Trivial Pursuits

On Moral Objectivism

Alex Whitlock, for whom I have great respect, and I have gotten into a fascinating discussion on ethics over on his blog.  Rather than pontificate endlessly in the comments, I'm going to preserve his bandwidth and continue the discussion over here.

The context of the discussion is a post on -- gulp! -- abortion, but lest dear user of TP get too excited, let me assure you that my post is going to quickly devolve into a tedious discussion of ethical theory.  And right rapidly so, at that.

I'm most interested in responding to Alex's third comment, in which Alex is examining whether an individual who professors moral distate for abortion while simultaneously opines that it should remain legal is being ethically inconsistent.  I asserted that there is no logical or moral inconsistency in such a position, a point to which Alex does not seem to quibble with, other than to contend that a position allows for "convenient moral flexibility."

I will say that I am not sure what Alex means by "moral flexibility."  As someone who denies the objectivity and/or absoluteness of morality, I tend to see an inherent flexibility there. But, so long as Alex and I agree there's no inherent inconsistency in the position, I don't think we have much argument there aside from tone.

But I do think Alex and I have different views on the nature of morality, and that these differences lie at the heart of a very real disagreement we do have.

Alex proffers what he terms the 'reverse hypocrisy' thesis, formulated as follows:

"It also ties in to what I call reverse hypocrisy: the belief that something is wrong for me to do, but not necessarily wrong for others."

Now, bear in mind the moral schema Alex is operating from here is a belief in objective morality, that there is an objectively correct action or moral law that defines right action.  Of course, to someone like TP, who more or less rejects moral objectivism, to someone sympathetic to some strands of ethical relativism, the notion that what is right for an agent in one set of circumstances may be morally wrong for a different agent in either the same or different circumstances (there are different notions of relativism that rely on a notion of morality relative to the subject [called subjectivism] and a notion of morality relative to the circumstances [called conventialism]) is not only hypocritical in no way, but is the very essence of ethics.

Sidebar: Let me pause here to make an important aside: I am in no way arguing either for/against moral objectivism or for/against moral subjectivism, nor will I do so.  I have found no topic more ill-suited to blogospheric exposition, more likely to invoke Godwin's law and histrionic commenting and trackbacks (I am guilty of it as well), then the profession of support for a morally subjectivist or ethically relativist position.  Thus, while I am more than happy to discuss moral issues in a meta-sense, as in this post, I am simply not going to engage in a full-scale discussion of the defensibility of moral objectivism or moral subjectivism in the blogosphere.

Really, what interests me here is not the validity of either my or Alex's position, but the nature of our disagreement, which turns whether on tends to accept a morally objectivist position or not.

To return to the substantive discussion, interestingly, Alex does not seem to endorse what I would term a strong moral objectivist position.  That is, in his next formulation, Alex seems to allow for some 'moral flexibility' based on circumstance:

"If it's wrong for you, then unless there is a distinct difference in situation, it's wrong for someone else to."

Note the logical qualifier here: "unless there is a distinct difference in situation."  Now, of course, such a position is entirely consistent with a morally objectivist viewpoint.  One can still endorse objectivism -- such as principalism -- while allowing for differences based on context.  One can find a morally objective basis for a moral law or rule, for example, while acknowledging that the application of the objective rule may dictate different, even seemingly inconsistent results in different circumstances.  My only point here is that such an allowance seems to derail the notion of strong moral objectivism.  A strong moral objectivist may well deny any flexibility based on context: what is right is right in all circumstances.

Alex concludes with an example of what he sees as reverse hypocrisy:

"if Joe doesn't drink for moral reasons (say he's a Mormon or Pentacostal), but then says that it's morally okay for Jack to drink because he is an atheist, then Joe is being the opposite of whatever hypocrisy is."

Respectfully, I'm not sure this follows unless one already accepts some version of moral objectivism.  If one begins by rejecting the notion that morality necessarily transcends subjects or circumstances, then there is no reason why Joe's belief that it would be immoral for him to drink but not for Jack (based on his knowledge that he and Jack do not have the same basis for their moral beliefs) is either hypocritical or "reversely hypocritical."  Rather, to the moral subjectivist or ethical relativist, it is entirely trivial.

