Category: Reading

Reality is the tapestry of perception (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Metaphysics

Dr. Helen Yetter-Chappell | 2024-05-26

Snow is white. Fire is hot. What could be more obvious? Yet a surprising number of philosophers do not think these things are true in the way that we ordinarily presume.

What is it for something to be hot? You know this. You’ve felt heat before. It’s warm, then it’s unpleasant, then it burns. It feels … hot. But when scientists look around, they don’t find the hot feel. What they find is molecules bouncing around rapidly. So scientists (re)define heat as molecular kinetic energy.

What is it for something to be white? You know this, too. It looks… white. But when scientists look around, they don’t find this whitish “look.” They find objects with different molecular structures, reflecting and absorbing different ranges of the electromagnetic spectrum. So white is (re)defined as having a molecular structure that reflects all electromagnetic radiation with wavelengths from 380 to 700 nanometers.

It would be absurd to deny that hot things have high molecular kinetic energy or that white objects reflect light in a certain wavelength. It is the business of science to reveal the structural features of the world around us. And it is amazing at doing so. But many philosophers go a step further. They take these structural features to be all that the world contains of heat and color. The whiteness that I thought was part of reality is but an illusion generated by my brain.

These are extreme simplifications of a rich philosophical literature on the nature of color. The key point is that the standard scientific image of the world depicts a radically alien place, leached of all warmth and color that infuses our experiences. The world is made into a blank dot-to-dot with no substance.

But does it have to be this way? Could the structures revealed by science themselves be infused with qualities like warmth and color? And what would the world have to be like, for this to be possible?

Berkeley’s Idealism

Enlightenment philosopher George Berkeley famously pushed back against this stark materialistic view on which reality is bereft of “sensible qualities”:

[I]t is my opinion that the real things are those very things I see, and feel, and perceive by my senses. These I know; and, finding they answer all the necessities and purposes of life, have no reason to be solicitous about any other unknown beings. … It is likewise my opinion that colours and other sensible qualities are on the objects. I cannot for my life help thinking that snow is white, and fire hot. (Third Dialogue)

Berkeley argued that nothing but an experience can be like an experience. (If you’re unsure, try denying it. Try imagining something that’s not an experience but is qualitatively like a tickle. Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Berkeley thinks the same is true for the experience of heat and whiteness.) If this is right, it’s no wonder most philosophers embrace a conception of reality as radically alien to us. Most philosophers are materialists. That is, they hold that reality is mind-independent. But the world as we know it is the world we experience. All that we know of reality – even all that we know from science – comes from our experiences of the world we live in. If the external world does not include experientiality, and nothing but an experience can be like an experience, the world we live in is nothing like the world we think we live in.

I’m actually very sympathetic to the idea that our knowledge of the world we live in is radically impoverished. But it is a sufficiently alienating view that I think it’s worth exploring alternative conceptions of reality to see whether we can’t embrace both our intuitive understanding of the world and the lessons science teaches us about the structure of reality.

Berkeley’s answer was the world around us is a collection of ideas—which we can roughly think of as mental images. This is a view known as idealism. Think about the chocolate cake you baked last night. What do you know of it? It’s brown and spongey; sweet and chocolatey; it’s got lighter colored, gooey buttercream frosting. According to Berkeley, the cake just is a collection of the experiences one has when one encounters the cake (brownishness, sweetness, etc.). There could also be far more to the cake than what I or you experience. Your friend with covid may not be able to taste the chocolatiness that you taste. Your blind friend may not be able to see the brownness that you see. Conversely, you can’t smell the complex overtones that the dog smells or sense the infrared that the snake senses or see the molecular structure that a scientist looking through a microscope sees. But Berkeley can accept that all of these are equally real features of the cake.

So idealists hold that reality is fundamentally mental: a structured collection of experiences. A problem immediately arises for such a view. If reality is a bunch of experiences, what happens when no one’s there to experience it? Suppose you put your chocolate cake in the fridge overnight. There’s no one there in the fridge to experience it. When I open the fridge in the morning, there it is. But what happened to it in the meantime? Did it pop out of existence and then pop back? Worse still, what if there’s no one behind my cake, looking at the other side of it? Does the other side not exist? Does its sweetness exist when no one’s eating it, or just pop into being when I start eating?

