Qualia Inversion: Sound and Color (A Contest with a "Valuable Prize"!)

If you're the kind of person who reads philosophy blogs, you've probably heard of inverted qualia thought experiments. The most famous example is red-green inversion: The red-green invert is someone who has reddish color experiences when she looks at green things (grass, leaves) and has greenish color experience when she looks at red things (blood, ripe tomatoes). Since the invert, like the rest of us, learns the meaning of color terms by example, her language and behavior is entirely, or at least virtually, indistinguishable from anyone else's. She uses the English word "red" to refer to the color of blood and "green" to refer to the color of grass, despite the difference in her color experiences of those things.

In a talk at UC Riverside a couple of weeks ago, Saul Kripke asserted that no philosopher had ever suggested the possibility of sound-color qualia inversion -- that is, the possibility of a person who experiences sound qualia when stimulated by light and color qualia when stimulated by sonic vibrations. Let's be clear that Kripke was not denying the possibility of synaesthesia. He was not denying that people sometimes (for example) experience colors alongside sounds when stimulated by sounds. Kripke's claim, rather, was that no philosopher had contemplated a true sound-color qualia invert -- someone who normally experiences sound rather than color when stimulated by light and color rather than sound when stimulated by sonic vibration and whose language and behavior from the outside is indistinguishable from that of non-inverts.

Kripke said this twice. I told him I was pretty sure he was wrong and that I had read such a discussion. Kripke challenged me to send him the citation. After a little research, I turned up my source: an unpublished essay by one of my graduate students, Nathan Westbrook. When I asked Nathan whether he knew of any precedents, he said he didn't. I also tried asking someone who had recently published a review of the qualia inversion literature; he too said he didn't know of anyone who had advanced that type of example.

But given the huge number of philosophy articles published each year and the prominence of qualia inversion examples, I feel sure someone must have discussed this kind of case somewhere. Therefore, I offer a challenge: Find a published discussion of sound-color qualia inversion. The winner will receive a "valuable prize" -- hm, what can I offer? How about: a drink of your choice (coffee, beer, whatever) on me, next time we are in the same city. (Okay, maybe that's no so valuable.)

Rules:

* The contest is open until June 14th or until someone delivers a satisfactory example, whichever comes later.

* To be satisfactory, the discussion must be published in a reputable philosophy journal or press.

* To be satisfactory, the discussion need not ultimately endorse the possibility of color-sound qualia inversion, just take it seriously.

* If more than one satisfactory example is submitted, the person who submits the best example will be declared the winner, where I will judge "best" impressionistically, criteria including but not limited to: the length and quality of the discussion, the prominence of the writer or venue, and how seriously the possibility is taken.

* If more than one person submits the best example, the first person to submit the best example will be declared the winner.

* Submit your example as a comment on this post or by email to me.

For the record, I lean toward thinking that sound-color qualia inversion is possible in a conceptual/metaphysical/pulling-it-out-of-my-a-priori-hindquarters-for-the-little-that's-worth sense of possibility.

Color experiences famously differ along three dimensions: hue, saturation, and lightness or brightness. They also differ in egocentric, subjective location. To work an inversion with sound, we need a one-to-one mapping of dimensions of variation. Subjective location would appear to be easy, since both colors and sounds have subjective location. Since brightness and saturation are both unidimensional, we might be able to map them one-to-one onto pitch and volume, which are also unidimensional. Hue varies in a bit more complex a way, with red-green as opposites and blue-yellow as opposites, but perhaps patterns in the overtone series could be used. Probably the hue-overtone series mapping would require some tweaking to work, but presumably human-like beings with a slightly different set of visual and auditory capacities could exhibit a clean mapping (e.g., if the beings were only capable of discriminating certain patterns in overtone variation). Another complication is our much higher sensitivity to variation in visual as opposed to auditory position. But I don't see why, for the purposes of the thought experiment, we shouldn't be liberal about such matters: The sound-color invert, for example, might be an invert only of a relatively poor-sighted person and/or might have an exquisite appreciation of subtle variations in the position of sound sources subjective location of sound qualia.

55-Year-Old Philosophers vs. 55-Year-Old Scientists

I continue to be struck by my finding, last week, that great philosophers produce their most influential work at a very broad distribution of ages. (Nifty chart here; if it's blurry click a second time to enlarge.) Physicists and mathematicians, in contrast, are reputed to peak early. Einstein notoriously said "A person who has not made his great contribution to science before the age of thirty will never do so".

Stephan and Levin (1992) have compiled data on the age at which Nobel-Prize-winning scientists did the work leading to the Nobel Prize. (The data could use updating, admittedly.) Their data confirm that scientists do tend to peak fairly early (even if not as early as Einstein suggests) -- in their mid-thirties. The graph below contrasts the distribution of ages at which scientists did the work earning them the Nobel with the (approximate) distribution of ages at which leading philosophers born before 1920 did their most influential work (see the earlier post for my method; one tweak on that method: I used Google Scholar to break the two ties).

Note that while chemistry, physics, and medicine all peak sharply in the 30s, philosophy distributes evenly across the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Note also that although there is almost no Nobel work done by scientists in their 60s or older (0.8%, according to Stephan and Levin), in my sample -- admittedly small, just 46 philosophers -- 8.7% of great philosophers' most-cited work was done at age 61 or older.

So take heart, my gray-haired friends!

Paul Hoffman

Yesterday, Paul Hoffman died of a heart attack. He was a great scholar and colleague. I will miss him terribly.

At a talk on Monday, John Fischer announced his own coming talk on why immortality might not be so bad, to be given Wednesday. Howie Wettstein said from the audience, "we should all live so long". We all heard it as a joke, of course. One of Paul's last acts as a philosopher was to argue during the question period after John's talk that he saw no impossibility whatsoever in the idea of enjoying continual bliss in a never-ending embodied life.

One of the wonderful things about Paul as a colleague was his immunity to groupthink, his ability to bring to discussion a different perspective and fresh set of considerations. I always enjoyed hearing what he had to say, especially when we disagreed. Paul's forthright independence of mind was also, I suppose, what made him such an interesting historian of philosophy.

The Rise of Ethics and Feminism

A philosophical discussion arc, as I defined the term a couple weeks ago, is a curve showing changes over time the use of a name or a word as a "keyword" in philosophy books and articles listed in The Philosopher's Index (which dates back to 1940).

Previous posts showed discussion arcs of various prominent philosophers. But I've also been searching by topic and subfield. One striking general result I've found is the rise of discussion in ethics relative to other philosophical subfields.

Here's a chart of the enormous increase in total rate of philosophical publication since the 1940s, with keyword searches related to subfield. (Note that the y-axis is scaled logarithmically. Note also that "*" is a truncation symbol, so that (for example) ethic* returns "ethic", "ethics", "ethical", etc. The rate of increase in the 1940s is somewhat inflated by the increase in the length of listed article abstracts.)

[If this or any other chart displays incorrectly, click on it to bring up a cleaner jpg.]

I don't know whether to find it alarming or exciting that if trends continue philosophers will soon be producing 100,000 articles and books per five-year period in some subfields.

What I am interested in here is not so much the absolute numbers, though, as the relative numbers. And not even the relative numbers per se, which may be somewhat misleading (since not all and only epistemology articles contain epistem* as a keyword, and the keyword false negatives and positives may differ by subfield), but rather the changes over time in relative numbers. In the chart above, for example, you will see that in the 1990s ethics (EMP: ethics, moral, political) crossed lemmings (language, epistemology, metaphysics, and mind). Assuming relatively constant false negatives and positives over time within each subfield, the crossover suggests that ethics has been growing faster than has language, epistemology, metaphysics, and mind.

The following chart displays that fact more clearly:

In the 1950s, about half as many books and articles had an ethic*/moral*/polit* keyword as a language*/epistem*/metaphys*/mind* keyword. Now there are more EMPs than lemmings.

