by John Norman
But these are local skepticisms.
Other examples of local skepticisms might be a skepticism regarding an alleged number of quarks in an apple, the true motivations of a homicidal barracuda, the contents of a jam jar, the date of Sherlock Holmes’ birth, and so on. There are reasonably clear ways of looking into such things, and addressing such issues.
Most skepticisms are local
On the other hand, some skepticisms are, as it is said, global.
And surely these are the interesting skepticisms, if only because they tend to annoy philosophers.
Philosophers are strange people.
There is no doubt about that.
They are easily annoyed, or, at least, intrigued, by problems which most folks do not know exist, and, if informed, would just as soon did not exist.
One is global skepticism.
I would not be going into this, if it were not for Alfred.
First, in order to be somewhat more clear on what is going on here, let us distinguish between what we might call classical skepticisms and Cartesian skepticisms.
Briefly, classical skepticism is a salvation philosophy, a recommendation as to how to live, primarily by forgetting about a lot of stuff not worth worrying about in the first place.
To be sure, as these fellows are philosophers they cannot simply go about forgetting, as you or I, or most folks, might. They have to work hard at it. As it might be put, there are five modes, or such, involved: Discrepancy, relativity, regress, assumption and circularity. We won’t go into much detail here because I am trying to get to Alfred. Discrepancy recognizes that not everyone agrees with everyone else; people, cultures, and such, differ; and relativity notes that many folks, cultures, and such, see things relative to their own situations, interests, natures, backgrounds, and such. The most interesting modes, regress, assumption, and circularity, tend to suggest that you are going to be stuck with discrepancy and relativity. How are you going to prove something—for sure, of course, as these guys are serious.
The best way to go about piling up absolute knowledge, and what other kind could there be, is to get your mind on self-evident propositions, and then hasten on to further truths via the avenues of logic. Now discrepancy and relativity suggest that obviously self-evident propositions may be in short supply. If a proposition is not obviously self-evident then perhaps we could derive it from another which is, and if, predictably, that one is not obviously self-evident either, then one can take another shot at things, and so on. And here we have regress. Which in theory could be an infinite regress, but one with no end in sight is probably about as good. One can, of course, simply assume something, but that is not to prove it, and represents not an argument but an abandonment of argument. And, indeed, this exposes one to the philosophical uppercut of being denounced as a dogmatist, which is bad. The skeptics tend to be dogmatic about these things. That approach, move, or dodge, of course, is assumption. But what if folks, most folks, should agree that something is self-evident? Might they not be mistaken? Might it not only seem to be self-evident, and simply be, treacherously, fraudulently, deplorably, merely psychologically coercive? But, even if we sweep this under the philosophical rug, circularity looms. Most simply, there must be a criterion for truth, say, for validity or for veridical perception. And is the criterion right? For example, an argument is valid if and only if it is a legitimate substitution instance of a valid argument form, but where do we get valid argument forms from? We get them from arguments that seem to us valid. Similarly, if we take forcefulness, or nonrepudiability, or such, as a criterion for veridical perception, where do we get that from, from forcible impressions, from things which seem to us ungetoverable, nonrepudiable, and so on.
The supposed upshot of all this is to undercut the dogmatic pretense to absolute knowledge, particularly inferences from experience to transempirical claims.. Indeed, there are even logical problems with such inferences. Now things are, of course, much more complicated than this, truly, given conflicts of appearances, the fragilities of inductive reasoning, the various strategies of counterpoise, and so on, but we are trying to move toward Alfred.
We might note, in passing, however, before we leave these views, that the skeptic is not claiming to know one cannot know anything, which would be paradoxical, at the least, but rather is suggesting that we refrain from dogmatism. A suggestion is neither true nor false. The idea seems to be that one should not waste one’s time on insoluble problems, but, realizing they are insoluble, abandon them and get on with life. One tends to make do with one’s local values and beliefs, but one sees them now, of course, in a new light.
