Author: sesquipedalianThaumaturge

Frankfurt’s discussion of both free will and the definition of “person” relies on a tiered system of desires. At the most basic level are first-order desires, which are desires to do something. These can be effective desires, meaning that the desired action is carried out, or ineffective, meaning that is is not. For instance, my first-order desire to have lunch after I finish this post will likely prove effective, but my first-order desire to visit the Moon will probably remain ineffective for quite some time. This leads to Frankfurt’s concept of the will, which he defines as the first-order desire or desires that are motivating a being’s action at a particular time. Essentially, the will is all of the being’s currently effective first-order desires. The will is important, but even more vital to the questions Frankfurt considers are second-order desires. A second-order desire is the desire to have a first-order desire. Typically, the being with the second-order desire wants to want to do something so that they will actually do it, such as when I want to want to write this blog post because I want it to in fact be written. This is a particular kind of second-order desire called a second-order volition. However, it is not the only type. I do not want to vote for Donald Trump in the upcoming presidential election, but I might want to want to vote for him so that I can better understand the psychology of those who honestly do wish to vote for him. This unusual kind of second-order desire is not particularly important to Frankfurt’s arguments, but it is interesting to consider.

Based on these categories of desires, Frankfurt makes two related points. First, he proposes that the concept of a person be defined primarily as “the concept of a type of entity that has both first-order desires and volitions of the second order.” Second-order volitions, he believes, are the essential quality which separates people from other being which he calls “wantons,” those who do not care which of their first-order desires win out and end up motivating action. Second, he introduces a new concept of “freedom of the will.” A person has this freedom, he argues, when their second-order volitions successfully determine which of their first-order desires become effective and thus translate into their will. A drug addict then might lack freedom of the will, because despite having a second-order volition to not want to take their drug, their first-order desire to take it wins out and becomes their will. Frankfurt’s concept of free will attempts to sidestep questions of determinism, because the source of second-order volitions is irrelevant to whether a person possesses freedom of the will be his definition.

Frankfurt’s concept of freedom of the will is certainly a valuable idea, with a variety of ethical and philosophical uses, but it is quite different from the common meaning of “free will.” It thus seems rather disingenuous for him to attempt to pass it off as a replacement. His “freedom of the will” is an important concept, but its existence does nothing to resolve the question of whether humans make meaningful decisions or have our behavior determined by laws of cause and effect. Personally, I am partially free under Frankfurt’s definition. Sometimes my second-order volitions determine my will, but on other occasions my self-discipline fails and I am motivated by opposing first-order desires. However, this is an entirely separate question from whether I have free will in the traditional sense.

(582 words)

In order to convince his audience that human behavior is determined, Hume essentially argues that we already act as if it is, making everyday decisions that would be ridiculous if human behavior was not governed by causal determinism. Human behavior, he points out, is widely recognized to be broadly similar even across centuries and continents. People tend to have similar motivations and desires and decision-making processes. The idea of a human society in which everyone acts radically different from these norms is just as unbelievable as a tale of a society consisting entirely of centaurs and pegasi. We accept that the natural world is governed by rigid laws of cause and effect which preclude such fantastical creatures, so why should we not apply the same principle to human behavior and recognize that each action a person takes is the logical result of a variety of causes. Some might point to examples of unusual, irrational behavior with no discernible cause, but Hume replies that
“the internal principles and motives may operate in a uniform manner, notwithstanding these seeming irregularities; in the same manner as the winds, rain, clouds, and other variations of the weather are supposed to be governed by steady principles; though not easily discoverable by human sagacity and enquiry.” In other words, the fact that we cannot always understand the specific causes of a particular rainstorm does not mean we should throw up our hands and conclude that weather is uniquely free from the laws of cause and effect. Rather, we should recognize that we simply do not understand those laws well enough to perfectly understand their operation in every instance. In the same way, human behavior is governed by complex rules which are difficult or perhaps even impossible to fully grasp.

When exploring the implications of the determinism that Hume argues for, I think it is useful to separately examine two possible cases. In one scenario, Hume is right. Human behavior is entirely determined, and thus we do not really make meaningful decisions. All of our actions have discoverable causes. In this case, we cannot choose how we respond to determinism. Our reaction to the idea, how we change our interactions with others because of it, whether they believe it, whether we try to convince them of our position or not, all of these decisions have already been made by the laws of cause and effect. In the other scenario, we are able to make decisions. We can choose whether we believe in determinism or free will, and we can choose how we use this information in our interactions with others. In this case, we should clearly believe the truth of free will and act accordingly, holding ourselves and others as responsible for their actions. Given these two possibilities, it seems to me that there is no reason not to act as though we have free will. If free will exists, then we have made the correct choice. If it does not, there was never a choice to begin with.

