The Poetic of Reason: Introducing Rational Poetic Experimentalism 9004523804, 9789004523807

Table of contents :
Half Title
Series Information
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Preface
Part A Rational Poetic Experimentalism
Section i Introducing the rpe
Introduction to Section i, Part A
Chapter 1 Experimental Philosophy and the Literary
Introducing the Literary
Experiments and Philosophy
Responses and Rejoinders
Conclusion
Chapter 2 rpe and Its Methodology
Nozick’s Pluralist and Aesthetic View of Philosophy
The Proliferation of Possibilities and the Destab
Quasi-induction and Inference to the Least Bad Explanation
Objections and Responses
Conclusion
Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part A
Section ii Philosophy and Literature: The No-Gap Theory
Introduction to Section ii, Part A
Chapter 1 Discussing Definitions: Preparing the Ground for the No-Gap Theory
The Concept of Philosophy
The Concepts of the Literary and Imaginative Literature
The Institutional Theory
Amoebaean Concepts
Conclusion
Chapter 2 Fleshing out the No-Gap Theory
The Indicators
The Similarities between Philosophy and Literature
Conclusion
Chapter 3 The No-Gap Theory and the Problem of Progress
Cognitive Progress
Williamson on Progress in Philosophy
Other Thinkers on Progress
Progress and the Proliferation of Possibilities
Rejoinders and Responses
Conclusion
Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part A
Section iii Destabing and the Literary Factors
Introduction to Section iii, Part A
Chapter 1 The Might of Metaphors: On Metaphorism
Introduction to Metaphors and Max Black’s Theories
The Tropical Side of Language
Goodman on Metaphors
Metaphorism: Generative Metaphorics
Ricœur: Live Metaphors and Split Reference
Ricœur: Emotions, Creativity, and Imagination
Ricœur: The Cognitive Function of Metaphors
The Alethetic Theory of Metaphoric Understanding
Metaphors only Shadows of Literal Meaning?
Conclusion
Chapter 2 In the Beginning Was the Story: On Narrativism
Introducing Narratives and Stories
The Narrativist Argument: Carr
The Narrative Realist Argument: Dray and Schapp
Blending Theory and Narrativism
Mink and Narration as Cognition
Ricœur and the Rule of Narratives
The rpe and Narrativism
Lamarque’s Criticism of Narrativism
Conclusion
Chapter 3 Is Reality a Fiction?: On Fictionalism
Introducing Fictionalism (and Its Forefathers)
Walton and Make-Believe
Different Kinds of Fictionalism
Make-Believe and Mathematics
Fictionalism and the rpe
A Note on Imagination and Creativity
Critical Comments
Conclusion
Conclusion and Summary of Section iii, Part A
Part B The Poetic of Reason
Section i Introducing the Poetic of Reason
Introduction to Section i, Part B
Chapter 1 Preliminary Notes on Reason
Reason, Truth, and Evaluation
Logic and Reason
Induction and Abduction
More about Deduction
Rejoinders and Replies
Conclusion
Chapter 2 Linguistic Rationalism and the Nobel Art of Destabing
Preparatory Notes on Some Analytical Schools
Habermas, Apel, Reason, and Language
Is Reason Really Rational?
First Destabing: Language
Second Destabing: Linguistic Rationalism
Third Destabing: Practical Reason
Rejoinders and Responses
Conclusion
Chapter 3 The Poetic of Models
Metaphors and Models
A Note on Metaphors, Causal Reference, and Generalizations
Critics of Models and Metaphors
Models as Fictions
Models and Narratives: The Poetic of Science
Responses to Possible Objections
Conclusion
Chapter 4 Relativism and Conceptual Schemes
Relativism and Incommensurability
Davidson’s Criticism of Incommensurabilism
Defending Schemism
Conclusion
Chapter 5 The Reasons of Relativism, the Relativity of Reason
Goodman and the Plurality of Worlds
Margolis and Relativism
Rorty and Relativism
Lingualism, Science, Reality, Skepticism
Conclusion
Chapter 6 Rhetoric, Science, and Literature
The Rhetoric of Science (Destabing Science)
Novels as Models, Multivalentism, and Literature
Conclusion
Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part B
Section ii The Poetic of Reason (ii): Feelings, Disclosure, Background
Introduction to Section ii, Part B
Chapter 1 Feelings
Emotions and Feelings: Cognitive Theories
Goldie on Emotions, the Body, and Subjectivity
Taylor’s Hermeneutic Cognitivism
Feeling, Cognition, Art, Science, Values
Intuition and Imagination
Conclusion
Chapter 2 The Poetic of Emotions
Emotions and Metaphors
Narratives and Emotions
Fictions and the Meeting Places of the Threesome
Conclusion
Chapter 3 Deflated Disclosure
Heidegger’s World Disclosure
Introducing Deflated Disclosure
Literature and f-d-e-Disclosing
Disclosism and Rationality
Conclusion
Chapter 4 Background and Literature
The Background
The Literary Factors, Artworks, and the Ineffable
Conclusion
Chapter 5 The Amoebae of Reason: Concluding Comments on Rationality
Reason and the Poetic
Rationality Again
The Crossword Puzzle of Reason
Conclusion
Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part B
Concluding the Book
Concluding the Experiments, Concluding the Book
Conclusion of the Conclusion
A Concluding Personal Note
Bibliography
Index of Names
Index of Subjects

Citation preview

The Poetic of Reason

Value Inquiry Book Series Founding Editor Robert Ginsberg Managing Editor J.D. Mininger

volume 378

Philosophy, Literature, and Politics Edited by J.D. Mininger (lcc International University)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/​vibs and brill.com/​plp

The Poetic of Reason Introducing Rational Poetic Experimentalism By

Stefán Snævarr

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Gravity, clock body in soft resin, 34 × 18 × 6.5 cm. Designed and made by Ólafur Þórðarson, New York, in 2000. The Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data is available online at https://​cata​log.loc.gov lc record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/2022037524​

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/​brill-​typeface. issn 0929-​8 436 isbn 978-​9 0-​0 4-​5 2380-​7 (hardback) isbn 978-​9 0-​0 4-​5 2381-​4 (e-​book) Copyright 2022 by Stefán Snævarr. Published by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau and V&R unipress. Koninklijke Brill nv reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-​use and/​or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill nv via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-​free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents  Preface xi

Part A Rational Poetic Experimentalism  Section I Introducing the rpe   Introduction to Section i, Part A 5 Experimental Philosophy and the Literary 6 1   Introducing the Literary 6  Experiments and Philosophy 8  Responses and Rejoinders 12  Conclusion 15 r pe and Its Methodology 17 2   Nozick’s Pluralist and Aesthetic View of Philosophy 17  The Proliferation of Possibilities and the Destab 21  Quasi-​induction and Inference to the Least Bad Explanation 25  Objections and Responses 28  Conclusion 31  Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part A 33

Section II Philosophy and Literature: The No-​Gap Theory   Introduction to Section ii, Part A 37 Discussing Definitions 1  Preparing the Ground for the No-​Gap Theory 38  The Concept of Philosophy 38  The Concepts of the Literary and Imaginative Literature 41  The Institutional Theory 43  Amoebaean Concepts 47  Conclusion 54

vi Contents 2  Fleshing out the No-​Gap Theory 55  The Indicators 55  The Similarities between Philosophy and Literature 60  Conclusion 68 The No-​Gap Theory and the Problem of Progress 70 3   Cognitive Progress 70  Williamson on Progress in Philosophy 74  Other Thinkers on Progress 79  Progress and the Proliferation of Possibilities 83  Rejoinders and Responses 86  Conclusion 92  Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part A 94

Section III Destabing and the Literary Factors   Introduction to Section iii, Part A 97 The Might of Metaphors 1  On Metaphorism 98  Introduction to Metaphors and Max Black’s Theories 98  The Tropical Side of Language 101  Goodman on Metaphors 104  Metaphorism: Generative Metaphorics 106  Ricœur: Live Metaphors and Split Reference 114  Ricœur: Emotions, Creativity, and Imagination 118  Ricœur: The Cognitive Function of Metaphors 121  The Alethetic Theory of Metaphoric Understanding 123  Metaphors only Shadows of Literal Meaning? 126  Conclusion 129 In the Beginning Was the Story 2  On Narrativism 132  Introducing Narratives and Stories 132  The Narrativist Argument: Carr 134  The Narrative Realist Argument: Dray and Schapp 138  Blending Theory and Narrativism 143  Mink and Narration as Cognition 148  Ricœur and the Rule of Narratives 152

Contents

 The rpe and Narrativism 158  Lamarque’s Criticism of Narrativism 162  Conclusion 166 Is Reality a Fiction? 3  On Fictionalism 168  Introducing Fictionalism (and Its Forefathers) 168  Walton and Make-​Believe 170  Different Kinds of Fictionalism 176  Make-​Believe and Mathematics 179  Fictionalism and the rpe 180  A Note on Imagination and Creativity 183  Critical Comments 184  Conclusion 184  Conclusion and Summary of Section iii, Part A 187

Part B The Poetic of Reason  Section I Introducing the Poetic of Reason   Introduction to Section i, Part B 193 Preliminary Notes on Reason 194 1   Reason, Truth, and Evaluation 194  Logic and Reason 201  Induction and Abduction 206  More about Deduction 211  Rejoinders and Replies 216  Conclusion 218 Linguistic Rationalism and the Nobel Art of Destabing 221 2   Preparatory Notes on Some Analytical Schools 222  Habermas, Apel, Reason, and Language 227  Is Reason Really Rational? 235  First Destabing: Language 244  Second Destabing: Linguistic Rationalism 247  Third Destabing: Practical Reason 248

vii

viii Contents  Rejoinders and Responses 251  Conclusion 253 The Poetic of Models 255 3   Metaphors and Models 255  A Note on Metaphors, Causal Reference, and Generalizations 260  Critics of Models and Metaphors 264  Models as Fictions 267  Models and Narratives: The Poetic of Science 270  Responses to Possible Objections 273  Conclusion 276 Relativism and Conceptual Schemes 278 4   Relativism and Incommensurability 278  Davidson’s Criticism of Incommensurabilism 282  Defending Schemism 285  Conclusion 288 The Reasons of Relativism, the Relativity of Reason 289 5   Goodman and the Plurality of Worlds 289  Margolis and Relativism 294  Rorty and Relativism 300  Lingualism, Science, Reality, Skepticism 303  Conclusion 307 Rhetoric, Science, and Literature 308 6   The Rhetoric of Science (Destabing Science) 308  Novels as Models, Multivalentism, and Literature 314  Conclusion 321  Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part B 322

Section II The Poetic of Reason (ii): Feelings, Disclosure, Background   Introduction to Section ii, Part B 325 Feelings 326 1   Emotions and Feelings: Cognitive Theories 326  Goldie on Emotions, the Body, and Subjectivity 331  Taylor’s Hermeneutic Cognitivism 333

Contents

 Feeling, Cognition, Art, Science, Values 341  Intuition and Imagination 346  Conclusion 348 The Poetic of Emotions 350 2   Emotions and Metaphors 350  Narratives and Emotions 352  Fictions and the Meeting Places of the Threesome 359  Conclusion 362 Deflated Disclosure 364 3   Heidegger’s World Disclosure 364  Introducing Deflated Disclosure 368  Literature and f-​d-​e-​Disclosing 375  Disclosism and Rationality 380  Conclusion 383 Background and Literature 385 4   The Background 385  The Literary Factors, Artworks, and the Ineffable 396  Conclusion 402 The Amoebae of Reason 5  Concluding Comments on Rationality 403  Reason and the Poetic 403  Rationality Again 408  The Crossword Puzzle of Reason 412  Conclusion 417  Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part B 418

Concluding the Book  Concluding the Experiments, Concluding the Book 423  Conclusion of the Conclusion 429  A Concluding Personal Note 430  Bibliography 431  Index of Names 453  Index of Subjects 458

ix

Preface I am just a humble worker in the vineyard of Minerva, the goddess of wisdom. Behold here the grapes of my harvest, probably sour, but at least they are mine. And they are grapes of joy, not of wrath. The main aim of this book is to show that there should be a place for experimentalism in philosophy and that we good reasons to think that reason has poetic sides. Hence, there is a poetic of reason. This book is a sequel to my book Metaphors, Narratives, Emotions (Snævarr 2010). In that book, I was, as it were, looking for literary aspects of phenomena that do not necessarily seem literary on the surface. However, I was not fully conscious of that endeavor; in this book, I label this search “Rational Poetic Experimentalism” (rpe). Looking for these literary aspects is the poetic side of the rpe, wanting to do philosophical experiments in a rational fashion is the rational and experimental side. The rpe is the main theme of Part A of this book. Because of the experimental and somewhat skeptical nature of the rpe, I often use the locution “it makes sense to say” when talking about a theory that seems reasonably good instead of saying that it is true. I also sometimes use the locution “it is more likely than not” for the same purpose or even that “it is a viable option.” Inspired by Robert Nozick, I often rank theories instead of believing in them or rejecting them. In Section i of Part A, the main ideas of the rpe take center stage. The proponent of the rpe wishes to conduct philosophical experiments rationally, attempting to determine whether it makes sense to say that non-​literary objects can have poetic/​literary sides. The methodology of rpe shall also be introduced. In Section ii of Part A, the focus is on philosophy and imaginative literature. It makes sense to say that there is no gap between the two. In Section iii of Part A, some tools of the rpe experiments are introduced or, more precisely, the Literary factors—​that is, factors that we find in literary works that might also play a role in non-​literary objects, including philosophical theories. These factors are metaphors, narratives/​stories, fictions, and literary genres. The concepts of metaphorism, narrativism, and fictionalism shall be introduced; the first two are my creations, the last one is the name of a well-​ known philosophical movement. Part B is dedicated to the poetic of reason, one of the main aims of the rpe is to argue in favor of this poetic. In Section i of Part B, the concept of rationality is discussed, and the concept of the poetic moderate rationalism is introduced.

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xii Preface According to this kind of rationalism, metaphors, narratives, emotions, evaluation, imagination, and rhetoric play a pivotal role in rationality, just like in imaginative literature. Furthermore, it makes sense to look for Literary factors in scientific models, everyday reasoning, and language. If language is the foundation of reason, then reason has by implication some Literary traits. In Section ii of Part B, it shall be shown that emotions have cognitive moments and can even play a role in scientific inquires. It will furthermore be illustrated that emotions have Literary traits and that artworks can play cognitive roles by being disclosive. It makes sense to talk about deflated disclosure. It shall be shown that the Literary traits plus works of imaginative literature can help us come to grips with the myriad background assumptions on which our beliefs, theories, emotions, models, and utterances rely. Neologisms are introduced by being written in the bold mode: Rational Poetic Experimentalism, for short rpe. Metaphors are in small capitals and have their first letter in the upper case: Man is a wolf. In this book, I use the expressions “the proponent of the rpe,” “the present writer,” “the instigator of the rpe,” “this proponent,” “the rpe,” and “I” and its cognates to denote the same person, i.e., the author of this book (me). By this I wish to show myself as someone who may not have one given self, but rather a plurality of selves. Chapter 1 in Part A, Section i, Chapter 1 in Part A Section ii, Chapters 1 and 2 in Part A Section iii, and Chapters 1 and 2 in Part B Section ii have roots in my book Metaphors, Narratives, Emotions. Their Interplay and Impact. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2010. I thank the current holder of the publishing rights for allowing me to publish elements from this book. Chapter 1 and 2 in Part A, Section ii, have roots in my article “Philosophy and Literature: The No Gap Theory,” published in Metaphilosophy, Volume 53, no 4, 2022. I thank the editor for allowing me to publish elements from this article. Chapters 1 and 4 in Part B, Section i, have roots in my book Minerva and the Muses. The Place of Reason in Aesthetic Judgements. Kristiansand: Høyskoleforlaget, 1999. I thank the current holder of the publishing rights for allowing me to publish elements from this book. Chapter 3 in Part B Section i, has roots in my article “A Poetic Pilgrimage”, Valery Vinogradovs (ed.): Aesthetic Literacy. A Book for Everyone. Melbourne: Mont Publishing, 2022. I thank the editor for allowing me to publish elements from this article.

pa rt A Rational Poetic Experimentalism

∵

section i Introducing the rpe

∵

Introduction to Section i, Part A The first chapter focuses on the experimental side of the Rational Poetic Experimentalism (rpe) and the role it assigns to the poetic. In that connection, the question of whether there are genuine and solvable philosophical problems is discussed. In the second chapter, methodological questions of the rpe take center stage.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_002

­c hapter 1

Experimental Philosophy and the Literary In this chapter, the rpe notion of experimental philosophy is introduced, alongside its concept of the poetic. The concept of philosophy is briefly discussed.

Introducing the Literary

Percy Bysshe Shelley maintained that all expressions of imagination could be called “poetry” (Shelley 1915: 45–​118). A poet is simply a creative person. Richard Rorty advocated a type of philosophy that was supposed to be poetic in this Shelleyan sense (Rorty 2016). Is not Rorty’s understanding of philosophy suitable for rpe? The proponent of rpe responds by saying that Rorty’s poetic philosophy is certainly inspiring. Just like Rorty and Shelley, the proponent stresses the importance of imagination in our poetic world-​making activities. He lauds George Lakoff’s and Paul Ricœur’s emphasis on imagination and the poetic dimension of reality.1 Furthermore, he certainly celebrates Shelley’s dictum: “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” (Shelley 1915: 118). Nietzsche would have celebrated this dictum too. He was one of the forerunners of rpe, believing that metaphors constitute our worldview and that we want to become the poets of our lives (Nietzsche 1980: 874–​890) (Nietzsche 1990: 523 (iv, §29)). The poetic musings of these thinkers are inspiring for rpe, but rpe has distinctive traits. Let us now turn to the three main concepts of rpe: being poetic, being rational, and being experimental. The rational poetic experimentalist uses “a poetic” in the wide sense of the words, introduced by such French thinkers as Ricœur and Gaston Bachelard, who expanded the application of the Aristotelian concept of a poetic from literature to nonliterary phenomena such as the will (Bachelard 1964)(Ricœur 1978a: 3–​29) (Ricœur 1978b: 36–​58). I shall write about the possible poetics of philosophy, reason, models, emotions, and more. The rational element in the rpe commits me to a rationalist position but a moderate and very elastic kind with strong poetic traits. I call it “poetic 1 Ricœur’s and Lakoff’s respective ideas of imagination will be discussed later in this book, alongside those of Mark Turner and Mark Johnson.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_003

Experimental Philosophy and the Literary

7

moderate rationalism” and shall defend this position in the latter half of this book. Such a rationalist postulates that there is a poetic of reason. He is moderate and cautious, both in postulating this poetic and in his acceptance of rationalism, which is of a minimal kind. Now, it is time to introduce two important concepts, first the one of meaningful entities. A meaningful entity (me) is an object which is constituted by meaning such that if the meaning is taken out of it, it will cease to exist. This concept ranges over a wide range of objects, including literary works, operas, mathematical treatises, mathematics as such, rituals, actions, thoughts, emotions, scientific models, paintings, words, and the language as a whole. The second concept is that of the Literary with a capital L. It is used for that which can make a given meaningful entity a work of imaginative literature or an entity very much like such works, including movies and operas. In order to understand the notion of Literary, we must become familiar with the concept of Literary factors (lf s). Among those factors are tropes, narratives, stories, fictions, and literary genres (the foursome), but this list is not exhaustive. When I write about a meaningful entity (me) possessing some of these factors, I tend to report that the me has Literary traits. The first three factors will be discussed thoroughly later in this book but not that of literary genres. What is meant by the expression “literary genre”? The concept will not be defined; instead, some examples shall be given of its extension. Examples of literary genres include tragedy, comedy, drama, saga, epos, and the lyrical. It is well-​known that nonliterary artworks can be subsumed under these concepts of genres or have moments of them. There are tragic movies and tv series, comic operas, dramatic ballets, lyrical religious texts, and tragicomic autobiographies. In addition, is it by chance that we call the Holocaust “a tragedy” or the story of the Kennedy family “a saga”? The Holocaust and the story of the Kennedys are meaningful entities. When the foursome, and possibly other lf s, come together in a given meaningful entity, that entity is Literary. Consider a meaningful entity me, which is composed of tropes, narratives, and fictions while being at least partly subsumable under some concept of a literary genre. For the me in question, the sufficiency conditions for being Literary would probably obtain. Nobody doubts that Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is a literary work. It is a fictional narrative, subsumable under the concept of a tragedy, and it is full of beautiful metaphors like “Juliet is the sun.” But notice that there can be meaningful entities that are Literary but for which not all the aforementioned conditions obtain. Because these conditions are only sufficient in combination, we cannot exclude the possibility of me s that are Literary because conditions other than those mentioned obtain. Notice also that works of imaginative literature

8

Chapter 1, Section I, Part A

may not be fictional and may contain neither metaphors nor narratives, for instance, Basho’s haiku poems.2 These poems can be subsumed under the concept of the lyrical. It makes sense to call a meaningful entity “Literary” if it consists solely of—​ or is suffused by—​metaphors, narratives, and fictions, while not being sub­ sumable under any concept of a literary genre. Rituals and worship services are meaningful entities. The priest tells fictional stories and uses metaphors, while some of the nonlinguistic rituals are metaphorical and fictional. The oblate and the wine are fictional representations of the blood and body of Christ. The use of water in baptism can be understood as a metaphor for spiritual cleansing. We shall see later in this book that the concepts of the foursome all have blurred edges and unclear rules of application; therefore, there is no algorithm for judging whether a given O is Literary or not. These concepts shall be used in Rational Poetic Thought Experiments (rpte). The aim of such experiments is to determine whether it makes sense to say that there are poetic moments in non-​poetic realms of reality. The conclusion of these experiment must be based on good arguments; hence they shall be rational. Informed judgments play a part. Since that kind of judgment is of importance to the arguments of this book, it is mandatory to explain what it is. In this book, the notion “informed judgment” shall be used in the sense of estimation or assessment of cognitive value, for instance, truthlikeness, in contexts where algorithms and other clear-​cut rules are of no help. At the same time, these judgments must be based on evidence, arguments, and a reasonably good knowledge of the case to be judged. Moreover, some experience in judging similar cases is of value. However, guesswork and subjectivity are important for these judgments due to the absence of clear-​cut rules.

Experiments and Philosophy

Over the course of this book, the proponent of rpe wants to experiment with the lf. The goal is to determine whether it makes sense to say that the lf s play a role in phenomena beyond the literary and artistic realms, such as philosophy, reason, emotions, and scientific models.3 We have already seen an 2 This is his most famous haiku; it has no narrative, not fiction in any ordinary sense, and hardly any metaphor: “The old pond—​\ a frog jumps in \ Sound of water” (translated by Robert Hass) (Basho 2020). 3 Among the “inhabitants” of the artistic realm are such narrative artforms as movies, tv series, narrative ballets, and operas. They are closer to literature than, say, instrumental music.

Experimental Philosophy and the Literary

9

example of something that is nonliterary/​nonartistic and is said to have an lf factor. It makes sense to say that the Holocaust has the factor of tragedy and that the story of the Kennedys that of a saga. Why does it make sense to call the Holocaust “a tragedy”? In the first place, contemplating it, reading about it, seeing documentaries about it, and so on can give one a feeling of fear and pity for the victims (I experienced this during a guided tour of Auschwitz). Second, there seems to have been an inevitability in the historical process, causally determined by antisemitism, the Versailles treaty, and other factors. A part could have been played by the ignorance (a flaw) of the victims, many of whom could not imagine a presumptive civilized nation doing such a thing. All this suits Aristotle’s concept of tragedy quite well (Aristotle 1965: 31–​75). Let us turn our gaze to the other two factors of rpe: the rational and the experimental ones. What is rational about rpe? Its proponent tries to argue systematically in favor of his theories and experiments. He wants to approach them in a fallibilist manner, ready to abandon his theories if they are clearly wrong or if he can find no good arguments in their favor.4 His main experiment will be that of trying to find out whether it makes sense to say that at least three Literary factors can be found in phenomena, outside of realm of literary works. His rpe concept of a philosophical experiment is not empirical, in contrast to that of modern experimentalist philosophy (x-​phi). The proponents of x-​phi seek to test philosophical theories and intuitions in an empirical fashion (not necessarily only with the aid of experiments).5 In contrast, rpe experiments are fundamentally thought experiments. But rpe does not exclude the possibility of enriching such experiments with an empirical approach in the style of x-​phi.6 The rpe concept of a thought experiment is broader than that of a thought experiment in the analytical tradition. The goal of the latter is to find non-​ trivial analytical truths. The former does not necessarily have this goal; it can also seek thought-​provoking and inspiring possibilities. But that does not exclude the possibility of them being truth-​tracking. Sometimes, the result of such experiments may be nontrivial truths, sometimes fascinating objects for contemplation, and even sources of aesthetic 4 Fallibilism originates in the pragmatist philosophy of Charles Sanders Peirce 1955: 42–​59. 5 On experimental philosophy (x-​phi), see Knobe and Nichols 2017. 6 It might also be enriched with the thought of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari who claim that philosophy is experimentation and say, “To think is to experiment” (Deleuze and Guattari 1994: 110).

10 

Chapter 1, Section I, Part A

pleasure. Alas, the proponent of rpe cannot exclude the possibility that all his experiments are bound to fail miserably—​witness his fallibilism. But if he does fail, he will try to “Fail better,” to quote Samuel Beckett (Beckett 2018). Maybe the proponent of the rpe should express his thoughts in essays rather than academic prose. “Essay” means “attempt” and an experiment is an attempt. Alas, this book is mainly written in the academic style. Why conduct philosophical experiments instead of trying to solve philosophical problems? The reason is that there is no foolproof way of solving philosophical problems or determining which philosophical idea is the best. It is far from certain that philosophers have discovered any nontrivial philosophical truths or can do so. They disagree on most issues, and there is no clear-​cut way to determine who is right. They do not even agree on how to define philosophical problems, or which is of greatest importance. Some believe that philosophers ought to be less interested in finding truths and more interested in changing the world for the better (for instance, Marx 1845). Some even doubt that philosophy is about problem-​solving; Stanley Cavell states that philosophy for him is rather a set of texts than problems (Cavell 1979: 3). Is there any way to find out who is right? We can ask whether possible philosophical truths must be non-​trivial analytical truths. Is there any way to find out? Certainly, we cannot assume that the following sentence is a non-​trivial analytical truth: “Philosophical truths are non-​trivial analytical truths”. If we do, then we just assume what we are trying to prove. Besides, we cannot a priori exclude the possibility of philosophical truths being transcendental, phenomenological, or dialectical. Bu yet again, we can ask whether there is a way to find out, show that philosophical truths are of these continental kinds. Maybe some such truths are analytical while others are continental. Moreover, philosophical truths might even of a nature unknown to us, even unknowable by us. Therefore, it is easy to understand Colin McGinn’s view that humankind is cognitively closed to the solutions to philosophical problems, just as dogs are cognitively closed to solutions to problems of quantum mechanics. However, he does not exclude the possibility of artificial intelligence, genetically enhanced humans, or creatures from other planets being able to solve such problems (McGinn 1993: 1–​26). He maintains that this is an empirical hypothesis, not a philosophical analysis, a question of evolutionary theory. Humans acquired their cognitive capacities in the Stone Age due to their struggle for survival. Capacities to solve philosophical problems did not enhance their chances of survival and were therefore not developed. The problem is that it is difficult to test McGinn’s hypothesis, it is very difficult to determine what cognitive abilities Stone Age people had. Besides, such

Experimental Philosophy and the Literary

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evolutionary hypotheses about cognitive capacities might not be fruitful or even be dead wrong. In contrast to McGinn, Ludwig Wittgenstein maintained that there are no philosophical problems, only puzzles. According to Wittgenstein, language cons us into believing that there are philosophical problems (for instance, Wittgenstein 1922: 62–​63 (§4.003)). Therefore, philosophy ought to be a therapeutic enterprise, not a problem-​solving one. It should show “the fly the way out of the fly-​bottle” (Wittgenstein 2009: 110 (§309)). On the bottom of a fly bottle, there is honey that the fly cannot resist, but it gets trapped in the bottle. Metaphysical temptation is like the honey, and the metaphysician is trapped within. In Wittgenstein’s view, the metaphysician can be helped out of the bottle with the aid of examples and hints rather than philosophical arguments. Rorty also considered philosophical problems as not genuine problems and stated that philosophy should be edifying and be part of the conversation of mankind instead of trying in vain to solve these so-​called problems (Rorty 1979: 357–​394). I add that experiments should also be conducted. Why believe that philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems? There does not seem to be any sure-​fire way to determine whether this belief is warranted. Can we know with certainty that there are no real philosophical problems? Perhaps we are not hardwired to solve some philosophical problems, even though they may be genuine. At the same time, some other purported problems may be the result of us being bewitched by language. Then there may be genuine solvable philosophical problems (solvable by humans), whether by analytical means, other continental means, pragmatist means, or yet-​to-​ be-​discovered philosophical means. Therefore, perhaps there are spheres of philosophical problems where the therapeutic and edifying approach is best and others where logical analyses and/​or transcendental arguments are more fruitful. Furthermore, the set of philosophical problems is not given. Philosophers of old did not know the problems of the philosophy of science or those of artificial intelligence because there was hardly any science and no artificial intelligence. We cannot exclude the possibility that genuine new philosophical problems may emerge and be solvable by humans. We have the following possibilities: 1. All purported philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems. 2. All philosophical problems are genuine but not solvable by humans. 3. All philosophical problems are genuine and solvable by humans. 4. Some philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems, and no genuine philosophical problem is solvable by humans. 5. Some philosophical problems are genuine and solvable by humans, some are genuine but not

12 

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solvable by humans, while the rest of the purported philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems. There is no reason to exclude the possibility of there being (or that there will be) at least a few genuine philosophical problems and that humans are capable of solving them. We should not brush philosophy aside, partly because we cannot exclude the possibility of us finding philosophical truths and partly because there is a grain of truth in the old contention that we cannot rid ourselves entirely of philosophy. It is hard to claim that all of implicit propositions in 1–​5 do not have truth values. But it might be the case that it is no given unto humans to find out. Moreover, we cannot exclude the possibility of the rpe either not having truth values or not be solvable by humans. Or being blatantly wrong, for instance in claiming that 1–​5 are all the possibilities we have when philosophy is concerned. Moreover, if we, for instance, think that science monopolizes truth, that commits us to a certain ontology and epistemology; for instance, the view that anything regarded as real by science is truly so and that only scientific method reveals the truth. Not trusting science also has ontological and epistemological implications. One such implication is that reality has an ontology so rich that science cannot fathom it, and that scientific method is only a social construct. We cannot but ask metaphysical questions even though they may not be answerable. Such questions include, “does life have a meaning?” “is there an afterlife?” and “is there a God?”7 We may even be hardwired to ask such questions.

Responses and Rejoinders

The first rejoinder to be considered here is the following: By stressing the importance of stories, narratives, metaphors/​tropes, and fictions in non-​ Literary domains, I undercut my claim that they are first and foremost Literary. For instance, why talk about “literary genres” if they are to be found outside works of imaginative literature? My response to the last question is as follows. Admittedly, there is no conceptual necessity involved in using the expression “literary genres” in this way. Nevertheless, it is convenient of several reasons. In the first place, these genres have been developed systematically in works of literary imagination for an 7 The echo of Immanuel Kant must be audible.

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enormously long time—​much longer than movies, operas, or tv series. The genres have probably been shaped by literary works more than by newer kinds of art. Thus, those I call “literary” genres may have been partly shaped by literary works. Second, metaphors are paradigmatically expressed in linguistic form. This makes literature a better vehicle for expressing and developing metaphors than nonlinguistic artforms. Thirdly, novels, epos, and some other literary forms contain a complex web of genres, the nature of which is partly disclosed through their interactions in literary works. The genres receive their identity partly from their differences; tragedy is the opposite of comedy and vice versa. In a complex work like Shakespeare’s Macbeth, there is a comic relief scene that makes us see the tragedy in sharper relief; at the same time, we see the comic part more clearly thanks to the tragedy. Moreover, in novels such as Icelandic Nobel-​prize winner’s Halldór Laxness’s The Light of the World (in Icelandic Heimsljós), the tragic, comic, and the lyrical are woven together in such a manner that we become conscious of their potential for complex interaction, creating a meaningful world by virtue of the interaction. It would be much more difficult to do something similar in a two-​hour movie or a ballet. Now, literary genres may have extremely old roots in dance and mimicry, and they may even have been performed by humanoids that did not possess language. But these artforms are too simple to develop all the complexities of the genre. They can be very complex in physical expression but hardly as a vehicle for expressing metaphors and telling stories. What about metaphors/​tropes, narratives/​stories, and fiction (the threesome)? If they are found outside of imaginative literature, then why call them lf s? The first part of the answer mirrors the answer to the question about literary genres. Metaphors/​tropes, fictions, and narratives/​stories have been developed for ages in multitudes of literary forms, where they often are to be found in a complex interaction with each other. Ballet or visual arts have far fewer possibilities for creating complex fictional narratives where metaphors play an important role (the strength of these artworks is pure visuality, not the kind of meaningfulness that suffuses the threesome). Take Herman Melville’s Moby Dick as an example. The narrative fiction is replete with metaphors; the white whale may be a metaphor for any number of things—​man’s attempts to realize hopeless dreams and so on. At the same time, the reader gets a stronger feel for what fiction is by comparing the fictional part with the strange nonfictional chapters about whaling.

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Furthermore, just like literary genres, the threesome has been shaped by literary works more than by ballets, movies, and tv series. We know them in their literary form. Let us now look at the foursome: literary genres, metaphors/​tropes, fictions, and narratives/​stories. If we remove them from the world, then very little would remain of imaginative literature, movies, tv series, and operas, while dance and visual arts would survive. Second, a work that consists only of a fictional narrative, replete with metaphors and other tropes while being subsumable under some concepts of literary genres, is a strong candidate for a work of literature. Perhaps it could also be a tv series, an opera, or a religious work, but hardly a ballet or a painting. In the third place, the following statement (hopefully) makes sense (this is a philosophical experiment): The lf s are dispersed in our Life-​World, that is, the world of our common sense, our perception, and practical activities.8 In literary and other artistic works of the poetic kind, the lf s in our Life-​World are—​so to speak—​distilled from the nonliterary remainder and unified. In that sense, every work of literature and related artforms is a realist work. In a similar manner, aesthetic moments are woven into our experiences. We experience some ways of walking as graceful, some mountains as sublime, some mathematical proofs as elegant, and some combinations in chess as beautiful. Some people create objects, including artworks, that allow us to have something akin to pure aesthetic experiences.9 Alternatively, we simply focus on certain objects in our work-​a-​day-​world in a purely aesthetic manner, distilling the aesthetic sides of experiences and enjoying them in their pure form.10 Maybe the result of the distillation is the Old Nordic mythological mead of poetry.11 There are, of course, failed attempts to create artworks through this distillation. In addition, many artworks are consciously not created that way; this holds for modernist, experimental works of art, such as Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain.

8 9 10 11

The concept of the Life-​World (in German Lebenswelt) stems from Edmund Husserl (Husserl 1962a and 1970). It will be discussed in a later chapter. It is far from clear that “pure” aesthetic experiences are possible. Maybe such experiences are always tainted with nonaesthetic moments. For a discussion, see for instance, Dickie 1997: 28–​43 and Goodman 1976: 241–​252. The reader may hear some echoes of John Dewey 1934. According to these myths, the main God of the Nordic pantheon, Óðinn, stole the mead by tricking the giantess Gunnlöð. When drops of the mead drip on humans, they instantly become poets (for the Nordic mythology, see for instance, Cotterell 2002: 114–​131).

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Admittedly, this distillation theory is a speculative, experimental contention (a rpte) that needs to be systematically developed. But who says that it cannot be truth-​tracking or inspiring for contemplation? Another critic may consider that believing there are Literary moments outside of literature and other artforms makes little sense. We simply project Literary moments into reality, for instance, when we say that the Holocaust is a tragedy. The answer is as follows. In the first place, literary genres such as tragedies may have roots in our experiences of tragic events. Literature and other artforms do not exist in an ideal world outside our Life-​World where real tragedies occur. We would not have love poems unless people had experienced love. Second, for all we know, reality as we know it may be one great projection of our subjectivity, which may contain Literary factors. Some other critics could ask whether rpe is completely neutral regarding modern philosophical movements. The answer is “not entirely;” the experimentalism and fallibilism of rpe smack of pragmatism more than other philosophical approaches. And its proponent has a very pragmatic approach to philosophical theories, using the interpretations of them that suits his project. He for instance uses Wittgenstein’s thinking a lot but mainly as being theoretical even if it might be true that his aims were purely therapeutical. In light of this, rpe may be called “poetic pragmatism;” Rorty too can be called a “poetic pragmatist.”

Conclusion

I have introduced the main ideas of rpe, which aims to be poetic, rational, and experimentalist at the same time. The concept of meaningful entities (me s) was introduced, a concept that ranges over a variety of phenomena, which would not exist without meaning. The notion of the poetic is used broadly so that the possibility of poetic moments in seemingly prosaic me s cannot be ruled out. The experimental side consists mainly of the performance of thought experiments but without necessarily seeking analytical truths. The results of the experiments can also be satisfying if they are somehow inspiring or help us see things in a new light. I also introduced the concept of the Literary. A work is ceteris paribus literary if it consists of metaphors, narratives, or fiction and is entirely or partly subsumable under some concept of one or more literary genres. Metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary genres are lf s (these four are called “the foursome”). rpe seeks to discover whether there are me s that on the surface are

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nonliterary but have a large element of the foursome or some other lf s. If they do, then they can be called “poetic.” I briefly discussed whether there are genuine philosophical problems, and if so, are they solvable by humans? We cannot exclude the possibility of one of these views being correct or even that both are partly correct. However, we cannot exclude the converse possibility of genuine, philosophical problems solvable by humans or that such problems will be created or discovered in the future. At the same time, there is little clear-​cut evidence for any philosophical problem having been solved. Therefore, some may conclude that philosophy should be ignored or even eliminated. Nevertheless, eliminating or ignoring philosophical thoughts is extremely hard; they tend to pop up unbidden. It is better to tackle these problems systematically than let them fester when they arise. In light of all these possible limitations of philosophy, we have good reasons to conduct philosophical experiments, even though they do not necessarily reveal analytical truths, and even though our experiments are not empirical, x-​phi-​style. This kind of experiment shall be called “Rational Poetic Thought Experiments”, they mix the seemingly nonpoetic with the poetic to see what eventuates. But neither the search for analytical truths nor empirical experimentation is anathema to rpe. Its proponent would welcome any rpe discovery of analytical truths and perform empirical experiments. The proponent of rpe wants to establish a poetic for seemingly nonpoetic me s, showing that they are indeed Literary or have at least some Literary aspects.

­c hapter 2

rpe and Its Methodology In this chapter, methodological questions take center stage. I shall draw upon some ideas on philosophy introduced in Robert Nozick’s book Philosophical Explanations. Then, I shall introduce my methodological ideas and respond to possible objections.

Nozick’s Pluralist and Aesthetic View of Philosophy

Nozick’s contention of philosophical explanations is thought-​ provoking. Instead of seeking philosophical proofs, one should ask how phenomena are possible and attempt to explain why. How is free will possible, given that all actions are causally determined? The form of such questions is: “How is one phenomenon possible, given other phenomena?” Explanations locate something in actualities, while philosophical understanding locates it in possibilities. Furthermore, the explanations can be tentative. In Nozick’s view, there is no reason to believe them infallible. In contrast, analytical philosophers think in an axiomatic fashion: they deduce conclusions from axioms that they regard as self-​evident to prove their theories. But the problem is that if one of these axioms is proven wrong, then the whole philosophical edifice tumbles down. Instead, we should philosophize somewhat inductively, building our edifices like the ancient Greeks constructed the Parthenon. Even though some of its columns fell, the bulk of the temple still stands: “Still preserved are some insights, the separate columns, some balanced relations, and the wistful look of a grander unity, eroded by misfortunes or natural processes” (Nozick 1981a: 3). Furthermore, traditional analytical philosophy has a coercive tendency; it looks for knockdown arguments that force people to a conclusion. It would be less coercive simply to reduce people to impotent silence while they wear a Buddha-​like smile. It would be better to guide them to a view without any coercion. Nozick advocates a philosophical pluralism: “Treating philosophy as a black box, we might view its ‘output’ not as a single theory, not even as one set of theories, but as a set of questions, each with its own set of associated theories as possible answers” (Nozick 1981a: 20). At least a part of this output consists of admissible philosophical views. Other views are to be rejected while the admissible ones differ in merit and

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_004

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adequacy, although none is completely lacking in merit. However, Nozick is not advocating relativism. The views should be ranked, but even the first-​ ranked view is not completely adequate by itself. Even though Nozick does not state as much explicitly, if one were to judge from his general fallibilism and pluralism, he must have considered that the ranking could change. Further inquiries could show that the hitherto highest-​ranked view does not deserve that position. Nozick, no doubt, is certainly bound to rank pluralism above competing views. It must be emphasized that Nozick neither abandoned the ideal of philosophical truth nor regarded philosophical explanations as the “only game in town.” That would not have been consistent with his pluralism. Nonetheless, and strangely, he does not show that to provide a justifiable philosophical explanation and attain philosophical understanding, we must believe that we have genuinely provided such an explanation and placed our theories within a network of possibilities. Therefore, truth matters to philosophical explanations. It must be added that because there are cognitive values other than truth, we cannot exclude the possibility of philosophical theories having all kinds of cognitive virtues, even though they may lack truth values. Thus, philosophical theories can be evaluated in terms such as precision and explanatory power. By being evaluable in these dimensions, philosophy can be in the realm of reason (but maybe it ought to leave that realm!). The proponent of the rpe finds Nozick’s theory inspiring, even though he might be skeptical of Nozick’s contention of philosophical coercion12 and somewhat more taken with the idea of philosophical understanding than that of explanation (that is why he gives only a very superficial account of Nozick’s theory of explanation). He certainly agrees with Nozick’s pluralism and fallibilism. He wants to advocate critical pluralism: openness toward new ideas but at the same time a critical attitude toward them, even toward critical pluralism itself. The rpe proponent is fascinated by Nozick’s idea of ranking philosophical theories and will do some ranking in this book. He maintains that we have prima facie reasons to rank a theory highly if it has precision, scope, and explanatory power, squares with well-​established theories and if it is logically coherent, original, thought-​provoking, and satisfies other criteria (the list is not exhaustive). If it lacks several of these features, then we have prima facie 12

Being forced to accept arguments is using “forced” in a non-​literal manner. Moreover, A.R. Lacey points out that being forced to do something entails doing it against one’s will. However, one cannot accept an argument unless somehow wanting to do so (Lacey 2009: 174).

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reasons to rank it only moderately high. We have similar reasons for ranking it low if it lacks many of those features. Notice that judging an idea to be thought-​ provoking and even original has a subjective component; what is thought-​ provoking to Jill may leave Jack cold. Weighing precision against scope or originality requires informed judgment. As noted above, such judgments have subjective moments, not least in philosophy, where there are no accepted criteria for scope or precision. This means, whether we like it or not, that there must be a subjective, even poetic, factor in ranking. It is preferable to make that factor explicit and not be afraid of factoring liking and disliking into ranking, e.g., when there are two theories of equal merit. Then it is possible to rank the better liked theory over the alternative. It is important to note that I refer only to prima facie reasons. A follower of continental philosophy may believe that precision in the analytical philosophical sense is nothing but pedantry and that logical coherence is a goal for mathematicians, not philosophers. Therefore, this follower’s list of features may be somewhat different; for instance, he may emphasize spirituality, profundity, and a poetic writing style. Now, pragmatism is neither analytical nor continental but an independent movement of philosophy—​perhaps situated somewhere between the two. rpe must regard ranking based on pragmatist virtues as justifiable due to its strong pragmatist traits. Among such virtues, functionality is important; the pragmatist often judges theories in terms of whether they work.13 He can even judge theories in terms of whether they work to make life better for a significant part of humanity.14 He will also use the following methodological rule: a good pragmatist argument will, ceteris paribus, be preferred to non-​pragmatist ones. There is no clear-​cut method to decide what is best—​analytical philosophy, continental philosophy, or pragmatism; therefore, all three should be heeded. Their features may constitute prima facie reasons. Yet again, informed judgment plays a pivotal role in deciding which features it is right to heed in ranking. Be that as it may, the present writer, of course, ranks Nozick’s idea of ranking highly, as is appropriate. He maintains that we should act similarly in the political realm, ranking political views instead of believing them. And why not rank aesthetic judgments and ethical views, why believe them? However, this is a subject for another book. 13 14

Witness Peirce’s pragmatic maxim: “consider what effects, which might conceivably have practical bearings, we conceive the object of our conception to have. Then, our conception of these effects is the whole of our conception of the object” (Peirce 1958a: 124). This is the essence of John Dewey’s pragmatist thinking (For instance, Dewey 1993: 38–​46).

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Nozick’s approach has a fascinating poetical side that he may not have seen clearly. If we can philosophize in a playful manner by entertaining (in both senses of the word!) philosophical notions without necessarily believing in them, then we are close to the poetic/​aesthetic turf. Similarly, we can be inspired by works of imaginative literature without believing any of their text. Moreover, a playful approach to these works is often very fruitful. A good example is the witty parody of Hamlet Finnish filmmaker Aki Kaurismäki made in his movie Hamlet Goes Business, changing the play into a satire about modern Finnish businesspeople. Even though Nozick may have overlooked these poetic implications of his view, he certainly advocated an aesthetic view of philosophy. It is an artform because philosophy entails a creative process that is not entirely different from that of artists: As the composer works with musical themes, harmonic structures, and meter, the painter with forms, colors, represented things, and perimeters, the novelist with plot themes, characters, actions, and words, so the material of the philosopher is ideas, questions, tensions, concepts. He molds and shapes these, develops, revises, and reformulates them, and places them in various relations and juxtapositions. In the medium of ideas, he sculpts a view. This molding also involves shaping parts, somewhat against their natural grain sometimes, so as better to fit the overall pattern, one designed in part to fit them. This purposeful molding and shaping, conscious of not being determined solely by the preexisting contours of a reality already out there is part of the artistic activity. nozick 1981c: 645–​646

Is not the philosopher concerned with truth, in possible contrast to the artist? Nozick responds that artists cannot simply and arbitrarily invent anything they want. Artists work within certain constraints that the chosen artform places on their work. Some novelists maintain that their characters often surprise them. The meanings of words place constraints on poets, and other artforms place similar constraints on the activity of artists. In a similar fashion, the material that the philosopher works with—​that is, ideas, concepts, and their relations—​constrains their activities. He writes “An artistic philosophy would welcome (and appreciate) other shapings, other philosophical visions as part of the basketful, while striving itself for a prominent position in the ranking” (Nozick 1981c: 647).

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This view of philosophy appeals to the proponent of the rpe, and he certainly will do his best to improve his own philosophical ranking.

The Proliferation of Possibilities and the Destab

In this subchapter, I introduce my possibilology, my concept of destab (a sort of deconstruction), inference to the least bad explanation, and briefly discuss other concepts of philosophical methodology. Nozick comments that he enjoys “the playful exploration of possibilities for its own sake” (Nozick 1981a: 12). Independent of Nozick, the proponent of rpe some years ago developed his aforementioned “possibilology” (Snævarr 2010: 23). Possibilologists suggest that philosophers ought to seek interesting questions rather than answers. After all, as noted above, the search for true answers to philosophical questions has not been very successful. Ranking may often place some questions higher than others. One cognitive operation, the success of which cannot be judged directly in terms of truth values, is that of “aspect-​seeing” or “seeing-​as,” which are concepts of Wittgensteinian provenance. The paradigmatic example of aspect-​seeing is to see an ambiguous figure as X rather than Y. In the case of Wittgenstein’s duck-​rabbit figure, we see it either as a duck or a rabbit. The concept of aspect-​dawning is of great importance here; at first, I see a puzzle picture merely as a collection of lines, but suddenly it dawns upon me that it is a picture. I notice a hitherto unnoticed aspect of this collection of lines in the same way as I notice an aspect of the duck-​rabbit figure, which I previously perceived as a duck, and by virtue of the newly noticed aspect, I suddenly see the figure as a rabbit. I also become aware of an aspect when I contemplate a face and suddenly notice its likeness to another face. As Wittgenstein states in no uncertain terms, “the lightening up of an aspect seems half visual experience, half thought” (Wittgenstein 2009: 207 (ii, § 140)). Seeing an aspect is not a question of interpretation but instead of sensation. We do not infer from dots and lines that we are seeing a rabbit or a duck; we simply see it (Wittgenstein 2009: 205 (ii, § 121 and elsewhere)). I beg to differ, however, from the contention that the operation of seeing-​ as does not have any moment of interpretation. Interpreting A means understanding A as A1 rather than A2; seeing a duck-​rabbit figure as a rabbit rather than a duck can involve the choice of one alternative understanding while other alternatives are disregarded or rejected. The analogies between interpreting and seeing-​as are so strong that I think we are talking about an analogous kind of process, a process not of interpretation but of semi-​interpretation.

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Certainly, seeing-​as is usually a spontaneous, more, or less subconscious sensation, perhaps rooted in tacit knowledge, but it has interpretative moments, nonetheless. We know that there are such moments from the fact that people can be persuaded to see Jastrow figures in certain ways or choose to focus on them in a certain way. Seeing-​as will play a big role in this book. Now, let it just be said that the “discovery” of philosophical possibilities might often be fruitfully likened to aspect-​seeing (seeing-​as). The reader of this book may consider that I see philosophical problems as being somewhat literary/​poetic. As hinted at above, the proponent of rpe wants to explore the possibility that a host of phenomena that do not at first glance seem literary nevertheless have some Literary traits. Philosophy, language, reason, scientific models, and emotions shall be explored for Literary factors/​traits. When these factors are found, I often use the expression “it makes sense that …” For instance, I may write “It makes sense that X has the Literary traits of metaphors, narratives, and fictions, and has thus been destabed,” and “it makes sense that X …” where X is ranked highly. As a pluralist, the instigator of rpe is ready to use whatever philosophical method at hand. Almost anything goes, as long as it serves his purposes. He sometimes dabbles in “light” conceptual analysis or even light transcendental arguments. The use of light conceptual analysis is strongly inspired by Wittgenstein’s later philosophy and his way of analyzing concepts by showing them in various contexts, and comparing them to other concepts with the aid of metaphors, fictional tales, and concrete examples of the use of concepts. At the same time, the instigator of rpe sometimes uses simple versions of possible-​world arguments. He sometimes tries to enter (or square?) the hermeneutical circle, most often by seeking reflective equilibrium between his intuitions, desires, well-​ crafted analyses, and thoroughly tested theories. Desires enter the equation of the equilibrium only if all else is equal. The present writer seeks a balance between emotions—​including desires—​and reason. He often tries his hand at internal criticism, working through multiple theories and synthesizing the best parts in a dialectical, continental style. Some of these theories are of analytical provenance, others continental or pragmatist. His pluralism and experimentalism are two sides of the same coin. He wants to experiment with various philosophical arguments and possibilities. In addition, he has a flair for les bon mots and the well-​turned phrase in the Parisian and Nietzschean mode. After all, if a self-​confessed rational poetic experimentalist always wrote in a dry, purely academic manner, he would be almost guilty of a performative contradiction. The style of writing and the

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message would not cohere.15 But most of the time he writes in a rather academic way, even in a dry fashion, when discussing dry subjects. “There is time for every purpose”, the Good Book tells us, a time to be poetic and a time to be dry. Furthermore, he thinks that a cautious, argumentative, fallibilist method of deconstruction can be fruitful.16 We can call it a “destab” (a noun) and use the verb “to destab,” as in “destabilization.” However, to understand that we must take a quick look at deconstruction proper. It is difficult to understand what it really is, but this is how I understand it. Its main underlying idea is that seemingly clear-​cut boundaries between concepts are in reality blurred and that a similar situation holds for theoretical and social structures. Deconstruction is partly the demolition of theoretical and other meaningful structures, their partial rebuilding, and an undefinable third moment. The deconstructor attempts to show that a seemingly strong and unified, theoretical, or social structure has weak foundations and is disjointed. He or she rips the structure down to its constitutive elements and reconstructs it. But the new theoretical structure is just as disjointed as the old one and has equally weak foundations. Moreover, deconstruction is like dialectics without synthesis; the tension between the thesis and the antithesis is permanent, and there is no reconciliation in the guise of synthesis. Like the dialectical thinker, the deconstructor seeks to show that there are tensions and contradictions behind a seemingly harmonious surface. However, while the dialectician seeks to show that the contradictions are, or can be, reconciled within a synthesis, the deconstructor maintains that the synthesis is an illusion; the contradictions cannot disappear but are constantly changing in a complex interaction with each other. The destaber shares the deconstructor’s view that seemingly clear-​cut boundaries between concepts are, in reality, often blurred; the proponent of the destab adds that it can be fruitful to destabilize these boundaries experimentally and contemplate the result. However, the destaber does not necessarily carry the dialectical baggage of contradictions, either with or without actual or possible synthesis. Nonetheless, nothing precludes the destaber from using dialectical or deconstructive methods should the need arise. The main function of destabing is to destabilize the purported limits between the poetic/​ Literary and the putative non-​ poetic/​ non-​ Literary. Moreover, because it concerns only concepts but not ideologies and social structures, as 15 16

This is inspired by Martha Nussbaum 1990: 7. For an introduction to deconstruction proper, see Culler 1983. The instigator of deconstruction, Jacques Derrida, can be hard to read but gives a rather lucid introduction to his thinking in Derrida 1991: 270–​278.

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deconstruction proper does, destab can be called “deflated deconstruction.” Or even “experimental deconstruction”, since destabing is a kind of rpte (there are non-​destabing experiments as well, for instance the distillation theory). In this book, I shall try to destab reason, philosophy, and other subjects to show that they have hidden, Literary factors. I shall endeavor to show that there is no clear-​cut separation of philosophy and literature, understanding and the Literary, reason and the Literary, and emotions and the Literary. The main tools for destabing are the four Literary factors or at least three of them (but other tools are mainly used in the case of destabing the difference between philosophy and literature). When using the Literary factors in destabing, I stipulate that a given concept is to be regarded as destabed only if it contains at least three Literary traits, given that it cannot be destabed without the use of the factors. This is stipulated in order not to water down the conception of destabing and make destabing somewhat challenging and fallible. This means that there are constraints upon destabing; it is not something arbitrary. Some concepts are destab-​resistant, either entirely or partly. I see no way to destab the concepts of washing machines, eyeliners, or grandmothers, to name but a few. I shall also try to be clear and reasonably precise in my attempts to destab, such that any weaknesses in my argumentation should be easy to find and through that the destabing might be refuted. That which I bombastically call “The Principle of the Proliferation of Possibilities” (ppp) is an important part of possibilology. It is, in fact, not a principle but a rule of thumb.17 It is a poetic principle because imaginative literature deals in possibilities, as is shown later in this section. It could also be political if understood as the principle that we should be open to possible new ways of living together and organizing our societies. But discussing those issues requires another book. Rules of thumb are in the domain of informed judgments, and we have already discovered their importance in applying some key concepts of the rpe. In the case of the destab, we sometimes need informed judgment when determining whether a given concept can be destabed or how it shall be destabed (do we need the four factors, or is it better to destab it in another way?).

17

There may be some echoes of the Norwegian philosopher Arne Næss’s general possibilism and pluralism in possibilology. However, his possibilism was also a theory of radical contingency, whereby there are no necessities, and anything can occur at any time. I do not subscribe to this doctrine, although it is an interesting possibility on which to meditate. Neither do I subscribe to Næss’s Pyrrhonic skepticism (Næss 1972).

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25

Methodical fallibilism requires one to be willing to heed criticism, which entails a willingness to engage in debates and dialogues.18 Just by writing philosophical articles and books, writers are bound to engage in virtual dialogues with readers who interpret and criticize them in their respective ways. The proponent of rpe wishes to philosophize in a dialogical fashion by creating explicit and implicit dialogues. Perhaps he should write Platonic dialogues preferably aporetic ones. Aporetic dialogues have no given conclusions, which suits the skeptical tendency of the rpe admirably. The proponent of rpe seeks no philosophical monopoly for his views, but he merely hopes that someone may listen to and discuss these matters with him. However, he does most of the listening himself; he listens intensely to philosophers who are far more profound than him. He likes cutting from their theories and pasting the pieces together in new ways to create philosophical collages or patchworks; they are philosophical works that have more than a passing resemblance to postmodern artworks. It shall be added that the narrative in this book is not always linear. Sometimes a theory or a theorist is briefly discussed in one chapter while there is a more thoroughgoing discussion later such that it is even better to read the latter chapter first. I also digress sometimes and write in an explorative manner due to the nature of my project. It should not be forgotten that poetry is intimately connected with emotions. Would not advocating rpe in a cold and unemotional way be a form of performative contradiction? Yes, it would. I shall not hide the fact that I often prefer a certain philosophical view because it appeals to me emotionally while at the same time attempting to argue in its favor.

Quasi-​induction and Inference to the Least Bad Explanation

Above, I mentioned some rpe rules of thumb. Another kind of rule is what the proponent of rpe calls “Inference to the Least Bad Explanation.” (ilbe) Scientists may make inferences to the best explanation (ibe), but philosophers have not hitherto been very successful in explanations.19 Hence, they can hardly hope for more than “the least bad explanation.” Someone might ask whether abductive arguments can be used outside of the empirical sciences. Timothy Williamson answers with a “yes”, he maintains 18 19

Karl Popper famously stressed the connection between fallibilism and willingness to discuss and listen to criticism. Popper 1966: 224–​228. ibe stems from Peirce, who called it “abduction” (Peirce 1878: 470–​482). Arguing in the ibe fashion is arguing abductively.

26 

Chapter 2, Section I, Part A

that abduction is often used successfully in such non-​empirical sciences as mathematics and logic. Thus, the mathematical axiom of infinity was accepted because there was need to unify mathematics by deriving accepted theories from one new and fundamental logico-​mathematical theory. Hence, there is nothing wrong with applying abduction in the likewise non-​empirical philosophy (Williamson 2018: 79–​82). I think that the same holds for induction. Arguing inductively means generalizing from singular instance and there is no reason to believe that these instances must be discovered or discoverable empirically. That which in earlier writings I have called The Principle of Philosophical Quasi-​Induction (ppqi) is a rule of thumb (Snævarr 2010: 21). What, more precisely, is ppqi? The answer is as follows. If more than one set of philosophical premises lead to the same or a similar conclusion, the premises seem ­reasonably plausible, and deduction from them appears to be in order, then one should regard this, ceteris paribus, as an argument in favor of the conclusion and the premises. The more sets of premises we can find, the more prepared we ought to be to accept the theory as viable. The reason is that it is more likely, all else being equal, that nontrivial truths can be found in a variety of philosophical theories than in a single set of such theories, just as it is more likely that a die will show a six if more dices are rolled. The ceteris paribus clause is important; if there are strong arguments against the stated conclusions or they are blatantly wrong, then no quasi-​induction can save them. This approach is reminiscent of the situation in natural sciences. If two natural scientists use different technologies to test a theory and the results of both confirm it, while no tests disprove it, then that suggests a grain of truth in the theory.20 Philosophical quasi-​induction is (hopefully) roughly like inductive thought in natural science. We cannot exclude the possibility that similar methods can be used successfully in philosophy and the sciences. I generalize inductively from empirical studies of different philosophical theories.21 If one by “empirical” means “results of observations and experiments,” then the answer is that there is nothing in the concept of induction that precludes one generalizing from singular instances that are not known or knowable through observation. Furthermore, there is nothing against the rpe using the empirical methods of the x-​phis, even though it has not done so yet.

20 21

A promising young philosopher of science, Finnur Dellsén, pointed this out to me in private communication. I do not necessarily perform philosophical analysis even if it is often a good instrument for philosophy.

rpe and Its Methodology

27

The difference between the ppqi and scientific induction lies in the difficulty of applying induction to philosophy in the systematic manner of the sciences. One reason is that the lines between theories and ideas are often blurred, while the lines between, say, atoms and molecules, or chromosomes for that matter, are not. One can test inductively the hypothesis that people with Down’s syndrome have 47 chromosomes while those without have 46 chromosomes.22 One can find a representative sample of people with Down’s syndrome and another without and study individual cases. However, what would a representative sample of philosophical views be? What one person calls “a philosophical view” another person might call “rubbish, not deserving to be called a “philosophical view.” Hence, I use the term “quasi-​induction”, not simply “induction.” Now, consider the possibility of arriving at conclusion C with the aid of premises denoted p1 and p2, as well as by route of non-​p1, non-​p2, and p3 and so on. All the premises and the conclusion seem plausible. Employing our rule, we regard C and some of the premises as having increased plausibility. Obviously, given the law of noncontradiction, we cannot hold that both p2 and non-​p2 become more plausible in this case, so only some of the premises acquire increased plausibility. Therefore, we need to seek arguments to decide between them. Whatever we do, we must not forget that theories cannot be proven conclusively with the aid of induction; it is debatable whether their plausibility can be increased that way. There have been many excellent attempts to prove the existence of God, but the chances are that he or she does not exist, or that it is not given unto us humans to prove his or her existence.23 Applying the ppqi can hardly confirm philosophical theories, but it may be instrumental in showing that some are viable, which means that they cannot be dismissed out of hand but deserve serious consideration. Furthermore, given that everything else is equal, a contention supported by the ppqi deserves a high ranking. Someone might ask, Why use the ppqi instead of just performing analyses of concept. The answer is that using the ppqi might solve some of the purported problems of analysis. In the first place, there is no clear-​cut evidence

22 23

This is based on by an overview of the syndrome, found on the internet, “Facts about Down’s Syndrome.” https://​www.cdc.gov/​ncb​ddd/​birth​defe​cts/​downs​yndr​ome.html. Retrieved 16th of December 2020. Richard Swinburne has made an interesting and provocative attempt to show, in an inductive fashion, that it is more likely than not that God exists. He points towards an interesting possibility (Swinburne 2010).

28 

Chapter 2, Section I, Part A

for any analysis having solved any philosophical problem. Maybe the ppqi can fix that problem. Secondly, analysis might have problems with the so-​called Langford paradox (the paradox of analysis). C. H. Langford maintained that a philosophical analysis could not be both correct and informative at the same time. If the analysans has the same meaning as the analysandum, then the analysis is correct. But then it states only what the speaker knows already that it is not informative. If the analysis is informative, the analysans cannot have the same meaning as the analysandum, but in that case, the analysis is not correct (Langford 1942: 319–​342). One might ask how Langford came to this conclusion. It is hardly based on an empirical argument so one might wonder whether he concluded from premises, stemming from an analysis of the concept of analysis. If so, he would have to admit that his argument suffers from the paradoxes of analysis. Then again, my rejoinder could in its turn be based on analysis, and hence paradoxical, and so on ad infinitum. Maybe Langford was right, in case of which the ppqi might be a viable alternative to analysis.24

Objections and Responses

The first objection concerns the idea of quasi-​induction. A critic might claim that the existence of different—​even widely different—​lines of argument in favor of a given contention could be a sign that it is very difficult or even impossible to support by argument. Moreover, various thinkers continually seek newer sets of premise because they have not found the best approach to arguing for the contention, perhaps because it is impossible. There is usually substantial agreement in the natural sciences, not only about conclusions but even about premises. Therefore, it is far from clear that the ppqi is a sound principle. A critic of this idea thus has some good points. Nevertheless, I shall employ the ppqi for the time being, in the hope that it is truly sound and always checking the soundness of each case, because informed judgment is the only way to discover whether the variability of premises in favor of a contention is a sign of the ppqi being applicable or that the arguments are unsound.

24

Here we see an example of an implicit dialogue, rpe style. I shall return to both Langford and Swinburne later.

rpe and Its Methodology

29

The critic may now ask why I want to defend rather unorthodox poetic ideas (those of rpe) rationally. My response is that it is more challenging to advocate such ideas in a rational way. If I succeed in this, we may have learned that reason and visions of an unorthodox kind can be unified; that would be a new possibility—​even a new insight. It must be added that the particular view of rationality endorsed in this book gives ample room for imagination, emotions, and the poetic. Moreover, unorthodox thoughts are possible only with the aid of the imagination. Reason and rationality are addressed later in this book. The next objection is the following. Using ranking can be an excuse for intellectual laziness; instead of probing arguments seriously to assess their truth values, the ranker simply claims that in the given situation, they should be ranked somewhat higher than, say, their counterarguments. This is an important objection; the only way to counter it is not to succumb to the temptation of intellectual laziness and be aware that ranking can be an excuse for it. A similar objection is the following. By calling the rpe theories “Rational Poetic Thought Experiments,” I am immunizing them against refutation. If someone points out that there are several flaws in the theories, I can save them from refutation by “these are not really theories, just experiments.” Just like the last objection, this one is important. The remedy is the same here: I must resist the temptation of saving theories this way and drop the rpte s if they have severe flaws, for instance, logical ones. A critic may claim that rpe is just postmodernism in sheep’s clothing, and my response is as follows. Of course, there is a postmodernist streak in rpe. However, the difference lies in the rpe’s emphasis on argumentation, definitions, and clarity of expression, enriched with a somewhat postmodernist poetic approach. rpe might be said to be a kind of moderate postmodernism. The twilight of the postmodernist idols is approaching, and I shall use my rpe hammer to find out whether these idols ring hollow. If some show no signs of hollowness, then I might include them in my pantheon. Some critics may focus on the structure and substance of the book as a whole. One may ask why I take on so many issues in this book. My answer is first that I shall usually not make truth claims about them but try, in an experimental fashion, to find methods of examination that may be interesting and thought-​provoking. Creating a holistic view of these issues is also an experiment, not a major generalization about man and reality. In addition, who says that this holistic view cannot be the basis for some truth-​tracking theories? Second, connecting different subdisciplines of philosophy can be fruitful if one can show interesting affinities between them. Moreover, philosophy cannot survive if all philosophers specialize in narrow fields. After all, the forte of

30 

Chapter 2, Section I, Part A

philosophy is the creation of meta-​theories and painting with broad brushes. Of course, specialization has its advantages; maybe good and comprehensive philosophical theories could in the future be created by the collective effort of specialists. However, specialization may hamper creativity if creativity largely consists of fusing ideas from different fields together.25 According to this view of creativity, if one is extremely specialized, then one lacks knowledge of other fields and becomes less creative. In the meantime, the present writer wants to philosophize in an interdisciplinary manner, not only between philosophical disciplines but also by fusing the findings of psychology and literary theory with philosophy. Philosophy should not only be analytical, but also synthetic, fusing various elements and providing a view of reality. Sometimes this view is best expressed academically and sometimes in a poetic way. Critics may further ask whether the issues that I address in this book are a motley collection. Why discuss just them rather than other issues? Are there any red threads connecting them beside the poetic threads? Could there not be Literary factors in other realms of philosophy? The last question shall be answered affirmatively, but there are limits to the number of issues that can be discussed in a book of normal length. To the comment about the purported motley collection and lack of red threads, I reply that there are several threads in this book, as mentioned above. One is the relationship between philosophy and literature; another is the relationship between rationality and the Literary. Yet another thread is the possible cognitive capacities of literature. Still another one is the nature of rationality. A critic may now ask why I address so many theories in some chapters and accuse me of rambling through them and discussing them only superficially. Why not focus on fewer theories and discuss them in more depth? My answer is first that I want to show the enormous variety of interesting philosophical thinking and the proliferation of possibilities to be found in this variety. However, these theories tend to contradict each other, which illustrates my contention about the difficulties of evaluating philosophical theories. Second, I want to create a sort of dialogue between these theories, adding mine to the equation. Discussing only a few theories is less conductive of such a dialogue. Thirdly, some theories are discussed rather thoroughly, for instance Jürgen Habermas and Karl-​Otto Apel’s theory of language.

25

For this view, see for instance Isaacson 2017: 2–​3.

rpe and Its Methodology



31

Conclusion

Robert Nozick argues forcefully in favor of both an inductive and an aesthetic, playful way of philosophizing. We can learn from him that it is often more fruitful to rank philosophical theories than to believe in them. “Don’t stop believing” the rock group Journey sang, I say the opposite: Believe less, rank more. I also briefly introduced some criteria for that ranking and maintained that informed judgment must play a vital role. Next, I introduced my possibilogy, according to which the proliferation of possibilities is the forte of philosophy. I introduced the ppp. The rpe should use that principle and explore as many possibilities as possible. Another methodological device is the ppqi. If a substantial number of philosophical theories point in one direction and none in the other, then that is, ceteris paribus, a sign of that direction being the one to follow, perhaps leading to truth. But another such device is the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation (ilbe), a somewhat deflated version of Inference to the Best Explanation (ibe). Using methods such as the ppqi, ilbe, while being fallibilist, passing informed judgments, and arguing carefully is the rational side of rpe. The search for the Literary outside the boundaries of imaginative literature is the poetic side. Is there any need to state that conducting experiments is the experimental side? We have already got to know one such experiment, the distillation theory. Despite Williamson’s contention, there is probably little room in philosophy for inference to the best explanation, owing to our difficulties in assessing philosophical truth claims. However, we can try the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation (ilbe). A successful ppqi could assist in the attempt to find such an explanation. One important methodological device is that of destabing—​a distant relative of deconstruction. Destabing aims at showing that seemingly clear-​cut limits between objects are often blurred or even nonexistent. Destabing is a method of rpe experimentation. The proponent of rpe seeks to destab the purported limits between fields such as philosophy and literature. Destabing a concept or a conceptual difference is not changing it radically. It is more like the way the artist Christo wrapped buildings, not changing them but showing that they can become artworks in addition to be ordinary buildings. rpe stands for an open, poetic, nondogmatic, and “opportunist” view of philosophy. Its approach is cautious, dialogical, and pluralistic. The methodological mainstays of rpe are a) informed judgment, b) ranking, c) the ppp, d) the

32 

Chapter 2, Section I, Part A

ilbe, e) destabing, f) cutting and pasting from diverse sources (this includes internal criticism), g) the ppqi, h) the rpte, and i) a preference for pragmatist arguments over others, given that all else is equal. The proponent of rpe wishes to accentuate the poetic, literary side of philosophy without ignoring the demand for reason and argumentation. He believes that the strength of philosophy is its proliferation of interesting possibilities. At the same time, he does not exclude the possibility of nontrivial, philosophical truths, but these kinds of truths could prove impossible to discover. Moreover, he does not exclude the possibility of philosophical problems being quasi-​problems or unsolvable by humankind. The proponent of rpe aspires to become a writerly but rational thinker. Whether he succeeds is another matter.

Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part A In this section, I have introduced my idea of rational poetic experimentalism (rpe) and its main methodological rules of thumb. There are interesting arguments in favor of philosophical problems either being unsolvable by humankind or pseudo-​problems. However, even if either of these views were right, then we cannot exclude the possibility of a future discovery of genuine and solvable philosophical problems. Maybe some problems are unsolvable, others pseudo-​problems, while a few are genuine, solvable problems. At the same time, it is pretty clear that philosophy can generate new, interesting questions and point to new possibilities. The rpe wants to point toward new possibilities and perform philosophical experiments in the process. It propagates a Possibilology. The rpe approach is playful but serious; after all, we have no guarantee of philosophy being able to solve purported philosophical problems. The proponent of the rpe is skeptical of our abilities to discover philosophical truths, though he does not exclude the possibility of such a discovery. One important idea of the rpe is that philosophical problems can, in a fruitful manner, be seen from a poetic point of view but without giving up rational argumentation. They can be aspected poetically, that is, seen as something poetic. It must be emphasized that this is a philosophical experiment, a Rational Poetic Thought Experiment, not an attempt to prove the truth of philosophical statements, even though the rpe certainly does not exclude the possibility of non-​trivial philosophical truths. Such an experiment can be thought-​provoking, interesting, and suchlike, without leading to non-​trivial analytical truths (the search for them has not been very successful). Instead of believing in philosophical theories, it is often better to rank them, as Robert Nozick has proposed. Rational Poetic Experimentalism wants to determine whether it makes sense to say literary factors outside the realm of imaginative literature and related forms of art (movies, ballets, etcetera). The rpe calls metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary genres, Literary factors (lf). The rpe stipulates that if a meaningful entity (me) consists of metaphors, narratives, fictions, and is at least partly subsumable under some literary genres, then the me is Literary. But the me only needs to possess three of the lf s to qualify as Literary (it might even compensate for a lack of lf s if it possesses other poetic factors). These lf s can serve as ingredients in rpte s. Trying to show that various non-​literary me have some lf s is tantamount to trying to destab them. Destabing is related to deconstruction but somewhat

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_005

34 

Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part A

more in the vein of analytical philosophy and pragmatism. Destabing is one of rpe’s postmodern streaks. Another is its poetic approach, the third its tendency to cut and paste from diverse philosophical theories, creating a postmodern philosophical collage. What is rational about the rpe? In the first place, it is fallibilistic, dialogical, and mainly based on argumentation (also with some poetic twists). Secondly, the rpe often approaches problems inductively, using the Principle of Philosophical Quasi-​Induction (ppqi) and the Principle of the Least Bad Explanation. The rpe does not belong to any given philosophical school but seeks inspiration from analytical Philosophy, continental philosophy, and pragmatism. It is perhaps closest to the kind of pragmatism, which the rpe calls “poetic.”

section i i Philosophy and Literature: The No-​Gap Theory

∵

Introduction to Section ii, Part A In this section, I shall perform my first destabing. I shall try to destab the boundaries between philosophy and literature. I shall try to show that the line between them is blurred. In the first chapter, I shall discuss definitions of the concepts of philosophy and literature; in the second chapter, I shall do the destabing. In this section, I shall continue the meta-​philosophical musings that I started in the first section.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_006

­c hapter 1

Discussing Definitions

Preparing the Ground for the No-​Gap Theory

In this chapter, I shall play the role of St. John the Baptist and prepare the coming of the redeemer, i.e., the poetic of the rpe and, at the same time, prepare the ground for the first destabing, the one of blurring the difference between literature and philosophy. I shall be discussing the concepts of the Literary, imaginative literature, and philosophy: can these three concepts be defined essentially? Or are they family concepts, cluster concepts, prototypical concepts, even open-​textured ones? Does it make sense to talk about family concepts, cluster concepts and so forth? Can these concepts be unified?

The Concept of Philosophy

How to define the concepts of philosophy and imaginative literature? These concepts are used in a host of different ways and range over a motley crew of phenomena. Therefore, they are difficult to define. Let us first take a look at the concept of philosophy and see whether it makes sense to give it an essential definition: find both necessary and sufficient conditions for its correct application. Given that Kierkegaard’s, John Dewey’s, A.N. Prior’s, and Spinoza’s thoughts count as philosophical, then it would prove to be an arduous task to find common denominators for the thinking of these four individuals. Kierkegaard discussed existential problems and wrote in a literary way. Spinoza did metaphysics and wrote in a systematic, quasi-​geometric manner. Prior performed formal logical analyses and Dewey penned inelegant prose while wanting to change society through his writing. Furthermore, there are unclear boundaries between philosophy and many other disciplines and modes of action. As for modes of action, philosophers like Socrates and Diogenes regarded philosophy as a way of being and acting, not as a theoretical discipline. In our times, Richard Shusterman walks the same road.26 There is

26

Shusterman has performed some philosophical stunts, for instance, by disguising (?) himself as the Man of Gold (Shusterman 2016).

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_007

Discussing Definitions

39

hardly a clear-​cut line between their modes of being and acting, on the one hand, and, on the other, those of non-​philosophical ascetic monks and other holy persons. There is also a thin line between philosophy and theology; medieval scholasticism belongs to both. Also, there certainly is a thin line between formal logic and mathematics and between political philosophy and political science. And so on. Considering this, it is understandably difficult to define the concept of philosophy satisfactorily; there is no universally acknowledged definition. There is no lack of different and conflicting, actual, or virtual, descriptive, or normative, definitions of the concept. One dictionary defines the concept of philosophy in the following fashion: “The science which tries to account for the phenomena of the universe; metaphysics; the general principles underlying some branch of knowledge; practical wisdom.” (Patterson (ed.) 1990: 304). In the Oxford Companion to Philosophy, we find a different (a virtual?) definition of philosophy, which does not necessarily contradict the first one: “… philosophy is thinking about thinking” (Honderich (ed.) 1995: 666). Yet another different, but not necessarily contradicting (virtual?) definitions was put forth by George Berkeley: “Philosophy, being nothing else but the study of wisdom and truth …” (Berkeley 1962: 45 (Introduction § 1)). Still another different, virtual, definition, not necessarily contradicting those mentioned hitherto, was put forth by Thomas Nagel: Philosophy is different from science and mathematics. Unlike science it doesn’t rely on experiments or observation, but only on thought. And unlike mathematics it has no formal methods of proof. It is done just by asking questions, arguing, trying out ideas and thinking of possible arguments against them, and wondering how our concepts really work. nagel 1987: 4

Notice that the Oxford Companion definition calls philosophy “a science,” Nagel stresses that it is not a science. It would be normal to regard a philosopher as someone who wants to solve certain problems, for instance, the one of whether there are other minds besides one’s own and whether there are objective moral judgments. However, as mentioned earlier, Stanley Cavell has another take on this; he wrote that philosophy is not a set of problems but a set of texts (Cavell 1979: 3). Wittgenstein’s virtual, possibly normative, definition in the Tractatus contradicts both of the first-​named definitions and Cavell’s contention: “The

40 

Chapter 1, Section II, Part A

object of philosophy is the logical clarification of thoughts. Philosophy is not a theory but an activity” (Wittgenstein 1922: 76 (§ 4.112)). In his later philosophy, Wittgenstein retained the notion of philosophy as an activity but, as earlier said, maintained in a Socratic manner that this activity was therapeutical (Wittgenstein 2009: 56–​57 (§ 133)). More precisely, it is a self-​ terminating activity because its aim is to show that philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems. We believe them to be genuine because language bewitches us, and we are sorely in need of linguistic therapy, albeit not of the formal logical kind. Herbert Marcuse’s understanding of philosophy clearly contradicts both the dictionary definition and Wittgenstein’s two virtual ones. Marcuse states the following about philosophers and philosophy: it is he who analyzes the human situation. He subjects experience to his critical judgment, and this contains a value judgment—​namely, that freedom from toil is preferable to toil, and an intelligent life is preferable to stupid life. It so happened that philosophy was born with these values. marcuse 1972: 106

Of course, we can by fiat decide that only texts that fit one of these different ways of understanding philosophy count as philosophical texts. However, a decision by fiat is not providing us with an essential definition of anything. Notice the difficulties of classifying texts (texts and suchlike) as philosophical or not. Is Kierkegaard’s Either-​or a philosophical text or a novel or both? Is Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica philosophical, theological, or both? Is Bertrand Russell’s and A. N. Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica a philosophical or mathematical text or both? Do we find any such borderline cases in modern physics? Someone might mention such books as Niels Bohr’s Atomic Physics and Human Knowledge, which is quite philosophical (Bohr 2011). But the book was written for laymen; it is doubtful whether there is, or can be, any genuine, serious, modern work of physics that is on the borderline between physics and philosophy. Maybe a disjunctive definition would do the trick: a philosophical work is either a work on metaphysics, or ethics, or epistemology, or aesthetics, and so on. The problem is that it is not necessarily easier to define such concepts as metaphysics or epistemology than that of philosophy, and the definiens is therefore hardly clearer than the definiendum. Of course, there might be a possibility of fusing parts of some of these definitions, provided that they do not contradict each other. However, there are hosts of different ways of fusing different parts; we would just get a lot of new

Discussing Definitions

41

definitions, and some of them would probably contradict others. Moreover, we would have no guarantee that any of these definitions truly captured the essence of philosophy if there is such an essence.

The Concepts of the Literary and Imaginative Literature

It is time to return to the concept of the Literary. It might be tempting make a rpe experiment and speculate that the property of being Literary can emerge from wholes composed of literary factors. Just like the property of being wet emerges from the combination of H2O molecules that do not themselves have this property. But this is problematic. The reason is that the concepts of such literary factors as narratives, metaphors, fictions, and literary genres have blurred edges in contrast with those of water, wetness, and molecules. Some think that similes can be metaphors; others flatly deny that, and there is no clear-​cut answer to the question of who is right. Furthermore, there can be unclear boundaries between fictional stories and factual ones. Is Karl Ove Knausgård’s My Struggle a fictional or factual story? This Norwegian book contains descriptions of the author’s life; he uses his real name, his family members, and people he has encountered (Knausgård 2013). It is called “a novel,” but some might say that it is really an autobiography. In light of this, we should talk about candidates for being Literary instead of just stating that a meaningful entity is Literary. Deciding whether a candidate really deserves to be categorized as Literary is, in the last analysis, the matter of informed judgment. Informed judgment plays an important role in interpretation and evaluation, and the me s, subsumed under the lf concepts, are at least partly constituted by interpretation and/​or evaluation and/​or are sensitive to them. In ­contrast, interpretations and evaluation do not matter much to molecules, water, and wetness. Such concepts as those of molecules and water have reasonably clear limits, while the limits of the lf concepts are blurred. Is James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake a novel, an instance of a new form of literature, or plain gibberish? Does it make sense to call the Holocaust “a tragedy” and the story of the Kennedy family “a saga”? Evaluation, interpretation, and informed judgment play a role in deciding this. Peter Handke’s poem (?) 1 fc Nürnberg is just a list of soccer players in a certain order; it does not contain any fiction, narrative, or tropes, with the possible exception of irony (Handke 1968). It is hardly subsumable under concepts

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Chapter 1, Section II, Part A

of conventionally literary genres with the possible exception of satire. No wonder that it makes sense to doubt whether it deserves the honorific poem; it certainly is not a prototypical work of imaginative literature. Deciding whether to subsume Handke’s text under the concept of a literary work is a matter of informed judgment. Nevertheless, it can hardly qualify as being Literary because of the lack of lf s. This example shows that the presence of the aforementioned lf s in a me is not both a sufficient and necessary condition for categorizing the me as a literary work. It also shows that a me can be a literary work without being Literary. The Bible and Nietzsche’s Also sprach Zarathustra are Literary, containing lf factors by the score, including fictional narratives and tropes, but are usually not listed as works of imaginative literature. So, can we exclude a priori that me s, which are not texts, can be Literary? Can we exclude the possibility that the Holocaust and the story of the Kennedy’s have Literary traits? No, we cannot. Be that as it may, we have seen here that if a me contains a lot of lf, then that is a strong indicator of it being somehow Literary. I stipulate that the more lf s the me contains, the closer it is to being bona fide Literary. However, informed judgments have the last word, if it makes sense to talk about last words in this context. As we have seen, the concept of the Literary is not the same as the one of imaginative literature; non-​literary phenomenon can be Literary or have some Literary factors. But the factors play a role in determining that which is a literary work. Can we not just say that ceteris paribus, an lw is a literary work the more Literary Factors (lf) it contains? The problem is the unclear boundaries of the lf s, and that informed judgment plays a role in their interpretation and application. But such a judgment also plays a role in determining what counts as an lf. There might be any number of lf s not mentioned in this book or not thought of by the present writer. We can try our hand with a disjunctive definition of the concept of literary works: Literary works are either novels, short stories, poems, or plays. Still, these concepts are not necessarily better defined than the one of a literary work. Furthermore, all of these concepts have in their turn unclear borderlines. Is James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake really a novel and are Hugo Ball’s Dadaist nonsense poems really poems?27 So, the disjunctive definition is not

27

See for instance, Ball’s nonsense poem Karawane, which is a parody of “serious” poems (Ball 1916).

