Tim Crane

Was ist das distinktive philosophische Problem der Perzeption? Hier wird behauptet, dass es der Konflikt zwischen der Natur der perzeptuellen Erfahrung ist, wie sie uns intuitiv erscheint und gewisser Möglichkeiten, die der Idee der Erfahrung implizit innewohnen: der Möglichkeiten von Illusion und Halluzination. Die perzeptuelle Erfahrung kommt uns vor wie eine Einstellung zu den eigenen Objekten, eine Art „Weltoffenheit“, die ein direktes Bewusstsein von den bestehenden Objekten und ihren Eigenschaften einschließt. Doch wenn jemand eine gleichartige Erfahrung haben kann, ohne dass das Objekt da wäre – Halluzination dieses Objektes – dann scheint die perzeptuelle Erfahrung unmöglich essenziell ein solches Verhältnis zu sein. Dies ist das fundamentale philosophische Problem der Perzeption; verschiedene philosophische Perzeptionstheorien des 20. und 21. Jahrhunderts können als Antworten darauf verstanden werden.

In an earlier paper [3], D. H. Mellor and I argued that physicalism faces a dilemma: 'physical' is either taken in very restrictive sense, in which case physicalism is clearly false; or it is taken in a very broad sense, in which case the doctrine is almost empty. The challenge to the physicalist is to define a doctrine which is both defensible and substantial. Philip Pettit [4] accepts this challenge, and responds with a definition of physicalism which he thinks avoids the dilemma. Pettit's definition of physicalism involves four claims, two about entities, two about laws. Claims 1 and 3, concerning the existence of microphysical entities and microphysical laws, should not be questioned. Claims 2 and 4 are what make Pettit's theory physicalist: 2 says that microphysical entities constitute everything, 4 says that microphysical laws govern everything. I shall argue that the various ways Pettit offers of understanding these claims are in tension with one another, with the result that his definition does not avoid the dilemma posed in [3].

Analytic philosophy is sometimes said to have particularly close connections to logic and to science, and no particularly interesting or close relation to its own history. It is argued here that although the connections to logic and science have been important in the development of analytic philosophy, these connections do not come close to characterizing the nature of analytic philosophy, either as a body of doctrines or as a philosophical method. We will do better to understand analytic philosophy – and its relationship to continental philosophy – if we see it as a historically constructed collection of texts, which define its key problems and concerns. It is true, however, that analytic philosophy has paid little attention to the history of the subject. This is both its strength – since it allows for a distinctive kind of creativity – and its weakness – since ignoring history can encourage a philosophical variety of “normal science.”

The mind-body problem is the problem of explaining how our mental states, events and processes—like beliefs, actions and thinking—are related to the physical states, events and processes in our bodies. A question of the form, ‘how is A related to B?’ does not by itself pose a philosophical problem. To pose such a problem, there has to be something about A and B which makes the relation between them seem problematic. Many features of mind and body have been cited as responsible for our sense of the problem. Here I will concentrate on two: the fact that mind and body seem to interact causally, and the distinctive features of consciousness. A long tradition in philosophy has held, with René Descartes, that the mind must be a non-bodily entity: a soul or mental substance. This thesis is called ‘substance dualism’ (or ‘Cartesian dualism’) because it says that there are two kinds of substance in the world, mental and physical or material. One reason for believing this is the belief that the soul, unlike the body, is immortal. Another reason for believing it is that we have free will, and this seems to require that the mind is a non-physical thing, since all physical things are subject to the laws of nature.

Among the many things minds can do, two general kinds of thing have inspired much of the debate in recent philosophy of mind. The first is minds’ power to represent the world, their intentionality. The second is their power to generate action. The first power has seemed problematic to physicalist or naturalist philosophers, since it is hard to understand how a mere physical object—which is what a mind is—can ‘direct’ itself on things in the way characteristic of intentionality. The second power has seemed problematic not least because it is hard to understand how intentional states can bring about changes in the physical world without adding new mysterious forces into the world.

At the time of his tragic death in December 2001, Greg McCulloch had completed the final version of The Life of the Mind, a book he had been working on, on and off, for almost twenty years. The book provides a synthesis of the ideas Greg had developed in his earlier three books, The Game of the Name (Oxford University Press 1989), Using Sartre (Routledge 1994) and The Mind and its World (Routledge 1995), and which also found expression in his various papers, notably ‘Scientism, mind and meaning’ (in Subject, Thought and Context edited by Philip Pettit and John McDowell Clarendon Press 1986). Greg’s work had one large theme, which he approached from various directions, and expressed in different and distinctive ways. Broadly conceived, this theme is the intentionality of the mental: the fact that mental phenomena involve what Brentano called ‘a direction upon an object’ and what contemporary philosophers call ‘aboutness’. Greg’s long-standing interest in the theory of reference, in Frege’s philosophy of language, in the theory of consciousness, in Sartrean and Heideggerian phenomenology and (his dominating concern) externalism, can all be seen as ways of addressing the question of intentionality.