Nor have other major subfields fared better, as you can see below:

The ethicists are taking over! (If only they would behave better.)

Feminism is now a major philosophical research specialization, as was not the case before the 1970s. The chart below displays its explosive rise. (In the denominator is EMPlemmings: all articles using any of the EMP or lemmings keywords.) Notice that the rise is almost entirely in the 1970s to early 1990s. The trend has been flat to declining since then.

The same chart shows a U-shaped curve for discussion of race. I double-checked a sample of the 1940s articles to see if they really did treat race or ethnicity as a substantive topic (rather than, say, using a phrase like "the human race" in the abstract simply to mean people), and almost all did use "race" in the intended way. In the context of World War II, race was I suppose a rather hot issue! Interesting that it should be less so, at least in the philosophy journals, in the heyday of the civil rights movement.

At What Age Do Philosophers Do Their Most Influential Work?

In an earlier post, based on an unsystematic sample, I estimated age 38. Today, with a broader and more systematically collected sample, I'm retracting that. Mostly.

Here's what I did:

First, I created a massive super-bibliography consisting of all the bibliographies from non-historical entries in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. I then examined the SEP citation patterns of all philosophers born from 1550 to 1919 who were cited in at least nine distinct entries -- 53 highly influential philosophers in total.

Next, I noted which of these authors' works were the most cited in the SEP (an imperfect measure of influence, of course, but it avoids my having to rely on my own even more imperfect judgment); and I estimated the age at which that work was produced as publication date minus birth year minus 2. (Minus two because the average person spends half of the year at which she turns age X at age X-1 and because of the typical delay between writing and appearance in print.)

(A few more methodological details: Wittgenstein's Investigations, published posthumously, I estimated as produced at about age 55, based on historical evidence. In the case of multi-edition or multi-volume work, I considered the first-published work. In the case of a tie in number of citations (which happened twice) I took the midpoint as my estimate. Two authors I excluded because they had no single work cited more than three times in front-page, non-historical SEP bibliographies: Peirce and Dewey. And because the question concerned relative productivity over the life span I excluded five authors who died before age sixty: Descartes, Nietzsche, Austin, Ramsey, and Prior.)

Here, then is the final list, arranged by age:

[If Reid isn't displaying correctly, another version of the chart is here.]

The mean estimated age of this group is 44. The mean age remains 44 if I tweak the measure by adding in any works cited at least half as often as the most-cited work and then take the midpoint of the resulting age range. I would guess that 44 is probably a smidgen on the old side as an estimate of the age at which philosophers' most influential work is done, since most work brews for several years before finally appearing in print. In that sense, the 38-year-old estimate isn't perhaps too far off.

But to my eye the more striking fact about the chart is this: How straight the line is from the mid-20s to the early 60s. If this were a bell-shaped distribution around 44, we should see flatter slopes at the beginning and the end -- as we do in fact see starting in the mid-60s. The straightness of the line suggests that there's isn't so much a peak age at which the most elite work in philosophy has been done but instead a long plateau from the mid-20s into the 60s, then tapering off.

There are various potential explanations for the tapering off that seems to start in the mid-60s; I wouldn't rush to the conclusion that the tapering reflects cognitive decline. Other possibilities include decline in health and the prioritizing of other goals.

Most Cited Journals in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

I am going to give you a seriously flawed list. There's your warning, front and center! I think Brian Leiter's list of top general philosophy journals is more plausible as a list of best-regarded general analytic philosophy journals. But for what it's worth, below are the most cited philosophy journals in the non-historical entries of the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

Some caveats:

* This list reflects the perspective of the SEP editors and writers -- largely an "analytic"/anglophone perspective, among other things.

* I am excluding historical entries and historical journals.

* I checked all journals that I thought would plausibly be cited at least 100 times, but it's certainly possible that I have missed some. If you think there are journals that should clearly be on this list that are missing, feel free to let me know in the comments. Of course there are quite a few good journals below the 100 citation cut. Philosopher's Imprint especially comes to mind. It has published only 64 articles so far in its lifespan, so it hasn't had much of a chance yet to develop a big log of influential articles.

* The numbers are noisy and approximate for a variety of reasons. Four journals, as indicated below, had titles common enough as bibliographic phrases that I was forced to do statistical sampling.

* To the extent these numbers reflect prestige, they reflect prestige over time rather than current prestige.

* Journals that publish many articles (like Phil Studies, Philosophy of Science, and Synthese) will be relatively advantaged by this measure, while those that publish few articles (like Phil Review and Philosophy and Public Affairs) will be relatively disadvantaged. I tried dividing by the number of articles published in two sample years, but this made the rankings implausible in other ways as measures of prestige; so I leave the raw numbers and note exceptional cases.

For what it's worth, my own impression is that Phil Review, PPA, and BBS are underranked by this measure relative to their prestige -- presumably due to their low rates of publication -- while Phil Studies, Phil Science, and Synthese, though all excellent journals, are a bit overranked, presumably for complementary reasons. I'm also inclined to think PPR and Nous are a bit underranked relative to current prestige.

The 200 Most-Cited Contemporary Authors in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

Yesterday, I posted a list of the forty most-cited contemporary authors in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. A number of people have expressed interest in seeing further down my list, so I am expanding it to 200.

Some caveats:

* "Contemporary" means born in 1900 or later.

* I excluded historical entries, so historians of philosophy will be underreprested.

* Each author is counted only once per entry, and then only if that author receives a bibliographical line on the entry's main page, as either first or solo author.

* The distribution of entries in the SEP should be expected to overrepresent the interests and perspectives of the editors of the SEP, and in particular the SEP has a strongly "analytic"/anglophone perspective.

* This measure emphasizes breadth of influence over depth.

* Citation patterns in the SEP are heavily biased toward recent works, with 2000 being the most cited year. (For a chart see the update to yesterday's entry.)

The list of 200 is too long for the main blog page, so I am posting it

here in the Underblog.

The Forty Most-Cited Contemporary Authors in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

As part of my background work on discussion arcs, I compiled all the bibliographic entries in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, excluding the purely historical entries, and I noted which philosophers were cited in the most different entries.

(Some obvious shortcomings of the method: It favors breadth of influence over depth, the distribution of entries might differ from the distribution of philosophical research energy, and it might favor the perspectives and writings of the SEP editors. My aim, I should emphasize, is to generate a list of people whose discussion arcs might be interesting, not to generate a definitive measure of philosophical prominence. I'm sure I have also made some coding errors; corrections welcomed.)

With those caveats, then, here are the top forty contemporary philosophers on the list (in parens are the number of SEP entries citing them; I examined 664 SEP entries in total; "contemporary" means born 1900 or later).

1. Lewis, David (162)
2. Quine, W.V.O. (133)
3. Rawls, John (95)
4. Davidson, Donald (93)
5. Putnam, Hilary (88)
6. Kripke, Saul (84)
7. Armstrong, David (72)
7. Nagel, Thomas (72)
9. Fodor, Jerry (70)
10. Dennett, Daniel (69)
10. Jackson, Frank (69)
10. Williams, Bernard (69)
13. Nozick, Robert (68)
13. Searle, John (68)
15. Chisholm, Roderick (67)
16. Harman, Gilbert (60)
17. Dummett, Michael (58)
18. Dworkin, Ronald (57)
19. Nussbaum, Martha (55)
19. Raz, Joseph (55)
19. Van Fraassen, Bas (55)
22. Dretske, Fred (54)
22. Van Inwagen, Peter (54)
24. Chalmers, David (52)
24. Goldman, Alvin (52)
24. Kitcher, Philip (52)
27. Goodman, Nelson (51)
28. Strawson, P.F. (50)
29. Parfit, Derek (49)
29. Sober, Elliott (49)
31. Stalnaker, Robert (48)
32. Williamson, Timothy (47)
33. Geach, Peter (46)
33. Scanlon, T.M. (46)
35. Burge, Tyler (45)
35. McDowell, John (45)
37. Mackie, J.L. (44)
38. Plantiga, Alvin (43)
39. Adams, Robert (42)
39. Gibbard, Allan (42)
39. Lycan, William G. (42)

I find one omission particularly striking: Thomas Kuhn, cited in only 29 entries. (Karl Popper is a near miss at 37 entries.) Kuhn's omission probably reflects, in part, the SEP's underweighting of issues in general philosophy of science; it probably also reflects this measure's favoring of breadth over depth of influence.

