Perfect vision

One of the major themes in modern philosophy was concerns about the way that our contact with the world is mediated by our “ideas”. Thus, you are looking at a tree. But are you really seeing the tree, or are you just seeing your sense-impression, which doesn’t have much in common with the tree? Even direct realists like Reid who say you are seeing the cat still think that your conscious experience involves qualia that aren’t like a tree.

Thinking about this gives us the impression that an epistemically better way to relate to the tree would be if the tree itself took the place of our sense-impressions or qualia. Berkeley did that, but at the cost of demoting the tree to a mere figment of our perception. But if we could do that without demoting the tree, then we would be better kinds of perceivers.

However, that on some theory we would be better kinds of perceivers is not a strong reason to think that theory is true! After all, we would be better perceivers if we could see far infrared, but we can’t. It’s not my point to question the orthodoxy about our perceptions of trees.

But now think about beatitude, where the blessed see God. If seeing God is like seeing a tree in the sense that there is something like a mediating supersense-impression in us, then something desirable is lacking in the blessed. And that’s not right. Such a mediated vision of God is not as intimate as we could wish for. Would it not be so much more intimate if it were a direct vision of God in the fullest sense, where God himself takes the place of our qualia? We shouldn’t argue from “it would be better that way” to “it is that way” in our earthly lives, but in beatitude it does not seem such a terrible argument.

But where this kind of argument really comes into its own is when we think of what the epistemic life of a perfect being would be like. The above considerations suggest that when God sees the tree (and it is traditional to compare God’s knowledge of creation to vision), the vision is fully direct and intimate, and the tree itself plays the role of sense-impressions in us. We would expect a perfect being’s vision to be like that.

Now notice, however, that this is an account of God’s vision of the world on which God’s vision is partly extrinsically constituted: the tree partly constitutes God’s conscious experience of the tree. This is the extrinsic constitution model of how a simple God can know. We have thus started with us and with considerations of perfection, and have come to something like this model without any considerations of divine simplicity. Thus the model is not an ad hoc defense of divine simplicity. It is, rather, a model of the perfect way to epistemically relate to the world.

Two common intuitions

Here are two very common intuitions in the philosophy of mind:

1. Our experiences of the same things are approximately qualitatively the same: your perceptual experiences of white, or squareness, or the beat of a drum are approximately like mine.

2. It is metaphysically possible to remap all of one’s qualia, so that one could have had all the color perceptions in one’s life rotated by 120 degrees, say.

I find myself somewhat sceptical of each. Moreover, each claim makes the other less likely, so the probability that both are true is less than the product of the probabilities of each.

Of the two claims, the first seems fairly plausible to me, because I am attracted to the idea that the qualitative properties of my perceptions arise from typical interconnections (including, but perhaps not limited to, inferential ones) between them, and we all have roughly the same ones. But this line of thought, while supporting (1) also supports the denial of (2).

Moreover, our use of the same word “red” for your and my experiences of red tomatoes suggests that (1) is a part of our ordinary pre-theoretic beliefs. And I am inclined to trust our ordinary pre-theoretic beliefs.

On the other hand, it could turn out that (1) is false because it could turn out that how red things look is partly a function of features of brain organization that differ from individual to individual (and in the same individual over time). If so, then we might want to disambiguate ordinary language’s “looks the same” relation to mean either having the same qualitative experience or having an experience with the same representative content, so that we could continue to say that when you and I are looking at a red tomato, it looks the same to us in the representative but not qualitative sense.

But in any case all this is deeply mysterious stuff. I am strongly inclined to the idea that we should try to figure out the best theory of mind and perception we can, and then use that to figure out if (1) and (2) are true, rather than using (1) and (2) as constraints.

Second-order perception and the knowledge argument

Here’s something odd in the knowledge argument as usually formulated. According to the knowledge argument, Mary who was raised in a black and white argument but knew all of science came to know what it is like to see red by seeing red, despite having known all the physical facts first.

But note that one cannot simply come to know what it is like to see red by seeing red. One knows what it is like to see red by having the second-order perception of oneself seeing red. When one has the first-order perception without the second-order one, one doesn’t directly know that one has the first-order perception. (One may be able to infer it, of course: Here is a tomato, my eyes are open and are pointed towards it, so I am seeing it.) Of course, typically when one has the first-order perception, one also has the second-order perception (but typically not the third-order one), but the point remains is that it is not by the first-order perception, but by the second-order one, that one learns what it is like to see red.

Presumably, any ordinary human perception can be mistaken: it can occur in the absence of its object. Thus it is possible to have the second-order perception without the first-order one. It follows that it is possible for Mary to know what it is like to see red without ever seeing red: all she needs is the second-order perception.

This does not seem to me to damage the knowledge argument as such, but merely to tweak it. For even after the above reflection, it still seems plausible that one doesn’t know what it is like to see red on the basis of physical facts, but by means of a second-order perception. Moreover, we now have an answer to the memory objection to the knowledge argument, namely that just as you and I can know what it is like to see red by having true memories of seeing red, so too someone could know what it is like to see red by having false memories of seeing red, and so actual perception of red is not needed. But this does not affect the argument once we have realized it’s about the second-order perception. For memories, true or false, of seeing red are a kind of temporally backwards second-order perception.

More on the non-causal dualist theory of perception

In a recent post, I offered a non-causal dualist theory of sensory awareness on which when I see a red cube, there is a state r_b of my brain representing the red cube, and a relation V of perception between r_b and my soul, which relation is external to the soul. As a result, there need be no intrinsic difference between my soul when I am perceiving red cube and my soul when I am not perceiving a red cube.

I want to make a few more notes on this theory, for it seems to me that it is worth taking seriously.

1. This theory is very close to Aquinas’. Aquinas thought that sensory awareness was constituted by the reception of sensory data (“phantasms”) by sense organs. The sense organs, and not the soul, are modified by the sensory awareness. Of course, it was crucial to this that the sense organs be informed by the form of the animal, and the form of an animal is the soul. So we have a similar structure: there is a relation of the soul and the sense organs, and the sense organs are then modified by the sensory data. If we neglect the difference between the brain in my theory and the sense organs in Aquinas’s, then Aquinas’s theory is just an expansion on my theory. The state r_b is the state of the sense organs having their sensory data, and my external relation V of perception on Aquinas’s view is simply constituted by a pair of relations on Aquinas’s: the informing relation of the soul to the organ, and the sensory-data-possession relation between the organ and its sensory data.

