Some Thoughts on the Sun, Line and Cave Similes in The Republic

May 20, 2007

(Note: references are incomplete).

Plato’s simile of light – the images of the Sun, the Divided Line and the Cave are outlined in the Republic at the close of Book VI and at the beginning of Book VII. The simile of light has attracted a vast literature from Nettleship’s Victorian lectures, down through the work of James Adam, Henry Jackson and A.S. Ferguson’s brilliant series of articles, to the more recent work of Cross and Woozley, Raven, White and Annas. Of course, there are too many shades and possibilities of interpretation to be canvassed fully in such a limited space but I have been influenced at different points by different scholars. I merely put forward the views I hold about the context, functionality and continuity of the three images.

The simile of light has both a “forward” and a “backward” context. By the forward context I mean that the simile anticipates, and is a metaphorical representation of, the education of the guardians as spelt out by Plato in the remainder of Book VII, after the Cave. And it is through this education that the philosopher will come to know the Form of the Good, the foundation of all value, to be able to govern effectively. So when Socrates presses men to define, what is meant by justice? they resort to characterizing justice in terms of certain just acts. To avoid ethical particularism Socrates needs to abstract from the individual action. So if you claim to know what justice is then presumably you can capture the conditions for justice in a definitional claim. Socrates thus appeals to a universalizability, i.e. the Form of Justice or any other virtue which ultimately participates in the one great universal, the Good. Just as the Sun provides a teleological picture of the world (Rees 1965: xxxv) so too by analogy, consciously or unconsciously, does man participate in the Good. This is reiterated lucidly by Boyd (1922: 128) when he says that ‘in effect that what justice or any other virtue is, we must see it in its relations to life as a whole’.

Now to the “backward” context. Plato does say what the Form of the Good is not – it is not pleasure and it is not knowledge. The point is: can he reasonably assume that there is such a thing, given the metaphysical arguments of the Republic so far? It’s the metaphysical role of the Form of the Good that’s primarily important to Plato. He feels the need for an ultimate explanatory principle – and the Form of the Good fits the bill. There is the temptation to view the Form of the Good as omni-explanatory (Cross and Woozley 1964: 183 cite Cherniss as commending the theory for its philosophical economy), a framework for a kind of theodicy or impersonal God. The Form of the Good “only explains the existence of goodness wherever goodness occurs”. The Form of the Good is the principle of reality, since goodness and reality are interrelated, and is fundamental to any attempt to making the world intelligible. Plato is thus committed to the idea that there is no difference of ultimate nature between facts and values in the world: goodness and values are just as real or indeed more real than other things. Just as the sun provides light, the intermediary between the eye and its object, so the Good provides the intermediary between the mind and its object, thereby making knowledge possible. The Line further illustrates this relation between the two orders of reality, the visible and the intelligible, but from a cognitive point of view – the states of mind in which one apprehends.

That the sun is primarily metaphysical in purpose is the least contentious of the three similes’ interpretations. The Sun is the child of the Good (508b) occupying in the visible world a position analogous to that of the Form of the Good in the world of Forms. Without the Good other Forms would not be known. Further, all the universals whether they be moral properties or mathematical entities (perfect virtue, perfect circles etc.) necessarily exist even independently of any particulars to exemplify them. The Good by analogy with the Sun is the source not only of their intelligibility, “but also of their being and reality; yet it is not itself that reality, but is beyond it, and superior to it in dignity and power” (509b). Likewise “the Sun . . . not only makes the things we see visible, but causes the processes of generation, growth and nourishment, without itself being such a process.”

I do need to reiterate that Plato does not suggest that the Idea of the Good provides a complete explanation of the entire universe, comprising both the intelligible and sensible realms, recalling the comments on the omni-explanatory function of the Form of the Good in the previous section. Cross and Woozley (1964: 183) make this point that the “completely real” world of Forms cannot deny the “semi-real” world of our banal reality. It is a common inference that because Plato constructs only one line, i.e. a common scale, that its segments represent a progression through its four stages. This orthodoxy (Nettleship 1901: 238-258) emphasizes this progression or “passing” that the mind needs to go through. Ferguson (1921: 147-150) refutes the view arising from the assumption of the Line’s being an exhaustive classification by maintaining that the Line is a continuation of the Sun simile (indeed as Plato says at 509c) whereby the Line simile is an illustration of “how two successive methods of studying the intelligible may lead to knowledge of that transcendent Good, still using the convenient symbolism of the visible” (Ferguson 1921:136), highlighting the contrast between the two methods of mathematics and philosophy, represented in the two upper segments.

References (to be completed)

Boyd (1922).

Cross and Woozley (1964) Plato’s Republic: A Philosophical Commentary, London,

Ferguson (1921)

Nettleship (1901). Lectures on the Republic of Plato. London:

Rees (19XX).


The Asynchronous Classroom: Didactic and Cognitive Issues in E-learning

May 19, 2007

I’m co-authoring a paper with Rochelle Ripple, Professor of Education at Columbus State University in Georgia, on the didactic, epistemological and cognitive issues in online learning in higher education.


Why were the early Christians persecuted?

May 18, 2007

I

This well-worn question needs to be re-analyzed into the following three subsidiary questions.

First, for what reasons did the government (i.e. the organs of state, broadly speaking, the emperor, the senate, officials, and provincial governors) persecute? Secondly, for what reasons did ordinary pagans (i.e. the general populace) demand persecution? Thirdly, we need to examine the concept of martyrdom. There is the problem of distinguishing what constitutes persecution and what constitutes voluntary martyrdom.

Before examining these issues I offer some necessary points of clarification in section two.

II

In his correspondence with Trajan, Pliny uses the terms superstitio and hetaeria in his characterization of the Christians. We need to bring these terms into focus.

In its most familiar sense, the term superstitio referred to beliefs and practices that were alien to the Romans. According to writings attributed to Plutarch (Moralia 166c-170c), the superstitious person is one who fails to bring to bare his intellect on these matters giving rise to groundless fears, fanaticism and an absolving of ones free-will. These sentiments are echoed by Cicero (Nat.D.1.117.2.72): superstition was the irrational fear of gods “whereas religion consisted in pious worship”. The superstitious man’s gods were capricious unlike the divine providence of the Roman deities.

There was a definite functionality to Roman religion – the maintenance of social order and the well being of the Empire. The superstitious person neither honored the gods nor benefited mankind. The criterion of truth in religious matters was custom and tradition, a conservative cast of mind that prefers the familiar to the unknown. Polybius (VI:56) viewed religion as a force for inculcating civic virtue and public discipline, and that this religious devotion was the mark of Roman superiority. To be pious was to believe in the gods of the city-state – the duty Socrates was accused of failing to observe – and even more than believing in them, respecting them. Roman religion therefore emphasized the public practice of ritual: nonconformism and irreligiousity went hand in hand. Piety embraced both senses of reverence for familial and the city cultic sense, but should not be confused with a theocratic emphasis on a set of beliefs and ethics. Cicero (Nat.D. 1.3-1.4) wrote that ‘in all probability, the disappearance of piety towards the gods will entail the disappearance of loyalty and social cohesion among men as well, and of justice itself, the queen of all virtues’ and new or foreign gods need official sanction to be accepted.(De.Leg. 11.8)

The term hetaeriais usually rendered as ‘political club’ or ‘association’ (Wilken 1984: 34) much like a professional guild or funerary society (Dodds 1965: 137). Tertullian appropriated the terminology of these fraternities to make a prima facie case for the Christian communities being just one of many of these associations. Despite his preference for the word corpus rather than ecclessia, we know that it was Tertullian’s conviction in the superiority of Christian association compared with those of the pagan.

The term paganus refers to the rustic, the peasant, and from Cicero onwards could denote townspeople (Jones 1963: 18). Chuvin (1990: 9) suggests that pagani or pagans are best viewed as ‘people of the place, town or country, who have preserved their local customs, whereas the alieni, the people from elsewhere were increasingly Christian.’ This interpretation is consistent with the notions of conservatism in cultural and traditional matters and of setting the parameters for nonconformism. Chadwick (1990: 152) points out that the word remained a colloquialism and did not penetrate Biblical or liturgical literature. If the object of worship was the maintenance of pax deorum, linking religion to political and social order, it is very tempting to infer that the grounds of persecution were political rather than religious.(Frend 1965: 105 uses the term ‘treaty relationship’)

III

On the question of the juridical basis of the persecution of the Christians I use Barnes (1968: 34-50) as my guide. Barnes’ task is to survey the primary sources of evidence without the filters of later hagiography and modern exegesis obscuring the topic. Both Barnes and de Ste. Croix (1963: note 18) regard modern bibliographies for the most part as worthless as their remit is too broad. Barnes therefore circumscribes his excavations by stating that ‘vague references to a lex against the Christians (such as Athenagoras, Legatio 7; Tertullian Apol. 4.4ff) will be disregarded; they show merely that Christianity was illegal not how it came to be so.’ The upshot of Barnes’ survey centres on Trajan’s rescript to Pliny: after Trajan’s rescript, if not earlier, Christianity was a crime in a unique category. Unlike other criminals Christians were punished for being a Christian and not for having been a Christian, an anomaly in Roman law (de Ste. Croix 1963: 9, 20; Frend 1965: 165), and on any reading, is highly ambiguous. Trajan’s famous edict instructing Pliny not to actively seek out Christians and further that anonymous denunciations should be disregarded, only gives a partial definition to the law when stated negatively, leaving so much open to arbitrary individual discretion. It is important to note as de Ste. Croix (p. 28) points out, that the positive facet of Christianity was never officially assailed except for Christian’s contumacious incompliance to acknowledge other gods. Baring in mind the earlier comments made regarding religious conformity, this had to inevitably locate the clash between Christian and pagan. In support of this, de Ste. Croix makes the interesting observation that those who held doctrines of a ‘recognisably Christian character’ and even calling themselves Christians, for example the Gnostics, were spared persecution. It could only be that the Gnostics paid outward respect, thereby appearing to accommodate the Roman gods. As was mentioned earlier, ‘belief’ was conditional on practice or ritual and that was a sufficient condition for conforming. How then was this charge of being a Christian prosecuted under ‘due process’ of law? It is popularly held that Roman law is the single most impressive and admirable achievement of Roman civilization. This achievement however, at least in de Ste. Croix’s view, is primarily confined to private law and the related laws of property. It is quite evident that immense deficiencies in public law manifested itself in the cognito extra ordinum, giving magistrates so wide a discretion, that even the slightest hint or ambiguity of ‘being’ Christian led to prosecution. Such scope to prosecute made the law inherently arbitrary. As de Ste. Croix (1963: 17) says, in fact no legal foundation was necessary ‘other than a prosecutor, a charge of Christianity, and a governor willing to punish on that charge.’ We need however to be cognisant, as Barnes pointed out, that most of our information derives almost entirely from Christian sources which had a vested interest in recording martyrdom and that there needs to be a healthy level of scepticism in these matters. Both Barnes (1968: 34) and de Ste. Croix (1963: 15) reject the idea put forward by Melito that a correlation existed between ‘bad’ emperors who persecuted and ‘good’ emperors who didn’t. There are two problems with this claim. First, understandably, apologist writers are operating on an extremely narrow criterion of good or bad: there is more to judging the adeptness of an emperor than whether or not he countenanced persecution. Secondly, linked to this, persecution might only have been instrumental to real politik or statecraft (in a Machiavellian way; The Prince XVII) even for a ‘good’ emperor.

