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Mind is not what it seems: On the mental foundation of the world

Mind is not what it seems: On the mental foundation of the world

Reading | Philosophy

A. A. Adedire, BS, BA | 2024-04-14

Rock stones balance calmly Water background concept Calm meditation pure mind 3d render

In this short and direct essay, A. A. Adedire argues a key philosophical point: those who object to idealism based on the assumption that the order and regularity of nature is incompatible with mind are mistaking mind for the personal self. The latter, he points out, is merely a narrative created by mind, which mind then wrongly identifies itself with. What truly defines mind—the only constant behind all experience—is the very awareness of experience. The constancy of this awareness, Adedire argues, is entirely consistent with the orderly nature of the world, as well as its continuity, and can therefore constitute the very foundation of the world.

Philosophy over the centuries has grappled with the idea of accurately describing the world. What is the fundamental nature of the world? Why is the world the way it is? And how can we come to understand the foundations of reality? Consciousness itself seems so obvious that it cannot be denied, but how can we then extrapolate this feeling of personal consciousness to the world as it exists outside ourselves?

A common objection to idealism is that it is counter to our intuitions about an external world. The claim is that there is a shared reality that follows natural laws. This shared reality exists and persists uninterrupted. There is a natural order to things, which feels almost as self-evident as our own conscious awareness. Indeed, a physicalist may ask the following question: how can idealism discount the obvious permanence of natural laws and the continuity of reality? Is the world that persists not fundamentally different to my own individual mind, which feels chaotic and unreliable? These questions reflect an appeal to natural law: there is a natural order at the base of reality, which we can perceive. This natural order feels as self-evident as our own conscious awareness. But when we look inwardly, we find that the mind is chaotic, unreliable, and unsteady. So, how can a mental world exist out there that isn’t similarly chaotic, unreliable, and unsteady?

In what follows, I contend that the appeal to natural order can be refuted by the Hindu Vedantic tradition of self-inquiry, which also dismantles the notion of a personal self. The natural order objection posits that the mind is chaotic, unreliable, and unsteady, but I contend that it isn’t the mind that has these characters but the personal self, which is a fantasy of the mind.

Firstly, let’s establish that the personal self is what is meant in the objection. When pressed, those who make the appeal to natural order state that ‘mind’ is thoughts and emotional states, as they interact with the world or the other experiences supposedly produced by the brain, which then are synonymous with the story of the personal self: a tenacious sense of an ‘I’ hiding within the body, at the center of experience. The egoic ‘I’ of the mind is not as orderly as the foundation of reality—or so the objection claims. True enough, the personal self is indeed inherently prone to fragmentation, inconsistency, and illusion. It is subject to the whims of emotions, the flux of thoughts, and the biases of perception, rendering it unreliable and in direct opposition to natural laws, which are doggedly unbroken. But the personal self is not conscious awareness.

The Hindu Vedantic tradition of self-inquiry is a personal project of understanding the illusory nature of the personal self and the primacy of awareness. The process of self-inquiry is commonly associated with the Hindu sage Ramana Maharshi. Born Venkataraman Iyer, he was a revered spiritual teacher of the 20th century, renowned for his teachings on self-inquiry and non-duality. In1896, at the age of 16, Maharshi had a spontaneous and acute awareness of death. He taught his practitioners to pay close attention to the stubborn sense of ‘I’ and instructed them to eliminate it through negation, a process known in Sanskrit as neti neti ( नेति नेति):

The gross body which is composed of the seven humours (dhatus), I am not; the five cognitive sense organs, viz., the senses of hearing, touch, sight, taste and smell, which apprehend their respective objects, viz. sound, touch, colour, taste and odour, I am not; the five conative sense organs, viz., the organs of speech, locomotion, grasping, excretion and procreation, which have as their respective functions, speaking, moving, grasping, excreting and enjoying, I am not; the five vital airs, prana, etc., which perform respectively the five functions of in-breathing, etc., I am not; even the mind which thinks, I am not; the nescience too, which is endowed only with the residual impressions of objects and in which there are no objects and no functionings, I am not. If I am none of these, then who am I? After negating all of the above mentioned as ‘not this’, ‘not this’, that Awareness which alone remains—that I am. (Ramana Maharshi, Who Am I? The Teachings of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi, 12-13, Tiruvannamalai, Tamil Nadu: Sri Ramanasramam, 2010).

Self-inquiry starts with a fundamental question: who am I? Meaning, what is behind my thoughts, actions, and sense perceptions? In a word, what is behind this continuity of self? Deep self-inquiry then strips away thoughts, actions, and sense perceptions one by one, resulting in the realization that these cannot constitute the persistent ‘I’ due to their lack of continuity. The process of self-inquiry ends with the idea that the only continuity across all of experience is the very awareness of experience.

As such, the supposed appearance of the mind as chaotic, unreliable, and disorderly is an appearance of the personal self as chaotic, unreliable, and disorderly. Once the personal self is stripped away from the mind, the foundation of the mind reveals itself to be simply the awareness of our experiences, such as our thoughts, feelings, and sense perceptions. Thus, there is a continuous, unchanging, and reliable foundation to the mind, and that continuous foundation of core awareness is of the same kind as the continuous foundation of natural order or natural law. Therefore, the natural order objection against idealism reflects, in this sense, merely confusion about what the fundamental nature of mind is. If we define mind as the egoic self, then we see the mind as chaotic and disorderly; it is constantly being pulled by ever-changing emotions and the incessant flow of thoughts, clouding awareness. But if we define mind as core awareness, it follows that there is a reliable, steady, and continuous ‘no-thing’ that acts as the ‘container’ of thoughts, emotional states, and sense perceptions.

The Hindu Vedantic tradition of self-inquiry not only eliminates the illusion of the personal self, but also reveals the true nature of mind. The claim that mind is fundamental links the core awareness found through self-inquiry to the very foundation of reality itself; it extrapolates this core awareness beyond the container of ‘my thoughts,’ ‘my actions,’ or ‘my feelings.’

The appeal to natural order against idealism is a confusion of terms that is commonly seen in objections to idealism. Such objections reflect the misapplication of physicalist assumptions to idealistic concepts, as well as a need to anthropomorphize the central claims of idealism, which are then taken at face value to be absurd. Similarly, many physicalist objections have baked within them the conception that consciousness is an emergent epiphenomenon of matter. Physicalists often cannot conceive of any worldview where this conception of consciousness is not a first principle. Yet, to fairly engage with any philosophical position, one must do so on this position’s own terms. Understanding must precede refutation.

A subjective world can still be real

A subjective world can still be real

Reading | Metaphysics

Prof. Paul Franks, PhD | 2024-03-31

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Philosophers since Descartes have questioned whether our experience reflects a reality outside of our minds. In this essay, Prof. Franks argues that the basic insight of Kant’s approach—perspectivism—harmonizes better with our ordinary experience of the world, and with Einstein’s relativistic physics, than Berkeley’s immaterialist view. This is the sixth instalment of our series, The Return of Idealism, produced in partnership with the Institute of Art and Ideas (IAI). It has first been published by the IAI on 19 Match 2024.

For all I know on the basis of my current experience alone, I could be living in the matrix instead of inhabiting the mind-independent world. My experience could seem just as it seems right now, but it could be caused by something other than the mind-independent world in which I take myself to perceive and act. This familiar thought may be motivated by consideration of dreams, as it was for Descartes, or by more contemporary reflections on virtual reality. From this thought, many philosophers have inferred that what I perceive at any given moment is always and only mind-dependent, an inner world.  Kant calls this empirical or material idealism: the objects we experience, the material causes of our sensations, are not real. It seems to lead to a sceptical worry: how can I know that I don’t inhabit the matrix: a virtual or ideal reality, with an opaque causal ground? Both Berkeley’s immaterialist idealism and Kant’s empirical realism offer ways out of the matrix. But Kant’s solution does what Berkeley’s cannot: it vindicates the everyday world in which we determine the sequence of our thoughts in time by means of mind-independent objects and events.

According to what has come to be called Berkeley’s master argument, there is no way to think the idea that terms such as “mind-independent reality” purport to express.

But say you, surely there is nothing easier than to imagine trees, for instance in a park, or books in a closet, and no one to perceive them. I answer, you may do so, there is no difficulty in it, but what is all this, I beseech you, more than framing in your mind certain ideas which you call books and trees, and at the same time omitting to frame the idea of any one that may perceive?  . . . you have the power of imaging or framing ideas in your mind: but it doth not show that you can conceive them existing unconceived or unthought of, which is a manifest repugnancy. (Principles of Human Knowledge, sec. 23)

On its own, this argument seems fallacious. Perhaps, as Bertrand Russell suggested, Berkeley is confusing “idea” as act, which is mental, with “idea” as object of mental activity, which may not be mental. Others have suggested other fallacies.

But the argument should not be taken on its own. It needs supplementation by Berkeley’s account of idea formation and usage, roughly equivalent to what we would now call semantics. In his critique of Locke’s account of abstract ideas, Berkeley says in effect that ideas are sensible images, and that images are always concrete and determinate. To be sure, we use general words, such as “human” or “thing,” but we do not thereby signify indeterminate ideas, as Locke had suggested. Instead, we use words in general ways: I have formed concrete ideas of images of many humans, and I may now use the word “human” to signify any and all of them. There is no need to posit monstrosities such as Locke’s idea of a triangle that has no determinate angles or lengths of sides.

Now let us apply this rejection of Lockean abstraction to the term “mind-independent reality.” No idea can occur in the mind without my perceiving it. To separate ideas from mental awareness is no less absurd than the separation of triangle-images from determinacy of side and angle. Since we can attach no meaning to the sceptical worry that mind-independent reality is entirely different from what we perceive, we should stop worrying about it.

So what do we mean, according to Berkeley, when we think or talk about everyday objects, like the famous tree falling in the forest with nobody around?  We refer, he suggests, to reliable patterns of perceptions.  If I say that the tree’s fall makes a sound when nobody perceives it, I mean that, if somebody were to be there, they would perceive it. As a theist—indeed, a bishop of the Church of Ireland—Berkeley thinks that God guarantees the reliability of the patterns, although God can modify it when desirable, which explains miracles. (There are significant difficulties with the view—known today as phenomenalism—that objects are what J. S. Mill called “permanent possibilities of perception”, especially without theism, but those are for another day.)

This view goes along with Berkeley’s instrumentalism about natural science. In late antiquity, astronomy was distinguished from terrestrial physics. Terrestrial physics was realistic, dealing with mind-independent dispositions to motion. But the heavens were so remote that celestial physics lay beyond human comprehension, and astronomy was therefore nothing more than a mathematical model: an instrument for prediction using epicycles and other devices to which no reality could be accorded. In the early modern scientific revolution, thinkers such as Copernicus, Galileo and Newton aspired to a fully realistic physics, involving laws of motion and real forces operative both on earth and in the heavens. But Berkeley went in the other direction. He rejected the idea of a realistic, explanatory physics. Instead he understood all physics in terms of models with instrumental use only.

Berkeley’s way out of the matrix retains empirical idealism: what I perceive at any given moment is always and only mind-dependent. One of Kant’s major arguments—the Refutation of (Empirical) Idealism—offers another off-ramp. The argument is that I can have an inner, mental life only if I also have a life of perceptual engagement with the external, mind-independent world. It turns on what Kant calls time-determination.

I determine my inner, mental life in time insofar as I assign temporal sequence to, say, the parts of a thought, or the steps in an argument.  If I had only the capacity to assign temporal order to my mental acts, then I could not check or correct my order assignments at all.  But I can check and correct my order assignments, because I situate them within an objective temporal sequence that involves the external world. I determine objective time by perceiving regular change, such as the motion of clock hands, against a stable background, such as a clock-face. If my assignments of before and after to my subjective acts can be right or wrong, this can only be because I can also situate them within objectively determined time, and I can determine objective time only because I can perceive both relative motion and relative rest outside me in mind-independent objects. When I think of myself as having one thought before another, I am implicitly thinking of myself as being able to determine when in objective time I had those thoughts, so I am implicitly thinking of myself as perceiving a world beyond the mind.

Consequently, to think of myself as merely dreaming, or as trapped in the virtually real matrix, is to think of myself from a perspective outside the dream or the matrix—to think of myself as inhabiting mind-independent reality. It may be true that, for all I know, I am dreaming or in a matrix at the present moment. But this does not entail that there is no perceivable mind-independent world of the sort I take there to be.

Empirical realism is what Kant calls the resultant position that I can directly perceive the mind-independent objects of experience. But he famously argues that empirical realism is sustainable only if one also accepts transcendental idealism: the view that, although the objects of experience are perspectival, and appear to us in virtue of the spatio-temporal form of human sensibility, this does not impugn the mind-independence of the underlying material causes of sensation, any more than the fact that I can see the River Hudson only through a window partly occluded by a tree, means that the river is partly occluded in itself.

Kant’s own arguments for transcendental idealism are closely interwoven with his commitment to the mathematics and physics of his day.  In light of the development of non-Euclidean geometry shortly after his death, and the application of non-Euclidean geometry in relativity theory a century later, Kant’s arguments for transcendental idealism have not aged well. Nevertheless, the basic insights of transcendental idealism—that human cognition is perspectival and, indeed, always involves taking a perspective, which is a human activity even if it is one of which we are usually unaware—still ring true. In fact, the very fact of scientific revolution, illustrated by the shift from classic to relativistic physics, deepens the point, because we are now inclined to say, not that there is one immutable human perspective, but that there can be several, which underlines the involvement of human activity, since we not only take perspectives, we change perspectives. Taking a perspective, as Kant was the first to insist, involves the active determination of a material world in which we can determine time. Relativity theory radicalizes this brilliant insight by introducing multiple perspectives from which time may be determined distinctly. But, even with this revision, time determination necessarily involves the material world external to the individual. So the world is both transcendentally ideal—relative to an actively taken perspective—and also empirically real.

