Attribute Agreement
Error Theory: What is it?
In the 1720s English astronomer James Bradley proved the earth revolves around the sun (you can read about it here). Imagine being alive at that time–before spaceships and satellites–and coming to understand the proof. Would you merrily accept it and be one your way? Likely you would hesitate or
even refuse to accept the proof because it contradicts another piece of evidence: you don’t feel yourself flying through space around the sun like you would expect to. What would really help is if someone could help you understand why you shouldn’t let the latter evidence stymie the former proof.
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An error theory explains why a belief was attractive, even though it was held for a fallacious reason. It is typically given once a belief has been disproved in order to remove the reasons for which people once held it. In our example, an error theory would look something like this. We don’t feel ourselves moving around the sun because we are revolving along with the earth at a constant rate, and we only feel changes of movement. For example, even if we are moving at a great rate in the hull of a ship, we don’t feel like we are moving until it comes to a sudden stop. The earth is so large, however, that it is counterintuitive to think of it as a vessel.
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There are a few things to note here. First, the error theory isn’t actually necessary. The proof showed that we shouldn’t believe the sun goes around the earth, whereas our experience isn’t a proof. Even so, the error theory is really nice to have! It ameliorates the unrest people have when given competing reasons to believe something. You can imagine your relief at receiving this error theory in the 1720s. 
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Second, an error theory cannot of itself disprove the held belief or give reason to believe a different view. If Bradley hadn’t given his proof, but had explained why we wouldn’t feel the earth moving around the sun, he wouldn’t have thereby proved that the earth moves around the sun. He would, however, have removed what people might have thought was evidence for believing that the sun moves around the earth, which isn’t the same as disproving it, but it’s something.
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Finally, keeping this latter point in mind, imagine Bradley were wrong about his proof. Could he be right about his error theory? Sure! Remember: an error theory only shows the initial evidence was not a good reason to hold the initial belief, but it isn’t evidence against that belief. So, in this case, the error theory would show that even if someone were right that the sun revolved around the earth, that person would have believed it for the wrong reason.
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For more about error theories, please check out my YouTube video “If it’s wrong, why does everyone believe it? Error Theory“
Does faith get in the way of philosophy?
At times, philosophy overlaps with other disciplines. On some accounts of what philosophy is, philosophers should be totally open-minded about all possibilities and only settle on a belief once ample reasons have been given for believing it. Religion, however, demands faith about these beliefs. Regardless of reasons, a religion wants you to believe what it has to say. Does this mean religious people are at a disadvantage in philosophy? You could argue the following:
1. Philosophers should be open to consider anything
2. Religious people can’t consider certain things
3. So, religious people are at a disadvantage as philosophers
In response to this argument, let us consider a case elucidating the relation between philosophy and science. The ancient philosopher Aristotle hypothesized that what makes statements like Dogs are 
animals true is the existence of dogs and that animal is part of their constitution. However, what about before dogs existed? What would make Dogs are animals true then? Aristotle believed the universe has existed eternally as it is now, so there have always been dogs to make Dogs are animals true. At the time, there was no reason to reject this cosmology, so the open-minded philosopher would have to seriously consider Aristotle’s explanation.
Since then, however, our best science has shown us not only that the universe has not always been the same, but it hasn’t always existed (much less dogs). Is it incumbent on modern philosophers to take Aristotle’s explanation of what makes Dogs are animals true seriously in the name of open-mindedness? The idea seems absurd. The whole theory rests on a cosmology that has been shown to be scientifically false. Not only would open-mindedness not be a virtue here, it would be a vice. Science has done philosophers a service by cutting out philosophical theories that can’t be true. A philosopher would be wrong to reject this just because it came from outside of philosophy. Not only is it okay for philosophers not to be open-minded here, they should be closed-minded. In other words, (1) is false so long as there are good reasons against a possibility, whether philosophical or not.
Now consider the case of religion. Is it true that a religion wants you to believe something for no reason at all? Most religions wouldn’t say that. Most religions want you to believe something because they
believe (i) they have special access to esoteric knowledge and (ii) there are good reasons for you to believe they have this special access. Of course, they could be wrong about this, but the time to be an open-minded philosopher is when considering these reasons. If the religion is right, then just as in the scientific case against Aristotle’s cosmology, philosophers should be closed-minded about contradictory possibilities. So, it’s only the case that a religion could interfere with philosophy if there aren’t good reasons to believe the religion, and whether or not there are good reasons will depend on each religion individually.