In his attempt to prove that the self is an illusion, Hume has two essential premises: that the “self” must be something that remains constant over time and thus unifies the human experience, and that the human mind is a succession of feelings and perceptions that lacks a singular, eternal core. Therefore, he argues, there is no constant “self.” Instead, he believes that a person is “a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement.” Living as a human is merely experiencing all of these perceptions in succession, with no core piece that is constant through all of it. Hume argues that we cannot be conscious of any unique self that is separate from our perceptions. When a person is not perceiving anything because they are asleep or dead or otherwise unconscious, there is no distinct self that remains. Whatever identity we do have comes simply from the causal connections between our perceptions that we are capable of noticing because of our memory.

While I essentially agree with the second premise of Hume’s argument, I cannot say the same of the first. It is true that there is no central component of the human consciousness that remains constant throughout unceasingly flux of different perceptions, but this is no reason to conclude that the self is fictitious. There are all sorts of things which exist in the world which have no truly eternal part, and yet we do not say that they are merely illusions because of this. The human body is constantly in flux, losing and gaining molecules so rapidly that almost all of its matter is wholly replaced every few years. Tornadoes have no essential block of air which remains constant within them throughout their existence. A state may gain and lose territory and see its entire population replaced over and over through the generations, but it can still exist despite all that flux. The self is no different. Yes, it is a series of ever-changing perceptions, but those perceptions are inherently linked to one another and separated from the perceptions that make up each other self. They thus make up a distinct unit which is perfectly reasonable to think of as a “self,” and has a real and particular effect on the world. This concept is not an illusion or a fiction, but a very real presence which simply happens to be made up of rapidly changing parts.

(414 words)

Using the example of a lump of wax in different states, Descartes attempts to demonstrate that our understanding of objects such as the wax is derived from our intellect rather than our senses. He points out that a piece of wax can change dramatically in physical characteristics when heated, but we can still understand that it is the same wax as before. The quality that allows for this understanding, he argues, “could certainly be nothing of all that the senses brought to my notice, since all these things which fall under taste, smell, sight, touch, and hearing, are found to be changed, and yet the same wax remains.” Therefore, it must be the mind’s cognition that allows us to perceive the wax as being essentially the same even after it is transformed. While thought is certainly an important part of our understanding of the wax, Descartes oversimplifies in arguing that it is the only component. The mind can only come to its understanding because of the series of sensory perceptions which connect the memory of the solid wax and the current melted wax and indicate that it was not swapped out. On a different level, if Descartes had access to a microscope he could directly perceive the essential similarities in the molecular structure of the wax even after its transformation.

Descartes also argues that not only is the mind the sole force behind our understanding of the world, it is separate from the physical body. He arrives at this conclusion primarily through the argument that we can know the mind exists because we directly experience its thinking process, but the body could be an elaborate fiction with no basis in reality. This is a convincing argument in itself, but it does not necessarily support a dualist theory of mind and body. If the body really is an illusion, then the mind is independent and the whole question becomes moot. However, if the body is real, our lack of certainty in its reality does not prove that it is separate from the more existentially certain mind. The mind could still be an inextricable property of the body, and no real evidence exists against this possibility. At some point, one has to move beyond absolute certainty and accept concepts like materialism which are impossible to definitively prove from the confines of a human mind but are consistently very useful in dealing with the world.

Princess Elisabeth raises the important issue of how a separate, immaterial mind or soul like the one Descartes conceives can physically operate a material body. Movement requires physical energy or contact of some kind, she argues, so how could an ethereal mind direct the movements of human body? Descartes’ answer is a cop-out of the worst kind, in which he employs a lot of complex linguistic maneuvering to essentially say that the relationship between mind and body is a unique one which is impossible to understand through the lenses applied to other concepts. Therefore, he argues, the typical rules governing physical movement that Elisabeth draws on in her objection cannot be applied to the mind-body relationship. I find this sort of black box explanation totally unsatisfying. Saying that something is a separate “notion” to which other ideas cannot be applied is merely a curiosity-stopper which contributes nothing to real understanding of the phenomenon in question. Of course, in this case there is no phenomenon, because an immaterial soul cannot move a physical object.

(575 words)

Tolstoy sees art as a means of emotional communication. He believes it is “a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.” The idea of “infectiousness” is useful in understanding this concept of art because when multiple people experience the same work of art they are all infected with the feelings of its creator, and thus share an additional emotional connection with each other through their infection. To Tolstoy, the quality of art (not considering its subject matter) is based on how effectively it accomplishes this goal of emotional infection. This effectiveness is derived from the originality of the emotion being expressed, the manner in which it is conveyed, and the sincerity and intensity with which the art’s creator feels it.