IV

To ask why the government persecuted is in effect to ask why the general populace demanded persecution. Much of the discussion has unavoidably been pre-empted. Roman religion entailed public worship to maintain the pax deorum of the community averting disasters (natural disasters such as floods, draught, earthquakes etc.) that could befall the community. Failure to comply, therefore, undermined the security and well being of the community at large. In the need to pacify public disquiet, the government was obliged to ‘persecute’ those whose actions threatened the well being of the community. Herein lies a major and perhaps irresolvable problem of exegesis. I’ve already hinted at the difficulty involved in determining whether or not the persecution was politically or religiously motivated. De Ste. Croix holds that the motives for government persecution were essentially religious in character. He supports his thesis by pointing to the Gnostic immunity from persecution. The pax deorum being the prime Roman social value invites charges that Roman religion was superficial and insincere, leading one to infer that persecution had to be politically motivated. However, both Barnes (1968: 49) and de Ste. Croix (1963: 30) are at pains to emphasize that Roman religious sentiment were no less real or powerful than our modern conception of religious belief and practice. (c.f. Janssen 1979). De Ste. Croix does offer the Marxist analysis that ‘religion was above all an instrument by which the governing class hoped to keep the reins of power in its own hands.’ Though this analysis is perfectly valid and may well have been the case, I’m not convinced that such an analysis can be consistently applied to what is a pre-capitalist society. (see Momigliano’s comments 1963: 4 on Marxist analysis). I think a definite tension arises when on the one hand de Ste. Croix asserts that the motives for government persecution were ’essentially religious’, yet on the other hand he acknowledges that it was a prime social value to maintain the pax deorum. Both are inextricably linked and as such I see no reason why even if religious sensibilities were threatened in the first instance, why persecution cannot be viewed as being politically motivated, when the ultimate consequentialist concern had to be the maintenance of the pax deorum, and religion was instrumental to that aim. Even on de Ste. Croix’s own Marxist account, religion was instrumental to political power. In any event a typically pious individual of any class would cherish the benefits of social stability that their religious sensibility ensures.

V

The concept of martyrdom is deeply ambiguous both within the modern and ancient worlds and is therefore incumbent upon the scholar to draw some conceptual distinctions thereby elucidating the question of persecution. Is martyrdom simply a case of persecution and subsequent execution? How does ‘voluntary’ martyrdom differ from suicide? Though Amundsen (1989: 100-116) is primarily concerned with the philosophical, theological and ethical implications of martyrdom, the distinctions he draws are equally valid for our purpose. Amundsen offers four distinct possibilities a Christian might be confronted with under persecution:

1 denying Christ (apostatizing)

2 fleeing possible martyrdom

3 acquiesce to martyrdom when the only escape is option 1

4 seeking, provoking or volunteering for martyrdom.

Even without reliable figures, the statistical possibility of cases spread across these four options, offers a real challenge to apologetic sources as to the scale of persecution and martyrdom they would naturally claim. It would not therefore be too provocative when de Ste. Croix (p. 22) suggests that ‘the seeking out of Christians . . . need not have been nearly as vigorous as we might otherwise have assumed from the evidently large numbers of victims.’ De Ste. Croix makes the astute point (p. 20), that after all, ‘the essential aim was to make apostates, not martyrs . . . a governor who really wanted to execute Christians would be careful to avoid torturing them, lest, they apostatize and go free.’

VI

By way of a conclusion Barnes (1968: 50) says that ‘it is in the minds of men, not in the demands of Roman law, that the roots of persecution of the Christians in the Roman Empire are to be sought.’ Barnes is making the crucial point that despite the deficiencies of Roman public law, persecution was not a requirement of Roman law. I would argue contrary to de Ste. Croix, that the State (any variant, modern or ancient) needs as a precondition of its viability, loyalty from those living within its domain, and that the Christians might well have appeared to be a threat to the State.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Amundsen DW (1989)’Suicide and Early Christian Values’ in Suicide and Euthanasia, ed., BA Brody, Dortrecht.

Barnes TD (1968) ‘Legislation Against the Christians’ Journal of Roman Studies 58

(1971) Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study, Oxford.

Chadwick H (1990) The Early Church, Harmondsworth.

(1992) ‘The Early Christian Community’ in The Oxford Illustrated History of Christianity, ed., J McMannes, Oxford.

Chuvin P (1990) A Chronicle of the Last Pagans, tr. BA Archer, Cambridge MA.

Cicero (1951) De Natura Deorum, tr. H Rackam, London.

(1928) De Legibus, tr. CW Keyes, London.

de Ste. Croix GEM (1963) ‘Why were the early Christians persecuted?’ Past and Present 26

Dodds ER (1965) Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety, New York.

Frend WHC (1965) Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church, Oxford.

Janssen LF (1979) ‘Superstitio and the Persecution of the Christians’ Vigiliae Christianae 33

Jones AHM (1963) ‘The Social Background of the Struggle between Paganism and Christianity’ in The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, ed., A Momigliano, Oxford.

Liebeschuetz JHWG (1979) Continuity and Change in Roman Religion, Oxford.

Maine HJ (1913) Ancient Law, London.

Momigliano A ed. (1963) The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, Oxford.

(1975) Alien Wisdom: the limits of Hellenization, Cambridge.

Murray G (1929) ‘Pagan Religion and Philosophy at the Time of Christ’ reprinted in Humanist Essays (1964), London.

Sherwin-White AN (1966) The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford.

Sinclair TA (1967) A History of Greek Political Thought, London.

Tacitus (1989) The Annals of Imperial Rome, tr. PL Grant, Harmondsworth.

Walbeck FW (1957) Commentary on Polybius, Oxford.

Wilken RL (1984) The Christians As The Romans Saw Them, New Haven.


Mindscapes and Landscapes: The Extended Mind

May 16, 2007

It’s been ten years since a snappy and provocative paper by Andy Clark and David Chalmers (1998) audaciously burst upon the philosophical scene. Given that the paper had been rejected three years earlier by three major journals (Chalmers 2008, 42), it must surely have come as an enormous surprise to the authors that a veritable Extended Mind (EM) cottage industry has since been generated by their paper. Whether or not one subscribes to the Clark-Chalmers argument or variations thereof, what cannot be denied is the palpable excitement and overall quality of the EM literature – philosophy of mind has been greatly enriched by this topic. EM forces one to take seriously the idea that cognition has an embodied, social and artefactual dimension – indeed, mind exists at the intersection of this trinity.

The EM literature is as controversial as it is suggestive. [1] It should be no surprise then that EM has taken wing in a context that its progenitors, in all probability, did not anticipate. All the contributors here have an established interest in matters of cognition and religion, though not necessarily for the same motivations. Of the group Rowlands and I are best considered as skeptics.[2] This stance does not present discontinuity or dissonance: a highly attractive feature of Zygon is that the editorial policy has been incredibly ecumenical with writers of all persuasions engaging one another across disciplines and across belief systems. Just about a decade ago, Andresen and Forman (2000, 7-8) called upon “religious studies to explore how consciousness functions and how it may play a role in the constitution of reality, in spiritual experience, in the generation of doctrine, and in ritual and meditative life.” This is precisely the conversational character that Zygon has been promoting for many years now. Beyond the table-thumping tone characteristic of recent best sellers (Marsh 2006), there is a great deal of sober discussion of religious experience from a naturalistic perspective, a notable example being Loyal Rue (Marsh 2007). So much for the disclaimer.

Rowlands’ brief (2009) is to survey the EM literature – few are better placed to do so since Rowlands himself is a major player in the EM world. At first blush, the Clark-Chalmers argument presents a challenge to traditional notions of personal identity. Lynne Rudder Baker (2009), a preeminent metaphysician with an established interest in religion, is well-placed to examine these issues. Teed Rockwell (2009) through his intimate knowledge of Buddhism together with the non-Cartesian sensibility that drives his philosophy of mind – negotiates EM border skirmishes. Joel Krueger (2009) incorporates the current hot topic in philosophy of mind – simulation theory – with discussion of empathy filtered through EM and Zen Buddhism. Leonard Angel (2009) presses the notion of EM into the service of formulating a new understanding of the concept of humanism. Matthew Day (2009) rounds off this collection by examining the sociological implications of EM for the study of religion.

It is probably a good idea that one read the Clark and Chalmers paper as soon as possible – it is brief, accessible and easily available. If, after reading this and the papers comprising this symposium, one were inclined to negotiate a burgeoning literature, I’d recommend that one tackle the somewhat sparse critical literature to help crystallize the issues. By far, the best critiques are by Adams & Aizawa (2008) and Rupert (2004, forthcoming). Clark’s latest (2008) offers a spirited defense of EM having the benefit of assimilating these sustained critiques. There are other influential EM theorists worth checking out: notably Noë, Hurley, Hutchins, Thompson and Wilson, referenced in one or more of the papers here. The exceptional vibrancy of the EM literature is well worth engaging with.

NOTES

I want to thank Phil Hefner for charging me, yet again, with organizing a symposium and Debra Van Der Molen and the Zygon editorial team for making the editorial mechanics so straight-forward. In addition to thanking the contributors I want to pay tribute to the referees: Kenneth Aizawa (Centenary College of Louisiana); Tony Chemero (Franklin and Marshall College); Harry Collins (Cardiff University); Adam Holland (University of Technology, Sydney); Anna Marmodoro (University of Oxford); David Spurrett (University of KwaZulu-Natal), Joel Parthemore (University of Sussex); David Skrbina (University of Michigan, Ann Arbor); Liz Stillwagon Swan (State University of New York at Buffalo) and Geoffrey Thomas (Birkbeck College, University of London).

1. The term “extended mind” has also been associated with biologist Rupert Sheldrake. The notion of EM as used in this symposium bears no resemblance at all to Sheldrake’s telepathic Theory of Morphic Fields which posits the idea that mind extends beyond the brain like a magnetic field with the ability to reach, touch, and influence things.
2. Some might have come across Rowlands’ writing as an ardent secularist thinker: http://secularphilosophy.com/. My brand of skepticism was articulated in Marsh (2006, 2007, 2009).

REFERENCES

Adams, Frederick and Kenneth Aizawa. 2008. The Bounds of Cognition. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.
Andresen, Jensine and Robert Forman. 2000. “Methodological Pluralism in the Study of Religion: How the Study of Consciousness and Mapping Spiritual Experience Can Reshape Religious Methodology.” Journal of Consciousness Studies 7 No. 11-12: 7-14.
Angel, Leonard. 2009. Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science ??
Baker, Lynne Rudder. 2009. Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science ??
Chalmers, David. 2008. “A piece of iMe.” An Extended Interview on the Extended Mind with David Chalmers. The Philosophers’ Magazine issue 43: 41-49
Clark, Andy. 2008. Supersizing the Mind: Embodiment, Action, and Cognitive Extension. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Clark, Andy and David Chalmers. 1998. “The Extended Mind.” Analysis 58:10-23. Also available in Clark 2008 and online.
Day, Matthew. 2009. Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science ??
Krueger, Joel. 2009. Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science ??
Marsh, Leslie. 2006. Review of Daniel Dennett: Breaking the Spell: Religion as a Natural Phenomenon. Journal of Mind and Behavior Vol. 27 No. 3& 4: 357-366.
___________ 2007. “Taking the Super out of the Supernatural (or a Manifesto for a Latter-Day Pantheism).” Zygon: Journal of Science and Religion. Vol. 42 No. 2: 343-356.
_____________(2009). “Reflecting on Michael Oakeshott.” Zygon: Journal of Science and Religion Vol. 44 No. 1: 47-51.
Rowlands, Mark 2009. “The Extended Mind.” Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science ??
Rupert, Robert. 2004. “Challenges to the Hypothesis of Extended Cognition.” Journal of Philosophy 101: 389-428.
________________(forthcoming). Cognitive Systems and the Extended Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Wilson, Robert. 2004. Boundaries of the Mind: The Individual in the Fragile Sciences. Cambridge, Mass: Cambridge University Press.