The absence of "continental" figures like Foucault (13 entries) and Sartre (23 entries) reflects the generally "analytic"/anglophone pespective of the SEP (though Foucault and Sartre do have historical entries devoted to them).

Comparing these results with Brian Leiter's informal survey last year, the top three results are the same (setting aside Wittgenstein, Russell, and Heidegger, who are not "contemporary" by the present standard), though Leiter has Rawls beating Quine.

UPDATE, May 7:

Let me emphasize that I excluded historical entries, so historians of philosophy will be underrepresented in the data. Also, the SEP bibliographies strongly favor recent work, with the work from the year 2000 being the most cited (cited 2.5 times as often as the year 1980, for example). Here's a chart of citation year in the SEP:

That might be another factor influencing the poor showing of Kuhn (whose most cited work was in 1962) and, as Brian Leiter points out, of Hart, whose most cited work was in 1961 -- though Quine (1960) still does very well.

SECOND UPDATE, May 7:

I have expanded the list to 200.

Distribution of Subspecialites among Anglophone Research Philosophers

As background for my work on discussion arcs, I've analyzed the distribution of research interests among research-oriented philosophers. Maybe some readers will find the data interesting.

My sample of research philosophers is non-emeritus professors with their primary appointments in Leiter top-20 ranked Anglophone philosophy departments -- 548 professors total, by my count. I noted the areas of research interest these professors listed on their departmental websites. Most philosophers listed about three to seven areas.

First, I looked at area of specialization, counting only the first listed area:

Then I looked at all listed areas of interest:

I also broke down historical interest by time period (splitting out Asian as a separate category):

Two things jump out at me from these data: first, the almost complete lack of interest in Asian philosophy among Leiter top-20 faculty; and second, the much greater rate of interest in metaphysics and epistemology than specialization in them. Here is a chart displaying the ratio of interest to specialization in the various subfields.

Almost five times as many philosophers list epistemology among their areas of research interest as list it as their first area of specialization. Philosophy of action shows an even higher ratio, though the total numbers are smaller. In contrast, philosophers tend not to express research interest in ethics or philosophy of science unless they list them as their first specialization.

On Continental Philosophy:

I also looked at interest in "continental" philosophy -- that is, interest in 19th and 20th century figures in the German-French tradition, like Hegel, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Foucault, and Derrida. Although top-ranked Anglophone departments have a reputation for hostility to 19th and 20th century continental philosophy, 45 philosophers (8.2%) listed continental philosophy or a continental figure among their research interests, an average of 2.3 philosophers per department. About 20% of Anglo-American research philosophers who express a research interest in any area of history of philosophy express a research interest in continental philosophy.

Heidegger and Wittgenstein Break Away from the Pack

A philosophical discussion arc (as discussed in Tuesday's post) is the trend, over time, in the use of a term or name as a keyword in philosophy articles and books. As I mentioned Tuesday, discussion of prominent philosophers' work tends to peak around age 55-70. However, not all philosophers show this trend.

Given that the dataset starts in 1940, the only age cohort suitable for examining breakaways -- philosophers whose discussion arcs continue to rise after age seventy -- is the cohort born around the year 1900. Only for that cohort do we have both peak-career discussion rates and later discussion rates in the dataset.

I examined the discussion arcs of eight leading philosophers born between 1885 and 1915: Wittgenstein, Heidegger, Carnap, Ryle, Popper, Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, and Quine. On the x-axis is date, in five-year slices. On the y-axis is a ratio: The number of times the philosopher's name appears as a keyword, divided by a broad index of philosophical keywords in the database, times 100. Five of these philosophers show the usual career arc:


Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty, however, and maybe Wittgenstein, seem to show a different pattern:


To see more clearly how Heidegger and Wittgenstein broke away from the pack, let's remove the clutter by taking averages:


From about 1940-1954, Heidegger, Wittgenstein, Carnap, Ryle, Popper, Sartre, and Quine were all receiving about an equal amount of discussion. But only Heidegger and Wittgenstein increased and sustained that level of discussion in the ensuing decades.

In the previous generation of philosophers, we seem to see the tail end of a similar story, with Frege and Husserl breaking away while Royce, Bergson, Dewey, and Whitehead decline (though declined Dewey is still discussed as much as is broken-away Frege).

Discussion Arcs

A philosophical discussion arc, as I'll use the term, is a curve displaying how often a topic or author is used as a "keyword" in a philosophical journal article or book abstract (i.e., in the article's or book's title, abstract, or list of key words). By looking at discussion arcs we can see what topics have been hot and what philosophers have been influential.

Let's begin with topical discussion arcs. On the x-axis is publication year, in five-year slices. The y-axis is a ratio: It's the number of articles in the Philosopher's Index containing the keyword, divided by a representative universe of articles, multiplied by 100. The data begin in 1940.

(A ratio is a much more accurate indicator of influence than is raw number, since the number of philosophy articles has increased about twenty-fold since the 1940s. I generated the representative universes, which serve at the denominators, by broad keyword searches, as indicated with each graph.)

Some topics have generated consistent interest over the decades. Dualism is one, as you can see below. The * is a truncation symbol, so this chart tracks any keyword starting with "dualis".

[Representative universe: language + epistemology + mind + metaphysics -- lemmings for short.]

Interest in the leading 17th and 18th century philosophers is also steady across the period (with perhaps Kant gaining discussion and Locke losing discussion):

[Representative universe: Lemmings + ethic* + moral* + polit*, or EMPlemmings for short]

Voguish topics, in contrast, are arc shaped.

Here, for example, is "twin earth" (a thought experiment about what the word "water" would mean in a world virtually identical to ours but with a different chemical formula for water):

[Representative universe: Lemmings]

And here is "ordinary language" (a way of thinking about philosophical issues popular in the middle of the twentieth century):

[Representative universe: Lemmings]

Here's a chart that displays the rise of Nietzsche from the second tier of historical figures into the first tier. (Note Nietzsche's final y-axis numbers are higher than those of Descartes, Locke, or Hume in the chart above.)

[Representative univerise: EMPLemmings]

Twentieth century philosophers also have arcs. Here are five influential philosophers born in the 1910s. Note that discussion of their work tended to peak at about age sixty, with the exception of Donald Davidson:

[Representative universe: Lemmings]

In fact, there's a fairly consistent pattern for the influence of 20th century analytic philosophers, as measured by discussion arc, to peak around age 55-70. The following chart shows average discussion-arc data from 26 prominent 20th century philosophers, with age on the x-axis. I normalized each philosopher's peak influence to 1. I did not truncate the philosophers' discussion arcs at death.

[Representative universe: Lemmings; all included philosophers are Lemmings specialists]

I find it interesting that influence tends to peak at age 55-70, while the age at which philosophers tend to do their most influential work is about 35-40. (Here's a preliminary discussion of that last point; I hope to have fuller data on the matter soon.) I guess it takes time for word to get around!

Update, May 12:

In this more recent post, I (mostly) retract my claim about the age at which the most influential philosophical work tends to be done. Check out this cool chart!