To have to answer yes to these questions would be an embarrassment, particularly for a view that is predicated on capturing common sense. And the challenge points to a more general worry: the worry that (in taking reality to be mind-dependent) we’ve done away with reality, making it nothing more than an elaborate imagination.

Fortunately, Berkeley has an answer: God. The details of Berkeley’s account are debated. But one simple interpretation (likely not Berkeley’s actual view) is captured by a famous limerick:

There was a young man who said God,
must think it exceedingly odd
if he finds that the tree
continues to be
when no one’s about in the Quad. 

Dear Sir, your astonishment’s odd
I am always about in the Quad
And that’s why the tree
continues to be
since observed by, Yours faithfully, God.

The cake doesn’t pop in and out of existence. Why? Whether it’s in the fridge or on my plate or in my stomach, God is always perceiving it. Likewise, the cake’s attributes (its backside, its sweetness) also remain constant. The same is true for the world more generally: It persists and unfolds, regardless of our thoughts, attention, or experiences, in the mind of God. Reality may be mind-dependent, but is not my mind dependent or human mind dependent.

Berkeley has not done away with reality: He’s given an account of the nature of reality. He has not made reality insubstantial. If anything, he’s given us substance—filling in the blank dot-to-dot embraced by materialism. As Berkeley quips, “a piece of sensible bread, for instance, would stay my stomach better than ten thousand times as much of that insensible, unintelligible, real bread [materialists] speak of.”

Nontheistic Idealism

I myself am agnostic. If idealism requires a traditional Judeo-Christian God, that strikes me as a cost. My book, The View from Everywhere (forthcoming with Oxford University Press), argues that idealism does not require such a God.

God is traditionally taken to be an omni-benevolent, omnipotent, omniscient agent. But none of these features are essential for God’s role in sustaining your chocolate cake. God could harbor occasional wicked thoughts or be unable to perform miracles and still sustain your chocolate cake. And God needn’t have beliefs (and hence knowledge) to sustain the cake. What is essential—at least on the view embodied by the limerick—is simply God’s sensory experiences: The experiences of brownness, chocolatiness, sweetness, and sponginess, as well as the structural relations between these experiences. I proposed peeling away the inessential attributes for a more minimal non-theistic form of idealism.

God’s mind is like a “black box” to us. For the traditional theistic idealist, a huge amount of work is concealed from us inside of this black box. Non-theistic idealism invites us to peek inside the black box and uncover the mysteries of how it all fits together.

I suggest that reality is a sort of “experiential tapestry” woven out of experiential threads. The central work is to explain (i) what makes up the threads, (ii) how the threads are structured or “woven” into a world, and (iii) how we relate to the experiential tapestry… and, finally, (iv) to show that we don’t need to abandon our scientific worldview to do so.

The experiential threads that make up our world go far beyond the experiences that you or I have. The experiential tapestry extends into my closed refrigerator (just as God’s experiences would). And the threads that make up the tapestry go far beyond the experiences that human beings are even capable of having. Bees, with their ability to see ultraviolet, snakes with their ability to detect infrared, and migratory birds, with their ability to detect the earth’s magnetic field, all experience aspects of reality—of the experiential tapestry—that we do not.

A wool tapestry isn’t merely a pile of yarn. The yarn is woven—structured—into a whole. Likewise, the experiential tapestry is not a jumble of disconnected experiences. Reality has structure. What structures reality is not over-under relations, but the same sorts of relations that structure our minds. Think about the experience of sitting outside on a hot summer day, sipping a cold drink, and watching a cardinal hopping about the branches of a tree. Your experience includes heat, cold, red, and green. But these experiences aren’t a disorderly jumble. The coldness seems bound up with the cup, the ice cubes, the liquid. The redness seems to inhere in the bird shape; the greenness in the leafiness overhead. Philosophers and psychologists have done a lot of work teasing out how to make sense of the relations that structure our experiences. On the view I develop, these same relations that structure our minds—the unity of consciousness, property binding, and spatiotemporal relations—also provide the structure of the experiential tapestry.