Discussing Definitions

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very informative, and to make matters worse; it does not tell us anything about the purported essential properties of literature. Let us assume that the following are texts of imaginative literature: Joyce’s Ulysses, Omar Khayyam’s Rubiayat, Li Po’s poems, Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Lev Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Kafka’s short stories, Byron´s romantic poems, and Velimir Khlebnikov’s sound poems. It is hard to find common denominators. Just like in the case of philosophical texts, there is no lack of borderline cases when it comes to literary ones (I mentioned a couple of cases in the last chapter). The following texts could be borderline cases: The Gospel of St. John, the Icelandic sagas, Nietzsche’s Also sprach Zarathustra, and Svetlana Alexeiwich´s War Does Not Have a Woman´s Face. All of them have some literary traits, the gospel being written in a poetic and dramatic fashion, Nietzsche’s text being a fictional narrative, the Icelandic sagas are dramatic tales, and Alexeiwich book is written in a somewhat literary style. However, the first two are usually not listed as texts of imaginative literature, while Alexeiwich got the Nobel prize in literature for her book. The Icelandic sagas have been variously classified as fictional texts and as historical ones. This means there is a blurred line between texts of imaginative literature and those which are not. This fact lends weight to the claim that it is difficult, even impossible, to find both necessary and sufficient conditions for classifying a text correctly as “a work of imaginative literature.” So, we encounter similar difficulties in defining the concept of literature and that of the Literary as in defining the concept of philosophy. John Searle comes to a similar conclusion: “there is no trait or set of traits which all works of literature have in common and which could constitute the necessary and sufficient conditions for being a work of literature” (Searle 1975: 320). He adds that there is no sharp dividing line between literary and non-​literary works; Thucydides and Gibbon wrote historical works that can be treated as literary works. “Literature” is the name of a set of attitudes people take toward stretches of discourse. As we shall see, I do not agree with the last statement, even though my arguments are somewhat inspired by him.

The Institutional Theory

The British philosopher Peter Lamarque and the Norwegian literary theorist Stein Haugom Olsen tried their hand at putting forth such an essentialist definition: A work is a literary one if it conforms to the standards of the literary institution. They write “An institution, in the relevant sense, is a rule-​governed practice which makes possible certain (institutional) actions which are

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defined by the rules of the practice, and which cannot exist as such without the rules” (Lamarque and Olsen 1994: 256). The intentions of an utterer and the response of an audience (their practices) make a work literary, not the semantic nature of sentences. It becomes a literary work if and only if the members of the literary institution take a literary stance toward it. Taking such a stance means, among others, evaluating the work aesthetically. This means, for instance, that any given narrative, including historical ones, can be read as a literary one and evaluated aesthetically, provided that the reader takes the appropriate literary stance toward it (Lamarque and Olsen 1994: 435). Now, if the semantic nature of sentences contained in a work is irrelevant to its status as a literary work, the question of whether the work refers to reality is irrelevant to the understanding and evaluation of it. Anna Karenina would not cease to be a literary fictional narrative even though, by chance, every single sentence in the novel happened to be true (they do not use this example). This implies that these narratives would still be literary works of art even though none of them contained any sentence having truth value. To count as a literary fiction, a fiction must be a make-​believe fiction, which involves some kind of distanciation, some kind of willing suspension of disbelief, Olsen and Lamarque say. Not every fiction, moreover, counts as a literary one; daydreams can be totally fictional, but that does not make them literary works. Their utterer-​response model implies that we can call a mathematical treatise “a literary work” if an audience takes a literary stance toward it. If I am right about this, would that not mean that Lamarque and Olsen’s theory drains the concept of a literary work of art of any content? We could, then, subsume anything under the concept in question. We can envision a situation in which the literary institution decides against novels as literary works and accepts only mathematical treatises as such works. That would obviously be absurd. In light of this, it is impossible to completely ignore the internal properties of a work when we decide whether to subsume it under the heading of a literary work (this means that Searle is wrong about attitudes being the sole determining factor of texts being literary). Consider the following. We are about to decide whether to take a literary stance toward three books. One of them consists of a list of names, the second one of narrative sentences about real events, written sparsely, in a bureaucratic manner, the third is a narrative about an imagined world, written in a lively manner. Would not the last one be the hottest candidate for becoming an object for such a stance, perhaps the only serious contender? This means that semantic features and other internal properties put some constraints upon which books we can confer the identity

Discussing Definitions

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of a literary work. To be sure, these constraints do not alone determine such a conferring; decisions, practices, and informed judgments also play a role.28 In 1965, the Swedish poet Åke Hodell published a volume of poetry, called Orderbuch, a word sounding German. The book is like a bureaucratic list of numbers, each number accompanied by the letter J in parenthesis, with comments in German like Lampenschirm (lamp shade), Seife (soap), and unbrauchbar (not usable). It has generally been understood as a comment on the Holocaust because the Nazis made lampshades and soaps from their predominantly Jewish victims (Hodell 1965). Despite being more like a bureaucratic list than anything else, critics accepted it as a literary work of art.29 However, it is tempting to say that they should not have done so; whatever qualities that the book might possess being a prototypical literary work is not one of them. Furthermore, the conception of a literary institution is problematic. In the first place, it does not seem fruitful to liken this alleged institution to pecuniary practices, as Olsen and Lamarque do. They believe that adopting the practice of using money means to ascribe monetary value, and, likewise, that adopting the practice of literature means to ascribe literary value (Lamarque and Olsen 1994: 442). Even an anarchist enemy of pecuniary institutions must in practical life accept the value of money, but nobody is forced to accept any conception of literary value. This speaks against the existence of a literary institution of the Lamarqueian/​Olsenian kind. Secondly, as the Norwegian philosopher Ole Martin Skilleås has shown, it is hard to see how this conception can yield anything but a circular definition of the concept of literary work (Skilleås 1988). The definition is circular for the following reason. Firstly, it defines “literary qualities” as “the qualities of literary works which are identified in the literary response;” secondly, “the literary response (appreciation)” is defined as “the response adapted to literary works by the members of the literary institution;” thirdly, the literary institution is 28

29

I am certainly not of the opinion that literary works exist an sich, untainted by practices, interpretation, and the minds of those who relate to them. If practices and interpretations disappear and minds stop relating to texts, then literary works would disappear as well. However, literary artworks cannot be only in minds because such works can have properties that nobody has and nobody ever will discover, for instance, a hidden contradiction. Also, as David Best pointed out, literary works cannot be entirely the product of various different, but equally justifiable, interpretations because saying that there are various interpretations of a literary work implies that they are the interpretation of one and the same entity (Best 1992: 34–​46). The well-​known American poet, Charles Bernstein, certainly accepted it as a literary work of art (Bernstein 2012).

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distinguished from other institutions by the fact that it employs the literary response to literary works. The defining criteria for both the literary attitude and the literary institution depend on each other, thus producing circular definitions. The problem with Skilleås’s criticism is that he overlooks the fact that circular definitions are not necessarily vacuous. If the definiens is much more detailed than the definiendum, and the circular definition is generally rich and productive, then it is acceptable, even fruitful.30 However, whether Lamarque and Olsen’s circular definition is acceptable and fruitful is debatable. Skilleås has better arguments when he points out that the idea of a literary institution has problems in explaining how literary works and the institution originated. If the rules of the institution of literature were a precondition for the existence and appreciation of literary aesthetic qualities, then the genesis of the literary institution becomes problematic. There must have been an initial literary work, and if the institution existed prior to the work, then it must have been in Platonic form. But if a literary work existed before the institution, then it would be a mystery how it could have been evaluated. This is a convincing argument. Of course, Lamarque and Olsen’s failed attempt at providing an essential definition of the concept of literature does not show that it is not possible to find an essential and fruitful definition of the concept. As Noël Carroll points out, we cannot know a priori whether a given concept cannot be defined in an essentialist manner (Carroll 1999: 10). He seems to think that we can learn much from mistaken attempts to find essential definitions. However, finding an essential definition of the concept of literature would be a herculean task, however much we can learn from failed attempts at it. Take, for instance, a definition solely in terms of semantic properties; they alone decide which works deserve to be called “literary works.” In actual fact, there are no internal properties, semantic or others, that all and only literary works possess. A lot of literary works are fictional, but confessional poems or autobiographical novels are not necessarily fictional.31 And as stated earlier, there are fictions that are not parts of literary works. Literary works tend to be meaningful in the sense of being about something. But this does not hold for nonsensical poems or the experimental poetry of the Handke kind. To be sure, semantic properties count when it comes to conferring the status of a literary 30 31

See, for instance, Dickie 1995: 213–​223. If this is correct, then the purported Langford paradox does not have to be a problem for philosophical analysis. Lamarque and Olsen are right about fiction being the product of make-​believe, more about that in a later section.

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work upon a work or suchlike. However, they do not count much, isolated from the activities of actors who act upon literature in various ways. It is important to note that their actions can hardly be subsumed under that of following the rules of the practices of a literary institution, that is, if the concept of a literary institution is almost empty, as it seems to be (at least in Lamarque and Olsen’s understanding of it). More likely, these rules are woven into diverse practices that overlap and interact; some of these practices have some traits of the literary institutions, others not.32 Some texts that were products of non-​literary practices slowly became literary works through the actions of actors within diverse practices, some of which bear semblance to the literary institution (the concept of it is not entirely empty!). Thus, the Icelandic sagas were created by people who did not possess the concepts of art and literary works, but in some modern practices, they became literary (or even semi-​literary) artworks. Notice that in such a pluralist, mainly Wittgensteinian, view of practices, the question of the first literary work does not arise. Notice that nobody has ever put forth an institutional definition of the concept of philosophy. That is not by chance; understanding philosophy as being institutional seems pretty absurd. What would count as taking a philosophical stance toward a written work or an oral presentation? Also, what would be the rules that govern the practice of philosophy? Maybe one could develop an institutional definition of analytical philosophy, but the onus is on those who believe in the possibility and fruitfulness of such an endeavor. It is more fruitful to regard philosophy as a patchwork of practices that overlap here and there.33 Some of these practices might be called “analytical,” others “continental,” the third “pragmatist,” and so on.

Amoebaean Concepts

In light of this, it makes sense to say that the concept of a literary work cannot be given an essential definition, and it is somehow fuzzy, having unclear boundaries and blurred edges, just like the concept of philosophy. Concepts that cannot be defined in an essentialist manner can be called “family concepts,” 32 33

The inspiration from Wittgenstein’s conception of language games and practices is obvious (Wittgenstein 2009: 8 (§ 7) and elsewhere). Wittgenstein would never have accepted that his plural model of language games could be applied to philosophy, which as earlier said, he thought consisted rather in misuse of language. But I do not necessarily agree and just use his approach for my own purposes.

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“prototypical concepts,” “fuzzy concepts,” “open concepts,” “cluster concepts,” or even “open-​textured concept.” Let us take a look at the notions of open-​textured concepts, family concepts, prototypical concepts, and cluster concepts. Wittgenstein noted that there is a host of concepts that we use with somnambulistic certainty without being able to define them. His solution to the problem was that our finding of necessary and sufficient conditions for defining concepts is not always the precondition for us using them correctly. Take the concept of game, which we have no problem using but find hard to define. Not all games are made for entertainment, though many are; not all games have winning as a goal, though many do; not all games involve more than one participant, though most do (e.g., patience only involves one participant). To cut a long story short, we do not find any properties that all games must share in order to count as games. We only find a host of similarities in the same way as members of a family might have. John has brown eyes like his sister Judy; Judy has red hair like her sister Joan; Joan, in her turn, has a big nose like John. Judy has a small nose like her brother Jim; Jim has blue eyes like Joan, and so on. Here we see, in Wittgenstein’s own words: a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-​crossing: similarities in the large and in the small. §67. I can think of no better expression to characterize these similarities than “family resemblances. wittgenstein 2009: 36 (§ 66–​67)

Games are thus connected with each other through strands of similarities. We can find a somewhat similar idea in the works of Eleanor Rosch. Her empirical investigations led her to believe that our understanding and use of most of our concepts are drawn from our knowing prototypical examples of the phenomena, which are subsumed under the concept. An apple, for example, is a prototypical fruit, but a tomato is not, and a comprehension of what apples are is the key to understand the concept of fruit (Rosch 1973: 111–​144). We may note that Wittgenstein and Rosch tried to explain the purported fact that there are concepts of this kind. It may well be that their explanations were wrong, but that does not mean that there is a set of necessary and sufficient conditions for the application of every single concept. Richard Boyd points out that given the theory of evolution, it does not make sense to define essentially the concepts of given species since the boundaries between species are blurred and everchanging in the course of evolution (Boyd 1992: 527–​528). The theory of evolution is probably true; therefore, it makes sense to talk about

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concepts that cannot be essentially defined, and if my analysis is correct, the concepts of philosophy and literature are among them. Now, the idea of a family concept has come under fire. In the first place, the critics say that it is hard to determine which objects are prototypical or paradigmatic examples of something. Do we not need criteria to find out? If that is so, then we do not need prototypical examples of phenomena; we can just apply the bulk of the criteria used to determine which examples are prototypical. Therefore, it makes no sense to understand the concepts of philosophical and literary works in terms of examples of prototypical/​prototypical works (see, for instance, Kristjánsson 2002: 23–​24). My answer is that empirical studies point in the direction of prototypicality playing a pivotal role in our experience and understanding of the world, witness Eleanore Rosch’s work or the studies of George Lakoff and those of Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky (Lakoff 1987: 12–​67, Kahneman 2011). So why should not prototypicality be of vital importance for understanding what works of philosophy and literature are? Secondly, the critics say that the theory’s foundation is the concept of family resemblance, and every conceivable phenomenon can be said to resemble any other conceivable phenomena so that the concept of resemblance is vacuous (see, for example, Gaut 2000: 25). You might say that the critics of the family concept theory accuse Wittgenstein and his followers of committing one kind of what I call “the analogical fallacy”, that is, wrongly thinking that similarities and analogies have cognitive value (the other type of this fallacy is thinking that if there is an analogy between A and B, then there must be a causal connection). However, Andrew Ortony has put forth some excellent criticism against the first kind. If every statement about similarity were true in virtue of everything being similar to everything else, then a statement about similarity can never be false. This means that these kinds of statements are tautologies, and tautologies cannot contain any new information. By implication, statements about similarities cannot either. But this cannot be true, both because it seems intuitively absurd and because there are statements about similarities that have given us new information. Think about the claim that the atom has a structure similar to the solar system; that claim certainly was informative, and by implication, non-​ trivial (Ortony 1993: 347). I want to add that given that there is empirical knowledge, then there must be knowledge based on arguments from similarities, and they, by implication, cannot be vacuous. The reason is that in most cases, we generalize from bits of data that we think have sufficient similarities to each other for them to be subsumed under the same concept and/​or be understood by the same theory.

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No two swans are exactly like each other; nevertheless, we have successfully generalized about swans, based on the tacit premise that they are sufficiently like each other to be subsumed under the concept of a swan and understood in terms of the same theories. We could ask whether humankind could have survived without understanding segments of its environment in terms of similarities and dissimilarities. For instance, by understanding some berries, B2, being in some important respects similar to berries B1, known to be poisonous, and due to this, one has good reasons to evade B2 as well as B1. However, finding relevant similarities and resemblances is hard work, and it is easy to commit the analogical fallacy unless one is very careful.34 Finding these similarities requires the use of informed judgment and requires sensitivity to the uniqueness of contexts and some kind of intuitive approach. This kind of judgment is helpful when it comes to determining which objects in a given field are prototypical. Empirical investigations of the kind Rosch has performed are of great help when discussing prototypical birds or fruits but not necessarily when the concepts we are scrutinizing are of the essentially contested kind. In the next chapter, we shall discover that the concepts of philosophical and literary works are of that latter kind. It is very hard to determine what would be prototypical works of these kinds and, by implication, determine which works have great, small, or no family resemblances. But there is help coming from Berys Gaut´s cluster theory of art, even though Gaut does not accept the family resemblance theory and regards his theory as a better way of explicating the intuition behind the family resemblance one. According to Gaut, there are multiple criteria for the application of cluster concepts, while none of them is necessary. There is a great deal of indeterminacy in how many of these criteria must apply if an object is to fall under the concept though there are clear cases at the extremes. Gaut writes, “A cluster account is true of a concept just in case there are properties whose instantiation by an object counts as a matter of conceptual necessity of its falling under the concept” (Gaut 2000: 26). Furthermore, he states as follows. 1. If all properties are instantiated, then the object falls under the concept. The properties are jointly sufficient. 2. If fewer than all criteria instantiate, this is sufficient for the application of the concept.

34

The real analogical fallacy consists in drawing conclusions from superficial similarities and/​or thinking that analogies between A and B means that they are causally connected.

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3.

No properties that are individually necessary conditions for the object to fall under the concept, that is, there are no properties which all objects must possess. 4. Though there are sufficient conditions, there are no individually necessary and sufficient conditions. 5. There are disjunctively necessary conditions, i.e., it must be true that some of the criteria apply if an object falls under the concept. None of the properties have to be possessed by all artworks, but all artworks must possess some of them. Gaut then proceeds to make a list of these properties: a) possessing aesthetic properties such as beautiful and graceful; b) being expressive of emotions; c) being formally complex and coherent; d) being intellectually challenging; e) having a capacity to convey complex meanings; f) exhibiting an individual point of view; g) being an exercise of an individual point of view; h) being an artifact or a performance which is the product of a high degree of skill; i) belonging to an established form or genre of art; k) being a product of the intention to make art. Now, why are these conditions not individually necessary? According to Gaut, the answer is simple: Not all artworks are beautiful, not all are expressive of emotions, not all artworks are formally complex and coherent, and so on. The only necessary condition is h), but that is because of the notion of a work (product of action) rather than the concept of art. This means that we cannot define the concept of art, we cannot find both necessary and sufficient conditions for its application.35 Here, the question arises of how Gaut knows that there are artworks that are not beautiful or expressive of emotions or formally complex and coherent. If his criteria for them being artworks are based on the properties a-​k, then his argument is circular. So, either his list is incomplete and/​or his reason for calling them “artworks” is based on his intuition, not necessarily shared by others. Alternatively, these artworks are somehow prototypical. However, if his reasons are intuitive and/​or the artworks are prototypical, then he is getting close to accepting my defense of the family resemblance argument.36 35

36

Actually, Gaut does not exclude the possibility of the cluster account being a sort of definitional account in the sense of it being possible to establish a disjunctive definition were some of the criteria in the cluster function as conditions. But that would not change much; the basic thing is that the concept of art must be understood in terms of clusters (Gaut 2005: 284–​288). I shall not discuss here the criticism of Gaut by various theorists and his response. It suffices to name a few: Stephen Davies maintains that Gaut’s cluster account is not anti-​ essentialist; it is the opposite (Davies 2004: 297–​300).

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Be that as it may, the list can be made longer, for instance, by adding l) being disclosive or eye-​opening,37 m) being a conveyor of aesthetically mediated insights into humanity and morality. Maybe there is a host of properties not mentioned on the list, which together would form a set of sufficiency conditions for the application of the concept of artwork. Of no less importance is the fact that Gaut’s assertions about the properties (a-​k) can be interpreted in various ways. What exactly does “intellectually challenging” mean? And do we have any clear-​cut criteria for calling an artwork “complex and unified”? Someone thought that a particular violin concerto by Kryztof Penderecki was not unified at all, while the present writer maintained that it had a narrative unity, “telling” the story of music backward from modernism to romanticism. There is hardly any sure-​fire way to find out who was right. Interpretation and informed judgment play a role in applying most of the criteria Gaut mentions. As said earlier, it is doubtful that he can establish these criteria without the tacit precondition that there are prototypical artworks possessing some of them. However, that does not mean that they are without importance; they and other similar criteria can help us determine whether an artwork (or philosophical work) deserves being called “prototypical” or whether purported similarities to such works suffice to call them artwork (or philosophical works). We establish the criteria with the aid of prototypical works, at the same time as we can correct our view of the prototypicality (or lack of such) of artworks in the light of the criteria. Again, our cluster of criteria can change in the light of revised lists of prototypical works and so on. We have a sort of a hermeneutic circle, or even better: a reflective equilibrium between the criteria and the prototypical works. At the same time, the concepts in question might be what Friedrich Waisman called “open-​textured concepts.” Their definitions are always corrigible or amendable (Waisman 1951: 119–​124). Seemingly, their definability ­distinguishes them from family concepts in a decisive way. Even though an open-​textured concept has blurred edges, it has a common denominator of sorts that stands in contrast to family concepts.

37

Francis Longworth and Andrea Scarantino make a sympathetic, but critical formal logical reconstruction of Gaut’s argument and develop a Disjunctive Theory of Art which borrows heavily from the cluster theory (Longworth and Scarantino 2010: 1–​17). Simon Fokt is another sympathetic critic. He maintains that the cluster theory must allow for clusters to be changeable in time so that medieval art should be determinable by another cluster than the modern one. The current formulation is also impracticable, Fokt says (Fokt 2014). Gaut responded to some of these critics and others in Gaut 2005: 273–​288. Disclosure shall be discussed later in this book.

Discussing Definitions

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The open-​textured concepts are in between family concepts and essential concepts. We may perhaps find an essential definition of the meaning of open-​textured concepts, but not their reference, even though Waisman never discussed this possibility. As with family concepts, there is no rule for how to employ the rule for using open-​textured concepts due to their unclear boundaries. The concept of biological motherhood is a case in point. Before the advent of in vitro fertilization, this concept was a precise one. Nowadays, “mother” is ambiguous between “she who was the source of the genes” and “she who gave birth.” The concept did not, of course, become open-​textured with the invention of in vitro fertilization; rather, it always was so, which became only apparent through these new, unforeseeable conditions.38 Perhaps, something similar holds for the concepts of philosophy and literature. The advent of Handke’s list poems or Ball’s nonsense poetry might have shown that the concept of literature is open-​textured but neither a family concept nor a cluster concept. The advent of deconstruction in philosophy might have shown the same, mutatis mutandis. Maybe some subconcepts of the concepts of philosophy and literature (for instance, the concept of poetry) are open-​textured ones, while the concepts themselves are mixtures of family-​and cluster concepts. Or the other way round. It makes sense to create a concept with these traits of prototypical concepts, family concepts, cluster concepts, and even open-​textured concepts. We should call the concept in question amoebaean concept. It is elastic and can easily divide itself into further concepts in a manner similar to amoebae. One should also be open to a pragmatist way of looking at concepts whereby we treat a given concept as essentialist in one context, open-​textured in another context, and family/​cluster concept in the third context. Since amoebaean concepts have different sides (family, cluster, open-​textured), contexts might decide which side is most important in given cases. The purposes of our activities determine which approach is the most fruitful.39 It has to be emphasized that I am not making an experiment (of the rpte kind) with concepts. But claiming that there are amoebaean concepts must be understood as a pragmatic move. So, I am not saying that it must be true that there are such concepts, only that it can be fruitful to assume that they exist. I hope that I have increased the number of philosophical possibilities by invoking amoebaean concepts. I certainly rank the idea of amoebaean concepts very highly. 38 39

This example stems from the definition of “open texture” in The Oxford Companion to Philosophy (Ted Honderich (ed.) 1995: 635). For such an approach, see Shusterman 2002: 175–​190.

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In the next chapter, I shall introduce and defend the view that the concepts of philosophy and literature can, in a fruitful manner, be understood as amoebaean concepts.

Conclusion

We have discovered that a motley crew of phenomena can be subsumed under the concepts of philosophy, literature, and the Literary. Attempts at defining the concept of literature in institutional terms do not seem very fruitful, and it leads to circular definitions. It is not clear whether the circle is virtuous or vicious. The institutional theory wants to reduce the concept of literature to the pragmatics of language and ultimately to the attitude of readers who can decide to regard a text as literary or refuse to do so. However, it is hard to exclude the semantic features of texts entirely when determining whether they are literary or not. It is difficult, even impossible, to define the three concepts discussed here. It is tempting to call these concepts family concepts or prototypical concepts, but the idea of such concepts has come under fire from various thinkers, including the proponents of the cluster theory of art. Some of this criticism is justified. However, it is not correct that the family resemblance theory can be refuted by invoking the purported emptiness of the concept of similarity. Ortony gives examples of propositions involving similarities that are genuinly informative. I add that perception is based upon similarity and that perception probably can give genuine information. Also, that our forefathers would not have survived unless they could determine that certain objects were sufficiently similar to dangerous or helpful objects to be very likely dangerous or helpful themselves. Some important elements of the ideas of these kind of concepts can be salvaged and unified with the cluster theory, at least as a part of a rpte. An amoebaean concept has traits of family concepts, prototypical concepts, cluster concepts, and even open-​texture concepts. Furthermore, an amoebaean concept shares with the animal the features of being stretchable and dividable. It might be fruitful to regard the concepts of philosophy, imaginative literature, and the Literary as amoebaean concepts.

­c hapter 2

Fleshing out the No-​Gap Theory Now it is time to start destabing the difference between literature and philosophy. The main thesis is as follows. There is no gap between philosophy and imaginative literature, and they share some important features, even though they are different in many ways. Therefore, this theory should be called “the No-​Gap Theory” (it must be emphasized that this is a philosophical experiment of the rpte kind, therefore, calling it “a theory” or talking about a thesis is a bit misleading). In contrast to literature and philosophy, religious texts and mathematical treatises share few, if any, important features. It makes sense to say that there is a gap between them; their relation is a member of the contrast-​class to the class of No-​Gap relations. The main focus will be on philosophical and literary texts when comparing philosophy and literature. That will facilitate the comparison because written texts are reasonably tangible because they consist of concrete words and symbols. In contrast, philosophical and literary thoughts and ideas do not have this tangible dimension. As for oral literature and philosophy, they might be changing all the time, making comparison difficult. The content of philosophical and literary works shall take center stage, but the nature of their concepts shall also be discussed. The next chapter is a direct continuation of this chapter.

The Indicators

In the last chapter, it was stated that the concepts of philosophy and literature are amoebaean concepts and can therefore not be given essential definitions in any fruitful manner. It was further stated that amoebaean concepts have cluster moments. Inspired by the cluster theory, I shall enumerate some properties that pertain to philosophical and literary texts. These properties will be called “indicators” of something being a text of philosophy or literature. The more of these properties a single text has and/​or the more weight they have in the text, the

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_008

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better sense it makes to subsume it under one of these concepts, given that all else is equal. This means that the indicators function as criteria.40 I shall discuss philosophical indicators in some texts and literary indicators in others. The more of these indicators there are to be found in a text and the more weight they have in a text, the better it makes sense to call the text in question “a philosophical text” or “a literary text,” given that all else is equal. Notice that a text with only one indicator, which has an enormous weight, could be a better candidate for being a philosophical or a literary text than a text where more indicators are present but play only a minor role. “Playing a minor role” can mean that only a tiny fraction of the text is devoted to the indicators, “having great weight” can mean that the entire text is devoted to one indicator. Let us start by discussing philosophical texts and contemplate four philosophical indicators. 1. It is fairly uncontroversial to understand philosophy as being partly a meta-​discipline in relation to science, art, religion, politics, and philosophy itself (being a meta-​discipline is thus a property and one criterion for something being philosophical). Such a meta-​discipline tries to answer questions such as “what is science,” “what is art,” and “what is philosophy”? As the last question indicates, philosophy is its own meta-​ discipline. The more weight that the discussion and/​or the answering of such meta-​disciplinary questions, the stronger is the indicator that the text is philosophical, given that all else is equal. However, philosophy does not monopolize the role of a meta-​discipline; the history and sociology of science can be called “meta-​disciplines” without being philosophical (in contrast to philosophy, they are not their own meta-​disciplines). It should also be emphasized that there are a lot of philosophical texts about issues that are not meta-​disciplinary. This holds for texts about the bulk of metaphysical issues, such as the existence of God, the meaning of life, and the (un)freedom of the will. 2. It is also uncontroversial to say that philosophy is mainly non-​empirical. But philosophy certainly does not monopolize non-​empirical analyses; famously, mathematics is largely, even entirely, a non-​empirical subject. Religious texts are also often characterized by non-​empirical approaches, telling the reader that one just has to believe in God without seeking evidence for his existence.

40

I am not only inspired by Berys Gaut’s cluster theory of art, but also Nelson Goodman’s conception of the symptoms of the aesthetic (Goodman 1976: 252–​255).

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Perhaps, it is logically possible that philosophy had no empirical moments whatsoever. But the x-​phis maintain that there is a hidden empirical moment in philosophical practices (Weinberg 2017: 161–​162). They might be right but how can it be proven? There are texts, which can hardly be labeled other than philosophical texts, that are somehow empirical. This holds for the texts of the x-​phis and some of Hegel’s philosophical writings. The latter contain discussions of historical facts, which are essential to his message. Be that as it may, the more weight non-​empirical analyses or reflections have in a text, the stronger is the indicator that the text is p ­ hilosophical, given that these analyses or reflections are not entirely of mathematical nature or solely of a religious kind. 3. It is not unusual to say that philosophers thematize questions like “How does one become a virtuous person”, “Does life have any meaning”, “What is reality,” “What is knowledge,” “What is justice”? The more weight discussing these questions have in a text, the stronger the indicator. However, it must be emphasized that philosophy does not monopolize the discussion of these issues. Religions, cosmology, political science, psychology, and imaginative literature also want to have their say. Besides, many philosophers, among them the positivists, have maintained that philosophy ought not to pose questions of this kind. 4. The fourth indicator is one of the comprehensive reflections. Such reflections are reflections on large complexes, for instance, the whole universe, or the way large complexes relate to each other, for example, how diverse human activities make a whole. Again, philosophy has no monopoly; reflections of this kind can be found in religious texts, physicists’ cosmological writings, and works of imaginative literature. Moreover, there are and have been philosophers who are or were not engaged in such reflections, for instance, Socrates and the Oxford ordinary language philosophers. There might be more indicators than those mentioned here. Nonetheless, it is hard to call a text where these four indicators have great weight anything but “a philosophical text.” Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason is full of meta-​disciplinary reflections, replete with attempts to answer such questions as “what is knowledge?”; its discourse is non-​empirical, and the reflections comprehensive. No wonder nobody doubts that Kant’s book is philosophical; it makes sense to regard it as a prototypical philosophical work. This means that ceteris paribus, if a text is in some important way similar to Kant’s book, then it is a prima facie reason for calling the text “philosophical.” Being similar in important ways to

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the book can consist of being about the same themes, containing a similar argumentation, or even being written in a similar style. Hegel’s Phenomenology of the Spirit is written in a not dissimilar style; it is partly about the same themes, although the argumentation is different. More precisely, Hegel often does not argue; he instead shows rather than says. What is being shown is the progress of the world spirit. Nevertheless, there are argumentative moments in the book, for instance in the introduction where he tries to show that the concept of a thing in itself makes no sense (Hegel 1988: 57–​68). His text contains some of the indicators, e.g., the one of comprehensive reflection. I want to use the same strategy concerning literature as I did concerning philosophy and not try to find any essential definition of the concept of imaginative literature. Instead, I shall talk about indicators of literariness, i.e., the quality of being a literary work or sharing some important traits with such works (the indicators are among the important traits).41 The more weight that these indicators have in a text, the better reason we have for calling it “a text of imaginative literature.” The more weight the indicators have in a non-​textual meaningful entity, the more literariness it possesses. As we shall see, most of these indicators are what I have earlier called “Literary factors.” However, the lf of literary genres is not an indicator since it is trivially true that all literary works are subsumable under some literary genre. Notice that there are also indicators that are not Literary factors; this underscores further the difference between the concept of the Literary and that of imaginative literature, even if they overlap. The first indicator concerns narratives: the more weight narratives have in a text, the better reasons we for regarding it as a text of imaginative literature, given that all else is equal (being a narrative is a property and a criterion for something being the aforementioned kind of text). But many narratives have little to do with such literature, for instance, police reports on how a crime was solved. Also, many bona fide texts of literature do not contain any narratives; the haikus of Basho usually do not. The second indicator concerns fictions. A completely made-​up narrative is fictional to a maximum degree. The more weight fictions have in a text, the more likely it is that this text is a text of imaginative literature. However, there are literary texts that do not contain any fictional elements, for example, confessional poetry and documentary novels. 41

I partly rely on intuitive understanding of “important traits”. Suffices it to say that if a meaningful entity, which is not a literary work, is soaked with the indicators or other poetic factors, the more literariness it possesses.

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Besides, there are texts containing fictional elements that are not texts of imaginative literature. Nobody would call Derek Parfit’s Reasons and Persons “a text of imaginative literature,” nevertheless, it contains fictions. The same holds for Albert Einstein’s introductory book to the theory of relativity. Alternatively, for that matter, written accounts of daydreams, and of course, lies. Both daydreams and lies can be entirely fictional. Let us perform some possibilological experiments in the vein of the rpte: there could be a possible world where literary texts consist only of fictional sentences. Moreover, there could also be a possible world where all literary texts have at least some non-​fictional moments. In our actual world, the non-​fictional moment in some literary texts might be analogous to the empirical moment that, according to the x-​phis, can be found in most philosophical problems. The third indicator is a strong presence of formal poetic devices, for instance, rhyme or alliteration. However, religious texts, and even commercials, can have a strong presence of these devices. Moreover, there are many literary texts, even poems, without any trace of these devices, for example, many of the poems of German poet Hans Magnus Enzenberger. The fourth indicator is a great weight of stylistic devices, e.g., a rhetorical way of using language, tropes, and solemn, elevated, or bizarre language. But a host of literary texts are written in plain language, without any tropes and suchlike, for instance, Raymond Carver’s short stories. In addition, there is no lack of bizarre language in some philosophical texts, e.g., the texts of Heidegger. There certainly is a strong presence of tropes in many philosophical texts. Even though it is technically a poem, Parmenides The Way of Truth is usually not called “a text of imaginative literature,” even though it is a fictional narrative, replete with tropes. Moreover, Mary Hesse might be right about metaphors and analogies being central to scientific activity (her theory will be discussed later in this book). It can be added that religious texts tend to be written in a solemn and elevated language without necessarily becoming literary texts in the process. This list of indicators is hardly exhaustive, but a strong presence of all of them in a text would mean that it makes perfectly good sense to call it “a text of imaginative literature.” Shakespeare’s Hamlet is a fictional narrative where formal poetic devices are being applied to a large degree. There is no lack of tropes in the play, and the language is solemn and elevated, unlike work-​a-​day language. In ordinary life, we do not practice long monologues. Nobody doubts that Hamlet is a text of imaginative literature, maybe because it possesses a fairly big amount of all the indicators. It makes good sense to see Hamlet as a prototypical literary

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work, which means that a text which is similar to it in some important respects is, ceteris paribus, a literary work. Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment can be said to be similar to Hamlet in the important respect of being a dramatic, written tale about a lonely hero who meets a tragic fate. Furthermore, at least the two first indicators (the ones of narration and fiction) are definitely to be found in Dostoyevsky’s novel. Let us pause here and sum up what has been said about the relationship between the concepts of literature and the Literary here and in the last two chapters: Both concepts are of amoebaean character. Moreover, informed judgment and interpretation are required to determine whether a given text counts as a literary work and how the Literary factors shall be understood. The presence of all the Literary factors in a text T can be sufficient reasons for categorizing T as a candidate for being a literary work. However, there are other indicators for literariness besides the factors. T1 can be a literary work on the basis of these non-​factor indicators alone. Moreover, there are phenomena, which are not literary works but can be categorized as Literary due to possessing the Literary factors. They possess enough literariness to qualify as such.

The Similarities between Philosophy and Literature

If the concepts of philosophy and literature do not have any essentially determinable limits, then it further strengthens the theory that they have unclear boundaries with various kinds of spiritual endeavor and other disciplines, for instance, each other. There might be quite a big overlap between the concepts of philosophy and that of imaginative literature. Let us now proceed to find out whether that is the case and scrutinize some possible common features of imaginative literature and philosophy. In the first place, we have no reason to believe that literature and philosophy are natural kinds: We have already encountered the difficulties of defining the concepts of literature and philosophy essentially (I take it that some concepts of natural kinds are hot candidates for essential definitions). We have concluded that they are amoebaean concepts. Some such concepts are “contestable concepts;”42 the ones of philosophy and literature definitely are. Why? In the first place, because of them being not definable, secondly because of the lack of securely known criteria for subsumption under them, thirdly 42

I evade the use of the expression “essentially contested concept” because it denotes a much more complex conception. But “contestable concept” is closely related to the essentially contested one. See Gallie 1956: 167–​198.

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because of a lack of agreement about what constitutes literature and philosophy, fourthly because there is no consensus about what counts as excellence and the opposite in these fields. One woman’s philosopher is another woman’s charlatan; one man’s great author is another man’s scribbler without talent. Thus, Alfred J. Ayer maintained that continental philosophers were men of letters who mistakenly thought of themselves as philosophers (Ayer 1971: 45–​ 61). Continental philosophers like Babette Babich and Herbert Marcuse perhaps do not deny that Ayer and other analytical pundits were philosophers, but they were very critical of them, thinking that their analyses were empty and trivial and that they naively venerated natural science and were uncritical of their own society (Babich 2003: 64–​103, Marcuse 1972: 139–​160).43 Moreover, empirical surveys show that, even among analytical philosophers, there is very little agreement about the solution of philosophical problems. Thus, 35% of the respondents in such a survey favored empiricism, while 28% were supportive of rationalism (Bourget and Chalmers 2014: 465–​500). Most of the respondents were analytical philosophers; had there been more answers from other philosophical schools there would have been even less consensus. Let us now turn our gaze toward imaginative literature. What about the purported contestability of the concept of literature? Nobelist author Isaac Bashevis Singer had a very low opinion of modernist writers, whom he felt had betrayed literature by declaring war on the narrative (Noiville 2006: 112). He does not seem to have regarded modernist texts as being real literature.44 In addition, it is not unusual to deny that modernist poetry count as texts of literature; lots of people regard them as gibberish, not real poems. There are ­seemingly no criteria for deciding whether Singer and other opponents of modernism were right. Likewise, it is hard to find any criteria for deciding whether Ayer and Marcuse were right or wrong. Secondly, texts of imaginative literature deal with possibilities rather than actualities, and so do philosophical texts in practice (even the hard-​nosed analytical kind). The reason is that there are no generally accepted, or even acceptable, criteria for philosophical truths, but there is no doubt that philosophers point to possibilities, for instance, to the one of reality being of material nature (or the opposite). Look at hardnosed analytical philosophers. The 43 44

Marcuse criticized them for the lack of political criticism and veneration of natural science. Babich maintains that they do not understand science, they, for instance, ignore the essential ambiguity of the reality scientists try to comprehend (Babich 2003: 92). In a lecture, given in Oslo almost forty years ago, Singer said that Kafka and Joyce were potential geniuses who squandered their talent by writing in the modernist way. I do not know whether he stated this in his writings.

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fact that they do not seem to agree on the main philosophical issues could be an indicator of analytical philosophical texts either not containing assertions having truth values or that it is extremely difficult to assess them. Of course, some philosophical theories might be true unbeknownst to us, but the onus is on those who believe this and on those who believe in the existence of the aforementioned criteria. As we remember, Colin McGinn maintained that humankind is not hard-​ wired to solve philosophical problems, while Wittgenstein and Rorty thought that they were not real problems. Other thinkers, including such pragmatists as John Dewey, have thought that philosophy should be truth-​tracking and be normative and/​or activist (Dewey 1993: 38–​46). Karl Marx famously said that philosophy ought to change the world, not just interpret it (Marx 1845). However, like everything else in philosophy, these theories are not universally accepted; they are just among the many possible ways of understanding philosophy. What about truth in literature? We cannot exclude the possibility of non-​ trivial truths being found in texts of imaginative literature. They might contain truths about human existence. Thus, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment can be interpreted as containing the (perhaps) true hypothesis that guilt can paralyze a perpetrator spiritually. Musil’s The Man without Qualities might be understood as containing a possibly true hypothesis that modern man is a creature without essential qualities. However, Monroe Beardsley has a point when saying that even if we can distill such hypotheses out literary works, we have to draw testable conclusions from them and test them. The evidence for them only come from outside of the work and besides, these hypotheses need not originate in literary works (Beardsley 1981: 412–​414). So, possibly true hypotheses in literary works belong to the context of discovery, not that of justification. It is more promising to look for a peculiar truth or truthlikeness that can be expressed only in texts of imaginative literature and/​or discovered by literary imagination alone. Thus, Noël Carroll maintains that fictional narratives can enhance our understanding, but not necessarily our knowledge of facts (Carroll 2003: 270–​293). In his view, understanding is a capacity to see and to be responsive to connections between our beliefs. Further, understanding is the ability to make connections between what we already know and refine our knowledge. We can believe in some abstract moral principle, but we might not possess an understanding of how to connect it with concrete situations. Fictional narratives can be of aid since they tend to focus on the concrete aspects of morality.45 Since understanding is a function of correctly 45

Carroll was perhaps inspired by Martha Nussbaum’s similar arguments (Nussbaum 1990).

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classifying things, fictional narratives can help us deliberate about how to categorize objects. Thus, says Carrol, feminist novels can help re-​categorize a host of everyday practices as being deeply immoral. His theory is plausible and deserves high ranking; he shows how texts of imaginative literature can have cognitive value without necessarily containing propositional truths. Notice that it makes perfect sense to say that philosophy can help us make connections between what we already know and help refine our knowledge. A philosopher might help us see the connection between our abstract moral principle and our implicit epistemology, which she helps us make explicit in the style of Socratic maieutics. No new knowledge is discovered in the process; thus, philosophy can enhance our Carrollian understanding just like imaginative literature. I have already said that philosophy maybe should be engaged in seeing-​as. It makes perfect sense to think that imaginative literature is a means for that.46 Hilary Putnam does not invoke seeing-​as but makes a similar point when saying that Louis-​Ferdinand Céline ‘s novel Journey to the End of the Night shows us the world as it looks to someone who thinks that all human beings are hateful, and that love does not exist. But has this anything to do with knowledge? Yes, Putnam answers, Céline has reinterpreted some facts, pointed towards new possibilities. And discovering new possibilities means increasing knowledge of the conceptual kind because creating a new hypothesis means making a conceptual discovery (Putnam 1978b: 89–​90). The novel might give us insight into the subjective world of disillusioned people or even provide that which Carroll calls „understanding“. Seeing-​as might be a tool for Carrollian understanding, both through literature and philosophy. Interestingly enough, some pundits maintain that the role of imaginative literature is to change the world or be a tool for personal therapy, witness that some philosophers have regarded philosophy as such a tool. Many authors, including Lev Tolstoy, have advocated the world-​change view. Also, writing poetry as personal therapy is a popular practice; there is even something in the USA called “The National Association of Poetry Therapy.”47 However, there certainly are many other actual and possible views of literature.

46 47

Richard Wollheim introduced the idea that the seeing-​as (later seeing-​in) perspective is central to our aesthetic perception. Wollheim 1968: 12–​22. The National Association for Poetry Therapy, http://​poetry​ther​apy.org/​ Retrieved 22nd of June 2018.

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“Possible” is here a central word; the forte of philosophy and literature is the proliferation of possibilities rather than the mapping of actualities. The possibilities in question can include logical ones, imagined ones (what if there were dragons?), or even possibilities of new kinds of existence and social arrangements. Thus, Bertrand Russell showed the logical possibility of mathematics being reducible to symbolic logic, and Friedrich Nietzsche the perhaps imagined possibility that culture might be the product of the will to power. Plato’s utopia was both a purported social possibility and an imagined possibility, the same holds for Marx’s idea of communism. These thinkers might have been wrong, or their assertions might be devoid of truth values. But they certainly gave us something to contemplate. Often, philosophers expand our horizon by giving us food for thought by asking new types of questions, questions that might not have any answer. Thus, Leibniz expanded our horizon vastly by posing the question, “Why is there something rather than nothing? “(Leibniz 1951: 522–​533). This question almost certainly has no clear-​cut true answer, despite Leibniz’s and other thinkers valiant attempt to find an answer.48 One of the most interesting is the one of Robert Nozick. In his possibilological way, he introduces and discusses several possible answers to this question, one of them being a statistical one: there is only one way for there to be nothing while there are several ways of being something. Now, if states are assigned randomly, then there is more possibility of there being something than nothing (Nozick 1981b: 127–​128). Does it have to be said that we have hardly any reliable way of finding out whether Nozick is right? However, he certainly points toward interesting possibilities. By just pointing out that we can hardly exclude the possibility that there could have been nothing rather than something, Leibniz expands our horizon. His question is somehow an eye-​opener; one might call it “consciousness expanding,” as transcendental meditation is said to be. The same holds for Wittgenstein’s variation on this Leibnizian theme: “Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is” (Wittgenstein 1922: 186–​187 (§ 6.44)). This is yet another eye-​opener, closely related to the Leibnizian one. We usually think of features of the world, which we know little of or do not understand, as being mysterious, but Wittgenstein points out that it makes sense to regard the fact that there is a world as being the most profound mystery of all. By posing the aforementioned question, Leibniz pointed toward new possibilities. Not necessarily of showing us that the existence of the objects of the

48

This question plays an important role in Martin Heidegger’s philosophy (Heidegger 1954: 7).

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world (“something”) is contingent; we do not know whether their existence is contingent rather than a necessary fact. The question shows us the world as a whole in a new light, the light of possible contingency, and Wittgenstein shows it in another light, the light of mystery. In a somewhat similar fashion, Eugene Ionesco’s play The Bald Prima Donna shows us a possible way looking at our ordinary ways of conversing, seeing them as absurd and empty. Jorge Luis Borges’s short story, The Analytical Language of John Wilkens, shows us the possible contingency of our systems of concepts and categories. Again, we are being shown new possibilities, and our horizon can expand. Michel Foucault’s horizon certainly did expand, he played a philosophical variation on the theme of this story (Foucault 1970: xv). Be that as it may, it does not make sense to say that something is a possibility unless we have good reasons for believing that it is a genuine possibility, not something entirely different. Therefore, neither literature nor philosophy is beyond the pale of reason. Truth matters to both of them. In the third place, even though philosophy and literature might have limited cognitive import, philosophical and literary texts can be edifying and thought provoking. In the fourth place, both philosophy and literature tend to thematize themselves and reflect about themselves. As hinted at earlier, there are meta-​ philosophical texts, but there are also meta-​literary texts, literary texts about literature, for instance, Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. In contrast, one does not reflect on physics in scientific writings in that particular field. In the fifth place, both texts of imaginative literature and philosophical texts typically contain fictional narratives and hence two lf s, the fictional and the narrative ones. Think of Plato’s tale of the cave and Locke’s story about the prince and the cobbler. Kierkegaard and Nietzsche told fictional stories with a strong literary flavor as antidotes to purely theoretical approaches to philosophy; think about Nietzsche’s saga of Zarathustra. Texts of analytical philosophy typically contain a lot of very imaginative fictional narratives, for example, Hilary Putnam’s story of twin earth (Putnam 1975: 215–​271). It is not certain whether Putnam’s story or any other philosophical saga yields analytical truths or has any other cognitive value. What is certain is that we are dealing with a fictional narrative that provides us with food for thought; it points toward interesting possibilities. Take, for instance, David Lewis’s arguments in favor of time travel being possible. You can travel back in time and kill your grandfather because there are many possible futures. A future without you is possible, and at the same time, a future where you exist because your grandfather has not been killed also exists. Time has many paths, Lewis says (Lewis 1976: 145–​152). Yet again,

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there are no reliable and universally accepted criteria for assessing the truth claims put forth in philosophical texts, including Lewis’s article. Therefore, we cannot be sure whether he is right or wrong or whether his assertions really have truth values. But we certainly know that he tells a fictional tale in support of his arguments, a thought-​provoking and interesting one. Just like Lewis, Borges tells an interesting tale about the possibility that time can have forked paths, that there are many streams of time. However, this tale is a bona fide literary story (Borges 1941).49 Like Lewis, he points toward an interesting possibility; they basically point toward the same possibility. Take the fictional stories away, and there would not be much literature in the world; almost all novels, plays, and epic poems would disappear. Remove fictional stories told by philosophers as necessary parts of philosophizing and philosophy would change radically. Fictional narratives certainly play a role in natural sciences, most famously the narratives about trains and clocks, involved in Albert Einstein’s thought experiments concerning time (according to Bernstein 1973: 60). The difference is that Einstein’s narrative was a part of an endeavor that led to testable theories, which have been tested successfully.50 No doubt that there have been other fictional narratives in natural science that were a part of such a successful undertaking. However, we have reasonably useful criteria for finding out which scientific fictional narratives have been or are parts of empirically successful research in the natural sciences. No such luck in philosophy and literature. In the sixth place, both tend to contain metaphors by the score and hence have the third lf trait in common. That metaphors play an important role in literature is not controversial; literature would disappear or change dramatically without them. But why think that philosophy is soaked with metaphors? The pragmatist Steven Pepper opined that philosophy has its basis in root metaphors or basic analogies. These metaphors form the basis of world hypotheses (Pepper 1942: 96). These hypotheses are based on commonsense approaches. A thinker has some commonsense domain as a starting point, and he tries to understand other domains with reference to the first one (Pepper 1942: 91). Thus, the metaphor, The world is a machine, has its roots in commonsensical ideas about machines. There are but four possible world hypotheses: a) Formism, “the world is formed by a craftsman” (Platonism is an example, things are formed on the basis of the ideas as though they were the plans of a 49 50

This short story was included in his volume of short stories Ficciones, published in 1944. Several translations into English are in existence. This sounds like an objectivistic view of science, but we shall later that such a view will be criticized.

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craftsman); b) Mechanism (“the world is a machine”: Materialism is obviously of this kind); c) Contextualism (“all phenomena and events are unique and must be understood in the light of a given context”: Pragmatism is contextualism); d) Organicism (“everything grows and dies like plants”: Objective idealism exemplifies organicism) (Pepper 1942: 141). Pepper uses the expression “metaphor” somewhat nebulously. Besides, his sweeping generalizations might be too abstract. Nevertheless, he has some good points, for instance, when he claims that materialism relies on machine metaphors. It was for a while popular among philosophers inspired by cognitive science to use the metaphors: The brain is the hard disc, and The mind is the software. Gilbert Ryle is famous for his metaphor, The ghost in the machine, that is, soul or subjectivity. This might be an instance of Pepper’s machine metaphor. Daniel Harry Cohen has a different theory about the necessity of metaphors in philosophy. They play different roles in philosophy, some heuristic, some not. They serve as means for exploration and articulation of philosophical hypotheses. Secondly, they help create the world anew, make us see the world as something else. As such, they are hypotheses in their own right. Thirdly, they function as koans in ZenBuddhism, as intellectual knots that have to be unraveled for the philosopher to reach understanding. A philosophical investigation starts as such a koan and matures into something like a Kuhnian ­paradigm, which in its turn is also metaphoric. There are grand metaphors in philosophy, such as Plato’s theory of forms and Kripke’s possible worlds (Cohen 2004: 141–​151 and elsewhere). The grand metaphors seem related to Pepper’s root metaphors. What is clear and concrete is that philosophers use a lot of metaphors. Thus, Karl Marx used the metaphors of basis and superstructure about society. In non-​metaphoric parlance, basis and superstructure are parts of buildings. The implicit metaphor is Society is a building. His namesake and nemesis Karl Popper used the metaphors The open society and The closed society. The underlying metaphor is Society is a room or a house; rooms and houses are opened or closed. Society is abstract and difficult to grasp, while buildings, houses, and rooms are concrete and easy to understand. Kant uses the metaphor The thing in itself. Strictly speaking, this cannot be a thing because it is unknowable, but Kant likens it to a thing because it is difficult to fathom that which is unknowable but easy to grasp what a thing is. Willard Van Orman Quine uses the metaphor The web of belief for the logical interconnections between beliefs. His student Donald Davidson

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introduced the metaphor The principle of charity as a part of analyzing the logical preconditions for understanding and interpretation. Now, do metaphors belong essentially to philosophy? Does it make sense to claim that, even if philosophers had never used metaphors, philosophy would have been largely the same as in the actual world? If either Pepper or Cohen is right (or both partly right), then metaphors are the basis of philosophy, so thinking that one does not use metaphors in philosophy is an illusion. Furthermore, we shall later see that metaphors play an important role in thinking; even logic might have metaphoric traits. If both contentions are true, then it makes sense to say that philosophy, just like literature, is soaked with metaphors. However, metaphors might function differently in those two fields. The seventh element they share is the personal touch that texts in both realms have. Philosophical texts typically express a given philosopher’s views, and a literary text is typically a part of a given writer’s oeuvre, expressing her views and emotions, written in her style (this at least holds for literature in the modern age). Russell was an advocate of his brand of logicism, Thomas Kuhn of his own historical philosophy of science, and Husserl invented his particular phenomenology. Likewise, Eugene Ionesco wrote his kind of absurdist plays and William Burroughs wrote novels of a peculiar kind. In contrast, texts in natural sciences tend to express views of collectives, even the bulk of scientists in a given field. Even when they express the views of an individual, they are written in an impersonal way. In the next chapter, I shall discuss the eighth and last element that literature and philosophy have in common.

Conclusion

In this and the previous chapter, we have seen that the concepts of literature and philosophy are hardly definable in an essential manner and are contestable concepts, more precisely amoebaean ones. Therefore, it is fruitful to look for indicators of literariness and philosophy. One of the indicators of a text being philosophical is that its main theme is meta-​disciplinary. Another is that it is mainly non-​empirical. A third is that it contains discussions of questions such as “what is reality “and “should one be virtuous”? and so on. The fourth one is that it contains mainly comprehensive reflections. The main indicators of a text being one of imaginative literature are the following. The first is a dense presence of narratives; the second is a dense presence of fictions; the third is a dense presence of formal poetic devices (for

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instance, rhyme); and the fourth is a dense presence of stylistic devices, including such tropes as metaphors. What do they have in common? In the first place, neither are natural kinds, and the concepts are contestable and highly contested. There is very little agreement about which texts deserve to be called “philosophical” or “literary.” Secondly, both philosophy and literature deal in possibilities rather than actualities. Their greatest cognitive strength rests in showing us new possibilities. It is unclear whether they can attain non-​trivial truths, but their texts might have other cognitive virtues than truth. Thirdly, both tend to be reflexive, that is, to thematize themselves; fourthly, both typically contain fictional narratives; in the fifth place they tend to contain metaphors. In the sixth place, they tend to have a personal touch, showing the personal style or particular way of thinking of the author. In the seventh place they can be edifying and thought-​provoking. In the next chapter, I shall discuss the problem of progress in philosophy and literature. I shall also respond to possible rejoinders to what is being said both in that chapter and the one ending here.

­c hapter 3

The No-​Gap Theory and the Problem of Progress The eighth element that philosophy and literature might have in common is that their cognitive forte is the proliferation of possibilities, nota bene, of the interesting and thought-​provoking kind (this book is an attempt to increase this proliferation!).51 To show this, we must discuss cognitive progress in general and ask whether it makes sense to talk about such progress in philosophy, literature, and science. If there is or can be clear-​cut cognitive progress in philosophy, then they do not share this forte, and the gap would be wider than I thought. Now, is it not absurd to ask whether literature can make any cognitive progress? No, we have already discovered that it can increase our understanding, and therefore, we cannot exclude the possibility of it making cognitive progress. But the emphasis shall be upon whether philosophy can make cognitive progress, partly because it is intuitively more plausible that it can make such progress than literature. There has been much more discussion about possible progress in philosophy than in literature. At the end of the chapter, I shall respond to actual and possible rejoinders against the No-​Gap Theory, both the elements discussed in this and the last chapter.

Cognitive Progress

What do we mean by cognitive progress in general and in philosophy in particular? Two concepts are of paramount importance, the one of truth and that of understanding. Truth shall be understood in a completely intuitive way; the concept of truth might be a primitive one and, therefore, not definable. Understanding shall mainly be used in the sense of the knowledge of the ­reasons for why a proposition is true. However, there are other modes of understanding, for instance, disclosure, which can help us get new and fruitful perspectives on reality.

51

I might be inspired by Paul Feyerabend and his Principle of Proliferation, which he thought would be enhancing for science, philosophy, the arts, and society in general (Feyerabend 1975a: 51–​52).

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_009

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Let us stipulate the following. The discovery of non-​trivial truths would constitute maximum cognitive progress in any field (for instance, science), in philosophy that would mean solutions to philosophical problems. We would be able to find out whether God exists, whether there is objective morality and objective aesthetic judgments, and how the mind relates to matter. In addition, we would have perfect understanding of the matters, for instance, understand perfectly why morality is objective. An almost maximal cognitive progress could consist in us discovering these non-​trivial truths in philosophy and in other fields, but without perfect understanding. A semi-​maximal cognitive progress consists of the answers to theories getting more truthlike at time t1 than at t0, with a better understanding of these issues at t1 than at t0. An almost semi-​maximal progress would be the progress in increased truthlikeness without better understanding or better understanding of some issues without more truthlikeness. A minimal cognitive progress could consist of such theories getting a stronger logical foundation. It could also consist in some relative cognitive progress, for example, such that theories within philosophical schools at time t1 are somehow cognitively better than theories within that school were at time t0. Kuhn’s account of cognitive progress in science as being mainly relative to paradigms would be minimal progress. There is extra-​minimal cognitive progress, which is progress in terms of the invention of possible cognitive tools. Finally, there are various kinds of non-​cognitive progress, for instance, in the normative realm where we might have better norms than our ancestors, without norms being cognitively evaluable. There is also possible progress which might be somewhat cognitive but mainly non-​cognitive. The proliferation of thought-​provoking possibilities could be such progress, that which provokes thought might lead to the creation of truth-​tracking theories or new and fruitful perspectives on reality or slices thereof. We can call it proliferative progress. Other kinds of proliferation seem clearly non-​cognitive; the proliferation of possible ways of living could be some kind of non-​cognitive progress. Notice that there could be extremely tiny kinds of cognitive progress, for instance, a case where only one theory in a given field shows maximal or semi-​maximal progress while the reset regress. Therefore, I shall differentiate between tiny and non-​tiny cognitive progress. Now, we usually regard science as the paradigmatic venue of cognitive progress. Does this mean that science can attain non-​trivial truths with perfect understanding? Given that theories are fallible, then that does not seem very

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plausible. Popper famously thought that science gets closer and closer to the truth by using a method of elimination. By falsifying a lot of theories, we at least know where truth is not. We might stumble upon truth even though we can never be certain that we have done so due to the fallibility of theories. However, Popper did not like talking much about truth; he rather used the term “verisimilitude,” truthlikeness. To understand this, we must become familiar with his notion of truth content and falsity content. Truth content is the set of all true propositions that can be derived logically from a given theory, and the falsity content is the set of all false propositions that can be thus derived. Even a false theory can have truth content; for instance, “it always rains in New York.” From this almost certainly false theory, we can derive the perhaps true proposition “it rained in New York on the 13th of October 2021.” Now, let us assume that the time is 5:30 p.m. In that case, the theory T1, “the time is between 5:27 and 5:32,” has more verisimilitude than theory T2, “the time is between five and six o’clock” (Popper 1972: 52–​60). The problem is that every theory has an infinite number of possible logical derivations. Hence, it is hard to see how verisimilitude can be measured (according to, for instance, Verikukis 2007). Moreover, there are infinitely many possible theories. So, even if we falsify a billion theories, we cannot be certain that we are closer to truth. Subtracting a billion falsified theories from infinitely many possible, non-​falsified theories means that there still remains an infinite number of possible non-​falsified theories (see, for instance, Hindess 1977: 148). Thomas Kuhn was skeptical of the notions of science getting closer and closer to truth and that older theories are special cases of younger theories in the same field. One of the reasons for this is that it is difficult to determine what expressions like “truer” or “closer to truth” really mean. One cannot, of course, exclude the possibility that scientific theories are getting closer to truth, but it is difficult to determine what exactly is involved in this: most past theories have proven to be wrong; therefore, it is not probable that current theories are true. Hence, there is not much point in saying that current theories are closer to truth than past theories. Claims about scientific theories getting closer to truth do not have much content (Kuhn 2000: 115). Whatever cognitive progress you could find in science is relative to paradigms, and paradigms are incommensurable (Kuhn 1970a: 4, 102 and elsewhere). To be sure, a given paradigm becomes more precise and a better i­ nstrument for solving problems. Also, as far as paradigms can be compared, new ones are usually more precise than the older ones and solve problems better than them. Despite this, the new paradigms do not possess all the capabilities of the older paradigms, (Kuhn 1970a: 169–​170). “You win some, you lose some.”

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Like Kuhn, Larry Laudan denied that it makes much sense to say that science approaches truth. However, there is progress in science in the guise of ever-​better ability to solve conceptual and empirical problems. A research tradition can progress when it comes to solving conceptual problems but regress when it comes to solving empirical problems. Or vice versa (for instance, Laudan 1991: 144–​155). Finnur Dellsén does not judge whether there has been progress in science but says that the necessary and sufficient conditions for progress in science would be increased understanding. Such understanding consists of the explanation of phenomena and prediction about them.52 Progress occurs when scientists at time t1 explain and predict some phenomena better than at t0. This would be almost semi-​maximal progress on my account, not excluding the possibility of maximal progress (Dellsén 2016: 72–​83 and elsewhere). Then Dellsén applies this idea to philosophy: if philosophers can explain what makes something knowledge, then they would be able to predict whether a given mental state would constitute knowledge. Progress at time t1 from t0 would consist of better explanations and predictions, as in science. It might be added that Dellsén and his team make a very useful distinction between that which promotes progress and that which constitutes progress, both in science and philosophy (Dellsén, Lawler, Norton 2021). I shall not judge which theory of cognitive progress in science is the best one, but only say that it is far from clear that science has or can progress toward truth. Neither is it clear whether there is or can be increased knowledge of good reasons for truth-​tracking theories if there are or can be such theories. Let us just say that if theorists like Laudan and Kuhn are on the right track, then that diminishes the likelihood of maximal or semi-​maximal progress in science. How likely is it that philosophy can progress maximally or semi-​maximally? It does not seem intuitively likely, given that science is at least as good a cognitive tool as philosophy. There are several obstacles toward both maximal, almost maximal, semi-​ maximal, almost semi-​maximal, and minimal cognitive progress when it comes to philosophy: the first obstacle is the problem of definition and disagreement; the second is the challenge of Wittgensteinian quietism; the third is the challenge of normativism, and the fourth is the challenge of McGinn’s mysterianism.

52

Notice that Dellsén uses “understanding” in different sense than Carroll does.

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We have already seen that there is little agreement about how to define the concept of philosophy, what its problems are and ought to be, and whether philosophy should or could be concerned with problems that seem to require cognitive solutions (the discovery of non-​trivial truths). Normativists think that the main task of philosophy is to realize certain norms, for instance, the establishment of animal rights, the establishment of a new, just society, or the improvement of individual lives. Progress for normativists is not necessarily cognitive; it consists mainly in a change of something in a desired direction. If quietists are right, then there would not be any cognitive progress in philosophy since philosophical problems are not real, the only progress would consist of more and more puzzles being solved. Also, if McGinn is right, then there could be no progress in philosophy as long as humans alone do philosophy. However, we have seen earlier that testing McGinn’s theory might be very problematic even though it might be right. Why believe that philosophical problems are pseudo-​problems? There does not seem to be any sure-​fire way to determine whether this belief is warranted. Can we know with certainty that there are no real philosophical problems? We might also ask whether Wittgenstein is not undercutting his own position: the question regarding what the nature of philosophy is counts as a philosophical problem, and he has a philosophical solution to it, maintaining that philosophy is a collection of pseudo-​problems. This means that there is one genuine philosophical problem, the one of the nature of philosophy, and then Wittgenstein is contradicting himself. Besides, if he has solved this problem, then there can be a tiny semi-​maximal or even maximal progress in philosophy, from earlier ideas to his solution. That would be the only example of such progress. What about normativism? Is it really a challenge to the idea of philosophical progress? Could one be a normativist without thinking that some cognitive problems of philosophy can be solved, and norms justified considering these solutions? Yes, one could be a non-​cognitivist concerning norms, regarding accepting norms as pure acts of will or even taste. Then one might be a cognitivist concerning norms but one who regards empirical science as the sole basis for normative justification.

Williamson on Progress in Philosophy

The fact that many hardnosed analytical philosophers have abandoned the linguistic approach and started to do metaphysics might point in the direction of there not being much cognitive progress in hardnosed analytical philosophy. Its founding fathers wanted to do away with metaphysics and focus

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on logic and the analysis of linguistic units,53 while many modern analytical philosophers talk like metaphysics is the only game in town (see, for instance, Olson 1997). Timothy Williamson is one of the main advocates of modern analytical metaphysics, believing that there is at least some cognitive progress in philosophy. He argues in favor of there not being any clear-​cut separation between philosophy and the sciences, i.e., the natural sciences and mathematics. Mathematics shows that pure thinking can yield knowledge, and therefore, philosophy ought to be able to yield knowledge. Philosophy relies on armchair methods, which does not mean that it is confined to the armchair. Scientific experiments can be directly relevant to philosophy, for instance, the philosophy of time (Williamson 2007: 6). Moreover, it is misleading to say that philosophical truths are necessarily conceptual: “Many philosophically relevant truths are clearly not conceptual truths in any useful sense. For instance, in arguing against subjective idealism, a defender of common-​sense metaphysics says that there was a solar system millions of years before there was sentient life” (Williamson 2007: 49). In addition, both science and philosophy make discoveries and seek evidence for them. Both make thought experiments. There are several loopholes in his argumentation. For instance, he does not explain why the social sciences and the humanities are not included in his list of sciences. There is no discussion of whether philosophy might not be just as close to the humanities, religion, or the fine arts as to science. He writes that the “primary task of the philosophy of science is to understand science, not to give scientists advice” (Williamson 2007: ix). However, Williamson just assumes that philosophers of science either seek to understand science or try to help scientists. Why should philosophers of science not criticize science as a whole and even advocate its demise? Continental philosophers such as Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Herbert Marcuse were critical of science, thinking that scientific logic was a logic of dominition and repression (Adorno and Horkheimer 1988). Marcuse advocated a new kind of non-​dominant science (Marcuse 1972). In a similar vein, Maurice Merleau-​Ponty wrote, “Science manipulates things and gives up living in them. “(Merleau-​Ponty 1972: 55) In contrast, visual art lives in things. Now, Williamson might not regard these continental thinkers as bona fide philosophers. But he might have a hard time denying that Paul Feyerabend was a philosopher. He wanted new and allegedly non-​repressive ways of doing 53

See, for instance, Carnap 1932: 219–​241.

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science (Feyerabend 1975a). He thought that philosophy of science should take part in improving science (for instance, Feyerabend 1975b: 201–​210). Science must be democratized; ordinary people should get the opportunity to influence science, and for that matter, also art (Feyerabend 1984: 145–​169). Richard Rorty might have stopped regarding himself as a philosopher. Nevertheless, he argued in a philophical manner, inspired by Donald Davidson, when he attacked the notion that science informs us about reality. I shall discuss this theory at some length later in this book. Now, it suffices to say that Rorty thinks that reality can cause our sentences to be true or untrue but not determine truth in any profound manner (see also Davidson 2001: 143). In modern society, scientists have a role similar to the one that priests used to have. Both are/​were regarded as being in touch with non-​empirical reality, hidden for the ordinary person. Instead of regarding scientists as priests, we should regard them as creators of solidarity. The main task of science is to be a tool to create solidarity in a democratic society. It enhances such values as tolerance, use of persuasion rather than force, and the willingness to debate issues. All these values are important in democratic societies (Rorty 1991a: 35–​45).54 What if Rorty, Feyerabend, Marcuse, or Merleau-​Ponty were right? We cannot exclude that possibility. Would philosophy become any better if voices like theirs were silenced? The main reason why Williamson advocates scientistic metaphysics is his critical attitude toward the idea of philosophy as linguistic analysis, clearly separated from the empirical sciences. He maintains that the linguistic turn was wrong and that philosophers should not one-​sidedly focus on language. The linguistic philosophers wrongly thought that concepts were something that synonymous words have in common, not understanding that they are non-​linguistic mental representations (Williamson 2007: 14–​15, 29–​30). In light of this, it might seem strange that he thinks there has been and still is progress in analytical philosophy; one does hardly progress if one takes wrong turns. He also admits that analytical metaphysics is, to a certain degree, an attempt to rejuvenate classical pre-​Kantian metaphysics, which were for a long time regarded with suspicion by analytical philosophers (Williamson 2007: 19–​21). In Williamson’s view, their suspicions were not well-​founded. However, the rejuvenation of old ideas is certainly not a typical example of cognitive progress, even though the history of science contains some examples of this, for instance, the rejuvenation of the particle theory of light (see, for example, 54

I shall return to Rorty’s and Feyerbend’s arguments later.

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Hawking 1989: 85–​86). In philosophy, such attempts at rejuvenation happen all the time; after Kant came into disrepute in Germany, his thinking was given a new lease life under the battle cry “Back to Kant. “In our days, virtue ethics has been resurrected. Maybe German neo-​Kantianism and modern virtue ethics constitute philosophical progress, but how are we to assess it? Williamson maintains that modern modal logic has been one of the most important vehicles of progress; we do, for instance, know more about truth nowadays than we did in 1957. But he admits that progress in philosophy is difficult to attain, not least because many analytical philosophers are not sufficiently precise and rigorous in their argumentation. However, there is hope if analytical philosophers become more precise, more rigorous, and pay more attention to various important constraints on analysis, including semantic ones. They should learn from mathematics, even though philosophy never can be reduced to mathematics: “But we can often produce mathematical models of fragments of philosophy, and when we can, we should” (Williamson 2007: 291). Philosophers should also use their imagination to perform thought experiments and study counterfactuals, which are logically prior to metaphysical necessities in Williamson’s view. He firmly believes that there are such necessities. It is tempting to destab Williamson: writers of imaginative literature use their imagination in creating thought experiments. Furthermore, fictional stories can be regarded as counterfactual stories: if there had been a prince called “Hamlet” who had certain traits of character and lived in a certain setting, then Hamlet would have killed his usurper of an uncle and so on. To be sure, such counterfactual literary stories do not show us any metaphysical necessities, but they might be hard to discover, even for a modal logician. They might even not exist, in case of which Williamsonian thought experiments would be somewhat similar to literary stories. So, given Williamson’s arguments, there might not be any gulf between imaginative literature and the kind of philosophy he professes. But it certainly was not his aim to prove this, so maybe this attempt at destabing his theories has been successful. A problem of another kind is Williamson’s contention that the use and development of formal logic have meant progress in philosophy. The problem is that the question of the usefulness of formal logic in philosophical analyses is a philosophical issue. Famously, several philosophers, including many Wittgensteinians, have doubted that formal logical analysis of philosophical problems is a fruitful undertaking. So, citing some possible progress in logical analysis is no evidence for the possibility of philosophical progress in general. Moreover, how can one prove that the formal logical approach is superior to

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other philosophical approaches? Through formal logic? That would be circular reasoning, which is rather un-​logical, unless the circle is virtuous. The Wittgensteinian P.H.S. Hacker said that overemphasis on formal logic has led to a new scholasticism. Formal logic is not a good tool for analyzing vague concepts, and a substantial part of our concepts is vague. He criticizes Williamson for misrepresenting linguistic philosophy and dismissing linguistic analysis with poor arguments. Philosophy must perform conceptual analysis and can do so only by analyzing words; concepts are accessible only through language. Moreover, the fact that philosophers make thought experiments just like scientists does not mean that philosophy is closely related to science. We can also make thought experiments in chess and cricket (Hacker 2009: 337–​ 348). I add: in imaginative literature too. Williamson is famous for his analysis of vagueness and maintains that there is no vagueness in reality, outside of ordinary language. There is one definite grain of sand that can change a group of grains into a pile or vice versa. However, we cannot determine which grain; we think that there is vagueness in reality, but it is a question of our limited cognitive capacities. Now, if there is no vagueness outside of ordinary language, then formal logical analysis can be applied to all concepts, even those that appear vague (Williamson 2007: 23–​47 and elsewhere). I gather that if there is no vagueness, then there is no imprecision, and therefore, it would be possible to determine exactly what precision in reasoning is. If Williamson is wrong, we can ask what, precisely, precision is. What would be the precise and exact distance between the earth and the moon? To answer this question, we must decide from which point on earth and the moon the distance should be measured. Are there any points which are exactly and precisely the correct ones? Furthermore, precisely how many extra digits in the measurement would be precise ones? (for a similar example, see Wittgenstein 2009: 46 (§88)). The conclusion is that exactness and precision when it comes to measurement are functions of our goals with the measuring, the language game we are playing. It is tempting to believe that the same holds for precision and exactness in general. If this is true, then it is not very informative to demand that philosophers become more precise; precision would be relative to their goals. Then again, Williamson might be right about vagueness and hence precision. I shall neither judge who is right when it comes to precision nor whether Hacker’s analysis is correct. Instead, I ask how Hacker knows that conceptual/​ linguistic analysis is a good philosophical tool. If he discovered this with the aid of such analysis, then his arguments are circular and might even be viciously

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so. And if there is a Langford paradox, both Hacker’s and Williamson’s brands of analysis are in dire straits. However, Williamson is probably right when claiming that many philosophically relevant truths are not conceptual. In the last chapter, I invoked the empirical findings of Rosch and the theory of evolution in defense of the conception of amoebaean concepts. Conceptual analysis does not have any monopoly on philosophical argumentation. We can ask whether we have any criteria to decide who is closer to truth, Williamson, or Hacker. Could there be a crucial thought experiment that decides between their theories about the relationship between language, mentality, and representation? Not as far as I know. It must be emphasized that there is nothing wrong with using formal logic and trying to construct mathematical models of fragments of philosophy, as long as one does not exclude the possibility of other approaches, including conceptual analysis and critical theory. Of course, Williamson could be right about there having been certain progress in philosophy and/​or that such progress is possible. But if either McGinn, Rorty, or Wittgenstein is right, it makes no sense to ask whether philosophy has or can progress cognitively.55

Other Thinkers on Progress

David Chalmers is more pessimistic than Williamson. He does not deny that there is and can be some progress in philosophy but wonders why there has been so little of it (Chalmers 2015: 3–​31). Inspired by Peter van Inwagen, he says that there has been some progress when it comes to negative theories. Most philosophers now correctly think that the sense-​data theory is wrong, and that knowledge is not true, justified belief. Thus, they have progressed beyond classical empiricism and the old Platonic view that it is true, justified belief. But he doubts that there has been any significant progress when it comes to solving the big problems of philosophy, finding true answers to such questions as “do humans have free will?,” “what is relationship between mind and body?,”

55

It must be emphasized that analytical philosophers do not monopolize the contention that there is or can be progress in philosophy. Hegel famously thought that philosophy had progressed and would mainly terminate in his philosophical system. Karl-​Otto Apel opined that there had been systematic progress in philosophy from the ontological oriented philosophy of the Greeks, via the emphasis on epistemology in early modern philosophy, to the modern focus on language (Apel 2017: 7–​24). What about the ontological, anti-​linguistic turn in recent analytical philosophy? Apel did not mention it.

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“is there a God?“ and so on. Compare this to mathematics, Chalmers says. In 1900, the mathematician David Hilbert posed 23 problems for mathematics, which were unsolved at that time. Since then, around ten of them have been clearly solved, leading to a general consensus, while seven have been partly solved. There is no comparable success when it comes to tackling philosophical problems. Chalmers has some good points. However, he should have discussed the possibility that the current consensus among analytical philosophers concerning the sense-​data theory and the one of justified, true beliefs, might be passing fads. Who says that they do not come back in new, interesting, shapes? Sixty years ago, analytical philosophers would have laughed if anybody had predicted the comeback of pre-​Kantian metaphysics in analytical shape. He admits that there was such a consensus for a brief period concerning the synthetic/​analytic distinction in the wake of Quine’s famous “destabing” of it. But he could have added that for a long time almost all analytical philosophers were anti-​essentialists (see, for instance, Popper 1994a: 26–​27, Wittgenstein 2009). However, that consensus disappeared when Saul Kripke revived essentialism (Kripke 1970). Moreover, Chalmers assumes without argument that philosophy is about solving cognitive problems and thus attaining truth. He ignores the fact that many philosophers disagree with that. Furthermore, he thinks that progress can be increased if verbal issues are solved and there is a consensus on philosophical terminology. But he ignores the possibility that the difference in terminology, used by different philosophers might in many cases be questions of conceptual schemes, not mere verbal quibbles, making the creation of common terminology a question of accepting one scheme and ignoring others. If schemes are incommensurable, then that could mean the impoverishment of philosophy; the acceptance of one scheme could lead to the disappearance of a host of schemes that might have had more good-​ making features than the accepted one, e.g., being more edifying or inspiring, or even be somehow vehicles for cognitive progress. Let us turn briefly to the question of whether the purported disagreement among philosophers is an indication of a lack of cognitive progress in philosophy. To this, Herman Cappelen responds by saying in the first place that we do not have very clear empirical evidence for such a disagreement; Bourget and Chalmers’s survey is about the only one. Secondly, there is no less a lack of agreement in the social sciences and the humanities, even in the alleged most “scientific” of them, such as economics and psychology.

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Thirdly, when formerly philosophical disciplines became bona fide sciences, there must have been a widespread agreement among the philosophers who helped turn them into sciences. Fourthly, there is relatively widespread agreement about “smaller” problems in philosophy. In the fifth place, agreement is not necessarily a precondition for cognitive success, if one philosopher solves a philosophical problem, then it does not matter if other philosophers disagree with him56 (Cappelen 2017: 56–​75). Cappelen’s first point is fine; I have no issues with it. As for the second point, we cannot exclude the possibility that lack of agreement in the social sciences and the humanities points in the direction of humankind being cognitively closed to the understanding of its subjectivity, mind, behavior, and institutions. Even the allegedly most advanced of these disciplines, economics, and psychology, have serious academic problems. Psychological experiments tend to be difficult, even impossible, to replicate (for instance, Nosek et al 2015). Moreover, it has been difficult to test the extremely abstract theories of economics (Rosenberg 1983: 296–​314). Of course, the reason might be that economists and psychologists have chosen the wrong methodological paths or that these disciplines are not very advanced for other reasons. Cappelen’s third point is speculative; is there any clear-​cut empirical evidence for it? The fourth and the fifth points are based on the assumption that there are philosophical problems and that they are solvable by humans. That is far from certain. It might be added that Finnur Dellsén, Insa Lawler, and James Norton criticize Cappelen’s fourth point on the ground that one person’s discovery of the truth hardly can constitute cognitive progress in an academic discipline as a whole. What if the other researchers in the field (in this case, philosophers) regress cognitively at the same time as the individual made her discovery? (Dellsén, Lawler, and Norton 2021). What about the spin-​off theory of philosophical progress? According to this theory, every new science starts as a branch of philosophy, and philosophical progress consists of spawning new subjects. The adherents of this theory might add that imaginative literature has not and cannot cause such a spin-​off progress, and therefore, philosophy and literature differ dramatically when it comes to the issue of cognitive progress. Nevertheless, while admitting that there is a grain of truth in the spin-​off theory, David Papineau points out that there is a host of philosophical problems that thinkers have been struggling with since the day of the Old Greeks. It 56

He makes several other points, but only the five mentioned concerns us here.

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holds for problems of morality, free will, the nature of consciousness, and so on (Papineau 2017). This might indicate that these problems are not solvable and that, by implication, philosophical assertions conveying solutions to them are devoid of truth values. Alternatively, they have truth values, but that was not given unto Man to assess them, witness McGinn. It can be added that the fact that some philosophers are critical of science shows that we cannot judge all philosophizing in terms of whether it can create scientific spin-​off. Saying that these thinkers are not philosophers because of their critical stance toward science would simply be begging the question. Furthermore, what about those who do normative ethics in general, not only in connection with science? Peter Singer puts forth all kinds of normative proposals and argues systematically in favor of them. Nonetheless, these proposals cannot be judged in the spin-​off terms. It does not make sense to say that there could be a science of animal liberation and that Singer has created its philosophical foundation. Now, even if the spin-​off theory were largely true, that would not exclude the possibility of literature having a similar kind of cognitive progress. In the first place, philosophy and science have their origin in myths, and myths are for all intents and purposes literary stories.57 So, it might make sense to talk of a literary spin-​off progress, given that myths have spawned scientific subjects. More importantly, if Carroll is right about literature being able to provide what he calls “understanding,” then both maximal and semi-​maximal progress ought to be possible in imaginative literature. But Carroll might be wrong. Furthermore, there might have been some extra-​minimal progress in imaginative literature. Fiction and the novel might be cognitive instruments that were better than earlier instruments used by writers. The invention of fiction made by such literary writers as Miguel de Cervantes, enabled writers to aspect reality in infinitely many possible ways. They could make conscious thought experiments, somewhat like scientists and philosophers. For instance, by experimenting with the notion of a man who goes mad because he reads too many medieval romances and, as a result, imagines himself to be a valiant knight. Or they could make experiments with consciousness, describe conscious processes as streams as James Joyce did in Ulysses. Writers of earlier times tended to be restricted by conventions on how a story should be told, and even if they sometimes unconsciously created fictional thought experiments, it was not very common.

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Karl Popper maintained that science must have had its origins in the critical scrutiny of myths (Popper 1994b: 66–​67).

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As is well known, fictions can also be cognitive instruments in philosophy and the sciences in the guise of thought experiments. Moreover, in tandem with fiction, the invention of the novel created the possibility of making complex, fictional worlds; when these worlds are similar to actual societies, the novels can mirror their complexities. It also created the possibility of making characters as complex as real people. Consequently, novels can be an excellent tool for thematizing social and psychological issues, such as the danger of totalitarianism (George Orwell’s 1984) or the psychological makeup of persons with psychopathic tendencies, for instance, Mikael Lermontov’s A Hero of Our Times. What about philosophy? Perhaps, the invention of symbolic logic was an invention of powerful cognitive tool, hence there might be some extra-​minimal cognitive progress in philosophy. There might also be minimal cognitive progress; perhaps there is cognitive progress within the boundaries of, say, analytical philosophy on the one hand and continental philosophy on the other. Thus, Lakatos’s theory of methodological research programs might be a cognitive improvement on Karl Popper’s original critical rationalism.58 Paul Ricœur’s theories might constitute a similar progress vis-​à-​vis Edmund Husserl’s theories. In both cases, we would have minimal cognitive progress. In addition, analytical and continental philosophy might be incommensurable, so that it would not make sense to say that Popper’s theories are better than those of Husserl and vice versa. If that is so, it only makes sense to talk about relative, cognitive progress in philosophy; this kind of progress would be minimal.

Progress and the Proliferation of Possibilities

It might make sense to say that philosophy progresses in the proliferative way, by discovering/​inventing new possibilities. If that is the case, then the philosophers of the seventeenth century made progress when they discovered the thought-​provoking possibility of doubting the existence of other minds, even though that problem might not be solvable. Then again, we cannot exclude the possibility of it being a pseudo-​problem. Not any possibility can do. If “anything goes,” such “possibilities” as “the mind is a rat” could count. To count as real philosophical possibilities, they 58

What if Feyerabend was right about Lakatos’s theory being anarchism in disguise? (Feyerabend 1975a: 14 and elsewhere). In that case, it would not constitute progress within the confinement of critical rationalism.

