Aims and Arguments

Last year, Professor Garber gave a talk at the Aquinas Lecture at Marquette (the lecture has been printed as What Happens After Pascal's Wager?: Living Faith and Rational Belief, and I would recommend it as a relatively short but thought-provoking read). I think I had talked about it then, but it's relevant to some stuff that's been on my mind as of late.

The point of the lecture was this: Pascal asks us to first engage in Christian practice, and then we will come to see the Christian faith is rational. The problem, though, is that there doesn't seem to be any link between the practice and the rational justification, in part evidenced by the fact that other groups claim the exact same thing (to simplify the argument for my present purposes and memory). But the question came up afterward: don't scientists do the same thing, in having their practice which gives them their aims which then they go on to rationally prove? So my concern is, what is the difference between the (ideal) scientist and the (stereotypical) apologist?

We do have to have aims before we go to work on anything, and we do have to be embedded in a practical context. We're finite creatures; we can't seek everything at once or start from a positionless point, and so we have to start from somewhere going in some direction. This is the condition for all inquiry. So, we criticize the apologist for having her goals already set before she starts seeking the truth. She has already decided where she will end up. But, as someone brought up after the lecture, the scientist already wants some result from an experiment. What is the difference?

The difference (in two abstract cases away from the complexities of actual human behavior) seems to be to be this: the apologist seeks the goal while using the means, and the scientist seeks the means while using the goal. The apologist must reach her goal, and arguments must be shaped accordingly, despite how they appear at first glance. The scientist needs to orient herself, and uses aims and desires to do so, but once oriented, she looks at the evidence (again, ideally). She displays detachment to the goal, while the apologist is very strongly attached.

Of course, science doesn't actually proceed in this way. One piece of evidence can always be reinterpreted, and it takes a lot of difficulties in interpretation before one gives up a scientific cause. So the scientist has her research program, with some pieces that can be changed without throwing away the program as a whole. Doesn't the apologist do the same? Perhaps, but there seems to be much more reticence to give up the program in apologetics. Scientists take a couple generations to give up a deficient program; apologists perhaps several centuries, if at all. The idea of giving up the program is valid in science, even if costly; it is invalid in apologetics, causing a rift between the former apologist and colleagues.

Apologists do not seem to be doing the same thing as scientists, then. But they do seem to be similar to artists: they see their idea, and they plan out how to enfold it in some sort of matter (that of logical arguments, in this case). The apologist is therefore creative (or should be), and this is a good thing for communities. Science tells minimalistic and unstable stories, after all, and fuller, more constant (though flexible) stories need to be written for a community's narratival life. The only problem is when the apologist attempts to claim that such creativity also bears the marks of objective science. One can only claim such if one is willing to completely subject one's aims to the evidence, to argue as if one's position can actually change as a result of research.

Mysticism and Physical Mediation

It is my understanding that mystical experiences, experiences of oneness with the universe and stuff like that, can be brought on by severe injury, fasting, sensory deprivation, etc. I, admittedly, have not read the articles saying how this comes about; I really should fix that at some point. However, I have been thinking about how this should affect whether one can take mystical experiences seriously, and whether these indicate some evidence that our mental states supervene on the physical.

The first reaction is to say that mystical experiences are simply caused by trauma and such, and are not valid. They are simply the result of neurons firing, so how could they signify anything else? But this is too simple. One standard argument in response seems to be that everything which you sense is mediated by neurons firing as well, with all of that physical stuff thrown in. But we think that our senses tell us something about reality, whatever that may be. So the fact that mystical experiences are mediated by brain activity is not in itself a mark against them.

But that doesn't seem to be a complete answer either. There appears to be something ad hoc about these experiences, unlike sensory experience. Holding an object in front of my eyes should correlate to me seeing it; that's what seeing is. Suffering trauma does not seem to be connected to mystical experience in the same way. The mystical experience appears to be some accidental byproduct from chemical stimulation.

But then I turn around again. Why do I take sensory experience to be valid? Because (1) I have plenty of opportunities to test it, (2) different senses correlate with each other (it's much less likely that all are ad hoc in tightly corresponding ways), and (3) there are general features which the senses pick out that relate to what they sense (sight has light, hearing sound, etc.); ad hoc-ness comes from specific instances matching up without any underlying general principles.