Cognitive neuroscientists frequently talk about the brain representing the world. Some philosophers claim that this is a confusion. This paper argues that there is no confusion, and outlines one thing that might mean, using the notion of a model derived from the philosophy of science. This description is then extended to make apply to propositional attitude attributions. A number of problems about propositional attitude attributions can be solved or dissolved by treating propositional attitudes as models.

The grand opposition between theories of the mind which is presented in this book will be familiar, in its broad outlines, to many readers. On the one side we have the Cartesians, who understand the mind in terms of representation, causation and the inner life; on the other we have the Wittgensteinians, who understand the mind in terms of activity, normativity and its external embedding in its bodily and social environment. In this book—one of a pair, the second of which has yet to be translated—Vincent Descombes puts up a spirited defence of the Wittgensteinian approach. The Cartesian approach, which he calls ‘mental philosophy’, and which is exemplified most typically in the ‘cognitivism’ of Jerry Fodor, is fundamentally mistaken, he argues, since it underestimates, neglects or ignores both the active and external characteristics of the mind.1 Instead we should2 understand the mind in terms of a human being’s participation in a culture or a ‘form of life’, a form of engagement which is structured by norms rather than causal laws. This ‘anthropological holism’ draws not only upon the work of Wittgenstein, but also on Le´vi-Strauss, Lacan and, among other things, on the role of fiction in shaping our selfunderstanding.

Psychology has been considered to have an autonomy from the other sciences (especially physical science) in at least two ways: in its subject-matter and in its methods. To say that the subject-matter of psychology is autonomous is to say that psychology deals with entities—properties, relations, states—which are not dealt with or not wholly explicable in terms of physical (or any other) science. Contrasted with this is the idea that psychology employs a characteristic method of explanation, which is not shared by the other sciences. I shall label the two senses of autonomy ‘metaphysical autonomy’ and ‘explanatory autonomy’ The question of whether psychology as a science is autonomous in either sense is one of the philosophical questions surrounding the (somewhat vague) doctrine of ‘naturalism’: questions concerning the extent to which the human mind can be brought under the aegis of natural science. In their contemporary form, these questions had their origin in the ‘new science’ of the 17th century. Early materialists like Hobbes (1651) and La Mettrie (1748) rejected both explanatory and metaphysical autonomy: mind is matter in motion, and the mind can be studied by the mathematical methods of the new science just as any matter can. But while materialism (and therefore the denial of metaphysical autonomy) had to wait until the 19th century before starting to become widely accepted, the denial of explanatory autonomy remained a strong force in empiricist philosophy. Hume described his Treatise of Human Nature (1739-40) as an ‘attempt to introduce the experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects’—where ‘moral’ signifies ‘human’. And subsequent criticism of Hume’s views, notably by Kant and Reid, ensured that the question of naturalism—whether there can be a ‘science of man’—was one of the central questions of 19th century philosophy, and a question which hovered over the emergence of psychology as an independent discipline (see Reed 1994). In the 20th century, much of the philosophical discussion of the autonomy of psychology has been inspired by the Logical Positivists’ discussions of the UNITY OF....

After a lecture in Göteborg by the neuroscientist Benjamin Libet in 1993, the Göteborg-Post carried the headline, ‘Now it has been proven: we are all somewhat behind’. The paper was referring to Libet’s celebrated discovery that the neural precursors of some voluntary actions occur before the conscious awareness of the decision to act. In a series of experiments in the 1980s, Libet showed that in an experimental situation in which subjects were asked to perform a simple voluntary action – raising a finger – these acts were preceded by a rise in electrical activity in the area of the brain responsible for the causation of action, called the ‘readiness potential’ (RP). But the striking discovery is that while the RP is activated 550 msec before the action, the subject’s awareness of their decision to act occurs only 150-200 msec before the action. The conclusion is drawn that the causes of our actions in our brains occur fractionally earlier than our conscious awareness of deciding to do them. Hence the frequent description of the result of Libet’s experiments, that we are ‘living in the past’.

In G.K. Chesterton’s The Man who was Thursday, six of the seven anarchists named after different days of the week turn out to be secret policemen. Chesterton’s hero Syme finds himself opposed to not just a disparate group of anarchists, but to the unified forces of authority. A similar thing seems to have happened in recent years to Jerry Fodor. When Fodor published The Language of Thought in 1975 his targets were, as he says, ‘a mixed bag’: reductionists, behaviourists, empiricists, operationalists, holists and various followers of Wittgenstein. But today these disparate targets have become distilled into one movement, which Fodor calls ‘pragmatism’. Fodor sees pragmatism (‘perhaps the worst idea that philosophy ever had’) everywhere, and one aim of this sequel to The Language of Thought is to stamp it out.

