Carl Alan Matheson

The covering law model of explanation has a staying power not even to be outdone by Lazarus. For at least forty years, writer after writer has tried to put it in its grave for the last time. The most recent efforts come from Nancy Cartwright (1983). Her slant is at once modern and old fashioned. It is modern in that unlike the familiar charge that the covering law model lets in too much, her charge is that it does not let in enough. It is old fashioned in that the soft spot she presses is one recognized by Hempel and Oppenheim in their classical essay. (1948, p. 248).Cartwright challenges the requirement that the sentences constituting the explanans (in particular the law or laws) must be true.

The question “What makes a group of simultaneous experiences the experiences of a single person?” has been nearly ignored in the philosophical literature for the past few decades. The most common answer to this much neglected question is “Two simultaneous experiences belong to a single person if there is a common consciousness or awareness of them.” However, consciousness and awareness are difficult concepts to analyze, so that little of substance has been said of the answer. Recently, Oaklander has argued that the awareness answer is deficient for a different reason, claiming that it fails because “it ultimately rests on an analysis of the unity of consciousness that is itself circular or otherwise inadequate” Oaklander 1987, p. 525). Oaklander's criticism is especially interesting because, according to it, the awareness account of synchronic personal identity falls prey to the main problem facing the memory account of diachronic identity, namely the problem of branching. In this paper, I shall argue that there is no important symmetry. Whatever its other flaws may be, the awareness account is immune to the branching problem; its immunity is due to formal differences between synchronic and diachronic identity.

The chief argument for scientific realism is the no-miracles argument, according to which the approximate truth of our current scientific theories can be inferred from their success through time. To date, anti-realist responses to the argument have been unconvincing, largely because of their anti-realistic presuppositions. In this paper, it is shown that realists cannot pre-emptively dismiss the problem of the underdetermination of theory by evidence, and that the no-miracles argument fails because it does nothing to dispel the threat posed by underdetermination, although it may be effective against other anti-realistic arguments.

In his Art and Knowledge, the distinguished Canadian philosopher of art, James O. Young, takes on the daunting task of defending his opening claim that ‘every item properly classified as a work of art can contribute to human knowledge’. His assertion is a general one, intended to apply to any and every prospective artwork, not merely to sub-genres like the moral novel or the ‘Shock-Headed Peter’ school of didactic bedtime terror-fest. Thus, according to Young, works such as The Well-Tempered Clavier and Vermeer’s Officer and Laughing Girl do not qualify as art unless they can provide knowledge about topics that are important to us as human beings. A work does not become artworthy by inspiring us to meditate, ruminate, or reflect unless the work also leads us to true beliefs that are, in some sense, justified. Furthermore, it’s not enough for a work to provide knowledge about, say, abstruse issues in eighteenth-century counterpoint or the cult of painterly flatness; to count as art, a work must, in some way, supply answers to questions that are important to us as human beings living in the world. Young also argues that artworks have their own method of conveying knowledge. Hence, he buttresses his cognitive definition of art with an epistemology of art.

The most recent challenge to the covering-law model of explanation charges that the fundamental explanatory laws are not true. In fact explanation and truth are alleged to pull in different directions. We hold that this gets its force from confusing issues about the truth of the laws in the explanation and the precision with which those laws can yield an exact description of the event to be explained. In defending this we look at Cartwright's major case studies and sketch an amended covering-law model of explanation.

What, if anything, distinguishes works of fiction such as Hamlet and Madame Bovary from biographies, news reports, or office bulletins? Is there a "right" way to interpret fiction? Should we link interpretation to the author's intention? Ought our moral unease with works that betray sadistic, sexist, or racist elements lower our judgments of their aesthetic worth? And what, when it comes down to it, is literature? The readings in this collection bring together some of the most important recent work in the philosophy of literature by philosophers such as Martha Nussbaum, John Searle, and David Lewis. The readings explore philosophical issues such as the nature of fiction, the status of the author, the act of interpretation, the role of the emotions in the act of reading, the aesthetic and moral value of literary works, and other topics central to the philosophy of literature

