Ghadi asked:

Is the understanding process considered endless?

If so, does this give value to ”repetition” which may seem on the surface useless with no additions, but it is a chance of a better understanding, to level up?

Is it possible to understand the understanding process?

Answer by Hubertus Fremerey

Understanding in logic and maths usually is a flash event. So not endless. But with works of art it may be endless. You can encounter works of art a thousand times and always find them fresh and surprising as ever. So what does “understanding” a work of art come to?

Compare it to meeting a person dear to you or alien to you: When would you ever be sure to understand that person?

There is even “you really cannot understand me!” How could that be? You both use common words. Understanding should be easy then. But, surprise!, it isn’t, it can be impossible. You are both using common words but you frame them differently, and as long as you don’t agree on the hidden frame you will not understand each other.

Works of art are different. They are like puppets for the child: You speak to them and they seem to speak back. And you always speak differently. So they always speak back differently too. Because of that your talking is endless. As in any good interpersonal relation. But sometimes it dies and ends.

Mike asked:

I am currently having a discussion with a Young Earth Creationist who posits that the whole question of science is a philosophical one and that the view on evidence is purely philosophical. I don’t know how to respond to (what I think) is an absurd argument. Do you have any tips?

Answer by Graham Hackett

Many people have had discussions, not only with Young Earth Creationists, but with  the whole area of Intelligent Design, and find that they founder and become heated over the role of evidence. The nature of the evidence in religion is mostly testimonial. There is nothing wrong with testimonial evidence per se, but  anyone (not just a scientist) is entitled to ask where the testimonial comes from. If the testimonial of (say) one observer is corroborated by the testimony of another, it is still perfectly reasonable to ask what the testimony shows. Professional scientists do this all the time; after all, there are plenty of examples of scientific frauds. Testimonial evidence must be interrogated, that is the scientific position.

Some scientific areas of enquiry, such as applied medicine, are also not without such problems as the downplaying of, or even the total dismissal of evidence. Consider the notorious case of Dr Semmelweis in the 19th century, who presented evidence that the death rate in one hospital ward (where the doctors washed there hands) was much lower the in another, where doctors came straight from the mortuary and did not wash their hands. Semmelweis was regarded as an impertinent upstart, questioning the status of doctors. The evidence was, at the time, disregarded.

Also, many creationists of all varieties are particularly sensitive about the lack of direct, testable evidence for their own positions; the kind of evidence we can interrogate. This is particularly the case with Young Earth and intelligent design. I have searched for peer-reviewed papers in scientific journals which make claims for the findings of creationists, but have found none. Very often, creationists of all stripes restrict their own scientific remarks to attacking the claims of other scientific disciplines. You might like to have a look at some of their responses to the interpretation of carbon dating techniques, which is particularly pertinent to the Young Earth position. There is nothing reprehensible about doing this, but it is surely a weakness in ones position when virtual all of our time is spent on rebuttal and not on proactive argument.

The problem really seems to be, that creationists will eventually reach a point where scientific evidence will no longer do the job they want to do; which is to provide support for their thesis. This is an ancient problem Consider the remark, attributed to Tertullian

“What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?”

Athens was the home of philosophical enquiry, and Jerusalem the home of monotheistic deistic religion. The inference seems clear;  the two areas are clear and distinct from each other; they do not relate. St Augustine would later declare the primacy of faith over reason.

Perhaps you have reached the same impasse with your Young Earth Creationist, who represents Jerusalem, while you are trying to represent Athens?

To give the role of evidence in creationism a more modern role, you might like to read Plantinga’s views. He said that belief in God can be argued as “properly basic” and not in need of any further justification or support from any other disciplines. You do not need what scientists regard as evidence. He has attempted to row back from this position in his later writings, as it seems to be much too permissive as to what can be basic beliefs. Why can’t we regard the “Peanuts” cartoon “The Great Pumpkin” belief  as properly basic?

I am sorry if this does not seem to be the answer you might like to have in your disputation with the Young Creationist. I have tried to show that such disputations will always reach an impasse. Many people will often quote supportive evidence, interrogate conflicting evidence and therefore appear implicitly to suggest that evidence is important. However, if at some point the evidence no longer works for them, who will they do? Will they change or even abandon their position? Or will they ignore evidence?