What about if the religion is wrong about (i) and (ii)? At this point, the ideas the religion espouses are still a possibility, but we no longer have any reason to reject other possibilities, so open-mindedness would be a virtue here. However, this still doesn’t mean faith is necessarily opposed to philosophy. The believer may to continue to believe, but remain open to other possibilities. In fact, this is analogous to what we do in much science. I might believe in Big Bang Theory over String Theory, but remain more or less open to the possibility that I’m wrong. I might continue to pursue evidence either way, ready to change my beliefs accordingly. In the same way, a religion might provide some reasons to trust it and we may believe it to that extent, while continuing to pursue the truth open-mindedly.
For more, please see my YouTube video “Is faith bad for philosophy?”
Can metaphysicians discover new existing things?
The Problem
Metaphysics studies reality at the most fundamental level, whereas science explores reality only in specific ways. For example, physics studies things insofar as they move, biology studies things insofar as they are alive, and chemistry studies things insofar as they are composed of microscopic parts; but metaphysics studies things insofar as they are real. It seems like metaphysics should hold a place of eminence amongst these studies, yet science is constantly discovering new and interesting entities (= existing things), whereas metaphysics isn’t. How can metaphysics claim a place of eminence when it can’t produce results like science? And, can metaphysics discover anything that exists?
Here’s an argument that shows this difficulty for metaphysics:
A1: discovery of new entities
1. Some disciplines discover new and strange things that exist
2. This is a very important achievement that shows their worth
3. Metaphysics doesn’t discover any new existing things
4. So, metaphysics does not have the same worth
Response
An obvious response is that this argument has an undistributed middle. Discovery of new entities may show a discipline is important, but this doesn’t mean it is the only arbiter of worth. For example, metaphysics has something to say about the way these entities exist. While it was the achievement of science to discover quanta and their strange behavior, it falls to metaphysics to determine which amongst several options are true about them. Is the world just a collection of quanta? Are macro-level objects just as real as the quanta that make them up? Is it the case that quanta exist only virtually once they are part of a larger thing? Getting the right answer here can’t be a matter of empirical investigation because there is no possible discernible difference between these three options. Instead, it is a matter of the rigorous reasoning of metaphysics.
We still might wonder at this disparity in discoveries, though. Why is it that metaphysics can’t find anything new? The explanation is two-fold. First, metaphysics deals mostly in necessity: given certain facts about existing things, what must they exist like? However, there are unfathomably-many possibilities of what could exist. The fact that these are possible–but not necessary–objects means that we must use our senses to find out which possibilities are actual. We can’t reason to the existence of contingent things unless we are given some facts that necessitate their existence. So, it makes sense that science, relying on empirical tools that reach the contingent, would discover their existence whereas metaphysics wouldn’t.
Second, metaphysics is mostly interested in things insofar as they exist. This means the results of most metaphysics apply to all real things–or, since things that don’t exist are nothing, we could simplify this to say they apply to all things. While our souls may be very different from our soles, the lessons of metaphysics will often times apply equally to both. Thus, metaphysics will not often be in the business of making distinctions between kinds of real things in the first place, let alone of discovering new distinctions.
However, that isn’t to say it never discovers any new entities. As I said, metaphysics claims that given certain parameters, things must exist like such-and-such. What if we, through some other discipline, find some parameters that necessitate the existence of something new? This would count for the discovery of a new entity by metaphysics. For example, some metaphysicians think that, given the existence of repeatables like properties, kinds, and relations, there must exist some real entity, universals, that explains the repeatability.
Actually, they wouldn’t even have to say the existence of real universals is necessary. They could use abductive logic to show the existence of universals best explains these repeatables. For more on how that’s possible, see here: https://youtu.be/-APA1cJYkwM. Either way, it seems possible that metaphysicians discover at least some entities.
A Caution about Studying Knowledge
Imagine the mystery: for its size, the common honey bee should not have been able to fly. At 230 beats per second, its little wings were too small to keep its (relatively) hulking body aloft. Worse: it often transported pollen, thereby increasing its weight. By all accounts, the bee could not fly. Therefore, it didn’t. Right?
Of course not! It took scientists a long time and big advances in technology, but they finally discovered the secret of bee 
flight (among other things, it moves its wings back and forth as well as up and down, which creates more lift; for a great explanation see here). Notice, however, that the bee itself doesn’t know how it flies. It just does. Neither did the scientist know how it flew, but the fact that its flight was mysterious was no reason to discount it.