Perhaps the most interesting form of global skepticism, and that in the context of which I first met Alfred, is “Cartesian skepticism.” This term is derived, of course, from the name of the substantially 17th Century French philosopher René Descartes, who had to cope with one of the most brilliant, remarkable, and peculiar minds in the Western tradition, his own. Descartes was a marvelous mathematician, to which every x-axis and y-axis will attest, and he was also, in his day, a leading physicist, perhaps most famous for his theories of the plenum (no empty space) and vortices (rather like lusty, turbulent, on-the-move gravity wells, and such). His physics was eclipsed by that of Isaac “Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Newton but it does have its affinities, remote or otherwise, to that of Albert “No-Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Einstein. There seems to be little doubt, except possibly on the part of Descartes, that Descartes was a much better mathematician and physicist than he was a philosopher, at least given what we know of his philosophy. He seems to have bequeathed to philosophy some of her most shocking non sequiturs and circularities. I, personally, effect nothing critical on this score, being personally fond of non sequiturs and circularities, without which it seems that philosophy must remain forever mired in the ruts of prosaic ratiocination. Too, one cannot expect everything of everyone. One does not object should it turn out that Sir Isaac Newton was not skilled at checkers, or that Einstein might have played a mediocre third base. Now, whereas it seems clear that Descartes was not a very good philosopher, it is also quite clear that he was a great philosopher. To be a great philosopher, you see, does not necessitate being a good philosopher. These are diverse properties, but both are valuable to the discipline. Although this is controversial, as is just about everything else in philosophy, Descartes awakened philosophy, turned her around, and gave her new directions. After Descartes philosophy was different. He shut the door on the middle ages and opened that to a modern world, one attentive to mathematics, physics, observation, experiment, open-mindedness, and untrammeled thought, maybe not good thought, but untrammeled thought. As Galileo was to physics Descartes was to philosophy, though Descartes had the common sense to keep a low profile on certain sensitive matters. I will mention only three philosophical triumphs, or catastrophes, amongst several, for which philosophy is primarily indebted to Descartes, the mind/body problem, introspective foundationalism, and methodological skepticism. The mind/body problem is how the mind, presumably not in space, thus without physical location, and not extended, and without mass, solidity, weight, and such, can interact with an extended substance in space, matter, with mass, solidity, and weight, and such, and, indeed, vice versa, how can matter interact with the mind, which, presumably not in space, would seem thereby to be somewhat out of reach. Luckily for us Descartes, as a substance whose essence was thought, managed to solve this problem for us, in virtue of nonexistent animal spirits congregating in an obscure, unpaired gland. That leaves, of course, introspective foundationalism and methodological skepticism. Introspective foundationalism suggests that all we can initially be absolutely sure of are aspects of our own first-person experience, for example, appearances, or, better, seemings and looks, and logical truths. Note that one is starting here, so to speak, on the inside. The problem then is how from the inside one can obtain knowledge of the outside. Now methodological
skepticism is going to be what is of most interest to us here, for, you see, this will lead us to Alfred.
At one point in his life, apparently having some time on his hands, Descartes decided to embark on a fascinating philosophical journey, the outcome of which was to establish what he knew—for sure. Both classical skeptics and Cartesian skeptics are interested primarily in knowledge for sure. Knowledge maybe was just not good enough. The following few days were surely amongst the most momentous in the history of philosophy. The first thing he wanted to do was to make sure he existed. I do not know if he explained this project to his landlady. Here is where the famous cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am—comes in. He wanted to doubt everything possible, to pare away what he did not know, and thus come eventually to an irreducible nodule of the indubitable. Since he was doubting, he supposed there had to be a doubter, and this required thinking, and thinking required a thinker, and so on. And then he jumped to the surprising conclusion that the thinker involved must be a being whose essence was thought, and so on. Here comes the mind/body problem. The brain, one supposes, would not do the trick. How could matter think? And where in a brain might one find a thinker, and so on. And then he was off and running with a series of desperate, peculiar, interestingly unconvincing arguments which, even to this day, confuse, startle, and dismay undergraduates, even those whose majors are media studies. And Descartes would not rest, of course, until he had, at least to his own satisfaction, confidently guaranteed, replaced, and restored everything, to the last jot and tittle, which he had resolved to doubt in the first place. After all, what’s the point of going away, if you can’t come home? That’s where you want to be. Things are different, of course. Now you are entitled to live there.
We are nearly to Alfred, of course.
Thank you for your patience.
Descartes asked himself, in the course of undertaking his campaign of relentless methodological doubt, not letting his landlady in on this, whether he might not, while thinking himself awake, not being in bed, tucked under the covers. and such, actually be dreaming. After all, do we not do a number of things in our sleep, some of which are at least morally neutral, if not praiseworthy, which we think are actually occurring in waking life? Then we awaken and the last laugh is on the pursuing, slavering tyrannosaurus rex, lucklessly destined to go hungry once again. But what if we have dreams within dreams, and life itself, with all its sober reflections, pains, bills to be paid, pretzels, joys, peanut-butter sandwiches, rashes, and so on, should all be in the nature of a dream itself, not a dream as we usually think of dreams, but something along those lines? An illusion founded on a reality quite other than we suppose? How do we know such is not the case? It certainly seems to be a logical possibility, if nothing else? Perhaps most of what we take to be real, say, tables, chairs, rocks, trees, Susan, our bodies, and such, are part of the illusion? How do we know that that is not the case? Might it not be the case? If it were the case, it would solve a number of puzzles, the mind/body problem, for instance.
This is an example of methodological doubt.
The notion is that if we can’t be sure, we can’t know, and we can’t be sure, so we don’t know.