And this brings up another important point: the all-too-common conflation of cultural relativism with ethical relativism.  The former is also entirely trivial: it simply acknowledges that persons of different cultures have different moral beliefs -- that the fact of what people do belive in terms of morality (not what they ought to believe, but simply what their beliefs on morality actually are, as an empirical matter) differ across cultures.  This is a descriptive thesis.  It does not posit what people should believe; it simply points out that people of different cultures often have different, and even profoundly different moral systems.

Ethical relativism is normative; it is the belief that determining right action ought to be relative to the subject, or the culture, or another referent, not simply that morality is culturally relative.

To return to Alex's example, the fact that Joe and Jack have different moral compasses should be entirely uncontroversial given their differences on the nature and source of their own moral beliefs.  Joe probably understands full well that Jack does not share his ethical beliefs.  Given that, why does it follow that it is 'reversely hypocritical' for Joe to conclude that he must act in a certain way, but that Jack is not bound to act in that way?  Why can Joe not say, with no 'reverse hypocrisy,' that only those who already agree with his moral beliefs must act according to their dictates? Why can he not acknowledge that those who reject his beliefs, like Jack, are under no obligation to act according to them?

Fascinating questions, surely.  I will conclude by noting that Alex's thesis is essentially the universalizability requirement, a notion that we can thank Herr Kant for.  I'd also add that the vast majority of work in ethics being done today either expressly or tacitly adopts the universalization criterion, and that those, like myself, who are dubious as to its validity, are, I daresay, in the minority.

Thoughts?

Warning: Theory Below

Stuart Buck criticizes radical skepticism in assailing a writing by George Soros:

"Nobody possesses the ultimate truth," and everybody "may be wrong." The obvious problem with any form of universal skepticism is that it undermines itself: Soros himself doesn't possess the ultimate truth, and if he is wrong in his views, then an "open society" does not have the virtues that he claims.

Let me first say that I very much like Stuart Buck's blog.  But I'm somewhat disappointed to see an individual of his intellectual rigor relying on such a superficial, tired, and erroneous critique of radical skepticism.  Yes, I consider myself a radical skeptic.  What that means to me and in my life is not really worth getting into here, because I want to focus on the common objection to such skepticism that Mr. Buck cites.

The claim that radical skepticism is self-contradictory is a common canard, which is strange because there is little merit to the claim.  Let's imagine a dialogue between myself and a realist to illustrate the 'force' of the objection:

TP: I cannot know that I am not dreaming.  Therefore, to the extent knowledge of anything requires knowledge that I am not dreaming, there is no belief of mine immune from doubt.

*(Point: This is a VASTLY oversimplified formulation.  I would never dream of submitting this crude statement in an academic paper or setting).

Realist: That's ridiculous.  Your argument is self-contradictory.  If there is no belief of yours that is immune from doubt, then it follows that the proposition that "there is no belief of mine that is immune from doubt" is itself subject to doubt.  If so, it follows that you could conceivably have a set of beliefs, the contents of which are immune from doubt.

__________________________________

Realist leans back smugly, tapping his/her fingers on the table, sure that he/she has got me.  Damn Realists.  But in fact, Realist's argument establishes next to nothing, and certainly does not show any kind of contradiction in the radical skeptic's position.

The radical skeptic generally believes that certainty (of knowledge) is incoherent.  Thus, consistency requires the radical skeptic to recognize that even the skeptic's own skepticism is not immune from doubt; that the skeptic's own skepticism could, in fact, be mistaken.

Very well.  I admit that, without hesitation.  My belief that certainty of knowledge is not possible could be mistaken.  It could be "true" (and what the predicate "is true" means is a life's pursuit for many philosophers) that certainty of knowledge is possible.  So what? How does that undermine the radical skeptic's position? What is contradictory about the radical skeptic's belief that there is no certainty of knowledge, and that even the belief that there is no certainty of knowledge is itself uncertain?

The answer is "it doesn't," and "nothing whatsoever."  As a radical skeptic, I try, to the extent that I can, to always be cognizant of the possibility--perhaps the likelihood--that I am wrong or mistaken about pretty much anything and everything.  There is nothing uncomfortable or self-contradictory about believing that even my belief that I could be wrong about any X could itself be erroneous (i.e., that there are some beliefs I hold that could not be false).