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must be somehow constrained. The concept of constraints used here is an amoebaean concept: A philosophical possibility is constrained in the correct fashion if it has some of the following traits or some similar traits (the list is not exhaustive): a) it must be philosophical, meaning that there must be quite a heavy presence of one or more of the indicators in it; b) it is logically coherent; c) it has explanatory power; d) it is precise; e) it has scope; f) it is truth-​ tracking; g) it is original; g) it is disclosive; h) it is intellectually challenging i) it is transformative (for instance, therapeutic or edifying); k) it is profound; l) it involves norms that are justified. Only a) is necessary, and it must also have at least one of the rest or similar traits. In addition to the constraints named, the candidate for possibility must be similar to some accepted, even prototypical, philosophical possibility. It seems intuitively right that, ceteris paribus, the more of these constraints there are on any given possibility, the better reason we have for regarding it as a genuine philosophical possibility. Informed judgment is required to decide how to interpret a-​l (or other possible constraints) in any given case and how many of them count in the case. Informed judgment is also required to determine whether the list of constraints should be made longer or shorter and what (if any) new candidates for constraints deserve inclusion in the list. Ranking could be an excellent tool for informed judgment in this endeavor. What do I mean by profundity and being disclosive? I use disclosive in a fairly wide manner, Wittgenstein’s showing can be one kind of disclosure; the eye-​opening effect of artworks and philosophical thoughts can be another kind of disclosure when we see reality in a new light thanks to the artworks. Disclosure can create new perspectives and take part in creating new conceptual schemes (much more about disclosure in a later chapter). I shall not define profundity, only say that Kierkegaard’s analysis of the human predicament strikes me as profound, and the theory of relativity must be regarded as profound, albeit in a different manner. Leibniz’s “why is there something and not nothing” qualifies as a disclosive possibility; it is, as said earlier, eye-​opening, makes us aspect reality in a new manner. It is also profound, digging deep into the very foundation of reality. It is somewhat similar to classical metaphysical theories about the ultimate nature of reality. Thus, it qualifies as a genuine possibility. The same holds for Williamson’s theory of vagueness. It is logically coherent, precise, original, intellectually challenging, and profound. Whether it is true, or truth-​tracking is another matter; maybe the problem of vagueness is a pseudo-​problem or unsolvable by humans. Nonetheless, it shall be celebrated as thought-​provoking and an idea, which proliferates possibilities.

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If it makes sense to say that philosophy progresses by the proliferation of possibilities, the same holds for imaginative literature.59 The invention of fiction was the realization of an ontological possibility, the possibility of there being an ontological realm between the one of truth and the one of lies. In a similar fashion, the invention of the novel was a realization of a possibility, the creation of a powerful instrument for aspecting human life anew, showing it in a new light. Are possibilities of literature just as constrained as those of philosophy? No, but there are some loose constraints, and at least some of them must be satisfied. Among them are: a) being disclosive, b) being original, c) being morally inspiring, d) being aesthetically interesting, e) being emotively inspiring, f) being formally satisfying, and g) being profound. In addition, it helps if the possibilities have some relevant similarities to accepted, even prototypical, literary possibilities. Yet again, informed judgment must decide whether a text satisfies enough of these constraints and how they shall be understood. Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment is original as well as morally and emotionally inspiring. The main theme is the question whether we have the right to kill morally bad person. Also, whether doing so leads to the murderer become like a living dead because of bad conscience. The story is told in a powerful, emotional manner. It has relevant similarities to works that are accepted as legitimate literary possibilities, for instance, Stendahl’s Red and Black, which is about an amoral young man who thinks he does not have to obey society’s norms. Moreover, the invention of literary genres is also the creation of new possibilities, for example, the invention of the tragedy among the old Greeks, the more recent invention of the novel, and, of course, the invention of fiction. The proliferation of possibilities both in philosophy and literature can be in the shape of ever new variations on the same theme. Philosophers play new variations on such themes as that of dualism and materialism, empiricism, and rationalism, or for that matter, whether God exists. The medieval schoolmen tried their hands at proving God’s existence; Richard Swinburne uses Bayesian statistics and modern logic to make a case for it being more likely than not that God exists. Could it be that Swinburne is just playing yet another variation on a theme? One plays such variations on themes in the artworld. Writers from Sophocles to Dostoevsky have played different variations on the theme of crime and 59

Maybe the same holds for the sciences or at least the social sciences and the humanities.

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culpability. However, we have no evidence for these variations constituting or promoting cognitive progress. But we cannot exclude the possibility of the playing of variations in philosophy somehow constituting cognitive progress. Maybe Swinburne’s variations are better than Thomas Aquinas’s variations, maybe his arguments are better. However, that does not necessarily mean that Swinburne’s theories are closer to truth. Keith M. Parsons is very critical of his theories and doubts that it makes any sense to prove God’s existence (Parsons 1989: 63–​147). Perhaps, there is no way to find out who is right, Aquinas, Swinburne, or Parsons. Maybe the questions of truth and rightness in this context are empty. It would be empty on Wittgensteinian quietism. This proliferation of variations in both literature and philosophy can perhaps be likened to the listening to various interpretations of the same piece of classical music. Such great pianists as Daniel Barenboim, Glenn Gould, Lang, and András Schiff interpreted Bach’s The Well-​Tempered Clavier in different ways. Each interpretation aspects Bach’s work in a new way and makes the listener experience it in a particular, aesthetically satisfying way. But it makes no sense to talk about cognitive progress in this context. Contemplating literary variations certainly can be aesthetically satisfying. Who says that contemplating philosophical variations cannot be thus satisfying? Maybe providing such means for aesthetical satisfaction is what philosophy does best, better than seeking truth. However, I do not exclude the possibility of philosophical progress of the maximal or semi-​maximal kind toward non-​trivial truths, besides the proliferation of possibilities. Besides, a minimal progress could be possible, as already hinted at. Perhaps I am logically bound to regard my own rpe as closer to the truth than a host of older philosophical views and hence constituting at least some cognitive progress relative to them. Admittedly, it is even more difficult to find arguments in favor of cognitive progress in literature than in philosophy, that is, cognitive progress of the maximal kind.

Rejoinders and Responses

Let us now look at possible rejoinders and my responses to them (remember that these are rejoinders to that which has been said in this and the last chapter). The first four rejoinders concern the existence or non-​existence of boundaries between philosophy and literature; the fifth concerns the cognitive import of possibilities; the sixth and seventh the nature of my project, and the eighth the use of language in literature.

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The first possible rejoinder is that the No-​Gap Theory is trivially true; after all, philosophers and literary writers often inspire each other but use the inspiration in a way that befits their field and not the field of the inspirators. Furthermore, there are bona fide philosophical texts and literary texts that are on the borderline between philosophy and literature. Examples of such borderline texts could be the works by Kierkegaard and Nietzsche and literary texts like some of the short stories of Borges. My answer is that even if such borderline texts did not exist, and there was no cross-​fertilization between these two different fields, the No-​Gap Theory still could be true. We have already seen that even hardnosed analytical philosophical texts can, and very often do, possess elements that we usually think of as belonging to the realm of imaginative literature. The No-​Gap Theory could still be true even if hardnosed analytical philosophy were to be regarded as the only real modern philosophy, and that writerly philosophers were to be seen as poets posing as philosophers. The reason is that taking fictional narratives out of hardnosed analytical philosophy would be like amputating a person’s leg. Hardnosed analytical philosophers cannot do very much without fictional stories. The second rejoinder is that it is trivially true that philosophy has unclear boundaries. The unclear boundaries between literature and philosophy are not of greater importance than its unclear boundaries with science, rather the opposite. My response is that philosophical texts, in general, are necessarily shot through with literariness, not with science, even if some of them have scientific sides. Texts of both hardnosed analytical philosophers and those of writerly philosophers of the Kierkegaard kind tend to have literary moments, while only the first type has unclear boundaries with science. The third rejoinder is that I am committing the analogical fallacy, that is, wrongly thinking that similarities and analogies have cognitive value, in my case some purported similarities and analogies, between literary and philosophical works. However, the answer was already given earlier in this section, arguing in terms of similarities and analogies can have cognitive value if one argues carefully, and I think my argumentation has such a value, but I might be mistaken. I might have committed the fallacy by being careless and superficial in my use of analogies and similarities and giving such comparisons too much weight. The fourth rejoinder is that I am doing away with any difference between philosophy and literature and that saying that philosophy and literature are exactly the same flies in the face of common sense. Do I want to reduce

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philosophy to a literary genre, Rortyan style? (for his reduction, see Rorty 1982: 90–​109). Certainly not, literature and philosophy are not the same, even though they overlap. There is no reason to reduce philosophy to literature, we could just as well reduce literature to a philosophical genre. After all, literary texts lend themselves easily to philosophical interpretations. That holds even for the literary texts of such anti-​theoretical writers as Ernst Hemingway. His novel For Whom the Bell Tolls can be understood as being about the ethical issue of duty versus inclination. The protagonist Robert Jordan battles his inclination to flee in a battle during the Spanish civil war and chooses the path of duty toward his fellow man as a good Kantian. T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets can be interpreted as being about the philosophical problem of time, and James Joyce’s Ulysses can be read as an illustration of William James’s theory of the stream of consciousness. And so on and so forth. I am certainly not saying that there is no difference between philosophy and literature. The absence of a gap does not imply identity. If argumentation never played any role in any purported philosophical text, then the concept of philosophy would be largely devoid of content. There would be no real difference between the genre of philosophy and the genres of religion, poetry, or journalism if it were not the rule rather than the exception that argumentation plays an important part in philosophical texts. To be sure, there are notable exceptions to that rule, the texts of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and even Wittgenstein are such exceptions. However, they can be understood as attempts to fill lacunae left by argumentation; they “swim” in an argumentative sea, poetry does not. Be that as it may, in the actual world, the concept of philosophy has some content. It is hard to call texts like Critique of Pure Reason or Spinoza’s Ethics anything but philosophical texts. As said earlier, truth claims, and argumentation often play some role in imaginative literature. If argumentation and truth claims disappeared entirely from literary texts, literature would change vastly but not disappear. Then again, if every conceivable literary text were dominantly argumentative, the concept of literature would lose most of its content. There would hardly be any difference between these texts and philosophical or scientific texts. Actually, the concept of literature has some content; could one call Emily Dickinson´s poems anything but “texts of imaginative literature”? The fifth rejoinder concerns progress and possibilities. The critic might say that cognitive progress can only be progress towards truth and proliferation of possibilities is no guarantee for anything being true or truth-​tracking.

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My response is that if Putnam is right, discovering new possibilities is making conceptual discoveries, and hence truth-​tracking ones. Moreover, the more possibilities we know, the more likely is that we find some that are true or truth-​tracking. The sixth rejoinder is that I am contradicting myself: I put forth philosophical truth claims about the relationship between literature and philosophy, and as part of my argument, I deny that philosophical assertions have truth values. The answer is that I have never denied that philosophical assertions can have truth values; my assertions could, for all I know, possess such values and even be non-​trivially true. I have only said that we cannot be absolutely sure that philosophical assertions can have truth values, and that if they (including my own) do have truth values, then they are very difficult, even impossible, to assess. Nevertheless, logically speaking, we cannot exclude the possibility that the No-​Gap Theory is non-​trivially true and that it is the sole non-​trivially true philosophical theory ever (which is not very likely, to put it mildly!). The seventh is rather a surprised question than a real rejoinder: why all these “maybes,” “possibles” and so on? The answer is that, through these locutions, I both express the skeptical tendency of the rpe and also try to increase the proliferation of philosophical possibilities. The rpe is a sort of “maybeism.” The eighth and last rejoinder is complex: i) Its proponent says that I wrongly think that literary texts can possibly have cognitive import. The differentia specifica of literary texts is that they can provide us with aesthetic experiences, the argument goes, and whatever cognitive import they might have, is purely incidental or even illusory. In stark contrast, philosophical texts essentially contain truth claims, however difficult or even impossible to assess. ii) The proponent looks at the language used in philosophical versus literary texts and invokes speech acts theory: in philosophical texts, the language is predominantly used in literal, logical, serious, and argumentative fashion; the speech acts made have an illocutionary force. But in texts of imaginative literature, language is predominantly used in a non-​literal, rhetorical, playful, fictional, and non-​argumentative way. Like John Searle, the proponent says that the speech acts made in literary texts are usually without illocutionary force; they are mimetic of speech acts with such force and rather like quotations, and quotations have no assertive force (Searle 1975: 319–​332). Jürgen Habermas says that in daily life (in contrast to literary works), speech acts play the main role of being instruments for solving problems (Habermas 1988c 261). The scientist says, “The earth has gotten much warmer in the last century,” and the policeman says to the delinquent “surrender!” The speech act of the scientist has the illocutionary force of being a constative speech act; the one of the policeman has the illocutionary force of being a regulative speech

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act. The policeman and the scientist are trying to solve some problems with the aid of speech acts, the former the problem of delinquency, the latter the problem of climate change. The delinquent must take a stance upon the legitimacy of the policeman’s speech act or react to it in some other way. Other scientists and ordinary people must take a stance upon the proposition’s truth value embedded in the scientist’s speech act. However, speech acts in literary works do not play any role in solving problems. Like Searle, Habermas maintains that they function like quotations (Habermas 1985a: 236–​237). The proponent of the rejoinder adds that philosophical texts contain mainly speech acts with genuine illocutionary force in stark contrast to literary works. Habermas admits that there can be non-​literal and non-​argumentative moments in philosophical discourse and argumentative and literal moments in a text of imaginative literature. But the literal and the serious use of language is essential to philosophy, while the non-​literal and rhetorical use is essential to imaginative literature (Habermas 1988c: 242–​263).60 My response to (i–​i i) is as follows: Searle and Habermas overestimate the importance of speech acts in works of imaginative literature. It is trivially true that we must confer the identity of a literary work upon a text if we are to understand it as being literary (understand it as being a work of literature). However, it is difficult to understand such works unless we confer such identities as realistic or fantastic upon them. We can only do that by relating them to slices of that which we think is reality outside of the world of the work. Furthermore, there are cases where one has to decide whether to regard the speaking voice in a text as the voice of the author or as a fictional voice. We cannot confer the identity of a confessional poem upon a text unless we regard the speaking voice as that of the author. Moreover, it is hard to see how we can understand descriptions of the actions of characters or avowals in poetry unless we have knowledge of human actions, thoughts, and feelings. Understanding a Greek tragedy might have as a precondition some knowledge of tragic incidents in real life. Confessional poetry can consist of speech acts that are genuinely meant and are means to express the poet’s emotions and views. If that was never the case and confessional poems were only fictions and vehicles for toying with ideas, it is hard to see what role confessional poetry plays. It is an important

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It must be added that he thinks that literary works have some cognitive import, the basic function of poetical language is to disclose reality (show it in a new light) (Habermas 1985a: 245). More about that in a later chapter.

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and thriving genre of literature, which points to it being usually a vehicle for attempts at truthful confessions. If not, it would hardly have survived and thrived. Now, the critic might say that I am committing the intentional fallacy. However, literary texts are autonomous, moreover that the intentions and emotions of the writer play no role in understanding them (see, for instance, Beardsley and Wimsatt 1946: 468–​488). I call Beardsley, Wimsatt’s, Searle, and Habermas’s view of literature literary monadology; they regard a literary work as a monad, cf. Leibniz.61 My response is that this is far from certain that intentions do not matter. E. D. Hirsch maintains that we cannot understand a literary work unless we know the writer’s intentions (Hirsch 1995: 390–​404). Again, we have the problem of the lack of criteria to solve philosophical problems. Can we decide who is right, Hirsch, or Beardsley and Wimsatt? Be that as it may, we can only understand a variety of literary works, including confessional poetry, by treating them as potentially (in)authentic in some possible world or even our actual one. To judge a confessional poem as authentic is saying that it could be an authentic expression of someone in some possible world. We must also invoke the notion of possible worlds when discussing believability in literary works. It is often mandatory to understand a fictional, literary narrative in terms of its believability—​its internal consistency and such. In an old dime novel, a young girl is said to be so poor that she does not own a coat. She walks into a house, not wearing any coat, and some minutes later leaves, taking her old coat with her. This lack of internal consistency diminished the believability of the story. Judging it as unbelievable can occur only by reflecting on whether there could be a possible world where such things happen. The answer is no, logic rules in any possible world. Furthermore, it holds for a large number of literary texts that they cannot be understood unless they are regarded as having a cognitive message, even though the message is not clearly stated in the work; witness Orwell’s 1984. That novel consists almost entirely of speech acts without illocutionary force; nevertheless, the novel makes no sense unless it is understood as putting forth a message about totalitarianism. A literary text is more than a sum of its sentences; the extra bit is the essence or message. 61

Beardsley did not invoke speech acts theory but came to a similar conclusion as Searle and Habermas. He stresses the difference between uttering a sentence and state something with the aid of it. In literary fictions, sentences are not used as vehicles for statements. (Beardsley 1981: 115–​131).

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Moreover, saying that the only thing you can legitimately get out of reading Anna Karenina is aesthetic pleasure is tantamount to saying that this novel is like a beautiful ornament. That does not make sense; the novel is about love, marriage, and happy or unhappy families, which is shown in a particular light. Love is shown as essentially conflictual and assessing this implicit claim can be a part of the process of understanding and enjoying the novel. This means that the question of whether speech acts in literary texts have illocutionary force is often irrelevant for the understanding of these texts. Literary texts often contain implicit speech acts with illocutionary force, in the guise of the message of the text and suchlike. The interpreter often must provide the text with such speech acts, and it is hard, even impossible, to disentangle the “real” text from its actual or potential interpretations. If literary texts provide only aesthetic experiences, there would not be much difference between literature and ornament. This does not mean there are not or cannot be works of literature that are mainly ornamental, but if every literary text were just an ornament, the concept of literature would become almost empty. However, the concept is not empty; hence, literary works must have the capacity to provide more than just aesthetic experiences.

Conclusion

There are at least three possible degrees of cognitive progress: maximal progress, which in the case of philosophy would mean a solution to philosophical problems. It would mean that non-​trivial truths about philosophical issues would be discovered with perfect understanding of them. Almost maximal progress is the discovery of these truths but without perfect understanding. Then there is semi-​maximal progress, in the case of philosophy, that would mean that philosophical theories are getting more truthlike, and the understanding of the issues is getting better. Almost semi-​maximal progress would be increased truthlikeness without better understanding or better understanding without increased truthlikeness. There is also a minimal progress, for instance, progress within philosophical schools. Moreover, there is a fourth kind of progress, which is not clearly cognitive, the extra-​minimal progress consisting in the invention of possible cognitive tools. Finally, there is semi-​ cognitive progress, proliferative progress, which consists in the proliferation of thought-​provoking possibilities. Progress in science was briefly discussed and pointed out that it was far from clear that science has or can progress in the maximal or semi-​maximal manner but perhaps in the almost semi-​maximal way.

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We cannot exclude the possibilities of cognitive progress in literature. After all, literature is not without cognitive strength, for instance, in providing us with understanding. If that is true (which is not clear), then maximal and semi-​maximal progress in literature is a logical possibility. What about philosophy? There is a lot of disagreement about the solution to philosophical problems; there is even no agreement on whether there are genuine philosophical problems. Williamson thinks that there has been some progress in philosophy and that there could be more if philosophers trod his logical, scientific path. However, it is definitely not given that philosophy ought to be the handmaiden of sciences; several philosophers criticize science and scientism. Furthermore, several philosophers are critical of formalistic philosophy. It is difficult, even impossible, to determine whether there are any ways of proving who is right. Chalmers is less optimistic than Williamson, and Cappelen is quite optimistic. The adherents of the spin-​off theory are even more optimistic; progress in philosophy consists of spawning new empirical disciplines from physics to psychology. But Papineau points out that age-​old philosophical problems remain unsolved despite this. However, both philosophy and literature can progress by ever increased proliferation of possibilities of the thought-​provoking and interesting kind (they might even be progress in the guise of even proliferation of variations over themes). This is the seventh trait they share; from this and the last chapter, we can conclude that there is no gap between them. The gap would narrow if there were extra-​minimal progress in their realm in the guise of the creation of better cognitive tools. Philosophy might also progress in a minimal way in the form of progress within philosophical schools. That minimal progress might be similar to relative progress in science within the confinement of paradigms/​research programs/​traditions. Of course, the proponent of the rpe ranks the No-​Gap Theory higher than other theories about the same subject. If it is true, the proponent of the rpe can nurture whatever literary elements he finds in philosophy while still philosophizing reasonably rationally. He can eat the cake and have it. Further, the purported fact that it is extremely difficult, even impossible, to assess philosophical truth claims adds fuel to the experimentalist and possibilist attitude of the proponent of the rpe. This experiment (rpte) with the concepts of philosophy and literature can be regarded as fairly successful. The difference between them has been destabed, hopefully in an inspiring manner.

Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part A In this section, I have continued the meta-​philosophical musings of the first section, continued to paint the rpe picture of philosophy, mainly by trying to show that it is closely related to imaginative literature and thus has some poetic moments. The main objective of this section was to make a philosophical experiment, try to destab the difference between philosophy and imaginative literature. In order to do so, the concepts of literature and philosophy were discussed. I found out that they are hardly definable in an essential manner. They are amoebaean concepts, that is, concepts that share features of both family ­concepts, prototypical concepts, and cluster concepts. We can talk about “indicators” of literary or philosophical work, but not find both necessary and sufficient conditions for determining this. Philosophy and literature have more than conceptual similarities in common: it is not certain that philosophy and literature can yield non-​trivial truths or whether Man is capable of discovering them. The greatest cognitive strength of both works of philosophy and literature consists of the proliferation of possibilities, and neither literature nor philosophy seems to make clear-​cut cognitive progress. Moreover, literary, and philosophical works tend to be either fictional or contain such narratives. In addition, both literature and philosophy tend to thematize themselves. Nevertheless, argumentation necessarily plays a somewhat more important role in philosophy than in literature. The conclusion is that there is no gap between philosophy and imaginative literature; the difference between them has been destabed.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_010

secti on iii Destabing and the Literary Factors

∵

Introduction to Section iii, Part A In this section, such Literary factors (lf s) as narratives, stories, metaphors, and fictions are introduced and discussed. Such theories as fictionalism, narrativism, and metaphorism shall be introduced; the first one is well-​known; I created the last three. According to the first-​named theory, our view of reality is largely fictional, to the second one, our view is suffused with narratives and stories; the third one is permeated with metaphors. As said earlier, these factors can be weapons of destabing. If anybody misses the fourth lf, that of the literary genres, one must remember that there was a short discussion of it in the last section, and it shall not be discussed further. One reason is that there is no such thing as literary-​genre-​ ism. Another reason is that genres play a lesser role in the destabing than the other three lf s. In this section, I shall try to destab the concept of reality (as known by humans) and show that it has three Literary traits: metaphors, narratives, and emotions. Whether reality is soaked with these three is another question; it suffices if we can show that the three traits play an important role in it. “Reality” shall be used in a rather loose and broad way. Mathematical equations, novels, emotions, minds, thoughts, dreams, societies, stars, particles, and ideologies shall be regarded as parts of reality. I shall not judge whether it makes sense to discriminate between reality as such and reality as understood and/​or being understandable by humans. I shall also try to destab the concepts of human cognition and understanding and show that these concepts are at least partly dependent upon metaphors, narratives, and fictions. Cognition and understanding shall be understood in a fairly broad manner. Understanding shall be used both in the sense of knowing reasons and for our understanding of meaningful entities, mathematical entities, and nature. Cognition shall be used in the sense of the process of acquiring understanding and knowledge through experience and thinking. It is important to remember that these attempts at destabing are rpte, not necessarily truth claims about reality, models, cognition, and understanding.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_011

­c hapter 1

The Might of Metaphors On Metaphorism

In this chapter, I shall discuss metaphors, and I shall start by introducing some general theories of metaphor and the concept of metaphorism. A metaphorist is someone who believes that our language, our diverse activities, and our understanding of reality are soaked with metaphors. This means that she regards language, activities, and views as having a high degree of metaphority (the expression is my invention). A given X has no degree of metaphority if metaphors play no role in X and a high degree of metaphority if X is constituted by metaphors or otherwise soaked with them. Metaphority is a subclass in the class of tropicality. A given X has a high degree of tropicality if it is soaked with tropes such as metaphors, hyperboles, metonyms, etcetera. I shall start with a short discussion about definitions of metaphor, then briefly introduce Max Black’s metaphoric musings. Then Mary Hesse’s Black-​ inspired metaphorism shall be discussed. After that, Nelson Goodman’s theory of metaphors takes center stage. Thereafter, the arch-​metaphorists George Lakoff and Mark Johnson enter the stage. They are followed by the blending theorists and Paul Ricœur’s complex theory. Due to its complexity and the fact it prefigures his theory of narratives, more space shall be allotted to it than the other theories. Then I shall introduce my alethetic theory (or rpte experiment) of metaphoric understanding. Finally, I turn my gaze to theorists like Donald Davidson, who deny that there is a metaphoric meaning. I shall use the Principle of Quasi-​Induction to vindicate the view I rank highest.

Introduction to Metaphors and Max Black’s Theories

What is a metaphor? There are many different theories about metaphors, so it is not easy to find a definition that would satisfy all theoreticians. Janet Martin Soskice claims that there are 125 different definitions of metaphors, some of which contradict each other (Soskice 1987). We usually regard metaphors as tropes, just like metonyms, synecdoches, or irony. In tropes, the meaning of words is turned or even twisted; they are not

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_012

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used in their literal fashion. When we say metaphorically that Man is a wolf, we are “twisting” the meaning of the word “wolf”: not using it in a literal way. We, so to speak, transfer the meaning of “wolf” from its ordinary usage to an unusual or even bizarre kind of usage. It is often said that metaphors involve comparison or analogies, that they are a kind of shorthand for comparison. This view harks back to Aristotle (Aristotle 1965: 61 (Chapter 21)). Another old, perhaps venerable, idea is the one of metaphors involving mental images where using and understanding a metaphor meant having a mental image of, say, Man as wolf. Yet another idea is the one of metaphors enabling us to understand one thing in terms of another. Soskice defines metaphors in the following fashion: “Metaphor is that figure of speech whereby we speak about one thing in terms which are seen to be suggestive of another” (Soskice 1987: 15). Soskice might be influenced by Max Black’s seminal analysis of metaphors: We understand Man in terms of wolf in the metaphor Man is a wolf62 (Black 1962: 25–​47). We see something as something else, Man as a wolf. Somewhat like we see a Jastrow-​picture as duck or a rabbit (Black is, in this case, inspired by Wittgenstein’s conception of aspect-​seeing or seeing-​as). Black calls wolf, which makes the corresponding linguistic string metaphoric, the focus of the metaphor; the rest is the frame. The expression “Man” is the principal or “the primary subject of the metaphor” because the metaphor is supposed to tell us something about Man (Black 1962: 28). “Wolf,” on the other hand, is the secondary or subsidiary subject of the metaphor.63 He asked us to consider the following metaphor The poor are the Negroes of Europe. Our thoughts about Negroes and poor people are active together; they interact. The expression “Negro” gets a new meaning, which is not entirely its literal meaning and not entirely the meaning of any literal synonym, Black said.64 He also claimed that we ought to think about 62 63

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In this book, metaphors shall be in small capitals in order demarcate them from non-​ metaphoric expressions. In his earlier writings, he used the terms “principal subject” and “subsidiary subject” (Black 1962: 25–​47). Later he started to use the other expressions (Black 1993: 19–​41). The reason for this change of terminology is unclear. Black’s great source of inspiration, I. A. Richards, called the primary subject “the tenor,” and the secondary one “the vehicle” (Richards 1936: 96). As we have already seen, I adopt the modern way of using his term “vehicle,” while substituting “topic” for “‘tenor,” also an accepted modern terminology. If anybody finds the word “Negro” offensive, it must be remembered that Black wrote this in the early Sixties when the word was widely used for people of color, not necessarily with derogatory intent.

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metaphors as filters. Take again the metaphor Man is a wolf as an illustration. The receiver of the metaphor does not only have to understand the ordinary dictionary meaning of the word “wolf” but also our common associations with the word. At least, in our culture, we tend to associate wolves with loneliness, ferocity, etcetera. If Man is a wolf, Man is a loner and a predator, at heart a solitary marauder, and so on. If we use this metaphor on humans, we highlight certain aspects while ignoring others. The metaphor organizes our picture of humankind by functioning as a filter, i.e., by extracting certain aspects of Man in order to make others more discernible. At the same time, thanks to the metaphor, we see wolves in a new light, perhaps as having a somewhat human dimension. This is how the expressions “wolf” and “Man” interact in the metaphor. However, John Searle, George Lakoff, and Mark Turner are right about it being unclear why we have to understand both the subject and the predicate of a simple metaphoric assertion in the light of each other, and hence differently from the standard use of these expressions (Lakoff and Turner 1989: 131–​132, Searle 1979: 93–​94). One of Black’s many examples of metaphors is Marriage is a zero-​s um game (Black 1993: 28). To understand the metaphor, do we have to understand “zero-​sum game” as somehow marriage-​like? Calling zero-​ sum games “marriages” seems like nonsense or an absurd joke. What would be the bride and what the bridegroom in these games? But understanding marriages in terms of zero-​sum games makes perfect sense if you tend to regard marriages as some kind of battles, which some certainly are. So, interaction cannot be a conditio sine qua non for metaphors, which does not imply that there cannot be interactive metaphors. Of greater interest for the current project is how Black illustrates his idea of filters; Black says that using metaphors can be likened to viewing the night sky through a screen of smoked glass in which some lines are clear (such a screen is more than a little like a filter). You only see those stars that shine through these clear lines. In the metaphor of the wolf, the expression “wolf” is the screen, and the lines represent the various qualities with which we tend to associate wolves. In Black’s view, the metaphor transforms its object in certain ways, and in the case of the wolf metaphor, there is a sense in which human beings “become” wolves. To help us understand this point, Black asks us to see what happens if we use the vocabulary of chess to describe a battle. This diction would highlight certain aspects of the battle while others would be downplayed or even downright ignored. The vocabulary in question filters and transforms the battle, perhaps showing us aspects of the phenomenon that would have been obscure without this particular set of terms. For instance, the strategic and tactical aspects of

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the battle might stand out in sharper relief in this metaphor while the emotional aspects of the battle recede into the background (Black 1962: 41–​42).65 Thus, a metaphor like A battle is a game of chess transforms the object, but this transformation is not a free creation of the imagination; facts about the battle constrain it. The metaphor creates objects, but not ex nihilo; the chess metaphor changes the pre-​existing battle into a chess-​like phenomenon. Black maintains that metaphors are less representations of similarity than creators of similarities. To use an example that originates in a book by Lakoff and Mark Johnson, the metaphor Time is money does not represent similarities but creates them (Lakoff and Johnson 1980: 115). Is there anything about money that makes it like time or anything in time which makes it money-​like? Nevertheless, Black’s contention of the metaphoric filter and his understanding of them as essentially involving seeing-​as shall be ranked highly.

The Tropical Side of Language

The British philosopher Mary Hesse was influenced significantly by Black but developed his ideas in an original way. It is debatable whether Black was a bona fide metaphorist, but Hesse certainly was. The core of her metaphorism is expressed in her “thesis of the primacy of metaphors” (thesis M): “Metaphor is a fundamental form of language and prior (historically and logically) to the literal” (Hesse 1993: 54). One of the reasons for this is that learning a language means being engaged in a sort of metaphoric process (Hesse and Arbib 1986: 150). A child learning how to speak has a prior conception of similarities and dissimilarities; they show themselves but are not expressed in language. Learning a language means that the child has to learn new (dis)similarities. Things that seem quite different from each other are now being understood as being of the same kind due to the fact that the child has learned the appropriate word. Take, for instance, the learning of the word “furniture”. To apply that word correctly, the child must group together various and, in many ways, different objects such as chairs, sofas, and tables. This is, in effect, the same process that takes place when we start to see two objects as similar to each other due to using a metaphor. For example, with Man is a wolf, man becomes similar to wolves 65

Strangely enough, Black forgets to mention which aspect of the battle the chess metaphor might show us in a way that nothing else would. As hinted at, my educated guess is that the metaphor would show us something illuminating about the tactical and strategic aspects of the battle.

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and vice versa. In any rejuvenation of language, e.g., in the sciences, the same metaphoric process takes place. Galileo said that the book of nature is written in the language of mathematics.66 This contention had an enormous impact; scientists started to see various objects as being of one kind, the measurable kind. Thus, a small, soft red thing became the same kind of thing as a big hard blue object (this example is of my making). The quality of being measurable became the foundation for new sets of similarities and dissimilarities. Hesse uses the family-​resemblance analysis of Wittgenstein as means for justifying M. As said earlier, according to this analysis, linguistic expressions have no essential meaning; they are linked to each other only by diverse relations of resemblance and difference. Hesse says this web of meaning relations can be called “a network,” Hesse says. Therefore, she propounds her “network theory of meaning.” Expressions have no given meaning, for meaning consists of the use of an expression in a way that differs slightly from earlier employments, and thus all meaning is displacement. We thus never descend into the same river of meaning twice. This process means that any new use of an expression is displaced or shifted in relation to earlier employments. The implication is that all shifts of meaning resemble metaphoric displacements of meaning and that this kind of change is happening all the time, albeit on a tiny scale. Take, for instance, the meaning of furniture, the introduction of the rocking chair in peoples’ homes might have led to a minor revision of the meaning of furniture, just like the invention of the metaphor Time is money changed people’s perception of both time and money. Hesse states as follows. “What we call linguistic ‘metaphor’ is only a complex extension of the same process into novel and striking contests and does not differ in principle from any decision to recognize ‘That’s an X again’” (Hesse 1987: 311). Hesse thinks that big chunks of Black’s theory of interaction suit her theory of networks quite well. Nonetheless, she is critical of some of Black’s claims. In Hesse’s view, he makes two main mistakes. In the first place, he retains the division between literal and figurative meaning; secondly, he shies away from justifying a special metaphoric meaning by invoking resemblances because he thinks that doing so would make the paraphrasing of metaphoric meaning easy through series of analogies and the peculiar metaphoric meaning would then evaporate. However, according to the theory of networks, resemblances and differences are irreducible primary relations, which are logically primordial to predicates. It is certainly not only relations of resemblance and difference that 66

According to for instance, Shapere 1974: 135–​136.

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form the network. The network also contains synonymy, contrasts, structural analogies, paraphrases, metonyms, synecdoche, ostensive definitions, etcetera. (Hesse 1988b: 324). The relations of resemblance and difference are, however, of the greatest importance, and they show themselves, that is, they cannot be expressed in words. The reason for this ineffability is that they are the preconditions for linguistic meaning and, therefore, preconditions for propositions. What place does Hesse allot to what we usually call the “literal use of language”? The answer is that the literal is a borderline case that suits scientific and workaday language well. When we use language scientifically or in an everyday manner, we objectify, as it were, the world and linguistic meaning. We simply assume that the expressions that we use have permanent meaning in order to facilitate our ability to predict either events in ordinary lives or scientific experiences (Hesse 1988a: 1–​16). It is time for a critical evaluation of Hesse’s theories: 1. She goes a bit too far in maintaining that language is essentially metaphoric and literal language only a function of the metaphoric one. Perhaps both exist in some kind of symbiotic relationship, both being necessary components of language but neither being primordial. 2. The main reason for me claiming (1) is that her defense of thesis M has some faults. First, even though such shifts of meaning were to happen all the time, this purported fact does not vindicate thesis M. These shifts might resemble metaphoric shifts without really being metaphoric. Further, do they not also resemble metonymic displacements? The creation of metonyms consists precisely of displacements. “Ibsen” displaces “Ibsen’s works” in the sentence “have you read Ibsen?”; “Ibsen” is being understood as a metonym for his works. It is possible that language is basically metonymic, not metaphoric. Or it could be basically tropical such that various tropes, including metaphors and metonyms, perform the roles Hesse regards as fundamental to language. Thirdly, it is difficult to understand why the shifts of meaning need to be figurative ones. Let us assume that I use the expression “child” today slightly differently than yesterday. This usage does not have to mean anything but that the extension of “child” as I use the word today has changed from yesterday’s use. We cannot exclude the possibility that most shifts of meaning are of this kind. Fourthly, it is hard to see why we must assume that such shifts of meaning happen all the time. To be sure, it is an empirical fact that languages change, but maybe the change tends to be sudden and radical. Hesse does not provide us with any empirical evidence for her theory about the constant shift of meaning. Finally, her theory is certainly not

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logically true. We can, without any problem, envisage a possible world where languages have vocabularies that never changes. 3. Her contention that our understanding of resemblances and differences is prelinguistic is not above criticism. It might be better to say that language and the relations of resemblance and difference are mutually dependent. Without such relations, there is no language, and without language, no resemblance and difference. It is hard to see how you can know that there is such a thing as resemblance and difference if they cannot be recorded by some symbolizing or referential device, language, or something functionally equivalent. Just postulating the existence of differences and resemblances an-​sich is not very helpful. To ask what comes first, on the one hand, language, and other symbolizing systems, and, on the other, the relations, is like asking, “What came first, the chicken or the egg?” Nevertheless, Hesse’s analysis is inspiring. She argues very well in favor of her contention that language is a network where resemblances and differences play a pivotal role and that there are necessary tropical (perhaps mainly metaphoric) moments in how language is learned and developed. She rightly thinks that language has a high degree of metaphority, but she might have overestimated that degree. Her theories shall be ranked highly.

Goodman on Metaphors

Nelson Goodman was also a metaphorist. He said that metaphors have two or more different applications, just like ambiguities. What distinguishes metaphors from ambiguities is that in metaphors, the old, literal use of the words is still active and informs the metaphorical use (Goodman 1979b: 176). The two different meanings of ambiguous words such as “joking” have nothing to do with each other, while the metaphorical use of “high” regarding intelligence is not entirely separate from its literal use as denoting physical objects. There is a tension between the metaphor’s literal and non-​literal meanings. One can say that there is some form of interaction between them, even though Goodman himself does not use the term “interaction.” To get a better grip on Goodman’s theory, we must look at his concept of scheme. A scheme, according to Goodman, is a group of labels, for instance, predicates. These labels mark a realm; for example, labels such as the color words “yellow,” “red,” and “green, mark the realm of colored things. The color words then constitute a particular scheme. Using these words metaphorically means that the scheme is transferred to a new realm; the physical size

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scheme (“high,” “low”) is metaphorically transferred to the realm of intellectual achievement. We are talking about high and low intelligence (this example is mine). Goodman believes that the metaphors in some ways create their object, just like the more literal use of language, which can create worlds and versions of worlds. Like many other modern theorists, Goodman thinks that metaphors have cognitive functions. It consists of, among other things, redescribing reality and introducing new natural kinds. Moreover, the yardsticks of truth are pretty much the same regardless of whether we use a scheme in a normal, literal way, as in a non-​literal way. In both cases, the use is fallible; we can literally use the term “red” wrongly about a colored object and apply the metaphorically used term “gloom” in a wrong manner to an object. In both cases, we can test our original judgment in a variety of ways; we can look more closely at the object, compare it with other objects, and so on. Moreover, it is no more problematic to determine the reference of metaphorical expressions than to determine how the meaning of literal expressions should be projected into new phenomena. It may be difficult enough to know with certainty that we have properly projected a word such as “green” in its literal meaning in a new situation. Goodman says in a somewhat jocular fashion: “Whether a person is a Don Quixote (i.e quixotic) or a Don Juan is as genuine a question as whether a person is paranoid or schizophrenic, and rather easier to decide” (Goodman 1978: 103). Saying about someone that he is a quixotic or a Don Juan is saying something metaphorically about him, but it can be found out whether it is true or not. Saying literally that he is schizophrenic, not paranoid, is no less hard to determine. Thus, literal ways of using language are not necessarily better tools for representing the world than metaphorical manners of talking. Metaphorical application of Napoleon to other generals and literal application of some newly invented term, such as one of radioactive effects, causes a reorganization of our familiar world by picking out and underlining as a relevant kind a category that cuts across well-​worn ruts. Goodman expresses his basic thoughts on metaphors jokingly: “Metaphor … is the matter of teaching an old word a new trick—​of applying a label in a new way.” On the same page he writes, “A metaphor is an affair between a predicate with a past and an object that yields while protesting” (Goodman 1976: 69). It should be added that Goodman believed that metaphors are not only linguistic. Non-​verbal labels can be used metaphorically, not least in caricatures. If you draw a politician as a parrot, you use the parrot figure metaphorically.

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We can learn from Goodman that metaphors play an essential role when it comes to renewing conceptual categories/​schemes and/​or renewing language in general. In this connection, metaphors are instruments for cognition.

Metaphorism: Generative Metaphorics

Let us look at the well-​known metaphorism of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson (they do not use the expression “metaphorism”). I shall refer to their view as generative metaphorics because they talk like fundamental, conceptual metaphors are like a deep structure of meaning, which generates the bulk of our meaningful units, not least linguistic ones (words, rituals, and pictures are meaningful units).67 They assert, “The essence of metaphor is understanding and experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another” (Lakoff and Johnson 1980: 5). This is not supposed to be a definition but an empirical theory.68 Why do they think that metaphors permeate our experience and worldview? The reason for this rule of metaphors is that conceptual schemas structure language and action, and these schemas are to a great extent of a metaphoric nature: “If we are right in suggesting that our conceptual system is largely metaphorical, the way we think, what we experience, and what we do every day is very much a matter of metaphor” (Lakoff and Johnson 1980: 3). These conceptual schemas project both metaphoric and non-​metaphoric conceptions onto our experience. Aided by such schemas, we project our conception of bounded objects on fogs and mountains, which are not really bounded objects at all. Sentences like “the fog is in front of the mountain” are meaningful in light of the conceptual schema that makes us see fogs and mountains as things. We are using that which Lakoff and Johnson call “a metaphor of orientation” when saying that the fog is in front of the mountain. The source domain is our way of orientating ourselves in the world. In reality (whatever that may be), there is no such thing as in front of, or behind something. This metaphor is relative to culture; the African Hausa tribe would have said that the fog is behind the mountain. Something similar holds for a host of metaphors and conceptual schemas. All the same, there are universal conceptual schemas and metaphors, which are rooted in our common bodily structure. 67 68

The concept of a linguistic deep structure, generating surface structures, hails from Noam Chomsky 1968. For the development of their research program, see Lakoff 2012: 773–​785. I, however, shall mainly focus on its philosophical side.

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Why do metaphors permeate our conceptual schemas? One of the most important reasons is the purported fact that metaphors can make our experiences meaningful and coherent. We can structure a great range of individual experiences with the aid of conceptual metaphors like love is a journey69 (Lakoff 1993: 202–​251). Another reason is that a host of our most important concepts are either very abstract or have unclear demarcations; it is easier for us to handle them by understanding them in light of more concrete and better-​defined concepts (Lakoff and Johnson 1980: 85 and 115). Time is a very abstract concept, and we can understand some of its dimensions with the aid of conceptual metaphors such as time is money. Emotional concepts are usually difficult to define. There is no clear-​cut separation between being in love with someone and only being fond of the person. But we get a better grip on certain aspects of love by calling it metaphorically “a journey.” Something similar holds for concepts like those of self and mind; they are constructed by metaphors. They are intangible phenomena and can only be understood in the light of other, more tangible phenomena. We understand the self and the mind only indirectly through the lenses of other concepts (Lakoff and Johnson 1999: 235–​289).70 Conceptual metaphors structure how we think and experience things, more than a little like Kant’s forms. Consider the metaphor argumentation is war. This conceptual metaphor generates several expressions like “your arguments cannot be defended” or “she attacked the weak points in his arguments.” Owing to the popularity of the metaphor, we tend to see argumentation as war, and we act accordingly. Conceptual metaphors form not only our language and modes of action but also our values. If we speak metaphorically about the war against inflation, we start to regard inflation as an enemy. Conceptual metaphors are not isolated but form systems of linguistic expressions, values, and ways of acting; they are “metaphors we live by.” One of the most important ways conceptual metaphors structure our view of reality is how they highlight some aspects of reality while downplaying or hiding others. If we regard argumentation as war, then we tend to focus on its conflictual aspect and ignore its collaborative aspect; for instance, argumentation can be a part of a cooperative search for truth. Despite the great power of the metaphor, one must bear in mind that the metaphoric structuring is always only partial, never total. If we were to regard 69 70

The generative metaphorists and their blending theorist cousins write conceptual metaphors in the upper case. Self and mind are central concepts in philosophy, if they are metaphoric, then that increases whatever metaphoric moment philosophy possesses.

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time only as money, then the expression “time” would be synonymous with “money,” but then we are talking about the same concept expressed in different ways, not a concept that is structured by another concept. Because a host of our concepts are non-​metaphoric, certain conceptual metaphors can aid our understanding of reality. Our spatial concepts are, to a great extent, non-​ metaphoric. We live for the bulk of our lives in an upright position, making it natural for us to slice the world into up and down. Because of the structure of our bodies, it is likewise normal for us to divide objects into those that are in front of something and those that are at the back of one or more objects. Furthermore, our bodies are bounded and well-​defined wholes. We have a tendency, therefore, to regard other phenomena, be it fog or love, as being likewise bounded. In this fashion, our body is our main source of concepts. Concepts are mainly bodily created; non-​metaphoric concepts are the basis for conceptual metaphors. In the last analysis, metaphors are rooted in neuronal processes, Lakoff and Johnson stated after making generative metaphorics take a neuronal turn. Metaphorical conceptualization involves some of the sensorimotor processes that are activated in perceptual and motor experiences. Moreover, primary metaphors come into being when two brain areas are activated at the same time again and again. After some time, both paths of activation meet and form a single circuit linking both areas together. Thus, the metaphor affection is warmth arose because we experience physical warmth when hugged, and affectionate people often hug each other. The brain area for warmth and perception of affection are activated together (for instance, Johnson 2007: 155–​ 175). However, the complexities of neuroscience, its use and possible abuse, need not concern us here. Metaphors are not necessarily linguistic, according to generative metaphorics. Like Goodman, its proponents think that we can express metaphors in depiction, cf. Goodman’s example of the politician shown as a parrot in a drawing. Metaphors can manifest themselves both in a linguistic and non-​linguistic way. A caricature can show an envious person having a green face; the same metaphor can be expressed linguistically in the sentence, “He is green with envy.” Further, we can express metaphors in rituals. An example of a ritual metaphor is the custom in certain countries of carrying a newborn baby to the highest floor of the house, expressing the wish that the child will do well (metaphorically move upwards) in life (Lakoff 1993: 240–​241). This means that metaphors cannot be defined in a syntactic way. Thus, a simile can express a metaphor if it shows one concept as being similar to a different one. Moreover, metaphors have nothing to do with figurative meaning; literally intended sentences can be metaphoric as long as the sentence shows us one concept in the

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light of another. I can mean literally that “he won the debate,” but at the same time say something metaphorically because I show a debate in the light of a concept that is derived from the conceptual domains of war or sport. Lakoff and his associate Rafael Nunez maintain that metaphors largely create mathematics. Strictly speaking, numbers are not points on a line, but this mathematical metaphor has been extremely fruitful. Furthermore, mathematical concepts tend to stem from the nature of our bodies, our actions, the way our brains are hardwired, our experience, and so on (Lakoff and Nunez 2000: xi–​x vii, 337–​363). We cannot fathom infinity; we need metaphors to grasp it. These metaphors stem from the way we act and experience how objects behave. We experience iterative processes and have created the concept of infinity by metaphorically projecting the idea of never-​ending iterative processes into reality. The very abstract, refined, mathematical concept of infinity also has these metaphorical roots (Lakoff and Nunez 2000: 155–​180). They also think that symbolic logic is just as metaphorical as mathematics. Propositional logic is largely a function of container metaphors. This holds for the concept of class; it is like a container of the class members. This metaphorical approach is of great consequence for how propositional logic conceptualizes propositions. Every proposition p is the class of all world states where p is true; the class of the world states is a container of sorts. The concept of the excluded middle stems from the idea that objects are either inside or outside the container; there is no third alternative. Something similar holds for forms of logical argumentation such as modus ponens: if A is B and X is A, then X is B. This is an instance of the container metaphor: if A is in container B and X is in container A, then X is in container B (Lakoff and Nunez 2000: 121–​139). I know very little about the philosophy of mathematics and shall not judge Lakoff’s and Nunez’s contribution. I shall return briefly to this issue later, now I want to criticize Lakoff and Johnson’s strict separation between language, on the one hand, and thinking, cognition, and reality on the other. In the first place, it makes perfect sense to say that large chunks of that which they deem non-​linguistic is linguistic in the broad sense of language. Language in the broad sense encompasses all meaningful entities, including verbal language, mathematics, formal logics, artworks, visual language, body language, actions, signs, rituals, symbols (including logos of firms), and signs (including indexical ones, in addition both mathematical and logical language). Thus, the ritual of walking the child to the second floor is a meaningful action and, therefore, linguistic in the broad sense. The same holds for pictures; they are meaningful and, therefore, linguistic in the broad sense. This view of language is close to Goodman’s way of thinking.

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Secondly, we cannot exclude the possibility of language (either in the restricted or the broad sense) forming the objects of our knowledge in a decisive manner. If language actually does this, then we either cannot determine how these objects really are, or it makes the following question meaningless: “How are things untainted by language?” This question would be meaningless in the same sense as the question “what is north of the North Pole?” Now assume that someone counters these claims by stating that we cannot exclude the possibility of there being a ding-​an-​sich, a reality that cannot be described by language. A possible answer to this counterargument would be that it is self-​defeating; its proponents have already described this reality in language as “reality that cannot be described in language.” He would use the same argument against any critic who says that there are or could be dimensions of reality that language cannot describe. By claiming this, the critic has described linguistically these dimensions of reality as “dimensions that language cannot describe.” In the third place, Wittgenstein had a point in maintaining that (or hinting at) thought and language cannot be neatly separated (he is not saying that they are one!). His view can be understood in the following manner: I have standards for how to translate between two given languages like French and German but no standards for translating between non-​linguistic thought and language. Therefore, I have no way to determine whether I have expressed my purported non-​lingual thoughts with adequate words (Wittgenstein 2009: 115–​ 117 (§335–​342)), 165 (§597)(see also Wittgenstein 2009: 113 (§329)). 1–​3 are arguments in favor of lingualism, the conception that there is nothing entirely beyond language. As Wittgenstein claimed, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world” (Wittgenstein 1922:149 (§5.6)). These arguments shall be ranked rather highly, provided that “language” is understood in the broad sense. At the same time, I do not exclude the possibility of Williamson being right about concepts being non-​lingual mental representations, which would either show that lingualism is dead wrong or only partly right. It might also be the case that non-​lingual representations are proto-​concepts, which are then developed into concepts with the aid of language, or that concepts are non-​lingual mental representations while propositions are essentially lingual. Thus, one could allot space to non-​lingual representations but at the same time defend lingualism because this representation would only be raw material (input) for cognition and understanding, needing language to become full-​fledged cognition, and understanding. Furthermore, there might be tacit knowledge, that is, knowledge that we possess with somnambulistic certainty but cannot express in words. That

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includes knowledge of the faces of our friends and their way of walking, and know-​how of various kinds. One can show that one has the know-​how of carpentry but hardly express it satisfactory in words.71 Again, it might be the case that tacit knowledge is no full-​fledged knowledge, rather input for cognition and understanding, expressible in language. I shall return to tacit knowledge and lingualism later. Instead of discussing lingualism, let us continue to discuss other possible weaknesses in generative metaphorics. There are also reasons to be critical of their one-​sided focus on material bodies (including human ones) as the main source of metaphors. Regarding material objects as this source sounds a bit like natural science. But it would not be surprising if a substantial part of our primary metaphors and myths were derived from our subjective experience and our social interaction. Are our subjective experiences and our social interaction any less important for our survival than our observations of things? It is not by chance that we call the worldview of primitive people “animistic;” they view material objects as being saturated with some kind of subjectivity. The wind is regarded as a sentient, supernatural being that decides to blow when it thinks fit. Thus, in the Old Norse mythology, Kári is the god of the wind, and in some sense, he is the wind itself. Like most mythologies, the whole world is seen in analogy with society; it is created because of strife among supernatural beings and perpetuated because of the balance of power between groups of such beings.72 Finally, let us look at a criticism of Lakoff and Johnson’s theories from a former collaborator of Lakoff’s, Mark Turner. He joined forces with French linguist Gilles Fauconnier to develop “the theory of conceptual blending” or “the theory of conceptual integration.” Conceptual integration or blending is a general cognitive operation on a par with analogy, recursion, mental modelling, conceptual categorization, and framing. It serves a variety of cognitive purposes. In blending, a structure from input mental spaces is projected onto a separate, “blended” mental space.73 According to blending theory, we cannot simply describe metaphors as projections from the source domain to the target domain like generative metaphorics does. We have to postulate the existence of mediating instances, more precisely, a blended space and a generic space. This blended space contains an intermingling of elements from the target and source domains. At the same time, the blend acquires emergent qualities that 71 72 73

Michael Polanyi famously introduced the notion of tacit knowledge (Polanyi 1958). For old Norse mythology, see for instance, Cotterell et al. (eds) 2002: 114–​131. A short and accessible introduction to the blending theory can be found in Fauconnier and Turner 1998 (I quote an expanded web-​version from 2001: 133–​187).

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are found in neither the target nor the source domains but are created in the blend. The generic space connects the target and source domains by virtue of having some abstract qualities in common with these domains. Later, Fauconnier and Turner almost ceased talking about target and source domains and started to use the terms “input 1 and 2,” the blend being the “output”. Whatever the terminology, a metaphor becomes a four-​way affair instead of a two-​way affair between target and source (Fauconnier 1997). We are dealing with four mental spaces: two input spaces, a blended space, and a generic space. What are mental spaces? Fauconnier and Turner answer: “small conceptual packets constructed as we think and talk, for purposes of local understanding and action” (Fauconnier and Turner 2002: 40). Mental spaces in their turn are sewn together in mental webs. For instance, the picking up of a relative at the airport for a family reunion can be a mental web. One of its mental spaces can be the conception of the pickup itself, which in its turn is connected by a space connector to the reunion party (Turner 2014: 5). What more precisely are blends? Turner writes: A blend is a mental space. It results from the mental act of blending other mental spaces in a mental web … A blend is a new mental space that contains some elements from different mental spaces in a mental web but that develops new meaning of its own that is not drawn from those spaces. turner 2014: 6

If you climbed Mount Rainier in 2001, you could store your memories of the event in a mental space that includes you, Mount Rainier, the year 2001, and your experience of climbing the mountain. The raison d’être of mental spaces is to juggle representations that are incompatible in the real world. This mental juggling gives rise to metaphors and counterfactual reasoning, among others (Fauconnier and Turner 2002: 30). Let us take a look at a metaphor that also contains counterfactual reasoning: if clinton were the titanic, the iceberg would sink. In this metaphor, there is a blended space in which Bill Clinton is the Titanic, and the scandal is the iceberg. Further, we have a generic space that has a structure taken to apply to both inputs: one entity that is involved in an activity and is motivated by some purpose encounters another entity that poses an extreme threat to that activity (being entities is one of the abstract qualities the input spaces have in common). In the generic space, the outcome of that encounter is not specified; the outcome is to be found in the blended space. In that space,

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Clinton overcomes the obstacle because in this space the Titanic is unsinkable. In this way, the blend gets emergent qualities, including the unsinkability of the Titanic. If we had projected the inferences from source to target, Clinton would have lost the presidency because the source domain, the Titanic, is sinkable. The target domain does not help either, because in that domain Clinton just barely survives. In the blend, however, Clinton triumphs overwhelmingly by defeating an extreme danger, thus showing his great political skill (Fauconnier and Turner 2000: 133–​145). In Fauconnier and Turner’s view, the inadequacies of the Lakoffian model reveal themselves because it cannot explain metaphors of this kind. They might have a point, but it is not clear whether blending theory contradicts generative metaphorics or enhances it. The blending theorists certainly share metaphorism with Lakoff and Johnson. They also share a staunch belief in the importance of imagination and creativity for our cognition and for our creation or grasping of meaning (Turner 2007: 213–​236).74 Fauconnier and Turner focus on creativity, maintaining that imagination uses conceptual blending (integration) to create our human world, including mathematics, counterfactual reasoning, visual representation, scientific discovery, and grammar. Even actions and designs are products of blending (Fauconnier and Turner 2008).75 Fauconnier and Turner say that they are inspired by Arthur Koestler’s theory of creativity (Fauconnier and Turner 2002: 37). He thought that the creative act essentially involved what he called “bisociation”, i.e., operating on more than one plane simultaneously. In contrast, routine thinking operates only on one plane; it is single-​minded, while we are double-​minded while thinking creatively. We bring together different matrices, that is, frames of references and/​or universes of discourse. Bisociation plays an important role in jokes. For instance, when a champion of the poor was informed that some of his followers had turned his coat, he answered, “They do not have any coats to turn.” Here are two frames of reference: the literal one of actual coats one wears and the metaphoric one denoting the acts of opportunistic change of view (Koestler 1970: 35–​36 and elsewhere). In scientific discoveries, bisociative matrices merge in synthesis. However, bisociation works somewhat differently in art: “The matrices with which the artist operates are chosen for their sensory qualities and emotive potential; his bisociative act is a juxtaposition of these

74 75

For the generative metaphorics position, see Johnson 2007. On design and behavior, see Fauconnier 1997: 171–​172.

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planes or aspects of experience, not their fusion in an intellectual synthesis” (Koestler 1970: 352). It is easy to see the connection between the concept of bisociation and the theories of metaphors introduced here. The American psychiatrist Albert Rothenberg maintains that important kinds of creativity are what he calls “Janusian process” (or thinking), after Janus the Roman god with two faces. This idea is also related to bisociation; the Janusian process consists in actively conceiving and using multiple antithetical thoughts simultaneously, in complex tension and interaction without them becoming a synthesis. This process leads to new ideas (Rothenberg 2015: 35–​40).76 He maintains that there are two other sources of creativity, the homospatial process, and the sep-​con process. The first-​named consists of conceiving two or more discrete entities occupying the same space. This conception leads to the articulation of new identities (Rothenberg 2015: 41). The sep-​con articulation process or separation-​connection process “consists of actively conceiving and using concomitant functional separation and connection” (Rothenberg 2015: 49). But he does not think that imagination plays a major role in creativity; he regards imagination as something mainly visual (Rothenberg 2015: 43–​46). Notice that if metaphorists are right and our human world is soaked with metaphors, then it is largely a product of creativity, of imagination. Metaphors are not found but created. This emphasis on imagination and creativity shall be ranked very highly. Notice also that the generative metaphorists argue well in favor of the contention that metaphors apply to all kinds of meaningful entities, not only linguistic ones. That suits the rpe excellently and shall be ranked highly.

Ricœur: Live Metaphors and Split Reference

It is impossible to discuss metaphors and narratives unless we familiarize us with Paul Ricœur’s theories. Understanding them requires knowledge of his theorizing about imagination in general and creativity in the realm of language.77 Ricœur stressed the importance of imagination in human life. Its products dominate our world and constitute it to a large extend. In the realm of words, it creates symbols; in the realm of sentences, metaphors, and in texts, 76 77

He introduced this idea in Rothenberg 1971: 195–​205). For a compelling analysis of the role of creativity and imagination in Ricœur’s work, see Kearney 1989: 1–​31.

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it creates narratives. The process of creation has strong metaphoric traits: a process whereby X is seen as Y (the process of seeing-​as). Thus, in mythology, the sun is seen symbolically as a god; the imagination uses the word “sun” as a vehicle for the symbol. It uses sentences such as “truth is light” to express the corresponding metaphor and a whole text to tell the tale of how the sun god created the rays of truth. Ricœur was inspired by Gaston Bachelard’s phenomenology of imagination (Ricœur 1977: 214–​215). Bachelard wrote: “Imagination augments the values of reality” (Bachelard 1964: 25). These words must have been inspiring for Ricœur as well; they are certainly inspiring for the rpe! He agreed with Wilhelm von Humboldt and Noam Chomsky that humans are essentially creative in their use of language (Ricœur 1978c: 120–​133). If they were not, Chomsky asks, how could we explain the fact that even small children can create and understand sentences they have not heard before? (Chomsky 1968). Ricœur added that metaphors are the best instrument we have for linguistic innovation. New metaphors are “alive” and make us see things in a fresh, new way. They create new meaning and thus play an important epistemological role. Ricœur seemingly thinks that metaphors create new conceptual systems that enrich our understanding of the world.78 By getting new ways of seeing things, we learn more about them. Thus, Ricœur is a metaphorist of sorts, believing that metaphors play an essential role in our cognition and in our lives in general. The same does not hold for dead metaphors, which Ricœur did not regard as being real metaphors. In an expression such as “the legs of the chair,” the word “leg” has lost its metaphorical meaning and has acquired a literal one (Ricœur 1977: 230). Ricœur’s general theory of metaphors is fairly eclectic but has a point of departure in Monroe Beardsley’s tensive theory of metaphor. Beardsley distinguished between the subject and the modifier of a metaphor. In Man is a wolf, Man is the subject, and wolf is the modifier. There is a tension or opposition in metaphors. In the wolf metaphor, the tension is created by a logical contradiction. “Man” is normally defined as “a two-​legged, rational, speaking, animal,” “wolf” as a “four-​legged, non-​rational, predator.” So, “Man is a wolf” is a contradictory proposition, hence we have tension. More precisely, there is tension between the central and the marginal meanings of the modifier. The central meaning is the designation of the modifying word; the marginal meaning is its connotations. “Wolf” designates a certain animal while its connotation 78

He was undoubtedly inspired by Nelson Goodman (Goodman 1976: 72–​84).

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can be “loneliness.” “viciousness,” etcetera. These are the credence properties of the word, that is, the properties people associate with the designated object (Beardsley 1962: 293–​307). Ricœur regards these oppositions as dialectical, thus having a dialectical solution, a synthesis (in his view the same holds for Black’s focus versus frame). The solution is the creation of a new metaphoric meaning and reference (Ricœur 1977: 247). At the same time, he thinks that Beardsley was right when he called metaphors “miniature poems” (Ricœur 1977: 122, Beardsley 1981: 144). However, how can metaphors have references if they are poems of sorts? To understand this apparently contradictory view, we must know that, according to Ricœur, a metaphor is not only a strange way of using nouns as, for instance, in Man is a wolf, where the two nouns are used in a non-​standard way. A metaphor is also expressed in a predicative sentence (“Man is a wolf”) and exists as a part of discourse, i.e., on the level of pragmatics.79 More precisely, discourse is the objective side of the use of language; it is not passing and non-​objective like parole. Perhaps discourse is related to Gricean utterance types, whereby parole is like tokens of utterances. Utterance types are conventionalized expressions; for instance, “fire!” is a conventionalist expression of warning. But it can be used in different ways, say, to mislead someone (Grice 1968: 225–​42). Even so, in every discourse, we intend something by that which we say; we have the intention of referring somehow to something through our words (Ricœur 1969b: 80–​97). The same holds for metaphoric discourse. Ricœur seems to have thought that the reference is already potentially present in the metaphoric sentence because it is necessarily a predicative sentence. However, the reference in question is different from that of sentences understood or used literally (Ricœur 1977: 224). Ricœur calls this kind of reference “a split reference” (an expression originating from the works of linguist Roman Jakobson).80 If we understand a sentence in a metaphoric way, then we understand it both in a literal and an imaginative fashion simultaneously (Ricœur does not use the expression “imaginative,” but it is on the tip of his tongue). These two interpretations, the literal and the imaginative, each have their way of referring. In the interaction between these two different kinds of references, a split reference is being created that is necessarily connected to a new way of seeing things. The verb “to be” is used in a non-​standard way in

79 80

The use of the word “discourse” is inspired by the French linguist Emile Benviste who profoundly influenced Ricœur’s view of language. For instance, Ricœur 1977: 67. Ricœur later changed this terminology, more about that later in the next chapter.

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a metaphoric discourse, and it means “to be and not to be” (as the way storytellers in Mallorca end their stories by saying, “it was, and it was not”) (Ricœur 1977: 247–​248).81 The objects we refer to in split references both are and are not at the same time and in the same respect (Ricœur 1977: 313). An anecdote or a joke about a person, for example, can be—​strictly speaking—​false but often say something essential about that person (this my elaboration). Giving concrete examples was not Ricœur’s strongest point, so I shall provide some myself. When we say something metaphorically, for instance, “Man is a wolf,” we cannot mean it seriously unless we think that the sentence somehow refers to something. At the same time, we cannot seriously intend to say something metaphoric with the aid of the sentence unless we recognize that the sentence is, strictly speaking, not true; we do not believe that it refers to anything real (it might, of course, be true despite our beliefs; maybe we all are incarnated wolves). We speak as if it is at the same time both true and untrue that Man is a wolf. The sentence refers both to reality and to some fantastic dimension. Thanks to the split reference, metaphors help us talk about the aspects of our existence that cannot be talked about directly (Ricœur 1984a: 80 and elsewhere). We can only talk about such an aspect by the route of another concept; maybe there are aspects of Man that can only be understood via the concept of wolf. Presumably, literal sentences are the instruments we use when we are talking directly about facts that are easy to refer to. I do not need metaphors to state that right now I am writing on my pc because I can say this directly. I want to add Beardsley thought, in stark contrast to Ricœur, that metaphors are purely linguistic and have no reference to reality (Beardsley 1962: 293). That was a part of his theory that literary works do not have any cognitive capacities. But if metaphors have such capacities and can refer to reality, then literary metaphors might do so and through that give literary works cognitive capacities. Some literary works can be understood in their entirety as metaphors, if they can refer, then then the work can as well. Franz Kafka’s The Trial can be interpreted as a metaphor for the way fate treats us, like it was a judge, putting us on trial, but without rhyme or reason. Perhaps, this metaphor can refer, in a split fashion or not.

81

He borrowed the reference about the storytellers from Jakobson. For a short overview of Jakobson’s influence on Ricœur’s theory of metaphor, see Statkiewicz 2003: 561.

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Ricœur: Emotions, Creativity, and Imagination

Another part of Ricœur’s analysis, which suits the rpe well, is the relationships between emotions and metaphors. That relationship can be understood only via how the French thinker connects emotions to the imagination. He chastises Black for having left the problem of innovation unsolved. Like so many analytical philosophers, Black seems to have been a bit afraid of that which smacked of subjectivity, and imagination does. Ricœur thinks that a theory of imagination is required to plug this hole in Black’s thinking. This theory is hermeneutic; imagination is not essentially a matter of vision but is rather linguistic and poetic by nature. Being linguistic by nature, imagination is a necessary tool for semantic innovation, bringing it near metaphors. Verbal imagination performs the metaphoric task of saying something in terms of something else. At the same time, imagination needs images; in Richard Kearney’s words: “Without any visual aspect, the verbal imagination would remain an invisible productivity” (Kearney 1989: 15). The very visual seeing-​as is an indispensable complement of creative semantics. In Ricœur’s world, semantic innovation without images is blind and empty without verbal imagination. This brings us to Kant and his influence on Ricœur’s theory of imagination. Kant wrote about “productive imagination,” which is creative and plays a transcendental role in contrast to reproductive imagination, which is empirical (Kant 1966: 192–​193 (B152)). Ricœur maintains that we have a productive linguistic imagination (Ricœur. 1984a: ix–​x ).82 He says that his theory of imagination must adopt Kant’s concept of productive imagination as schematizing a synthetic operation. However, what is schematism in Kant’s scheme of things? According to him, the schematism is created by productive imagination and mediates between sense experience and categorical understanding. It completes the passage of sense experience from an inner, mental image to be the raw material for the categories of the understanding. It gives sense-​experience a rudimentary unity before the categories of reason take it over. Further, the transcendental schema has moments both of inner images and of thought (Kant 1966: 213–​222, (B 176–​186, A 138–​147)). There are obvious similarities between this Kantian analysis and Wittgenstein’s idea of aspect-​seeing as being half thought, half-​sensation (Wittgenstein 2009: 207 (ii, § 140)). No wonder that Ricœur fuses the conception

82

For an instructive overview of Ricœur’s unpublished work on imagination, see Taylor 2006: 93–​104.

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of schematism with that of aspect-​seeing in his theory of metaphors and narratives. Metaphors also synthesize similarly to the Kantian schematism (witness the role of imagination) (Ricœur 1984a: ix). Seeing in a metaphoric way requires a unification of thought and imagination, just as the transcendental schema has moments of both thought and inner images (Ricœur 1981a: 279). The synthesis of the metaphor consists in fusing together apparently disparate concepts. Disparate concepts such as those of wolf and Man acquire an overlapping meaning in the wolf metaphor (Ricœur 1984a: x). Kant thought that the role of the imagination was to provide concepts with images. In Ricœur’s view, it performs a not entirely different role for verbal metaphors because metaphoric meaning denies the difference between sense and representation; it is situated in between the verbal (the realm of sense) and the non-​verbal (the realm of representation). It is precisely in the non-​verbal dimension that the images produced by the imagination come into the picture. The verbal part of the metaphoric meaning needs images, just like Kant’s concepts. In this fashion, Ricœur crosses the borderline between semantics and psychology; the subject (metaphoric meaning) simply requires such a move. To my mind, this must mean that he thinks that there is an ineliminable subjective moment in metaphoric meaning. Ricœur says that we also need imagination to see similarities; perceiving that two phenomena are like each other is not just recording sense-​data. Furthermore, imagination is the ability to produce new kinds by assimilation but not above the differences, as in the concept, but despite and through these differences. Still further, imagination contributes both to the suspension of ordinary reference and to the projections of new possibilities of re-​describing the world, possibilities inherent in metaphors. When we say metaphorically that Man is a wolf, we suspend ordinary references, and we certainly need a reasonably vivid imagination to be able to do that. This kind of suspension is also at work in the emotions that are operative in our understanding of metaphors. The emotions in question are poetic, for instance, the fear and pity we feel for the heroes of tragedies. They are not ordinary, “real” feelings but somehow metaphoric feelings (my expression). It feels as if we fear and pity someone. Just as poetic language cancels the first-​order reference of descriptive ­discourse to ordinary objects, poetic feelings cancel the first-​order feelings. The last-​named feeling ties us to the first-​order objects of reference. Such poetic emotions “accompany and complete imagination in its function of schematization, of the new predicative congruence” (Ricœur 1979: 154). It is a kind of insight into the like and the unlike, and the instantaneous grasping of the new congruence is seen and felt. That it is felt shows that the emoter is included in

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the metaphoric process as a knowing subject. He is absorbed, as it were, into the process; he feels like what he sees (seeing something as something else). He sees what is happening on the stage as if Oedipus actually has killed his father and married his mother, even though it is not happening strictly speaking. He feels like he is a part of the tragic process. Seemingly, Ricœur’s thought that the emoter could learn from this dialectic between distanciation and involvement. The “as” moment in the poetic emotion (feel as) provides the distance, and the moment of feeling provides the involvement. The distance gives us a somewhat objective, bird’s eye view, while the involvement endows us with the ability to see the world through the eyes of someone enduring a tragic life. Just as in the case of his analysis of imagination, Ricœur seems to presume that there is a subjective moment in the metaphoric process; it requires ­emotional experience but of a peculiar as-​if kind. Again, I reconstruct his arguments and put in some of my examples. As Ricœur’s treatment of the relationship between metaphors and emotions remained sketchy, there shall not be a discussion of that in any detail here. He is saying that there are by necessity two subjective moments in any (?) metaphoric process, the moments of productive imagination and poetic emotion. I do not quarrel with the first moment, but would any old metaphoric process require poetic emotions from the creator or receiver of the metaphor? It is hard to believe that one cannot create the metaphor Maradona was the Kasparov of soccer unless one had some kind of poetic emotion.83 However, Ricœur is arguably talking about prototypical metaphoric processes or even those that matter most for our existence. Nevertheless, by focusing solely on the poetic aspects of metaphors, he loses sight of the work-​a-​day metaphoric work, the nitty-​gritty of plain metaphors. But it must be said in all fairness that many analytical philosophers, including Black, tend to go too far in the opposite direction, focusing one-​sidedly on non-​ poetic metaphors, either the ones of ordinary parlance or those of science. Let us take another look at his theory of imagination and creativity. There is no apparent contradiction between this theory, Turner’s and Fauconnier’s blending theory, Koestler’s conception of bisociation, and Rothenberg’s idea of the Janusian process. Aside from minor issues such as Rothenberg’s criticism of the blending theory and that he, in contrast to Ricœur, talks like imagination is purely visual. Ricœur could be right about us having a linguistic imagination, which requires images in the guise of that which is seen-​as. The linguistic

83

Diego Maradona was one of the strongest and most creative soccer players of all time, Garik Kasparov one of the strongest and most creative chess players of all time.

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and the seeing-​as factors might be raw material for blending, and bisociation the instrument of blending. This process might be a creative, Janusian process, where antithetical thoughts and images interact without yielding any synthesis but producing new ideas. This conception of imagination is admittedly rudimentary and in need of development.

Ricœur: The Cognitive Function of Metaphors

Ricœur stressed the cognitive function of metaphors and said that they refer to possible worlds, and those worlds are hardly the analytical ones but rather the worlds of our potentials.84 We need to use our imagination in order to find out what these potentials are. (Notice that, according to Ricœur, metaphors do not only have a cognitive function but also play an existential role, in part because they help show us our potential.) A successful metaphoric reference of the wolf metaphor helps us see Man in a new fashion through the lens of the metaphor. Thus, the metaphor creates a new reality (or realizes a potential?). At the same time, the metaphoric reference consists in referring to this new reality. According to Ricœur, metaphors, even purely poetic ones, are models that both represent and recreate reality (Ricœur 1977: 244).85 He said, “Metaphor is to poetic language what the model is to scientific language” (Ricœur 1977: 240). It could be added that metaphors are often like thought-​experiments. We imagine how the world would be if we were wolves of sorts, not necessarily only in a playful manner but also as part of a serious effort to understand ourselves a little better. Ricœur thinks that Black was right in saying that regarding X in a metaphoric fashion means seeing it as if it were Y. Ricœur adds that seeing X metaphorically as Y gives us a kind of stereoscopic vision of the phenomena because of the split reference; we see them simultaneously as similar and dissimilar (Ricœur 1977: 231).86 To see, to imagine, and to think become one. Ricœur uses Aristotle’s example about the cup of Dionysius being the shield

84 85 86

Samuel Levin is closer to the analytical idea of possible worlds when he says that in metaphors, we create worlds, for instance, a world where clouds are angry (Levin 1993: 121). In his later writings, Max Black defends a similar idea. Perhaps he was inspired by Ricœur. But the French thinker certainly was influenced by Black’s earlier theory that scientific models were metaphors of sorts (Black 1993: 30). The French philosopher borrowed the idea of a stereoscopic vision from Douglas Berggren and Dedell Stanford (Ricœur 1979: 152).

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of Ares. In order to be able to create, use, and understand such a metaphoric expression, we must be able to do two things at the same time. The first is that we must be able to employ the following schema for thought: “A (the cup) is for B (Dionysius) the same as C (the shield) is for D (Ares).” The second is that we must be able to bring into play our imagination so that we can see how this schema applies to Dionysius and Ares (Ricœur 1972: 70) (Aristotle 1965: 61 (Chapter 21)). Just like Ricœur expands Beardsley’s concept of tension, he also expands the Wittgensteinian concept of seeing-​as into the concept of being-​as (être-​ comme). The objects we refer to in split references both are and are not at the same time and in the same respect (Ricœur 1977: 313). It would be an exaggeration to say that his theory is easy to understand, but it must have as its precondition an epistemic conception of reality or at least some segments of it. Given such a conception, certain phenomena exist in virtue of being conceptualized or perceived in certain ways. Thus, paintings have such an “epistemic mode of being;” in some sense, they are only a bunch of atoms; in another sense, they are artworks, depictions, etcetera. If it is only possible to understand certain objects as both being and not being simultaneously and in the same respect, then you might say that their mode of existence is being-​as. Perhaps, Ricœur would say that a sad painting has such a being-​as. From one point of view, the painting is just a painting or even just a bunch of atoms; from another point of view, it is a painting, which is metaphorically sad. A sad painting is and is not sad; in some sense, the quality of being sad is something projected onto it by minded beings; in another sense, this is an objective quality. Not just any painting is receptive to such a projection; projecting melancholy onto typical Watteau paintings could prove a hard task, for they “resist” such attempts. Further, we can test whether a painting is sad or only seemingly sad. On closer scrutiny, we may discover that the painting’s sadness was ironic.87 If not, we can say that the painting is metaphorically sad, even though it is from another point of view a plain painting or just a collection of atoms. One of the weaknesses of the split reference idea is the fact that Ricœur just assumes without any argument that metaphors are essentially linguistic and that they are expressed in predicative sentences. However, as we remember, there are strong arguments in favor of some metaphors being pictorial, behavioral, or even mental. Needless to say, such metaphors do not refer, even if pictorial metaphors possibly can denote. Further, one can express linguistic metaphors without using predicative sentences, for instance, Let the dead 87

I took this example from Nelson Goodman (Goodman 1976: 78–​79).

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bury their dead. Then again, it makes perfect sense to say that imperatives are derived from predications, the imperative sentences just having another direction of fit. They are not about reality as it is but as it should be.

The Alethetic Theory of Metaphoric Understanding

That metaphors have cognitive import is part and parcel of my theory, which I call alethetic theory of the understanding of metaphors.88 The expression “alethetic” is being used as denoting the concept of truth-​like values, for example, the value of the correctness of a map (maps cannot be true or false, only correct, or incorrect). “Theory” might be a misnomer since I am now making a rpte with the alethetic idea, trying to find out whether it makes any sense and can be inspiring, not necessarily assessing its truth-​claims. Some theorists maintain that we understand certain sentences by knowing their truth claims (see for instance Davidson 1984: 245–​264). If this is true, then we can speculate whether metaphors have truth-​like values. If “yes” then we can claim that knowing the truth-​like values of the metaphor is the precondition for understanding it. This means that we must know the manner in which they represent or could represent given segments of reality in order to understand them. Representation, albeit of a peculiar kind, constitutes their basic cognitive content. I shall use my neologism symbolic structure for meaningful entities like metaphors, caricatures, theories, scientific models, axioms, poems, actions, and emotions. They are vehicles for representation and are parts of language in the broad sense. Notice that not all meaningful entities are symbolic structures, most actions and instrumental music do not represent anything. The class of symbolic structures is a subclass in the class of meaningful entities. I shall argue in favor of the following claim: metaphors have their own set of alethetic values (truth is one alethetic value, the way a painted portrait is true to its object is another one, the way a good map represents is yet another). A caricature can show a person with a green face, a metaphor for an envious individual, or a politician depicted as a parrot. Such metaphoric caricatures are understandable, but they do not possess any truth values. If understanding such metaphoric caricatures does not have to be reduced entirely to the

88

Here, I only introduce the bare essentials of the theory, for a more extensive discussion, see Snævarr 2010: 71–​87. In Snævarr 2010 it was presented as a bona fide theory, not an experiment.

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knowledge of truth-​conditions, then it might indicate that understanding this kind of metaphor requires evaluating other alethetic values than truth. Furthermore, we talk as though metaphors represent objects, whether these objects be concrete or abstract, real, or a figments of our imagination. In fact, we have good reason to speak in this fashion. Consider a variation of the sentence S1 “green ideas sleep furiously.” With most readings, this sentence would be meaningless. It is admittedly somewhat metaphor resistant, but nevertheless we can imagine situations where the sentence is used or understood in a metaphoric fashion. Someone utters S1 and means by S1 or is interpreted as meaning by S1, or both, “the young person (a greenhorn), who is full of strange ideas, is quite lively even though she is in a rather quiet phase.” Nevertheless, on a metaphoric reading of S1 it is understood as an assertion about a certain state of affairs. The different elements of S1, like “green ideas,” stand for objects, which are parts of this state of affairs and so on. The metaphor Green ideas sleep furiously obviously has a cognitive content, without which the corresponding sentence would be nonsensical. This example strengthens my conjecture that we understand metaphors by knowing their cognitive content. If this example is insufficient, consider such tired old sentences as S2 “Man is a wolf”. Understood literally, S2 is a false sentence. To be understood metaphorically, S2 must be understood as having some cognitive content, different from the literal one. Reading it metaphorically, we must understand S2 as giving us some kind of information about man or wolves, or both. If not, S2 is either a literally false sentence or sheer nonsense. Thus, in order for M to count as a metaphor, M must have some cognitive content.89 We use metaphors like Man is a wolf because we think that they are somehow cognitively apt or adequate, even though it is strictly speaking untrue that Man is a wolf. Moreover, a metaphor can be “invalidated,” that is, shown to be cognitively unsuitable or incorrect. If humans were extremely peaceful and full of brotherly love, Man is a wolf (as it is ordinarily interpreted) would be invalidated. The same holds for other metaphors; for instance, Marriage is a zero-​s um game. If there were no agonistic moments in marriage, then this metaphor would not be correct. The fact that metaphors can be invalidated is another indicator that metaphors can have cognitive import. They can be “verified” by being shown to correctly fit certain phenomena and “falsified” by being shown to have an incorrect fit with others.

89

Understood as a literally false sentence, it has a negative cognitive content. A true sentence or a correct map possesses a positive cognitive content.

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Let us take a look at cognitive content of metaphors. The yardstick of this content cannot be truth, or at least not truth alone. I propose that we call the alethetic values of metaphors T-​correctness, that is, “transformative correctness.” Briefly, to be T-​correct, a symbolic structure must be able to provide a “twisted” understanding of given phenomena.90 It is somehow cognitively correct, fitting, adequate, right, or apt. Metaphors are transformative symbolic structures (t.s.s.). They, so to speak, transform or “twist” our ordinary picture of reality, but give us a deeper or at least different understanding of it. They are both transformative and informative at the same time. How can twisting and transformation lead to understanding and information? Look at mathematical models of physical reality: they twist and transform their objects but not beyond scientific recognition (once again, I rely on a commonsense understanding of the terms used). Gas is modelled as a collection of massive particles, even though it strictly speaking is not such a collection. Then mathematics is used to generalize about them even though it might be the case that no single particle behaves in accordance with the generalization. This is a very fruitful approach to gases and its fruitfulness stems from twisting and transforming the object.91 This twisting and transformation increases the scientists’ understanding of reality. If they could not use these transformative models, their knowledge of the material world would be limited. Mathematics and metaphors cause metamorphoses, but these metamorphoses can be cognitively productive. Like mathematical models, metaphors partly construct (or reconstruct) their objects without losing their cognitive ability. It makes sense to say that many artworks involve a similar metamorphoses. To use an example inspired by Ricœur, when paintings exaggerate contrasts in visual qualities, they transform them and this transformation (or metamorphosis) can be cognitively enlightening, help us grasp the contrast better. In a similar fashion, Shakespeare transforms true love, makes an exaggerated version of it in his Romeo and Juliet. This transformation helps us understand ordinary love and the fidelity of the common person. Hence, both the paintings and Shakespeare’s play provide twisted understanding and have the alethetic value of T-​correctness. The same holds for a host of other artworks. There are ways of judging (at least given a certain convention) whether a given t.s.s. transforms a given segment of reality R or creates a completely

90 91

These are the “non-Lakoffian” moments of my concept of metaphoric understanding. For a short discussion on this gas-​model, see Hesse 1966: 157–​159.