Stigmergic Epistemology, Stigmergic Cognition

May 13, 2007

A co-authored paper with Chris Onof, Faculty of Engineering, Imperial College London and School of Philosophy, Birkbeck College London. A pre-press version is available for download here. Final to appear in Cognitive Systems Research Special Issue.

Abstract:

To know is to cognize, to cognize is to be a culturally bounded, rationality-bounded and environmentally located agent. Knowledge and cognition are thus dual aspects of human sociality. If social epistemology has the formation, acquisition, mediation, transmission and dissemination of knowledge in complex communities of knowers as its subject matter, then its third party character is essentially stigmergic. In its most generic formulation, stigmergy is the phenomenon of indirect communication mediated by modifications of the environment. Extending this notion one might conceive of social stigmergy as the extra-cranial analog of an artificial neural network providing epistemic structure. This paper recommends a stigmergic framework for social epistemology to account for the supposed tension between individual action, wants and beliefs and the social corpora. We also propose that the so-called ‘‘extended mind’’ thesis offers the requisite stigmergic cognitive analog to stigmergic knowledge. Stigmergy as a theory of interaction within complex systems theory is illustrated through an example that runs on a particle swarm optimization algorithm.

Keywords: stigmergy, social epistemology, extended mind, social cognition, particle swarm optimization.


Polybius, Tyche and Causality in Historical Explanation

May 12, 2007

[Note: There are some formatting issues that still need to be attended to] 

Polybius believes that the historian’s task is to identify the causes of past events, making these events intelligible and therefore functional to an educative (practical and moral) purpose. This conception of historical activity has to a great degree informed historical thinking ever since and the term ’cause’ is a particularly entrenched term within historical discourse: the intuitive idea being that to identify a cause is to explain an event or state of affairs, the effect. The aim of this discussion is to examine Polybius’ conception of causality concurrently with modern Polybian scholarship on this topic.

We need first to offer some analysis of the concept of cause. To this belongs the dispute between the necessatarians and regulatarians. No particular analysis of the concept of cause commits one to the principle of causality – that every event has a cause. But obviously when someone invokes the principle of causality we’re entitled to ask what concept of cause they are using. First, we need to examine Polybius’ use of the term [insert Greek]. Walbank (1972: 158) contends that for Polybius, an [insert Greek] is ‘anything that contributes to the decision of the individual(s) responsible to make war.’ Cornford (1907: 59) suggests that in Polybius [insert Greek] is best rendered as ‘reason’ in the psychological sense. Allan (1965: 1-2) ascribes a more focused meaning to ‘include any dependence of one thing upon another, or derivation of qualities from it, without the special implication that the cause is prior in time. Clearly Allan is drawing a contrast with the deductive requirement of an efficient cause. For Polybius, aitia is in fact a tripartite composed of the elements prophasis, the ostensible grounds for war, the bona fide cause, and of arche, the initial action of a given war. Walbank draws the distinction between aitiai which are to be viewed as ‘external’ factors that lead to the aforementioned decisions, but do not include these decisions. Polybius’ application of his scheme could also include states of mind (he devotes a sizable amount of space to character assessment in 8.11-8.13), a psychological predisposition as in III. 7. 1, which he regards as an aitia of the war between Rome and the Aetolians. We should note that Polybius did not always invoke his tripartite scheme of aitiai and that its primary applicability was to the explanation of wars. Of course Polybius does invoke his causal scheme when analyzing the Roman constitution (VII. 2. 8-10), a point we will discuss later. Walbank (1972: 159) is in accordance with Momigliano’s view that Polybius’ conception of causality is rather superficial and simplistic.

What then is the purpose for the historian’s invocation of causality in historical explanation? It seems to me that historians hold the tacit and intuitive assumption that significant relationships between historical events must be causal thereby paradigmatically distinguishing between significant and insignificant causes. Causal relationships are viewed as the exemplary form of explanation, its efficacy in its extracting explanation from chance: a universal or general law is sought. There is no suggestion that Polybius sought to achieve a scientific character to his history. There cannot be a science of something as transitory as human affairs (Collingwood 1946: 35). Perceptive a view as this is, there remains in Polybius’ writing ambiguities and contradictions involving tyche and causality. The question that needs to be posed is this: does the historian have to invoke a ‘law’ to offer a plausible account of historical explanation?

Historians working from authenticated sources (documents, artifacts, speeches, eyewitnesses etc.) which survive in the present, from a no longer extant past, trying to comprehend the character of these unspecified outcomes of antecedent events to which they are significantly related, is an inherently “’inferential“’ enquiry. There is no appeal to a Hempelian deductive-nomological explanation. Those who seek such an explanation are in fact as Oakeshott (1983: ) points out engaged in a completely different sort of enquiry. Their purpose is to deduce the occurrence of an already specified kind of event alleged to have happened by relating it to the occurrence of already specified antecedent events, also alleged to have happened’. This relationship is recognized to be causal in virtue of a universal law which deduces that these kinds of antecedents without exception precede the kind of event whose occurrence is to be deduced. Such an enquiry would undermine and in fact be incoherent: why would the historian seek a cause for an already understood effect? Quite obviously this would be of no concern to the conditions of historical understanding. A causal status is often attributed to an action, if in its execution, the agent may be supposed to have ‘intended’ the outcome, which is thereby recognized to be a consequence. Allan (1965: 2) points out that the Aristotelian meaning of the noun aitia usually rendered as cause, also means ‘charge’ or ‘blame’ and is connected with the verb meaning to ‘impute blame’. Polybius’ characterisation of aitiai as whatever contributes to defining decisions in advance clearly needs some limits imposed on it. In terms of intentionality what shall count as an outcome of an action? In other words how are we to differentiate between action and consequence hinted at by Walbank with his external/internal distinction earlier? Feinberg (1968: 106-7) points out that an action can be described as narrowly or as broadly as one pleases, and this he terms the ‘accordion effect’. What he means by this is that we can usually replace any ascription of agency or authorship. Quite rightly, Walbank points out that such an enquiry reveals itself not to be concerned with cause and effect, but as an undertaking to establish responsibility or even blame. I think that Cohen (1987: 341) is correct in his view that there is an inherent ‘value’ judgment in what he terms ‘attributive causal explanations’ when in reality many wars are the result of a gradual build up of hostility on both sides. Properly speaking, such an activity could not be classed as the primary activity of historical explanation. Earlier I mentioned that in VI. 2. 8-10 Polybius seems to invoke an idea of causality in his analysis of the Roman constitution. Polybius is I think geniunely impressed by the political success of Rome and he attributes this adeptness to the Constitution. Moreover in III. 2. 6 Polybius seems to suggest that it was Rome’s victory in the Hannibalic War that caused Rome to conceive an ambition for world dominion. Though not explicitly said, Polybius certainly implies that after the victory of 241, the Romans conceived this aim and this began a continuous process and pattern leading forward from the conquest of Italy as set out in VI. 50. 6. Were Polybius to view the Roman constitution as the primary cause impetus of their success, a new problem would arise. Causality knows nothing of time, more so in historical time which tends to cover large intervals. And since it is not the historian’s business to seek ‘origins’, the word ’cause’ cannot signify some originating event or state of affairs. Given that the historian’s concern is to distinguish between significant and insignificant antecedents, the word cannot mean the total of all antecedents. Nor may it mean one such antecedent on the premise that had it not occurred, the occurrence of the subsequent events would be a logical impossibility. For example: the birth of Caesar being recognized as a causal condition of his crossing the Rubicon recalling Feinberg’s point on redescription through levels of regression. The Roman constitution therefore would fail to count as a genuine causal explanation for Roman political successes. However, Walbank accords with A Heuss’ view (Walbank 1972: 162) that Polybius is providing ‘a rationalized interpretation of Roman expansion in terms of how men are apt to behave, each episode contributing cumulatively to a single overall pattern of expansion’ which Polybius formulates in III. 32. 7. But as I’ve said previously, a rationalized explanation is not and cannot count as the historian’s task in explanation and on this point hold both Walbank and Heus to be incorrect in accepting this view as legitimate historical activity. I am not precluding that one cannot or should not project perceived similarities of human behavior. (see McClelland’s discussion 1975: 89-91) As McClelland points out, citing Nagel, such an approach is ‘pertinent to questions concerning the origins of his explanatory hypotheses but not to questions concerning their validity’. Walbank (1972: 162) cites P. Pedach’s claim that he doesn’t think that Roman power was internally or self generated. In other words there was nothing uniquely intrinsic to Roman power accounting for such spectacular dominion over the greater part of the known world. Rather power (Pedach personifies power) seeks logical order. Neither I nor Walbank, accept Pedach’s assertion. Walbank counters by saying that the second floor of a building only follows on the first because someone decides to continue to build there; and that surely the view that the stages in the Roman conquest are related to one another, in Polybius’ view, only as a logical consequence, cannot be reconciled with his references to the Romans aiming at world domination. I will resume this discussion later on. At this point we need to examine Polybius’ use of his concept of tyche which is intimately related to the above discussion. Walbank and even Sacks are quite correct in identifying a tension within Polybius’ conception of Fortune: how can a conscious, rational and deliberate attempt at world dominion be as a result of Fortune? If Fortune is not to be taken as chance in the vulgar sense, Polybius ascribes to the domain of Fortune that which is incalculable, capricious beyond the domain of human control (XXXV. 1-17). Quite clearly, any random influences and consequences would undermine Polybius’ pragmatike historia and nullify its educational purpose. But Polybius’ conception of tyche is not quite so banal. For him, tyche had a moral dimension in that common sense would suggest that life is composed of cycles much like Shakespeare’s ‘wheel of fortune’ in King Lear; that accepting that human affairs move incalculably in ‘cycles’, and when as bad fortune will inevitably come round, the reader of his history will be prepared to weather the vicissitudes of ill-fortune much like a Stoic. Walbank (1972: 63) believes some scholars have compared Polybius’ personified use of tyche with the Stoic conception of Providence (c.f. Collingwood 1946:36). But Polybius represents Fortune as a purposive power (1. 4. 4), yet elsewhere the rise of Rome is depicted as essentially something rational (1. 63. 9). As Walbank (1972: 64) perceptively points out, this transcendent and immanent apectival duality, is suggestive of a divine aspect. It may be that Pedach was hinting at the operation of a logos at work in Polybius’ conception of history which would be consistent with the ideas of rationality and Fortune running together. Walbank correctly identifies the crux of the matter. Polybius has confused what has happened with what was destined to happen and so invest the rise of Rome to world domination with a teleological character (1972: 64). This could be characterized by what is called in applied mathematics as the ‘gamblers fallacy’. That the sun has risen each day since the beginning of time does not logically entail that it will rise tomorrow (Wittgenstein) . Recalling the earlier discussion, what Polybius has done is to specify the antecedents, thereby undermining the proper sphere of historical explanation. This all embracing tyche or synoptic view (Walbank 1979: 27) gives the impression of a ‘unified’ universal conception to Polybius’ history, when in fact it is mere glue without which his whole scheme would disintegrate. Returning to the discussion of historical development we now come to consider Oakeshott’s thoughts on the matter. Oakeshott (1983: 94) characteristically offers a brilliant analysis of the problem which he calls the ‘dry wall theory’. Keeping in mind Pedach’s and Walbank’s account of historical development, Oakeshott believes that though historical events are not themselves contingent, they are related to one another contingently. When a historian assembles a passage of antecedent events to compose a subsequent, he builds what in the countryside is called a ‘dry wall’: the stones (that is, the antecedent events) which compose the wall (that is, the subsequent event) are joined and held together, not by mortar, but in terms of their shapes. The wall therefore has no premeditated design; it is what its components, in touching constitute. There is a circumstantial relationship, an evidential contiguity, not in terms of causality, family resemblance, design etc. These circumstantial relationships do not themselves constitute historically significant relationships.

