Philosophical Good Faith (Or, Boo, Hiss, Moriarty!)

As I tend to do, I’d like to make an argument that I am not necessarily ready to stand by; rather, I’ll throw it out there, and see if it sticks. I’m going to argue that “good faith” is necessary to genuine philosophical dialogue; without “good faith”, genuine philosophical dialogue cannot occur, and there is a direct correlation between the degree of good faith in such a discussion and the value of that discussion itself.

First, I’ll help to define some terms. I choose the word “dialogue” rather than lecture to indicate the method of direct communication between multiple parties, with the intent of communication between the two of them. Let’s leave “philosophical” ambiguous, but state that the goal should be that the dialogue be productive for both individuals, without getting too into what is meant by that (as the meaning of “philosophical” is another post in and of itself). Genuine means that the intentions of the individuals participating are explicitly and directly communicated or understood; there is not a hidden meaning or purpose behind the discussion.

What, then, to make of “good faith”? I’ll introduce the concept as follows: “good faith” refers to the state in which an argument is presented. In order for a state to be considered one of “good faith”, it is necessary (although not necessarily sufficient) that the individual in said state maintain the following three properties: absolute earnestness, justified belief, and coherence between one’s argument, one’s method of communication, and one’s intention. Let’s see if I can expand on those a bit, and how examples hold up.

By “absolute earnestness,” I mean that an individual’s argument must be communicated with conviction, and be willing to affirm that conviction’s relation to the argument. If there are contingencies attached to the conviction, they must be communicated, or else “absolute earnestness” shall not be attained, and an individual shall not be acting in a state of good faith. As an example, assume that I am engaged in what I intend to be a genuine philosophical dialogue with Moriarty, and assume that he proposes, “Atoms do not exist”, to be a justified belief (he might offer rational arguments for this position), and his argument might be internally and externally coherent. However, if his argument is made simply to frustrate his fellow dialoguer, rather than promote investigation and/or edification, his argument is not made in good faith; his argument lacks absolute earnestness. If he were truly acting in good faith, he would work to help either himself or his colleague (or both) reach a productive or edifying philosophical end, rather than simply trying to win an argument. Moriarty, unfortunately, tends not to act in absolute earnestness; he brings in unusual and jarring argument for the sake of confusing or perplexing his fellow philosopher, and doesn’t really intend to serve a philosophical cause with his arguments. Boo, hiss, Moriarty!

By “justified belief”, I mean that one must argue from a standpoint of belief, and that belief cannot be purely arbitrary. First, assume I say, “Murder is necessarily good”; if one stated that and did not believe it, they should not assume it as a premise for an argument. However, imagine that one stated, “Suppose that murder were necessarily good”, “What if murder is necessarily good”, or, “Wouldn’t that entail murder being necessarily good?” Such claims are interrogative, not declarative; they are not stating beliefs, but rather using contra-positives to help explore another’s (hopefully justified) belief. Justification refers to a degree of sufficiency with respect to reasons that one has a belief. Just because Moriarty argues that “Corporations are evil, because they want profit” is justified does not mean that said belief is sufficient (boo, hiss, Moriarty!). What determines sufficiency for justification would be a topic of another post; for now, hopefully my point is clear enough. At any rate, assume that I am dialoguing with Moriarty about whether a true practitioner of Nietzsche’s philosophy would necessarily believe in the existence of God. If Moriarty argued that “Nietzsche proved that God is dead, so God necessarily once existed”, his belief (let’s assume that he actually believes it) would not be justified; even a most basic understanding of Nietzsche’s point with that statement would explicitly affirm that Moriarty missed the point. Moriarty would not have been acting in good faith, because he was citing a vital argument (which he believed to be representative of Nietzsche’s philosophical arguments on the subject) that he did not even have a basic understanding of. Thus, his belief was not justified; he was not acting in coherence with philosophical good faith.

