Doctor Who and Philosophy

by Courtland Lewis

  “Don’t blink,” as the Doctor warns Sally Sparrow about the Weeping Angels (“Blink”). “Don’t even blink.” The Doctor’s warning takes on a new meaning when applied to Berkeley’s philosophy. Blink, and the whole world would disappear—all of the objects and our perceptual knowledge of them, gone! Despite our blinking, some objects seem to persist whether we observe them or not, like the stars, planets, and the natural world in which we live. These are ideas in God’s mind, according to Berkeley. While we can’t be sure of what isn’t perceived, because it really is all a matter of mind, we can be confident that those more “permanent-seeming objects” are maintained by the omniperceiver, God. Of course, we can’t perceive God, but we’ve a notion of Him, or so Berkeley claims. Even though “to be is to be perceived,” we seem to remain in the empirical “dark” about God; there seems to be little or no perceptual evidence for the existence of God, and, at best, it’d be indirect; rather like the indirect, perceptual evidence for the Weeping Angels.

  Stay in the Light

  David Hume (1711-1776) thinks that Berkeley is correct about rejecting a Lockean idea of physical substance, as an “underlying I know not what.” However, for the same perceptual reasons, Hume remains skeptical, he must remain skeptical, about the existence of a Berkeley-conceived God who sustains the perceptible world. For, if God exists, He must be a “matter of fact” and so, we should have perceptual evidence for His existence.

  William Paley’s (1743-1805) endeavor to provide such, albeit indirect, empirical evidence for the existence of God in his famous “Argument from Design,” also known as the “Watchmaker Argument,” from his Natural Theology (1802), claimed that the complexity and regularity of the universe can best be accounted for by an intelligent designer, just as a watch, with all of its parts and intricacies, must have a watchmaker. David Hume lived too early to read Paley, but he answered some of Paley’s arguments in advance, criticizing them in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (1776). For Hume, if claims about what exists can’t be traced back to the evidence of our senses, we must be skeptical about those claims—like the claim that God exists. Hume famously states:When we run over libraries, persuaded of these principles, what havoc must we make? If we take in our hand any volume of divinity or school metaphysics, for instance, let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or number? No. Does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence? No. Commit it then to the flames, for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion.

  So, we can consider Hume to be asking us to “Stay in the light,” with respect to what we take to be justified beliefs, just as the Doctor warns Donna, Professor River Song, and her team members, to stay in the light in order to avoid being consumed (literally!) by the Vashta Nerada. But surely, there are unobservable things for which we have reasonable indirect perceptual evidence!

  Count the Shadows

  Science regularly postulates the existence of empirical unobservables. The key is the degree of the “shadowy” nature of the indirect empirical evidence one presents in support of the hypothesis. The more shadows, the less probable the hypothesis; fewer shadows means the hypothesis is more plausible. Consider some “garden-variety unobservables” we now take for granted but historically may have been more problematic: wind—we can’t directly see it, but we can feel it, and we’re able to see its effects; gravity—it keeps us and the things around us in place and it takes a great deal of force and acceleration to break its grip when we attempt to leave the Earth; microbes—Louis Pasteur (1822-1895) had considerable difficulty convincing people of their existence, particularly that the Anthrax bacillus was responsible for killing farmers’ sheep. Advances in technology make these once unobservable entities observable.

  More recently postulated theoretical entities or unobservables include quarks and strings in theoretical physics, as well as black holes. We can’t perceive them, so why say they exist? Because their suggested existence is consistent with what physicists have observed, and the existence of these entities help us to explain anomalies in what has been observed. The discovery of Neptune was largely due to anomalies observed in the orbital patterns of Uranus, which was taken to be the most distant planet. The hypothesis was that if there was another planet beyond Uranus, its gravitational force acting on Uranus would explain the observations. Mathematical calculations by Urbain Le Verrier (Paris) led to Johann Galle’s observation of Neptune in 1946 from the Berlin Observatory. Did we know there was another planet before Galle observed it? No—that’s Berkeley’s point. But the best explanation to account for the observational data—orbital anomalies of Uranus—was the existence of another planet. The probability of the correctness of the hypothesis that there was another planet was high, based on the perceptual evidence and the mathematical calculations based on that data. There weren’t too many shadows on that hypothesis.