Kant’s combination of transcendental idealism and empirical realism harmonizes far better with our ordinary experience of the world, and with the enterprise of natural science, than Berkeley’s combination of phenomenalism and instrumentalism. If you are looking for a way out of the matrix, I suggest you take Kant’s rather than Berkeley’s.

Meta-survival: on the incoherence of localized, countable subjectivity

Meta-survival: on the incoherence of localized, countable subjectivity

Reading | Metaphysics

Ola Nilsson, MA | 2024-03-17

Business partnership communication and the concept of cooperation and communicate to achieve an agreement with 3D illiustration elements.

Through a careful series of thought-experiments, and starting from mainstream assumptions regarding the relationship between mind and brain, Ola Nilsson shows that the notion of multiple, individual, local subjects of experience is incoherent. Consciousness, therefore, cannot fundamentally be a localized, countable process.

Introduction

Starting from a raw materialist worldview, this essay will take you to the border of something completely different. I use the term ‘self-experience’ as a collective term for everything that seems to make you who you are. This includes your consciousness, your personal identity, and other related features. Initially, I will adopt the stance that the brain plays a crucial role in self-experience, and that self-experience is a kind of process that arises from within a specific brain.


Two brains, one mind

Imagine that an arbitrarily small part of your brain is replaced with a tiny artificial device that maintains the same causality and function as the replaced biological part. It would then be difficult to claim that anything is lacking in your self-experience if, after the exchange, you moved, spoke, thought, and behaved as before. We could further imagine that all remaining parts of your brain are successively replaced with similar devices that maintain causality and function with the rest of the brain. In this scenario, your self-experience would have been transferred from a biological brain to what one might call an ‘artificial brain.’ After this exchange, parts of the artificial brain could be replaced with new units that maintain the causality and function in the artificial brain. The units that were left over in this process could be assembled into another brain, which would correspond to the first artificial brain in the example.

Thereafter, the two artificial brains could be fed the same stimuli through electrodes connected to the places where the nerve fibers would normally have connected to the sensory organs. In this scenario, everything that one brain experiences would also be experienced by the other brain. Even though the brains are qualitatively identical, it is not as apparent that the self-experience of the brains is numerically distinct. Consider, for instance, if one unit from one artificial brain were exchanged with a unit from the other artificial brain; would the two brains then immediately lose their self-experience? Not if one believes what was mentioned above: that if the causality and function are maintained in the brain, there is no reason to believe that this brain’s self-experience would disappear.

If all units are exchanged between the two artificial brains, will the self-experience also switch places? What happens if, instead, half of the units are exchanged? Would such an exchange mean that the self-experience becomes evenly distributed between the two brains, i.e., with fifty percent in each brain?

Perhaps the answers to the questions above are not as intricate as they may initially seem. If one believes that a unit can be exchanged without affecting the self-experience, then there is no good reason to believe that the self-experience would disappear if more than one, or even all units, are successively exchanged. If it is irrelevant for the two artificial brains which specific units constitute the brain, then this should mean that the self-experience is not only qualitatively, but also numerically the same across the two artificial brains. This, in turn, means that, for a certain specific self-experience, it does not matter if there are thousands, or just one such artificial brain as described above [2]. These artificial brains are thus in ‘contact’ with the same self-experience. This means that you ultimately cannot be found in your brain.

So, if locality or specific matter is not fundamental for the self-experience, what about time? If we simulated the experience of eating a red apple in one of the brains, and then immediately stopped all processes in the brain for an arbitrary period, and then restarted them, would this brain have perceived this time gap? Since the gap is not registered in the brain, the length of this gap should be irrelevant. The specific self-experience would therefore perceive the eating of the apple as a continuous event, without interruption. One can further imagine a scenario where the simulated apple-eating process is looped, and where the brain’s causal pattern is reset to the initial state after each time the apple is eaten. For every new initiation of the process, the self-experience would interpret the event as unique, asserting that the eating of the apple is happening here and now for the very first time. This demonstrates that, regardless of whether there is a large time gap between two self-experienced events or if the self-experienced event is repeated after being reset to the initial state, the event would always be experienced as occurring here and now for the first time.

The specific self-experience thus appears not to be dependent on a particular set of matter or a spatiotemporal location. This self-experience would therefore remain numerically identical in all repeated instances, regardless of where and when it is instantiated. The instances all have an objective nature and history, but the subjective quality of the instances is something abstract, separate from all ‘objective’ contexts. If one accepts the outcomes of this thought experiment, it implies that a person can fundamentally be seen as an abstract object [3].

However, there is a ‘but’ to consider in this thought experiment. Normally, two cars would not be regarded as the same car, no matter how many parts were exchanged between them; They would still be two different cars. It’s conceivable that two exactly alike self-experiences could be numerically distinct, just as two exactly alike brains can be. The fact that we have ‘puzzled’ around with the parts of the two artificial brains does not necessarily mean that we have shown that the self-experience housed by both brains constitutes the same numerically identical self-experience. Perhaps the swapping between the brains only leads to the preservation of two numerically distinct self-experiences. This stance on self-experience, however, soon encounters difficulties. For what are we really referring to when we describe two brains?


The Identity of Indiscernibles

What distinguishes one object from being two objects? Two qualitatively identical books may be alike, but it’s clear that they are two copies of a book: one copy lies on the table in front of you, while the other is found in the bookshelf. These books do not constitute the same book, for if they did, the books, or rather the book, would be numerically identical, that is, identical with itself [4].

However, there are reasons to question whether these seemingly correct answers are valid under all conceivable scenarios. The “Principle of Identity of Indiscernibles,” hereinafter abbreviated as “PII,” is the metaphysical principle that stipulates that there cannot be two (or more) objects that share all properties [5]. An equivalent description of PII is that objects that are indistinguishable in every respect constitute the same object [6].

In the influential paper “The Identity of Indiscernibles,” British-American philosopher Max Black presents a thought experiment based on a radially symmetric universe. According to Black’s definition, a “radially symmetric universe” is a small universe with a center, where everything that exists and occurs at one place in the universe also exists and occurs at the diametrically opposite place in the universe. In such a universe, your right-handed qualitatively identical ‘twin’ will also be right-handed. An object set in motion on one side of the universe will have a ‘twin object’ simultaneously set in motion on the opposite side; a change in one object leads to the exact same simultaneous change in the other twin object.

Black asks the reader to imagine a radially symmetric universe where only two qualitatively identical spheres of chemically pure iron exist. These two spheres share the same qualitative and relational properties; what applies to one sphere also applies to the other, without exception. Black argues that PII is an obviously false principle, since a universe where only two exactly alike spheres exist, seems to be a possible universe [7]. However, I think Black is wrong about PII.


Another interpretation of PII

If one categorically claims that a sphere is a sphere and an apple is an apple, these objects are attributed properties they don’t necessarily possess. Consider the fruit described as an apple. Even though it looks like an apple, smells like an apple, and should be classified as an apple, it’s highly unclear if this object corresponds to a kind of Platonic form in a Platonic world of ideas, where objects such as spheres and apples are categorized. Indeed, there are significant advantages in our daily lives to categorizing and describing objects as spheres and apples, but it’s another question what metaphysical significance this categorization of objects holds. For example, we can name ‘two’ rivers differently, even though the rivers are interconnected. Then, these rivers can flow together into something we call ‘one’ lake. The lake can then connect to something we call ‘one’ sea. But can the boundaries of these various supposed water collections be attributed with metaphysical significance? [8] If not, shouldn’t the same apply to spheres? If one considers these supposed object configurations of rivers or spheres as independent and ‘cataloged’ entities, then there might be a reason to claim that Black’s two spheres refute PII, as one can then talk about rivers and spheres in plural, and PII can thereafter be judged as a trivially false principle. But one can also choose not to view these object configurations as independent entities. Instead, one can see the whole collection of water, or Black’s two spheres, as a unit, rather than a jumble of rivers or spheres.

That we divide the scenario into two spheres is a choice we make in agreement with Black. One could just as well (albeit somewhat impractically) consider the scenario as one, involving a single object resembling two distinct spheres. Black’s spheres can be seen as a scenario involving a loosely assembled object. If another such loosely assembled object was added to Black’s universe, the scenario would necessarily become different compared to before. In this sense, the number of supposed rivers or spheres seems to lack metaphysical significance, regardless of whether they are claimed to be two, four, or thousand in number. The metaphysical significance is not determined by the alleged number of objects; the scenario is what it is.

Imagine Black’s universe with its ‘two’ qualitatively identical spheres. Now replace the spheres with ‘two’ qualitatively identical persons, face to face, five meters apart. These ‘two’ persons are positioned so that they share all relational properties with each other. Then, imagine that ‘one’ of these ‘two’ persons is instantaneously annihilated. The question is: which one has been annihilated? I believe that no person has been annihilated, and that no loss of a person has occurred. But, of course, the scenario has now changed. What took place before the annihilation was not two persons staring at each other, but rather a person looking at himself, just because ‘they’ constituted the same person (remember the earlier thought experiment with the two brains). This statement is supported also by the concept known as “indistinguishable particles” in modern physics. This means that if a complete particle exchange had occurred (counterfactually) between the two persons, the scenario would remain unchanged [9].

If it doesn’t matter which particles constitute a certain scenario, there is no reason to assume that the scenario involves two different persons. If the particles were reorganized between the ‘two’ persons, the scenario would still be the same. Nevertheless, with the annihilation the scenario has changed in both a physically and metaphysically significant way. The scenario after the annihilation is numerically identical to what follows, regardless of which of the ‘two’ persons was annihilated. From having been in a situation where the person saw himself, he is now in an empty universe. If it was instead the ‘other’ person who was annihilated, the following scenario would still be numerically identical to the ‘first’ described outcome. Thus, it is not two different scenarios that have been described, but the very same one.


Why we seem to survive annihilation after divergence

Imagine a duplicator device that creates a perfect copy of a person. The place where the copy appears is only a few meters away from where the original person is located. This duplicator also compensates for external relational properties such as the persons’ different distances to objects. This is done by modifying the surrounding environment around the persons during the duplication process itself. If we accept that the same numerical self-experience can occur in two distinct but qualitatively identical brains, this will mean that the self-experiences of these two persons after the duplication will constitute the same numerically identical self-experience. In a scenario where this duplicator is used, the arisen ‘copy’ will experience that she is the original person. Since the original and the ‘copy’ share the same numerical self-experience, and both are aware of the situation they are in, they realize that there is no reason to try to make a distinction between each other.

However, the notion of two persons sharing the same numerical self-experience only applies as long as neither of them diverges from the shared state in which they share all properties with each other. If they diverge from this state, perhaps by one of them scratching their nose with the right hand, while the other does it with the left, it can be argued that two different self-experiences arise. This is because, with such an event, each person starts to develop their own unique experiences that are unknown to the other person.

If one of the two persons were to be instantly annihilated while they are in the shared state, no person would die, since they are essentially the same person. But, if one of them is annihilated after they have begun to diverge from each other, the annihilated person seems to die. Or do they?

We can imagine that a person (Person A) steps into the duplicator device, and that her copy (Person B) comes into existence. But soon after, they diverge from the shared state as they go out into the world and start to develop their own experiences. Ten minutes later, Person A is told that she will be annihilated. However, Person A is offered an alternative to annihilation: the duplicator has an additional feature; it can not only copy, but also modify its user. If Person A wishes, she can step into the duplicator together with Person B, and be modified to the exact same state Person B is in. This modification would thus lead to a new shared state where Person A and Person B would share the same numerically identical self-experience. Person A is assured that the whole process can be carried out in a conscious state—why wouldn’t it be possible?—and that the whole thing will be over in a couple of minutes. Of course, Person A will lose the experiences and memories she has built up from the first shared state, which she and Person B were in together ten minutes ago. But she will not be annihilated. The offer sounds promising to Person A. She therefore heads to the duplicator, to which Person B has already arrived.

It is not uncommon for people to experience memory loss, nor is it unusual for rapid bodily changes to occur due to, for example, an accident. We would not claim that a person who has experienced a memory gap, or has sustained an injury, is not the same person as before. Similarly, it seems that only minor modifications are needed for Person A to match Person B’s state: a few memories need to be modified, and some minor bodily changes will also need to be made. The environment needs to be adjusted as well, ensuring it is identical for both Person A and Person B. Once these adjustments are made, they would once again share a state in which they have the same numerically identical self-experience.

Imagine that, instead of undergoing the modification process, Person A was annihilated and, thereafter, Person B underwent the duplication. The outcome would then be the same as if Person A had undergone the modification process because the numerically identical self-experience—in both scenarios—would have its origin in Person B. But in what way does it help the annihilated Person A, if Person B undergoes a duplication after the annihilation?

Imagine a scenario where Person A is faced with a task that requires two persons. She needs to pick a certain quantity of blueberries within a specific timeframe but realizes she cannot complete the task alone. Therefore, Person A goes to duplicator and creates a copy of himself. Afterward, the two persons leave the duplicator, diverge from the shared state, and complete the task of picking blueberries. After that, they are supposed to ‘reunite’ into a new shared state through the modification process. The lot to undergo the modification falls on Person A. However, instead of reuniting to a shared state through modification, there is another device which can immediately annihilate Person A. The question is whether there are any reasons for person A, in this scenario, to not use the annihilation device?


Conclusion

If one cannot provide a valid reason why an immediate annihilation of Person A would be a worse option than the modification process, which is carried out in a conscious state, one cannot credibly claim that person A would not survive through person B upon annihilation, even after Person A and B have diverged from each other, as in the case with the blueberry picking. That person A seems to survive trough person B could be summed up by the term ‘meta-survival.’


Bibliography

[1] Zuboff, Arnold. “One self: The logic of experience.” Inquiry 33.1 (1990): 39-68.

[2] Zuboff, Arnold. “Moment universals and personal identity.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society. Vol. 78. Aristotelian Society, Wiley, 1977

[3] Noonan, Harold and Ben Curtis. “Identity”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta & Uri Nodelman (eds.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2022/entries/identity/>.