Lastly, good faith requires “coherence between one’s argument, one’s method of communication, and one’s intention”. Since there’s a lot of interplay here, I’ll try to be brief. Suppose that one is trying to communicate a philosophical argument, but doing so at gunpoint. There would not be coherence between the individual’s argument (which was philosophical in nature) and one’s method of communication (which is violent, forceful, and antithetical to the consent and understanding of the gunpointee). One would be acting in good faith if they were arguing, “Give me your money”, and had someone at gunpoint; this element of good faith would be satisfied, even though it might be an immoral act. Similarly, if intends to have a philosophically productive/edifying conversation, and yet their argument or their method of communication were quarrelsome and belligerent, they would not be acting in good faith. Moriarty might try those sort of things, but to him we say, boo, hiss.

So, there you have it. I could go on longer, but it’s a long blog post, already. Zach’s argument for what good faith is. I did not have time to actually argue why it’s necessary, but hopefully the necessity should be implicit in the arguments. If not, it’ll make for a good follow-up post…

The Apostasy of Smerdyakov

Greetings,

Although my free–reading time has been severely limited due to the standard semester business, I’ve nevertheless found time to continue reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Aside from having the coolest name I’ve ever read (say it aloud a few times and bask in its greatness), Dostoevsky has a pretty interesting way of structuring his character development… I’m not convinced yet that the book deserves the accolades it has received, but it’s at least keeping me reading, which means I might be swayed, eventually.

In Book Three, Chapter VII (“The Controversy”), a character named Smerdyakov argues that, if one takes the Bible to be axiomatically true, it would not be a sin for an individual to renounce his faith if faced with torture or, perhaps, even death. Even though the character is largely trying to provoke others into anger with the argument, the argument itself is interesting, and I’d like to see how well you all think it works. I’m going to spell it out in as straightforward manner as possible. The edition I’m using the reference this is the 1976 Constance Garnett translation, revised and edited by Ralph E. Matlaw. I shall be referring to the tortured individual as “I” in this argument, because that is how Smerdyakov chose to argue.

1. The instant I say to a potential tormentor, “No, I’m not a Christian, and I curse my true God”, I am immediately cursed and “cut off” from the Holy Church (116)
2. However, one need not speak their apostasy; when I think it, before I had actually said it, I am already “cut off”—“accursed”. (116)
3. At the moment I become accursed, I become exactly like a heathen, and my christening is taken off me. (117)
4. If I’ve ceased becoming a Christian, I have told no lie to the enemy when they asked whether or not I was a Christian, as I had already lost my salvation before speaking. (117)
5. If I’m no longer a Christian, then I can’t renounce Christ, for I have nothing to renounce that belongs to me. (117)
6. It is said in Scripture that, if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and tell a mountain to move into the sea, it would instantly do so. (118)
7. If a torturer tells me to convert, and I tell a mountain to move and crush the tormentor, and it does not do so, my faith wasn’t even that of a mustard seed, and thus I wouldn’t have been able to get to heaven, anyways. (119)

The intended result? If an individual is told to either renounce their religion or be tortured, and they proclaim that they will not be tortured because of x [x could be any saving act, such as the moving of a mountain], x will happen if their faith is real. If their faith is not real, one thinks that they are not saved, and thus cannot renounce their faith, because they have nothing to renounce. Thus, it is not a sin to commit apostasy (to renounce one’s faith) under the threat of torture, because one has nothing to renounce.

Thoughts? Is his argument good, and does it prove what he thinks it proves? Is it simply a word game, or is there something there?

Humorous v. Serious Language: Can Opposites Attract?

For those of you who were able to attend Dr. Sands’ lecture last Thursday – “Lincoln’s Serious Use of Humor” – I bet you got as much joy out of it as I did. I would here like to qualify, however, what some may have mistakenly taken from his presentation and conclusions – or rather, more preferable to say, complement those arguments.

Political rhetoric is like no other. There exists in all of us some strangely excitable passions that can be played upon and provoked, shaking us awake from our state of dormancy and general malaise, and orators and politicians assuredly know all the best ways to do this. There is, of course, philosophical inquires to be made about how rhetoricians ought to persuade, and the responsibilities entailed by both speaker and audience member, and so on, but those are not the topics right now. Here I’d like to focus on the important Dynamic Duo of humorous and serious language, and their efficacy on the masses.