But mystical experiences don't seem to happen regularly enough to test them. Even mystics do not appear to have them all of the time; I think Plotinus for example only ascended to the One four times in his life. And the fact that there is no other type of mystical sense by which to test mystical experiences is no mark against them. And finally, there may be a general principle which causes these experiences: these causes are all activities which push away the material world, which would explain fasting, sensory deprivation, and severe trauma, while cohering with the nature of the world given in mystic's accounts.

But back again: there also seems to be a commensurability between sensing and the physical processes involved. What is sensed is finite and differentiated, and causing similarly finite and differentiated brain signals. There is room for some sort of mathematical isomorphism between the two, copying the information in one process to the other. But a mystical experience suddenly realizes the entire oneness of everything in the universe; how does any single object of "sense" yield this?

And again back: mystics themselves have realized the opinion that their experiences could all be hallucinations. Either Al-Ghazali or Suhrawardi (I can't remember which) brings this up, and notes that anyone who has had these experiences would clearly know that they are not hallucinatory. It's not like it took modern science to figure out that mystical experiences could be misguided. Even though aware of the possibility, mystics have denied it. Without having such experiences myself, what could I say against them? Or for them, for that matter.

So that is my line of thinking, most of which I am working on clarifying. It seems that there are broadly three options (perhaps not mutually exclusive) which one could take. First, the material world in its diversity is primary, and mystical experience are simply the odd result of certain neurons firing. Second, the mystical/mental/ideal/spiritual/psychic/etc. world is primary; either the mystical experience is the result of leaving behind the physical, or there is some deeper structure involved in which the physical event triggering the experience is itself an effect/emanation/manifestation/etc. of some previous mental/etc. cause/etc. which is directly connected to the mystical experience in the mental/etc. plane (ao, physical event A seems to cause mental event B, but mental event C caused physical event A and mental event C; the physical supervenes on the mental). Third, we're simply looking at two different levels of explanation. Mystical experiences may not give us any scientific knowledge of the world, but are real enough and legitimately understood on their own terms regardless of what neuroscience teaches.

The Lives of Flies

Two flies were sitting on a wall. One said,
"It won't be that much more until we're dead."
The other stared at him a thousandfold,
Responding idly that three days is gold.
"What would any insect do with more?
Four days even would become a bore.
We only sit on walls and land on food,
Which then we take back to our home and brood.
Now shush, the game is on again." With that,
He buzzed on down to where the snacks were at.
The first fly tried to stoically embrace,
Indifferent or resigned, his lowly place.
No matter what, though, still his spirit filled
A larger field than what his lifespan tilled.
Some desperate escape he tried to find,
Such musings filled up all his lack of time.
He brought out his alembic and his athanor;
He didn't know his friend was soon no more.
He meditated in a mass of poses;
Twelve generations looked upon their Moses.
He sank down into knowledge of the ages,
Passing lives as if they were mere pages.
The world outside he scarcely even saw,
Engrossed upon his labors still to draw
Another mark into his line of life.
Uncounted flies went by in love and strife.
It might have been a day for all he knew,
So bothered by how little he could do.
And times again it was within his grasp,
But long life seemed so awfully hard to clasp.
At length he found his secret, and that was that.
But then a truck came by, and with it splat.

By Faith Alone

A couple musings on faith which I've been pondering as of late; both a criticism and an affirmation. First, I criticize most religious understandings of faith that I've seen which put it contrary to reason and experience. Second, I affirm a more mythological faith.

When I talk about faith normally, I don't oppose to it reason and personal experience. Quite the contrary; faith is built on these. Faith is the willing to trust someone, but it is only virtuous if I know the person, her character, and her abilities; preferably both on a propositional level (certifications and her own past experience in the relevant area as documented facts) and on a level of personal knowledge (track record with me at doing what I trust her to do, and perhaps more indefinable characteristics).