Chalmers's Fading/Dancing Qualia and Self-Knowledge

David Chalmers defends what he calls a principle of organizational invariance according to which if a system has conscious experiences then any other system with the same fine-grained functional organization will have qualitatively identical experiences. His main arguments for this principle are his "Fading Qualia" and "Dancing Qualia" arguments.

Both arguments are reductios. Let's start with Fading Qualia. Suppose, contra the principle of organizational invariance, that there could be a fine-grained functional isomorph of you without conscious experience -- perhaps a robot (call him Stu) with a brain made of silicon chips instead of neurons. If this is possible, then it should also be possible to create a series of intermediate beings between You and Stu -- perhaps, for example, beings in which different proportions of the neurons are replaced by silicon chips. If You have a hundred billion neurons in your brain, then maybe we can imagine a hundred billion minus one intermediate cases, each with one less neuron and one more silicon chip. The question is: What kind of consciousness do these intermediate beings have? Chalmers argues that there is no satisfactory answer.

There seem to be two ways to go: Consciousness might suddenly disappear somewhere in the progression, say between fifty billion and one neurons and fifty billion. But that seems bizarre. How could the replacement of one neuron make the difference between consciousness and its absence? You and Fifty-Billion-and-One are having vivid visual experience of a basketball game, say, while poor Fifty-Billion is a complete experiential blank. Surely we don't want to accept that.

Seemingly more plausible is a second option: Consciousness slowly fades out between You and Stu. But then what does Fifty-Billion experience? Half of a visual field? An entire visual field, but hazy or in unsaturated color? Note that since You, Stu, and Fifty-Billion are all identical at the level of functional organization, you will all exhibit exactly the same outward behavior. You will all, when asked to introspect, presumably say something like "I am having vivid visual experience of a basketball game". Stu is wrong about this, of course, if it makes sense to attribute assertions to him at all; but he is just a silicon robot without consciousness, so maybe that's okay. But Fifty-Billion is not just a silicon robot. He has some consciousness. But he seems to be badly wrong about it. His visual experience is not, as he says, vivid and sharp, but rather indistinct, or incomplete, or unsaturated. And Chalmers suggests that it's absurd to attribute that kind of radical error to him. Thus Chalmers completes the reductio: There's an absurdity in assuming the denial of the principle of organizational invariance. You, Stu, and Fifty-Billion all have qualitatively identical conscious experience.

I object to the last move in this argument, to the idea that it is absurd that Fifty-Billion could make that kind of mistake. My reason is this: Many of us make exactly the same mistake in ordinary instances of introspection. Some people, for example, when asked how detailed their conscious experience is at any one moment, say that it is extremely rich -- full of precise detail through a wide visual field, and simultaneously full of auditory detail, tactile detail, and detail in other modalities. Others say that their experience is very sparse -- they only experience one or a few things at a time. On the sparse view, when one is attending to the visual environment, one has no experience of the feet in one's shoes; when one is attending to one part of the visual field, one has no experience of the areas outside of attention; etc. I have argued that this dispute does not turn merely on a disagreement about terminology, and does not reflect radical differences in different people's experiences, but rather is a real substantive, phenomenological dispute. One or both parties must therefore be radically wrong about their experience. This is at least, I think, not an absurd view, given the potential sources of error about the richness of experience, such as the refrigerator light illusion (the possibility that thinking about experience in some modality or region creates experience in that modality or region where none was before, causing us to mistakenly think it was there all along). And if it's not absurd to suppose that ordinary people could be mistaken about how rich and detailed their experience is, it's not absurd to suppose that Fifty-Billion could be mistaken.

Dancing Qualia is a variation of Fading Qualia. It requires two visual processing systems with the same functional organization but different associated visual phenomenology, and it requires the capacity for you to switch swiftly between these systems. Since the functional organization of the systems is the same, you won't report any difference in experience when you switch from one to the other, thereby implying that some of your reports will be mistaken -- implausibly mistaken, in Chalmers's view. Therefore, by reductio, the systems cannot really differ in their associated visual phenomenology.

But in cases of "change blindness" -- for example here -- people will fail to notice substantial changes in their visual experience. (Or at least this is true if experience is relatively rich.) Such failures aren't perhaps as severe as what might be created by a visual system switch, and, as Chalmers notes, many of them require that your attention not be on the object of change. However, not all change blindness cases seem to require lack of attention to the changed stimulus -- like when the person you are talking to changes after brief interruption without your noticing (though determining what exactly qualifies as a target of attention may be a difficult matter in such scenarios); and in any case consideration of such cases should, I think, loosen our commitment to the seeming absurdity of failing, especially in weird scenarios, to notice radical changes in experience.

Furthermore, the Dancing Qualia case seems problematically pre-built to frustrate our ability to notice differences, much like radically skeptical brain-in-a-vat scenarios are pre-built to frustrate the sensory abilities on which we depend by giving the same sensory input despite a large change in the far-side objects. The following model is too simplistic, but conveys the idea I have in mind here: Imagine that introspection works by means of an introspection module located near the front of the brain, which receives input from the visual cortex in the back of the brain. The back of the brain has been changed so that experience is radically different (on the assumption of the reductio), but changed only in such a way that the input from the back to the front of the brain is exactly the same. In such a case, it seems not at all absurd to suppose that introspection would fail to notice a difference, despite a real difference in experience. Thus, the Dancing Qualia reductio fails.

The Moral Behavior of Super-Duper Artificial Intelligences

David Chalmers gave a talk today (at the Toward a Science of Consciousness conference in Tucson) arguing that it is fairly likely that sometime in the next few centuries we will create artificial intelligence (perhaps silicon, perhaps biological) considerably more intelligent than ourselves -- and then those intelligent creatures will create even more intelligent successors, and so on, until there exist creatures that are vastly more intelligent than we are.

The question then arises, what will such hyperintelligent creatures do with us? Maybe they will be us, and we needn't worry. But what if human beings in something like the current form still exist alongside these hyperintelligent artificial creatures? If the hyperintelligent creatures don't care about our welfare, that seems like a pretty serious danger that we should plan ahead for.

Perhaps, Chalmers suggests, we should build only intelligences that value human flourishing or have benign desires. He also advises creating hyperintelligent creatures only in simulations that they can't escape. But, as he points out, these strategies for dealing with the risk might be tricky to execute successfully (as numerous science fiction works attest).

More optimistically, Chalmers notes that on certain philosophical views (e.g., Kant's; I'd add Socrates's) immorality is irrational. And if so, then maybe we needn't worry. Hyperintelligent creatures might necessarily be hypermoral creatures. Presumably such creatures would treat us well and allow us to flourish.

One thing Chalmers didn't discuss, though, was the shape of the moral trajectory: Even if super-duper hyperintelligent artificial intelligences would be hypermoral, unless intermediate stages en route are also very moral (probably more moral than actual human beings are), we might still be in great danger. It seems like we want sharply rising, monotonic improvement in morality, and not just hypermorality at the endpoint.

So the question arises: Is there good empirical evidence that bears on this question, evidence concerning the relationship between morality and intelligence? By "intelligence" let's mean something like the capacity to learn facts or reason logically or design complicated plans, especially plans to make more intelligent creatures. Leading engineers, scientists, and philosophers would tend to be highly intelligent by this definition. Is there any reason to think that morality rises sharply and monotonically with intelligence in this sense?

There is some evidence for a negative relationship between IQ and criminality (though it's tangled in complicated ways with socioeconomic status and other factors). However, I can't say that my personal and hearsay knowledge of the moral behavior of university professors (perhaps especially ethicists?) makes me optimistic about a sharply increasing monotonic relationship between intelligence and morality.

In which case, look out, great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren!

What's in People's Stream of Experience During Philosophy Talks?

As you may know, Russ Hurlburt and I recently published a book centering on a woman's reports about her experience as she went about her normal day wearing a random beeper. When the beep sounded, her job was to try to recall her "last undisturbed moment of inner experience" just before the beep. Russ and I then interviewed her about these experiences, trying to get both at the truth about them and at methodological issues about the value of this sort of approach in studying consciousness.