Comedy has an unquestionably universal prevalence in our society, and especially in politics. Remember back to the popularity of late night talk shows in the 2008 elections, what, with Tina Fey’s impersonations of Sarah Palin, the nightly infotainment of Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, and all the other sensational political sources like tabloids and satirical cartoon caricatures. Just look at the ratio of comedies on television as opposed to intellectual shows (whatever those may actually be). Even the unabashedly bawdy two-thousand-year-old political jokes of Aristophanes still get chuckles. This obsession with all political things humorous may not be the very best way to inspire citizens towards betterment, and it certainly poses a severe problem to those earnestly wanting to reform society without a punch line. Do we really want our political leaders to be endlessly amusing, always eager to put a smile our face? Most would agree that we want people of the best sort, with genuine, upstanding moral characters, with eloquence and dignity, and with the citizens’ and the society’s best interests at heart. Not too many comedians are described in this way, for humor can tend to bring out the worst in people, yet the politician-comedian who delights the masses is able to win over the bemused crowd with ease.

You may argue that because humor is so effective a tool, why am I condemning it? It is natural, after all, to like things that make us happy, and humor does that! Let’s look at Lincoln for a response to this. He was a statesman incomparable, and cleverly weaved humor, irony, and satire in his life to the advantage of his political career, and his name is not denounced! Yet as president, when he gave speeches and effectively spoke to all the people of the nation and pervasively to us as well, the humor gave way to a more somber tone, often resembling beautiful, poetic prose rather than humorous or more pleasing language. And it is this, rather than his use of humor, that actually moved people the most and when it counted. Rather than a pursuit of persuading a crowd to vote for him, Lincoln was here calling for a cathartic change in the very souls of the American public, and knew that serious language was the correct way to go.

For those who take the time to listen to the less “exciting” speeches and texts of politics, and who study their arguments and meaning, they will be far more affected and on a much deeper level than by any other way of speech. Audiences can be swayed by satire, humorous exaggerations, or funny anecdotes, but it is far more likely that they will enjoy it, laugh a little, and then forget it. Dramas, after all, and tragedies are not nearly so pleasurable to endure at times as comedies, for the former often aim to show us what’s worst about ourselves, and what needs to change. Audiences more inclined to the comedies, however (and that could very well be argued to mean the majority of Americans today!), would also be far more prone to a paralyzed, lazy mind, and less likely to study the “boring” political arguments that deserve more than a casual glance. It must be held that an appeal to intellect, by politicians or others, calls the audience to think and live at an altogether higher level. Instead of having our orators vie with each other for the most laughs, leaders should want to inspire greatness and a betterment of the citizenry through appeals to the higher faculties of man. Dr. Sands’ (and Lincoln’s) aim was ultimately to praise humor and its effectiveness, but only when tempered by serious language as well. Humor does not get a free ride just because we like it, but it must be used rightly. The best use of language must be a good mixture of both humorous and serious language, so shoot for that mean.

Mathematical Truth

As Zach notes below, the topic for the meeting on Monday is the ontology and epistemology of mathematics, and the reading is an influential paper by the Princeton philosopher of mathematics Paul Benacerraf.

Here's some background that will help in understanding Benacerraf's argument. First, the ontology of mathematics is concerned with the nature of the objects that mathematicians study. For example, what are numbers? Do they exist independent of the human mind or are they creations of the mind? The epistemology of mathematics concerns how we come to have mathematical knowledge. Benacerraf's main point is that those theories of math that give a good explanation of how mathematical statements like "2+2=4" connect with the objects they are about fail to account for how we know about them. And those theories that explain how we know math do poorly in accounting for how statements about math can be true.

One influential philosophy of math is platonism. Platonists hold that numbers are real. They are non-physical entities that exist in a separate realm. Platonism explains well why "There exists one even prime number" is true. It's because quite literally there does exist a prime number that is even, namely, 2, just as the existence of a cat lying on a mat makes it true that "There is a cat on the mat." Problem is that it's really hard to give an explanation of how the human mind can come to know about things like numbers, which (unlike cats), cannot be perceived by our senses. The best that the platonist can do is to posit the existence of some kind of mysterious "intuition" that gives us access to the realm of numbers.

