulation as a source of a priori knowledge is due
in part to there not being much that we are able to simulate. There might be
beings who, given only the microphysical blueprint of, say, an exotic fruit, are
able to imagine its color in much the way that we are able to imagine its shape.
They come to know that rambutans are red, without ever laying eyes on one. I
take it that no one would consider the knowledge to be a priori. These beings
did not deduce the color from microphysics. Information was also needed about
how that microphysics appears to human eyes. They obtained this information
experimentally, by simulating an encounter with a rambutan, and using it to
predict the outcome of a real encounter.
Suppose that we had been able to simulate reactions in other modalities.
Suppose we could determine the taste and smell of a microphysically given item
with the mind’s tongue and nose. Would that make it an a priori matter how
rambutans [insert chemical description here] tasted? No. How a thing tastes
is an empirical question. One does not feel that it escapes being a priori only
because of a contingent incompleteness in our nature. It would still have been
an empirical matter how rambutans tasted, even if God had been more generous
in the mind’s sense-organ department.
These claims might be accepted but shrugged off as irrelevant. It doesn’t
matter if self-experimental knowledge is a posteriori, for any suggestion of
self-experimentation was inadvertent. ‘I looked at w and saw it to contain so-andso’s’ is only a colorful description of something far more innocent: intellectually
⁹ Stepping into the lake, you say, ‘It’s colder than I thought.’ The earlier thought might have
been a real judgment based on partial information (it’s August, lots of people are swimming), but
it might also have been a simulated judgment based on full information about the water’s kinetic
properties. You imagine yourself stepping into water with those properties, and it seems to feel
warmer than water like that really does feel. (Most of us do something like this with temperature
properties; 80 degree water is surprisingly cold.)
it crowds up closer
to the sofa than I
had supposed.
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contemplating a world description and thinking my way to a conclusion about
whether there are so-and-so’s in w.
That is fair enough, on one condition. Self-experimentation had better not be
needed to work out whether S holds in w. It had better be that one can reason
from a microphysical description of w to a conclusion about whether or not S.
No peeking. I assume that Chalmers would agree; for, if peeking is allowed, the
inference from ‘S holds in all candidates for actuality’ to ‘it is a priori that S’
clearly does not go through. This inference is crucial to the view that Chalmers
calls ‘modal rationalism’.
Given how much hangs on our ability to evaluate S without peeking, one
might have expected a show of vigilance on this score. If we are playing ‘pin the
tail on the donkey’, you watch me like a hawk. You know how hard I find it
to ignore information right in front of my nose. The same should apply when
the game is ‘decide the truth-value of S’. If it is difficult to infer S (¬S) from
microphysics, I will be tempted to switch to sensory imagining. Knowing this,
you will take pains that my mind’s eye is completely shut, or completely covered
by my mind’s blindfold.
The need for vigilance is never mentioned, as far as I know, in the modal
rationalist literature. Here is how the passage quoted above continues:
Say that a man is carrying an umbrella. From the associated microphysical facts, one
could straightforwardly infer facts about the distribution and chemical composition of
mass in the man’s vicinity, giving a high-level structural description of the area. One
could determine the existence of a male fleshy biped straightforwardly enough. . . . It
would be clear that he was carrying some device that was preventing drops of water,
otherwise prevalent in the neighborhood, from hitting him. Doubts that this device is
really an umbrella could be assuaged by noting from its physical structure that it can
fold and unfold; from its history that it was hanging on a stand that morning, and was
originally made in a factory with others of a similar kind. (Chalmers 1996: 76)
When I try to ‘determine’ these higher-level facts, I find myself relying on
visual imagining at every turn. ‘Keep your mind’s eye scrunched tight,’ I am told.
I can try, but then the higher-level facts go all mysterious. The feeling intensifies
when I read how ‘doubts that the device is an umbrella can be assuaged’. Never
mind how they are assuaged; I do not see how the umbrella idea came up in the
first place.
I realize how it’s supposed to go. I start with objective, geometrical information.
A chain of a priori inferences leads to ‘it’s shaped like an umbrella’. That
conclusion combines with a host of others to establish its umbrella-hood beyond
any doubt. Visualization is barred, so I have no idea of how the object looks.
(Eventually it may strike me that since the object is an umbrella, it probably
looks like one.)
Is this possible? It helps to look at a simpler case. I am to infer a plate’s shape
(it’s in fact round) from premises about the arrangement of its microphysical
parts. The premises might take various forms, but assume for definiteness that the
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arrangement is specified in analytic geometry terms. I am told that the object’s
teeny-tiny parts occupy the points (x, y) such that x 2 + y2 < 63. (The plate is
two-dimensional, no pun intended.) If I am to reason from this to the object’s
shape, I must know, implicitly at least, conditionals like the following:
if R is circumscribed by the points (x, y) such that x 2 + y2 = 63, then R is round;
if R is circumscribed by the points (x, y) such that x 4 + y4 = 63, then R is
not round.
I should know many, many conditionals of this nature, one per lowerlevel implementation of roundness, and, I suppose, one per implementation of
nonroundness. And, most important of all, I should know the conditionals a
priori, just through my grasp of the relevant English words.
But, it isn’t clear that I do know many conditionals like these. (I am tempted
to say that it’s clear that I don’t.) And the few that I do know, I don’t seem
to know a priori. It wasn’t learning the meaning of ‘round’ that taught me the
formula for circles. I worked it out empirically by graphing the formula, looking
at the figure I had just drawn, and then reflecting on how I was inclined to
describe the figure. (I take it that no one has their first encounter with roundness
in a geometry class.)
I do not say that the above shows that you have to peek. There may be other
ways of proceeding that haven’t occurred to me. All I mean to be claiming for
now is that ‘one can find the umbrellas in w without peeking, just by virtue of
one’s competence with the word’ is a substantive and surprising thesis. Theses like
this need to be argued for, and no argument has been given. A priori entailment
has been presented as what you would expect, unless a skeptical philosopher had
got to you first.
1 3 . R E C O G N I T I O N A L P R E D I C AT E S
Now let me move on to urging in a positive way that there is only so much we
can judge with the mind’s eye averted. I think that one can’t always tell, just by
drawing inferences from a world description, whether the world is one where it
turns out that S. If that is right, then the method that Chalmers didn’t really
mean to be advocating, and that figures only inadvertently in his narrative, is
in some cases the only possible method. This will be argued for observational
predicates (starting with the subtype recognitional), then evaluative predicates,
then, finally, theoretical predicates.
What marks a predicate P as observational? The usual answer is that understanding P involves an ability to work out its extension in perceptually (as opposed
to intellectually) presented scenarios. To determine P’s extension in a world, I
have to cast my gaze over that world—at candidate Ps in particular—and see
how it strikes me.
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Nothing has been said about the kind of appearance that marks a thing as
P. Sometimes x is judged P because our experience of x has a quality Q notionally
independent of P. So, x is tantalizing if, roughly, the experience of it makes one
want to get closer and know more. Other times the experience that marks x as P
is the experience of it as being precisely P. One judges x to be P because P is how
it looks or feels or sounds. . . . This is what I am calling a recognitional predicate.
Examples are bound to be controversial, so let me just follow Kripke. Kripke
says that ‘the reference of ‘‘yellowness’’ is fixed by the description ‘‘that (manifest)
property of objects which causes them, under normal circumstances, to be seen
as yellow’’ ’ (1980: 140 n. 71). We understand by yellowness whatever property
it is that makes objects look yellow, or gives rise to the sensation of yellow. The
predicate ‘yellow’ is recognitional on this view, since the yellow objects are picked
out by their property of looking yellow.
Suppose Kripke is right about our understanding of ‘yellow’. What are the
implications for the way yellow things are identified in a candidate w for actuality?
It’s clear that x has to look yellow to be counted into the predicate’s extension.
But to whom? Perhaps it needs to look yellow to the w-folks, including one’s
counteractual self. If it is counteractual Steve’s reactions that matter, then I don’t
need to experience x myself to determine if x is (in w) yellow. I can infer x’s
color a priori from what the relevant world description says about the experiences
Steve has when experiencing x.
But what does the world description say about counteractual Steve’s experiences? Suppose, first, that it describes them in intrinsic phenomenological terms;
banana-caused visual experiences are said to have intrinsic phenomenological
property K. This doesn’t yet tell me whether bananas are yellow, for I don’t
know that K is the phenomenology appropriate to experiences of yellow. I can’t
determine that without giving myself a K-type experience and checking its
content: do I feel myself to be having an experience of yellow or of green?
Suppose, on the other hand, that counteractual Steve’s experiences are
described intentionally, as ‘experiences of yellow’, ‘yellow’ being the predicate whose corresponding property we are trying to identify. Then we would seem
to be caught in a circle. The referent of a compound expression depends on the
referents of its parts. So any intelligence we might have about what it is to be
an ‘experience of yellow’ must come from prior information about (among other
things) what it is to be ‘yellow’. But then the referent of each of these two phrases
depends on that of the other.¹⁰
Kripke must have been aware of this problem. He notes that ‘[s]ome
philosophers have argued that such terms as ‘‘sensation of yellow’’, ‘‘sensation of heat’’, . . . and the like, could not be in the language unless they were
¹⁰ One option is to say that yellowness and the sensation of it are identified together by means
of a gigantic Ramsey-type theoretical definition. This is filed under the heading ‘just a pipe dream
until somebody supplies details’.
Let me not comment on this here, except to note a possible
threat to the conceivability of zombies.
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identifiable in terms of external observable phenomena, such as heat, yellowness’.
And he says that ‘this question is independent of any view argued in the text’
(1980: 140 n. 71). Kripke doesn’t mind, in other words, if one can’t identify
sensations of yellowness until one has identified the property they are sensations
of. How, if that is so, can we hope to identify yellowness by way of sensations
of yellow?
Here is what I think Kripke would say. Yellowness is identified not by a
condition on experience (‘such as to give rise to sensations of yellow’), but by the
experience itself. The objects I call yellow are the ones that look yellow. If the
yellow things were identified by an experiential condition, then we would face
the problem of working out which experiences were of the indicated type. But
that is not our situation. Far from being something in need of discovery, the
experience of yellow is part of the discovery process.¹¹ I don’t have to identify my
yellow-experiences in order to learn by their exercise, any more than I have to
identify my eyes in order to learn by use of them.¹²
There is a second reason why Kripke would (should) not take ‘yellow’ to
have its reference fixed by an experience-implicating description. What will the
description say about proper viewing conditions?
This is a problem that he himself raises for a related view: the view that
‘yellow’ is defined as ‘tends to produce such and such visual impressions’. Tends
to produce them under what circumstances, Kripke asks? Any answer will be
unsatisfactory: ‘the specification of the circumstances C either circularly involves
yellowness or . . . makes the alleged definition into a scientific discovery rather
than a synonymy’ (1980: 140 n. 71). If C-type circumstances are circumstances
where we are not deceived as to yellowness, then (while it may be analytic that x
is yellow iff it looks yellow in C-type circumstances) the definition uses ‘yellow’,
so cannot explain its meaning. If C-type circumstances are ones where (say) the
light is of such-and-such a composition, no one is suffering from jaundice, the
object is not a Benham’s disk rotating at such-and-such a rate, etc., then, while it
may be true that x is yellow iff it looks yellow in C-type circumstances, it is not
definitionally true, but empirically so.
¹¹ The issue here is much like the one raised by Putnam’s ‘descriptivist’ interpretation of the
causal theory of reference. Putnam suggests that words have their reference fixed by a causal
condition. One finds the referent by looking for whatever stands in the right causal relation to
speech. This makes for circularity problems, since one needs to know which relation causation
is to work out what ‘causation’ denotes. From here it is a short step to radical indeterminacy of
reference. The almost universal response was that reference is fixed causally, not descriptively by a
condition alluding inter alia to causal relations. Kripke as I am reading him says something similar:
reference is fixed experientially, not descriptively by a condition alluding inter alia to a certain sort
of experience.
¹² I like what Colin McGinn says about perceptual concepts. Some think that ‘When a concept
is applied to a presented object that is always a further operation of the mind, superadded to the
mere appearance of the object in perceptual consciousness. On my way of looking at it, concepts
figure as substitutes for perceptual appearance— . . . they are needed for intentionality only when
the object is not being perceived’ (1999: 324).
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If this is a good objection to the idea that ‘tends to . . . in circumstances C’
defines ‘yellow’, it would seem to be equally hard on Kripke’s own claim that
‘yellow’ has its reference fixed by that description. Either C-type circumstances
are ones where we are not deceived as to yellowness, or they are ones where
the light has such-and-such a composition, etc. If the first, then, while it may
be a priori that x is yellow iff it looks yellow in C-type circumstances, the
reference-fixer presupposes yellowness, and so cannot be used to identify it. If
the second, then, while it may be true that x is yellow iff it looks yellow in
C-type circumstances, it is not a priori true, as it would be if the description fixed
‘yellow’ ’s reference.
One can reply in the same way as before. What marks a thing x as yellow isn’t
the condition ‘tends to produce . . . under circumstances C’. What marks x as
yellow is that that is how it looks. Someone can of course ask, how do you know
the perceptual circumstances (including the condition of the perceiver) are right?
But we do not say to this person, ‘the present circumstances are of type C, and
C defines rightness’. That would open us up to all the problems raised above.
Our answer is, ‘Why shouldn’t they be right? What is it that leads you to suspect
trouble?’ It may not be a priori that what looks yellow under conditions C is
yellow, but it does seem to be a priori that what looks yellow is yellow assuming
nothing funny is happening. And that is an assumption we are always entitled
to, unless and until we run into specific objections.
I hope this makes clear how our grasp of a predicate can be recognitional rather
than intellectual. I do not reason my way to the conclusion that something is
yellow from premises about what looks yellow under which conditions. The
belief arises spontaneously in me when I look at a thing. That has to be how it
works, for I have in general no a priori reliable information about which viewing
conditions are appropriate. The most that is a priori is that these conditions are
appropriate, unless there is reason to think otherwise.
If P is a recognitional predicate, then I have an a priori entitlement to
‘These conditions are (funny business aside) such that what seems P is P’. This
is an entitlement that, by its nature, does not travel well. It lapses when we
move from the world that really is actual to worlds only treated as actual for
semantic evaluation purposes. For in lots of those worlds, we find (what from
our actual–actual perspective is) funny business.
A few special cases aside, what looks yellow, is yellow. But things could have
turned out so that whipped cream looked yellow—say, because a jaundice-like
staining was characteristic of healthy eyes rather than diseased ones. This would
not bother the people we turned out to be (they think our eyes are problematic),
but it does bother us as we are. Whipped cream is white, and so whoever sees it
as yellow is to that extent getting it wrong.
This has two semi-surprising consequences, which for now I’ll just state
without argument.
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(1) Something known a priori need not hold in all counteractual worlds. It is a
priori that funny business aside, what looks yellow, is yellow. But had our
eyes turned out as described, objects would have turned out to look yellow
that were in fact white. There is no mistake here, nor is anyone misled.
Whipped cream is indeed what they mean by the word. It is just not what
we mean by it, that is, it is not yellow.
(2) Something holding in all counteractual worlds might be knowable only
a posteriori. Let F be a complete intrinsic characterization of some white
chalk.¹³ Could an F have turned out to be other than white? The chalk
could have turned out yellow-looking, as already discussed. To have turned
out yellow, however, it would have needed different (non-F-ish) intrinsic
properties. So although it is a posteriori what color Fs in fact are, their color
is conceptually necessary in the sense that it could not have turned out any
different.
1 4 . O B S E RVAT I O N A L P R E D I C AT E S
Everyone knows what it is for a figure to be oval. It is not hard to distinguish
ovals from polygons, figure-eights, and so on. It is not even all that hard to
distinguish ovals from otherwise ovular figures that are too skinny or too fat to
count. To a first approximation, a figure is oval if it has the proportions of an
egg, or a two-dimensional projection of an egg. I take it that few of us know in
an intellectual way what those proportions are. What marks a figure as oval is
not its satisfaction of some objective geometric condition, but the fact that when
you look at it, it looks egg-shaped.¹⁴
FN:14
Because our grasp of oval is constituted in part by how its instances look, one
might be tempted to group it with ‘response-dependent’ concepts like ticklish or
tantalizing. That would be a mistake. There are several respects in which oval is
quite unlike ticklish, which, once pointed out, make the label ‘response-enabled’
seem much more appropriate. Another term I shall use is ‘grokking concept’. (I
apply these labels to concepts, but, depending on one’s other commitments, they
could speak more to how the concept is grasped.)
irksome Constitution: Why are ticklish things ticklish? That might mean ‘what is the
irksome evidence that they are ticklish?’ If so, the answer is that we respond to them in a
certain way; they tickle us. If it means ‘what qualifies them to be so regarded?’,
irk
the answer has again to do with our responses. So far there is no contrast with
irksomeness oval. But suppose we now ask, ‘in what does their ticklishness consist?’ Eliciting
¹³ More may have to be packed into F, such as prevailing natural laws.
¹⁴ I say looks egg-shaped and not looks oval because I want ‘oval’ to be an example of an
observational predicate that is not recognitional.
irksome
irksome
irksome
Causing
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irksome
or tending to elicit a certain reaction in us is ‘what it is’ to be ticklish. To be oval,
though, is simply to have a certain shape.
'irksome'
Tracking: Our responses do not track the extension of ‘ticklish’; they dictate
it. It makes no sense to suggest that our tendency to be tickled by various things irked
might not have been, or might have turned out not to be, a good guide to what
irksome is really ticklish. It is different with ‘oval’. Our responses give us access to the
extension of ‘oval’, but they do not dictate the extension.
Motivation: Why are the ticklish things picked out experientially? There
irksome
is an in-principle reason for this: we want to classify as ticklish whatever is irksome
experienced in a certain way. Why are the oval things picked out experientially?
There is no in-principle reason, but only a practical one: we have no other way
of roping in the intended shapes.
Evaluation: Externalities are the same in w as here, but our responses are
different. Suppose that our world had turned out to be w. What would have
irksome turned out to be ticklish? That which turned out to elicit the tickle response. irked
What would have turned out to be oval? That which does elicit the oval response;
that which does look egg-shaped. For dimes to have turned out oval, they would
have had to turn out a different shape.
The ‘evaluation’ contrast is the one that matters, so let me dwell on it a little.
Imagine someone who thinks that ‘oval’ applies to whatever strikes the locals
as egg-shaped, in any w you like, considered as counteractual or counterfactual.
This person has misunderstood the concept. If he were right about counterfactual
worlds, then
dimes would have been oval, had they (although still round) looked egg-shaped.
This is plainly
untrue.
If he were right about counteractual worlds, then
dimes would have turned out to be oval, had they (although still round) turned
out to look egg-shaped.
This is false, too. The way to a thing’s ovality is through its shape; you can’t
change the one except by changing the other. You can’t make something oval by
tinkering only with our responses.
What can we say to our confused friend to straighten him out? ‘Oval’ stands
for things like that, the kind that we do see as shaped like eggs. The concept uses
our responses as a tool—a tool that, like most tools, stops working if it’s banged
too far out of shape. The concept presupposes that our responses are what they
are, and then leans on that presupposition in marking out the class of intended
shapes. This is why its turning out that we saw dimes as egg-shaped would be a
way for it to turn out (not that they were oval, but) that we were taking non-ovals
for ovals.
A better analogy for our concept of oval is the concept expressed by ‘that shape’
when we say, pointing at a sculpture, that ‘that shape is eerily familiar’—or the
one expressed by ‘this big’ in ‘a room has to be at least this big [gesturing at the
only
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surrounding walls] to hold all my furniture’.¹⁵ The role of ‘this big’ is not to pick
out whatever old size one might turn out to be perceiving: tiny if one turned out
to have been in a tiny room suffering an optical illusion. It is, rather, that one
takes oneself to be perceiving a room of a certain size, and one has no way of
knowing the size other than via its perceptual appearance.
1 5 . A N A LY T I C I T Y W I T H O U T A P R I O R I T Y
comfortable, irksome,
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reference
FN:17
First there are the response-dependent concepts: ticklish, aggravating, tantalizing,
painful-to-behold. Then there are the response-enabled concepts: oval, aquiline, jagged, crunchy, smiley-faced. Response-enabled concepts have their own
distinctive pattern of evaluation at counteractual worlds. If oval were responsedependent, then one could determine its extension in w by asking what the
people there saw as egg-shaped.¹⁶ If it is response-enabled, then those counteractual responses are irrelevant. Ovality is to be judged not by as-if actual observers,
but by actual actual observers. A thing in w is oval if it is of a shape that would
strike me as egg-shaped were I (with my sensibilities undisturbed) given a chance
to look at it.
This has consequences for what comes out analytic, or conceptually necessary.
Consider a world w about which all I’m going to tell you is that it contains
Figure 1. Is ‘oval’ true of this figure in w considered as actual? The answer is
clear. All we need do to determine that it is oval is look at the figure, and note
that it looks like that —the way that ovals are supposed to look.
Once again, I have not said anything about how observers in w see Figure 1.
Maybe there are no observers in w, or maybe there are, but they do not think
Figure 1 has the right sort of look. It doesn’t matter, for we evaluate the figure
with respect to our word ‘oval’, understood as we understand it. Our dispositions
figure crucially in that understanding, so they are part of what we (imaginatively)
bring to bear on the figure in w.
Now let’s bring in our conditional →, the conditional used to define conceptual necessity. Is it or is it not the case that w obtains → Figure 1 is oval?
Would Figure 1 have turned out still to be oval, had it turned out to be shaped
as shown? You bet it would. Whether an as-if actual figure is oval is completely
determined by its shape. Things could have turned out so that Figure 1 did
not look egg-shaped: we could have wound up with greater powers of visual
discrimination, and as a result been ‘bothered’ by departures from an egg’s precise
shape that, as we are, we find it easy to ignore.¹⁷ But Figure 1 would not in that
¹⁵ Peacocke (1989).
¹⁶ So-called rigidified response dependency is for our purposes a minor variant of the unrigidified
kind.
¹⁷ Suppose for argument’s sake that phenomenological similarity goes with the number of
jnd’s—just noticeable differences—separating one figure from another.
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2
1
−3
−2
−1
1
2
3
−1
−2
−3
Fig. 4.1. Could this shape have turned out not to be oval?
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FN:19
case have turned out not to be oval. One wants to say, rather, that ovals would
have turned out not to look the way they do look; ovals would have turned out
to lack the feature by which things are recognized as ovals.¹⁸
Suppose we do some measurements and determine that Figure 1 is defined (up
to congruence) by the equation (x 2 + y2 )2 − (x 2 − y2 ) = 5. Figures like that can
be called cassini-shaped, or, for short, cassinis. (Giovanni Cassini (1625–1712)
studied a class of figures of which this is one.¹⁹) ‘Cassini-shaped’ is an objective,
third-personal predicate applying to all and only figures with the geometrical
properties (that we all correctly take to be) exemplified by Figure 1.
Could things have turned out so that cassinis were not oval? If ovality in a
world is purely a function of shape, then the answer is no. ‘Cassinis are oval’ is
true in all worlds-taken-as-actual, which makes it (given our definition above)
conceptually necessary.
But, of course, it is very far from a priori that cassinis are oval. To determine
whether they are oval, you have to cast your eyes over (some of ) them, and see
how they look to you. There is no other way to do it. ‘Cassinis are oval’ is an
analytic (conceptually necessary) truth that we are in no position to know a priori.
¹⁸ I assume that the label ‘oval’ continues in the imagined case to be applied on the basis of
egg-looking-ness. Does the fact that different things turn out to look that way make us (in that case)
bad judges of ovality? Yes and no. Our counteractual responses are an excellent guide to what ‘oval’
would have turned out to mean. They are a bad guide, however, to what ‘oval’ does mean; they are
a bad guide to what is in fact oval.
¹⁹ The class of ‘Cassinian ovals’, although not all are really oval; indeed, not all are topologically
connected.
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1 6 . OT H E R I N T E N S I O N S
If every world w is such that its cassinis are (to us) eggish-looking, then ‘cassinis
are oval’ is analytic. Its meaning as encoded in our reactive dispositions guarantees
its truth. But this is a kind of analyticity that we would not expect to make
for apriority, because the route from understanding to extension and hence
truth-value is inescapably observational.
To put it the other way around, one can’t conclude from the fact that ‘cassinis
are oval’ fails to be a priori that there is a counteractual world some of whose
cassinis aren’t oval. The premise you need for that is that ‘cassinis are oval’ is not
analytic. But it is analytic. Given what the sentence means, it has got to be true.
Once again, the inference from (i) failure of apriority to (ii) a world that
‘witnesses’ the failure is crucial to modal rationalism. One might almost be
forgiven for thinking that the main thing people value in the doctrine is its ability
to deliver a counter-world. I assume, then, that modal rationalists would like,
if possible, to plug the gap that seems to have opened up between analyticity
(conceptual necessity) and apriority.
One approach harks back to the indicative account of truth in a counteractual
world. For S to hold in counteractual w is, on that account, for it to be the case
that if w obtains, then S. We rejected this account on the ground that it makes
every sentence conceptually contingent. (If ‘sibling’ means parent, then sisters
are not always siblings.) But, you may say, there is an obvious fix. It should be
not merely true but a priori that if w obtains, then S. It is not a priori that
if ‘sibling’ means parent, then sisters aren’t always siblings. So a world where
‘sibling’ means parent is not on the new definition a world where the problematic
sentence (some sisters are not siblings) holds.
Suppose we let S’s epistemic intension be the set of worlds such that it’s
a priori that if w obtains, then S. And suppose that conceptual necessity is
understood as necessity of the epistemic intension so defined. What happens to
the argument above that conceptual necessity is a kind of analyticity but not a
kind of apriority?
It might seem to fall apart. ‘Cassinis are oval’ may have a necessary primary
intension, but its epistemic intension is contingent. (It is not generally a priori
that if w obtains, then cassinis are oval; perhaps it is never a priori.) But then, if
conceptual necessity goes with the epistemic intension, ‘cassinis are oval’ is not
conceptually necessary. And so it no longer serves as a counter-example to the
idea that whatever is conceptually necessary is a priori.
This assumes, however, that intensions built on a priori indicatives avoid the
problems that were raised for intensions built on ordinary indicatives. Do they?
What does seem clear is that the old examples no longer work. But this is for a
correctable reason: namely, that sisters might, for all we know a priori, be one
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and all parents. It is a priori (let’s assume) that sisters (if there are any) are not
numbers. And so it is a priori too that if ‘sibling’ means number, then sisters (if
there are any) are not siblings.
I have said that if ‘sibling’ means number, then sisters aren’t siblings. Suppose
that claim was based on empirical evidence. What would the evidence be? The
only empirical fact in the neighborhood would seem to be this: ‘sibling’ does
not in fact mean number. Call that the actual-meaning fact. Does it form part
of my justification for believing that if ‘sibling’ means number, then sisters
aren’t siblings?
If it does form part of my justification, then should I forget ‘sibling’ ’s meaning,
or come to hold an erroneous view of it, my justification would be compromised.
Say I fall under the impression that ‘sibling’ does mean number. Have I now lost
my grounds for thinking that if it means number, then sisters aren’t siblings?
Surely not. My reasons for thinking that if ‘sibling’ means number, sisters are not
siblings, are just the same whether I believe the antecedent or not. How could
forgetting what ‘sibling’ does mean compromise my ability to make inferences
from a certain hypothesis about its meaning?²⁰
Where does this leave us? If my belief in the conditional is a priori, then there
is a world that is not in the epistemic intension of ‘sisters have siblings’. The
same argument shows that no statement S, however a priori in appearance, has
a necessary epistemic intension. I conclude that the a priori indicative strategy
is no great advance over the plain indicative strategy. Both have the same basic
problem: they make all intensions contingent, and so drain the class of conceptual
necessities of all its members.
It might be held that the problem is not with the aprioritizing as such, but
with the type of conditional aprioritized. A second option is to call S true in
w-considered-as-actual iff it holds a priori that (w obtains → S)—it holds a
priori that it would have turned out that S, had w turned out to be actual. The
intensions that result can be called priory intensions. If conceptual necessity is
necessity of the priory intension, maybe the inference to a counter-world can be
saved. Certainly it isn’t refuted by the cassini example; for although ‘cassinis are
oval’ has a necessary primary intension, its priory intension is not necessary. (You
²⁰ This is intuitive on its face, but it can also be argued for in the following way. It’s agreed
that I know that if ‘sibling’ means number, then sisters aren’t siblings. The question is whether my
justification is a posteriori, because based on the actual-meaning fact. If it is, then I lack the
knowledge we’ve just agreed I have. Here is why. You are not said to know that if A, then B unless
you know something from which B can be inferred, should it be discovered that A. Your justification
for the conditional should therefore be ‘robust’ with respect to A: it should be such as to stay in
place should one come to believe that A. (See Jackson 1979.) Your justification would not be robust
if the conditional were based on ¬A. Conclusion: you don’t know that if A, then B if your belief is
based on the premise that ¬A. Since I do know that if ‘sibling’ means number, then sisters are not
siblings, my belief is not based on the premise that ‘sibling’ does not mean number. But that is just
to say that my belief is not based on the actual-meaning fact. If it is not based on that, then it is not
based on any empirical evidence.
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need experience to establish that, had it turned out that w, it would have turned
out that cassinis are oval.)
The priory intension is more than unnecessary, however. One can never tell a
priori whether cassinis would have turned out to be oval, had it turned out that
w. (I ignore the case where there are no cassinis.) ‘Cassinis are oval’ has, therefore,
nothing in its priory intension. The same goes for ‘cassinis are not oval’. It goes
in fact for most sentences whose predicates express response-enabled concepts. If
one can’t determine a priori whether a counteractual object is P, then that object
can’t be put into P’s priory intension, or ¬P’s either. If the priory intensions of
P and its negation are empty, then so in all likelihood are the priory intensions
of sentences built on P.
Concepts like oval are not well-represented by their priory intensions. Still,
you might say, why should that matter? The point of priory intensions is to
predict epistemic status: if S fails to be a priori, there should be a world that
is not in its priory intension. Why should the modal rationalist want any
more?
One can see why more is wanted by considering the modal rationalist’s refutation of physicalism. How does that argument go, with intensions understood as
priory? First premise: it is not a priori that if , then . Second premise:
if it is not a priori that if , then , then there are worlds that are not
in that conditional’s priory intension. Third premise: worlds not in that priory
intension are zombie worlds—worlds physically like ours in which no one feels
pain. Conclusion: there are zombie worlds.