Thus, the main difference between my theory and Aquinas’s is that I replace the sensory organs with parts of the brain. And there is good reason to think that if Aquinas had the empirical data we do, he would think of the phantasms as in the brain rather than in the eyes, ears, etc. For we have good reason to think direct neural stimulation of the visual center of the brain could produce the same visual experience as gazing upon a red cube. Thus, the only difference between Aquinas and the theory—apart from Aquinas offering more detail on the relation V—is that on the theory, the sensory organs in Thomas’s sense are all inside the skull.

2. What we should say about qualia on this theory? The analogue to the visual quale of my perceiving a red cube on this theory consists of V and r_b. That’s a pair of things rather than one thing. One of these two things, the brain state r_b, is physical, but the other thing, the relation V, is a non-physical relation between a non-physical thing, the soul and a brain state r_b. Thus qualia are partly non-physical and partly physical.

3. It seems the theory contradicts the knowledge argument. Consider the brain state r_b representing a red cube and the brain state g_b representing a green cube. It seems that on the basis of seeing a green cube, I can get to know the relation V obtaining between my soul and g_b. And on the basis of neuroscience, I can get to know r_b. Thus, without ever seeing anything red, it seems I can know what it’s like to see red.

I am not strongly attached to the knowledge argument in its standard form. I kind of like the radical variant on which a never conscious person could never get to know what consciousness is like. And that variant fits with the theory, since a never conscious person has never experienced the relation V. (You might say: A never conscious person couldn’t know anything. I think it is a mistake to require consciousness for knowledge. First, one can have non-occurrent knowledge without consciousness—I know my multiplication tables even when asleep. Second, the unconscious vampires in Watts’ Blindsight clearly have knowledge.)

That said, I do not think it is obvious that just by knowing what the ingredients are like one knows what the whole is like. Thus, knowing what r_b and V are like may not be enough to know what it is like to have one’s soul stand in V to r_b. (Compare: Alice knows what it is like to be married to Bob, and she knows Carl, but it doesn’t follow that she knows what it is like to be married to Carl.)

God's vision of reality

Consider the simple theory of visual sensation on which for me to have a visual sensation as of y is for x to stand in a “vision relation” to y, with the relation being external to x so that x is no different intrinsically when x has a visual sensation as of a red cube and when x does not.

We know that this simple theory is false of us for the obvious reason that we suffer from visual hallucinations or illusions: there are cases where we have a visual sensation as of a red cube in the absence of a red cube. Our best explanation of visual misperception is that visual sensation is mediated by an internal state of ours that can occur in the absence of the apparently visually sensed object. Thus, we have internal modifications—accidents—of visual perception.

But now consider what I think of as the biggest objection to the doctrine of divine simplicity: God’s knowledge of contingent facts. This objection holds that God must be internally different in worlds where what he knows is different, or at least sufficiently different. This objection is based on the intuition that knowledge is written into the knower, that it is an intrinsic qualification of the knower.

Let’s, however, think what a perfect knower’s knowledge would be like. My knowledge divides into the dispositional and the occurrent: I dispositionally know my multiplication table, but at most one fact from that table is occurrent at any given time. It is clear that having merely dispositional knowledge is not the perfection of knowledge. A perfect knower would know all reality occurrently at once. Moreover, my knowledge varies in vividness. Some things, like perhaps the fundamental theorem of algebra, I know “theoretically” (in the modern sense of the word, not the etymological one) and “discursively”, and some facts—such as my visual knowledge of the screen in front of me—are vividly present to my mind. The vivid knowledge is more perfect, so we would expect a perfect knower to know all reality occurrently at once in the liveliest and most vivid way, more like in a vision of reality than in a discursive mental representation.

Let’s go back to the simple theory of visual sensation. Our reason for rejecting that theory in our own case was that it did not accord with the fact that humans are subject to visual misperception. But suppose that we never misperceived. Then we could easily believe the simple theory, at least until we learned a bit more about the contingent causal processes behind our visual processing.

Thus, the reason for rejecting the simple theory in our case was our imperfection. But this leaves open the possibility that something like the simple theory could hold for the vision-like knowledge of reality that a perfect knower would have. Such a knower might not have any internal state “mirroring” reality, but might simply have reality related to it in a relation of being-known which is external on the knower’s side. In the case of a perfect knower, we have no need to account for a possibility of misperception. Thus, the perfect knower may know me simply by having me be related to it by a relation of being-known, a relation external to the knower.

Objection 1: How do we account for God’s knowledge of absences, such as his knowledge that there are no unicorns? This cannot be accounted for by a relation between God and the absence of unicorns, since there is no such thing as the absence of unicorns.

Response: In the case of an imperfect knower, absence of knowledge is not knowledge of absence, since there is always the possibility of mere ignorance. But perhaps in the case of a perfect knower, knowledge of absence is constituted by absence of knowledge.

Objection 2: This account makes the perfect knower’s “knowledge” too different from ours for us to use the same word “knowledge” for both.

Response 1: We have good reason to think that all words applied to us and the perfect being to be applied merely analogously. A perfect being would be radically different from us.

Response 2: While the simple theory is false of us, given dualism we may have a somewhat more complex theory that is not so different from what I said about God. We have significant empirical reason to think that the brain is modified by our visual experiences, and that our visual experience is in some way determined by an internal state of the brain. However, if we are dualists, we will not think that the internal state of the brain is sufficient to produce a visual experience. There could be zombies with brains in the same state that we are in when we are seeing a red cube, but who do not see.

We can now give two different dualist theories about how I come to see a red cube. Both theories suppose an internal red-cube-mirroring state r_b of my brain. On the causal theory, the state r_b then causes an internal state r_s of the soul (=mind) which mirrors the relevant features of r_b, and I have a red-cube experience precisely in virtue of my soul hosting r_s. But the causal theory is not the only option for the dualist. There is also a relational theory, on which my red-cube experience is constituted by my soul’s standing in an external relation to the brain state r_b.

