This seems to make sense, until we begin to pick apart the question of why we need two different types of stuff. If it’s true the mind and the body affect each other, then why is the “real” self only found in the non-physical mind? If the mind were the only “real” part of you, then nothing that happens to the physical body should matter at all to your self. If the mind and the body are as intimately connected as Descartes suggests, both the mind and the body should be equally the “real” you. In regard to Hermes, mind-body dualism suggests he’s the same whether he’s regular or Mecha Hermes, because the mind is the same. However, we see Hermes’s personality change drastically as he gains new parts, which suggests mind-body dualism’s explanation is mistaken. As a result, we should question the validity of the mind as our “real selves.” What can we do? Enter: Physicalism
Physicalism says that mind-states are brain-states. There’s none of this “two kinds of stuff” nonsense. It’s all physical stuff, and it all interacts. When the chemical pathways in your brain change, you change. When you think new thoughts, it’s because something in your world and your environment has changed. Simply stated, you are the physical components of your body that result from interacting with the world around you. Sounds pretty simple, right? Well, not exactly, because there are two ways of understanding physicalism. If you’re a functionalist, then as long as we’re pumping the same signals to the same receivers, and getting the same kinds of responses, then it doesn’t matter if Hermes uses an organic eye or a Cylon eye—they both perform the same function. So, a physicalist who is also a functionalist would say that Hermes is the same throughout his many upgrades, at least until he tries to change out his brain. Changing out the brain creates a whole new set of difficulties, some of which we’ll soon see.
Other physicalists, however, would say Hermes is different. They believe that the integrity of the components and the systems that make up a thing are what makes that thing. So, by changing the physical components of Hermes, we change Hermes. With the alteration and loss of his biological components and systems, Hermes begins to lose himself, until, with the removal of his brain, he is no longer himself at all.
According to this approach, what makes us who we are is precisely the physical stuff that comprises us. We are our bits and pieces, cells, and chunks, and if those things change, then we change, regardless of what we replace it with. In this particular physicalist view, it’s not just the stuff, but also the origin of the individual parts that matter, and so changing the components changes us.
Which of these two types of physicalism is true? As Hermes replaces part after part of his physical body, it becomes easier and easier for him to replace more parts, but as we see he’s still, in some sense, Hermes. He has the same motivations, the same thoughts, and the same memories, and apart from some obvious attitudinal changes, he’s still Hermes—right up until he swaps his brain, that is. And this makes perfect sense, because the brain is where the memories, thoughts, and motivations all reside. If Hermes’s upgrade is the correct way to understand physicalism, the physicalist-functionalist picture is the right one.
An account like this matches up with some of our intuitions about Mecha Hermes, but it fails to explain why we don’t have similar intuitions about real people who have voluntary transplants. If Hermes’s new parts are performing the same job, in the same way as his old parts, just with a few new extras, then he’s technically no different than he was in the beginning. If this is true, then maybe it’s up to us to reconsider how we feel about transplants. However, if Hermes truly is ‘better’ than he was, then we seem to be at a loss to explain why we feel differently about therapeutic versus voluntary upgrades.
Roswell that Ends Well
In the end, the version of physicalism presented in the universe of Futurama seems to almost jibe with the intuitions that most people seem to have about the nature of their own identity, and so, for the sake of Hermes Conrad, it seems as if we should make the attempt to find some kind of understanding.
When we see Hermes’s behavior change, as he adds more and more new parts, we, as outside observers, might have an urge to say, “He’s not himself anymore.” But to Hermes, who has access to all of his reasoning and thought processes, his changes are merely who he is.
It’s only when he’s shown himself from the outside via Zoidberg putting his physical brain back into his biological body, that he sees who and what he has allowed himself to become, and how that might be terrifying to those who love him. Perhaps it’s this continuance of memory paired with the ability for empathy that makes us so susceptible to the twin traps of a permanent self and the terror of losing it.
Ultimately, everything we are is always in flux: with each new idea, each new experience, each new pound, and each new scar we become more and different than we ever have been. But as we take our time and integrate these experiences into ourselves, they become not so alien to us, nor to those who love us. It’s only when we make drastic changes to what we are that those around us are likely to question who we have become.
Oh, and one more thing: the “Ship of Theseus” story has a variant which I forgot to mention. In it, someone, perhaps a member of the original crew, comes along in another ship and picks up all the discarded, worn-out pieces of Theseus’s ship, and uses them to build another, kind of decrepit, ship. The stories don’t say what happens if and when Theseus finds out about this, or whether he gives chase to the surreptitious ship builder, but if he did, you can bet the latter party escapes with a cry of “Whooop-whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop!” on his mouth tendrils.
17
A Billion Years Late for Dinner
KARL LADEROUTE
In “The Late Philip J. Fry” Professor Farnsworth tests his latest invention—a one-way time machine—with Fry and Bender. The machine only goes forward in time, in order to avoid time travel paradoxes and other disgusting possibilities, like sleeping with your own grandmother!