The argument needs priory intensions to be like primary intensions in a certain
respect. If PIs are primary intensions, then worlds that are not in a sentence’s
PI are worlds in which S is false. Does the same hold for priory intensions? It
doesn’t. If PIs are priory intensions, all we can say is that there is a w such that
it fails to be a priori that it would have turned out that S, had it turned out that
w. It might still be true that it would have turned out that S! There might be no
way for it to turn out that without its also turning out that .
I present this as a problem for priory intensions, but epistemic intensions are
every bit as vulnerable to it. That there are worlds lying outside S’s epistemic
intension does not show that there are worlds in which S is false, but only that
you can’t always get to S a priori. (The response will come that that is enough,
since any S which cannot be verified by a priori means can be falsified by a priori
means. But we have examples to the contrary, such as ‘this equation describes an
oval’.) I don’t think that anything is gained, then, by switching to an aprioritized
notion of truth at a world. The balloon just bulges in a different place. Yes, there
is a world outside the intension, but there is no reason to think that it falsifies
S, as opposed to just failing to a priori verify it. Better to stick with primary
intensions as defined above. S is conceptually necessary iff it holds however things
turn out.
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1 7 . G R A S PI N G M E A N I N G
Why expect an analytic (conceptually necessary) sentence to be knowable a priori?
Why expect a sentence whose meaning guarantees that it is true to have the
further property that we can see that the sentence is true just from our grasp of its
meaning? There might be ways of grasping meaning that do not tell us outright
whether S is true if w, but only how to work out whether S is true if w. If S’s
meaning is grasped like that, then its not being a priori that S does not establish
the existence of a falsifying world. The sentence might be (like ‘this equation
describes on oval’) a posteriori but true in every world considered as actual.
an
The only way out is to maintain that the indicated kind of grasp is not possible.
One will have to maintain that grasp of meaning always takes a certain form,
a form that discloses to the grasper whether the meaning is truth-guaranteeing.
If all I can do is work out whether w → S, then I don’t understand S. To
already understand, I have to know that w → S.
Say that my understanding of S is rationalistic if it consists in whole or part of
already my knowing the conditionals. The road from analyticity to apriority would be a
lot smoother if all understanding was rationalistic.
On what basis, though, can other forms of understanding be ruled out? What
is the problem with grasping a word’s meaning other than rationalistically? The
closest thing I’ve found to an explicit discussion is Chalmers’s reply to Loar in
The Conscious Mind (1996).
Summarizing greatly, Loar (1990) thinks that pain is a recognitional concept²¹
FN:21
and that C-fiber firings is a theoretical concept, and that that is enough to make
them cognitively distinct. Their distinctness notwithstanding, ‘it is reasonable to
expect a recognitional concept R to ‘‘introduce’’ the same property as a theoretical
[concept] P’. So we cannot conclude from the non-apriority of ‘C-fiber firings are
pains’ that C-fiber firings aren’t pains. The failure of apriority might be because
pain is recognitional and C-fiber firings isn’t. If their a priori inequivalence is
explained thus, then there is nothing to stop them from co-referring. These are fine
things to claim, Chalmers says, but it is not clear that they can all be reconciled.
[Loar] gives the example of someone who is able to recognize certain cacti in the California
desert without having theoretical knowledge about them. But this seems wrong: if the
subject cannot know that R is P a priori, then reference to R and P is fixed in different
ways and the reference-fixing intensions can come apart in certain conceivable situations.
(Chalmers 1996: 373)
This might seem to be based on a misunderstanding. Observational concepts
(of which recognitional concepts are a subtype) do not have their reference fixed
²¹ This section is sloppy about recognitional versus observational, and also about Loarrecognitional versus recognitional in our sense.
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in any epistemically available way; hence they do not have it fixed in a different
way than holds for theoretical concepts.
What can Chalmers be thinking, then? He knows that Loar says that ‘recognitional concepts refer ‘‘directly’’ . . . without the aid of reference-fixing properties’
(1996: 373). He just thinks Loar is wrong about this. ‘The very fact that a
concept could refer to something else (a different set of cacti, say) shows that a
substantial primary intension is involved’ (1996: 373).
But, Loar can concede a substantial primary intension. The directness he is
talking about is epistemic; one doesn’t (and couldn’t) infer that the cactus is R
from its lower-level properties. A substantial primary intension is at odds only
with semantic directness, as I now explain.
Fact: R applies to these things and not those. Why? What explains the
differential treatment? If the question has an answer, as let’s assume it does, it
will be a truth of the form: R applies to x if and only if x is so-and-so. Consider
this property of being so-and-so. It might be considered a reference-fixer for R;
like a reference-fixer, it tells you how a thing has to be for R to refer to it. Oval
too has a reference-fixer in this sense. Whether a figure is oval is not a brute fact
about it, but depends on its shape.
A reference-fixer in the theoretical sense is a statement of the qualifications for
being referred to by R, as these might be judged by a (smart enough) semantic
theorist. A reference-fixer in the ordinary sense, though, is a statement of the
qualifications for being referred to by R, as these might be explained by a (smart
enough) user of the concept, trying to enumerate the factors she takes to make
R applicable.
The claim about recognitional concepts is that they lack ordinary referencefixers. Speakers do not apply oval on the basis of a condition that they know
(even implicitly) that sums up the requisite features. Speakers do not know any
conditions like that. They do not know any conditions that get the extension
right no matter what. The condition that comes closest is looks egg-shaped. But,
as we have seen, things could have turned out so that some bona fide oval had
the wrong looks, and/or a non-oval had the right looks. I know an oval when I
see one, and that seems to be enough.
Chalmers is right about one thing: it would be a mistake to deny recognitional
concepts reference-fixers in the theoretical sense. That would be to deny that a
thing’s status as oval was a function of its lower-level properties. But if the claim
is that recognitional concepts lack reference-fixers in the ordinary sense, then it
would seem to be true. Speakers don’t (and often can’t) determine extensions a
priori by asking what has the R-making properties.
How does all this bear on the issue that Loar and Chalmers are primarily
interested in: the issue of physicalism? Chalmers, you will recall, argues as follows.
It is not a priori that if , then ; so the primary intension cannot
contain every world; so there are worlds physically like this one in which pain is
lacking, so physicalism is false.
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The problem is (once again) with the inference from not a priori to less than
full primary intension. With certain concepts the link between apriority and
primary necessity breaks down. And the way it breaks down gives the physicalist
an opening. She can say this: Pain (like oval) is a grokking, or observational,
concept. That being so, whether an objectively described state is a case of pain
cannot be determined just by rational reflection. One has to ‘sample’ the state by
experiencing it from the right sort of first-personal perspective.
Two consequences should be noted. First, suppose there were a world w
physically like ours but without pain. That world would do nothing to explain
the non-apriority of ‘if , then ’; or rather, it would do nothing that
couldn’t be done just as well by a world with pain. For w to help, our intuition of
non-apriority would have to be owing to our awareness of w. But the relevant fact
about w (that it lacks pain) is not available to us as students of its microphysical
description. Just as you can’t tell whether w has ovals except by sampling its
shapes, so you can’t tell whether it has pain except by sampling its brain states.
Second, not only is a world like w of no particular help in explaining the
failure of apriority, it isn’t needed. Suppose that v is a world just like ours in
every physical respect. The question of whether there is (say) pain in v is the
question of whether there is anything there that hurts if sampled in the right
sort of first-personal way. Whether a state hurts when sampled by someone in
the state is not the kind of thing that can be decided from the armchair. If we
are trying to explain why doesn’t a priori entail , a world whose
zombieness can’t be a priori ruled out works just as well as a true zombie world
would.
1 8 . EVA LUAT I V E P R E D I C AT E S
Our grasp of a concept is rationalistic if it consists in whole or in part of a
certain kind of knowledge: knowledge of conditionals of the form w obtains →
x, y, z, . . . are the Cs. Suppose that your conditionals put x, y, z, . . . into a
concept’s extension in w, while mine count x, y, z, . . . out. Then, by Leibniz’s
Law, your concept and mine are not the same. A single concept cannot have
conflicting extensions in the same world.
Now, in some cases, it seems quite right that disagreements about what goes
into the extension should make for differences in the identity of the concept. If
you and I can’t agree about whether to call a certain almost-round figure oval,
and this is not because of misinformation, error, or oversight on either side, then
probably we have different concepts; probably we mean slightly different things
by the word. There is no question of trying to work out who is really correct,
because our beliefs are not really in conflict.
Similarly, if we can’t agree about whether recently widowed 98-year-old males
are bachelors, and not because either of us is misinformed or confused, then
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probably we mean slightly different things by ‘bachelor’. There is no question of
trying to work out who is really right, because we aren’t really disagreeing.
A phrase sometimes used for concepts of this kind is intolerant of brute
disagreement; if we have the same concept, we should not ‘brutely disagree’
about what falls under it. Are all concepts like that? Imagine that we disagree
about whether it was wrong of Smith to tell a lie in hopes of saving his child
embarrassment. The disagreement can’t be traced back to differences in factual
information, or miscalculation or oversight on either side. Does this show that
we mean different things by ‘wrong’?
The usual view is that it doesn’t. People who disagree about the extension
of ‘wrong’ (and where the disagreement does not trace back to . . .) do not
necessarily mean different things by the word. Likewise for disputes about what
is beautiful or fitting or reasonable. You will get people angry if you brand these
disputes ‘merely verbal’, just because you can’t see any good way to bring the
two parties into line. Some concepts, then, are tolerant of brute disagreement.
A lot of philosophers would claim something even stronger. So far is the
meaning of ‘right’ from dictating a particular view of its extension that it
positively rejects the notion that such dictation is possible. If I try to represent
your side of a moral controversy as based in a misunderstanding of ‘right’, then
I am the one who misunderstands. Questions of rightness are supposed to be
contestable in the (rather minimal) sense that someone who brutely disagrees
with you can’t be charged on that basis alone with meaning something different
by ‘right’. Some concepts, then, seem to be intolerant of intolerance of brute
disagreement.
How do we grasp the meaning of ‘right’? If our grasp is rationalistic, then
(assuming we mean the same by ‘right’) all of us know the same conditionals
w obtains → x, y, z, . . . are right and other things aren’t. Someone operating with
different conditionals attaches a different meaning to the word. In that case,
though, the concept is intolerant of brute disagreement. And our concept of
rightness is, on the contrary, intolerant of such intolerance.
That is one argument for the conclusion that we do not grasp evaluative
concepts in a purely rationalistic way. Here is another. Recall a well-known puzzle
about right and wrong. On the one hand, you can’t derive an ought from an is. ‘If
N then M’, where N is descriptive and M is evaluative, cannot be known a priori.
On the other hand, it does seem to be a priori that the evaluative facts are fixed by
the descriptive ones. There is a tension here; we have trouble seeing how the two
claims are supposed to hang together. But we do not get an outright contradiction
unless it is supposed that our grasp of evaluative concepts is rationalistic.
Assume with the rationalist that if it is not a priori that S, then there’s a
counteractual w such that ¬S. Then, from the fact that N does not a priori entail
M, we can infer the existence of a u such that u obtains → (N & ¬M ). Since
it’s also not a priori that if N, then ¬M, there should be a world v such that
v → (N & M). But if N is descriptively complete (as we are free to suppose),
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then these two worlds taken together constitute a counter-example to the thesis
that there can be no moral differences without underlying descriptive differences.
It could be objected that all u and v directly show is that things could have
turned out so that N & M, and they could have turned out so that N & ¬M.
To get to ♦ (N & M) and ♦(N & ¬M), one needs to assume that M does not
change in broad content between u and v. But that is a fair assumption, for the
facts relevant to reference determination are descriptive facts, and these are the
same in both worlds. Hence we can argue as follows:
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
It is not a priori that if N, then M, or that if N, then ¬M.
If it is not a priori that S, then there’s a w such that w → ¬S.
There are u and v such that u → (N & ¬M ) and v → (N & M ).
M does not change in broad content between u and v.
♦ (N & M) and ♦(N & ¬M).
But (5) is an a priori falsehood. Somewhere or other a big meta-ethical mistake
has been made.
I claim that the puzzle has nothing essentially to do with ethics. Consider the
conditionals, ‘if x is cassini-shaped, then it is oval’, and ‘if x is cassini-shaped,
then it is not oval’. Neither is knowable a priori. Shouldn’t there then be a pair of
worlds u, v, exactly the same in geometrical respects but such that u → cassinis
are oval, while v → cassinis are not oval? These worlds threaten to show that
there can be differences in respect of ovality without underlying geometrical
differences.
Where the ovality argument goes wrong is easy to see. The problem is (2).
You can’t get a world where cassinis are not oval out of the fact that it’s not a
priori that they are oval. If our grasp of ovality were purely rationalistic, then the
failure of apriority would call for a counter-world. But it isn’t, so it doesn’t.
The morality puzzle can be pinned on the same mistake. You can’t get a world
where N and ¬M out of the fact that it’s not a priori that if N, then M. It would
be different if our grasp of rightness were rationalistic; then we would have a
genuine paradox on our hands. I conclude that it isn’t rationalistic. A similar
argument can be given for other evaluative concepts. None, I claim, are grasped
rationalistically. None are grasped in what modal rationalists consider to be the
one way in which a concept can be grasped.
1 9 . T H E O R E T I C A L P R E D I C AT E S
Consider, finally, theoretical predicates: acid, energy, force, mass, species, cause,
mereological sum, essential nature. What can be said about our understanding
of these? Do we understand ‘energy’ by knowing a lot of conditionals of the
form ‘had it turned out that w, such-and-such would have turned out to be the
energy’?
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Here are two arguments to the contrary, both harking back to the discussion
of evaluative predicates. Suppose that we do (qua understanders of ‘energy’, etc.)
know all these conditionals—that our concept of energy not only fixes, for each
possible scenario, but discloses to us, for each of these scenarios, where the energy
is to be found. How is it, then, that you and I continue to disagree about where
the energy is to be found? (You say there is energy stored up in the curvature of
space, while I deny it.) After all, there is a conditional known to both of us (as
understanders of ‘energy’) that decides the matter. The explanation must lie in
one of two places. It must be that
(i) someone is misconstruing the lower-level facts, and so picking the wrong
conditional,
or:
(ii) someone is misconstruing their own mental states, specifically, the belief
with that conditional as its content.
Whichever of these applies, our disagreement has the character of a misunderstanding. One or the other of us is laboring under a misimpression, and will (or
should) change his or her tune when the mistake is pointed out. Of course, there
is always the possibility that we associate different conditionals with ‘energy’. In
that case, though, we are not disagreeing at all; we mean different things by
the word, so are talking past each other. None of the three scenarios allows for
substantive disputes. Someone has made a mistake of type (i) or (ii), or else we
are arguing over words.
This is almost as hard to accept here as it was in the evaluative case.
Some disagreements are merely verbal, and some are based in correctable false
impressions. The usual view, though, is that there’s third category: honest-to-God
conflicts about what it is reasonable to believe, between people in command of
the same lower-level facts. The effect of the rationalistic theory of grasp is to
eliminate this third category.
The extension of ‘energy’ in a world is a function of what the correct
scientific theory is. To find that theory, one must appeal at some point to
considerations of naturalness, simplicity, nonarbitrariness, and the like—in a
word, to considerations of reasonableness. (The positivists were the last to seriously
question this.) Reasonableness is an evaluative concept and, as such, responseenabled. You can’t hand responsibility over to ‘rules of reasonableness’; there are
no such rules, or at any rate not enough of them. You have to let yourself be led
to some extent by your gut.
There are places where Chalmers sounds this theme himself. Figuring a
concept’s extension, he says, is not just grinding out conclusions. Judgment and
discretion may be called for:
the decision about what a concept refers to in the actual world [may] involve [ ] a large
amount of reflection about what is the most reasonable thing to say; as, for example, with
a
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questions about the reference of ‘mass’ when the actual world turned out to be one in
which general relativity is true, or perhaps with questions about what qualifies as ‘belief ’
in the actual world. Consideration of just what the primary intension picks out in various
actual-world candidates may involve a corresponding amount of reflection. But this is
not to say that the matter is not a priori: we have the ability to engage in this reasoning
independently of how the world turns out. (1996: 58)
FN:22
I suppose that we do have this ability. We can ask ourselves what is the most
reasonable thing to say on various hypotheses about how the world turns out.
It is not clear, though, how that argues for the matter’s being a priori. We can
also ask ourselves where the ovals are on various hypotheses about how the world
turns out. Our conclusions in the second case aren’t a priori, so why should they
be a priori in the first?
If the oval example shows anything, it’s that the move from ‘we can tell
independently of how things turn out’ to ‘we can tell a priori’ is a non sequitur.
For ‘we can tell independently’ may just mean that we can stage simulated
confrontations with nature on various hypotheses about the form nature takes.
It may not be obvious that searchers after the most reasonable hypothesis are
doing this. But it seems to me that they are. Judgments of reasonableness and
plausibility are arrived at by exercising a type of sensibility.
To be sure, the sensibility involved is not a perceptual one. And there seems less
cause for worry about simulated plausibility judgments being a bad guide to real
such judgments.²² But the fact that sensibility is required should still give pause.
It means that if you and I disagree about a sentence’s truth-value in w, there may
be no more we can say to each other than ‘I find your position unreasonable’. The
claim that everything but consciousness is a priori entailed by physics thus comes
down to this: if two people disagree about a sentence’s truth-value in w, each will
find his or her own position to be the more reasonable one, unless the sentence is
about consciousness, in which case each side concedes the rational defensibility
of the other. Even if this were true, it is hard to see an argument for metaphysical
dualism in it. And it is not true; the zombie hypothesis is much less reasonable
than the hypothesis that what people seem to be feeling, they are feeling.
2 0 . LO G I C A L E M PI R I C I S M A N D M O D A L R AT I O N A L I S M
There were two dogmas of empiricism. One was the analytic/synthetic distinction.
The other was ‘semantic reductionism’—the idea that each statement is linked
²² The moral case is arguably intermediate in these respects. Sensitivity to the moral aspects of
things has often been likened to good vision or a keen sense of smell. And our horror at an observed
case of, say, euthanasia or abortion may catch us by surprise, given our approving reaction to the
imagined case. (Why else would right-to-lifers work so hard at getting us to look at what is being
done?)
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by fixed correspondence rules to a determinate range of confirming observations.
Quine held that the two dogmas are ‘at bottom the same’. For the correspondence
rules are in a sense analytic. They give the sentence its meaning, so cannot
fail as long as that meaning holds fixed. The dogmas are at least notionally
different, though, and my focus will be on the second: the conception of
correspondence rules as analytic, and therefore a priori. Although I will follow
Quine in speaking mostly of analyticity, it is the apriority that is my real
concern.
How is a modal rationalist like a logical empiricist? They seem initially very
different. The empiricist has analytic correspondence rules connecting theory to
experience. Modal rationalists aren’t proposing anything like that. Yes, people
have to be able to tell a priori whether S is true in a presented world. Gone,
though, is any thought of that world being presented in experiential terms. There
is no case, then, for a charge of phenomenalistic reductionism.
If one looks, though, at Carnap’s writings on protocol sentences, it turns out
that his sort of reductionism did not have to be terribly experiential either. Under phenomenalistic
the influence of Neurath, Carnap thinks that it is somewhat of an open question
which sentences ought to be counted as protocols. Sometimes a protocol sentence
is said to be any sentence ‘belonging to the physicalistic system-language’ which
we are prepared to accept without further tests.²³ Often it is said to be a matter
of convention which sentences will count as protocols. The important point for
us is that Carnap thinks there are a priori rules connecting theoretical statements
with protocols, whatever protocols turn out to be.
Another seeming difference emerges from Quine’s complaint that Carnap overlooks the ‘holistic nature of confirmation’. The complaint might be understood
like this: One never knows whether S is really correct until all the observational
evidence is in. Hence any rules portraying S as verifiable on the basis of limited
courses of experience—courses of experience small enough to be enjoyable by
particular observers—would be untrue to the way in which confirmation actually
works.
This complaint the rationalist can rightly claim to have answered. He never represents partial information as enough to ensure that S; the rules he
contemplates take as input complete information:
[Quine says that] purported conceptual truths are always subject to revision in the face
of sufficient empirical evidence. For instance, if evidence forces us to revise various
background statements in a theory it is possible that a statement that once appeared to be
conceptually true might turn out to be false.
This is so for many purported conceptual truths, but it does not apply to the
supervenience conditionals that we are considering, which have the form ‘If the low-level
facts turn out like this, then the high-level facts will be like that’. The facts specified in the
antecedent of this conditional effectively include all relevant empirical factors. . . . The
²³ Ayer (1959: 237).
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very comprehensiveness of the antecedent ensures that empirical evidence is irrelevant to
the conditional’s truth-value. (Chalmers 1996: 55)
This is a good answer as far as it goes. But there are aspects of Quine’s critique
that it does not address. Quine says that
the dogma of reductionism survives in the supposition that each statement, taken
in isolation from its fellows, can admit of confirmation or infirmation at all. My
countersuggestion, issuing essentially from Carnap’s doctrine of the physical world in
the Aufbau, is that our statements about the external world face the tribunal of sense
experience not individually but only as a corporate body. (1961: 41 in rpt.)
The problem here is not that S’s confirmational status is underdetermined
until all the empirical evidence is in. The problem is that S’s confirmational
status is not fully determined even by the full corpus E of empirical evidence.
The degree to which E confirms S, Quine thinks, is tied up with the extent to
which E or aspects of E are deducible from S. But nothing of an observational
nature is deducible from S except with the help of a background theory T. Hence
the degree of support that E lends to S depends on which background theory
we use.
This complaint would be easily evadable if there were an analytically guaranteed
fact of the matter about which theory E selects for. One could simply ask whether
E supports S relative to the E-preferred theory, whatever it might be.
One has to assume, then, that this is what Quine is really concerned to
deny. He denies that there are analytic connections between total corpuses E
of empirical evidence and theories T of nature. Without these, there can be no
analytic connections between E and particular statements S. A number of things
suggest that analytic confirmation relations are indeed the target:
• Q1
that
I am impressed, apart from prefabricated examples of black and white balls in an urn,
with how baffling the problem has always been of arriving at any explicit theory of the
empirical confirmation of a synthetic statement. (Quine •1961: 49 in rpt.)
This could be taken to mean just that the sought-after theory of confirmation
would have to be very complicated. But Quine has something different in mind.
He is aware, after all, of Carnap’s attempts to work out a logic of confirmation
which would tell us what to believe on the basis of given evidence. He is aware,
too, that the attempt failed even for the simplest sort of examples. Carnap came
up with a whole array of confirmation functions, none of them looking a priori
better than the rest.
Where does this leave us? One problem with analytic confirmation relations concerns total evidence. This the rationalist has addressed. But there’s
a second problem: ‘total science, mathematical and natural and human, is
underdetermined by experience’ (Quine 1951: 45 in rpt.). The version of underdetermination Quine needs is really a rather mild one. He needn’t deny that there
is an objectively best theory relative to a given body of evidence. He needn’t even
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deny that there’s a single most rational theory to adopt. All he need claim is that
the choice between theories compatible with the evidence cannot be based just
on our grasp of meaning. It ‘turns on our vaguely pragmatic inclination to adjust
one strand of the fabric of science rather than another. Conservatism figures in
such choices, and so does the quest for simplicity’ (Quine 1951: 49 in rpt.).
This can be reconciled with the analytic view of confirmation relations only
by supposing that my grasp of the language tells me how conservative I should
be, and how important simplicity is, and how these sorts of desiderata trade
off against one another. If two scientists judged the trade-offs differently, at
most one could be considered to be speaking correctly—that is, in accordance
with the meanings of her words. That, however, is not how the science game is
played.
The interesting thing is that Carnap agrees that it’s not how the science game
is played. His goal, as he usually describes it, is not to uncover the true nature of
meaning, but to give us tools for making our discursive practice more rational
and efficient. He thinks that disputants should pick a common framework and
then resolve their disagreements by reference to its assertion rules:
it is preferable to formulate the principle of empiricism not in the form of an
assertion . . . but rather in the form of a proposal or requirement. As empiricists we
require the language of science to be restricted in a certain way. (Carnap 1936–7:
sect. 27)
Based on passages like this, one recent commentator has summarized the view
as follows:
Criticisms of the meaning/belief distinction rest on the lack of a principled criterion
for [semanticality]—no empirical method can be found for making it. However, for
Carnap, such a distinction is to be reached by agreement in a conflict situation. Maximize
agreement on framework issues and situate disagreement on either empirically answerable
problems or on questions of a pragmatic nature about the framework. (O’Grady
1999: 1026)
One can argue about whether this would really be helpful. All I am saying right
now is that not even Carnap believes that it is how we really operate: that our
actual practice lends itself to a distinction between semantic factors in assertion
and doxastic ones.
Is there anyone who does believe that this is how we operate? The modal
rationalist does, or at least, such a view is not far from the surface. We are told
that grasp of S’s meaning, or at least the kind of grasp you need to count as
understanding S, is knowing which worlds w are such that had this turned out to
be w, it would have turned out that S. This applies not just to observation-level
statements, but to theoretical statements as well. It is part and parcel of knowing
T’s meaning to know what the world would have had to be like for it to be the
case that T. And that is not obviously different from Carnap’s idea of analytic
confirmation rules.
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I say ‘not obviously different’, because there may be room for maneuver
on the issue of what is involved in ‘knowing which worlds are S-worlds’.
I have been assuming that worlds are given in ‘lower-level’ terms, whatever
exactly that might mean. What if worlds are described more fully than that,
perhaps as fully as possible? There would be no need to infer that theory T
applied; it would be given that it applied in the world’s initial presentation.
This seems tantamount to saying that one knows the S-worlds as, well, the
S-worlds, or the worlds such that if they turned out actual, it would turn out
that S.
But, if a ‘homophonic’ grasp of the set of verifying worlds were all one needed,
then there would be no reason to expect a sentence to be knowable a priori just
because its primary intension contained all worlds.
This is clear from Chalmers’s discussion of physicalism. Consider again the
conditional ‘if , then ’. It is claimed that the only way for this to be
non-a priori is for there to be worlds not in its primary intension: there have got
to be zombie worlds. If our grasp of primary intensions was homophonic, the
failure of apriority would present no puzzle, hence no puzzle to which zombie
worlds might be offered as a solution. The reason I don’t know a priori that if
, then is that I can’t tell a priori whether the primary intension of
‘if , then ’ contains all worlds. I can’t tell that because I can’t tell a
priori whether the worlds are a subset of the worlds. If they are a
subset, there is no puzzle as to why the understander doesn’t realize it, because it
is assumed from the outset that worlds are, for all she knows a priori,
worlds without .
How, then, are worlds presented to the meaning-grasper? She must be able
to pick out the S-worlds on the basis of their ground-level properties. ‘If the
low-level facts turn out like this, then the high-level facts will be like that’
(Chalmers 1996: 55). These conditionals are thought to be analytic; indeed, they
are true in virtue of the aspect of meaning to which we have a priori access.
This is why I say that modal rationalists are committed to something like the
analytic confirmation relations advocated by Carnap and rejected by Quine.
The rationalist who wants to escape Quine’s criticisms has got to (a) show that
the criticisms don’t work even against logical empiricism; (b) show that the cases
are relevantly different.
To accomplish (a) would be to find a mistake in Quine’s reasoning. Maybe,
for example, it’s just untrue that theory is underdetermined by evidence. To
accomplish (b) would be to show that what the modal rationalist says is different
enough from what the logical empiricist says that the Quinean critique doesn’t
generalize. Maybe, for example, the lower-level facts on the basis of which we
can tell a priori whether S are quite unlike the ‘empirical’ facts on the basis of
which we can’t tell a priori whether S. I won’t pursue the matter any further here,
but I suspect that the prospects for doing either of these things are not terribly
good.
had
held
have turned
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2 1 . D I G R E S S I O N : I M AG I N AT I V E R E S I S TA N C E
FN:24
FN:25
Hume, in ‘The Standard of Taste’, points out something surprising about our
reactions to imagined circumstances. Reading a story according to which S, I try
to imagine myself in a situation where S really holds. The surprising thing is that
we can do this quite easily if S is contrary to descriptive fact, but have a great
deal of trouble if S is contrary to evaluative fact. Reading that Franco drank from
the Fountain of Youth and was made young again, you don’t blink twice. But
reading that it was good that little Billy was starved to death since he had, after
all, forgotten to feed the dog, you want to say, ‘it was not good, I won’t go along’.
Call that imaginative resistance.²⁴ Why does it happen? A number of explanations have been tried. Do we resist because what we’re asked to imagine is
conceptually false? No, because (i) counter-moral hypotheses are not conceptually false (remember essential contestability), and (ii) lots of conceptually false
scenarios are not resisted (as readers of Calvino and Borges will attest).
Do we resist because what we’re asked to imagine is morally repugnant? No,
because we balk at aesthetic misinformation as well. ‘All eyes were on the twin
Chevy 4 × 4’s as they pushed purposefully through the mud. Expectations were
high; last year’s blood bath death match of doom had been exhilarating and
profound, and this year’s promised to be even better. The crowd went quiet as
special musical guests ZZ Top began to lay down their sonorous rhythms. The
scene was marred only by the awkwardly setting sun.’ Reading this, one thinks, ‘If
the author wants to stage a monster truck rally at sunset, that’s up to her. But the
sunset’s aesthetic properties are not up to her; nor are we willing to take her word
for it that last year’s blood bath death match of doom was a thing of beauty.’²⁵
Do we resist because the scenario is repugnant along some evaluative dimension
or other? No, because it is not only evaluative suggestions that are resisted. You
open a children’s book and read as follows: ‘They flopped down beneath the
great maple. One more item to find, and yet the game seemed lost. Hang on,
Sally said. It’s staring us in the face. This is a maple tree we’re under. She grabbed
a five-fingered leaf. Here was the oval they needed! They ran off to claim their
prize.’ Reading this one thinks, ‘If the author wants it to be a maple leaf, that’s
her prerogative. But the leaf’s physical properties having been settled, whether it
is oval is not up to her. She can, perhaps, arrange for it not to have the expected
mapley shape. But if it does have the expected shape, then there is not a whole
lot she can do to get us to imagine it as oval.’
Imaginative resistance arises not only with evaluative predicates, but also with
(certain) descriptive ones: ‘oval’, ‘aquiline’, ‘jagged’, ‘smooth’, ‘lilting’. What
²⁴ On imaginative resistance, see Gendler (2000), Moran (1989), and Walton (1994).