[4] Forrest, Peter. “The Identity of Indiscernibles”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2020 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2020/entries/identity-indiscernible/

[5] Wörner, David. “On making a difference: towards a minimally non-trivial version of the identity of indiscernibles.” Philosophical Studies 178.12 (2021): 4261-4278.

[6] Black, Max. “The identity of indiscernibles.” Mind 61.242 (1952): 153-164.

[7] Kolak, Daniel. I am you: The metaphysical foundations for global ethics. Vol. 325. Springer Science & Business Media, 2007.

[8] French, Steven. “Identity and Individuality in Quantum Theory”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2019 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2019/entries/qt-idind/>

Does quantum mechanics beckon the end of naturalism? (The Return of Idealism)

Does quantum mechanics beckon the end of naturalism? (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Metaphysics

Bruce L. Gordon, PhD | 2024-03-10

Atomic particle reflection in the pupil of an eye for physics background

Naturalism, the idea that there are no gods, is the leading theory of our time. However, in this instalment of our The Return of Idealism series, in partnership with the Institute of Art and Ideas (IAI), Bruce Gordon argues that quantum mechanics not only beckons the end of naturalism, but also points towards the existence of a transcendent mind. Essentia Foundation’s position is, nonetheless, that idealism is entirely compatible with naturalism. This essay was first published by the IAI on 8 March 2024.

Naturalism remains a popular philosophy in the academic world. Its articulation varies, so let’s be clear what we mean. Theoretical physicist and philosopher Sean Carroll’s definition will suffice: “Naturalism is a philosophy according to which there is only one world—the natural world, which exhibits unbroken patterns (the laws of nature), and which we can learn about through hypothesis testing and observation. In particular, there is no supernatural world—no gods, no spirits, no transcendent meanings.” Advocates of naturalism tend to regard it as the inevitable accompaniment of a scientific mindset. It seems appropriate, therefore, to undermine it using the most fundamental of sciences: quantum physics.

Given its scientific pretensions, it’s appropriate that the doctrine that the natural world is self-contained, self-explanatory, and exceptionless is at least falsifiable. All we need is one counterexample to the idea that nature is a closed system of causes and effects, or one clear example of nature’s non-self-sufficiency, to be justified in rejecting naturalism, yet contrary evidence and considerations abound. Rather than trying to cover the gamut of cosmological fine-tuning, the origin of biological information, the origin and nature of consciousness, and the evidentiary value of near-death experiences,  let’s focus on the implications of quantum physics as a less familiar aspect of naturalism’s failure.

Quantum physics sets aside classical conceptions of motion and the interaction of bodies and introduces acts of measurement and probabilities for observational outcomes in an irreducible way not ameliorated by appealing to our limited knowledge. The state of a quantum system is described by an abstract mathematical object called a wave function that only specifies the probability that various observables will have a particular value when measured. These probabilities can’t all equal zero or one and measurement results are irreducibly probabilistic, so no sufficient physical reason exists for one outcome being observed rather than another. This absence of sufficient material causality in quantum physics has experimentally confirmed consequences that, as we shall see, put an end to naturalist conceits.

The delayed-choice quantum eraser experiment provides a good example with which to start. This experiment measures which path a particle took after wave function interference inconsistent with particle behavior has already been created. The interference can be turned off or on by choosing whether or not to measure which way the particle went after the interference already exists. Choosing to look erases wave function interference and gives the system a particle history. The fact that we can make a causally disconnected choice whether wave or particle phenomena manifest in a quantum system demonstrates that no measurement-independent causally-connected substantial material reality exists at the microphysical level.

We see this in other ways too. First, the physically reasonable assumptions that an individual particle, like an electron, cannot serve as an infinite source of energy or be in two places at once, entail that quantum particles have zero probability of existing in any bounded spatial region, no matter how large. Unobserved electrons (for example) don’t exist anywhere in space, and thus have no reality apart from measurement. In short, there is no intelligible notion of microscopic material objects: particle talk has pragmatic utility in relation to measurement results and macroscopic appearances, but no basis in unobserved (mind-independent) reality.

Secondly, microphysical properties do not require a physical substrate. Reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, quantum physics has its own Cheshire Cat in which quantum systems behave like their properties are spatially separated from their positions. For example, an experiment using a neutron interferometer has sent neutrons along one path while their spins follow another. In macroscopic terms, this would be like still having the spin once the top is taken away, having a dance without any dancer, or having a water wave without any water. Under appropriate experimental conditions, quantum systems are decomposable into disembodied properties—a collection of Cheshire Cat grins.

But how, then, should we understand the transition between the microscopic and macroscopic worlds? Every quantum wave function is expressible as a superposition of different possibilities (states) in which the thing it describes fails to possess the properties those possibilities specify. No quantum system, microscopic or macroscopic, ever has simultaneously determinate values for all its associated properties. You could think of it this way: imagine a house that, if you were looking at the front, didn’t have a back, and vice-versa. Everything we experience with our senses, if we take it to be a mind-independent object rather than just a phenomenological appearance, is metaphysically incomplete. What is more, under special laboratory conditions, we can create macroscopic superpositions of properties that are, classically speaking, inconsistent—for instance, a single object appearing in more than one location simultaneously. Large organic molecules have been put into such superpositions, and Superconducting Quantum Interference Devices (SQUIDs) have superposed a billion electrons moving clockwise around a superconducting ring with another billion electrons moving anticlockwise, so that two incompatible macroscopic currents are in superposition.

What this reveals is that the macroscopic stability we normally observe is the product of what physicists call environmental decoherence—the destructive interference of probability waves as quantum systems interact. You can imagine this as two water waves the same size meeting each other from opposite directions. When the crest of one wave meets the trough of the other, there is destructive interference as the waves cancel out and water’s surface is momentarily flat and calm. The quantum realm behaves analogously: our experiential world of appearances is cloaked in an illusory stability, while underneath, innumerable probability waves are destructively interfering in a roiling quantum sea.

It is important to keep in mind that, while this quantum sea is the basis of our experiential reality, none of the mathematical-structural components of interacting quantum wave functions are materially real. They are mathematical abstractions, a hollow and merely quantitative informational architecture. Speaking of the mathematical framework of physical theory, Robert Adams remarks that “[it] is a framework that, by its very nature, needs to be filled in by something less purely formal. It can only be a structure of something of some not merely structural sort… it participates in the incompleteness of abstractions… [whereas] the reality of a substance must include something intrinsic and qualitative over and above any formal or structural features it may possess.” Our experiential reality rests on a quantum-informational construct that is not materially substantial.

As a final observation before nailing the coffin of naturalism shut, in the case of laboratory-created macroscopic superpositions, our conscious self is not in the superposition but rather observing itWe are substantial, but the world of our experience is not. Our mental life transcends quantum reality. While this reality is given to us and not produced by our own consciousness, it is merely phenomenological—it goes no deeper than the perceptual possibilities across all five of our sensory modalities decohering (destructively interfering) to produce our world.

But why should this be so? When there is no sufficient physical reason why one observation occurs rather than another, why should mere perceptions cohere across our sensory modalities, and why should all of us inhabit the same world? Saying that since no physical explanation is possible, no explanation is required, would be a mistake of disastrous proportions. If there were no reason why we observe one thing rather than another, if the regularities of nature were metaphysically ungrounded, then our current perception of reality and its accompanying memories might be happening for no reason at all. How could we know? No objective probability and hence no likelihood is assignable to something for which there is no explanation, so we couldn’t even say this possibility is unlikely.

Let’s be perfectly clear. If we affirm brute chance by saying that some things can happen for no reason at all, we have deprived ourselves of any basis for deciding which things these are, and they could well include all of the perceptions and beliefs we currently take ourselves to have. This means we don’t even know whether we’re in touch with reality. We’re stuck with an irremediable skepticism that deprives our experience of any credibility, not only destroying any basis for doing science, but eliminating the very possibility of our knowing anything at all! Embracing brute chance by denying that every contingent event must have an explanation is the pathway to epistemic nihilism. An explanation must exist.

But what could the explanation be? The laws of nature, specifically those of quantum physics, won’t suffice. They’re neither logically nor metaphysically necessary. The reality they describe did not need to exist and they certainly didn’t cause its existence—in short, they are in need of explanation themselves. Clearly, naturalism is inadequate: it cannot meet the ineluctable explanatory demand. A proper ultimate explanation must terminate upon something that transcends contingent reality and has self-contained existence as its very essence.

The required conclusion is obvious: since every contingent state of affairs requires an explanation, there must exist a transcendentindependentnecessarily existent being the existence of which is explained by its intrinsic necessity. This being is unique, not just because two or more necessary beings is overkill, but because their mutual dependence would create unexplainable contingency. Furthermore, since spacetime and mass-energy are contingent phenomena, this transcendent being must be incorporeal. Finally, in explaining why any reality exists, especially in the absence of a uniquely best reality, a non-arbitrary self-determined decision based on a perfectly ranked and complete set of reasons known to this necessarily existent being must be made. This means the necessary ground for the phenomenological reality of our experience is a transcendent, omniscient Mind. Given such considerations, quantum physics not only shows the falsity of naturalism, it leads to a transcendent form of idealism. Goodbye, Richard Dawkins, and hello, Bishop Berkeley!

Wittgenstein on the practical significance of the physicalism vs idealism debate (The Return of Idealism)

Wittgenstein on the practical significance of the physicalism vs idealism debate (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Philosophy

Concept of choice with crossroads spliting in two ways

Physical realists and idealists argue about whether physical objects exist, whether they have standalone reality, or are just part of a world of ideas. But can they, at root, help us solve some other important philosophical questions? In this instalment of our ‘The Return of Idealism‘ series, in partnership with the Institute of Art and Ideas (IAI), Prof. David R. Cerbone argues that Wittgenstein can help us return to more practical questions. Wittgenstein’s position is, indeed, that the metaphysical debate between physical realists and idealists is of little practical significance. We at Essentia Foundation strongly disagree with this: we believe that different metaphysical views have profound significance for how we experience the meaning of life, our relationship with the world, expectations about death, and have direct bearing on even very practical considerations such as how to further develop medicine and exploit phenomena such as neuroplasticity and the placebo effect. Nonetheless, we believe Wittgentein’s thoughts are worth considering, if only to make clear the degree to which they miss the point. This essay was first published by the IAI on 29 February 2024.

In his very first meeting with Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein is reported to have said “that he did not think either realism or idealism was satisfactory: one would have to take some third position between them.” According to Rush Rhees, Russell rebuked the young Wittgenstein for seeking an intermediate position, since “you would have to have an intermediate position between this new one and each of the others, and so on ad infinitum.” But Wittgenstein’s early dissatisfaction with both realism and idealism persisted throughout the ensuing four decades of philosophical thinking and writing. He developed a neither-nor attitude towards realism and idealism, which is particularly clear in his much later comments on the subject in Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology (also published under the title Zettel, which means “scraps” or “fragments”). Here he suggests that the debate between idealists and realists has no practical significance for our lives.

These late remarks of Wittgenstein do not focus on the doctrinal details of these two “-isms.” In general, his writings are disappointing if one comes to them looking for attention to such details. In academic philosophy, realism and idealism come in myriad sophisticated versions with all manner of modifiers (transcendental idealism, absolute idealism, empirical realism, scientific realism, and so on). Wittgenstein’s interest lies instead with some of the more basic impulses that motivate philosophers to develop such intricate theories. He does so in the remarks we’ll be looking at by considering otherwise unnamed adherents to such views—the idealist rather than idealism, and the realist rather than realism. Wittgenstein invites us to consider the realist and idealist not so much as archetypical philosophical figures, but as otherwise ordinary people. What do these considerations reveal?

The first remark begins with Wittgenstein asking us to consider “a convinced realist” and “a convinced idealist,” each of whom has children. It would be natural to suppose that they would each want to pass on their respective convictions to their children: “In such an important matter as the existence or non-existence of the external world they don’t want to teach their children anything wrong.” However, Wittgenstein wonders what differences in parenting practices there might actually be between the idealist and the realist. “What will the children be taught?”, he asks, “To include in what they say: ‘There are physical objects’ or the opposite?” He indicates a degree of scepticism about this suggestion in his conclusion to this first remark: “If someone does not believe in fairies, he does not need to teach his children ‘There are no fairies’: he can omit to teach them the word ‘fairy’. On what occasion are they to say: ‘There are…’ or ‘There are no…’? Only when they meet people of the contrary belief.”

Wittgenstein’s appeal to fairies here is puzzling, since practically no one believes in the literal existence of fairies, yet children generally are taught the word ‘fairy.’ Little children tend to be quite conversant with fairy-talk, having been exposed early and often to storybooks, movies, and the like where fairies feature prominently (Peter Pan comes immediately to mind, but there are many others). While children may become adept at dressing like fairies or drawing them, none are taught to catch them (unless this is just a fanciful way of talking about catching fireflies), nor are fairies included when children start to learn about the kinds of animals that populate the world. They thereby pick up (eventually) that fairies are make-believe, usually without being told this explicitly. Occasionally, saying “there are no …” may come into play. If a child is instructed to make a list of things that fly and after listing birds, butterflies, and airplanes chooses to add fairies to the list, one might imagine the parent or teacher saying, “Well yes, I suppose, but of course there are no fairies.”

We might instead, then, be tempted to think of the differences between the practices of realist and idealist parents as akin to the differences between what a devout Christian and a committed atheist would teach their respective children. The Christian will talk to her children about God and Jesus, sin and atonement, salvation and redemption, both directly and through stories in which such ideas figure; moreover, she will talk of such matters in a manner and tone that conveys her convictions. Meanwhile, the atheist will by and large omit such topics of instruction and discussion, except when her children return from a playdate with the Christian’s children and she must explain to them what the other children believe. Of course, when she does this, the atheistic parent’s tone and manner is likely to be quite different from that of the Christian.