  Starting from observations, quarks and black holes are more of a stretch than Neptune, however. Strings are even worse than quarks and black holes. A goal of science is to explain phenomena in nature. As long as a hypothesis is consistent with perceptual evidence, has explanatory power, is testable by different scientists, doesn’t lead to contradictions, and is fruitful, that is, leads to further inquiry, the hypothesis is likely to be accepted for the time being. There may be other competing hypotheses as well. In this case, which hypothesis does the best job? Empirical science doesn’t deal in many certainties (unlike mathematics), so it’s all about probability; the hypothesis with fewest shadows is the best one.

  Is There Truth in the Shadows?

  Are quarks, strings, and black holes real? What about the Vashta Nerada? These are questions about what really exists. There’s also the question: how do we know they exist, if they do? It depends on whether you’re a scientific realist or antirealist about the entities postulated in the theories. A goal of science is to explain phenomena in nature, but isn’t it also to provide us with true theories about the world? We want to know what causes anomalies in our experience of the world; the Doctor, Donna, and the team members of Professor River Song’s group want to know what’s causing the unusual deaths of their comrades.

  Scientific realism accepts that scientific theories are true or approximately true; they provide us with a literally true, or approximately true, picture of the world. Wilfrid Sellars said: “To have good reason to accept a theory is to have good reason to believe that the entities it postulates are real.” Paul Churchland argues that the continued success of a theory is due to its being probably true and the likely existence of the theoretical entities postulated. Bas van Fraassen is an antirealist. Theories needn’t be true to be useful; neither do we need to have the attitude that we believe them to be true. All theories need to be is “empirically adequate,” van Fraassen contends. In other words, as long as they explain the phenomena, that is, “do their jobs,” they’re adequate. The epistemic attitude we have toward them is acceptance of their “empirical adequacy”; we don’t need to believe them to be true.41 I think the Doctor, unlike van Fraassen, is a scientific realist.

  Don’t Blink

  The Weeping Angels are the monkey wrench in Berkeley’s claim, “to be is to be perceived,” and, in a way, for rational scientific inquiry. For them, to be is not to be perceived! Molto bene, writer Steven Moffat! When they’re perceived by an observer, any creature, they cease to function as Weeping Angels; “they literally turn to stone,” the Doctor says on the DVD Easter Egg. He describes them as “lonely assassins” and “creatures of the abstract,” “as old as the universe.” They prey upon the really existent potential life energies that humans (and presumably other creatures) would’ve used to finish their days along their projected normal life trajectory. The Weeping Angels disrupt that normal life trajectory, hijacking the victim’s potential life energy to fuel their own existence. How the Weeping Angels live on really existent potential energy is an interesting philosophical topic in itself. You and I requir
e actual energy to live and grow! And, the TARDIS is full of that potential energy, which is why the Weeping Angels want it and why the Doctor needs Sally Sparrow in 2007 to send the TARDIS back to him in 1969 where he and Martha are stuck—having been sent there “by the touch of an angel,” just as Billy Shipton was, who then helps the Doctor by creating the DVD Easter Eggs as a message to Sally.

  Sally sets out to photograph an old house, because she likes old things. While there, she finds a message on the wall warning the reader to beware the Weeping Angel and to duck; “really, duck.” The message is for her. “Duck, now!” She does, avoiding a rock allegedly thrown by the Weeping Angel, located outside the window. But, as soon as she looks, the Weeping Angel has turned to stone and appears to be a mere statue. In the Easter Egg, the Doctor explains: “They are quantum locked ... their greatest asset is their greatest curse”—they go unperceived and are swift assassins, but perceived, even by each other, they literally turn to stone. And, “you can’t kill a stone,” he says.