Ghadi asked:

Music — pure music — is abstract, in this case is it an abstract stimulation of another abstract?

Although music has meaning, it seems harder to catch than the meaning of a word, the language in general, so what is the difference between music and language? both transfer something, but the level of clarity differs!

That the transference is from an abstract to an abstract and here the issue relies, in determining the meaning, how does it happen?

If this considered as an issue in the first place…

All of a sudden, the idea came to my mind and now I really want to know about it.

Answer by Hubertus Fremerey

What do you call meaning?

I don’t think that music has meaning. If you get struck by the sight of a wonderful flower or a tree or a human or a cloud — do they have meaning?

Those views strike you as something exceptional. You may fall in love — as with a wonderful melody. But they are not messages. They do not “mean” something. They resonate with you.

Not everything that resonates with you is a message. Call it an encounter, maybe a confrontation.

You are confronted with works of art and music — and with persons and animals.
Persons and animals are special in that they have a consciousness as you do.
They reflect your awareness. Plants and landscapes do not.

But this does not imply that persons and animals have meaning. It may be but it need not be.

We humans tend to GIVE meaning to all sorts of objects, including music, but this is our gift reflected, not something in the music itself.

We often tend to read something as a message which is only our own projection and reflection. We think a music or a landscape is “speaking to us” — but it isn’t. It is an encounter.

The real problem seems to be that most of our daily surroundings go unnoticed. Only very few elements stand out as encounters.

This is what haunted Heidegger and phenomenology. What does it mean to be outstanding? What does it mean to become aware? — Perhaps have a look into phenomenology.

Charlotte asked:

Explain James’ three distinctions that relate to the question there is ever a case of moral, rational belief even when one doesn’t have the evidence.

Answer by Jürgen Lawrenz

James’ distinctions are prudential, intellectual and moral. The first is the pragmatic viewpoint, that occasions will arise when it is more or less unavoidable to hold a particular belief, even though the evidence in its favour is inadequate. The second refers to the human propensity for taking some things for granted because of trends, on the assumption that they mirror known trends or that sampling can establish a useful guideline. The moral category, however, is the problem child in this trinity, since moral issues tend to be a mix of rational, experiential and superstitious beliefs in which the last-named is rarely (if ever) demonstrable.

And so the first case, prudential, covers examples such as the operative treatment of a patient who is suffering from a diseased organ: it may not be a life-threatening condition in the short term, but definitely in the long term and likely to lead to a long painful death. Yet the operation itself may be life-threatening, so that the surgeon’s choice is dictated by all three of these motives — that it is prudent to operate, that intellectually it offers the patient a better chance of a calm survival, and that the moral inclination would urge intervention now rather than later, bearing in mind the probability of much future suffering. Even death under the knife could be excused, especially if postponing an operation takes account of the decreasing tolerance to surgery of an ageing patient’s body. James brings a further argument into the picture, namely that doing nothing is also a choice with the same level of ethical responsibility as doing something.

In this illustration it is obvious that evidence is unclear, yet the state of the patient demands a resolution. But this is pretty much the rule, not the exception. Overwhelmingly our decisions, though influenced by firm knowledge, tend to be governed by vague principles (belief criteria) of ‘sufficient evidence’ and ‘sufficient reason’ that are rarely sufficient to positively disbar accidents and failures. This is why in recent decades our lives have come to be dominated by statistics (probability), which are intellectually persuasive belief criteria.

Thus an intellectual belief on any act tends to orient itself on empirical knowledge, even though most human enterprises are based on insufficient knowledge — yet this is hardly ever a disincentive. A great deal of our explorative and inventive drive relies on mere hunches, ambiguous reports, the allure of success and the sampling of certain conditions that seem to allow extrapolation (e.g. sampling the oil reservoir under the sand of a desert). But strictly speaking, all these are cases where evidence is inadequate; what we do, therefore, is to pin our hopes on the little we know (and, by golly, the success rate especially in the last 100 years, has been spectacular!).