She knows this, moreover. Why make a suggestion you know will not be accepted? There
might be any number of reasons, but most likely she is just pulling our leg.
The author ²⁵
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do these predicates have in common? P makes for imaginative resistance if,
and because, the concept it expresses is of the type I have called ‘grokking’, or
response-enabled.
Why should resistance and grokkingness be connected in this way? It’s a feature
of grokking concepts that their extension in a situation depends on how the
situation does or would strike us.²⁶ ‘Does or would strike us’ as we are: how we are
represented as reacting, or invited to react, has nothing to do with it. Resistance is
the natural consequence. If we insist on judging the extension ourselves, it stands
to reason that any seeming intelligence coming from elsewhere is automatically
suspect. This applies in particular to being ‘told’ about the extension by an as-if
knowledgeable narrator.
2 2 . ( C O N C E P T UA L LY ) C O N T I N G E N T A P R I O R I
I have called a lot of claims a priori. But not much has been done to explicate
the notion; the focus has been more on conceptual necessity. I doubt that it is
possible to explain apriority in all its guises with the materials at hand. But I’ll
try in the next few sections to clarify a particular type of apriority as far as I can.
(Nothing argued so far depends on what is coming next.)
‘Water contains hydrogen’ is touted in Naming and Necessity as an example
of an a posteriori metaphysical necessity. ‘Cassinis are oval’ has been touted here
as an example of an a posteriori conceptual necessity. A posteriori conceptual
necessities are the counterpart in our system of the a posteriori metaphysical
necessities that Kripke emphasized.
One might wonder whether we have anything to correspond to Kripke’s other
famous category: the category of a priori but (metaphysically) contingent truths
like ‘Neptune is the planet if any responsible for . . .’.
I suggested above that ‘unless we are greatly misled about the circumstances of
perception, a figure is oval iff it looks egg-shaped’ was a priori, or close enough
for present purposes. But of course things could have turned out so that we were
unable to see eggs in oval figures. Things could have turned out so that we never
saw anything as egg-shaped.
Had things turned out so that nothing looked egg-shaped, would the world
have turned out to be oval-free? The answer seems clear. How we see things is
irrelevant to how they are shaped. It would have turned out that there were ovals
which, however, did not look the way ovals are supposed to look.
I make no prediction about what we would have said. It may be that we
would have said ‘there are no ovals’. That is irrelevant unless the meaning that
‘oval’ would have turned out to have in that circumstance is the meaning it has
²⁶ I assume that fictional situations are presented as counteractual, not counterfactual. One is to
think of them as really happening.
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actually. And it seems clear that the meanings are different. If people say ‘there
are no ovals’ in a world geometrically just like ours, they do not mean the same
thing by ‘oval’ as we do.
‘Unless . . ., a figure is oval iff it looks egg-shaped’ is an a priori but conceptually
contingent truth. It could have turned out that we were not prone to see ovals
as egg-shaped, perhaps because we were not prone to see anything as eggshaped. And, approaching it from the other end, it could have turned out that
almost-circular figures looked to us egg-shaped, despite not being oval.
This seems at first puzzling: how can it be a priori that ‘oval iff looks eggshaped’ when it could have turned out otherwise? One has to remember that the
scenario where it turns out otherwise is also a scenario where it turns out that
‘oval’ doesn’t mean what we all know it does mean. A scenario in which ‘oval’
changes meaning can no more stop ‘oval iff looks egg-shaped’ from being a priori
than one in which ‘=’ means nonidentity can stop ‘Phosphorus = Phosphorus’
from being a priori.
2 3 . A P R I O R I T Y V E R S U S C O N C E P T UA L N E C E S S I T Y
I said that ‘oval’ could have turned out not to mean what we all know it does
mean. What we all know it does mean is oval. So I could equally have said that
it could have turned out that ‘oval’ did not mean oval. I do not shrink from this
way of putting it, or even the claim that it could turn out (though it won’t) that
‘oval’ doesn’t mean oval.
I admit, however, that these claims sound funny. If we accept that ‘oval’ could
have turned out not to mean oval, then it seems like we should regard as not
completely insane someone (Crazy Eddie) who says that ‘oval’ doesn’t mean oval.
He could turn out to be right! Intuitively, though, there is no chance whatever
of Crazy Eddie’s turning out to be right.
What does it take for Crazy Eddie to be vindicated? It is not enough that,
letting S be the sentence he uttered, it could have turned out that S. The scenario
in which it turns out that S could be a scenario in which S has changed meaning.
You are not vindicated unless what you said turns out to be right; it’s not enough
that what you turn out to have said turns out to be right. Otherwise Warrenites
would be vindicated if ‘Oswald acted alone’ turned out to mean that Oswald
had help, and he did. There is no danger of Crazy Eddie turning out to be right,
because, letting M be the (actual) meaning of his words, had it turned out that
M, it would have turned out that M was not what he said!
I assume that ‘it could turn out that . . .’ is an intensional context—that
is, a context treating synonyms alike. Since ‘sister’ is synonymous with ‘female
sibling’, and it could turn out (though it won’t!) that ‘sister’ does not mean
female sibling, it could turn out that ‘sister’ does not mean sister. The reason
why it sounds funny to say it is that the statement strongly suggests something
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absurd: namely, that someone who conjectures that ‘sister’ doesn’t mean sister
could turn out to be right.
Another (not incompatible!) way to explain the funniness is this. There is a use
of ‘it could turn out that S’ on which it means that it is not a priori that ¬S. In
that (alternative) sense of the phrase, it really couldn’t have turned out that ‘sister’
didn’t mean sister. For we know a priori that ‘sister’ means sister. If it doesn’t
sound as bad to say that ‘sister’ could turn out not to mean female sibling, that
might be because we don’t know a priori that it does mean female sibling.
Compared to conceptual necessity, apriority is an elusive notion. One reason
has already been noted. If it is a priori that ‘sister’ means sister, but not that it
means female sibling, then ‘it is a priori that . . .’ is not an intensional context; it
cares about the difference between synonyms. (‘It could have turned out that . . .’
(in the alternative epistemic sense) is therefore not intensional either.)
Stranger even than the failure of intensionality is the following. The class of a
priori truths is often claimed to be closed under (obvious) logical consequence.
This can’t be right, if a well-known account of apriority is even roughly correct.
It is a priori that S, according to the well-known account, if one can know that
S is true just on the basis of one’s grasp of S’s meaning. Suppose I know that A
and that A ⊃ B just through my grasp of the two sentences’ meanings, and then
I infer B. If this is my reason for believing B, then I do not know it a priori.
For my belief is based in part on my grasp of A’s meaning, and A is a different
sentence from B.
The failure of logical closure helps us resolve a puzzle. There are many things
I know a priori. For instance, I know a priori that sisters are sisters, and that
Hesperus = Hesperus. If ‘S’ is a sentence I understand, then I would seem to
know a priori that ‘S’ is true iff S.²⁷ (More on this claim below.)
But I rarely, if ever, know a priori that a sentence ‘S’ is true; for truth-value
depends on meaning, and my knowledge of meaning is a posteriori. I have to
learn what a sentence means, even a sentence of my own idiolect. And my views
on the topic are rationally defeasible under the impact of further evidence.
The question is, why can’t I combine my a priori knowledge that sisters are
siblings with my a priori knowledge that if they are siblings, then ‘sisters are
siblings’ is true, to arrive at a priori knowledge that ‘sisters are siblings’ is true?
The problem is not that I can’t modus ponens my way to the conclusion that
‘S’ is true, starting from premises known a priori. The problem is that, having
done so, it is not just in virtue of understanding ‘ ‘‘S’’ is true’ that I know that
‘S’ is true. The understanding I have of ‘S’ plays a role too, and that is something
over and above my understanding of ‘ ‘‘S’’ is true’. (I can understand the latter
while momentarily forgetting what ‘S’ means, or while entertaining a skeptical
hypothesis to the effect that it means something other than I had thought.) Since
²⁷ Notice the quotation marks. Use/mention distinctions that had been left to context are here
marked explicitly.
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I cannot claim to know that ‘S’ is true just in virtue of my understanding of that
very sentence, I cannot claim to know a priori that ‘S’ is true.
24. APRIORITY
What can we say about apriority to explain these puzzling features? Since apriority
is a matter of what my grasp of a sentence’s meaning tells me, our account has got
to bring in grasp explicitly. What aspect of grasp could function to tell me that
the sentence is true? A state that tells me something is a state whereby I possess
information. So our account should be in terms of the information I possess
whereby I grasp meaning. Call this my grasp-constituting information about ‘S’.
The proposal is that
(AP) it is a priori (for me) that S iff for some G
(a) that ‘S’ is G is part of my grasp-constituting information, and
and
(b) being G conceptually necessitates being true.
Let’s revisit some earlier questions with (AP) in hand.
How can it be a priori that ‘sister’ means sister yet not a priori that it means female
sibling? That ‘sister’ means sister is part (all?) of the information whereby I grasp
‘sister’. I do of course realize ‘on the side’ that to be a sister is none other than
to be a female sibling. But that is a collateral belief which does not figure in my
grasp. Suppose the belief changed in response to some outré counter-example;
that would be a change in what I thought sisters were, but not a change in what
I meant by ‘sister’.
Why are the a priori truths not closed under logical consequence? Having deduced
B from A and A ⊃ B, I am in possession of information given which B has to be
true. But there is no reason to expect the information to be grasp-constituting
with respect to B; on the contrary, the information by which I grasp A is likely to
be involved. To know B a priori, I need to know it on the basis of the information
whereby I grasp B.
How can an a priori truth fail to be conceptually necessary? The information G
that conceptually necessitates that ‘S’ is true might not be conceptually necessary
information. If ‘S’ has a conceptually contingent property that conceptually
necessitates that ‘S’ is true, all I can conclude about ‘S’ truth-wise is that it is
true given how matters actually stand. Conceptual necessity requires more than
this: ‘S’ must be true on any hypothesis about how matters stand, including the
false ones.
Example: I am newly arrived in the royal court. A helpful attendant explains
that ‘the king’ is to be understood so that ‘the king is the guy giving orders,
wearing the crown, and so forth’ comes out true. I come as a result to know a
How to
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priori that the king is the guy giving orders, and the rest. Now, as a matter of
fact, it is Richard who is doing all these things; as a matter of fact, it is Richard
who is the king. But things could have turned out so that it was an impostor
Richerd who was giving orders, and so on. Would the king then have turned out
to be Richerd?
I have certainly been given no reason to think so. I was told that ‘the king’
stood for the order-giver by someone who supposed (correctly) that the ordergiver was Richard. They leaned on that supposition in defining ‘the king’ as the
order-giver. Leaning on a supposition that they knew could turn out to be false,
they were careful not to say that the king would still have been the order-giver
however things had turned out. And indeed, he wouldn’t: things could have
FN:28 turned out so that the king was Richard, while the order-giver was Richerd.²⁸ It is
conceptually contingent that the king = the order-giver. Still, I know it a priori.
Why are some conceptually necessary truths not a priori? Sometimes the information that a speaker possesses about ‘S’ whereby she grasps its meaning is
information that exhibits ‘S’ as true. Other times, it isn’t. I am not sure what a
typical understanding of ‘cassinis are oval’ involves, but one is not expected to
realize that it is true. You should perhaps know that things looking egg-shaped
are to be counted oval. But that doesn’t enable you to work out that cassinis are
oval until you’ve laid eyes on one.
If ‘sisters are siblings’ can turn out not to be true, yet sisters cannot turn out not to be
siblings, then in some counteractual world sisters are siblings and ‘sisters are siblings’
is untrue. Why isn’t this a world in which the T-biconditional fails? It is a world
where the T-biconditional fails. It could have turned out that ‘sisters are siblings’
was is untrue although sisters are siblings. This seems odd until we remember that were
it can happen only if ‘sisters are siblings’ turns out not to mean what it does ed
could
mean. A world where it turns out not to mean what it does mean is a world ed
where my grasp-making information fails. A world where that information fails
is irrelevant to the issue of whether that information entails the truth of the
biconditional—and so to the issue of whether it holds a priori that ‘sisters are
siblings’ is true iff sisters are siblings.
Why does the feeling persist that if it is not a priori that S, there is a counteractual
world in which ¬S? There is an argument to this effect that almost works. If there
²⁸ A related sort of presupposition is discussed by Putnam: ‘Suppose I point to a glass of water
and say ‘‘this liquid is called water’’. . . . My ‘‘ostensive definition’’ of water has the following
empirical presupposition: that the body of liquid I am pointing to bears a certain sameness relation
to . . . most of the stuff I and other speakers in my linguistic community have on other occasions
called ‘‘water.’’ If this presupposition is false because, say, I am without knowing it pointing to a
glass of gin and not a glass of water, then I do not intend my ostensive definition to be accepted.
Thus the ostensive definition conveys what might be called a defeasible necessary and sufficient
condition. . . . If it is not satisfied, then one of a series of, so to speak, ‘‘fallback’’ conditions becomes
activated’ (1975: 225). I would add only that the series tends to be a finite one. Some defeats you
recover from; an (itself defeasible) backup condition kicks in. Eventually, though, the backups are
exhausted, and the definition just fizzles.
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are no counteractual worlds in which ¬S, then every counteractual world is an
S-world. A fact like that surely figures in the information whereby we understand
‘S’.²⁹ The fact entails that ‘S’ is true, and so grasp-making information entails
that ‘S’ is true, and so S is a priori. Contraposing, if S is not a priori, then it does
not hold in all counteractual worlds. But, the sentence beginning ‘a fact like that
surely figures’ assumes our grasp is rationalistic. The feeling persists because we
forget that there are other ways to understand.
REFERENCES
• Q2
• Q3
•Adams, E. W. (1975). The Logic of Conditionals. Dordrecht: D. Reidel.
Almog, Joseph, Perry, John, and Wettstein, Howard (eds.) (1989). Themes from Kaplan.
New York: Oxford University Press.
Ayer, A. J. (ed.), (1959). Logical Positivism. New York: Free Press.
Carnap, Rudolf (1936–7). ‘Testability and Meaning’. Philosophy of Science, 3:419–71;
4: 1–40.
Chalmers, David (1994). ‘The Components of Content’. Philosophy/Neuroscience/
Psychology Technical Report 94–04, Washington University; <http://www.u.arizona.
edu/∼chalmers/papers/content.html>.
(1996). The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory. New York: Oxford
University Press.
(2000). ‘The Tyranny of the Subjunctive’; <http://www.u.arizona.edu/∼chalmers/
papers/tyranny.txt>.
Davies, Martin, and Humberstone, Lloyd (1980). ‘Two Notions of Necessity’. Philosophical Studies, 38: 1–30.
DeRose, Keith (1991). ‘Epistemic Possibilities’. Philosophical Review•, 100: 581–605.
Evans, Gareth (1979). ‘Reference and Contingency’. Monist, 62: 161–89.
Gendler, Tamar Szabó (2000). ‘The Puzzle of Imaginative Resistance’. Journal of
Philosophy, 97(2): 55–81.
Grice, H. P. (1989). ‘Indicative Conditionals’. In Studies in the Way of Words, Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press pp. 58–85.
Jackson, Frank (1979). ‘On Assertion and Indicative Conditionals’. Philosophical Review,
88: 565–89; repr. in Jackson (1991), 111–35.
(1991). Conditionals. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
(1994). ‘Armchair Metaphysics’. In Michaelis Michael and John O’LearyHawthorne (eds.), Philosophy in Mind, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 23–42.
(1998). From Metaphysics to Ethics: A Defense of Conceptual Analysis. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Kripke, Saul (1980). Naming and Necessity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
Loar, Brian (1990). ‘Phenomenal States’. Philosophical Perspectives, 4: 81–108.
McGinn, Colin (1999). Knowledge and Reality. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
It also assumes that
suffices for
²⁹ This is a bit of an exaggeration, since knowing of each w that w → S is not yet knowing that
w → S for all w.
every w is such that
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Moran, Richard (1989). ‘Seeing and Believing: Metaphor, Image, and Force’. Critical
Inquiry, 16: 87–112.
O’Grady, Paul (1999). ‘Carnap and Two Dogmas of Empiricism’. Philosophy and
Phenomenological Research, 49: 1015–27.
Peacocke, Christopher (1989). ‘Perceptual Content’. In Almog et al. (1989), 297–330.
Putnam, Hilary (1975). ‘The Meaning of ‘‘Meaning’’ ’. In Mind, Language, and Reality
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 215–71.
Quine, Willard van Orman (1951). ‘Two Dogmas of Empiricism’. Philosophical Review,
60: 20–43; repr. in Quine (1961), 20–46.
(1961). From a Logical Point of View, 2nd edn. New York: Harper & Row.
Segerberg, Krister (1972). ‘Two Dimensional Modal Logic’. Journal of Philosophical Logic,
2: 77–96.
Stalnaker, Robert (1972), ‘Assertion’. In Peter Cole (ed.), Syntax and Semantics, ix, New
York: Academic Press, 315–32.
(1990). ‘Narrow Content’. In C. A. Anderson and J. Owens (eds.), Propositional Attitudes, Stanford, Calif.: Center for the Study of Language and Information
pp. 131–45.
(1991). ‘How to Do Semantics for the Language of Thought’. In Barry Loewer
and Georges Rey (eds.), Meaning in Mind: Fodor and his Critics, Oxford: Blackwell
pp. 229–38.
Walton, Kendall (1994). ‘Morals in Fiction and Fictional Morality’. Proceedings of the
Aristotelian Society, supp. vol. 68: 27–50.
White, Stephen (1982). ‘Partial Character and the Language of Thought’. Pacific
Philosophical Quarterly, 63: 347–65.
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Q1. Please check this year.
Q2. Please check and confirm the page numbers written by author in the
margin has been updated correctly. Page numbers have
Q3. Author correction is not clear.
been updated correctly.
This was the editor's
correction not mine
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5
No Fool’s Cold: Notes on Illusions
of Possibility
A lot of philosophers are pessimistic about conceivability evidence. They think
it does not prove, or even go very far towards justifying, interesting modal
conclusions. A number of other philosophers are optimistic; they think it does
justify, and perhaps even establish beyond a reasonable doubt, that lots of
interesting things are possible. Nothing very surprising there. What is slightly
surprising is that both groups can claim to find support for their attitude in the
work of Saul Kripke.
Pessimists say: Kripke shows that conceivability evidence is highly and systematically fallible. Very often E seems possible, when as a matter of fact, E-worlds
cannot be. So it is, for instance, with the seeming possibility of water in the
absence of hydrogen, or of Hesperus distinct from Phosphorus, or of this table
turning out to be made of ice. Let the pessimistic thesis be
(P) oftentimes E seems possible when it is not, so conceivability evidence is not
to be trusted.
Optimists reply: yes, Kripke finds conceivability evidence to be fallible, but that
is only half of the story. The rest of the story is that the failures always take
a certain form. A thinker who (mistakenly) conceives E as possible is correctly
registering the possibility of something, and mistaking the possibility of that for
the possibility of E. There are illusions of possibility, if you like, but no delusions
or hallucinations. Let the optimistic thesis be
(O) carefully handled, conceivability evidence can be trusted, for if impossible
E seems possible, then something else F is possible, such that we mistake
the possibility of F for that of E.
This paper was presented at the UNC Greensboro conference on imagination and possibility, with
comments by Keith Simmons. Thanks to Keith for exposing various gaps in the argument, not all
of which I have been able to deal with here. Thanks to Kit Fine, Tamar Szabó Gendler, Janine
Jones, and Saul Kripke for discussion at the conference, and to David Chalmers and Tyler Doggett
for extremely helpful written comments provided more recently.
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The optimistic thesis (O) represents conceivability evidence as in a sense infallible.
If (O) is correct, then that E seems possible, while it may not establish that E
is possible, does succeed in establishing the disjunctive conclusion that either
E is possible or F is. And indeed in certain cases we can get all the way to the first
disjunct, because F is tantamount to E or entails E. This, the optimist continues,
is the situation we encounter in the last few pages of Naming and Necessity, where
Kripke argues against the identity theory of mind. It seems possible that pain
is not c-fiber firings, and the F that supposedly snookers us into thinking E
possible is tantamount to that original E. (I will be questioning that argument in
due course.)
It seems likely that both groups are overinterpreting Kripke. Certainly Kripke
is not a pessimist, because he closes the book with a positive argument of the
sort that pessimists are bound to find fault with. And although this is not as
clear, he seems to stop short of outright optimism too. He says (in ‘‘Identity
and Necessity’’) that ‘‘the only model I can think of for what the illusion might
be . . . does not work in this case’’ (1977: 101; emphasis added). Others are
welcome to argue in favor of some other model that does not require a genuinely
possible F . Kripke is skeptical, to be sure: ‘‘it would have to be a deeper and
subtler argument than I can fathom and subtler than ever appeared in any
materialist literature that I have read’’ (1977: 101). But although Kripke has his
doubts about the availability of an alternative model, he does not entirely rule
it out. (One is reminded of Carnap’s position in ‘‘Empiricism, Semantics, and
Ontology’’: I can’t make sense of the question of realism my way; maybe others
can find a different way, but it won’t be easy.)
So the door is open, technically anyway, to ‘‘a deeper and subtler argument’’
aimed at establishing that some seeming possibilities do not reflect any sort of
genuine possibility. Whether this deeper and subtler argument can be given has
not been terribly much explored.
One idea sometimes encountered is that there are differences in how pains and
c-fiber firings are entertained in thought that all by themselves explain why each
would seem possible without the other. Thomas Nagel’s version of this idea is
that c-fiber firings are imagined perceptually—‘‘we put ourselves in a conscious
state resembling the state we would be in if we perceived it’’—while pain is
imagined sympathetically—‘‘we put ourselves in a conscious state resembling
the thing itself’’ (1974: note 11). He maintains that:
the relation between them will appear contingent, even if it is necessary, because of the
independence of the disparate types of imagination. (1974: note 11)
Chris Hill says in a similar vein that the relation appears contingent because our
concept of c-fiber firings is theoretical while our concept of pain is phenomenological. Between concepts like that ‘‘there are no substantive a priori ties,’’ and
the absence of such ties allows us to ‘‘use the concepts to conceive coherently of
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situations . . . in which there are particulars that fall under one of the concepts
but do not fall under the other’’ (1997: 75).
This sort of approach is in one way too broad and in another too narrow.
It is too broad in that it threatens to undermine conceivability arguments that
most of us find attractive. It certainly seems to me that my dog Ruby could
have been in severe pain right now; that’s what you normally get for harassing
a porcupine. But then so it would, according to Nagel, what with Ruby being
imagined perceptually and the pain sympathetically.
I agree that the appearance here should not be taken seriously, if it arises in the
way Nagel says. That we do take it seriously suggests that the explanation may not
be quite so simple. And indeed there are independent reasons to think matters
are not so simple. If appearances of contingency resulted just from ‘‘disparate
types of imagination’’, then one would expect more to seem possible than in fact
does. After all, it is not just the dog that is imagined perceptually but everyday
objects in general. Consider the rock that Ruby is perched on. All the Nagelian
conditions are in place, yet it does not seem that the rock could have been in pain
right now. It takes more to tempt us into an illusion of possibility than Nagel
supposes.
What about Hill’s version of the idea? It seems to me, as I consider this cup
of vinegar, that a cup of H2 O could look just the same. But then so it would,
on Hill’s view, for looking the same is a phenomenological concept, while our
concept of H2 O is theoretical. Once again, though, this cannot be all there is
to it, for there are cases where Hill’s conditions are met and the appearance of
contingency is lacking. A cup of molten lead does not present itself as capable of
looking like this.¹
How is the Nagel-type approach too narrow? By focusing so intently on
subjective versus objective, it just reinforces the impression that Kripke is trying
to create: namely, that any response to his argument is going to require some
kind of special pleading on behalf of the mental. I cannot rule it out, of course,
that the proper response does require special pleading. But it would be better if
we could identify a general constraint on modal illusions that is independently
motivated and that just happens to deliver the desired results when applied to
the intuitions supporting mental/physical dualism.
I want to explore some of these issues by looking at the role of actuality in
modal judgments. Actuality comes in under two separate headings. On the one
hand it can figure in the content of a modal judgment. The thing that seems
possible—the condition that seems like it could have obtained—can have the
¹ Tyler Doggett and Daniel Stoljar point out that the Nagel worry also pulls the rug out from
under standard objections to behaviorism and functionalism. Given any behavioral property B,
we can imagine being in pain without exhibiting B, and vice versa. Perhaps the appearance of
contingency here is due just to the fact that pain is imagined sympathetically and B perceptually.
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notion of actuality in it. This is in fact quite common. One says, for instance,
‘‘this lemonade is cold but it could have been colder’’.² Colder than what? Colder
than it actually is, of course. If C is the ‘‘how cold was it?’’ parameter, then our
judgment is roughly this
seems ♦ (C exceeds C@ ).
Or perhaps we are doing a puzzle where five irregularly shaped pieces of plastic
have to be rearranged into a square. We look the pieces over, and it strikes us
that the thing can be done. What seems possible, however, is not that the pieces
can be made to form a square after being melted down and recast as rectangles; it’s
that they can be made to form a square with their actual shapes and sizes held
fixed. If the shape and size of piece X is S(X), then our judgment is
seems ♦ (the Xs form a square & ∀X (S(X) = S@ (X))).
A remark attributed to Richard Taylor gives us a third example. ‘‘Why are
people so sure they could have acted otherwise?’’ he asks. ‘‘After all, nobody ever
has.’’ One reason we think this is that it very much seems as though we could
have acted otherwise:
seems ♦ (my action was of a type T incompatible with the type T@ of the action
I really did perform)
To have a schema for judgments of this kind, what seems possible is that a certain
parameter P should have taken a value so-and-so related to the value it actually
takes:
seems ♦ (. . . & P is so and so related to P@ & . . . ).
That is the first way actuality can come in. It leads pretty directly to a second
way. Whether or not it seems possible for some parameter to assume a value
thus so-and-so related to its actual value is not independent of what we know, or think
we know, about what the actual value in fact is, or indeed of other information
we possess about actuality. It would not have seemed possible for the pieces to be
rigidly rearranged into a pentagon if we had believed each piece to be square, or
round. It would not have seemed possible for the lemonade to be colder if it was
believed to be at zero degrees already. It might not have seemed possible for us
to act otherwise were we convinced that Frankfurt’s nefarious neurologist (made
omnipotent if necessary) stood ready to reprogram our brains if we tried.
There is a temptation, perhaps, to treat this as just more content. But the
temptation should be resisted, because it imports more into the content than
belongs there. Our judgment is not
seems ♦ (this lemonade is colder than N◦ C).
² Could have been colder as a liquid, I mean. Assume for the sake of the example that so-called
frozen lemonade is not really lemonade.
thus
thus
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After all, we may have little positive idea what temperature the lemonade is
in degrees centigrade. What seems possible is that the lemonade should be
colder than it is, and why it seems possible has to do with the lemonade’s felt
temperature.³
If our sense of the temperature doesn’t figure in content, though, what role
does it play? It plays what might be called a presuppositional role. The judgment
is conditioned on our temperature experience’s not being too misleading. One
thinks, ‘‘unless I am very much misled about how cold this liquid is, it could
have been colder’’. Besides appearing in the content of a model judgment, then,
actuality can figure in the background to the judgment, that is, the beliefs or
presuppositions that allow the seemingly possible thing to seem possible.
Back now to the main issue. The optimist says that whenever there is the
illusion that E is possible, there is a related hypothesis F that really is possible.
For instance, it seems that Hesperus could have been distinct from Phosphorus
because there really could have been two planets there, one responsible for
Hesperus-appearances and the other for the appearances we enjoy of Phosphorus.
I have said a little about E, the content of the (perhaps mistaken) intuition, but
nothing about F , the hypothesis that is supposed to really be possible.
Kripke does not even pretend to give us a general strategy for recovering
F —what I will call the underlying possibility —from E. What he does do is, first,
sketch lots of highly convincing examples; second, suggest that at least some of
the time, it is good enough to replace names in E with corresponding referencefixing descriptions; and third, characterize F as the ‘‘appropriate corresponding
qualitative contingent statement’’. He explicitly refrains, though, from giving
a ‘‘general paradigm’’ for the construction of the proposition whose possibility
fools us into thinking E possible.
A number of other writers have been bolder. Some say that there is the illusion
that E is possible because the sentence ‘‘E’’ could (with its ‘‘meaning’’ in some
sense of that world held fixed) have expressed a true proposition, albeit not the
proposition it expresses in fact. So,
(a) it could have happened that ‘‘E’’ expressed a true proposition.
I myself once conjectured that E seems possible because we could have thought
something true with the thought (the internal mental act) whose content in this
world is E. So,
(b) it could have happened that thinking the E way was thinking truly.
The best-known suggestion along these lines is that E seems possible because
there are worlds such that if (contrary to what we perhaps suppose), they are
actual, then E. So a third hypothesis is that
³ Specifically, with its feeling warmer than lemonade on the verge of freezing feels.
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(c) things could have been a way such that, if they actually are that way, then E.
All these proposals are variations on the theme of E seeming possible because
what it says is correct, if a certain not-impossible world is actual. Nothing
important is lost if we ignore any differences and speak simply of the if-actually
account of illusions of possibility.
The if-actually account works extremely well in some cases. The reason it
seems possible that the table should turn out to be made of ice is that there are
worlds with the property that if they are actual, then it is made of ice. The reason
it seems possible that Hesperus should have been other than Phosphorus is that
there are worlds with the property that if they are actual, it really is other than
Phosphorus. It turns out, though, that the account cannot deal correctly with
actuality-based modal contents. I will build up to this slowly.
Ivory-billed woodpeckers had been thought extinct; recently, though, a man
named David Kullivan reported spotting a pair of them. I happen to believe
this report, but not everyone does. Knowing that his word would be doubted,
Kullivan was tempted (let us say for purposes of the example) to shoot one of the
woodpeckers and bring its body back as proof. According to me, believing as I
do that ivory-billed woodpeckers exist, had Kullivan shot one, there would have
been fewer ivory-billed woodpeckers than there are. To me, then
seems ♦ (there are fewer ivory-billed woodpeckers than actually).
Now suppose that I am wrong and there are no ivory-billed woodpeckers.
Then I am under an illusion of possibility; a smaller number seems possible, but
there cannot be fewer than none. What explains my illusion? The story would
have to be that this seems possible because there is a world such that if it is actual,
then there are fewer ivory-billed woodpeckers than there actually are. And that
makes no sense.