The two theories yield different predictions as to possibilities. On the causal theory, it is possible for me to have a red-cube experience in a world where God and my soul (and my soul’s states and me-constituted-by-my-soul) are all that exists—all that’s needed is for God to miraculously cause r_s in my soul in the absence of r_b. On the relational theory, on the other hand, I can only have a red-cube experience when my soul stands in a certain external relation to a brain state, and in that God-and-my-soul world, there are no brain states.

The causal theory of our visual perception is indeed very different from the external-relation theory of divine knowledge. The relational theory, however, is more analogous. The main difference is that our visual experiences come not from our mind’s direct relation to the external world, but from our mind’s (=soul’s) direct relation to a representing brain state. And that is very much a difference we would expect given our imperfection and God’s perfection: we would expect a perfect knower’s knowledge to be unmediated.

We have reason independent of divine simplicity not to opt for the causal theory in the case of God. First, on the causal theory, we seem to have great power over God: every movement of ours causes an effect in God. That seems to violate divine aseity. Second, the causal theory in the case of God seems to lead to a nasty infinite causal chain: if God’s vision-like knowledge of y is caused by y, then we would expect that God’s knowledge of his knowledge of y is caused by his knowledge of y, which leads to an infinite causal chain. Moreover, God would know every item in this infinite sequence, which leads to a second causal chain (God’s knowledge of God’s knowledge of … the first chain). This would violate causal finitism, besides seeming simply wrong.

Do we have independent reason to opt for the causal over the relational theory in our case, or perhaps the other way around? I don’t know. Until today, I assumed the causal theory to be correct. But the relational theory makes for a more intimate connection between the soul and brain, and this is somehow appealing.

The unity of consciousness

I am now simultaneously aware of the motion of my fingers and of the text on the screen. Call this co-awareness. Co-awareness is not the same thing as awareness by the same subject. For if I type with my eyes closed and then stop typing and open my eyes, the tactile and visual experiences still have the same subject, but there is no co-awareness. Perhaps co-awareness is awareness by the same subject at the same time. But experiments on split-brain patients suggest that it is possible to have one subject with two simultaneous awarenesses that are not co-awarenesses.

Consider this very simple theory of co-awareness: it is not possible to have co-awareness between two distinct awarenesses. The case I started this post with was poorly described. Strictly speaking I had a single awareness of the conjunctive state of affairs of my fingers moving and there being text on the screen. I did not have an awareness of my fingers moving, nor did I have an awareness of text on the screen, but only of the conjunction.

On this view, rather than my co-hosting a quale of moving fingers and a quale of black markings on a white background, I am hosting a conjunctive quale of moving-fingers-and-black-markings.

All this, however, seems implausible. It certainly doesn’t fit with how we talk: everyone would say that I was aware of my fingers moving.

Similarly, I note, if Alice were to tell me that Bob was lazy and stupid, I would be correct to report that Alice told me that Bob was lazy, even though Alice did not in fact express the proposition that Bob was lazy, but only the conjunctive proposition that he is lazy and stupid. It is good use of ordinary language to attribute the statement of a conjunct to someone who stated a conjunction containing that conjunct. The same is true of awareness: we can attribute the awareness of a conjunct to someone who is aware of a conjunction. Maybe the right way to talk about this is to distinguish non-derivative and derivative, or focal and non-focal, senses of assertion and awareness. Alice non-derivatively asserts that Bob was lazy and stupid, and derivatively that Bob was lazy. I am non-derivatively aware of the conjunctive state of affairs of motion of my fingers, the text on the screen and a variety of other things, and derivatively of each conjunct.

With this distinction, we can build on the simple theory of co-awareness:

1. It is not possible to have co-awareness between two distinct non-derivative awarenesses.

2. Co-awareness occurs between two derivative awarenesses A and B provided that there is a non-derivative awareness C such that I count as having A and B in virtue of C being an awareness of a conjunction that includes the object of A as well as the object of B as a conjunct.

In a way, this simply shifts the difficulty of figuring what makes it be the case that an awareness is an awareness of a conjunctive state to the difficulty of figuring out what makes a non-derivative awareness of a conjunction be an awareness of a conjunction. That is, indeed, a tough problem. But it is a problem that is just a special case of a general problem that we would need to solve even if we had solved our original co-awareness problem in some other way: the problem of the logical structure of the objects of perception. If I see a shape in the distance that looks like a dog or fox, what is it that makes me have an awareness of a disjunction between a dog or a fox? If I see something that looks like it’s not a dog, what is it that makes me have a negative awareness of a dog?

It may seem puzzling how there can be a logical structure to qualia. I don’t see why not. But then I am strongly inclined to a representationalism that holds that the differences in the qualitative properties between conscious states are determined by the differences between the states’ representative properties. And representative properties have a logical structure.

Emotions and naturalism

On occasion, I’ve heard undergraduates suggest that naturalism faces a problem with emotions. They feel that a mere computational system would not have emotional states.

One might take this to be a special case of the problem of qualia, and I think it has some plausibility there. It is indeed hard to see how an emotionless Mary would know what it’s like to be scared or in love. Is it harder than in the case of ordinary sensory qualia, like that of red? I don’t know.

But I think it’s more interesting to take it to be a special case of the problem of intentionality or content. Emotions are at least partly constituted by intentional (quasi?) perceptual states with normative content: to be scared involves perceiving reality as containing something potentially bad for one and being in love involves perceiving someone as wonderful in some respects.

The standard materialist story about the content of perceptual states is causal: a perception of red represents an object as reflecting or emitting light roughly of a certain wavelength range because the perception is typically triggered by objects doing this. But on standard naturalist stories do not have room for normative properties to play a causal role. Post-Aristotelian scientific explanations are thought not to invoke normative features.

There is, of course, nothing here to worry an Aristotelian naturalist who believes that objects have natures that are both normative and causally explanatory.

Over the past year, I’ve been coming to appreciate the explanatory power of the Aristotelian story on which the very same thing grounds normativity and provides a causal explanation.