This does raise the possibility that we might awaken, so to speak, and discover the tyrannosaurus rex is not part of a dream, but a part of the real world, and is patiently waiting around for us, in the real world, like a cat at a mouse hole. Perhaps this is why some philosophers have a certain amusing eccentricity, that of seldom letting themselves stray far from their elephant guns.
A couple of other examples will make this sort of thing clear to anyone who is not determined that it will not be clear.
Neither of these examples is due to Descartes, but they are forms of “Cartesian skepticism” in a broad sense, namely, a radical and profound skepticism which seems to be, however unfamiliar and annoying, irrefutable. Every experience which you could possibly have is compatible with your inhabiting one of these two following domiciles in logical space. First, you might be the only entity in reality and all that seems to you other than yourself, your body, trees, hamburgers, hurricanes, sweet Susan, solar systems, and stars, are merely aspects of your experience. You are, so to speak, a limited, ignorant, deluded, tortured, confused god, who does not even know he is god. This is a form of what is called metaphysical solipsism. Schopenhauer suggested that this sort of thing requires not a refutation but a cure, but that is, of course, to both beg and dismiss a question, something somewhat unworthy of a philosopher, and particularly embarrassing in the case of a German philosopher, as it assumes without argument that the supposition is false, which it may well be, but what if it isn’t? Another example, rather contemporary, is suppose that you are not what you seem to be, a dashing fellow thinking about Susan, and fettuccini, but a brain floating about in a vat, or bucket, or bottle, if you like, being nourished with sustaining fluids and being somehow stimulated, perhaps in virtue of controls, implants, computer programs, and such, to seem to have the exact experiences which you now seem to have. You can’t escape this one by referencing the primitive level of current technology, its inability to pull off such illusions, and such, because this merely reveals your ignorance of the current secret projects along these lines underway even now in the Caucasus, or, if they are behind schedule, the advanced state of the art in such matters on Epsilon Eridani Four, amongst abducting, quadrupedal, multiple-livered, antennaed scientists trying to understand why you think Susan is pretty neat, and fettuccini digestible. Once again, this is a room in logical space? Do you live there? How do you know you don’t?
But now we are ready for Alfred.
And this does go back to Descartes.
In the course of his ruminations on these matters, Descartes entertains the possibility that for all he knows he might be the victim of an evil genius, an evil deceiver or a demon, an entity out to fool him, out to trick him, out to make him think for some reason he is experiencing a real, external world when, actually, all of this is going on in his own mind only, produced there by the machinations of the demon.
Might this not be the case?
How do you know it isn’t?
This is the famous Cartesian demon.
His name, as I have discovered, is Alfred.
I was grading philosophy papers one afternoon when I noticed Alfred, who is about the size of my daughter’s cat, sitting on the desk to my right.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I said.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.
“I am a philosopher,” I explained.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am grading philosophy papers,” I said.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I don’t,” I said.
“Right,” he said.
“You remind me of Chelsea, my daughter’s cat,” I said.
“How is that?” he asked.
“You’re about the same size, and you have pointed ears,” I said.
“She’s not around, is she?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Good,” he said, glancing about. “Do you have anything against pointed ears?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. I was all for diversity, particularly ideological diversity, which, given hiring practices in the academic world, is scarce.
To be sure, it is well to keep a low profile on sensitive matters. One can still learn much from Descartes.
“I suppose you think I’m a demon,” he said.
“I’m for diversity,” I assured him. It occurred to me, an uneasy thought, that not one member of my philosophy department was a demon. It was not up to me, however, as I saw it, to bring this lacuna to the attention of local affirmative action officers.
“Your daughter’s cat has pointed ears,” he said. “Do you think she’s a demon?”
> “Only occasionally,” I said, “sometimes in the early morning.”
“I am not a demon,” he said.
“I thought you might be the Cartesian demon,” I said.
“I was actually trying to get through to Descartes,” he said, “but I failed.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Don’t let the pointed ears fool you,” he said.
“What about you and Descartes?” I said.
“Maybe it was my 17th Century French,” he muttered.
“You are the evil deceiver, the evil genius, the Cartesian demon, aren’t you?”
“My 17th Century French is pretty good now,” he said. “I’ve been working on it.”
I prepared to return to my philosophy papers.
“I don’t understand all this business about an evil genius, an evil deceiver, a demon, and such,” he said. “It’s a bum rap.”
“Oh?” I said.
“I’m not a bad fellow,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. I may be hard to get on with sometimes, but isn’t everyone? And I am certainly not an evil genius. I think of myself as a nice guy of average intelligence.”
“What is your IQ?” I asked.
“About forty-six thousand,” he said.
“I think that would put you well in the top five percent of the population,” I said. I was thinking of various recommendation forms I had filled out for students.
“Not for my population,” he said.
“I see,” I said. “Then you are not unique.”
“There are thousands of us,” he said. “Maybe millions. At any rate I am not evil, and I am not a deceiver, at least not on purpose. And I am not a demon. Don’t let the ears fool you.”