The Professor decides to test the machine by going forward one minute in time, but slips, hits the control lever, and rockets the three of them to the year 10,000, when civilization stands in ruins. Because their time machine can’t go backwards, the trio decide to go even further ahead in time, to a point when a backwards time machine will exist, so they can use it to go back to their own time. Eventually, they end up in the year 1,000,000,000, and find that all life on Earth has perished. Realizing that they’ll never be able to go back in time, they grab a six-pack of beer and decide to watch the end of the universe.
As they hurtle forwards in time, they’re treated to an intergalactic fireworks display of stars going supernova. After the remaining stars recede further and further away, leaving only the vast emptiness of space, barren of visual objects, the last protons decay, and the three are left as the last remaining entities in existence. Just then, a huge explosion occurs. The Professor exclaims that it’s “a second Big Bang!” “It appears this universe is exactly identical to the old one,” he says, and points out that if they keep going forward in time they’ll eventually return to where they came from.
As we find out in the episode, the universe keeps repeating its exact same course, time and time again, resulting in an eternal recurrence of events. Two interesting questions arise from the events of this episode. First, could such an eternal recurrence of identical universes be possible? Second, does an infinitely repeating universe have any significance for our lives?
This Time Machine Only Goes Forwards!
Cosmology is the study of the origin and general structure of the universe. I’m sure some of you have said “but wait, isn’t cosmology a science, not philosophy?” Of course, contemporary cosmology is tightly linked to astronomical observations, and is pursued by some of the most brilliant scientific minds, such as Stephen Hawking. In fact, in his book The Grand Design, he contends that while cosmological questions traditionally lay in the domain of philosophy, “philosophy is dead” because it “has not kept up with the modern developments
in science, particularly physics. Scientists have become the bearers of the torch of discovery in our quest for knowledge.”
While Hawking is correct that modern developments in scientific observation have opened up a vast new world of data for those studying cosmological matters, he’s wrong in claiming that “philosophy is dead.” Wherever there are complicated theoretical puzzles to be solved, philosophy will have some role to play. The scientists that Hawking crowns as “the bearers of the torch of discovery” are themselves philosophers, insofar as they must develop theories that explain the data they observe. Even if the scientists don’t consider themselves philosophers, they’re still working within certain theoretical frameworks—a background philosophy.
We all use philosophical frameworks; it’s just that those who go by the name ‘philosopher’ spend more time than most analyzing these background frameworks. When our theoretical framework is clear, we’re better able to question its assumptions and approach resulting problems from different vantage points, and thereby more effectively assess its attractiveness and value.
From at least the time of the ancient Greeks until the Scientific Revolution (from approximately the eighth century B.C.E. until roughly the eighteenth century C.E.), cosmology (and science more generally) was squarely within the domain of philosophers. In fact, what we would call “science” was called “natural philosophy.” For instance, Isaac Newton’s (1642–1727) chief work, which sets down the laws of motion and gravitation, is called the Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy.
History’s a Total Crap-Hole
Looking back to the ancient Greeks we find at least two very different cosmological models. Aristotle (384–322 B.C.E.), one of the most famous of the ancient Greek philosophers, proposed three principal cosmological conclusions in On the Heavens.
First, Aristotle argues the Earth is the center of the universe, and that it’s made of four elements which possess natural motions. The Earth stands still and the four elements move either towards or away from its center. Aristotle believes that all extra-terrestrial objects, including the Sun, Moon, planets, and stars, are made of a different substance named aether. He thinks that these objects exhibit a natural motion around the center of the universe.
Aristotle’s second principal conclusion is that the universe is spherical in shape and cannot be infinite in size. This view provides us with a universe limited in size and centered on the Earth.
His third principal conclusion is that the universe is eternal and essentially unchanging. Based on the assumption that extra-terrestrial objects are made of aether, they’re subject to neither creation nor destruction, thus making them eternal and perfect. This conclusion rules out any initial creation, giving us a completely static image of the cosmos.
Based on Aristotle’s three conclusions, the universe is centered on the Earth, has always existed, and will always continue to exist. During the Middle-Ages considerable effort was spent trying to combine Aristotelian philosophy with Christian thought, which became known as Scholasticism. Aristotle’s static cosmology was taken up by Christian theologians and philosophers, and adapted to fit the account of the creation of the universe by God, as presented in Genesis. This picture of the universe would later be fundamentally challenged by the Copernican Revolution—the view that the Earth revolves around the Sun—as well as an array of Enlightenment thinkers who broke away from medieval traditionalism and proposed new theories about the nature of the cosmos.
I Never Liked Those Guys
Aristotle isn’t the only ancient Greek to have a cosmological theory. Stoicism was a school of Greek philosophy, active for a 500-year period spanning roughly from 300 B.C.E. until 200 C.E.