Learning without change in beliefs

There are books of weird mathematical things (e.g., functions with strange properties) to draw on for the sake of generating counterexamples to claims. This post is in the spirit of an entry in one of these books, but it’s philosophy, not mathematics.

Surprising fact: You can learn something without gaining or losing any beliefs.

For suppose proposition q in fact follows from proposition p, and at t₁ you have an intellectual experience as of seeing q to follow from p. On the basis of that experience you form the justified and true belief that q follows from p. This belief would be knowledge, but alas the intellectual experience came from a chemical imbalance in the brain rather than from one’s mastery of logic. So you don’t know that q follows from p.

Years later, you consider q and p again, and you once again have an experience of q following from p. This time, however, the experience does come from your mastery of logic. This time you see, and not just think you see, that q follows from p. Your belief is now overdetermined: there is a Gettiered path to it and a new non-Gettiered path to it. The new path makes the belief be knowledge. But to gain knowledge is to learn.

But this gain of knowledge need not be accompanied by the loss of any beliefs. For instance, the new experience of q following from p doesn’t yield a belief that your previous experience was flawed. Nor need there by any gain of beliefs. For while you might form the second order belief that you see q following from p, you need not. You might just see that q follows from p, and form merely the belief that q follows from p, without forming any belief about your inner state. After all, this is surely more the rule than the exception in the case of sensory perception. When I see my colleague in the hallway, I will often form the belief that she is in the hallway rather than the self-regarding belief that I see her in the hallway. (Indeed, likely, small children and most non-human animals never form the “I see” belief.) And surely this phenomenon is not confined to the case of sensory perception. At least, it is possible to have intellectual perceptions where we form only the first-order belief, and form no any self-regarding second-order belief.

So, it is possible to learn something without gaining or losing beliefs.

In fact, plausibly, the original flawed experience could have been so clear that we were fully certain that q follows from p. In that case, the new experience not only need not change any of our beliefs, but need not even change our credences. The credence was 1 before, and it can’t go up from there.

OK, so we have a counterexample. Can we learn anything from it?

Well, here are two things. One might use the story to buttress the idea that even knowledge of important matters—after all, the relation between q and p might be important—is of little value. For it seems of very little value to gain knowledge when it doesn’t change how one thinks about anything. One might also use it to argue that either understanding doesn’t require knowledge or that understanding doesn’t have much value. For if understanding does require knowledge, then one could set up a story where by learning that q follows from p one gains understanding—without that learning resulting in any change in how one thinks about things. Such a change seems of little worth, and hence the understanding gained is of little worth.

A tweak to the ontomystical argument

In an old paper, I argued that we do not hallucinate impossibilia: if we perceive something, the thing we perceive is possible, even if it is not actual. Consequently, if anyone has a perception—veridical or not—of a perfect being, a perfect being is possible. And mystics have such experiences. But as we know from the literature on ontological arguments, if a perfect being is possible, then a perfect being exists (this conditional goes back at least to Mersenne). So, a perfect being exists.

I now think the argument would have been better formulated in terms of what two-dimensional semanticists like Chalmers call “conceivability”:

1. What is perceived (perhaps non-veridically) is conceivable.

2. A perfect being is perceived (perhaps non-veridically).

3. If a perfect being is conceivable, a perfect being is possible.

4. A perfect being is possible.

5. If a perfect being is possible, a perfect being exists.

6. So, a perfect being exists.

Premise (3) follows from the fact that the notion of a perfect being is not twinearthable, so conceivability and possibility are equivalent for a perfect being (Chalmers is explicit that this is the case for God, but he concludes that God is inconceivable). Premise (1) avoids what I think is the most powerful of Ryan Byerly’s four apparent counterexamples to my original argument: the objection that one might have perceptions that are incompatible with necessary truths about natural kinds (e.g., a perception that a water molecule has three hydrogen atoms).

Approximate truth and the very recent past

Suppose I say that Jim yelled in delight at 12:31. But in fact he did so at 12:32. Then I said something false but approximately true.

Now, suppose that I hear Jim giving a loud yell of delight about 300 meters away. While I am listening to that yell, I think that Jim is yelling. But in the last second of my hearing, Jim is no longer yelling, but the sound waves are still traveling to me. No big deal. My belief that Jim is yelling is false, but approximately true. Or so I want to say.

And it’s important to say something like this, for it allows us to preserve the idea that our sense give us approximate truth. The case of sound from 300 meters away is particularly strong, but the point goes through in all our sensation, as none of it travels faster than the speed of light. Now, granted, often when we become aware of a stimulus, our sensory organs are still undergoing it. But nonetheless it is strictly speaking false to say that this very part of the stimulus that we are now aware of is in fact going on. So our senses seem to lead us slightly astray. But at most very slightly. It is approximately true that this part of the stimulus is going on now, because it is in fact going on a fraction of a second earlier. Or, perhaps, it is a part of our common sense knowledge of the world that the data of the senses is only meant as an approximation to the truth, and so there is no straying at all.

Now imagine that I say that Jim actually yelled in delight at 12:31, but he was actually completely silent all day, although in a very nearby possible world he did yell in delight at 12:31. Then what I said is not approximately true. In ordinary contexts, the modal difference between the actual and the merely possible vitiates approximate truth, no matter how nearby the merely possible world is.

So now on to one of my hobby horses: presentism. If presentism is true, then the difference between what is happening now and what happened earlier is relevantly like the difference between the actual and the possible. In both cases, it is a difference between a neat and clean predication and a predication in the scope of a modal operator, pastly or possibly, respectively. If this is right, then if presentism is true, I cannot say what I said about its being approximately true that Jim is yelling if Jim has actually stopped. That difference is a very deep modal difference. That the time when Jim is yelling is in a nearby past no more suffices for the approximate truth of “Jim is yelling now” than that Jim is yelling in a nearby possible world is enough for the approximate truth of “Jim is actually yelling”. The ontological gulf between the actual and the possible is vast; so would be the ontological gulf between the present and the past if presentism were true.

Thus, the presentist cannot say that the senses tend to deliver approximate truth.