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new object. If there were “only” a transformation, the t.s.s. somehow representing R, then there would be some correspondence between some important aspects of the t.s.s. and R. If R had been “changed utterly” into a ­completely new object, such a representation would not be possible. There would not be any correspondence between any important aspects of the object and the t.s.s. (I rely on a commonsense understanding of “important aspects”). It must be added that the idea of the split reference has inspired the Alethetic theory. Split reference can be cognitively adequate even though it does not give truth value to the predicative sentence containing it. Further, having a split reference is possible only if the sentence transforms the object; splitting is transforming, and this transformation yields twisted understanding. Thus, adequate split references can constitute a subclass in the class of transformative correctness. Hence, the theory of split reference shall be ranked very highly. The experiment has been succesful and the Alethetic theory deserves a high ranking.

Metaphors only Shadows of Literal Meaning?

Now, a critic might say that I am on the wrong track because I do not understand that metaphors are somehow derivative from literal language, a secondary and ornamental way of using language, a way that cannot have any ­cognitive import. He or she might quote the anti-​metaphorist Donald Davidson approvingly. Davidson said that metaphors express neither ideas nor thoughts (Davidson 1984: 245–​264). Metaphors, he said, belong fairly and squarely to the pragmatics of language. He famously defended truth-​conditional semantics; we know the meaning of a sentence if and only if we know under which conditions it would be true. Metaphors are more than often untrue, and if they are elliptic similes, then their meaning is simply literal and their truth trivial. Their truth is trivial because everything can be said to be like something else in some respect. The words in a metaphoric utterance like “Man is a wolf” mean exactly the same as they mean in literal contexts, but they are used in a peculiar fashion. No one would say that we use words in a different sense when we lie, speak ironically, or tell jokes, so why on earth should the use of words in metaphoric utterances give them a special sense? The fact that an utterance like the one about humans and wolves can cause associations and reflections is a psychological, contingent fact and, therefore, without interest for the theory of meaning. The “systems of association” of words like “wolf” is contingent and thus have no implication for the meaning of sentences. To be sure, a metaphor

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cannot be paraphrased, but the reason is that there is nothing to paraphrase. An attempted “paraphrase” is just an attempt to make a list of the thoughts and associations a metaphor can cause, and their number is, in principle, infinite. Davidson even goes so far as to say that it is a misunderstanding to believe that the basic role of metaphors is to convey ideas. A metaphor can certainly make us discover facts, but not because it represents facts; in the same manner, jokes, lies, or a good cup of coffee can inspire us to discover facts. The crux of Davidson’s arguments is that meaning is literal, non-​contextual, and not determined by interpretation; metaphors can be understood only contextually through interpretative efforts.92 My response to Davidson and other anti-​metaphorists is partly derived from other theorists. This holds for responses 1–​6, while response number 7 is my creation: 1. Eva Feder Kittay has put forth some notable arguments against Davidson’s contention that context and interpretation determine only metaphoric meaning, not literal meaning (Kittay 1995: 81–​82). Davidson does not realize that context also plays a role when we understand a sentence in a literal fashion. If Davidson is right about context being a determining factor when we interpret a sentence as conveying a metaphor, then it follows that understanding a sentence as being literal must also be partly determined by context. Context helps us to determine it as being not non-​literal, and without such a determination, we cannot understand the sentence literally. 2. At first glance, it seems obvious that if there is such a thing as non-​literal language, then there must be literal language, which is primordial, just like the expression “imperfect” would be meaningless without the expression “perfect.” Likewise, the expression “non-​literal meaning” would be meaningless without the expression “literal meaning.” From this, it presumably follows that there must be such a thing as literal meaning. However, David Cooper points out quite correctly that this is just like saying that because there is something that is natural, then there must be something that is supernatural (Cooper 1986: 264).

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Richard Rorty was heavily inspired by Davidson and said that metaphors can change our views without being logically connected to them. Sounds of birds which we have never heard before can change our view of ornithology, but the sound as such has no cognitive import. Metaphors are like these sounds (Rorty 1991b: 162–​172). The relation between this argument and the Davidson/​Rorty argument about experience only being something can cause us to accept certain beliefs is obvious.

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If the meaning of metaphors is derived from literal meaning, then it would take longer to comprehend their meaning than the literal one. But several psycholinguistic experiments point in the other direction: we comprehend metaphors just as quickly as literal units of meaning (according to Gibbs 1992: 584–​585). Ray Gibbs points out that most philosophers of language simply presuppose without argument that there is such a thing as literal meaning, that it can be described and analyzed in a simple manner, and that it is the foundation of meaning (Davidson certainly had this view). But a closer look shows that there is no consensus about the meaning of “literal meaning”. Sometimes people use “literal” as the antithesis of “figurative,” sometimes meaning “prosaic, oriented toward facts” or “serious use of language.” Despite this, most theorists think it is simple to find out the literal meaning of a word. However, this is not as easy as it seems. Many words have a vague, diffuse meaning. New and unexpected uses of words also create problems. What if someone all of a sudden creates the verb “to pizza,” meaning, “to eat pizza”? How do we determine the literal meaning of the word? Surely not by consulting a dictionary or studying the ordinary way the word is used (Gibbs 1994: 24–​79). I want to ask whether there could be intermediates between metaphors and literal language. Might dead metaphors be such intermediates? Perhaps some of them are not quite dead but are like zombies, the living dead of language. Davidson and a host of other anti-​metaphorists relegate metaphors into the limbo of pragmatics while regarding literal sentences as inhabitants of the paradise of semantics. But this strategy is not above criticism. Samuel Guttenplan doubts the possibility of a neat separation between semantics and pragmatics. He correctly points out that discussion about a semantic account of metaphors as opposed to a pragmatic one is not very fruitful as long as semantics are not clearly circumscribed. We just do not know precisely what semantics and pragmatics are (Guttenplan 2005: 8). Notice that Gibbs and Guttenplan are moving in the same direction. In contrast to what Davidson seems to have thought, it is far from clear that metaphors are basically or solely linguistic, that is, if language is defined narrowly as verbal language. Pictures can be metaphoric, for instance, when a politician is depicted as a parrot, to use Nelson Goodman’s aforementioned example. However, using my broad sense of language, a depiction is something linguistic. The same holds for action, cf the example of carrying a child to the second floor.

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8.

Davidson accuses those who believe in metaphoric meaning followers of committing that which I call “the analogical fallacy,” wrongly thinking that similarities and analogies have cognitive value. But we have seen that this is wrong, similarities and analogies can have cognitive value. The conclusion of 1–​7 must be that we have some good reasons to think that metaphors are not just shadows of the real literal meaning but constitute a largely independent world of their own. Thus, Davidson and other anti-​ metaphorists, including my hypothetical critic, were wrong. In the rpe parlance: their theories are given a very low rank, while 1–​7 is ranked very highly, especially no. 7. Both Hesse and the proponents of generative metaphorics, alongside with those of blended theory, argue forcefully in favor of the contention that our language and view of reality are suffused with metaphors. That view can be enhanced with Black’s filter-​theory. Moreover, we can learn a lot from Goodman and Ricœur about how metaphors rejuvenate language. These views shall be ranked highly (the various differences between them shall be ignored); in addition, the rpe celebrates the stress on imagination and creativity in blended theory and generative metaphorics. We have discovered interesting arguments in favor of the contention that language is basically metaphoric, such that literal language is derivative from metaphoric language. As earlier said, I think that we could play it safe and say that the metaphoric side of languages (both verbal and other kinds) are necessary parts of it.

Conclusion

Some theorists think that metaphors are just elliptic similes. Others point correctly out that metaphors rather create than record similarities. In metaphors, we understand one kind of object in the light of another kind. Max Black maintained that through we perform aspect-​seeing, we see Man as wolf in the wolf-​metaphor. Hence, metaphors can be of cognitive importance. Moreover, the subject and the object in the metaphor interact. Mary Hesse developed Black’s theory further, defending her thesis M that metaphors are the primordial form of language. This is a part of her Network theory of language. Nelson Goodman opined that metaphors play a crucial role in redescription of reality and the rejuvenation of our vocabularies. I call George Lakoff’s and Mark Johnson’s theory of metaphor “generative metaphorics”: metaphoric, conceptual schemes form the deep structure of our thought and action. Metaphors are largely the product of our embodiment

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and neuronal processes, they say. Even mathematics and logic have metaphoric roots. Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner develop their blending theory partly as internal criticism of generative metaphorics. Metaphors are conceptual blends. They stress the importance of imagination, imagining something is conceptual blending. This theory might possibly be put in fruitful interaction with Rothenberg’s theory of creativity. Rothenberg, however, has been critical of blending theory, maintaining that it cannot explain creativity because it lacks a conception of interaction between elements in the blend (Rothenberg 2015: 174). Maybe just putting an element of Rothenberg inspired interaction into the blend would solve this purported problem. Ricœur argues well in favor of metaphors being instruments for synthesizing in a transcendental manner. His theory of split metaphoric reference is inspiring. According to my Alethetic theory, we can understand metaphoric meaning only if we know the truth-​like values of the metaphoric expressions. Metaphors transform their objects and, through that, provide us with twisted understanding. Donald Davidson thinks that there is no metaphoric meaning. However, this view only makes sense if we can delimitate precisely between the literal and the non-​literal pragmatics and semantics. The trouble is that we cannot, hence Davidson’s view does not make sense. Furthermore, Davidson wrongly thinks that metaphors are only linguistic. More importantly, he wrongly thinks that arguments from similarities are empty. The following shall be ranked very highly: metaphors are not entirely a function of verbal language, rather largely a function of language in the broad sense. Metaphors are like filters that transform their objects; they create similarities rather than just record them. They can be understood only if one knows their potential cognitive function and how they transform their objects and provide twisted understanding. Both Black’s and Hesse’s Wittgensteinian metaphorism, Goodman’s metaphorism, generative metaphorics, the blending theory, and Ricœur’s theories show aspects of the ineliminable role of metaphors in language and cognition. My own Alethetic Theory hopefully adds some weight to this view. More precisely, we have several well-​argued theories supporting this metaphorist conclusion, and the theories are of different kinds while not contradictory. Even if most of them were wrong, it would suffice if one were true. At the same time, the arguments against the conclusion by such anti-​metaphorists as Davidson have a lot of faults. This means that we can use the ppqi and

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conclude inductively that it is more likely than not that metaphorism is true, or truth-​tracking, or at least somehow cognitively better than its opposite. Metaphorism shall be ranked much higher than anti-​metaphorism. Notice that if metaphors play such an important role in our thinking as the metaphorists maintain, then that would add support to the idea that philosophical thinking has a high degree of metaphority. This means that the purported gap between philosophy and literature gets even narrower. Cognition is a part of our way of understanding reality. It seems very likely that cognition is partly, even entirely, structured by metaphors. Hence, we have taken the first step toward destabing the concept of the understanding of reality. Metaphors certainly are mighty.

­c hapter 2

In the Beginning Was the Story On Narrativism

I shall briefly introduce some core concepts concerning narratives and stories in this chapter, and then discuss that which I call “narrativism,” that the view that our reality is soaked with stories and narratives, has in rpe parlance “a high degree of narrativity,” and furthermore, that narratives and stories can be tools for cognition and understanding. We shall evaluate narrativism and its narrativist argument in this chapter. The focus shall be on such theorists as David Carr, William Dray, Arthur Danto, Wilhelm Schapp, Mark Turner, Louis Mink, Hayden White, and Paul Ricœur. I shall also add some rpe ideas of my own. First, however, I shall introduce the concept of narratives and stories with the aid of such theorists as Danto, W.B. Gallie, and Gérard Genette. We shall discover that some of these narrativists are narrative realists, that is, people who believe that our human world is necessarily suffused with stories and narratives and that they exist in an objective fashion. Others also believe that our world is thus suffused but maintain that narratives are constructed. They are narrative constructivists. Both these constructivists and the realists tend to be narrative cognitivists, which means that they believe that narratives and stories can be instruments of cognition. Then there are anti-​narrativists who neither believe that our world is necessarily soaked with stories nor that narratives are cognitive instruments.

Introducing Narratives and Stories

Let us look at some of the most important concepts concerning narratives and stories. A story is about one or more events, it is a whole, which has a beginning, middle, and end, and a unifying theme ties together those three; often, that theme is a plot. The theme functions as the story’s driving force, usually in the guise of causality. The beginning of the story typically contains a cause, the middle the effect, and the end the consequences of the effect (the consequences are, of course, effects themselves). A plot is something typically found in fictional narratives. A story with a plot has climaxes, very often one decisive climax, and reversals. The climax in the story of Oedipus is when he discovers that he had murdered his father and wed

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_013

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his mother. This is also a reversal of fortunes for him (cf. Aristotle 1965: 31–​75). Notice that the story contains characters as typical stories do. Moreover, it certainly is a fictional story. Everyday, non-​fictional narratives can also have a plot, like this little narrative: “I went shopping yesterday, and guess whom I met? My long, lost pal Johnny! We had a nice chat but were both in a hurry. I then went home.” It has characters and a climax of sorts (me meeting Johnny). The reversal is our discovery that we could not talk for a long time since we both were in a hurry. However, there are extremely simple narratives where it is hard to talk about a full-​fledged plot: “I went to school in the morning and was back at home at five o’clock”. But this narrative is about an event, it has a theme, and the theme is my going to school and back. There is no climax or reversal, unless me reaching school counts as a climax and me going back as a reversal. Nonetheless, the beginning of the narrative describes the cause of me getting to school and one can guess that something about the school causes me to go home (classes might be over at five o’clock, that might be a causal factor, prompting me to go home). Themes have several moments of plots: they are about events, have characters, and a causal thread, which unifies the story. Therefore, they can be called quasi-​plots. It is important to discriminate between story and narrative. Story is what is being recounted, independent of the medium used. Narrative is the way the story is told; the same story can be told by the means of words, cinematic images, etcetera (see, for instance, Genette 1980: 27). Stories can exist without being narrated, a daydream often has the form of a story (it is for all intents and purposes a story), but it is not narrated unless the daydreamer tells others about the dream or for that matter tell it to themselves. Thus, daydreams have a storied structure, i.e., they are constituted by stories. Most everyday stories are those which Arthur Danto calls “atomic narratives,” An atomic narrative comprises only a beginning, middle, and an end; a molecular narrative is a combination of atomic narratives (Danto 1985: 250–​ 255). The story about me going to school and back home is an atomic narrative; any ordinary novel or biography would be molecular. There is, of course, a difference between fictional and non-​fictional stories and narratives. If I narrate the story of how I walked into this room five minutes ago, I am not telling a fictional story. On the other hand, if I invent a story about three-​legged creatures on another planet, I am telling a fictional story. However, stories and narratives organize reality in certain fictional-​like ways. They only mention aspects of reality that conform to the main outline of stories and narratives; these aspects are molded in a fiction-​like structure where those aspects are highlighted, leading to the possible climax of the story. Or, if

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it does not have a climax, these aspects must be organized to fit the actual plot or the quasi-​plot. Creating and evaluating stories is not only a matter of taste. It requires that we master the techniques of followability. This is a competence that we must possess to understand our own lives and the lives of others. Now, what is followability? The concept stems from the philosopher W.B. Gallie. He said that when we look back from the end of the story, we accept that the end follows from the events that have led to it. Understanding a story means understanding its internal coherence, the way that the story unifies the various chance events and various responses to them. The story must make sense. The central moment of a story is its followability, not its predictability. To follow a story means understanding the successive actions, thoughts, and feelings of the characters and being pulled forward by this development, almost as though against our will. Our interest is pulled forward by the presumption that the result of the story is one of a few specifiable kinds: either the hero will win or lose, rescued by his own cunning, or by someone else, and so on. In the last analysis, our sympathies or antipathies with the characters and our fellow men are that which determine followability. Our sympathies with the hero “demand” that the story end in a particular way, say, in his escape from prison. (Gallie 1968: 22–​50 and Gallie 2001: 40–​51). Now, if anybody misses a clear-​cut definition of the concepts of narratives and stories here, I just want to say that narratives and stories are motley crews and far from certain that it is fruitful to look for essential definitions of these concepts. We have ultrashort “atomic” narratives and stories, immensely long ones, very down to earth stories, some with a plot, others without, fantastic stories, fictional ones, etcetera.

The Narrativist Argument: Carr

We tell and think in terms of stories in our work-​a-​day life. We plan ahead with the aid of counterfactual stories, “if I go downtown at noon, there might be too much traffic, and I get stuck somewhere. Therefore, I should wait until 3 o’clock”. We also take stock of our lives and deeds through counterfactual stories; “what if I had asked her to marry me 20 years ago and she would have said ‘yes;’ would we have had children and be divorced by now?” What would our life be like without stories and narratives? Would it change beyond recognition? The narrativists would say “yes.” Let us take a look at one of them, the Canadian phenomenologist David Carr. He puts forth some interesting arguments in favor of the human world being of narrative nature.

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He shows that actions might have a storied structure (he does not use that expression). His starting point is the phenomenological idea of pre-​thematic awareness, and he believes that there are narrative moments in this awareness, which make the activities of historians and other storytellers possible. Narrative structures pervade both our experiences and actions, so, in effect, our world is a narrative one (Carr 1986: 3–​9). Carr defends what he calls “the continuity thesis,” i.e., the idea that there is continuity between the narrative structure on the pre-​thematic level and our actual, articulated narratives. He opposes “the discontinuity thesis,” that is, the radical constructivist idea that actual narratives impose a structure on a chaotic reality. These radical constructivists think that narratives somehow distort reality or are unable to represent it. However, what do they mean by reality? Some ultimate metaphysical reality? Carr argues that they forget that narratives represent the human world, not whatever material reality that might be behind that world.93 Human reality is actually structured by stories (Carr 1986: 16 and Carr 2001: 143–​156). Inspired by Husserl, Carr regards experience as temporal in the sense that my experience at a given moment—​call it M—​is only understandable given the background of experiences that I had immediately before M and in the light of my expectations of what kind of experiences I shall have immediately after M. If M is the focus, the past and the present are the background or the horizon. Husserl called the contribution of the past retention and that of the future protention. We conserve moments from the past in our experiences, and, at the same time, the experience is comprehensible only in the light of our expectations (projections into the future). Husserl used listening to a melody as an example; every note we hear is understandable solely in relation to both the notes we have heard earlier and the notes we expect to hear in the immediate future. We can even revise our view of the notes we just have heard in consideration of the notes we hear later; maybe we discover that these earlier notes lead to an explosion and not the nice, quiet finish we were expecting. In this fashion, we might grasp in hindsight that the earlier notes were actually the calm lighting of the fuse. Whatever variations there may be, our experiences must necessarily have a beginning (the retention), a climax (M), and an end (the protention), just like a story (according to Carr 1986: 21–​30).

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Carr forgets that zoologists and geologists tell stories of the rise and fall of animal species or the story of the earth. But this non-​human reality is hardly structured by stories, the species and the earth do not owe their existence to stories.

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Now, someone might ask whether this analysis is only appropriate for the experience of temporal phenomenon like melodies, but not for non-​temporal ones, like stones or furniture. Carr’s answer to this question is negative. All our experiences must have this temporal structure (beginning-​middle-​end) and are always retentional and protentional. I can use my eyes to analyze a piece of furniture or use my tactile sense to study the surface of a stone, for instance, by stroking it with my hand. In both cases, the experience has a temporal structure as well as retentional and protentional aspects. Even simpler, momentary experiences as the hearing of high-​pitched sound have the same structure. This seems to hold for all possible experiences. Our experiences are often more complex than just the stroking of a stone or the hearing of a high-​pitched sound. To watch (and hear) the performance of ballet is a good example. Here, there is a myriad of activity; the prima ballerina is, for example, executing a pirouette while dancing with her male counterpart. Together these events form a whole. We can analyze this whole into smaller parts, and it requires reflection to understand them as forming a holistic structure (or parts that are fused together). This reflective stance does not play any role in simpler experiences; they are more spontaneous than this stance and are characterized by the experience engulfing us. It is by virtue of this reflective stance that we can take a drink and chat with companions during the break but can nevertheless grasp what happens after the break as a part of what happened earlier (Carr 1986: 55). Carr reminds us of the fact that the German expression sich besinnen not only means “to reflect” but also to remind one of where one stands (of what happened earlier in the ballet) and to take stock. Drawing on both Husserl and hermeneutic philosopher Wilhelm Dilthey, the Canadian thinker thinks this “German” kind of reflection makes our lives coherent. Carr is aware of the fact that these reflections are not only similar to narrative structures but also dissimilar to them in some respects. Inspired by Dilthey, Carr maintains that the similarity is that both narratives and reflections on our lives describe events backward, from an endpoint in time. Moreover, both have in common a temporal relation between part and whole. While reflecting on our lives, we regard different events in our lives as parts of a totality of our lives; in a story, the various events described are parts of the totality. Besides, the person reflecting must regard herself as a spectator of, actor in, and teller of the tale of her own life. However, in contrast to stories, we can neither experience the beginning nor end our lives. My death is a part of my biography, but I cannot experience it. Because of this, we cannot experience our lives as ordinary narrative totalities. This is one of the reasons why many theorists maintain that we cannot see life as a story. A storyteller can have supreme hindsight; his point of view is not constrained by the limitations

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of the given moment, in contrast to the one who reflects over her own life. Carr’s view on this matter is that, action does involve, indeed quite essentially, the adoption of an anticipated future-​retrospective point of view on the present. We know we are in the present and that the unforeseen can happen, but the very essence of the action is to strive to overcome that limitation by foreseeing as much as possible. carr 1986: 60

We try by our actions to become storytellers with hindsight. We still have not seen how Carr argues that actions are structured like stories. He maintains that theorists tend to ignore the temporality of action. Probing that temporality shows that actions have a sort of retentional-​protentional structure and, by implication, a storied structure; an action unfolds in temporal phases like a melody. Consider another example, the case of tennis. The purpose of the tennis player’s actions is to hit the ball in certain ways, which are thus the temporal as well as the teleological end of the action. It so happens that the means-​end structure of action has a thing or two in common with the beginning-​middle-​ end structure of narratives, and so it is no wonder that the temporal and the teleological end overlap in this case. In parallel to a melody, the agent has a kind of prospective and retrospective grasp of the successive phases of the action, both past and future. In the midst of the action, the agent does not view the future as something expected, as in experiences, but something to be brought about by the performance of the action. In action, we focus on the future because we aim at realizing a state in the future. It is in the foreground while past and present form the background. There is something retrospective about action as if we were located in the future and trying to arrange and organize the present from this point of view. So, the agent is by necessity a time-​traveler! If I understand Carr correctly, the retentional structure shows itself both in the way the agent “travels to the future” and in the way that the recent actions form a part of the horizon of his actions. The tennis player’s swift running toward the ball is a part of the horizon of the very act of hitting the ball. The protential structure is the anticipation of the future and the activity of bringing about a future state. Carr’s analysis is fascinating and deserves a high ranking. If he is right, our cognition is largely of a narrative nature. Why? Because if actions have this retentional-​protentional structure, observation must have it too. To make an

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observation is to act in a special way and observations play an important role in our cognition. Other kinds of actions do too, witness the cognitive role of scientific experiments. So, if the actions through which we cognize the world are like narratives, then it enhances our cognition’s narrative moment. But that does not mean that the content of cognition and understanding have narrative moments.

The Narrative Realist Argument: Dray and Schapp

Now, might chunks of reality have storied structures, independent of the human mind? This is the claim of the narrative realists. One of them, the Canadian philosopher William Dray, thinks that this is the case and criticizes Carr for not going far enough (Dray 2001: 157–​179). Dray’s first of three concerns is that Carr is much too cautious in putting forth ontological claims while saying that narratives constitute communal life, an ontological claim. His second concern is that Carr overemphasizes the role of actual narration. However, Dray says that the question is not whether there is actual narration taking place but whether the narrative or the story or the story-​like structure refers to reality. His third point is similar to his second: Carr’s three-​voice analysis presupposes that there is no narrative without a narrator, while Carr emphasizes that there are narrative structures without a narrator. Dray is also skeptical of Carr’s (implicit?) contention that historical narratives are articulations of storied structures built into experience and action. Historians do tell with the greatest ease the stories of objects, such as the industrial revolution or population trends. To be sure, such objects are the results of experiences and activities, but they are neither experiences nor actions. Even worse for Carr is his insistence that natural scientists tell stories of natural phenomena—​the history of the earth, life on earth or the universe, and the like—​but we cannot by any stretch of imagination call these phenomena “products of experience and actions.” One of the problems with Carr’s arguments is that he seems to accept the constructivist contention that if narratives are artifacts, that is to say, not natural, then they cannot represent reality. Then Carr tries to show that narratives are inherent in something natural: our actions and experiences. But why should this be the case? Why cannot something artificial represent reality? Further, we can vindicate narrativism without necessarily defending the continuity thesis? We can find narratives retrospectively exemplified in what may not have come narrativized originally.

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Dray asks us to consider the following. Let us assume that something firstly displays the true temporal succession of elements, secondly ascribes them to a central subject, thirdly relates some of the elements in such a way that they can explain the others, and fourthly shows that the various elements were parts, phases, or stages of some developing whole. If an event exhibits all of these interrelationships, it would be difficult to deny that this event exhibits a narrative form. There are phenomena that have this form, and some may not have been discovered. Dray raises the notion of “unknown narrativizable configurations” that are “tellables,” objects that have a narrative form, although they may never have been told in an actual story. In my terminology, a tellable is something that possesses a storied structure. The concept of the tellable is a fruitful one for my undertaking and shall be ranked rather highly. Though, that does not commit me to accepting Dray’s criticism of Carr in its entirety. He overlooks the possibility that historians and natural scientists were able to tell the story of, say, the industrial revolution or life on earth, only if they project human actions and experiences into these objects, talk like they were acting and experiencing objects or products of such objects. More importantly, he ignores the possibility of events being only events under a description, some being narrative, others not. This means that there might be situations where it would be in perfect order to describe a so-​ called tellable as a non-​tellable. He also ignores the possibility that narrative sentences in narratives make them re-​interpretable. The concept of narrative sentences hails from Arthur Danto’s analysis of historical narratives (Danto 1985: 143–​183 and 342–​365). According to Danto, the following would be a narrative sentence: (ns1) “The Thirty Years’ War started in 1618.” Those who experienced the start of the war could not have known that they were experiencing the start of the Thirty Years’ War, unless they could have foreseen the future, which Danto thinks is logically impossible. Descriptions in sentences of this kind have as part of their truth-​conditions events that take place after the events to which the sentences primarily refer. In our case, the event primarily referred to is the start of the war in 1618; the end is a later event that is a part of the truth conditions for the sentence. The events described in a narrative sentence can always be put in new narrative contexts. ns1 was a perfectly meaningful sentence in 1649 but not ns2: “In 1618 there started a war, which postponed German unification for over 250 years.” ns2 is a narrative sentence, which puts the events of 1618 in a new narrative context. Danto says that the structure of the narrative entails the openness of the future. If the future were determined once and for all, then events would not influence future states. If this were the case, historical narratives would have no work to do because their job is to establish causal links between events.

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Indeed, if the future were determined, events in the past and future would be independent of each other, and so narrative redescriptions of a given event in the light of later events would be impossible. The narrative redescription, given in ns2, would become meaningless because there would not be any connections between the Thirty Years’ War and the later development in Germany (Danto 1985: 353). This also means that there is a way in which narrative sentences create events (this does not mean that there is no storied structure out there, only that such sentences can add more such structure or refashion radically that which already exists). It is only in light of some narrative sentences that the Battle at the White Mountain can be given the identity of “the starting point of the Thirty Years’ War.” We can learn from Elizabeth Anscombe that actions and events can only be given identities in descriptions (Anscombe 1957: 9–​15 (§ 5–​8)). Some of these descriptions are given in narrative sentences, which can give the events a different identity than a description in non-​narrative sentences. A person describing the events at the White Mountain in non-​narrative sentences while taking part in the battle could not conceivably give the battle the aforementioned identity. This criticism could also undercut some of Wilhelm Schapp’s arguments. He was seemingly the first narrativist and went at least as far as Dray in narrative realism. He was originally Husserl’s student but then turned to law and worked as a judge for many decades. As a judge, he discovered that there was no such thing as prosecuting, defending, or judging a case in any form but a narrative one. Judges, lawyers, and defendants tell endless tales in court. Because of these experiences, he developed a full-​fledged narrativistic philosophy: Wir Menschen sind immer in Geschichten verstrickt. Zu jeder Geschichte gehört ein darin verstrickter. Geschichte und In-​Geschichte-​verstrickt-​ sein gehören so eng zusammen, daß man beides vielleicht nicht einmal in Gedanken trennen kann. schapp 1976: 1

We humans are always entangled in stories. Every story has someone who is entangled in it. A story and being entangled in story are so intimately connected that we perhaps cannot even disconnect them in thought.94

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This is my own translation from German. For some mysterious reason, this book has never been translated into English. There is, however, a translation into French.

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To be entangled in stories means “being caught up in stories,” “having no way of escaping from them,” or, more precisely, “being by necessity a part of stories.” I am not only entangled and caught up in the story of my life; I am also co-​entangled (g. Mitverstrikt) in other people’s stories and they in mine. Both they and I are co-​entangled in the stories of our civilization, our country, our communities, and more. Everything we do, even innocent rounds of chats on the Internet, are parts of stories. Moreover, the stories are entangled in each other; every story refers to another story about the events leading up to its beginning, and the second story refers to a third one, and so on. Not even the Judeo-​Christian myth of creation has a non-​ambiguous beginning. After all, the story refers to a potential story of what God did before creating the world (Schapp 1976: 88). In the beginning was the story (at the end, the narrative?). It does not make much sense to analyze the story as something being composed by units; a story is an irreducible whole. They are not even essentially verbal, even though language can play an important role in them. It is not by chance that we become acquainted with a given person by getting to know the story of his or her life. The reason is simply that the story is the only game in town. We are only drops in a sea of stories (Schapp 1959: 4). Our personalities or selves are only abstractions from the stories in which we are entangled. In the last analysis, there is no such thing as a story-​less thing, for the narrative rules and creates the rules. Great minds think alike: in one of his books, American novelist Cormac McCarthy writes: “Things separate from their stories have no meaning” (McCarthy 1994: 142). In a markedly different approach to Schapp’s, McCarthy is hardly making a philosophical point. The narrative has some kind of a constitutive function for Schapp.95 According to him, existing (being) means being entangled in stories: in some sense, stories are all there is. So, as a true narrative realist, the German phenomenologist maintains that stories are not first and foremost something created and told but something in which we discover or find ourselves. Almost by implication, our perceptions, emotions, and thoughts are completely dependent upon stories; they are just as entangled in stories as everything else. However, surely, we can perceive colors and other sensory qualities without involving stories, someone might say. No, responds Schapp, there is no such thing as experiencing sensory qualities in an isolated form. You do not see a color isolated from everything else you have experienced. In the 95

It would be tempting to say that Schapp accords a transcendental function to narratives but that does not fit in with his descriptive phenomenological approach. Like a good descriptive phenomenologist, he was skeptical of all theorizing, including the transcendental kind. He wanted to describe, not to explain (according to Haas 2002: 36).

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last analysis, your perception only makes sense as something that takes place in a story or is the perception of a storied event, or both. Furthermore, your act of perception occurs at a certain point in your life, and your life is a story entangled in other stories (Schapp 1976: 75). This statement is even more apparent when we consider our perception of work-​a-​day objects (g. Wozudinge), i.e., objects that have utility for us. We can only relate to these things as something with a story, things that were in many cases created at given moments for given purposes or things that have broken down at some moment. If you discover that something is broken, you are bound to regard what happened to the thing as a narratable event, or else you would not be able to understand it as a broken object. Moreover, our relationship with Wozudinge constitutes our primary relationship to the world (Schapp 1976: 13). Schapp had a pragmatist tendency in the same way as Martin Heidegger, who maintained that objects were first “at hand” (g. Zuhanden) as practical objects before they became “for hand” (g. Vorhanden) objects for theoretical reflection. According to Heidegger, we first relate to the sun as an object that keeps our bodies warm and helps us find our way. This practical relationship gives the sun its identity. Because of this, we can put forth theories about the nature of the sun (Heidegger: 1977: 63–​113 (§15–​27)). In Schapp’s view, this means that objects are primarily objects of utility and that such objects only exist in stories or as abstractions from stories. As the reader might have guessed, Schapp also thought that our relationship to ourselves is primarily of a narrative nature. If we ask ourselves what kind of personal qualities we have, we cannot answer that question without relating to the stories recounted about these qualities. Scrutinizing our inner being means analyzing our stories (Schapp 1976: 26). Emotions are also of a narrative nature. Emotions such as love, or hate are what they are by being entangled in stories (Schapp 1976: 156–​157). There is no love without a love story! Think about hate; one cannot hate someone if one does not believe that the object of hate did something bad. There must be a story about that action and its consequences. Schapp’s books make for fascinating reading; they are full of thought-​ provoking examples from everyday life, besides having a particular kind of poetical clarity. They are places where the poetic and the concrete meet. Nevertheless, his analysis is not above criticism. He actually never defined the concept of a story. According to Stephanie Haas, he thought that the concept in question cannot be defined successfully (Haas 2002: 36). Be that as it may, one has the feeling that Schapp stretches the concept of a story too thinly and that he assumes a priori that everything is a story or is entangled in a host of stories. Further, Stephanie Haas has a point when she

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says that Schapp was torn between wanting to focus on concrete individuals and wanting to generalize about humans as beings entangled in stories (Haas 2002: 60). Surely, he is busy abstracting from concrete individuals when he is saying that they are all functions of stories. In short, Schapp saw the whole world through the lens of the narrative and was probably the first narrativist and narrative realist. His analysis, however, suffers from certain vagueness. Nevertheless, he points toward the possibility of pan-​narrativism (everything has a storied structure), which is inspiring for the rpe. He deserves a somewhat high ranking.

Blending Theory and Narrativism

As suggested earlier, the blending theorists think that the blend need not be metaphoric. Non-​metaphoric blends can have more than two input spaces. Indeed, the theory of blending is designed not only to explain metaphors but our linguistic and mental activities in general. It can explain, for instance, how we see other people as beings endowed with consciousness. We unconsciously create a blend of ourselves and other people (most of our blending activity is unconscious) (Fauconnier and Turner 2002: 44). In this blend, we automatically make others conscious beings by projecting our consciousness onto them (Turner 2004: 90–​115). Narratives can also be blends. According to Turner, blended stories play a role in structuring our thoughts, contributing to making our minds literary: “Narrative imaging-​story-​is really the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend on it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, of predicting, of planning, and of explaining. It is a literary capacity indispensable to human cognition generally” (Turner 1996: 4). Narrative imaging is performed mainly with the aid of what Turner calls parables. He uses this term specifically to denote narratives projected onto other narratives. The ability to project one story onto another is a literary capacity indispensable to human cognition in general.96 Therefore, it is no wonder that our world is replete with parables. Proverbs furnish us with fascinating examples. They present a condensed implicit story to be interpreted through projection; think about “while the cat is away, the mice will play.” We could, for example, project this story onto a story about infidelity. The proverb functions

96

According to Turner, C. S. Lewis is the originator of this idea of parables and their cognitive role (Turner 1995).

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as a source-​story while the story of the infidelity is the target-​story.97 We can even see our lives in a story about a voyage, even without conscious reflection. We create parables by and large spontaneously, without conscious reflection (Turner 1996: 5). Our mind is literary; it is permeated with stories and metaphors. We construct small stories all the time, mostly without thinking, just as we do not usually reflect over our use of our eyes. without thinking about them. The same holds for our narrative activities. Indeed, we organize our experiences in narratives. They originate from small, simple, spatial stories, like a story about the wind that blows clouds through the sky or a child that throws a stone (Turner 1996: 12–​13). These spatial stories would not be possible without image-​schemas. It is easy to see how we activate the schema source-​path-​g oal in spatial stories. We see a thing fall from a table (source), through the air (path), landing on the floor (goal). Then we project this story onto our own life. We experience our mind as a source for wishes and actions. We do things to achieve what we wish to achieve. The means we use to reach the target (to fulfil the wish) we tend to regard as the path toward the goal. This actually is an example of my own making, but Turner uses one from world literature. The story of Odysseus is structured by the image-​schema source-​way-​target. The source is Troy, the path is the voyage on the Mediterranean ocean, the goal is Ithaca (Turner 1996: 27). This literary story has its roots in a spatial story of the thing-​falls-​from-​table kind. Turner does not exclude the possibility that the same holds for all non-​ spatial stories but admits that, for now, we cannot be certain (Turner 1996: 51). The ability to construct small spatial stories is universal. We are naturally wired to organize the world as stories. To slice the world into discrete objects means putting the slices in small spatial stories because our identification of objects is dependent upon the typical stories in which they appear (Turner thus confers a somewhat transcendental status upon spatial stories without saying so explicitly). A stone is an object that, for instance, appears in a spatial story about stone-​throwing. Usually, we sort of duck when we see someone take up a stone to throw it. We experience ourselves as being situated at the beginning of a small spatial story, imagining the rest, and reacting according to this. Here we see an example of narrative imaging. We imagine that the stone is being thrown in our direction because of the fact that we spontaneously situate that event in a spatial story.

97

On the concepts of target-​and source-​stories, see Turner 1996: 49.

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We can also see that stories must have had an adaptive function. Those of our ancestors who were apt at creating stories about the throwing of stones were more likely to escape such ordeals. As suggested, narrative imagining is our primary way of predicting events since we predict by situating objects in stories. The same thing happens when we plan something: The adaptive advantage that attends the abilities to predict and plan ought to be obvious. Narrative imaging is our basic instrument for explanation. We hear drops of water dripping mysteriously from the ceiling. We try to imagine with the aid of spatial story how this puzzling situation could have come about. The story is an attempt to explain the event (Turner 1996: 15–​20). From this we can see that Turner is a staunch narrativist, believing that our world is replete with narrativity. I have hitherto been discussing only simple stories in which one projects from a source-​domain to a target-​domain. However, true-​blue “blended stories” (my expression) are more complex. They do not even have to involve source-​ and target-​domains. Turner uses an example from a report about the ship Great America ii that tried to beat the speed record in 1993, set by the ship Northern Light in 1853, sailing the same route as the older ship had sailed. One report of the event created a blended space where these two ships were actually taking part in a competition. Notice that neither in the input space of the older nor in that of the newer ship is there any competition. The blend created new qualities, which did not exist in the input spaces. Notice also that neither of the inputs was the target or source for the other one, but we can nevertheless see both in this way because of this blend. We can, for instance, say that the Northern Light is falling behind, and that only makes sense if we are thinking within the blend (Turner 1996: 67–​69). The fact that the input rooms are neither source-​nor target-​domains means that this story is no metaphor (Turner 1996: 72–​73). To get a better hold of the relationship between metaphors and parables, we must be familiar with Turner’s concept of an emblem. An emblem is a parable that has a given story as a starting point and projects a generic story that covers other stories that belong to the same conceptual domain. Turner uses the story about the conflict between Shahrazad and her father, the vizier, from 1001 Nights (The Arabian Nights) as an example. From this story, we project an abstract, generic story about conflicts between parents and their offspring. This generic story fits many others (Turner 1996: 3–​11). In 1001 Nights, there is a story about two kings, both of whom have unfaithful wives. They travel around to find out whether they are the only ones who have been treated so badly by their wives. Then, they meet a beautiful girl who is the prisoner of an evil spirit. She has sex with the kings to take revenge upon

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her keeper. The kings conclude that if a mighty spirit can be taken for a ride in this manner, their misfortune is not so hard to bear after all. They understand the story emblematically: women are always shrewd and unfaithful. From this story, they project a generic story: women fool men with the use of cunning. This story can then be projected onto several stories, for instance, the stories of the kings and their wives. But from the point of view of the evil spirit, the story can be understood metaphorically. He mistreated the girl very badly by kidnapping her on her wedding night and locking her into a tiny box. She takes revenge upon him by cheating on him whenever possible. This story can be projected metaphorically onto stories of marriage in general or at least royal marriages. Kidnapping a girl on her wedding night can be a metaphor for what kings do on their wedding nights, or at least for the king who was in the habit of executing his wives on that particular night. Turner has a mainly implicit idea of narrative identity; he thinks that the parables took part in creating the concept of a soul. We all know the spatial story in which an actor moves an object. We then project this story onto another story in which the actor has become the soul; the object is the actor’s body (the soul moves the body) (Turner 1996: 21). Considering how important the concept of a soul is in the human world, we should see the importance of the parable through this example. The example also shows how non-​spatial stories about events in human souls have their roots in spatial stories. Turner says that stories and the relationship between them are our best cognitive instruments for the creation of a biography (this makes him a narrative cognitivist). A mental room that concerns a person’s life seems like a part of her biography. To understand who she is, we frequently use our imagination to scrutinize mental spaces, which show her as a child, an adult, and so on. By “moving” between these spaces, the generic room can become very abstract, even as abstract as the idea of an “animated creature.” However, in the blend, her personality is being “created,” we see her as a particular individual with a given identity, which unifies her at all stages of her life (this is how I interpret Turner). The blend can show us how the seemingly incoherent aspects of an individual’s life can turn out to be coherent; she can be both a giver and a receiver, and so on (Turner 1996: 136). Seemingly, Turner has an implicit theory about our selves (or personalities or individual identities) being complex constructions of parables. Given his way of thinking, the self does not exist an sich (in itself) but is somehow constructed, just as objects and events are. Perhaps this construction of the self happens in the same way as the biography is constructed. Our selves come into being thanks to the parables created by us and our fellow men about our selves in the past, present, and future. The blend then integrates the parables.

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But in Turner’s recent book, The Origin of Ideas, he does not talk much a about parables but describes the self as a product of blends where that we blend our conception of our former selves with the current one and our anticipation of future ones (Turner 2014: 65–​106). Now, some critical remarks. First, Turner does not define the concept of a narrative, and so it is rather hard to say what he means when he is talking about narratives. A phenomenologist might be excused for not defining his concepts but hardly a cognitive scientist. Secondly, just like Lakoff and Johnson, he puts too much emphasis on our experiences with objects and focuses too one-​sidedly on our bodies. Why should not our subjectivity and social interaction be the foundation for at least some of whatever primordial stories we live by? The oldest stories we know of are myths, and they were almost certainly products of communal interaction, perhaps written a bit like articles in Wikipedia. Their function was probably to increase cohesion in society; given this, they probably reflect society’s norms. An example can be the old Nordic tale Rígsþula (The Song of Rig). It tells the story of how one of the Nordic gods came to earth and had three sons, with three different women. One of them was the forefather of the ruling class, the other of free farmers, the third of the slaves (Anonymous 1908: 202–​217). Thus, society’s hierarchy was sanctioned in a religious manner without any input from our experiences with non-​human objects. We cannot exclude the possibility of stories like that being just as primordial as stories about moving objects. It should not come as any surprise if there are ur-​stories we live by, some originating in our experiences of our bodies and other objects, others in subjectivity and social interaction (all existing in a social manner). The latter kind of ur-​stories would be abstract, schematic story structures, having as their source the way we experience others as helpers or adversaries or the way we experience something as (subjectively) desirable. Our brains then somehow store aspects of these experiences, creating a skeletal or abstract pattern out of them that functions as a deep structure, which can be activated in various ways given the circumstances. This is admittedly a speculative hypothesis, but it could provide a fillip for empirical research. It should be ranked somewhat high. In the third place, Turner’s theory that certain simple stories create the foundation for, so to speak, all our cognitive activity seems far-​fetched. In fact, it seems he has admitted that his theory is rather speculative.98 However, it 98

According to a review of Turner 1996 by Caldwell 1997.

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can be useful regardless of whether it explains our cognitive activities. We do not need to believe in such a theory to understand that we often project simple narrative structures onto other structures as we transcend conceptual borders. We repeatedly experience how such simple structures from folk tales and the like are projected onto novels, movies, or just everyday talk around the water cooler. The story of Rambo is projected onto the story of a tough-​ minded businessman who overcomes all obstacles, even if everything seems hopelessly futile for a while. Such a story is metaphoric because it connects the conceptual domain of warriors with that of businesspeople while it is seen in the light of another story, in this case, Rambo. Turner’s theory of parables, then, is sound as a narratological theory but not necessarily as a cognitive one. The same holds for the concept of spatial stories; we certainly tell such stories, but how important they are for our thinking and our world-​view is hard to determine. Turner provides us with a forceful blending theorist version of the narrativist argument. It shall be ranked rather highly.

Mink and Narration as Cognition

Louis Mink was a narrative constructivist and cognitivist. He surmised that the very idea of a narrative form has some conceptual presuppositions that shape the subject of narratives.99 The most important is the beginning-​middle-​end structure of narratives. The experiences of our lives do not necessarily have the form of narrative, but when we tell the tales of these experiences, this narrative structure shapes them. Some events are called “beginnings,” others “ends,” and so on. Now, it is tempting to say that these exist objectively, independent of whatever narrative structure we might impose upon them. No, says Mink, in the first place, the concept of an event is unclear. Was, for instance, the Renaissance an event? We may speak of a war as an event, but a war comprises battles and battles of engagements of units and engagement by units of actions by individuals, and so on. Secondly, we cannot refer to events as such but only events under a description, so there can be more than one description of the same event, which are all 99

Mink also says that particular narratives express their own conceptual presuppositions and that they are, in fact, our most useful evidence for understanding conceptual presuppositions that are quite different from ours. It is through the plots of Greek tragedies that we can best understand the Greek idea of Fate, he says (Mink 2001: 215) (see also Mink 1987: 35–​41).

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true but refer to different aspects of the event or describe it at different levels of generality. Moreover, it does not make sense to say that the same event can be described by two narratives, one truer to the facts than the other. The reason is that there is no such thing as “the same event,” completely independent of descriptions. Historical events are abstractions from narratives (Schapp would certainly have concurred). In the natural sciences, one of the major functions of theory is to provide scientists with stipulations on what counts as a unit-​event and what descriptions of events are acceptable. However, if the same were applied to historians, historical narratives would simply become superfluous for understanding events. Stipulations like those in natural sciences would rule out redescriptions of events and, without such redescriptions, no narratives (Mink 2001: 219–​220). Now, some might ask whether we can decide the truth values of historical narratives simply by matching the different, referring statements with reality. Mink answers that historical narratives are more than just logical conjunction of past-​referring statements, in stark contrast to chronicles. The only ordering relation in a chronicle is “and then.” Narratives, however, contain indefinitely many ordering relations and indefinitely many ways of combining them. Such a combination creates the coherence of narratives or the lack of it. Historical narratives claim truth, not only for each of its individual statements taken distributively but also for the complex form of the narrative itself. Only by such a form can there be a story of triumph or tragedy, of plans miscarried or successful adventures. Mink states that “narrative form, to paraphrase what Wittgenstein said of the logical form, of a proposition, cannot be ‘said’ but must be shown-​in the narrative as a whole” (Mink 2001: 218).100 Therefore, it is meaningless to test its truth value in any ordinary, empirical way. We can neither summarize nor restate a narrative as an inventory of conclusions or findings. Hence, if anyone asks for reasons for accepting or rejecting them, the answer would not simply be a recital of a piece of evidence, as is usual when we try to find support for a generalization, and it would rather be the repetition of how the narrative has ordered the evidence. Since Wittgenstein’s distinction between saying and showing plays an important role in this book, I shall take a short detour through his arguments, first, those that he presented in the Tractatus: a true proposition shares a logical form with the facts about which it is true, but it cannot express the relationship

100 Perhaps there is a kinship Mink’s contention and Schapp’s view that the concept of narratives cannot be defined.

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between itself and the facts. Logical form is something that is essential shared between a meaningful entity and that which it successfully represents. And that which they share can only be shown, not said (Wittgenstein 1922: 81 (§4.124)). Any attempt to express this relationship in propositions leads to an infinite regress. If proposition P2 correctly expressed the relationship between proposition P1 and “its” facts, then we would need proposition P3 to express the relationship between P2 and “its” facts and so an ad infinitum. The relationship between propositions and facts can, in the last analysis, only be shown, not described (not expressed in propositions) (Wittgenstein 1922: 79 (§ 4.12–​4.1212)). Consider a curve showing the development of fever in a given patient. This curve and the fever share a logical form. However, we can neither incorporate the form itself into the curve nor express it in the curve; it can only be shown.101 Mutatis mutandis, the same holds for the relation between a true proposition and its facts. Showing is the precondition for propositional knowledge, while the two cannot be separated. There is no showing without propositions and no propositions without showing.102 Wittgenstein maintained that philosophy correctly understood was a question of showing rather than saying, and by implication, non-​propositional and non-​argumentative (Wittgenstein 1922: 79 (§ 4.12–​4.1212)). In his later philosophy, he gave up the idea of logical form but retained a version of showing. Instead of analyzing different ways of using language in order to find their common essence, Wittgenstein tells us “don’t think but look!” Looking in this way shows that these different ways of using language do not have a common essence (Wittgenstein 2009: 36 (§ 66)). He implied that abstract reflection is an obstacle when it comes to understand concepts such as those involving language-​games, while a sort of intuitive perception is more effective. That perception must be aspect-​seeing or closely related to this way of seeing. Mink says that the cognitive function of narrative form is not only to relate a succession of events but also to embody an ensemble of the interrelationships of many different kinds as a single whole. So, while we can decide empirically what are the facts or the relations between them, we cannot resolve ­disputes about the possible combinations of relations. Moreover, just as evidence does not dictate which story is to be constructed, so it does not bear on the preference of one story to another. Concerning the narrative treatment of an 101 For a systematic introduction to Wittgenstein’s seeing/​ showing argument, see Harward 1976. 102 Notice that showing can imply that something is disclosed, witness the relationship between showing and disclosure.

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ensemble of interrelationships, we credit the imagination, the sensibility, or the insight of the individual historian. Narrative form in history, as in fiction, is an artifice; it is the product of individual imagination (Mink 2001: 217–​218). Yet again we discover interesting arguments in favor of the cognitive importance of imagination. According to Mink, the narrative is primarily a cognitive instrument, rivaled only by theory and by metaphor as one of the irreducible ways of making the flux of experience comprehensible. Narrative is particularly important as a rival to theoretical explanations. Theory makes possible the explanation of an occurrence only by describing it in such a way that the description relates logically to a systematic set of generalizations or laws (Mink 1970: 550). One can understand the operation of a spring-​powered watch only in so far as one understands the principles of mechanics. This requires describing the mechanism of the watch in the terms and only in the terms appropriate for these principles. One could not understand the operations of a watch and fail to understand the operation of a mill-​wheel or vice versa. However, a particular watch also has a history. It is produced in one place, shipped to another, bought by someone, admired by another, and cursed by a third party. At each moment of its career, it is or may be a part of a connected series of events, which intersects its own history. At each such moment it will be subject to a particular description that is appropriate only because of that intersection. From the standpoint of theoretical understanding, the type of appropriate description is given, and it is not problematic. But the particular history of the watch escapes theoretical understanding simply because envisioning that history requires the attribution of indefinitely many descriptions of it, which are either relevant or irrelevant to the sequence that intersects its career. Mink says that this is what the narrative form uniquely represents and why we require it as an irreducible form. On the one hand, there are all the occurrences in the world in their concrete particularity. On the other hand, an ideally theoretical understanding of those occurrences would treat each as nothing but a replicable instance of a systematically interconnected set of generalizations. However, between these extremes, the narrative is the form in which we make comprehensible the many successive interrelationships that are comprised by a career (Mink 2001: 213–​214). The upshot of this is that while nomological sciences generalize, narratives “singularize”. The way we cognize with the aid of narratives is by means of configuration and comprehension. Mink uses the following example of configuration. Understanding a letter from a friend does not require a theory about letters and friendship but by showing how

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it belongs to a particular configuration of events like a part to a jigsaw puzzle. It is in this configurational mode that we see together the complex imaginary in a poem, or the combination of motives, pressures, promises, and principles which explains a Senator’s vote, or the pattern of words, gestures, and actions which constitute our understanding of the personality of a friend. mink 1970: 551

Configuration is the means to achieve narrative comprehension, which is a way of seeing-​things-​together, having a synoptic vision of them. We see the actions and events described in the story in a single glance as bound together in order of significance. Comprehending the story of Oedipus means understanding him simultaneously as the man who killed his father and a stranger that insulted him, married the queen who was his mother, and so on. Moreover, comprehending temporal succession in a narrative means to think of it in both direction at once, thinking of the end in terms of the beginning and vice versa. Let us take a look at Mink’s theory of narrative form as something unsayable. Are they like Wittgenstein’s logical form? Hardly, Mink has said that narrative form does not necessarily share a structure with what the narrative symbolizes, that the structure is imposed upon its object. But logical form and Mink’s narrative form are not of the same kind, so they are either sayable or if they are not, then unsayable for some other reasons than Mink’s own. Further, Mink ignores the crucial difference between narratives and stories. This is the reason why he thinks that narratives and stories are constructed and that they do not structure human reality. As we have seen, stories are not necessarily constructed, and they can structure our reality, give it a high degree of narrativity. Nevertheless, there is a lot to be learned from Mink, not least his theory of narratives as having a particular cognitive role to play, that of comprehension through configuration. It shall be ranked rather highly.

Ricœur and the Rule of Narratives

Ricœur’s theory of narratives is just as syncretist as his theory of metaphors.103 To begin with, his theory is grounded in an effort to rejuvenate Aristotle’s

103 Unfortunately, I can only give a superficial account of his theory of narratives, I have to ignore his fascinating theory about the relationship between time and narratives.

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implicit theory of narratives.104 Just like Aristotle, Ricœur maintains that the basic function of narratives and plots is to represent actions (Ricœur 1984a: xi). He uses the word “action” in a very broad sense: comprising the protagonists’ behavior and their moral transformation, growth, and education. Further, he includes purely internal changes affecting the temporal course of sensations and emotions (Ricœur 1985: 10). However, we may have already encountered a couple of minor problems. The first is that Ricœur’s definition of action is perhaps too wide. The second is that narratives are hardly about actions by any conceptual necessity. There are stories about natural events. Then again, it could be said that a prototypical story is about human action and that stories about natural events are possibly derivatives of such stories. We may note the strong tendency to anthropomorphize natural agents in narratives about nature. Maybe there is no way to recount any event unless one treats the agents of change as actual or virtual actors, as sorts of minded beings. We must also keep in mind that Ricœur is no analytical philosopher looking for necessary and sufficient conditions for the employment of concepts. He wants to understand actual stories that matter to human beings. Secondly, he uses the word “narrative” in the same sense as the Aristotelian muthos, that is, “the organization of events.” (However, it would perhaps have been better to call this aspect of muthos “plot”). The third Aristotelian aspect is discriminating between narrative in the broad sense, defined as the what of mimetic activity, from the narrative in the narrow sense of the Aristotelian diegesis (the narration), which Ricœur calls “a diegetic composition” (Ricœur 1984a: 36). The first sense is roughly what I have called “story;” the second has traits of both narration (the act of telling) and narrative. The French philosopher puts a great emphasis upon the role of plot and emplotment in narratives. He defines plot on a formal level as “an integrating dynamism that draws a unified and complete story from a variety of incidents, in other words, that transforms this variety into a unified and complete story” (Ricœur 1985: 8). Another, simpler, definition of plot is “the intelligible whole that governs the succession of events in any story” (Ricœur 1981c: 176). It is the plot that turns events into a story. Most importantly, plots have almost a transcendental function in Ricœur’s scheme of things. “Scheme” is the appropriate word here because there is a brand of Kantian schematism at work in the plots, just like in

104 His theory is implicit in his analysis of the tragedy. A tragedy represents (imitates) actions (Aristotle 1965: 39 (Chapter 6)).

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the metaphors. The plot performs a synthesis of sorts. It fuses intentions, causal relations, and chance occurrences in unified sequences of acts. He seems to think that the plot creates a unified pattern in a chaotic series of events, tying them together, just like the metaphor fuses phenomena that apparently do not have much in common. The point of the plot (its theme, idea, thought) must be connected to an intuition (g. Anschauung) of circumstances, characters, episodes, and so on, analogously to the way Kantian schematism unifies the abstract (thought) and the concrete (images) (Ricœur 1984a: 68). Now, the French structuralists, who invented narratology, were not impressed by such concepts as plot, which they thought were subjective and unscientific. All there is to narratological studies is laying bare the deep structures and showing how these structures generate narratives. An example of this kind of analysis is Algirdas Greimas’s theory of narratives, which owes a lot to Vladimir Propp’s seminal analysis of Russian folktales. The deep structure of narratives, at least of folk tales and myths, consists of certain functions or roles, or, more precisely, certain spheres of action, which Greimas calls “actants.” There are altogether six, and they form three pairs. The first pair is subject and object; in the myth of the Holy Grail the knight Galahad is the subject, the Holy Grail is the object. The second pair is sender and receiver; God is the sender of the grail, mankind it’s the receiver. The third pair is the one of helper and adversary; the helper is the sum of the good people and the divine forces that help Galahad, the adversary the sum of the evil forces, which try to obstruct his quest. Several actors can form one actant, and the same actor can be several actants. Someone who starts as a friend of the hero (helper) but eventually lets him down (adversary) is an instance of the latter. On the basis of these formal structures, an infinite number of narratives can be generated (Greimas 1983: 197–​213). These formal analyses may be very inspiring, but Ricœur thinks that something is lacking. These formal structures can come alive or generate narratives only if they are aided by a narrative pre-​understanding, which stems from our everyday practices that are themselves imbued with narratives. Inspired by Gallie, Ricœur says that one aspect of this pre-​understanding is our ability to follow a story. There is a pre-​rational narrative pre-​understanding that has a logical primacy in relation to semiotic rationality, which such structuralists as Greimas explicate in their analysis. The relationship between narrative pre-​understanding and semiotic pre-​understanding is like the one between the pre-​rational Kantian schematism and the rational Kantian categorical understanding. The schematism in question is not altogether of Kantian provenance since it is not entirely atemporal. It is partly created by the sedimentation of practice with a specific history. This sedimentation gives this kind of

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schematism a unique historical style, which Ricœur calls traditionality. This traditionality instructs narrative understanding, which is decisively shaped by familiarity with literary works and by plot-​types handed down by tradition (the hermeneutic nature of this argument should be obvious). This shaping of the narrative understanding by tradition is just as essential to narratives as are the formal deep structures (Ricœur 1985: 14). Moreover, the transcendental power of the plot enables it to breathe life into the dead formal structures. The plot originates in the act of telling and, therefore, in the pragmatics of language, while the formal structures belong to its semantics (Ricœur 1985: 44). However, no semantic analysis can eliminate the pragmatic side. As I see it, it can only make sense to talk of the transcendental role of the plot if the plot is situated in the readers’ minds (especially their imagination) or in what we can call their “faculty of narrative understanding.”105 Looking for the plots in the narratives themselves would be futile, according to such a transcendental view. This means that we cannot simply eliminate plots from narratives if we take Ricœur’s transcendental brand of reader-​response theory seriously. To his theorizing, it can be added that perhaps plot is like Mink’s conception of narrative form, something that cannot be said, only shown (the difficulties involved in pinning the plot down and its apparent ineliminability point in that direction). Dialectical as ever, Ricœur maintains that there is interdependence between the semiotic level and the level of actual praxis. The semiotic contribution is a network of interdefined terms and the like, while the semantics of actions (which concerns the actual praxis) explains the significance of action as well the specific structure of statements that refer to action. Such semantics is actually presupposed in the logic of narrative sentences, for they refer, after all, to actions (Ricœur 1985: 57–​58). But none of this is comprehensible unless we know Ricœur’s theory of mimesis. A narrative is constituted by a threefold mimesis (imitation, representation), that is, three ways of representing reality. No narrative is possible without some pre-​understanding of the world of action since stories have actions as their main topic. If the plot is a representation of actions, as earlier said, we must have a sort of understanding of actions in order to be able to create and comprehend a plot. Furthermore, we cannot understand actions unless we see them as structured in time in a way similar to stories. We fuse temporal units 105 I am neither claiming that such faculty exists nor that plots are transcendental, only speculating about the conditions that must obtain if it makes sense to say they are transcendental. Yet again, I am speculating about possibilities.

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in our actions together as we do when creating a story. This is the first level of mimesis, mimesis (1), the level of the prefiguration of the narrative (Ricœur 1984a: 54–​59). Ricœur seems to think that a narrative is not possible without the narrative moments in our understanding of action. This understanding prefigures our understanding of a story proper. Mimesis (2) is the level of the explicit narrative, the level of the creative act that organizes disparate actions into a unity with the aid of the emplotment (fr. mise en intrigue). It does not just organize actions, but also different kinds of events, characters in the story, and so on. Ricœur thus calls mimesis (2) configuration. He maintains that the emplotment is related to the unification of understanding and intuition in Kant’s reflective judgment (Kant 1963: 33–​36). Analogously, emplotment configures the “thought” (the idea) of the narrative and the intuitive presentation of the characters by fusing them (Ricœur 1984a: 68). Ricœur, the great synthesizer, borrowed this idea from Louis Mink (Mink 1987: 35–​41). Mimesis (3) is the level where the narrative recreates reality (or “refigures” in Ricœur’s terminology); above all, that part of reality we call “our lives”. Put simply, we can say that mimesis (3) is the effect the story has on people, and the effect people have on stories, i.e., the way they interpret them in light of their background and situation. This level of refiguration is where the text plays a role in the reader’s life. Our understanding of the text cannot be separated from how it changes us. Here, text and reader meet in the act of reading (Ricœur 1984a: 70–​71). Mythic tales, for instance, refigure the world of those who know and believe in them; myths are really all-​embracing metaphors. According to Kathleen Blamey, one of Ricœur’s points is that narratives can make us see our lives as tragedies, comedies, and so on. Blamey says further that humans actually do understand and refigure the events of their lives as though they were events in narratives (Blamey 1995: 579). Some people do not need novels to understand their lives as tragedies or comedies (or both). These persons might need what Ricœur calls “narrative competence.” Possessing this narrative competence means in the first place that one can formulate narrative sentences and use them in a story, secondly that one knows how to configure events in a narrative whole, and thirdly that one has the abilities to emplot and to follow a story (master followability) (Ricœur 1984a: 175). To this it should be added that a narratively competent person must know how to provide singular causal explanations with the aid of narratives. Moreover, this person must be able to make sense of certain phenomena by configuring them in a narrative manner. In short, a narratively competent person must be able to reason narratively.

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Just like Turner, Ricœur stresses that metaphors and narratives are related to each other. He seemingly thinks that metaphors and narratives as having at least five elements in common: In the first place, metaphors and narratives are products of Kantian schematism; we have already seen that both perform synthesis. Secondly, both metaphors and narratives show things as if they were something else, X as if it were Y: “To see as … is the common soul of metaphors and narratives” (“le voir comme … est l’âme commun à la métaphore et au récit”) (Ricœur 1984c: 448). We see Man as if he were a wolf in the famous metaphor (seeing-​as a means performing a synthesis of sorts). As suggested, Ricœur opines that metaphors and narratives are lenses through which we see things. We see things as something else through the lenses of a story, just as we can see the Jastrow-​figure as a duck, given a certain perspective. (Another narrative can presumably give a rabbit-​perspective on the “same” thing.) As an example of how fictional narrative can offer the lenses of aspect-​seeing we can yet again use Céline’s novel Journey to the End of the Night. It shows us the world as if it were a deep abyss where irony is a must for survival (the example is inspired by Putnam 1978b: 83–​94). It is less obvious that historical narratives show us X as if it were Y. However, think of the following: a historical narrative can show the Peace of Westphalia in 1648 as if it were the starting point of the creation of the modern system of states. (This example is mine.) Narrative figuration and metaphoric reference are two sides of the same coin. They have split reference in common. But in his later writings, Ricœur’s expressed misgivings about his use of words such as “reference” in his earlier works on metaphors because the term is too tightly tied to the logic of propositions. In these later writings, he preferred to talk about both narrative and metaphoric refiguration of reality. The refigurative powers of metaphors and narratives are their ability to recreate their object while saying something important about them, owing to the recreation (notice that refiguration means seeing-​as) (Ricœur 1984b: 436–​437). Witness the alethetic theory, its concept of transformation and twisting overlap with the one of refiguration. The notion of the three mimeses contains some unclarities. Does Ricœur think that the threefold mimesis is a conditio sine qua non for narratives? Put differently, is N a narrative if and only if N somehow involves the threefold mimesis? Or is N a prototypical narrative while non-​prototypical narratives involve only some or even none of the threesome? In addition, how can we ascertain that a refiguration has taken place? Do we have to use empirical or logical means for ascertaining this, or perhaps transcendental arguments, or even some kind of phenomenological approach?

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The rpe and Narrativism

Let us make a Rational Poetic Thought Experiment and ask, What if mental acts had necessary storied moments, even storied structures?106 Mental acts are not things that just happen to us but are true-​blue actions. By being such actions, they have a storied structure, given that Carr’s analysis is correct. This feature at least holds for the process of conscious thought. Of course, we often think in stories, including counterfactual ones. When thinking about how to get to the top of a mountain, I tell myself a counterfactual story about my climbing it. But I am after bigger game: I want to find out whether it makes sense to say that there are storied moments in the bulk of our thinking and our mental acts. The reasons for this possibility are the following: 1. Mental acts have a storied structure just like any other action. The fact that they are performed “inwardly” does not discount them from being actions. 2. A thought is about something just like a story. 3. A thought is something that begins, has a middle, and ends at a certain point in time. In the beginning, the thought is hazy but becomes clearer the moment we see how it all hangs together. What it is all about and gives it an identity is a theme and, hence, a quasi-​plot. For instance, I might be thinking about John’s bad behavior toward me. So, his bad behavior is the theme that unifies into one whole all kinds of mental events, which may include vague feelings, mental inner pictures, or sentences “heard” inwardly. My conception of his behavior is the theme of the thought, and it has obvious semblances to plots. The behavior of Rambo is an essential part of the plot of the movies about him, and novels are usually about the conduct of a number of characters. Just as in my thinking about John’s behavior, we have nothing resembling a scientific treatment of behavior in such stories as those of Rambo. In both cases (mine and Rambo’s), the conception of temporal succession is central, just like in any other story. Another example could be doubt. If I doubt the yeti’s existence, my thinking about these issues has yeti-​doubt as a theme. Other mental acts have a similar structure. Willing something begins in time and has a middle and an ending; this willing-​to-​become-​nun or willing-​to-​go-​to-​China initiates the theme of a host of thoughts and feelings. The same holds for at least some mental states, including emotional ones. Sorrow has a beginning, middle, end structure and

106 See also Snævarr 2010: 263–​264.

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a theme: the sorrow for a particular event or object, for instance, the death of one’s grandma. More about emotions later in this book. The chances are that the storied nature of mental acts shapes or taints their objects, making them partly acts of construction. Why should the structure of mental acts not influence mental contents? Now, it is time to make another experiment: what if causal explanations have a storied structure? Giving causal explanations is a part of our coping with and cognizing of the world. Narratives give causal explanations, but that could mean that they borrow causality from “real” causal explanations, or that narrative causal explanations are a subclass of the class of such explanations. Is causality perhaps a tellable? A causal explanation describes how a state of affairs, or an event came about, the cause is its beginning, the process of its coming about its middle, and the event/​state of affairs its conclusion. If the explanation is successful, it makes sense to say that the beginning, middle, and end constitute an organic whole. Furthermore, causality is necessary; given cause C, then a given effect E must follow. However, the same holds for a host of narratives, not least tragedies. So maybe causal explanations are tragedies. Now, is it plausible that nature itself contains tragic stories? Is not it more plausible that a being whose mental acts have storied structures mold natural events and structures in a storied fashion? Moreover, in the process, moderately constructing them, perhaps in the alethetic sense of twisting and transforming them. If Humeans are right, we can doubt that causal necessity is really out there in nature. So maybe the necessity is projected by our storied minds into real states and events. Causal explanations of cultural and social states and events might have a larger dose of tellability than causal explanations of natural states and events. The reason is that it makes sense to say that society and culture are created and maintained by beings whose mental acts have storied structures (given that my experiment was successful). The chances are that these beings project the storied structure of mental acts into their cultural and social creations. It has to be emphasized that stressing the narrative side of causal explanations is not undercutting their rationality. We have discovered that narratives and stories can be cognitive tools, and the purported storied structure of causal explanations might well be part of their (stories and narratives) cognitive strength. Be that as it may, it makes sense to say that these explanations have a storied structure and that mental acts have the same kind of structure. Beings with minds that are soaked with narrativity are almost bound to comprehend causes in terms of stories and reason in a storied fashion. Then it might be the case that giving causal explanation requires the ability to tell and understand

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stories. This can be tested by studying very young children: could it be that they only become able to give causal explanations after having gotten the ability to tell and understand stories? Could a deeper probing into these issues show that there is a causal connection between the storytelling ability and the ability to give causal explanation? These musings concerning causes are experimental and shall be ranked reasonably high. Less experimental is the rpe conception of plots and storied structures as something that transforms their objects, given that the latter can be at least partly separated from the former. If the storied moments of the mind give some of its objects a storied structure, these moments twist them. At the same time, the narrativity of the mind plays a cognitive role, so this transformation can provide us with a twisted understanding. Thus, causal explanations might provide some twisted understanding, given that causality has, a storied structure. That might be doubted, but it is harder to doubt that narratives can transform their objects and be due to this informative about them and hence T-​correct symbolic structures. Telling the story of the Thirty Years War and its aftermath as the story of how the unification of Germany was postponed is an example. The narrative creates a whole out of a myriad of facts and baptizes one point of time, “the beginning, “a group of points, “the middle,” and another group, “the end.” The postponement of unification functions as the plot, which creates causal and even logical chains between the beginning, the middle, and the end. From one point of view, there is nothing in the world except particles, their relation, and spacetime. According to this ultra-​scientific view of reality, not even the past, present, and future exist. Thus, the narrative transforms such a scientific picture of a spacetime slice into the postponement of German unification. At the same time, it informs us about this postponement, which is real on the work-​a-​day level, where we experience time as consisting of past, present, and future, woven into each other. Due to the transformation, our understanding of the German postponement that we get from the narrative would be twisted. Do straightforward narratives, not least those of a fictional kind, have any impact on cognition? They certainly do. To understand how, we can learn from the historian Hayden White (White 1978: 84–​88). He says that when cognizing reality, we usually understand something new or difficult to grasp in terms of something we are familiar with. We can, e.g., subsume something new under something familiar, a scientific law. However, fictional narratives come in handy when encountering processes in the human world that we cannot fathom. Think, for instance, about the murder of six million people during the Holocaust. We cannot make a mental image of the killing of such a large

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number of persons. The best way to grasp this terrifying process is to liken it to familiar fictional narratives, for example, to tragedies. It could be added that the strange process, leading to the election of Donald Trump can be told as a bizarre, tragicomic tale (most of us are familiar with this kind of fictional narrative). One day, we might discover some sure-​fire, nomological explanations of the Holocaust and Trump’s election. In the meantime, we can use fictional narratives to grasp these processes. Something similar holds for our everyday cognition; we understand our own experiences in terms of narratives and label them “comedies,” “tragedies,” etcetera. Understanding our experiences in that way becomes a part of who we are, constituting us. If we stopped understanding them in this narrative fashion and instead nomologically explained our behavior, we would perhaps become new creatures, robot-​like ones. Then again, it might be in our nature to understand ourselves and our lives as stories. Ordinary life has traits of stories in the sense of being a whole with beginning, middle, and end, at least in the eyes of the one who leads the life and people in general. Such a life often involves decisive, sometimes dramatic moments, which shape how life is lived. So, it makes sense to say that ordinary life is a proto-​story. Notice that if this is true, then we are talking of an objective fact about human life. The proto-​story might be the material to be constructed in various ways by actual stories and narratives. Deduction only plays a minor role in narrative explanation and reasoning; we cannot deduce the end of a story from what has come before. Moreover, narrative explanations are not nomological; they cannot be deduced from covering laws. Because of this non-​nomological nature of narrative explanations, examples and enthymemes play a major role in them. There is a myriad of unstated premises about human behavior and other aspects of the world in all narratives. Moreover, when using narratives argumentatively, we give examples in the form of stories, for instance, tales of morality. Donald Polkinghorne points out that narrative validity differs from the validity of formal logic. In the latter, the conclusion follows from the premises, thanks to the rules of logic. However, in narrative reasoning, “validity” means “well-​grounded conclusion.” Thus, a valid finding in narrative reasoning is a well-​grounded conclusion, not a deductive conclusion. The conclusion of narrative reasoning is most often defended with the aid of informal logic. Polkinghorne correctly says that a narrative argument does not produce certainty but likelihood (Polkinghorne 1988: 175). Narrative explanation and reasoning operate in a horizontal, synthesizing manner, as seen in the configurative (aspect-​seeing) operations of narratives. The employment of imagination is of great importance in the synthesizing,

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configurative activity. Imagination also plays a pivotal role in the creation of the fiction that matters for the attainment of practical rationality. I will rank my rpe experimental theory of the storied structure of mental acts and of causal explanations rather high for the time being. It is at least worth contemplation, and so is my general theory of narrative reasoning. The rpe theories and experiments could be enhanced with the aid of the conception of narrative imagining. Moreover, it has consequences for the evaluation of Dray; he is somewhat too objectivistic. A more fruitful approach would be to say that large chunks of reality can be said to be objectively tellables but only under certain perfectly rational descriptions, witness Danto. These descriptions are, in their turn, partly the products of the storied structure of mental acts, partly of storied traits, existing independent of mental acts. Stories structure large swaths of human reality assisted by narratives.

Lamarque’s Criticism of Narrativism

Before concluding this chapter, I shall turn to a criticism of narrativism put forth by Peter Lamarque that deserves our attention (Lamarque 2004: 393–​ 408). He reiterates and develops further his and Olsen’s views on narratives, the theories earlier discussed. He says that it is simply not true that narratives are by necessity fictional; that they create the events or objects they describe; that our selves are created by narratives; that narratives possess closure (are complete with a beginning, a middle, and an ending); that there are no structures of events independent of narrative; and that narratives distort the reality they describe. Instead, Lamarque proposes four minimal conditions for storytelling: a) stories are told, not found; b) at least two events must be depicted in a narrative; c) there must be some more or less loose, but non-​logical, relations between these events; and d) there must be temporal relations between events. We can identify narratives from the formal features of individual sentences or sentence strings alone. We cannot draw any implications about reference, truth, subject matter, or discursive ends from such formal identifications. Narratives are neutral on such matters; we can infer very little of substance from the premise that a given discourse is a narrative. It does not even have any real explanatory value. Given that a narrative is just the ordering of a sequence of events, including the placing of events in causal sequences, it is a truism that a narrative can be an explanatory device. Furthermore, it is wrong to conflate history and fiction, even though historical writing is unavoidably perspectival and selective. In the first place, neither

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the use of names in historical narratives nor the truth-​valuation of individual assertions affects reference by means of proper names or singular descriptions. Secondly, distortion is not an inevitable feature of descriptive narration. To accept the notion of a distorted narrative is to imply that there is an ideal, transparent narrative that maps facts without any discrimination or weighing. Such an ideal is obviously unwarranted. The anti-​realists concerning narratives/​stories believe in at least two theses: that all narration is fiction; and that historians create meta-​events as a part of narrative structuring. Examples of such meta-​events are the Middle Ages and the Cold War. However, no general anti-​realism about events follows from either one of them. Thus, the writing of General Robert E. Lee to the president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis, on the 25th of June 1863 is not a creation of any historian. We would need a general metaphysical and epistemological theory, not necessarily about narratives, to establish that such facts are indeed fictions. This means that the first one is wrong, and the second one is not better. When the historians impose a structure on a cluster of events and call it “the Middle Ages,” it is a marker of significance, not an invention of facts. Assigning signification within a structure that identifies a beginning and an end is not the same as creating the events themselves. We have no reason to believe that the causal sequences of events are creations of narratives. Not much, then, comes out of studying the semantic or even syntactic features of narratives. Even less comes out of such studies if we consider that a fictional story could be true by pure chance; the story’s semantic properties do not make it fictional. An orientation toward the pragmatics of narratives is more worthwhile than a focus on its syntax or semantics. To determine the relevance of its structure and semantic properties, we have to know what kind of narrative is involved and in what kind of practices it is involved. Lamarque thinks that fiction is a certain practice that aims at creating make-​believe, not belief, and, therefore, its truth value is not relevant. Biographies and historical narratives presumably aim to make us believe that certain propositions are true, implying that their truth value is highly relevant. Lamarque’s analysis is challenging but not above criticism. To begin with, he conflates the concepts of story and narrative. Certainly, N is only a narrative if it is being told, but S can be a story without being told. Lamarque wrongly thinks that stories are only told, never found. That spontaneous stories exist and that our experience and thinking have storied structures show that Lamarque is simply wrong. Secondly, he overestimates the importance of the purported fact that the practice determines the relevance of the semantic properties of a narrative

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in which it is involved Surely the same holds for the semantic properties of a scientific treatise. Is not science a particular type of practice? In the third place, the fictionalists argue forcefully in favor of the theory that large chunks of the reality that scientist’s study are make-​believe products. As we shall see, they do not think that undercuts the possibilities of objectivity in science. Hence, even if narratives are based only on make-​believe, that does not necessarily rule out the possibility of them having a cognitive function. Fourthly, Lamarque seems to think that all narrative connections are causal. But Gregory Currie had a point when saying that these connections are not always causal. Saying that narratives can give a causal explanation is thus no truism. According to Currie, illusions of connections in a narrative can have two aspects, one external and the other internal. The external aspect is derived from our beliefs about the world outside the narrative. If A is believed to be connected to B in ordinary life, then we usually expect the same to hold for a narrative. The internal aspect has to do with what we believe about the nature of narratives. The mere fact that we believe that narratives represent certain events as occurring creates expectation. Take the story of the murder of Mitys. His murderer dies shortly after the statue of Mitys falls on his head, but there is no explanation of which, if any, causal factors were at play. We automatically expect that there is a causal connection between the murder and the death of the murderer because we are used to such connections in a narrative. Also, some of us might believe that a higher justice takes revenge upon evildoers, and we expect the story to reflect this purported fact. In addition to this, our actions are partly reason-​based, and the reasons in question can be represented in a narrative, giving it a non-​causal, reason-​based set of connections (Currie 2006: 309–​316). That actions are reason-​based does not exclude them also being caused and having causal effects. However, they get their identity through reasons and the aspect of reasons that confer identity cannot be causal, only logical. Moreover, reasons have a normative component and that which is normative cannot be causal. We can judge reasons as good or bad, and as something one ought to accept or not. If a reason is bad, then it follows that, ceteris paribus, people ought not accept it and not act in accordance with it. But there is no such thing as a good, bad, or normatively acceptable cause. Other aspects of reasons besides their identity-​ conferring and normative ones might be both logical and causal. As is well known, several thinkers of the Wittgensteinian persuasion maintained that actions are reasons-​based, not causally based. Georg Henrik von Wright argued that intentional explanation involves reasons, not causes: why did John decide to run? Because he wished to reach the bus and regarded

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running as the best means for achieving that goal (von Wright 1971: 83–​130). We have two premises: Premise 1: John wanted to reach the bus. Premise 2: He regarded running as the best means for achieving that. Conclusion: He ran. The rpe ranks this way of thinking rather highly but maintains that the logical side of reasons for actions is to be found in the way they confer identity upon actions. Notice the narrative structure of the example with John. The conception of actions having at least a non-​causal reason-​component shall be ranked rather highly. To this it must be added that Lamarque ignores the sense-​making function of narratives where individual events become parts of a narrative whole. Moreover, the relation between whole and part is a logical one, not a causal one. This sense-​making function can also have cognitive import; we categorize events in a perhaps new and/​or fruitful manner by regarding them as being parts of a whole, the latter being a category (new or old). Polkinghorne has a good point when he says, “Narrative meaning is created by noting that something is a part of some whole and that something is the cause of something else” (Polkinghorne 1988: 6). This brings us to the fifth critical point: Lamarque is wrong about narratives not having a special way of representing purported reality. Why? Because of the special nature of narrative sentences, witness Danto’s analysis. As stated earlier, descriptions in sentences of this kind have as part of their truth-​ conditions events that occur after the events to which the sentences primarily refer. Further, we have already discovered that the events described in a narrative sentence can always be put in new narrative contexts. This means that these sentences represent reality in a peculiar way, different from non-​ narrative sentences. Given that narrative sentences are important parts of narratives, this means that we cannot ignore the semantic dimension of narratives, in contrast to what Lamarque thinks. Of course, this does not necessarily hold for narrative sentences in literary fictions and other types of fictional artworks, but we are discussing the role of narratives and stories in real life. Certainly, Lamarque is right about there being all kinds of descriptions in a narrative that have no impact on the events described. However, narrative sentences abound in narratives, and they “form” or even create events, including by aid of such structures as the Middle Ages. If we see a series of events in view of this structure, surely, we can give some events as “the starting point of the Middle Ages,” which is an identity the events receive owing to our seeing them through the “stained glass” of this structure. The events acquire this identity

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under descriptions in which the concept of the Middle Ages plays a decisive role. Thus, concepts like that of the Middle Ages are more than just markers. The conclusion must be that Lamarque has not been successful in countering narrativism. White’s theory of how narratives help us explain reality does not exclude the possibility of narratives also providing causal explanations like Danto says (thus, Danto was a narrative cognitivist). Or my theory that causal explanations are of narrative nature, or Mink’s contention that narratives provide comprehension through configuration. Add to this the rpe bit, both the rpte performed and the general musings on narrative reasoning. These five theories do not contradict each other and can complete each other. At the same time, Lamarque’s criticism failed. Therefore, we can use the ppqi and conclude that it is more likely than not that narratives can be cognitive instruments.

Conclusion

We have seen in this chapter that the narrativist David Carr argues forcefully in favor of actions being of a narrative nature and that the narrative realist William Dray goes even further and says that our human reality is suffused with tellables. Wilhelm Schapp put forth a similar theory long before Dray; they are both narrative realists. Furthermore, Mark Turner has developed a blending theory version of narrativism. The narrative cognitivist Arthur Danto points out that narratives are causal explanations and that narrative sentences have a peculiar nature. Mink was both a constructivist and a cognitivist, thinking that narratives have a particular cognitive role to play, that of comprehension. Hayden White was also a constructivist and a cognitivist and showed that narratives can be tools to cope cognitively with the ineffable. Finally, Ricœur maintains that plots have a synthesizing, transcendental function. Emplotment plays a central role in narratives, and narratives are constituted by aspect-​seeing, just like metaphors. Just like metaphors, they refigurate reality. These theories shall be ranked highly, while Peter Lamarque’s interesting criticism of narrativism shall be ranked lower. Then I made a rpte, experimenting with the notion that mental acts, including those of experience and reflection, have storied structures. The same holds for causality as experienced by us humans. Moreover, our human world is partly constituted by actual and virtual stories and tainted by narratives; thus, our world has a high degree of narrativity. Moreover, stories transform their objects and can provide twisted understanding.