Now, the level of reason I must have before I trust someone will change depending on what I want to trust her for. I don't need much reason before I lend five bucks. Lending my car is a bit more iffy, and letting someone watch my kids (were I to have any) would require significantly more reason. Further, were I not to have such reason before entrusting my kids to a stranger for an extended period of time, this would not be commendable, or better faith; it would be irresponsible.

When would I trust a relative stranger with a matter of extreme, perhaps absolute importance? I can think of only two cases. In the first, I would be in extreme, immediate danger and there is no other choice. Faith in such a circumstance is simply a necessity; this is not virtuous, but would be merely a difficult fact in less than ideal circumstances. In the second, it would be because I am an idiot, and perhaps a vicious one at that. Religions of faith may be able to play the first card, though it would seem that I would have plenty of time in my life for God/a Boddhisattva/whatever to give me the amount of reason appropriate for what I am being asked to trust them for.

In general, then, the concept of a "leap of faith" seems to me to be disgusting, unless I'm in imminent peril. There should be no leap, except into action, and an omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God (or Dhyani Buddha) would be able to help each of us reach that point in full view of the necessary step to take.

Now, I have also heard some people talk about having faith in faith, and others criticizing the notion; how can one have faith unless in something? By the above, this "something" is often not something worthy of faith, so I don't see how it would play any more of a role than an abstract or mythological faith. But in any case I think that such an argument ignores the fundamentally pragmatic character of religious pluralism and liberalism.

Consider James' thought experiment in The Will to Believe. A rock climber needs to make a jump across a chasm. If the rock climber believes she can make the jump, then her odds of actually doing so dramatically improve; if she does not believe she can, then she will plummet into the pit. What one believes changes what is true; one cannot simply and objectively regard the world because there is always a subjective element.

Now, one wants to believe that one can jump over the pit because of the result: one would rather not fall and die. But in order to believe, it helps to have an explanatory story. Maybe one just pushes everything else aside and wills oneself across; but one could also remind oneself about all of the training one has been doing. Heck, one could convince oneself that one is a reincarnation of the Monkey King Hanuman. As long as one gets across, that's the point.

Similarly with faith. People with faith may benefit, but a good portion of this seems to be from the faith itself and not necessarily the object of faith. Not that the latter is completely irrelevant, but in any case one can attain a certain peace of mind and courage of existence by believing that something is taking care of oneself. And if one walks into a church, it seems to be that people will give the pragmatic reasons for having faith: the peace, the presence and love of Christ, etc., and these are precisely what are comparable between faiths.

So what do we do? We tell ourselves stories. The mountain climber doesn't have to believe that she is Hanuman; she just has to suspend disbelief for the moment and live in the story she is telling. That will be enough. Similarly, the religious pluralist can approach faith with a myth. It offers a mythological faith, the faith of a story; a faith of suspended disbelief instead of belief. But if that does the trick, what's the problem?

Perhaps we could even see how to go from here to beef up the notion of myth. If one pretends to be Hanuman and actually makes the jump, than there was some truth after all in the myth; one did have the power and agility of a monkey for the moment, and suspending disbelief helped cause this to be true. So first, the myth does in a roundabout way suggest something objective: one did make the jump. Second, what the myth represents is not something other than what is causes, and so cannot be treated as a set of propositions. Well-wrought religious stories, philosophies, theologies, etc. would then offer very good and very intricate myths of this sort, with many far-reaching consequences beyond simply accomplishing one action or another.

At this point, some of my more conservative readers may be saying, "Yes, but that doesn't fix the problem of sin. The pluralist is still living in her sin and must be judged unless she has faith in Christ." Well, yes, we could all be wrong. But one must be convinced of the problem before one would have any need of the cure, and I for one would not be convinced of the specific problem of sin as laid out in certain Christian catechisms until convinced first of the Christian story, in which case I could have a legitimate rational faith and not have to worry about all this. Until then, though, I don't have need of heeding every quack diagnosing me with every illness known to man and then some. And again, the actual, observable effect of faith seems to be portable across objects of faith, suggesting that we are looking at psychological facts and not, say, the Holy Spirit.