So when a historian employs the language of causality, what he ought to be referring to is this contingent circumstantial relationship. A historical past, composed conceptually of contiguous historical events has no place for extrinsic general terms of relationship – the glue of normality or the cement of general causes’ – neither Polybius’ tyche, Pedach’s intentionality, Walbank’s interpretation of aitiai, nor a Hempelian deductive-nomological conditions are valid analyses for historical explanation. And further, Chance as an exemplar of the purely external, cannot be a genuinely causal relationship and is therefore insignificant. To reiterate: Oakeshott (1983: 83) writes that ‘when a historian invokes a notion of ‘causality’ what he is in fact doing is utilizing a rhetorical expression meaning no more than ‘noteworthy antecedents’ and no ‘law(s)’ are involved.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Allan DJ (1965) ‘Causality Ancient and Modern’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume XXXIX

Cohen H (1973) ‘Das Verstehen and Historical Knowledge’ American Philosophical Quarterly VOL 10 no 4

Cohen MF (1987) ‘Causation in History’ Philosophy 62

Collingwood RG (1946) The Idea of History, reprinted 1970, Oxford

Farrrington B (1946) Science and Politics in the Ancient World, London

Feinberg J (1973) Social Philosophy. Engelwood Cliffs, NJ

Gardiner P (1961) The Nature of Historical Explanation, Oxford

Green P (1990) Alexander to Actium: The Hellenistic Age, London

McClelland PD (1965) Causal Explanation and Model Building in History, Economics, and the New Economic History, Ithaca

Momigliano A (1991) Alien Wisdom, Cambridge

Oakeshott M (1983) ‘The fortuitous, the causal, the similar, the correlative, the analogous and the contingent’ in On History and Other Essays, Oxford

Sacks K (1981) ‘Polybius on the Writing of History’ Classical Studies VOL 24

Samuel AE (1988) The Promise of the West: The Greek World, Rome And Judaism, London

Strachan-Davidson JL (1913) ‘Polybius’ in Hellenica, ed. E Abbott, London

Walbank FW (1972) Polybius, London

Walbank FW (1979) Introduction to Polybius’ The Rise of the Roman Empire, tr. I. Scott-Kilvert, Harmondsworth

Walbank FW (1981) The Hellenistic World, London


Thucydides as a ‘Scientific’ Historian?

May 10, 2007

[There are still some formatting and character issues to be resolved in the following text]

That the question which is the subject of this discussion was posed at all, primarily reflects the concerns of the modern and only secondarily those of Thucydides. The possibility of a ‘scientific’ history while certainly suggestive in Thucydides is very much a modern construct embodying several elliptically formulated assumptions that need to be brought out and disambiguated.

Any suggestion that the question can be comprehensively answered within the scope of this discussion is to hold a superficial view of the epistemic problems involved. The question assumes that:

a) we already have a characterisation of historical explanation, that

b) we also have specified the nature of scientific explanation and that

c) there is consensus in understanding the relationship (the continuities and discontinuities) between these fields of enquiry.

The problem is further compounded by filtering Thucydides uncritically through these assumptions; we need to retrieve Thucydides from what modern scholars “assume” to be Thucydides (de Ste. Croix 1972: 3). Of course we should not “judge” (Finley 1972: 29) Thucydides solely from a modern perspective but it would be incoherent not to engage in rational reconstruction. The problem lies in commentators failing to “specify” the nature of modern inquiry yet blithely thinking it appropriate to evaluate Thucydides on these terms. Thus unavoidably I highlight the issues of a), b) and c) on which my two pronged analysis depends: an analysis of the modern Thucydidean scholarship coextensive with an analysis of Thucydides. Thucydides’ distinctiveness as a classical historian lies in his rudimentary appreciation of the epistemological dimension of historical inquiry, and it is this aspect that has continuing resonance for the philosophically minded modern historian.

The question of Thucydides’ prima facie “scientific method” divides into two possibilities. Firstly, does Thucydides employ the kinds of explanatory models that scientists now use? For example, the deductive-nomological model (Hempel 1962), stressing the need for reference to universal laws in our explanatory accounts. Perhaps Thucydides intuitively believed that some such laws could be discovered if we consider the following well known extract (I: 22) from his History of the Peloponnesian War: “It will be enough for me, however, if these words of mine are judged useful by those who want to understand the events which happened in the past and which (human nature being what it is) will, at some time or other and in much the same ways, be repeated in the future . . . my work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate public, but was done to last forever”. This excerpt is by the strongest implication suggestive of an appeal to the criteria of scientific character, i.e. law-like, premised on the immutability of human nature. The second question that presents itself is whether Thucydides avoids bias and “subjectivity”, and tests his evidence, to the extent that we now require of (and expect from) a professional historian, in light of his limited discussion of methodology as laid out in I: 20-22? In I: 21 Thucydides does not claim to offer conclusive evidence, rather ‘better’ or ‘reasonably accurate’ evidence and it is against these claims that we need evaluate the question of bias and subjectivity. We have to consider the deeper claim that historical enquiry as such (regardless of who conducts it – Greek or modern) is infected with subjectivity to such a degree that to talk of historical ‘objectivity’ has no place in the discussion. With this strategy in mind the structure of the discussion is as follows: Section II: The continuities and discontinuities between historical and scientific explanation; Section III: Evaluates Thucydides’ “subjectivity” in light of his own concerns and in light of Section I; Section IV: I offer some concluding remarks.

SCIENTIFIC EXPLANATION

 I don’t think it is helpful, nor indeed possible to offer an essentialist definition of “scientific”, however we can identify typical features. Using Lindley (1978: 97) as my guide I list the following features of scientific features: deductively drawing conclusions from hypotheses, explaining events or classes of events, confirming theories by observation and experiment, disconfirming, (or disproving) theories by observation and experiment, generalizing from observation and experiment. I think that non-scientists would recognise items two and five as the more typical characteristics of scientific activity. So what does a modern scientific explanation look like? Lindley (1978: 102-9) identifies four requirements for a scientific explanation: deductive connection; truth; empirical content; reference to universal law. Appealing to universal laws we might get a Hempelian explanation of this form:

1. Always (or necessarily) if conditions C1 . . . CN obtain, then an x-type event occurs

2. Conditions C1 . . . CN obtained/ will obtain

 _____________________________________

3. An x-type event occurred/ will occur.

This is the deductive-nomological model; nomological because it contains a lawlike statement, ‘Always (or necessarily)’ and deductive because 3. follows logically from 1. and 2. We should notice a problem raised by JB Bury. His point is that Hempel-type laws or probabilistic generalisations – of which Bury himself is quite ready to accept exist – are liable to ‘cross’ in non-lawlike and non-probabilistic ways (cf. Hempel 1962 on probabilistic-statistical explanation). To illustrate this point Bury (1930: 62) offers the following example: “The appearance of the microbes which caused the plague . . . causing among other effects the death of Pericles . . . had its own definite chain of causes, but this sequence had nothing to do with the sequence of events which led to the war . . . the microbe had no interest in the war . . . the political effects of the plague were a contingency.” It must, however, be admitted that the deductive-nomological model is an ideal that for the most part not even science can meet. More often in practice, a scientific theory is an inference to the best explanation. The Hempel model offers in a bold and clear manner, with conceptual economy and richness, a model that best accommodates the idea of ‘laws’ and ‘evidence’ and as such it should be viewed as an ideal. To apply the deductive-nomological model to historical explanation we need laws of history. Marx’s laws of history were overall trends or ‘patterns of behaviour’ (de Ste. Croix 1981: 27) rather than Hempelian ‘Always (or necessarily)’ laws. It is only the vulgar Marxist (or Marxist detractor) that makes claims for ‘iron laws of history’, supposedly derived from Thucyides’ holding a fixed view of human nature, something we’ll look at in greater detail in section III. We should note a problem concerning deductive validity as applied to historical inquiry. Goh (1970: 408-9) marks this problem in making the distinction between supporting and covering laws. Essentially, one needs a covering law connecting the conditions with the event, otherwise the deuction has a missing link. With history being inferential activity, there’s no necessary connection between the laws and the conditions; so they can’t yield a conclusion. So even were we able to describe the conditions leading to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war: the growing strength of Athens (I: 23: 6); the Spartans feeling threatened by this growth; the Megarian decree forbidding trade; the personal qualities of Pericles, and so on, I would still be no nearer to knowing what the relevant supporting or covering laws would look like. Is it a matter of not happening to know the laws which in principle could be found, or are there deeper reasons why no such laws are available in the social sciences?“’

Suppose then, that we relax the nomological element into the modified form:

Probably, if conditions C1 . . . CN, an x-type event occurs. This reformulation replaces strict, exceptionless laws with probabilistic generalisations. It also cancels the deductive aspect of the model. So we are back to history as an inferential inquiry.

HISTORICAL EXPLANATION

There are two particular and inextricably linked epistemological problems (among others) that confront historical explanation: the non-existence of the past and the uniqueness of historical events Past events happened, but the past does not exist. Thucydides does not deny that there was a series of events that comprised what is called the Peloponnesian War, but the events existed in space and time which creates a problem for knowledge and truth. But in the case of the past, the ‘evidence’ is in principle uncheckable against what it is supposed to be evidence of. That’s because what it’s supposed to be evidence of, no longer exists – namely, the past. Thucydides was well aware of this problem. In I: 1 he says, ‘. . . I have found it impossible because of its remoteness in time, to acquire a really precise knowledge of the distant past or even of the history preceding our own period. . . ‘ Thucydides understood that historical perspective was limited by the fallibility of memory and that beyond the confines of living memory, historical accuracy was bound to become increasingly tenuous. If we cannot in principle check the past as evidence of itself, or in other words create a repeatable experiment to verify our hypothesis, then the second problem that then arises is the de facto uniqueness of historical events, for in the absence of testing how else could we prove otherwise? How can the required generalisations be derived to offer the sort of explanatory accounts we set out to find?