The moral aspect is the most vulnerable to rebuttal. Humans subscribe to all sorts of belief systems that are not supported by clear evidence. Examples are unnecessary; just think of the many wars that have been fought on behalf of supernatural powers. It is difficult to rationalise this behaviour; but even here it is the case that whole cultures have staked their rise to power, or their survival against adversity, on faith that their gods are behind them. It can generate a self-reinforcing positive incentive. However, the flipside of faith is bigotry and intolerance, for which no excuse can be found under any canons of rationality, even though (alas) they always wear the apparel of moral rectitude. Therefore it could well be argued that James’ criterion of a “supernatural domain [that is] accessible to human subjects” cannot stand up as evidence of anything. For on one hand, human morals tend to arise from a strongly developed sense of justice; but inasmuch as they are thoroughly bound to tempus et locus, arguments on their behalf are nearly always grounded in some form of prejudice that could be strenuously opposed by contradictory codes. Meanwhile no quantity of evidence could ever suffice to clinch the point.

In sum, two of James’ distinctions seem to hold up pretty well, when we take the facts of human history into account. But on the issue of morality vs evidence, we have to tread much more judiciously, since a deep cleft of ambiguity opens up whenever we try to judge a course of action on its tenets. James’ surmise concerning the supernatural domain therefore has no leg to stand on; it is a private opinion, not a philosophical principle, and cannot be counted as a valid distinction on the same terms as the other two.

Seth asked:

If we expect contractors to choose rules based on rational self-interest, does this mean that social contract theories are fundamentally flawed?

The tendency to celebrate, condone, or permit self-interest as a justified motivation for creating social contracts: is this the corrupted heart of Atlantis that Plato warned us about? Should we be concerned about Plato’s warning (why or why not?) What would have to be done to ensure that a social contract does not experience the kind(s) of social entropy that Plato was concerned about?

There seems to be no reason why contractors would protect non-contractors: e.g. animals, trees, infants, or even rational human beings who (sometimes arbitrarily) aren’t contractors. Is this a problem? Why or why not?

Answer by Paul Fagan

In answering this question I concentrate upon social contract theorists of the Enlightenment and do not refer to classical philosophers; as I feel the main thrust of the question can be answered without the latter. However, I answer this question in a generalised manner, as not to get tangled in any fine detail.

It is possibly a diversion to focus upon the topic of ’self-interest’ when discussing social contracts. Of course self-interest is an important element, but if enough people share exactly the same self-interest, then a mutual interest really exists. Moreover, due to the way that social contract theories entrench mutual interest they do not necessarily ‘celebrate’ self-interest.

Generally, social contracts, like any form of contract, require ‘give and take’ from both parties. For instance in Locke’s idea of a social contract individuals agree to give a part of their wealth to society in order for their property to be protected. Locke felt that people would form into commonwealths where this protected people’s property better than in a state of nature.

Another notable, early social contract theorist was Rousseau. In Rousseau’s thinking, persons could be guaranteed a state of equality that most individuals purportedly enjoyed in a primeval age, before persons were subsumed by the then unequal societies. This could be achieved by individuals trading much of the independence that they could have enjoyed in a primeval age, for a more equal but regulated life.

With regard to just who exactly would be able to contract, then it would be right to think that social contract theorists of the Enlightenment would exclude ‘animals’ and ‘trees’.  Enlightenment thinkers would tend to believe that nature should be tamed for humanity’s benefit. However, in the current era, there is no reason why modern social contract theories could not consider the environment: in fact both Locke’s and Rousseau’s work could be adapted to this effect, as they both contain elements that may moderate the human exploitation of the environment: Locke believed that persons should take ‘enough, and as good’ as others from the world (from his Two Treatises); whilst Rousseau was keen on persons using resources to maintain their ‘subsistence’ (from his Social Contract).

Again, enlightenment theorists being the product of their age, would undoubtedly feel that ‘infants’ should be respectful to their guardians. For both Locke and Rousseau, children would be expected to observe any contracts agreed by their guardians; until they could live independent lives. However, Enlightenment children could expect treatment akin to the standards of their age, and this would include being protected by their guardians. In order to construct a modern contract, current social contract theorists would be expected to honour human rights legislation where a child’s treatment would be codified.