Wittgenstein does not directly answer his question about instruction when it comes to “There are physical objects.” The concept “physical object” is awfully abstract and it would seem that a child must learn a lot before being introduced to such a notion. The same goes for a child learning about appearances, which is of importance especially for the idealist (what the realist counts as physical objects, the idealist considers mind-dependent appearances). Wittgenstein instead pivots to a more pedestrian example. Even if the convinced idealist eventually teaches—or tries to teach—his children that there are no physical objects, nonetheless “the idealist will teach his children the word ‘chair’ after all,” since “of course he wants to teach them to do this or that, e.g. to fetch a chair.” He then asks: “Then where will be the difference between what the idealist-educated children say and the realist ones? Won’t the difference only be one of the battle cry?”

Wittgenstein is still asking here about just what kind of difference these supposed doctrinal differences really make. When it comes to chairs and the like, what the idealist’s children come to learn will not look much different from what the realist’s children learn: the children of both parents will become equally conversant with chairs, not just with talking about them, but with sitting on them, arranging them, counting them, making sure there are enough in the room for the number of guests, getting more from the other room if not, and so on.

Can we therefore say that the children of both the idealist and the realist are first taught to believe (naively, as it were) that there are chairs, to accept that there are chairs with a kind of certainty? Wittgenstein rejects this appeal to certainty: “There isn’t any question of certainty or uncertainty yet in their language-game. Remember: they are learning to do something.” So the realist’s children might in the fullness of time be taught that chairs are physical objects, while the idealist’s children might come to learn about chair-appearances, but all of that is subsequent to the kind of imitation and instruction that leads to children sitting on, arranging, and fetching chairs. Moreover, whatever they learned at that earlier time—what they learned to do with chairs—is unaffected by whatever is added later. Hence Wittgenstein’s likening of the addition as only one of “the battle cry.”

Notice that this is not the case when it comes to the contrast between the parent who is a devout Christian and the parent who is an atheist: the differences here are not superfluous in relation to practice in the way the respective convictions of the realist and idealist are. To be sure, there will be overlap in what the different children learn, but there will be divergence as well: the Christian children will spend their childhoods going to church, learning various prayers, saying those prayers earnestly in various settings, and even when the Christian and atheist children do the same thing, their reasons and motives might be quite different. Nothing like that divergence happens with idealist and realist children: the child who is eventually taught that the chair is a physical object will sit on, fetch, and count chairs in exactly the same way as the child whose parent told her that chairs were systems of appearances. Nor, we might add, will there ever be a “fairy moment” of that kind that happens with the child making a list of things that fly. “There are no chairs” will only ever mean what we mean when walking into an empty room expecting (or hoping) to sit down.

In Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein describes his method in philosophy as “marshalling recollections.” Much later in the text, he describes himself as “supplying remarks on the natural history of human beings.” These remarks do not concern “curiosities” of the kind we might take in at a natural history museum (e.g. the finer points of seal hunting or the vast variety of early muskets). Instead, they are “facts that no one has doubted, which have escaped notice only because they are always before our eyes.” I think the remarks we have been considering about chairs are the kind of natural-historical observations Wittgenstein has in mind. “Human beings sit on chairs” strikes us as obvious and not even worth saying. A placard in a natural history bearing that observation would hardly warrant a passing glance. But confronted with the question, “Are chairs real?”—a question that sets us off in the direction of realism and idealism, appearances and physical objects, belief and certainty—that mundane observation is just the kind of thing we tend to ignore. “Are chairs real? I’ll have to sit and think about it.” Once the thinking has started, what the thinker did before getting started has already been forgotten.

Beyond scientism: Re-humanizing the mind (The Return of Idealism)

Beyond scientism: Re-humanizing the mind (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Philosophy

Dr. Giuseppina D’Oro | 2024-02-24

Human brain floating on a gray background. mind blown concept

Non-reductionism, the idea that mental states are not reducible to physical states, is the new orthodoxy in analytic philosophy of mind. However, in this instalment of our series The Return of Idealism, in partnership with the Institute of Art and Ideas (IAI), Dr. Giuseppina D’Oro argues that analytic philosophy’s conception of psychology as a natural science is beholden to the dubious ideology of scientism, therefore not acknowledging the autonomy of the mental. This essay was first published by the IAI on 19 February 2024.

Reductionism is no longer fashionable in philosophy of mind—the days when the idea that mental states are reducible to physical states was a given are over, and non-reductionism is the new orthodoxy. Yet, while many philosophers of mind would consider themselves card carrying non-reductionists, they also tend to think of psychology as a natural science of the mind. As a result, the defence of the autonomy of the mental one finds in most textbooks operates within a naturalistic framework which fails to acknowledge that humanistic explanations differ in kind from scientific ones.

There is however a neglected form of non-reductionism that has its roots in the idealist tradition and is genuinely pluralistic from an explanatory point of view. This form of non-reductionism is motivated by a defence of humanistic understanding and is found in the work of late British idealists, Michael Oakeshott and R.G. Collingwood. They espoused a version of idealism according to which the task of philosophy is not to determine the constitution of reality, whether it is material or immaterial, but to expose the presuppositions on which all knowledge, including scientific knowledge, rests.

They argued that the methodological assumptions of scientific inquiry are very different from those of humanistic inquiry and that it is therefore a mistake to think it possible to explain the mind in scientific terms. As a result, unlike most non-reductionists in twentieth century philosophy of mind, they were sceptical of the view that psychology could be legitimately described as the science of the mind and endeavoured to expose the conceptual confusions implicit in the very idea of a natural science of the mind.

In On Human Conduct Oakeshott argued that there are “categorically different orders of inquiry,” the humanistic and the scientific, which are concerned with altogether different kinds of goings-on and whose subject matters are sui generis and irreducible. Humanistic inquiries are concerned with ‘goings-on’ the identification of which includes the recognition that they are themselves exhibitions of intelligence. Ethics, jurisprudence and aesthetics are distinguishable idioms within the order of inquiry concerned with goings-on identified as expressions of intelligence. Scientific inquiry is concerned with ‘goings-on’ which are not themselves exhibitions of intelligence. Physics, chemistry and psychology are distinguishable idioms within the order of inquiry concerned with processes. Psychology, as one of the idioms of natural science, speaks the language of laws and processes and, as such it is “categorically excluded from providing any such understandings.”

Consider for example the distinction between a blink and a wink. If a movement of the eyelid is described as wink this description entails that the person winking knew how to signal by rapidly closing and opening an eyelid. If one describes a person as blinking, by contrast, there is no such implication. A person blinking has not learned how to open and close the eyelid just as “a falling apple does not need to have learned the law of gravitation in order to fall.”

The descriptions of the movement of the eyelid as either a blink or a wink capture the explananda of two different orders of inquiry, humanistic and scientific and, as such, they are categorically distinct descriptions. Not all distinctions, according to Oakeshott, are categorial distinctions. The action of opening a window, for example, could be described either as an attempt to let an annoying insect out or to air a room. This sort of distinction captures two different interpretations of what was happening that belong to the same order of inquiry. ‘Letting a fly out’ and ‘letting air in’ are goings-on of the same kind, unlike a blink and a wink which are categorically distinct because they belong to different orders of inquiry. Philosophy disambiguates categorically ambiguous descriptions by distinguishing between the kinds of explanations which make such categorical distinctions possible in the first place.

Failure to disambiguate categorically distinct kinds of goings-on, such as a blink and a wink, and their corresponding orders of inquiry, obfuscates the difference between norms or rules, which need to be acknowledged to be operative and laws, which do not.  Since psychology is a natural science whose explanations invoke laws rather than norms, the explanation of what it is that someone does when winking, cannot be a psychological explanation.

Oakeshott’s criticism is not directed at psychology as a genuine natural science but at psychology as an ‘all-purpose’ science. The target is not science, which he recognizes as a legitimate cognitive enterprise, but scientism. The subject matter of psychology as a genuine natural science “is a world of quantitative concepts and measurements, not a world of ‘mental phenomena.’ And where psychology is a science, its conclusions will have the same character, significance and validity as the conclusions of any other science.” As an all-purpose science, psychology presents (psychological) mechanisms as the motives for actions or reasons for beliefs and is not a genuine natural science but the “spurious intellectual enterprise” which seeks “to understand ‘goings-on’ identified as themselves exhibitions of intelligence—expressions of sentiment or belief, arguments, practices, artefacts, intentions, motives, actions…” in terms of causal laws.

Oakeshott’s distinction between different orders of inquiry and the distinctive goings-on that they investigate gives rise to a defence of the autonomy of the mental that is quite different from the sort of non-reductionism that dominates contemporary philosophy of mind. What Oakeshott refers to as intelligent human conduct, or the sort of goings-on which are the subject matter of humanistic understanding, contemporary philosophy of mind explains by invoking laws as if they were falling apples.

A case in point is multiple realization functionalism, which claims that mental states could be realized in different kinds of physical systems. Since the mental state of being in pain, for example, could be realized in both a human and an octopus, who have very different physiologies, it is not possible to reduce mental states to physical states as reductionists hoped to do. This non-reductionist argument is not premised on the view that there is a categorically distinct kind of going-on which cannot be captured by law-like explanations.

Multiple realization functionalists do deny that mental states are reducible to physical states, but they still couch mentalistic explanations in the language of laws: stimulus of type x gives rise to behavioural response of type y. As a result, they fail to acknowledge the categorial distinction between different kinds of goings-on, such as that between a blink and a wink. For Oakeshott, physics, chemistry, biology—and indeed psychology—are idioms of one and the same order of inquiry, one whose explanations invoke laws. A non-reductionism worth its salt must acknowledge that the distinction between the kind of goings-on investigated by humanistic and scientific inquiry is not a mere idiomatic distinction within the same order of inquiry.

Nor would Oakeshott have been reassured by the recent resurgence of panpsychism informed by Russellian Monism. Panpsychists like Philip Goff and Galen Strawson have argued that to solve the hard problem of consciousness—the mystery of how consciousness is able to emerge from mere grey matter—one must assume that consciousness is already to be found in some rudimentary form in the fundamental constituents of reality.

But by and large, panpsychists are not explanatory pluralists who challenge the unity and completeness of scientific explanations. Instead, they simply claim that the ontological constitution of the particles whose behaviour physics describes through its laws is not what materialists thought it to be. While panpsychism denies the truth of physicalism, it does not challenge the idea that explanations of mental phenomena differ in kind, and are therefore irreducible to, the lawlike explanations one finds in other natural sciences such as biology, chemistry, and physics.

One might not immediately recognize Oakeshott’s conceptual cartography in On Human Conduct as a form of idealism. But his denunciation of the ‘categorial rubbish’ that is produced by the failure to disambiguate different orders of inquiry has deep roots in his earlier work, Experience and its Modes, a work that is steeped in the idealist tradition.

In Experience and its Modes Oakeshott argues that different forms of knowledge or modes of experience rest on distinctive presuppositions and that any truths that are asserted within these modes are conditional upon those presuppositions. Different forms of knowledge or modes of experience bring not a subsection of reality, but the whole of reality, under different descriptions.

When one describes a painting as morally edifying but lacking aesthetic qualities, for example, one is not describing different sections of the canvas but examining the whole of it from different perspectives. Scientism is the attempt of any one form of knowledge or experience to assert its own truths absolutely and unconditionally as if it were presupposition-less, thereby resulting in a kind of intellectual Manicheanism. Experience and its Modes contrasted the presupposition-based knowledge obtained within forms of experience to philosophy which was deemed to be presupposition-less.

By the time Oakeshott wrote On Human Conduct he abandoned this conception of philosophy as a presupposition-less inquiry into the absolute. Instead, he saw philosophy as a second order investigation into the presuppositions on which knowledge rests. But his later defence of the claim that the subject matters of humanistic and scientific inquiries are distinct kinds of goings-on is firmly grounded in the earlier idealist view that different forms of knowledge or experience operate with different presuppositions which bring the whole of reality (not just a segment of it) under a different (categorial) description. It is the idealist slant of Oakeshott’s criticism of psychology as an all-purpose science that explains why the defence of the autonomy of humanistic understanding he develops in the later work is a genuine form of explanatory pluralism that differs from the bland forms of non-reductionism that have tended to dominate the philosophy of mind.

R. G. Collingwood, who greatly admired Oakeshott’s work, and also thought of psychology as a pseudo-science of the mind agreed that humanistic and scientific knowledge rest on different presuppositions which philosophy brings to the fore. The methodological assumptions which inform scientific and humanist inquiries give rise to the questions that are characteristically asked within their domains.

When natural scientists ask, for example, why litmus paper turns pink, they are not asking the same kind of question that historians pose when asking, for example, why a country amassed troops on its borders. Answering the historian’s question requires uncovering the point of amassing the troops, rather than finding out what normally happens when certain antecedent conditions obtain. These questions are answered by different kinds of explanations to which there correspond two categorically distinct kinds of goings on: actions, the subject matter of humanistic inquiry; and events, the subject matter of scientific inquiry.

For Collingwood, the natural scientist is categorically excluded from answering the questions of the historian (and vice versa), just as for Oakeshott, psychology, as a natural science, is categorically excluded from understanding intelligent goings-on. Neither Oakeshott nor Collingwood intended to preclude the possibility that one might investigate human behaviour in the way in which one investigates the behaviour of litmus paper. But what they did claim is that, in so doing, one changes the subject matter.

Oakeshott’s and Collingwood’s idealism leave behind the dichotomy between scientism and historicism. Their goal is not to promote a form of inverted scientism claiming that all knowledge is humanistic knowledge relative to knowers at a time and a place, but that all knowledge, including scientific knowledge, is based on presuppositions and that acknowledging the methodological assumptions which govern their domains of inquiry is a condition sine qua non for being able to make the categorial distinction we make, such as the ones between a wink and a blink, or between (natural) evolution and (historical) revolution. They do not argue that all knowledge is historical knowledge (history being seen as the paradigm of humanistic disciplines) but that the presuppositions of humanistic knowledge are not the same as those of scientific knowledge.