On the other hand, formalists or combinatorialists, as Benacerraf refers to them, reject platonism and argue that mathematical statements are true if they can proved from more basic statements. To be true is simply to be provable using certain rules. Formalism explains how we know that 2+2=4 (because it can be proved from basic statements known as the axioms of Peano arithmetic, which define our concept of natural numbers), but it requires denying that "2+2=4" is true in the same way that propositions like "A cat is on the mat" are true. In essence, if truth is about some correspondence between a statement and the world, there is no such correspondence between mathematical statements and the world for the formalist.

So we are left with a dilemma. Or maybe not. Perhaps the problem with Benacerraf's argument is that he has a deficient theory of knowledge. He assumes that knowledge involves some physical, causal relation between the object of knowledge and the knower. But is that true? That's one question among many that we can discuss on Monday.

Coming Up: Ontology and Epistemology of Mathematics!

Greetings,

The study of mathematics raises all sorts of philosophical questions, some of which we will be discussing at the next Philosophy Club meeting, Monday, September 21 at 8:00pm. It should be a lot of fun! If you need location information, send me an email, and I'll give you the relevant info.

Zach's Ontology of Truth

Greetings once again, everyone,

Last night's meeting on the philosophical implications of the governmental censorship of obscenity was evocative, edgy, and yet hopefully still both fun and educational.

After the meeting, a few of us hung out and discussed something I had been pondering for some time, but had not actually written out until earlier that day: my proposed ontology of truth. For those who don't know, "ontology" refers to the science or study of the nature of existence. This is not an ontological argument for truth; rather, it is an attempt at classifying what I believe are actual kinds of truths.




Let the predicate "P" refer to "...Coheres with...", so that "Pxy" refers to "x coheres with y".
Let the predicate "S" refer to "...Is a statement", so that "Sx" refers to "x is a statement".
For "Objective Truths", let "T" refer to the one-place predicate, "...Is true", so that "Tx" refers to "x is true".
For "Subjective Truths", let "T" refer to the two-place predicate, "...Is true for...", so that "Txy" refers to "x is true for y".
In these propositions, "x" refers to statements that individuals make, and this test seeks to show whether a statement "x" is.
In these propositions, "y" can be interpreted different ways, depending on your approach to various epistemological issues. I personally find it easiest to think of "y" as a paradigm, as Kuhn considered it. If you have issues with Kuhn's summation of paradigms, think of "y" as a worldview or a summation of perceptions of sorts.
In these propositions, "z" refers to a a subject. "Txz" would thus mean that "x is true for z".

That should hopefully do it. If anyone has a hard time reading the image or interpreting the notation, let me know, and I'm happy to help.

At any rate, here's the gist. Note that the examples I provide are not meant to be insightful and provocative insomuch as they are meant to be noncontroversial. The difficult questions can come later.
For x to be an Objectively Absolute truth, it must correspond to all y paradigms that correspond with reality. If there exists a y paradigm that corresponds with reality, but x does not correspond with this y paradigm, x is not an Objectively Absolute truth. Most (if not all) mathematical axioms, such as that the successor of zero does not equal zero, would fall under this category.

For x to be an Objectively Relative truth, it must correspond to at least one y paradigm that corresponds with reality. If there exists a y paradigm that corresponds with reality, but x does not correspond with this y paradigm, this is not a problem, because this truth is relative. There are possible worlds, perhaps, where paradigm y does not correspond with reality; nevertheless, y corresponds to some reality, so x is true, at least in an Objectively Relative sense. As an example of an Objectively Relative truth, consider the statement, "the universe is constantly expanding".

For x to be a Subjectively Absolute truth, it must correspond to all y paradigms that correspond to reality, and there must exist a subject such that x is true for that subject. These truths require a subject in order for them to be true. For example, consider, "I ought not do that which is wrong". Such a statement requires the existence of a subject, an "I", in order for it to be possibly true. If there does not exist a z such that, for z, this x statement is true for z, x is not true at all.