SCIENTIFIC HISTORY

I have to be fair in saying that I doubt whether so-called “scientific” historians are making the claims of scientific activity as we’ve discussed; it was important to examine what strictly speaking constitutes scientific activity so that we are not blithly making unsubstantiated claims. There are two dominant views each with their respective strengths and weaknesses that have given rise to the polarised discussion of whether history is sui generis (Berlin 1980: 131), the view most often held by the idealists, or whether history is a branch of science with its own special procedures which enable it to pass beyond common-sense in the search for regularities and uniformities, perhaps best termed as Wissenschaft. I doubt whether there is a single procedure properly called scientific method, something self-consciously applied by all and only scientists. Each science has its own methods. The idealist claim that when a historian invokes ‘scientific’ history all one really means is “accurate” history, has no force (Thucydides’ makes the weaker claim to offer a ‘more’ accurate history I: 21); what competent historian would seek to refute such a self-evident claim. Dover says (1994: 257) that even when he was at school the question of whether science was a history or art was a weary topic.

THUCYDIDES AS SCIENTIFIC HISTORIAN

There are three sources that together have encouraged the view of Thucydides as ‘scientific’ which I will deal with, beginning with the least contentious. The Sophists, who leaving aside Plato’s pejorative view of them, did create an intellectual climate fostering the exercise of man’s rationatory powers through argument and persuasion, is reflected in Thucydides’ attempt at offering competing accounts and claims of the protagonists in his History. De Ste. Croix (1972: 13) is concerned that the uniform style of the speeches with their distinctly sophistic polish would have been beyond the understanding of the [insert Greek]. The second ‘scientific’ influence on Thucydides and most often pointed to as conconclusive, were the existence of his contemporaries of the Hippocratic ‘school’. They offered an empirical approach to events. The detailed account of the disease which plagued Athens reflected Thucydides’ concern to document the situation so that the reader might recognise the symptoms. But as de Ste. Croix (1972: 31) points out, alerting the reader to recognising the disease is not to suggest that the disease can therefore be anticipated and avoided. It is more a case of accumulating wisdom and experience in a general way needed by the reader who was most likely to be participating in the day to day running of the [insert Greek], an idea that Polybius was later to take up in his [insert Latin]. The medical analogy of diagnosis and of prognosis should therefore not be taken too literally by the modern commentator. It is Thucydides’ view of human nature that has most contributed to the idea of Thucydides as a ‘scientific’ historian. From Collingwood onwards it has become the accepted widom, an orthodoxy that has uncritically permeated the work of others: a view that I’m most anxious to dispel. That a writer makes assumptions about human nature should not invite the ascribtion of scientific. Liberals and Marxists do just that – their political philosophies run on the supposed immutability or mutability of human nature. Thucydides’ view of the immutability of human nature, [insert Greek], does not entail a vulgar notion of scientific determinism but is best viewed in a looser sense of ‘the same or similar to’ (de Ste. Croix 1972: 32). Only the vulgar Marxist, de Ste. Croix not being one, would make the fatuous claims for ‘iron laws of history’. This scientism manifests itself in Collingwood’s notion of psychological history which he attributes to Thucydides – ‘the father of psychological history’ (1946: 29-30). He writes: “Now what is psychological history? It is not history at all, but natural science of a special kind. It does not narrate facts for the sake of narrating facts. Its chief purpose is to affirm laws, psychological laws. A psychological law is not an event nor yet a complex of events: it is an unchanging rule which governs the relations between events.” Cornford (1907: 59; 64) many years earlier had already surmised that a typical feature of ancient historians was to ascribe causal explanation solely in terms of psychological causes. Collingwood’s and Dilthey’s process of re-enacment by which the historian empathetically enters into the state of mind of the person whose action he wants to explain might seem to lend support to Thucydides’ intention: for example, Thucydides’ avowed intention to capture an idea of ‘national character’ as in III: 82 (the Athenians) and in I: 68-72; 80-85 (the Spartan character). De Ste. Croix (1972: 5-6; 31-32; 1981: 27) is absolutely correct in suggesting that it is ‘patterns of behaviour’ or trends as we mentioned in section I, that Thucydides is concerned with. What de Ste. Croix fails to do is offer a convincing refutation of this quasi notion of ‘law’, a task I now undertake. There is a tension in Collingwood’s idea. In trying to understand Pericles’ action I want to understand this particular person’s specific action; I am interested in the unique, not in the general. I gain no help, and seek no assistance from appeals to probabilistic generalisations about the tendency of this type of person to do this type of action in this type of situation. It does not alter the fact that Pericles wasn’t a ‘Periclean’ type person who fought in a ‘Potidaean’ type battle. McClelland (1975: 90-91) asks, then how do we gain knowledge of the dispositions of others and knowledge of how people with those dispositions are likely to behave?: . . . that the answer would seem to involve the perception of similarities and the organisation of those similarities into generalisations of varying degrees of specificity. If the historian grants this latter point, he denies the basic methodological precept of both Dilthey and Collingwood, that one can pass directly ‘from the facts to an understanding of those facts with no reliance upon generalisations’. Collingwood’s Thucydides is a nomological Thucydides, a view that is untenable (cf. Dray’s ‘rational explanation’).

THUCYDIDES AS OBJECTIVE HISTORIAN

To be objective is to ostensibly be scientific and could not be coherently discussed had we not already specified the paradigmatic nature of scientific knowlege and its relationship to historical knowledge. Charges of historical subjectivity – of the subjectivity of historical inquiry – usually proceed in two stages (Martin 1979: 49). First, an attempt is made to show that historical inquiry necessarily carries a value component – that all historical judgments are necessarily determined by value judgments. Secondly, value judgments are held to be incapable of justification since there is no evidence in virtue of which one judgment of that kind is more justified, that is, more worthy of belief, than some other judgment of that kind which is incompatible with it. Consequently, the charge of historical subjectivity will be defeated if we can show either that: ç¤ it is not the case that all historical judgments are necessarily evaluative, or that evaluative judgments are not necessarily subjective For the purposes and constraints of this paper, we’ll confine ourselves to examining the idea that all historical judgments are necessarily evaluative. This is certainly a major idea that people have in mind when they talk about subjectivity and we’ll look at it in relation to Thucydides. Critics of historical objectivity claim to find three evaluative elements in historical inquiry (Dray 1957: 250): ç¤ selection of items for historical investigation evaluation in causal explanation ç¤ evaluation in action description In I: 21 Thucydides offers an explicit and unambiguous statement of the distinction he makes between mythology and ‘factual’ history, a thinly veiled attack on Herodotus. However, we find at the close of Book III Thucydides devotes a significant amount of space to the Homeric Hymn to Apollo when Thucydides explicitly has said that mythology is not a ‘truth-bearer’, that is the kinds of things that can be true or false?, the candidates being ‘what is said’; beliefs; and knowledge, which by definition cannot be false. He says: ” . . . I do not think that one will be far wrong in accepting the conclusions I have reached from the evidence which I have put forward. It is better evidence than that of the poets, who exaggerate the importance of their themes, or of the prose chroniclers, who are less interested in telling the truth than in catching the attention of their public, whose authorities cannot be checked, and whose subject-matter, owing to the passage of time, is mostly lost in the unreliable streams of mythology.“’ Thucydides’ intention cannot be faulted even from a modern perspective (Oakeshott 1933: 74): “An imagined past, a past of myth, may, for some purposes, be valuable and significant; it may for example, have an immense and beneficial control over belief and activity; but it is a past alien from that of history.” I would argue that it is a failing both on Thucydides’ part and on the part of the modern commentator (Collingwood 1946: 28-34; cf. de Ste. Croix 1972: 5-6) that Herodotus’ project is misconstrued. Given that Thucydides is using Herodotus as a methodological foil we need to briefly examine their points of convergence and divergence. Herodotus and Thucydides both share a concern for the fallibility of conscious memory (the act of recalling) for the transmission of past events but for different reasons. In the opening sentence of Herodotus’ Histories he says: ‘ . . . (his) Researches are set down to preserve the memory of the past by putting on record the astonishing achievments . . . ‘ For Herodotus, the qualititive dimension of memory was its breadth, not its criterion of truth. For Thucydides and the modern to evaluate Herodotus’ project even on the loosest definition of historiography is to completely misunderstand the nature of the Herodotean project. Herodotus’ recorded stories may or may not be true but his project was to record stories that formed the fabric of an inherented cultural tradition. He does not naãÈvely believe all he hears (II: 123; VII: 152) and it is not clear to me whether it is the veracity of the stories themselves that is doubted, whether it is Herodotus’ recording of the stories without his embellishing them that is doubted, or whether or not he shouldn’t be in that line of business at all (Burns 1972: 28). Thucydides was implicitly critical of Herodotus for downgrading fact in preference for emphasis on artifice or entertainment. That would be a cogent criticism were Herodotus claiming to be writing ‘factual’ history, a claim he never makes. Perhaps viewing Herodotus as an anthropologist of sorts (Burns 1972: 10) best captures the nature of his project. I use the term anthropologist in its loosest sense akin to explorers and travellers such as Marco Polo, discovering the diversity of mankind, even if their ‘discoveries’ were not entirely empirical. This view is consistent with Herodotus’ assertion in II: 123, repeated again in VII: 152 (cf. 8: 8; 3: 116; 4: 25): “’ Anyone may believe these Egyptian tales, if he is sufficiently credulous: as for myself, I keep to the general plan of this book, which is to record the traditions of the various nations just as I heard them related to me.“’ Keeping these thoughts in mind we now turn to Thucydides’ speeches which have generated a great deal of scholarly dispute. In I: 22 he sets out his famous ‘method’: “ . . . I have made use of set speeches some of which were delivered just before and others during the war. I have found it difficult to remember the precise words used in the speeches which I listened to myself and my informants have experienced the same difficulty; so my method has been, while keeping as closely as possible to the general sense of the words that were actually used, to make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation. He goes onto explain that with so many contradictory accounts through impartiality and the natural limitations of human memory, the truth was very difficult to divine. He ends I: 22 with the famous appeal for his work to be of relevance in perpetuity, premissed on the notion of a fixed human nature, [insert Greek], which we looked at earlier. It is the ambiguity of the phrase ‘keeping as close as possible’ that has been the source of so much dispute concerning Thucydides’ ‘proclaimed’ objectivity. It is not my place to adjudicate the correct rendering of [insert Greek] (judgement, opinion, intention in Liddell & Scott 1993; purport, sense, meaning: von Fritz; upshot: Walbank both cited in de Ste. Croix 1972: 8-9) or of [insert Greek]. Many commentators find it difficult to resist the conclusion that the judge of ‘what was appropriate’ was Thucydides himself and that this is a devastating blow against Thucydides’ claims for factual history. Surely as long as the ‘main thesis’ (de Ste. Croix 1972: 10) or the ‘upshot or gist’ (Walbank 1965) is communicated Thucydides’ intention will have been met. Jebb (1913: 253) suggests that the first thought that would occur to Thucydides would be, ‘What were the best arguments available? rather than, ‘What would have the agent himself have used’ subject to qualification on how well the speaker was known to Thucydides. Jebb (1913: 256) does however suggest that ‘there is every probability that he had heard most or all of the important discussions which took place in the Ecclesia between 433 and 424 B. C.’ and that Thucydides would have had access to a full and accurate account of the speeches he may have not witnessed for himself. Pompa (1993: 14) echoes this point that given the public nature of an event such as a war and the public nature of the actors speeches etc., there is little reason to doubt the veracity of events that took place in the public domain. 