Russ and I have presented our joint work in a number of venues now (including at an author-meets-critics session at the APA last week), and normally when we do so, we "beep" the audience. That is, we set up a random beeper to sound when Russ or I or a critic is presenting material. When the beep sounds, each audience member is to think about what was going on in her last undisturbed moment of inner experience before the beep. We then use a random number generator to select an audience member to report on her experience. We interview her right there, discussing her experience and the method with the audience and each other. We'll do this maybe three times in a three-hour session.

As a result, we now have a couple dozen samples of reported inner experience during our academic talks, and the most striking thing we've found is that people rarely report thinking about the talk. The most recent six samples are representative (three from a presentation by me at Claremont Wednesday, three from the APA).

(1.) Thinking that he should put his cell phone away (probably not formulated either in words or imagery); visual experience of cell phone and whiteboard.

(2.) Scratching an itch, noticing how it feels; having a visual experience of a book.

(3.) Feeling like he's about to fade into a sweet daydream but no sense of its content yet; "fading" visual experience of the speaker.

(4.) Feeling confused; listening to speaker and reading along on handout, taking in the meaning. [I'm counting this as an instance of thinking about the talk.]

(5.) Visual imagery of the "macaroni orange" of a recently seen flyer; skanky taste of coffee; fantasizing about biting an apple instead of tasting coffee; feeling need to go to bathroom; hearing the speaker's sentence. The macaroni orange was the most prominent part of her experience.

(6.) Reading abstract for next talk; hearing an "echo" of the speaker's last sentence; fighting a feeling of tiredness; maybe feeling tingling on tooth from permanent retainer.

Where is the cooking up of objections, the thinking through of consequences, the feeling of understanding the meaning of what is being said, the finding of connections to other people's work? In only one of these samples was taking in the meaning of the talk the foremost part of the experience.

It could just be that Russ and I and our critics are unusually deadening speakers, but I don't think so. My guess is that most audience members, listening to most academic talks, spend most of their time with some distraction or other at the forefront of their stream of experience. They may not remember this fact because when they think back on their experience of a talk, what is salient to them are those rare occasions when they did make a novel connection or think up an interesting objection. (I think the same is true of sex thoughts. People often say they spend a lot of time thinking about sex, but when you beep them they very rarely report it. It's probably that our sex thoughts, though rare, are much more frequently remembered than other thoughts and so are dramatically overrepresented in retrospective memory.)

Here are two hypotheses about understanding academic talks that harmonize with these observational data:

(1.) Our understanding of academic talks comes mostly from our ability to take them in while other things are at the forefront of consciousness. The information gets in there, despite the near-constant layer of distraction, and that information then shapes skilled regurgitations of the content of the talks.

(2.) Our understanding of academic talks comes mostly from those few salient moments when we are actually not distracted. Maybe this happens three or twelve or thirty times, for very brief stretches, during the course of the talk. The understanding we walk away with at the end is a reconstruction of what must plausibly have been the author's view based on our recollection of those few instances when we were actually paying attention to what she was saying.

Any bets on (1) vs. (2)? Or candidates for a (3)? If (2) is closer to the truth, then it may be possible to discover strategies to get much more out of talks by discovering ways to better focus our attention on the content.

Introspection, What?

Never have I worked so long and hard on a paper and been as little satisfied with the result. I have various theories why.

Brief abstract:

I argue for two theses: First, introspection is a species of attention to conscious experience, one that aims to exhibit what I call relatively direct sensitivity to the experience. Second, introspection is not the operation of a single, dedicated mechanism or family of dedicated mechanisms (such as self-scanning or self-monitoring devices); rather, in introspecting we opportunistically deploy a variety of cognitive systems and processes.

Here it is, in draft. Maybe you can help.

On Being Good at Seeming Smart

Once upon a time, there was a graduate student at UC Riverside whom I will call Student X. (If you are associated with UCR and think you can guess who Student X is, I think you will probably guess wrong.) There seemed to be a general sense among the faculty that Student X was particularly promising. For example, after a colloquium at which the student had asked a question, one faculty member expressed to me how impressive the student was. I was struck by that remark because I had thought the student's question had actually been pretty poor. But it occurred to me that the question had seemed, superficially, to be smart. That is, if you didn't think too much about the content but rather just about the tone and delivery, you probably would get a strong impression of smartness. In fact, my overall view of this student was that he was about average -- neither particularly good nor particularly bad -- but that he was a master of seeming smart: He had the confidence, the delivery, the style, all the paraphernalia of smartness, without an especially large dose of the actual thing.

Since then, I have been collecting anecdotal data on seeming smart. One thing I've noticed is what sort of person tends spontaneously to be described, in my presence, as "seeming smart". A very striking pattern emerges: In every case I have noted the smart-seeming person has been a young white male. Now my sample size is small and philosophy is about 75% white male anyway, so I want to be cautious in this inference. Women and minorities must sometimes "seem smart". And older people maybe have already proven or failed to prove their brilliance so that remarks about their apparent intelligence aren't as natural. (Maybe also it is less our place to evaluate them.) But still I would guess that there is something real behind that pattern, to wit:

Seeming smart is probably to a large extent about activating people's associations with intelligence. This is probably especially true when one is overhearing a comment about a complex subject that isn't exactly in one's expertise, so that the quality of the comment is hard to evaluate. And what do people associate with intelligence? Some things that are good: Poise, confidence (but not defensiveness), giving a moderate amount of detail but not too much, providing some frame and jargon, etc. But also, unfortunately, I suspect: whiteness, maleness, a certain physical bearing, a certain dialect (one American type, one British type), certain patterns of prosody -- all of which favor, I suspect, upper- to upper-middle class white men. If you look and sound like Lisa Kudrow and end every sentence with a rising intonation, it is going to be much harder to seem smart than if you look and sound like Matt Damon. But Lisa might actually be the smarter one. (I don't think there is a single trait of smartness, or even of being a smart philosopher, but let's bracket that for now.)

Here's the twist: Student X actually ended up doing very well in the program and writing an excellent dissertation. I suspect that's not because he started out with better tools but rather because he rose to his teachers' expectations. There is ample evidence in educational psychology that student performance tends to shift toward teacher expectations. Tell girls that girls on average do less well on math tests than do boys and the girls will in fact do less well. Tell a teacher that a particular student will do well and the change in the teacher's expectations will cause that student to actually do better (the Pygmalion effect). Life's not fair.

I hereby resolve to view skeptically all judgments of "seeming smart".

The Boxology of Self-Knowledge

It’s often helpful for cognitive scientists modeling psychological processes to describe the mind’s functional architecture using boxes and arrows, with the boxes indicating various functionally discrete processes or systems and the arrows indicating the causal or functional relationships among those discrete processes or systems. Figure 1 below expresses my view of self-knowledge, using the “boxology” of cognitive science. The model in that figure may be contrasted, for example, with the boxological models of self-knowledge on pages 162 and 165 of Nichols and Stich 2003, which feature tidy arrows in and out of the Belief Box, through a Monitoring Mechanism, a Percept-to-Belief Mediator, and a Theory of Mind Information store. You might also notice a resemblance between my model in Figure 1 and recent boxological models of visual processing, if the latter are squinted at.

Figure 1: The boxology of self-knowledge

Knowing What You Don’t Believe

(by Blake Myers-Schulz and Eric Schwitzgebel)

Virtually every introduction to epistemology (online examples include the Stanford Encyclopedia and the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy) highlights the debate about what is commonly called the “JTB” theory of knowledge – the view according to which for some subject S to know some proposition P, it is necessary and sufficient that

(1.) P is true.
(2.) S believes that P is true.
(3.) S is justified in believing that P is true.