For x to be a Subjectively Relative truth, it must correspond to at least one y paradigm that corresponds with reality and there must exist a subject such that x is true for that subject. As an example of a Subjectively Relative truth, consider, "Ice cream is my favorite cold desert". This statement corresponds with a y paradigm-- my current one-- that also corresponds with reality. However, at a future point, that y might no longer correspond with reality; I might pick a different cold desert as my favorite. Thus, truths under this category are Subjectively Relative, as opposed to Subjectively Absolute.

Thoughts/comments/suggestions? Criticisms? Applause? Disgust? Hunger for ice cream? Thanks for your comments!

Obscenity as Abstraction

In Jacobellis v. Ohio, US Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart claimed that, while he could not concretely define "obscenity", stating, "I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description [obscenity]; and perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly doing so. But I know it when I see it..."

[Source: http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/scripts/getcase.pl?court=us&vol=378&invol=184]

I'm going to argue that this is, in fact, a wise move, although I shall warn you up front that my argument is weak and not the result of much in-depth research and whatnot. Consider, if I stated that an item is necessarily obscene if and only if it has Property P-- or, alternatively, an item is necessarily not obscene if and only if it lacks Property P-- it would be likely that, given the rapid development in communication technology, ways could be found to avoid a work's clear possession of Property P. To concretely define what Property P is, one would be concretely defining obscenity; however, while examples of obscenity might be concrete, new forms might arise, and Property P might prove insufficient to capture a future definition of obscenity. In fact, I believe that an understanding of obscenity necessarily requires a context-- it is subjective, and obscenity cannot be sufficiently understood outside the context it is portrayed in-- thus entailing that obscenity be understood subjectively rather than objectively.

One might object that this makes obscenity relative; after all, two individuals might disagree on whether a work is obscene. However, while contradiction is necessarily a valid attack on arguments in the sphere of objectivity, I argue that such is not the case in the sphere of subjectivity. If I said, "Jeremy Soule's orchestration of Terra is the most beautiful", I might be subjectively right; you might favor Nobuo Uematsu's rendition, and it would be a lie for you to claim any other work as the greatest. Such beliefs are not relative-- they are held by absolute standards; the standards are internal to the individual, however,-- subjective-- as opposed to corresponding with an external law or principle, objectivity. Obscenity is similar.

Thoughts?

Galileo, why’d you have to do it?

How heliocentrism radically “rocked the world” as we knew it...

Imagine yourself as living when the Earth was the center of it all. It is a time before telescopes and the preciseness demanded by empirical science. A time when explanation was ruled by theory and philosophy, and when we truly believed in a rising and setting sun. Our senses, after all, confirm a geocentric design – we can see the stars moving about us, and it certainly doesn’t feel as if the Earth is moving. For those who desired more than just senses and observation, we have Ptolemy’s complex system of circles that explain the motion of the planets and stars, while still beautifully keeping us in the middle of everything, and he did so using more than theory, but with the meticulous, objective disciplines of math, physics, and astronomy.

How comforting is it to think that the Resplendent Heavens circle about and surround my planet! What purpose and significance it gives for humanity and my individual existence, too! We see that from that perspective, the movements and changes in the ethos would be scrutinized in a way that is most alien to us. For them, the planets and stars directly concern themselves with humanity, perhaps even they are the forces or gods which impact my life – studying the movements of the cosmos could be of life-or-death significance, showing the favor or displeasure of the Fates. I may see the stars and planets as heavenly bodies, or as mysterious beacons of ethereal light, constant and glorious. Even if I don’t think they have a supernatural power over my life, and it’s all I can do to stare and say, “How I wonder what you are…”, I know that they are there, every night, moving about my planet far away in a celestial sphere. The stars are something permanent and enduring even if I’m cursed to a temporal existence; at least there is something that will last. Maybe they are simply there to be admired, here for no other purpose than to exist and to be something beautiful to look up at; perhaps they are just here for pleasure – humanity’s pleasure and my pleasure. Doesn’t that make me feel important!