Above all, the idealism of Oakeshott and Collingwood eschews the dichotomy between naturalism and supernaturalism. Actions, or the kind of “goings-on” which are best accounted for by humanistic explanations, are not supernatural or not-natural entities. They are reality understood under the presuppositions of humanistic inquiry, just as events are the kind of goings on which scientific inquiry investigates; they are reality known under a different set of presuppositions. It is the commitment to scientism, or the view that scientific knowledge is presupposition-less, that relegates the domain of inquiry of the humanities to a supernatural realm.

Idealism comes in different shades of grey. It can be an ontologically ambitious claim about the nature of reality, as in the case of Berkeley’s phenomenalism, or an epistemically humble claim about the limits of knowledge, as in the case of Kant’s transcendental idealism. It can also be a form of conceptual analysis which denies the meaningfulness of any talk about presupposition-less knowledge and reminds us of the dangers associated with asserting the truths of any one form of knowledge or experience absolutely and unconditionally as if they were presupposition-less.

As long as we fail to acknowledge that idealism is a broad church, and the differences between the varieties of idealism available, we will also fail to see how the idealism of Oakeshott and Collingwood informs a defence of the autonomy of humanistic understanding that rejects naturalism without endorsing supernaturalism and provides a much-needed alternative to forms of non-reductionism which remain committed to scientism.

 

Bibliography

Collingwood, R.G. (1940), An Essay on Metaphysics, Oxford: Clarendon Press, revised edition, with an introduction by Rex Martin, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

D’Oro, G. (2023) Why Collingwood Matters: A Defence of Humanistic Understanding. Bloomsbury.

Fodor J. A. (1989), “Making Mind Matter More”, Philosophical Topics 17: 59-79.

Goff, P. (2019) Galileo’s Error: Foundations for a new Science of Consciousness. New York: Pantheon Books.

Nardin, T. (1942). The Philosophy of Michael Oakeshott, University Park, Pennsylvania: the Pennsylvanian University Press.

Oakeshott, M. (1933). Experience and Its Modes. Cambridge University Press.

Oakeshott, M. (1975). On Human Conduct. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Russell, B. (1927). The Analysis of Matter. London: Kegan Paul

Strawson, G. (2006). “Realistic Physicalism: Why Physicalism entails Panpsychism”, in A. Freeman (ed.), Consciousness and its Place in Nature: Does Physicalism entail Panpsychism? , 3-31, Exeter: Imprint Academic.

The Fall into the phenomenal: How idealism can help the Creation story converge with deep scientific truth

The Fall into the phenomenal: How idealism can help the Creation story converge with deep scientific truth

Reading | Theology

Black snake with an apple fruit in a branch of a tree. Forbidden fruit concept.

Taking a clue from Christian theologian and philosopher Origen of Alexandria, Androu Arsanious argues that the biblical Fall is the story of humanity’s mistaking of the Kantian phenomena (the world as represented in perception) for the Kantian noumena (the world as it is in itself); that is, the story of our mistaking appearances for reality. Understanding this allows us to complete the Augustinian project of reconciling the stories of religion, which describe what is beyond the world in terms of the world, with the stories of science, which describe the world in terms of what is beyond the world, such as mathematical abstractions. This is a fascinating essay.

The Church bells tolled, and I felt it in my bones.

I grew up in a religious household. We’d attend church twice or thrice weekly: sports, youth group, and Sunday school. Every Easter liturgy, they’d ring the Church bells at 10:30 pm to mark the Resurrection of Christ. Incense filled the Nave as deacons sang at the top of their voices, and then we’d process around the packed church three times, holding crosses and icons. It was a surreal experience for 10-year-old me. We didn’t just accept the stories propositionally, we performed them. That’s because religious stories describe what is beyond the world in terms of the world. Good stories aren’t just heard or read. They’re felt.

Scientists tell stories too. They call them theories. Like any good story, a valid theory doesn’t just describe the past but helps us understand the present and prepare for the future. The most foundational theories in science use mathematics, a language that wasn’t invented as much as it was discovered. After all, math will remain true well beyond the heat death of the universe. As such, scientific theories are religious stories turned inside out because they describe the world in terms that are beyond the world.

No one tried harmonizing theory and story more than St. Augustine. Born in the 4th century, the Berber Bishop was a prodigal son of the Church. Raised by a Christian mother, he rejected religion as fictional absurdities in his youth and chose to walk “the streets of Babylon, in whose filth I was rolled, as if in cinnamon and precious ointments.” After moving to Italy for a teaching post, he discovered the teachings of St. Ambrose of Milan, whose biblical exegesis gave him a new purchase on his mother’s faith. St. Augustine recounts the moment he converted “under a certain fig tree, giving free course to my tears, and the streams of my eyes gushed out.” He felt a story and was reborn a saint.

A towering figure in Western thinking, St. Augustine emphasized the oneness of Truth as revealed in the Book of Scripture and the Book of Nature. He urges the faithful to “let the Bible be a book for you so that you may hear it. Let the sphere of the world be also a book for you. So that you may see it”. For St. Augustine, perception and interpretation had to be guided by rationality and revelation. In the Venn Diagram of religious stories and scientific theories, the most profound truths lay in the area that encircled both.

In the 1600 years since his death, the Book of Nature has seen a few updates. Today, it is full of theories spanning biology and physics that would be foreign to the North African Saint. Is the Augustinian project redeemable, or has the plot in the Book of Nature hopelessly strayed from that of the Book of Scripture?

 

The Paradox of Perception

If there were an opening chapter in the Book of Nature, it would be on Evolution. The Darwinian theory has much to say about human perceptions. Different life forms evolved diverse ways of sensing and responding to their respective environments. Bats use sound to see. Bees see UV light to sniff out their flowers. Nematodes don’t “see” but “sniff” out sugar using chemical receptors on the surface of their body. Life is the process of figuring out how to live, perceive, and respond to the environment through the senses.

Life forms use short stories—cheat codes—to survive. Male jewel beetles track their female mates using the cheat code ‘smooth, glossy surfaces = female’ to find mates. Yet, when humans started throwing out their shiny, glossy beer bottles, the male beetles started getting funky with the empty beer bottles. It nearly drove the species to extinction.

Natural selection hadn’t ‘cared’ whether the smooth, glossy surfaces were females. The cheat code had been sufficiently reliable to help the males pass their genes onto the next generation. None of the beetles needed to understand the game; they just needed to learn how to cheat.

What about our perceptual senses?

We can answer this question with mathematical precision. In evolution, game theory predicts how a population changes over time if competing for limited resources and—importantly for our purposes—how its sensory systems would have to evolve to compete effectively. A population is more likely to outcompete another population if its sensory systems are superior. But there’s a trade-off. A population can’t have the perfect cheat codes while also being attuned to the objective world. In the words of Donald Hoffman, “In evolution, where the race is often to the swift, a quick and dirty category can easily trump one more complex and veridical.”

Perceptions do not provide a window into the objective world if natural selection is valid. Instead, they’ve evolved to interfaces that maximize our fitness. Critically, the Interface Theory of Perception posits that this interface diverges from Reality.

Think of the relationship between a computer screen and its motherboard. Screens are helpful insofar as they help us manipulate electrons to ‘increase our fitness.’ Fitness in this context could mean completing a bank transaction or writing an essay. The pixels on our screen tell us nearly nothing about the nature of the motherboard. They’re not designed to help us ‘understand’ semiconductors.

Theoretically, you could open the back of your computer to tinker around with the switches in the semiconductors to write an essay or send a bank transfer, ignoring the ‘illusion’ of icons on a screen. But this red pill is a hard one to swallow. Even though screens tell you nearly nothing about how the computer works, they’re virtually essential to any task.

Likewise, our screen of perception maximizes our ability to get things done, yet conveys precisely nothing about the nature of the world. That isn’t to say we shouldn’t take what we see seriously. Walk in front of a bus, and you might not walk again. Drag that Word Document icon into your screen’s trash bin, and you will lose all your hard work. Bernardo Kastrup goes at length to stress how our perceptions don’t tell us what the world is, only how it behaves. Scientific theory quantifies these behaviors.

The ‘Fitness Beats Truth’ theory illustrates a wider conflict between real truth and desired outcomes that isn’t exclusive to evolutionary biology. Social media is a distortion field that warps online personas to maximize the shareability or likeability of their content, regardless of its underlying truth or authenticity. How often have people lied to move ahead in their careers or fibbed about their physical height to up their profile on a dating app? Consider the psychological aspects of playing sports, where pure skill and athleticism may not be enough to win a match. Or the art of the bluff in poker. Behaviors that maximize fitness are more valuable yet less veridical. Systems often disincentivize ‘truthful’ behavior.

If natural selection is true, then objects in space-time don’t have stand-alone existence in the way we think they do. Instead, our senses build an interface, a story that allows us to organize our lives. This odd conclusion is one physicists have likewise converged on.

On the quantum level, energy and matter are pixelated or ‘quantized’ as discrete bits. These quantized chunks behave in ways that defy all commonsense notions of spacetime. They influence each other’s behavior instantaneously, seemingly defying both Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and our commonsense intuitions of the world. Quantum objects exist in a superposition of states, and only take on defined characteristics once measured. Such irreconcilable differences have forced many physicists to explore alternative models for understanding the cosmos.

In other words, at a fundamental level in physics and biology, our best scientific theories conclude that Reality is not what we experience it to be. Yet, because we logically cannot experience the un-experienceable, we cannot experience Reality as it truly is.

Philosophers were onto this idea centuries ago. Writing 2,500 years ago, Plato analogized the human relationship with Reality to prisoners chained in a cave, mistaking the silhouettes and shadows on its walls for Reality. To the Greek philosopher, the physical world is an illusion we can only break out of through contemplation. Immanuel Kant distinguished between the noumenal, things in themselves, and the phenomenal, things as they appear. The German philosopher proposed that, while the phenomenal world operates via cause and effect, the Noumenal world is the arena for human agency, will, and spirit. This dualistic framework for understanding our relationship with the cosmos is central to religious stories, as we will soon see.

Screens glitch and this Interface is no different. It is in these glitchy moments that we can appreciate this metaphor.

 

The Apocryphal Sciences

For the better part of 150 years, scientists have documented psi phenomena. Everything we think we know is confounded by psi, which include precognition, paranormal experiences, near-death experiences, and miracles. Psi phenomena are important “because they provide examples of human behavioral capacities that seem extremely difficult or impossible to account for in terms of presently recognized computational, biological, or physical principles.” There is an overwhelming amount of empirical evidence documented across thousands of cases.

Take the curious case of “The Twins,” described by famous neuroscientist Oliver Sacks in the 1970s. The two brothers couldn’t perform basic arithmetic calculations and had been institutionalized for the better part of 20 years, being “variously diagnosed as autistic, psychotic, or severely retarded.” However, during one consult, Sacks found them riffing prime numbers to each other, sometimes over 20 digits long. This would’ve been an impossible feat for the most powerful computer at the time, let alone for anyone without arithmetic skills.

There are documented reports of people who can be hypnotized into thinking their skin is burning, only to have their skin spontaneously blister shortly afterward. Then there are apparitions and documented cases suggesting premonitions of death. Near-death experiences have turned skeptics into advocates for alternatives to conventional materialism. Faith healing cases defy conventional explanations. Inert substances with no clinical effects can ‘elicit’ a state of mind that instills positive clinical effects.

The glitches happen constantly, yet the scientific theories we tell ourselves simply cannot explain this data away. But religion might…

 

The Fall into Evolution

With each page turn in the Book of Nature, the world has gotten stranger. Evolution and physics conclude that the world as we experience it is not the world as it truly is, and psi breakout experiences appear to vindicate this claim.

It is here where religious stories pick up the mantle. Recall that religious stories describe what is beyond the world in terms of the world. We’ll enlist the help of the third-century Church Father Origen of Alexandria to guide our brief tour. A pioneer of Biblical exegesis, it is on Origen’s shoulders that Augustine stood when he proclaimed the oneness of Truth. Origen comes as close to recognizing the duality of the created order—in terms of the noumenal and the phenomenal—as the most viable interpretation of the Judeo-Christian Creation account in Genesis.

Origen notes this in his commentary on Genesis 1:6, when God creates the firmament or sky. That God first creates the light and darkness on Day 1, then the sky on Day 2, suggested to Origen the need for an alternative, allegorical interpretation. He writes, “The first heaven … which we said is spiritual, is our mind, which is also itself spirit … sees and perceives God. But that corporeal heaven called the firmament is our outer man, which looks at things in a corporeal way.” For Origen, God created a spiritual and ‘corporeal,’ or physical, world.

At the end of the first chapter, God crowns his creation, with humans famously formed in His image and likeness. But not the material image, writes Origen: “For the form of the body does not contain the image of God, nor is the corporeal man said to be ‘made,’ but ‘formed.’”

In Genesis 2, God creates man in his Image by molding a “wet clod” of soil and blasting his breath into it. Humans have a unique relationship with their Creator, according to Origen, who observes that “it is our inner man, invisible, incorporeal, incorruptible, and immortal, which is made according to the image of God … But if anyone supposes that this man … is made of flesh, he will appear to represent God himself as made of flesh and in human form. It is most clearly impious to think this about God.”

Why does Origen think God needed to create a corporeal and spiritual world?

God places him in Paradise, the Garden of Eden. The root word for garden is “ganan” in Hebrew, which means “to defend, cover, or surround.” In every other use, it describes the defense of a city, as if in battle. God then creates a helper, often better translated as a ‘rescuer’: a woman from the Man’s rib who lives in shameless nudity with the Man.

Among the shrubbery of the Garden are the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life. God explicitly tells the couple not to eat the latter’s fruit lest they “surely die.” Here, we see a hint of the trade-off between having the ‘cheat codes’ to knowledge, courtesy of the first tree, and participating in everlasting life, courtesy of the second tree.