Finally, with regard to ‘rational human beings’ who do not wish to contract, then it should be realised that it is difficult for persons in the modern age to opt out of them. Most societies operate on a basis that could be described as a contractual agreement and it almost impossible to avoid them: unless one deliberately moves to live in the wilderness and rejects all of society’s benefits. In the Enlightenment, Locke would have allowed persons to go without the protection of a contract where they had made their own choice, and he prized such personal freedom: however, Rousseau could not have been expected to condone this state of affairs as he believed that rational persons could adhere to a contract and go along with the ‘general will’ of a population (from his Social Contract).  Here, the last word may be left to another early social contract theorist, namely Thomas Hobbes, who believed that if rational persons chose not to contract and live without protection, then their lives would be ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’.

Phil asked:

A “more is better” relationship with food made sense in the long era when we typically lived near the edge of starvation. Today food is plentiful in much of the world, and where that’s true more people die of obesity related diseases than starvation. A “more is better” relationship with food that once was rational now seems simplistic, outdated and dangerous.

Question: Does the analysis above also apply to our relationship with knowledge?

Answer by Geoffrey Klempner

I want to share a couple of movie moments with you, both, as it happens, from detective thrillers but as far apart in style and substance as you can imagine.

The first is from Alan Parker’s 1987 supernatural thriller ‘Angel Heart’ starring Mickey O’Rourke as Private Detective Harold Angel, hired by a Mr Louis Cyphre, played by Robert De Niro, who is looking for a missing person, ‘Johnny Favourite’. As Harold pursues the case, the bodies mount up. In two mesmerizing final scenes, the truth is revealed (which I won’t reveal here):

Cyphre: Alas, how terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the wise.

Harry: Louis Cyphre. Even your name’s a dime store joke.

Cyphre: Mephistopheles is such a mouthful in Manhattan…

And that’s when he, and we the audience find out. The clues are all there to see. The memories of the terrible things he has done come back, in brief flashes that Harry still refuses to believe. The final scene delivers the coup de grace. And Harry knows where he is headed:

Det. Sterne: You’ll burn for this, Angel.

Harry: I know. In hell…

It’s an ending you will never forget.

The other movie is Robert Aldrich’s 1955 film version of Mickey Spillane’s novel, ‘Kiss Me Deadly’. The plot revolves around a mysterious box containing, ‘The Great Whatsit’, as Private Eye Mike Hammer’s secretary cum concubine Velda calls it. Again, the bodies pile up. In the spectacular final scene, the contents of the box are revealed:

Gabrielle: What’s in the box?

Dr Soberin: Curiosity killed a cat. And it certainly would have if you’d opened it. You did well to call me when you did.

Gabrielle: Yes, I know. But what’s in it?

Dr Soberin: You have been misnamed, Gabrielle. You should have been called Pandora. She was curious about a box and opened it and let loose all the evil in the world.

Gabrielle: Never mind about the evil. What’s in it?

Dr Soberin: Did you ever hear of Lot’s wife?

Gabrielle: No.

Dr Soberin: She was told not to look back. But she disobeyed and she was changed into a pillar of salt.

Gabrielle: I just want to know what it is.

Dr Soberin: Would you believe me if I told you? Would you be satisfied?

Gabrielle: Maybe.

Dr Soberin: The head of the Medusa. That’s what’s in the box. And whoever looks on her will be changed not into stone, but into brimstone and ashes. But you wouldn’t believe me. You’d have to see for yourself, wouldn’t you?

[…]

Gabrielle: Whatever is in that box, it must be very precious. So many people have died for it.

Dr Soberin: Yes, it is very precious.

Gabrielle: I want half.

Dr Soberin: I agree with you. You should have at least half. You deserve it, for all the creature comforts you’ve given me. But unfortunately the object in this box cannot be divided.

Gabrielle: Then I’ll take it all. If you don’t mind.

She shoots him.

Dr Soberin: Gabrielle! Listen to me — as if I were Cerberus barking with all his heads at the gates of Hell. I will tell you where to take it. But don’t, don’t open the box!

— She opens the box. Maybe you can guess what happens next. (The date of the movie is a clue.)

Other things being equal, knowledge is a good. But it is not an unalloyed good. Things are not always equal. Sometimes, along with knowledge, bad things come that you didn’t expect. And sometimes the bad totally eclipses the good. Or the price of that knowledge was much higher than you thought it would be.

The problem is that not knowing what you don’t yet know, you are never in a position to judge until it is too late. And once you do know, you can’t turn the clock back.

One doesn’t need to study philosophy to appreciate this home truth.