Then enters Copernicus to knock the first hole in this view and Galileo with his telescope after him to perfect the heliocentric conjectures, and eureka! Goodbye to the Earth-centered universe. Did the cosmos suddenly become less or more knowable? The inscrutable galaxy can now be explained scientifically rather than philosophically. It is more comforting perhaps for some to have a more rational universe, one not just about superstitions or myths. For others, however, like the hypothetical person we imagined ourselves to be at the outset of this post, it destroyed long-held, comforting assurances, leaving in its wake a more mechanized, huge, impersonal galaxy, one that neither needs nor notices the human race. And so too the deistic view of God was popularized. Now we realize that Earth’s place in the galaxy is rather irrelevant. As we knocked it from its throne in the middle of all, so too demotes the value of the human race; so ends the Ancient and Romantic ages of thoughts, and our infatuatory love affair with ourselves; there is no more “sunny” picture of individual worth. Galileo brought to some a caustic, acerbically sobering explanation for a galaxy that is now vast and dark, and empty and scary. The stars do not “look down upon us”; they do not care in any singular way about humanity, and they certainly are not meant to be wished upon – a truly “stellar” poem with this theme is Robert Frost’s “Choose Something Like a Star.”

Isn’t it a funny coincidence that “geocentrism” can easily be misspelled to get “egocentrism”?

An Ontological Argument Against Fatalism

Greetings, once again,

We had an excellent meeting at the Landmark Diner last night; thanks to everyone who showed up! With seven people, our first "Technical Meeting" was a smash success, and I for one got to enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice piece of baklava while waiting.

Our topic for the evening was "fatalism", as it is covered in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. The encyclopedia defines fatalism as "the view that we are powerless to do anything other than what we actually do", which certainly made for an interesting discussion. After much dialogue, our group came to the conclusion that either fatalism is necessarily true or it is necessarily false, and that, if it is necessarily true, morality/normative claims are necessarily false. I can comment more on how we came to that conclusion if someone desire, but I would instead like to devote some space to developing an argument against fatalism-- my ontological argument against fatalism-- which we had some time to explore at the meeting.

Consider,

"U" refers to "In the understanding". Therefore, "Ux" would mean that "x exists in the understanding". Phrased another way, "I am not only capable of understanding the concept of x, but actually possess an understanding of it".

"f" refers to "freedom".

"a" refers to "fatalism"

"<>", my best attempt at an ASCII diamond, means "logically possible". <>Ux means that "It is logically possible that x exists in the understanding"

"[]", my best attempt at an ASCII square, means "necessarily". []Ux means that "x necessarily exists in the understanding".

"~" refers to negation. ~a means "not fatalism"-- that is, if "fatalism" is true, then "not fatalism" is false, and vice versa.

"<->" refers to a biconditional, "...if and only if...". "a <-> f" means, "a is true if and only if f is true".

Lastly, "->" refers to a conditional, "if...then" statement. "a->f" means, "if a is true, then f is true".

So, on to the argument.

1. Uf
2. Uf -> <>f
3. ~([]a <-> <>f)
Thus, 4. ~a


I'll break it down.

1. "I understand the idea of freedom". While not necessarily obvious, I believe that a charitable proponent of fatalism might grant this premise. Nevertheless, it could certainly be attacked. I think it fair and in good faith, though, as a starting place.

2. "If I understand the idea of freedom, there exists the logical possibility that freedom exists". Regardless of whether fatalism actually is necessarily true, I can imagine a world wherein freedom exists, and there is nothing necessarily contradictory about this world; therefore, it is logically possible, even if not in actuality.

3. "It is not the case that 'fatalism is necessarily true' and 'freedom possibly is true' can both be true at the same time". If fatalism is true, it is not possible that humans are free, by sheer definition. The mere possibility of freedom negates fatalism in its most basic form.

4. Thus, "Fatalism is not true".

What do you all think? There's further argument I could make, but I'd love to read some comments. Thanks!