Logic vs. Math and Newcomb's "Paradox"

I got into a tiff the other day over Newcomb's "Paradox". My position is simple: there is no paradox, only a simple payoff table with a logical constraint and an easy choice. Paradox only comes in when someone decides not to play by the rules of the thought experiment, which defeats the entire purpose of a thought experiment. But more interestingly than that, it seemed that our debate came down to a mathematical argument on my side, and a logical one on the other. So the interesting point to me is: why do I place so much more trust in math than logic, and what is the difference?

Math and Logic both have perfectly precise, rigorous forms. An argument necessarily follows formally if it is admissible as an argument at all. And any element used in both fields strictly according to their formal structure is rigorously defined. Maybe we could go so far as to say that the form of mathematics is logic; that is, every single argument structure and basic element general to the field as a whole is taken from logic. But that point need not be made now.

The significant difference is the content. Mathematical content is also rigorous and well-defined. A line is defined by its relations and functions; anything at all which satisfies those relations is a line, and anything which fails them on the minutest point is not. A number 3 is a number 3; not 2, not 4, and 5 is right out. It's not even 3.00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001. So, the form of a mathematical argument has this perfect structure on which it is arguing. If you can count anything in reality, if quantity at all applies, then the math will be perfectly rigorous so long as you don't decide to change what you are counting.

Logic, on the other hand, has a serious flaw at this point: it is only the form of the argument. The argument itself must be populated with outside information, and in the end the argument is only as precise as its content. If I say that my cat is either in the room or not in the room, this would be perfectly fine as far as logical form. But what it neglects is that "cat", "room", and "in" are not well-defined. What if my cat is standing in the threshold? Does "in" cover this? What is the essential part of the cat? How far does the room extend? And so we either introduce limits which are not part of our standard talk about such matters, or we admit that the logic is imprecise and it fails in application. And if we introduce limits, these limits are either arbitrary or well-studied; and too often they seem to be the former.

And this seems to be the case in most situations that we care about: the concepts over which we are arguing are not well-defined. What is a soul, at any rate? A true metaphysics would avoid this problem and resemble mathematics in this respect, but it's debatable about whether such does exist.

So, in Newcomb's problem, my argument was that one should clearly choose box B. Set up your payoff table: you have 4 boxes with their respective values, but 2 boxes are inaccessible by hypothesis. Therefore, one picks both boxes and receives $1,000, or just box B and receives $1,000,000. All other discussion must build off of this basis, or it is no longer talking about the world of the thought experiment (except perhaps to say that a Predictor is incoherent, which is just a debate over the old issues of divine foreknowledge and future contingents).

The rival argument goes as such: when you enter the room, either there is something in box B or not. Either way, you are better off taking both boxes. This argument then tries to introduce issues like backwards causation and the like to discredit the other side. But to force the entire choice into a single dichotomy distorts the problem. True, either there is something in B or not; but in both cases, there are two described payoffs: one for whether the Predictor sees you picking both, and another if the Predictor sees you picking B. A rational decision must always consider the payoffs stipulated; the argument for choosing both boxes implicitly tries to sneak in its own payoff table, which is only disagreeing with the problem as set up.

Claiming that I must be adding in some metaphysical mumbo-jumbo is not a valid response. The situation could be this: assuming determinism, there is a single causal nexus N at time T1 which will express itself in the Predictor making her predictions at T2, filling the boxes at T3, you walking in the room at T4, and you making your choice and receiving your payment at T5. There is no backward causation, because it is the same causal nexus which determines all events; T5 just got expressed later than T4, but both were equally caused and mutually conditioned at T1 along with the prediction itself. Now, this scenario does not seem to me to have any problems relating to backwards causation and the like. But if it works, then we can go back to saying that the Predictor just knows irrespective of the explanation how, and we should have the same solution.

Meaning for a Failed Life?

One question that has haunted me is this: Is my life going to have turned out worthwhile? I want to see the results of my labors. I want to get the important things right. I want to see that my life was not a waste.

Now, I think that being concerned with one's life and the fact that one is actually living and actually responsible for one's actions is a good thing; I'm completely with Socrates on the whole unexamined life bit. But why do I need to be the one that sees what my life was worth, here and now?