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Narrativism is a viable option to be ranked highly. It can be supported with the ppqi: We have different, well argued, narrativist theories; if just one of them were true, then narrativism is true. The same holds if combinations of all or some of them were true. At the same time, a well-​argued rebuttal of narrativism does not hold water. We may conclude inductively (until the opposite is being shown) that our reality has a high degree of narrativity. Understanding reality is part of human reality; we have discovered good arguments in favor of some kinds of such understanding being of narrative nature. This was our second step in the direction of destabing such understanding, the first one concerned metaphors. The story was not only in the beginning but also the middle and the end.

­c hapter 3

Is Reality a Fiction? On Fictionalism

The narrator in the musical Rocky Horror Show says: “There are those who say that life is an illusion, and that reality is but a figment of the imagination.”107 Some of the so-​called fictionalists might agree. Fictionalism is a movement within analytical philosophy; its main idea is that which we call “reality” is to a large degree fictional. As we remember, fiction is one of the Literary factors. Therefore, the rpe is interested in fictionalism. I shall start by giving a general overview of fictionalism and its many varieties. Then I shall try to enhance fictionalism a bit and discuss whether rpe can learn from it. I shall discuss whether reality, as seen by humans, is necessarily suffused with fiction. If that is true, then it has a high degree of fictionality. In this connection, I shall discuss whether our understanding of reality has necessary fictional moments.

Introducing Fictionalism (and Its Forefathers)

What are fictional objects? A rough and tough definition might include saying that they are objects, which exist in our imagination or are products of acts of imagination. Some of them are consciously created and not seriously believed; this holds for literary fiction and philosophical tales. Others are fantasies, which people mistakenly hold for reality, for instance, mythical gods. Yet others are objects that it is fruitful for science to treat as real even though they are fictions. Followers of analytical fictionalism stress the importance of fictional objects, not least in science. Fictionalism in a given domain of discourse is the view that this discourse is best served not by aiming for truth, but by regarding the objects of the discourse as fictions. Fictionalists among the philosophers of science maintain that the role of science is not to discover truths about unobservable entities. Such entities are useful fictions, which the 107 For instance, on Smule.com, https://​www.smule.com/​song/​the-​rocky-​hor​ror-​pict​ure - ​show-​crimin​olog​ist-​3-​kara​oke-​lyr​ics/​3973​438_​3973​438/​arra​ngem​ent Retrieved 31 of March 2022.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_014

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scientists make-​believe to be real. Mark Eli Kalderon states as follows. “The distinctive commitment of fictionalism is that acceptance in a given domain of inquiry need not be truth–​normed, and that the acceptance of a sentence from the associated region of discourse need not involve belief in the content” (Kalderon 2005: 2). However, to get a good grip on fictionalism, we must know its inspirators’ theories. The German philosopher Hans Vaihinger called his philosophical view “the philosophy of the as–​if (g. Philosophie des Als Ob).” In the last analysis, all thinking is analogical;108 we only know our subjective impressions and see the world as being analogous to them, he said. At the same time, we see things as if they were objectively given. Causality is an analogy to our inner, subjective experience of acting. Our worldview consists of useful fictions; atoms are fictions, but it serves the physicist’s interest to believe that they are real (Vaihinger 1924: 27–​32) (see also Fine 1993: 1–​18). Notice that his claim about causality might enhance the rpe contention that causality has a storied structure. If we understand causes in analogy to our experience of acting and if actions have a storied structure, this structure might be projected on causality. Another inspirator is the noted philosopher of science Bas van Fraassen, well known for his constructive empiricism (van Fraassen 1980). Its main contention is that science does not aim for truth but to construct theories to secure their empirical adequacy. Acceptance of a scientific theory only involves the belief that it is empirically adequate. The constructive empiricist is agnostic about ontological issues, for instance, the issue of materialism versus idealism. Science does not need ontology; empirical adequacy is sufficient. The third inspirator is the great logician, David Lewis. He is famous for his work in modal logic, including his theories about possible worlds. He thought that there is an infinite number of possible worlds and that these worlds actually exist just like ours. The only reason we call our world “the actual world” is that we happen to live in it. This can only mean that every event ever described in stories (save the logically impossible ones) must happen in some possible world. So, no wonder that Lewis wrote about truth in literary fiction. We usually talk as if certain things are true about fictional characters, for instance, that Sherlock Holmes used cocaine, even though they do not exist, at least not in our world. Lewis says that we do this because we assume without reflection that our statements about fictions are prefixed by “in fiction about x” (fiction f). In Lewis’s example about the detective, the prefixing would look like 108 Cf. Mary Hesse and Ricœur.

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this: “In fictions about Sherlock Holmes, he is a cocaine user.” Lewis adds that there are an infinite number of possible worlds where the fiction f occurs, truth values concerning f can be judged by Analysis 0: a sentence of the form ‘in fiction f, a sentence is true iff the sentence is true in every world where f is told as a known fact rather than a fiction. Certainly, Analysis 0 can help us evaluate truth claims about everything explicitly stated in the story. Nonetheless, it cannot help us evaluate the truth claims about whatever is not explicitly mentioned, for instance, that Sherlock Holmes had a heart and a liver. Therefore, Lewis postulates another analysis, which can help solve the problem, Analysis 1. It states that a sentence of the form “in the fiction f, p is non-​vacuously true iff some world where f is told as a known fact, and p is true, differs less from our world, on balance, than does any other world where f is told as a known fact and p is not true.” Analysis 1 makes it possible for us to assess it as true that Holmes has a heart and a liver. But Analysis 1 allows the author to be wrong about facts; in one Holmes story, Conan Doyle asserts something about the movements of a snake, and knowing these movements is crucial for the solution of the murder mystery. However, zoology tells us that this particular snake cannot move in this way. This brings Lewis to Analysis 2, the final one: A sentence of the form “In the fiction f,” p is non-​vacuously true iff, whenever w is one of the collective belief worlds of the community of the origin of f, then some world where f is told as a known fact and p is true differs less from the world w, on balance, than any world where f is told as a known fact and p is not true. The upshot of this, according to Lewis, “is to analyze statements of truth in fiction as counterfactuals. What is true in the Sherlock Holmes stories is what would be true if those stories were told as known fact rather than fiction” (Lewis 1978: 42). Lewis differentiated between prefixes and prefaces (Lewis 2005: 314–​321). I prefix if I say, “According to the Sherlock Holmes stories, p.” Then the assertoric force of what follows is canceled by the prefix, but at the same time, it is replaced by assertion about what the Holmes stories say or imply. If I say, “Let’s make-​believe the Holmes stories are true, though they are not,” then I have made a preface to what I say about the stories, but I do not even suggest a replacement. I actually do not put forth any assertion.

Walton and Make-​Believe

The fourth inspirator and the one of greatest importance to the rpe is the philosopher of art, Kendall Walton. His point of departure is the capacity of humans to imagine things. He maintains that make-​believe (pretense) is a

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pervasive element in our lives, including morality and even theoretical science, but more obviously in children’s games and the artworld. Children can, e.g., make-​believe that a stump in a forest is a bear and play the game of trying to capture it with a lasso. Make-​believe must be explained in terms of imagination. There are cases where the presence of particular objects prompts our imagining, and such objects he calls “props” (“object” is understood by Walton in a wide sense, anything that can affect our senses can be a prop). Games of make-​believe are one species of imaginative activity; they are exercises of imagination involving props. This means that there is imaginative activity, which does not involve props, and is hence not a game of make-​believe. One can daydream or dream without props (Walton 1990: 4–​13). What kind of things can be props in these games? Dolls, toy trucks, cloud formation, and not least representational artworks function as props in make-​ believe games. Walton also uses the term representational art in a wide sense. Representations are things possessing the social function of serving as props in games of make-​believe, although they also prompt imaginings and sometimes are objects of them (Walton 1990: 69). Therefore, non-​figurative painting and non-​realist artworks can be representations. Nevertheless, Walton uses Georges Seurat’s figurative painting La Grande Jatte as an example of representational artwork. The painting, the paint splotched, and other elements of the painting function like props and prompt the viewer to see (imagine) a couple strolling in a garden. In novels, the words are props. The words in Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels prompt us to imagine a world where there are six-​inch tall people. What more precisely is the act of imagining something? To imagine that p is to entertain the proposition that p, to attend to it, to consider it. However, just like believing, imagining (or at least propositional imaging) involves more than just entertaining or considering or having something in mind. It is doing something with the proposition one has in mind. Imaging is essentially self–​referential like intending. To intend is to intend to do something yourself; to imagine is imagining something yourself. We often imagine something about ourselves, imagine us being billionaires and/​or sports stars (Walton 1990: 19–​28). Imagining from the inside is a kind of imaging de se. It is a form of self-​ imagining characteristically described as imaging doing something or experiencing something. In de se imagining one cannot be unaware that one’s imagining is about oneself. But de se imagining is not always from the inside. If you imagine yourself to be a great soccer star, you might see it from the spectator point of view (Walton 1990: 29–​31).

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In one way or another, most imaginings are anchored in the real world. Real things prompt imaginings, besides being often objects of imaginings and generators of fictional truths. A stump in the forest can prompt someone to imagine it is a bear. The prompting takes place due to someone seeing a stump in the forest and, as a result, starts to imagine that it is a bear. Why props/​prompters and not just verbal instructions of what to imagine? Walton answers that in the first place it can be difficult to put in words what one wants others to imagine. Secondly, even if instructions were a successful expression of what is to be imagined, they might be difficult to understand. Props are usually easy to understand. In the third place, following instructions requires reflection and deliberation, which might distract us from using our imagination. Responding automatically to likeness might be a better way of activating our imagination. Fourthly, a prop can give substance to that which is imagined; the stump might give substance to the imaginary bear. Experiences of an imaginary bear are more likely to be vivid if one imagines that some actual object is a bear. Not all prompters are objects of the imagining they prompt. While fantasizing about a trip to Italy, someone might be prompted by a water faucet to imagine that it is raining in Italy but does not imagine anything about the faucet; it is only a stimulus. In contrast, if someone imagines a powerful politician as a bookie, the politician is both prompter and object of the imagining (Walton 1990: 21–​25). Let us return to the props. That the stump is a bear is fictional, and that which is fictional is a fictional truth. Whatever is the case in a fictional world, that is, in the world of a game of make-​believe or dream or daydream or representational work of art, is fictional. The proposition that the stump is a bear is fictional, and that it is a fictional proposition is a fictional truth. Walton says: “To call a proposition fictional amounts to saying only that it is “true in some fictional world or other” (Walton 1990: 35). In the world of the novel Gulliver’s Travels, it is fictionally true that there are six-​inch tall people. “It is fictional that p” can be understood as analogous to “it is believed (or desired or claimed, etcetera) by someone that p.” Here, props come into the picture, Walton writes: “Props are generators of fictional truths, things which, by virtue of their nature or existence, make propositions fictional” (Walton 1990: 37). What is fictional need not be imagined, and perhaps that which is imagined need not be fictional. Think of a group that decides to play a game where a stump is regarded as a bear. The prop (the stump) being a bear is fictional in the game. A hidden stump is a bear even if no one playing the game has seen it and hence not imagined it. Hence something can be fictionally true even if not

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imagined. Walton says: “Props generate fictional truths independently of what anyone does or does not imagine” (Walton 1990: 38). Props give fictional worlds a kind of objectivity and independence from cognizers and their experiences. It is not thinking that makes a stump in a thicket a bear; it is the prop. Props are often prompters or objects of imaging. An object can be a prop, a prompter, and an imaging object. Nevertheless, the three functions are distinct. Props need not be prompters of imagining, for instance, the stump in a thicket that nobody saw. Nor must prompters or objects be props. Suppose someone associates raspberry poison ivy because of bad experiences. She sees raspberry bushes in a forest and imagines that they are poisonous. However, the bushes are not propping. Nonetheless, they prompt her imaginings. The stump is fictionally a bear only because of a convention in a game of make-​believe. According to this convention, every stump must be regarded as a bear. This is an example of a principle of generation. Such principles of generation can be in the guise of an explicit stipulation “Let us say that stumps are bears.” But these principles are usually not explicitly formulated; this usually holds for artworks. No explicit principles are telling us that we must see a couple strolling in Seurat’s painting. Some rules for generation are ad hoc, for example, that of regarding the stump as a bear. Others are publicly agreed on and hence stable. Games based on public rules are authorized, those based on ad hoc rule unauthorized. A prop is a representation if it is a prop in an authorized game. Hamlet is a representation because everybody who understands English is invited to imagine its content. The notion of principles essentially involved in games of make-​believe have repercussions for the concept of fictional truth. Walton writes: “A fictional truth consists in there being a prescriptions or mandate in some context to imagine something. Fictional propositions are propositions that are to be imagined— whether or not that they are in fact imagined.” (Walton 1990: 39). However, the imagining is not exclusively propositional. Imagining a bear goes beyond imaging that there is one (a bear), a mental image of the bear’s teeth might be a part of the imagining. In addition, to imagine that one is giving a speech is partly giving it. Props prescribe both non-​propositional imagining and propositional ones (Walton 1990: 42–​43). Fictionality is analogous to truth in many ways; the relation between fictionality and imagining parallels that between truth and belief. What is true is to be believed what is fictional is to be imagined. Fictional truth must be distinguished from the truth in the real world. In a fictional world, what we call truth is not a kind of truth about reality. It is fictional that p attributes not

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truth but fictionality to p. The question arises why Walton uses the expression “fictional truth” if it is not really the truth. Fictional truths can be generated directly or indirectly, the directly generated one being primary. Primary truths follow immediately from props, and implied ones result from the application of some rules of inference. Certain words in the Sherlock Holmes stories are props, which can make us imagine Sherlock Holmes, and they generate some primary truths about him, for instance, that he is a private detective. Among the implied truths might be that he is a drug addict. This brings us to the notion of a fictional world. Walton says, “To speak of a fictional world is, in part, to speak of the cluster of fictional truths belonging to it” (Walton 1990: 62). Each fictional world is associated with a particular class or cluster of propositions, i.e., those propositions that are fictional in that world. However, fictional worlds are not possible worlds. There are two differences between them: fictional worlds are sometimes impossible and sometimes incomplete, while possible worlds are necessarily possible and complete. There can be a prescription in a fictional world to imagine a contradiction even though it is impossible. Moreover, works of art often deal in impossibilities and incompleteness. It is not fictional in Kafka’s story Metamorphosis that Gregor Samsa’s great grandfather was a locksmith; the story says nothing about it, and it implies nothing about it either. The fictional world of the story is indetermined or incomplete. Walton stresses the importance of imagination. It is chiefly by imagining ourselves facing certain situations, engaging in certain activities, observing certain events, or expressing feelings and attitudes that we come to terms with our feelings, discover them or purge ourselves of them (Walton 1990: 34). So, no wonder that make-​believe is pervasive. Walton has here an excellent point which could be enhanced with the aforementioned idea that narratives are among our best tools for coping with our inner world and interactions with others. A narrative can be a part of a make-​believe game, which helps us with this kind of coping. I want to add that make-​believe involves ways of seeing-​as. The people see the stump as a bear. Since metaphors play a major role in this book, we must briefly introduce Walton’s theory of metaphors (Walton 2005: 65–​87). Metaphors are parts of prop-​oriented make-​believe, he says. When we talk metaphorically about the saddles of a mountain, the prop is the focus of our attention, not the make-​ believe that the prop prompts. The prop, in this case, is the saddle, which actually is a ridge between two elevations. Something similar holds for such metaphors as Argument is war; it is prop-​oriented because the argument, which is the prop, is in focus and the

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make-​believe of war is a device for understanding arguments. But what kind of a make-​believe is involved? The answer is that the metaphor suggests a game in which what people say generates fictional truths about acts of war when engaged in an argument. Walton writes: The arguers or observers of an argument participate in a game if they take argumentative behavior to prescribe argumentative behavior to prescribe imagining acts of war and imagine accordingly. But participation is not necessary for using and understanding the metaphors; it is enough to recognize or be aware of the game. walton 2005: 73

The reason is that the prop is central, therefore participation is not essential. Walton agrees with those who think that metaphors bring together two realms but incorporates this idea in his theory of make-​believe. One realm is that of the props and the generating facts, that of the propositional content of the implied make-​believe. The latter is the home realm of the predicates that are used metaphorically, the realm in which they have literal application. The former is the new or target or foreign realm. The mechanism in which predicates from one realm organize the others involves our thinking of the objects of the new realm as props generating the fictionality of propositions concerning the home realm. He also agrees with those who say that metaphors involve seeing one thing in terms of another. In his version, this means that we take things of one kind as something that prescribes imaginings about things of another kind. Yet again, he agrees with other theorists, in this case those who say that metaphors help us create new concepts: metaphorical utterances enable us to go on in new conceptual ways. They help us apply the predicates used in the original to new cases and apply related predicates metaphorically. Walton writes: “If possessing a concept consists in such abilities or dispositions to go on,.., metaphorical utterances expand our repertoire of concept” (Walton 2005: 82). Remember that Goodman and Ricœur had some good arguments in favor of metaphors being tools for rejuvenating vocabularies. We can add Walton’s similar arguments and argue inductively (the ppqi way) and tentatively in favor of this being the case. We can learn from Walton that metaphors are fictions. If fictions exist in virtue of make-​believe, and make-​believe involves seeing-​as essentially, then fictions have the seeing-​as a component in common with metaphors, stories, and narratives.

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Walton’s theorizing is very inspiring and shall be ranked highly. But who is right concerning fictional and possible worlds, he, or Lewis? The rpe refrains from judging.

Different Kinds of Fictionalism

Frederick Kroon, Jonathan McKeowan-​Green, and Stuart Brock maintain that the core of fictionalism is Factuality, Quasi-​Fictionality, and Utility (Kroon, McKeowan-​Green, and Brock 2019: 93–​96 and elsewhere). Believing in Factuality means that one takes claims as expressing propositions, having truth values. They are representations of things, accurate or not. Believing in Quasi-​Fictionality means that one takes any claim p of the relevant sort as resembling object-​fictional claim in that acceptance of p is not truth, but truth in fiction (the truth mentioned in connection with Factuality must presumably be of this kind). At the same time, one does not think that the entities under scrutiny are exactly like entities found in literary fiction, hence the prefix “quasi.” Believing in the Utility of the fictionalist approach to a given field means thinking that the approach is at least as useful for the field as a non–​ fictionalist approach. Like Lewis, Kroon, McKeowan-​Green, and Brock discriminate between a prefixing and prefacing kind of fictionalism (Kroon, McKeowan-​Green, and Brock 2019: 81–​85 and elsewhere). Understanding claims concerning the content of fictions does not require the prefixer to consider whether fictional objects really exist. The reason is that we are not committing ourselves to their existence if we accept the claims as being suitably prefixed. The prefacer actually concurs, but whereas the prefixer regards claims about fictional objects as claims about what happens in a story, the prefacer thinks that the object really exists. Furthermore, while the prefixer maintains that claims about what happens in a story can have truth values, the prefacer maintains that they must conform to some other norm than that of truth, for instance, that of truth in pretense. It can be regarded as truth in pretense that Claudius is Hamlet’s uncle. It is obvious that the prefacers are close to Walton, while the prefixers follow the lead of Lewis and extend his analysis to other domains of discourse beside literary fiction. It is customary to discriminate between linguistic and ontological fictionalism. The proponents of the linguistic one think that purported assertions in a given domain, or every domain, do not really have truth values but have acceptance-​values similar to the one mentioned. The proponent of the ontological one maintains that the entities mentioned in some, or every discourse

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are more or less useful fictions (Eklund 2015). However, it is common to fuse the linguistic and ontological fictionalism together. When speaking of fictionalism in this book, I shall be referring to such a unified view. Furthermore, it is usual to discriminate between hermeneutic and revolutionary fictionalism. The first maintains that our actual discourses in some or all fields are fictional; fictionalism only describes them. The second thinks that our discourses need to be revolutionized, they need to become fictionalist. Thus, the revolutionary fictionalists are prescriptivists. It can also be useful to discriminate between various fictionalist approaches to ontological matters. Achille C. Varzi differentiates between Pascalian, Berkeleyan, and Humean fictionalist ontological stances (Varzi 2013: 133–​152). The Pascalians say that our commonsense ontology might be fiction for all we know, but it is of great importance to us, so we better pretend that the fiction is true. We, so to speak, bet on it being true, cf. Pascal’s wager. The Berkeleyans base their view on a semantic intuition: ordinary language is not ontologically transparent. If taken at face value, its statements would commit us to a host of fictitious entities. But it would be impossible to communicate if we stopped talking that way. At the same time, we must be aware that our way of talking might be fictitious and find a good way of making it clear when the need arises. The Humeans think that the fictitious moment does not lie in the reality of commonsense ontology but in the laws of causation, identity, and suchlike, in which we articulate our commonsense reality and impose structures on it. Varzi points out that David Hume very often explicitly refers to laws and identity as being fictitious. Some theorists differentiate between three different types of fictional discourse: fictive, metafictive, and transfictional. Fictive discourse is a part of fictional texts, for instance, an utterance by a character in a novel. Metafictive discourse is about something in fictional text, e.g., when we say that Kurtz is a fictional character. Transfictional discourse includes utterances that establish relationships between objects that are internal and external to a given fiction. An example could be “Marlon Brando is like Kurtz.” Brando is, of course, external to the fiction of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Kurtz internal. Andrea Sauchelli wants to introduce a fourth kind of discourse, that of generative discourse: “Utterances of this type express principles or axioms that govern the generation of fictional truths and (some of) the eventual consequences and inferences that can be drawn from them” (Sauchelli 2016: 1278). What kind of propositional attitudes is it proper to have in fictional discourse? Sauchelli mentions the attitude of entertaining, as in “entertaining a notion.” We are to entertain a proposition in a particular area of discourse, where an agent A entertains a fiction F if 1) A entertains the content of F

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including its generative discourse 2) the consequences of Fs generative discourse are entertained without a specific interest in asserting literal truths. Another propositional attitude can be acceptance. Sauchelli refers to Jonathan Cohen’s way of discriminating between believing and accepting: if A believes P, then A is disposed to feel that P is true. If A accepts P, then A has adopted a mental policy to the effect that for a certain well–​defined period of time, A includes P among its premises for either practical or theoretical purposes. There is a volitional factor in acceptance, but not necessarily in belief; I cannot help but believe that I am writing these words. Sauchelli mentions yet another theorist, Uriah Kriegel, who states that entertaining differs from believing and desiring by being characterized by a lack of phenomenal orientation on either the truth or the goodness of the propositions at issue. This holds at least for disengaged entertaining. According to Kriegel, such an entertainment of the proposition “that P” is equal to contemplating P. It is also characterized by varying degrees of phenomenal intensity; for instance, A can entertain P more or less vividly in varying degrees analogous to the degree of when we have an experience. Kriegel further analyzes thinking-​of in terms of entertaining and states that it is doxastically noncommittal, in a similar fashion as entertaining. However, entertaining is a propositional attitude; thinking-​of is an objectual attitude. Sauchelli now says that entertaining is voluntary, context-​dependent, and does not aim at truth. He understands fictionalism toward a specific area of discourse as a theory that either prescribes the attitude of entertaining or suggests that this is the attitude that we already have toward the area at issue (Sauchelli 2016: 1277–​1280). But who says that entertaining is the only game in fictional town? Could there be fictional discourses where, say, acceptance would be the proper propositional attitude? Fictionalism concerns not only mathematics and physics but also the human world. Some theorists, most notably Richard Joyce, think that morality, that is through and through a more or less useful fiction. We must make-​ believe this fiction if it is to be really useful (Joyce 2005: 287–​313).109 Ricœur did not discuss fictionalism, but his thought has affinities with it, he might be called “a poetic fictionalist.” Walton is perhaps just as poetic, although in a different manner. We could regard fictions as largely the product of make-​ believe and at the same time accept most of what Ricœur said about fiction.

109 For a short, popular version, see Joyce 2011. For a critical discussion from an existentialist/​moral subjectivist point of view, see Irwin 2015: 112–​131.

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On my part, this is an attempt to increase the proliferation of possibilities, not necessarily an attempt to discover truths.

Make-​Believe and Mathematics

Some fictionalists think that every statement, which seemingly is a description of reality, should not be construed as such but should instead be understood as a pretense; it is as if we are playing a game of pretense, not talking about reality, witness Walton. They add that our discourses about reality are bound to be fictional because we cannot but refer to abstract entities, but they simply do not exist but can be useful, even necessary fictions. Thus, these theorists advocate nominalism. The same holds for mathematical entities, according to mathematical fictionalists. Hartry Field was the instigator of mathematical fictionalism and a staunch follower of nominalism. He maintained that the only way to show that mathematical entities are real is by showing that they are indispensable for physics and other hard-​nosed sciences. But the theories of these sciences can be reconstructed without mathematics. Therefore, we have no reason to believe that there are such objects as mathematical entities (Field 1980: vii–​x ii, 1–​6 and elsewhere).110 Stephen Yablo is a mathematical fictionalist but enriches it with metaphorism and calls the result “figuralism” concerning mathematics (Yablo 2001: 72–​102). It is a metaphorical view of mathematics inspired by Walton’s contention that metaphors are make-​believe. When mathematicians speak or write, they are speaking metaphorically because numbers, sets, and other mathematical concepts are actually fictive and metaphoric phenomena. Talking and writing metaphorically can make perfect sense and even be informative, just as mathematics makes perfect sense and is informative, Yablo adds. The metaphorical statement that man is a wolf efficiently conveys the view that humans are aggressive, devious, and so on. This metaphor may be informative, although it is untrue that man is a wolf. This metaphor is just as fictional as any other metaphor. Saying that the number of sheep is equal to the number of cows is saying metaphorically that there as many sheep as there are cows. This may be an informative statement even though the numbers might be fictional.

110 For mathematical fictionalism in general, see Leng (without year).

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Among the common properties of metaphorical and mathematical objects is insubstantiality: all properties of what these objects have is captured by what follows from them. If someone says metaphorically that they have butterflies in their stomach, we do not need to examine their stomach’s content to learn whether they are right. The only thing we need to know about these strange creatures is that we metaphorically say we have them if we are nervous. Similarly, we do not attribute properties to natural numbers unless they follow from Peano’s axioms. Another common property is what Yablo calls “translucency.” We can refer to these objects without anybody noticing; our interlocutors “see through them.” If we say that a friend has a heart of gold, our interlocutors automatically understand the friend to be a good person. They do not start to wonder how his heart could be made of actual gold. In a similar fashion, if we say that the numbers of insects are decreasing, our interlocutors do not think that something strange has happened to the mathematical number in question but understand it directly as meaning that there are fewer insects now than earlier. Yablo seems to think that mathematical concepts are instruments that facilitate the conveyance of knowledge about the world. If we say that there are a greater number of cars than bikes on the street, we are communicating facts more efficiently than we could have done without numbers because to express the literal meaning of this utterance, we would have to express an infinity of disjunctions, forming a sentence that we could not possibly complete. It would go like this: “There is one car and no bike, or there are two cars and no bikes, or there are two cars and one bike, or there are ….” In a similar fashion, a metaphorical expression such as the one about humans and wolves cannot be fully explicit in literal terms. In fact, metaphorical expressions often facilitate expression and understanding, just like mathematical concepts. Maybe this theory can be wedded to Lakoff and Nunez’s theory of mathematics. If they and Yablo are right, mathematics has two Literary traits, the one of metaphority and the one of fictionality. But notice that narrativity and literary genres are lacking, without at least one of them, mathematics cannot qualify as Literary. However, we cannot exclude the possibility that it has either one or both. Or maybe Yablo, Lakoff, and Nunez are dead wrong.

Fictionalism and the rpe

Fictionalism feels very attractive for the rpe, not least because of its emphasis on imagination. In addition, fictions belong, of course, to the realm of the

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Literary. You might even say that the rpe is fictionalist concerning the domain of inquiry called “philosophy” because it does not necessarily aim at truths about that domain. Furthermore, by accepting metaphorism and narrativism, the rpe must accept the theory that humans create a metaphoric and storied world with the aid of the imagination. This world must be inhabited by fictional objects, and such objects are the products of our imagination, witness Walton. And the notion of entertaining propositions or accepting them instead of believing them is in accordance with the rpe and its stress on ranking. It is tempting to say that our human world is constituted largely by fictions. Society, institutions, and the individual self might be entirely or largely fictional, useful fictions for a human being to navigate through reality, cope with the world. Perhaps we make-​believe the existence of the state, the university, and our purported self. If this is the case, we can hardly exclude the possibility of abstractions and the material world being the products of pretense. Now, I want to try to enhance fictionalism with a little thought experiment: let us assume that there are two mutually exclusive alternatives: either our reality is a phenomenal world (call this the p-​world), or it is of material nature (call this the m-​world). In the p-​world, material entities, causation, and so on are necessary fictions. We cannot cope with reality unless we assume that they exist, and hardly do science without them. Science is all about finding causal explanations and analyzing objects in terms of objective properties, so the scientist in the world of sensation must make-​believe causation and things. Moreover, we would not be able to cope with reality without engaging in such a game of make-​believe; how can we evade danger if we do not believe that certain objects can cause harm? In the case of the m-​world, the contents of sensations would be regarded as illusions. Nevertheless, scientists would not be able to study the material world without make-​believing that the content of their sensations, when observing nature, is real. The same holds for our coping with the world; we must make-​ believe that the black-​striped, yellow form, which we perceive actually is a tiger. If not, we would not be able to avoid it. It does not matter which alternative is true; there are important, necessary fictions in both cases. Furthermore, notice that in both these worlds, using abstractions are necessary for cognizing and coping. How else can we know that tigers are dangerous and time relative? If abstractions are fictions, then both the p-​world and m-​world have a common kind of necessary fiction. There might be other necessary fictions in both worlds; maybe numbers, unified selves, other minds, morality, and society are such fictions. We can hardly cope

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with reality unless we regard ourselves as unified selves and others as minded creatures. And we can almost certainly not do science without numbers. Thus, regardless of which alternative is true, reality must have a high degree of fictionality. Of course, there might be other alternatives, for example, worlds where abstractions are real, but concrete objects fictions. Or worlds where both are real. But given that the senses somehow give us access to reality, then it is hard to see whether there are any alternatives beside the m-​and the p-​worlds. It makes sense to think that scientists must make-​believe the existence of the fictional entities and willingly suspend disbelief. In addition, if mathematical fictionalists of the pretense persuasion are right, then empirical scientists must make-​believe the mathematical entities that play such a crucial role in their theories. Now, willing suspension of disbelief is a necessary condition for the understanding of works of imaginative literature qua literary works and not, say, lists of words. If such a willing suspension is also a precondition for doing science, then there cannot be any gap between science and literature. At least, if it can be shown that fictional entities in science and literature share enough common characteristics and/​or strong family resemblance. Now, even if mathematical numbers and fictional worlds (including characters) in literary fictions are labeled “fictional,” does that mean that they belong to the same category of objects or are linguistic conventions misleading us? Of course, they are in many ways very different. Nevertheless, they have in common being somehow created by imagination and at the same time transcend the given consciousness of their creators. They have properties that their creators did not necessarily know, and they might have properties nobody will ever discover. Due to this, it makes sense to say that they have a family resemblance. It is important to emphasize that fictional objects are not necessarily entirely subjective. Mathematical numbers might be fictions, but they have properties that are non-​subjective in the sense of not being just flights of fancy. There is nothing subjective about the fact that the number seven is a prime number. A fictional world of a novel or a movie can have properties that its creators did not intend. There might be unintended logical contradictions involved in the plot, and those contradictions are as non-​subjective as it gets. It might be the case that nobody will ever discover this contradiction, but it is still a non–​subjective fact about the fictional world in question. Saying that there are prime numbers that might never be discovered by anybody makes perfect sense while saying that Harry Potter exists does not. Thus, fictionalism does not necessarily entail subjectivism.

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A Note on Imagination and Creativity

There are no apparent contradictions between Walton’s fictionalist theory of imagination, Ricœur’s somewhat trancendental theory of it, Turner’s and Fauconnier’s blending theory, Koestler’s conception of bisociation, and Rothenberg’s idea of the Janusian process. Aside from minor issues such as Rothenberg’s criticism of the blending theory and that he, in contrast to Ricœur, talks like imagination is purely visual. Ricœur could be right about us having a linguistic imagination, which requires images in the guise of that which is seen-​as. The linguistic and the seeing-​as factors might be raw material for blending, and bisociation the instrument of blending. This process might be a creative, Janusian process, where antithetical thoughts and images interact without yielding any synthesis but producing new ideas. This conception of imagination is admittedly rudimentary and in need of development. Timothy Williamson says that imagination alerts us to future possibilities so we can prepare for them in advance. And our imagination may suggest possible solutions to problems. It is not by chance that we use our imagination when choosing between several courses of action. It is especially useful when trial and error is too risky. Suppose that a broken cliff blocks our direction of travel. The cautious option is to take the long way round, that is fairly safe but could add extra time to your journey. It would be worse to climb the cliff because it might be dangerous. Resolving the dilemma could be examining the cliff from a distance and see whether you can imagine a possible, reasonably safe, route to the top (Williamson 2018: 52). We can use the ppqi and say that we have a lot of different, interesting theories about imagination and creativity pointing in the direction of them being of essential importance for cognition and thinking. Williamson argues in an analytical fashion, Ricœur in a continental and Kantian manner, Turner and Fauconnier in the mode of cognitive science, Walton in his fictionalist manner, and Rothenberg (inspired by Koestler) in an empirical way. Their arguments can be ranked reasonably high, that plus the variety of their way of arguing can be used as a ppqi argument. But notice that this is not a full-​fledged ppqi because there is no mention of criticism of this position, I have not found any. Then again there might not be any need of ppqi, the theory of imagination and creativity as being central to human cognition suits the rpe, not least because of its fictionalist trait. Remember that imagination is central to imaginative literature and that which is poetic. If imagination is an important part of our attainment of knowledge, then the cognitive processes might be close to the poetic.

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Critical Comments

Fictionalism is not without its faults. My first worry about fictionalism concerns ontology: how can we know with certainty that numbers, abstractions, and atoms are just fictions? Yablo is very wisely agnostic about the existence of numbers (Yablo 2001: 72–​102). We should likewise be agnostic about the existence of abstractions and atoms; Pascalian fictionalism is tempting. Additionally, we cannot exclude the possibility, however slim, that man could augment his cognitive powers, due to computer technology and genetic manipulation, so much that he would be able to see atoms and particles, even somehow observe abstractions, or be able to use his senses and super-​powerful intellect to show conclusively that they do not exist. He might also be able to see through our sensory world of secondary qualities and observe primary qualities. Then again, this might not be possible. Most likely, there always will be fictional moments in reality as we view it, if not particles, atoms, and genes, then institutions and individuals, if not then colors or sounds. My second worry concerns abstractions. Can we be certain that nominalists are right about them and that abstract concepts are nothing but (hopefully) useful fictions? Now, abstractions play a necessary role in our cognition; I can only cognize what I see now as a pc because I know the abstract concept of such an object. If abstractions structure our perception and the content of our perceptions is real, can we then exclude the possibility of abstractions being real as well? My third and last worry concerns discourses and analyses: if theoretical discourse about the entities that natural science studies is fictional, then why should not fictionalist discourses in their turn be fictional? In other words: fictionalist discourses might be fictional in the sense of being totally made-​up and lacking truth values. Moreover, if mathematical objects are fictional, why should not logic be somehow fictional? If that is the case, why should we believe in the logical analyses performed to vindicate fictionalism? But the fictionalist does not need to believe in fictionalism, just regard it as a useful tool and rank it highly, as the rpe does. The last-​named thinks that fictionalism in various domains can be fruitful.

Conclusion

According to fictionalism, that which we call “reality” is largely fictional. The abstract concepts of science are useful fictions and truth is not necessarily

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the goal of inquiry. Some fictionalists think that mathematical objects are fictional, others that morality is based on fictions. Kendall Walton’s pretense theory has influenced fictionalism greatly. According to this theory, make-​believe is an important element in human life. Through imagination, we understand artworks and other objects in terms of make-​believe. These objects are props in games of make-​believe, where imagination plays a pivotal role. Even scientists must be engaged in such games. I made a thought experiment in order to vindicate fictionalism. Let us assume that either the world is material or phenomenal. In both cases, a large chunk of our vocabulary, including the scientific one, contains by necessity expressions that denote fictional entities. I discuss the possibility of cognitively enhanced humans who might not need fictions but conclude that it is extremely unlikely and even conceptually impossible. Fictionalism is attractive to the rpe for many reasons. Its contention that inquiry need not be truth-​normed squares pretty well with the Nozickian idea of ranking, the one of refiguration, and that of twisted understanding. It fits the whole poetic enterprise, introduced in this book. It makes sense to think that we make-​believe big chunks of our world and that coping with it requires a willing suspension of disbelief in fictional entities. Such disbelief is part and parcel of our relationship with literary fictions. However, even scientists must willingly suspend disbelief in fictional entities; thus, science and literature overlap. Fictions are largely products of make-​believe, which in turn involves seeing-​as, like metaphors and narratives/​stories. Furthermore, it makes sense to say that metaphors are fictions. On an epistemic view of reality, the following makes sense: large swaths of reality as we know it are suffused with metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. Thus, reality, or at least large parts, has at least three Literary traits (this is a rpte, an experiment with the concept of reality). Fictions play an important role in our understanding of reality. They help organize our ideas and experiences; physicists would not understand much of  quantum reality unless they had postulated the existence of fictional objects. According to the fictionalists, make-​believe is a way of exercising imagination; thus, imagination is an important cognitive tool. Ricœur, the generative metaphorists, Williamson, and the blending theorists also stress the role of imagination, especially concerning language and our conception of reality. The ppqi can be used to argue in favor of imagination playing a pivotal role in cognition, language, and our understanding of reality.

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We have seen that metaphors, narratives, and fictions play an important in our cognition and understanding of reality. Hence, we have successfully destabed the concept of our understanding of reality: it has metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits. It makes sense to talk about the poetics of cognition and understanding.

Conclusion and Summary of Section iii, Part A The metaphorists have interesting arguments in favor of a large part of our view of reality being structured by metaphors and that metaphors are cognitive instruments. Black maintained that they play a cognitive role by being tools for aspect-​seeing. Hesse opined that metaphors are the foundation of language. The school of generative metaphorics also thinks that metaphors are fundamental for language and thought. It maintains that we understand one phenomenon in terms of another in metaphors. Goodman stressed the role of metaphors in redescribing reality. Ricœur concurred and thought that both metaphors and narratives synthesize their objects and play almost a transcendental role. And that metaphors can help us understand the ineffable. According to the alethetic theory, understanding metaphors means knowing their cognitive claims, knowing how it transforms reality and informs us about it thanks to the transformation. The same holds for narratives and stories. Arguments in favor of metaphors only being shadows of literal meaning are not convincing. Using the ppqi supports the view that metaphorism deserves a very high ranking. Narrativism is analogous to metaphorism; narratives are or can be cognitive instruments. Danto says that narratives provide causal explanations; Mink asserts that they show rather than say, White that they help us grasp the ineffable, and Turner that narrative imagining was our prime cognitive tool. Carr maintained that actions have storied structures, while Dray maintained that large chunks of the world were thus structured. Schapp was of a similar opinion, while Ricœur steered the middle course between Carr and Dray. I experimented with the concepts of causality, mental acts, and narratives: it makes sense to regard causality and mental acts as having storied structures. Again, the arguments against narrativism are not very strong, so by using the ppqi, we can conclude (for the time being) that narrativism should be ranked very highly. The fictionalists argue forcefully in favor of a large swath of our view of reality being fictions. Walton’s pretense theory is inspiring for the rpe, not least because of Walton’s emphasis on the role of imagination in human life. I said that both scientists and readers of fiction must willingly suspend disbelief and made thought experiments to vindicate fictionalism. It deserves a high ranking.

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Notice that aspect-​seeing is of great importance in metaphors, narratives, and at least some fictions. Some types of make-​believe may be ways of engaging in aspect-​seeing. Without imagination, we would not have any make-​believe. Many theorists have argued well in favor of the cognitive role of imagination. The ppqi can be used to argue in favor of the importance of imagination for language, cognition, and understanding of reality. Furthermore, we have reasons to believe that reality as we know it is partly suffused with metaphors, narratives, and fictions; it has at least three Literary traits. Hence, we have destabed the concept of reality, as humans know it. Understanding and cognizing it also has the same Literary traits; hence these concepts have been destabed.

pa rt b The Poetic of Reason

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section i Introducing the Poetic of Reason

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Introduction to Section i, Part B Earlier in this book, the reader discovered that the current project is supposed to be rational and that it shall use a kind of induction (the ppqi) and abduction (inference to the least bad explanation). Therefore, the concepts of reason, rationality, induction, and abduction must be discussed and clarified. At the same time, several philosophical experiments shall be performed, the concepts of rationality, language, and scientific models (even mathematics) shall be destabed. An attempt shall be made to show that while a poetic moderate rationalism is a viable option and that the concepts of reason and rationality are wider than people tend to think, it has some Literary traits. We have already seen that the concepts of understanding and cognition have a certain amount of three Literary traits. At least some kinds of understanding and cognition are parts of reason and/​or preconditions for rationality. It makes sense to ask whether there is a poetic of reason.

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­c hapter 1

Preliminary Notes on Reason It is time to discuss the purported rational side of the rpe. In order to so, I must discuss the concepts of rationality, more precisely the rationality of beliefs, theories, propositions, thinking, inquiry, methods, and discussion. I shall also discuss the preconditions for such rationality. Furthermore, I stipulate that rational thinking and discussions have largely the same dimensions. I shall also stipulate that science is a rational enterprise, a lot of what shall be said about rationality concerns that of science. In this chapter, I am talking only about the rationality of beliefs, theories, and methods to justify (even acquire) such beliefs and theories, not the rationality of action. “Rationality” is understood here as the intersubjective p ­ endant to reason. “Reason” shall sometimes be used in the sense of “the individual faculty of rationality,” sometimes as encompassing both rationality and this faculty. I shall commence by discussing some general problems concerning rationality and ask whether justifiability and fallibility are the only games in reason’s town. Then I shall turn to the question of whether evaluation matters to rationality. Next in line is the question of whether the law of noncontradiction is an essential part of rationality. After that, I shall turn my gaze to induction, abduction, and deduction, discuss their purported role in rationality, and the question of whether they can be justified. Answers to the last question matters to my meta-​philosophy, can the ppqi and the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation be rationally justified? The arguments, put forth in this chapter, concerning reason and rationality are arguments in favor of poetic moderate rationalism. It is moderate and pragmatist because it does not regard rationality and reason as sacred cows, they are useful now but might not be so in the future. The poetic bit is among others the contention that reason and rationality have Literary traits. The discussion in this chapter is admittedly a sketchy discussion of complex issues but a necessary preparation for the rest of the chapters in this section.

Reason, Truth, and Evaluation

We can start by introducing the concept of potential reason-​bearers. Among them are theories, actions, beliefs, verdicts, statements, and propositions.

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A traditional rationalist might say that a minimal rationality of reason-​bearers with content about the empirical world would consist of them being fallible and justifiable.111 Fallibility and justifiability are sufficient conditions for a reason-​bearer to be rational, some rationalist would add. But she would have to admit that they are hardly also necessary conditions and much less necessary and sufficient conditions. The problem is that the conditions in question may not be sufficient either. The Popperians flatly deny that justification is possible and has anything to do with rationality. Attempted justifications must be based on unjustifiable premises, and they are either dogmatic or fallible. If they are fallible, then they all could be wrong. They also think, as we shall see later in this chapter, that attempts at justification tend to be based on induction, but that induction is an illusion (for example, Popper 1994a: 3–​39). Now, could not we say with Karl Popper and his followers that fallibility is the essence of rationality? No, there are at least three reasons to doubt this. The first reason concerns conceptual schemes and suchlike, the second the history of science, and the third the systematic nature of beliefs (1–​3): 1. We cannot rule out the possibility that testable beliefs have as preconditions conceptual schemes, particular vocabularies, and perspectives on reality. Neither conceptual schemes, vocabularies, nor perspectives are testable but could be the preconditions for testability, understandable through something akin to disclosure (more about conceptual schemes and disclosure in later chapters). They can possibly be judged in terms of fruitfulness or successful disclosure. If so, a rational conceptual scheme/​vocabulary is fruitful or successfully disclosed, even both.112 But we cannot exclude the possibility that there is no way to evaluate these possible schemes/​vocabularies in any rational manner. Perhaps they, if real, are the non-​rational foundations of rationality. Additionally, we cannot be sure that knowledge and meaning have any such preconditions. I shall, therefore, (for the time being, at least) not rank this view very highly. 2. Imre Lakatos argued well in favor of good scientific theories being non-​ testable in their infancy and hence neither falsifiable nor justifiable. They are parts of scientific research programs that need time to develop. It is, in his view, rational to defend these “infant” theories against falsification, and I add: like babies against all kinds of threats. I still add: when children grow up, it is not 111 I shall usually focus on beliefs and theories as examples of potential reason-​bearers. The last expression is a bit cumbersome, belief and theory not. Using the two last expression also contributes to concretizing my message. 112 Conceptual schemes and disclosure shall be discussed in later chapters.

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rational to defend them against any thinkable threat, lest they become soft. Something similar holds for theories that form parts of research programs in Lakatos’s mind. I yet again add: deciding when it is rational to start and stop defending theories from falsification must be a matter for informed judgment; there is hardly any algorithm for such a choice (Lakatos 1970: 91–​197). But it must be said that Lakatos maintained that the reason for defending these infant theories was the hope of them becoming, if not justifiable, then at least falsifiable in the future. Thomas Kuhn had a not dissimilar theory about there being known anomalies to paradigms, also in their infant stages. However, the scientists trust just in the principle of tenacity:113 that, sooner or later, the anomalies will be solved (Kuhn 1970a: 81 and elsewhere). He thinks that methodological norms are largely internal to paradigms and among those that are neither justifiability nor falsifiability. Instead, he mentions accuracy, consistency, simplicity, and fruitfulness (Kuhn 1977: 320–​339). Whether this makes Kuhn an irrationalist shall not be judged, only that he and Lakatos are right about it being often rational to shelter young budding ideas, treat them like babies, hoping they grow up (maybe not only scientific ideas but also literary, political, and religious ones). It must be added that informed judgment decides when an idea or a scientific theory is mature enough to meet the “real world” of falsification attempts and suchlike. Yet again we see the importance of such judgments. 3. The content of reason-​bearers only make sense as parts of a system of such contents, witness Lakatos.114 The belief that the moon is at 300,000 kilometers from earth is only acceptable in the light of such beliefs that words like “moon” are meaningful, that there are planets and satellites, that the moon is not an illusion or that reality itself is not an illusion. A system of beliefs could be non-​fallible but have great explanatory power, be original, simpler than other systems of the same kind, and so on. There is nothing against calling such a system of beliefs “rational” (superstring theory in physics is at the moment hardly testable but has great explanatory power, see, for example Siegel 2020). Now, would not a belief system where a large part of the beliefs is empirically confirmed, and the rest logically derived from them count as rational? There is a problem: a system of beliefs might consist of verified sub-​beliefs, but the beliefs might be trivially true. The sub-​beliefs might be “there are more than three kittens in Hungary,” “there are more than four kittens in the UK,” 113 The expression “principle of tenacity” hails from Paul Feyerabend and his description of Kuhn’s ideas but fits them quite well (Feyerabend 1970: 203–​205). 114 I am not saying that Lakatos explicated this intuition better than say Quine with his web of beliefs or Kuhn with his paradigms.

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“there are no kittens on the moon,” and so on. Notice that saying that a belief is trivially true means that it is evaluated as such. If only non-​trivial truths provide us with knowledge, rational beliefs have with necessity an evaluative component (in this case, a non-​trivial component). Saying that a belief is trivial is tantamount to evaluating it. Moreover, there are no clear-​cut rules for judging triviality; such judgments are at least partly dependent upon our practices and goals and might have a big subjective moment. At any rate, the main point is that a belief does not automatically become rational just because it is true. In addition to the truth-​component, there must be an evaluative one; the belief must be non-​trivial. Scientists must judge whether the research apparatus they use functions well, whether empirical studies are correctly done and well-​performed and so on. And they often must judge whether the objects they are studying are good or bad examples of a certain kind of objects they are studying. Furthermore, they must also focus on that which is important for their research and hence evaluate objects of research in terms of importance. Now, there is no such thing as a rational belief or system of beliefs (or other reason-​bearers) unless there are good arguments in favor of it, at least indirectly. An indirect argument could be: “This theory cannot be argumentatively supported at this moment, but we have good reasons to believe that it be developed such it would become supported in that way.” This means that there cannot be rational beliefs without evaluating arguments. Furthermore, we cannot talk of arguments unless we discriminate between valid and non-​valid arguments. David Pole said, “We occasionally find the rather puzzled acknowledgment that ‘valid’ itself, the logician’s key term, is a value word” (Pole 1961: 67). Urmson quite correctly said, “I take it that once stated it is obvious that ‘valid’ is an evaluative expression. To speak of a good argument is in most contexts to speak of a valid argument.” Further, Urmson said, “to call an argument valid is not merely to classify it logically, as when we say it is a syllogism or modus ponens; it is at least in part to evaluate or appraise it; it is to signify approval of it. Similarly, to call an argument invalid is to condemn or reject it” (Urmson 1953: 223). Pole pointed out that even in the simplest discussions about the methods of science, we find a concept of rationality, which is not without an evaluative component. We can only decide what methods to use in an inquiry by having as presuppositions ideas about what a good theory is, what perspectives are fruitful, what kind of argumentation is satisfactory, and so on. The same must hold for any rational inquiry, scientific or not.

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Hilary Putnam thought in a similar manner. The concept of truth is logically tied to the concept of rational acceptability. This acceptability is evaluative; we cannot maintain that a theory is satisfactory unless it is justifiable, is about something that matters, and so on. This means that there is no way to judge rational acceptability, and by implication truth, unless one puts forth evaluative judgments. We cannot approach reality without the aid of the concept of truth, and that concept is soaked through with evaluation. Putnam concludes that “the real world depends upon our values” (Putnam 1981: 135). I add: upon Literary traits too. Putnam says that there is no clear-​cut separation between facts and values, one can both describe and praise theories in virtue of their coherence and simplicity. In a similar manner as we can both describe and condemn a person by saying that he is ruthless. Ethical values can change our view of reality. Putnam asks us to imagine a society of super-​Benthamites were everybody is a staunch believer in Jeremy Bentham’s brand of utilitarianism. This society would regard lying as morally right if it increases the overall happiness of people. This would probably lead to a way of using the expression “honest” in contexts of descriptions which would clearly differ from our use. And it is conceivable that the super-​Benthamites would develop a particular vocabulary for describing utils and hedonic tones. This could lead them to describe personal relations in a manner so different from ours that they would live in a different world. Thus, ethical values can change reality. This argument shall be ranked very highly. Karl Popper points out that in order to understand reality and do science, we must prefer truth to untruth, but this means evaluating truth as being better for science than untruth. We must also evaluate theories and research in terms of such scientific values as fruitfulness, precision, simplicity, and explanatory power (for instance, Popper 1976: 95–​98). This must be qualified by saying that we usually must prefer truth to untruth, and so on because we cannot exclude the possibility of someone stumbling upon a fruitful theory because that someone prefers untruth to truth. But that person is not involved in rational inquiry, rather arational or irrational. Here, we are discussing rational inquiry while not ignoring the possibility of succesful arational or irrational inquiries. Now, does this big evaluative component in rationality and scientific inquiry make reason and science subjective? Not necessarily, some values are at least to certain degree objective. It is not a matter of subjective taste whether one judges a thoroughly rusty knife as a bad knife even though it can be judged as an interesting artwork. It is bad as a knife. Furthermore, it is fairly objective that Hitler was good as a Nazi even though we condemn Nazism. Likewise, we have fairly objective standards for judging scientific apparatuses as good or bad: Hubble is a better astronomic device for observations than its

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predecessors. One of the reasons is that it can observe a larger swath of the universe. And self-​contradictory and viciously circular arguments are, ceteris paribus, bad arguments. In the cases mentioned here, we could differentiate between the factual pole and the evaluative pole, in the case of the knife, on the one hand, the rust, on the other, the judgment of it as bad. However, they are like two sides of a coin; they cannot be separated entirely. Moreover, even if they could, that would not necessarily make the judgment in question subjective. This way of arguing in favor of there being values that are at least somewhat objective shall be ranked highly, at least for the time being. But I certainly do not exclude the possibility of both facts and values being fictional, or products of conceptual schemes, and therefore not fully objective. The values discussed here might be called “semi-​objective values.” What about non-​triviality and importance? Those values are strictly relative to the aims of inquiries and are probably somewhat more subjective than the values governing the judgment of scientific apparatus. Given the appropriate training, we should be able to find out whether Hubble performs its task well since there are clear-​cut criteria for this function. But there are no clear-​cut criteria for importance and non-​triviality. There are ethical norms and values among the preconditions for rationality. It is hard to see how scientific or other rational ways of using arguments can survive if ad hominem arguments were the rule and not the exception. Using ad hominem arguments to undercut arguments is usually not what the Germans call “sachlich” (factual?). You pretend to be discussing or thinking about arguments, but you are instead discussing or thinking about a person. Something similar holds for whataboutism, which means changing the subject during a debate instead of answering the interlocutor’s arguments. It is tantamount to ignoring arguments, and if we systematically ignore arguments, we cannot have rational discussions. There are cases where ad hominem arguments can be tolerated; for instance, if someone speaks such gibberish, we have reason to believe that the gibberish is a product of that person being mad, dead drunk, or on drugs. Nevertheless, if we always used ad hominem arguments, we would never discuss the arguments put forth by our interlocutor, and argumentative discourse, hence rational discourse, would disappear. Using ad hominem arguments has moral implications. By using them, we show a lack of respect for persons, treat them as being unable to put forth good arguments, and even talk like they have condemnable motives (“you maintain that p because your hormones are too active,” “you maintain q because you envy persons like X”). Evading ad hominem arguments, therefore, has moral

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implications. By doing so, we show a minimum of respect for our interlocutors instead of treating them as an objects to be explained with the aid of ad hominem arguments. Karl Popper says that a rational person is someone who is ready to listen to critical arguments and to learn from experience. He writes: What I call the attitude of reasonableness may be characterized by a remark like this: ‘I think I am right, but I may be wrong, and you may be right, and in any case let us discuss it, for in this way we are likely nearer to a true understanding than if we each merely insist that we are right. popper 1994d: 479

Thus, the rational person (the one with the attitude of reasonableness) is tolerant of other people’s views and critical of authority. So being rational implies taking a moral stance.115 Strictly speaking, an ad hominem argument can be true, perfectly logical, fallible, and justifiable. Nevertheless, it is usually an irrational way of arguing, according to the canons of informal logic (for instance, Cohen 2004: 92). Arguments against strawmen can also be logically correct and fallible, though hardly justifiable. Informal logic regards such “arguments” as irrational; they misrepresent the arguments of opponents and make them easy to refute. Something similar holds for such statements as “the moon is a celestial body, but I have no reason to believe it.” There is no logical contradiction involved in this statement, and both sentences might be true. But it is absurd to state it. There is also nothing logically wrong with believing that p is true only because it has been written in a purported sacred book, p might also be true. However, this belief is deeply irrational, even though it might have all kinds of good-​ making features.116 Would there be much rationality in the world if people consequently spoke in this way? Be that as it may, the first conclusion must be that being fallible, justifiable, and true does not make a belief or a mode of inquiry automatically rational. Rational beliefs and inquiries are soaked with values, but that fact does not make them subjective. Some of the values in question are rather objective, others not. Furthermore, some moral values are among the preconditions for rational beliefs and inquiries. And the rules of informal logic matter for rationality, not only the rules of formal logic. 115 We shall discover in the next chapter that Jürgen Habermas and Karl-​Otto Apel go further than Popper in regarding rationality as having a moral side. 116 Of course, rationality might be somehow evil.

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The second conclusion is that our thinking, experiencing, and view of reality are soaked with values. If we take the values away, reality as humans know it would disappear. Thus, some values have an almost transcendental status; they provide the necessary condition for the possibility of human knowledge. We can call this kind of thinking “valueism.” It shall be ranked highly. It must be added that on lingualism, language has such a status. It makes sense to say that language in the broad sense and values together form something akin to a transcendental foundation for knowledge and view of reality. Without language and values there would be no knowledge and no reality. But if there is a transcendental foundation (or foundations), it might contain more elements than those two. We shall discuss this later in the book and briefly discuss whether transcendental arguments make sense.

Logic and Reason

There seems to be a logical connection between the concepts of reason and the concept of the canons of logic and between truth and reason. Given that all else is equal, a truth-​tracking and logically consistent belief is more rational than an inconsistent and non-​truth-​tracking one. But is it that simple? We shall discover that it is not. It has often been thought that the law of noncontradiction is one of the cornerstones of rationality and for the possibility of transcendental argumentation. However, it is hard to justify, given that any justification must be logical; justifying logic with the means of logic is arguing in circles. Nevertheless, some philosophers have made attempts to justify it. For example, Aristotle maintained that the law of non-​contradiction is the precondition for all argumentation and by implication of rationality. Arguing against the validity of the law of noncontradiction has the validity of that law as a precondition and is, therefore, self-​defeating. Maintaining that S1 “the law of noncontradiction is never valid” can qualify as an argument only if the statement S1 is logically self-​consistent. Since statements are judgments, it follows that the precondition for there being a judgment is that it is logically self-​ consistent (Aristotle 2016: book iv 1006a–​1009a).117 Secondly, it has been claimed that a self-​contradictory judgment has all thinkable judgments as a logical consequence. Therefore, such a judgment is

117 I try to capture the spirit of Aristotle’s arguments rather than the exact way he argues, as anybody knowledgeable of his thought must indeed see.

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not really a judgment since judging something means believing that such and such is the case and not the opposite. Let us see how Popper argues in favor of this being the case: if p and q stand for arbitrarily chosen propositions, the veljunction “or” will usually be understood in the way that the proposition “p v q” is regarded as true if p is true or q is true, or both are true, and false only if both are false. From this, it follows that p logically implies “p v q”; that is, if p is true, then “p v q” is true. Yet if “non-​p” is true, then “p v q” still is true, given our definition of the veljunction “v” (“or”). In other words, from “p v q” in conjunction with “non-​p,” one can logically infer q. But we have already inferred p from “p v q.” This means that we have logically inferred q from the contradictory premises “non-​p and p.” Since p and q stand for any arbitrarily chosen proposition, we can infer any possible proposition from any possible contradictory proposition, which means that such a contradictory proposition is devoid of any content (Popper 1994c: 427–​432).118 Now, the logician Graham Priest says that Popper’s analysis is an example of “baby logic” (Priest 1989/​90: 392). Paraconsistent logic shows that some contradictions are not explosive, that is, they do not have every thinkable proposition as a logical consequence. Dialetheism concurs.119 An example of an inconsistent but non-​trivial theory can be Niels Bohr’s theory of the atom. According to it, an electron orbits the nucleus of an atom without radiating energy. However, this theory has as an integral part Maxwell’s equations and according to it the electron radiates energy while accelerating in orbit. Yet not everything concerning the behavior of electrons could be inferred from the theory, hence its underlying inference mechanism must be paraconsistent (Priest, Tanaka, Weber 2018). Priest, the high priest of dialetheism, argues that there are dialetheias, i.e., true contradictions, having the truth value “glut.”120 These contradictions are not explosive. The logic of Frege and Russell have as an unargued assumption 118 This is basically a logic textbook example, supposedly with roots in Scholastic philosophy. Popper’s original contribution is that he utilizes it for the purpose of arguing in favor of his fallibilism. Accepting self-​contradictory propositions precludes falsification. Obviously, a proposition cannot be fallible if it cannot be contradicted by other propositions. Mutatis mutandis, a judgment cannot be fallible unless it can be contradicted by its potential falsificators. It must be fallible if we are to be able to argue against it. 119 Priest and his team emphasize that paraconsistency and dialetheism is not the same, the former is a property of consequence relation while the latter is a view about truth. But dialetheism must employ paraconsistent logic (Priest, Tanaka, Weber 2018). 120 The so-​called trivialists go further, they claim that all propositions are true, meaning that every contradictory propositions are true, making the law of noncontradiction invalid (according to Priest, Berto, Weber 1998/​2018).

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that truth and falsity are mutually exclusive (this kind of logic can be called “bivalentist logic”). This assumption can be questioned and rejected like many other presuppositions of the Frege/​Russell theory of logic. This holds for the notion that truth and falsity are exhaustive, that all terms denote etcetera. And in contrast to the Frege/​Russell view, truth, and falsity overlap (Priest 1989/​ 90: 392). Moreover, logicians have tended to think that coherence and logical consistency are the same but that is wrong, there can be coherent inconsistencies. Inconsistencies that are not explosive can be coherent (Priest, Berto, Weber 1998/​2018). The complexities of Priest’s arguments about such logical problems as that of the liar paradox need not concern us, let us instead look at a simplified version of one of his simplest examples. Consider such transition states as that of a person who is exiting a room. There must be a moment where the person is not inside the room anymore but at the same time and in the same respect not outside it either. We have a dialetheia, a true contradiction, it is both true and false at the same time in the same respect that the person is inside (or outside).121 Its truth value is glut. Priest could approvingly quote Walt Whitman who wrote in his cycle of poems Leaves of Grass: Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself! whitman 1945: 76

Fuzzy logic like dialetheism stresses multivalence, the followers of these schools of logic can be called “multivalentists”. The proponents of fuzzy logic maintain that things tend to come in degrees, not in either one of two mutually exclusive classes as the ones of truth and falsity. Hence, the law of the excluded middle (lem) does not apply in all contexts (on fuzzy logic, see for instance Kosko 1994 and MacCormac 1985: 85–​95).122 One of its main ideas is the one of fuzzy sets. The boundaries between such sets as those of living versus not-​ living things are blurred (fuzzy), hence these sets are fuzzy. Other examples of

121 It is not by chance that Priest thinks that Hegel‘s and Marx‘s dialectics are of dialetheian nature (Priest 1989/​90: 388–​415). Ricœur‘s tensive thinking might have needed some inspiration from dialetheism. 122 Kosko’s book is popular and rather chatty while MacCormac’s short introduction to fuzzy logic is somewhat technical. My presentation of fuzzy logic and dialetheism is short, simple (simplistic?), and untechnical. After all, multivalentism is only a small theme in this book.

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fuzzy classes are the sets of tall persons and beautiful paintings. The membership in these sets is relative and partial, in contrast the membership in the set of even numbers is absolute (therefore, the set of even numbers is not fuzzy). The Viking Egill could have been a tall man in the year 900 ce but today he would be of average height. This means that Egill is a member of two sets of height, the set of tall men and the set of men of average height (the boundary between these two sets is of course fuzzy). Egill’s membership in both sets is partial (MacCormac 1985: 86). Bart Kosko states “Fuzzy logic is reasoning with fuzzy sets” (Kosko 1994: 13). If it makes sense to talk about fuzzy sets, then the sets of objects that are subsumable under amoebaean concepts would constitute fuzzy sets. And reasoning in terms of such concepts would be a way of using fuzzy logic. Moreover, ordinary language with its blurred boundaries between the meaning of words might be formalizable in fuzzy logical terms (as we remember, Hacker denied that ordinary language was formalizable, he was obviously thinking about bivalent logic). Just like the dialetheists, fuzzy logicians think that there are acceptable contradictions. Consider “the glass is half full and half empty at the same time”. In Kosko’s view this is not a contradiction on multivalent logic, it is a half-​ truth that the glass is half full and another half-​truth it is half empty (Kosko 1994: 26). He maintains that paradoxes of self-​reference are half-​truths or fuzzy contradictions: “A and not-​A holds but A is true only 50% and not-​A is true only 50%” (Kosko 1994: 101). Further, he writes: Paradoxes of self-​reference have the same form: A implies not-​A, and not-​ A implies A. So A and not-​A are logically equivalent: A =​not-​A. The ying-​ yang equation. So they have the same truth value: t(A) =​t(not-​A). Here we face a bivalent contradiction of either 0 =​1 or 1 =​0. But suppose we do not insist on binary logic. We know the truth value of not-​A equals 1  minus the truth value of A, or t(not-​A) =​1 –​t(A). So paradox means t(A) =​1 –​t(A). We can solve this equation with a simple algebra to get t(A) =​½. So the truth lies in the middle. kosko 1994: 102n

Notice the difference from Williamson, in the multivalentist world there is a lot of vagueness, hardly any in Williamson’s universe. No wonder that Williamson is critical of both fuzzy logic and dialetheism and a staunch defender of standard bivalent logic. It has been a powerful tool for analysis, why try to mend something that is not broken, he asks. It has been tested and found adequate

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by being the background logic of mathematics and other sciences for millennia. (Williamson 2016) (Williamson 2018: 83–​87). He is not the only logician to have qualms about the utility of multivalent logic (for an introduction to the debate, see Stegmüller 1979: 182–​191). Thus, Quine says that introducing multivalent logic makes logic too complicated. In addition, quantum mechanics do not seem to need multivalent logic to accommodate the curious facts it tries to explain (Quine 1986: 80–​86) (Quine 1981: 90–​95).123 As is well known, some philosophers have thought that the fact that Heisenberg’s principle of indeterminacy seems to imply that we can only talk about probabilities in the realm of sub-​atomic particles would necessitate the introduction of multivalent logic for that particular field (for a brief discussion, see Stegmüller 1979: 208–​221). It should be added that some theorists say that fuzzy logic is nothing but probability in disguise and that whatever one can do with fuzzy logic one can do without it (according to Kosko 1994: 43).124 Notice that even in the seemingly objective world of philosophical logic, the theorists disagree about some fundamental issues. In that respect, philosophical logic does not seem very different from the rest of philosophy. The rpe celebrates the ingenuity of dialetheism, fuzzy logic, and Williamson’s daring idea of non-​vagueness. The question is: how to decide who is right, the bivalentists or the multivalentists? The proponent of the rpe is no logician and does not take sides in this debate but asks: if there can be serious and interesting arguments in favor of there being true contradictions, cannot there be good arguments in favor of reason being poetic?125 What would be the implication for rationalism if the multivalentists were right? Rationalism is compatible with their position since it just implies that we have to be elastic when judging whether the law of noncontradiction or the law of the excluded middle apply in any given context. Being flexible means being non-​dogmatic and non-​dogmatic approach is rational, given that all else is equal, cf. Popper. Careful scrutiny of contexts must be regarded as more rational than entirely ignoring the possible peculiarities of contexts. To be sure, respecting the law of noncontradiction (at least most of the time) is advisable for anybody who wants to be rational unless someone discovers a better law or shows that we need no laws of thinking. But she should not exclude the possibility of there being scientific cases where we have no 1 23 In the latter article Quine treats vagueness in a similar way as Williamson did later. 124 Kosko is at great pains to try to show that fuzzy logic is not like the logic of probability (Kosko 1994: 44–​64). 125 The idea of amoebaean concepts might be more in sync with fuzzy sets than the ones of bivalentist logic.

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reason to revise our theories even if they are incoherent. Such cases could be cases of theories that, even though incoherent, have the redeeming features like fruitfulness, explanatory power, and simplicity, in contrast to some coherent, competing theory. If cases like these are abundant in science, she might consider either revising her conception of rationality (including the acceptance of logical law) or regard science as irrational (this view is inspired by Feyerabend 1978: 211 and Margolis 1991: 40–​54). Notice that if transcendental argumentation is supposed to yield absolutely certain foundations for knowledge, it would not be able to do so if the law of noncontradiction is contingent and, therefore, not absolutely certain.

Induction and Abduction

Is not science all about rigorous logical deductions? Not necessarily, if it is correct that abduction (the inference to the best explanation) is one of the most important tools of science, then explanandum does not have to follow from the explanans in a strictly deductive manner.126 In performing abduction/​i be, one tries to find the best/​most plausible explanation, given available evidence, and the explanation is not deductively valid.127 If we observe that the grass is wet and we see no water hoses or sprinklers, the most plausible explanation is that is has rained. This hypothesis explains the facts in question, i.e., the wetness of the grass, but it cannot be deduced logically from premises stating these facts. Important scientific theories are justified by the inference to the best explanation, including Darwin’s theory of evolution. It is simply the best explanation of living beings’ variety and historical development.128 Without inferences to the explanation, there would not be much science, and science is a hot candidate for being a rational endeavor. So, if this justifies the ibe, it ought to justify the inference to the least bad explanation (ilbe) since it is a deflated version of the ibe. Unless there is a weakness in the ilbe, not shared by “ordinary” ibe. If it is true that in ibe arguments the conclusion does not follow logically from the premises, it might be because they have the same purported limits as induction (see, for instance, Douven 2011/​2021). Take Hume’s famous 1 26 Gilbert H. Harman introduced the notion of ibe (Harman 1965: 88–​95). 127 ibe was originally called “abduction.” Peirce introduced the concept of abduction. He was of the opinion that abduction alone could give new knowledge (Peirce 1878: 470–​482). 128 For an elaboration, see Okasha 2002: 31. Okasha’s adds more examples from the history of science.

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example: someone points out that the sun has risen so and so many times and never not done so. Then he or she concludes inductively that it must rise tomorrow. However, Hume famously pointed out that there is an unstated premise in this argument: The future will be like the past and the present. Proving that this is the case could be an arduous task, requiring other inductive arguments like “the natural laws have been the same in the present as in the past; therefore, they shall be the same in the future.” This means that attempting to provide such proof leads to an infinite regress. That this is a question of empirical knowledge Hume did not doubt: “That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no contradiction, than the affirmation, that it will rise” (Hume 1975: 25–​26 (Section iv, Part A). In other words, the statement “the sun will rise tomorrow” is not an analytical truth. Therefore, it must be an empirical statement, but the problem is that we cannot observe the future, and empirical observations are the foundation of our knowledge of the world, Hume said. Let us turn to another example of inductive generalization. We have observed millions of swans, and they have all been either black or white. So, we conclude in an inductive fashion, “All swans are either black or white.” But there cannot be anything in the conclusion of a valid argument which is not already contained in the premises. The “all” in the conclusion or of any of its cognates is not to be found in the premises. Besides, the next swan observed could be neither black nor white. The question is whether more sophisticated, statistical inductive arguments can be logically valid. They are evaluated in terms of probability. We could, for example, use some probability calculus to calculate the chance of all swans being either black or white, based on the number of swans observed. Whether use of such calculi can help us solve Hume ‘s problem I would not say. I shall refrain from judging whether there is a “probabilist” way of refuting Hume. Popper’s analysis shall be ranked somewhat lower. He famously denied that induction is a provider of knowledge; induction is an illusion. We think that we use induction to create new concepts and theories, but in fact, we always already possess concepts and theories and use the hypothetical-​deductive method to test our concepts and theories, revise and recreate them. Besides, Hume was right about inductive arguments being invalid, Popper says. To make matters worse, verification, which is based on induction, has the same logical structure as the one of an invalid form of reasoning, the one called “confirming the consequent”:

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If p then q q _​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ p The invalidity of this argument should be obvious. Popper adds that in contrast to verification, falsification is at least logically possible. It has the same structure as modus tollens, a perfectly valid form of reasoning: If p then q not q _​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ not p Falsification and verification are logically asymmetrical; they have different logical forms, the one being valid, the other not, Popper concludes (Popper 1959: 41–​42). The problem is that Popper threw the child out with the bathwater. If falsification is possible, then induction is too. For we can only ascertain that theory T is falsified if we can infer from one or more instances (for instance, observations) that T is false, but this inference is inductive. If someone thinks that she has falsified the theory that all swans are white because there is at least one swan that is not white, then generalizations follow from her proposition “there is at least one non-​white swan,” for instance, “not all swans are white,” or “swans are white and non-​white.” Thus, falsification has inductive implications. Perhaps, there is a non-​falsificationist way of showing the uselessness of induction. But there are at least two excellent attempts to justify induction which the present writer ranks highly. The first justification is that of P.F. Strawson, and the second is that of Nelson Goodman. Inspired by the ordinary language school of philosophy, Strawson defended induction. He says that the critics of induction demand that the possible logical validity of inductive arguments must be of the same kind as that of deductive arguments. However, this is like demanding that the rules of chess also must be the rules of bridge. By definition, a deduction is logical valid or invalid. But induction plays a very different role; its role is to help us acquire reasonable beliefs. Moreover, it is a tool for the evaluation of our former beliefs in a rational manner. The conclusion of an inductive argument can be reasonable or unreasonable, not valid, or invalid (the rules of the game of induction are different from those of deduction). Using induction is a textbook example of acting in a rationalway. This must mean, I think, that acting in a manner

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extremely different from that of performing induction can be a sign of one acting irrationally. The idea of good reasons for a hypothesis is the idea of the verification of the hypothesis. Verification, in its turn, is a way of using induction. The idea of a good reason is woven into the concept of reason, and induction is all about good reasons. Therefore, the concepts of rationality, induction, and verification are woven together, Strawson says (Strawson 1952: 249–​263). Nelson Goodman had a different take on induction. His main object was to show that we cannot get a grip on the problem of induction with syntactical means alone. As a part of that endeavor, he introduced the strange predicate “grue.” An object is grue if and only if it is observed before time t and is green, and not so observed and is blue. This means that every observation of green emeralds made before t confirms both that they are green and grue. However, predicting inductively beyond t on basis of those observations leads to the strange conclusion that emeralds will be both green and blue; blue because this prediction must be a prediction of the emeralds being grue after t, and given the definition of grue, hence they will be blue. As a nominalist, Goodman did not think we have any compelling reasons to use the predicates blue and green, rather than grue. Reality does not prescribe which predicates suit it best; there is a moment of arbitrariness in the use of predicates. It just so happens that our use of green is an entrenched one; we have not acquired the habit of using grue.129 Goodman asks how we justify deduction and induction. The answer concerning how we justify deduction is as follows. Principles of deductive inference are justified by their conformity with accepted deductive practice. Their validity depends upon accordance with the particular deductive inferences we actually make and sanction. If a rule yields inacceptable inferences, we drop it as invalid. Justification of general rules thus derives from judgments rejecting or accepting particular deductive inferences. goodman 1979a: 63–​64

Goodman admits that this is a circular justification but thinks that the circle is virtuous. The rules and particular inferences are justified by being brought into agreement with each other. Rules are amended if they yield inferences that are 129 There is no space here for any longer discussion about the grue example; as the learned readers notice, I do not even mention the predicate ‘bleen.’ After all, this is not a book about confirmation and induction; even those themes are briefly mentioned here.

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not acceptable to us, and inferences are rejected if they do not conform to rules that we do not want to amend. The same holds for induction, Goodman says: An inductive inference, too, is justified by conformity to general rules, and a general rule by conformity to accepted inductive inferences. Predictions are justified if they conform to valid canons of induction; and the canons are valid if they accurately codify accepted inductive practices. goodman 1979a: 64

Goodman thus anticipated the idea of reflective equilibrium at the same time as his analysis has kinship with the much older conception of the hermeneutic circle. Using induction in the sense of generalizing from individual instances means putting forth predictions. When it comes to predicates, predicting means projecting them on new objects. The reason why we can successfully project the predicate green on future objects or other non-​observed objects is that the use of green is well entrenched. This means that it has proven successful, in contrast to grue which has never been projected. Logically speaking, there is nothing wrong with using and projecting grue on future and other non-​observed objects; the question is pragmatic. Green has been a useful predicate; grue has at least until now not been useful. I rank Goodman’s “hermeneutic” defense of deduction and induction highly; it has some pragmatist traits which suit the rpe just fine. But I shall not take any stance on the grue example, which is why it is treated so superficially here. I see no contradiction between Strawson’s and Goodman’s argumentation; they complement each other. Strawson’s point that induction provides reasonable beliefs, not logically correct conclusions, can easily be unified with Goodman’s “hermeneutic” approach. And even if they were wrong, induction and ibe seem (for the time being at least) useful tools for reasoning. They should be used unless we find better tools for reasoning. Notice that virtuous circular argument are ceteris paribus rational while vicious ones are irrational. But is it always easy to find out which one is virtuous, and which is vicious? One suspects that oftentimes informed judgment must be exercised in order to find out. It might be added that there are philosophers who maintain that inductive argument are logically valid, but their views are not universally accepted (for an overview, see for instance, Henderson 2018). Maybe they are right and maybe informal logic can be successfully formalized, for instance with the aid of fuzzy logic.

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The conclusion of this subchapter is that both ibe and induction are legitimate rational ways of reasoning, despite the fact that the conclusions of such reasonings are not formal logically valid. Notice that unless the ppqi and the Inference to the least bad explanation have problems of their own, they must be regarded as vindicated if induction and the ibe are vindicated. In addition, we can conclude that justification is possible, either with the means of induction, deduction, or abduction. Hence, we cannot exclude the possibility of fallibility and justifiability of potential reason-​bearers being sufficient conditions for their rationality.

More about Deduction

Is not deduction after all the mainstay of rationality and do not correct deductive inferences lead to logically correct conclusions? The answer is that it is not as simple as this. We see this when we contemplate the problem of justifying induction. A. N. Prior maintained that any attempt at justifying such methods of reasoning as deduction ultimately rests upon circularity. He discusses the logical function of the connective “and”. Why is “p and q, therefore q” a valid inference? The theory of analytical validity says that it is valid because of the meaning of “and.” What is the meaning of “and”? It is given by stating the role the term has in forming compound propositions, or conjunctions, and drawing inferences from them. “And” is defined by the rules that (i) from any pair of statements “p” and “q,” we can infer the statement “p and q,” and (ii) from any conjunctive statement “p and q,” we can infer either conjunct. To cut a long story short, Prior shows that we cannot define key logical words without moving in circles. Appeal to rules and meanings cannot by itself justify our intuitions about validity because these rules and meanings are themselves judged according to those intuitions. This means that there is no ultimate justification for deduction (Prior 1960: 38–​39). Lewis Carroll anticipated Prior’s argumentation. In a charming dialogue, Achilles and the Tortoise discuss deduction. More precisely, they discuss three propositions, A, B, and Z. The connection between them is that Z follows logically from A and B. The tortoise asks Achilles to presume that she (the tortoise) assumes that A and B are true but is not yet convinced that the proposition is true (proposition C): “If A and B are true, then Z must be true.” The tortoise further asks Achilles to force her logically to accept that C is true. Achilles responds by saying that the tortoise must admit that C is true. Tortoise says “yes,” and Achilles writes in his notebook:

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A B C (if A and B are true, then Z true) Z Then Greek hero says to the tortoise: “If you admit that A, B, and C are true, then you must admit that Z is true.” The tortoise asks why. Achilles answers by saying that this follows logically, “if A, B, and C are true, then Z must be true (propositions D). This you cannot deny.” The tortoise says that she can admit that D is true on the condition that Achilles writes it down in his notebook. He does that and screams angrily that now the tortoise must admit that Z is true because it follows logically from the true propositions A, B, C, and D. The tortoise yet again asks Achilles to write this proposition in his notebook and it shall be called proposition E. As the reader might guess, the tortoise does not think it is compelled logically to regard Z as true even though A, B, C, D, and E are true. The story ends some months later with the tortoise and the Achilles still debating, the latter writing evermore propositions in the notebook. The tortoise still does think it is compelled to admit that Z is true even though it follows logically from the true propositions A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and so on. Strictly speaking, the tortoise could refuse to admit that Z is true even though it follows from an infinite number of true propositions. The tortoise has a point, just like induction, deduction is partly based on a belief which cannot itself be rationally grounded (or at least deductively grounded), the belief that a proposition that follows logically from true propositions must be true (Carroll 1936: 1225–​1230). Peter Winch maintained that the moral of Carroll’s story is that drawing a conclusion is a process that cannot be solely understood in terms of a logical formula. Besides, deduction does not need any other justification than that one sees that the conclusion follows from the premises. To demand more justification is not a sign of caution and reflective attitude like the tortoise does, rather a sign that the tortoise has not understood what deduction is. To learn how to draw a conclusion does not only consist in learning about the logical relations between propositions but also in learning how to act in certain manners. Formal systems like logic have their roots in human relations: “Logical relations between propositions themselves depend on social relations between men.” (Winch 1958: 126). Deep down, the idea of logical relations depends upon consensus between men. The tortoise opted out of the consensus; there is a moment of decision in accepting a deduction as justified. By deciding to opt out of the consensus, the tortoise made the decision not to accept deduction as a legitimate way

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of reasoning. Moreover, understanding that a deduction is justified can be regarded as a matter of seeing that it is the case. Winch was a Wittgensteinian and his conception of correct deduction as something to be seen, not said, almost certainly stems from Wittgenstein’s saying/​showing distinction. Achilles does not understand this; he thinks that all there is to deduction is something that can be said in the form of arguments. There might be other rational ways of arguing besides the ones mentioned, for instance, those which I call “peritropic arguments.”130 I define “peritropic arguments” as “arguments which try to prove certain beliefs by showing that denying them (the beliefs) leads to performative inconsistencies.”131 There is nothing logically and semantically wrong with the sentence “Stefán Snævarr does not exist.” But it is existentially inconsistent for me to assert this sentence. The performance of asserting it creates a small problem for me; if it is true, then I do not exist. ”Existential inconsistency” seems to be a subclass in the class of performative inconsistencies, and hence having to do with the pragmatics of language, not its semantics. Jaako Hintikka defines “existential inconsistency” in the following manner: … let p be a sentence and a singular term (e.g., a name, a pronoun, or a definite description). We shall say that p is existentially inconsistent for the person referred to by a to utter if and only if the longer sentence "p; and a exists." is inconsistent (in the ordinary sense of the word). hintikka 1962: 11

According to him, the arguments that I call “peritropic” are valid by performance, not inference. If they are not valid by inference, then they are obviously not deductive, and they are certainly not inductive. Arguing against the validity of the principle of non-​contradiction might be an example of a peritropic argument: putting forth an argument implies that it is correct and not its negation. But we cannot discriminate between something and its negation without accepting the principle of non-​contradiction.

130 I introduced this neologism in Snævarr 1999: 253. The idea is not mine even though the word is my neologism. 131 Socrates’ argumentation against the relativism of Protagoras in the Theaetetus is a paradigmatic example. Socrates’ type of argument has come to be called “the peritrope”. In Greek, “peritrope” can mean “a turning back on one”. A suggestive image is that of a snake trying to devour its own tail, hence “peritropic arguments”.

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We have already seen an example of peritropic argumentation, the one of Aristotle’s argument in favor of the law of noncontradiction. A typical peritropic argument is one that tries to show that relativism is self-​defeating; if the truth value of every statement is relative to some context, then the truth of relativism is relative to a certain context and not others, for example, not the context of the anti-​relativists. If the truth of relativism is universal and not relative to a context, then there is at least one statement whose truth is not relative, but then relativism is not universally true. The idea of peritropic arguments shall be ranked rather highly, at least until someone shows convincingly that they are reducible to deductive arguments or that the law of noncontradiction is either not valid or not valid in peritropic contexts. Maybe dialetheists could show that the law is not valid in these context. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that deduction and peritropic arguments are useful methods for rational inquiry, even though it is difficult, even impossible, to justify them. I rank Carroll’s and Winch’s analyses highly, not least because of the fact that by stressing that logic has its root in human action, Winch thinks in a pragmatist manner. Furthermore, if there is a need for justifying deduction, Goodman’s justification is acceptable, even correct. Wittgenstein famously maintained that there is no rule for how to apply a rule, looking for such a rule leads to an infinite regress. For if we think we have found this meta-​rule, then we must find a meta-​meta-​rule for its application and so on ad infinitum. Therefore, rules in abstracto do not give us any guidance for action: “This was our paradox: no course of action could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be brought into accord with the rule” (Wittgenstein 2009: 81 (§ 201)). Obeying a rule is a custom or a practice and cannot be understood as a mechanical application of abstract rules (Wittgenstein 2009: 87 (§ 202)). He says in no uncertain words: “Not only rules but also examples are needed for establishing a practice. Our rules leave loop-​holes open, and the practice has to speak for itself” (Wittgenstein 1979: 21 (§ 139)). This rule-​argument shall be ranked highly but the practice side shall be ignored for the time being. If there is no rule for the application of rules, then we must use informed judgment in applying them. In addition, the rule-​argument strengthens our contention that there is no rigid formula for rationality, there might be cases where it is not fruitful to apply the rule of noncontradiction or the ones of ibe.