CONCLUDING REMARKS

It is my contention that the key to a sound understanding of Thucydides in particular and historical explanation in general lies in accomodating the insights of both the idealists and the so-called scientific historians but not allowing these insights to contrive a fictitious Thucydides. We cannot escape that: history is on one level a distinct discourse, primarily because history is what the evidence obliges us to believe, not what actually happened’ (Oakeshott 1933: 112) and thus in the absence of another history Thucydides’ history is the history of the Peloponnesian War. As for the claim that Thucydides is most vulnerable to charges of ‘subjectivity’, this can be countered in two ways:

First, it’s more of a case of commentators not being sensitised to the epistemological problems of historical explanation, being easily being drawn in by Thucydides’ suggestive ‘scientific’ language, then, unfairly setting him up as a straw man.

Secondly, as for the charge levelled against Thucydides that he is merely a conduit for Periclean ideology, that can be met by taking the Marxist line that any intellectual enterprise, is subject to and functional to the dominant ideology of that particular society, more so in Thucydides’ case given Pericles’ unparalleled dominance within Athenian society. To vulgarly apply the assumptions of science to history is to be as bad a ‘historiographer’ as it is to be a bad ‘scientist’, and ends up doing neither. Thucydides, then, should be exonerated from the fallacious charge of being unscientific or indeed of being scientific, a view that has arisen from a vulgar notion of scientific/ historical explanation. Thucydides’ profound and lasting insight was his identification of the epistemic problem of the tenuousness of distant history. Seen thus, Thucydides in the context of his time was as good a historian as any good modern historian in the context of our time.

NOTES

1 Patrick Gardiner writes in his The Nature of Historical Explanation (1961: xi): ‘. . . (the question) “Is history a science?” is a question dangerous in its simplicity, particularly so because to call some branch of study scientific is frequently a means to giving it an air, if not of glamour, then at any rate of respectability. And all too often bold attempts to give a straight yes or no answer to the question, supported by reasons, end up in verbal disputes amounting to little more than alternative linguistic recommendations.’ Gardiner goes on to offer the corollary: ‘The question: “What is the nature of historical explanation? . . . implies that, provided a careful enough search is conducted, a clear and distinct idea of what historical explanation really is may somewhere be found, and, with labour, brought to light. This thought no doubt originates from Thucydides’ famous statement in I: 23: 6 about the origins of war. De Ste. Croix (1972: 5-6) is equally critical of modern (English) Thucydidean scholarship for failing to clarify and locate Thucydides’ History within the broader problems of historiography, for example, in attributing to Thucydides a search for ‘laws’ in the vulgar sense rather than his having an interest in historical events.

2. Though de Ste. Croix is characteristically provocative, his diagnosis is spot on. He fails, however, to offer arguments that match the force of his diagnosis.

3. Popper held that we should aim, not to confirm or corroborate, but to refute of falsify hypotheses; a counter-instance carrying more weight than a confirmatory instance.

4. see The Philosophy of Social Science, ed. A Ryan, Oxford (1973) particularly Ryan’s introduction pp. 4-5.

5. Several of the great philosophers of history were idealists – Croce, Collingwood, Dilthey but I will take Oakeshott as the preeminent representative. Suffice to say, that as an idealist, the nature of truth has to be coherence (the coherence theory of truth not to be confused with the coherence theory of knowledge) and each ‘mode of experience’, i. e. the historical, the practical and the scientific are intellectual constructs, each capable of “’generating conclusions to itself“’. Therefore history would be considered sui generis as would science (see Oakeshott 1933). For a detailed and balanced account of the coherence theory of truth see Ralph Walker’s The Coherence Theory of Truth, London & New York (1989).

6. de Ste. Croix (1972: 6 note 4) cites MI Finley among others.

7.  In his “’Preface To A Critique Of Political Economy“’, Peking (1976), Marx talks of the Ancient world as being one of the epochs comprising the process of dialectical materialism. For the most sustained modern treatment see GA Cohen’s Karl Marx’s Theory of History: A Defence (1978), Oxford and his ‘Functional Explanation, Consequence Explanation, and Marxism’ Inquiry 25.
 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Berlin I (1980) “The Concept of Scientific History” in Concepts and Categories, ed. H Hardy, Chicago

Burns AR (1972) ‘Introduction’ to Herodotus’ Histories, tr. A de Selincourt, Harmondsworth

Bury JB (1930) ‘Cleopatra’s Nose’ in Selected Essays, ed. H Temperley, Cambridge

Collingwood RG (1946) The Idea of History, reprinted 1970, Oxford

Cornford FM (1907) Thucydides Mythistoricus, London

Dover K (1994) Marginal Comment: a memoir, London

Dray WH (1957) Laws and Explanation in History, Oxford

Finley MI (1968) Aspects Of Antiquity, London

Finley MI (1972) ‘Introduction’ to Thucydides’ History of the Pelopponnesian War, tr. Rex Warner (1954), Harmondsworth

Froude JA (1864) ‘The Science of History’ in Short Studies on Great Subjects, London

Gardiner P (1961) The Nature of Historical Explanation, Oxford

Gaselee S (1939) ‘Ancient Greek Scientific Ideas’ Proceedings of the Classical Association Vol XXXVI

Goh ST (1970) ‘Some Observations on the Deductive-Nomological Theory’, Mind

Gomme (1945) A Historical Commentary On Thucydides, Oxford

Hempel CG (1962) ‘Explanation in Science and History’ in Frontiers of Science and Philosophy, ed. RG Colodny, London, reprinted in Explanation (1993), ed. DH Ruben, Oxford

Hornblower S (1987) Thucydides, London

Jebb RC (1913) ‘The Speeches Of Thucydides’ in Hellenica, ed. E Abbott, London

Lindley R (1978) ‘Scientific Explanation’ in What Philosophy Does, London

Martin R (1979) ‘History and Subjectivity’ Ratio 21

McClelland PD (1975) Causal Explanation and Model Building in History, Economics, and the New Economic History, Ithaca NY

Momigliano A (1958) ‘The Place of Herodotus in the History of Historiography’, History XIII

Momigliano A (1971) ‘Popular Religious Beliefs and the Late Roman Historians’  Studies in Church History 8, reprinted in Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1972) ‘Tradition and the Classical Historian’ History and Theory 11, reprinted in (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1974) ‘Historicism Revisited’ Mededelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afd. Letterkunde, NR 37: 3, reprinted in (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1979) ‘The Origins of Universal History’, presented at the University of Chicago and in the Christian Gauss Seminars in Criticism at Princeton University, reprinted in On Pagans, Jews, and Christians (1987), Middletown Conn.

Momigliano A (1981) ‘History and Biography’ in The Legacy Of Greece, ed. MI Finley, Oxford

M (1933) Experience And Its Modes, Cambridge

Oakeshott M (1983) On History And Other Essays, Oxford

Pompa L (1993) ‘The Possibility Of Historical Knowledge’ Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Vol LXVII

Ryan A (ed.) (1973) The Philosophy of Social Science, Oxford

de Ste. Croix GEM (1972) The Origins Of The Peloponnesian War, London

de Ste. Croix GEM (1983) The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World, London

Walbank FW (1985) ‘Speeches In Greek Historians’ in Selected Papers: studies in Greek and Roman Historiography, Cambridge


Humanitarian Aid for the Mind

May 8, 2007

I have had the great priviledge to be associated with the Sabre Foundation. If, like me, you are of the view that access to education must surely be a key to ameliorating all aspects of life, then check out their website.

For each $100 donated to Sabre, Sabre can ship up to $3,000 worth of NEW books. This is superb value for money. Furthermore, unlike other book donation agencies, Sabre only sends books that are requested by its local partners.


The Social Constructivist Debate: Reconsidering Wiggins

May 7, 2007

 An appreciation of David Wiggins’ Sameness and Substance

(there is some notation later in this piece that needs to be rectified – some characters were lost in the copy and paste)

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The social constructionist argument takes the generic form of:

1. x need not have existed, or need be at all as it is. X, or X as it is at present, is not determined by he nature of things; it is not inevitable

2. x is quite bad as it is

3. we would be much better off if x were done away with, or at least radically transformed.

This must rate as the argument generating the most heated debate within scientific circles, in philosophy, and indeed post-Sokel, right across academia. Yet, amidst the din nowhere is there to be found in the literature reference to David Wiggins’s sophisticated ‘synthesis’ formulated in his Sameness and Substance, a synthesis assimilating the virtues both of the realist and constructivist positions, assiduously avoiding their failings. What accounts for this neglect I can but only offer a few remarks in passing at the end of this article.

§1

Wiggins’ critique of anti-essentialism

Wiggins is happy to accept that the convenient label ‘conceptualist realism’ is a species of realism (1980: 131). Perhaps Wiggins’ conceptualist realism can best be captured by his comment (1980: 67) that there ‘must still be something we can discover in spite of ourselves’ and this is what is meant to take existence and identity and truth seriously. Again, ‘the mind “conceptualises” objects, yet objects “impinge” upon the mind’ (Wiggins 1980: 101). His outline of a theory of individuation illustrates his realism (essentialism) and his conceptualism (sortals) position for if one can invent sortal concepts at will with no attempt at validation, ‘then the real content of the assertion that something lasted till “t” and then ceased to exist will be trivialized’ (Wiggins 1980: 66). I open with Wiggins’ hypotheses (diagnosis) of the sources of anti-essentialism. They are sequentially as follows:

Premise (1): Another life form different from ours might well have not discovered individual substances and might have singled out and individuated other kinds of things through very different principles of articulation and individuation.

Premise (2): That it is feasible for the discovery of a given substance to be conceptualised in at least two very different ways and that scientific progress consisted in conceptual refinement through ‘radically different ways’.

Conclusion: Conceptualisation and individuation are not real and independent phenomenon that exist in nature, and that the most disagreeable aspect of essentialism is its claims to show the necessities that exist independent of mind.

Premise (1) is plausible in Wiggins’ view. Surely, Wiggins asks, what substance can be conceptualised in radically different ways with different principles of existence and persistence? It is grossly incoherent to posit an entity with inconsistent properties for even if the singling out of and articulation of x could be dispensed with (x could be ignored), the essential specifications of x fixes x’s existence and possibility of being singled out.

Wiggins (1980: 136) holds Van Fraassen up as an example of arguing from (1) to (3) via (2). According to Wiggins, Van Fraassen first posits an ontology of bare particulars; understanding, explanation and discovery thereof, is mediated and ‘determined’ by the instrument of understanding. Wiggins detects a tension here. On the one hand a “completed” first stage ontology is posited, but on the other hand this ontology is then finally determined. This second stage is characterized by Quine, Geach and Wiggins as being an ideology. The anti-essentialists accept a range of basic sortals and then ‘adduce as a reason to depreciate the suggestion that any of these things “had” to be a horse, or a tree or a man, the anthropocentricity, of the viewpoint that underlies and conditions the attributes.’ There is no coherence in the notion that ‘of what’ one articulates, might equally ‘have been a prime number or a fire shovel, though in fact neither.’