The same can be said for epistemology. What is knowledge? The question has yet to be satisfactorily answered, and because of this some have despaired of its very existence. What if I don’t know anything? What if I don’t know the real world exists? What if I don’t know the people I love are real? What if I don’t know if I’m real? The questions seem daunting.
The first thing to note is that, like the bee’s ability to fly, the fact that our ability to know is mysterious is not necessarily a reason to doubt that we can know. It may be that, though we don’t know how we do it, we just do. It may be that, though philosophers can’t explain it yet, they will one day figure it out. Of course, there is a big difference in that the bee’s flight is 
empirically observable and so is much harder to doubt. The point here, however, is that our attitudes towards things we can’t explain shouldn’t be automatically skeptical.
So, what should our attitudes be like? Again, we don’t have empirical observation to confirm the existence of knowledge (though empirical observation isn’t necessarily fool-proof), so the non-existence of knowledge is a live option. However, knowing that the mechanisms of some phenomena in the world can be opaque, we should not reject the existence of knowledge unless it can be shown, after thorough investigation, to be impossible. This hasn’t been done. Skeptics have not shown that we can’t know. At best, they have shown that we don’t know how we know. Therefore, as we go forward in epistemology, I’d like to suggest we proceed assuming we know things, though with an open ear towards what the skeptic has to say.
Defining Metaphysics and Music Genre
I am a music snob–and, unfortunately, I don’t mean the well-informed, musically-literate snob that knows quality. I am more of the pretentious music snob that would never listen to pop music. It’s not totally my fault: I grew up in the angsty 90’s when the only respectable music genres were fringe styles like grunge or gangster rap. Needless to say, when iTunes first came out and I saw how it classified some of my favorite bands, I was mortified. I must have spent days inputting the
correct genres. That’s when I first noticed a problem: where should I put the Public Enemy-Anthrax classic collaboration “Bring the Noise”? iTunes only allowed for one category, but different aspects of the song were endemic to the two different genres of rap and metal. Further, it was on both groups’ albums, so it was related to both the metal and the rap worlds.
When trying to explain what the discipline of metaphysics is, philosophers face a similar problem. They can never quite agree as to what the nature of the study is or what kinds of things metaphysicians get to claim as their own. Does metaphysics get to talk about whether free will is real or not? How about the mind? Is the metaphysician out to prove things exist or does she just give the best explanation for things and leave it at that? With all the variegated projects and people involved in metaphysics, it can be difficult to nail down exactly what of it is actually metaphysics and what of it is cross-genre. Why is it that music genres and philosophical disciplines can be so hard to agree on?
One possibility is that classification words like ‘discipline’ and ‘genre’ are ambiguous between criteria. In music, you could 
classify by the types of beats, the vocals, the musicians that made it, or even by the kind of radio station you might hear it on (which is a convenient way of veiling the racism behind how the Beastie Boys, but not The Roots, could ever be considered alternative). Something similar could be said for metaphysics. We might try to classify the different disciplines of philosophy by the questions they pose, in which case metaphysics is just another name for what we do when we seek to answer, “In what ways are things real?” Alternatively, we could classify by the object of the inquiry, in which case metaphysics could be another name for what we study when we look at things insofar as they are real. A third option is to classify based on methodology, in which case metaphysics might be what we do when we abstract the differences from all things and consider their existence, or ‘being,’ alone.
Another possibility might be that some categories overlap at places in ineluctable ways. R&B and Hip-Hop constantly have cross-over songs that overlap styles. In philosophy, epistemology is the study of knowledge, but what it is that we can know and how we know it depends on what is real and how we access that reality, i.e. metaphysics. Conversely, how we come to understand the reality of things will depend on how human knowledge works in the first place. How, then, can we seek to understand what level of reality knowledge is at when that all depends on how we know? Whatever the answer, it seems like we are doing both metaphysics and epistemology together, and not one or the other alone.
Notice, however, that this doesn’t mean our classifications are totally arbitrary. There would still be a correct answer as to whether, for example, philosophy of mind is a subset of metaphysics or not. This would only mean that we would have to be more precise about what we mean by metaphysics. If we mean, for example, “the study of being only insofar as it is 
being” then it excludes minds, which are being insofar as it is capable of thought. However, if we mean “the study of the different ways things are real” then since the mind has a unique way of existing, it should be included in metaphysics. Further, since categories can overlap, we should say the philosophy of mind is a part of metaphysics even if it is also a part of epistemology (though we may want to make a note of the overlap).