In 'A Coherence Theory of Truth and Knowledge', Donald Davidson argues that it is not possible for us to be massively mistaken in our beliefs. The argument is based on the possibility of an omniscient interpreter who uses the method of radical interpretation to attribute beliefs, since an omniscient interpreter who uses this method will attribute largely true beliefs to those he is inteipreting. In this paper we investigate some of the assumptions behind this argument, and we argue that these assumptions are incompatible with Davidson's view that the object of a belief is its cause. If Davidson wants to keep his interpretationist theory of mind, he should therefore abandon that view.

In this paper, it is argued that the late twentieth century conception of consciousness in analytic philosophy emerged from the idea of consciousness as givenness, via the behaviourist idea of “raw feels”. In the post-behaviourist period in philosophy, this resulted in the division of states of mind into essentially unconscious propositional attitudes plus the phenomenal residue of qualia: intrinsic, ineffable and inefficacious sensory states. It is striking how little in the important questions about consciousness depends on this conception, or on this particular division of mental states. So accepting this division and its associated conceptions of intentionality and consciousness is not an obligatory starting point for the philosophy of mind. A historical investigation of how these ideas came to be seen as inevitable can also help us see how we might reasonably reject them.

The theme of these is essays is what might be called, rather ambitiously, the nature of the human mind. Psychologists and philosophers both investigate the nature of the mind, but from rather different angles. Psychologists and neuroscientists investigate the actual mechanisms in the brain, the body and the world which underpin mental events and processes. Philosophers, by contrast, ask more abstract questions: for example, about what makes any process mental at all, or how mental reality fits into the rest of reality. Psychology and philosophy are not opposed disciplines, but complementary, and the boundary between them is not sharp. The essays collected here address some of the most abstract philosophical questions, and barely touch on actual psychological discoveries. Nonetheless, I think everything that is said in this book is consistent with what psychologists have discovered and will discover. Where psychologists will want to disagree with things said in this book, their disagreement will be based on a difference of some philosophical opinion.

The concept of intentionality --- what Brentano called ‘the mind’s direction on its obj ects’ --- has been a preoccupation of many of the most significant twentieth century philosophers. The purpose of this essay is to examine the place of the concept of intentionality in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, and to criticize one aspect of his treatment of intentionality. Although the word ‘intentionality’ is not (to my knowledge) used in Wittgenstein’s philosophical writings, the idea it expresses was central at all stages of his philosophical development. This should be obvious on a little reflection, not least because the philosophical notion of intentionality is closely related to the notion of meaning, and questions about meaning are, of course, central to both the T ractatus and Wittgenstein’s later work.‘ A full treatment of Wittgenstein’s views on meaning is not a task for a single essay. Instead, what I want to do here is to narrow the focus and discuss some specific claims in Wittgenstein’s middle and later work about the role of the notion of grammar in his attempts to solve (or dissolve) some quite specific problems of intentionality. In particular, I want to restrict myself to the discussion his later remarks about the relationship between expectation and fulfillment, and the.

What is the relevance of the history of philosophy to philosophy as such? This is not the question, what is the reason for studying the history of philosophy? This question is easy to answer. Philosophy is part of our culture, and the history of our culture is worth studying, if anything is. Nor is it the question, should academic institutions teach the history of philosophy as part of a philosophical education? It is widely accepted that students should be taught the history of philosophy, even if philosophy itself is not considered an essentially historical discipline. An education in the history of philosophy is part of a broadly humanistic university education, and something of value for this reason alone, without it being necessary for anyone who actually pursues philosophy creatively and systematically to have to take history into account.

Is the way we use propositions to individuate beliefs and other intentional states analogous to the way we use numbers to measure weights and other physical magnitudes? In an earlier paper [2], I argued that there is an important disanalogy. One and the same weight can be 'related to' different numbers under different units of measurement. Moreover, the choice of a unit of measurement is arbitrary,in the sense that which way we choose doesn't affect the weight attributed to the object. But it makes little sense to say that one and the same belief can be related to different propositions: different proposition means different belief. So there is no analogous arbitrary choice.

Michael Tye’s book has two main themes: (i) the rejection of the ‘phenomenal concept strategy’ as a solution to the problems of consciousness for physicalism, and (ii) a new proposed solution to these problems which appeals to Russell’s (1910–11) distinction between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description. Interweaved between these two main themes are a number of radical new claims about perceptual consciousness, including a defence of a sort of disjunctivism about perceptual content and an interesting account of the phenomena of change blindness and inattentional blindness. Tye’s book shows all his usual philosophical virtues: it is bold, clear, inventive, and demonstrates his admirable willingness to scrutinise critically his earlier views.