Non-theistic idealism, like Berkeley’s idealism, offers a picture of reality that is as it appears, building sensible qualities into its most fundamental nature.

But one of the aspects of the view that I find most exciting is that it opens up a new way of thinking about our relation to the world we live in. We are all well acquainted with our own feelings. When you stub your toe, you don’t have to infer that you’re in pain. You know it directly. Your pain is a part of you. I argue that our minds can overlap with the experiential tapestry, such that we can be as intimately related to the world we perceive as we are to our own pains. The sweetness you taste as you bite into the cake is literally a part of the cake (and the experiential tapestry). But when you taste it, it also becomes a part of your mind. We are not disconnected from reality, but embedded within and enmeshed in it.

Finally, I argue that idealism is compatible with contemporary science. Science tells us about the structure of reality. No experiments can reveal to us the ultimate nature that exhibits this structure. Idealism, by contrast, is a view about the ultimate nature of reality. Science tells us about the gravitational effects of black holes, the processes by which nuclear fission works, the particles that make up atoms, the forces that bind these particles together.  And to this, the idealist replies “yes, and it’s all experiences.”

This is just an outline of the view I develop. I cannot say enough here to fully develop it or to defend it (though I discuss the view in more detail here and in recent articles). But I think it’s clear that it gives a radically different conception of reality and our place in it—a picture on which the world we inhabit is not divorced from the world we experience.

None of this is a knock-down argument for idealism. I don’t think there is a knock-down argument for idealism. I don’t think we should expect to have unquestionable insight into the nature of the world we live in. Perhaps reality is stark and alien after all. But we are not forced to accept the alienating view of materialism. Idealism offers an enticing alternative, which is worth taking seriously.

Bertrand Russell’s failure to refute Idealism (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Metaphysics

Prof. Michael Della Rocca, PhD | 2024-05-11

In 1910, an event took place in the pages of the journal Mind that would turn out to be pivotal for the entire subsequent course of philosophy. This was a debate spread over two consecutive issues between the British philosophers F.H. Bradley and Bertrand Russell about Bradley’s version of monism and idealism. These articles had rather boring titles—Bradley’s “On Appearance, Error, and Contradiction” and Russell’s “Some Explanations in Reply to Mr. Bradley”—but the exchange proved revelatory.

This showdown was over Bradley’s central argument for the view that relations are not real. In other words, for Bradley, such ordinary claims as “I am five meters from the door” or “Bradley was born before Russell” are not strictly true. Of course, almost all of us believe that claims of this kind are true and that there really are relations between distinct things. But not Bradley.

This is not surprising for Bradley, who—like a small proportion of philosophers previously and an even smaller proportion of philosophers subsequently—was no respecter of commonsense. Bradley devoted the whole of his 1893 book, Appearance and Reality, to arguing for and drawing out the implications of this non-commonsensical denial of relations.

And the implications are as vast as they are troubling. For if there are no relations, then there are no relations of distinction and there cannot be a multiplicity of distinct things. And if there is no multiplicity, then there is at most one thing. This is called monism. Further, if there are no relations, then there are no relations of distinction between thought and the object of thought. Such a view, which effaces the distinction between thought and object, is a version of what has been called idealism. Further—and perhaps most alarmingly—if relations of distinction are eliminated, then there is no distinction between what is the case and what ought to be the case. That is, there is no distinction between normative facts and non-normative facts, and without such a distinction it is difficult to see how morality itself is possible.

Before 1910, Bradley—despite, or perhaps because of, the extreme nature of his views—had achieved an exalted status as one of the leading philosophers in the English-speaking world. Appearance and Reality and his previous writings had attracted many followers, including one Bertrand Russell who was a card-carrying Bradleyan in his youth—until he wasn’t. And it is, to a large degree, Russell’s rupture with Bradley that set the stage for the dominance of so-called analytical philosophy, which has been ascendant ever since then in the English-speaking world and beyond. (For a wonderful account of the setting and significance of Russell’s debate with Bradley, see Candlish’s The Russell/Bradley Dispute.) Thus, at stake in this debate is not only monism, idealism, and ethics, but also the whole subsequent history of philosophy and the analytic tradition in philosophy itself.