It seems that a life which gets things wrong, even tremendously important things, can still be worthwhile in the long run. Imperfections do not negate the value of a life. Even a bad example can redirect others and affect them positively. If my philosophy can be a stepping stone on the way to truth, goodness, and beauty, even if it has not attained such itself, is this so worthless? If I can be one part of a worthwhile chain, then wouldn't that have made everything worthwhile as well?

So the point isn't then to get things right, or even coherent. Sure, that is a longterm goal; I would hate to think that nothing I do would lead anyone to the truth ever. But a well-developed or insightful wrong view might accomplish the goal better than spending my entire life to found a poorly-developed right view.

The Purpose of Academics

I used to be able to enjoy learning for its own sake. I would, at a relatively early age, pick up books on dinosaurs (I liked raptors before JP made them cool), astronomy, or biology and read them for fun. I liked categorizing things just because, though I must admit that I was never much of an experimenter; hence why I am in philosophy now and not science.

But in college, I realized something: I am actually living. And I should be doing something with my life. At this point, my accumulation of knowledge seemed worthless. I decided to go into philosophy instead of math, because it offered more of an opportunity to work on important questions; math was fun, but what use was it (keep in mind that I am generally into pure math, abstract algebra and the like)? And what is the point if it has no use in the world, to do something for someone?

As time has gone by, my expectations for philosophy have not exactly been met. So, why have I continued to do philosophy? Mainly because I don't want to be like the idiots I see around me; the attitude is entirely negative (and not a little resentfully bitter). There is nothing to gain, only a hope that I can stem the losses and not deform other people's minds too much in the process.

Where to go from here? First, why does everything have to be "useful"? Useful for what? If everything were simply useful, then what would be the end for which we use things? Somethings have got to be simply enjoyed for their own sakes. People need to be fed and all, but what do they do once basic needs have been met> What makes our existence more than that of complex beasts? In addition, on a practical level, when something is done purely for itself it seems to be done better, and so whatever use it could have would be magnified; if it truly has no use (and even the purest mathematics often finds a use), then at least it has been enjoyed.

Second, there are good scholars out there who do inspire me, whose work validates their career choice (and hence mine). I just finished reading Mircea Eliade's The Sacred and the Profane, and Eliade seems to me to be one of these scholars. Why? Eliade is quite well-read; one could swear, even in an introductory book such as this, that he had read everything published on pretty much every religion out there through the amount of citations. And these are not empty citations; he genuinely uses the examples to build his case. He is sympathetic to his topic, and he writes well in helping the reader to be sympathetic as well. Finally, he ties it his research on humanity throughout time and space (but especially more "primitive" peoples, seemingly far removed from us) to the contemporary situation in helping us to understand our place today.

Eliade's work is genuinely insightful and applicable, and this seems to me because he is interested in what really matters in the topic. I myself get caught up too much in terms of style and presentation, which I think gives me part of my problem; perhaps good writing, scholarship, and living comes from simply devoting oneself to the object of one's study and being less concerned with what to do with it afterward.

Incorporeal Individuals?

What would it mean for incorporeal entities to be distinct?

For material entities, I can point to such and such in one place, and to another something in another place. So, they must be somehow distinct, even if we can also point to continuity.

Mathematical objects appear to be the best place to look. We distinguish mathematicals by strict definitions; every single such object has a rigorous logical definition which completely determines it, except for the basic objects and axiomata of a given mathematical system. The non-foundational objects are completely determined by their relations to the foundational objects, however; they are separate in a sense, but each one already contains all of the others as well. As soon as you have 2, you have 3, 4, 5, and so on, and the basic theorems of a system already entail everything we could ever prove from them. And the foundational elements again arise from our practical considerations in the material world.

So, mathematical elements are not terribly individuated; in fact, it seems that the main individuation requires matter, and what is non-material is what lacks proper individuation; 2, 3, and so on, are individuals only insofar as we get the concepts of 1 and addition from experience, but insofar as they are simply logical entities, they are not really distinct (as in, it would be logically impossible to have 2 and not 3; same with any two theorems of any mathematical system).

