Daniel Cohen

A complex network of reciprocal relations connect arguments and stories. Arguments can occur in stories and stories can be parts of arguments. Further, stories can themselves be arguments. Whether a text or exchange serves as an argument partly depe nds on how we read it, i.e., on the story we tell about it and how well we argue for that story, but the circle is not as vicious as it appears. Or at least, that is the story we present and the argument we tell in this dialogue revisiting the ancient ar gument between the poets and the philosophers.

One result of successful argumentation – able arguers presenting cogent arguments to competent audiences – is a transfer of credibility from premises to conclusions. From a purely logical perspective, neither dubious premises nor fallacious inference should lower the credibility of the target conclusion. Nevertheless, some arguments do backfire this way. Dialectical and rhetorical considerations come into play. Three inter-related conclusions emerge from a catalogue of hapless arguers and backfiring arguments. First, there are advantages to paying attention to arguers and their contexts, rather than focusing narrowly on their arguments, in order to understand what can go wrong in argumentation. Traditional fallacy identification, with its exclusive attention to faulty inferences, is inadequate to explain the full range of argumentative failures. Second, the notion of an Ideal Arguer can be defined by contrast with her less than ideal peers to serve as a useful tool in argument evaluation. And third, not all of the ways that arguers raise doubts about their conclusions are pathological. On the contrary, some ways that doubts are raised concerning our intended conclusions are an integral part of ideal argumentative practice.

Technology has made argumentation rampant. We can argue whenever we want. With social media venues for every interest, we can also argue about whatever we want. To some extent, we can select our opponents and audiences to argue with whomever we want. And we can argue however we want, whether in carefully reasoned, article-length expositions, real-time exchanges, or 140-character polemics. The concepts of arguing, arguing well, and even being an arguer have evolved with this new multiplicity and diversity; theory needs to catch up to the new reality. Successful strategies for traditional contexts may be counterproductive in new ones; classical argumentative virtues may be liabilities in new situations. There are new complications to the theorist’s standard questions—What is an argument? and Who is an arguer?—while new ones move into the spotlight—Should we argue at all? and If so, why? Agent-based virtue argumentation theory provides a unifying framework for this radical plurality by coordinated redefinitions of the concepts of good arguers and good arguments. It remains true that good arguers contribute to good arguments, and good arguments satisfy good arguers, but the new diversity strains the old unity. Ironically, a unifying factor is provided by examining those paragons of bad arguers, argument trolls whose contributions to arguments are not very good, not really contributions, and, ultimately, not genuine argumentation.

Paul Boghossian’s recent book, Fear of Knowledge offers an extended argument against some forms of contemporary anti-realism and, by implication, an argument for realism. The intended audience is philosophers with metaphysical and epistemological interests, argumentation theorists might be most engaged by it because while the book is flawed as an argument, it makes a positive contribution when read as a discourse about argument. The main flaw is the uncharitable readings of Kuhn, Rorty, and Later Wittgenstein that can drive even wannabe realists to their defense. The great contribution is delving deeply into the foundations of reason and rationality without getting caught in circularity, paradox, or regress.

As a rule, there is nothing in the words themselves to mark off metaphors from literal language. If a boundary could somehow be drawn, it would be in constant need of re‐adjustment as metaphors become entrenched, idiomatic, and finally literal, and literal phrases are put to figurative or hyperbolic, and then metaphorical uses. Further, there is no algorithmic recovery of the intended meaning of a metaphor from the meanings of its components, no function that takes literal meanings as its arguments and has metaphorical meaning as its output. That is, metaphors are syntactically invisible, pragmatically unstable, and semantically under‐determined. Their creation, use, and interpretation are almost impenetrable mysteries. As if to spite semantic theorists, they are also linguistic commonplaces, present in every kind of discourse. The discourse of philosophy is no exception to this rule, availing itself of the various stylistic, heuristic, and explanatory roles metaphors can play. Philosophy also produces metaphors of another sort, metaphors that differ in important ways from the metaphors of art and literature, as well as the metaphors of the natural and social sciences. These “grand“ metaphors are lasting monuments to the triumphs of philosophical discourse, even as they are also testimony to the failures of philosophical theorizing. This is because philosophy’s grand metaphors were never intended that way. They are better read as structural hypotheses that have become metaphors only after failing as literal truths. Ironically, it is precisely as metaphors that these images are integrated into our ways of thinking. In the end, thought itself is re‐structured, and these failures as descriptive truths succeed in becoming “constitutive truths” of a new reality.