Objection: We know to correct the data of the senses for the delay.

Response: We know. But that's a recent development.

Everything is beautiful

Consider something visually ugly, say one of my school painting projects. The colors are poorly chosen and the lines don’t do a good job representing what it’s meant to represent. (I am not being modest.)

But now suppose we live in an infinite universe or a multiverse, so that every possible intelligent species is realized. It is very likely that there will be some intelligent species whose electromagnetic spectral receptivities are such that the colors in the lines look gorgeous to it, and harmonize in a wonderful abstract way with the shape of the lines. This is, of course, a chance matter—I wasn’t making the painting for that mode of visual receptivity. Let’s say that the species is the xyllians. We can still say that what I made is an ugly work of art, but it is also a part of the natural world, and considered as a part of the natural world it is visually_x (i.e., as seen with the electromagnetic reception apparatus of xyllians) beautiful while being visually_h (i.e., as seen with human electromagnetic reception apparatus) beautiful.

Moreover, it is irrelevant whether the xyllians and humans exist. Whether they exist or not, my painting is visually_x beautiful and visually_h ugly. All that’s needed is that the xyllians and humans could exist. Thus, my painting really is both beautiful and ugly, even if we are the only intelligent species. And it is just as objectively beautiful as it is objectively ugly. I wasn’t supposing that the xyllians misperceive: just that they have a different pattern of spectral receptivities. We can suppose that xyllian visual perception is just as accurate in reflecting the world, including my unhappy artistic productions, as ours is.

This means that an argument from particular beauty for the existence of God must be run cautiously. Sure, sunsets and goldfish are beautiful. But so is any child’s scrawl, and quite likely any physical object is beautiful with respect to some possible sensory apparatus. Particular instances of beauty are easy to find and should not surprise us. What could surprise us, however, is:

1. That the particular sensorily beautiful things around us—such as sunsets and goldfish—are in fact beautiful with respect to the sensory apparatus of the intelligent species that dwells near them.

We might also attempt to mount arguments from beauty to God on the basis of these remarkable facts:

2. That there is such a property as (objective) beauty at all.

3. That we are able to perceive beauty.

4. That we enjoy beauty.

5. That we are able to make correct judgments of beauty.

And bracketing the question of arguing for the existence of God on the basis of beauty, the realization that all material things are beautiful should lead us to glorify God. For while I said that it’s chance that my poor attempts at painting are visually_x beautiful, that’s only so loosely speaking. God is omnirational, and that the paintings are visually_x beautiful is a redeeming quality that surely God did not fail to intend.

Probabilistic perception

We could imagine critters whose perceptual system works as follows: When they have an object in their visual field, instead of the perceptual system delivering the presence of a dog, it delivers something like:

• dog:0.93, coyote:0.03, wolf:0.03, deer:0.01.

There are probably many interesting questions to ask about critters with a perceptual system like that. But I want to briefly muse about three.

Question 1: Can we redescribe the perceptual system of these critters so that at base what we have are just attitudes to propositions or properties pairs or something like that?

Answer: I am not sure. Some options fail. For instance, while it may be true that the critter in my example is having a disjunctive perception of a dog-or-coyote-or-wolf, that doesn’t capture all the information in its perceptual system—it doesn’t capture the much greater probability of its being a dog.

Alternately, one could say that the critter has four perceptions of different strengths: a 0.93 strength perception as of a dog, a 0.03 strength perception as of a coyote, a 0.03 strength perception as of a wolf and a 0.01 strength perception as of a deer. But that doesn’t quite capture what’s going on, at least not if we read the story as I intended it. The critter takes dog, coyote, wolf and deer to be alternative hypotheses for what is in front of it, not to be four different perceptions. The story that breaks up the perception into four perceptions of different strengths fails to distinguish the story I intend from a story where the animal might be all four (it’s only a posteriori that we know there are no dog-coyote-wolf-deer).

Maybe we could say that the critter’s perceptual system also delivers something more complicated:

• only-dog:0.93, only-coyote:0.03, only-wolf:0.03, only-deer:0.01.

That will get out of the alternativeness worry, but I am sceptical that it needs to be like that. One could just see the four options, and not see that the probabilities involved force them to be exclusive (because the probabilities add up to one). This is even more plausible if the probabilities are qualitative or interval-based.

Nor will it do to say that one perceives that there is a 0.93 probability of a dog, a 0.03 probability of a coyote, and so on. For these probabilities are not objective facts out there. They are, I suppose, measures of what credence the critter should have in each hypothesis if there is no further data available. We need not suppose that the critter has the degree of self-reflectiveness that would be needed to perceive these measures of hypothetical credence as such.

So maybe a reduction to more familiar perception stories is possible, but I think there is some reason to be sceptical.

Question 2: What is it for this perceptual state to be veridical?

Answer: A necessary condition, of course, would have to be that what is present is a dog, coyote, wolf or deer. But there is room for much Gettiering. Maybe it’s a wolf dressed up as a sheep dressed up as a wolf. Then the perception isn’t in the right way, and we don’t have veridicality. But what if it’s a dog that recently went to the pet salon and was made up to look more wolf-like? Then maybe it’s veridical. Maybe. I just don’t know.

I have a suspicion that once we have such probabilistic deliverances of perception, the in-the-right-way problem of characterizing veridicality not only becomes epistemically intractable—it may already be that in standard theories of perception—but the whole concept of veridicality, apart from the necessary condition that one of the alternative hypotheses be true, may break down.

Question 3: Are we always such critters? We could, after all, take the ordinary perception of a dog to be just a limiting case like “dog:0.999999, something weird:0.000001” or even “dog:1”. Should we do that in every case?

Answer: Phenomenologically, the answer seems negative. But phenomenology can mislead about such things. But as long as it’s a live hypothesis that we might be such critters, we may need to be cautious about claims like that perception is a propositional attitude (see Question 1) or that there is a viable concept of veridicality (see Question 2).

And the apparent possibility of critters whose perception always works like this should make us cautious as to the kinds of claims we make in epistemology.

Is music a sound?