A final thing to note is that there is a way of categorizing things that is pragmatic only, and has no basis in the things we are categorizing. For example, I might classify Bone Thugs-n-Harmony under rap because, when I hit shuffle on a genre, that’s where I like to hear it. In the same way, I might classify philosophy of mind under metaphysics because all my metaphysician friends talk about it even if it isn’t metaphysics. If this is how we are using the classification term, then it seems like the classification is no more real than our arbitrary tastes. Some philosophers accuse metaphysicians of doing exactly that. They claim that there is no such thing as metaphysics really, only questions of how we use language. Metaphysics is just a group of guys that like to talk about particular words. To these philosophers it must be asked, “The question of how real a category is–what discipline of philosophy would you file that under?”
Can Egoists be heroes?
What does it take to be a hero? In his classic “The Hobbit” (see my book review and podcast), author J.R.R. Tolkien gives us at least one criterion. Before Bilbo Baggins goes into the dragon’s den–a job for which the dwarves hired him–he asks if 
anyone would volunteer to accompany him. After no one volunteers, we get the following description: “…dwarves are not heroes, but calculating folk with a great idea of the value of money; some are tricky and treacherous and pretty bad lots; some are not, but are decent enough people like Thorin and Company, if you don’t expect too much.” In other words, brave deeds aren’t enough. The brave deeds must be done with the intention to benefit others regardless of the benefit to oneself. Tolkien assumes, plausibly, that in order to be a hero one must be selfless.
A while back, I did a series of videos on Egoism, the view that we must or should act ultimately to benefit ourselves. If our actions also benefit others, so much the better, but that won’t or shouldn’t be why we do what we do. What struck me about Tolkien’s description is that it provides a kind of objection to Egoism. On Psychological Egoism, we can’t help but make choices that ultimately benefit ourselves. On Ethical Egoism, we are morally obligated to make choices
with the ultimate intention of benefiting ourselves. On Rational Egoism, the only kind of choice that makes sense is one that benefits the person choosing. However, if heroism necessitates selflessness, this would mean that being a hero is respectively impossible, immoral, or irrational. While this isn’t necessarily impossible, it sure isn’t an attractive conclusion!
What can the Egoist do to ameliorate the damage? A popular response that I have seen is to point out that most often seeking your own benefit will benefit everyone around you. For example, in order to make money, inventors develop technology that we all enjoy. In the hero case, people might do at least partially self-sacrificing things in order to live in a society where people cooperate. So, for the most part, people will or should act like heroes.
The problem with this response is that it fails to address Tolkien’s criterion. Tolkien is not worried about brave actions alone, otherwise the Dwarves would surely be heroes. Instead, Tolkien thinks it is the ultimate goal of the action that counts, and Egoism is nothing if not a claim that the ultimate goal of all actions is or should be self-benefit. Thus, the Egoist must live bereft of heroes, or at the most deride heroism as foolish or wrong.
Does happiness ruin our chances of success?
I’m not saying it was a great movie, but in college I used to love She’s the One. The movie juxtaposes two brothers, Mickey (Edwards Burns) and Francis (Michael McGlone). Mickey is a taxi driver who eventually marries a cheery, carefree waitress. Francis is a wealthy stock investor who is married (Jennifer Aniston) but having an affair (Cameron 
Diaz). The movie opening includes the following exchange:
Mickey: …I’m happy right where I am.
Francis: Big deal. You’re happy. You’ll never make any real money.
Mickey: So? You make a pile of dough and you’re miserable. What’s that matter?
Francis: I’m not miserable–I’m dissatisfied. That’s what makes me a success.
Francis claims that happiness stifles success. There are a number of ways we use the word ‘happiness’ (see my recent YouTube videos at The Philosurfer channel), but here I think Francis means the happiness of Life Satisfaction Theory (LST): Mickey is happy because his life has enough of what he cares about. LST is attractive to many people because it gives you control of your happiness in circumstances you can’t control. Imagine a prisoner in the Soviet gulag that is tortured, underfed, and overworked, but at night has incredible philosophical conversations with other prisoners. If that’s what matters to her, then she can be happy even in the bleakest circumstances.