A Serpent resides in Eden. It asks the Woman what God had commanded for the Tree of Knowledge, and she responds by saying God told them not to eat or touch its fruit. By adding to God’s words, Eve opens the door for the Serpent to twist God’s words further. He replies that, to the contrary, her eyes would be opened and that she and her husband would become gods.

Serpents play an evolutionary role in our history, for only creatures with acute vision and quick reflexes could avoid the tree-dwelling reptiles. Sure enough, the serpent’s words opened her mind, and she “took of its fruit and ate.”

But in their attempt to raise their consciousness, the fated couple is brought lower than the dirt. The “original sin” is one that all humanity partakes in, and for Origen, the events precipitate a fall of humanity into the safety net of the corporeal order. Adam and Eve’s eyes opened to the material realities that would forever consume their descendants. God had anticipated this fall and engineered the corporeal world to accommodate their eventual self-destruction. This, for Origen, is why God created the corporeal world.

The fall sparks a sense of self-awareness that sheds light on the couple’s corporeal vulnerability. The Tree of Knowledge opens their eyes up to the possibility of death. Overcome with fear, Adam and his wife cover themselves in fig leaves and fearfully cower as though hunted like wild beasts, for instinct has taken over.

In Kantian terms, the ordeal of Eden is the human fall out of the noumenal and into the phenomenal place. Adam and Eve lose the blissful truths of paradise and must now face the nasty, brutish existence awaiting them in the corporeal world. Fitness is of primary concern now. True to the Serpents’ words, their eyes ‘see’ and fall into the corporeal world, yet are also blinded to the noumenal, ‘spiritual’ place they once inhabited. Eden was cloistered and gated because the noumenal world could not be accessed from the phenomenal world. And once you fall into the phenomenal world, you cannot return to the noumenal place.

The story of the fall is, therefore, a tale of exile into Plato’s Cave. Origen writes that “this sinking results in us taking on bodies” and warns that “all rational creatures who are incorporeal and invisible, if they become negligent, gradually sink to a lower level and take to themselves bodies suitable to the regions into which they descend.”

As a result, the embodied souls of Adam and Eve become ensouled bodies. Material corporeal concerns take center stage for man, woman, and beast. Fitness is the new name of the game, and God reluctantly pronounces its accursed rules.

The Serpent will slither on its belly and, as a symbol for all animal life, enmity erupts between it and humankind, telling it that humans “shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise its heel.” The interface between humans and beasts is created.

For Eve, her toil will be in labor and the accursed state of yearning after her husband. The helper has become helpless because the corporeal world is now too dangerous for her to fend for herself. Indeed, Adam’s first act after their exile from Eden is to name his wife Eve, a ‘power move’ symbolizing the rule of man over woman. The interface between man and woman—patriarchy—is born.

Adam fairs no better, for the soil he once tilled is now cursed and must be tilled in toil. The Earth will wage war on him, using every thorn and thistle. The thing he was created from will now entomb him: “From dust you came, and to dust, ye shall return.” The interface between humanity and the cosmos boots up.

God’s parting gift is to knit tunics out of “mortal skin” for the couple. Origen observed that “heir being clothed with tunics of skins, contain a certain secret and mystical doctrine far transcending that of Plato of the souls losing its wings, and being borne downwards to the earth until it can lay hold of some stable resting-place.” The interface is sealed with mortality, and the world as we experience it is now here for good.

The Bible blossoms when stripped of materialistic presuppositions, and the Augustinian project of reconciling the Book of Nature with the Book of Scripture takes on new life. But we must abandon the idea that Reality is ontologically a physical place. As new chapters in the Book of Nature are written, we should footnote religious texts to catalog the ultimate Oneness of Truth. Only then can we synthesize and harmonize truth between science and religion.

 

Bibliography

  1. St. Augustine, Confessions Book II, Chapter 3 (8). Available at: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/110102.htm#:~:text=Behold%20with%20what%20companions%20I,me%2C%20I%20being%20easily%20seduced. Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  2. St. Augustine, Confessions Book VIII, Chapter 12. Available at: https://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf101.vi.VIII.XII.html Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  3. Male Jewel Beetles. Available at: https://www.npr.org/sections/krulwich/2013/06/19/193493225/the-love-that-dared-not-speak-its-name-of-a-beetle-for-a-beer-bottle Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  4. Hoffman D, The Interface Theory of Perception: Natural Selection Drives Truth Perception to Swift Extinction. Available at: https://sites.socsci.uci.edu/~ddhoff/interface.pdf Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  5. Kant’s Transcendental Idealism. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant-transcendental-idealism/#Bib Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  6. Sacks, O. The Man who Mistook his Wife for a Hat. Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  7. Hallson, P. (2016). ‘Ghosts and Apparitions in Psi Research (Overview)’. Psi Encyclopedia. London: The Society for Psychical Research. <https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/ghosts-and-apparitions-psi-research-overview>. Retrieved 15 January 2024.
  8. All quotes from the Bible are from NKJV, available at https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Genesis+1&version=NKJV  Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  9. Origen Homilies on Genesis 1.2.
  10. Paulsen, David L. “Early Christian Belief in a Corporeal Deity: Origen and Augustine as Reluctant Witnesses.” The Harvard Theological Review, vol. 83, no. 2, 1990, pp. 105–16. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/1509938. Accessed 15 Jan. 2024.
  11. Blue Letter Bible, Strong’s Reference: https://www.blueletterbible.org/lexicon/h1598/kjv/wlc/0-1/
  12. McGrew, W.C. Snakes as hazards: modelling risk by chasing chimpanzees. Primates 56, 107–111 (2015). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10329-015-0456-4
  13. Contra Celsus Chapter 40. Available at: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/04164.htm

Metabolism is what the ‘unconscious’ mind looks like

Metabolism is what the ‘unconscious’ mind looks like

Reading | Philosophy

Dr. Ludwig Sachs | 2024-02-04

a illustration of a soul leaving the body

Dr. Sachs discusses the dynamics of our deepest, seemingly ‘unconscious’ mental processes, and shows remarkable correspondences between them and metabolic processes such as protein synthesis and folding. He suggests, along firm idealist lines, that our body’s metabolism is simply a metaphor, the extrinsic appearance of our inner, ‘unconscious’ mental processes. In other words, metabolism may be what the deepest layers of our own mind look like, when displayed on the screen of perception. This is an involved essay and not the easiest of reads, but it is well worth the effort.

From the idealist point of view—which entails a psychic or spiritual foundation of being—a fascinating puzzle arises: how do the myriad aspects of our world, from human consciousness and matter to time, space, and life, originate from this foundation?

In a previous article1, I already discussed the three orders of structural psychoanalysis (the Imaginary, Symbolic, and Real), a development of Freud’s conception of the psychic apparatus by the French psychiatrist Jacques Lacan2. I further discussed how the dissociation or splitting of the subject leads to a lack of being, as well as how the subject repeatedly tries in vain to find itself. In the language of systems theory, these repeated attempts to ‘return to oneself’ are self-referential processes. I already pointed out the phenomena of complex systems that arise through self-referentiality in connection with the language-like structures of the Symbolic, as well as its iterative referential structure: fractal geometries characterized by self-similar patterns that we can find everywhere in nature.

The concept of self-similarity could potentially be a key to understanding deeper connections in our reality. When we apply this principle to mental and physical processes, an exciting question arises: is there a self-similar relationship between the unconscious processes that govern our mental life and the genetic mechanisms that regulate our bodily functions? This consideration leads us to a deeper examination of structural psychoanalysis and biological processes.

Before we proceed, it is extremely important to emphasize that the ‘subject’ discussed here is not understood as a human individual in the everyday sense. As I outlined in the previous article, our everyday consciousness is predominantly under an Imaginary perspective, entailing that the world presents itself to us from the dissociated perspective of an imaginary ‘I.’ However, we overlook the linkage with the Symbolic and Real orders as a split subject.

Therefore, when I speak of the subject in the present essay, it is in the sense of an archetypal Anthropos, Schelling’s ‘World Spirit,’ which unfolds in time and space and manifests itself in the diversity of all living things—not only as a human. The considerations refer to the topological structures of this subject in the Real, Symbolic, and Imaginary orders.

 

The chain of signifiers

In the context of structural psychoanalysis, the concept of the ‘chain of signifiers’ is central to understanding the Symbolic and the language-like structures of the unconscious. This chain is best visualized by considering everyday signifiers that we regularly and consciously deal with: sounds, words, sentences. These elements of language are connected in a temporal sequence, known as diachronic chaining.

The meaning of a statement—the signified—emerges from the linking of these signifiers in their specific order. A change in this order can considerably alter the meaning, as illustrated by the statement ‘Idealism is better than Materialism,’ when compared to ‘Materialism is better than Idealism.’

However, the chain of signifiers is not limited to a horizontal, diachronic (temporal) chaining. At each point in this chain, one can imagine a vertical, synchronic chain or ‘plane’ that adds further levels of meaning. This vertical linking of signifiers is understood in structural psychoanalysis as metaphor, as opposed to horizontal metonymy. Here, it is emphasized that meanings always refer to other meanings and never directly to ‘the thing itself.’ The combination of signifiers creates a kind of barrier that prevents direct access to the signified, or the meaning. An analogy for this is the experience of looking up the meaning of a word in a dictionary: one is often led from one term to the next, never reaching a final clarification.

Therefore, the generation of meaning in a chain of signifiers is a dynamic process in which the signified changes with every added element—the signified ‘slides under the signifiers,’ so to speak. In structural psychoanalysis, the meaning (the signified) of a sentence is determined not solely by the individual signifiers (words), but significantly by their overall sequence. An important phenomenon in this context is the retroactive determination of the signified of a chain of signifiers, highlighting how the meaning of a sentence is fixed by the end of the chain.

Consider this example: the sentence ‘I love you’ conveys a very different meaning than ‘I do not love you.’ This illustrates how each added signifier changes the overall meaning of a sentence. Also, ‘I do not love you’ suggests a different context than ‘I do not love you anymore.’ And this, in turn, changes once again if ‘as much as her’ is added, to form ‘I do not love you as much as her anymore.’ In this case, the words ‘as her’ retroactively influence and fix the meaning of the entire sentence.

 

The quilting point

This dynamic of meaning formation can be topologically represented by the concept of the ‘point de capiton,’ or quilting point, a concept derived from Ferdinand de Saussure’s Course in General Linguistics. Saussure’s model assumes that the signifier and signified correspond point by point and together form a ‘sign,’ an assumption critiqued by structural psychoanalysis. It emphasizes that the signified of a sentence is its overall meaning, which does not simply result from the addition of the meanings of individual words but is retroactively fixed by the end of the chain. The quilting point in this context represents the function of specific signifiers (so-called ‘master signifiers’), which intervene in the chaotic signified, fixing and simultaneously altering it.

 

The signified: The desire modified by the signifier

In the context of structural psychoanalysis, the signified is viewed as a form of human want that is influenced and transformed by the signifier. This transformation of need by the signifier is referred to as ‘desire.’ However, desire is not to be understood solely in biological or physiological terms: it is structured by the signifier and thus acquires a special dynamic.

The desires are not only transformed by the signifier, but their transformation is also associated with a loss—structurally speaking, a lack. The entirety of the effects of the signified produced by the signifier is this lack. Thus, the imprinting of the signifier into the subject leads to the emergence of the signified, which can also be understood as a lack and is associated with the dissociation/splitting of the subject, as I discussed in my previous article.

Therefore, the signified in its entirety is not only the result of the effect of the signifier, but also an expression of the lack and the dissociation/splitting of the subject that arises from this effect.

 

The graph of desire

In structural psychoanalysis, the ‘graph of desire’3 (see below) is used to illustrate the concept of the quilting point and the relationships between signifiers and signifieds. This graphical representation includes two main lines forming an arc, each representing different aspects of language. The line running from S (linguistic sign) to S’ (linguistic meaning) symbolizes the chain of signifiers—i.e., the sequence of words and sentences we use in everyday life on a conscious, Imaginary level. This is called the ‘signifying chain.’ The other line, from Δ (the pre-linguistic subject) to $ (the barred subject) and forming a horseshoe shape, represents the chain of signifieds—i.e., what is generated in terms of meaning and sense by the signifiers. This second line is called the ‘vector of desire.’

In different words, the vector of desire represents subjective intentions arising from needs, the deliberate pursuit of the fulfillment of these needs. The signifying chain, in turn, represents sentences such as ‘Give me something to eat!’ Need and speech are linked by the two intersection points, symbolizing the interaction between signifiers and signifieds.

The first intersection point on the right is labeled ‘A’ for the French ‘Autre’ (‘Other’). It stands for the language code and vocabulary used by the subject. The capitalization indicates that it pertains to the Symbolic order. The interaction at this point shows how the vocabulary imprints itself in the subject and alters its intentions, influencing its need structures. Desire is thus heavily dependent on the relationship to the Other. ‘Desire is the desire of the Other’ is the formula of structural psychoanalysis for this entanglement. It primarily refers not to being desired by the Other, but desiring as the Other. What we think of as our own desires often consist of the wishes and messages of parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc., most of which are unconscious.

Therefore, to be satisfied, the need must pass through the grid of language. It must be expressed in claims or symbolically articulated demands. To be understood, these claims must be expressed in a predetermined code.

The left intersection point is labeled ‘M’ for ‘message’: communication, message, news. Like the chains of signifiers on the conscious level, those of the unconscious also have a message, a meaning, a signified. The aim of psychoanalytic practice is to bring to light the messages of the unconscious: the meaning of dreams, symptoms, parapraxes, etc.

The graph represents how need is captured by language and how this, in turn, is connected to the formation of the ‘I.’ This ‘I’ ideal is not only made up of signifiers, but is also a modification of the drive structure, since it acts back on the need. The symbol $—a crossed-out S—stands for the subject shaped by language and therefore excluded from the unconscious, the seat of desire.

This is to remind us that needs have always already passed through these stations and been shaped by language; that the assumption of a whole, unsplit subject as the bearer of a pre-linguistic need is thus a mythical construction based on the desire for imaginary wholeness. As discussed in the previous article, the split is constitutive for the subject. It is what makes the subject possible.