Based on these criteria, Tolstoy contends that the viewer can judge whether something is art by seeing if they “experience a mental condition which unites [them] with [the artist] and with other people who also partake of that work of art.” He argues that this condition is inherently obvious and unmistakable (if the viewer’s sense of art has not been “atrophied,” at least), though it is not clear how this is possible when the viewer does not know for certain what the artist’s feeling in creating the work was, and thus cannot be sure whether they are being emotionally united. Irregardless, Tolstoy advocates using this distinguishing method to seek out and promote art that fits his definition and reject “counterfeit” art which focuses merely on producing pleasure rather than on emotional communication.

Tolstoy’s understanding of art is a compelling and valuable one, but it is incomplete. He is quite correct about the importance of conveying emotion and thus creating empathy and connection through art, and his method of evaluation is a useful first step in deciding whether to classify something as art and a productive method of artistic analysis. However, art can actually have value beyond its efficacy in evoking the artist’s feelings in the viewer, and Tolstoy’s definition of art is too narrow. For instance, there is a movie called The Room which by all indications was created with the purpose of seriously expressing feelings about the pain caused by love, the fickle nature of the world, and other such profound topics. It fails spectacularly at this task, and is widely considered one of the worst films ever made, but in the process it is extremely funny and can evoke quite strongly in the viewer emotions which were entirely unintended by its creator. The fact that this emotional experience is not shared by the artist does not make it any less valuable, or the work that evoked it any less a work of art. Tolstoy’s infectiousness is an important component of art, but it falls short in cases such as this one and is not a complete encapsulation of the myriad varieties of art produced by humans.

(508 words)

If a time traveler with highly questionable priorities decided to use their temporal power to show the rather mediocre sci-fi film eXistenZ to the ancient Greek philosopher Plato, he would likely be too flabbergasted by the very existence of video playback technology to offer any particularly coherent commentary on how the movie fit into his hierarchical model of reality. However, once he recovered from this shock, Plato would probably express even harsher contempt for eXistenZ and the games it depicts than he voiced about the paintings and poems of his native era.

To consider the film first, Plato would see works of art like eXistenZ as further removed from the truth and more damaging to to society than the media with which he was familiar. While they may not exactly reflect the nuances of politics or warfare, Homer’s epics at least make some effort to depict events that the audience can believe might really have happened. By contrast, eXistenZ has no apparent compunctions about portraying fantastical scenarios and technologies with no regard to if or how they might be remotely possible. In Plato’s eyes, this is even worse than shoddy imitation, it is intentional distortion. This deception is exacerbated by the fact that a movie with special effects is much more beguiling and seemingly real than a mere recited poem or engraved drawing, increasing the risk that people will have strong emotional reactions to it and confuse it with reality. In Plato’s ideal society, movies would be completely banned.

VR games like transCendenZ would fare no better under Plato’s system. He would view them as the ultimate incarnation of artistic trickery, deceiving their audience so effectively that they are virtually indistinguishable from the physical world. Depicting such a game within another work of art, and including several more meta-layers of virtual reality within the game, would seem to Plato merely to be adding more and more steps between the reality of the forms and the artistic experience. Such a work is so far removed from the truth that no useful insight can possibly be conveyed through it, and so in Plato’s eyes it is worse than useless.

(After further consideration, I must revise my earlier, disparaging opinion of the hypothetical time traveler’s priorities and conclude that the consternation evoked by showing Plato science fiction movies would be highly entertaining, and this activity will henceforth hold a cherished place on my time travel bucket list.)

(404 words)

Art is a philosophically controversial subject, and many extreme perspectives on it have been expressed over the centuries. However, until reading Book X of Plato’s Republic, I would have been hard-pressed to believe that an influential philosopher had seriously argued that art is almost entirely bad and should therefore be effectively banned. This unusual position arises from Plato’s rigidly ordered conception of truth. He believes that true reality is contained within a set of forms, general categories or rules which are self-evidently true throughout the universe. The “idea of a bed” falls within this category. All physical beds that we encounter in the world, then, are mere simulacrums of this pure, ideal form of a bed. Even lower on the ladder of truthfulness, in Plato’s opinion, are the “imitations” produced by art. A painting of a bed is not really a bed in the world, and a bed in the world is not really the idea of a bed, so the painting is doubly removed from the truth and thus deceptive.