From this distance in time it is hard to discern all the considerations at play in this showdown. But I would like to extract one important point of agreement that emerged between Bradley and Russell, a point of agreement that provides us with a valuable way of understanding how Bradley argues, or could argue, for his extreme position and how Russell (and his many followers, i.e. almost all of analytical philosophy after Russell) at least implicitly sees Bradley. Thus, at a crucial moment in the exchange, Russell says that Bradley’s argument for the non-reality of relations turns upon “some law of sufficient reason”—the venerable principle of sufficient reason (the PSR)—according to which each thing or fact has an explanation.

It’s clear that Russell is right: Bradley is, in fact, relying on the PSR. Moreover, I believe that Russell and Bradley are right: the PSR does lead to the denial of the reality of relations, or at least a limited version of the PSR does so.

Let me briefly offer a PSR-infused argument for the rejection of relations. This is an argument in the spirit of Bradley, though not all of the particular steps I make are Bradley’s. The fullest presentation of my version of a Bradleyan argument can be found in chapter 3 of my book The Parmenidean Ascent.

Thus, consider things a and b which are related. Let’s say that R is a relation between a and b. For example, a is me, b is the door, and R is the relation of my being five meters from the door. It is important to note that this relation cannot be free-floating. It must be explained by, or grounded in, some thing or things. That is, it wouldn’t make sense to talk about “being five meters from” without mentioning myself and the door. We can only talk about relations intelligibly if we include their relata (the things that stand in each relation). Take away the relata and you take away the relation. Thus, R depends on, or is grounded in, (at least) a and b.

Here’s the first key claim in my Bradleyan argument:

1) R is grounded in a and b.

Thus, the relation, R, stands in a grounding relation to a, and also in a grounding relation to b.Let’s focus on the grounding relation between a and R, and let’s call this grounding relation R’ (R prime).

The second key claim is that:

2) R is grounded not only in a, but R is also grounded in R’, the relation of grounding between R and a.

To reach this second claim, note that not only is it the case that R grounded in a, but it is also the case that it is essential to R that it be grounded in a. It is part of the nature of R to be grounded in a. That is, it is part of the nature of R to be grounded in—to stand in grounding relation R’—to a. Because it is essential to R to stand in R’ to a, R depends in part—i.e. R is partially grounded in—R’.

So what follows from (1) and (2)? Because of (1), R is grounded in at least one of its relata, say, a. Because of (2), R is grounded also in R’, the relation of partial grounding that R stands in to a. But then, in order to fully answer the question, “What explains R?”, we must—since R is itself grounded in R’—first ask what grounds R’?

Well, R’ is a relation between a and R. So, given (1), R’ is grounded in the relata, a and R. But, given (2), R’ is also grounded in another relation of grounding, R’’, between a and R’. Thus, before we can explain R, we must first explain what R’ is grounded in, and so we appeal to R’’. But since R depends on R’, which, in turn, depends on R’’, before we can explain R, we must first explain what R’’ is grounded in (here I am relying on what is known as the transitivity of grounding). And we can see that we’re off on an infinite regress. The regress in this case is vicious since—unlike a tame infinite regress, such as that of the number series (1, 2, 3…)—it involves a claim of explanatory priority. That is, we need the additional relation R’ to explain R, and a further relation R’’ to explain R’, and so on ad infinitum. Since we need to keep generating new relations to explain the previous ones in the chain, the entire chain is totally foundationless. And so it turns out that we haven’t been able to explain the original relation R, the thing we first sought out to explain.

It turns out, then, that R—and relations in general—cannot be properly grounded or fully grounded. Relations cannot be explained, even though, because relations cannot be free-floating, the nature of a relation seems to demand an explanation. In this way, relations are incoherent by their very nature, and thus there are no relations.