According to the JTB theory, knowledge is Justified True Belief. Perhaps the most-discussed issue in the last 40 years of epistemology is whether the JTB theory is true. Debate generally centers on whether there is a way of interpreting or revising the third (justification) condition or adding a fourth condition to avoid apparent counterexamples of various sorts (e.g., Gettier examples). Nearly all contemporary analytic philosophers endorse the truth of conditions (1) and (2): You can’t know a proposition that isn’t true, and you can’t know a proposition that you don’t believe. Few assumptions are more central to contemporary epistemology.

However, we – Blake and Eric – don’t find it intuitive that (2) is true. We think there are intuitively appealing cases in which someone can know that something is true without believing (or, per Eric, determinately believing) that it is true. We have four examples:

(A.) The unconfident examinee (from Colin Radford 1966, one of the very few deniers of (2)): Kate is asked on an exam to enter the date of Queen Elizabeth’s death. She feels like she is guessing, but enters the date correctly. Does Kate know/believe that Elizabeth died in 1603?

(B.) The absent-minded driver (from Schwitzgebel in draft): Ben reads an email telling him that a bridge he usually takes to work will be closed for repairs. He drives away from the house planning to take an alternate route but absent-mindedly misses the turn and continues toward the bridge on the old route. Does Ben know/believe that the bridge is closed?

(C.) The implicit racist (also from Schwitzgebel in draft): Juliet is implicitly biased against black people, tending to assume of individual black people that they are not intelligent. However, she vehemently endorses the (true and justified, let’s assume) claim that all the races are of equal intelligence. Does Juliet know/believe that all the races are intellectually equal?

(D.) The freaked-out movie-watcher: Jamie sees a horror movie in which vicious aliens come out of water faucets and attack people, and she is highly disturbed by it, though she acknowledges that it is not real. Immediately after the movie, when her friend goes to get water from the faucet, Jamie spontaneously shouts “Don’t do it!” Does Jamie know/believe that only water will come from the faucet?

In each case, we think, it is much more intuitive to ascribe knowledge than belief.

So, naturally (being experimental philosophers!), we checked with the folk. We used fleshed-out versions of the scenarios above (available here). Some subjects were asked whether the protagonist knew the proposition in question. Other subjects were asked whether the protagonist believed the proposition in question.

The results came in as predicted. Across the four scenarios, 75% of respondents (90/120, 1-prop z vs. 50%, p < .001) said that the protagonist knew, while only 35% said the protagonist believed (42/120; 1-prop z vs. 50%, p = .001). Considering each scenario individually, in each case a substantial majority said the protagonist knew and in no scenario did a majority say the protagonist believed. (A separate group of subjects were asked “Did Kate think that Queen Elizabeth died in 1603?” [and analogously for other scenarios]. The “think” results were very close to the “believe” results in all scenarios except for the unconfident examinee where they were closer to the “know” results.)

We think epistemologists should no longer take it for granted that condition (2) of the JTB account of knowledge is intuitively obvious.

[Cross-posted at the Experimental Philosophy Blog.]

Conference: Experimental Philosophy and the Ethics of Autonomy

... in Miami, this Friday and Saturday, organized by past guest blogger Brad Cokelet. Schedule of speakers:

Friday, March 12 (U of Miami, Learning Center, Room 192):

10:30-12:00, Dan Haybron, "Adventures in Assisted Living"
1:35-3:05, Eric Schwitzgebel, "The Moral Behavior of Ethics Professors"
3:15-4:45, Alfred Mele, "Autonomy and Neuroscience"

Saturday, March 13 (U of Miami, Memorial Bldg, Room 192):

10:30-12:00, Valerie Tiberius, "In Defense of Reflection"
1:30-3:00, Blaine Flowers, "Evolution, Sociality, and Eudaimonia: An Aristotelian Integration of Human Nature and Goods"
3:20-5:25, round table discussion

It should be good fun! If you're in south Florida, you might consider checking it out. For further info, contact Brad Cokelet at University of Miami.

Kant on Killing Bastards, on Masturbation, on Wives and Servants, on Organ Donation, Homosexuality, and Tyrants

I'm going to be dissin' on Kant. If you loathe that sort of thing, maybe you'll enjoy reviewing the results of last year's poll by Brian Leiter, according to which Kant is the third most important philosopher of all time -- which should remind you that Kant's reputation is plenty safe from the likes of me.

According to Kant in The Metaphysics of Morals (not to be confused with his Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals):

(1.) Wives, servants, and children are possessed in a way akin to our possession of objects. If they flee, they must be returned to the owner if he demands them, without regard for the cause that led them to flee. (See esp. pages 278, 282-284 [original pagination], Gregor trans.) Kant does acknowledge that the owner is not permitted to treat these people as mere objects to "use up", but this appears to have no bearing on the owner's right to demand their return. Evidently, if such an owned person flees to us from an abusive master, we may admonish the master for behaving badly while we return what is rightly his.

(2.) Homosexuality is an "unmentionable vice" so wrong that "there are no limitations whatsoever that can save [it] from being repudiated completely" (p. 277).

(3.) Masturbation is in some ways a worse vice than the horror of murdering oneself, and "debases [the masturbator] below the beasts". Kant writes:

But it is not so easy to produce a rational proof that unnatural, and even merely unpurposive, use of one's sexual attribute is inadmissible as being a violation of duty to oneself (and indeed, as far as its unnatural use is concerned, a violation in the highest degree). The ground of proof is, indeed, that by it a man surrenders his personality (throwing it away), since he uses himself as a means to satisfy an animal impulse. But this does not explain the high degree of violation of the humanity in one's own person by such a vice in its unnaturalness, which seems in terms of its form (the disposition it involves) to exceed even murdering oneself. It consists, then, in this: That a man who defiantly casts off life as a burden is at least not making a feeble surrender to animal impulse in throwing himself away (p. 425).

(If masturbation caused a permanent reduction to sub-human levels of intelligence, this argument might make some sense, but as far as I'm aware, that consequence is rare.)

(4.) On killing bastards:

A child that comes into the world apart from marriage is born outside the law (for the law is marriage) and therefore outside the protection of the law. It has, as it were, stolen into the commonwealth (like contraband merchandise), so that the commonwealth can ignore its existence (since it rightly should not have come to exist in this way), and can therefore also ignore its annihilation (p. 336).

(5.) On organ donation:

To deprive oneself of an integral part or organ (to maim oneself) -- for example, to give away or sell a tooth to be transplanted into another's mouth... are ways of partially murdering oneself... cutting one's hair in order to sell it is not altogether free from blame.

(6.) Servants and women "lack civil personality and their existence is, as it were, only inherence" and thus should not be permitted to vote or take an active role in the affairs of state (p. 314-315).

(7.) Under no circumstances is it right to resist the legislative head of state or to rebel on the pretext that the ruler has abused his authority (p. 319-320). Of course, the ruler is supposed to treat people well -- but (as with wives and servants under abusive masters) there appears to be no legitimate means of escape if he does not.

These views are all, I hope you will agree, odious -- even if there are some good things too in The Metaphysics of Morals (e.g., Kant condemns slavery on p. 329 -- although that was hardly a radical position for a European at the time). But why bring out these aspects of Kant? Shouldn't we expect him to be a creature of his time, an imperfect discoverer of moral truths, someone prone to lapses as are we all?

I mention these aspects of Kant to draw two lessons:

First, from our cultural distance, it is evident that Kant's arguments against masturbation, for the return of wives to abusive husbands, etc., are gobbledy-gook. This should make us suspicious that there might be other parts of Kant, too, that are gobbledy-gook, for example, the stuff that transparently reads like gobbledy-gook, such as the transcendental deduction, and such as his claims that his various obviously non-equivalent formulations of the fundamental principle of morality are in fact "so many formulations of precisely the same law" (Groundwork, 4:436, Zweig trans.). I read Kant as a master at promising philosophers what they want and then effusing a haze of words with glimmers enough of hope that readers can convince themselves that there is something profound underneath.