  Returning to the house the next day with Kathy Nightingale, friend and co-“girl-detective,” Sally seeks more empirical evidence regarding the strange message and the events of the night before. “Why come here?” Kathy asks. “I like old things. They make me sad,” Sally says. “So, what’s good about sad?” asks Kathy. Sally responds, “Sad is happy for deep people.” Then the door bell rings. Sally goes to answer the door; Kathy remains behind, only to have her potential energies stolen by the Weeping Angels—her life trajectory was hijacked. They send her to the past; from 2007 London to 1920 Hull. The person at the door is Kathy’s own grandson who promised his grandmother to deliver a letter to Sally Sparrow at precisely that date and time at that house. Yes, this is a closed causal chain.42 Imagine receiving a letter detailing your friend’s life, marriage, and her children when she was just with you a moment ago! You’d think it a (sick) practical joke; Sally does, as any rational person would.

  The Weeping Angels seem to exist in Kant’s noumenal realm—beyond anyone’s perceptual experience. Why would we bother to postulate something which by definition is beyond perceptual experience? No good empiricist would, as we’ve seen with Berkeley and Hume. Yet, there are anomalies in Sally Sparrow’s world that suggest something isn’t quite “normal” and requires an explanation. Like the anomalies in Uranus’s orbit, Sally has the letter from Kathy, the message on the wall, the Easter Egg messages placed in DVD’s where she and the Doctor seem to be dialoguing in real time, but aren’t, and the statues which seem to change locations—the angel statue has moved, she tells Kathy when they’re at the house, “It’s moved since yesterday; it’s got closer to the house, I’m sure of it.” Then she notices angel statues on a church across the street from the police station, and in a blink, they’re no longer there. “Okay, cracking up now,” Sally says to herself. Then there’s the phone call from Billy Shipton, the detective she met while at the police station trying to report Kathy’s disappearance, using the very strange letter from Kathy as evidence. He’s in the hospital, old and dying. She met him only that day—in her time. He brings a message from the Doctor, to “look at the list”; the list is of seventeen DVDs, all of which she owns and all have the Doctor’s Easter Egg on them. Larry Nightingale, Kathy’s brother, is the one who discovered the Easter Egg and gave her the list of the DVDs. The indirect perceptual evidence begins to accumulate supporting the hypothesis that the Weeping Angels, though unobservable entities, actually might exist and don’t merely “save the phenomena,” as van Fraassen would have put it.

  Doomed to Be Perceived

  Detective Billy Shipton showed Sally the garage with vehicles which, over the years, had been abandoned by people who visited the old house. Along with the cars is the blue Police box. Billy can’t open the box because he doesn’t have the key. Sally doesn’t realize it at first, but she has the TARDIS key, which she took from one of the statues at the old house.

  Via Easter Egg, the Doctor directs Sally and Larry to the TARDIS. With key in hand and a disk found by Larry, Larry plugs in the “security program” as the Weeping Angels close in and encircle the TARDIS. The “security program” says that it’s good for one ride in the TARDIS (a lie, by the way). Instead, the TARDIS begins to disappear. “He’s leaving us behind!” Sally exclaims. “Doctor, no!” The TARDIS has vanished, and Kathy and Larry are on the ground, surrounded by Weeping Angels. “Quick, look at them!” Sally screams. “I don’t think we have to,” Larry responds. The Weeping Angels, now in a circle, perceived each other when the TARDIS disappeared. They’ve turned to stone with their stone eyes wide open, locked in constant perception of one another. Larry says, “the Doctor tricked them; they’re never gonna move again.”

  To be is to be perceived, Berkeley says; but not if you’re a Weeping Angel. To be perceived is your doom. To be is not to be perceived.

  11

  Could There Be Carrionites?