Bradley’s insight, and Russell’s and mine, is that some version of the PSR leads to the denial of the reality of relations—indeed, it leads to the incoherence of the very notion of a relation. Actually, a full-blown PSR—to the effect that each fact or each thing that exists has an explanation—is not needed. All that is needed is the claim that relations, in particular, require explanations. And this claim seems hard to deny—otherwise one would be in the situation of espousing the dreaded free-floating relations—relations that exist or obtain without depending on anything, not even their relata.

So what’s the upshot? No relations, no distinctions, but a monism of a particularly radical form and also a version of idealism. And, as I warned at the outset, another upshot is the undermining of normativity itself and of ethics, as typically understood. In the dispute between Bradley and Russell, not only is the existence of relations at stake, not only is the existence of a world distinct from and independent of thought at stake, but normativity as such, mattering as such being at stake itself is at stake. No debate could be more significant than this debate over the reality of relations.

Because so much is at stake here, you can see why philosophers, such as Russell and his many followers down to the present day, are so bound and determined to dismiss Bradley’s arguments and arguments of the kind that I have advanced here in my own way.

Precisely because a powerful argument for the momentous Bradleyan conclusion has been offered, a philosopher like Russell had better have a good reason for rejecting Bradley’s argument—and mine. Since the Bradleyan arguments turn on some form of the PSR, you would expect, then, that Russell has a good argument against the PSR and against that limited form of the PSR that Bradley’s argument and my argument rely on.

So what is Russell’s response to Bradley? At the key moment, Russell identifies something like the PSR as the heart of Bradley’s argument, and his response to this Bradleyan move is quite interesting. Russell says simply, “it appears to me … that the search for a ‘sufficient reason’ is mistaken.” That’s it; that’s all he says in response to Bradley’s argument. Well, that’s nice, but it’s no argument against Bradley. It’s just a simple denial of the main claim that drives Bradley’s argument.

Russell is suffering here from the dire philosophical malady known as “loss of argument.” And the thing is: philosophers have more or less blindly followed Russell in thinking that he has defeated Bradley or a Bradleyan argument, even though Russell has done no such thing. He has simply denied Bradley’s conclusion and simply rejected the very tool—the PSR—that Bradley uses to reach his conclusion. Thus, the Bradleyan argument and conclusion are still alive and well and—because of its ethical implications—never more threatening.

Russell’s complacency in the face of Bradley’s argument—and philosophy’s complacency more broadly—is misguided. Instead, Russell and we should be afraid. We should be very afraid indeed.

Thoughts are more real than objects (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Metaphysics

Jeremy Dunham, PhD | 2024-04-20

What is idealism? Throughout history, in most cases, philosophical idealism is a metaphysical position. The idealist is concerned with reality’s fundamental nature. It is often mistakenly thought to be a reductive theory of the fundamental nature of reality. Many critics have supposed that the idealist tries to reduce reality to the subjective states of individual minds. According to this form of subjective idealism there is no world outside our minds. This view is often associated with the British empiricist Bishop Berkeley (1685-1753). Famously, when told that such idealism was irrefutable, the English author Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) shouted, “I refute it thus” and kicked a stone. The idealist therefore is thought to be the one who denies. They are anti-realist, anti-materialist, anti-naturalist, and certainly anti-stones.

This way of thinking about philosophical idealism is misleading. Many kinds of philosophers have both voluntarily and involuntarily been referred to as idealists. However, they are united by an understanding of idealism as a form of realism. Idealism is not a reductive philosophy. It argues for the real existence of elements of reality often dismissed. It is a realism about ideas. Even Berkeley frames his position as a realism. He wrote that “the real things are those things I see, and feel, and perceive by my senses.”

Berkeley opposed his view to those who regard our rich conscious phenomenal world, the world of tastes, feels, colours, and sounds, as in some way less real than the physical world. For Berkeley, the real stone is the coloured object which we see and feel and that resists us when kicked. If Johnson kicked the stone as hard as I imagine, he entered a world of pain. For Berkeley, this world is the real world. His idealism is ampliative, not reductive. Its aim is to account for the full extent of our reality. Berkeley, then, is not anti-stone. He argued that only idealism can do justice to stones.

