Michael Lynch

This chapter puts three questions to the pluralist and provide three answers. How can those properties by virtue of which propositions are true be identified? Answer: by seeing which properties play the truth-role and hence have the truish features. How are those properties related to truth? Answer: Truth as such is the property that has the truish features essentially. But truth can be immanent in distinct properties, properties that have the truish features accidentally. What determines which of these properties a given proposition much have in order to be true? Answer: two things. First, the logical structure of the proposition and second, the subject matter of the proposition. These are not the only three questions a pluralist must answer. Nor, perhaps, are these the only answers available. But if the pluralist wishes to make sense of her view, some such answers must be given. Avoiding them is not an option.

Two of the biggest problems faced by deflationary theories of truth are these: First, how can such views, drawing on such limited resources as they do, provide an adequate and meaningful definition of truth? And second, how can such views be reconciled with our intuition that truth involves a correspondence between thought and world? Christopher Hill has recently claimed that a broadly deflationary view of truth he calls substitutionalism can solve both problems. In this discussion, I argue that Hill’s theory comes up lacking on both counts

This chapter argues that thinking about deception can teach a great deal about the nature of value and truth, what one can expect from a theory of truth, and why some truth theories are doomed to inadequacy. It opens with an account of the nature of lying and how it should be distinguished from deception. It then reviews several ways in which the connections between deception and truth shows what a workable theory of truth would have to look like. Finally, it offers a concise and persuasive argument that there is something intrinsically valuable about the truth, even if that intrinsic value is merely psychological. All things being equal, people simply prefer the truth.

In a series of papers written over the last two decades, Terence Horgan has articulated a radical position on truth and metaphysics that he calls contextual semantics. According to Horgan, we can abandon referentialism – or the idea that truth is always and everywhere understood in terms of the referential relations between words and world – while still sensibly believing in a mind-independent world. The centerpiece of contextual semantics is that it allows for some flexibility about truth: statements of different sorts can be true in different ways depending on the degree to which they correspond to the world. In this paper, I explore the consequences of this position.While I believe that contextual semantics has significant advantages, there is a deep tension between Horgan'stolerance of more than one kind of truth and his belief in one type of reality – a tension that threatens to undermine the entire position.

Supervenience has provided a way for nonreductive materialists to explain how the mental can be physically irreducible but still physically respectable. In recent years, doubts about this research program have emerged from a number of quarters. Consequently, Terence Horgan has argued that nonreductive materialists must appeal to an upgraded "superdupervenience," if supervenience is to do any materialist work. We argue that nonreductive materialism cannot meet this challenge. Superdupervenience is impossible

The purpose of this paper is to explain Hume's account of the way both the scope and the degree of benevolent motivation is limited. I argue that Hume consistently affirms, both in the _Treatise<D> and in the second _Enquiry<D>, (i) that the scope of benevolent motivation is very broad, such that it includes any creature that is conscious and capable of thought, and (ii) that the degree of benevolent motivation is limited, such that a person is naturally inclined to feel benevolence more strongly for one with whom he or she has a 'connexion', e.g., a family member or friend.

At first glance, Mark Richard's recent book When Truth Gives Out appears, in the most commendable sense of the word, ‘old-fashioned’. Its central thesis is that truth is sometimes the wrong standard to use when assessing the judgements we make about the world. Not all correct judgements are true, and not all incorrect ones are false. They can all be measured, but they cannot all be measured in the same way. Many of the heroes of old, ensconced in philosophical Valhalla, are no doubt blowing their trumpets in approval. The heroes did not see truth as easy to come by. Far from it. Truth, like wealth, was to be earned, the product of hard epistemological work and stern semantic discipline. Much of what we say and think did not live up to their exacting standards for truth. Morality, literature, poetry, politics, philosophy, psychology and much else besides were often judged lacking. Consequently either we were to believe that all opinions in these matters were equally mistaken, or we were to look for explanations of why we say and think what we do about such things other than the desire to know the truth. We were expressing our sentiments, or prescribing, or commending, or manipulating. But in making such judgements, we were not judging what was true or false. Such were our choices. Grim, surely, but heroic choices often are. So, like the heroes of old, Richard thinks that truth does not live everywhere. In this respect, he is aligned with such worthies as Hume, Russell, Ayer, and one or other of the Wittgensteins. But it is there that the resemblance stops. For in point of fact, Richard's way of approaching these matters is importantly new. This is an outstanding and original work of analytic philosophy, one that manages to be both deep and sensible; it rewards careful study, and defies easy categorization. In what follows, I shall illustrate the distinctiveness of Richard's approach, and the problems it consequently faces, by asking two questions about some of its key elements. The first question concerns what his picture tells us about what remains when (absolute) truth gives way. The second concerns what it tells us about truth. These are hardly the only important aspects of his view – I shall be ignoring, for example, his discussion of emotivism, and a stellar discussion of the semantics of epithet – but they are some of the most fundamental.