  SIMON HEWITT

  Does the time the Doctor bumped into Shakespeare help us to understand the philosophy of mathematics? Numbers keep cropping up for the Doctor. His lucky number, we learned in “The Creature from the Pit” (1979), is 74,384,338. Admittedly this represents something of a change from seven, which was revealed as his lucky number in “The Power of Kroll” (1978).

  At other times numbers have mattered for the Doctor for rather less superstitious reasons. Think back to “The Doctor’s Daughter” (2008). Here the Doctor, Donna, and Jenny are confronted with a puzzling sequence of numerals on the walls of the underground tunnels of Mezzaline: 60120717, 60120716, 60120714, 60120713, 60120724. These turn out to be dates, showing that the war between the humans and the Hath has been going on for a grand total of seven days. And there are numerous other examples of numerical encounters in the TARDIS’s log book. Among the most interesting is the one when the Doctor meets the Carrionites.

  Enter the Carrionites

  It’s actually a little bit cheeky describing the Carrionite encounter as numerical. This is because the reason that the Carrionites are philosophically interesting is that they don’t use numbers. Humans, as the Doctor explains to Martha, use numbers to understand the universe and to get power over it. (If you’re not prepared to believe the Doctor on this one, flick through any science textbook and notice how often mathematics is used.) Carrionites, on the other hand, use words for the same purpose. Words are very powerful for the Carrionites, which is why they want to get their hands on William Shakespeare, a master of words. Thankfully, the Doctor has other ideas. Now, what fascinates me about the Carrionites is that they seem highly relevant to one of the most important questions in the philosophy of mathematics (or maths, as we say in Britain!43): is it possible to give a completely adequate scientific account of the universe—like the Skasis Paradigm from “School Reunion” (2006)—without mentioning numbers? Obviously, it’d be very difficult for us to do this. We humans seem naturally to use numbers to do science. Numbers make things easier. Nobody denies that. But (some philosophers would say) perhaps that’s just because of the way we are, because of the way we evolved with tiny little brains that are difficult to get around in. The real question is this: is it possible, in theory, to do science without numbers? Perhaps you’d have to have a brain like Morbius and live as long as the Face of Boe to actually do it. But is it possible?

  In 1980 the philosopher Hartry Field published a book called Science Without Numbers. As the title suggests, Field argues that it’s possible to do science without doing mathematics at the same time. Ever since then, there’s been a lot of debate about whether Field was right. This debate has often been highly complex and technical, involving detailed discussion of cutting-edge science and mathematics. But basically the question boils down to this: could there be Carrionites? Could there be creatures which understand the universe and have power over it (possibly in a slightly less exciting way than the Carrionites in “The Shakespeare Code,” 2007) without having to use mathematics in the process? The reason that philosoph
ers worry about this is that many of them think that if we absolutely need to mention numbers when we explain the universe in an attractive way, we ought to believe that numbers exist.

  The position that numbers exist is often known as Platonism, after Plato (around 428-348 B.C.E.), who held a version of this view. Generally, when people talk about numbers ‘existing’ they don’t mean that numbers exist in space and time (like police boxes, paving slabs, and Madame de Pompadour). Instead, they mean that numbers exist outside of space and time. This might sound like a rather odd thing to think, and it’s the oddness of this form of Platonism which causes many philosophers (like Field) to try to show that we don’t need to believe in it. On the other hand, odd things sometimes are true, as anyone who has traveled with the Doctor knows.

  Interesting Isn’t It? Allons-y, Alonso . . .44

  If we couldn’t give a complete account of the universe without mentioning Cybermen, then we ought to believe that Cybermen exist. In exactly the same way, if we can’t give a complete account of the universe without mentioning numbers, then we ought to believe that numbers exist.

  Arguments of the sort just presented are known as indispensability arguments for platonism and are differentiated from classic Platonism with a lowercase ‘p’. Indispensability arguments are associated in particular with Willard Quine (1908-2000). In Science Without Numbers, Field attacks indispensability arguments as ferociously as a red-eyed Ood faced with its slave-master.