How then to moderate this extreme conceptualism? A first step, requires that the conceptualist reject the idea that horses, leaves, the sun, etc., are artefacts. It needs to finely balance the reciprocal relation between our conceptual creativity and nature, allowing nature to intimate, regulate and inform the concepts. An acceptable conceptualism must not entail the denial that the extensions of any concepts could not have an independent existence (‘a particularly unappealing form of idealism’ 1980: 141), but can only licence the notion that our capacity to single out draws upon a ‘conceptual scheme which has itself been fashioned or formed in such a way as to make it “possible” to single them out (1980: 139). ‘The anti-conceptualist realist is not necessarily a man confused by anything at all except the difference between good and bad conceptualism.’ Just as there is an unacceptable exaggerated vulgar realism ‘myth of the “self-differentiating object”, the idea being an object supplying “raw” datum to the mind. There must be ‘something in the singling out that makes it determinate which principle is the principle of individuation for the entity and under what family of individuatively parallel sortal concepts it is to be subsumed’ (1980: 140). Negotiating the two extremes of the realist and conventionalist as characterized above, Wiggins’ central claim ‘was only that what sortal concepts we bring to bear upon experience determines what we can find there – just as the size and mesh of a net determines “’not what fish are in the sea, but which ones we shall catch” (1980: 141, my emphasis). The thesis is that the concepts under which experience is articulated and things singled out determine the persistence conditions of what is singled only because such concepts determine “what” is singles out’ (1980: 141), thus expunging any idealism by tying the persistence condition to the creative act of mind.

Is there any scope for manoeuvre in freedom or choice in the articulation of reality? The freedom exists at (1) where an interest is developed (but is exhausted at 1, p142), but then a set of sortal concepts is fixed upon to realize an interest and ‘nothing that we who have the concept can do will determine whether or not something at a certain place actually “satisfies” a given concept or not’ (1980: 142).

The anti-conceptualist realist is concerned with what happens beyond the point at which objectivity has been secured (as best as it can be independent of mind). His concern is not merely to act as guardian of objectivity in human thought, but ‘to preserve its prospects of passing beyond the most narrowly anthropocentric’ (1980: 142). In a footnote (1980: 101; note 25) Wiggins marks his awareness that his position can be misread. When Wiggins says that ‘the mind “conceptualises” objects, yet objects “impinge” upon the mind’, the first half of this claim seems to some ‘to carry the suggestion that “the very same objects” could have been conceptualised in different ways, had the mind been differently constituted.’ This is not the way that Wiggins intends the sentence to be understood.

Our concepts are open to being regulated by reality and as a consequence our understanding approaches a realm not sensitive to the practical. The realist critic ‘has nothing to offer as a proof that all genuinely explanatory insights “have” to be framed at the deepest level of fundamental theory’ and ‘our conceptual scheme surely represents a respectable, however unimpressive, stage in some however gradual process of the revelation of reality’ (1980: 144).

Wiggins makes the distinction between the scientific worldview and the ‘less theoretical’ view of reality, i.e. the world of practice, morality and meaning. Many great scientific developments do not impact upon our ontology but rather result in the jettisoning of certain explanatory ideas, and new answers are framed ‘under the new order by bridge principles.’ Should the old ontology undergo a genuine revision, it can easily accommodate the improvements (Wiggins 1980: 88 takes an example from biology showing that the discovery that tadpoles became frogs changed conceptions, not concepts). Further, if scientific progress abandons an old ontology, that does not in itself render the old ontology redundant or ‘discredited’ – on it own terms it operates quite adequately. Though we live in a world that is aware of the indeterminacy of particle physics, we still operate for the most part in a Newtonian world. Microscopic discoveries do not affect ‘the familiar macroscopic entities in which we “cannot” abandon our interest’ (my emphasis). And finally, a new world view and its accompanying ontology ‘will not come bare of individuative concepts or of “de re” necessities of its own . . . what generates these will be the requirement that everything conceivable of the new entities be co-conceivable in the new theory.’

For Wiggins the relativity theorist typically exaggerates the autonomy of though in the singling out of objects of reference, by the same token so-called Bare Absolutists take too lightly the conceptual preconditions of singling out and it has been Wiggins’ task to mediate a position between these two extremes by offering his thesis of Sortal Dependency of Identity.

§2

Sortal dependency of identity

As the reader might recall from section I Wiggins rejects Geach’s relativity thesis. Geach’s thesis is that one cannot simply ask whether a thing “x” and a thing “y” are one and the same. It must be specified “the same what” for, “x” may be the same “F” as “y” though “x” is a different “G” than “y”. Geach’s point seems to be partly vindicated if we recall the example of the gramophone record being turned into an ashtray. Wiggins (1980: 18-20) argues that Geach’s relativity thesis is incompatible with Leibniz’s Law. Suppose that Leibniz’s Law applies to the statement ‘The ashtray is the same matter as the gramophone.’ Then the ashtray and the gramophone record have the same properties. Since the gramophone record has the property of being the same artefact as the gramophone record, the ashtray must have that property. Therefore it could not be true that the ashtray is a different artefact than the gramophone record. Undeniably there are innumerable sortal concepts used to single out some individual but the fact that:

some individual “a” does not in itself imply that there is a possibility of getting different answers to the question whether “a” coincides with some mentioned individual “b” in the way relevant for “a”. For all the alternative procedures of individuation under alternative covering concepts might, when they yielded any answer, yield the same answer to that question (‘same what’, footnote 4). My contention is precisely that they “must” do. The reflexivity and congruence of identity provide logically compelling reasons why, if “a” is “b”, or if “a” is the same something or other as “b”, (same horse, same tree, same planet, or whatever), then all different procedures of individuating “a” (provided they really do individuate “a”) must, if they yield any answer at all, yield the “’same“’ answer with respect to “a”s coincidence with “b.” (Wiggins 1980: 18)

Suppose that relative identity is expressed by a true statement of the form “a” is the same “F” as “b” and “a” is a different “G” than “b”. One conclusion that might be drawn from Wiggins’s argument is that instances of relative identity are not instances of strict identity since relative identity holds between the ashtray and the gramophone record, strict identity does not hold. This much Geach would not deny, but perhaps Wiggins’s point is that relative identity is not properly identity. The challenge is not to find instances of relative identity, that’s commonplace. The challenge is rather to provide instances of strict identity. Geach’s relativity thesis implies that the “only” notion of numerical identity we have is that of relative identity, rendering strict identity as incoherent. The notion of strict identity is simply the notion of a relation that holds only between a thing and itself.

Wiggins (1980: 47-48) advocates the thesis of Sortal Dependency of Identity and disassociates it from Geach’s sortal-relative thesis by making two claims.

(1) if “a” is the same as “b”, then it must also hold that “a” is the same “something” as “b”.

This claim is generated by conception in our ordinary language. The second claim is that:

(2) the “elucidation” of identity “a” = “b” depends on the kind of thing that “a” and “b” are.

The consolidation of the above gives a threefold doctrine:

“D”: “a”= “b” iff there exists a sortal concept f such that:

(1) “a” and “b” belong to a kind which is the extension of f;

(2) to say that “x” falls under f - or that “x” is an f - is to say what “x” is (in the sense Aristotle isolated);

(3) “a” is the same f as “b”; or “a” coincides with “b” under f, i. e. coincides with “b” in the manner of coincidence required for members of f, . . .

If the thesis of Sortal Dependency is true, then, although the statement that “a”= “b” will always entail that there is an f such that “a” = “f b”, it will not specify what the sortal concept is. Nor indeed the man who says or knows that “a”= “b” know which concept it is.

A ‘sortal’ is supposed to be a term which in some sense tells us ‘what the thing is’ and needs to be able to correctly characterize those successions which correspond to persisting object, would have to cover instances where object (artefacts) can be taken apart and reconstituted for part of our concept of object-identity is that throughout all its changes an object must at least remain an object of the same sort. But what is meant by the same ‘sort’? I offer a definition of what ‘sortal’ might be:

The general term F is a sortal means: It is a conceptual truth (a rule of language) that any spatio-temporally and qualitively continuous succession of F-stages corresponds to (what counts as) stages in the career of a single persisting F-thing.

Wiggins uses the example of a sortal called ‘tree’. Adjectives such as ‘brown’ and ‘wooden’ are not sortals. If “a” is a brown wooden tree, the thesis of sortal dependency implies that “a”‘s identity somehow depends on “a”‘s being a tree in a way that “a”‘s identity does not depend on “a”‘s being wooden or brown (a continuous succession of stages of trees typically must add up to the stages of one and the same tree, a continuous succession of stages of brown or wooden things may jump from one brown or wooden thing to another).I offer an explication of this in terms of the following principle:

The Sortal Rule. A sufficient condition for the succession S of object-stages to correspond to stages in the career of a single persisting object is that:

(1) S is spatio-temporally continuous; “and”
(2) S is qualitatively continuous; “and”
(3) there is a sortal term F such that S is a succession of F-stages.

The sortal rule states “only a sufficient”, not a necessary, condition of persistence. This principle exhibits a sense in which “a”‘s identity might be said to depend on “a”‘s being an instance of ‘tree’ rather than on “a”‘s being an instance of either ‘brown’ or ‘wooden’. The difficulty is to find some way of moving from this sort of example to Wiggins’s general idea that any thing’s identity must depend on ‘what it is’. One aspect of this difficulty is brought out by contrasting a thing’s diachronic unity with the thing’s synchronic unity. If “a” is a brown wooden tree, the principle of sortal dependency provides a rough analysis of what the diachronic unity of “a”‘s successive stages consists in, and this analysis depends in a certain way on “a”‘s being a tree. There appears, however, to be no comparable analysis of the synchronic unity of “a”‘s contemporaneous parts which depends on “a”‘s being a tree. But the thesis of sortal dependency, as Wiggins apparently intends it, would imply that “a”‘s identity through space as well as through time depends on ‘what it is’. I suggest that a necessary (but not sufficient) condition for F to be a sortal is that F be non-dispersive but he recognises the need to tightened up the condition to be anti-dispersive:

‘F is anti-dispersive’ means: It cannot conceivably happen that different F-things overlap extensively.

The non-dispersiveness of our standard count nouns is what guarantees that we can employ them as sortals and trace unambiguous careers under them for the dispersiveness of mass nouns such as wood disqualifies theses terms from being sortals. It should be understood that the sortal rule should not be construed as being exact: it can do no more exact than our ordinary concept of persistence. To trace the career of a tree is more relevant to our concerns than does the tracing of a patch of brown.

Suppose we view the world as made up of various spatio-temporal segments of reality, most of which are discontinuous and heterogeneous, but a select number of which count as ‘genuine things’ or ‘substances’. All trees enjoy this special status but not all brown or wooden portions of reality do, since most of these will combine stages of different brown or wooden things. Looked at in this way, ‘what a thing is’ provides it with the credentials required to count as a genuine thing, and any genuine thing “must” have such credentials. This may be one way to explain the thesis of sortal dependency. On this explanation, the thesis would not imply that we can give any analysis of a thing’s diachronic or synchronic unity, let alone an analysis which depends in some special way on the thing’s sortals. We appeal to the thing’s sortals, rather, in justifying its status as a genuine thing.

There is, however, the risk that the thesis so understood trivializes the distinction between a ‘genuine thing’ and a ‘mere portion of reality’. There seem to be three positions that can be adopted with respect to this distinction. First, it may be accepted as ultimate and unanalysable. But that would seem to imply that the distinction does not depend on sortals. Second, one may attempt to provide a general sortal-independent analysis of this distinction. My argument is that there is an important, albeit limited extent to which we can analyse our concept of an object’s identity without taking cognisance of what sort of object it is proposing an analysis which preserves its sortal-neutral character. Of course, if any such sortal-independent analysis can succeed, the thesis of sortal dependency is rejected. The third possibility, which is the one implied by the thesis, is that genuine things are analysed as things that are instances of a certain list of sortals. The trouble is that this third possibility seems to imply that genuine things really have nothing in common which sets them apart from other portions of reality. It is as if a genuine thing is being defined as any portion of reality that is either a cat, or a dog . . . or a mountain or a river . . . . .This makes it difficult to see how there could be anything deep or important in the distinction between genuine things and portions of reality that do not so qualify.