Of course, there is no peculiarly modal illusion here; where I go wrong is in
believing in ivory-billed woodpeckers in the first place. But consider a second
example. It seems possible that Hesperus could have turned out to be distinct
from Phosphorus. It seems, for instance, that Phosphorus could have turned
out to be Mars rather than Venus. Another thing that seems possible is for
Phosphorus to have turned out to be Xorg, a solar planet over and above the
planets that exist in fact. It seems possible, then, that there should have been
more planets than actually: all the actual ones, including Hesperus, and then in
addition Phosphorus = Xorg.
seems ♦ (there are extra planets; Hesperus is Venus but Phosphorus is new).
The story would have to be that this seems possible because if we are wrong
and the morning-visible planet is ‘‘new’’, then there really are more planets than
actually. And that clearly cannot be right. Again, it strikes us that gold could
have turned out to have a different chemical makeup. The illusion that gold
the differences
between them
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could have failed to be the 79th element can be explained, notice. But I may not
know that gold is any kind of element; my thought is just that it did not have to
turn out with that chemical makeup, whatever its makeup in fact is. This illusion
cannot be explained on the if-actually model, for we would need a world such
that gold has a different makeup than it actually does on the supposition that
this world is actual.
that
FN:4
So the if-actually account cannot explain certain illusions of possibility, those
in which the hypothesis that seems possible involves a contrast or comparison
with actuality.⁴ Why should we bother about this? The reason for bothering is
that it tells us something about how people are thinking of the modal illusion
problem. The if-actually account is exceedingly popular. (I stress that Kripke
does not endorse it.) Why, if there is a class of illusions it does not address?
It must be that this class of illusions has not been much on people’s minds. People
have been assuming, implicitly anyway, that the contents of error-prone modal
judgments are actuality-neutral in the sense, roughly, that facts about which world
is actual are irrelevant to what the judged hypothesis says. Perhaps to be safer
I should just say that there has been a tendency to downplay or underestimate
the actuality-based aspects of these contents, and to play up or overestimate their
actuality-neutral aspects.
One sort of problem this bias in favor of neutrality leads to has already been
seen. But the problem that interests me is not that certain actuality-based illusions
will prove difficult to explain, but that certain such illusions will be ‘‘explained’’
too easily. This is how it would happen:
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
What seems possible is a hypothesis E that is actuality-based.
An actuality-neutral (or more neutral) hypothesis E ! is covertly substituted.
One explains the illusion that ♦E ! as a subtle misreading of ♦F ! .
It would take a very much grosser misreading of ♦F ! to fall under the illusion
that ♦E.
(5) One thinks the E illusion has been explained when really it has not.
I will give examples in a minute. But first let me link the worry up with what I
take to be an important feature of Kripke’s procedure.
Kripke does not just want to show how someone could fall under the
misimpression that, say, Hesperus could have failed to be Phosphorus, by
⁴ One natural idea about actuality-involving illusions (suggested independently by Robert
Stalnaker and David Chalmers) is this: they are to be explained by saying there is a world w such
that if w is actual, then the actuality-involving proposition is possible. It seems possible for there
to have been fewer ivory-billed woodpeckers because this really is possible on the hypothesis that
Kullivan’s story is true. But the intuition that Hesperus could have been an additional planet is
not based in any factual misinformation of the sort we might try to correct by treating w as actual.
The feeling is not that assuming Phosphorus is other than Hesperus, it could have been Xorg. The
feeling is that Phosphorus, although (it turns out) identical to Hesperus, could have been distinct
from it in a way that bumped up the number of planets.
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misinterpreting what was in fact a different possibility. That would be easy,
since a sufficiently confused person could presumably misinterpret anything
as anything. He wants to show that we plausibly do fall under the modal
misimpression by misinterpreting a different possibility. It is not just that an
intuition of E’s possibility could, but that our intuition of its possibility plausibly
is, based on the mistaking of one possibility for another.
An example of someone who seems to underestimate the aspiration here is
Michael Della Rocca in ‘‘Essentialism and Essentialists’’ (Journal of Philosophy
1996). Say that Lumpl is the lump of clay composing the statue Goliath. It seems
possible that Lumpl could have failed to be Goliath, or any other statue; it
seems possible, indeed, that Lumpl could have existed in the complete absence of
statues.
be
(a) seems ♦ (Lumpl exists without any statues).
Della Rocca maintains that this intuition is (or might be for all Kripke has to say
about it) explained by the possibility that a lump of clay handled by artisan A at
time T should have lacked all these properties.
(b) really ♦ (a lump handled by A at T exists without any statues).
I suppose that (b) might perhaps explain the illusion of someone for whom the
reference of ‘‘Lumpl’’ was fixed by ‘‘the lump of clay handled by A at T ’’. But
‘‘Lumpl’’ in our mouths has its reference fixed by ‘‘the lump composing the
statue Goliath’’. (That is how I introduced the term above, and that is the usual
way of introducing it.) So, the genuine possibility needed to explain away our
intuition is
(c) really ♦ (a lump composing the statue Goliath exists without any statues).
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But there is no such possibility as (c); it cannot happen that a lump both
composes a certain statue and fails to coexist with any statues. The scenario that
(c) calls possible, and whose possibility would be needed to explain away the
intuition that Lumpl could exist without statues, makes no sense.
I seriously doubt, then, whether our actual intuition of Lumpl without statues
can be defeated as easily as Della Rocca suggests.⁵ The only real possibility in the
neighborhood is the one recorded in (b). And there is no way on earth that we are
⁵ Della Rocca brushes up against this problem in a footnote. ‘‘One might, perhaps, see some
other property as the property in terms of which Lumpl is identified. Even if some other property
is the identifying property, the argument that I am about to give would not be affected because I
shall show that any property that might plausibly be seen as the property in terms of which Lumpl
is identified would be a property that allows a Kripkean reconstrual of our intuition of contingency
in this case to go forward’’ (1996: 197). I do not see that he ever shows this. What he does say is
that ‘‘Lumpl seems to be identified in terms of the designation, ‘lump formed by, etc.’, or some
similar designator. Any such designator would allow the reconstrual to go through’’ (1996: 197–8).
This is false, unless ‘‘similar’’ means ‘‘designator H such that there could be an H without Goliath
existing’’. The designator ‘‘clay composing Goliath’’ is an obvious counter-example.
shouldn't this be
Della Rocca
1996?
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ministerpreting that as the possibility of Lumpl without any statues. The proof
that (b) does not explain (a) is just that stare at (b) as long as you like, one cannot
imagine being so confused as to have been fooled by it into supposing that (a).
One is not at all tempted to say: oh, I see, once you point out the difference, it’s
because this really is possible that I supposed that to be possible.⁶
The kind of principle I am relying on here is familiar from psychoanalysis.
Here is what in my brief (well, . . .) experience psychoanalysts tell you. ‘‘You are
under the impression that nobody loves you. I submit that this is an illusion. A
cruder sort of doctor might say, here is how the illusion arises, take my word for
it. But I would never dream of asking you to take my word for it. No, the test of
my explanation is whether you can be brought to accept the explanation, and to
accept that your judgment is to that extent unsupported.’’ The analogy is good
enough that I will speak of the
Psychoanalytic Standard Assuming the conceiver is not too self-deceived or
resistant, ♦F explains E’s seeming possibility only if he/she does or would accept
it as an explanation, and accept that his/her intuition testifies at best to F ’s
possibility, not E’s.
This is a high standard, but what makes Kripke’s approach so convincing is that
this is the standard he tries to meet, and mostly does meet. Philosophers have
been telling us for centuries that this or that common impression is false; and we
have for centuries been shrugging them off. What makes Kripke special is that
he gets you to agree that you are making the mistake he describes.
I said that Kripke ‘‘mostly’’ meets the psychoanalytic standard. This is because
I think that with at least some of the illusions he discusses, the standard is
not met, and is perhaps unmeetable. Let me start with an example where a
psychoanalytically acceptable explanation can be given. I will then argue that a
crucial feature of the example goes missing in Kripke’s treatment of certain other
examples.
Kripke says, ‘‘. . . though we can imagine making a table out of another block
of wood or even from ice, identical in appearance to this, and though we could
have put it in this very position in the room, it seems to me that this is not to
imagine this table as made of wood or ice, but rather it is to imagine another
table, resembling this one in all external details, made of another block of wood,
or even of ice’’ (1980: 114; emphasis added).
Imagine someone, call them Schmipke, expressing puzzlement about Kripke’s
procedure: ‘‘Hasn’t Kripke gone to a lot of unnecessary trouble here? Why
⁶ Della Rocca 2002 and personal correspondence agrees that the (b) possibility is not judged
explanatory. He thinks, however, that any attempt to justify this judgment winds up begging the
question at issue: which modal intuitions are windows on possibility and which are illusions of
possibility?
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does he impose this condition of identical in appearance with the actual table?
‘Identical in appearance’ suggests that the other-worldly table looks just like the
real one to us: if both of them were sitting here side by side, we could not tell
them apart. This is suggested as well by the language he uses in ‘Identity and
Necessity’: ‘‘I could find out that an ingenious trick has been played on me and
that, in fact, this lectern is made of ice’’ (1977: 88). The ice has to be ‘cleverly
hardened’ in the shape of a table, and presumably painted too. Otherwise it
would not be a spitting image of our actual table, as Kripke clearly intends. Is
any of this really necessary? Why does Kripke ask w to satisfy the actuality-based
condition that its table looks or would look just the same to us? What is wrong
with the neutral condition of, not identical in appearance, but simply: identical
appearances?’’⁷
This seems a fair question, so let us try it. Until further notice, all we
require from w is that there is an icy table there, and that the people looking
at it (perhaps counterfactual versions of ourselves) have the same experiences
qualitatively speaking as we do looking at our table. It is of course compatible
with this that the tables look to us very different. But then our reason for
thinking of the icy table in w as ‘‘in disguise’’, cleverly tricked up to look like
wood, no longer applies. Now that we have dropped the identical-in-appearance
requirement, the icy table can be made any number of ways. Let it be, say, a
table-shaped, table-sized, but otherwise perfectly ordinary frosty white block of
ice. Of course, it needs to be added that the observers in w are spectrum-inverted
with respect to observers here, so that the qualitative appearances they enjoy in
front of a frosty white object are just like the ones we enjoy when looking at
an otherwise similar brown object. But if both of those changes are made at
once, then the experience of observers there looking at their table is just like the
experience we enjoy looking at ours.⁸
Note that there is some slight support for Schmipke’s position in the text.
Kripke says that what the icy table intuition comes to is that ‘‘I (or some
conscious being) could have been qualitatively in the same epistemic situation
that in fact obtains, etc.’’ He does not say the conscious being has to resemble me in
any important respect. The counterfactual being’s brain might be wired so that it
is in the same qualitative state standing in front of an icy table as I am standing
in front of a wooden one. So, contrary to what we said above, it could be that
Kripke is imposing only the neutral condition of icy table, appearances XYZ.
The question is, does the revised explanation meet the psychoanalytic standard?
Does it explain our illusion that this table could have turned out to be made of ice,
to point out that had our brains been different, a regular icy table would have
caused in us the same qualitative state that a wooden table does cause in us? I
⁷ Or, if that is not neutral enough, let the condition be not that observers in w enjoy
qualitatively identical appearances, but that they enjoy qualitative appearances PQR. I will ignore
this complication.
⁸ Schmipke concedes the possibility of spectrum inversion.
be
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tend to think it does not. Because what seems possible is that this table with
relevant perceptible properties held fixed could have turned out to be ice. No one
is going to be tempted into thinking that possible by reflection on the possibility
that we see a regular icy table as brown, because in that scenario the perceptible
properties change. The color of the table goes from brown to white.⁹
It may help to consider an analogy. Say that I am under the impression
that that animal there [pointing] is a zebra, when really it is a horse. Dretske’s
explanation is this: ‘‘The horse is painted to look just like a zebra. When two
things look just the same, the one is easily mistaken for the other. It makes
sense then that you would take this horse for a zebra.’’ That corresponds to
the Kripkean explanation of the ‘‘could have turned out to be ice’’ illusion.
Because the table’s appearance is indistinguishable from that of disguised ice, one
naturally concludes that it could be, or have been, disguised ice.
Imagine now a second, Schmipkean explanation of my zebra illusion. ‘‘The
horse is not painted at all. And you’re enjoying ordinary horsy phenomenology.
But there is this guy counter-Steve, a counterfactual variant of yourself, who has
zebraish phenomenology when looking at a horse, and horsy phenomenology
when looking at a zebra. Because your phenomenology is indistinguishable from
that of counter-Steve looking at a zebra, it makes sense that you would take this
horse for a zebra.’’ That corresponds to the Schmipkean explanation of the ‘‘could
have turned out to be ice’’ illusion. Because my actual table phenomenology is
indistinguishable from my alter ego’s ice phenomenology, I am led to suppose
that this table could be, or have been, a regular old hunk of ice.
Is it just me, or does the first pair of explanations work better than the second?
‘‘I am liable to confuse A with B because they look the same to me’’ sounds
quite plausible. If things look the same, then one is indeed liable to confuse
them. ‘‘I am liable to confuse A with B because the same looks result if it is me
looking at A or counter-Steve looking at B.’’ There is no chance at all that I am
confusing myself with counter-Steve, even if his phenomenology is just the same.
Counter-Steve is by definition a person who sees things differently than I do.
(One might as well worry that our planet has all along been Twin-Earth, making
water not H2 O but XYZ.)
So we have the following principle: to explain why this, understood to present
like so, seems like it could turn out to be Q, one needs a possible scenario in
which something superficially indistinguishable from it does turn out to be Q.
The counterfactual thing has to look the same, not to the counterfactual folks,
but to us. I will call that a facsimile of the actual thing. And I will refer to the
principle as the facsimile or fool’s gold principle.
⁹ A property is perceptible iff when an object perceptually appears to have it and does not, we
have misperceived. Not all properties figuring in the content of a perceptual state are perceptible in
this sense. Our experience may represent the table as wooden, but it is not as if our eyes are playing
tricks on us if it is well-disguised ice.
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Kripke gives two models for the explaining-away of the intuition that A could be
Q. First is the reference-fixer model:
(RF) it seems possible for A to be Q because it really is possible that the
so-and-so is Q, where ‘‘the so-and-so’’ is a descriptive condition fixing
‘‘A’’ ’s reference.
Then there is the epistemic counterpart model:
(EC) it seems possible for A to be Q because it really is possible for A∗ to be Q,
where A∗ is a facsimile of A.
The epistemic counterpart model might seem the more accommodating of
the two, because it does not require anything in the way of reference-fixing
descriptions. But there is a respect in which the reference-fixing model is more
accommodating and indeed too accommodating.
The epistemic counterpart model requires an A∗ indiscernible in relevant
respects from A, what we have called a facsimile of A. Can this requirement
be enforced by asking A∗ to satisfy some carefully constructed reference-fixing
description D? It is not at all obvious that a suitable D can be found. One obvious
possibility is ‘‘the thing that puts me into qualitative state 279’’. The picture this
gives is:
me-in-@) QS279 → A
me-in-w) QS279 → A∗
Can the arrows please
be right-to-left instead
of left-to-right?
Here we have dissimilar observers in distinct worlds confronting two (perhaps
readily distinguishable) objects and reacting the same way. (EC) by contrast
envisages a single observer confronting two objects to which she responds
identically:
me-in-@) QS279
→A
→ A∗
Perhaps we can arrange for the second picture by letting D be the ‘‘the thing that
puts me as I actually am into qualitative state 279’’. But this forgets that ‘‘the
thing that actually puts me in state 279’’ stands in counter-Steve’s mouth for A∗ .
We are left again with the first picture.
One could try to force the second picture by letting D be ‘‘the thing that in α
puts me into state 279’’, where α is a stable designator of actuality; it picks out
our world @ no matter in which actual or counterfactual context it is uttered. But
the point of a reference-fixing description is that it is supposed to be a piece of
language that directs us to the referent across a range of counterfactual situations.
And the term ‘‘whatever in α puts me into state 279’’ is not even understandable
in counterfactual situations. Had things been different, we would not have been
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thinking, ‘‘too bad things are so different here, how much better to live in a
non-counterfactual world like α’’.
Two pictures have been sketched of how to explain away modal illusions.
Which of the two is meant to apply in the case of the icy table? Passages like ‘‘I
(or some conscious observer) could have been in qualitatively the same epistemic
situation’’ (1980: 142; emphasis added) suggest the first picture. But there are
also passages like this:
. . . it seems to me that this is not to imagine this table as made of wood or ice, but rather
it is to imagine another table, resembling this one in all external details, made of another
block of wood, or even of ice. (1980: 114; emphasis added)
‘‘Resembling in all external details’’ means, I take it, that we would not notice
if the one table were instantaneously substituted for the other. And that is the
second picture. The reason this matters is, once again, that the first picture fails
to explain the illusion. It defies credulity that my feeling that this table could
have been made of ice is based on the fact that my brain could have been such
that suitably carved ice elicited in me the present sort of appearances.
FN:10
But let us not dwell too long on the icy table example, since Kripke uses it mainly
for illustration. His real interest is in the kind of modal illusion that arises in
science. Here is some heat; is it some type of molecular energy?¹⁰ One has to
conduct further tests, and, like any tests, they could come out either way. So
there is the appearance that heat could turn out to be a certain type of molecular
energy, and the appearance that it could turn out to be something else. The
second appearance is an illusion. How does Kripke propose to account for it?
the property by which we identify [heat] originally, that of producing such and such a
sensation in us, is not a necessary property but a contingent one. This very phenomenon
could have existed, but due to differences in our neural structures and so on, have failed
to be felt as heat. (1980: 133)
It might be, for instance, that due to differences in our neural structures high
mean molecular energy—henceforth HME—felt cold, and low mean molecular
energy—henceforth LME—felt hot. Does this explain in a psychoanalytically
satisfying way our feeling that it could have been LME that was heat rather than
HME? Does pointing to possible differences in our neural structures explain why
this cold seems like it could have turned out to be HME?
Here is the worry. With the table, remember, what seemed possible is not
only that ice could have paraded itself in front of someone or other who saw it
as I see wood, but that there could have been ice that I with my existing sensory
faculties would have seen as wood. To explain that seeming we needed a facsimile
of the table—a spitting image of it—that was in fact ice. Likewise what seems
¹⁰ Like Kripke, I will run heat together with temperature.
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possible in the case of LME is not just that it could have paraded itself in front of
someone or other who felt it as hot, but that I with my existing neural structures
could have found it to be hot. To explain that seeming, we need a counterfactual
facsimile of heat that turns out on closer inspection to be LME. There should
in other words be the possibility of LME-type fool’s heat. Similarly, to explain
the seeming possibility of cold turning out to be HME, we would need the
possibility of fool’s cold that was found by scientists to be HME.
Is there fool’s heat of this type, or fool’s cold? I do not see how there could be.
It may be possible to slip a cleverly disguised icy table in for this wooden one with
no change in visual appearance. But it is not possible to slip cleverly disguised LME
in for HME and have it feel just the same. Having substituted low ME for high,
there is no way to preserve the appearances but to postulate observers who react
differently than ourselves to the same external phenomena. But then what we are
getting is not really fool’s heat but something more like dunce’s heat. You would
have to be pretty confused to see in the possibility of rewiring on your side the
explanation of why a switcheroo seems possible on the side of the phenomenon you
are sensing. Whether fool’s heat is absolutely impossible I don’t know. But what
does seem clearly impossible is for LME to be fool’s heat, because it by hypothesis
feels the opposite of hot; it feels cold.
FN:11
Kripke is right, or anyway I am not disagreeing, when he says that ‘‘the
property of producing such and such a sensation in us . . . is not a necessary
property’’, because we could have been wired differently. LME could, it seems,
have produced what we call sensations of cold. That is not what I am worried
about. What worries me is that the property of interest is not that but producing
such-and-such a sensation in us as we are. And this property is, I suspect, necessary.
There would seem to be three factors in how an external phenomenon is disposed
to feel: its condition, our condition, and the conditions of observation. If all
these factors are held fixed, as the notion of fool’s heat would seem to require,
then it is hard to see how the sensory outcome can change.
Someone might say: that LME can’t be fool’s heat doesn’t show that there
can’t be fool’s heat at all. Surely there is something in some faraway world that
although not HME feels or would feel hot to us as we are. Suppose that is so,¹¹
and call the something ABC (‘‘alien basis caliente’’). ABC is all you need to
¹¹ Kripke actually discusses something like this in Naming and Necessity. ‘‘Some people have
been inclined to argue that although certainly we cannot say that sound waves ‘would have been
heat’ if they had been felt by the sensation which we feel when we feel heat, the situation is
different with respect to a possible phenomenon, not present in the actual world, and distinct
from molecular motion. Perhaps, it is suggested, there might be another form of heat other than
‘our heat’, which was not molecular motion; though no actual phenomenon other than molecular
motion, such as sound, would qualify. Although I am disinclined to accept these views, they
would make relatively little difference to the substance of the present lectures. Someone who is
inclined to hold these views can simply replace the term . . . ‘heat’ with . . . ‘our heat’. . . .’’ (p. 130
n. 68)
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explain the illusion that heat could have been other than HME in the approved
Kripkean fashion, that is, in terms of a genuine underlying possibility.
But, granted that one can explain, or try to explain, the illusion in this
way, would the explanation be correct? I am not sure that it would, for the
following reason. Our feeling that heat could have turned out to be something
else is indifferent to whether the something else is alien ABC or actual LME. It
would be very surprising if the feeling had two radically different explanations
depending on the precise form of the something else. The LME form of the
illusion cannot be explained by pointing to a possible facsimile of heat that really
is LME. (Whether LME can be fool’s heat is a factual question, and the answer
is that it can be at best dunce’s heat.) Therefore the ABC form of the illusion
ought not to be explained with a possible facsimile either.
I have been arguing that strong epistemic counterparts, or facsimiles, are needed
to explain illusions of possibility. However, there are some illusions to which
epistemic counterparts, strong or weak, might seem altogether irrelevant. It seems
possible not only that heat could have failed to be HME, but also that HME could
have failed to be heat. Kripke treats the latter illusion as reflecting the genuine
possibility that HME might not have felt hot. Given that epistemic counterparts
do not figure here at all, the insistence that any epistemic counterparts should be
strong may seem to leave Kripke’s explanation untouched.
Once again, I appeal to the principle that similar intuitions should receive
similar explanations. Our intuition that HME could have turned out to be
something other than heat differs only in specificity from the intuition that it
could have turned out to be cold. Weak epistemic counterparts of cold are of no
use in explaining the latter illusion; it does not matter what ‘‘those people’’ (the
residents of w) think. But if other-worldly observers are irrelevant here, then they
are irrelevant to the unspecific intuition as well.
The upshot is that if S is a sensed phenomenon like heat, and P is a physical
phenomenon like LME, then other-worldly observers are no use in explaining
either why S seems like it could have been other than P, or why P seems
like it could have been other than S. Since, as we have seen, actual observers
cannot explain these apparent contingencies either, it seems that there is no
psychoanalytically satisfying explanation in Kripke for the appearance that S is
only contingently related to P.
But, someone might say, this just shows we have been going about it the
wrong way around. Rather than looking for a strong epistemic counterpart of
heat that is LME, we should be looking for a strong epistemic counterpart of me
to whom LME feels hot.
I do not deny that such a person is possible; the question is what he can do
for us. It seems not an accident that the intuitions explained by facsimiles of the
table are intuitions about what is possible for the table. Likewise, the intuitions
explained by gold-facsimiles are intuitions about gold, for example, that it could
have turned out to be iron pyrites. One would expect, then, that the intuitions
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explainable by reference to me-facsimiles are in the first instance intuitions about
me. Am I the sort of person who has heat sensations in response to HME, or
the sort of person to whom LME feels hot? There is the feeling (suppose for
argument’s sake that it is an illusion) that I could have been the second sort of
person. How does this feeling arise? Well, a possible strong epistemic counterpart
of mine does have heat sensations in response to LME.
But it is one thing to explain apparent de re possibilities for ourselves, another
to explain apparent de re possibilities for heat. When we ask, ‘‘did heat have to
be HME or could it have been LME?’’, and answer that it could have turned out
either way, we are caught between two seeming possibilities for heat. The proof
of this is that the seeming possibility of heat being LME does not depend in the
least on there being Steve-like beings around to whom LME feels hot. (Perhaps
heat’s being LME creates conditions inhospitable to life.) The intuition that heat
could have been LME although there was no one around to realize it cannot be
explained by pointing to a possible me-facsimile reacting differently to LME,
simply because it is stipulated in the intuition that no observers are present.
FN:12
Here is the position so far. It is not hard to disguise a genuinely icy table so that it
looks wooden. So if Kripke wants to explain the seeming possibility of this table
A being made of ice, he has at his disposal a facsimile A∗ of the table that really
is made of ice. Sometimes, though, the appearance is closer to the reality, and
facsimiles of A are no more capable of possessing the seemingly possible property
Q than A is itself. How the second sort of illusion arises is an interesting question,
but a question for another paper.¹² The claim for now is just that we cannot
explain the second sort of illusion by pointing to a world where an A-facsimile
really is Q, because such a world is not possible.
Kripke says, ‘‘perhaps we can imagine that, by some miracle, sound waves
somehow enabled some creature to see. I mean, they gave him visual impressions
just as we have, maybe exactly the same color sense. We can also imagine the
same creature to be completely insensitive to light (photons). Who knows what
subtle undreamt of possibilities there may be?’’ (1980: 130). He asks, ‘‘Would
we say that in such a possible world, it was sound which was light, that these
wave motions in the air were light?’’ He says no, ‘‘given our concept of light, we
should describe the situation differently’’ (1980: 130).
I agree. The indicated world does not testify to the genuine possibility of light
being pressure waves in the air. But now let us ask a slightly different question.
Does it explain the seeming possibility of light having turned out to be waves in
the air? Again the answer is no. For that you would need sound to be a facsimile
of light. And it is not, for the obvious reason that airwaves do not look the least
bit like light. But then what does explain the seeming possibility of light turning
¹² I suspect that the explanation is often as simple as this: there is a facsimile of A that might for
all we know a priori be Q.
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out to be compression waves in the air? I am not going to comment on that.
What we do know is that the explanation is not in terms of a genuinely possible
strong epistemic counterpart.
One further example, this time not taken from Kripke. Suppose that Q is a
broadly geometrical property our concept of which is recognitional. Q might be
the property of being jagged, or loopy, or jumbled. It might be the property of
‘‘leftiness’’, which we recognize by asking if the figure in question appears to be
facing left (in the manner of ‘J’ and ‘3’), or right (in the manner of ‘C’ and ‘5’). I
will focus for no particular reason on the property of being oval. Everyone knows
how to recognize ovals, but nobody knows the formula (there is no formula to
know). The one and only way to tell whether something is oval is to lay eyes on
it and see how it looks. A thing is judged oval iff it looks more or less the shape
of an egg.
Now suppose I tell you that cassinis are the plane figures, whatever they may
be, defined by the equation (x2 + y2 )2 − (x2 − y2 ) = 5. Is being a cassini a way
of being oval? I take it that until you do the experiment, this is an empirically
open question. Cassinis could turn out to be oval or they could turn out not to
be. You need to draw the figure and see how it strikes you.¹³
This seems not too different, intuitively, from the way LME needs to be
sampled to determine whether or not it is heat. Presumably the Kripkean will
want to give the same sort of explanation. Just as there are worlds where
HME feels hot and worlds where it feels cold, there are worlds where cassinis
look egg-shaped and worlds where they look to be shaped like bunny ears or
figure-8s.
But this is all a mistake, since for cassinis to look other than egg-shaped to us
as we are is impossible. There may perhaps be counterfactual observers who due
to their greater visual acuity are bothered by departures from the exact profile of
an egg that we ourselves hardly notice. To them, cassinis do not look egg-shaped.
But those observers can no more explain the seeming possibility of cassinis’
turning out not to be oval than spectrum-inverted observers can explain the
seeming possibility of the table’s being made of ice. This is because what seems
possible (until we do the experiment) is that cassinis look other than egg-shaped
to us as we are, with our existing sensory endowment.¹⁴
¹³ Cassinis as I have defined them are oval. ( They belong to the class of ‘‘cassinian ovals’’—oddly,
most cassinian ovals are not egg-shaped at all.)
¹⁴ It is not as easy as one might think to throw the facsimile requirement over as too onerous.
If the appearance that A could be Q is sufficiently explained by noting that dunce’s A can be
Q, then more ought to seem possible than in fact does. It should seem, not only that this
brown table could have turned out to be icy, but that it could have turned out to be icy-looking,
that is, white—for there is (we are assuming) a world where white tables cause the same sort
of experience as this brown table causes in me. Similarly the Eiffel Tower should seem like it
could have turned out to be three feet in height. For again, a reduced Tower should present
to similarly scaled-down observers the same narrow appearances as I enjoy of the real Tower
here.
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What is the bearing of all this on Kripke’s arguments against the mind–body
identity theory? Kripke holds that any supposed identities between mental states
and physical ones ‘‘cannot be interpreted as analogous to that of the scientific
identification of the usual sort, as exemplified by the identity of heat and
molecular motion’’ (1980: 150). This is because the model that explains away
contrary appearances in the scientific case is powerless against the appearance
that pain can come apart from c-fiber firings. Which is more plausible, that the
model should suddenly meet its match in illusions about pain and c-fiber firings,
or that the model fails to explain away anti-materialist intuitions because those
intuitions are correct?
This argument rests on a false assumption: namely, that dualist intuitions, if
mistaken, would be the sole holdouts against the epistemic counterpart model of
illusions of possibility. The model breaks down already in scientific cases like the
illusion that this heat could exist without HME (and vice versa).¹⁵ One need not
know how exactly the scientific illusion arises to suspect that a similar mechanism
might be behind the corresponding illusion about pain.
I do not say the cases are analogous in every respect. The disanalogy stressed by
Kripke is this: Identity theorists about heat can concede the existence of a world
v where HME gives rise to sensations of cold. Materialists cannot, however,
concede the existence of a world w where c-fiber firings are not felt as pain,
because not to be felt as pain is not to be pain.
But this puts the materialist at a disadvantage only if we assume that v is what
it takes to explain why this cold seems like it could have been HME, and w is
what it takes to explain why this non-pain—this pleasure, say—seems like it
could have been c-fiber firings. And my claim has been that intuitions like this
cannot be explained by v and w at all—unless their HME and c-fiber firings are
such as to feel the relevant ways to us as we are.¹⁶
The materialist may seem still at a disadvantage, for the following reason.