 

The master signifier

The I(-ideal) must be seen in connection with what structural psychoanalysis refers to as the ‘master signifier’: a signifier that seems to have an absolute meaning, but in an illusory way. For instance, the ‘I’—with which the speaker refers to themselves—is a master signifier. It forms the basis of the myth of the ideal I. In this myth, the I appears as an entity that is identical to itself. Self-identity—the absoluteness of meaning—is thus illusory because signifiers only function differentially. The master signifier, therefore, relies on an illusory blocking of the differential nature of the signifier. And since meaning is based on the difference of signifiers, the master signifier is without meaning.

Master signifiers are about identification; more precisely, a certain form of identification: the one whose result is called the I-ideal. When one seeks to clarify the meaning of a signifier, one is referred from signifier to signifier, and thus the meaning shifts anew. So how can it be that spoken words are still understandable? This is the function of the aforementioned master signifiers. They have no meaning themselves and are limited to the function of bringing the movement of referring from meaning to meaning to a halt. In this way, they sort of sew the signifiers with the signifieds. Signifiers that realize this stop function are the master signifiers or quilting points (as above) of structural psychoanalysis: they prevent the signified from constantly slipping under the signifier.

If one focuses on the functioning of sentences, the meaning—which shifts with every added word—is stabilized by the end of the sentence; the signifier in quilting-point function is, in a sense, the period.

 

The phantasm

Another important aspect in this context is the concept of the phantasm, already described in the previous article. The phantasm allows the subject to locate itself in the context of its desires. In the phantasm, the split subject ($) relates to an object in which it projects what it has lost by entering the world of language. The subject, attempting to grasp itself in its desire, can initially only grasp itself in what it desires. And here, again, the I or I-ideal at the end of the vector of desire plays a central role, as it causes the split subject to locate itself as an object and to fix itself in an illusory manner.

 

Self-similarity in biology and psychoanalysis: Discoveries at the intersection of protein biosynthesis and the unconscious

Protein biosynthesis—a central biological process in which proteins are synthesized from amino acids according to the template of genetic information in DNA and RNA—is surprisingly analogous the concepts of the unconscious in structural psychoanalysis.

At the heart of protein biosynthesis is messenger RNA (mRNA), which acts as a messenger transporting genetic information from the DNA code in the cell nucleus to the ribosomes, the sites of protein production. There, the sequence of the mRNA is translated into a specific amino acid chain that folds into a functional protein. This process involves several steps: transcription, translation, and folding. The mRNA plays a key role by translating the ‘language’ of DNA into a form that can be ‘read’ by the ribosomes and translated into proteins via tRNA.

The attentive reader will have already noticed the similarity here. The processes of the unconscious are conveyed to us (as a dissociated ‘part’ of the split subject) in a parable-like manner in the form of protein biosynthesis. Put in different words, the processes of the unconscious appear to us as protein biosynthesis from a dissociated (imaginary spatiotemporal) perspective.

The words and sentences in the signifying chain (S to S’ in the graph of desire above) can be easily identified with the molecular chain in messenger RNA, the element that transmits the genetic message. Thus, from a topological perspective, mRNA may correspond to a chain of signifiers in the unconscious. If this is the case, one would expect that the synthesized protein emerges from the vector of desire; that the signified corresponds to the protein.

The embodiment of the subject—the biological organism—is shaped by proteins. From the perspective of structural psychoanalysis, the subject is split, dissociated, or excluded, which is represented by $ in the graph of desire. The crossing out of the S symbolizes that the subject is marked by the signifiers. This marking results in the subject being excluded from a part of itself, a part that constitutes it and is referred to as the unconscious.

Such a split is also reflected in our body, which is ‘marked’—among other things—by the language of DNA: processes within our body that are not directly accessible to us. As such, we are also physically ‘split’ between the part to which we have access (our Imaginary body surface) and the inner part from which we are both psychologically and physically excluded because we are ‘barred outside.’

 

The ribosomal quilting point

As discussed, in the graph of desire two intersection points arise between the signifying chain and the vector of desire, which we labeled as ‘A’ for Other and ‘M’ for Message. This means that the satisfaction of need is subjected to a code in language (A) and tied to the formation of a message (M). Let’s compare this with the processes at the ribosome.

At the so-called A-site of the ribosome, the tRNA loaded with an amino acid binds—through its anticodon—to the corresponding codon of the mRNA. What does this so-called codon recognition represent? Or, in J. W. v. Goethe’s words, how does it present itself to the “contemplative power of judgment”? For the process of protein biosynthesis to make sense, it must submit to the rules of a code. This submission takes place at the A-site of the ribosome, which we can therefore topologically align with the intersection point A of the graph of desire.

At the intersection point ‘M’ of the graph of desire, the signified is formed. Where can we locate this in the ribosome? As already discussed, the signified corresponds to the synthesized protein. The site of this synthesis, where the elongating protein emerges, is the P-site. Thus, we find the two topological intersection points in a self-similar manner at the corresponding positions in the ribosome.

Another connection is equally clear: we mentioned the so-called master signifiers, which are necessary to finalize the stitching of the chain of signifiers (in this case, the mRNA) with the signified (the protein biosynthesis) in the form of a quilting point. These master signifiers have no meaning themselves. They are limited to the function of bringing the movement of referring from meaning to meaning to a halt. Now, what brings the translation—the reference movements of the ribosome from which the protein (the meaning, the signified) emerges—to a halt? The so-called stop codon! And for this stop codon—also called ‘non-sense (!) codon’—there is no corresponding tRNA, so it remains empty; it has no meaning itself, just as the master signifier itself has no meaning.

From the perspective of the quilting point, the role of the tRNAs, which represent adaptors in the sense of code biology4—i.e., those molecules that establish a relationship between two different types of molecules—also becomes clear: the adaptors (the tRNAs) execute the quilting point by sewing the signifiers with the signified. It’s probably no coincidence that the structure of this ‘quilting point tRNA’ is referred to as a hairpin structure: the needle with which the quilting point is executed.

 

The Levinthal Paradox

In connection with the quilting point, there is another remarkable analogy: the so-called Levinthal Paradox. The molecular biologist Cyrus Levinthal came upon this paradox while elucidating the process by which a chain of amino acids quickly achieves its folded state as a protein. The paradox is that the combinatorial multitude of possible foldings increases exponentially with the length of the amino acid chain and should require immense time. Yet, protein folding happens rather quickly in the body.

Can we better understand this paradox with the help of the self-similar structures of the unconscious? We have already discussed the retroactive determination of the signified of a chain of signifiers by the end of the chain: the signifier also intervenes in the signified on the diachronic level—i.e., in the temporal succession of the chain of signifiers. Here, the last element of a chain—somewhat like the period in a sentence—retroactively determines the meaning of the entire sentence. There is a feedback loop from the last element of the chain to the signified of the entire chain.

Protein biosynthesis similarly involves the creation of a signified, which is precisely brought into its overall desired form—i.e., folded configuration—by the last element of the chain of signifiers, just as the meaning of a sentence is retroactively determined by its end.

 

Hidden messages: the unconscious as the discourse of the Other in psychoanalysis and biology

In structural psychoanalysis, the unconscious is understood as the ‘discourse of the Other.’ This means that the unconscious is more than just a collection of signifiers; it is an ongoing discourse, a form of communication consisting of prohibitions, instructions, and rules. The author of these messages is not the subject itself, but the ‘Other’ in its symbolic function. This ‘Other’ represents the Symbolic order that sets limits for the subject.

The subject must persistently repeat the misunderstood part of the discourse of the Other, which is inherently fraught with lack, manifesting in symptoms and transferences. The unconscious manifests itself in this repetition, in the symptoms and transferences.

Similarly, our bodies, our cells, speak within us persistently, without our consciousness. In constant repetition, organisms emerge from their ancestors and their genetic messages, to reproduce and carry forward the messages. These consist of misunderstood codes, of rulebooks, of prohibitions and commands. And these messages act within us, whether we want them to or not. They speak incessantly and are exchanged in a network of organisms.

We do not understand this language, these messages; they are not conscious to us. And because we do not understand them, we are forced to repeat them constantly. In doing so, we produce symptoms. One of these ‘symptoms’ is our body, which also speaks without our understanding the messages.

Therefore, embodied organisms themselves can be understood as quilting points, as repeated attempts of the subject to sew itself together, to find itself as a self, and finally come to a halt. In this process, new signifieds, meanings, proteins, organisms continually emerge, seen from an Imaginary perspective as an evolutionary process in time and space, from plants to animals and up to the human ‘I.’

 

References

  1. https://www.essentiafoundation.org/the-subject-beyond-the-i-on-structural-psychoanalysis/reading/
  2. https://www.lacanonline.com/ or https://lacan-entziffern.de/ (German)
  3. https://www.lacanonline.com/2020/04/a-tour-of-the-graph-of-desire/
  4. Barbieri M. What is code biology? Biosystems. 2018 Feb;164:1-10. doi: 10.1016/j.biosystems.2017.10.005. Epub 2017 Oct 6. PMID: 28993248.

Understanding collective self-consciousness in Hegelian pragmatism (The Return of Idealism)

Understanding collective self-consciousness in Hegelian pragmatism (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Continental Philosophy

AI(Artificial Intelligence) concept. 3D rendering.

Hegel is usually thought of as defending an obscure metaphysics that claims reality is the manifestation of a collective mind, or Geist. But, as Prof. Terry Pinkard argues, Hegel has a lot in common with the more ‘down-to-earth’ movement of pragmatism. This essay is the second instalment of our series The Return of Idealism, produced in collaboration with the IAI. It was first published by the IAI on January 23rd, 2024.

Hegelianism is often thought of as the super-theoretical German mishmash of absolutist philosophy that is great in theory but ridiculous in practice, whereas pragmatism is often thought of a kind of philosophical version of ‘who cares whether it’s true, the question is whether it works,’ which is enough for some to reject it as crass and unphilosophical. Or, to reverse the joke ascribed to Sidney Morgenbesser: The problem with pragmatism is that it is great in practice but not in theory.

Given the diametrically opposed reputations these philosophical movements have, it might come as a surprise to many people just how close the two schools of thought actually are. Sure, people might know that Hegel influenced many of the early pragmatist thinkers, but the suggestion that he himself was a pragmatist of any sort has until very recently been out of bounds. That has all changed in the last couple of decades as many non-Hegelian pragmatists have been taking a new look at Hegelian thought, and Hegelians have been enticed to start working out an updated Hegelianism via a refreshed investigation of twentieth century pragmatism. Most recently, the noted contemporary philosopher of language, Robert Brandom, has taken to describing his own analytical work as pragmatist and Hegelian, a combination that only a few decades ago would have resulted in strict social sanctions against such intellectual heresy.

But this turn of fortune shouldn’t actually surprise anybody. If anything, Hegel shares with the pragmatists an opposition to misplaced abstraction in philosophical thought. “Man” as such doesn’t exist, he would tell his students, and “laws and principles have no immediate life or validity in themselves. The activity that puts them into operation … has its source in the needs, impulses, inclinations and passions of man.”

Like the pragmatists who (much later) came after him, Hegel opposed a tempting but ultimately false view of human action. On that view, we must distinguish sharply between the meaning and truth of thoughts taken on their own, and the force we give those thoughts when we do things like use them to make assertions. For example, many philosophers would hold that the truth or falsity of the abstract thought, “The state is best comprehended in terms of a social contract,” stands independent of whomever is asserting it and whenever it’s asserted. As the great logician-philosopher, Gottlob Frege, put it, the meaning and truth of a concept should be entirely distinct from the force we give it when we put it to use to assert things. Hegel, on the other hand, thought that this suggestion falsified the intricate way in which thought and action are linked to each other. In particular, in his practical philosophy, Hegel often spoke as if he were a pragmatist avant la lettre. What we do with the words and thoughts makes an enormous difference to the very meaning of the concepts themselves. The real meaning of a concept does not emerge until it gets put to use, and that means that its materiality in use makes a difference to its meaning.

In particular, Hegel rejected a hard and fast distinction between—to use the terms given to it in contemporary discussions—justifying and motivating reasons. Motivating reasons are the ones that can causally explain your actions, such as ‘She was really angry, which explains what she did.’ Justifying reasons are, well, the ones that justify (or don’t) your actions—such as ‘Yes, being angry may prompt you to say such and such, but it never justifies it.’ Sometimes the two—justification and motivation—may coincide, but it might seem as if that is just a happy accident when it happens. However, if we are to hold onto the idea that human life involves some measure of free action, it cannot be the case that justifying reasons are completely irrelevant when explaining one’s actions. What we think is right must have some explanatory value in accounting for our actions. For both Hegel and the pragmatists, there has to be a way in which the ‘ideal’ also explains the material course of human life and can make a difference as to what we do. ‘Concepts’ are not merely abstractions that don’t motivate and hence don’t explain actions. They link up with ‘passions and interests’ in very concrete ways.

This focus on the link between concept and action has been given a renewed twist in the writings of some recent Hegelian scholars who have looked for the link between Hegel and pragmatism to be found in terms of Hegel’s own concept of ‘life.’ Building on, extending and transforming some older work on Hegel, several younger philosophers—Karen Ng (Hegel’s Concept of Life: Self-Consciousness, Freedom, Logic), Thomas Khurana (Das Leben der Freiheit: Form und Wirklichkeit der Autonomie, soon to be translated into English), Dean Moyar (Hegel’s Value: Justice as the Living Good), and Andreja Novakovic (Hegel on Second Nature in Ethical Life)—have recently made the case that Hegel picked up on the idea of life as self-maintenance to give a unified shape to the more abstract and dualistic distinction of explanation and justification. It is when life on earth becomes self-conscious life in its human form that Hegel’s own conception of Geist—mind or spirit, depending on the translator—comes into view. Geist is a specific type of unity of self-conscious lives. It is not merely the sum of various individuals. You don’t just add up individuals as if they were all just separate little individual data points and arrive at Geist. On the other hand, Geist is also not some super-entity swallowing everything else into itself and thereby obliterating the individuality of the individuals within it. Instead, it is the non-additive collection of self-conscious individuals whose individuality emerges only in terms of their being those individuals within that collective life. Or, as Hegel puts it, Geist is the unity that shapes the individuals contained within it, but it does not exist without those individuals, and the role of self-consciousness in all this makes, according to Hegel, all the difference in the world.