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Moreover, our imagination, at least in minimal doses, plays a role when we are applying rules.132 Even if the imagination needed for the application of abstract rules might be different from the one needed to write poems, there must nevertheless be some family resemblance. There must be a reason for us using the word “imagination” for both. Imagination probably does not matter much when one performs deduction, induction, and the peritrope, but the ibe is a different matter, at least when performed in cutting edge research. Darwin certainly needed imagination in order to find his famous, abductive explanation. And the use of the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation also needs a large doses of imagination. Putting forth new, fruitful, theories is certainly a rational activity. Imagination must play a role, with or without ibe, hence imagination is an ally of reason. What about deduction? It certainly is a useful tool for argumentation but Prior might be right about us not being able to vindicate it rationally. However, Goodman’s way of doing so has been ranked highly and Winch attempt to prove that its value shows itself shall be ranked equally highly. For the time being. Maybe deduction and induction can be justified with the aid of abductive arguments. I shall make a rpte: mathematics and the natural sciences use deduction for all its worth, apparently these sciences are succesful. Induction is also used in the natural sciences, that is, if Popper and his followers are wrong. A part of the least bad explanation of their success is that both deduction and induction are valid forms of reasoning. Why is this not an inference to the best explanation? Because it is circular, albeit in a virtuous way, and it makes sense to say that circular arguments are ceteris paribus worse than non-​circular ones. The circularity shows itself in the fact that I deduce from the apparent success of these sciences and must use inductive arguments to show that they are succesful. I could point towards their technological use, their edifying effect, and to the possibility that they somehow can give a true description of reality. From these instances I conclude inductively that they are succesful (this conclusion is of course fallible). This means that I can only reason this way by assuming that inductive and deductive arguments can be valid. A similar arguments can be used in favor of the law of noncontradiction, not necessarily as a law that has no exception, but simply as a law that can be, and usually is, valid or at least a handy instrument. The aforementioned sciences and a lot of successful practical activity tend to obey the law. As for practical activity, we cannot successfully paint a wall entirely blue if we also try to paint it green at 132 This argument is inspired by Kant who mainly regarded imagination as an instrument for the cooperation between sensibility and understanding (for instance, Kant 1966: A124).

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the same time. From these instances we can conclude inductively that the law of noncontradiction can be of great utility. But we cannot thus conclude unless we assume the validity of the law. We cannot say that the conclusion both follows and not follows from the premises in same way at the same time. The possible validity of fuzzy logic and dialetheism might be justified in a similar manner. As for fuzzy logic, its proponents can claim that there are a lot of unclear boundaries between objects (both things and other objects, including abstract ones). Moreover, they can point out that fuzzy logic has been useful in technology (according to Kosko 1994: 180–​190). The least bad explanation can be that fuzzy logic is correct or at least acceptable. Dialetheists might say that there are contradictory experiences and the best explanation of them is that there are true contradictions. The tentative conclusion must be that there are acceptable ways of justifying induction, deduction, and the law of noncontradiction (the latter not necessarily as omnivalent). It might be the case that they are just tools that we use simply because we have not found anything better–​yet.

Rejoinders and Replies

The critic might ask why I aim at rationality. Rationality might be some kind of an illusion or humbug. My answer is that I accept a very moderate rationalism and just for the time being. Given that the principle of noncontradiction, induction, the ibe, and deduction are justifiable and/​or useful methods in most context, then rationality cannot be entirely illusory. If there are actual dialetheias and fuzzy aspects to reasoning, that would not necessarily undercut rationality. I might show that rationality has many dimensions. To reason inductively and in the ibe way is to act in a rational manner; we can justify theories by reasoning in those ways. By implication, we are maintaining that the ppqi and the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation commit the rpe to a minimum of respect for rationality. Furthermore, because there is no such thing as conclusive, absolutely true, inductive, or ibe conclusions, then fallibility is built into these methods. The rule-​argument increases the weight of fallibility. There is no mechanical way of applying rules for inductive inferences, abductive inferences, and even deductive inferences (without such inferences, there can hardly be much rational thinking). We therefore have no guarantee for any application of rules being correct.

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Since the rules of the ppqi and the Inference to the least bad explanation are rules of thumb, then imagination must play a greater role in their application than in scientific inferences. The critic might state that this does not show that the ppqi and the inference to the least bad explanation are legitimate methods of philosophical inquiry. My answer is that they might have some faults of their own, different from scientific ibe and induction. But the onus is on those who think that this is the case. The next move of the critic is to ask why I extoll the virtues of natural science in my abductive argument in favor induction and deduction. It does not fit my earlier doubts about whether there is real progress in science and whether humans are hard-​wired to understand nature. My answer is that I was not extolling any virtues, just making a thought experiment, pointing towards possibilities. The same holds for what I said about progress in science and the question of cognitive closure: it is possible that there is no progress towards truth and that humans are cognitively closed to the mysteries of nature. But I do not take any stance on these issues. The critic could now ask why I quote Popper and not Thomas Kuhn. If the latter is right about science, then it is, at least in its normal phases, not the locus of liberal values, rather the opposite. A good normal scientist just works in accordance with the ruling paradigm, is a conformist, while non-​conformists are driven out of the profession. Normal science is like a rather authoritarian religious order, while revolutionary science is more like the Popperian, liberal one. Moreover, normal science is a necessary condition for revolutionary science, not the other way around (Kuhn 1970a: 23–​42); somewhat like low vegetation in a forest creating conditions for big trees to grow, providing them with nourishment. My response is that Kuhn regards science as being governed by values and norms, mainly scientific ones. Among them are such values as the aforementioned accuracy, consistency, simplicity, and fruitfulness (Kuhn 1977: 320–​ 339). And even the authoritarianism of normal science is governed by norms that have some ethical implications, such as “scientists ought to conform.” Demanding conformity to religious norms is obviously an ethical demand. The question is not whether ethical norms and values matter to science, only what norms and values are (or ought to be) of greatest importance. Both ethical and scientific values play a central role in Kuhn´s conception of science, just like Popper’s. I shall not take any stance on their respective conceptions. A hard-​nosed analytical critic might ask why I am so sure that reason cannot be reduced to the canons of formal logic. My answer is that I am far from sure;

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I do not exclude the possibility of some logician showing the opposite. Maybe informal logic can be formalized, say, with the aid of fuzzy logic. Maybe there are rules for how to apply rules. And as earlier said, we cannot exclude the possibility of induction and abduction being formalizable in a non-​fuzzy way. Remember that I am a maybeist who deals in possibilities. The hard-​nosed critic has another rejoinder: why do I speak about logical issues, including those concerning fuzzy logic and dialetheism, while admitting that I am no logicians? The answer is that I hardly take any stand on these issues, mainly mention them as possibilities (I do not do any ranking!). The possibilities of either Popper or Priest, and Kosko or Williamson being right are inspiring for philosophical thought.

Conclusion

The mainstay of rationality is fallibility, justifiability, deduction, induction, ibe, peritropic arguments, and the law of noncontradiction (the list is no exhaustive). There are some good arguments in favor of their validity. Fallibility and justifiability often play important roles in the rationality of potential reason-​ bearers. However, there are also good arguments in favor of it sometimes being rational to accept neither fallible nor justifiable theories. And there is no lack of interesting arguments in favor of the law of noncontradiction not being valid in all contexts. They (the elements of the mainstay) are at least useful tools for reasoning until someone discovers better tools that might even force us to abandon poetic moderate rationalism, even rationality. But we have also discovered interesting arguments against these being always the best tools for reasoning, and that understood as principles, they cannot be justified. Rational beliefs cannot be reduced to be only truth-​bearers and methods cannot be reduced to being solely truth-​trackers. And rational thinking does not consist only in the correct applications of the principles of formal logic. After all, inductive and abductive reasoning are not formally logically correct; nevertheless, science uses both. Furthermore, truth does not automatically make a belief or a theory rational. A trivially true theory is hardly rational, while a wrong but argumentatively well-​supported theory, having great scope and precision, might be rational. But there is a connection between the concepts of truth and rationality; given that all else is equal, a truth-​tracking belief is more rational than a non-​truth-​tracking one. However, that can be hard to decide because beliefs only make sense as parts of systems of beliefs.

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My introduction of the conception of the ppqi makes defending the viability of induction necessary, while the introduction of the Inference to the least bad explanation makes a similar defense of abduction necessary. What about empirical arguments in general? Are not they important parts of rational arguments? Yes, they are but they presuppose evaluation of various kinds, evaluation is indeed a part of reason. Evaluation often requires informed judgment. Evaluation plays a crucial role in the rationality of beliefs. A belief can be fallible and justifiable but not rational if it is trivially true. A system of trivially true but fallible and justifiable beliefs is ceteris paribus less rational than a system of non-​fallible beliefs that are original and where we have good reasons to believe that the bulk of it may be tracking of non-​trivial truths. Rationality seems so soaked with values that the question arises whether certain values are transcendental preconditions for knowledge, maybe in tandem with language. Putnam has a point when he says that ethical values can change knowledge and reality. We can talk of the “rule of values” and rank valueism highly. The rpe regards rationality pragmatically: it is a good tool at the present. Hence, the rationalism of the rpe is moderate; it does not make great, universal claims on behalf of reason. It stresses that being rational is being open and elastic, understanding that we have no reason to think that there are rules for applying whatever rational rules there might be. Imagination and informed judgment are our tools for the application of rules. Imagination and informed judgment are important parts of reason, according to poetic moderate rationalism. Moreover, there are hardly any universal rules for rationalitywhich hold with ironclad necessity. Even though circular arguments are usually irrational, there are virtuously circular arguments, which are perfectly rational. In addition, on dialetheism and fuzzy logic, the law of noncontradiction is not omni-​valent (we cannot exclude the possibility of this being right). We also see that rationality consists of a lot of heterogenous elements, e.g., imagination, values, formal and informal logic. All this point in the direction of the concept of rationality not being essentially definable. If that is the case, the concept is open and might have room for poetic elements. The role of imagination in application of rules and understanding and cognition in general “moves” reason a bit closer to the poetic realm (the Literary) where imagination rules. The value component in reason moves it even closer to that realm, which is soaked with values. Furthermore, understanding and cognition can be parts of reason, and they have three Literary traits. Thus, the rational enterprise of science must

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postulate fictional objects, causality has a storied structure, and giving causal explanations has narrative traits. In addition, our thinking, including rational thinking, is soaked with metaphors. There are more poetic moments to be added to reason and rationalism in the course of this book.

­c hapter 2

Linguistic Rationalism and the Nobel Art of Destabing The German philosophers Jürgen Habermas and Karl-​Otto Apel had/​have a lot in common with Ricœur. They are/​were continental philosophers whose thinking is also informed by analytical philosophy and pragmatism, most notably the philosophies of the later Wittgenstein and speech act theory. Ricœur and they are/​were extremely eclectic and dialectically minded, always mediating between different positions.133 There are strong Kantian,134 Hegelian and hermeneutical moments in the thinking of Ricœur and the German thinkers. In this chapter, I shall make some Rational Poetic Thought Experiments. I shall start by introducing the rationalist view of linguistic communication that can be found in the writings of Habermas and Apel. I shall emphasize Habermas’s and Apel’s conception of linguistic communication being the place from which rationality emanates. I shall refer to this conception as linguistic rationalism.135 I shall also present the debate between linguistic rationalism and critical rationalists (Popper and his followers). I shall not take a clear stance on this debate; rather, discuss its repercussions for poetic moderate rationalism. I shall try to destab linguistic rationalism while neither accepting nor criticizing their foundation systematically.136 However, I shall first try to destab language, show that it makes sense to maintain that language has Literary traits, that is, that there are literary factors that are necessarily involved in

133 For a comparison of the Ricœur and Habermas, roughly along these lines, see Thompson 1981: 3–​6 and 214–​218. 134 However, Ricœur is basically inspired by Kant’s third critique (as we have already seen), while Habermas and Apel are under strong influence from the first two, a somewhat weaker from the third. Influences from the first critique can be seen the young Habermas’s theory of quasi–​transcendental conditions for the possibility of diverse kinds of sciences (Habermas 1968). 135 It can be called “a kind of lingualism” but only a very moderate one since Apel and Habermas think that there are ways of thinking and doing which are not necessarily linguistic. That holds for the way we handle and manipulate things, they follow Jean Piaget in their understanding of this (for instance, Habermas 1981a: 28–​33, Piaget 1971: 52–​74). 136 I have already mentioned Habermas’s view of the relationship between literature and philosophy. His theories will play a significant role in the rest of this book.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_018

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language. The factors in the question are those of tropes, literary genres, narratives/​stories, and fictions. If that is the case and the rationalist view is correct, then reason has some Literary traits. Then I shall destab linguistic rationalism. Finally, I shall make a go at destabing practical reason that matters to linguistic rationalism. Notice that reason and rationalism are meaningful entities and hence candidates for destabing.

Preparatory Notes on Some Analytical Schools

Classical mental philosophy (g. Bewußtseinsphilosophie) regarded reason as being situated in the individual subject. Descartes rationalism is a good example; through the individual subject’s reflections on its thoughts, we can ascertain its existence and the existence of the material world (Descartes 1968: 95–​ 169). Apel and Habermas perform a linguistic transformation of rationalism; linguistic communication is, in their view, the locus of reason and rationality. But this transformation can only be understood if we know some of their sources of inspiration. I shall in this subchapter focus on three analytical approaches which inspired linguistic rationalism: speech act theory, Wittgenstein’s private language argument, and Popper’s critical rationalism. Speech acts theory shall mainly be introduced in the next subchapter in the rationalist trappings of Habermas and Apel. Here I shall just mention the bare essentials. The instigator of speech acts theory, J.L. Austin, originally differentiated between constatives and performatives. Constatives are simply statements, while the speaker does something at the same time as he speaks, e.g., gives a promise when saying, “I promise you that p.” The promiser performs a speech act. But Austin quickly found out that there is no clear borderline between constatives and performatives. To describe something or claim that something is true is to act, to perform a speech act. A speech act has three dimensions: a locutionary act, an illocutionary act, and a perlocutionary act. The locutionary act is the utterance of a meaningful string of words; the illocutionary act determines what kind of act is built into the utterance: is it a warning, a recounting, or a question? The perlocutionary act is the effect of the speech act; the illocutionary act of warning might, for instance, have the perlocutionary effect of scaring someone (Austin 1976: 98–​103). Austin gives the following example: (E.1) Act (A) or Locution

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He said to me ‘Shoot her!’ meaning by ‘shoot’ shoot and referring by ‘her’ to her. Act (B) or Illocution He urged (or advised, ordered, &c.) me to shoot her. Act (C. a) or Perlocution He persuaded me to shoot her. Act (C.b) He got me to (or made me, &c.) shoot her. austin 1976: 101–​102

Further, he wrote: “If I say simply ‘I will be there,’ there will be no telling, just by considering the words, whether I am taking on a commitment or declaring an intention, or perhaps making a fatalistic prediction” (Austin 1977: 16). We must know the context of the speech act in order to determine what kind of performative it is. Verbal criteria alone are not sufficient. Austin points out that there is a sort of informal contradiction involved in statements like “the cat is on the mat, but I do not believe it.” The informal contradiction in question is an example of what he calls “infelicities,” that is, speech acts strictly speaking not self-​contradictory but misfire or fail (Austin 1976: 25–​38). We cannot exclude the possibility that informal and formal contradictions are overlapping but somewhat different concepts (non-​explosive contradictions, if real, would also overlap). Maybe the concept of contradiction lacks essence, that we rather have a family of concepts than one given concept. Maybe the concept of contradiction is an amoebaean one. Be that as it may, another important speech acts theorist, John Searle wrote: “speaking a language is everywhere permeated with the facts of commitments undertaken, obligations assumed, cogent arguments presented, and so on” (Searle 1969: 197–​198). Habermas and Apel radicalized speech acts theory by using it to ground their linguistic rationalism. They used the idea of language being permeated by obligations as a steppingstone toward that kind of rationalism. Wittgenstein famously stressed the importance of knowing context as means of understanding language. A lot of what Apel and Habermas have to say on the issue of rationality is difficult to understand unless one knows the essentials of Wittgenstein’s private language argument. According to this argument, there can be no such thing as a completely private thought, argument, or an inner way of communication, which cannot be understood by others, according to the private language argument. It does not make sense that we can

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have pure thoughts that are entirely separated from public language. As earlier said, Wittgenstein talked like we have criteria for correct, mutual translation of natural language but not from non-​linguistic thoughts to linguistic expressions (Wittgenstein 2009: 87–​88 (§ 202), 98–​102 (§ 257–​273), 116 (§ 342), and elsewhere)).137 The translation argument is a part of Wittgenstein’s lingualism. Let us look at Wittgenstein’s discussion of rule-​following: we cannot follow rules that are essentially private; others must be able to test our attempts to follow them. The reason for this is that believing that one is following a rule is not the same as actually following it (Wittgenstein 2009: 87–​88 (§ 202)). If we pretend to follow a rule nobody else can follow, then we cannot discriminate between believing that we are following the rule and really doing so. We cannot be said to follow a rule if others cannot control whether our behavior can be subsumed under that rule. This is a part of Wittgenstein’s argument against the possibility of a private language. He asks us to consider the following: what would happen if I tried to invent a language for my own sensations? This language is supposed to be completely private, not understandable for anybody but me. Then I must invent some symbols for my sensations with the help of ostensive definitions. I now write the symbol S whenever I have a certain sensation. Thus, I cannot give an intersubjectively understandable definition of S since it denotes my strictly private sensations. Have I then succeeded in inventing a totally private language for my sensations? No, Wittgenstein replies, I cannot even know what my own symbol S means. The reason is that if I ask myself whether it is right or wrong to write down the symbol S in a given situation, I have no possibility of checking whether it is appropriate to write it down or not. The trouble is that I use S every time I feel a certain sensation, and I have no other definition of that sensation than that is the sensation which occurs whenever I use the symbol S correctly. Therefore, I am actually moving in circles when I try to invent a totally private language for sensations. We need an outside perspective in order to be able to judge whether the symbol S is being correctly used or not. Memory is of no help when it comes to ascertaining whether I use the symbol to denote the same phenomena at different times. Maybe the private phenomena keep constantly changing, while our memory systematically misleads us.138 137 Perhaps we should talk about the private language argument in the plural, since there have been many conflicting, but interesting, interpretations of it. I will be ignoring most of them, including Saul Kripke’s (or Kripkenstein’s) skeptical interpretation and Stanley Cavell’s existential interpretation (Kripke 1982, Cavell 1979: 343–​354). 138 Wittgenstein introduces this theme in the §258 of Wittgenstein 2009: 98–​99. See further, Wittgenstein 2009: 100 (§ 265).

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To make matters worse for the inventor of the private language, we can ask what reasons we have for calling the symbol S “a sign, denoting a sensation”: “For “sensation” is a word of our common language, which is not a language intelligible only to me. So, the use of this word stands in need of a justification which everybody understands” (Wittgenstein 2009: 99 (§261)). Therefore, we cannot identify sensations solely by looking into our minds. The same holds for thoughts; Wittgenstein goes so far as saying that only other people can know our thoughts, not we ourselves (Wittgenstein 2009: 233 (ii, §315)). His point seems to be that we can only be said to know the truth of a given proposition p if there are ways to doubt the truth of p. However, there is no way that we can doubt the existence of whatever thoughts we are thinking at the very moment that we are thinking them. Therefore, it makes no sense to say that we know our thoughts; the argument is obviously fallibilistic, only where doubt is possible is knowledge possible. The same holds for such raw feels as pains. Thus, if I say, “I am in pain.” I am actually making an avowal, not stating anything about my inner state. I could as well have cried “Ow!” and that exclamation (or indeed any exclamation) is neither true nor false. In actual fact, utterances such as “I am in pain” replace exclamations of the aforementioned kind. These exclamations are part of pain behavior, so that pain is not only an inner state but also a part of public behavior. Avowals of pain can be judged as sincere or not sincere but not true or false (Wittgenstein 2009: 95 (§ 244) and elsewhere). Only one’s subsequent behavior can show whether one was sincere. The sole way to discover whether a person is sincere in giving a promise is to determine whether he kept the promise, given the opportunity. The upshot of this is that a private language is not possible. Language is an intersubjective phenomenon; therefore, my thoughts and other mental acts can exist only in an intersubjective way. On the so-​called community view of the private language argument, the mental acts get their identity due to the existence of a community. Language must be woven into actual public practices (McDowell 1998: 290). But individual introspective acts do not require intersubjective checkability, only that the concepts used in introspection generally be thus checkable. The implication of this is that there cannot be any such thing as mental acts without an actual or virtual society. This ought to suit Apel and Habermas admirably. Besides being in practice followers of the community view, they seem to have an implicit, rationalist interpretation of the private language argument. Intersubjective checkability

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of inner states and processes stand in need of or point toward rational and critical arguments.139 More about that later. Apel and Habermas were inspired by Popperian critical rationalism but reacted also strongly against it. They concurred with Popper’s emphasis on the ethical side of reason but were skeptical of the decisionism of Popper and his followers. Popper maintained that reason could not be grounded rationally; we must decide whether we believe in reason. That decision is like an existential leap of faith, a jump into the 70,000 feet deep abyss of decision. Popper criticized those whom he called “uncritical or comprehensive rationalists,” people who think that reason can, and even must, be rationally grounded: “Uncritical or comprehensive rationalism can be described as the attitude of the person who says, ‘I am not prepared to accept anything that cannot be defended by means of argument or experience’” (Popper 1962: 230). This comprehensive rationalism is inconsistent, he added; it cannot be justified with arguments or empirical evidence without having as a precondition that which the uncritical rationalists want to prove: the validity and justifiability of rationalism. It holds that all arguments proceed from assumptions, and it is impossible to demand that all assumptions are based on arguments. Some of them must be axioms. Hence, uncritical/​comprehensive rationalism is self-​defeating, it demands that every position should be justifiable by arguments, but its position cannot be thus justified. In contrast, irrationalism can be logically consistent; one can refuse to accept and use arguments without any logical problems. Additionally, arguments and experience can matter only to persons who have already accepted the rationalist view. In the last analysis, rationalism must be based on a belief in reason that cannot be rationally justified. This kind of rationalism is critical because it is critical of the pretensions of comprehensive rationalism and knows, and critically determines, the limits of reason. Does this mean that any acceptance of rationalism must be completely blind? No, says Popper, we can argue in favor of rationalism to a certain degree, but those arguments can only influence our decision to accept it, not determine it. We can, for example, analyze the consequences of rationalism and irrationalism. Irrationalism has criminal consequences. If there is a conflict in a society of irrationalists, it must mean that constructive emotions like love and respect have been insufficient to solve the problems. While the irrationalists do not use arguments to solve their problems, their only option is to “solve”

139 Apel discusses Wittgenstein in Apel 1973a: 225–​275, 335–​377. Habermas discusses and accepts Wittgenstein’s analysis of rules in Habermas 1981a: 39.

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their conflict with violence and hatred (Popper 231–​234).140 Given that one prefers peace and tolerance to violence and intolerance, one should accept rationalism, Popper seems to be saying. Popper disciple, the German philosopher Hans Albert, maintained that any attempt to ground reason rationally leads to what he calls “the Münchhausen trilemma,” three blind alleys.141 If a comprehensive rationalist tries to ground reason rationally, his/​her arguments can in the first place land in infinite regress; every argument (s)he has must be supported by another argument, that argument by yet another argument, and so on ad infinitum. This is the first horn of the trilemma. The second horn of the trilemma is circular reasoning; the comprehensive rationalist just assumes that which (s)he is trying to prove. The last horn is the dogmatic acceptance of some argument favoring rationalism (Albert 1969: 13).142 We shall later see how Apel criticized this argument and Popperian decisionism in general.

Habermas, Apel, Reason, and Language

Habermas combines elements of Kantian and Weberian theories to develop a new theory of rationality (for instance, Weber 1920). He fuses Kant’s three critiques with Weber’s theory about the modern differentiation between science, art, and morality. Habermas differentiates between three types of rationality, cognitive-​instrumental, moral-​practical, and aesthetic-​practical. Each has its respective mode of validity; induction is the main source of validity for the cognitive-​instrumental rationality, universalization for the moral-​practical 140 Zen-​Buddhists refuse to believe in reason, nonetheless they are usually very peaceful and do not kill others over religious reason. I read somewhere that there have been at least thirteen schools of Zen-​Buddhism and that they tolerated each other. So, perhaps tolerance and peacefulness are not something rationalists monopolize. 141 According to the fictional stories about Baron von Münchhausen, he claimed he had been able to pull himself up on his hair, an impossible feat. 142 I reconstruct Albert’s arguments; he describes the trilemma in the following fashion in the German original: „1. Einem infinitem Regress, der durch die Notwendigkeit gegeben erscheint, in der Suche nach Gründen immer weiter zurückzugehen, der aber praktisch nicht durzuführen ist und daher keine sichere Grundlagen liefert; 2. Einem logischen Zirkel in der Deduktion, der dadurch entsteht, dass man im Begründungsverfahren auf Aussagen zurückgreift, die vorher schon als begründungsdürftig aufgetreten waren, und der, weil logisch fehlerhaft, ebenfalls zu keiner sicheren Grundlagen führt; und schließlich: 3. Einem Abbruch des Verfahrens an einem bestimmten Punkt, der zwar prinzipiell durchführbar erscheint, aber eine willkürliche Suspendierung des Prinzips der zureichenden Begründung involviert würde“ (Albert 1969: 13).

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one, while the mode of validity for the last one is complicated and shall be discussed later. At the same time, all three are unified by the formal structures of argumentation. The reason is that argumentation is the precondition for validation in each of these spheres (Habermas 1981a: 339). Rationality is a Trinity but hardly holy! Well, not really; as we will see later, the aesthetic-​ practical rationality is rationality “light”; in contrast, none of the threesome in the Christian Holy Trinity is “lighter” than the other. To count as rational, a judgment must be universally justifiable and criticizable (Habermas 1981a: 27). This holds for judgments in all three spheres of rationality. Furthermore, the spheres have their roots in language, and there is a rational potential in human speech. Rationality is essentially communicative, and speech acts are our main instrument for communication. A typical speech act has a performative and a propositional part. In “I promise you to come tomorrow,” “I come tomorrow” is the propositional part, “I promise” is the performative part. The last-​named part determines the nature of the speech act, making this speech act a promise, given that it is, e.g., not a lie or made by an actor in a play or a movie. Moreover, the performative part establishes a certain kind of relation between the speaker and the interlocutor; the speaker has taken an obligation toward the interlocutor while the latter has gotten the right to demand that the speaker fulfills the obligation. The concept of communicative actions is central. These are actions where the action plans of the agents are coordinated through agreement or attempts to reach an agreement. The agents share a common understanding of the situation and what they communicate about. They are not first and foremost interested in reaching their respective egocentric goals. But this does not mean that one cannot reach such goals through communicative actions. Instead, the agents must coordinate their egocentric (even egoist) goals based on a common understanding of the situation. Agreement on a common understanding of situations is among the main preconditions of communicative action (Habermas 1981a: 384–​385).143 Habermas writes: “I shall speak of communicative action whenever the actions of the agents involved are coordinated not through egocentric

143 This is my reconstruction of Habermas’s very complex text. In the German original he writes: „Hingegen spreche ich von konnunikativen Handlungen, wenn die Handlungspläne der beteiligten Aktoren nicht über egozentrische Erfolgskalküle, sondern über Akte der Verständigung koordiniert werden. Im kommunilkativen Handeln sind die Beteiligten nicht primär am eigenen Erfolg orientirert; sie verfolgen ihre individuellen Ziele unter der Bedingung, daß sie ihre Handlungspläne auf der Grundlage gemeinsamer Situationsdefinitionen aufeinander abstimmen können“ (Habermas 1981a: 385).

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calculation of success but through acts of reaching understanding” (Habermas 1984: 285–​286). We act communicatively in daily life when we act more or less spontaneously and assume automatically that our actions and the actions of others are in accordance with accepted rules (both moral and others) and understanding of the circumstances (and reality as a whole). A diffuse consensus is at the heart of communicative actions, consensus about truth, moral rightness, and aesthetic qualities. Communicative action in our work-​a-​day world is the main source of rationality. The opposite of communicative action is instrumental action and its offshoot, strategic action. Instrumental actions are actions based on what we regard as the most efficient means to realize our more or less egocentric goals. Strategic actions are actions where we deal with other people in order to maximize our utility and reach our egocentric goals. Such goals do not have to be egoist; Mother Theresa no doubt acted both instrumentally and strategically to reach her altruistic goals. Nevertheless, they were her goals and hence egocentric. Whether she never lied to reach her goal is hard to say; extreme forms of strategic actions are actions where we lie or con others in other ways to reach our goals (Habermas 1981b: 384–​385). Instrumental and strategic actions are parasitic on communicative actions. We cannot lie unless we have a conception of what is true about the case that we are lying about. Further, believing that p is true makes sense only if we implicitly demand that everybody, with a functioning human mind and the necessary knowledge, believes it too, that there is or can be a consensus about it. Likewise, if we manipulate people in another strategic manner, we at least must believe that these persons exist, that our means of manipulation can work, and so on. Again, we must believe that p and q are true, which demands consensus, and the consensus is the central moment of communicative actions. We perform communicative actions through speech acts, and in those and other speech acts, we raise three validity claims. More precisely, we raise these validity claims in prototypical speech acts, the claim of truth for the propositional content of the speech act, the claim of having the right to perform the speech act, and the claim that we are sincere (in communicative actions, these validity claims are raised spontaneously, mainly implicit, and diffusely).144 As 144 In his later writing, Habermas differentiates between weak and strong communicative action. If Jimmy wants to mug Bobby and points a gun at him and demands his smartphone, then Jimmy’s claim is sincere (he is not trying to fool Bobby), and its propositional part can become true if Bobby hands the phone over to him. However, the third claim is

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for the truth claim, the idea seems to be that truth is logically prior to untruth and that all speech acts contain a propositional part, if not explicitly, then implicitly.145 Saying “hello” can be viewed as performing an elliptic speech act with an implied proposition like “I greet you.” As for the claim to rightness, there is, as said earlier, an obligation involved in the personal relationship established through the performative part of the speech act. If the speaker fulfills this obligation, he or she has redeemed the claim to rightness. If Joan states that the distance between the earth and the moon is approximately 300,000 kilometers, then her interlocutor has the right to ask how she knows. If she declines to answer, she has not redeemed the rightness claim involved in the speech act. The right involved in the example above is informal. Many speech acts are null and void because the speaker lacks the formal right to perform them. If a child says “fire!” to a group of soldiers, this speech act fails because the child will not have any right to give orders in most cases. Further, I cannot be said to have performed the act of marrying a couple by saying, “I hereby proclaim you husband and wife,” unless I have the formal right to do so.146 Something similar holds for a host of speech acts, and it holds for all speech acts that we cannot perform unless we in prototypical cases claim rightness for the norms involved in the mode of communication which the speech act constitutes at least partly. Giving a sincere promise is a particular way of communicating, involving certain norms, like “normally, promises ought to be kept” (for instance, Habermas 1984: 354–​355). The claim to rightness pushes speech acts in the direction of moral rightness. Speech acts thus are essentially connected to three dimensions: the one of propositions, the one of personal relationships, and that of sincerity. Therefore, there are three main types of speech acts, each specializing in one of these dimensions. Each of them is logically connected to one of the validity claims and by route of the claim to one type of rationality. Through each of them, the speaker relates to a certain world.

not raised; Jimmy does not think that he is the rightful owner of the phone. Therefore, his communicative action is weak. If all three claims were raised, then the communicative action would have been a strong one (Habermas 1999: 102–​137). 145 One of the many unclarities in Habermas’s and Apel’s thought is that they do not say so directly. However, if their theory is to make sense, they must have something like this in mind. But could we not communicate even if the norm was that we ought to put forth the negation of propositions we think are true? 1 46 Nowadays, we have same sex marriages, which means that there are situations where proclaiming a couple “wife and wife” or “husband and husband” are in order.

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The first main type of speech act is constative speech acts which constitute the cognitive use of language. Through cognitive use of language, the speaker relates to the objective world. By “objective world,” Habermas means the world conceived as the totality of facts by a subject who has an objectivating attitude towards phenomena by taking the role of an observer. Thanks to this, constative speech acts form the backbone of cognitive-​instrumental rationality. The validity claim involved in the constative speech act is that of truth. The second type of speech act is the regulative speech act We use it for instance to give orders or invoke normative rules of the moral kind. These speech acts constitute the interactive use of language; the speaker takes a norm-​conform stance and relates to the social world. By “social world,” Habermas means the phenomena, which the subject, by taking the role of a participant, can conceive as the totality of legitimately regulated interpersonal relations. The validity claim in the case of regulative speech acts is rightness. Therefore, regulative speech acts are of utmost importance for moral–​practical rationality. Finally, we have expressive speech acts, which constitute the expressive use of language. With their aid, we disclose or hide our personal, subjective world. Through expressive use of language, the speaker relates to the subjective world. By “subjective world,” Habermas means “the subject´s inner life when the subject has an expressive attitude to it” (Habermas 1981a: 325–​326). This is the world about which we report in the first person, the world to which we (seemingly) have privileged access; the world of our sensory experiences, fantasies, feelings, and thoughts. The claim involved in the expressive speech acts is the claim of sincerity (truthfulness, authenticity). The type of rationality involved is the aesthetic-​practical one (Habermas 1981a: 413–​414, and elsewhere). At the same time, through all three kinds of use of the language, the speaker relates simultaneously to all three worlds. You can only relate to the objective world through your constative speech act if you are sincere in making it and hence relate to the subjective world. And you establish some social relation through your constative speech act, and norms regulate that relation; hence it relates to the social world. The relation in question can be that between the informer and those who receive information. Moreover, you cannot express your feelings unless you assume that your interlocutors exist and thus you relate to the objective world of facts. If you perform a regulative speech act, then you must assume that your interlocutors exist, and they must decide whether you are sincere (on the theory of these different worlds, see Habermas 1981a: 114–​151). The worlds are conceived formally,

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not ontologically.147 That means that they are constituted by the communication process; they do not exist “an sich.” If a co-​operative interpretation is to be successful, the subjects must implicitly differentiate between the three worlds (Habermas 1981a: 123). How does Habermas define “aesthetic-​practical rationality”? The closest thing to a definition I have found in his texts is the following. The expressive attitude toward internal and external nature circumscribes a complex of aesthetic–​practical rationality, within which the production of knowledge can take the form of authentic interpretation of needs, that is, an interpretation which has to be renewed in each changing set of historical circumstances. habermas 1982: 250148

Aesthetic–​practical rationality has two basic divisions, “erotics” and “art.” The first division concerns psychoanalysis. It (“erotics”) is the sensuous-​ spontaneous relation we have to our subjectivity.149 This relation is expressed in affective utterances and libidinal stirrings. It concerns, first and foremost, the subjective world. The therapists deal with “expressive utterances,” while art criticism is the field of “evaluative utterances,” which constitute a special class of evaluative speech acts. The controversial validity claim in the first case is “the sincerity of expression;” in the latter case, the “adequacy of standards of value” (Habermas 1981a: 45). Furthermore, Habermas draws a distinction between validity claims for sincerity and those for the inner unity (g. Stimmigkeit) of an artwork, so he does not (anymore) make expressivity the hallmark of arts (Habermas 1985a: 366). If participants in communication have serious disagreements about validity claims in these two dimensions, they can try their hand at a discourse. In discourse, we try to restore agreement about validity claims with the aid of argumentative justification (in the discourse, we find the formal structure of argumentation). The participants must have equal, symmetric rights to justify

147 The theory of the three worlds is inspired by Popper’s world 1 of matter, world 2 of consciousness, and world 3 of the products of thought (Popper 1972: 153–​190). Habermas regards Popper’s theory as ontological, which he was skeptical of due to a general mistrust of metaphysics. 148 See also Habermas 1981a: 327. 149 It should be noted that Max Weber talks about the rationalization of erotics (Weber 1920: 556).

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and criticize arguments. They must know the relevant facts and not be the victims of any kind of delusion, including self-​delusion. That means that they must be autonomous and responsible, not only enjoying freedom from external obstacles, but also positive, inner freedom. The outcome of discourses includes statements supposedly true and norms supposedly valid. Both the statements and the norms must have a potential for universal validity. In theoretical discourses, we try to find a common, universal justification for truth claims, for instance those of science. In practical discourses, we search for an analogous justification for claims of rightness, typically the rightness of moral norms. This is possible because both truth and rightness claims are universally justifiable and criticizable (Habermas 1984: 356 and elsewhere). But the same does not hold for sincerity claims and evaluative judgments, which is one of the reasons why there cannot be any aesthetic and therapeutic discourses, only aesthetic criticism, on the one hand, and therapeutic criticism on the other. Values cannot be universalized, in contrast to moral norms (Habermas’s and Apel’s discourse ethics is mainly deontological, see, for instance, Habermas 1983: 53–​125). They are largely relative to culture and epochs; therefore, there cannot be any universal discourse about them. Claims of sincerity cannot be justified because we cannot test whether a person (including ourselves) is being sincere.150 Behavior alone can give us clues to whether people are sincere or not. Let us look at an example of my own making: if John sincerely thinks he has friendly feelings toward Anne, he is certain that he has positive, even warm, feelings toward her. However, many things, including his behavior toward Anne, determine whether his feelings should be called “feelings of friendship.” If he consistently treats her as a child, he is mistaken about his feelings being those of friendship. They are rather parental feelings. These feelings are not friendly because friendship requires equality, and only loyal equals can be friends. So, if this is true, then we cannot even know whether we ourselves are sincere. We must observe our individual behavior. Are discourses everyday occurrences in the two other fields of rationality? No, says Habermas: “Discourses are islands in the sea of practice … improbable forms of communication; the everyday appeal to validity-​claims implicitly points, however, to their possibility” (Habermas 1982: 235). 150 Habermas seems to have borrowed the idea from the private language argument that we cannot be said to know our inner states, only express them (Habermas 1984: 433–​434). He is probably also inspired by Wilhelm Dilthey who maintained that expressions of experience (g. Erlebnisausdrücke) could neither be judged to be true or false but could be called “authentic” or “inauthentic” (Dilthey 1992: 206).

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Our everyday linguistic practices have discourses as logical preconditions even though these practices usually work perfectly well. Understanding everyday linguistic practices has as logical precondition the understanding of discourses. This is why everyday practices matter much for rationality; they do not make sense without potential discourses, and discourses are purely rational. Now, it is time for some critical comments on Habermas’s conception of values as being relative. We have seen that respecting specific values is a necessary condition for being rational; the concepts of some values and that of rationality are interwoven. If rationality is universal as Habermas thinks, then the values that are part of rationality must be universal too. On such a universalist rationalism it must be universally true that we can evaluate arguments as good, bad, or mediocre or that some theories or empirical evidence are more important than others. That does not prove that aesthetic and moral values are universal. However, as we have already discovered, some of the values built into rationality are moral or closely related to moral values. Again: if rationality is universal, the same holds for those moral values. Furthermore, we have discovered that some value-​judgments have no less and no more claim to objectivity and universality than non-​evaluative propositions. These judgments are based on semi-​objective values. It makes sense to say that it universally correct that Hitler was good as a Nazi and Mother Theresa good as a helper of the poor and destitute. Those two value-​judgments are not necessarily any less objective than such non-​evaluative propositions as “Hitler died in 1945” and “Mother Theresa was born in Albania” (given that there is such a thing as objectivity!). Abhorring Nazism and being in favor of Mother Theresa’s work might be expressions of relative moral values. Nevertheless, Hitler’s “goodness” as a Nazi and Mother Theresa’s as a helper of the poor are semi-​objective values of moral significance. What about aesthetic values? It makes sense to say that it is universally correct that Jimi Hendrix was good as a rock guitarist and Luciano Pavarotti as an opera singer, even though we might hate rock and opera. Hence, aesthetic values are not necessarily any less universal than moral values or factual propositions. The conclusion is that we have no reason to believe that all values are relative, unless it holds for all propositions and judgments that they are relative. Moreover, as a rationalist and universalist, Habermas must admit that there are universal values.

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Is Reason Really Rational?

Apel was a more purely Kantian thinker than Habermas. He tried his hand at an intersubjectivist transformation of transcendental philosophy where language and communication took the place that the mind had in Kant’s philosophy (Apel 1973a: 1–​77). Inspired by Aristotle’s defense of the principle of noncontradiction, Apel maintained that reason could, in a sense, be shown to be rational, that decisionism and irrationalism are self-​defeating (for instance, Apel 1976: 55–​82). But to understand that we must look closer at how Apel and his followers analyze communication. According to Apel’s follower, Wolfgang Kuhlmann, we do not really communicate with those to whom we lie. We do not regard them as co-​subjects in communication but as objects to be manipulated. At the same time, we must be able to communicate with others while we lie. We must, for example, be able to tell others truthfully that we intend to lie to someone, inform somebody about the existence of the objects of our manipulations. Kuhlmann says that this follows from the private language argument (Kuhlmann 1985: 307).151 Furthermore, Habermas and Apel stress that lying is pretending to tell the truth. So, lying presupposes truthfulness, and thus the concept of truthfulness is logically prior to that of lying.152 Moreover, we cannot communicate if we explain causally everything both we and others say or think, instead of understanding and evaluating that which is being said or done. If I only explain causally everything you say, and do not evaluate it, then I am not really talking to you but rather about you. Additionally, the speech acts used in linguistic communication are actually or potentially reason-​based in paradigmatic cases. From this, it follows that the evaluation of the reasons for what is being said is logically prior to causal explanations of why it has been said. Therefore, we cannot really communicate unless we assume that the communicators have at least some, autonomy. By regarding them as autonomous, we deny that they are automata.

1 51 See also Kuhlmann 1981: 3–​26. 152 However, not only does the concept of lying presuppose that of truthfulness, but it is also the other way round. The concepts are interdependent, just like night and day. There would not be any truthfulness in a world where people did not know that lying was a possibility. Therefore, it does not seem clear to me that the concept of truthfulness has any logical priority over the concept of lying. Further, we could follow the norm that we ought to systematically say the opposite of what we mean and at the same time communicate. For a similar argument, see Skjei 1985: 87–​105.

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So, among the ground norms of communication, we find N1 “if you want to communicate, then you ought to make truthfulness the norm of your communicative acts;” N2 “if you want to communicate, then you ought to regard yourself and others as having at least a certain autonomy;” N3 “if you want to communicate, then you must aim at putting forth true propositions;” N4 “If you want to communicate, then you must aim at performing speech acts in a normatively correct fashion.” According to discourse ethics, these norms are among the conditio sine qua non of communication.153 They function as the categoric imperative and are thus the foundation of morality and the moral–​practical kind of rationality. Inspired by the private language argument, Apel concludes that the logical validity of arguments cannot be ascertained without an actual or virtual community of thinkers who can communicate and establish a consensus. Even a thinker alone can test only his own arguments and explicate them in a virtual dialogue with herself. Thus, he must internalize the dialogue of a potential community of argumentators. From this, Apel draws the conclusion that science has the validity of certain norms as preconditions: Science presupposes ethics because truth is not only a matter of evidence for my senses, but moreover a matter of intersubjective validity to be testified to by a grounded consensus about the coherence of evidence in the community of investigators. Hence science must presuppose communicative understanding between persons as co-​subjects of agreement about truth and communication between people presupposes ethical norms. apel 1980: 50154

Apel’s arguments can be reconstructed in the following fashion. In the reconstruction, we focus on rational consensus and do not worry whether his description fits science: obviously, we cannot have a grounded consensus unless we have a minimum of respect for our interlocutor’s views, which implies that we usually do not use ad hominem arguments. At the same time, we cannot be rational and blindly believe in the authority of our interlocutors. Thus, we must reject authoritarianism if we are to achieve a grounded consensus. This 153 This is my reconstruction of discourse ethics. Its originators never say explicitly that these are among the ground norms, which is one of the many examples of discourse ethics’ lack of clarity. However, Kuhlmann has reconstructed some ground norms, as we will see later. 154 This emphasis on consensus is inspired by Peirce (Peirce 1958c: 133). Strangely enough, Apel and Habermas tend to talk as if the norms of science are the norms of communication. This does not rhyme very well with their criticism of scientism.

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means that a rational consensus has moral implications; the moral values of respect for views and of anti-​authoritarianism play an ineliminable role. Yet again we see possible logical links between the concepts of reason/​rationality and the one morality (we also see the kinship with Popper, however distant). The aim of scientific argumentation, which is to find intersubjective validity, cannot be reached if everybody lies to themselves and others, prevents people from arguing, or ignores legitimate arguments. Further, it is desirable that those who are engaged in argumentation regard one another as responsible and honest. Those who argue must accept the norms of truthfulness, respect for arguments, and suchlike, explicitly or implicitly. They cannot deny their validity in a meaningful manner because if they argue against their validity, they accept that validity in practice. Moreover, if they refuse to engage in arguments on these issues, then they cannot raise the question of whether ethical principles can be grounded rationally, for the answer to that question requires actual or potential arguments. Thus, Apel uses peritropic arguments to defend the notion of communicative (argumentative) reason: those who argue against its unconditional validity are performatively inconsistent; they cannot argue against it unless they accept its validity (Apel 1976: 55–​82).155 Albert wrongly thought that all arguments are deductive, or even inductive, Apel claimed. He did not understand that there are peritropic arguments based on knowledge of action (g. Handlungswissen) and the object of this knowledge is the act of the actor. This kind of knowledge is built into the (speech) acts of radical doubt, showing that such doubt is performatively inconsistent. In the act of doubting everything, the skeptic doubts her own doubt, which is self-​ defeating, and the performative inconsistency is built into the speech act of doubting. Peritropic arguments cannot be reconstructed as deductive or even inductive arguments (for example, Kuhlmann 1985: 79) (Apel 2017: 18).156 Thus, speech acts become the loci of rationality. By arguing, we anticipate an open, unlimited, ideal community of communicators.157 To put forth a proposition, which one seriously believes in, implies that one must be willing to defend (given the opportunity) the proposition’s 155 The kinship with Aristotle’s argument concerning the law of non-​contradiction ought to be obvious. 156 Neither Kuhlmann nor Apel use the expression “peritropic arguments.” 157 Habermas originally maintained that through language use we anticipate an ideal speech situation, quite similar to Apel’s unlimited, ideal community (Habermas 1982: 235). He even talked like we anticipated a liberated society through the use of language (Habermas 1968: 146–​168). He later retracted these arguments and said that we have no guarantee that the rules of argumentation would be the rules of conduct in a possible, liberated society (Habermas 2005: 88–​90) (see also Habermas 1983: 96).

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validity against all potential partners in dialogue at any possible time. It does not make sense to say that one believes that the earth is the third planet from the sun unless one is willing to defend the belief in this way. Does this not only hold for those who are willing to argue? No, as Kuhlmann says, the situation of those who argue is not as special as it sounds. An attempt to ground norms rationally is only an especially rational way of finding an answer to the question “what shall we do?” This is a question we, as moral subjects, face all the time. We can be regarded as autonomous and responsible (g. Zurechungsfähig) only if we can use arguments in favor of our views (Kuhlmann 1985: 304). Further, Apel maintains that the norms of communication are preconditions for a valid self-​understanding. Charles Sanders Peirce’s lingualism inspires him; Peirce thought that to think was a way of using signs; there is no such thing as a thought without signs. This does not mean that thinking is performed solely with words. There are three kinds of signs: symbols, their relations to their objects are based on convention, words are symbols. Icons have a similarity relation to their objects, pictures are icons. Finally, we have indexes, they have a causal relationship to their object. Smoke is an index of fire (Peirce 1998: 4–​10). You might say that Peirce had a broad conception of language, it includes icons and indexes (this suits the rpe well). Call this “the fourth argument in favor of lingualism”. Peirce states that the only cases of thoughts that we know of are thoughts in signs, and thoughts can only be known by external facts. To be sure, the sensation of red is an internal affair, but it acquires its identity because redness is a predicate for something external. Something similar holds for emotions; they are internal; nevertheless, they are predications concerning some objects; being angry means regarding some external object as being vile or abominable.158 Since we have no reason to believe that there is such a thing as intuitive knowledge, it follows that all knowledge is knowledge of external facts (Peirce obviously anticipated the private language arguments). Now, what implications has this for the concept of thought? It has the following implications: we cannot cognize a thought without signs (of external facts), and a thought that cannot be cognized does not exist. From this, it follows that thought must necessarily be in signs. Moreover, thinking is like an internal dialogue, an exchange of signs between our innovative self and our critical self, the latter evaluating critically the ideas of the former, which has a 158 Thus, Peirce anticipated the cognitive theory of emotions, which shall be discussed later in this book. According to this theory, there is a cognitive component in emotions because they involve intentional objects and even beliefs.

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transient existence (innovative selves come and go) (Peirce 1958b: 15–​38). Apel concludes that the self-​scrutiny of the solitary subjects also obeys the norms of communication. To this, Habermas adds George Herbert Mead’s model of how the self is created through socialization and that socialization takes place mainly through communication (Habermas 1988b: 187–​241) (Mead 1962). The child acquires a self through communicating with others and, through that communication, acquires the ability to communicate with him or herself and thus becomes self-​conscious. Individualization is socialization. This claim can be indirectly supported by empirical evidence concerning so-​called feral children, children who allegedly spent their formative years in the wilderness without human contact, arguably “brought up” by wild animals (see, for instance, Candland 1993).159 These children are like animals for all intents and purposes; they do not seem to have any self, and therefore no individuality, even though their brains are perfectly all right. So, if these children are/​were pre-​social human beings living in a state of nature, it might add support to the thesis that individuality and the self are the product of socialization and language. An individual is, in a way, the sum of her communicative acts. Because persons are the products of communicative actions, there is no way they can escape from the rule of the norms of communication. The validity of these norms is unconditional, just like that of the categorical imperative. So, the norms we mentioned earlier can be reformulated in the following fashion: N1a “you ought to make truthfulness the norm of your communicative acts,” N2a “you ought to regard yourself and others as having at least a certain autonomy,” N3a “aim at putting forth true propositions; N4a “aim at performing speech acts in a normatively correct fashion.” Let us see what import this has for ethics. Apel says that even our needs can be regarded as claims, and the legitimacy of these claims must be discussible. Therefore, human interests are subjects of argumentative discourse because those who argue accept implicitly all possible claims of needs, as long as they are justifiable in an argumentative fashion (Apel 1973b: 424–​426). Thus, the argumentative language game has a logical priority over other language games.160 It does not mean that ethical norms are argumentative, only that the 159 Admittedly, there is some controversy about the empirical evidence concerning these children. Bruno Bettelheim maintained that these children were not feral, but autists (Bettelheim 1959: 455–​467). 160 Habermas had a similar argument (Habermas 1970: 244). Robert Brandom has almost the same view, developed after Apel put forth his argument. Like Apel and Habermas, he maintains that the argumentative language game has a logical priority to other language

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argumentative discourse functions as a court of law for norms and acts. Only in an argumentative discourse can we decide whether a decision taken in solitude is to be regarded as a meaningful act, cf. the private language argument. Only in an argumentative discourse can we decide whether the decision can be subsumed under a rule and therefore is to be regarded as an action if to act is to follow a rule (Apel 1979: 94–​95). In light of what I have said hitherto, it is easy to understand why Wolfgang Kuhlmann says that communication has four basic norms. They can be expressed in the following imperatives: a) argue in a rational fashion; b) strive toward a rational consensus; c) if your interests collide with the interests of others, strive toward a rational consensus with them; d) work toward the realization of conditions which approximate those of an ideal speech situation (Kuhlmann 1985: 185–​215 and elsewhere). I stipulate that a)–​d), plus N1a–​N4a are necessary conditions for discourse-​ethical communication though I do not exclude the possibility of making the list longer. I shall not judge whether discourse ethics is a viable kind of moral philosophy. Instead, I shall reiterate what I said earlier about reason and values: There can be no such thing as an argumentative discourse unless the participants evaluate some arguments as good or bad and some evidence as important or not. Habermas tried to steer a middle course between Apel and the Popperians. He never accepted Apel’s contention that denying the validity of the argumentative reason leads to performative inconsistencies. He said that when Apel and Kuhlmann try to show that the skeptic (the “denier”) is thus inconsistent, they use a maieutic method, which should make the skeptic aware of his intuitive presuppositions and give this implicit knowledge an explicit form (among the presuppositions is the intuition that argumentative reason is valid, a presupposition the skeptic thinks he does not have to accept). However, there are hypothetical moments in this reconstruction of intuitive presuppositions.161 The attempt to make the implicit presupposition explicit is a hypothetical reconstruction, which does not necessarily explicate the intuitions correctly. Moreover, the theory that there is no alternative to a given presupposition is a fallible hypothesis and must be tested in concrete cases, just as hypotheses about empirical laws. We cannot transfer the certainty we have of our largely games. Like both Habermas and Apel, Brandom is a linguistic rationalist with a pragmatist twist (for instance, Brandom 2009: 120). 161 In the German original, he writes: “Es bleibe ein dezisionistischer Rest, der sich argumentativ nicht wegarbeiten ließe-​das volitive Moment kommt an dieser Stelle zu seinem Recht” (Habermas 1983: 107).

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implicit, intuitive grasp of linguistic rules to the truth claims of proposals for the reconstruction of this intuitive grasp. The truth claims remain fallible, while the intuitive grasp is not (Habermas 1983: 107). Apel was not convinced and said that we could only deny the validity of principles of argumentative reason through irrational decision, never accept it that way. Denial of these principles can only take place through suicide or mental illness (Apel 1979: 95). Thus, these principles have a transcendental status and are absolutely certain. Albert responded to Apel. Apel had said that the principle of universal fallibilism was self-​defeating; if the principle itself was fallible, then it was both wrong and right at the same time (for instance, Apel 1976: 71–​76). However, Albert correctly pointed out that given fallibilism, the principle of fallibilism might be true. Nevertheless, it does not stop being fallible because we cannot justify it with absolute certainty. Hence, universal fallibilism is not self-​ defeating (Albert 1975: 121–​ 124). Furthermore, Apel wrongly thought he (Albert) focused only deductive relations between sentences and ignored the logic of assertions and other modes of using language. Albert maintained that using non-​deductive arguments was in perfect order; nevertheless, using them would not eliminate the trilemma (Albert 1975: 100–​109). Apel said that it makes no sense to say that one can and must make a blind decision between rationality on the one hand and irrationality on the other. Such a decision requires an understanding of two clearly defined alternatives, and the ability to grasp such alternatives requires a minimum of rationality. Besides, only mature, thinking individuals can make such a decision, and being mature and thinking means that one is constituted by argumentative reason.162 However, Albert seems to overlook these arguments and thinks he can refute Apel solely by pointing out that someone who has to make this decision can understand the alternatives without accepting argumentative reason (Albert 1975: 139). In Albert’s defense, it can be said that the Apelian argument in favor of human selves and/​or personalities being argumentatively constituted is more than a bit far-​fetched. Even though language might play an important role in this constitution, it has non-​argumentative sides, regardless of whether they are in the last analysis argumentatively constituted. Who says that these non-​ argumentative sides are not decisive for the constitution of selves and/​or personalities? Besides, lingualism might be wrong, perhaps non-​lingual mental representation form the core of thinking and are the raw material that selves 162 I reconstruct Apel’s arguments based on Apel 1979 and other writings.

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and personalities are made of. The genetic makeup might also matter a lot, just like the physical impact of the environment, and the non-​argumentative side of society. Moreover, Albert does not think that the circular moment in his trilemma can be understood as a productive hermeneutic circle as Apel claims. Trying to ground reason rationally leads to a vicious circle in the argument (Albert 1975: 100–​109). But could this circle become virtuous if we use Goodman’s approach, the one he used in justifying deduction? This would mean that principles of rational thought are justified by their conformity to accepted practices of rational thought (for instance, use of deduction, induction, and ibe). Then their validity depends upon how they fit particular acts of thought, which we deem as rational, for example, some deductive or inductive inferences. Justification of reason derives from judgments rejecting or accepting some acts of thought as rational or irrational. However, this is only a thought experiment, not of the rpte kind, only a rpe attempt to point toward a possibility. Be that as it may, one can ask whether Apel’s comprehensive rationalism is not based on the conception of the principle of noncontradiction being unavoidable. As we have seen, we cannot exclude the possibilities that it is fallible, based on convention, and even in some cases (those of dialetheia and fuzzy logic) not applicable. Kosko’s contention that self-​referential arguments can be acceptable could, if true, make most peritropic arguments useless. They would at least become fallible and contingent if the multivalentists are right. That would mean that transcendental arguments would either be useless or just as fallible as any other arguments. Why was Apel so adamant about using peritropic arguments and regard them as transcendental ones? Why not use abductive arguments? Would not a version of my Inference to the Least Bad Explanation be sufficient? It could perhaps be used in tandem with a more moderate, not transcendental, version of the peritropic arguments. Habermas’s thinking has also its weaknesses. He writes like fallibility and justifiability are both necessary and sufficient conditions for something to be rational. But we have already seen that this is not the case. The critical rationalists also think that rationality is based on the law of noncontradiction and fallibility. But in contrast to Apel and Habermas, they do not accept justifiability as precondition for rationality. The reason is that in their view, justifiability is inductive, and induction is an illusion (see for instance Bartley 1964: 3–​31). However, we saw in the last chapter that there are reasonably good arguments in favor of induction. Furthermore, we have discovered that if fallibility is a sufficient condition for rationality, then all kinds of completely absurd theories are rational.

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Thomas Kuhn’s conception of science is a serious challenge to both linguistic and critical rationalists. He maintained that the foundation of science was normal science where the scientists dogmatically believe in the paradigm and throw dissidents out of the profession. By not being critical of the foundations of their paradigm, the scientists can use their time and energy in solving well-​ defined puzzles that will make the paradigm a better scientific tool and can lay bare its shortcomings. Normal science is the precondition for revolutionary science, like the low growth in a forest nourishes the big trees163 (the revolutionary science). Only in revolutionary times do scientists behave like Apel and Popper think they always do or ought to (Kuhn 1970a). If Kuhn is right, either science has a big irrational side or a rationality different from the linguistic or critical rationalist conceptions of rationality. Something similar holds for the multivalentist challenge to the two rationalist schools: If the principle of noncontradiction is not universally valid, then either the aforementioned conceptions of rationality are wrong, or that rationality is an illusion. The conclusion must be that neiter the linguistic rationalists nor the critical ones have a satisfactory theory of rationality. But they have their redeeming qualities and can be inspiring. We could for instance ask whether the linguistic rationalists were right about language being the bearer of rationality but for the wrong reasons. Perhaps there are other rational elements built into language than the law of noncontradiction, fallibility, justifiability, and the rules of discourses. I shall now briefly show which elements in the thinking of the linguistic and critical rationalisms are in sync with the rpe or the opposite. Being in such sync is laudable from the rpe point of view, something to be ranked highly. Apel’s pan-​rationalist alternative is not in sync with the rpe because it is non-​moderate rationalism in contrast to poetic moderate rationalism. However, both Apel’s and Habermas’s versions of linguistic rationalism have a pragmatist side that suits the rpe. They also allot the aesthetic dimension a place in the realm of rationality which is also fits the rpe. Critical rationalism has the rational virtue of being expressed clearly, in contrast to linguistic rationalism. Admitting the limitation of reason as the critical rationalists (and Habermas) do is more in sync with poetic moderate rationalism than Apel’s position. We can safely say that both linguistic and critical rationalism contribute to the proliferation of philosophical possibilities. Both deserve lauding for 163 This metaphor is my making.

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emphasizing the link between rationality and ethics, and both deserve criticism for ignoring the possibility of rationality having an essential emotional side (more about that side later). I shall not judge which of them is closer to truth, if it makes sense to ask. Neither shall I judge whether it makes sense to regard language as the basis of reason instead of science. Nor shall I judge whether language use, say, consists of a variety of mainly separated language games, without any meta-​game of the kind Apel and Brandom postulate, or whether language has a non-​rational base, as Charles Taylor thinks. His view shall be discussed later as a part of a discussion about his view of the Background. I shall instead try first to destab language, then try to give linguistic rationalism the same treatment. Finally, I shall attempt to destab practical reasoning, which plays an important part in the linguistic rationalists’ idea of communicative reason.

First Destabing: Language

Now starts the rpte with language, an attempt to destab it. First, we must take note of the fact that language is a meaningful entity or more precisely a conglomerate of such entities. Hence, we cannot exclude the possibility of it having Literary traits, through which it can be destabed. Second, let us assume that language is a whole with two sides: the semantic and the pragmatic. Speech acts are central means of our linguistic communication. Alasdair MacIntyre maintains that speech acts are not understandable unless we can place them in a narrative context. Imagine that we are waiting for a bus when a woman next to us all of a sudden says: “The name of the common wild duck is Histrionicus.” To be certain, we understand the meaning of the sentence uttered. The problem is to understand the point of uttering it. Suppose that she utters sentences like this at random intervals, in which case this would possibly be a form of madness. We would render her action of utterance intelligible if, e.g., she has mistaken me for a person who approached her in the library some days ago and asked her for the Latin name of the wild duck. We would also understand the action if she mistakenly thought I was her co-​spy, and she was uttering a code sentence to be decoded by me. In each case, the act of utterance becomes understandable only by being put in a narrative context. Moreover, speech acts make sense only in actual or potential conversations. MacIntyre does not explain this in a clear fashion, but one can hear echoes from the private language argument: S cannot have an identity as a speech act and/​or a speech act of a given kind, unless others, and not only the speaker,

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can judge whether this is the case, and discuss the question with the speaker and others. Furthermore, someone must be able to ask the speaker whether she means what she says, and whether she thinks it is true or otherwise correct or appropriate. She must have the possibility of answering these questions and explaining why she thinks she has performed a speech act of this or that kind. Answering questions and doing explanations take place in actual or virtual conversations. If this is the correct reconstruction of MacIntyre’s view of speech acts and conversations, then it is no wonder that he regards conversations as central moments in human life (after all, speech acts are such central moments). He says that conversation is the general form of human transactions (cf. linguistic rationalism), and he stresses the literary side of conversation. Understanding conversations involves allocating them to genres, just like literary works. We can say that a certain conversation was “a tragic misunderstanding between the interlocutors” or that this or that conversation was “comical.” Conversations also have beginnings, middles, and endings just as literary works (so do mathematical treatises, I might add). MacIntyre says of conversations, “They embody reversals and recognitions; they move toward and away from climaxes” (MacIntyre 1981: 211). According to him, human life has a literary side, thanks to the central position of conversation and its literary nature. Now, the critic might ask what literary genre the following conversation belongs to. A person comes into a little store and says, “Good afternoon, can I have a Coke?” The shop attendant responds, “What size?” and the customer replies, “A big one.” The critic answers her own question by saying that this conversation cannot in any meaningful way be subsumed under any concept of a literary genre. Hence, the critic concludes that being thus subsumable is not an essential characteristic of conversations. Furthermore, it is not even a characteristic of conversations that pertain to understanding speech acts. The critic asks us to look at the following conversation. A says p; B asks what she means by p; A responds, “I meant p1.” The critic triumphantly says that, yet again, we have a conversation not subsumable under any concept of a literary genre. My response is that strictly speaking the Coke example could be subsumed under the concept of an absurdist literary work but doing so would almost beg the question. It would be given a priori that all human conversation is subsumable under some concept of a literary genre. More importantly, human societies would hardly have survived if conversations had only been of the simple kinds that the critic discusses. We need to communicate complex emotions and beliefs, besides having to negotiate complex issues, understand complex texts and speeches, and so on. These kinds

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of communication and negotiation require complex conversations (actual or virtual), which actually or potentially have the aforementioned literary sides. No less important is the fact that if all conversations concerning the understanding of speech acts were as simple as in the A versus B example, then it would be almost impossible to converse about complex speech acts and hence impossible to understand them. If A gives a long and complex speech or writes a long and complex book, then it must be logically possible to ask A, or someone representing him, how the diverse speech acts in the speech or the book are connected and what the overall message was. This would require complex conversations, which in turn tend to have the aforementioned literary sides. If we took away the possibility for conversations to have those sides, conversations would change so radically that it would not be given that they would be subsumable under our ordinary concept of conversation. So, even if there are types of conversations that cannot be subsumed under any concept of literary genres, it is hard to see how there could be complex conversations unless a large part of them were thus subsumable. Take away this subsumability and you will take away a large chunk of conversations. This means that it makes perfect sense to say that language use involves at least two Literary factors, the one of having narrative traits and the one of being partly subsumable under concepts of literary genres. Given that Hesse is right, language use and its semantics are predominately metaphoric and tropical. If Lakoff and Johnson are right, the pragmatics and the semantics of language have a metaphoric moment. That which sentences refer to is largely and necessarily structured by container metaphors and suchlike, according to generative metaphorics. Moreover, if the fictionalists are right, large chunks of our sentences and assertions necessarily refer to fictional entities, witness the examples and arguments mentioned in the chapter on fictionalism. Our selves/​egos/​personalities might be pure fictions, but it is very hard to use language unless we directly or indirectly refer to our selves/​egos or the purported selves/​egos of others. This would give the semantic dimension of language some fictional moments. Hesse’s theories, generative metaphorics, and fictionalism have been ranked highly, which means that the theory of language as having the Literary traits of metaphority and fictionality must also be ranked highly. In addition, MacIntyre’s analysis and my attempt to fortify it deserve a high ranking. Hence, it makes sense to say that language has the four Literary traits: metaphority, narrativity, fictionality, and the one of being subsumable under the concept of literary genres. Thus, language is Literary.

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If linguistic communication is the locus of reason, then the four traits must rub off on reason. This also holds for the traits to be found in the semantics of language because we can communicate only by using words and sentences with semantic dimensions. A large chunk of words denotes something, and a large number of sentences refer to something. There would not be much communication without words and sentences of that kind. The destabing has been successful; it makes sense to say that language (and even reason) has four Literary traits.

Second Destabing: Linguistic Rationalism

Can we destab linguistic rationalism? Yes, we can, a philosophical view is a meaningful entity and hence something that can be Literary. According to Habermas, the necessary fiction of autonomy, free will, and equality is built into the structure of communication. Fiction, because we cannot prove that the will is free and totally equal societies might not exist, might never have existed, and might never exist in the future. Necessary because we cannot communicate without assuming them in practice. Now, Habermas retracted the idea of the anticipation of an ideal speech situation; that ideal situation was a necessary fiction. But Apel retained the idea; we cannot exclude the possibility of him being right, Habermas wrong. In addition, the obligations and rights involved in linguistic communication must be regarded as as-​if obligations and rights, and hence fictions. There is no law obligating us to assume the purported obligations and respect the rights involved in communication through speech acts. Nevertheless, communication largely works, which shows that we assume the obligation and respect the rights in practice. Without the fiction of these obligations and rights, there would not be any linguistic communication. At the same time, these obligations and rights are among the cornerstones of rationality, according to linguistic rationalism. Hence, this kind of rationalism has a necessary fictional moment and therefore a Literary trait. Teresa Bartolomei Vasconcelos, Apel’s student, maintains that narratives are of paramount importance for discourse ethics, and I add: by implication for linguistic rationalism. In the first place, the ability to tell our own life ‘s story is an important part of our identities and hence for our ability to communicate. Secondly, we cannot find out whether a consensus has been obtained in a free ad autonomous discourse unless we can tell the story of that discourse. The same holds for a discourse that did not terminate in a rational consensus (Bartolomei Vasconcelos 1994: 133–​156).

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Additionally, we have seen that MacIntyre has good arguments in favor of speech acts being understandable only in narrative contexts, and speech acts are the loci of reason, according to linguistic rationalism. If Bartolomei Vasconcelos and MacIntyre are right, then there is a necessary narrative moment in Habermas’s and Apel’s conception of rationality. What about metaphors? Habermas says that speech has the inherent telos (goal) of reaching an understanding (Habermas 1981a: 30 and elsewhere). This is a central moment in linguistic rationalism but must be understood as a metaphor. Mark Johnson points out that Kant’s contention that morality has a built-​in goal is metaphorical (Johnson 1993: 72–​73).164 Goals are usually something people have consciously made, hoping that they can reach them by acting in certain ways. But a goal in itself is something one cannot consciously create, and it is something that cannot be attained by any given acts. Hence, Kant’s contention is metaphoric, and I add that the same must hold for the purported telos of speech. Besides, this goal-​in-​itself is fictional; this increases the fictionality of linguistic rationalism. Given MacIntyre’s arguments, discourses and other kinds of dialogues must be subsumable under the concept(s) of some literary genres. These acts of communication (discourses etc) must be describable as literary works with a beginning, middle part with a dramatic high point, and an end. Thus, it makes sense to destab linguistic rationalism; it has the Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, fictionality, and subsumability under literary genres. The rpte with linguistic rationalism has been successful.

Third Destabing: Practical Reason

As said earlier, Habermas has put great emphasis on everyday rationality, concerned with the solution of practical problems. It is the wellspring of communicative rationality, but because it is focused on problem-​solving, it is not poetic. I shall both counter that view and try to enhance the poetic of reason by focusing on possible Literary traits of practical, everyday rationality. Special attention shall be given to the sides of practical rationality that concern the individual’s existential predicament, her search for answers to questions like “how should I live?” Notice that rationality, including the practical kind, is a

164 More precisely, Kant says that humanness is a goal in itself and is built into morality (Kant 1965: 52–53 (§ 429)).

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meaningful entity. Therefore, we cannot exclude the possibility of it having Literary traits. Mark Johnson does not talk about “practical rationality” but his conception of imaginative rationality fits the bill perfectly, perhaps better than it would theoretical rationality. According to Johnson, imaginative rationality tends to appear in the shape of metaphoric reasoning (Johnson 1983: 371–​389). In such reasoning, deducing from conceptual metaphors is of essential import. This process is rational because it is criticizable, and its conclusions can be defended with the aid of arguments. It is imaginative because imagination plays an essential role when we, for example, learn to see things in a different way because of a new metaphor. The metaphoric way of reasoning cannot be easily formalized. One basis for this resistance to formalization is that metaphoric reasoning is not first and foremost about concluding in a logical manner from a given set of premises. It is rather about finding ways to make our experienced reality meaningful (notice the kinship with the idea of metaphors as tools for making our experiences coherent). Another reason is the fact that metaphoric implications are not compelling in the same way as deductive implications.165 Johnson analyzes the metaphor life is business. It implies that we and our fellow human beings are competitors or partners, that human relations are really contractual relations, and that life is a competition. In turn, these implications can have their own implications; for instance, the implication that human relations are contractual relations can also imply that we must keep our word. However, all these implications appear to follow for some but not all who believe in the metaphor. At the same time, it would not make sense to say that none of these implications is compelling for a rational person who believes in it. Metaphoric reasoning is not an abstract process but a part of experiences that are structured, consciously, or not, by the metaphors by which we reason. We can never grasp the “lived” metaphor entirely with the aid of rules or formulas; nothing can replace the spontaneous, metaphor-​based experience. I want to add that the lived metaphor is an existential category; leading a human life means having such experiences and “living” a host of metaphors. Johnson says that the different experiences and backgrounds of individuals and cultures create certain individual and cultural variations in metaphoric reasoning. Nevertheless, it does not really make sense to say that such reasoning is purely subjective or relative. You cannot both believe firmly in the 165 The same holds for induction and ibe; they are seemingly rational modes of reasoning, so we cannot exclude the possibility of metaphoric reasoning being rational even if it does not provide us with compelling implications.

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metaphor life is business and at the same time reject all of its implications. This holds universally and is not a matter of subjective taste. The basic structure of metaphoric reasoning is twofold. In the first place, it consists of drawing new implications from a given experiential metaphor and secondly in moving from an earlier metaphor to one that changes our understanding and experience. This process is not an irrational conversion because experiential metaphors are not incommensurable. We can compare such metaphors rationally because they tend to have some common implications. Our business metaphor has an implication or two in common with life is sport; both imply that people are competitors. I might have led my life in accordance with the business metaphor and believed in its implication that success makes one happy. But then I then find out that I have not become any happier despite the success. This experience gives me a reason to doubt the correctness of the metaphor. At the same time, I can compare it with the sports metaphor, which has some of the same implications. But maybe I discover that the success implied by the sports metaphor is of a different nature than that of the business metaphor. Through a complex process of trial and error, I start to live in accordance with the sports metaphor because, say, the communal feeling of sports makes me happier than my older business-​like ways. The same or related implications build bridges between the metaphors. Due to this, our change of the metaphors we live by does not have to be an irrational conversion. We must also remember that according to generative metaphorics, conceptual metaphors are not arbitrary but are constrained by objective realities, and the same holds for the implications of the metaphors. One might ask whether a person can deliberate in this metaphoric manner without thinking in the narrative mode. He or she must create some narrative about how it would be to live according to the business metaphor and compare it to a story about how to live according to the sports metaphor (he or she must possess narrative competence). This holds in general for our attempt to answer the question of how we should live. We must create narratives about the ways we could live and use informed judgment to find out which is best (this is inspired by Putnam 1978b: 83–​94). These narratives are about possible futures and are therefore fictional stories. And metaphors are fictions so metaphoric rationality must have fictional moments. Furthermore, if Johnson is right about there being imaginative rationality, then it is very likely that this kind of rationality essentially involves fictional entities created by the imagination. Of course, one can imagine real objects, but in imagining future identities and courses of action, the objects imagined must be fictional. Add to this that narratives like metaphors are tools for making experiences coherent and meaningful. Living rationally is not only about finding the best

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means to realize one’s goals but also about making life meaningful and coherent. Experiences are an important part of living; if they are made meaningful, then one has come close to living a meaningful life. It is hard to see how Johnson’s metaphoric reasoning can play any greater role for science. It is all about finding out how to live one’s life, which is a practical, not scientific, problem. Another important difference is that existential experiences are lived and are not systematic, in contrast to scientific observations, which are seen from the outside and not lived. Secondly, scientific rational success is measured in better coping with and cognizing of reality, while existential rational success is making thoughts and experiences coherent and meaningful, and due to this, coping better with life. This could enhance a person’s ability to cope with reality; people with schizophrenia whose thoughts and experiences are often shattered have great problems coping. Besides, having coherent thoughts and experiences can probably increase a person’s well-​being. I have destabed the concept of practical, everyday rationality, showing that it has important moments of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. Hence, it has three Literary traits. Thus, Habermas is wrong about everyday rationality being beyond the poetic realm.

Rejoinders and Responses

The first possible rejoinder concerns my experiments concerning linguistic rationalism. I make it into something irrational, which is not fair. My response is that there is nothing per se irrational about that which is poetic or literary. One can even use Habermas’s conception of aesthetic-​ practical rationality as an antidote to this criticism, that kind of rationality is built into speech. Or one may simply see what I have said earlier about this issue; I have rejected the notion that the poetic is necessarily irrational and shall not repeat that here. The second possible rejoinder is that critical rationalists have a correct understanding of rationality. This form of rationalism cannot be destabed, the critic might say. My answer is that I do not exclude the possibility of critical rationalism being truth-​tracking to a greater extent than other theories about reason and rationality. I also do not exclude the possibility of destabing critical rationalism. Maybe pluralist views of the language of the Wittgensteinian persuasion could likewise be destabed, or Taylor’s view of language as non-​rational.

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I celebrate both versions of rationality and the different views of language mentioned here because they are good food for thought and increase our possibilities. The third possible rejoinder concerns the attitude toward MacIntyre’s analysis and fictionalism. The critic might say that, on the one hand, I express doubts about the truth-​tracking ability of philosophy, and, on the other hand, I believe in MacIntyre analysis and fictionalism. Thus, I am contradicting myself. No, I am not contradicting myself because I do not believe in these theories but regard them as well-​argued and inspiring; they might be true and thus deserve being believed in. In some ways, my experimental attitude is a sort of fictionalism concerning philosophy; it can be fruitful to pretend that some solutions to philosophical problems are the correct ones. Fictionalism coheres easily with this experimentalist attitude toward philosophy. The second one concerns semantics and pragmatics. A critic might say that only semantics matter for the understanding of language. If referring to fictions is only a literary trait of semantics, and if semantics are also the foundation of language, then its possible literary trait is extremely small and insignificant. My response is as follows: in the first place, it is far from clear that semantics is the only game in the town of language. Thinkers like Robert Brandom argue excellently in favor of the necessity of studying both pragmatics and semantics: meaning is created by use, while it must be studied with the aid of semantics (Brandom 1994: xii–​x iii and elsewhere). Secondly, as earlier said, Guttenplan doubts the possibility of a neat separation between semantics and pragmatics. If either Brandom or Guttenplan (or both166) is right, then we cannot just ignore pragmatics. The best bet is that both are important for the understanding of the meaning and other essential aspects of language. The third possible rejoinder concerns language and subjectivity. A critic might say that I am making language into something irrational, which neither can be used rationally nor understood in any rational, scientific, and analytical manner. However, modern linguistics and analytical philosophy show otherwise, and besides, language is an excellent tool for expressing rational thought. My response in the first place is that I cannot see why the purported Literary traits of language cannot be studied in scientific and analytical manners. Secondly, it is not obviously true that such traits are necessarily irrational; the onus is on those who believe that this is the case. Thirdly, language has any 166 There might not be any clear-​cut separation between the semantics and pragmatics of language. Nevertheless, differentiating between them for the sake of argument might be fruitful, not least in the guise of a Brandomian division of labor between them.

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number of non-​Literary traits; if the existence of such traits is preconditions for rationality, there is nothing per se irrational about language.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I made a rpte to find out whether language and reason might have Literary traits. As a part of this experiment, I accepted for the sake of argument linguistic rationalism, i.e., Habermas’s and Apel’s theory that linguistic communication is the locus of rationality. They maintain that, in standard speech acts, we make three validity claims. One is the claim that the propositional part of the speech act is true, that the human relationship, established through the performative part, is legitimate, and furthermore, that we are s­ incere. The first two claims are fallible and justifiable and hence rational, according to the two German thinkers. These claims form the backbone of theoretical and practical rationality, while the claim of sincerity is the backbone of aesthetic-​practical rationality. The last form of rationality is underdeveloped by Habermas. I pointed out that he wrongly thinks that values cannot be universally valid. Rationality is soaked with values, and if rationality is universally valid as Habermas and Apel think, then there are universally valid values. Apel used peritropic arguments to demonstrate that we are bound to accept rationality; any effort to deny it leads to performative inconsistencies. Habermas thought that he went too far, that rationalist claims are fallible. The critical rationalists went further, rationality is not something that can be rationally proven, one must decide for or against it and the decision is beyond reason. I celebrated both their view and the one of linguistic rationalism, ranking both equally highly. However, I had qualms over Apel’s belief that his transcendental analysis could yield absolutely certain foundations. If the principle of noncontradiction is not universally valid and/​or if self-​referential statements could be true, then he would have failed. I then tried to destab language by trying to show that it has four Literary traits. MacIntyre argues well in favor of speech acts being understandable only by being placed in narratives and regarded as parts of conversations. Thus, the use of language has two poetic traits, the ones of narrative and literary genres. Furthermore, Hesse teaches us that both the use and semantics of language have metaphoric and other tropic traits. And we can infer from fictionalism that the semantic aspect of language contains fictions by the score. Thus, language is Literary.

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I also destabed linguistic rationalism, trying to show that it makes sense that it has four Literary traits: metaphority, fictionality, narrativity, and the one of being subsumable under concepts of literary genres. The third destabing performed was that of practical reason, it seems to have three Literary traits: metaphoric, fictional, and narrative. This makes it somewhat more destab-​resistant than language and linguistic rationalism. If language is Literary and is the locus of reason, then reason must have some of the Literary traits. We can talk about “the poetic of language”.

­c hapter 3

The Poetic of Models In this chapter, I provide a sketch of my idea of the poetic construction of scientific models and try to show how the Literary factors of metaphors/​tropes, stories/​narratives, and fictions contribute to the constitution of models, making them poetic in the process. Furthermore, I shall discuss the possibility that models shape our understanding of reality, and if models are poetic, our understanding of reality has Literary traits. I shall also argue in favor of the contention that models play a necessary role in science, giving science some Literary traits. It should be emphasized yet again that I am conducting a philosophical experiment and not necessarily looking for the true theory of scientific models. Notice also that yet again, I use the cut-​and-​paste method, cutting from some theories and pasting them together, and synthesizing them. I shall try to destab the concept of scientific models.

Metaphors and Models

Max Black believed that scientific models are metaphors of sorts or at least closely related to them. Models have in common with metaphors the quality of being isomorphic with the field of reality that they thematize. We see this clearly in what Black calls scale models. They are either enlarged or reduced models of objects; in both cases, they are simplified models of their objects. Consider prototypes of airplanes. They must be isomorphic with their object. However, such models play little or no role in science. In contrast, analog models matter to science. To make them we use one medium to model another. One example is a hydraulic model of an economic system. We use the fluid medium to model the economic “medium.” The requirement for such models to be isomorphic with their object shows that they are not only heuristic instruments. In Popperian terminology, we can say that they are not just an inspiring part of the discovery context but also play a role in the context of justification. Their isomorphism gives us a rational basis for judging their cognitive value. The degree of isomorphism determines how well the model fits reality. Thus, we have criteria for a model’s accuracy, and it is not a matter of heuristics. It is easy to see that if the models can be isomorphic with their object while at the same time being metaphors, then metaphors

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_019

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have an important role in our search for knowledge. We need no great leaps of imagination to see the similarity between such models and metaphors. A good example could be the metaphor The economic system is a hydraulic system. The model becomes a metaphor, and the metaphor a model, perhaps because they are nothing but two sides of the same coin. Black maintained that what he called “theoretical models” are of great importance to science and have even clearer similarities to metaphors than analog models. Such models introduce new scientific “dialects” or languages: new ways to describe reality. As said earlier, Black believed that a metaphor makes us see both of its subjects in a new way. For that reason, we need to describe the subjects in a new manner. This demonstrates how theoretical models work. Black further states that for both a metaphor and a theoretical model it holds that we have an analogical transfer of language usage. In both the metaphor The atom is a solar system and Rutherford’s corresponding atomic model, we use “solar system” as an analogy for the atomic structure, using the expression “solar system” in a new way. Both metaphors and theoretical models have the common ability to uncover new relationships; both are attempts to pour old wine into new bottles. Black uses the term “conceptual archetypes” for such theoretical models that recreate our scientific language use. “Conceptual archetype” is defined as “a systematic repertoire of ideas by means of which a given thinker describes, by analogical extension, some domain to which these ideas do not apply immediately and literally” (Black 1962: 240–​241).167 Black uses as an example Kurt Lewin’s way of transferring the language of physics to social relationships. Thus, according to Black, using a dominant system of concepts to describe another, less well-​known area by analogous expansion of the terms is typical of much theoretical activity. If Black is correct, then this comprehensive modeling has metaphoric traits. Mary Hesse has further developed the implications of Black’s theory for the sciences. According to her, theoretical explanations are metaphorical redescriptions of the field of explanandum. Scientific explananda provide the primary system of the metaphor, describable in observational language. The secondary system is either describable in observation language or the language of a well-​ known scientific theory. In “gas is a collection of massive particles,” gas is the primary system and massive particles the secondary one (Hesse 1966: 157–​159). Strictly speaking, gas is not a collection of massive particles, so we are dealing with a scientific metaphor. Like Black, she maintains that scientific metaphors 167 Conceptual archetypes have obvious family resemblances to Kuhnian paradigms.