How other-worldly HME feels, we know. It feels hot. But whether other-worldly
c-fiber firings are bound to present as pain is not clear. Certainly if they are pain,
then insofar as it is essential to pain to feel a certain way, that is how c-fiber firings
are bound to feel. But what if we suppose with the dualist that c-fiber firings are
not identical to mental states but cause them? The c-fiber firings in w might affect
minds (ours included) differently than the c-fiber firings here.
I think we should grant Kripke that a world like w, if it existed, would explain
the dualist intuition, at the same time as it verified that intuition. But that is just
to say that the intuition would be well explained by w if it were correct, which
¹⁵ One doesn’t notice this because Kripke lowers the bar, dropping the facsimile requirement at
precisely the point that it threatens to make a counterpart-style explanation unavailable.
¹⁶ Of course there may be other reasons to think v exists, e.g., the well-attested phenomenon of
the same stimulus causing different perceptual reactions in different perceivers. There are not to my
knowledge any well-attested phenomena to suggest the possibility of a world like w.
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does nothing to show that it is correct. The premise Kripke needs is that we still
find ourselves with reason to postulate w even if we suppose for reductio that it
is the identity theory that is correct; this is what supposedly makes materialism a
self-undermining position.
But the stronger premise, we have seen, is false. This suggests to me that
Kripke’s argument is not in the end successful.
Does this make me a pessimist about conceivability evidence? Not at all. It
does put me at odds with
(O) carefully handled, conceivability evidence can be trusted, for if impossible
E seems possible, then something else F is possible, such that we mistake
the possibility of F for that of E.
FN:17
But although this was called the optimistic thesis above, a better term might have
been super-optimistic or Pollyannaish—because for a type of evidence to never
mislead about its proper object (the real possibility confusedly glimpsed, in this
case) is exceedingly unusual and perhaps unprecedented.¹⁷ The thesis we want, I
think, is that
(O! ) carefully handled, conceivability evidence can be trusted, for when impossible E seems possible, that will generally be because of distorting factors
that we can discover and control for.
Kripke’s first great contribution to conceivability studies was to have seen the
need for a technology of modal error detection in the first place. His second great
contribution was to have made a start at developing this technology. There is no
need to foist on him a third ‘‘contribution’’ of identifying the one and only way
modal illusions can arise.
¹⁷ Berkeley suggests a similarly Pollyannaish thesis about perception in Three Dialogues between
Hylas and Philonous.
Hylas: What say you to this? Since, according to you, men judge of the reality of things by their
senses, how can a man be mistaken in thinking the moon a plain lucid surface, about a foot in
diameter; or a square tower, seen at a distance, round; or an oar, with one end in the water.
Philonous: He is not mistaken with regard to the ideas he actually perceives; but in the inferences
he makes from his present perceptions. Thus in the case of the oar, what he immediately
perceives by sight is certainly crooked; and so far he is in the right. But if he thence conclude,
that upon taking the oar out of the water he shall perceive the same crookedness . . . he is
mistaken . . . his mistake lies not in what he perceives immediately and at present, (it being a
manifest contradiction to suppose he should err in respect of that) but in the wrong judgment he
makes concerning the ideas he apprehends to be connected with those immediately perceived. (3rd
Dialogue)
Where the Kripkean super-optimist treats seeming failures of imagination as failures of interpretation, the Berkeleyan one shifts the blame rather from experience to inference. The insistence
that there are severe, a priori discoverable, limits on our liability to make mistakes about a subject
matter often goes hand in hand with idealism about that subject matter. This seems to me a further
reason not to associate Kripke with the super-optimistic thesis (O).
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REFERENCES
• Q1
Berkeley, George (1979). Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous. Indianapolis:
Hackett Publishing Company.
Della Rocca, Michael (1996). ‘‘Essentialists and Essentialism’’. Journal of Philosophy 93:
186–202.
(2002). ‘‘Essentialism versus Essentialism’’. In Tamar Szabó Gendler and John
Hawthorne, eds., Conceivability and Possibility, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
223–52.
Hill, Chris (1997). ‘‘Imaginability, Conceivability, and the Mind–Body Problem’’.
Philosophical Studies 87: 61–85.
Kripke, Saul (1977). ‘‘Identity and Necessity’’. In Stephen P. Schwartz, ed., Naming,
Necessity, and Natural Kinds (Ithaca: Cornell University Press).
(1980). Naming and Necessity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
•pp. 66–107.
Nagel, Thomas (1974). ‘‘What Is It like to Be a Bat?’’. Philosophical Review 83: 435–50.
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The pagination is for
Queries in Chapter 5
"Identity and
Q1. Author edit not clear.
Necessity"
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6
Beyond Rigidification: The Importance
of Being Really Actual
Rereading Naming and Necessity in the light of later, two-dimensional, developments, it can seem that Kripke was not playing fair in his critique of Frege’s sense
theory.
The sense theory for our purposes says that with each namelike expression n
is associated a collection of properties. The namelike expression is linked to the
properties in three ways:
modally
epistemically
conceptually
being n goes necessarily with having the properties
being n goes apriori with having the properties
being n goes in understanding with having the properties
Each of the links leads us to expect a phenomenon that turns out not to
obtain:
modal
epistemic
conceptual
Water is possible without hydrogen.
Cats are as an apriori matter small furry animals.
Nothing counts as Peano unless it discovered Peano’s Axioms.
Because of these false predictions, the sense theory is rejected, and a new theory,
or picture, is put in its place.
This paper has not previously been published. It was given at the 3rd Barcelona Workshop
on Issues in the Theory of Reference (2003), and is rendered here more or less as presented there; hence the perhaps overly conversational style. I owe thanks to Mark Johnston,
Scott Soames, Hagit Benjabi, Joan Weiner, and Brian Weatherson for their comments and
criticism.
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But the ink is hardly dry on this critique when Kripke turns around and points
out other phenomena, also predicted by the sense theory, that are in his view
genuine there:
modal
epistemic
conceptual
FN:1
Watery stuff is possible w/out hydrogen.
A meter is as an a priori matter the length of stick S.
Nothing counts as heat unless it feels a certain way.
Not only are these predictions correct by Kripke’s lights, his own account of
them, in terms of reference-fixing descriptions, bears a resemblance to the rejected
explanation in terms of sense.
That some of the phenomena Fregeans point to do obtain on Kripke’s theory,
and are explained in broadly analogous ways, could make a person suspicious.
(Not me! I am channeling a perspective that I do not share.) Perhaps Kripke’s
radical-seeming conclusions are a function less of his evidence than the order
of presentation. A more logical approach, one might think, would be to first
use the sense theory’s true predictions to motivate the theory, then bring in
its false ones as a guide to the theory’s proper development. Senses should
be chosen with an eye to the importance of not falling into these particular
traps.
This way lies the two-dimensionalist reimagining of Kripke, first convincingly
elaborated in Davies and Humberstone’s ‘‘Two Notions of Necessity’’ (1980).
Names are constitutively linked to property clusters, on this view, only not
the ones we’d supposed.¹ Sometimes the false predictions reflect just a bad
choice of associated properties. ‘Cat’ means something more like ‘whatever shares
deep explanatory features with these things’. ‘Peano’ means something more like
‘whoever the people I learned the word from were talking about’. This is what’s
going on with the epistemic and conceptual problems.
Other times, however, the false prediction shows that we have misjudged the
character of the association. Being water goes with being the transparent, potable
stuff not across all counterfactual worlds, but all worlds ‘‘considered as candidates
for actuality’’—all counteractual worlds. This is addressed by switching to ‘the
actual so-and-so’. The description is rigid in one dimension, since the actual
so-and-so would have been one and the same whatever world had obtained.
(That takes care of the modal mis-prediction.) But along another dimension,
it refers to whatever turns out actually to have the properties, supposing for
argument’s sake that the given world is actual.
I have called this a reimagining of Kripke. Not everyone sees it that way.
The 2D line has taken on such an air of inevitability of late that it can seem,
¹ From here on I use ‘name’ (very!) broadly to cover any expressions that do not in Kripke’s view
have Fregean senses.
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at times, that what separates Kripke’s position from later developments is just
that Kripke is more confusing. I find it all the more interesting, then, that
this is not Davies and Humberstone’s attitude at all. They see the 2D view
as distinct from Kripke’s; indeed, they point to an issue about language use
that resolved one way supports the 2D view and resolved another way supports
Kripke. It is because they are not sure how to resolve this issue that they describe
themselves as ‘‘not confident that the suggested [2D] view is correct’’ (p. 20).²
This is important, since if two-dimensionalism is correct no matter how we
talk, then the view is lacking in substantive content. Davies and Humberstone
are, to my knowledge, the last two-dimensionalists to associate the view with
a potentially falsifiable claim about English. One ought to be grateful, for
they are giving us here a rare opportunity to see what its substantive content
might be.
What is the issue that Davies and Humberstone are not sure how to resolve?
They start by looking at the cases where the 2D account works best: descriptive
names à la Gareth Evans. Part of what makes ‘Julius’ a descriptive name, on their
reading of Evans, is that
One can understand sentences containing ‘Julius’ without knowing of any object that it
is being said to be thus and so. (p. 7)
It will be hard for the name to retain this feature, they think, if it comes into
everyday use.
Imagine that every speaker of the language . . . had a visual confrontation with Tom
and was told ‘This man is Julius.’ . . . Given the knowledge which each speaker would
now have (knowledge by acquaintance) of Julius it would be natural for the semantical
function of ‘Julius’ to change. (p. 20)
This is (I suppose) because knowing Julius just as the zip-inventor no longer
suffices for understanding, once his identity becomes known. ‘‘Run, Julius has a
gun!’’ someone says. An out-of-the-loop Evans student grabs your arm: ‘‘I don’t
get it—we’re to run from whoever turns out to have invented the zip?’’ His
failure to realize that we are to run from a certain particular person, not just from
the zip-inventor whoever it might be, shows that he doesn’t fully appreciate what
‘‘Julius has a gun’’ means. This is why it might seem that acquaintance with the
referent destroys ‘Julius’’s career as a descriptive name. But what’s bad for the
goose is bad for the gander:
. . . consider the fact that practically every speaker of our language has had a visual
confrontation with (a sample of) the chemical kind H2 O accompanied by the words
‘This stuff (this chemical kind) is water (is called ‘water’)’. Is it not unlikely that ‘water’
remains, in our language, a merely descriptive name of H2 O? (p. 20)
² Later: ‘‘it is no part of our position that the suggested view is the ultimately correct view of the
way ‘red’ functions in English’’ (p. 22).
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If water is known to us as this familiar stuff of our acquaintance, then when
someone says ‘‘water is refreshing’’, we know that this familiar stuff of our
acqaintance is being called refreshing. Suppose a Martian chemist walks in who
knows water only by description. She drinks a glass of water and says, ‘‘Mmm,
that’s refreshing. I wonder if water is refreshing?’’ That might again appear to
mark her as not fully understanding the word.
The claim is that insofar as water is known to us as this familiar stuff of our
acquaintance, it will be hard for ‘water’ to be a descriptive name. Contraposing,
if water is to be a descriptive name, water had better not be known as this familiar
stuff of our acquaintance. It had better be that
physical ostension of a sample of H2 O accompanied by the words ‘this stuff ’ . . . is similar
not to physical ostension of a man accompanied by the words ‘this man’ but rather to
physical ostension of a screen accompanied by the words ‘the man behind this screen’.
(p. 20)
FN:3
Of course, the analogy here—pointing to water is like pointing to whatever
is behind the screen—is strained at best. It’s unclear why identifying water
ostensively as ‘this stuff here’ should be compared to ostending Julius indirectly
as ‘whoever is behind the screen’. I take it that this is part of the reason why D
& H are ‘‘not sure the suggested view is correct’’.
Suppose we agree with D & H that ‘water’ is not a descriptive name if
the referent is known as that familiar stuff of our acquaintance, as opposed to
whatever lies behind water-appearances. This still doesn’t tell us why D & H are
worried that ‘water’ doesn’t have a 2D semantics. That ‘water’ doesn’t satisfy
Evans’s definition of a descriptive name, given our acquaintance with its referent,
is no doubt interesting. But the question is why ‘water’ would stop behaving
like a descriptive name—the way 2D semantics says a descriptive name should
behave—when we become acquainted with its referent.
Here is a story that seems of the right general type, drawing on work of Jim
Pryor and John Campbell.³ Judgments can be made by way of other judgments.
I might judge that the President is holding a dog by judging that Bush is holding
a dog, in the belief that Bush is the President. What is special about ‘Julius’ is
that the one and only way to judge that Julius is F is by judging that the zip-inventor
is F, in the belief that Julius is the zip-inventor. The minute we learn how to go
in the other direction, judging that the zip-inventor is F by judging that Julius
here is F, in the belief the zip-inventor is Julius, ‘Julius’ ceases to be a descriptive
name. That of course, is what happens when we meet the guy; we see (and judge)
that Julius is (say) drunk and judge thereby that the zip-inventor drunk.
Now, why should descriptive namehood as just explained have the result that
‘n’ refers on all counteractual hypotheses to whatever is actually so-and-so, and
why should loss of descriptive namehood interfere with that result? When it
³ Pryor (1999); Campbell (1999).
whoever
is
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is
Certainly
175
comes to deciding whether Julius is so-and-so, I am doing something that is
of its nature done when and because one decides the zip-inventor is so-and-so.
This applies in particular to deciding whether Julius is drunk in such-and-such
a counteractual world. If you ask me how I decide whether Julius is on a given
counteractual hypothesis drunk, there is only one possible answer: I decide
whether the zip-inventor is drunk on that hypothesis.
Suppose on the other hand that I have other ways of deciding that Julius
is so-and-so. Suddenly there is the possibility of, as we might put it, original
intelligence about Julius—I realize Julius is so-and-so not by first realizing
something else—and also ‘‘variably derivative’’ intelligence—intelligence based
on other descriptions Julius is thought to satisfy. Now I cannot rest my decision
purely and simply on the issue of whether the zip-inventor is on the given
hypothesis drunk. On the one hand, here is a guy with the same parents as Julius
(= Tom), who looks and acts just like Julius and leads a very similar life, and
he is drunk. On the other hand, here is the guy who invented the zip on this
hypothesis and he is not drunk at all. Is Julius drunk on the given hypothesis or
not? It as not as though I have rank-ordered Julius’s traits so as to know which
way to jump when and if the traits come apart. Unless our grasp of a name takes
a very particular and unnatural form—a form that precludes independent lines
of sight on the referent—judgments about Julius’s counteractual state are bound
to be problematic.
It makes sense, then, that the two-dimensionality of a term should stand or fall
with the uniformly derivative character of judgments about the term’s referent;
they are always reached via the same descriptive route. How is it to be determined
whether judgments about water, heat, and so on are uniformly derivative in
that way?
One could try to argue directly that speaking of water feels very different from
speaking about an I-know-not-what hidden behind some veil of appearances.
But the argument for a two-dimensional interpretation was never that it feels
right. The argument was that it explains a lot, and on a more economical basis.
This brings us back around to the modal, epistemic, and conceptual phenomena
with which we began. The rigidifier says: look, I can explain these phenomena
just as well as Kripke and with a lot less fuss and bother.
S
• Q2
W H O S E E X P L A N AT I O N•A R E B E T T E R ?
• Q1
• Our job as friends of D & H’s skeptical side is to ask whether this explanatory
advantage claim is true. It isn’t, we’ll be arguing. We’ll be arguing, in fact, that
the rigidifier’s explanation is oftentimes worse than Kripke’s, and worse in ways
plausibly blameable on the treatment of water-judgments as of their nature made
by way of descriptive judgments. There will be three kinds of worseness involved.
Depending on the case, we’ll be saying to the 2D explainer either that (1) you
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are using a cannon to kill a mouse; (2) you are hitting a lot besides the mouse,
or (3) you have missed the mouse.
Obviously it’s the type-(3) criticisms that are the most interesting, so let me
say briefly how the mouse is liable to escape. According to me, the rigidifier’s
interpretation of ‘‘actually’’ makes certain sorts of concept inexpressible. One
cannot in the 2D framework express concepts whose extension is tied to what is
really actually the case, as opposed to what might be hypothesized to be actually
the case. The rigidifier may thus wind up explaining the wrong datum—one
in which our actual concept of thus and such has been replaced by some 2D
surrogate.
So, to mention an example that will come up later, we have the concept of a
‘‘spitting image’’ or ‘‘look-alike’’ of something now under observation.⁴ This is
used in turn to explain other concepts. By fool’s gold we mean a certain kind of
look-alike of real gold.
Why is the concept of fool’s gold inexpressible in a 2D setting? Because to be
fool’s gold is to look to us as we are like gold, not to us as we might be hypothesized
to be. To see this, consider your attitudes towards fool’s gold so described. What
Tex when I worry that this supposedly gold ring
am I worried about, for instance,
t
might perhaps be made of fool’s
gold? Is the worrisome hypothesis that the ring
might be a substance like iron pyrites that I as I am cannot tell apart from real
gold? Or is it that the ring might be a substance like charcoal that looks to me as
I am hypothesized to be like gold, because (on the worrying hypothesis) gold looks
to me a dull black? The first answer is clearly the right one. I am worried I am in
a world where the ring ‘‘looks golden’’ despite not being gold. I am not worried
I am in a world where the ring looks however gold looks to me in that world
without being gold. Lacking a concept of real actuality—of how the ring looks
to me, not as I am hypothesized to be, but as I am—the two-dimensionalist
cannot express what I am worried about.
At least, the two-dimensionalist cannot express it directly, by invoking the
(truly) actual world as such; for 2D actuality is by nature shiftable, by moving
to a new hypothesis about which world is actual. Another option would be to
try to pick our world out by description. One could determine empirically that
this world has certain relevant features, and write those features explicitly into
the definition of ‘fool’sText
gold’. For instance, fool’s gold is whatever looks like
gold to observers with X-type brains (a particular empirically determined sort of
brain). But this, as Kripke says, ‘‘makes the definition into a scientific discovery’’.
⁴ Compare the concept audible to the concept plausible. Both arguably have constitutive links
to a certain kind of response. Audible seems amenable to 2D treatment. Whatever observers can
directly hear, on a given hypothesis, is on that hypothesis audible. However, it is not the case
that whatever observers find plausible, on a given hypothesis, really is plausible on that hypothesis.
Imagining that we all find Scientology—its content and the evidence for it unchanged—plausible is
not imagining it to really be plausible. ( There are connections here with the problem of imaginative
resistance.)
whatever way
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It is an empirical, not definitional, truth that fool’s gold has certain effects on
people with X-type brains. If one insists that the above is a definition, then it is
a definition of some other term, one that sounds like ‘‘fool’s gold’’ but expresses
a different concept. If the two-dimensionalist took this route, he could fairly be
charged with changing the subject and explaining the wrong phenomenon.
Here is another example of ‘‘explaining the wrong phenomenon’’, this one
to do with illusions of possibility. It seems possible that gold could have had
a different atomic number. The illusion can be explained in 2D terms, if by
‘‘different’’ one means ‘‘different from 79’’. (Supposing a certain world w to
be actual, gold has an atomic number of 80.) But suppose we don’t know
gold’s atomic number, and the illusion is rather that gold’s atomic number is
contingent; gold could have had a different atomic number than it does have.
This seeming possibility the two-dimensionalist cannot so easily explain—for it
makes no sense to say that if w is actual, then gold has a different atomic number
than it has actually. (Compare the de dicto reading of ‘‘I thought your yacht was
longer than it actually is.’’) The closest he can come is to explain the illusion
that it could have had a different atomic number than 79. But that is a different
illusion. So there is a second example of explaining the wrong phenomenon,
what above I called missing the mouse.
A third, perhaps more controversial, example, relates to Davies and Humberstone’s suggestion that the 2D meaning of ‘x is red’ might be x has that physical
property which actually standardly causes produces red ∗ sense data in perceivers
(p. 22). They say, ‘‘we find at fn 71 [of Naming and Necessity] . . . a very clear
anticipation of the present suggestion for secondary quality words’’ (p. 28)? What
Kripke says in footnote 71 is that
the reference of ‘yellowness’ is fixed by the description ‘that (manifest) property of objects,
which causes them, under normal circumstances, to be seen as yellow (i.e. to be sensed
by certain visual impressions . . . )’.
FN:5
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But what is meant by ‘‘normal’’ circumstances here? It seems to me that Kripke
does not mean ‘‘actually normal’’ circumstances where ‘‘actually’’ is used in the
shifty 2D way. He does not mean whatever circumstances we might imagine to
be normal in the course of imagining the reference-fixing description deployed in
alternative settings.⁵ One piece of evidence is that Kripke never offers a criterion
C for normal circumstance-hood; he never tells us, as it were, what screen to look
behind. Another is that he questions whether such a criterion is possible:
If one tries to revise the definition of ‘yellow’ to be, ‘tends to produce such and such
visual impressions under circumstances C’ . . . one will find that the specification of
the circumstances C either circularly involves yellowness or plainly makes the alleged
definition into a scientific discovery rather than a synonymy. (1980: 140)
⁵ He is not, for instance, thinking that white paper falls into the extension of ‘yellow’ in worlds
where it is normal to view objects under yellow light.
single quotes
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This recalls our point above about fool’s gold. Bringing neurological findings
into the definition of ‘fool’s gold’ makes it no longer a definition but a scientific
discovery about the referent; construed as a definition it defines not our term
‘fool’s gold’ but a hitherto unknown homonym. Likewise, bringing empirical
findings about normality into the definition of ‘yellowness’ gives us either a
scientific discovery about yellowness or a definition not of ‘yellowness’ but of a
new term spelled the same way.
Then what does Kripke mean by ‘normal’ in that footnote? I suspect the
Kripkean notion has a demonstrative element; we presume that these conditions—the ones that mostly obtain around here—are normal. Normal
conditions are like water. They’re those familiar conditions of our acquaintance; we recognize them when we see them. The rigidifier, lacking a concept
of real-actuality, cannot follow Kripke in this. He will have to specify normal conditions descriptively and without reliance on the concept of yellow.
He certainly doesn’t know how to do this from the armchair, so he will
have to do an empirical study of viewing conditions, including the conditions
that obtain inside our heads. But this, as Kripke says, ‘‘makes the alleged
definition into a scientific discovery’’. If you want it to be a definition, it’s
a definition of shmolor concepts, not color concepts. The modal, epistemic, and conceptual phenomena as they arise for our concepts will be left
unexplained.
E X P L A I N I N G T H E CONCEPTUAL D AT U M
Both sides agree that it can sometimes be important to the understanding of a
name ‘n’ to realize that the referent should have certain properties. But they offer
different explanations of this, according to their different views of meaning. (I
assume that understanding is in some sense knowing the meaning.) The rigidifier
maintains that ‘n’ ’s meaning is the same as that of ‘the actual G’, which comes
to the fact that ‘n’ stands no matter which world is actual for whatever is actually
G there. It would seem then that
(2DU) Understanding ‘n’ is knowing that no matter which world is actual, x is
n iff x alone is actually G.
Given this, the rest is a slam dunk. Knowing that ‘n’ stands for the unique G
no matter what is certainly sufficient for knowing that a thing should be G if it
wants to be n.
Since for Kripke the meaning is just the referent, understanding for him comes
(so I assume) to knowing what the name stands for. This might sound like saying
that to understand is to know of the appropriate x that ‘n’ stands for x. But I
suspect that is not Kripke’s view. A couple of passages suggest what more might
be involved.
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[I]f someone else detects heat by some sort of instrument, but is unable to feel it, we
might want to say, if we like, that the concept of heat is not the same even though the
referent is the same. (p. 131)
[A] blind man who uses the term ‘light’, even though he uses it as a rigid designator for
the same phenomenon as we, seems to us to have lost a great deal, perhaps enough for us
to declare that he has a different concept. (p. 139)
heat-ideaFN:6
The Martian has a defective or eccentric understanding of ‘heat’, but why? It is
not, I think, that the Martian fails to know of any x that ‘heat’ stands for x. For
we can suppose she senses heat some other way; she can see it, let’s say, with her
telescopic vision. Just as we know of the phenomenon x that we feel that ‘heat’
stands for x, she knows of the phenomenon x that she is looking at that ‘heat’
stands for x. But Kripke would still, I think, say that ‘‘her concept of heat is not
the same even though the referent is the same’’ (p. 131). The Martian’s problem
is not that she fails to know of the correct x that it is the referent of ‘heat’.
By one’s idea of heat, let us mean whatever it is in one’s head that enables one
to form thoughts about heat so described: thoughts of the sort one would express
by saying ‘‘heat is so-and-so’’. The Martian certainly has an idea of heat, for
she has thoughts to the effect that ‘‘heat looks like a bunch of rapidly vibrating
particles’’. So what is she missing?
Proposal, meant to be in a Kripkean spirit: What sets the Martian apart is
that her heat-idea is abnormal. All of our heat-ideas have certain properties in
common that the Martian’s idea lacks. To know what ‘heat’ stands for is to know
that it stands for heat, where heat is conceived not by any old idea of heat but a
normal idea.⁶ I will call this knowing in the normal way that ‘heat’ stands for heat.
Putting this together with the claim about understanding, we get
heat-idea
(KRU) Understanding ‘n’ is knowing in the normal way that ‘n’ stands for n.
––
• Q3
So, for instance, I might acquire the word ‘Mt Everest’ by being told it stands for
the world’s highest mountain, located somewhere in Asia, or ‘the Sun’ by being
told that it stands for that, the shiniest object in the sky. Something like this is,
let’s assume, the normal idea of Mt Everest, or of the Sun. In my case, and I
would assume in yours, understanding ‘Mt Everest’ (‘the Sun’) is knowing that
it stands for Mt Everest (the Sun) as thus normally conceived.
How does this compare to what the rigidifier requires for understanding? Both
sides agree, let’s say, that I am expected to know that ‘Mt Everest’ stands for
Mt Everest, conceived as the highest mountain. The difference is that (KRU)
is content if I know this is true as matters stand. (2DU) says I should know it
unconditionally,• that is, no matter which world is actual. Do I?
Given that my understanding of ‘Mt Everest’ comes entirely from the teacher’s
explanation, I know Mt Everest is the tallest mountain no matter which world
⁶ Crimmins (1989).
my
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s
is actual only if my teacher has told me that it is. But she had told me only
that being Mt Everest does go with being the tallest mountain. Was the stronger
claim perhaps implicit? It would seem not. She would be shocked and horrified
own studentsto hear me telling my brother, ‘‘oh, by the way, if Kanchenjunga should turn
out to be tallest, then ‘Mt Everest’ stands for Kanchenjunga’’. Her message is
this: ‘‘presuming I am not greatly mistaken about which mountain is tallest, ‘Mt
Everest’ stands for the tallest mountain.’’ Similar remarks apply to ‘the Sun’.
No one’s understanding of the Sun tells them it is Sirius B if we are massively
deluded and Sirius B is the star responsible for the appearances by which we
identify the Sun.
This shows, I think, that the 2-D picture of understanding is in one way⁷ much
FN:7
more demanding than the Kripke picture, and on the face of it more demanding
colon
• Q4 than the truth. The next question is•; is any of the additional expertise imputed
by the 2D picture actually needed to explain the phenomenon of associated
properties?
A reason to doubt it is this. The phenomenon to be explained has to do with
necessary conditions on the referent: to be yellowness, a property should look a
certain way; to be 100◦ C, a temperature should be the boiling point of water at
sea level; to be the Sun, a thing should be the shiniest object in the sky. Someone
who doesn’t expect the referent to have these properties doesn’t understand the
term as we do. But of course, it is one thing to think that if x is the referent, it needs
to have certain properties, another to think that if x has those properties, it needs to
be
conditional puts the referent. The first concerns necessary conditions on the referent, the second
sufficient conditions for being the referent. When the two-dimensionalist insists
offers
that no matter which world is actual, yellowness is whatever feels a certain way,
she is talking (at least) about sufficient conditions. She is thus like the imaginary
counterpart of my teacher who says, I don’t care which mountain turns out to be
tallest, that’s the one we call ‘Mt Everest’.
Not only is this extra instruction irrelevant to the explanation of our intuition
that to be heat, say, a thing should feel like this, it ‘‘explains’’ an intuition that
we don’t have: viz. that if, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, it is not fire
and soup that feel the relevant way but snow and Jell-o, then it is the condition
of these latter that we have in mind by ‘heat’. When I identify heat as what
feels like this, standing before a fire, I mean what does feel like this, given what
I know about how various things feel. (If I learn the word from a teacher, her
message is not ‘‘heat is whatever presents like so, and now I cast my fate to the
⁷ Less extravagant than KRU, and than the truth, in another way. 2DU doesn’t require you to
know what ‘n’ stands for. After all, it’s your ignorance of this that’s supposed to explain how you
can understand ‘water’ without realizing it stands for H2 O. But this ‘‘ignorance of the referent’’ is
a tendentious redescription of ignorance of some of the referent’s essential properties. Why should
you need to know the essence of water to know that it’s what the word ‘water’ stands for? If that
were the requirement, then I don’t know what my own name stands for. ( Thanks here to Brian
Weatherson.)
so
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winds’’, it’s ‘‘heat is what presents like so, presuming, as why shouldn’t I, that
I am not totally misremembering or otherwise mistaking my actual perceptual
reactions’’.)
So far we’ve had an example of using a cannon to kill a mouse—using a
necessary and sufficient connection when the explanation draws only on the
necessity—and an example of hitting some neighboring mice—‘‘explaining’’ a
cast-our-fate-to-the-winds intuition we don’t actually have. Next an example of
missing the mouse.
Suppose Kripke is right that the Martians have a different concept of heat if
they don’t feel it as we do. How does the rigidifier propose to explain this? Well,
the Martian does not know that no matter which world is actual, ‘heat’ is what
causes heat-sensations. A problem which I won’t be discussing is, why can’t the
Martian know this? It’s not as though you need to actually have a feeling to know
a fact in which it figures. (The blind certainly know that light gives rise to visual
impressions, and this no doubt plays a role in their understanding of the term.)
And anyway, it may be that the Martian does have the feeling, but in response to
cold things rather than warm ones.