Although idealism may refer to a doctrine that affirms the reality of our ideas in this subjective sense, there is another sense of the word ‘idea.’ This is the Platonic Idea, often referred to as ‘Form’ or ‘Universal.’ Idealism shares something in common with the modern philosophical view known as Platonism. But there are significant differences. Platonists defend the existence of universals in addition to particular properties. A Platonist about properties, for example, believes that in addition to the individual things in the world that have redness amongst their properties, such as the red pen in front of me and the red symbols on my computer screen, there is the universal redness. This universal isn’t in front of me. It doesn’t exist anywhere in space or time. It is an abstract object. An abstract object is neither physical nor mental. It is causally inert, fixed, and unchanging. Yet, when we see redness in the world, this redness is an exemplification or instantiation of that universal. Particular red things are united by the fact that they instantiate this universal. Accordingly, the modern Platonist seems to postulate two worlds. One of abstract objects and another in which they are instantiated. However, since the abstract objects are causally inert, the relationship between these worlds is mysterious.

One of the most important schools of idealism in its history is that known as absolute idealism. It originates with Hegel in Germany, but flourished towards the end of the nineteenth-century with many adherents in the Oxbridge philosophy departments and worldwide. Here, the idea in idealism explicitly refers to Plato’s ideas. However, the absolute idealist attempts to bring the two worlds described above together into one. Consequently, the abstract universal is made concrete.

In several places, Plato suggests that things have the properties they do in virtue of participating in the Idea (or universal). A beautiful thing is beautiful in virtue of the fact that it participates in the Idea of beauty. However, this suggests that the particulars stand in a causal relationship with the universals. Ideas are causally responsible for the existence of properties in the concrete world. Perhaps we are wrong to think of Plato’s Ideas as abstract objects after all? Abstract universals are causally inert, so whatever relationship there is between them and their instantiating particulars, it cannot be causal. This is the absolute idealist’s starting point. The universals do not exist outside of our world. They are immanent to it. They are not abstract, rather they are concrete. As Hegel claimed, since the living world is concrete not abstract, those who consider universals as abstract kill the living thing.

This kind of idealist argues that our world has the structure or form that it does because of the universals immanent to it. Hegel wrote that “The universal is the essential, true nature of things” and that “through thinking these over we become acquainted with the true nature of things.” Any individual bear, for Hegel, has a universal nature. It’s that aspect of its nature it shares with any other bear and thus enables us to identify it as a bear, even if we’ve never seen this individual bear before. But it is also different to every other bear. It has particular features that distinguish it from any other bear and make it an individual.

Crucially, in the case of the concrete universal, the particular features that make an individual the individual it is are not external to the universal but rather contained within it. You do not get the individual bear by bundling a bunch of extra particulars to the universal bear. Hegel dedicates much of his famous Phenomenology of Spirit to demonstrating that if you start with properties that are only externally related, it’s impossible to combine them together into the kind of unities that make up our world. A bear isn’t a bundle of qualities. It’s a self-preserving organism for which the parts depend on the whole as much as the whole depends on the parts. Its particular properties, like the thickness of its fur, are different in the winter than in the summer because they are internally related to the organism as a whole and sensitive to its survival needs.

What does it mean to say that the concrete universal contains particulars within itself? It means that the individual bear becomes the individual bear not by addition, but by negation. To think the abstract universal, you abstract away all the properties that differentiate one bear from another and the universal is whatever is left. The concrete universal, on the other hand, includes all those differences. The particularisation of the bear is the process by means of which it negates the properties that do not belong to it, leaving behind just those that make it the individual bear.