Most people reject radical skepticism, which is perfectly understandable to me.  And there are legitimate, serious criticisms to be lodged against the radical skeptics, which many have done.  But the argument that radical skepticism is somehow internally inconsistent or "undermines itself" is not one of them, IMO.

A Philosophical Question

I was watching the Australian Open last night.  TP digs on tennis, though he prefers playing racquetball (for some odd reason no one has ever been able to figure out, TP is pretty darn good at racquetball).  But I was watching tennis primarily because Sharapova was playing.  I was watching to see her high-quality tennis game.  High-quality, I say.

Tennis game.

Which led to the ponderance of this crucial philosophical question: let's assume Sharapova is serving, and that she faults on the first serve.  The question is, would it be worth it, as a philosophical matter, to be the second ball on serve? You would get put in the pocket of Sharapova's uniform, next to the skin of her thigh.  Naturally, you'd only enjoy your time there for a few seconds before you got whacked with Sharapova's racket, speeding away from her at well over 100 km/hr.

So, is it worth it? What say you all?

(These are the kinds of crucial ontological questions we like to bring you here at TP).

Any Port In A Storm

Plainsman, an outstanding blogger who really needs to add comments to his brand new blog, has a post up on the merits of port wine. TP absolutely adores port.

It's so . . . civilized. Plainsman concludes,

Port comes from Portugal but was created by the English. It is civilized sensuality, a Northern culture's nod to Dionysus. Port is a censer wafting clouds of memories, it is a favorite old book, a brunette wearing a cashmere sweater, a fireside on a sharp October evening.

L'chaim! (or perhaps, Kanpai!)

Theory, Fact, and Science

Alex Knapp, as is par for the course for him, has a fascinating post on evolution and theory:

That evolution happened is a fact--as certain as the fact that atoms exist and that an apple will fall to the ground if you drop it. What is theoretical is the mechanism of evolution--just as how gravity works is theoretical, just as how the inner workings of the atom are theoretical.

I've done some work in philosophy of science, and while I concur wholeheartedly with the jist of his post, I must respectfully disagree with his notion of 'fact.'

Scientific method is synonymous with induction. Nothing based on induction is ever logically necessary in the sense that deductive conclusions are. For example, if Socrates is a man, and all men are mortal, then it must follow that Socrates is mortal. It doesn't matter whether there is no such thing as Socrates, or men, or mortals. Empiricism, at least in 'theory,' has nothing to do with it. If logical necessity is what it meant by a 'fact,' as opposed to an opinion, which presumably allows room for debate, then no inductive principles ever are truly facts.

These observations are part of Hume's genius (wrote my undergraduate thesis on Hume, objectivity, causation, and science). How do we know the sun will rise tomorrow? We don't, insofar as the term 'knowledge' is imbued with a sense of deductive certainty. Peter Unger argues persuasively that 'knowledge' means exactly this. (Disclaimer: Unger is a dedicated and radical skeptic). Our belief that the sun will rise tomorrow is obviously completely reasonable, and is based on the single bedrock of scientific method: the principle of uniformity, that the future will resemble the past. The sun has risen every single morning since time immemorial; we do not challenge the notion that the sun will rise tomorrow morning because we believe that the future will resemble the past. Don't take my word for it--Bertrand Russell argued the exact same thing.

This belief is reasonable, of course, it simply isn't logically necessary. By this analysis, it is not a fact that the sun will rise tomorrow. We do not know that the sun will rise tomorrow, any more than we know that we are not dreaming.

Of course, this may be too stringent a definition. If what Alex means by facts are commonplace inductions that all save lunatic philosophers and PCP-addicts do not think to challenge, such as 'atoms exist,' then he and I may generally agree on the sense of his usage if not the semantics.

But I maintain that even in this case, the semantics are important. In scientific parlance, the phrase 'fact' and the phrase 'theory' are accorded completely different ranks on the value hierarchy, no? Facts are substrate; theory is schema. Theory can be debated; facts are facts (to a scientist, not a philosopher, of course).

My point is merely that even evolution itself is theory--it is a schema to which we apply data. I think saying that evolution is fact tends to obscure the roles that 'theory' and 'fact' play in science. Once we start mistaking 'theory' for 'fact,' it is easy for our thinking to ossify.