The problem I do want to discuss has to do not with the Martians’ understanding of ‘heat’ but our own. If what a person knows whereby they understand ‘heat’
is that it stands for whatever feels a certain way, then this should be knowable
without a prior understanding of ‘heat’. But then the feeling by which heat is identified had better have a name other than ‘feeling of heat’. Kripke says the following:
. . . heat is something we have identified (and fixed the reference of its name) by its giving
us a certain sensation, which we call ‘the sensation of heat’. We don’t have a special name
for this sensation other than as a sensation of heat. It’s interesting that the language is this
way. Whereas you might suppose it, from what I am saying, to have been the other way.
(p. 131)
(You might indeed.) And later,
Some philosophers have argued that such terms as ‘sensation of yellow’, ‘sensation of
heat’, ‘sensation of pain’, and the like, could not be in the language unless they were
identifiable in terms of external observable phenomena, such as heat, yellowness, and
associated human behavior. I think that this question is independent of any view argued
in the text. (p. 140)
How could it be independent, one might wonder? There is a problem here
if the role of a reference-fixing description is to specify the referent in prior
and independent terms, thereby conferring understanding. But it is only the
rigidifier who assumes that understanding is constituted by knowledge of a
reference-fixing biconditional. According to Kripke, as we are reading him, one
understands ‘n’ by
(1) knowing of the right x that ‘n’ stands for x, while
(2) conceiving of that x via a normal idea.
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A reference-fixing description can contribute in the first connection by specifying
in independent terms which x is being referred to; that is how initial baptisms
are supposed to work. But it can also contribute in the second connection by
reminding us of what counts as a normal idea of x. (‘‘It might here be so
important to the concept that its reference is fixed in this way . . . ’’ (p. 131),
‘‘The way the reference is fixed seems overwhelmingly important to us in the
case of sensed phenomena . . . The fact that we identify light in a certain way
seems to us to be crucial, even though it is not necessary’’ (p. 139).) Whether
or not it is circular to use the word ‘heat’ in identifying the referent x of that
very word, it is clearly not circular to use the word ‘heat’—which we do after
all understand—in our account of how we who understand are expected to
conceive of its referent.⁸
E X P L A I N I N G T H E EPISTEMIC D AT U M
FN:9
FN:10
Now let’s consider the rigidifier’s explanation of a priori truths about Neptune,
say, or the length a meter. It is a priori, we are told, that a meter, supposing
there is such a length (the definition has not misfired), is the length of this
stick. Both sides agree, I think, that the apriority reflects something like immunity
to error through misidentification,⁹ so let’s talk about that. Error through
misidentification happens¹⁰ when
one correctly supposes that n and the G exist,
but one wrongly supposes that n is the G.
Our judgment that n is G is immune to error through misidentification if
there is no chance at all of this happening; assuming both exist, n is bound to be the
G. So it is with the reference-fixer’s judgment that ‘‘a meter is the length of this
stick’’. There is no chance at all that there is a length one meter and something
is the length of this stick, but a meter is not the length of this stick. Given how
the phrase was introduced, it is this referent or nothing. ‘A meter’ has no other
option if it wants to refer.
That much, it seems, Kripke and the rigidifier can agree on. They disagree,
though, about why ‘a meter’ has only one option if it wants to refer. What is it
about our understanding of ‘n’ that makes it the case that
(∗ ) ‘n’ refers if it does to the G?.
⁸ Crimmins thinks normality has statistical and normative aspects. It can involve nonrepresentational properties of the idea, say, that it calls up certain associations, or that it is
triggered by a certain external phenomenon, as our heat-idea is triggered by heat. Another possibly
important feature of normal ideas is that we are tempted to ascribe certain properties to the referent
so-conceived, like indivisibility to atoms or Tarskian properties to truth. Crimmins (1989) has the
fascinating and underappreciated details.
⁹ Pryor (1999); Campbell (1999).
¹⁰ Consider this stipulative. See Pryor (1999) for two kinds of error through misidentification.
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The rigidifier’s story is based on
FN:11
(2DU) To understand ‘n’ is to know that NMWWIA,¹¹ ‘n’ refers to x iff x is the
actual G.
This lets her reason her way to (∗ ) as follows:
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
‘n’ refers
‘n’ is understandable, say by X.
X knows that NMWWIA, ‘n’ refers to x iff x is the actual G.
NMWWIA, ‘n’ refers to x iff x is the actual G.
‘n’ refers to x iff x is the actual G.
‘n’ refers to x only if x is the actual G.
Conditional proof gives ‘‘if (1), then (6)’’ which then by basic logic allows the
rigidifier to derive (∗ ).
This explanation is not very efficient. To put the point schematically, it derives
the conclusion R only if G from the premise (among others) that X knows that
NMWWIA, R if and only if G. An explanation is available at cheaper rates from
the Kripkean. Remember the Kripkean theory of understanding:
(KRU) To understand ‘n’ is to know in the normal way (using a normal idea)
that it stands for n.
To understand ‘a meter’, on this theory, is to know in the normal way—using
a normal idea—that it stands for a meter. Now at this point, our only idea
of a meter is as the length of this stick; so any idea that doesn’t figure in a
knowledgeable belief that a meter is the length of this stick would have to count
as abnormal. And that is just to say that we can’t understand ‘a meter’ without
knowing that it stands for the length of this stick. More generally, if our only
idea of n—hence the one whereby we understand ‘n’—is the one figuring in our
knowledge that n is the G, then the Kripkean can argue as follows:
(1)
(2)
(3" )
(4" )
‘n’ refers.
‘n’ is understandable, say by X.
X knows that ‘n’ refers to the G.
‘n’ refers to the G.
(∗ ) now follows by conditional proof. Relative to the goal of explaining apriority,
the surplus content of (2DU) vis-à-vis (KRU) is just wasted.
That was a ‘‘using a cannon to kill a mouse’’ type criticism. Now an example
of collateral damage: that is, the rigidifier ‘‘explains’’ things that aren’t the case.
Distinguish two claims:
• Q5
(A) •if there’s such a length as a meter, it’s the length of this stick.
¹¹ NMWWIA = no matter which world is actual.
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This I have agreed is a priori, because ‘a meter’ refers to the length of stick S if to
anything. Second,
• Q6
(B) •if this stick has a length at all, then the length is a meter.
It should be clear that (B)’s apriority follows just as easily from the rigidifier’s
notion of understanding as (A)’s. But is (B) in truth a priori? Recall how Kripke
sets the case up:
There is a certain length which he wants to mark out. He marks it out by an accidental
property, namely that there is a stick of that length. Someone else might mark out the
reference by another accidental property. (p. 55)
FN:12
Since it is an empirical matter whether stick S is ‘‘the length he wants to mark
out’’, we need to ask what happens if he is wrong and it is a different length than
intended. It might be, for instance, that the stick is a millionth of an inch long,
but emitting magnification rays that delude us into seeing it as longer. Or maybe
the stick is a mile long, but much farther away than anyone had realized. I take it
that it is no part of the reference-fixer’s understanding of ‘meter’ that it continues
to stand for the length of S even if S is much shorter or longer than it appears.
Since this cannot be a priori ruled out, we don’t know a priori that the stick is a
meter long if it has a length at all.
You can guess the rigidifier’s reply: ‘‘That just shows we have not been
sufficiently careful about the descriptive condition that defines ‘one meter’. The
real meaning of ‘one meter’ is ‘the length of that stick, presuming the stick is
roughly as long as it looks’. I agree that this is how the answer has got to go.
But at the same time it can’t go that way, because of the rigidifier’s difficulties
about real-actuality. The phrase ‘‘roughly as long as it looks’’ cannot mean ‘‘as
long as it looks to our as-if actual selves’’, for then the definition still goes through
if the stick is a mile long in w, provided there are compensating changes in our
perceptual system: we have telescopic vision in w so that it takes a mile of stick to
make true the experience that a much shorter stick answers to here.¹² The phrase
has got to mean ‘‘as long as it does or would look to us as we really are’’. And
as we have seen, the two-dimensionalist has no way of capturing that ‘‘really’’.
His only option is to determine empirically that our actual perceptual wiring is
¹² I am skating over various subtleties here. Suppose that we can characterize my experience of
S: it’s a type-Z experience. Because we don’t want to make a ‘‘definition into a scientific discovery
rather than a synonymy’’, we must take care that the characterization (‘‘type-Z’’) not help itself to
features of real actuality that concept-users may be in no position to know, features that would have
to be discovered empirically. This applies, I submit, to how long in inches a thing must be to answer
to my current experience. One reason is that I might not know about inches; I might not yet have
any measures of length but perceptual ones. A second reason is that just as I am often surprised by
how much bigger a piece of furniture is than I had guessed on the basis of its appearance in the
store, I put no great stock in my guess as to the length in inches of a stick that looks to me like
this one does now. That an experience is Z-type should be silent on the question of how objectively
long it represents its object as being.
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Y and then write Y into the definition of ‘‘as long as it looks’’. That may deliver
the right extensional results but at the cost of changing the subject, since our
concept of as long as it looks is clueless about the neurophysiology of vision.
E X P L A I N I N G T H E MODAL D AT U M
The third phenomenon in need of explanation is the seeming possibility of things
that are in fact impossible. The 2D explanation of why it seems possible that
S is that there are possible worlds w such that if w is actual, then S. It seems
like Hesperus could have been distinct from Phosphorus simply because the
actual evening-visible planet = the actual morning-visible planet is false on certain
hypotheses about which world is actual. I want to argue that depending on
how you run it, the 2D style of explanation either explains too much (collateral
damage) or doesn’t explain enough (misses the mouse).
Recall a key feature of Kripke’s approach to illusions of possibility. Kripke
doesn’t just want to show how someone could fall under the misimpression that,
say, Hesperus could have failed to be Phosphorus, by misinterpreting what was
in fact a different possibility. That would be easy, since a sufficiently confused
person could presumably misinterpret anything as anything. he wants to show
that we plausibly do fall under the modal misimpression by misinterpreting a
different possibility. It is not just that an intuition of E’s possibility could, but
that our intuition of its possibility plausibly is, based on the mistaking of one
possibility for another. One should be willing to say: oh, I see, once you point
out the difference, it’s because this really is possible that I supposed that to be
possible.
The kind of principle I am relying on here is familiar from psychoanalysis.
Here is what in my brief (well. . . . ) experience psychoanalysts tell you. ‘‘You are
under the illusion that nobody loves you. A cruder sort of doctor might say, here
is how the illusion arises, take my word for it, now you are cured. But I would
never dream of asking you take my word for it. No, the test of my explanation is
whether you can be brought to accept the explanation, and to accept that your
judgment is to that extent unsupported.’’ The analogy is good enough that I will
speak of the
Psychoanalytic Standard Assuming the conceiver is not too self-deceived or
resistant, ♦F explains E’s seeming possibility only if he/she does or would accept
it as an explanation, and accept that his/her intuition testifies at best to F ’s
possibility, not E’s.
This is a high standard, but what makes Kripke’s approach so convincing is that
this is the standard he tries to meet, and mostly does meet. Philosophers have
been telling us for centuries that this or that common impression is false. And we
have for centuries been shrugging them off. What makes Kripke special is that
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PA29
@
Fig. 6.1. ‘‘Steve looking at Table in @’’
PA29
w1
Fig. 6.2. ‘‘Table1 looks to Steve1 just like Table looks to Steve in @’’
Oh,
he gets you to agree that you are making the mistake he describes. Whether the
rigidifier can get you to agree that you are making the mistake he describes is not
so clear.
One way to see the problem is to look at Kripke’s explanation of modal illusions
in terms of ‘‘qualitatively identical epistemic situations’’: it seems possible that x
is P because its counterpart x ∗ in a qualitatively identical epistemic situation really
is P. What does he mean by that phrase qualitatively identical epistemic situation?
One obvious thought is that to be in the same epistemic situation as I am me in
now is to enjoy the same (narrowly individuated) perceptual appearances: to be,
say, in perceptual appearance state PA29 .
But that seems not to be enough. Take the illusion that this table could have
been made of ice. One world I am pretty sure is out there is a world w1 whose
Steve-character Steve1 is on drugs so powerful that an ordinary old block of ice
looks to him just like this table looks to me.
Does the possibility of a world like that explain why it appears to me that
this table could turn out to be made of ice? I take it that it doesn’t. There is no
temptation to say, ‘‘OH now I see why this brown table seems like it could be
made of ice; it’s because there could be a guy to whom regular ice looked like this’’.
Well, maybe the problem with that first explanation is that Steve1 is perceptually
deluded. The way things appear to him is not how they are. A second idea, then,
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is that someone is in my epistemic situation if they enjoy the same (narrowly
individuated) perceptual appearances and their experience is veridical. This doesn’t
work either, I think, because my doppelganger need not be deluded even if he is
looking at a visibly icy table. All he needs is to be differently wired so that white
things produce in him the same perceptual appearances as brown ones produce
in me.
Once again, we don’t think, ‘‘Aha, what seemed like the possibility of this
brown-looking table being made of ice was really just the possibility of a
spectrum-inverted Steve2 to whom white things look the way brown ones look
to me.’’ I am not thinking, ‘‘As far as I can tell, I am in the Steve2 situation,’’
because the Steve2 situation is defined by a contrast with mine. (It would be like
worrying that this has all along been Twin-Earth.)
A third reading, which gets closer, I think, is that someone is in my same
epistemic situation if the scene they are experiencing has the same perceptually
available properties as this one. (This rules out the w2 scenario, because brown is
a perceptible property, and in w2 it’s missing.) But remember, Kripke also wants
to explain in this way the seeming possibility of brown having a different physical
nature than it has in fact. That will require a counterpart situation where at
least one perceptible property, viz. brown, is changed. So sameness of epistemic
situation cannot require sameness of perceptible properties.
I see only one other option, and it’s this. Someone is in my same epistemic
situation if the scene he is experiencing is a dead ringer for the scene I am
experiencing, meaning that the two are for me perceptually indistinguishable. If
you quickly substituted his situation for mine, keeping my perceptual systems
the same, I would be none the wiser; it would not appear that anything had
changed. The picture we want, then, is as shown in Fig. 6.3. 6.4
Note that the reactions of my as-if actual self are irrelevant on this picture;
it’s real me to whom the icy table has to look just like the wooden table.
The feature of w3 that makes it explanatory—the table there looks the same
to real-me—is not even expressible in two-dimensionalist terms. The closest
the two-dimensionalist can come is to say, it is possible for an icy table to
PA29
w2
Fig. 6.3. ‘‘Table2 veridically looks to Steve2 just like Table looks to Steve in @’’
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PA29
@
overtly
wooden
table
w3
covertly icy
table
Fig. 6.4. ‘‘Table3 is a dead ringer for Table’’
produce PA29 in someone whose perceptual system is—plug in here empirically
determined features X, Y, and Z of my perceptual system. There is a world like
that—it might even be w3 —but it can’t explain my illusion because what seems
possible to me is not that an XYZ observer mistakes this icy table for wood but
that I am mistaking this icy table for wood.
So we have the following principle: to explain why this, an object of our
acquaintance understood to present like so, seems like it could turn out to be Q,
one needs a possible scenario in which something superficially indistinguishable
from it does turn out to be Q. The counterfactual thing has to look the same,
not to the counterfactual folks, but to us. I will call that a facsimile of the actual
thing. And I will refer to the principle as the facsimile principle, or the fool’s
gold principle. If you want to explain in a psychoanalytically satisfying way why
it seemed possible for gold to be iron pyrites, the explanation should not be
that there’s this perfectly ordinary brownish hunk of rock (‘‘dunce’s gold’’) not
looking like gold to us but looking to the people around it as gold looks to us.
Since two-dimensionalists cannot express facsimilehood, they drop out of the
competition already here.
I said that Kripke respects the psychoanalytic standard and that his explanations
often satisfy it. But it seems to me that this is one of those rare cases where
the two-dimensionalist error can be traced back to Kripke. Sometimes not even
Kripke has a psychoanalytically satisfying explanation. Sometimes he is forced like
the two-dimensionalist to appeal to ‘‘dunce’s gold’’ when it is fool’s gold we want.
Here is some heat; is it HMME (high mean molecular energy)? One has to
conduct additional tests. And like any tests, they could come out either way. So
covertly
icy
table
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there’s the appearance that heat could turn out to be HMME, and the appearance
that it could turn out to be something else, say LMME. The second appearance
is an illusion. Kripke would explain it away as follows:
the property by which we identify [heat] originally, that of producing such-and-such a
sensation in us, is not a necessary property but a contingent one. This very phenomenon
could have existed, but due to differences in our neural structures and so on, have failed
to be felt as heat. (1980: 133)
Let’s say, to make it definite, that the difference in neural structures had the
result that high MME felt cold, and low MME felt hot. Does this explain in a
psychoanalytically satisfying way the illusion that it could have been low MME
that was heat rather than high? Does it explain the illusion that heat could
have turned out to be low MME to point to possible differences in our neural
structures?
Here is the worry. With the table, remember, what seemed possible was not
just that ice could have paraded itself in front of someone or other who saw it as
wood, but that there could have been ice that I with my existing sensory faculties
would have seen as wood. To explain that seeming, we needed a facsimile of
the table—a spitting image of it—that was in fact made of ice. Likewise, what
seems possible in the case of low MME is not just that it could have paraded
itself in front of someone or other who felt it as hot, but that I with my existing
neural structures could have found it hot. To explain that seeming, we need a
facsimile of heat that turns out to be low MME. There should be the possibility
of fool’s heat which turns out on inspection to be low MME. Similarly to explain
the seeming possibility of high MME turning out to be cold, we would need the
possibility of fool’s cold that was found on inspection to be high MME.
Is there fool’s heat of this type, or fool’s cold? I don’t see how there could be.
It may be possible to slip a cleverly disguised icy table in for this wooden one
while preserving visual appearances. But it is not possible to slip cleverly disguised
low MME in for high MME and have it feel just the same. Having substituted low
MME for high, there is no other way to preserve the appearances but to postulate
observers with different sensory reactions than ours. But then what we are getting
is not really fool’s heat but something more like dunce’s heat. Because, as already
discussed, you would have to be pretty confused to see in the possibility of
rewiring on your side the explanation of why a switcheroo seems possible on the
side of phenomenon you are sensing. Whether fool’s heat is absolutely impossible I
do not know. But what does seem clearly impossible is for low MME to be fool’s
heat, because it by hypothesis feels the opposite of hot; it feels cold.
Kripke is right, or anyway I’m not disagreeing, when he says that ‘‘the property
of producing such-and-such a sensation in us . . . is not a necessary property’’,
because we could have been wired differently. High MME could have produced
what we call sensations of cold. But producing such and such a sensation in us is
not the property of interest. The property of interest is producing such-and-such
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a sensation in us as actually constituted. And that property would seem to be
necessary. There are only three factors in how an external phenomenon is
disposed to feel: its condition, our condition, and the conditions of observation.
If all these factors are held fixed, as the notion of fool’s heat would seem to
require, then it is hard to see how the sensory outcome can change.
REFERENCES
Campbell, J. (1999). ‘‘Immunity to Error through Misidentification and the Meaning of
a Referring Term’’. Philosophical Topics 26: 89–104
Crimmins, M. (1989). ‘‘Having Ideas and Having the Concept’’. in Mind and Language
280–94
Davies, M., and Humberstone, L. (1980). ‘‘Two Notions of Necessity’’. Philosophical
Studies 28: 1–30
Kripke, S. (1980). Naming and Necessity. Harvard University Press
Pryor, J. (1999). ‘‘Immunity to Error through Misidentification’’. Philosophical Topics
26: 271–304
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Q1.
Q2.
Q3.
Q4.
Q5.
Q6.
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Queries in Chapter 6
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7
How in the World?
FN:2
. . . the final proof of God’s omnipotence [is] that he need not exist in order to
save us.
Peter De Vries, The Mackerel Plaza
FN:1
Is it just me, or do philosophers have a way of bringing existence in where it
is not wanted? All of the most popular analyses, it seems, take notions that
are not overtly existence-involving and connect them up with notions that are
existence-involving up to their teeth. An inference is valid or invalid according to
whether or not there exists a countermodel to it; the F s are equinumerous with
the Gs iff there exists a one-to-one function between them; it will rain iff there
exists a future time at which it does rain; and, of course, such-and-such is possible
iff there exists a world at which such-and-such is the case.
The problem with these analyses is not just the unwelcome ontology; it is
more the ontology’s intuitive irrelevance to the notions being analyzed. Even
someone not especially opposed to functions, to take that example, is still liable
to feel uneasy about putting facts of equinumerosity at their mercy. For various
awkward questions arise, of which let me mention three.
How is it that I can tell that my left shoes are equal in number with my right
ones just by pairing them off, while the story of how I am supposed to be able
to ascertain the existence of abstract objects like functions remains to be told?¹
Pending that story, who am I to say that equinumerosity facts even correlate with
This paper was written at the National Humanities Center with support from a University of
Michigan Humanities Fellowship. I had a lot of help; thanks to Joseph Almog, Louise Antony,
Paul Boghossian, Mark Crimmins, Nicholas Georgalis, James Hardy, Sally Haslanger, David Hills,
Brad Inwood, David Kaplan, Jerrold Katz, Joe Levine, David Lewis, Bill Lycan, Alasdair MacIntyre,
Friederike Moltmann, Thomas Nagel, Calvin Normore, John O’Leary-Hawthorne, Gideon Rosen,
Nathan Salmon, Geoffrey Sayre-McCord, Niko Scharer, Stephen Schiffer, Sydney Shoemaker,
Scott Soames, Roy Sorensen, Martin Stone, Kendall Walton, and Umit Yalcin. Versions of the
paper were read at Duke University, York University, New York University, University of North
Carolina at Chapel Hill, East Carolina University, North Carolina State University, Arizona State
University, and a conference on the philosophy of Saul Kripke in San Marino.
¹ Compare Benacerraf (1973). See also Katz (1995).
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facts of functional existence—much less that the correlation rises to the level of
an analysis?
If my left shoes’ numerical equality with my right turns on the existence of
functions, then in asserting this equality I am giving a hostage to existential
fortune; I speak truly only if the existence facts break my way.² But that is not
how it feels. Am I really to suppose that God can cancel my shoes’ equinumerosity
(and so make a liar out of me) simply by training his or her death gun on the knocking out
offending functions, without laying a hand on the shoes themselves?
Assuming that a one-to-one function between my left and right shoes exists at
all, there are going to be lots of them. But then, rather than saying that my left and
right shoes are equal in number because these various functions exist, wouldn’t
it be better to say that the functions exist—are able to exist, anyway—because
my left and right shoes are equal in number? That way we explain the many facts
in terms of the one, rather than the one in terms of the many.
All of the analyses mentioned have problems like this. And the reply is the
same in each case: The reason these analyses are so popular is that they do crucial
theoretical work. If you know of another way of accomplishing this work, terrific;
otherwise, though, spare us the handwringing about existence coming in where
it is not wanted. This paper explores a strategy, only that, for getting the work
done without getting mucked up in irrelevant existence questions.
I
A funny thing happened on the way to the possible-worlds analysis of modality.
Or actually, two funny things, of which only the first attracted any notice. The
first is David Lewis’s well-known ‘‘paraphrase’’ argument for belief in worlds:
FN:3
I believe . . . that things could have been different in countless ways. . . . Ordinary language
permits the paraphrase: there are many ways things could have been besides the way
they actually are. On the face of it, this sentence . . . says that there exist many entities
of a certain description, to wit ‘ways things could have been’. . . . I believe permissible
paraphrases of what I believe; . . . I therefore believe in the existence of entities that might
be called ‘ways things could have been’. I prefer to call them ‘possible worlds’.³
If someone wants to know what sort of thing these worlds are,
FN:4
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I can only ask him to admit that he knows what sort of thing our actual world is, and
then explain that other worlds are more things of that sort, differing not in kind but only
in what goes on at them.⁴
So, other worlds (of the same general sort as our actual world) exist because there
are other ways things could have been; and other ways things could have been
exist because things could have been different from the way they are in actual fact.
² Compare Etchemendy (1990).
³ Lewis (1979), 182.
⁴ Ibid. 184.
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Now, everyone knows there is something funny about this argument of
Lewis’s, because Stalnaker has told them:
FN:5
FN:6
FN:7
If possible worlds are ways things might have been, then the actual world ought to be the
way things are rather than I and all my surroundings. The way things are is a property or
state of the world, not the world itself. The statement that the world is the way it is is
true in a sense, but not when read as an identity statement. . . . One could accept . . . that
there really are many ways that things could have been . . . while denying that there exists
anything else that is like the actual world.⁵
The second funny thing is this explanation of Stalnaker’s. If it hasn’t struck
people that way, that’s because Stalnaker has packed two quite different points
very closely together.
Stalnaker’s negative point is that while the paraphrase argument may establish
something, it does not establish the existence of Lewis-worlds—that is, (i)
concrete, I-and-all-my-surroundings, worlds, which unlike this one are (ii)
worlds that do not actually exist. All the argument gets you is ‘‘ways things could
have been’’, and ways things could have been meet neither condition—not (i),
because ways of being are not to be confused with the things that are those ways,
and not (ii), because if we ask, ‘‘Are there actually other ways things could have
been or is it just that there could have been?’’, the answer is that there actually
are these other ways.⁶
What’s so funny about that? Wait, I haven’t got to the funny part. That’s the I haven't got to
part where Stalnaker turns his critique of Lewis’s reading of ‘‘ways things could
have been’’ into a positive proposal of his own.
Think of Stalnaker as arguing like this: Ways the world could have been are of
the same ontological type as the way it is. So we need to determine the ontological
type of the way the world is. What better place to start than with the truism that
the world is the way it is? Some might read this as saying that the way the world is
is one and the same entity as the humongous concrete object known hereabouts
as the world. That, however, would be a mistake: ‘‘The statement that the world
is the way it is is true in a sense, but not when read as an identity statement.’’⁷
But, if the statement is false read as an identity statement, what is the reading
on which it is true? Stalnaker doesn’t come right out and tell us, but the usual
alternative to an ‘‘is’’ of identity is an ‘‘is’’ of predication. Apparently, then,
Stalnaker is saying that the statement is true when the ‘‘is’’ is taken as predicative.
This is what I find funny, or at least puzzling. Because the phrase following
the ‘‘is’’, namely ‘‘the way it is’’, looks less like a predicate than a singular term.
⁵ Stalnaker (1979), 228.
⁶ Otherwise it would seem that blue swans, although they would have been possible had things
been different, are not possible as matters stand.
⁷ Stalnaker (1979), 228. Identity statements are reversible: if A = B, then B = A as well. To say
that the way the world is, is the world, however, sounds wrong. (Except maybe to those who believe
with Wittgenstein that the world is all that is the case. Even to them, though, it won’t sound truistic,
as the world is the way it is does. And it should, if the latter is an identity statement.)
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And Stalnaker uses it as a singular term, when he says that ‘‘the way things are is a
property or state of the world’’ and that ‘‘the way the world is could exist even if a
world that is that way did not’’.⁸ But, looking at the matter naively, when you’ve
got an ‘‘is’’ between two singular terms, the ‘‘is’’ is not an ‘‘is’’ of predication but
one of identity.⁹ Which is just what Stalnaker denies.
Of course, if ‘‘the way the world is’’ stands for a property, then there is a true
predication in the vicinity: one ought to be able to say that the world has this
property. But ‘‘the world has the way it is’’ sounds quite wrong. Why, if ‘‘the
way the world is’’ denotes a property that the world as a matter of fact possesses?
II
FN:10
What are we to make of this phrase ‘‘the way the world is’’? According to
Stalnaker, it does not stand for me and all my surroundings. But it does not
appear to stand for a property of me and my surroundings either. What then?¹⁰
The strategy that suggests itself is this. Take the matrix ‘‘the way the world is
is X ’’, plug in a term that makes for a true sentence, and ask what the term stands
for. That ought to be what ‘‘the way the world is’’ stands for as well. When we
try to carry this strategy out, though, we run into an unexpected problem; the
matrix doesn’t want a term, it wants adjectives:
The way the world is is large, complicated, law-governed, mostly uninhabited,
shot through with force fields, bathed in radiation, etc.
And now things get really confusing. There is no way on earth of interpreting the
main ‘‘is’’ in this sentence as an ‘‘is’’ of identity. And yet, if we interpret it as an
‘‘is’’ of predication, we are back with Lewis’s concrete worlds—for the thing that
⁸ Someone might say that the same word or phrase can play both roles depending on grammatical
context; ‘‘red’’ functions as an adjective in ‘‘the book is red’’, a noun in ‘‘red is a color’’. I am
not sure what to say about this, but one possibility is that there are two words here with the same
spelling. (Why color nouns in particular should be so often spelled the same as their corresponding
adjectives is unclear to me; compare ‘‘triangle is a shape’’, or ‘‘tiny is a size’’.) Another example,
suggested by Niko Scharer, is this: ‘‘the color it is’’ functions as an adjective in ‘‘the book is the
color it is’’, a noun in ‘‘the color it is is a dark color’’. Again it seems possible that we have two
phrases here with the same orthography. The second is a definite description, the first is a concealed
question, like ‘‘his age’’ in ‘‘I know his age’’.
⁹ Or perhaps of composition, as in ‘‘that clay you sold me is now a statue of Goliath’’. But that
is not a likely reading here.
¹⁰ Perhaps ‘‘the way it is’’ is a proadjective or proadverb along the lines of ‘‘thus’’ or ‘‘thusly’’.
This would leave us without a reading of Stalnaker’s statement that ‘‘the way the world is is a
property of the world’’. But Stalnaker exegesis aside, the proform idea seems worth pursuing.
Eventually a theory of proadjectival or proadverbial quantification would be needed, for we have
sentences like ‘‘whatever way things had been, they would have been such and so’’ to deal with.
There is in fact a neglected literature on this, much of it inspired by the work of Lesniewski. See
Prior (1971); Kung (1977); and Simons (1985). Also relevant is the program laid out in Grover
(1972) and in Grover et al. (1975), both reprinted in Grover, (1992).
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is large, complicated, bathed in radiation, law-governed, etc., is not a property of
me and my surroundings but, well, me and my surroundings.
Here is our puzzle. ‘‘The way the world is’’, ‘‘the way it would have been if
so and so had happened’’, ‘‘the ways it could have been’’—these look for all the
world like noun phrases. It stands to reason then that they at least purport to
denote entities of some sort. What sort? This is a puzzle whether you believe in
the purported entities or not. Indeed, you don’t know whether to believe in them
until you solve the puzzle—until you figure out what the entities are whose
existence is in question.
FN:11
FN:12
f
¹¹ The way you smile so bright, the way you knock me off my feet, etc. This is to say nothing of
‘‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover’’.