‘Why does language matter to philosophy?’ is the name of a minor classic by Ian Hacking published in 1975. It’s a good question. Among the many charges laid against academic philosophy, one of the more familiar is that it concerns itself excessively with verbal or ‘merely semantic’ questions, at the expense of the real questions of philosophy. And yet those who have made a serious attempt to engage with philosophical problems quite soon finds themselves grappling with the very words they use to formulate the problems.

It is widely agreed that perceptual experience is a form of intentionality, i.e., that it has representational content. Many philosophers take this to mean that like belief, experience has propositional content, that it can be true or false. I accept that perceptual experience has intentionality; but I dispute the claim that it has propositional content. This claim does not follow from the fact that experience is intentional, nor does it follow from the fact that experiences are accurate or inaccurate. I end by considering the relationship between this question and the question of whether experience has non-conceptual content.

This chapter defends Terence Horgan's claim that any genuinely physicalist position must distinguish itself from (what has been traditionally known as) emergentism. It argues that physicalism is necessarily reductive in character — it must either give a reductive account of apparently non‐physical entities, or a reductive explanation of why there are non‐physical entities. It contends that many recent ‘non‐reductive’ physicalists do not do this, and that because of this they cannot adequately distinguish their view from emergentism. The conclusion is that this is the real challenge posed by Joseph Levine's ‘explanatory gap’ argument: if physicalists cannot close the explanatory gap in Levine's preferred way, they must find some other way to do it. Otherwise their view is indistinguishable from emergentism.

Many philosophers are impressed by the progress achieved by physical sciences. This has had an especially deep effect on their ontological views: it has made many of them physicalists. Physicalists believe that everything is physical: more precisely, that all entities, properties, relations, and facts are those which are studied by physics or other physical sciences. They may not all agree with the spirit of Rutherford's quoted remark that 'there is physics; and there is stamp-collecting',' but they all grant physical science a unique ontological authority: the authority to tell us what there is. Physicalism is now almost orthodox in much philosophy, notably in much recent philosophy of mind. But although often invoked, it is rarely explicitly defined. It should be. The claim that everything is physical is not as clear as it seems. In this paper, we examine a number of proposed definitions of physicalism and reasons for being a physicalist. We will argue both that physicalism lacks a clear and credible definition, and that in no non-vacuous interpretation is it true. We are concerned here only with physicalism as a doctrine about the empirical world. In particular, it should not be confused with nominalism, the doctrine that there are no universals.2 Nominalism and physicalism are quite independent doctrines. Believers in universals may as consistently assert as deny that the only properties and relations are those studied by physical science. And nominalists may with equal consistency assert or deny that physical science could provide enough predicates to describe the world. That is the question which concerns physicalists, not whether physical predicates name real universals. (We will for brevity write as if they do, but we do not need that assumption.)

Nicholas Humphrey thinks that consciousness is a kind of illusion. He claims that when we have conscious sensory experiences, it seems to us that we are aware of certain “phenomenal” properties like colours, smells, sounds, when in reality there are no such things. In fact, there cannot be any such things, since phenomenal properties are impossible. Something in our brains causes us to have experiences which represent “extraordinary otherworldly properties”. The whole of conscious experience seems to us like something “magical”; hence the subtitle of the book.

The Vienna Circle was a group of scientifically-minded philosophers, many physicists by training, who in the 1920s and 30s developed the cluster of philosophical doctrines known as Logical Positivism. Among the Circle’s most distinguished members were Rudolf Carnap and Herbert Feigl, each of whom emigrated to America during the Nazi era. It is said that Feigl, the author of an important 1958 monograph defending a materialist approach to the mind-body problem, once gave a visiting lecture on the problem of consciousness at UCLA, where Carnap was teaching. Feigl argued that although there were good reasons for believing that the mind is fundamentally physical, the physical explanation of the ‘qualia’ of sensory experience – the ineffable sensory qualities involved in, say, smelling coffee – was still a mystery to science. Now the story becomes apocryphal. Carnap is supposed to have interrupted, ‘But Feigl, there is something missing from your lecture. Science is beginning to explain qualia in terms of the alpha factor!’. We can imagine Feigl somewhat alarmed by this interjection from the great Carnap: ‘But Carnap, please tell me: what is the alpha factor?’. ‘Well, Feigl’ Carnap replied ‘if you tell me what qualia are, I’ll tell you what the alpha factor is’.

Do frogs have lips? In thinking of an answer to this question, many people form a mental image of a frog and scrutinise it to find the answer. But what are they doing when they do this? The imagery debate that Michael Tye addresses in this book is between two kinds of answer to this question: the "pictorialist" answer that images are in important ways like pictures, and the "descriptionalist" answer that they are more like descriptions. Versions of these views have been held both by philosophers and psychologists. Tye's book aims to disentangle the various claims made by pictorialists and descriptionalists and to defend a theory which incorporates elements from the description and picture theories.