Leaving aside for the moment its application to art, this concept of truth is flawed. Plato asserts that “if any one were to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be speaking the truth.” In fact, truth is derived in the other direction. The physical world exists on its own, and by observing patterns in its existence sentient beings can group its instances into unified concepts. There is no eternal “idea of a bed” which preceded humanity and inspired all physical beds. Rather, humans built structures on which to sleep, and then invented the concept of “beds” to describe and categorize these objects. The conceptual arises from the physical, not the other way around.

Plato operates from the assumption that art should be judged on its ability to communicate truth about the world, and given its position in his epistemological hierarchy he believes it fails entirely at this. He also offers several more practical arguments in support of the idea that art deceives people and thus harms society. First, he contends that “the real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested in realities and not in imitations.” A person who truly has a useful insight into reality should put it into practice, rather than merely writing about it. Because few great authors have also been renowned for their material achievements, Plato concludes that they must not really possess such insight. However, this is merely a form of the tu quoque fallacy. Plato is arguing that the content of the artists’ work must be false because their actions do not seem to match it, rather than directly disproving the content itself.

Another of Plato’s important premises is that human reason should dominate over human emotion, which leads him to argue that art is damaging because it encourages the emotional part of the soul over the logical part. Even if this premise is granted, the argument fails to hold up. Following reason over emotion is an arduous task which requires complex understanding of that emotion, and recognition that sometimes it needs to be expressed. Experiencing art and having strong emotional reactions to it is an excellent way of coming to this understanding. If one attempts to suppress emotion entirely it will always burst its confines and end up interfering with important decision-making, but by experiencing and learning about it in the relatively harmless context of art we can discover how to better master it when doing so is truly necessary.

While Plato’s anti-art absolutism is ridiculous, he is correct that art can be used to deceive. It is not inherently false, but all art is shaped by the society in which it is produced, and it has the potential to convey damaging ideas and reinforce oppressive norms. We should certainly not attempt to oppose art as a whole, it is reasonable and even necessary to examine the messages that art is delivering and support art that expresses true and beneficial ideas.

(681 words)

1. All beliefs, even seemingly inconsequential ones, have a significant effect on the believer’s decision-making and on their society.

2. If the beliefs are false, this effect is likely to be negative.

3. Basing one’s beliefs on strong evidence gathered through fair, skeptical investigation reduces the likelihood that they will be false.

C: All humans have a moral obligation to strive to only hold beliefs which are based on strong evidence acquired through fair, skeptical inquiry.

This is a fairly strong argument, though it is missing an important premise: namely, that humans have a moral obligation to try to have a positive effect on the world. Clifford does not state this premise or argue for its truthfulness, but without it his argument is invalid. However, this premise is widely assumed to be true, and it could even be argued that not having a negative effect on the world is definitionally moral (though the obligation part is less clearly implied). It is reasonable for Clifford to focus on the other aspects of his argument which are more likely to be controversial, particularly given the difficulty of making sweeping moral arguments. The premises which he does state are all true, and when the unstated one is added the conclusion does necessarily follow.

Practically, Clifford’s thesis calls on us to take responsibility for our own beliefs. They are extremely important to our identity and actions, so every precaution must be taken to ensure that they are true. We may think that we can escape this obligation by relying on wiser authorities for our beliefs, but our conviction that these authorities are in fact wiser and should be trusted is itself a belief which we must come to hold somehow. Under these circumstances, we have no choice but to struggle to uncover the truth ourselves. One of the most consequential opportunities to apply this principle is in voting, and more broadly in choosing one’s political alignment within society. Before using the power vested in us by democracy, we have a responsibility to independently seek out evidence and form our own assessments of the options available. However, it is insufficient to simply do research immediately before participating in an election, because by this point we will already have some political beliefs, even if they are not immediately obvious. We must keep in mind our empirical responsibilities during any engagement with politics, verifying the sources of information we are exposed to and searching our own thought processes for bias. Our beliefs will never be entirely accurate, but making them closer to the truth will allow us to have a more positive effect on the world.

Clifford’s argument seems free of significant fallacies, except arguably of the fallacy of presumption with regard to moral obligation discussed above. However, due to the relatively uncontroversial nature of the premise he presumes, this is an unimportant omission.

(475 words)

1. Green objects are blue.

2. Oranges are green.

3. Oranges are objects.

Conclusion: Oranges are blue.

Sound

1. If I did not receive nourishment for a year, I would die.

2. If I died, I would not be alive.

3. I am alive.

Conclusion: I have received nourishment in the last year.

Weak Inductive

1. Once, I saw a blue car.

2. Another time, I saw a different blue car.

Conclusion: All cars are blue.

Strong Inductive

1. Almost all humans have skin.

2. I am a human.

Conclusion: I probably have skin.

(89 words)