¹² I am told that cockatoos don’t build nests, but say they do.
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a motherless child’’. And it doesn’t. What makes sense is ‘‘sleepy is the way I
felt’’. And sleepy doesn’t seem to be an entity at all, not even an entity of a highly
abstract sort.
IV
FN:13
What is going on? A first clue to the peculiar behavior of ‘‘way’’ is that ‘‘the way
I feel’’ sounds rather like ‘‘how I feel’’.¹³ This is no coincidence; ‘‘the way’’ lines
up with ‘‘how’’ over a wide range of cases:
(1) the way you put it just now / how you put it just now
the way things work around here / how things work around here
the way they met / how they met
the way she wants to be remembered / how she wants to be remembered
III
Suppose we start by beating some neighboring bushes. Ways the world could
have been are hardly the only ways countenanced by ordinary speech. Just from
the song ‘‘The Way You Do the Things You Do’’ you could gather a respectable
collection.¹¹ But let’s have some more humdrum examples: the ways people feel
on various occasions (sleepy, happy, jealous, relieved, like a motherless child),
the ways birds have of building their nests, the ways of getting from point A to
point B, and so on.
Now, what kind of entity am I talking about in talking about these various
ways? Take the way I felt when I got up this morning, viz., sleepy; or the way
cockatoos build their nests, from the outside in;¹² or the fastest way of getting
from Toronto to Lima, that is, via Tegucigalpa. What are these things?
If you are anything like me, the tempting reply is: What things? It is hard
to think of the phrases ‘‘sleepy’’, ‘‘from the outside in’’, ‘‘via Tegucigalpa’’ as
standing for entities at all; their function just does not seem to be referential.
Someone might want to write this off to a lack of imagination. ‘‘Sleepy’’
denotes a state of mind, namely, sleepiness; ‘‘from the outside in’’ stands for a
property of nest-building events, the property of centripetality; ‘‘via Tegucigalpa’’
stands for a path or set of paths or property of paths through space-time.
But is f sleepiness, happiness, relief, and so on are the entities collectively
denoted by ‘‘ways of feeling’’, then it is strange, isn’t it, that one can’t say ‘‘ways
of feeling, for example, . . .’’ and then plug in names of these entities. Why is it
‘‘ways of feeling, for example, sleepy, happy, relieved, like a motherless child, . . .’’
rather than ‘‘ways of feeling, for example, sleepiness, happiness, relief, similarity
to a motherless child, . . .’’? Again, if sleepiness and so on are among the entities
that are called ‘‘ways of feeling’’, then it ought to make sense to say ‘‘sleepiness
is the way I felt this morning’’ and ‘‘nobody knows the way I feel: similarity to
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in
On the right-hand side of (1) we have what grammarians call indirect questions.
I can’t give you an exact definition (I’m not sure anyone could) but intuitively,
indirect questions are noun-like counterparts to ordinary or direct questions:
(2) how things work around here / how do things work around here?
what the coach forgot / what did the coach forget?
why he’s acting like that / why is he acting like that?
when the swallows return / when do the swallows return?
who invited them / who invited them?
whether it will rain / will it rain?
where she is headed / where is she headed?
FN:14
FN:15
The problem we have been wrestling with is, in effect: Are indirect questions
referential, or is their semantical contribution to be sought elsewhere?¹⁴
Now in asking, ‘‘Are they referential?’’ I mean not, ‘‘Are there Montague
grammarians or other formal semanticists somewhere who have cooked up
super-duper semantical values for them, say, functions from worlds to functions
from worlds and n-tuples of objects to truth-values?’’¹⁵ The answer to that is going
¹³ Exercise: Compare and contrast (i) ‘‘how S’’ / ‘‘the way that S’’, (ii) ‘‘why S’’ / ‘‘the reason
that S’’, (iii) ‘‘whether S’’ / ‘‘the truth-value of S’’, (iv) ‘‘which S’’ / ‘‘the S’s identity’’, and (v) ‘‘how
many Ss’’ / ‘‘the number of Ss’’. [It was some remarks by Ian Rumfitt about (iii) that got me
thinking about (i).]
¹⁴ The issue is complicated by the distinction between indirect questions and free relative clauses.
The distinction is not always well marked in English, but there are some clear cases. ‘‘What you
think’’ is a free relative in ‘‘I think what you think’’, an indirect question in ‘‘I wonder what you
think’’. Sometimes context does not resolve the ambiguity: ‘‘what you know’’ is a free relative in ‘‘I
know what you know’’ interpreted as ‘‘whatever you know, I know’’, an indirect question in the
same sentence interpreted as ‘‘whatever you know, I know you know’’.
¹⁵ I certainly don’t mean to disparage this kind of approach; it can be powerfully illuminating.
See in particular Groenendijk and Stokhof (1989).
linguists
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to be yes almost no matter what part of speech you’re talking about—connectives,
prepositions, and apostrophe ‘‘s’’ not excluded. I mean: Are they referential in
the way that singular terms are, so that someone using an indirect question could
reasonably be said to be talking about its referent, or purporting to talk about its
purported referent?
Are indirect questions referential in that sense? Truth be told, some of them
seem at first to be, because some of them seem linkable by true identity statements
with phrases whose referential status is beyond question. Here are some examples:
FN:16
(3) what the coach forgot was the keys, the map, and the schedule
March 31 is when the swallows return
who invited them is your friend Becky
Albuquerque is where she’s going¹⁶
Taking the ‘‘is’’ in these statements to express identity—and what other option
have we, really, with noun phrases on either side?—‘‘who invited them’’ stands
for Becky, ‘‘where she’s going’’ stands for Albuquerque, and so on.
And yet, there can be very similar-looking statements where the identity
interpretation is unavailable. Newt Gingrich recently had to explain to the
mainland Chinese that he hadn’t meant it about extending recognition to
Taiwan, he was ‘‘only trying to rattle their cage’’. Taking him at his word, why
Gingrich talks like that is to rattle their cage. Or suppose that pharmacologists
studying the effects of tranquilizers on the brain determine that the way Valium
soothes our ruffled feelings is by blocking the action of a certain neurotransmitter.
Well and good. But, does anyone really take statements like
(4) why he talks like that is to rattle their cage
how Valium soothes is by blocking that neurotransmitter
why we hesitated was out of concern for you
how I want to feel is happy
to assert literal identities? I hope not, because on the face of it there’s no such
thing as to rattle their cage or out of concern for you or happy to be identical to. And
Or are the initial phrases in (3) free relatives? Here are some reasons to think not. First,
wh-phrases free¹⁶relatives
are interrogated with the relative pronouns they embed—‘‘I once had a drink where
• Q1
Elvis was born’’ / ‘‘you once had a drink where?’’—whereas indirect questions are interrogated
with ‘‘what?’’—‘‘I wonder where Elvis was born’’ / ‘‘you wonder what?’’ And in response to (e.g.)
‘‘March 31 is when the swallows return’’, we say not ‘‘∗ March 31 is when?’’ but ‘‘March 31 is
what?’’ Second, interrogative pronouns take strong stress in a way that relative pronouns do not; ‘‘I
know Elvis was born—only not ’’ but ‘‘∗ I had a drink Elvis was born—only
not .’’ And we have no problem with ‘‘ invited them is Becky; I have no idea’’.
Third, plural relatives in subject position take the plural form of the verb—‘‘what Shakespeare
regarded as his best plays are nowadays seldom read’’—whereas indirect questions take the singular
form—‘‘what Shakespeare regarded as his best plays is anybody’s guess’’. And we say, ‘‘what the
coach forgot is the keys, the map, etc.’’, not ‘‘∗ what the coach forgot are the keys, the map, etc.’’.
Finally, free relatives according to most authors can only be introduced by ‘‘what’’, ‘‘when’’, or
‘‘where’’. But the construction in (3) works for all wh-words other than ‘‘whether’’. I am indebted
to Baker• indebted here to C. L. Baker’s (1968) for this.
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this raises doubts about the referential interpretation of the examples in (3) as
well. The ‘‘is’’ of ‘‘how Valium soothes is by blocking that neurotransmitter’’
seems indistinguishable from the ‘‘is’’ of ‘‘who Valium soothes is the people who
take it’’. If it expresses identity in the one case, it ought to do so in the other.
Now, of course, the referentialist can simply insist that the two ‘‘is’’s are
different; the one in (3) expresses identity, the one in (4) expresses predication.
This would be just as good from her point of view since, predicative ‘‘is’’
functioning to bring the referent of the phrase it follows under the descriptive
content of the phrase it precedes, ‘‘why he talks like that’’, etc., would again be
cast in a referential light.
But the predicative interpretation is hard to make out. The best way to see
this is to allow the referentialist her contention that the phrases on the left-hand
side of (4) are referential. Say, in other words, that an entity how I want to feel
exists. Is this entity characterized as happy by the sentence ‘‘how I want to feel is
happy’’? Clearly not. No one is saying that a full accounting of the happy things
would include (in addition to Dale Carnegie and Barney the dinosaur and your
typical sea otter) how I want to feel. The claim is rather that if you are asking me
how I want to feel, the answer is that I want to feel happy.
With the other examples, matters are even worse. ‘‘X is happy’’ at least has the
right form to describe X . But what property or characteristic is attributed to X by
‘‘X is to rattle their cage’’, ‘‘X is by blocking that neurotransmitter’’, or ‘‘X is out
of concern for you’’? Someone might say that ‘‘X is to rattle their cage’’ describes
X as being done for the purpose of rattling their cage. But then the problem is
the same as before: being done for such and such a purpose is a characteristic not
of why people perform actions (!?!) but of the actions they perform.
Actually, to the extent that the identity–predication distinction finds a
foothold in (4) at all, it may be doubted whether the advantage lies with the
predicative approach. What was it that the pharmacologists told us? Not that
blocking that neurotransmitter is an aspect or feature of how Valium soothes;
according to them, it is how Valium soothes. And you can almost hear Gingrich
at the press conference: ‘‘You people just don’t get it, to rattle their cage is why
I made those statements—there’s no difference between the two.’’ Pressed from
the other side by the predicative interpretation, one almost wants to say that
there’s an identity here. There isn’t, of course, but the feeling of identity is a
fascinating datum and one that needs to be taken seriously.¹⁷
But the case against referentialism needn’t be made to rest on these subtleties
about predication versus identity. Take ‘‘who invited them’’, as in ‘‘who invited
them is your friend Becky’’. If this referred to Becky, we would expect it to be
¹⁷ Not that all indirect-question-embedding statements with main verb ‘‘is’’ have the atmosphere
of an identity statement. Some feel downright predicative: for instance, ‘‘she is how I used to be’’
and ‘‘the world is how it is’’. A good theory of indirect questions ought to have something to say
about this.
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went via the items that normally go by that name, viz., direct questions. Here is a
crude first proposal, using Q for the direct question corresponding to an indirect
question IQ:
(5) I wonder where Becky has gone / ∗ I wonder where who invited them has
gone.
Becky was accepted at Yale / ∗ Who invited them was accepted at Yale.
admittedly This deliberately leaves a lot to the imagination. Among the issues I propose to
is
is
FN:21
These examples point up a final difficulty with the referential approach. Even
if ‘‘who invited them’’ did refer to Becky, that would explain only a tiny
fraction of its semantical behavior. Karttunen in ‘‘Syntax and Semantics of
Questions’’ offers the following overview of indirect-question-embedding contexts.¹⁹
‘‘Who invited them’’ can occur in almost all of these contexts, yet its semantic
contribution is purely referential in none of them.²⁰ Shouldn’t we look for an
explanation of the other-than-referential work done by indirect questions, before
we go ahead and assign them referents? That explanation might turn out to apply
across the board.
V
Indirect questions are indirect questions; that is the point we keep on losing sight
of. Since they are questions, it would not be surprising if their interpretation
¹⁸ Admittedly, the salva congruitate test has its limits; ‘‘sunny Madrid is a favorite of ours’’ sounds
good, ‘‘∗ sunny the capital of Spain, etc.’’ doesn’t. Examples can also be given however where it is
truth-value that changes.
¹⁹ I have taken some liberties. See Karttunen (1977).
²⁰ As always, I am talking about ordinary common-sensical reference, not reference to higher-type
objects as in Montague grammar; ‘‘who invited them’’ refers to the one who invited them if it refers
at all.
IQ
is to offer information about Q’s answer or answers.²¹
What kind of information? Is the information determined by the sentential
context (
...
) alone or do other factors contribute? What are the
mechanisms by which these factors operate?
Are answers linguistic in nature or do linguistic items function rather as
presentations of the real, extralinguistic, answers?
Are answers one and all sentence-length, as you would think from the fact that
we call them true and false, or not, as you would think from the fact that ‘‘5’’ (or
perhaps 5) is the answer to ‘‘what is 2 plus 3?’’
Does each question have a unique complete and correct answer or do some have
multiple answers with these features?
(6) I wonder who invited them / wonder Becky.
It doesn’t matter who invited them / ∗ It doesn’t matter Becky.
(7)
acquiring knowledge: ask, wonder, learn, notice, discover
retaining knowledge: know, be aware, recall, forget
communication: tell, show, indicate, inform, disclose
decision: decide, determine, specify, agree on, control
conjecture: guess, predict, bet on, estimate
opinion: be certain about, have an idea about
relevance: matter, care, be important, be significant
dependency: depend on, be related to, be a function of
To say that
duck, or settle in whatever way seems most convenient at the time, are these:
∗I
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intersubstitutable salva veritate with other phrases referring to Becky—phrases
like ‘‘Becky’’. What we find though is that the two are not even substitutable
salva congruitate.¹⁸ This is illustrated by
and, the reverse substitution,
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All that we need to assume for now is that to each direct Q corresponds a
unique complete and correct answer-set AQ; there is no official line on how
many answers AQ contains or what sorts of entities these answers are.²²
Statements embedding indirect questions IQ are in the business of offering
information about Q’s answer or answers—about AQ.²³ One move in this
direction stands out as particularly natural; we might seek to provide AQ
outright. The natural way to proceed if that is our goal is to say simply that IQ is
AQ:
(8) what the coach forgot was the keys, the map, etc.
who invited them is Becky
why Gingrich talks like that is to rattle their cage
how Valium soothes is by blocking that neurotransmitter
why we hesitated was out of concern for you
how I want to feel is happy
²¹ ‘‘Offering information about Q’s answer(s)’’ is not to be thought of as necessarily involving
reference to or quantification over answers, or acceptance of answers into one’s ontology. I can
give information about the answer to ‘‘where is she going?’’ by saying simply ‘‘she’s going to
Albuquerque’’. ( This fits nicely with Alasdair MacIntyre’s suggestion that ‘‘where she’s going is
Albuquerque’’ is a piece of playacting in which I set myself a question and then respond.)
²² Both kinds of flexibility will be important later on when we get to questions like ‘‘how is that
possible?’’—the first because such a question might have any number of correct answers, the second
because its answers might be understood either as (linguistic or abstract) world representations or as
the possibility-conferring worlds themselves.
²³ Wherever convenient, the distinction between AQ and its members will be blurred—so that
‘‘what is 2 plus 3?’’, although strictly speaking {‘‘5’’} or {5}, is in practice ‘‘5’’ or 5.
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Notice again the equational, identity-like, feeling of these statements. A tempting
explanation is that in each case we have an identity in the vicinity: ‘‘Becky’’ is (in
the identity sense) the answer to ‘‘who invited them?’’, ‘‘to rattle their cage’’ is the
answer to ‘‘why does he act like that?’’, and so on.²⁴ As for the identity-feeling’s
curious insensitivity to the grammatical category of the phrase following the
‘‘is’’—that ‘‘happy’’ is an adjective does not make ‘‘how I want to feel is happy’’
feel any less identity-like—this is only to be expected if the underlying identity
is between ‘‘happy’’ and the answer to ‘‘how do I want to feel?’’ rather than (?!?)
happy and how I want to feel.
Another puzzle left over from the last section is this. Why is it that some
indirect questions, like ‘‘who invited them’’, seem at first glance referential, while
others, like ‘‘how Valium works’’, do not? The equational flavor of ‘‘IQ is AQ’’
suggests a two-part explanation. First, some AQs (‘‘Becky’’) are referential; others
(‘‘via Tegucigalpa’’) are not.²⁵ Second, the ‘‘is’’ of ‘‘IQ is AQ’’ acts as a pipeline
transmitting felt referential character from the one side to the other. This leads
to the prediction that IQ should strike us as prima facie referential when
²⁴ Or perhaps it is the meanings of these phrases that constitute the answers; this is one of the
issues we’re leaving open. Note that the identity-feeling wanes as the material after the ‘‘is’’ goes
from providing the answer to merely constraining it to merely commenting on it. Thus ‘‘who invited
them is Becky’’, ‘‘who invited them is someone with a strange sense of humor’’, ‘‘who invited them
is no one you want to know’’, ‘‘who invited them is classified information’’, ‘‘who invited them is a
mystery to me’’.
²⁵ Here again I am blurring the difference between AQs and their members. Also I assume for
convenience that answers are linguistic in nature; if not, substitute ‘‘AQ’s linguistic presentation’’
for ‘‘AQ’’.
²⁶ Jerrold Katz objected that this is circular since AQ might itself be an indirect question. One
reply is just to stipulate that indirect-question substituends are not allowed. Another is to say that
we should read (ii) as: AQ is obviously, convincingly, invincibly referential. Indirect questions fail
this condition, so we can safely ignore them.
²⁷ Some what-questions belong here too, e.g., ‘‘what the coach forgot’’. But what-questions are
incredibly various. Just as often they resemble how- and why-questions in satisfying (i) but not (ii),
as for example, ‘‘what works best is to dip the brush in turpentine’’. Where- and when-questions are
tricky too. Prior (1971) observes in effect that these often call for prepositional answers rather than
nominal ones: ‘‘in Paris’’, ‘‘to Albuquerque’’, ‘‘on March 31’’, and so on. That leaves only indirect
who-questions as clearly apparently referential.
How in the World?
Indirect which-questions are a mixed bag, but what often happens is that they
satisfy (ii) but not (i). The answer to ‘‘which door do you pick?’’, for example,
might be ‘‘door number three’’, a perfectly good referring phrase. But ‘‘which
door you pick is door number three’’ doesn’t scan. The prediction then is that
‘‘which door you pick’’ will not strike us as a referring phrase. (The reason is not
inherent ungrammaticality, since ‘‘which door you pick is up to you’’ sounds fine.)
Indirect whether-questions feel highly nonreferential, finally, as a result of
satisfying neither (i) nor (ii). Not only are their AQs lacking in reference, they
cannot be plugged into sensical ‘‘IQ is AQ’’ statements: witness ‘‘whether you
are still grounded is yes’’.
Before getting back to possible worlds, consider one last puzzle from the
previous section. If the point and purpose of indirect questions is to refer, then
what are we to make of
(9) I wonder who invited them
it doesn’t matter who invited them
who invited them is none of your business
where guests sit is a function of who invited them?
(i) ‘‘IQ is AQ’’ makes sense;
(ii) AQ is referential.²⁶
Is the prediction borne out? Indirect who-, where-, and when-questions typically
satisfy both conditions, so we would expect them to give the impression of
referring.²⁷ And for the most part they do: ‘‘who invited them’’ appears to refer
to Becky, ‘‘where she’s headed’’ to Albuquerque, and so on.
Indirect how- and why-questions satisfy (i) but not (ii); ‘‘how I feel is happy’’
and ‘‘why he talks like that is to rattle their cage’’ both scan, but their right-hand
sides do not refer. So the prediction is that they will not feel referential, and this
again seems true.
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Read these statements as commenting on the answers to their embedded
questions,²⁸ and all becomes clear. Something is said not to matter by ‘‘it doesn’t
matter who invited them’’, but it is not Becky, it is the answer to ‘‘who invited
them?’’ ‘‘Where guests sit is a function of who invited them’’ does not assign
seating authority to any particular person, it says that the answer to ‘‘where shall
X sit?’’ depends on the answer to ‘‘who invited X ?’’²⁹
VI
Assuming that something like this approach to indirect questions is correct, what
does it tell us about the possible-worlds account of modality?
Here is the answer you probably expect: It upsets Lewis’s paraphrase argument
according to which we are committed to worlds in being committed to ways
things could have been. The argument doesn’t hold up, because each and every
way things could have been is a how things could have been. And the phrase ‘‘how
things could have been’’ is an indirect question with zero referential import.
I see three connected problems with this answer. The first is hinted at by
the awkwardness of what I just said: ‘‘each and every way things could have
been is a how things could have been.’’ A how things could have been? What
on earth is that? ‘‘How things are’’ makes sense as the translation of ‘‘the way
²⁸ Strictly, the answers to the direct counterparts of their embedded questions.
²⁹ This section has borrowed freely from the literature on questions, including Karttunen (1977);
Engdahl (1986); and Higginbotham (1993).
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things are’’, and ‘‘how things would have been’’ works as the translation of ‘‘the
way things would have been’’. But nothing along these lines is available for
‘‘some/all of the ways things could have been’’, because hows are not things the
language countenances.³⁰ If the idea was to translate world-talk into way-talk,
and way-talk into how-talk, and how-talk into answer-talk, then the idea doesn’t
work, because quantificational way-talk doesn’t translate.
Now for the second problem, which has to do with our emphasis throughout
on the irreferentiality of indirect questions. Isn’t this missing the point of the
paraphrase argument? Lewis’s concern is with ontological commitment. And
as Quine thought he had made sufficiently clear about half-a-century ago,³¹
one makes little progress on matters of ontological commitment by staring at
controversial chunks of language waiting for them to yield up the secret of whether
they are really referential or not.³² (You know what they say about a watched
mot.) The true and proper test of ontological commitment is quantification into
the position a given chunk of language occupies. That is why Lewis argues from
the fact, not that ordinary language refers to ways, but that ordinary language
quantifies over ways.
Third, the paraphrase argument was never the important one in the first place.
The important argument has always been that possible worlds are too useful to
be done without. Lewis is crystal clear about this:
Why believe in a plurality of worlds?—Because the hypothesis is serviceable, and that is
a reason to think that it is true.³³
‘‘Even those who officially scoff ’’, he adds, ‘‘often cannot resist the temptation to
help themselves abashedly to this useful way of speaking.’’³⁴ And to repeat, this is
a way of speaking that is up to its neck in ontologically committal quantification.
Wrapping all of this up into a single point: if your one ontologically deflating move concerns indirect questions, and if the real measure of ontological
commitment is not these but quantification into the spots they occupy, and if
quantification into the spots they occupy is practically speaking unavoidable, then
you really haven’t gone very far towards diminishing commitment to possible
worlds.³⁵
³⁰ Phrases like ‘‘whys and wherefores’’ perhaps reflect some long-ago attempt to go plural while
remaining interrogative. Even ‘‘hows and whys’’ is not unheard of. Consider this from Webster’s 3rd
New International Dictionary: ‘‘most of the film is devoted to the grim hows and not the difficult
whys of battle.’’
³¹ See Quine (1948).
³² There is a cartoon about the last worker on the Sara Lee assembly line: She sits by the conveyor
belt asking herself of each passing pie, ‘‘Would I be proud to serve this to my family?’’ Replace the
pies with noun phrases, and you have Quine’s picture of the traditional ontologist: ‘‘Am I content
to think that this refers to a bona fide entity?’’
³³ Lewis (1986), 3.
³⁴ Ibid.
³⁵ This objection might be answerable for a particular S if we had an inventory of all the ways
things could have been which afforded S any chance at possibility: say, the way they would have
been if A1 , the way they would have been if A2 , . . . , and so on. Then we could say that S is possible
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VII
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Hold on, though. Because ‘‘the way that such-and-such’’ translates into ‘‘how
such-and-such’’, one naturally supposes that ‘‘some/all of the ways that such-andsuch’’ has got to translate into ‘‘some/all of the hows such-and-such’’—which of
course it can’t, because ‘‘hows’’ makes no sense. But this is to insinuate a problem
about plurals into what was supposed to be a problem about quantification.
Imagine someone arguing as follows: ‘‘the reason I did it’’ translates into ‘‘why
I did it’’, but no analogous translation is possible for ‘‘some/all of the reasons
I did it’’, because whys are not things the language countenances. Similarly, we
have ‘‘when the swallows return’’, ‘‘where your story breaks down’’, and ‘‘what
really gets my goat’’, but not ‘‘some/all of the whens they return’’, ‘‘some/all
of the whereas your story breaks down’’, or ‘‘some/all of the whats that get my
goat’’. There is no grammatical alternative, it seems, to objectual quantification
over reasons, times, narrative breakdown points, and whatever sort of thingum it
is that gets people’s goats.
What this argument overlooks is that one doesn’t need pluralizations of ‘‘why’’,
‘‘when’’, ‘‘where’’, etc., to carry out the relevant sorts of quantification; that’s
what words like ‘‘whyever’’, ‘‘never’’, ‘‘always’’, ‘‘somewhere’’, and ‘‘whatever’’
are for. The same applies to ‘‘how’’. ‘‘Some/all of the hows’’ may not make sense,
but it doesn’t have to, for we have ‘‘somehow’’ and ‘‘however’’:³⁶
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(10) if Valium works how you say, then Librium works similarly
variables: if Valium works thusly, then Librium works like so
existential: if Valium works somehow, then Librium too works somehow
universal: however Valium works, so also works Librium³⁷
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This is important because it means that quantificational way-talk can be rendered
in terms of ‘‘how’’, if only we drop the assumption that all quantifiers are (like
the logician’s ‘‘there is an x such that . . . ’’) entitative or objectual.³⁸ Of course,
iff there’s a way things could have been such that S
iff S is how things would have been if A1 , or
S is how things would have been if A2 , or . . .
iff S figures in the answer to ‘‘how would things have been if A1 ?’’ or S figures in the answer to
‘‘how would things have been if A2 ?’’ or . . .
(Or, we could drop questions altogether and say simply that S is possible iff it would have been that
S had it been that A1 , or it would have been that S had it been that A2 , or . . . ) I take it, though,
that this kind of inventory is not to be had. The best we can do is: S is possible iff there is some way
things could have been such that S.
³⁶ See Prior, (1971), 34 ff.
³⁷ For some reason this sounds better in old English: ‘‘however Valium worketh, so also worketh
Librium’’.
³⁸ Better: we need to drop the assumption that the only alternative to an objectual quantifier is a
substitutional one.
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the embrace of nonobjectual quantifiers gains us nothing unless they share in the
freedom from ontological commitment we saw with the corresponding indirect
questions. But intuition is absolutely clear on this point. ‘‘He blew the house
down by huffing and puffing’’ is a strictly stronger statement than ‘‘he blew it down
somehow’’. And it would not be stronger if the ‘‘somehow’’ carried a commitment
to, say, ways, for ‘‘by huffing and puffing’’ is not committal in anybody’s book.
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³⁹ This approach would resemble the modalist project of trying to approximate the expressive
power of direct quantification over worlds by means of souped-up modal operators, e.g., indexed
actuality operators. See Fine (1977) and Forbes (1985), 89 ff.
⁴⁰ See Quine (1969).
⁴¹ This is not to forget the occasional brave soul who attempts to do the semantics of, say, tense
or adverbs in a tensed or adverbial metalanguage. The brave soul is the exception that proves the
rule, because the feeling is bound to be that she is an obscurantist who for some reason refuses to
dig down to the deepest semantic levels. If there is no deeper story to be had, the construction itself
will be derided as (in a pejorative sense) idiomatic; like ‘‘for the sake of . . . ’’ and ‘‘believes that . . . ’’
it is better suited to the ‘‘the market place or . . . the laboratory’’ than to precincts more theoretical
(Quine (1960), 228).
How in the World?
enable commentary on the answers to direct how-questions; but where indirect
‘‘how’’ does it by, for lack of a better word, invoking these answers, quantified
‘‘how’’ does it by generalizing over them. ‘‘Life after death is possible somehow’’
says more or less that ‘‘how is life after death possible?’’ has a correct answer.
‘‘However you want to do it is fine with me’’ says that if ‘‘like so’’ is a correct
answer to ‘‘how do you want to do it?,’’ then doing it like so is fine with
me. That the majority of nonobjectual quantifiers are built around questionwords (‘‘whichever’’, ‘‘somewhere’’, ‘‘whyever’’, ‘‘whatever’’, ‘‘however many’’,
‘‘whoever’’) only strengthens the case for a semantic link with answers.
VIII
All of that having been said, let me be the first to admit that colloquial howquantification is a pretty clumsy semantical instrument compared to direct
objectual quantification over ways. Anyone who doubts this is invited to try to
render ‘‘there is more than one way to skin a cat’’, or ‘‘there are more ways
of skinning a cat than of falling off a log’’, or ‘‘some ways of falling off a log
resemble some ways of skinning a cat’’ in the idiom of ‘‘somehow’’, ‘‘nohow’’,
and ‘‘however’’. One could try to meet these expressive difficulties head on
by concocting ever fancier how-quantifiers (‘‘cats can be skinned doublehow’’,
‘‘skinning a cat is howlier than falling off a log’’, . . . ).³⁹ But as a practical matter,
there seems little real alternative to quantifying directly over ways, or some
approximation to ways.
A second reason why ‘‘somehow’’ and ‘‘however’’ are no automatic panacea
is that all quantifiers, however nonobjectual in appearance, are caught up in a
powerful objectual undertow that threatens to obliterate the distinction here at
issue. Talk about objects has a clarity and tractability that few can resist—neither
ordinary folk trying to convey meanings nor philosophers trying to explain them.⁴⁰
Things have reached the point that to give the ‘‘semantics’’ of a construction is
almost by definition to tell a story about which entities have to behave in which
ways for it to make what sort of contribution to truth-value. Anything less and
it will be protested that the construction’s meaning has still not been rendered
completely clear.⁴¹
The third reason for refusing to rest content with ‘‘somehow’’ is that an
objectual story is not out of the question in this case. Quantified uses of ‘‘how’’
have, it seems, a similar semantical function to indirect interrogative uses. Both
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IX
made
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Haven’t we now painted ourselves into a corner? Nonobjectual quantifiers, let
them be as seriously intended as you like, are not ontologically committal. But
they are not semantically primitive either, and our best bet about how to explicate
them is in terms of quantifiers over answers that are (when seriously intended)
committal.
I see only one way out. If a construction that is not committal-when-serious is
to be explained by a construction that is, then the second construction had better
be treated for purposes of the explanation as nonserious or feigned. Someone who
says that the treasure is buried somewhere is saying that ‘‘where is it buried?’’ has
an answer, bracketing any and all worries about the existence of entities suited to
play that role—stipulating, if you like, in a spirit of make-believe, that questions
that ‘‘have answers’’ in the ordinary-language sense of not being unanswerable
have them in a more ontologically loaded sense as well.