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cannot be translated into literal language without a residue. One of the reasons is that when a model (a scientific metaphor) is used actively in scientific research, the scientists cannot know how far they can stretch the diverse analogies that the model invites. Obviously, had the scientists tried to translate the metaphor into a finite set of analogies at the beginning of the research, there would have been no point in testing the model empirically. Hesse emphasizes that there is nothing airy or poetic about scientific metaphors. In the first place, the associated ideas that are tied to the primary and the secondary system are often tightly interwoven and organized by a network of scientific laws. Second, we cannot arbitrarily impose a given primary system on a secondary system. If that were so, then scientific theories would not be falsifiable. However, the history of science shows that theories in the shape of metaphors have been refuted. As an example, we can mention the classical theory of light being waves. It seems that “no model even gets off the ground unless some antecedent similarity or analogy is discerned between it and the explanandum” (Hesse 1961: 161). Third, scientific metaphors are created with the aim of being used energetically and often in a quantitatively detailed manner. If two models of the same primary system are inconsistent, then one must either make a synthesis of the two or reject one of them. Hesse discusses the thorny issue of metaphors and deduction. Can metaphors play any significant role in science, given that we cannot draw any strict and logical deductions from metaphorical utterances? Hesse’s answer is that we cannot draw such deductive inferences from explanans to explanandum in science. We can only obtain an approximate fit. What counts as approximate fit cannot be decided in a deductive manner. Rather, it is a complex function of coherence with the rest of the theoretical system. Given descriptive proposition D about a field of a given explanandum, it is usually the case that a proposition E about an acceptable explanans does not imply D but Dˊ, where Dˊ is a proposition about the field of the explanandum, which is only approximately equivalent to D. If E is to be acceptable, then there must in the first place be a deductive relationship between E and Dˊ. Second, Dˊ must be understood as a more acceptable description of the field than D. The reason why Dˊ is more acceptable than D could be that accepting Dˊ is more coherent with general natural laws and empirical discoveries, or the consequence of accepting E is a metaphorical change in the vocabulary of D. In this manner, an explanation can change the explanandum. This often happens because good metaphors replace literal descriptions and, in the

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process, change the explanandum, which, as we remember, is the primary system of the metaphor. Hesse states that there is another reason why the classical, deductive model does not fit scientific reasoning well. It is only with reference to rules of correspondence for the tying of theoretical language to observation language that we can deduce an explanandum from explanans. According to her metaphorical view of science, we should operate only with observational language and regard the theoretical language as redundant, so the problem of deduction does not arise. The fact that observations are impregnated with theory means that we cannot distinguish clearly between theory and observation. That which is theoretical in one context is observational in another. For example, “the earth is round” has become an observational statement, but it used to be a theoretical one. Francis Bacon made the observation that heat is a type of movement; that has now become a theory. In light of this, we do not need to operate with a special theoretical language, separate from observational language (Hesse and Arbib 1986: 156–​157). To understand Hesse’s arguments, it is important to know that she believes real reasoning to be closer to analogical than propositional logic. Propositional logic requires clear symbolization and a finite list of premises that make the deduction clear and simple. However, in real reasoning, we modify and extend the meaning of concepts constantly with the aid of parallels, models, and metaphors, i.e., with the aid of analogical logic. The rational steps from premises to conclusion are usually not demonstrative. The steps are taken with the aid of inductive, hypothetical, and analogical reasoning. The reason is that the bulk of our concepts, not least the scientific ones, are family concepts. They do not fit deductive reasoning very well. Their meanings often change in light of evidence, perceptual prejudices, and criteria for good theories (Hesse 1988: 317–​340). If Hesse is right, that would strengthen the contention that reasoning is not much about strict logical derivation from given premises. We have seen arguments in favor of such a contention in the defenses of induction and ibe, informal logic, and Mark Johnson’s idea of metaphoric rationality. Moreover, the British philosopher of science Susan Haack maintains that pure deduction is seldom performed in scientific activities, the mutual support of beliefs is more important. The deductions are performed in conjunction with the search for mutual support between hypotheses. Deduced or semi-​deduced beliefs support the beliefs that are somewhat fundamental (Haack 2009). If Haack is right, it would strengthen Hesse’s contention and add support to the view that deduction must be flexible, like other instruments of reason.

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Hesse emphasizes the importance of analogies in science, including in the use of mathematics. Mathematical structures are created and defined within the framework of pure mathematics. Using these structures to describe nature can be done only in an analogical fashion. There can by implication be analogies only between nature and the mathematical structures. The book of nature is not written in the language of mathematics but can be translated into it! Hesse maintains that the purely formal laws and theories of science are only complex ways of expressing experimental results. These laws and theories must be analogous to some aspects of empirical reality if they are to be useful for science. Natural science is largely a web of analogies. The theories of heat conduction depend on models of how liquid flows, and all theories of waves and fields depend on hydrodynamic models. Hesse prefers using the expression “analogy” to that of “model” because she believes that “model” has strong associations with literal depictions. The use of very abstract mathematics in natural science has very little to do with depiction. Hesse believes that there are analogies (models) that play an essential role in science, although some only play a heuristic role (Hesse 1972: 169–​180). Hesse is on slippery ground when she hints at poetic metaphors being somehow “airy.” If “airy” means “subjective” and Hesse considers all poetic metaphors to be entirely subjective, then she is absolutely wrong. Let us examine a metaphoric analogy in Shakespeare’s Sonnet xviii: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate …” (Shakespeare 1990: 1201). In this metaphor, Shakespeare gives us an opportunity to see something intangible: the feeling of loving admiration through something more physical—​the weather of a summer’s day and the sun. Of course, there are subjective (airy?) moments in the metaphor, but its cognitive moment is as objective as it gets. If that is the case, then metaphors are not automatically unscientific just because they have poetic moments. However, if a metaphor is entirely poetic, then it would be very hard to argue that it is scientific. Shakespeare’s metaphor is so obviously entirely poetic that nobody in their right mind would call it “scientific.” But if by “airy” Hesse means “ambiguous, she has a point. Ambiguity can be a virtue in literary metaphors, giving the receiver a chance to interpret them in her own fashion. But ambiguity is seldom, if ever, a scientific virtue. Literary metaphors can be airy in the sense of not necessarily play cognitive roles, in contrast to the scientific ones. They can be entertaining or expressive of attitudes. Philosophical metaphors are probably in between the scientific and literary kind. Hesse’s conception of analogical reasoning can be combined with the conception of metaphoric reasoning, introduced earlier in this book. There must

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be an analogical moment in metaphoric reasoning, both scientific reasoning and the practical one. Moreover, her analogical logic can be called “metaphoric.” This contention could be wedded to Lakoff’s and Nunez’s metaphoric view of logic. It might make sense to say that logic has a metaphoric moment. Now, let us make a tiny philosophical experiment. Let us return to Hesse’s contention that using mathematical structures to describe nature can only happen analogically. Let us assume that we can neatly separate literal and non-​literal language. Let us further assume that in pure mathematics, mathematical propositions, and symbols function like literal language; they are on their “home turf” in pure mathematics. This would mean that when applied to empirical reality, they are used in a non-​literal, “analogous,” even metaphorical manner. They are transferred to a new domain, just like the concept of wolf is transferred to a new domain in the metaphor of man being a wolf. This means that the bulk of empirical sciences contains necessarily non-​literal propositions and symbols due to the role of mathematics in them. Thus, when Einstein put forth his formula E =​mc2, he was using mathematical language in a non-​literal manner. This also means that mathematical models of empirical reality have a non-​ literal moment. If Yablo, Lakoff, and Nunez are correct, our talk about mathematics and numbers is figurative. If they are right, mathematics and numbers are always non-​literal even though they function as a literal basis for ordinary language and empirical sciences. They would function as meta-​metaphors. What is that? A metaphor that is based on another metaphor. According to Lakoff, He is moving up in society is based on the metaphor Up is good and is, therefore, a meta-​metaphor. Remember, this is only a rpte.

A Note on Metaphors, Causal Reference, and Generalizations

Hesse is not the only theorist to derive inspiration from Black’s theory of metaphors and models; Richard Boyd is another (Boyd 1992: 481–​532). However, he utilizes this inspiration in a different manner: he connects it to the causal reference theory of meaning. In Saul Kripke’s version of this theory the meaning of expressions denoting names or natural kinds is determined by its causal relation to an original situation of “baptism,” where the expression was originally used to denote a given object. The expression “gold” denotes a certain

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substance because someone, as it were, “baptized” this substance as “gold” (Kripke 1970: 91–​97, 134–​143). Now, it seems rather strange to connect this theory to Black’s conception of metaphors being essentially imprecise. However, Boyd does not consider this impossible if we take a realistic view of the idea of metaphoric imprecision.168 Theory-​constitutive metaphors in science introduce new terminology and can determine the reference of theoretical terms in a manner that is analogous to ostension. In contrast to ostension, metaphors play a special role in relation to phenomena that by nature have unclear boundaries, for instance, living species as understood by the theory of evolution. Boyd writes: “The necessary indetermination in extension of species terms is a consequence of evolutionary theory, as Darwin observed: speciation depends on the existence of populations that are intermediate between the parent species and the emerging one” (Boyd 1992: 527). If the theory of evolution is correct, then we must assume that there are unclear boundaries between species. If not, then we cannot explain why species change and become new species in the course of evolution. It may be added that the same holds for languages, but Boyd does not mention that. Boyd states that it is not by chance that the theory of evolution utilizes a host of metaphors, for example, economic metaphors about competition. It makes no sense to try to literalize these metaphors, given that they are well adapted to their imprecisely delimited objects. Thus, at least some scientific metaphors can be said to refer to their objects. If empirical research cannot reveal any great and relevant similarity between a given scientific metaphor’s primary and secondary subject, then it probably does not refer to anything real. For instance, if there is no such similarity between human understanding and the way computers work, we can safely say that the metaphor The brain is a computer does not refer to anything. This must mean that scientific metaphors are fallible and justifiable, and hence possibly rational. Boyd’s analysis is original and challenging but somewhat too objectivistic and dogmatic in its belief that theories can mirror reality. This holds for his treatment of the theory of evolution. The reason that we accept it is not because we can be certain that it mirrors the reality of natural development but because it is fruitful and has no interesting competitor. There are known anomalies to the theory, for instance, the notorious problem of missing links

168 He does not actually exclude the possibility of fully explicating scientific metaphors in literal language.

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between species and the problem of showing how mind and subjectivity could arise in the course of evolution.169 Maybe Stephen Jay Gould was right about species usually being stable for a very long time and then changing suddenly (according to Prothero 1992: 38–​47). Maybe something similar holds for other domains where Boyd believes scientific metaphors to be ineliminable. Be that as it may, Gould’s theories are certainly not accepted by the majority of biologists; gradualism seems to be dominant. Therefore, for all we know, Boyd may carry the day. His analysis could even be extended to other domains, e.g., the history of language. Natural languages are constantly developing; they stem from other languages and are in the process of changing into yet other languages. Just like species, natural languages have blurred limits, and perhaps metaphors are needed to fix the denotation of any language. Thomas Kuhn criticized Boyd in a friendly fashion (Kuhn 1993: 533–​542). Boyd’s mistake is to assume that there must be one scientific language and not a host of incommensurable ones. Nevertheless, Kuhn shares Boyd’s admiration for Black’s theory of interaction and the causal theory of reference, although he is somewhat more skeptical of the latter. In his view, reference for natural kinds can be established only with the aid of multiple ostension, and in the process, one must consider related examples. It is insufficient to identify the phenomenon that causes a galvanometric needle to move and say, “We should call this phenomenon an ‘electric charge.’” In the first place, the movement of the needle offers little assistance in designating the cause of lightning as an “electric charge.” In this case, we need another ostensive procedure. Second, there is a host of other phenomena in addition to an electric charge that can cause the needle to move: for instance, magnetism and gravity. This means that we must study phenomena that could be mistaken for an electric charge to establish the correct reference. Kuhn says, “I take metaphors to be essentially a higher-​level version of the process by which ostension enters into the establishment of reference for natural-​kind terms” (Kuhn 1993: 537). Strangely enough, he uses the term “game” as a sort of analogy for terms referring to natural kinds. Only by comparing games, e.g., tennis and football, can we discover what a game is. We must think about football and tennis interactively. This interaction creates or shows the similarities necessary for us to be able to establish a reference to the term “game.” Just like metaphors, this 169 For a theistic perspective on these issues, see Plantinga 2011: 1–​23.

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activity does not terminate in a definition where we enumerate both necessary and sufficient conditions for the application of the “game.” Kuhn appears to believe that the same holds for terms about natural kinds, such as “gold” or “swans.” However, why does he not give any example of how a reference to a natural kind is established? Games are certainly not natural kinds. It may well be that the concept of a game is a family concept (or even an amoeban one), but that does not mean that concepts of natural kinds are that kind of concepts. Nevertheless, Kuhn’s analysis is very interesting. If he is right, metaphor-​like processes are necessary conditions for science (notice that Hesse maintains that metaphor-​like processes are the essence of language). I want to add that there are interesting similarities between metaphors and scientific generalization. Both seek to show that seemingly disparate phenomena actually belong together. We say metaphorically that man is a wolf, generalize about air and the human brain, and say that both are material objects. To be sure, man has all kinds of non-​wolflike aspects, and there are many dissimilarities between individual brains, or for that matter types of air. However, the metaphor and the generalization ignore these aspects and dissimilarities. Metaphors and generalizations consciously simplify or distort reality by ignoring everything that does not accord with the metaphor or the generalization and thus transform it, providing twisted understanding of it. Furthermore, scientific generalizations are underdetermined by facts, and metaphors cannot be entirely paraphrased—​they are, so to speak, underdetermined by paraphrasing. Owing to underdetermination, a potentially infinite number of theories can explain the same facts, and we have no reason to exclude the possibility of an infinite number of scientific metaphors that can help us understand a given set of data. Moreover, generalizations can be justified and falsified, and scientific metaphors can be justified and invalidated. Boyd’s examples of evolutionary metaphors show that metaphors can be justified. A metaphor such as Gravity is love is of no use to physicists, and the same holds for such generalizations as “75% of atoms are lovesick.” There are of course any number of justified scientific generalizations such as E =​mc2 . This means that we have rational standards for both scientific metaphors and generalizations. Generalizations form a subclass of the class of theories, and of course, theories play an ineliminable role in science. If generalizations are somehow related to metaphors, then that ought to strengthen our belief that metaphors play a major role in science. Then again, we must remember that finding a host of similarities between two or more phenomena does not mean that they are

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of the same kind. This also holds for the relationship between metaphors and generalizations.

Critics of Models and Metaphors

Carl Gustav Hempel was critical of the idea that models and metaphors play an important role in science (Hempel 1965: 433–​447). They mainly play a heuristic role and usually only in the early phase of a science’s history. Hempel maintained that the goal of science is to express laws in a precise mathematical manner so that they can be used as premises for the deduction of empirical laws. Such a deductive view of science makes models superfluous. To see a thing as something else, for example, electricity as liquid flowing through pipes, is of no help to us. Given that mathematical laws are the foundations of explanations, then an analogy, by definition, explains nothing. To be sure, scientists discovered that it was possible to project some of the laws governing the flow of liquid through pipes onto the flow of electricity. But the analogy was confined to expressing similarities, and usually, only some of the relationships of laws can be projected in an analogical fashion onto a new domain. However, Roland Giere has some good arguments in favor of using theoretical laws rather than reality to describe models. Models are important for scientific understanding, and in some sense, they are fictions or contain fictional moments. He argues convincingly that the object of science is not reality but models of it. A model is an ideally imagined or imagined representation of reality where certain real factors are emphasized while other factors are abstracted away. In a model that includes the sun and a planet, for example, the impact of other planets on the planet in question is abstracted away. Scientific laws describe the functional relationship between the various factors in the model, but not all these factors are applicable to reality. These laws thus govern the relationships in the model that they describe or define. This is a very powerful defense of the idea that models play a necessary role in science, and it should be ranked highly (Giere 1988: 82). If Giere’s analysis is correct, then it is rather difficult to see how we (not only while doing science) can perceive or understand anything without modeling reality in the way Giere describes. Simply making an everyday observation requires emphasizing certain factors and abstracting others away. When a duck hunter is observing a duck, he focuses on the factors that pertain to the possibility of shooting it and abstracts other factors away. His model is very primitive compared with a scientific one, but it is a model all the same.

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Williamson also stresses the importance of models in science. It is difficult to find fruitful generalization about complex systems, since most systems that science studies are complex, then explaining events within them in terms of natural laws is often not very fruitful. There is always exception to their rules. And attempts to fit the laws to the exceptions can lead to the watering down of explanations: “explain” in terms of trivial laws. Instead of seeking universal laws about complex systems, they build simplified models of them. The strategy is to analyze the behavior of the systems mathematically in the hope that it will simulate some puzzling aspect of the systems behavior and thereby cast light on them (Williamson 2018: 114–​115). Philosophers should also build models instead of seeking not too fruitful generalizations, Williamson adds. Some of them do so already, for instance those that do epistemic logic. Its models are not universal laws, they involve extremely unrealistic simplifications. Despite of this, they cast light on human knowledge (Williamson 2018: 117). Mario Bunge criticized Black from a perspective that is not entirely different from Hempel’s. Like Hempel, Bunge believes that metaphors only play a heuristic role in science (Bunge 1973: 107–​109). Their fate over the course of time is to be replaced by literal descriptions. We can illustrate this point by using Ernest Rutherford’s model of the atom as an example. His metaphor The atom is a planetary system was replaced by literal descriptions. Bunge adds that models are not always metaphorical, in contrast to the view of Black and his followers. Many models are literal and not analogical at all. Furthermore, many models have no ties to our everyday perceptions. For instance, there are no analogical models for electrons, ecosystems, or markets. To make matters worse for Black, scientific theories are not necessarily metaphorical. Most scientific theories, especially in modern physics, are not visual, and they usually explain well-​known facts in terms that are not understandable in terms of a workaday view of the world. It would be a miracle if scientific explanation were nothing but parables. Why? First, metaphors are ambiguous. The same fact can be described with the aid of contradictory metaphors, for instance, when the “sinking” dollar is also called the “floating” dollar. Second, scientific explanations would not be able to explain anything new if they were metaphorical. When we use metaphors to explain something, then we explain it with reference to something already known. However, then we cannot understand the new and unknown (Bunge 1973: 127). This criticism is based on a misunderstanding of Black. In the first place, he has denied that we only get our metaphorical focuses from our everyday world; witness the metaphorical focus on the economy and hydraulic system

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example. The focus—​i.e., the hydraulic system—​certainly does not hail from our everyday world. Second, he has emphasized that we must have a thorough knowledge of science to make scientific models. It is strange that Bunge does not see that we often derive our metaphorical focuses from scientific language, for example, when we use hydraulic terminology as raw material for metaphors about economic systems. The third point in my defense of Black is the following. He has never claimed that metaphorical models are visual. He actually states the opposite and uses as an example a mathematical model in which electrical currents are used as bases of comparison for geometrical figures. It is no easier to visualize such currents than it is to visualize geometrical figures (Black 1962: 219–​241). Bunge’s contention that metaphors and analogies cannot help us understand the genuinely new and unknown is not convincing. How can we determine that X is genuinely new unless we compare X to something well known? X cannot achieve the identity of being genuinely new unless it is compared with the well-​known. Furthermore, to understand the genuinely new in terms of the already known, we must use creative imagination to find those known objects, which can be fruitfully compared to the genuinely new. Therefore, we must think in a new and original manner to understand the new in terms of the old. In short: we must use our imagination. I want to finish my defense of Black by pointing out that models and metaphors have something in common that he does not mention. We do not understand models in a literal manner any more than we do metaphors. Scientists know that the model represents a radical simplification of reality and is in no way an accurate representation of it. Similarly, we can say “man is a wolf” and be quite serious about it, even though we know that it is untrue, strictly speaking, that man is this animal. This metaphor is a simplified model of reality. Maybe Paul Ricœur is right about metaphors being models (Ricœur 1977: 239–​246). Susan Haack maintains that Hesse overestimates the importance of metaphors in science. According to Haack, she is wrong about metaphors being essential to science. To be sure, they are useful but not essential. However, Hesse is correct about their cognitive significance, but such significance comes in degrees, and metaphors have it only to a modest degree. To understand this, we must be aware of Haack’s view that metaphors are similes and that there is metaphoric meaning, but the meaning of a given metaphor is that of the corresponding simile. Furthermore, metaphors in science are useful ways of expressing newly posited and imperfectly understood similarities. Metaphors like The mind is a computer are good ways of prompting investigations into what the significant aspect of the resemblance between

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the two might be. Haack states, “I see metaphors as, so to speak, rough drafts of scientific theories, rough drafts which offer guidance to possible directions for refinement and specification” (Haack 1988: 299). The ultimate goal of science is to make a new conjecture precise and rigorous and hence capable of test and appraisal. This requires a literal expression of the conjecture. However, literal language in science is an ideal to be aspired to. Metaphors are useful, partly because they play a role in the revision of classifications, but it is to be hoped that scientists will discover classifications that correspond to natural kinds. Metaphors mainly play a role in the exploratory phase of science. Does this mean that metaphors only belong to the context of discovery? Haack believes that there are unclear boundaries between the context of discovery and that of justification and that the former can have rational moments. She states that working out a problem and developing a theory involve an inner dialogue where one tries out a conjecture and imagines possible objections, figures out the consequences and puts oneself in the position of a hypothetical objector (Haack 1994: 15). These are interesting musings but shall not be discussed here. We have already seen that metaphors cannot be understood solely as elliptic similes; they often create similarities and do not just describe existing ones. Witness the metaphor Time is money. If scientific metaphors are not similes, then it is difficult to envisage how they can be completely literalized in the process of scientific progress. Moreover, Haack does not mention models, only theories. Therefore, even if metaphors play a role only in the exploratory phase of scientific theories, that does not exclude the possibility of theories being the product of models that are metaphorical by nature and the precondition for scientific theories and investigations. Most of Black’s and Hesse’s comments about metaphors and models suit rpe excellently and deserve a high ranking. If models are metaphors or have a strong family resemblance to them (Hesse’s analogies), and if not only scientific but also everyday cognition is partly modeled, our cognition has metaphoric traits, i.e., it is partly made possible by metaphors.

Models as Fictions

Some theorists have a fictionalist view of scientific models. Walton’s pretense theory has been a source of inspiration for some of them. Thus, Adam Toon maintains that “scientific models function like the dolls and toy trucks

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of children’s imaginative games” (Toon 2012: 5). Models are props in games of make-​believe, prescriptions to imagining certain things (Toon 2012: 44 and elsewhere). Roman Frigg also uses Walton’s pretense theory to ground the view that scientific model systems are akin to literary fictions (Frigg 2010: 251–​268). However, before showing how Walton’s theory can be of use, Frigg makes some general claims about the relationships between models and literary fictions. 1. Characteristically, there is nothing in the real world of which essential passages in the text of a novel are true descriptions, and the names of fictional people and objects typically do not denote real people or objects. Competent readers are aware of this, and they do not mistakenly believe that they are reading descriptions of facts. The same holds for science. Scientific texts abound with passages that appear to be plain descriptions of physical systems but are not descriptions of actual systems and are not taken as such by competent people. Frictionless planes, spherical planets, massless strings, perfectly rational agents, and markets without transaction costs figure prominently in diverse models but have no counterpart in the real world. 2. In the novel Changing Places by David Lodge, the main character is a certain Morris Zapp, and in the world of this novel, he is a professor of English literature. It is also true that he has a heart and a liver but not that he is a ballet dancer. Only the first part is explicitly stated in the novel, but the rest is also true in that world, even if it is not explicitly stated. The situation of model systems is the same. The description of the system specifies only a handful of essential properties, but it is understood that the system has properties other than those mentioned in the description. No one would spend time studying model systems if all that was known about them was the explicit content of the initial description. It is true that in the Newtonian model, the solar system is stable and that the planets follow elliptic orbits, but none of this is part of the explicit content of the model system’s original specification. 3. A story has content that goes beyond that which is explicitly stated, and the reader has the means to learn about this extra content by using usually implicit rules of inference. The same holds for model systems: discovering what is true beyond what is explicitly stated is a crucial aspect of the scientist’s engagement with the system. 4. Even though we often read only for pleasure, when we read serious literature, we often compare situations in fiction and reality, and in doing so, we actually learn about the world. We find a parallel in model systems

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when the scientists compare features of the model system with those of the target system (that which is being modeled). In Frigg’s view, these four points can be understood with the aid of Walton’s theories. As we already know, Walton believes that fictional truths can be generated directly or indirectly—​the directly generated ones being primary. Primary truths follow immediately from props, and implied ones result from the application of rules of inference. Frigg now states that in Lodge’s novel, Zapp started a project of commenting on every aspect of every novel by Jane Austen. The reader is now invited to imagine the direct truth that he is working on this project as well as the indirect and inferred truth of Zapp being overconfident. Such inferred truths are deduced by the reader from common knowledge of academic projects and academic thought. Model systems are presented via descriptions, and these descriptions are props in games of make-​believe. Typically, these descriptions start with “consider” or “assume” and by this make clear that they are not descriptions of facts but invitations to ponder and imagine a particular situation. In elementary particle physics, a scenario is often proposed as a suggestion worth considering; later, it is asked whether the scenario has any interesting relations with reality. Detailed examinations require the derivation of conclusions from the primary assumptions of the model and some general principles or laws that are taken for granted. For instance, the knowledge that planets move in elliptical planes may be derived from the basic assumptions of the Newtonian model and laws of class mechanics. This can be understood in terms of pretense theory: what is explicitly stated in model descriptions (model planets are spherical, etcetera) are the primary truths of the models. What follows from them via laws are implied truths. Annie Thomasson maintains that Frigg, Walton, and other “pure pretense” theorists (her expression) go somewhat too far. They claim that all discussions of the contents of fiction are parts of games of make-​believe, including external discourse about them, such as “Hamlet is a character in a play by William Shakespeare.” The internal discourse of the play does not consist of statements but are props in the game of make-​believe. Thomasson states that the same conclusion holds for models, according to the pure pretense theorists. Nevertheless, saying that Hamlet is a character in a play by Shakespeare is surely an ordinary literal statement with a truth value, not an invitation to imagine something in a game of make-​believe. The same holds for models; it is a literal statement that Niels Bohr proposed his model of the atom in 1913. Additionally, external discourses about models play an important cognitive role, for instance, when scientists critically examine models, discussing their relationship with real-​world target phenomena and similar matters. They are

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important in claims that economic models, which treat agents as fully rational, are based on faulty psychology. Thomasson’s solution is to enrich the pretense view with an artifactualist view of models. Models (and literary characters) function in external discourses as abstract artifacts (Thomasson 2020: 50–​73). However, we do not need to probe into that theory but instead examine Ronald Giere’s criticism of the pretense view (Giere 2009: 248–​258). While admitting that literary fictions and scientific models exist at the same ontological level and that both are creations of human imagination, Giere maintains that they function in a different way. Even though scientific models serve many purposes, the most important of these is representing aspects of the world. In contrast, literary fiction has no main function but a host of functions, including being entertaining and providing insights into the human condition. A failure to represent its target can be grounds for criticizing a model or even rejecting it. Thus, many models were proposed and rejected in the search for the double helix because they failed to represent the target in a satisfactory manner. However, we do not reject the Harry Potter novels on the grounds that wizards do not exist or Tolstoy’s War and Peace on the grounds that the main characters never existed. Giere overlooks the fact that regardless of the intent of literary fiction, it can be judged in terms such as its representation of human psychology and actual or possible states of the world. Moreover, just like literary fiction, scientific models can be—​and frequently are—​judged in aesthetic terms. When all else is equal, an elegant model is preferred to an inelegant one, and an elegantly written novel is valued higher than an inelegant one. The judgment of elegance in writing may have a larger subjective component than in scientific models. However, that matters little; what matters is that it makes sense to state that models and literary fictions have important elements in common, even though they differ in many respects. Therefore, if models play a crucial role in science, and even in ordinary perception, yet are somehow fictional, then there must be a fictional moment to the way we view the world.

Models and Narratives: The Poetic of Science

If scientific models are like novels, as Frigg suggests, then they must have a narrative component. Of course, there might be fictional objects that are not parts of narratives; perhaps particles and numbers are such objects. However, Frigg emphasizes scenarios as moments of models, and a scenario of a process

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must be a narrative of sorts. This means that models of processes at least have narrative moments. Nancy Cartwright argues forcefully in favor of scientific models being like fables and parables (Cartwright 1999: 35–​48; 2010: 19–​32).170 Like fables and parables, models are strictly speaking fictions. At the same time, models can shed light on different empirical situations and phenomena, just like parables. The New Testament parable of the workers in the vineyard can be applied to any number of different situations. The same holds for scientific models that study balls rolling down totally frictionless and totally stable planes. Cartwright states, “Fables transform the abstract into the concrete, and in doing so, I claim, they function like models in physics” (Cartwright 2010: 36). This contention is heavily influenced by the 18th-​century German thinker Gotthold Ephraim Lessing and his thoughts on fables. According to Cartwright, Lessing said that a fable provides graspable, intuitive content for abstract, symbolic judgment. He used as an example a fable where the marten eats the grouse, the fox throttles the marten, and the wolf vanquishes the fox. The moral is that the weaker is prey to the stronger. However, fables are not allegories. An allegory says not what its words seem to say but something similar. Where is the similarity between the grouse and the weakest, the marten and the weak? The wolf is not similar to the strongest—​he is the strongest. The relationship is between the moral and the fable is that of the general to the specific. In addition, Lessing considered that the general exists only in the particular and that fables are a great tool for unifying the general and the particular. Cartwright concurs and states that scientific models do a similar job. Fables transform the abstract into the concrete; thus, they function like physics models. At the same time, both lead to abstract conclusions: the moral in the case of the fable and a scientific law in the case of the model. In fact, the moral of a fable is more than slightly similar to a scientific law, Cartwright writes. Morals can be true. Does anybody doubt that the weak tend to become prey to the stronger? For morals to be true, they require an implicit ceteris paribus clause. The reason is that they describe only a single feature and its consequences and do not describe what to expect when different features conflict. As is well known, diverse morals often conflict. Less well known is the claim that the same is true of the laws of physics. In the case of picking up pins with a magnet, the law of gravity seems to conflict with the law of attraction.

170 In her 1999 book, she discussed only fables but emphasized parables more in her later writings on the issue, including in Cartwright 2010: 19–​32.

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In the above fable, the grouse is a stereotypical character exhibiting weakness, and the wolf is a character that exhibits strength. In physics, Newton’s famous f =​ma has a stereotypical character. It is an abstract truth relative to claims about positions, motions, masses, and extension. In a similar fashion, Lessing’s “the weaker are always prey to stronger” is abstract relative to the more concrete descriptions that complete it. To be subject to a force of a certain size, for instance f, is an abstract property, like being weaker. Newton’s law states that anything with this property also has other properties, namely mass and acceleration, which, when multiplied, give f. This is like claiming that whoever is weaker will also be prey to the stronger. It makes good sense that models are essentially like fables and parables. If that is so, they have a storied structure. The rpe ranks Cartwright’s narrative view of models very highly. Remember that Turner thought that parables were among our basic instruments for cognition. Cartwright might have shown how they constitute one instrument of cognition, the scientific model. Maybe their views can be unified; a parable-​ism might be a possibility but shall not be discussed any further. Notice that both fables and metaphors project a given X on a given Y: in Man is a wolf we project the qualitites of wolves on humans. In the fable about the marten we project the qualities of certain animals on the abstract notion of strength and weakness. Secondly, metaphors and fables connect two or more conceptual spheres. In the metaphor, the conceptual sphere of humans is connected to that of wolves. In the fable, conceptual sphere of humans is connected to the one of weakness and strength. In the third place, and in light of 1–​2, fables can be understood as metaphors: The marten, are the grouse, the fox killed the marten, the wolf vanquished the fox. The metaphor of man and wolves could also easily be transformed into a fable where a person acts in a wolflike manner. The conclusion of 1–​3 is that the concepts of metaphors and fables overlap, just as the concepts of fiction overlaps with the ones of metaphors and stories. It should be added that scientific models transform their objects due to their metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits; they do not show them as they “really” are. At the same time, they have cognitive import, which must mean that they provide twisted understanding, just like metaphors. A model is a meaningful entity and a symbolic structure, and since it can provide twisted understanding, it can be T-​correct. Being a meaningful entity, it can have Literary traits and that certainly seems to be the case.

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In addition, models exaggerate the importance of certain factors and therefore function like hyperboles. Hyperbole is the trope of exaggeration; its role in models increases their tropicality. Notice also that creating and using models requires exercising the imagination. Remember that Frigg says that, to use models, scientists must think beyond what is explicitly stated in them. I add: in order to do so, they must use their imagination. The conclusion must be that there are good reasons for regarding scientific models as something that has the three Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. It is important to add that if our understanding of reality is mediated by models, it has Literary traits.

Responses to Possible Objections

The first possible objection to my view is that I just assume that all models have these three Literary traits. But Daniela M. Bailer-​Jones points out that there is such a diversity of models, making it unlikely that all of them are metaphoric (Bailer-​Jones 2002: 109). The critic adds that this also makes it unlikely that they are all in addition narrative and fictional. We cannot exclude the possibility that there are models without any Literary traits. The answer is that the burden of proof is upon those who maintain that there are models without these traits. It would also be sufficient for my argument/​experiment if it holds for a score of models that they have these traits and if removing such models from science would impoverish it greatly. The second objection is that I simply assume models to have these three—​ presumably Literary—​traits and not, say, one or two of them. There might not be any model who has all three traits. The answer is, in the first place, that the burden of proof is on the critic. Can he or she give examples of models that have only one or two of these traits. Secondly, I would have liked models also to have the Literary trait of being subsumable under some concept of literary genres but have not found any evidence for that. This speaks against me just having found what I wanted to find and/​or assumed must be there. The third objection is that I just assume that models can have these three traits without thinking about the possibility that they might be mutually exclusive, such that if models are narratives, then they cannot be metaphors, and so on. My response consists just in reminding the reader that I have already said that if models are metaphorical, then they are fictional because metaphors are

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fictions. Fables and parables are fictional and metaphoric; hence, models can easily have metaphorical, fictional, and narrative traits—​the last in the guise of fables and parables. The onus is on anybody who maintains that these three moments are somehow mutually exclusive. Another critic might say that I overestimate the role of models in science. Do not they have any limitations? What about the theorists who have criticized an alleged one-​sided emphasis on mathematical models in economics? Hans Albert accused economists of “model Platonism”, the belief that models are the true reality of the economic system, which leads to ignoring empirical findings (Albert 2012: 295–​323). The master model-​builder Paul Krugman now maintains that myopic focus on models have been hurting economics (Krugman 2009). And as we have seen, Thomasson thinks these models are based on a faulty psychology. My answer is that this might all be true, but it does not mean that modelling is the problem in economics, the problem might be too much focus on them. Or that economists have been making the wrong kinds of models, models that do not produce testable and confirmed theories, possibly because of a belief in a faulty psychology. Maybe they are too mathematical, Alex Rosenberg maintains that economics are not really an empirical science but rather a branch of mathematics with little contact with economic realities (Rosenberg 1983: 296–​314). I can also use the ppqi to support the contention that models are of paramount importance for science: Black, Hesse, Giere, and Williamson use good but different arguments for this importance, while Hempel’s and Bunge’s argument against it are not convincing. Some may maintain that I advocate a radical subjectivism, which is untenable. My response is as follows. Concerning the Literary threesome of metaphors, narratives, and fictions, I have tried to show that they are not without objective features. My critics must counter these arguments. Others may say that nowadays, models are computer-​generated, and computers have no understanding of metaphors. My answer: computers do not understand what they do but can nevertheless solve cognitive problems. Therefore, the fact that they do not understand metaphors does not exclude the possibility that their products are somehow metaphorical. Furthermore, it should not be forgotten that computers are programmed by people who can understand the programs consciously and who probably often use metaphors, even stories and fictions, in their programs. Yet others may say that scientific models are mathematical, and metaphors, fictions, and narratives need not apply in mathematics.

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The answer is that mathematics might have at least two of these Literary traits, that is, if Yablo, Lakoff, Nunez, and Hesse are right. It would be extremely difficult for us to cope with reality unless we used numbers when talking and thinking. If talk of numbers is figurative, as Yablo states, then coping with reality requires such figurative thinking and talking. Not only that, but it is also very hard to use language unless one talks about numbers and even other mathematical entities. This would mean that mathematics and numbers increase the figurative moment of language. It is obvious that we cannot use language unless we are, by and large, reasonably logical. Using language requires a minimum of logic, respecting largely the law of noncontradiction and deriving conclusions fairly logically from premises.171 However, if Lakoff and Nunez are right, it makes sense that the same holds for the relationship between formal logic on the one hand and ordinary language as well as the philosophical use of formal logic on the other. Its propositions and symbols are entirely formal and literal in their purely formal setting. But when applied to informal sentences, they are transferred to a new domain and function in a non-​literal way. This means that both fairly logical use of ordinary language and philosophical texts where formal logic figures prominently by implication have a non-​literal moment. If we can hardly use language without being somewhat logical, then logic gives the use of language a non-​literal moment. However, it would be somewhat farfetched to say that it increases the Literary moment in language; remember that the presence of something non-​literal in a given X strengthens the candidacy of X for being Literary, given that all else is equal. However, someone judging the candidacy of language could argue rather convincingly that this non-​literal moment strays rather far from the Literary. Yablo’s and Lakoff/​Nunez’s arguments are inspiring. But Lakoff and Nunez may have a one-​sided focus on the purported metaphorical provenance of mathematical concepts and not on mathematical validity. If Yablo is right, the discourse of mathematical validation is figurative, so mathematical validity has figurative traits. Lakoff and Nunez may be right about mathematics and logic being largely metaphorical. Yablo may well be right about mathematical discourses being somehow metaphorical. And if Yablo and Hartry Field are right, mathematical objects (including numbers) are fictional.

171 I do not exclude the possibility of us having good reasons to ignore the said law in some circumstances, given that there is some grain of truth in dialetheism and fuzzy logic.

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I may also be correct in my claim (inspired by Hesse) that when mathematics is used in the empirical sciences, then its use is non-​literal because its proper domain is a world of pure abstractions. If all of us are right, logic and mathematical models in the empirical sciences have metaphorical and fictional traits.172 Not enough to destab them but enough to show that mathematics and logic are not antithetical to the Literary. This would also mean that the gap between reason and the poetic would narrow yet more. Notice also that logic and mathematics are more destab-​resistant than models, which in their turn are more destab-​resistant than language. The first two have “only” two Literary traits (if any); models have three, language and linguistic rationalism four. So, even if scientific models were purely mathematical, that does not exclude the possibility of them having Literary traits. But remember: it is far from clear that Yablo, Field, and Lakoff/​Nunez are right. Consider what is said here about mathematics and logic a rpte. The critic may now ask whether it is not quite cheeky of me to discuss mathematics and logic, having admitted that I do not know much about them. Perhaps, but that does not exclude the possibility of Yablo, Field, Hesse, and Lakoff/​Nunez being right about logic and mathematics. But I shall refrain from ranking them.

Conclusion

Max Black and Mary Hesse put forth interesting arguments in favor of scientific models being metaphorical by nature. Hesse also has some inspiring arguments in favor of “real” deduction not being as straightforward as many ­theorists believe. She also considered that mathematics could be used in empirical science only in an analogical, even metaphorical, fashion. Haack has a similar view of deduction as Hesse but thinks that she overestimates the role of metaphors in science. Hempel was skeptical of the importance of models and metaphors in science, but Giere points out that scientific observations are modeled. Bunge’s arguments against those of Black are based on a misunderstanding.

172 Remember the maybeism of the rpe: maybe mathematics and logic have narrative traits too. Then again, maybe they have no Literary traits.

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Frigg argues forcefully in favor of models being fictional in much the same sense as novels. Moreover, Cartwright puts forth good arguments in favor of models being of a narrative nature. It makes sense and is plausible to regard scientific models as having the Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. In addition, they have the tropic moment of being hyperbolic, i.e., exaggerations. Furthermore, the view that models are of paramount importance in science should be ranked highly, as should the view that scientific cognition is modeled. If true, then scientific cognition has some Literary traits by virtue of having metaphorical, narrative, and fictional moments. This adds strength to the destabing of cognition and understanding performed in the last section. Even if models were purely mathematical, it might not save them from destabing. If Field, Yablo, Lakoff, and Nunez are right, mathematics has both fictional and metaphorical traits. Moreover, if Lakoff and Nunez are right about logic having metaphorical traits, then the poetic moment of rationality increases. If not only models but also mathematics and logic have Literary traits, that would be an inning for the poetic of reason and for poetic rationalism (it would suffice if only models had such traits). To be sure, there are non-​rational ways of gaining understanding with the aid of metaphors, narratives, and fictions. But if there is anything rational, scientific models, mathematics, and logic fit the bill excellently. In this chapter, scientific models have been destabed. They have been shown to have hidden Literary traits. There is a poetic of models (even of mathematics too), and it is a part of the poetic of cognition/​understanding.

­c hapter 4

Relativism and Conceptual Schemes The impatient reader perhaps wonders why I have not discussed relativism as a potential alternative to rationalism. He or she might also wonder why there has not been any not mention of rhetoric even though metaphors are usually regarded as one of the tropes of rhetoric. I shall start by discussing the issues of conceptual schemes, incommensurability, and relativism. I shall introduce my notion of schemism, i.e., the belief that conceptual schemes govern our cognition, understanding, and so on.173 The questions asked in this chapter and the next one are: are there good arguments in favor of relativism, is it viable? Is it the opposite of rationalism? Does the concept of conceptual schemes make sense? These questions must be answered if poetic moderate rationalism can be defended. The answer will be in the rpe mode of ranking rather than clear-​cut answers.

Relativism and Incommensurability

We can define relativism in the following fashion. D1 “Relativism is the view that the truth values of all propositions and any content of possible non-​ propositional knowledge are strictly relative to relativators.” “Relativator” is a word of my coinage. It ranges over whatever the validity of such reason-​and validity-​bearers174 (witness truth-​bearers) as propositions, theories, normative or evaluative judgments can be relative to. Notice that I am not looking for the necessary and sufficient conditions for a view being relativistic. The conditions laid down in the definition are sufficient for a view to be relativistic. We might call it “a definition of ordinary relativism,” and nothing in it excludes the possibility that there might be other kinds of relativism. One brand of relativism that fits D1 perfectly is radical incommensurabilism, i.e., the idea that conceptual schemes can never be adequately intertranslated. At the same time, our relativist must maintain that the conceptual 1 73 We have already gotten to know one version, the one of the generative metaphorists. 174 Artworks are typically something that could or even should be evaluated, for instance, as good or beautiful, or the opposite. They might not be reason-​bearers, but all reason-​ bearers are validity-​bearers: they can be true or untrue, apt, or non-​apt, plausible, or non-​plausible.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_020

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schemes in question are relativators, which means that she is a schemist. For such a relativist, the validity of cognition and understanding is strictly relative to conceptual schemes. Due to the lack of full-​fledged intertranslatability between schemes, there cannot be any universal standards for cognition and understanding. The necessary condition for two or more sets of propositions to be incommensurable is that these sets are governed by radically different conceptual schemes or categorical frameworks. We will take “conceptual schemes” and “categorical frameworks” to be synonymous, referring to sets of necessary conditions for cognition, understanding, and evaluative judgments. Such sets of conditions can be incommensurable if and only if there is no neutral language of observation (in the case of cognition) or understanding or evaluation. In the absence of such a language, no point-​by-​point comparison between the conceptual schemes is possible. Such a point-​by-​point comparison is not possible in the same way as it is impossible to translate a poem in such a way that the translation is a mirror image of the poem (Kuhn 1970b: 266). If those who operate within two or more different conceptual schemes can understand each other in a rough and tough way, but without any hope of finding an algorithm for comparing the schemes, then we have weak incommensurability. If there is no chance or no guarantee that those who operate within two different conceptual schemes can understand each other, then the conceptual schemes are radically incommensurable. In such cases, abandoning one conceptual scheme and adopting another requires a Gestalt switch. Those whose cognition and understanding are governed by incommensurable conceptual schemes live in different worlds, as Kuhn says of scientists operating before and after a paradigm shift (Kuhn 1970a: 111). We would have no guarantee that the different conceptual schemes operate with the same concept of cognition and understanding. The conceptual schemes would be relativators in the sense of D1, and if this Kuhnian picture of cognition and understanding is right, relativism carries the day. But as we shall see later, relativism would become victorious, and vanquish rationalism, only if a radical incommensurabilism proves correct. Paul Feyerabend may be understood as a proponent of such radical incommensurabilism. He said that scientific theories, languages, and cultures are radically incommensurable (Feyerabend 1975a: 171–​180). He invoked the radical lingualist Sapir-​Whorf hypothesis in support of his view. According to it, thought is a function of language, and every language categorizes reality in a different manner from other languages. The result of these categorizations cannot be compared; each language creates its unique reality, and truth is relative to languages. The Hopi Indians had a language, which differentiated between

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processes but had no conception of things (according to Swoyer 2013). The same holds for scientific theories; every theory is a kind of language of its own. Hence, theories are incommensurable in the same manner as languages on the Sapir-​Whorf thesis, Feyerabend says. He also invokes Jean Piaget’s study of children’s cognitive development (for instance, Piaget 1971: 52–​74). It shows that children’s worldview at each stage of development is incommensurable with the ones atother stages. Furthermore, Feyerabend says that cultural worlds are incommensurable. He cites Bruno Snell’s study of the ancient Greeks. Snell claimed that Greeks of the Homerian age saw the world differently than the Greeks of Socrates’s time. The Homerians did not understand the body and the self as wholes; the body was a collection of more or less independent limbs (Snell 1982). Feyerabend adds that ancient Egyptian art is two-​dimensional because the Egyptians saw reality in two dimensions; hence, it is not commensurable with our visual impressions of reality. Their paintings were realistic, given their sensory world (Feyerabend 1975a: 223–​286). Feyerabend flatly denied that there could be progress in science and the arts. In both, we have schools or traditions that are not commensurable. These traditions and schools determine what is regarded as a true description or depiction of reality, but it does not make sense to look for the best tradition or school. The two-​dimensional paintings of the Middle Ages were just as realistic as the three-​dimensional paintings of the Renaissance. Furthermore, the one true scientific description of the world is not possible (Feyerabend 1984: 15–​84). The question arises how Feyerabend could know that old Egyptians saw the world in this way if their view of reality was radically incommensurable with our view. Moreover, the Sapir-​Whorf hypothesis has been criticized severely; it has been said that its proponents misunderstood the Hopi language and even other languages (Swoyer 2013). Making matters worse for Feyerabend, Piaget’s theories have been criticized for having a weak empirical foundation (see, for example, Giddens 1985: 95–​121). Feyerabend’s radical incommensurabilism can hardly be understood unless one knows a bit about his epistemological anarchism. The followers of such anarchism are critical of the veneration of reason. They are similar to the Dadaists, for instance, in having the only program of having no program. There is no such thing as the best methodological rules for science; we cannot even be sure that science makes any sense. The only rule that matters is “anything goes” (Feyerabend 1975a: 23). It is advisable to be an opportunist; sometimes, it is better to employ counter-​rules in science, but sometimes it is more fruitful to play the science game according to the rules of such rationalists as Popper.

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Experience is theory-​impregnated, and therefore, we are not logically compelled to accept the so-​called verdict of experience. There are cases where we should reconsider our experience radically. We can defend or put forth theories of many legitimate reasons, e.g., if we think that a given theory is more fun than theories that seem better justified or have a higher degree of falsifiability. Great scientists like Galileo were opportunists who did not hesitate to falsify empirical evidence and use rhetorical tricks. Rules hamper the activity of scientists; instead of obeying rules, we should establish a pure anarchism where all kinds of ideas compete for the attention of scientists and other people. If there is any rule worth following besides the anything-​goes rule, then it is the Principle of Proliferation (Feyerabend 1975a: 51–​52). We must create new theoretical alternatives and new ways of viewing reality. One of the reasons for this is that the best way to understand a theory or a view of reality is to compare them with theories and views that are entirely different from the ones we seek to understand. We would understand scientific theories better if we compared them with myths. Moreover, we have no way of showing that the scientific worldview is better than the mythical one. We cannot understand reality unless we compare it to the world of dreams. We cannot prove that astronomy is better than astrology; hence parents should be given the right to choose whether their children should study astronomy and astrology at school. The time has come to separate science and the state, just as we have separated the church and the state (for instance, Feyerabend 1978). There is something provocative and refreshing about his anarchism, more than a bit like Nietzsche’s philosophical provocations.175 However, I see no particular reason to believe that astrology is just as good as astronomy. The latter sends men to the moon. But we have no evidence for the contention that the stars determine our fate and no evidence for systematic corroboration of astrological predictions. If such evidence were forthcoming or some good arguments in favor of it being unnecessary, then I should be happy to revise my judgment. Perhaps there is some counter-​rule according to which it can be fruitful to ignore evidence and the demand for it. As a poetic moderate rationalist, I have nothing against the contention that counter-​rules can be fruitful, and that epistemological opportunism is sometimes advisable. And I celebrate the Principle of the Proliferation or at least a moderate version of it. Such a version would be a bit less open to astrology and the world of dreams than 175 For the similarities between Feyerabend and Nietzsche, see Hollinger 1980: 83–​91.

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Feyerabend’s version. Nonetheless, it would be quite pluralistic and open to the possibility of “anything goes!” being a good battle cry for philosophy. It might be added that schemism has some of its most important roots in the thinking of Rudolf Carnap. He talked about “frameworks”; they might be the ancestors of conceptual schemes. Within a materialist framework, we can ask and answer such questions as “do material objects consist of atoms?” Within a phenomenalist framework this question would be meaningless but not the question “what sense-​data construct our conception of atoms?” This question is meaningless in the materialist framework. It makes no sense to ask which framework is best but there are cases where one of the framework is more useful than the other (Carnap 1950: 20–​40).

Davidson’s Criticism of Incommensurabilism

Donald Davidson launched a famous attack upon incommensurabilism some years ago. He said that conceptual relativism rests on the assumption that there are different points of view, which by necessity conflict. However, the dominant metaphor of points of view seems to betray an underlying paradox. It makes no sense to talk of different points of view unless there is a common coordinate system in which to plot them. But the basic point of conceptual relativism is that such a common system is impossible (Davidson 1984: 184).176 If I think I know that a conceptual scheme is incommensurable with my scheme, then I must be able to compare them, but then they are commensurable. I would know that the schemes are very different and therefore be able to compare them. Davidson’s basic point is that conceptual schemes can count as incommensurable only if they are not intertranslatable.177 The problem is that the notion 176 Davidson’s contention seems to be related to Wittgenstein’s private language argument. Wittgenstein maintained that there can be no language only one person can understand, Davidson that there can be no language, which only a given group of people can understand. I think Hegel anticipated Davidson’s argument in his Grenzdialektik (Dialectics of Boundaries). We can know where the boundaries between A and B are if we at least have a working knowledge of what A and B are. Therefore, we cannot maintain that there is something, which is in principle unknowable because that would imply that we already know where to draw the boundaries between the knowable and the unknowable. In that case, we already know something about the unknowable. Hegel is actually criticizing Kant’s notion of a thing in itself. (Hegel 1988: 57–​68 (Die Einleitung (The Introduction)). 177 Bear in mind that Davidson must be talking about radical translation, i.e., translation from scratch as he indeed hints at. If not, his arguments would not make any sense, for

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of two conceptual schemes not being intertranslatable simply does not make any sense: “Nothing, it may be said, could count as evidence that some form of activity could not be interpreted in our language that was not at the same time evidence that that form of activity was not speech behavior” (Davidson 1984: 185). Therefore, we have no particular reason to maintain that there could be conceptual schemes which are not intertranslatable. This has the further consequence that it does not make any sense to talk about the multiplicity of conceptual schemes. If it does not make any sense to maintain that two conceptual schemes cannot be translated into each other, then we have no good reason to believe that we are dealing with two schemes. Furthermore, to prove the existence of incommensurable schemes, we have to show that we can differentiate between scheme and content, conceptual grids on the one hand, and uninterpreted reality on the other. However, it does not make any sense to talk about an uninterpreted reality, and therefore, it makes no sense to talk about conceptual schemes (Davidson 1984: 198). He seems to think that if we know that the slice of reality S is not interpreted, then we have already interpreted it as “the non-​interpreted slice of reality S.” The confinements of this book do not allow for a lengthy discussion on Davidson’s analysis. However, I think it fails. There are at least three reasons for this: even if it does not make sense to talk about uninterpreted or uninterpretable slices of reality, then it does not follow that these slices must be interpreted and interpretable through and through. Conceptual schemes do not necessarily interpret slices of reality in their entirety. Some can be interpreted simply as uninterpretable slices, while the rest of their content is regarded as uninterpretable (Kant’s Ding-​an-​sich). From the point of view of any given conceptual scheme, there could be any number of other conceptual schemes that are only partly interpretable. Secondly, it is not true that we cannot be certain whether a language, incommensurable with our language, is really a language. Against this contention, we can use what I call “Kuhn’s argument from bilingualism.” Kuhn says that we can understand and compare two different paradigms (they are conceptual schemes) in the same manner as a bilingual person can understand both his mother tongues perfectly well. Nevertheless, he cannot translate all the sentences in one of the languages into sentences in the other language precisely. The same holds for two paradigms; the same scientist can understand

then it would be easy to show that theorists like Kuhn allow for translations in the ordinary sense of the word.

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both perfectly well, but they are still at least partly not intertranslatable (Kuhn 2000: 33–​57). Mutatis mutandis, the same must hold for other kinds of conceptual schemes. The bilingual person must know that both his mother tongues are real languages; there is no such thing as speaking some languages but being logically unable to know whether they are languages. This means that even though the languages are incommensurable, he has excellent reasons to say he knows that both are languages. Everyone who knows more than one language is aware that two languages cannot mirror all of each other’s sentences perfectly. There is some incommensurability between all languages; nevertheless, there is no reason to doubt that any of them is not a real language. Thirdly, we have the problem of intertranslatability. It is fairly obvious that languages must be intertranslatable if they are commensurable. However, Davidson ignores this “demand for symmetry” and focuses only on the translatability of other languages into that of the language of a hypothetical “us.” Let us look at the following example: an anthropologist visits the tribe T to study their customs and language. If our demand for symmetry is reasonable, then the criteria for his language A and the T language being commensurable is that they are intertranslatable. For them to be translatable to one another, we must be able to render the anthropological (and other scientific) vocabulary of A into T; at least in a rough and tough way. But if that vocabulary can be translated into T, mutual translatability is no longer a question of radical interpretation. If it does not possess scientific vocabulary, it must be introduced into it to make A fully translatable into T. However, T then undertakes a radical transformation, is changed into Tˊ, a new variation of T or even a new language. Again, a radical interpretation would not be necessary to translate A and Tˊ into each other, and it certainly would not help us to translate A into the original T. Let us assume that the anthropologist is a genius who learns to speak T perfectly. The problem is that he cannot go on being an anthropologist and understand T exactly as the tribesmen do; otherwise, he understands them with the background of his scientific knowledge and being a person from another culture with another mother tongue. If he quits being an anthropologist, forgets all about his past, and goes native, starts to live, and think like the tribesmen, then he can understand T perfectly, but then all questions of translation and comparison of schemes evaporate. Thus, there are conceptual schemes, that of sciences like anthropology and of tribesmen like T. These schemes are moderately incommensurable because it still holds that if no part of the languages that the anthropological schemes are embedded in can be translated into T, then the speakers of T have no reason to believe that these are actually languages. Moreover, a scientific vocabulary does not exist in thin air. It is tied

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to ordinary language; we would not even be able to understand a mathematical treatise if we did not understand some natural language. We must understand expressions like “Let this symbol mean ….,” “Geuss thought that …” to understand a mathematical paper and these expressions belong to natural languages. Needless to say, the vocabulary of anthropology is still closer to natural languages. So, if we have to assume that the everyday vocabulary of A must be translatable into T, then it follows that the speakers of T have a certain hope of understanding the scientific vocabulary of A, even though it cannot be translated into T unless T is radically changed. Furthermore, I would not be able to situate the conceptual beliefs in question if they were worlds apart, witness Davidson’s arguments. Nevertheless, T and A are incommensurable, but since they are not a world apart, they are only weakly incommensurable.

Defending Schemism

Hilary Putnam defended schemism, not least by countering metaphysical realism. Its proponents think that the expression “that which is out there” means “that which exists independent of our theories and interests.” The only real objects in the world are particles and stuff like that, and the things we know from daily life do not exist. The reason is that intrinsic and non-​intrinsic properties are dichotomies. Our daily objects have non-​intrinsic properties and are therefore the creation of our imagination. Besides, these realists think that only the objects that natural sciences describe are real; the rest is a fantasy. For a while, Putnam countered this argument with his internal realism. According to this view, we cannot talk about reality, which is independent of conceptual schemes and human interest. Putnam uses Euclidian planes as an example. Some theorists say that the points at the limits of the plane are parts of it, others that they are its boundaries. The Solomonic judgment, says Putnam, is that the answer depends on conceptual schemes and theories. From one point of view, the points are parts of the plane; from another point of view, they are its boundaries. Putnam says in a provocative fashion: “My view is that God himself, if he consented to answer the question, ‘Do points really exist or are they mere limits?’, would say ‘I don’t know;’ not because His omniscience is limited, but because there is a limit to how far questions make sense” (Putnam 1987: 19). Despite this, questions of truth and untruth are not a question of conventions. Let us assume that we have a world that contains three individual objects, x1, x2, and x3. How many objects does this world contain? The answer

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is relative to conceptual schemes; if we choose Rudolf Carnap’s scheme, the answer is “three objects;” x1, x2, and x3 are logical atoms. But according to the conceptual schemes of some Polish logicians, there is, given two atoms, also an object which is their sum. If we choose this scheme, the answer is “seven:” x1, x2, x3, x1+​x2, x1+​x3, x2+​x3, x1+​x2+​x3. Putnam says that this shows that, concerning the main vocabulary of metaphysics like the ones about objects and that which exists, these words do not have one given meaning. We can choose between various meanings of these metaphysical words and expressions (“object,” “that which exists”). The use of these words and expressions is dependent on conceptual schemes that influence how we regard the world, even concerning what kind of objects can be said to exist. Nothing in the real-​ world forces us to adopt the Carnapian scheme and not the Polish one or vice versa. The one true version of the world does not and cannot exist. The conception of objects, the existence of which is independent of conceptual schemes, makes no sense. This means that the difference between essential and non-​essential properties disappears. The theory about essential properties is wrong, Putnam says. Does this lead to relativism? No, responds Putnam. Certainly, conceptual schemes are products of conventions, and hence, the question about the number of objects dependent upon conventions. However, the answers are not dependent upon conventions; if we use Carnap’s scheme, the objectively correct answer is “three;” if we use the Polish scheme, the objectively correct answer is “seven.” Besides, we have no reason to believe that all schemes are equally good. Some schemes might be more useful than others. The world versions and the scheme that we choose determine when and how we look but not what we will see. If I choose the scheme of common sense, I cannot arbitrarily decide what I am sitting on; I am sitting on a chair, not a turtle. If I choose the physics scheme, I am not at liberty to seriously maintain that particles are demons. Facts are independent of propositions but not of all the activities of the mind. Putnam’s following proposition shows the essence of his internal realism: “There are external facts, and we can say what they are. What we cannot say—​because it makes no sense—​is what the facts are independent of all conceptual choices” (Putnam 1987: 33). The problem is that it is not given that is this internal realism is not relativism. A relativist is not bound to believe that truth is only a matter of conventions. If he thinks that truth is relative to schemes and world versions, then he is a relativist, however moderate. However, moderate relativism is not incompatible with moderate rationalism. Putnam’s moderate relativism pertains to ontology and aspects of epistemology, but there is nothing in his arguments that excludes the possibility of there being some laws of thought

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and argumentation that transcend the schemes. Thus, even though A accepts the Carnapian scheme and B the Polish ones, they cannot believe in their chosen scheme unless they respect the law of noncontradiction. It does not make sense to accept both schemes simultaneously and in the same respect. Their contentions are also fallible; A is wrong if A says that there are four objects according to the Carnapian scheme, and B could make a similar mistake. Moreover, their contentions do not make sense unless they can be justified. Therefore, moderate ontological relativity is not incompatible with the demand for some universal rules of reason. Hence, this kind of relativism is compatible with moderate rationalism. The fact that this kind of rationalism is skeptical of the notion of reason only being a function of universal, ironclad rules does not mean that it is not compatible with the idea of some rules being universal. Furthermore, “universal rules of reason” are not necessarily rules like “the law of noncontradiction must not be broken”. Perhaps, a better rule would be “the law of noncontradiction shall not be broken, unless there are good reasons to believe that we are dealing with dialetheias” (if it makes sense to assume their existence). Be that as it may, we can have the best of both worlds, retaining the idea of conceptual schemes while rejecting the theory of radical incommensurability. Weak incommensurabilism is a viable option and not necessarily antithetical to moderate rationalism. This schemist view and Putnam’s defense of the idea of conceptual schemes shall be ranked a bit above Davidson’s analysis, and definitely above Feyerabend’s dubious theorizing. But Feyerabend shall be lauded for stressing that art can have cognitive functions. Remember that the generative metaphorists maintained that conceptual schemes are metaphoric. If true, that would increase the metaphority of cognition and understanding. Furthermore, models might work a bit like conceptual schemes. If the mind’s modeling of reality shapes our cognition and understanding, then that might enhance schemism. Further, the idea that E is only an event and A only an action under description could do some further enhancing. Understanding and cognizing events and actions is an important part of acquiring knowledge. But the true description is not possible. Now, if there is a multitude of equally valid descriptions of the “same” object and schemes constitute languages, then it makes sense to say that the difference between descriptions stems from them hailing from different schemes. The arguments in favor of schemism might enhance lingualism. If conceptual schemes filter and/​or constitute all our experience and thinking, and if the

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schemes are linguistic, then lingualism must be true. This can be called “the fifth argument in favor of lingualism”.178 It might be the case that there are conceptual schemes in philosophy. The difference in vocabulary and argumentation in different philosophical systems is often so great that it reminds one of the difference between conceptual schemes. It is also possible that philosophical schools constitute such schemes, and that analytical philosophy, pragmatism, and continental philosophy are based upon one scheme each and that they are not commensurable. The difficulties that members of these schools have in understanding each other might point in that direction. Be that as it may, we can use the ppqi: Putnam, the generative metaphorists, and Kuhn put forth different, but good, arguments in favor of schemism, while Davidson’s criticism of it is flawed.179 Hence, we can conclude in a ppqi fashion that it is more likely than not that conceptual schemes shape our cognition and understanding. We can add that since our knowledge is partly relative to conceptual schemes, then there is a moment of relativity in reason. Provided that there are some universal criteria for reasoning.

Conclusion

Radical relativism is a challenge for rationalism. According to one version of this relativism, truth values and suchlike are relative to incommensurable conceptual schemes. Feyerabend defends this view in a spirited, inspired, but flawed manner. Carnap’s and Kuhn’s versions were more down to earth. Davidson has shown the weakness of this radical incommensurabilism. But he failed to refute schemism and weak incommensurabilism. Such incommensurabilism can be defended with the aid of Putnam’s arguments in favor of conceptual schemes. Weak incommensurabilism and schemism are compatible with the moderate rationalism of the rpe and shall be ranked reasonably highly. 1 78 Peirce’s argument might be the fifth one. 179 We can throw Foucault in for good measure. His concept of episteme is a concept of conceptual schemes. According to Foucault, epistemes govern the mode of thinking among scientists in certain epochs and are incommensurable (Foucault 1970).

­c hapter 5

The Reasons of Relativism, the Relativity of Reason In this chapter 1 shall discuss relativist thinkers who do not primarly defend relativism with the aid of incommensruarbilism or even reject the latter. I shall focus on three poetic pragmatists, Nelson Goodman, Joseph Margolis, and Richard Rorty. I shall start by discussing Goodman’s contribution to relativist thought. Then I shall turn to the relativism of Margolis and the semi-​relativism of Rorty. As a part of that discussion, lingualism shall be discussed and the question asked whether we are in an iron cage of language end/​or mental representations.

Goodman and the Plurality of Worlds

Nelson Goodman could have inspired Feyerabend’s musings concerning realistic depiction. He stated that pictures represent reality in a strictly conventional way (Goodman 1976: 38 and elsewhere). But we shall not discuss his theory of depiction; instead, we shall focus on his brand of schemism. He stated that there are many worlds and world versions (conceptual schemes), “Reality is relative” (Goodman 1978: 20). Must we not assume an absolutely objective reality beyond the created worlds and versions? No, said Goodman: “Talk of unstructured content or an unconceptualized given or a substratum without properties is self-​defeating; for the talk imposes structure, conceptualizes, ascribes properties” (Goodman 1978: 6). Thus, talking about a pure reality untainted by concepts, structures, and properties is absurd. Moreover, perception cannot be reduced to material events; the world of perception and that of matter are equally real. However, not all possible worlds are real. What Goodman calls “worlds” are not possible worlds but, instead, real worlds and not fantasies. Daniel Cochnitz and Marcus Rossberg express the core of Goodman’s thinking concerning worlds excellently: “According to Goodman, worlds, and the objects in them are made rather than found. The enterprise of cognition is to construct symbol systems, so-​called versions. True versions constitute a world”. (Cochnitz and Rossberg 2006: 4–​5). But there is nothing arbitrary about the world versions, not all world versions are equally good. The essence of these musings is that when we say “reality, “we mean “the content of the world view of a subject which conceptualizes, thinks, perceives,

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and uses symbolic systems to create views of the world.” We could also say that, according to Goodman, there is no world beyond actual or possible world views, which are created by concepts, symbolic systems, and modes of perception. Briefly, Goodman had an epistemic view of reality. Goodman said that it is equally true that the earth revolves around the sun and that it is stationary. In the world of matter, it revolves; in the world of perception, it is stationary. The worlds of the arts are also real; the arts use symbols just as the sciences, but they symbolize differently, for instance, with the aid of visual symbols and metaphors. It is equally true that the earth revolves around the sun as that it dances the role of Petrouchka. The latter is true in a world of arts, the world of the ballet Petrouchka (Goodman 1978: 111–​112). Now, cannot we reduce these three worlds to the one true world of matter and the diverse ways of using language in the frameworks to the language of physics? No, says Goodman. He is very critical of materialists who maintain that any world version or world must be reducible to the world of physics. The materialist does not understand that evidence for such reducibility is negligible since physics is fragmentary and unstable, and consequences of reduction vague (Goodman 1978: 5). To illustrate further his conception of the plurality of worlds, Goodman makes a thought experiment where he differentiates between the worlds of points and lines: “… the universe of discourse is limited to a square segment of a plane, with the two pairs of boundary lines labelled “vertical” and “horizontal” “(Goodman 1978: 114). In addition, he assumes that there are points on this plane. In effect, this universe of discourse consists solely of points and lines. We have two statements in this universe: 1. Every point is made up of a vertical and horizontal line. 2. No point is made up of lines or anything else. He asks whether restricting their ranges of application could show that each can be true, given different ranges. That might be done if the space in question consisted either of points or lines, but the trouble is that it consists of both and nothing else. So, these are conflicting truths about worlds in conflict. However, it is tempting to ask whether these truths are commensurable. Now, what if we say that 1 is true, on a given convention, while 2 is true, on another one? In the case of this little universe of discourse, we can see whether it makes sense to say that 1 and 2 can be reconciled if we regard the lines, points, regions, and modes of combination as conventionally determined in various ways. The space in question can then be described in various ways, given the possible conventions. But this requires postulating a neutral fact

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(content), which are described in different ways in accordance with different conventions, Goodman says. He adds the following: What, then, is the neutral fact or thing described in these different terms? Neither the space as (a) an undivided whole nor (b) as a combination of everything involved in the several accounts; for (a) and (b) are but two among the various ways of organizing it. But what is it that is so organized? When we strip off as layers of convention all differences among ways of describing it, what is left? The onion is peeled down to its empty core. goodman 1978: 118180

The theory that we can clearly discriminate between convention and content is mainly the same as the theory that we are able to discriminate clearly between theory and fact. But facts are theory-​laden, and therefore it is difficult to discriminate clearly between theory and fact. The same holds for convention and content. Goodman states the following: “The pluralists’ acceptance of versions other than physics implies no relaxation of rigor but recognition that standards different from yet no less exacting than those of science are appropriate for appraising what is conveyed in perceptual or pictorial or literary versions” (Goodman 1978: 5). Artworks symbolize slices of reality in many ways, for example, by exemplifying them. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s poem Wanderers Nachtlied ii, it exemplifies literally a short poem, but metaphorically it exemplifies sadness. More precisely, it expresses sadness. Goodman writes: “What is expressed is metaphorically exemplified. What expresses sadness is metaphorically sad. And what is metaphorically sad is actually but not literarily sad” (Goodman 1976: 85). An abstract painting can exemplify colors and forms. If one goes to an exhibition of such artworks and studies them thoroughly, one’s view of the world can change in such a way that one starts to see abstract shapes and examples all over the place. Such perception is neither more nor less objective than other kinds of perception. Purely abstract art can inform our world through the patterns and feelings exhibited in artworks. Aspects of artworks may serve

180 Putnam’s example is strikingly like this one which is older. Putnam might have been inspired by Goodman.

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as samples of certain often unnoticed or neglected colors, feelings, and forms. Thus, visual art can enhance our understanding of reality (Goodman 1978: 105). Goodman says that fictions apply metaphorically to actual worlds and operate within them just like nonfiction does. Taking literally, Don Quixote applies to none, but metaphorically it applies to a host of people. Therefore, fiction can enhance our understanding of actual worlds. The worlds of fiction, poetry, and arts, in general, are made out of non-​literal symbols, for instance, metaphors, and with non-​denotional means like exemplification and expression. Moreover, these worlds are made out of symbols of nonlinguistic systems, for example, pictures, sounds, or gestures (Goodman 1978: 102). Such expressions as “symbolizing” and “exemplification” can be understood only if we know Goodman’s brand of lingualism. He maintained that both science and arts were largely ways of applying symbols. He wrote: “Symbol” is used here as a very general and colorless term. It covers letters, words, texts, pictures, diagrams, maps, models, and more but carries no implication of the oblique or the occult. The most literal portrait and the most prosaic passage are as much symbols, and as ‘highly symbolic’ as the most fanciful and figurative. goodman 1976: xi

Thus, exemplification counts as a mode of symbolizing (Goodman 1976: 51). Anyway, his lingualism is characterized by a belief that language (systems of symbols in his parlance) should be understood in a broad fashion. What about science? Goodman said truth by itself does not matter much in science since it is fairly easy to mass produce trivial truths, for instance by using the multiplication table. He wrote: “Scientific hypotheses, however true, are worthless unless they meet minimal demands of scope or specificity imposed by our inquiry, unless they effect some telling analysis or synthesis, unless they raise or answer significant questions “(Goodman 1976: 262–​263). He adds that countless alternative hypotheses conform (are true of) any given assemblage of evidence. When choosing between them, the scientist judges them by such features as simplicity and strength, using them as means for arriving at the nearest approximation of truth, which is compatible with his other interests (note the pragmatistic stress on interests). Moreover, even bona fide scientific laws are seldom quite true. Minor discrepancies are often overridden in the interest of breadth, power or simplicity. Truth is at most a necessary condition for successful scientific theories, cf what has been earlier said about the limits of truth. This view of truth and science shall be ranked very highly.

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Goodman adds that statements do not monopolize referential functions, even though they alone have truth values. Showing, exemplifying and denoting also have referential functions (Goodman 1978: 19). Pictures, just like concepts or predicates of a theory can be judged in terms of their fit or rightness. And theories should be judged in terms of their rightness, which means that they should not be judged only in terms of their truth values. Goodman‘s concept of rightness is a wider one than that of truth; it extends over truth, the way pictures show reality, the way words denote objects and so on. He says: “Under „rightness“ I include, along with truth, standards of acceptability that sometimes supplement or even compete with truth where it applies, or replace truth for nondeclarative renderings“ (Goodman 1978: 109–​110). This analysis can be brought into fruitful interaction with J.L.Austin‘s contention that truth is multi-​dimensional. He maintained that a host of different types of statements can claim to be true in different ways. The statement “France is hexagonal“ is true in a way, but with some modification as France is certainly not hexagonal in any neat fashion. “Lord Regal won the battle at Alma “is also true in a fashion, but a matter of interpretation. In what sense do generals win battles alone? Does not their army do a substantial part of the job? “Oxford is 60 miles from London “is largely true, but this distance could be estimated more accurately. Austin‘s conclusion is that “true” is no simple property, we use this concept in a variety of different circumstances. Truth is hardly a relation “nor indeed anything, but rather a whole dimension of criticism” (Austin 1977: 21). It is easy to translate Austin’s idiom into Goodman’s idiom and say that what Austin calls “truth” can be called “different dimensions of rightness”. This Austin-​Goodman view of truth shall be ranked highly, not least because it has inspired my alethetic theory profoundly. Goodman’s theory adds fuel to schemes, strengthens my earlier ppqi in its favor. His theorizing as a whole, if truth-​tracking, would enhance fictionalist arguments. He talks like reality as such is a fiction, more precisely, a lot of different fictions. Since fictionalism has been ranked rather high, this side of Goodman’s arguments shall get a reasonably high ranking. The fact that he was a poetic pragmatist and a schemist increases his ranking. It may be asked whether he is logically self-​consistent; his theory about worlds and versions must be a world version that cannot be relative. Goodman’s theory/​world version must be valid for all actual and possible worlds. The worlds, in his view, are products of true world versions and they of systems of symbols. Goodman’s theory can be called “a system of symbols.” He is bound to regard his theory as being true. Therefore, his theory creates a world. But this world must be a meta-​world. Hence, Goodman must accept that reality is not entirely relative to schemes and systems of symbols; his theory-​world must

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be universally correct, even though it might have any number of dimensions, more or less incommensurable. So, it is tempting to think that his theory is true if it is untrue and true if it is untrue. However, if the multivalentists are right, then Goodman’s theory might be expressible in dialetheias, and hence be potentially true, even though it is self-​contradictory. Perhaps, the law of noncontradiction is relative to a given scheme and world.

Margolis and Relativism

In this subchapter, I shall discuss theories of relativists that are ready to sacrifice some of the sacred cows of logic. I shall briefly mention Barry Barnes and David Bloor, then turn to the robust relativism of the pragmatist Joseph Margolis. Inspired by Prior, Barnes and Bloor maintain that the alleged fact that induction and deduction cannot be justified is an argument in favor of relativism. If deduction and induction cannot be argumentatively grounded, then there is a hypothetical moment in any attempt to show that relativism is self-​defeating (Barnes and Bloor 1982: 40–​43). But they ignore the possibility of there being self-​justifying arguments, say, of the transcendental kind. They should perhaps have used multivalentism as arguments in favor of the law of noncontradiction not being universally valid. Thus, seemingly self-​ defeating statements like “the truth of every statement is relative to a relativator” might be dialetheias, and hence not self-​defeating. If this is the case, then the peritropic argument against relativism fails. Maybe the truth values of most theories and statements are necessarily relative to context while a few are not, including statements like “truth is mostly relative to relativators.” If it is usually the case that the truth of statements and theories is relative to relativators, it makes sense to say that truth is mostly relative. This is a possibility; remember that the rpe deals in possibilities. There might great difficulties in rejecting the law of noncontradiction, but the same does not hold for the law of the excluded middle. That law can be formulated as “for any proposition ‘p,’ the disjunct ‘p or not-​p’ must be true.” The tertium non datur can be understood as the principle that all statements must be regarded as either true or false (see, for instance, Quine 1986: 83). We can, of course, maintain that some statements are cognitively meaningless, but for those that are not, the law of the excluded middle holds. Thus, we reject the principle but retain our belief in the law, some theorists say (for example, Beatch 1996: 84).

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Joseph Margolis maintained that the law of the excluded middle was not universally valid; therefore, it was not given that relativism was self-​defeating. He was an advocate of robust relativism. It is a kind of relativism that can avoid the traditional pitfalls of relativism, such as performative inconsistencies, etcetera.181 He says that the following strengthens the hand of the relativist:



(1) Reality is cognitively intransparent, i.e., there is no unmediated access to it, and whatever does the mediating is relative to time, place, cultures, and so on. (2) The structure of human thought and the structure of reality are symbiotized. This might be said to follow from (1), for if our access to reality is mediated by the structure of our thought, we cannot distinguish sharply between reality and thought. (3) Thinking is historized, and therefore, there are no invariances or essences, not even of the laws of logic or the principles of judgment. (4) The structure of thinking is preformed and self-​modifying. margolis 1995: 2–​3

Moreover, (1–​4) ought to strengthen our belief that everything is in flux. Such a belief implies the denial that there are any necessary invariances, language, or thought. Our theories about reality cannot be separated from reality itself, and those theories are eminently re-​interpretable. Thus, there are no necessary invariances. This fact is of tremendous consequences for the human portion of it. There is less stability in cultural reality than in the natural one. If (2) and (3) are correct, then we cannot treat logic as a merely formal discipline. There is no way to separate the formal clearly from the substantial, so Margolis ends up by advocating a kind of Neo-​Hegelian approach to logic. The validity of logic and the validity of epistemological and metaphysical theories cannot be neatly separated. Therefore, the truth values of metaphysical and epistemological statements can determine the truth values of purely logical propositions and vice versa. Overriding epistemological and metaphysical concerns can force us to declare that this so-​called law of the excluded middle is not valid for a given sector of inquiry. Denying the omni-​validity of that law is part and parcel of robust relativism. Margolis defines “the least form of relativism” (l.f.) in the 181 Performatively, inconsistencies arise if someone seriously claims C1 “all truths are relative to some context; there are no universal truths.” If it is true, it is untrue because then there is at least one universally true claim, C1. If C1 is only true in some context, then those who evade that context are not bound to accept it.

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following way: “Any doctrine counts as a form of relativism if it abandons the principle of the excluded middle or bivalence (and tertium non datur), or restricts its use, so that, in particular sectors of inquiry, incongruent claims may be validated” (Margolis 1991: 17).182 The upshot of all this is that the law of the excluded middle is no sacred cow, which means that bivalent logic is not the only game in town. Multivalent systems of logic are sometimes to be preferred to the bivalent one (for instance, Margolis 1995b: 2). How can incongruent claims be validated? We can maintain that given the same evidence, it is equally probable to state that Nixon knew about the Watergate break-​in before it happened, and that Nixon did not know about it. Notice that the two statements “It is probable that Nixon did know about the Watergate break-​in before it happened” and “It is probable that Nixon did not know about the Watergate break-​in before it happened” are not logically contradictory, although they certainly are incongruent. Notice that “Nixon did know about the Watergate break-​in,” and its negation are obviously contradictory (for instance, Margolis 1991: 13). There are sectors of inquiry where we can systematically replace the bivalent values “true” and “false” with other logically weaker truth-​like values such as plausibility, aptness, and possibility (Margolis 1982: 94). The question of the correctness of relativism is answered in one of these sectors of inquiry where “robust relativism is correct” has no truth values but some third value like plausible or apt. Margolis adds that it is presently favored. Thus, Margolis thinks he has evaded the pitfalls of self-​defeating arguments in favor of relativism (Margolis 1991: 219–​220). Furthermore, he says that l.f. is the least common denominator of all viable relativisms. Margolis admits that l.f. alone does not entail relativism. It must be wedded to “Protagoreanism”, i.e., the adoption of the idea of flux and the denial that knowledge addresses only the necessarily invariantly real. Indeed, Man is the measure, and Man is a Protean, ever-​changing creature. Further, l.f. must be united to a moderate incommensurabilism, that is, the idea that there are moderately incommensurable conceptual schemes. This means that there is minimal intertranslatability between them; they are not worlds that are entirely alien to each other (Margolis 1991: 18). Margolis was far too smart to state that he had vindicated relativism. He only said that it can be shown that relativism is legitimate, possible, plausible, and presently favored. Thus, he thought almost in a possibilological manner. 182 For a more extensive overview over Margolis’s robust relativism, see Snævarr 1999: 57–​81.