This is the meaning behind Hegel’s often quoted phrase: all determination is negation. ‘The true, infinite universal’, Hegel writes, ‘determines itself… it is creative power as self-referring absolute negativity. As such, it differentiates itself internally.’ This points to an important characteristic of the concrete universal: it determines the development of the individual. The universal guides the bear’s ideal development. It should develop from a cub to a yearling and then from a young adult to a mature adult. However, it develops in its own particular way. Although all bears develop from cub to yearling, only this individual cub developed in this particular way. The thought is that if you took away from the universal every particular way that the bear might develop, leaving us with the abstract universal consisting of just the features all bears share, you’re actually left with nothing. Certainly, you’re left with nothing living. You’ve murdered the living thing.

According to the most prominent contemporary metaphysical readings of Hegel, such as Robert Stern’s, the concrete universals should be understood as similar to Aristotelian substance kinds. This means that there are as many concrete universals as there are individuals to instantiate them. Emily is the individual human she is because she is a self-particularising concrete universal. However, the absolute idealists who dominated the British philosophical world towards the end of the nineteenth century believed that all these concrete universals were ultimately interrelated as parts of one all-encompassing concrete universal.

For the nineteenth-century British idealist Bernard Bosanquet, the perverse thing about abstract universals is that the wider their extension is, the less there is to them. This is because you get the universal giant panda when you abstract everything particular away from every individual giant panda. Then, to get the universal bear, you must abstract all the features that particularise it as one of its particular species of bear, like giant panda. To get the universal mammal you then abstract all the features that make each animal a mammal rather than a reptile, bird, or fish. The more things that supposedly instantiate a universal, the sparser the features of that universal are.

On the contrary, the logic of the concrete universal, Bosanquet says, does violence to the ‘inverse ratio of intention to extension.’ There is not less to the universal animal than there is to the universal bear, rather there is more because the universal animal contains bear within it and a whole host of other animals too. It’s the most substantial Noah’s ark you can imagine. However, if bears are part of a higher universal of mammals and mammals are part of a higher universal of animals, why stop there? Couldn’t there be a universal ‘living thing’? And perhaps one above that? For Bosanquet, this is exactly right. We keep going until we end up with just one concrete universal, the absolute Idea, the world as a whole. For Bosanquet this is ‘a system of members, such that every member, being ex hypothesi distinct, nevertheless contributes to the unity of the whole in virtue of the peculiarities which constitute its distinctness.’ In agreement with the Aristotelian reading of idealism, each individual is the self-particularising of the concrete universal, but, ultimately, it’s one and the same concrete universal self-particularising in various different ways.

The result of this is that we owe our individuality to a larger whole in which we are all systematically related and which relates us to each other in a fundamental way. Earlier I claimed that many people incorrectly regard idealism as a philosophy that is characterised by the things that it is against. However, here we find something that this kind of idealist really is anti: the idea of fundamental separateness. This has significant ethical implications. The most important absolute idealist of the twenty-first century, Timothy Sprigge (1932-2007), wrote that absolute idealism’s main message is that ‘we are nearer the core of things when we partly transcend it [our separateness] in cooperative ethical, cultural, and intellectual endeavours and in mutual aid.’

Idealism is a label that has been used to refer to a huge variety of different philosophical positions. I’ve focused on metaphysical versions to show how different idealism is from its common misconceptions. Idealism is not a reductive philosophy but an inflationary one. Idealism aims to do justice to the full extent of the characteristics of the world in which we live. Any thorough-going realism, any realism that takes every feature of our world seriously, must be a realism about the idea.

Many of the ideas in the article were developed in collaboration with Iain Hamilton Grant and Sean Watson when we wrote our 2011 Idealism book together. I’m also very grateful for many conversations with Robert Stern since then which have improved my understanding of the concrete universal. Thanks also to Joe Saunders and Emily Thomas for their comments on an earlier draft. 

A subjective world can still be real (The Return of Idealism)

Reading | Metaphysics

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

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.

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

Reading | Metaphysics

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

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 it. We 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 transcendent, independent, necessarily 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)

Reading | Philosophy

Prof. David R. Cerbone, PhD | 2024-03-03

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)

Reading | Philosophy

Dr. Giuseppina D’Oro | 2024-02-24

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.