Although Stoicism declines sometime in the third century C.E., it continues to have a lasting impact on philosophical thinking. The Stoics see the universe as providentially ordered by God, whom they see as present throughout the whole of existence. God, acting as a rational principle of organization, determines the structure of matter and everything that happens. Contrary to Aristotle, the Stoics don’t think the four elements have natural motions. Instead, matter is inert, and it’s only through God’s rational power that change occurs. If you think this sounds like a rejection of free will, you’re right! The Stoics were strict determinists, believing that everything that’s happened and everything that will happen strictly follows God’s divine plan. Furthermore, because God is perfect, they believed the current order of the universe is the only possible ordering of the universe.
Paired with this deterministic picture of the universe, the Stoics offered a cosmological theory that maintained there are periods of cosmic conflagration—a massive fire that engulfs all existence. During this conflagration all distinctions between various forms of matter are destroyed, and the universe is essentially reset to its original position. At this point, the divine plan of God is initiated once again. Because of God’s perfection, the plan will unfold in exactly the same manner time and time again. It’s generally agreed that events will follow exactly the same course as they did in the previous incarnation of the universe, although some incredibly small, meaningless differences may occur. The Stoics believed that this cycle of activity and divine fire carries on for all eternity, with no final beginning or end to the universe. That kind of a theory is often called “eternal recurrence.”
It’s precisely this sort of eternal recurrence which takes the Professor by surprise. Once he realizes what’s going on, he goes forward in time to get himself, Bender, and Fry back to “their” time. Of course, it won’t actually be their time, as it was in the previous version of the universe. However, the time they end up in will be indiscernible from their own in virtually every way. We even see a minor difference appear. The universe they finally set down in is ten feet lower than the old one. This turns out to be a lucky break, because it lands them right on top of the “new” Professor, Bender and Fry, thus killing them and eliminating any time travel paradoxes! (Thank Zombie Jesus!) But why is the Professor so surprised at the second Big Bang? If the Stoics had a theory of the eternal recurrence, why would he be so shocked about it happening? The likely answer is that the Professor’s view is rooted in the dominant cosmological model of our own time.
I Could Eat . . . and Fertilize!
In the cosmology of the twentieth century, we still find similarities to Aristotle’s thought. For instance, near the start of the century, even the visionary Albert Einstein (1879–1955) believed the universe was essentially static. This view remained compatible with the visual evidence from the ancient Greeks right up to the twentieth century. To support his belief, Einstein introduced his “cosmological constant,” a force meant to offset the attractive gravitational force between objects, which should keep the universe in a static formation.
Theoretical and observational breakthroughs in the 1920s and 1930s fundamentally changed our model of the universe. With Einstein’s development of the Theory of General Relativity, and its application to cosmology in 1917, a new era of cosmological thought was initiated. Following his breakthrough, there was considerable debate about the nature of the universe. In 1929 Edwin Hubble (1889–1953) combined data regarding the distances of stellar objects to their redshifts. A redshift occurs when light shifts towards the red end of the color spectrum. This happens as distant objects move away from us.
Hubble’s work showed that there’s a relationship between how far objects are from us and how they’re moving relative to our position. He showed that the further away objects are, the faster they’re moving away from us. This is certainly not the result you would expect to see in a static universe! Although more debate ensued, by 1931 it was accepted that the universe was actually expanding in all directions, and Einstein changed his views on the subject to agree with the new consensus.
Once the expansion of the universe is accepted, it becomes a short logical leap to the theory of the Big Bang. If all stellar objects are currently moving away from each other, it means th
at in the past they were closer together. Go far enough into the past and all these objects will eventually come together. Factor in the power of gravity—which increases when objects are closer together—and eventually you end up with all objects in the universe in one condensed point, called a singularity. The Big Bang model of the universe holds that in the beginning there was a singularity, which contained the seed for everything that now exists in the universe. This singularity exploded, shooting energy out in all directions at an incredible speed, which results in the universe we now see.
We would expect gravity to eventually slow, and ultimately reverse, this expansion, but another discovery later in the twentieth century provided a great shock: the discovery that the expansion of the universe is actually accelerating! Rather than seeing the expansion slowing down due to the force of gravity, some mysterious force is making objects retreat further away from each other at an increasing pace. Currently, this repulsive force is attributed to dark energy, about which we know very little.
We can now make sense of the Professor’s surprise at the second Big Bang. According to the dominant cosmological theory of the late twentieth century, the universe starts with the Big Bang, and as all objects continue to accelerate away from each other, they’ll eventually spread out so far that not even light will be able to travel between them. At this point the universe will eventually suffer “heat death.” Heat death occurs when all the energy in a system reaches a state of equilibrium.
According to the second law of thermodynamics, energy in an isolated system naturally approaches a state of equilibrium, which means that there is no available energy to perform any kind of work. With no available energy left in the system to be put into events, nothing—and I mean NOTHING—will occur. This will be the effective end of the universe, after which no events will ever again be possible. This theory explains the Professor’s surprise at the second Big Bang. As far as he’s concerned, the end of the universe should be the end of everything!
Futurama and Philosophy Page 18