The main claim of this work is that scientific realism is of no great use in the philosophy of science. I define scientific realism as the claim that truth is neither to be regarded as an epistemological concept nor to be relativized to conceptual scheme. After clarifying my definition and showing how it relates to other characterizations of realism, I turn to the possible uses of scientific realism in the philosophy of science. Proponents of scientific realism claim that only their position can ensure the possibility of communication between adherents of different scientific theories and that their position provides the best or only explanation for scientific progress. Scientific realists tend to regard these two areas as their position's areas of strength. I show that the scientific realist can solve these problems no better than his opponent. I conclude that if scientific realism is to be embraced as the only acceptable position in the philosophy of science, it will be because anti-realism is incoherent rather than pragmatically inferior

If musical works are abstract objects, which cannot enter into causal relations, then how can we refer to musical works or know anything about them? Worse, how can any of our musical experiences be experiences of musical works? It would be nice to be able to sidestep these questions altogether. One way to do that would be to take musical works to be concrete objects. In this paper, we defend a theory according to which musical works are concrete objects. In particular, the theory that we defend takes musical works to be fusions of performances. We defend this view from a series of objections, the first two of which are raised by Julian Dodd in a recent paper and the last of which is suggested by some comments of his in an earlier paper.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Chaos and LiteratureCarl Matheson and Evan KirchhoffIChaos theory was the intellectual darling of pop-science writers of the late 1980s. 1 In their eyes, it would provide a new paradigm by which to describe the world, one that liberated scientists from clockwork determinism—or, alternatively, from incomprehensible randomness. In an introductory textbook of the period, Robert Devaney called chaos theory “the third great scientific revolution of the 20th century, along with relativity and quantum mechanics.” Similar attitudes propagated into philosophy; for example, Stephen Kellert argued that an acceptance of chaos theory would involve a reconfiguration of scientific methodology. 2It was in the domain of literary theory, however, that chaos found its most enthusiastic reception in the humanities, and the enthusiasm lives on. Many literary theorists display no hesitation in touting the supposedly revolutionary implications of chaos science. Katherine Hayles, the chief among them, argues that because the concept of order has undergone a “radical reevaluation” in recent decades, “textuality is conceived in new ways within critical theory and literature, and new kinds of phenomena are coming to the fore within an emerging field known as the science of chaos” (CO, p. 1). She infers that the new “paradigm of orderly disorder” (CB, p. xiii) represented by chaos theory signifies a conceptual revolution in modern culture as a whole. 3 She attempts to establish a parallel between chaos theory and various poststructuralist philosophical positions, including those of Derrida and Foucault, claiming that this new paradigm “may well prove to be as important to the second half of the century as the field concept was to [End Page 28] the first half” (CB, p. xiii), and that chaos may soon be “on a par with evolution, relativity, and quantum mechanics in its impact on the culture” (CO, p. 4). Other theorists make claims for the interpretive power of chaos; according to William Demastes, “chaos theory can help in comprehending several paths that the theatre has followed since the inception of postmodernism” (p. 242). 4 By a conservative estimate, over fifty papers have been published which link chaos theory to literature or literary theory. Clearly, the idea that chaos theory has application outside of science is not restricted to one or two over-eager humanists.In this essay, we wish to address some of the claims which concern the relationship between chaos science and the study of literature. Three such claims are:a. There are significant similarities between the science of chaos, contemporary literary theory, and/or philosophy.b. We can trace a common etiology for chaos theory and poststructuralist criticism. The two are so intimately related that they are really different formulations of a common claim, as filtered through two different fields.c. The science of chaos can help us interpret and understand specific literary works, and perhaps contemporary literature in general.However, before assessing the relationship between chaos and literature, we will briefly introduce chaos theory itself and demonstrate that even a minimal understanding is sufficient to undercut the supposed revolutionary significance of chaos theory. 5IIChaotic systems are deterministic: an exact description of a system at any given time, together with the laws of nature that apply to it, will entail the entire future behavior of the system. In this sense, chaotic systems form a subclass of classical systems (and are to be distinguished from quantum systems, which are indeterministic). However, chaotic systems differ from the systems studied throughout most of the history of science in two major ways. First, the differential equations used to model them are nonlinear, while the history of mathematical physics is largely devoted to a treatment of linear differential equations. Technical issues aside, the ramifications of nonlinearity are: (i) equations which are impossible to solve using the general strategies designed for [End Page 29] linear equations; and consequently (ii) the need for solutions by methods of numerical approximation, generally performed on a computer. Second, chaotic systems exhibit a feature known as “sensitive dependence”—or, more colorfully, as “the butterfly effect,” a figure of speech intended to evoke the worry that our long-term forecasts of the weather can be hopelessly disrupted by the atmospheric fluctuations due to a single butterfly...