Next would seem to be philosophical psychology: we experience ourselves as individuals, and for many, as non-reducible to bodies. But would we have this individuation without our specific material circumstances? Do we even form unique individuals insofar as we are incorporeal, or is it precisely insofar as we disconnect ourselves from the material world that we become more similar? Aren't our thoughts, our ideas and ideals, our ways of life, things which unite us with others sharing the same?

Formal distinctions, then; maybe there are simply different kinds of incorporeal entities. But this is an unsatisfying reply; I'm asking for what it would mean for incorporeal entities to be distinct, and I am being told that they simply are. But what does that mean? Again, in all physical circumstances, I can point to different spatio-temporal coordinates. In math, I can point to different definitions. I can't just read off my ideas of individuation from these fields and apply them elsewhere; the individuation in those cases in not something separate from how the individuation occurs. Psychology is a bit fuzzy already, and may not be anything distinct from material conditions, but it may be the only way in which we could understand such entities. But even there, it seems that there is less individuation the farther we go from the material.

So, if there were multiple, purely spiritual entities, would it be possible to consider them as purely separate individuals? And a side question: would the idea of a spiritual entity be anything other than that entity? Consider the Pythagorean Theorem: is the thought of the theorem anything other than the theorem, or the theorem itself? And if the latter, how does this relate to the problem of individuation?

Of Arms and the Squirrel I Sing

Because little guys can be irresponsible, lazy, saga-worthy megalomaniacs too.

This is a rough draft; I'll be coming back to it later, but I figured that it would look better in legible type than in illegible handwriting.

Softly scampering, swiftly fleeing
He trembles and turns toward a nearby
Branch, a bough under bushy leaves
The fear unfounded, but fretting continues
This haunted hiding, the whole of a squirrel-life.
But even so, all along he eagerly dreams
Looking and longing for larger things
Dreams of the dread from dominion, the power
And might to maniacally make the world
In rodent-image; but roused from reverie, he dodges
A talon tipped to tear away such visions.
"You're late, you lazy lump.  Again,
And I will eat you entire.  Messengers
Are quick to come by, even if care is not.
Now, the news..." the nettles of boredom
Drone on, drilling deeply into Ratatosk
Who slumps silently and stupidly, while the eagle,
Heedless, hefts and hauls the noise-stones
Of officious errands and urgent proclamations
From his quarry of cares, cleared now of messages;
The checked-off cheers to his chum Nidhogg
Would hopefully be heard, if the herald could focus
And not gallop again after the gain of an acorn.
Impressing his displeasure, he pounces on the squirrel
Who, inattentive, now terrified, in talons is held
The raptor reaches down to relay, with a glare,
"Fail me and find yourself food."  That is all;
The lilliputian, loosed, leaves without waiting.

At a distance down, the drone grumbles
Of the respect rightfully required by those
Serving so very sedulously; besides
Those eagerly-sought acorns he had ambled after
Would make the mightiest messenger swoon,
And he trespassed his toils only twice (or thrice).
Following these fantasias, freezing in his steps,
Ratatosk reined his unruly mind
And mucked for marks upon this mire for signs
Pointing to the pressing pronouncements he would
Forget only as fatal follies.  A void;
And blankly, blearily, he began to wake,
A deathly dawn to his day.  He trembled,
And bashed his blundering brains on bark.
He has a headache, but hardly remembers
A single story for the serpent below.
With what wily wit and wisdom could he
Invent to veer his vessel of fate
Toward happier hopes?  He has a glimmer,
But the light lasts no longer than a breath.
A muttered oath, and more mumblings as down
The tree he traveled.  The tour of the sun
Around and round, and round again
Returns to the top of the tree; and finally,
The squirrel starts his steep descent
Into cold caverns with crumbling footholds,
Sounds of screams from centuries past;
An abyss whose black, bare maw
Would inhale hordes of heroes at a breath,
While rattling reptiles, writhing, drip
Their virulent venom on vicious wretches.