This leaves the shape of the make-believe somewhat open. A lot will depend
on our views about answers: about what they are in general (linguistic items or
their denotata?) and the (grammatical or ontological) forms that they take in
connection with specific sorts of questions. If we favor the linguistic conception,
for example, then what needs to be imagined is that any answer that was, as we
say, ‘‘there to be given’’, was given. This is to avoid holding the truth of ‘‘he blew
the house down somehow’’ hostage to the issue of whether someone has in fact
bothered to put ‘‘by huffing and puffing’’ into words.
But suppose that linguistic so-called ‘‘answers’’ are instead answer-formulations;
the real answers are the worldly entities to which they refer and other entities of
the same sort.⁴² Then there are two cases, according to whether the linguistic
so-called ‘‘answers’’ are of the right grammatical form to refer.
The easy case is the first; here our main imaginative task is to supply each
linguistic ‘‘answer’’ with a referent. There will have to be such things as the Easter
⁴² E.g., in the case of who-questions, persons rather than their names, and indeed regardless of
whether they have names.
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Bunny, for instance, and the number twelve, to serve as answers to ‘‘who does
Isaac expect to see at the mall?’’ and ‘‘how much is five plus seven?’’ Otherwise
it will not come out false, as it should, that whoever Isaac expects to see at the
mall, Sally expects to see as well, and that however much you get by adding five
to seven, you get as much or more by adding three to eight.
If on the other hand we are dealing with linguistic ‘‘answers’’ that do not even
purport to refer (perhaps they are adjectives or adverbs), then referential purport
will have to be projected onto them. The needed make-believe will have two
interlocking parts: one in which the phrases in question are seen as referential,
another in which their referents are seen to be drawn from the ranks of some real
or concocted ontological category. (This paper does not advocate any particular
account of ways, but one could do worse than the following: ways are the things
we imagine ourselves referring to by use of phrases like ‘‘by huffing and puffing’’,
when we imagine that phrases like that are used to refer.)
to be
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But we are getting ahead of ourselves. It is time to put make-believe to the
side for a while and return to the original objection: ‘‘If the idea is to translate
world-talk into way-talk, and way-talk into how-talk, and how-talk into answertalk, then the idea doesn’t work, because quantificational way-talk doesn’t
translate.’’ Our reply is that quantificational way-talk does translate—into colloquial how-quantification—and that colloquial how-quantification translates
in turn into (feigned, but we are putting that aside for now) objectual quantification over answers to how-questions. That the middleman here has its
expressive limits is not a problem, for we can cut the middleman out and
read apparent quantification over ways directly into objectual quantification
over answers.
Take for instance Lewis’s statement that ‘‘there are many ways things could
have been besides the way they actually are’’. This says that ‘‘how could things
have been?’’ has many incompatible answers that do not correctly answer ‘‘how
are things as a matter of fact?’’
Next try ‘‘there is a way things could have been such that blue swans existed’’.
One interpretation is that ‘‘how could things have been?’’ has an answer according
to which there are blue swans. But this might give the impression of a two-stage
process in which we first collect answers to ‘‘how could things have been?’’ at
random, only then considering whether we have hit on anything favorable to the
blue swan hypothesis.⁴³ A better interpretation homes in on the scenarios we are
⁴³ It might; I don’t say it must. I prefer the interpretation to be given next because it steers around
various tricky issues raised by ‘‘according to’’, such as the following: can a strictly microphysical
answer to ‘‘how could things have been?’’ be such that according to it there are blue swans?
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actually interested in: ‘‘how could it have been that there were blue swans?’’ has
an answer, full stop.⁴⁴
XI
Anyone who does modal metaphysics at all has got to feel some attraction to the
formula: S is possible iff there is a way things could have been such that S. To go by
what was just said about quantification over ways, the formula means something
like this:
(11) ♦S iff H ♦ S? has a correct answer.
(‘‘H ♦ S?’’ is short for ‘‘how could it have been that S?’’) Standard possible
worlds semantics has of course grown up around a quite different reading: S is
possible iff there is at least one S-world, an abstract sort of world in Stalnaker’s
version of the semantics,
(12) ♦S iff there is an abstract world according to which S,
a concrete sort in Lewis’s version,
(13) ♦S iff there is a concrete world at which S.
Not surprisingly, the three approaches agree in linking possibility to the existence
of an appropriate witness. (If necessity is the dual of possibility, they agree too in
linking S’s necessity to the nonexistence of witnesses to the possibility of not-S.)
But notice a crucial difference between them. (12) and (13) we believe, or try to
believe, because we are so impressed by the theoretical work they do. (11) on the
other hand comes close to being a conceptual truth about possibility.
How is that? (11)’s right-to-left direction says that S is possible provided
that ‘‘how is S possible?’’ has a correct answer. Assuming that a correct answer to
‘‘how is S possible?’’ will be a truth of the form ‘‘S + is possible’’, where S + has S
as a consequence, this amounts to the claim that
(11! ) ♦S if ♦S + —where S + is sufficient for S.
⁴⁴ Of course, the answer has to be correct. Someone might say that worlds reinsert themselves
just here, when we try to explain what correctness comes to. But why does the explanation have to
be in terms of what does or does not exist, as opposed to what is or is not possible? Suppose that an
answer to ‘‘how is S possible?’’ takes the form ‘‘S + is possible’’, where S + is presented as sufficing
for S. Then the main thing correctness requires is that S + is possible and does suffice for S. How the
correctness of these claims is to be understood is another question. Some may opt for homophonic
correctness conditions or for Peircean ones; others may insist on something more substantive, up to
and including, I suppose, conditions framed in terms of possible worlds. That these various options
continue to be available is in a way the point. The worldly semantics is presented as an offer we cannot
refuse. But the same analytic advantages are available to those choosing another semantics and,
indeed, to those leaving the semantical choice unmade. ( This note is one of several places in which I
blur the distinction between possible-worlds semantics and the possible-worlds account of modality.)
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And on any halfway natural reading of ‘‘sufficient’’, it is true as a conceptual
matter that if something sufficient for S is possible, then S is possible as
well.⁴⁵
Now consider the direction from left to right: S is possible only if ‘‘how is S
possible?’’ has an answer. This forces us to speculate a little on the kind of S +
the questioner is looking for. I hear her as issuing a challenge:
You think that S is possible but I suspect that this is only because you have
neglected the matter of T . I therefore ask you: is S possible in the T way,
or is it possible in the not-T way? According to you, for instance, there
can be a town whose barber shaves all and only the town’s non-self-shavers.
But are we to think of this barber as shaving himself, or as not shaving
himself?
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Understood like this, the question ‘‘how is S possible?’’ has an answer iff it is
possible that S & T , or else possible that S & ¬T .⁴⁶ Since there is no way of
telling in advance what unresolved issue T might have attracted the questioner’s
attention, we arrive at the claim that, pick any T you like,
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This says that possibility is expansive: nothing is possible which cannot be
expanded into a more inclusive possibility, inclusiveness being judged along
any dimension you like.⁴⁷ To come at it from the other side, there can be no
refuge from impossibility in refusing to take a stand on matters left open; if
an impossibility would result however these matters were decided, you’ve got
an impossibility already.⁴⁸ Either way, expansiveness looks like a conceptual
truth.
⁴⁵ Sufficing might be a matter of metaphysical necessitation. Then (11! ) is the modal-logical
truth that anything necessitated by a possibility is itself possible. Or it might be a subjunctive affair:
if S + were the case, S would be the case as well. Again, from this and the fact that S + is possible,
S’s possibility logically follows. Of course, (11! ) continues to be a logical truth on stronger readings
of ‘‘suffices’’, e.g., S + necessitates S and understandably so, or it is a priori that S would be the case
if S + were the case.
⁴⁶ It might be objected that ‘‘possibly, S & T ’’ has the wrong form for an answer to ‘‘how is S
possible?’’. The questioner does not want to know what could have been the case together with S,
but what could have been the case to bring it about that S. This assumes that the ‘‘how’’ in ‘‘how is
S possible?’’ has got to be one of means rather than manner. ‘‘Possibly S & T ’’ answers ‘‘how is S
possible?’’ in much the same way as ‘‘they fit stacked together like so’’ answers ‘‘how do all of those
dominoes fit into that little box?’’ The emphasis on manner is only natural given that doubts about
‘‘S is possible’’ are prompted by the thought, not that there is no basis for S’s possibility—some
possibilities are surd after all—but that there is a positive obstacle to its possibility. This thought
takes the form indicated in the text: scenarios according to which S have a way of falling apart when
one tries to flesh them out so as to render a verdict about T . (For more on this theme, see yablo
1993; Ch. 2 above.
⁴⁷ Subject to the usual qualifications about semantical paradox.
⁴⁸ Otherwise one could say: It’s perfectly possible to have a barber who shaves all and only the
non-self-shavers; what’s impossible is that along with a specification of who if anyone shaves the
barber.
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(11!! ) ♦S only if ♦S + 1 or ♦S + 2 —where S + 1 = S & T and S + 2 = S & ¬T .
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Voila! possible world semantics without possible worlds. Because what we have in
(11) is a structural analogue of Lewis’s (13) in which worlds do not figure⁴⁹—an
analogue, moreover, with some claim to be regarded as analytic. But I can
imagine various questions and objections, starting with the objection that since
(11) is circular —modal notions appear on its right-hand side—it fails to provide
a reductive analysis of modality.
There is no denying the circularity. ‘‘S + is possible’’ does not count as a correct
answer to ‘‘how is S possible?’’ unless it is true, which means that S + has got
to really be possible.⁵⁰ But why exactly is this an objection? To reply that (11) is
up against (13), which being noncircular can function as an analysis, just pushes
the question back a step. Why should the potential for functioning as an analysis
count so heavily in (13)’s favor?
The answer may seem obvious from something already mentioned, that the
argument for (13) is in terms of the theoretical services it offers. Lewis offers an gives
impressive catalogue of these services in his book On the Plurality of Worlds; here
we will have to limit ourselves to a single example. How, without an analysis like
(13), are we to understand why this, that, and the other should be the laws of
modality? True enough, it can be proved in pure mathematics that
if modal operators can be correctly analysed in so-and-so way [as quantifiers over worlds],
then they obey so-and-so systems of modal logic.⁵¹
This conditional gets us nowhere, however, unless we are in a position to
discharge the antecedent. And to get ourselves into that position, we need to
count an analysis like (13) into our belief system.
But although this is often said, it is hard to see how the application depends
on (13)’s constituting an analysis. As long as (13) is true (the left-hand side holds
just when the right one does) and known to be, the deduction of modal laws
from the laws of quantification would appear to go through just the same. And
now we begin to lose our grip on where the insistence on a reductive correlation
is coming from. If the choice of a correlation is to be driven by considerations of
theoretical utility alone, nothing should matter but that
it should be enough
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
the correlation is there,
it is comprehensive,
it is not itself unduly mysterious, and
it can be used to dispel other mysteries.
⁴⁹ I leave (12) aside for now since Lewis has questioned its claim to be called reductive.
⁵⁰ Further circularities creep in later when (11) gives way to (17).
⁵¹ Lewis (1986), 17; italics added.
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And, to twist around a famous remark of Lewis’s, it is not clear why a nonreductive correlation must have trouble with these conditions—unless you beg
the question by saying that it already is trouble.
For Lewis, a reductive correlation is the only kind worth having—so, anyway,
it is usually assumed, and given that the correlation he defends is the most
reductive available, there seems little reason to doubt it. But the fact is that
one can read quite a way into Lewis’s book without reductiveness coming
up as an explicit desideratum.⁵² Most of the time it sounds as though the
reason for believing in his ‘‘concrete correlation’’ (13) is that it exemplifies
better than any competing correlation the values expressed above, such as
comprehensiveness and theoretical power.⁵³ That the correlation is reductive
besides appears to be just gravy, except to the extent that it helps with the other
desiderata.
Starting about halfway through the book, however, we find Lewis objecting
to certain ersatzist alternatives to (13) that they smuggle modal notions in on
the right-hand side. Apparently, then, reductiveness is something that Lewis is
prepared to insist on. Why? Is it because he takes the same view of modality
that Jerry Fodor does of intentionality, viz., that if it is really real, it must
really be something else? I doubt it. No one could be less sentimental than
he about the trade-offs philosophers are occasionally forced to make between
ideology and ontology. If the price were right, he would be as willing as anyone
to buy relief from unwelcome entities by taking on a primitive notion or
two.⁵⁴ It’s just that in this case, the price is not right; in fact, the trade-offs
play out the other way.⁵⁵ A reductive account of modality is so enormously
valuable as to more than compensate us for the humongous ontology of
worlds.
⁵² It does come up in passing, for instance, in the passage just quoted.
⁵³ So, Lewis objects to linguistic ersatzism that it misclassifies ‘‘alien’’ possibilities as impossible,
and to magical ersatzism that it postulates a mysterious making-true relation. Lewis’s own favored
correlation has been charged with falsely ‘‘predicting’’ the impossibility of island universes, a charge
he takes dead seriously.
⁵⁴ Here is a typical expression of his attitude:
I conclude that linguistic ersatzism must indeed take modality as primitive. If its entire point were
to afford an analysis of modality, that would be a fatal objection. But there are many theoretical
services left for a version of ersatzism to render; even if it cannot analyze modality away. So it is open
to an ersatzer to pay the price, accept modality as primitive, and consider the proposal well worth
it on balance. Many ersatzers . . . see the contest between genuine and ersatz modal realism in just
that way: there is a choice between unwelcome ontology and unwelcome primitive modality, and
they prefer the latter. That seems to me a fair response on their part, but of course not conclusive.
(Lewis, (1986), 156)
⁵⁵ Thus, he says:
If our work is directed to ontological questions only, we may help ourselves to any primitives we
please, so long as we somehow understand them. But if our work is directed to ontological and
analytic questions both, . . . then we are trying at once to cut down on questionable ontology and
to cut down on primitives; and it is fair to object if one goal is served at too much cost to the other.
(ibid. 157)
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All right, but now we need a distinction. Is it that a reductive account of
modality is so intrinsically valuable as to compensate us, etc.? This is hard to take
seriously. Faced with a no-strings-attached decision between the humongous
ontology of concrete worlds, on the one hand, and letting possibility be what it
is and not another thing, on the other, most of us would know which way to
jump.
So the claim has got to be that a reductive analysis of modality is so extrinsically
valuable as to compensate us, etc.—that is, so valuable from the point of view
of desiderata other than reductiveness. And now we are back where we started:
if the concrete correlation is better, that is not because it is nonreductive per
se but because it outperforms the competition in other respects. Whereupon
we’re entitled to ask why a nonreductive correlation like (11) couldn’t do just
as well.
Or indeed better. Because if a correlation is going to do theoretical work, it’s
very important that it be there, that it be comprehensive, and that it not be itself
unduly mysterious. And between (11) and Lewis’s (13), the verdict is clear. (11)
is bordering on analytic, which is about as good as you can do in the truth and
comprehensiveness and unmysteriousness departments. Whereas (13), on top of
being prima facie as improbable as anything ever was, is baffling even on the
supposition of its truth. If an oracle convinced us that ours was one of a large
number of spatiotemporally isolated universes, each enacting modal facts about scenarios possible in
the others while they all the while returned the favor, this would be regarded as
the most amazing coincidence on record.⁵⁶
XIII
Now, the natural and proper reply to this is that Lewis’s concrete correlation;
its existence momentarily granted, so thoroughly creams the competition at
⁵⁶ Comprehensiveness may be a problem too, since (13) as Lewis understands it rules out the
possibility of spatiotemporally unrelated (‘‘island’’) universes. Far from hushing this problem up,
Lewis has done a good deal to publicize it:
The intuitive case that island universes are possible has been much strengthened by a recent
argument in John Bigelow and Robert Pargetter, ‘‘Beyond the Blank Stare’’. . . . First, mightn’t
there be a world of almost isolated island universes, linked only by a few short-lived wormholes?
And mightn’t the presence of the wormholes depend on what happens in the islands? And then
wouldn’t it be true that if the goings-on in the islands had been just a little different, there wouldn’t
have been any wormholes? Then wouldn’t there have been a world of altogether isolated islands?
(Lewis (1990), 223)
His rejection of island universes puts Lewis in the prima facie awkward position of maintaining that
there is something—the mereological sum of all the various worlds—such that a thing like that
cannot be. But reject them he must if he wants to hold on to his definition of worlds as maximal
spatiotemporally connected objects. A lot is riding on this definition here since all the alternatives
that come to mind are explicitly or implicitly modal. Allow island universes, and it is not clear
whether (13) can still be regarded as a reduction. (See Lewis, (1986), 69 ff.)
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dispelling modal mysteries that we should take it on board however prima facie
improbable and however baffling if true. (13) has been undersold, in other words.
This is something we’ll get to in a moment; let us consider first a way in which
(11) has been oversold.
Again and again (11) has been billed as close to a conceptual truth, or bordering
on analytic. Why the hedge, if (11! ) and (11!! ) are conceptual truths and (11)
is their conjunction? The hedge is because (11) is not their conjunction; it is
slightly but crucially stronger. This comes out if we compare what (11) tells
us on the supposition that S is possible with what (11!! ) tells us on the same
supposition. According to (11), ‘‘how is S possible?’’ has a correct answer. But
(11!! ) only as it were exhibits this answer,⁵⁷ without testifying to its existence.
[(11!! ) does perhaps tell us that ‘‘how is S possible?’’ is correctly answerable, in
some appropriate sense of that word. But answerability is one thing, having a
correct answer another.⁵⁸] The upshot is that (11) is a conceptual truth only
modulo the existence of answers with the requisite contents. And that is a very
big modulo. It begins to appear that, although on friendly terms with conceptual
truths, (11) is not itself actually even true.⁵⁹
Not good. And we have yet to consider the other reply: namely, that (13)
is needed regardless of (11)’s truth-value on account of its greater effectiveness
against modal mysteries. Take again the ‘‘mystery’’ of the laws of modality, using
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⁵⁷ And this only schematically.
⁵⁸ One could attempt to deny the distinction, maintaining that Q is correctly answerable iff
it has a correct answer iff there is a fact of the matter as to IQ. There is certainly something to
be said for this view. ‘‘ ‘What would China do if the United States recognized Taiwan?’ has an
answer’’ does not intuitively make an existence claim; it says that there is a fact of the matter as to
what China would do. By the same token, when (11) assures us that ‘‘how is S possible?’’ has an
answer, this means only that there is a fact of the matter as to how S is possible. And (11!! ) gives us
the same assurance when it tells us that S is possible either T -ishly, or (failing that) not-T -ishly.
Now, though, we have to decide whether ‘‘there is a fact of the matter as to . . .’’ involves genuine
quantification over facts. If it does, we lose; the cause of ontology-free theoretical power is hardly
served by trading one ontology for another. If it doesn’t, we lose again; give up the quantification
and the theoretical power goes too.
⁵⁹ Another option is to read ‘‘there is an answer’’ in (11) as ‘‘there could have been an answer,
such-and-such conditions holding fixed’’. Similarly, one could read ‘‘there is a world’’ in (12) and
(13) as ‘‘there could have been a world’’—a type of quantifier discussed in Fine (1977). I will be
taking a different line, but this one strikes me as well worth pursuing.
How in the World?
Examples could be multiplied. (13) has a real analytic advantage for the
simple reason that worlds are complete while answers to ‘‘how is that possible?’’
questions tend to leave a great deal undecided.
Someone might wonder why completeness should be such a sticking point.
Can’t possible-world semantics equally well be done in terms of incomplete or
‘‘partial’’ worlds?⁶⁰ It is true that these partial worlds have to be conceived as
subject to a refinability condition: given any T you like,
(15) any partial world at which S is true has a refinement at which S is true and
T is true or else one at which S is true and T is false.⁶¹
But this condition seems very much in the spirit of (11)’s portrayal of possibility
as expansive: S is possible only if it is possible together with T or possible together
with not-T .
Looking a little closer, though, we see that that refinability adds something to
expansiveness that is necessary for serious modal mathematics; it says not merely
that S is possible only if its conjunction with T , or with not-T , is possible, but
that any witness to S’s possibility can be built up into a witness to the possibility
of one of these conjunctions. If a version of this held for answers—if we could
be assured that
(16) any correct answer to H ♦ S? has a refinement that correctly answers H ♦
(S & T )? or else one that correctly answers H ♦ (S & ¬T )?
(14) if ♦S and "T then ♦ (S & T )
as a typical instance. Why is it that counterexamples to this never turn up? (13)
has an explanation to offer: If S is possible, then there is an S-world, call it W .
W cannot be a not-T -world, since there aren’t any; so, worlds being complete,
it must be a T -world. W is accordingly an (S & T )-world, which means that
possibly S & T . Now try the same thing using (11). Since S is possible, ‘‘how is
S possible?’’ has a correct answer A. A is clearly not an answer to ‘‘how is not-T
possible?’’, for T is necessary. But this still doesn’t give us an answer to ‘‘how is
S & T possible?’’, for A may well be silent on the subject of T .
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—then the analytic gap between (11) and (13) would be significantly narrowed.⁶²
But unless we have it in mind to shoot ourselves in the foot by indulging at this
late date in wishful platonic thinking, (16) is not something we can afford to
assume. The only answers we can safely rely on in this context are the ones that
have actually cropped up in conversations or on paper. And these, it seems clear,
are not closed under refinement; time being short and attention limited, they
eventually peter out.
XIV
All right; people have not in fact gotten around to giving all the answers our
approach needs. But having come this far, it seems a shame to retreat before
so drearily medical a difficulty. And in fact we don’t have to. The insight that
(11) is struggling to express is that S is possible iff it is possible somehow. And
⁶⁰ These are sometimes called ‘‘situations’’ or ‘‘possibilities’’.
⁶¹ Cf. Humberstone (1981) and Forbes (1985), 18–22 and 43–7. True refinability is a more
complicated affair than (15) suggests, but the differences are not important here.
⁶² For example, we could explain (14) by saying that any answer to ‘‘how is S possible?’’ is
refinable into an answer to ‘‘how is S & T possible?’’, since given T ’s necessity ‘‘how is S & ¬T
possible?’’ is unanswerable.
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we know from section IX that if ‘‘somehow’’ is going to be understood in terms
of quantification over answers, that quantification needs to be seen as feigned or
conducted in a spirit of make-believe.
As to the form of the make-believe, we can let our present difficulties be our
guide. The difficulty about the existence of answers to ‘‘how is S possible?’’ is
met by supposing that whenever ‘‘how is S possible?’’ is correctly answerable (it
is possible that S + ), a correct answer to it actually exists.⁶³ The difficulty about
the refinability of these answers is met by supposing that any correct answer to
‘‘how is S possible?’’ has a correct refinement that either affirms T or denies it.
These two ideas together can be called the refinable-answer story, or RAS. All that
remains is to reconceive the quantifier in (11) as ‘‘feigned’’ by prefixing it with
an ‘‘according to RAS’’ operator. The biconditional
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(17) ♦S iff according to RAS, H ♦ S? has a correct answer
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that results is a conceptual truth that enables free back-and-forth motion between
possibility, on the one hand, and existential quantification over a single matrix of
as-determinate-as-you-need witnesses on the other. To the extent that (12) and
(13) have their analytic power as catalysts in this sort of transition, (17) can offer
the same power at a fraction of the ontological cost.⁶⁴
All right, but why stop there? If we are willing to stipulate that incomplete
answers are partly refinable, why not go whole hog and make them completely
refinable? The determinate-answer story is just like the refinable-answer story,
except that correct answers to ‘‘how-possible?’’ questions are always refinable
into correct answers leaving nothing unsettled. This gives us a still closer
approximation to the standard analysis:⁶⁵
How in the World?
though it is the thing represented that seems better suited to the role. (‘‘There is
your answer’’, I say, with a nod at your approaching cousin.) So far we have been
assuming a version of the first approach; more or less determinate answers to ‘‘how
is S possible?’’ have been more or less comprehensive representations according
to which S. But once having made the switch to fully determinate answers, and
pretended ones at that, the second option becomes suddenly attractive.
You want to know how blue swans are possible, in full and comprehensive
detail? There is your answer, I say, gesturing or pretending to gesture, to the
best of my expressive abilities, at a concrete I-and-all-my-surroundings world
wherein swans really are blue.⁶⁶ Reconceive determinate answers like this and
the determinate-answer story becomes the many-worlds story MWS: S is possible
only if ‘‘how is S possible?’’ has an answer taking the form of a concrete world at
which S is true. And (18) becomes
(19) ♦S iff according to MWS, there is a concrete world at which S.
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(18) ♦S iff according to DAS, H ♦ S? has a determinate correct answer.
You might think that Lewis would welcome (19) with open arms; isn’t the
many-worlds story his story? It is not.⁶⁷ Both stories tell of an array of concrete
worlds. But Lewis’s story portrays these worlds as independently constituted, not
inherently modal entities which somehow nevertheless contrive to constitute the
ground of modal truth. The present story conjures worlds up from within the
structure of possibility itself—from what we called its expansive quality. Worlds
are the ideal objects of our efforts to give more and more specific answers to the
question ‘‘how could that be?’’. This is how we can know that (19) is true—that
S is possible iff according to the story, there is an S-world.⁶⁸
XV
And now for a final weird twist. ‘‘Answer’’ is a theoretical notion whose proper
treatment is to some extent up for grabs. No doubt answers are often best seen as
representations. (‘‘Here is your answer’’ I say: ‘‘your cousin Giorgio.’’) Sometimes
⁶³ As discussed above, S + should suffice for S. There might be ‘‘pragmatic’’ conditions on S +
as well; it should speak to the questioner’s doubts. (11!! ) guarantees that ‘‘how is S possible?’’ is
correctly answerable in a way that addresses these doubts whatever they may be, provided that S is
indeed possible.
⁶⁴ Compare Rosen (1990). The present paper represents one possible development of Rosen’s
next-to-last paragraph:
Throughout I have supposed that fictionalism, like modal realism, aims to be a theory of
possibility. . . . But note that this assumption is not strictly necessary given the modest problem we began with. All Ed ever wanted was license to move back and forth between modal claims
and claims about worlds . . . it is one thing to embrace these biconditionals—even to embrace them
as a body of necessary truths—and another to regard them as providing analyses. . . . This timid
fictionalism of course raises as many questions as it answers. Still it must be granted that many of
the objections we have mentioned . . . simply do not arise for this view. (ibid. 233–4).
⁶⁵ Albeit to the version (12) that quantifies over abstract representations of concrete worlds rather
than the worlds themselves.
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Thirty or so years ago, before the campaign to make modal metaphysics honest
had gotten seriously under way, the talk was less of worlds than of something
called the world metaphor. One reason this sort of talk fell out of favor was
Lewis’s Quinean scrupulosity about ontological commitment. Another reason,
however, was that it was never quite clear what the talk meant. One saw what
• Q2
327-8
⁶⁶ Sentential and propositional answers to ‘‘how is S possible?’’ still exist on this view, but they
interest us mainly as presentations of the fully determinate answers otherwise known as concrete
worlds.
⁶⁷ For the same reasons, it is not Gideon Rosen’s (1990) story either. •pp. 333–5
⁶⁸ Someone might think that MWS was lacking in substantive content. But a story’s content
is not exhausted by what is explicitly written down (see the next section). If S is possible, then
according to MWS, there is a world in which S. Since blue swans are possible, according to MWS
there is a world at which blue swans exist; since they are possible together with a German victory
in the First World War, according to MWS there is a world like that as well. How claims like this
make their way into the content of Lewis’s story (as elaborated by Rosen) is a nontrivial question.
See Rosen, (1990), 227–8.
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worlds qua metaphors were supposed to do: shed metaphysical light on modality
just by making themselves available to theoretical contemplation.⁶⁹ But it was
never explained what they were that this was within their powers.
All the same, it seems to me that the pre-Lewis approach to these matters
was onto something. Talk about worlds is metaphorical, or close enough not to
matter. Some of the argument for this is already in place: world-talk as it features
in (19) is fictional, and so the sort of thing we are to pretend or imagine is true.
The next step is to observe that the pretense is in a quite particular spirit, a spirit
characteristic of metaphor.
Almost wherever there is disciplined pretense or imagination, there is something that can be considered a game of make-believe.⁷⁰ Take for instance the games
we play with representational paintings and novels. Standing before Caravaggio’s
‘‘Bacchus’’, we are supposed to imagine ourselves meeting the gaze of a figure
entreating us with a glass of wine, when all that is really there is marks on a canvas.
Reading ‘‘The Speckled Band’’ by Arthur Conan Doyle, we are supposed to
imagine ourselves reading (not sentences strung together for dramatic effect but)
reports of a detective’s activities compiled by one who knows whereof he speaks.
Both of these games can lay claim to some sort of official sanction; the reason
we are supposed to imagine in such-and-such ways is that that is what the author
intended, or that is how the institution of painting works. Other games derive
their shape and authority from humbler sources. Some are grounded in ad hoc
arrangements (‘‘these clumps of mud can be the pies’’) or the understanding of a
moment (‘‘look out, I’ve got your nose’’). Some are grounded in nothing at all,
arising among like-minded pretenders of their own accord. (Finding ourselves in
an unexpectedly swanky hotel room, we begin putting on airs and acting the part.)
The common thread here—the factor that links all make-believe games together—is that they call upon their participants to pretend or imagine that certain
things are the case. These ‘‘to-be-imagined’’ items make up the game’s content,
and to elaborate and adapt oneself to this content is often the game’s very point.⁷¹
Often, but not always; an alternative point suggests itself when we reflect
that all but the most boring make-believe games are played with props, whose
game-independent properties help to determine what it is that the players are
to imagine or pretend. Nowhere in the rules of mud pies does it say that Sam’s
⁶⁹ See the epigraph.
⁷⁰ ‘‘Almost’’ because the pretense has to be disciplined in the right way. I’m not sure what the
right way is, but at least this much is true. There is no make-believe game if imaginings are forbidden
but none are prescribed (Albanians under Enver Hoxha were told not to imagine life in the West)
or if they are prescribed but on a basis having not enough to do with what they are imaginings of
(as in a biofeedback game where contestants try to raise their heart rates just by the exercise of their
imaginations).
⁷¹ Better, such-and-such is part of the game’s content if ‘‘it is to be imagined . . . should the
question arise, it being understood