It seems that music is a sound, and sound is constituted by vibrations of a surrounding medium, i.e., typically air. But you can listen to a musical piece through a bone conduction headset. In that case, you're not listening to vibrations of a surrounding medium. Moreover, we could suppose that the performer is producing electronic music live, which is directly piped to the audience's bone conduction headsets without any speakers anywhere, so it's never in the air (except accidentally). Assuming that the bone conduction headsets produce the same experienced quality as listening to the music the normal way, it seems that the audience wouldn't be losing out on anything musically relevant. Yet, if music is a kind of sound, and sound is vibrations of a surrounding medium, then we have a paradox:

1. There is no music there.
2. But the audience isn't missing out on anything musically relevant.
   
3. So, music need not be musically relevant!

Perhaps, though, music doesn't require vibrations of a surrounding medium. The vibrations of bones might be sufficient to qualify as music. I am not sure, however, whether in the concert that I have imagined the audience counts as hearing vibrations of their bones. Yes, their bones vibrate, but the content of the experience isn't the vibration of bones. Rather, it sounds like sound coming from outside them, so the content is external sound, but in my story that's absent, replaced by a mere illusion of sound.

In any case, we can modify the story. Suppose the piece is performed electronically, and never generates the relevant vibrations. Instead, it is directly piped to the performer's and audience's brains' auditory centers. It seems that musically nothing is lost, even though now there is definitely no sound at all.

The conclusion that music needn't be musically relevant is absurd. So we have to deny the claim that music is a sound. What is it then? A sequence of experiences? Then there is no music when the performer and audience are deaf. Maybe that's a bullet we should bite?

Maybe music--both the music composed by a composer and the music performed by a performer (who may be in part or whole a composer, as in cases of improvisation)--should be seen as an abstract sound type. The composer and performer discover music but don't create it. In order to grasp an abstract sound type, it is not needed that one hear an instance of it, but only that one have an experience as of hearing an instance of it. The performer, thus, causes the audience to have experiences as of hearing instances of it. Those experiences are neither sound nor music. We can then, by extension, call an instance of the abstract sound type--i.e., a concrete sound--"music". But music in this sense is not musically relevant except as a vehicle for music in the Platonic sense.

(In case it's relevant, I should note that I'm largely tone deaf, and I do not speak from experience.)

(One can mount another argument against the thesis that music is a sound on the basis of Cage's 4'33". But if 4'33" is music, we could still say it normally involves sound, in that one could have a more nuanced theory on which sound isn't the vibrations, but a token pattern of vibrations. And no-vibrations counts a pattern of vibrations.)

I can see that the sun exists and shines

1. On a sunny day, I can see that the sun exists.
2. If presentism is true, even on a sunny day I can't see that the sun exists.
3. So presentism is false.

Premise (1) is obvious. Premise (2) is true for the following reasons. I see that the sun existing only if I see the event of the sun's existing. In order to see an event, that event needs to cause my perception. But if presentism is true, then the event of the sun's existing does not cause my perception, since the sun's existing coincides with the sun's presently existing according to presentism. Rather, the cause of my perception is the event of the sun's having existed eight minutes ago, since that's how long it took the light to travel. So on presentism, I see the sun's having existed, but misinterpret it as seeing the sun's existing. Worse yet, I don't ever see that anything exists, except perhaps myself and my mental states.

The eternalist isn't completely off the hook, either. For surely it is not just a part of the content of my experience that the sun exists simpliciter, but also that the sun exists now. But by the above argument, I don't see that the sun exists now. The eternalist is, however, in slightly better shape than the presentist, as the eternalist can say that some of the content of my perception is correct: I veridically see the sun's existing, but misperceive that existing as being present as well.

The formulation above in terms of existence is a bit awkward verbally. I think I can probably run the same argument with the sun's shining. On a sunny day, I can see the sun's shining. Not so if presentism is true. For the event of the sun's shining that I see, assuming I do see it, would be an event that occurred eight minutes ago, and hence a nonexistent event according to presentism. No one sees the nonexistent (they only apparently see it). So if presentism is true, I can't see the sun's shining.

Again, the eternalist isn't entirely off the hook. For intuitively I not only see the sun's shining, but I also see the sun's present shining. So I have to say that there is some illusion here: I do see the sun's shining, but my experience mistakenly attributes presentness to that event.

Do I know what it's like to see red when I'm not looking at something red?

I've seen red. But as I am writing this sentence, I am not seeing red (my eyes are closed). So do I know what it's like to see red?

Let's try "no". Then the knowledge of what it's like to see red is really evanescent: it's only present when actually perceiving red. Moreover, it seems that what's relevant is not just the perceiving of red, but my attending to apparent perception of red. So it seems that I only know what it's like to see red when I attend to an apparent perception of red. But when I do attend to an apparent perception of red, then I surely know what it's like to see red. So I know what it's like to see red when and only when I attend to an apparent perception of red. This now makes me worry that "I know what it's like to see red" is just a more colloquial way of saying "I attend to an apparent perception of red". And if that's so, then the Mary argument for the nonphysicality of qualia is undermined. Furthermore, I think a lot of the intuitive plausibility of the argument comes from imagining oneself in Mary's pre-seeing-red stage, and imaging the kind of curiosity we'd have about what it's like to see red. But if this curiosity is a desire for knowledge that one doesn't have, and if I don't know what it's like to see red, then it's surprising that in Mary's position we'd have curiosity, but when my eyes are closed and I am not seeing red I have little curiosity about what it's like to see red, even though I don't have that knowledge. This suggests, in turn, that the curiosity that we would have in Mary's position isn't a desire for knowledge, but a desire for perception. So, all in all, the "no" answer seems harmful to the Mary argument.

What about "yes"? Intuitively that's the right answer. Surely people know what it's like to have perceptions that they aren't occurrently having. But now it's not clear what my knowledge of what it's like to see red consists in. Does it consist in the fact that even when I'm not looking at anything red, I can bring to mind a memory of seeing red? I'm not very good at it. I search my memory and find a memory of looking at a red object. For a split second, a flash of a red v-shaped piece of tape on a climbing wall shows up in my mind, before disappearing. Is my knowing what it's like to see red constituted by my possession of the skill of producing such evanescent memory images? Then it sounds like know-how rather than the kind of knowledge that's relevant to the Mary argument. And my skills in this direction are quite limited. I've seen very good approximations to circles: for instance, the clocks in the classrooms I teach. But when I bring such seeing-a-circle experiences back to memory, the images are far from being good approximations to circles--instead, I get foggy images of arcs that don't even meet up.