An analogy that might help to make this more intuitive would be that of the relation between a language and its speakers. English is a language that shows itself in the individual speech acts of its speakers, and each of us English speakers manifests the entire language as we use it in on our day to day lives. Each of us is carrying around, as it were, the entire language with us as we make our way through daily life. To use Hegel’s own rather inimitable vocabulary, if the language is a ‘universal,’ we, as its individual speakers, are ourselves also ‘the universal.’ Without the speakers, the language could not exist; without the language, we could not be its speakers. Each is bound together as an ‘I’ that is a ‘We,’ and a ‘We’ that is an ‘I’ (as Hegel defines Geist). An abstract language (‘English’) is not fully real unless it is lived and developed by its speakers. It is no accident that Hegel himself stated in a couple of different places in his 1807 Phenomenology of Spirit that language in fact was the very existence of Geist: if no language, then no Geist; if no Geist, then no language.

Hegel’s conception of Geist—neither additive nor subsumptive, not just a heap of atomized individuals nor a state swallowing and abolishing individuality—led him to develop his version of an idealist conception of world history. The very nature of self-conscious life is always to be beyond itself, to be striving to determine what it would be best to be and to make sense of what it is doing. Ultimately, that means that self-conscious life strives for a kind of self-determination, a comprehension of itself as existing only in the self-conscious apprehension of itself as an I that is a We, and a We that is an I. In other words, a conception of not just a species with individual exemplars, but a species that lives in its social practices where the practices themselves are a form that unites the people who bear that form. Hegel calls that form, variously, a form of life, a shape or Gestalt of consciousness, even a shape of a whole world (as a kind of culture or civilization). Those forms of life as ensembles of social practices, held together by various shared commitments and meanings, are articulated in the materiality of its technologies, the institutions of its political lives, and in the art, religion and philosophy. Like the languages we speak, those deep meanings and commitments show themselves in our activities, and they are all implicated in our collective self-consciousness.

The history of the world was the history of the ways that these different forms of self-conscious life developed. And they developed by gradually uncovering the ways that their own deep commitments to doing things were at odds with themselves, which in turn had led them into a more and more uninhabitable world of their own making. Their shared life, their living in the light of what ultimately mattered to them, had turned out to be ultimately contradictory. As the realization of this set in among its members, that form of life began to lose their allegiance and started breaking down. In that setting, the people living in the rubble of the breakdown had to pick up the parts that still worked, discard the parts that did not and put together a new form of life. (Hegel called that an Aufhebung—an activity of both cancelling and preserving.) The new form in turn developed itself up to its own limits and at those limits where the contradictions became more glaring and unconcealed, broke down again. The history of the world was the history of whole ways of life breaking down in this way and being succeeded by others. But this was not a cyclical process—that of kingdoms come, kingdoms go—it was a more linear and progressive affair as Geist—self-conscious life, humanity—learned from its failures and improved on its past.

This historical learning process did not always go smoothly. Progress almost never proceeded without bumps in the road, and in too many cases it did so in darkly comical and sometimes violently sinister ways. But, so Hegel argued, all in all it did mark progress. We were getting better at collectively shaping our shared lives in terms of what ultimately matters, and what we had learned by the modern period was that what had turned out to matter to us absolutely in the course of history was the idea of freedom itself. Freedom not just as an abstract ideal but as what Hegel called (again in his own inimitable way) the “Idea”, as the unity of the concept of freedom and what was required to put that concept into practice – the concrete, material shape of specific arrangements of property rights, moral commitments, family life, social and economic organization and a political life conceived around the idea of a universal equality of freedom among all people.

For both Hegel and the pragmatists, one had to determine what to do with the concepts at stake in world history. For some of the pragmatists, Hegel had turned to be a great philosopher but not much of a prophet. Thus, some of them—most notably John Dewey—tried to give Hegel’s idealist philosophy of history a more down to earth and “naturalized” feel. What history as a learning process really did with its ideas is create what Dewey called “permanent deposits”—conceptions of life and the world that once laid down and articulated proved very resistant to being cast aside. Modern science was one such problem-solving “permanent deposit.” In the practical realm, in the 19th and 20th century, one had the idea of democracy as just such a “permanent deposit.” Updating and correcting Hegel, Dewey called democracy a “way of life”—not just a matter of suffrage and voting, nor just a matter of unicameral versus bicameral legislatures. Democracy concerned itself with much the same kinds of things Hegel thought—laws, morals, family life, economic organization and political association, and as Dewey wrote in 1919 in a short piece, “Philosophy and Democracy,” democracy had to do with “a conviction about moral values, a sense for the better kind of life to be led.”

However, whereas in 1820 Hegel had thought history was pointing toward a kind of British constitutional monarchy staffed by ultra-efficient Prussian bureaucrats, for the twentieth century pragmatists, history was pointing at democracy as a way of life, even if it’s not where history sometimes seems to be going. Updated by modern pragmatism, democracy is thus a Hegelian Idea demanding its own actualization.

Or at least that’s the theory. But, as Hegelians and Pragmatists both say, what we have to do now is see if it can be put into practice.

The science of consciousness after death

The science of consciousness after death

Reading | Metaphysics

Laleh K. Quinn, PhD | 2024-01-21

Life after the death. Man walks over clouds and tiny light.

When the results of observations and experiments designed to investigate the possible continuance of consciousness after bodily death are interpreted according to standard scientific criteria, they strongly indicate the reality of the hypothesis. We fail to acknowledge it because of metaphysical biases ingrained in our culture and, in particular, academia, argues Dr. Quinn.

There has never lived an honest soul who could tolerate the thought that everything ends with death, and whose noble sentiment did not rise to a hope for the future.
Immanuel Kant

Charles Howard Hinton, a brilliant mathematician living in the late 1800’s, believed in, and eloquently mathematically described, a fourth spatial dimension alongside our 3-D reality. That is not so odd in itself. What is odd about him is that he believed that, if we focused our attention enough on this spatial dimension, if we worked diligently at attempting to visualize it, we would directly encounter the “spirit world.” William James, the father of American psychology and well-known Harvard professor, attended seances and became president of the Society for Psychical Research, dedicating a large part of his life to understanding and proving the existence of parapsychological phenomena, describing it as “established fact.” Carl Gustav Jung, the founder of analytical psychology and one of the most impactful minds of the 19th and 20th centuries, also attended seances and believed in forces beyond those that constitute our normal reality, arguing for the existence, along with space, time and causation, of a fourth acausal force, “synchronicity.”

How could this all be? How could such brilliant, rational minds believe in things that are so seemingly irrational?

I believe it’s because they all had experiences that they couldn’t explain under the standard materialist understanding of the world. For Jung it was prophetic dreams and prima facie impossible synchronistic events, along with having a cousin who worked as a professional medium and for whom he had great respect. For James it was a deep curiosity into the world of mediumship, after having tragically lost his son. Surprisingly, even for him, after meticulously testing a well-known medium, Leonora Piper, the theory that mediumship is impossible was rendered false by his direct experience with the capacities of an extraordinarily accurate one. James called this his “white crow.” To disprove the hypothesis that all crows are black one only need discover a single non-black crow. Similarly, for James, to disprove the hypothesis that mediumship is false, one need only experience one extraordinarily accurate medium. Both James and Jung came away with a worldview that was much more mysterious than the dominant materialist understanding of reality allowed for.

We could pass all of this off as crazy. And a lot of my colleagues would. There is a deep adherence to a worldview among materialist academic intellectuals that disallows the continuation of consciousness after death. This is really a shame. It dictates that we are nothing but a body that houses a brain—the producer of our sense of self and all our experiences. Our hopes, our joys, our loves, our sense of beauty, all reduced to a series of computations performed by about 80 billion neurons and their patterns of connectivity. What a dull, lifeless account of the miracle we truly are.

This view was not always held on to so vehemently. There was a period of open-minded investigation into the nature of who we are among the intellectuals and scientists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when honest, respectful debating on the continuation of consciousness after death was the norm. But, like the politics of today, academia has become extremist, respect for alternate views has become scarce.

As a skeptical academic scientist myself, I was nonetheless always intrigued by those rare, highly intelligent people who held non-materialist positions. I was raised in the materialist academic tradition that poo-pooed anything having to do with the continuation of consciousness after death. Even though this was not possible on the worldview I was indoctrinated into, I still secretly devoured the words of those brave, iconoclastic voices. When I first read The Varieties of Religious Experience, by William James, I experienced a mixture of extreme joy coupled with anger. Joy because James was suggesting that mystical experiences were valid and worthy of exploration, pointing to the reality of a world unseen. And anger because my academic colleagues were dead set against even discussing such possibilities. Buoyed by my dead intellectual forebears, I fully immersed myself into the search for evidence that consciousness continues on after death; and the evidence is overwhelming: as strong, or even stronger, than for any of the scientific claims that I, as a neuroscientist, have encountered.

Here’s how I came to that conclusion. I decided to go about it in the way that I was trained to do as an academic. The scientific method requires several steps. First you must have an understanding of the existing knowledge within the field you’re interested in. This includes having a grasp of both the already existing data and the theoretical background. Then you perform scientific experiments in order to further the knowledge within the field. This involves both observational studies and the creation and testing of hypotheses. Good science also requires an open mind to observations that do not fit into current theory. The history of science is full of overthrown theories that were held onto just because people have a tendency to be adverse to change. We need to ensure we’re not throwing out observations just because they don’t fit into the current theoretical understanding; that’s how theories are modified and evolve.

As a neuroscientist, I attempt to discover how the brain functions, how different brain regions perform different tasks, and what the underlying neural signatures of different behaviors might be. This field is wide open. It’s like being an explorer, since so little is known. We all gather data and, if our techniques are sound, we present what we find, which adds to the growing corpus of understanding. We set up our hypotheses and test them. And, most importantly, we make observations with open minds, so not to be blinded by theoretical biases. Then, others may accept our findings; not as absolute truth, but as probable truth. That’s how a lot of science works.

I attempted to do the same with the hypothesis that consciousness continues after death, and I tried to do it as rigorously as I do my neuroscience research in the lab. Scientific exploration of a subject requires an understanding of the already extant data. And it turns out that, just like studying any other field in depth, there is a vast amount of literature and data on consciousness after death, which needs to be read and sifted through; a vast literature and huge corpus of data that I had no idea existed.

The information fell into a few different categories: personal accounts of near death experiences, gathered by researchers such as those at the Near Death Experience Research Foundation (NDERF) and the International Association for Near-Death Studies (IANDS); parapsychological research performed in research institutes such as William James’ own Society for Psychical Research, the American Society for Psychical Research, and the Institute of Noetic Studies (IONS); mediumship studies performed at laboratories such as the Windbridge Research Center and the Schwartz Laboratory at the University of Arizona; and departments devoted to the scientific exploration of parapsychological phenomena such as the University of Virginia’s Department of Perceptual Studies (DOPS). I studied it all, as if I was in graduate school again. For many years. The evidence is impossible to dismiss.

Armed with such plentiful evidence, I felt excitement and hope. But, as it turned out, even though my research unearthed an overwhelming amount of evidence, there was still something blocking me from taking that leap to full belief. I realized that I was still under the materialist stronghold that has always dictated to the rest of us what can be deemed real. To most of my academic colleagues, the phenomena I was researching was not possible and, therefore, not worthy of my efforts to study it. The continuation of consciousness after death is not possible for them because of their presumption of materialism, not because they have researched the topic and found the research to be faulty. Materialists who deny the continuation of consciousness after bodily death by and large have not looked into the phenomenon with any degree of rigor. Again, for them, it’s impossible a priori, so why would you research it? To do so is as worthless as dedicating one’s life to discovering whether the Easter Bunny is real; and as intellectually vacuous.

I recently watched an interview between Steven Pinker, a well-known and staunchly materialist Harvard professor, and Sadhguru, an Indian spiritual teacher. Their discussion was on the nature of consciousness. One of the questions raised was whether consciousness could survive bodily death. Pinker gave the standard materialist response: of course not. The brain is responsible for consciousness and, once the brain dies, consciousness dies. He stated his reasoning for that position: conscious experience always has a brain signature, which we can read out by using brain imaging techniques. And because we can do so, there can be no consciousness without our brains.

As a neuroscientist, I know full well how the brain and consciousness are tied together. Damage the brain, or infuse it with a hallucinogen, and consciousness is very impacted. Ask a subject when they are conscious of a stimulus and the brain acts differently from when they are not. Does this prove that the brain is the cause of our consciousness and that without it consciousness cannot continue? No. And the materialists know that. They only take it as proof because the alternative doesn’t conform to their belief system.

Pinker continued with the other side of the argument: he said, if it were true that consciousness survives death, then we should be able to have seances and communicate with the dead. But, he claims, “We all know now that this is flim flam, stage magic.” He continued with what he assumed is the final word on the matter: “Ask Aunt Hilda where she hid her jewellery. She should be able to tell you. If that happened I would believe that consciousness could survive the death of the brain. That has never happened and I would be able to bet a lot of money it never will.” I wish Pinker were serious here. For, if he were, I and many others could point him in the direction of people who would be able to do just that.

I don’t expect to have provided proof to anyone but myself through my investigation into the continuation of our consciousness after death. My hope is only to have shown that a rigorous path of exploration into the phenomenon points very strongly to that fact. The rest is up to you to do your own work and study for yourself, but understand that it is misguided to rely on the dictates of the materialists who have never bothered to perform the proper research on this topic. The truth is out there to be discovered with an open mind and open heart.