But the furred one finds no fear to be worse
Then the one which works his weary soul.
Not enough, three nightfalls, but Nidhogg is here,
With open eyes and evil stares
And typical reptilian tolerance.  Ratatosk
Feels his furry flesh go numb.  But now,
The crafty creature calls his thought
To muster and mass, to measure up for this stand.
Ratatosk the rodent-ruler cannot perish;
Else sung sagas of scintillating victory
Would belong to lesser lives.  He straightens,
Collects himself, coughs and clears his throat,
The serpent staring solidly, icily,
His teeth torturing the tree not far
From where the wily one stands.
"'There was an old serpent in Helsheim,
Whose scales are covered in fell slime,
He's worse than I, Eagle,
That slithering seagull,'
That's all that I have from my climb."

Such puerile, pusillanimous provocations
Would be suspect to studious students like us,
But maybe messengers were more believed
Before this first failure of trust;
Perhaps tearing at tree-roots brings toothaches, giving
The serpent a sharp, saw-toothed temper.
But the damage is done; the dragon hisses back
His own ode of anger.  The squirrel
Relishes his role and retells to the eagle
How ungratefully the gnarled great worm
Had seemed.  The squirrel had shared his message,
But the intemperate terror had taken the words
And spat them aside, to send back
Nothing but nettles to nail the bird's pride.

The messenger now makes up his messages, however
He pleases, playing in palaces of poetry.
The former friends feud, and never
Stop to seek a second opinion.
Ratatosk's ramblings of a rodent-run world
Fill his furry flippant head,
Now patient to pass as a pensive servant
Till the rule after Ragnarok arises....

Moving Day

My load is irons
My sweat is rain
The summer air, a mass of chains
For all the change that it would make
I shift my burden with a grunt
And envy Sisyphus his ease of life
But hark, what light in yonder floorspace breaks?
The box is almost down; I am reborn in paradise
When suddenly the fateful, fatal call comes:
"We want it over here."
What eternity compares to these five steps?

The Importance of Argument

A friend remarked to me the other day that philosophers are more concerned about arguments than about the conclusions of those arguments. This, further, must appear nuts to the average person. I remember even talking to a fellow academic, a theology student no less, who could not understand why I insisted on talking about Hume's arguments against causality rather than simply moving on from his position. So, why is argument important?

For one thing, conclusions are always suspect. It's certainly nice to align oneself with a position for a bit; I know that I enjoy the stable self-image that arises from calling myself now a Platonist, now an Idealist. But these conclusions are always changeable; if they were not at least in principle, then we would not be doing philosophy.

Understanding doesn't come from holding certain propositions about the world. It comes from seeing how these propositions are situated, and that is the point of argument. An argument that simply hammers a statement into the opponents head is useless philosophically, though occasionally useful when one just wants the perceived idiots to go away (if nothing else, the obnoxiousness should be effective). Arguments that show in tight, well-understood steps why something would be true show the context under which it exists.

This, in turn, can be more easily adapted to other contexts. A proposition is either true or false, and if false, then it is simply wrong. The web of beliefs supporting it, however, still exist as that web, and they all essentially fit together, and this way of fitting may be similar to other situations. For example, I may have an argument that we have souls, which are simple and so incorruptible. Maybe the conclusion is false. However, as long as the argument is sound, I know what a soul of this sort would be like if it were to exist. This, further, may be applicable to other incorporeal objects, such as numbers or God.

Unsound arguments gain applicability while losing plausibility. Maybe the concept of a conscious, immaterial soul doesn't include simplicity, for example; alternatively, one can look to the sciences, which do not proceed based on deduction. Such arguments do not compel belief in the same way, but allow for greater latitude in analogizing.

If nothing else, a sound argument tells me that the given bunch of properties are a package deal; I have to take them all or leave them all. I therefore learn much more from knowing that a block of ten logically connected propositions are false, than that a single conclusion is so. Similarly, if I accept the conclusion, I now also see a glimpse of a more complete context into which it fits; even if I can't go back and prove the premises from the conclusion, I now have possibilities for further explanation.

Finally, it seems to me that those who want merely the conclusions are really only interested in using the propositions. This seems to me to put them in the position of wanting truth (otherwise why be concerning with firm beliefs in oneself?), but also despising it (since how else would one not care about the true context of a true statement?). As long as one decides to pursue understanding of statements, it seems best to really do so and not fake the process.