All in all, I am puzzled. I just can't put my finger on what it is that I have when I know what it's like to see red...

Pain

I have a strong theoretical commitment to:

1. To feel pain is to perceive something as if it were bad.
2. Veridical perception is non-instrumentally good.

On the other hand, I also have the strong intuition that:

3. Particularly intense physical pain is always non-instrumentally bad.

Thus, (1) and (2) commit me to veridical pains being non-instrumentally good. But (3) commits me to particularly intense physical pain, whether veridical or not, being non-instrumentally bad. This has always been very uncomfortable for me, though not as uncomfortable as intense physical pain is.

But today I realized that there is no real contradiction between (1), (2) and (3). Rather than deriving a contradiction from (1)-(3), what we should conclude is:

4. No instance of particularly intense physical pain is veridical.

And I don't have a very strong intuition against (4). And here is a story supporting (4). We systematically underestimate spiritual goods and bads, while we systematically overestimate physical goods and bads. Arguably, the worst of the physical bads is death, and yet both Christianity and ancient philosophy emphasize that we overestimate the badness of death. It is not particularly surprising that our perceptions suffer from a similar overestimation, and in particular that they typically present physical bads as worse than they are. If so, then it could well be that no merely physical bad is so bad as to be accurately represented by a particularly intense physical pain.

One difficulty is that the plausibility of my position depends on how one understands "particularly intense". If one has a high enough standard for that, then (4) is plausible, but it also becomes plausible that pains that just fall short of the standard still are non-instrumentally bad. If one has a lower standard for "particularly intense", then (4) becomes less plausible. I am hoping that there is a sweet spot (well, actually, a miserable spot!) where the position works.

Speculation on the virtuous person's emotions

Take seriously the Socratic idea that emotional awareness is a kind of perception of normative states of affairs: pain is a perception of actual ill-being, fear of potential future ill-being, joy of present good, and so on. Aristotle seems to think that the virtuous person's emotions will be perfectly in tune with reality. The courageous person will only fear what is genuinely fearsome, and so on.

But if we take the Socratic view of emotional consciousness, then we will have reason to doubt Aristotle. For the virtuous person's emotional awareness is going to be properly functioning. But it is false that properly functioning perceptions are always veridical. Indeed, sometimes, a sensory perception must be non-veridical to be properly functioning. As Descartes notes in the Meditations, any cause that produces the same effect in our body will result in the same perception. A barn and a barn facade (seen face on) produce the same effect on our retinas, and result in the same perceptions. Moreover, when this happens, our perceptions are properly functioning, and were we to see these same effects differently, our perceptions would be improperly functioning. If the barn facade didn't look like a barn, your sense of sight would be malfunctioning. (Our senses might always produce veridical results in heaven. If so, then that is a sense in which our nature is somehow transformed in heaven.) Most of the time, we see barns, not barn facades, and our senses' proper functioning is adapted to what gets us to truth for the most part (much as according to Aquinas, the proper functioning of the reproductive faculties is adapted to what leads to the good for the most part, which is why he thinks fornication is wrong even when it does not harm children, since for the most part, fornication is bad for offspring, and therefore our nature is such that fornication is not a part of our proper function.)

It would be surprising indeed if the same weren't true of emotional awareness. Sometimes, this is true simply because of sensory illusions. If you grew up happily on a farm, the convincing barn facade gives you the same nostalgic feeling as a real barn, and if you failed to feel nostalgia, something is wrong with you. But the same can be true even where there is no sensory illusion. Sometimes, virtue requires one to to knowingly (maybe even intentionally) cause pain to another. But the knowledgeable causing of pain to another quite properly makes one feel bad about what one is doing, and this should happen even when one knows that one ought to be doing what one is doing. In such a case, the emotional awareness may be non-veridical, but it is, nonetheless, properly functioning. If one did not feel bad, then one would have a malfunctioning emotional awareness, and one would not be fully virtuous.

I remember reading that St Catherine the Great Martyr, when young, was puzzled by Christ's suffering in the garden. Wouldn't Christ welcome suffering for righteousness' sake? So she supposed that his suffering was a kind of display for our benefit. But no: It wasn't a show. A virtuous person suffers fear when contemplating a terrible death, even if the virtuous person knows that this death should not be avoided. The feeling may be non-veridical, but why should Christ have been exempt from non-veridical emotions? After all, we do not think he was exempt from visual illusions: Surely a stick in the water looked broken to him. Of course, he might well judge the emotion non-veridical, much as we judge the one about the stick, but just as the stick still looks broken, Christ would still suffer.

But perhaps this is all wrong. It all depends on just how teleological proper function is.

Emotional perception

On Friday I was feeling somewhat poorly and in the interests of public health (not that I minded!) I opted out of participation in the PhD graduation dinner and Saturday's commencement. Sunday I felt somewhat worse, and today rather worse (nothing serious, just the usual "flu-like" symptoms, and both of our big kids had such in the preceding two weeks). But there is one piece of relief: It is good to have been right about the fact that I was getting sick.

It is not particularly bad to have suffered physically and similarly it is not particularly good to have enjoyed physical pleasure. But it is bad (or at least it feels bad--which is evidence for its being bad!) to have been wrong and similarly it is good to have been right. The value here isn't the value of being recognized by others as having been right or wrong. Nor is it the value of oneself presently recognizing oneself as right or wrong. For one hopes (though perhaps not simpliciter, if the prospect is particularly nasty) that one be right and that one not be wrong, not just that one recognize oneself or be recognized as right or wrong. The recognition is just the icing or mould on the top of a good or bad cake.

Eternalists have a difficulty with the fact that it doesn't seem bad to have suffered physically (bracketing any present suffering from painful memories, of course), even though past suffering is just as real as present suffering. Presentists have a difficulty with the fact that it seems to be bad to have been wrong and to be good to have been right.