One aspect of Kuhn's genius was his recognition that multiple theories fit the facts. The theory of epicycles satisfied all of the available scientific data, and it allowed rough predictive accuracy. Yet it was erroneous, and people only figured this out by applying Ockham's Razor. Because multiple theories MAY fit the facts (even if none does right no with nearly the power of evolution), it is misguided, IMO, to refer to any theory, even theories that are proven millions of times a day (like evolution, or quantum mechanics) as facts.

JMO.

Deconstructing the Cogito

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. Though Descartes never actually penned these words, they have become emblematic of his arguments in the Meditations. I TA-ed several classes where Descartes was taught. Beginning students in philosophy generally study Descartes, as he traditionally and with good reason, no pun intended, is perceived as demarcating early modern philosophy. It is fascinating to see students grapple with the Dreaming Condition for the first time.

The so-called Dreaming Condition begins with the question; 'How do I know that I am not dreaming?' Descartes descends down the path to doubt by taking this point of departure, and generally concedes that he cannot know that he is not dreaming. Starting with this premise, he proceeds down the left leg of a conceptual letter "V" until he has reached the point where he doubts everything. At this vertice, he attempts to doubt his own existence, but here, he concludes that it is absurd to doubt that one doubts, and begins building up proofs of the metaphysical and physical world up the right leg of the "V" from the epiphanous vertice.

It is absurd to doubt that I am doubting; therefore, if I doubt, "I" must exist. If I am doubting, then I am thinking, and if I am thinking, then I am existing. I think, therefore I am.

Let me pause here for a moment to expressly state that I greatly admire and respect Descartes. In addition to contributing greatly to the development of modern philosophical method, he was a master mathematician and geometer, a physicist, and a genius for the ages. Descartes was also a notorious night owl who loved to sleep in. In fact, waking early killed him. Truly.

In 1649, Descartes, famous across Europe, moved to Stockholm to become Queen Christina of Sweden's personal tutor. She forced him to rise at 5 am every morning to teach, and he grew exhausted, contracted pneumonia, and died.

I still find the Dreaming Condition to be a devastating philosophical argument. Most anti-skeptics begin by conceding the compelling logical force of the argument, but proceed to reject the implications of skepticism for a variety of reasons.

And I also love the cogito. However, Friedrich Nietzsche blows the cogito completely out of the water in Beyond Good and Evil. In Section 16 of On the Prejudices of Philosophers, he notes,

The people on their part may think that cognition is knowing all about things, but the philosopher must say to himself: "When I analyze the process that is expressed in the sentence, 'I think,' I find a whole series of daring assertions, the argumentative proof of which would be difficult, perhaps impossible: for instance, that it is I who think, that there must necessarily be something that thinks, that thinking is an activity and operation on the part of a being who is thought of as a cause, that there is an 'ego,' and finally, that it is already determined what is to be designated by thinking—that I KNOW what thinking is. For if I had not already decided within myself what it is, by what standard could I determine whether that which is just happening is not perhaps 'willing' or 'feeling'? In short, the assertion 'I think,' assumes that I COMPARE my state at the present moment with other states of myself which I know, in order to determine what it is; on account of this retrospective connection with further 'knowledge,' it has, at any rate, no immediate certainty for me."

This is devastating. Look how FN incisively isolates five separate assumptions necessary to reach the conclusion of the cogito:

(1) that it is I who thinks;

(2) that there must necessarily be something that thinks;

(3) that thinking is an activity and operation on the part of a being that it assumed to be a cause;

(4) that there is an "ego";

(I find this last one to be the conceptual Mjolnir)

(5) that it is already determined what is to be designated by thinking--that I know what thinking is.

Intellectual carnage. Nietzsche was awesome. And no, I really don't think he was a Nazi. No philosopher, IMO, and in several of my professors' opinions, is as misunderstood as Nietzsche. He is generally accused of being a Nazi and a chauvinist. The latter perception is generally considered accurate; the former perception is not.

Just a little theory for your Monday.

(Corporate accounts payable Mina speaking--just a moment . . . )

UPDATE: Brock points out in the comments that Descartes did write cogito, ergo sum in the Discourse on Method, and he is absolutely correct. The Discourse followed the Meditations, and as most people (correctly, IMO) associate the famous reductio with the Meditations, I always find it interesting that the cogito is merely implied, never actually expressed in the midst of his argument. In Descartes' summary of his argument, written in the Discourse, he pens the cogito.