Second, Kant's philosophical moral reasoning appears mainly to have confirmed his prejudices and the ideas inherited from his culture. We should be nervous about expecting more from the philosophical moral reasoning of people less philosophically capable than Kant.

Get Beeped and Argue about it with Hurlburt and Schwitzgebel

at the biennial Toward a Science of Consciousness conference in Tucson.

We're running a four-hour pre-conference workshop from 9 am to 1 pm on April 12. Official description:

Psychologist Russell Hurlburt is known for his innovative methods of exploring inner experience. Philosopher Eric Schwitzgebel is known for his skepticism about such methods. Hurlburt and Schwitzgebel will team up (perhaps “square off” would be a better term) and interview participants in the workshop audience about the details of their inner experience. That interview will follow Hurlburt’s Descriptive Experience Sampling (DES) method: While Hurlburt and Schwitzgebel give presentations outlining their views, a random timer will be set for a beep to sound. When the beep sounds, participants are to reflect on their last undisturbed moment of inner experience just before the beep. A random member of the audience will then be selected to describe her experience, and Hurlburt, Schwitzgebel, and the tutorial attendees will question her about the beep, using a variation of what Hurlburt calls an “expositional interview”. During these interviews, we (all tutorial participants) will conduct “sidebar” discussions about: what are the characteristics of good and bad questions; how believable are the subjects’ reports; to what extent do we “lead the witness”; etc.

Russ and I have done this several times before, and it's always a kick. I expect a small group (five to ten), so it should be a good opportunity for multi-directional interaction. Plus, it would be cool to meet you.

Register here.

Fooling Oneself: Comments on Moeller's The Moral Fool

Hans-Georg Moeller's recent book, The Moral Fool, just earned a harsh review from Michael Slater at Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews. And indeed, the book is bound to irritate the typical hard-working academic philosopher. The arguments are loose. Moeller's position is stated unclearly and it seems to shift around. Hardly any of the relevant literature is cited. Seen in one way, pretty much every criticism in Slater's review is on the mark. This is not a good piece of academic scholarship.

Thus, I recommend reading this book not as a piece of academic scholarship. Read it instead as an evocative diatribe, which is probably closer to Moeller's intention in writing it. Revel in its colorful prose, its iconoclasm, its anti-authoritarianism. Moeller's guiding idea is that morality, or moral discourse, or moral thinking -- try not to distinguish too precisely among these or you'll start to get frustrated -- makes the world a worse place. It is mostly a sham, a cover-up, a failure, an excuse for violence against people, post-hoc self-serving rationalization or rationalization of one's cultural prejudices. That's a thought, or a cluster of thoughts, or a broad attitude, worth some consideration -- worth more consideration than ethicists generally give it. Moeller plays around with those ideas and presents various thoughts that resonate in various ways with them.

My reactions to the book, using the approach I just described, are here. I'll be presenting these thoughts in an Author-Meets-Critics session on the book at the end of the month at the Pacific APA meeting in San Francisco.

Section ii of my comments may have some interest even to people unfamiliar with Moeller's book. It summarizes my current thinking about whether explicit moral reflection is, on average, an instrumentally good thing. The issue is, I fear, not as clear cut as one might hope.

The Review of Philosophy and Psychology

There's a new journal on the block. The first issue of The Review of Philosophy and Psychology is now out, and for a limited time all articles are available for free, here. The inaugural issue concerns experimental philosophy and was guest edited by Joshua Knobe, Tania Lombrozo, and Edouard Machery.

One of Josh Rust's and my papers is in it: Do Ethicists and Political Philosophers Vote More Often Than Other Professors? (Short answer: No.)

There's other good stuff in there too. I especially recommend Simon Cullen's critique of the methodology of experimental philosophy, Survey-Driven Romanticism.

How Far Away Is the Television Screen of Visual Experience?

... not that I think there really is one, even in a loose, metaphorical sense. (See here.) But:

David Boonin (a visiting speaker from Colorado) and UCR graduate students Alan Moore and Matt Braich and I were hiking up Mt. Rubidoux. From the top, we could see several miles across town to the UCR campus. We pointed out to Boonin the clock tower, and then Alan said that the humanities building housing the philosophy department was also visible nearby, down and to the right, "about an inch and a half away".

What, an inch and a half away?! Alan's statement -- as I'm sure he knew -- sharply conflicted with my published views about the nature of the visual experience of perspective. And yet I knew exactly what Alan meant. He had effectively pointed out the spot. It seemed to me that "an inch and a half" was a much better description of the apparent distance than, say, a millimeter or twenty feet. (Of course the real distance is much larger than any of those.)

My thumb is about 3/4 of an inch wide. Holding it at arm's length, I saw that it almost perfectly occluded the distance between the clock tower and the humanities building. Thus, if the television screen of visual experience were arm's length away, Alan should have said that the distance was 3/4 of an inch. From the fact that the building's apparent distance (in some sense of "apparent distance"!) was an inch and a half, I thus geometrically derive the conclusion that the television screen of visual experience is about five feet away.

There, proved!

Second Annual Consciousness Online Conference

... here.

Another Simple Argument Against Any General Theory of Consciousness

... related to my first Simple Argument, but spun out a bit differently.

(1.) The history of philosophy shows that no theory of consciousness can avoid having some highly unintuitive consequences. (Or more cautiously, the history suggests that. The strength of the conclusion turns in part on the strength of this premise.)

For example, if functionalism is true, some very weird assemblages will be conscious. If consciousness depends upon material constitution, then beings behaviorally indistinguishable from us but materially different might entirely lack consciousness. And: Intuitive notions of consciousness seem to involve sharp boundaries not present in the evolution or development of conscious systems. And so on.

(2.) Therefore, something apparently preposterous must be true of consciousness.

(3.) Therefore, reflection on what is intuitively true -- and metaphysical speculations that depend on such intuitions -- cannot be a reliable guide to consciousness. (What such speculations yield, as is evident from the literature, is a variety of idiosyncratic hunches.)

(4.) Empirical observation of physical structure and behavior also cannot settle the question of which preposterous things are true, because their interpretation depends on prior assumptions about consciousness. (For example: Does observing such-and-such a functional structure establish that consciousness is present? Only given such-and-such functionalist assumptions.)

(5.) So we're stuck.

If we are stuck, the live options seem to be mysterianism (we will never know the truth about consciousness) or eliminativism (the concept of "consciousness" is broken to begin with, so good riddance).

Cognitive Shielding

Here's a concept I'm playing with and may soon have occasion to deploy in my work on introspection: cognitive shielding.

Normally when I reach judgments, the processes driving the judgment are wild. I don't attempt to control the influences on my judgment. I just let the judgment flow from whatever processes might drive and affect it. I look out the window and think about whether it will rain. I'm not sure what exactly causes me to conclude that it will. Presumably the appearance of the clouds is a major factor, but maybe I'm also influenced by my knowledge of what month it is and how common rain is this time of year. Maybe I'm influenced, too, by wind and by temperature, reflecting sensitivity to contingencies between those and oncoming rain -- contingencies I may have no conscious knowledge of. Maybe I'm influenced by knowledge of yesterday's weather, of this morning's weather report, and who knows what else. I don't attempt to control any of this, and the judgment comes.

Sometimes, I intentionally launch processes with the aim of having those processes influence my judgment. So, for example, I might think to myself: "In the northern hemisphere, storms spin in such a way that the wind of the leading edge tends to come from the south. So I really should consider the direction of the wind in reaching my judgment about the likelihood of rain." [How true this generalization actually is, I don't know.] I notice that the wind is indeed from the south and this increases my confidence that it will soon rain. The decision to consider a particular factor launched a process that would not otherwise have occurred, with an influence on the conclusion.