Jerrold Levinson argues that musical works are individuated by their context of origin. But one could just as well argue that musical works are individuated by their context of reception. Moderate contextualism, according to which musical works are individuated by context of origin but not by context of reception, thus appears to be an unstable position. And, although a more thoroughgoing contextualism, according to which musical works are individuated both by context of origin and by context of reception, faces a number of problems, it is nonetheless supported (at least to some extent) by critical practice.

In 1988, Michael Nyman composed the score for Peter Greenaway’s film Drowning by Numbers (or did something that we would ordinarily think of as composing that score). We can think of Nyman’s compositional activity as a “generative performance” and of the sound structure that Nyman indicated (or of some other abstract object that is appropriately related to that sound structure) as the product generated by that performance (ix).1 According to one view, Nyman’s score for Drowning by the Numbers—the musical work—is the product generated by Nyman’s compositional activity (namely, an abstract object) and, more generally, artworks are identified with the products generated by compositional or other creative activities. Let’s call this view The Product Theory. By contrast, according to another view, Nyman’s score for Drowning by Numbers is the generative performance itself (namely, Nyman’s compositional activity) and, more generally, artworks are identified with generative performances themselves. Following David Davies in Art as Performance, let’s call this view The Performance Theory (80). In that book, Davies argues for The Performance Theory and against The Product Theory.

In his Art and Knowledge, the distinguished Canadian philosopher of art, James O. Young, takes on the daunting task of defending his opening claim that ‘every item properly classified as a work of art can contribute to human knowledge’. His assertion is a general one, intended to apply to any and every prospective artwork, not merely to sub-genres like the moral novel or the ‘Shock-Headed Peter’ school of didactic bedtime terror-fest. Thus, according to Young, works such as The Well-Tempered Clavier and Vermeer’s Officer and Laughing Girl do not qualify as art unless they can provide knowledge about topics that are important to us as human beings. A work does not become artworthy by inspiring us to meditate, ruminate, or reflect unless the work also leads us to true beliefs that are, in some sense, justified. Furthermore, it’s not enough for a work to provide knowledge about, say, abstruse issues in eighteenth-century counterpoint or the cult of painterly flatness; to count as art, a work must, in some way, supply answers to questions that are important to us as human beings living in the world. Young also argues that artworks have their own method of conveying knowledge. Hence, he buttresses his cognitive definition of art with an epistemology of art.

The most recent challenge to the covering-law model of explanation (N. Cartwright, How the laws of Physics Lie) charges that the fundamental explanatory laws are not true. In fact explanation and truth are alleged to pull in different directions. We hold that this gets its force from confusing issues about the truth of the laws in the explanation and the precision with which those laws can yield an exact description of the event to be explained. In defending this we look at Cartwright's major case studies and sketch an amended covering-law model of explanation.

Can a musical work be created? Some say ‘no’. But, we argue, there is no handbook of universally accepted metaphysical truths that they can use to justify their answer. Others say ‘yes’. They have to find abstract objects that can plausibly be identified with musical works, show that abstract objects of this sort can be created, and show that such abstract objects can persist. But, we argue, none of the standard views about what a musical work is allows musical works both to be created and to persist.

In his Art and Knowledge, the distinguished Canadian philosopher of art, James O. Young, takes on the daunting task of defending his opening claim that ‘every item properly classified as a work of art can contribute to human knowledge’. His assertion is a general one, intended to apply to any and every prospective artwork, not merely to sub-genres like the moral novel or the ‘Shock-Headed Peter’ school of didactic bedtime terror-fest. Thus, according to Young, works such as The Well-Tempered Clavier and Vermeer’s Officer and Laughing Girl do not qualify as art unless they can provide knowledge about topics that are important to us as human beings. A work does not become artworthy by inspiring us to meditate, ruminate, or reflect unless the work also leads us to true beliefs that are, in some sense, justified. Furthermore, it’s not enough for a work to provide knowledge about, say, abstruse issues in eighteenth-century counterpoint or the cult of painterly flatness; to count as art, a work must, in some way, supply answers to questions that are important to us as human beings living in the world. Young also argues that artworks have their own method of conveying knowledge. Hence, he buttresses his cognitive definition of art with an epistemology of art.