Given this theory, however, Francis has found a bizarre problem. Assume LST. Then happiness is just life satisfaction, which is just having what you care about. Now, if we set our bars low enough, we can be happy with pretty deplorable circumstances. So, if happiness is what we aim at, we could be demotivated to improve ourselves or our circumstances. Our gulag prisoner is happy, and if that is all she aims at, then even given the option to leave, she shouldn’t. Less 
dramatically, Mickey is satisfied–happy–with being a taxi driver. If he only aims at being happy, his low-bar will ensure he never improves his position (by the way, this is Francis’ perspective, not mine; I see nothing wrong with driving a taxi). This is a typical objection to LST: happiness is just resignation.
If you’re like me, however, you won’t feel comfortable with Francis’ conclusion: if happiness is satisfaction and satisfaction entails resignation, then we should stay perpetually dissatisfied so we can be successful. It seems to me that we should be satisfied and motivated. How? First, I think we must clarify what we mean by ‘success.’ A thing is successful only if it achieves the goal or purpose set for it. If that thing doesn’t have a purpose, then by definition there can be no such thing as success or failure. In the same way, if our lives have no purpose, they can’t fail or succeed. (You may ask, “Can’t I just set my own goals?” Sure! But see this article.) So, LST happiness can only be a problem if there is an actual goal or purpose for our lives, for then it can stymie our pursuit of that goal. It’s probably clear now, however, that this is not a problem so long as we take our life’s purpose and make it what matters to us. Then pursuing our happiness is exactly commensurate with our lives being successful.
Problem solved? Not quite yet, for there is still the lingering concern that although we will be aiming at happiness, we won’t achieve it until much later when we achieve that success. However, this is only a problem if our life’s goal is a distant target, and it might not be. For example, as a Christian, I believe our life’s purpose is to serve and enjoy God, but this is something done moment-by-moment, so it is something that can be achieved now. Further, this is often achieved by improving the lives of others and, through furthering our relationship with God, improving ourselves. Therefore, it avoids Francis’ concern of stagnation. Thus, Francis’ objection is, surprisingly, correct, but can be obviated so long as we have the right kind of success.
Do works of art exist?
This week, we are talking about the Constitution View, the idea that a thing such as a famous statue can be constituted by, but not identical to, the material that makes it up. Those are fancy words for saying the statue and its stuff are two different things existing at the same place at the same time. That sounds crazy, but it is the result of some very common sense views. My take-away from this is that these common sense views should be revised.
Consider a famous painting, Whistler’s “Nocturne: Blue and Silver – Cremorne Lights.”
Nocturne: Blue and Silver – Cremorne Lights
Imagine the moment before he begins to work on it. Whistler stands there with his materials. What of the painting exists at this moment?
Surely just the canvas and the oils. Now the artist applies the first stroke. We don’t have a painting yet. But, do we even have a new thing that has come into existence? Plausibly, we have the same stuff, only some of the oil has been spread onto the canvas. Nothing new exists, but some stuff has been moved around.
Now imagine the artist continue to work. A second stroke does no more than the first. Nor does a third. The only thing that happens is that more oil is spread over the canvas. Continue to imagine him work until he is nearly finished. One stroke left. Each stroke has done the exact same thing (if you are familiar with the philosophical problem of vagueness, this argument is distinct in that I’m not concerned with the quantity of strokes that make a painting). What happens with the next stroke? Does it bring some new thing into existence? It certainly seems like it has done no more than the former strokes. There is no magical life-giving power in it. To my mind, I can’t see that it would do any more than the former strokes: spread oil over canvas.
Notice, however, there is something repugnant about what I have said. If the only thing that exists is oil and canvas, then I could have spread the oil over that canvas instead of Whistler and it would have been identical. However, we love Whistler’s work and no one would love my work except my mom. Further, we think anyone who comes afterWhistler and puts oil on canvas in the same way has violated his intellectual property. Finally, we don’t think there’s anything special about that specific oil and that specific canvas. Were Whistler to have done the same using different oils and canvas, we might say it would be the same painting.
Unfortunately, it’s not just paintings and statues that share this problem. Songs, dances, plays, books, and movies seem to be even more difficult to explain. Rarely do we care about original copies of these, and in the case of dances we rarely have access to original copies. How do we make sense of this? Do we have to give up belief in all things we hold dear? Next week, I’d like to explore this a little more, but what do you think?