§3

Natural kinds

The best candidates to play the roles of sortal and substantial predicates are natural kind words. A ‘natural kind concept “c” must make some link between the relevant questions of identity and the empirical ascertainable causal and dispositional properties of members of the kind as we find them in the actual world. “But how can the concept make this link?” (Wiggins 1980: 77), and even supposing the link is made ‘how will that provide a principle that is necessary and sufficient to articulate, to individuate . . .’ The principle of individuation has been used in prior discussion to mean something other than a property individuates, say Aristotelian matter. Wiggins seems to be saying that every sortal term carries with it a principle of individuation and that the tradition of nominal essence is of no assistance since it trades on appearances: they leave unexplained the evolution of a sortal that still specifying the very same natural kind. Wiggins draws upon Putnam’s doctrine of natural kinds, the determination of a natural kind fails or succeeds with the existence of nomological principles known or unknown and which will gather together its actual extension around an arbitrary good representative of the extension. It is not an implication of the doctrine that people (primitive mentality to proto-scientific) who use natural kind terms will know the true scientific theory of that kind but its insight lies in explaining how words enter language on the most provisional of theories offering just enough to recognise the extension ‘and draw credit on a draft that Nature may “or may not” finally honour’ (Wiggins 1980: 82). A particular continuant “x” belongs to a natural kind, or is a natural thing:

iff “x” has a principle of activity corresponding to the nomological basis of that or those extension-involving sortal identifications which answer truly the question ‘what is “x”?’ (Wiggins 1980: 89)

and for the purposes of a theory of individuation it is of no concern whether the thing in question was fabricated ‘but the difference between satisfying and not satisfying this condition that makes the fundamental distinction’ and objects that fail this crucial condition are termed artefacts (artefacts are also still subject to the fundamental laws of physics and chemistry).

§4

Artefact identity

Most of the discussion heretofore concerned natural substances though Wiggins holds that his sortal dependency of identity thesis could mutatis mutandis cover words denoting natural organs such as heart, liver, foot, brain and even extend to geographical or geological terms like river, lake, glacier etc. The latter cases one might appropriately talk in terms of principles of activity, the former in terms of activity and of “modes of functioning” or “operation” (Wiggins 1980: 86). There are artefact-words such as clock and table to which Putnam’s account would not be applicable and there is scant nomological sentences that could apply to cover artefacts. Though artefacts are subject to the laws of physics and chemistry they”

are collected up not by reference to a theoretically hypothesized inner constitution but under “functional descriptions that have to be indifferent to specific constitution and particular mode of interaction with environment. (Wiggins 1980: 87, my emphasis)

This description amounts to what is a Lockean nominal essence with no scientifically palpable real essence with. Let us recall that for Wiggins:

a particular continuant “x” belongs to a natural kind, or is a natural thing, iff “x” has a principle of activity corresponding to the nomological basis of that or those extension-involving sortal identifications which answer truly the question ‘what is “x”?’

Now the for the purposes of his theory of individuation it is of no relevance whether a thing was fabricated but the difference between satisfying and not satisfying the above condition that really matters. Wiggins discusses two artefacts, namely a mechanical clock and Hobbes’ famous ship of Theseus.

The clock first. When a clock stops because it hasn’t been wound, the pause does not compromise its persistence. Again however long it may be out of action due to repairs, its persistence is not affected. What matters is its nominal essence which must somehow stipulate that the nominal essence of a clock is its capacity to tell time, but this is too strong a stipulation. A weaker stipulation requires only that an irretrievable loss of this capacity, or functional redundancy, counts against the persistence of a clock. For any of the above interruptions does not mean the cessation of the clock – the clock had only one beginning (Locke argued that no object can have two beginnings of existence) and a pause is an unreasonable notion of cessation. Supposing that one clock was identified by a description applying at the time it was functioning normally from “clock” – coinciding in a manner sufficient for identity, each identified under a description applying to it after some substantial repair, the coincidence of one thing with two things contravenes Wiggins’s sortal dependency of identity. We cannot even speak of the central focus or nucleus of the clock that would give some help here.

With regard to Theseus’ ship I will not set up the already very familiar puzzle. Suffice to say, just like the two-clock example previously we now have two ships. Wiggins (1980: 96) writes that there is not a single proposal which,

(a) justifies the whole corpus and every reasonable seeming extension of the corpus of identity judgements about artefacts we commonly accept as true,

(b) allows total freedom of disassembly “and” part-replacement,

(c) meets “D” (iii) (“a” is identical with “b” iff there is some concept f such that:

(1) f is a substance concept under which an object that is an f can be singled out, and distinguished from other f entities and other entities;

(2) “a” coincides under f with “b”;

(3) “Ç” coincides under f“ë” stands for a congruence relation: i.e. all pairs “’ that are members of the relation satisfy the Leibnizian schema “⨔x” â “y” (Wiggins 1980: 68).

(d) satisfies the “Only a and b” condition.

There seems little or no hope of artefactual identity regardless of how relaxed the identity criteria are and Wiggins asks does this then mean that the project should be abandoned if one held to Quine’s ‘no entity without identity’. Wiggins is not so pessimistic for the possibility of an ontology of artefacts and the possibility of treating artefacts as continuants for he feels that a sufficient condition of artefact identity, suggested by Helen Morris Cartwright’s (cited in Wiggins 1980: 97) application to the category of stuff may be applied to artefacts: the condition does not exclude change, but excludes all addition or subtraction of matter whatever. Artefactually, ‘it also requires the however vestigial continuance of the capacity to subserve whatever roles or ends the artefact was designed as that very artefact to subserve’.

The thesis of scientific constructivism asserts that all scientific facts are constructed. Do they believe that all scientific facts in our possession are constructed, or do they believe that all scientific facts that we might ever come to posses must be constructed?

Scientific constructivism comes in two varieties, instrumental constructivism and <????>. Narrowly conceived instrumentalism is the view that our claims about the world can be divided into the observational and the theoretical, and that only the former are truth-valuable. Theoretical claims are regarded as merely linguistic, uninterpreted tools for systemizing observations and making predictions. Broadly conceived, instrumentalism is any view that regards theoretical claims as epistemically or metaphysically deficient in comparison with observational claims. The deficiency may be that theoretical statements have no truth-values, or that the truth-value of theoretical claims is epistemically inaccessible, or that theoretical claims can be dispensed with by translating them into observational language. In this latter sense, that van Fraassen falls. The instrumentalist position should be contrasted with the one that maintains that the only independent facts are social facts and that moreover materialism and phenomenalism don’t exhaust the class of conceivable monisms and its conceivable that the ultimate constituents of reality are social episodes and that both he physical and the mental are constructions out of this primordial social material – Kukla calls this metaphysical socialism, the locus classicusfor this discussion being Wittgenstein’s PI wherein some social facts are regarded as unanalyseable into anything else, beliefs and intentions cannot be said to exist outside the context of a social milieu. Now this is not so say that Wittgenstein endorsed metaphysical socialism. What is needed in addition to the Wittgenstein doctrine is that there is a deeper social analysis of all non-social phenomena.

§5

So why has Wiggins been overlooked? When Wiggins’s Identity and Spatio-Temporary Continuity came out in 1967, it exerted a considerable impact. It had the charm of idiosyncrasy – a defence of the Aristotelian substance philosophy – along with (for Oxford) considerable technical sophistication. Here was someone evidently au fait with philosophical logic. It was something different. When Sameness & Substance, the revamped version of the earlier text, appeared in 1980, the effect was muted. Wiggins was espousing basically the same position, with quite a bit of elaboration and qualification. The substance philosophy was not regarded as a serious contender by Quine (and others), who also disputed the technical competence of the work. None the less Wiggins was still au fait with the latest work in philosophical logic. That book had that much going for it. Unfortunately, it seems that the prospects for the latest incarnation Sameness & Substance Revisited (2001) are perhaps more bleak. Again, it takes the same basic position, but now and despite Wiggins reworking this under his tenure of the Wykeham chair, Wiggins’s interest has for the last 20 years been in the field of ethics, not philosophical logic. What it comes down to then is that Wiggins is merely defending a 30-year-old position without having kept up with the best technical work. And further, writing in 2001, he is not engaging with the prevailing wave of constructivist literature. Wiggins the metaphysician not a philosopher of science would not surprisingly be overlooked.

Bibliography

Fraassen, B.C. van. 1977-8 ‘Essence an Existence’ American Philosophical Quarterly Monograph.
Fraassen, B.C. van. 1980. The Scientific Image. Oxford.
Geach, P.T. 1962/1980. Reference and Generality. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Lovibond, S. & Williams, S.G. 1996. Identity, Truth and Value: Essays for David Wiggins, Aristotelian Society Series, Vol. 16, Oxford: Blackwell.
Wiggins, D. 1967. Identity and Spatio-Temporal Continuity. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wiggins, D. 1980. Sameness and Substance. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wiggins, D. 1997. ‘Natural Languages as Social Objects’, Philosophy, 72, 499-524.
Wiggins, D. 2001. Sameness and Substance Renewed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press
Wiggins, D. 1987. ‘Truth, Invention, and the Meaning of Life’ in Needs, Values, Truth: Essays in the Philosophy of Value, Oxford.


Corkscrews and kites; vats and bodies

May 7, 2007

Some thoughts on Larry Shapiro’s excellent The Mind Incarnate .

Shapiro identifies two related Cartesian Materialism ghosts. The first is the multiple realizability thesis (MRT); the second is what Shapiro terms the “separability thesis”.

MRT is the generic idea being that the mind is only contingently dependent on the brain, the a priori implication being that a mind can be instantiated in any material. Just because ubiquitous artefactual objects or devices are supposedly multiply realizable (MR), such theorists extrapolate that mind must operate in these terms as well. Shapiro seeks to reign in the creeping promiscuity of the concept of MRT, suggesting that proper discussion of MRT should be subject to empirical considerations as and when they arise. It should be admitted that corkscrews and kites have less constraints on MR than do brains. Shapiro throws down the gauntlet. What exactly is meant by realization? – what criteria can be offered? Just because a kite can be made of paper and another of nylon, does this really qualify as a multiple realization? Can a corkscrew operate as a corkscrew if it were realised in a non-rigid material? What is the relation between structure and function? In contrast with MRT, Shapiro’s mental constraint thesis (MCT) is “the thesis that there are few distinct kinds of brains that can actually produce human-like psychological capacities” (p. 106). Facts about the wiring of the brain and convergence on topographic mapping of sensory information of mammals are nomonological.

The second ghost is actually a pair of twins, closely related but not identical. Both ghosts partake in what Shapiro terms the “separability thesis” (ST). According to ST, from the knowledge of mental properties it is impossible to infer the properties of the body because they can be realized in different kinds of structures. One twin claims that the mind is much like a computer program that can be specified independently of the hardware it runs on – call this the body neutrality ghost. The other twin conceives the brain as a self-contained organ, the body merely an antenna-like device, a receptacle for somatosensory and sensorimotor input providing cognitive computation for the brain, a closed causal system – Shapiro calls this the envatment ghost. Both these ghosts have been the sine qua non of philosophy of mind, generating intuitions that deny that there is an essential relation between human physicality and cognition. Shapiro is optimistic that the traditional mind-body distinction is being corroded in light of the embodied cognition literature.