I think eternalists can make a better go of it, though. Feelings like the pleasure of having been right or the pain of having been wrong are a kind of perception of normative features of the world. But not all truth is equally perceived. I am now visually aware that I have two hands, and properly so. But were I now visually aware that you have a head, my visual system would be malfunctioning. For although, dear reader, you do have a head, your head is not presently within my field of view. It is thus a part of the correct functioning of my visual apparatus that I be presently aware of my hands but not your head, even though all three parts (my two hands and your one head) are equally real.

Likewise, then, some goods and bads are appropriately within my emotional field of view--e.g., my having been right about getting sick--and some goods and bads are not appropriately within my emotional field of view--e.g., the unpleasantness of the last time I had a cavity filled. These goods and bads may be equally real (assuming that pain itself really is bad--there is room for discussion here, but it is at least extrinsically bad), but it could be (I am not sure about the first one, actually) that my having been right is appropriately within my emotional field of view while my having suffered (not at all severely--he really is an excellent dentist) at a past dental visit is not.

But we sometimes mistake absence of perception for perception of absence, like an infant who cries that the parent has left the room or the adult who sees no objection to an action and all too hastily concludes the action is permissible. Not emotionally seeing the past pain as bad--i.e., a not being pained by the past pain--is mistaken by us for seeing the past pain as not being bad.

The eternalist should thus say that the past physical pains and pleasures are bad or good, in the same way that present ones are, but we do not see their badness or goodness. Thus, the eternalist attributes to the agent a misinterpretation of absence of perception. The presentist, however, should say that having been right or wrong is not presently good or bad (though maybe it was good or bad), but we misperceive it as such. The eternalist thus attributes more correctness to our emotional perception, while attributing a well-known generalized cognitive error in explaining what went wrong. The presentist has to say our emotional perception is just wrong. I prefer the eternalist explanation.

A similar issue comes up for Christ's suffering on the cross. With a number of theologians, I take the center of our Savior's suffering not to be the horrific suffering of nails ripping through his flesh, but his deep emotional awareness of the horribleness of the totality of our sins (perhaps with the help of the hypostatic union or beatific vision bringing the particularities of all of humankind's sins to him). But this leads to a query: Why did Christ only have this awareness on the cross? We do not see him constantly and equally weighed down by this suffering earlier in life? Was he failing to have a correct emotional awareness? But now we can say: Not at all. It is the salient goods or bads that are within the field of view of correct emotional perception. And it is on the cross, at the high point of the sacrifice for our salvation from these sins (the high point: for all his life was such a sacrifice), that this became fully salient, in such a way that this perfect man--who is also true God--emotionally bore the full weight of our sin.

Note, too, that this is a story about Christ's sufferings that is difficult for the presentist to give. For it is difficult for the presentist to explain why earlier and later, and hence then-unreal, sins were bad at the time of Christ's crucifixion. Perhaps the presentist has to say that Christ's suffering came from an erroneous emotional perception of past and future sins as then-bad?

Seeing air

Last night, I took the big kids to the swimming pool.  When I entered the swimming pool area, I saw something that looked wavy and shimmery.  It was water.  Some time later, on my daughter's advice, I submerged my head while wearing goggles and looked upward.  I saw something that looked wavy and shimmery.  By symmetry with my previous seeing, it had to be... air.

So air is visible, even in moderate quantities.  (Of course one could see air in sufficient quantities, because of how it would dim the light.)

Leibniz, bodies and phenomena

Leibniz tells us that bodies are phenomena. He also tells us that phenomena are modes of monads. Now, the modes of monads are appetites and perceptions. But appetites and perceptions are identity-dependent on the monad that they are appetites and perceptions of. Your appetite or perception may be very much like mine, but it is numerically distinct from mine. But this seems to imply that the moon you see and the moon I see are numerically distinct. For the moon you see is a mode of you, and hence identity-dependent on you, while the moon I see is a mode of me, and hence not numerically distinct with the moon that is identity-dependent on you.

Something must go. The identity dependence of modes on the monad is central to Leibniz's argument against inter-modal causation: he insists that the same mode cannot have a leg in each of two monads. My suggestion is that what Leibniz should say, and maybe what he really thinks, is that real phenomena, like the moon, aren't modes of monads in the narrow sense that implies identity dependence, but are grounded in monads, and in that sense are modes of monads in the broad sense. Consider "the committee's opinion." This is grounded in the committee members' minds, but it is not identity-dependent on any one committee member: individual committee members can change their view while the committee is still "of the same mind."

Here is one way to make this go. The moon is a phenomenon and it has a two-fold ground. One part of the ground are monads having "lunar perceivings", like the one I had last night when looking through the telescope, and like the one I am now, according to Leibniz, unconsciously having. But the moon isn't just a lunar perceivings, because your lunar perceiving is distinct from my lunar perceiving. The other part of the ground is what unifies the lunar perceivings in different monads, and that is the monads that are elements (in Robert Adams' phraseology) of the moon. Your lunar perceiving represents the same lunar monads as my lunar perceiving does.

For Leibniz, as for Aristotle, being and unity are interchangeable. To have being, bodies need a source of unity. On this reading, there are two sources of unity in the moon: first, the perception of a monad, say you or me, unifies the many lunar monads that are being perceived; second, the lunar monads unify the perceptions of the many monads. There is no vicious circularity here.

This significantly qualifies Leibniz's alleged idealism. It sounds idealist to say that bodies are phenomena. But they aren't just any phenomena, they are "well founded" phenomena (to use Leibniz's phrase), and a part of what constitutes them into the self-identical phenomena that they are is the monads that are appearing in the appearance.

The above brings together ideas I got from at least two of our graduate students. Another move suggested by one of them is to take the unification of the lunar perceivings to happen through the complete individual concept of the moon which is confusedly found in all of the lunar perceivings. I think this, too, is a possible reading of Leibniz, but I think it makes for poorer philosophy, since I don't think there is any complete individual concept of the moon found in all lunar perceivings, except in the way that the concepts of causes are, by essentiality of origins, found in the effects.