And finally, sometimes I try to shield my judgments from certain influences. Maybe I know that I'm overly pessimistic and am biased toward anticipating rain whenever I'm planning a picnic. I am in fact planning a picnic, and I don't want the resulting pessimism to affect my judgment, so I attempt to put the picnic out of mind or compensate somehow for the bias it would otherwise introduce. Or -- a familiar example for professors -- in grading student essays I might be legitimately concerned that my like or dislike for the student as an individual might bias my grading. I might attempt to compensate for this by not looking at the names on the essays, and then no cognitive shielding is necessary. But sometimes I do know who has written the essay I am grading. I might then try to shield my judgment about the essay's quality from that potentially biasing influence. Wild judgment might unfairly favor the student if I like her, so I try to reach a judgment uninfluenced by my opinion about her as a person.

Two issues:

(1.) It's not always clear whether some series of thoughts is wild or launched. Similarly for shielding. Possibly there is a large gray area here. But if the distinction between spontaneously considering certain factors and intentionally considering (or setting aside) certain factors makes sense -- and I think it does -- then I think these distinctions can fly, despite the gray area.

(2.) It seems that launching will normally be successful. Shielding on the other hand, may be difficult to execute successfully. One might try not to be influenced by certain things and yet nonetheless be influenced. But this is no objection to this taxonomy as long as it's clear that we can try to shield our judgments from certain influences.

Thoughts? Reactions? Does this make sense? Is there someone in the literature who has already laid this out better than I?

My entry on "Introspection" is now up in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

... here.

From the intro:

Introspection, as the term is used in contemporary philosophy of mind, is a means of learning about one's own currently ongoing, or perhaps very recently past, mental states or processes. You can, of course, learn about your own mind in the same way you learn about others' minds—by reading psychology texts, by observing facial expressions (in a mirror), by examining readouts of brain activity, by noting patterns of past behavior—but it's generally thought that you can also learn about your mind introspectively, in a way that no one else can. But what exactly is introspection? No simple characterization is widely accepted. Although introspection must be a process that yields knowledge only of one's own current mental states, more than one type of process fits this characterization.

Introspection is a key concept in epistemology, since introspective knowledge is often thought to be particularly secure, maybe even immune to skeptical doubt. Introspective knowledge is also often held to be more immediate or direct than sensory knowledge. Both of these putative features of introspection have been cited in support of the idea that introspective knowledge can serve as a ground or foundation for other sorts of knowledge.

Introspection is also central to philosophy of mind, both as a process worth study in its own right and as a court of appeal for other claims about the mind. Philosophers of mind offer a variety of theories of the nature of introspection; and philosophical claims about consciousness, emotion, free will, personal identity, thought, belief, imagery, perception, and other mental phenomena are often thought to have introspective consequences or to be susceptible to introspective verification. For similar reasons, empirical psychologists too have discussed the accuracy of introspective judgments and the role of introspection in the science of the mind.

Podcast of "An Empirical Perspective on the Mencius-Xunzi Debate about Human Nature"

given to the Confucius Institute of Scotland on Jan. 19,
here.

The podcast is audio-only, so you won't see the overheads. I don't think you need to see the overheads to understand the talk. But for completeness here they are (as MS PowerPoint 2003).

You may also be interested to see this article, which was part of the basis for the talk.

Knowledge Is a Capacity, Belief a Tendency

In epistemology articles and textbooks (e.g., in the Stanford Encyclopedia), you'll often see claims like the following. S (some person) knows that P (some proposition) only if:

(1.) P is true.
(2.) S believes that P.
(3.) S is justified in believing P.

Although many philosophers (following Gettier) dispute whether someone's meeting these three conditions is sufficient for knowing P and a few (like Dretske) also dispute the necessity of condition 3, pretty much everyone accepts that the first two conditions are necessary for knowledge -- or necessary at least for "propositional" knowledge, i.e., knowing that [some proposition is true], as opposed to, for example, knowing how [to do something].

But it's not clear to me that knowing a fact requires believing it. Consider the following case:

Ben the Forgetful Driver: Ben reads an email and learns that a bridge he normally drives across to get to work will be closed for repairs. He immediately realizes that he will have to drive a different route to work. The next day, however, he finds himself on the old route, headed toward the closed bridge. He still knows, I submit, in that forgetful moment, that the bridge is closed. He has just momentarily failed to deploy that knowledge. As soon as he sees the bridge, he'll smack himself on the forehead and say, "The bridge is closed, of course, I know that!" However, contra the necessity of (2) above, it's not clear that, in that forgetful moment as he's driving toward the bridge, he believes (or more colloquially, thinks) the bridge is closed. He is, I think, actually in an in-between state of believing, such that it's not quite right to say that he believes that the bridge is closed but also not quite right to deny that he believes the bridge is closed. It's a borderline case in the application of a vague predicate. (Compare: is a man tall if he is 5 foot 11 inches?) So: We have a clear case of knowledge, but only an in-betweenish, borderline case of belief.

Although I find that a fairly intuitive thing to say, I reckon that that intuition will not be widely shared by trained epistemologists. But I'm willing to wager that a majority of ordinary English-speaking non-philosophers will say "yes" if asked whether Ben knows the bridge is closed and "no" if asked whether he believes or thinks that the bridge is closed. (Actual survey results on related cases are pending, thanks to Blake Myers-Schulz.)

One way of warming up to the idea is to think of it this way: Knowledge is a capacity, while belief is a tendency. Consider knowing how to do something: I know how to juggle five balls if I can sometimes succeed, other than by pure luck, even if most of the time I fail. As long as I have the capacity for appropriate responding, I have the knowledge, even if that capacity is not successfully deployed on most relevant occasions. Ben has the capacity to respond knowledgeably to the closure of the bridge; he just doesn't successfully deploy that capacity. He doesn't call up the knowledge that he has.

Believing that P, on the other hand, involves generally responding to the world in a P-ish way. (If the belief is often irrelevant to actual behavior, this generality might be mostly in counterfactual possible situations.) Believing is about one's overall way of steering cognitively through the world. (For a detailed defense of this view, see here and here.) If one acts and reacts more or less as though P is true -- for example by saying "P is true", by inferring Q if P implies Q, by depending on the truth of P in one's plans -- then one believes. Otherwise, one does not believe. And if someone is mixed up, sometimes steering P-ishly and sometimes not at all P-ishly, then one's belief state is in between.

Consider another case:

Juliet the Implicit Racist: Juliet is a Caucasian-American philosophy professor. Like most such professors, she will sincerely assert that all the races are intellectually equal. In fact, she has better grounds for saying this than most: She has extensively examined the academic literature on racial differences in intelligence and she finds the case for intellectual equality compelling. She will argue coherently, authentically, and vehemently for that conclusion. Yet she is systematically racist in most of her day-to-day interactions. She (falsely) assumes that her black students will not be as bright as her white and Asian students. She shows this bias, problematically, in the way she grades her papers and leads class discussion. When she's on a hiring committee for an office manager, she will require much more evidence to become convinced of the intelligence of a black applicant than a white applicant. And so on.

Does Juliet believe that all the races are intellectually equal? I'd say that the best answer to that question is an in-betweenish "kind of" -- and in some attributional contexts (for example, two black students talking about whether to enroll in one of her classes) a simple "no, she doesn't think black people are as smart as white people" seems a fair assessment. At the same time, let me suggest that Juliet does know that all the races are intellectually equal: She has the information and the capacity to respond knowledgeably even if she often fails to deploy that capacity. She is like the person who knows how to juggle five balls but can only pull it off sporadically or when conditions are just right.

(Thanks to David Hunter, in conversation, for the slogan "knowledge is a capacity, belief a tendency".)