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Margolis has a complex ontology, which cannot be discussed here. It suffices to say that, according to him, there is a certain stability in the material world in contrast to the artworld, despite the flux. Therefore, there is nothing against employing bivalent logic to uncover the mysteries of nature. If contrary descriptions of ordinary natural objects were regarded as confirmed, we would then be obliged to think that the descriptions were true of two different objects. (Margolis 1965: 50). However, this stability is lacking in the artworld; that world is a part of the universe of flux. We cannot talk about true interpretations of artworks, only “plausible” and “apt” ones.183 Moreover, as we remember, we can jointly defend incongruent statements about plausibility. It is not by chance that we tend to think that “the” correct interpretation of given artworks cannot be found. There is no such thing, Margolis says. So, interpretations of artworks are relative, for instance, to what Margolis calls “myths,” i.e., schemas of the imagination, which are capable of effectively organizing our views of viewing portions of the external world in accord with its distinctions (Margolis 1980: 151). Examples of such myths could be psychoanalysis, Marxism, or Christianity. Utilizing them in an interpretation cannot be said to be a superimposition upon what is “really” there in an artwork since the boundaries of works of art are elastic. A psychoanalytic or Christian interpretation of, say, Hamlet, can be equally plausible, though incongruent. Yet, they can be plausible only given that they do not blatantly contradict evidence about the play. Every interpretation must be compatible with minimally describable properties of the work in question (Margolis 1980: 155). It would, for example, be quite hard to maintain that an interpretation, which holds that Hamlet´s Claudius actually was a devil-​worshipper, is compatible with requirements of minimally describable features of the play. Margolis is right about there not being “the” correct interpretation of artworks and that any serious interpretation must be compatible with minimally describable properties of interpreted artworks. His theory of myths as a basis for interpretation is also very interesting, not least the stress upon imagination. Could there be any serious interpretation of artworks that does not require the exercise of imagination? Yet again, we see the power of imagination, its cognitive importance. However, we might not need his multivalent logic to analyze interpretation and understand that it makes hardly any sense to talk about the only true interpretation. Nowadays, we can interpret such Medieval Icelandic sagas as the

183 Margolis actually introduced this idea before converting to relativism (Margolis 1962: 108–​118).

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Saga of Burnt-​Njal as a proto-​novel, but its author(s) and contemporaries in the thirteenth century could not because they did not possess the concept of a novel. Future readers of the saga would have the opportunity of interpreting it in the light of cultural developments, which we cannot predict but would be well-​known to them. It makes no sense to say that any of these interpretations is the most accurate. They are acceptable, given that they do not flatly contradict the minimally describable features. Notice that one needs to exercise imagination in order to see the saga as a modern, realistic novel. This holds for at least a large class of interpretations of artworks, but they would not be worth much if the imagination runs wild and ignores the said describable featured. Now, if it makes no sense to say that the correct interpretation can be given, one might ask whether there is any need to believe in interpretations of artworks? Why not just rank them? Given that all else is equal, they do not even deserve medium ranking unless they square with the describable features. And likewise, ceteris paribus, to deserve a high ranking, they must at least be reasonably coherent, somehow apt, ideally original, and hopefully thought-​ provoking. I hope that my own interpretations of various artworks in this book deserve a reasonably high ranking. Let us return to interpretation and multivalent logic. Robert Stecker quite sensibly points out that in order to show that the logic of interpretation is a multivalent one, at least two tasks have to be satisfactorily performed. First, one must provide the logic in question, so we can evaluate it. This Margolis has hitherto not done. Secondly, it has to be shown that just this logic makes sense when given a real-​world application in the interpretation of artworks. To say that multivalent logic is viable and need not be incoherent like Margolis does, does not show this. To say it is coherent only says that it is a consistent formal system and does not show its applicability to interpretative statements (Stecker 1995: 15). Strangely enough, Margolis did not seem to ally himself with dialetheism or fuzzy logic, which could perhaps have delivered the goods, multivalent logic that has real world application. Like Quine and Williamson, Stephen Davies is conservative about using non-​standard logic. He prefers to operate with classical logic, which is preferred to multivalent logic as long as it match our intuitions and are up to the tasks at hand. He maintains further that multivalent logic does not deliver the goods Margolis wants. Davies wants us to consider the contradiction between two propositions, A and B, in multivalent logic where 0 is the value false and 1 is the maximal truth-​like value. By virtue of their contrariness, the values of A and B are so related that the evidence increasing the value of one of them

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decreases the value of the other. We feel intuitively that A’s value is 1 minus the value of B. That means that a conjunction of the two would take the lesser value of the component proposition (it must be so if a conjunction with a false conjunct is false). In acknowledging the contrariness of the conjuncts, the conjunction in question cannot take a value greater than one half. In most cases, its values must be rather less than half. So, contrariness between propositions can be accommodated within a multivalent logic, but only by assigning a low truth value to their conjunction. Margolis thought that his logic preserves both the contrariness of the conjuncts and a high truth-​like value for the conjunction. He did not think that the truth-​like value of the combination diminishes by the conflictual relation between the truth-​like values of the components of the conjunction (the problem is that Davies nowhere shows that Margolis says so). Davies now asks what in Margolis’s proposed logic is the function, which generates the truth-​like value of a conjunction from the values of its conjuncts. He does not find any intuitively suitable candidate. Additionally, he asks what the relationship is between the truth-​like values of independently asserted contradictories if it is not such that the value of the one can be high only where that of the other is low. Lastly, he asks in what sense the sub-​maximal truth-​like values can be said to measure a kind of truth rather than our epistemic access to it (Davies 1995: 12). Here he touches upon an important issue. Margolis’s critics have pointed out that it seems more intuitively satisfying to regard values, such as plausibility, as epistemic rather than alethic. In plain English, this means that when we say that something is plausible, we are saying that it is possibly true. Thus plausibility (and, for that matter, probability) measures our access to truth. Michael Wreen maintains that it is a conceptual necessity to hold that a judgment, which can be plausible or possible, can also be true and that if it cannot be true, it cannot be possible or plausible (Wreen 1982: 84). But, as earlier said, Margolis admits that there are cases where plausibility, probability, and suchlike, function as epistemic values. Furthermore, he says that Wreen, in the first place, conflates “probably true” with “true” and that conflating these two leads to a flat contradiction. Let us assume that it is equally probable on the same evidence that Nixon knew about the Watergate break-​in beforehand and that he did not know about it. This leads to us believing that it is probably true that Nixon did know and that it is also probably true that he did not know. However, this means that we believe in the truth of two contradictory propositions. Secondly, he says that Wreen dogmatically believes that we can settle on formal grounds alone whether the truth-​like values in question can be used

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in a truth-​valuational (alethic) way or only in an epistemic way. It is always a matter of logical fiat or of findings particular to given domains of inquiry how these values function (Margolis 1982: 94). But here Margolis is just as dogmatic as Wreen possibly is. He must show in a clear-​cut fashion that understanding certain domains of inquiry requires the use of multivalent logic. The problem is that multivalentists might be right but Margolis wrong about plausibility. He might have applied multivalent logic to epistemology in a wrong way. Perhaps it suits sentences in literary artworks better than interpretative statements about them, cf. the experiment in the last chapter. Be that as it may, Margolis’s challenging ideas are food for thought and his moderate incommensurabilism should be ranked rather high. Maybe someday some thinkers (perhaps dialetheists or fuzzy logicians) will develop his conception of multivalent logic for epistemology and show that he was on the right track in his analysis of interpretation. He developed his own brand of pragmatism and deserves to be called “a poetic pragmatist.”

Rorty and Relativism

Was Richard Rorty a relativist?184 He denied that he was one, among others, because he accepted Davidson’s criticism of the idea of conceptual schemes and hence did not regard theories as relative to such schemes. Also inspired by Davidson, Rorty doubted whether there can be any gap between intentional objects and its referents. If there were such a gap, how would humanity have survived? (Rorty 1993: 443–​461 and elsewhere). In his neo-​pragmatist phase, Rorty defended a radical, anti-​essentialist view of language and truth. It does not make sense to compare vocabularies to find out which one is best at uncovering truth. That would be like evaluating tools with respect to their ability to help people get what they want in general, without specifying what kind of “wants” we are thinking about. Does it make sense to ask whether the hammer, the computer, or the saw are better to help people get what they want? Surely the hammer is a tool for realizing different goals than the computer and the saw; there is no point in comparing their usefulness. Every vocabulary is a tool for a certain purpose and must be evaluated in terms of the purpose they are supposed to serve. There is no meta-​vocabulary, no standard for judging which of our different vocabularies can describe reality

184 Both Putnam and Susan Haack maintain that he was a relativist (Putnam 1990: 3–​29) (Haack 2009: 239–​261).

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as it really is. Looking for such a vocabulary is like looking for the tool that helps us get what we want in general, a meta-​tool185 (see, for instance, Rorty 1992: 89–​108). The vocabularies have different focuses of interest, and therefore we cannot say that one is closer to truth than another unless they share a focus of interest. Moreover, only sentences can be true or false; sentences are parts of languages, and languages are human creations. Therefore, truth is a human creation but constrained by reality. Inspired by Davidson, Rorty says that reality can cause our sentences to be true or untrue but not determine truth any further than that (Davidson 2001: 143). This shows that it does not make sense to say that truth consists of correspondence to reality. This does not mean that Rorty denies the existence of the material world: “The world is out there, but the descriptions of the world are not” (Rorty 1989: 5). That which we call “truth” is only social justification. Only a belief can justify another belief, the world itself cannot justify anything. For from a material configuration, nothing follows logically, but a belief can follow logically from another one. In addition, a belief is something that exists in social settings. We cannot make true representations of reality; we are not mirroring the real; we are only causally connected to reality. Intellectual and moral progress cannot consist in ever better representations of reality but rather in the growth of increasingly useful metaphors. Language and cultures are like coral reefs; old metaphors are constantly dying off into literalness and then serve as platforms for new metaphors. Scientific revolutions are re-​descriptions of nature rather than insights into the intrinsic nature of nature, cf. Kuhn. Rorty approvingly quoted Nietzsche, who said that truth is a mobile army of metaphors (Rorty 1989: 17)(Nietzsche 1980: 874–​890). Why could there not be true theories about how the world really is? Can we not envision a convergent consensus by qualified researchers about such theories? Rorty’s response is that this conception of consensus is based on the idea that there must be a grounding metaphysical standard beyond the flux of time, culture, and circumstances. But to locate this standard, the seekers must already be at the consensus point, which is being sought. They must already know what it is to find the real consensus. Therefore, their arguments are viciously circular, arguments that assume the consequent, i.e., the existence of an objective point of view.186 Furthermore, we know what it is to judge the truth values of sentences on the basis of the criteria provided by given language games. However, it is unclear how to judge the truth value of entire 1 85 I ask: a metaphysical Swiss knife? 186 This reconstruction of Rorty’s arguments is partly based on Ramberg 2007. If Rorty is right, then Habermas and Apel are wrong about the importance of consensus.

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vocabularies and compare them on the basis of that. The world itself does not provide us with criteria; only vocabularies do (Rorty 1989: 5–​6). Therefore, science cannot give us any deep insight into the mysteries of the world (if there are any). (Rorty 1982a: xliii) (Rorty 1991a: 35–​45).187 The fictionalists might concur with the view that science cannot give us any such deep insight. And they must reject the view that scientific theories can mirror reality, even though they might mirror the fictional level. Fictionalism has been ranked highly, so these view must be taken seriously. Can we now answer the question of whether Rorty was a relativist? Yes, he was a relativist in the sense that he denies that there is a meta-​vocabulary and implicitly says that criteria are relative to vocabularies. Moreover, if all justification is social, the validity of justification is relative to societies. Now it is time for some critical comments: Rorty’s contention that truth is a human creation is problematic. He talks like his own statements about truth are true. But are not they then just human creations, not any better than their contradictions? How does he know that reality has only causal effect on sentences? How does he know has any effect at all on sentences? How does he know that sentences alone can be truth-​bearers? Rorty criticism of meta-​vocabularies has as a precondition that he can objectively describe humans as beings who cannot mirror the real world and are only causally connected to reality. This description of the human predicament can only be done in a privileged vocabulary, which can somehow mirror human reality. If there is no way that propositions can correspond to reality, then one might ask why this holds for his propositions about beliefs, and the way experience relates to them, and so on. Statements like “the truth is out there, but our descriptions are not” must in some way be true of something and somehow correspond to it. Given the law of noncontradiction, then Rorty’s arguments might be self-​defeating. But this depends on how one understands “correspondence.” Maybe it makes sense to say that a proposition corresponds to something else in the same way as propositions on a meta-​level of meaning can be said to correspond to those at the lower level of meaning. This kind of correspondence does not break out of the iron cage of language but concerns the relationship between levels of meaning. We can talk about weak correspondence. Maybe, Rorty’s arguments are of that weak kind. Moreover, we have discovered that the law of non-​contradiction might have limits or even be illusory. Therefore, Rorty’s arguments might not be self-​defeating. 187 I have mentioned earlier his contention that the main role of science is to create solidarity.

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Lingualism, Science, Reality, Skepticism

Here starts a short, general discussion with dialogical and possibilological traits: Now, the five arguments in favor of lingualism discussed earlier, seem sound and enhance Rorty’s arguments. A sixth argument can support them and enhance lingualism: let us assume that we put forth a proposition p0, which we think corresponds to a given slice of reality (SoR). The problem is that determining whether p0 corresponds to SoR can be done only through proposition p1: “p0 corresponds to SoR.” To determine whether p1 corresponds to the relation between p0 and SoR, we need proposition p2 and so ad infinitum. This correspondence theory leads to infinite regress (see, for instance, Habermas 2009: 208–​269). If this argument is as good as it seems, it makes no sense to say that a proposition can correspond to a non-​linguistic reality. “In the beginning was the word”, the Bible tells us, the lingualists add that the word was also in the middle and at the end. Then again, the lingualist arguments, including Rorty’s version, might be wrong. There might be some ways to show that we can break out of the prison. If there is tacit knowledge, then we might have an escape route out of the prison. We can also ask whether the theory of concepts being mental representations offer such a possibility of escape. No, because we could then be prisoners in the iron cage of mental representations (call this view “radical mentalism”). Given George Berkeley’s idealist arguments we certainly are we think we are in touch with material reality but all we have are subjective experiences and no way of proving that they represent material objects (Berkeley 1962). We can add that propositions might be essentially mental and not necessarily linguistic. Furthermore, fictionalism might be used to support iron-​cageism. On fictionalism, we cannot break out of the cage of fictions, be they of linguistic and/​or mental nature. However, we can ask how “the iron-​cageists” can know that we are in the prison house of language and/​or mental representations. If we can know this, then our cognitive powers are very strong. And if they are so strong, who says they cannot help us escape from the prison? As for the lingualist variant of iron-​cageism, we can ask whether this radical lingualism is not just a product of a particular language? There might be an equally good language, which could not produce lingualism of the iron-​cage-​kind. Anyway, there is no particular reason to doubt that science somehow helps us cope with reality. Perhaps successful scientific propositions have a weak correspondence to reality or at least to its fictional level. “Weak correspondence” in science might be correspondence to fictional entities, and the fruitfulness of postulating them might show itself in this kind of correspondence.

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What about the success of science-​based technology? Perhaps it is an inference to the least bad explanation to explain the success of such technology by stating that science somehow can uncover (“mirror”) and understand slices of reality (such that a well-​confirmed scientific proposition corresponds to slices of reality, which are untainted by language). However, it cannot be an inference to the best explanation because of at least three obstacles. In the first place, the concept of uncovering is problematic in light of the aforementioned arguments against correspondence to non-​ lingual reality. Secondly, that technological equipment functions well does not show that the theory, which it is based on, is correct. There are many technological devices based on Newtonian mechanics, a theory that scientists nowadays have good reason to regard as wrong or limited. Thirdly, we can imagine a techno-​demon, a not-​ so-​ distant relative of Descartes’s demon. This techno-​demon cons us into thinking that modern technological gadgets are the product of science while they actually are the offspring of magic. There might be a Wittgensteinian answer to this in his analysis of what he called “Weltbild”. In ordinary German, “Weltbild” means “world view” (verbatim “picture of the world”), but Wittgenstein uses it in his fashion in his discussion of skepticism. Imagine that someone says, “reality might well be an illusion.” Wittgenstein said that we have no criteria at all for deciding whether such a proposition is true or not, the same would hold for the proposition about the techno-​demon (maybe we could exorcise him with the aid of the Weltbild analysis). Nevertheless, believing that the proposition is wrong, and that reality is “real”, is a necessary part of the web of the language we speak at the moment. This web of language obviously contains decidable propositions; such propositions must have some non–​testable propositions as preconditions (Wittgenstein 1979: 33 (§ 253)). Thus, these non-​testable propositions function like the background of our beliefs. Wittgenstein wrote: “But I did not get my picture of the world by satisfying myself of its correctness, nor do I have it because I am satisfied with its correctness. No: it is the inherited background against which I distinguish between true and false” (Wittgenstein 1979: 15 (§ 94)). The Weltbild consists of the totality of such undecidable propositions as “there is reality;” which are the precondition for meaningful propositions, at least in our epoch and culture. A Weltbild is changeable, so maybe it could make perfect sense to say that in a future world, people would have a Weltbild, which would have as one of its backbones that reality is somehow unreal. Or they would do without any notion of reality (Wittgenstein 1979: 14–​15 (§ 93–​97)).

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However, notice that Wittgenstein says “maybe.” Perhaps such a Weltbild without some conception of reality is an utter impossibility. The contingency of Weltbilden does not make just any old Weltbild acceptable. It must be added that the Weltbild analysis is not above criticism. Where does one Weltbild end and another Weltbild start? If our web of words and meanings is in a state of flux, then it would make it even more difficult to pin down exactly what a given Weltbild is or whether the concept of a Weltbild is fruitful. Nevertheless, the Weltbild idea shall be ranked rather highly. Let us return to the question of science and reality and look at Putnam ‘s “no-​miracles argument.” If science does not describe nature reasonably objectively, then the results of science would be miracles. Moreover, we have no proof of miracles ever having taken place (Putnam 1978a: 18–​19). The followers of this argument do not think that it provides a conclusive refutation of irrealism. It simply gives the best explanation of the successes of science and technology. It is an abductive argument (an ibe), and as such, it cannot be proven with absolute certainty (Okasha 2002: 62–​63). However, Larry Laudan has launched a tough attack on realism. The purported success of science is not a reliable indicator of their truth and that they genuinely refer to reality, i.e., that the theoretical entities posited by them exist. There have been many successful theories in the past that we now think are false and that their theoretical entities do not exist. The phlogiston and the ether theories were successful for a while, but we now think they are false and that neither phlogiston nor ether exists. We cannot exclude the possibility that currently successful theories are false and the theoretical entities that they posit do not exist (Laudan 1981: 19–​49). The present writer is partial to abductive reasoning but also to fictionalism, and Laudan’s arguments fit the latter better. I shall not judge whose argument is better, the one of Putnam and Okasha or Laudan. Instead, I reiterate that we cannot exclude the possibility of humankind being cognitively closed to important aspects of reality such that even if scientific theories can help us grasp some aspects of it, the “deeper” sides lie forever beyond our grasp. Several physicists doubt that we can understand quantum mechanics and maintain that even specialists in the field are like persons who have no problems using cell phones but have not got a clue of how it works. Likewise, ­scientists can harness the power of quantum mechanics without really understanding it. Others think that there is a way of understanding it, but physicists have not been trying hard enough (Carroll 2019: 1–​7 and elsewhere). Maybe we are cognitively closed to quantum mechanics. However, the positivist, even pragmatist, view would be that asking for the real nature of quantum mechanics is like asking what is to the north of the North Pole.

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I shall not judge whether that is right, being no quantum physicist. Instead, I claim that some important sides of science might be social constructions such that theories stemming from this side are relative to the means of construction. Furthermore, a large swath of what science studies must be fictional entities (this fictionalist contention must be regarded as plausible because fictionalism has been ranked highly). Then again, there might be sides of science that somehow can grasp slices of reality, for instance, those slices we need to know to create technological devices. Maybe scientists ought to rank theories instead of believing in them; maybe they do it in practice already. Accepting a theory tentatively without thinking it must be absolutely true is something that scientists do. Such an acceptance means ranking the theory above its competitors in practice, at least for the time being. Maybe science is all about the proliferation of possibilities or ought to be like that. Let us now return briefly to lingualism and iron-​cageism. Given the Weltbild-​ analysis, maybe propositions like “we are in the iron-​cage of language” lack criteria such that we cannot determine whether they are true. This also means that we cannot determine whether the criticism of the iron-​cage theory and lingualism is true. We must also take heed of arguments against lingualism, for instance by the followers of the module theory of the mind, i.e., the theory that the mind consists of a multitude of modules that operate somewhat independently. Thus, the language module operates independently of the modules of thinking (see for instance Fodor 1993: 119–​138). But even if this were true, we cannot exclude the possibility of K only qualifying as a candidate for knowledge if it is expressed in some language system, including mathematics. If that is so, then non-​linguistic cognitive processes only function as input while the output is lingual. Or maybe knowledge is the common product of language in the broad sense and some non-​lingual cognitive processes. Is the module theory antithetical to iron-​cageism? Not necessarily, it is compatible with radical mentalism, maybe we are incarcerated in the prison house of mental representations. Remember that the rpe also ranks fictionalism highly and fictionalism fits some kind of mentalism or lingualism better than, say, pure physicalism. On lingualism or mentalism, our reality must be to some extent a fiction created by language and/​or mind. Furthermore, the rpe has a lingualist bias through its belief in the cognitive powers of the Literary traits, which are mainly linguistic. Thus, the rpe ranks lingualism somewhat higher than other alternatives, but not the iron-​cage variant. As we have seen, there is no way to prove that we are in such a cage. Moreover, the rpe’s lingualism is otherwise moderate; for all

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we know there might be non-​lingual mental representations and other non-​ lingual mental acts, tacit knowledge etcetera. But language in a broad sense might have the last word, it creates knowledge claims out of non-​lingual inputs. Nevertheless, there is no such thing as demonstrating the truth of lingualism. Maybe lingualism and its opposites should be regarded as Carnapian frameworks. If so, there are cases where one of them is more useful than the others. As usual, a possibilological discussion ends with a lot of “maybes”.

Conclusion

The radical relativism of Goodman is inspiring but might be self-​defeating. His emphasis on the cognitive and constitutive role of art “rhymes” with the rpe, also his brand of lingualism. Nonetheless, given Wittgenstein’s Weltbild-​ analysis, there might be no criteria for determining whether lingualism or iron-​cage-​ism are true. Maybe they are only meaningful given frameworks/​ conceptual schemes. But due to its pro-​fictionalist stand and belief in the cognitive powers of the Literary, the rpe ranks lingualism a bit above its opposite. Barnes, Bloor, and Margolis defend relativism in an interesting fashion, trying to show that it is not necessarily self-​defeating. However, Margolis’s use of multivalent logic raises a lot of questions. But his moderate incommensurabilism shall be ranked above Feyerabend’s radical version. Rorty’s arguments against the view that science can unlock the mysteries of reality are challenging and interesting. However, we cannot exclude the possibility of Rorty being wrong and that science has or will have this power of unlocking, at least in the form of theories weakly corresponding to reality. Lingualism of the moderate sort is ranked highly, higher than radical lingualism of the iron-​cage kind. It is also ranked higher than any variation of the iron-​cage-​theory, including the one, claiming that we are living in iron cage of mental representation. Moderate lingualism is open to the possibilities of tacit knowledge and non-​lingual mental representation as long as language in the broad sense has the last word. There are good reasons for moderate relativism, it is compatible with rationalism. There is a moment of relativity in reason.

­c hapter 6

Rhetoric, Science, and Literature Is rhetoric the opposite of logic and rationality? Does science have rhetoric moments? These question shall be discussed in this chapter, alongside with the question of whether literature and philosophy have essentially rhetorical moments. Finally, I shall make two rpte: In the first one I shall experiment with novels as models, somewhat analogous to scientific ones. In the second one, I make a little multivalentist experiment concerning imaginative literature. Could it be that there are dialetheias in works of imaginative literature but perhaps nowhere else? Does fuzzy logic work in the realm of literature but maybe not outside of it?

The Rhetoric of Science (Destabing Science)

Scientific theories and rational thinking cannot be reduced to be applications of the Canons of formal logic or the search for empirical facts. Furthermore, informal logic is one of the pillars of reason and rhetoric is a close relative of informal arguments (according to for instance Groarke 2007). You might say that rhetoric is informal arguments minus logic or minus the necessity of having a logical component. If informal arguments are of great importance for reason, then rhetoric might matter to it too. All this makes science and reason open to rhetoric. Moreover, given that there are some grains of truth in Margolis’s and Rorty’s theories, then rhetoric must play some role in science. If knowledge and meaning were constituted entirely by conceptual schemes, then there cannot be any general rationality and rational vocabulary to describe and compare the content of schemes. However, this would be the consequence of radical incommensurabilism on the moderate view, preferred by me; there should be some possibilities of finding common ground, however minimal. One reason is that it is far from certain that all meaning, and knowledge are bound to conceptual schemes. Nevertheless, switching conceptual schemes can hardly be an entirely rational process in the sense of a process of pure logical arguments; rhetoric must play an important role. Emotions too, we hardly switch schemes unless we desire to do so. Rhetoric is a good means for influencing our emotions.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_022

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Now, I shall try my hand yet again at destabing. I shall try to show that rhetoric is not the antithesis of rationality. The difference between rhetoric and reason (and science) can be destabed. I am, of course, making a rpte. But let me first say that I have in practice been busy destabing science in many earlier chapters. If causality has a storied structure, that would give science a Literary trait. Its Literary traits would still increase if scientific models had metaphoric, narrative, and fictional sides. The increase would be even more if mathematics and logic had some of these sides. Yet more Literary traits would be added if scientific reasoning were at least partly analogical and metaphoric and if scientific theories must deal in fictional entities. All this would give science the Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. Hence, science would be destabed. Now, let us turn to rhetoric. We have seen that it makes sense to say that science has metaphorical and hyperbolic moments. Metaphors and hyperboles are among the tropes of rhetoric. The question arises of whether science has rhetorical moments. I shall conduct a rpte to show that it does, and in the process, destab the difference between rhetoric and rationality. For the sake of argument, I shall assume that the Aristotelian view of rhetoric is mainly correct. Rhetoric is about convincing others about beliefs and/​or changing their perspective on reality or some slices of it. Aristotle informs us that rhetoric has three necessary components: ethos, pathos, and logos (Aristotle 2004: 14–​15 (Book i, Chapter 2, 1356a)). More precisely, ethos is the trustworthiness of a speaker, as in the old joke “trust me, I am a doctor.” A scientist giving a lecture is usually trusted by his audience because of his scientific credentials. “Pathos” refers to the emotions that the speaker can evoke in his audience, e.g., dislike of the theories the scientist is criticizing in his lecture. “Logos” refers to a speaker’s arguments, for instance, those against the theories he is criticizing. However, it seems strange to regard arguments as an essential part of rhetoric, cannot one convince or influence the views and perspectives of people without arguments? Hitler did not use arguments but persuaded a lot of people to believe in his ideology. But of course, there are also ways of persuading people that involve arguments and hence logos. Therefore, I shall call the third component of rhetoric “the subject of discourse” and add that logos can be a moment in this subject. It shall also be emphasized that rhetorical discourses have usually a high degree of tropicality, i.e., tropes such as metaphors and hyperboles are of great importance in rhetoric. Do these factors play an essential role in science? Yes, they do. First, science would not function if scientists did not desire to convince others, and

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even themselves, about the virtues of certain theories, models, and empirical studies. Theories are notorious for being underdetermined by facts; there is no way to prove an empirical theory with 100% certainty. Hesse points out that this means there is room for ideology in science (Hesse 1982: 98–​115). I add that there must be room for rhetoric: we must persuade ourselves and others about the cognitive virtues of our favorite empirical theories; their empirical foundations cannot do the job alone. Nor can they alone show which explanation of a given object or occurrence is correct; there is an infinite number of possible explanations. Again, rhetoric must fill the gap. As hinted at, rhetoric is not only a tool for inducing beliefs in people, but also a tool to make them see things in a certain way, accept perspectives on slices of reality as interesting, thought-​provoking, or in some other way worthy of attention. Science also encourages such perspectives; it does not only induce beliefs in people. Furthermore, conceptual schemes provide perspectives on reality just like rhetoric. Rhetoric could therefore be an instrument for making people accept a conceptual schemes, including those of science. If the rhetor gets us to see ever greater slices of reality in a certain way, and makes the way of seeing seem natural, chances are that this mode of seeing “hardens” into a conceptual scheme. One of the means for getting us to shift perspective is influencing our emotions through rhetoric, make us want to see things in a different way. Second, individual scientists cannot know and test every scientific theory that applies to their projects; they must accept the authority of those who know these theories and have tested them. Accepting authority is tantamount to trusting the ethos of certain people, trusting that they know what they are doing and do not deceive other scientists. Pathos may be necessary, given that there is no such thing as a 100% certain refutation of a theory; so, evoking emotions may be necessary to make people stop believing in a bad theory. Furthermore, feelings of interest and curiosity are important in science; so, evoking curiosity and interest can be the legitimate pathos goal of a scientific actor.188 Let us turn to that which we call “subject matter,” which can include logos. It is trivially true that scientific discourses involve argumentation and hence logos. Aristotle emphasized that the logos of rhetoric could never produce essential and absolutely certain knowledge, in contrast to metaphysics. The

188 This does not make science irrational. We shall later discover that emotions can have rational moments.

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rhetor cannot put forth any foolproof deduction from premises to conclusions when arguing through syllogism. His arguments always contain unstated and unprovable premises. However, this Aristotelian picture of rhetoric squares well with science. Science would not achieve much if it did not use axiomatic premises and they are famously unprovable. It is difficult to see how we can conduct science (or simply cope with the world) unless we use either induction or inferences to the best explanation (ibe), or both. Nevertheless, neither inductive nor ibe arguments are formal logically valid; they must contain unstated and unprovable premises. In addition, consider Hesse’s and Haack’s excellent arguments in favor of the contention that purported deductive arguments in the empirical sciences are not perfectly deductive. If they are right, we can conclude that there is no gap between the purported deductive arguments employed in empirical science and the arguments used in rhetoric. The conclusions of rhetors need not be formal logically perfect conclusions, but the same holds for ibe and induction. Rhetoric cannot yield propositions that can be shown to be true with absolute certainty, but the same holds for sciences, which deal in fallible theories. The conclusion must be that there is no deep divide between rhetoric and science. That does not mean that science is purely rhetorical; rhetoric did not send men to the moon; science did. However, non-​formal-​logical induction and ibe are reasonably fruitful ways of coping with the world. The same holds for deduction, even though it cannot be formal-​logically justified, just like ibe and induction. What about philosophy and rhetoric? There is no lack of conscious use of rhetoric among philosophers. Rousseau, Rorty, Nietzsche, and Feyerabend used rhetoric to nudge their readers to think in certain ways. The same holds for Alfred J. Ayer in his attempts to show the emptiness of continental philosophy, for instance, by talking like its proponents were conceptual poets who mistakenly thought they were philosophers. Hyperboles play an obvious role in various kinds of philosophical reasoning; the pure models of logical analyses are hyperboles in the same sense as scientific models. Moreover, as earlier said, metaphors play an important role, fictional narratives too. Logos certainly plays a role in philosophy, but it is even more difficult to measure the rationality of philosophical arguments than scientific ones. If the rational base of philosophy is weaker than the one of sciences, then pathos and ethos must play a greater role in philosophy than in science. Rousseau claimed with great pathos that Man was born free but was everywhere in chains. As an example of ethos, Nietzsche’s “I am not a man, I am

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dynamite” will do.189 He was creating an image of himself as an interesting theorist or prophet; the reader shall trust that he writes thought-​provoking stuff. One might perhaps take the ethos and pathos out of philosophy without destroying it, but not such tropes as hyperboles and metaphors. Rhetoric matter much to imaginative literature. Orwell’s 1984 can be understood as an attempt to convince the readers of the perils of totalitarianism. Emile Zola’s can be read as an attempt to persuade the reader to think that the sexual mores of his age were hypocritical. And even though Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass is mainly a vehicle for personal expression, there is also rhetorical moment in it: the reader shall be convinced that the United States represents something new and fresh, free, and democratic. At the same time, the speaking voice of the poem presents itself as truthful, a harbinger of glad tidings. In Jaroslav Hasek’s novel Svejk, irony and satire can be understood as rhetorical devices used to nudge the reader to reject militarism and authoritarianism. Additionally, Berthold Brecht wrote didactic plays, trying to make the audience aware of the purported ills of capitalism. In one of the songs in his Three Penny Opera, we find the famous phrase “Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral” (“Eating comes first, then morality”) (Brecht 1928). The moral is that it makes no sense to demand moral conduct of someone so poor that he is starving. The strong rhythm of this line and the satiric and entertaining nature of the play make it an excellent rhetoric device for propagating a certain political view, the communist one. The poet Ezra Pound was certainly no communist. In his Canto xlv, the speaking voice of the poem preaches against usury: “With Usura With usura hath no man house of good stone …. with usura hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall … with usura, sin against nature … with usura wool comes not to market … Usura slayeth the child in the womb. pound 1967: 67190

1 89 He said so in his book Ecce Homo. 190 The reader should be aware that I only pick some sentences out of the poem, which is far too long to be printed here. But to understand my point, it is advisable to read the poem in its entirety.

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The many repetitions of “with usura” create a suggestive rhythm that might almost hypnotize the reader and make her accept that usury is evil. Could it be that rhetoric does not belong essentially to imaginative literature, that the moment of rhetoric found in diverse literary works is there contingently? No, in the first place, there would not be much literature if no literary work had any power to move people emotionally; moving people is what a rhetor must try to do. Being moved emotionally means having at least a momentary belief about something and/​or at least for a moment adopting a certain perspective on something. Paul Celan’s magnifique Holocaust poem Death Fugue (Todesfuge) has the power to move the reader, make him see the victims of the Shoah as deserving sympathy and their tormentors as deserving condemnation. This might strengthen his belief that murdering the innocent is wrong. So, poetry can do the same job as rhetoric, move people emotionally. There is no lack of metaphors, hyperboles, and other tropes in literature. Here is an example of hyperboles in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird: “There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb country” (Lee 1960: 6). There is no need to argue in favor of there being hyperboles in this quotation, they are easy to spot. There would not be much literature if there were not any tropes in literary texts. There would not be any satires because without the trope irony one cannot write satires. Stories like Rabelais’s about Pantagruel and Gargantua would not have been written because they are wildly hyperbolic. Without metaphors, Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets would not be great literature. Literature would have mattered much less than it has if there had never been any persuasion attempts made in a literary text, no attempts to move us emotionally into seeing reality in certain perspectives or even act in certain ways. So, without rhetoric, literature would either vanish or change beyond recognition, and certainly lose importance. Yet again we find something that literature and science share, both have rhetorical moments. Ethos and pathos make the scientific community tick; they are fuel for scientific activity and hence constitute an important part of the context of discovery. In addition, they fill in the lacunae of rational arguments without necessarily undercutting them. Tropicality, on the other hand, and of course logos, can be parts of both the context of discovery and the one of justification. Models are metaphoric and hyperbolic; without them, it would be difficult to test and judge scientific theories. Given that rationality has a large overlap with scientific methods and inquiries, even with philosophical theories, the rpe has destabed science and

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reason by attempting to show that science has rhetoric traits, just like literature and philosophy.

Novels as Models, Multivalentism, and Literature

Now it is time for some rpte’s with imaginative literature. In the first experiment I shall try to determine whether it makes sense to say that novels are models. In the second experiment I shall so to speak see whether the garments of dialetheism and fuzzy logic fits imaginative literature. Remember also that the champion of imagination, Paul Ricœur, maintained that literature makes models of reality. And that Frigg and Cartwright likened scientific models to narrative literary works. I add that neither literary works nor scientific models necessarily refer to facts; a scientific model can be extremely abstract and seemingly remote from reality; nevertheless, it can be a great tool for enhancing scientific understanding. Something similar holds for at least some literary works, e.g., Stanislaw Lem’s science fiction novel Solaris (Lem 1981: 7–​195). It can be interpreted and used in many ways, for instance, as pure entertainment (in contrast, scientific models have only one kind of use, cognitive use). But the literary works can also be used as models for slices of reality. How can Solaris be thus utilized? It is about a team of scientists who land on a planet where there is a strange oceanlike lifeform. They are not able to communicate with it, but it reacts to their attack on it by creating copies of dead people that have mattered much to members of the crew. One of them, Kris Kelvin, has a troubled conscience because of the suicide of a girlfriend, whom the lifeform creates anew, taking on her shape. All the depressing memories come back to the astronaut at the same time as he is mesmerized by the creature. The other members of the crew have similar experiences. How can there be a potential model in this story? It can be understood as a model for grasping the often uncanny and destructive power of memory and imagination, how these powers can make people feel guilty. It could also be understood as a model for grasping the difficulties we have in communicating with those who are radically different from us (the lifeform) and our insensitive behavior toward them (the attack). The protagonist, Kelvin, sums up the experience with the creature at the end of the novel: “That liquid giant had been the death of hundreds of men. The entire human race had tried in vain to establish even the most tenuous links with it, and it bore my weight without noticing me any more than it would notice a speck of dust.” (Lem 1981: 194–​195).

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Why is this a model and not just an embedded theory? In the first place, because it is not stated in the novel that we shall use it this way, any more than scientific models state exactly how they should be used. Secondly, because we use cues in the text to understand it as being about memory and communication, just like we articulate scientific models through cues. Thirdly, models can be understood as containing embedded theories, and the same holds for models found or created through interpretations of literary works. In the fourth place, the novel can be understood as having a seeing-​as moment; we are invited to see humans as being burdened by their memories and having problems in communication. Models also have a seeing-​as aspect due to their metaphoric moment. In the fifth place, the novel concretizes abstract ideas, just like models often, even always, do, cf. Cartwright. It is through the concrete experiences of Kris Kelvin and other astronauts on the planet Solaris that abstract notions are shown, those of memory, communication, and guilt. Let us perform the second experiment. Putting forth oxymorons, paradoxes, and other kinds of contradictory statements is usual in literary works, especially poetry. But they do not necessarily strike us as absurd, rather as a peculiar way of expressing thoughts. Might they be dialetheias that are true in the world of the work? In his song Love Minus Zero/​No Limits, Bob Dylan says/​sings “My love she speaks like silence” at the beginning of the song. Later he says/​ sings “she knows that there is no success like failure” (Dylan 1965). In his poem Death Be Not Proud, John Donne addresses death like it was a living being, ending the poem thus: “Death, thou shalt die” (Donne 1609/​2022). This is contradictory because death is not a living being and only living being can die. Seemingly, it is stated that something that only can happen to a living being can also happen to something that cannot be a living being. Nevertheless, the sentence and the rest of the poem does not strike the reader as absurd. The reason might be that this it is a kind of dialetheia, a contradiction true in the world of this poem and true in the Christian faith. Donne describes death as a short sleep, which we will awaken from, presumably to eternal life in heaven. William Butler Yeats wrote about the abortive Irish uprising in 1916 in his poem Easter 1916. The speaking voice in the poem expresses mixed feeling about the uprising and its leaders but sort of concludes “A terrible beauty is born” (Yeats 1921). Only living beings can be born and beauty is not such a being, besides, beauty is somethings sweet and attractive, hence it cannot be terrible. The sentence is paradoxical. Nonetheless, it makes perfect sense as a part of this poem and could be a dialetheia. It might be true in the world of this

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poem. At the same time, the poem is not without relations with reality; maybe the feelings expressed in it were contradictory so the only way to express them was through contradictions. In his great novel At Night All Blood is Black, the Senegalese author David Diop lets one of two main characters express himself in a long series of contradictory sentences, showing that both characters are in a sense one but also divided and that their lives and experiences cannot be fathomed by ordinary common sense and its bivalent logic: But I am also the red moon that rises over the river, I am the evening air that rustles the tender acacia trees. I am the wasp and the flower. I am as much the wriggling fish as the still canoe, as much the net as the fisherman. I am the prisoner and his guard. I am the tree and the seed that grew into it. I am father and son. I am assassin and judge. I am the sowing and the harvest. I am night and day. I am fire and the wood it devours. I am innocent and guilty. I am the beginning and the end. I am the creator and the destroyer. I am double. diop 2020: 137–​138

These contradiction might be dialetheias within the world of the work, contradictory, but not incoherent and false. Outside of the work’s world, they might be blatant contradictions. Then it must not be forgotten that literary works can be interpreted in various ways. We could say that contradictions in this text function as a way of expressing such noncontradictory propositions as “the two protagonists are one and the same”, “they are a part of nature and society”. Dylan’s phrase can in the light of the rest of the lyrics be understood as saying that girl has wisdom, understands the complexities of reality, that there are blurred distinctions between most phenomena. That she speaks like silence can be understood as meaning that she is not opinionated and does not raise her voice. It goes without saying that metaphors play an important role in literary works. Earle MacCormac maintained that a four-​valued logic applies to metaphors. He was inspired by Philip Wheelwright’s differentiation between diaphors and epiphors. According to Wheelwright, epiphors are metaphors that say more than they suggest, diaphors are the opposite. The more similarities there are between the topic and vehicle of the metaphor, the better reason we have for calling it “an epiphor”. The more dissimilarities there are between the topic and the vehicle, the better reason we have for calling it “a diaphor”. All metaphors have epiphoric and diaphoric moments because all metaphors are based both on similarities and dissimilarities between the topic and

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vehicle. There cannot be pure diaphoric or epiphoric metaphors. The reason is that a pure epiphor would be an analogy, not a metaphor and a pure diaphor would be nonsense, not a metaphor. “Billboards on highways are warts” is an epiphor because we see the similarities at one (both are ugly, stick out, and should not be there). “Hot Susie is my soft ice” is a diaphor. It is a very suggestive metaphor and seemingly full of paradoxes. Susie is both warm and cold, dry, and wet, the dissimilarities dominate the metaphor. It is suggested that she is nice, perhaps because of the paradoxes. Diaphors can suggest new possibilities of meaning while the epiphors can provide us with insights into that which we were not aware of or only suspected were true. If I understand MacCormac correctly, then diaphors are creative, while epiphors makes us aware of aspects of that which we are used to and/​or already know. Might it help us get a grip on tacit knowledge? If experience confirms some of the hypothetical possibilities of a diaphor, then the diaphor can become an epiphor. If the epiphor is accepted by the general public, then it can become a dead metaphor and part of ordinary speech. If the billboard-​metaphor is used a lot, then we can imagine that the word “wart” gets a new meaning, that of something that sticks out and is ugly. The epiphor would then get a literal meaning and have truth values (MacCormac 1985: 39–​40). MacCormac maintains that the truthlike values of metaphors should be placed between the ones of truth and falsity. He constructs a four-​valued logic with the values true (T), epiphor (E), diaphor (D), and false (F). As suggested, E is closer to T on the scale, D to F. We have seen that diaphors are “crazy” and speculative, that might smack of falsity. E is more in accordance with common sense and its possible truths, the foundation of E is similarity. Metaphors are partly true and partly false. As far as topic and vehicle are similar, then the metaphor is true. As far as they are dissimilar, then they are false. It is strictly speaking false that billboards are warts, nevertheless there are some similarities between them, so the metaphor is not entirely false. MacCormac ties this four-​value logic to fuzzy logic and not least the idea of fuzzy classes (MacCormac 1985: 86). He writes: The clash of Animate and Inanimate need not produce an outright contradiction in the metaphor “The locomotive is in bed”. If considered as a person, “locomotive”, an inanimate object, is a member of the fuzzy set Animate to a degree withing the range D. We have produced a diaphoric suggestion rather than a false statement. maccormac 1985: 88

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Even though metaphors cannot be either true or false, then they relate to truth and falsity in various ways. As we have seen, epiphors can become literal truths and good scientific epiphors would probably be close to truth on MacCormac’s scale. He also thinks that hypotheses that suggest like diaphors can be falsified. There are scientists who maintain that connecting quarks to colors is not only simple rules to help them remember the difference between various quarks. There are certain similarities between the inner structure of colors and the structure of quarks even though there strictly speaking are no blue or yellow quarks, these scientists say. MacCormac adds that the hypotheses, which these diaphors generate can be supported by experiments for a while. Then more and more experiments point in the direction that the similarities are not so great. In that case, we can claim that the diaphor has been falsified (MacCormac 1985: 219). It could be added that something similar might hold for scientific models. Black’s analog models might be epiphors while his theoretical models might be diaphors. Yet again, I must remind the reader that I do not judge whether fuzzy logic and dialetheism are fruitful. However, maybe my alethetic values should be placed between the ones of truth and falsity and not beside them as I have done. Maybe the alethetic theory needs infusion of blood from MacCormac’s fuzzy logic. His theory can perhaps glean some support from what Andrew Ortony says about the way ordinary people understand similes and metaphors. If they agree with a metaphor or a simile, then they tend to say that “it is true in a way”, “there is a grain of truth in it” and so on (Ortony 1993: 346). Now, let us look at literature. Given MacCormac’s analysis and given that there are literary works that can be interpreted as metaphors, these works might have the cognitive value of diaphor to some degree. The same holds for metaphors in literary works. It is time for the giving of examples: what interesting examples do we have of novels or other literary artworks that can fruitfully be understood in its entirety as a metaphor or a group of metaphors? Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea comes to mind. The story of the old fisherman who wrestles with a big fish but loses it in the end. It can be metaphorically understood as a metaphor for the individual’s struggle for existence which he is bound to lose, death will prevail. Or a metaphor for an old writer’s writing block, which seems for a while to wane but waxes again. Now, strictly speaking, neither writing blocks nor humankinds struggle for existence are being mentioned in the story, making the metaphors partly untrue. However, on fuzzy logic a meaning-​bearer (sentence, text etcetera) can be partly true and partly untrue at the same time and in the same respect. These metaphors fit the story so well that they must

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be apt, which means that they are partly true or better: having a high degree of the truth values of diaphors and/​or epiphors. But these metaphors are rather dull, mainly epiphoric metaphors, that can probably be literalize without any great effort. It is more challenging to read Anna Kavan’s novel Ice in search for metaphors, both for the story as a whole and in the story. Kavan was a British writer, inspired by Kafka. The science-​ fiction writer Brian Aldiss called her “Kafka’s sister” (Aldiss 1991: 14–​21). Ice is postapocalyptic, dystopian novel, taking place in a future where nuclear explosions has led to a new ice age. The ice is engulfing country after country and people flee to the south in desperation. The story’s narrator is a former soldier who is obsessed with a passive, pale, thin, platinum or silver haired girl, pursuing her in the snow and ice but she is elusive, more like a hallucination than a real person. He has another obsession, that of the singing of some lemurs in a tropical land, singing that seems to represent warmth and humanity. The so-​called Warden, a psychopathic man of power, also pursues her, successfully until the last chapter where the narrator kidnaps her and drives with her into a snowstorm, a storm that seems like the final one, the one that will destroy mankind. However, the girl suddenly shows her strength, scolding the narrator for pursuing and kidnapping her. Notice that none of the characters has a name, in Kafka’s stories the characters often are nameless or have a half name like Josef K of The Trial and K of The Castle. This summary sounds like the summary of linear story. However, the plot in Ice is far from linear, it is more like the recounting of a dream than a realistic story, more than a bit like Kafka’s The Castle or David Lynch’s movie Lost Highway. Just like K, the narrator is trying to reach a goal which evades him most of the time, just like when we in dreams are trying to act but we seem like paralyzed. The narrator says: “Reality has always been an unknown quantity for me” (Kavan 2017: 1). The story he narrates seems somewhat out of sync with reality. Tyler Malone writes: If Ice gathers to itself the properties of both a labyrinth and a mirror, the mirror is a clouded mirror-​a glass in which we see, darkly, not ourselves, but shapes that may resemble us, outlines of a world that may be our world. Perhaps the best image for Ice is the funhouse mirror maze, where we are simultaneously lost and found, distorted, and illuminated, blocked and blocked. malone 2017

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People who know the story must have the feeling that Malone captures its essence with a series of apt metaphors, metaphors more of the diaphoric kind than the epiphoric one. The fun house mirror maze metaphor is very diaphoric but also pretty apt. It is diaphoric because it is a bit absurd and difficult to literalize, apt because it captures the dreamlike essence of the story. Using fuzzy logical terminology, one might say that the metaphor is partly untrue but is apt because it has a high degree of the truth value of the diaphor. The untrue aspect is the fact that the story strictly speaking is not a funhouse mirror maze, the apt part is that are analogies between the story and the maze. The narrator is like a person in a maze hardly knows where he is. He all of sudden loses the sight of the girl, then she reappears in some strange shape like in a funhouse mirror. Within the world of the novel, the metaphor The earth is becoming engulfed by ice (the ice metaphor) is a metaphor for the ever-​stronger obsessions of the narrator, mainly his obsession of the girl, partly of the singing lemurs. It can also be understood outside of the world of the novel as a metaphor for the state of mind of men who only regard women as objects. Both the narrator and the warden regard the girl only as an object. So, the ice metaphor can be understood as a metaphor for the mindset of a sexual predator. These interpretation of the ice metaphor make it a rather epiphoric one, relatively easy to literalize. Ice is often associated with callous cruelty; the obsession of both men is quite cruel. Ice is also something that seems rigid, an obsessed person is rigid in her single mindedness. Yeats uses a similar simile for obsession in his poem Easter 1916: Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. yeats 1921

Stones are even more rigid than ice, the latter tends to melt but not the ice in Kavan’s novel. It has stony qualities. Another metaphor is of interest: The singing lemurs are the harbingers of hope and solidarity in an alienated world of cruel obsession. This lemur metaphor is more diaphoric than epiphoric, there is something absurd about singing lemurs and about them being almost like redeemers. Nevertheless, within the world of the story, this metaphor makes sense. Singing can bring joy and feeling joy makes us more optimistic and hopeful than if we had no joy. The lemurs also live outside the realm of the

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ice, giving the narrator the hope that there might be places on earth that the ice will not reach. So, this diaphor is quite apt within the world of the story. Outside that world, it is obviously untrue that there are singing lemurs. At the same time, the metaphor might have a high degree of the truth value of diaphors, given that communal art can bring people together and create harmony. One can think about Daniel Barenboim’s attempt to bring Palestinians and Israelis together in musical activities. These two experiments, the one with the models and the others with MacCormac’s fuzzy logic seem reasonably succesful. That does not mean that we have accept that novels really are models, or that fuzzy logic and dialetheism are acceptable, or MacCormac’s theory of metaphor is correct. Only that if there is some grain of truth to be found here, then we yet another set of good reasons to maintain that imaginative literature can have a cognitive impact.

Conclusion

Scientific theories and rational thinking cannot be reduced to be applications of the Canons of formal logic. This makes science and reason open to rhetoric and poetic (the Literary). They have rhetoric moments, the ones of pathos, ethos, and logos, plus a big chunk of tropicality. Ethos and pathos are important parts of the context of discovery and fill in the gaps of rational arguments without necessarily undercutting them. The tropes and the logos are parts of its context of justification. However, this does not automatically make the scientific enterprise irrational, nor does it automatically undercut reason. Science has important, rational moments, and rationality is of paramount importance to the scientific enterprise. Nevertheless, science has been destabed, it has the three Literary traits and some rhetorical ones as well. There is no lack of rhetoric in philosophy and literature, they would not be much without it. It makes sense to say that some literary works can be understood as models of slices of reality. It might also make sense that multivalentism can help us understand metaphors and contradiction in literary texts. Let us finish this chapter with a daring, experimental statement: formal logic is the skeleton of reason, rhetoric its blood, and poetic its flesh.

Conclusion and Summary of Section i, Part B Scientific theories and rational thinking cannot be reduced to the pursuit of truth or applications of the Canons of formal logic. After all, inductive and abductive reasoning is not formal logically correct; nevertheless, science uses both. Moreover, reasoning in an abductive way requires imagination. Rational thinking employs deduction, but there is no way to conclusively prove the validity of deduction or the necessity of the law of noncontradiction (but they can be supported argumentatively up to a point). There might be contexts where neither the law of noncontradiction nor the one of excluded middle apply. Furthermore, rationality is essentially soaked with values and tropes, including metaphors, and includes imagination as one of reason’s most important tools. All this makes science and rationality open to rhetoric and the poetic realm (the Literary). They have rhetoric moments, the ones of pathos, ethos, and logos, plus some Literary traits. Language might be the bearer of reason, but it can be destabed; it can show to have four Literary traits, metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary genres. Just like cognition/​ understanding, scientific models possess “only” three Literary traits; they lack one of the literary genres. mathematics and logic perhaps possess two (if any), the ones of metaphority and fictionality. Needless to say, scientific models, understanding/​cognition, mathematics, and logic are among the cornerstones of rationality. If they have Literary traits, then there cannot be any gap between scientific rationality and the realm of literature. That gap narrows if it is true that works of imaginative literature can be understood as models of reality. It narrows even more if multivalent logic plays a role in both. It is more likely than not that our cognition and understanding is shaped by conceptual schemes and everyday models. Some of these schemes and models might be metaphoric. But that does not lead to radical relativism; the rpe takes heed of relativist arguments but maintains that poetic moderate rationalism deserves a bit higher ranking. However, moderate relativism is not incompatible with poetic moderate rationalism. And the rhetorical moments to be found in science, philosophy, and literature does not necessarily undercut rationality. It can be reason’s little helper. Just like scientific rationality, practical rationality has its Literary traits, the traits of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. This points in the direction of it making sense to talk about the poetic of reason.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_023

section i i The Poetic of Reason (ii): Feelings, Disclosure, Background

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Introduction to Section ii, Part B In this section, I shall turn my gaze towards that which is usually regarded as the Others of reason: feelings, disclosure, and the tacit background of reason-​ bearers, language, emotions, etcetera. I shall introduce cognitive theories of emotions and try to show that reason has emotive sides. Then emotions shall be destabed. After that, I shall discuss the concept of disclosure, introducing my version of this concept. Then I shall turn to the question of the background. Finally, I shall write some concluding notes on rationality and the poetic of reason.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_024

­c hapter 1

Feelings I shall start by introducing the central notions of emotions and feelings and their cognitive role. The construalism of Robert Roberts takes the center court. In the next subchapter, I shall turn my gaze toward Peter Goldie and his theories of emotions. Last in line is Charles Taylor and his theory of articulation. With the aid of these and other thinkers, I shall try to show that feelings play a cognitive role and that there is no gap between reason and emotions. The question of the role of emotions in literature shall be discussed briefly.

Emotions and Feelings: Cognitive Theories

It is customary among modern philosophers to discriminate between at least two kinds of feelings: sensations, on the one hand, on the other, emotions. Pain or orgiastic feelings are grouped as sensations. We feel these sensations in our bodies, usually in given parts of them. We feel a pain in our fingers, an itch on a part of our skin, and intense well-​being everywhere in our body. Concepts, intentional objects, and propositional attitudes are not essentially involved in sensations; we share them with the brutes. Most philosophers think that sensations have no cognitive content. But can one deny that sensations can convey valuable information about the conditions the body is in, about that which endangers it, and so on? Not having the ability to feel pain puts children at great risk. They can burn large parts of their bodies without feeling anything and die as a consequence, despite wanting to live. Feeling mirth can be a sign of the opposite, the sign that we are in a beneficial situation. You might call sensations “corporeal cognition”; of course, all cognition might be said to be somehow corporeal, but the sensations are without any greater doubt tied to the body as its warning and information system. We cannot cope with the world unless we feel sensations. The experience of these sensations cannot be adequately described in words or other meaningful signs, which points in the direction of the information they convey being the stuff of tacit knowledge.191 Nevertheless, parts of this

191 I just assume that it makes sense to say that we know our own sensation, despite Wittgenstein’s criticism, witness his pain-​argument.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_025

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information can be fed into the world of propositional knowledge by putting forth such propositions as “I am in pain!” and/​or showing pain in bodily reactions; observations of this reaction can be the material for true propositions about the state of the one in pain. Moreover, giving sensations identity requires propositional knowledge. Nonetheless, understanding slices of reality through sensations is outside the bounds of rationality. At the same time, understanding provided by sensations can function like empirical observations in science, be the raw material (or input) for rational reflections. In contrast to a sensation, an emotion cannot be localized. If I feel fear, it would be wrong to say that I feel fear in a given place in my body, though a sensation in, say, my stomach might arise whenever I feel fear (Kenny 1963: 57–​58). Emotions are in the first place intentional and thus have intentional objects; secondly, they have propositional content; thirdly, they are about something in the world that can be conceptualized. This means that emotions have a cognitive component. For example, if I am angry, then my anger is directed against someone or something, which is the intentional object of my anger. If I am angry with John for having allegedly stolen my car, then the object of my anger is, as Robert Solomon points out, irreducibly that-​John-​stole-​my-​car. The object is not the alleged fact that he stole the car since he may not have done so (Solomon 1976: 184). This means that my anger has a propositional content; it is about something in the world, and if not the real one, then at least the world of my fancy. My anger is a propositional attitude (in this case, an angry attitude) toward a fact expressed in the proposition “John stole my car.” This proposition contains the propositional content of my anger. Note that we cannot have propositional attitudes unless we master certain concepts. In my case, my being angry with John for having stolen my car is not possible unless I master such concepts as that of cars and theft. There is no such thing as doubting that we have certain sensations, such as pain, if one cuts oneself. Does not the same hold for emotions? Are they not purely subjective? Not entirely. I might believe that I have friendly feelings toward someone, but at the same time, my actions toward that person and my behavioral pattern, in general, show that what I mistook for feelings of friendship were feelings of paternal-​like warmth (I treat my “friend” like a child). The chances are that actions can typically give us important clues to the nature of at least some of our emotions. Scrutiny of our own actions can be the best way to determine whether we really love a person or are just infatuated, or even simply fond of that individual. Stanley might sincerely believe that he is in love with Anne while he systematically betrays her, never caresses her, and even beats her now and then. More than that, he has clandestine relationships with other women, and when Anne asks him to commit to her, he gets nervous,

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uneasy, and evasive. Another person could point out to him that his actions contradict his belief. Alternatively, by analyzing his own actions, he might discover that he is not really in love with Anne. He might find out that he was only infatuated with her or that he simply wanted to dominate her. Due to these examples, it seems plausible that at least some, even all, emotions involve actions and reactions or dispositions to act or react in an essential fashion. Furthermore, emotions are fallible; we can mistake the nature of our emotions, even though we cannot be mistaken about the nature of the subjective feel that are parts of the emotions. Anger and other emotions have cognitive contents. Robert Solomon thought that this content consists of beliefs and reasons for them: a change in belief typically inspires a change in emotions. I stopped being angry with John when I discovered that he did not steal my car. My anger does not disappear as a matter of cause and effect but as a matter of logic. I simply do not have any reason to be angry with him anymore. Similarly, I cannot be embarrassed if I do not believe that my situation is awkward (Solomon 1976: 179). There must also be a conative element, a will or desire. Solomon, influenced by Jean-​Paul Sartre, thinks that we have free will concerning our emotions. We can be masters of our own emotions. In contrast to sensations, we say of our emotions that they are “reasonable” or “unreasonable,” “warranted” or “unwarranted,” “justifiable” or “unjustifiable.” Had I continued to be angry with John after having discovered that he did not steal my car, my anger would certainly have been unjustified unless I had some other reason for being angry with him. Solomon even maintains that there is no such thing as being angry or having any other emotion without reason. Let us assume that Jane shows all signs of being angry at John at the same time as she admits that she has no reason to be angry with him; she is just angry with him. In this case, we must assume that she is lying, deceiving herself, or does not know what anger is (Solomon 1976: 184). Maybe she thinks that “anger” means “feeling aggressive toward someone” or “having negative thoughts about someone.” This is my addition to Solomon’s analysis. Anthony Kenny could have added that she is probably experiencing some kind of emotional upheaval, but it should not be labeled “anger,” even though she thinks so (Kenny 1963: 68–​69). In stark contrast to emotions, we have no reason to think that there are unjustified stomachaches or headaches (Solomon 1976: 162–​163). Or justified euphoria. In his earliest phase, Solomon maintained that emotions do not essentially involve sensations. He seems to have had two interwoven arguments against the theory that sensations form the basis of emotions, one empirical and the other conceptual. These arguments are interwoven because he uses

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the conceptual one to explain a puzzling empirical fact. We must, therefore, examine first the empirical argument, which is based on the results of the so-​ called Schachter and Singer experiments. These scientists injected test subjects with epinephrine, the adrenal secretion responsible for the most marked sensation of emotion. Then they provided the subjects with different social situations. The scientists discovered that the physiological changes and their accompanying sensations had nothing to do with the differentiation of emotions. Those subjects who were put in fearful circumstances reported feeling fear, in offensive circumstances, anger, and so on192 (Solomon 1976: 157–​158).193 The injection might be called “a part of the cause” of the emotions in question, but certainly not the reason for them. It might be shown that sexual deprivation is the ultimate cause of Johnnie’s love for somebody, but his reasons are quite different.194 The reasons may be that I think that the person I love can make me happy and so on. Note how the concept of a reason and that of an intentional object are woven into one another. My belief about the intentional object of my love functions as a reason in favor of being in love with that particular intentional object. Solomon believed that the cause of an emotion could never be identical with its object: “The object is always subjective, a part of the world as one sees it, whether or not it is in fact the case. The cause is always objective; it must be the case if it is the cause” (Solomon 1976: 184). This is how Solomon uses a logical argument to explain the strange outcome of the Schachter and Singer experiment. The example of the injection not only helps us to differentiate between causes of emotions and reasons for having them, but it also strengthens the thesis that it is not possible to discern between our emotions simply by analyzing our sensations, more precisely by scrutinizing our inner states. Solomon asks about the difference in feeling between pairs of emotions like embarrassment and shame in this connection. He contemplates two imagined situations. In the first one, you are standing in line to board a bus when the crowd behind you suddenly surges forward, causing you to bump into an elderly woman, knocking her down into the gutter.

1 92 We see here yet another example of how empirical inquiries can be fruitful for philosophy. 193 Solomon admits that the injection procedure limits the conclusion that can be drawn about emotions in ordinary life situations. However, he also points out that knowledge of the injection undermines the emotion, and so even in such cases, beliefs influence emotions. 194 The cause and the reason can contingently be the same. Johnnie could, for instance, have hated women on the grounds that they do not want to have sex with him as the deprivation itself causes the hatred. But the cause and the reason remain logically distinct.

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In the other, you obey a malicious whim and push her with the same result. Following both incidents, you find yourself confronted by an indignant elderly woman, and you are suffering from an intense feeling; in the first case, obviously one of embarrassment, the second of shame. But the feelings involved in these cases are of little use in discriminating between emotions. Only “the logic of the situation” can give us the necessary clues. In the first case, the situation is such that we are not responsible for what happened, even if we do find ourselves in an awkward situation, and, therefore, we feel embarrassment. In the second case, we certainly are responsible, and, therefore, we feel shame. Maybe, on closer inspection, we can find a relevant difference between our sensations in both cases, but the logic of the situation gives us the information we need (Solomon 1976: 159–​162). Notice that the situation is the intentional object in question. This example gives us a clue about how the object constitutes emotions. How does Solomon classify gladness and depression? Such feelings are hardly simple sensations, for they cannot be localized in the body. At the same time, they do not seem to be bona fide emotions since they need not have intentional objects. You can feel depressed or happy without any given reason. Solomon’s solution is that they are moods, and moods are generalized emotions. A person is glad in a given situation because something nice happened, and the same thing happens to the person again and again. Because of this great frequency of happy occasions, the gladness, so to speak, liberates itself from the different intentional objects and becomes a state in which the person is in for quite some time, that is, a mood (Solomon 1976: 132). Is this not an empirical statement? And where is the evidence? Solomon also had difficulties in explaining irrational emotions, for instance, of a person who perfectly well knows that spiders are harmless but is nevertheless scared of them. The person does not believe that they are dangerous but has a feeling of fright despite that. The construalism of Robert Roberts might help us understand irrational emotions.195 He opines that emotions have cognitive content, but it is not necessarily a belief. The spider-​frightened person construes the spider as dangerous. The same holds for other emotions, even rational ones: their cognitive component of emotions is a construal (Roberts 1988: 183–​209). Construing is perceptual in the Wittgensteinian sense of noticing an aspect without having a sensory experience (Wittgenstein 2009: 203 (ii, §113)). We might see an aspect

195 The expression “construalism” is my creation, but Roberts could have called his own theory that.

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of a given face by construing it as another face through something like an act of imagination (Roberts 2003: 67). This means that emotions involve aspect-​ seeing by necessity, just like metaphors, narratives, and fictions. Roberts says that emotions are not mere construals; they are concern-​based construals. In grief, for instance, we construe something very important to us as being irrevocably lost (Roberts 2003: 79). At the same time, the concern is a part of the construing. We see the lost object partly in relation to its great importance to us. In the case of the spider-​fright, we construe the spider as being dangerous to something we have a deep concern for, namely our own life and well-​being. I want to add that a mood might be a rigid construal with unclear intentional objects. Thus, construalism can explain both irrational emotions and mood, which Solomon had problems explaining. I rank Roberts’s construalism highly, somewhat higher than Solomon’s brand of cognitivism. However, in contrast to Roberts, I maintain that some emotions are not only constituted by construals but are also necessarily belief-​ based and, by implication, reason-​based. I can only be proud of my daughter’s achievements if I believe that she actually achieved something. On discovering that she really had not achieved anything, I cannot go on being proud of her achievement and believe she has not achieved anything. If I think that I am nevertheless proud of her achievements, I must have mistaken my pride in her achievement for some other emotion. Apel’s claimism concerning emotions also deserves a high ranking. As said earlier, he thought that there were claims involved in emotions, and claims can in the last analysis only be redeemed in argumentative discourse. This means that arguments can play an essential role in emotional life, even though it might be the case that most emotions are not necessarily based on beliefs.

Goldie on Emotions, the Body, and Subjectivity

Some modern philosophers tend to talk like the cognitive moment is all there is in emotions, that subjective feelings do not matter, and that sensations are beyond the pale of cognition. But British philosopher Peter Goldie had a different view. Instead of differentiating between sensations and emotions, Goldie discriminates between plain bodily feeling and feelings toward something: “A bodily feeling involves consciousness–​from the inside, so to speak of the condition of your body” (Goldie 2000: 51). Usually, there is no intentionality involved in bodily feeling; in contrast, there is intentionality in feeling toward something. We feel grief for someone; we feel toward that someone, but the headache that the grief causes is simply a

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bodily sensation. More precisely: “Feeling toward is thinking of something with feeling” (Goldie 2000: 58, see also 19). Feeling disgusted by a hamburger means that the feelings of disgust are directed toward some perceived or imagined property or feature of the hamburger. So, feeling toward obviously has a cognitive content even though it is not a belief. We can, for instance, fear something while knowing that it is not dangerous. Secondly, there is a perceptual moment and an imaginative moment in feeling toward that is not necessarily present in beliefs. In the third place, feeling toward is also subject to a decision of will in a way that beliefs are not. We cannot really choose what to believe, but we can work at ridding ourselves of certain feelings, such as the fear of flying. Fourthly, if one believes that something has a particular feature, one is, ceteris paribus, disposed to assent to a question of whether it has this feature. Yet, one can feel an emotion over something with certain particular features, but at the same time not be disposed to assent to the claim that it has these features because one believes that it is inappropriate or disproportionate. Moreover, there is a difference between feeling toward something and just thinking of it. In the first place, our imagination tends to be less subject to our will in feeling toward than our general way of thinking of things. Our imagination can run wild when we are extremely jealous. It is not by chance that, when we give expression to our passions, we are sometimes like passive victims of emotions. To understand his second differentiation between feeling toward and thinking of, Goldie asks us to look at the case of a color-​blind person who can reliably pick out red things because someone points them out to him. The color-​ blind person can have the thought, “this chair is red.” However, let us assume that a person who is not color-​blind saw the chair and had a thought expressed by the very same words. The latter’s thought would differ in content from the former’s thought. Mutatis mutandis, the same would hold for feeling toward and plainly thinking of. We have already discovered that Goldie thinks that bodily feelings are not always without intentionality. They take on borrowed intentionality, presumably from feeling toward. An example of borrowed intentionality is a pang in the breastbone felt by a grieving person. This pang is not just any old bodily feeling but a pang for the person grieved. Thus, the pang “borrows” intentionality from the feeling of grief toward the person. Indeed, mind and body are usually engaged together in emotional experience; for instance, sexual desire is felt with the whole being (body and soul) for the person desired. The analyses of borrowed intentionality and the holistic nature of emotional experience are fascinating but need not concern us here. What matters

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is that Goldie convincingly shows us that we cannot neatly separate sensations and the cognitive moment of emotions, and that sensations are of essential importance in emotions. To my mind, emotions are (at least typically) half-​cognition, half-​sensation (half-​feel), woven into each other, cf. Wittgenstein’s analysis of aspect-​seeing. This web of sensations and cognition has an intentional object; we cognize our enemy John in a hateful manner, and the sensation of hatred is shaped by the thought and vice versa. I call my cousin of Goldie’s feeling toward “directed sensation.” In contrast to feeling toward, directed sensation is closely related to aspect-​seeing. The weight of the moment of cognition and that of sensation varies with both the kind of emotion involved and the circumstances. Cognition might dominate when we are not in the presence of John (the one we hate), and sensation might dominate when he is in the vicinity. In typical cases of pride, cognition matters more than sensation. The reason is that pride usually involves some kind of reasoning: “My daughter is always on top of her class, she is regarded as charming and beautiful, and leads a healthy life. No wonder I am proud of her.” In contrast, sensations usually dominate in the case of fear. Fear can be very spontaneous and usually does not involve reasoning. However, there are cases of fear where cognition and reasoning play a prominent role, e.g., the fear of global warming. Something similar holds for anger; there is little reasoning involved in a drunken person’s anger when not being served beer fast enough in a bar. Being angry because African children are dying of malaria is an altogether different matter; cognition and even reasoning play a prominent part here. However, is a person really angry with the plight of these children if he does not feel anything when thinking about it? So, even though emotions are not entirely subjective, subjectivity is an ineliminable part of it. If imagination is subjective, then that would enhance the subjective moment in emotions. In contrast to sensations, imagination plays a necessary role in emotions. One must be able to imagine someone as a lowlife if one is to feel contempt for him. Furthermore, there is no such thing as jealousy without imagination. A jealous person imagines all kinds of scenarios that include the object of her jealousy.

Taylor’s Hermeneutic Cognitivism

We can elaborate upon the role of beliefs in emotions with the aid of Charles Taylor. He stresses the cognitive import of emotions but adds a hermeneutic

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dimension, insisting that emotions must be interpreted.196 Accordingly, I call his view hermeneutic cognitivism. Taylor says that the meaning interpreted in the case of emotions is somewhat different from the meaning of written texts. It is, in some ways, closer to the meaning of actions. Actions have what he calls “an experiential meaning.” We are talking about experiential meaning when we talk as if an action, a situation, a demand, or a prospect has meaning for us. In the first place, such meaning is for given subjects, even every human subject, but it is never meaning in vacuo. Secondly, it is also of something, an object. We can discriminate between the object as described with regard to both its experiential meaning for someone and its physical characteristics. In the third place, things have meaning only in a field. Being in a field means that an object endowed with experiential meaning is meaningful only in relation to other objects with different kinds of meaning. An example of such a field of experiential meaning is the range of meaning a subordinate’s demeanor can have for us—​deferential, respectful, cringing, mildly mocking, ironical, insolent, etcetera. A field of contrasts establishes the meaning of these terms, just as such fields establish terms of color. Thus, experiential meaning is for a subject, is of something, and is in a field. Linguistic meaning has all these traits, but, in addition, it is the meaning of signifiers, and it is about a world of referents. Even though Taylor introduces the notion of experiential meaning in connection with actions, it is relevant for discussing the meaning of emotions. He says that the language by which we describe our goals, feelings, and desires also defines the meaning they have for us (Taylor 1985c: 22–​23). One central concept in his analysis is import, that is, how something can be relevant or significant to the desires, purposes, aspirations, or feelings of a subject. Adjectives such as “humiliating” or “shameful” define an import. To experience an emotion is to be aware of our situation as humiliating or shameful or dismaying or exhilarating or wonderful, and so on. A given emotion involves experiencing our situation as being of a certain kind or having a certain property. But this property cannot be neutral. We cannot be indifferent to it; if we were, we could not be moved, and being in an emotional state means being moved. Imports are essentially experience-​dependent properties because they characterize things in terms of their relevance to our desires, purposes, or our emotional life. Take shame as an example. It is an emotion that a subject experiences 196 I usually “translate” Taylor’s use of the word “feeling” into “emotion.” The reason is that in most cases he uses “feeling” in the same sense as the followers of the cognitive theory use “emotion.” In other cases, I do not change his use of “feeling.”

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in relation to a dimension of his or her existence. A subject can be, say, ashamed of an essential property of himself or herself, and hence Taylor calls them subject-​referring properties. For instance, even though there is nothing objectively bad about such a property as the shrillness of a voice, John might be ashamed of having such a voice. The reason is that he might experience having a voice of this kind as something unmanly. Seemingly, Taylor thinks that the dimension of the subject’s existence, in this case, is the aspiration to be masculine or the like. Taylor maintains that a subject with this aspiration must be capable of experiencing the whole range of imports connected with shame, dignity, and respect. The very account of what shame means involves references to our senses of dignity, worth, regard by others, and so forth. These properties are essentially bound up with the life of a subject and his or her sum of experience; they are subject-​referring properties. However, this subjective aspect does not mean they are somehow illusory. Feeling shame is related to an import-​ascription. In addition, to ascribe import is to make a judgment about how things really are, and we cannot simply reduce this judgment to the way we feel about them. I can be rightly or wrongly ashamed, rationally, or irrationally ashamed (Taylor 1985a: 48–​55). This argument shows the kinship between Taylor and the cognitivists. If this reading of Taylor is correct, then our interpretations of situations can be right or wrong. John might have wrongly interpreted a situation as shameful. He might think, for instance, that his voice sounded shrill while nobody else thought so. His inferiority complex led him to hear his voice as being shrill. Let us drop these speculations about what Taylor might be thinking and look at what he actually says. A term of emotion like “shame” essentially refers to a certain kind of situation, a “shameful” or “humiliating” one. Furthermore, it refers to specific modes of response, for instance, hiding oneself or covering up. This means that it is essential to the identification of this emotion as being a shame that it is related to the aforementioned type of situations and dispositions to act. At the same time, the situations can be identified only in relation to the emotion it provokes. The same holds for the disposition; the hiding in question is hiding from shame, which is quite different from hiding from an angry bear. We can only understand what “hiding from shame” means if we know what kind of emotion and situation we are talking about. Thus, the emotion, the situation, and the dispositions form a hermeneutic circle. The one cannot be understood without reference to the others, and together they form a whole. To be more precise, this circle is wider, for it includes other concepts; I surmise that the concepts of pride and dignity figure prominently. They, in their turn, cannot be understood without reference to shame; we can only understand shame with the aid of concepts embedded in a whole

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language. And language, in turn, is embedded in a certain culture. In some sense, then, the hermeneutic circle of shame is a closed one, limited to given cultures (Taylor 1985c: 23–​24).197 Let us take another look at subject-​referring emotions. They incorporate a sense of what it is to be human and what matters to us as human beings. This is intimately connected to how our direct intuitive import experience is filtered through emotions. Emotions are, therefore, our mode of access to the domain of subject-​referring imports. That means that they provide access to what matters to us as subjects or what it is to be human. Considering this, it should not come as a surprise when Taylor says that human life is never without interpreted emotions. Interpretations are constitutive of emotions, and this means that an emotion is what it is by virtue of the situation it incorporates. Yet, a given sense may presuppose a certain level of articularity, that is, where the subject understands specific terms or distinctions. An emotion cannot, for example, be one of remorse unless there is a sense of the emoter’s having done wrong. Some understanding of right and wrong is built into remorse; it is essential to its attributing the import that it does. Thus, certain feelings involve a certain level of articulation in the sense that qualities they incorporate require the application of specific terms. However, at the same time, they can allow for further articulation in the sense that things can undergo further clarification. It is quite a common experience to feel remorse without being able to articulate fully what is wrong about what we have done. In such a case, we may seek further understanding. If we succeed, our emotions may alter. The remorse may dissipate altogether if we come to see that our sense of wrongdoing was unfounded. If we come to understand what is wrong, perhaps then the remorse will intensify as we begin to see how grave the offense was. Alternatively, perhaps it will lessen as we see how hard it was to avoid. What precisely is an articulation in Taylor’s view? We can start by saying what it is not. It is not something only performed in discursive, verbal language; body language and different artforms can also be means of articulation. It is not the finding of a technical term for a feature of some engine or plant which one can easily identify with some adequate description, for example, “The long metal part sticking out on the left.” It is not a formal logical analysis of meaning. When I articulate something, I seek a language to identify how I feel, make clear how a thing looks, or locate what was peculiar about a person’s behavior.

197 Apparently, this circle is rich enough in details and information to qualify as a virtuous circle.

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A linguistic articulation can make us explicitly aware of phenomena that we had previously only sensed implicitly. Taylor appears to view articulation as a process that leads to formulation. By formulating some matter, we bring it to a fuller and clearer consciousness; we identify the matter in question and thereby grasp its contours. An articulated view is one that makes certain distinctions that give a phenomenon certain contours; to focus on it in an articulated fashion is to find an adequate description of it. At the same time, an articulation does not describe things independent of itself (the articulation); its manner of description is not at all like a description such as “this table is brown.” An articulation alters the object at hand in a certain way. It shapes and reshapes its object; in some sense, it constitutes it, but it must at the same time be true to it. In the case of a genuine articulation, we can know only by hindsight what it was we tried to identify. What we had sensed implicitly became clear only after we had articulated it clearly and could look back on our attempts at articulation (Taylor 1985b: 257–​258). Let us look again at how Taylor regards the role articulation plays in our emotional lives. Articulations are like interpretations in that they are attempts to make clearer the import things have for us. Furthermore, as we remember, imports are constitutive for emotions. And how we articulate emotions, at least those that touch essential human concerns, are partly shaped by the way we articulate imports. The descriptions we tend to offer of these emotions are not simply external to the reality described but are rather constitutive of it. Thus, when we articulate an emotion in a new fashion, the emotion often also changes. Let us say that I am confused over my feelings for a woman. Owing to an articulation, I come to see this feeling as a sign of infatuation and not of the sort of love on which a relationship can flourish. The emotions themselves have become more apparent and less fluctuating and have acquired steadier boundaries. Taylor uses another example: Let us say that I feel very guilty about a practice, and then I later come to hold that there is nothing wrong with it. The quality of the feeling of guilt changes. It may disappear altogether. But it remains, it is very different from the very fact that I now understand it as a kind of residual reflex from my upbringing. I no longer accord it the same status, that of reflecting an unfortunate moral truth about me. taylor 1985b: 271

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Maybe the person in question was engaged in homosexual practices when such practices were universally condemned, even by the person’s parents. Then in the past decades, these practices are becoming accepted in the Western world. Taylor’s tale might illustrate how many gays got rid of their feeling of guilt in this process. It is hard to understand exactly what Taylor means when he says that articulation constitutes changes of the object while remaining true to it. But it might become clearer if we compare it to what I said earlier about Black’s contention that metaphors constitute and reshape objects, and in the process, deepen our understanding of them (remember my chess metaphor). If the metaphoric transformation is closely related to the reshaping due to articulation, then it does not seem absurd to believe that articulation can give us genuine knowledge. Of course, this does not prove its claim to knowledge, but Taylor is on the right track. When in service of emotions, our imagination transforms objects (Taylor’s articulations transform them too). Johnny is transformed into an evil thief, thanks to our anger against him as aided by imagination. Imagination creates mental-​emotional representations, in this case of Johnnie-​as-​evil-​thief. This brings us back to the notions of T-​correctness and twisted understanding. Emotions help us cognize reality by providing us with twisted understanding, just like metaphors. Seeing a situation as dangerous fundamentally involves emotions; the situation gets its identity qua dangerous owing to such emotions as fright. The situation is being represented in a particular manner because of the feeling of fright. The emotion transforms the situation into a dangerous one; we do not infer logically from the content of non-​emotional perception that the situation is dangerous. In such cases, fear can provide us with twisted understanding. Emotions are soaked with meaning and can therefore be like symbolic structures. Given that they provide twisted understanding, then their symbolic structure is T-​correct. Articulation is a moment in the process of twisted understanding. It twists emotions but gains a better grip on them owing to the twisting and thus enhances our understanding. Now, Richard Moran criticizes Taylor for not seeing that only beliefs can have the transformative power Taylor attributes to articulations. Interpretations and redescriptions of emotions cannot do the job unless believed in (Moran 2001: 36–​65). If true, I would be wrong about articulations not necessarily leading to truth. Just the same, think again of the person who felt guilty and let us assume that she started to believe that the feeling of guilt was nothing but a residue of her upbringing. Would not the feeling simply disappear due to this belief rather than be transformed? Now, let us assume that she never thought

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about the possibility that the guilt could be such a residue but discovers it all of a sudden. She does not really know whether it is true that her guilt is such a residue, but she starts to view her guilt in the light of this possibility. The guilt would hardly disappear, but it certainly would change by virtue of being seen as a residue. So, beliefs might simply destroy the emotion, while seeing-​as articulates and transforms it but nevertheless preserves it. Nonetheless, Moran might be justified in doubting that it holds for all emotions to be constituted and shaped through articulation and suchlike.198 However, it suffices for my purposes that transformation through articulation is an important part of our emotional life. Without it, our emotional life would be simpler, perhaps impoverished, or even changed beyond recognition. Let us return to Taylor and his theory of subject-​referring emotions. He says that one of the basic reasons why such emotions are essentially interpretable is that they are shaped by language since experiencing such emotions essentially involves seeing that specific descriptions apply to them. Even if baboons had some kind of dignity, it must be totally different from our sense of dignity because ours is shaped by language. Nevertheless, there are emotions that are neither subject-​referring nor constituted by language. Fear is a case in point. The import of physical danger is language-​independent in that different descriptions and understanding of the danger do not fundamentally alter for us the imports of bodily integrity or life. However, language can enter into it because we might need to be apprised of the danger through language. Not even our pre-​articulated sense of feelings is entirely language-​independent, for they are the feelings of language-​beings who can say something about them. An emoter can say, for example, that he feels something disturbing or perplexing to which he cannot give a name. We experience our pre-​articulated emotions as perplexing, prompting the raising of questions. This is an experience that no non-​language animal can have (Taylor 1985a: 60–​74). Animals with language experience pain or fear differently than non-​language animals. I think that this analysis shows that the differentiation between sensations and emotions is not refined enough. Simple, primitive, instinctual fear does not seem to have much to do with ratiocination. The same holds for blind, spontaneous rage. Non-​subject-​referring emotions like these hover somewhere between sensations and proper emotions, that is, subject-​referring emotions. But as we have seen, Taylor does not use the conceptual apparatus of cognitive

198 He has a point when he says that it is not clear whether Taylor thinks that the process is solely constitutive or also causal.

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theory. Moreover, in possible contrast to him, I think there are fears and rages that are subject–​referring. Think about the fear of atomic war or the rage felt because of a perceived insult, and contrast those with the instinctual fear you would feel like the target of a charging tiger. The fear of the charging tiger is obviously not subject-​referring; perhaps it is object-​referring since it concerns our care for our bodies. Regardless, my analysis requires assistance from Taylor’s comprehensive hermeneutics of emotions. Propositional content and attitudes do not alone constitute the meaning of emotions and texts. These contents and attitudes exist only as parts of situations, languages, and forms of life. I do not see any essential opposition between my view and Taylor’s. The theory of articulation and my theory of twisted understanding can enhance each other, just like both theories can be enhanced with construalism. Secondly, considering that I think that seeing-​as is semi-​interpretative, there is no gulf between Taylor’s interpretative approach and the construalist approach. A concern-​based construal is a semi-​interpretation because it is a seeing-​as. It is no wonder, then, that I call my own position hermeneutic construalism. However, just as I have made critical comments about traditional construalism, I also have certain critical comments about Taylor’s hermeneutic theorizing. In the first place, his concept of interpretation needs differentiation, most notably between interpretation proper and that of semi-​interpretation (aspect-​seeing). If he gave room for the latter, then there would be space for construals in his way of approaching emotions. Secondly, it remains unclear what, if any, role sensations play in his conception of emotions. Thirdly, neither he nor Roberts allots any place to the imagination in their theories of emotions. That is a glaring lack. We have discovered that, according to Taylor, a) emotions essentially involve import; b) some emotions have subject-​referring properties; c) understanding such emotions requires moving in a hermeneutic circle; d) articulation is an essential part of that movement; e) these emotions are constituted by articulation and interpretation. His conception of the experiential meaning of actions shall be ranked very highly. By fusing Taylor’s theorizing with the cognitive theory, we can discriminate between: i) subject-​referring emotions; these emotions essentially involve construals, beliefs, and imagination. There must also be some reasons in favor or against them; therefore, they are within the bounds of rationality; ii) other emotions; they involve concern-​based construals and imagination, they can be

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rational, irrational, or somewhere between the two. Then we have iii) plain (bodily?) sensations where neither reason nor imagination plays any role. In my view, a mixture of construalism, my Goldie-​inspired idea of there being directed sensations, and Taylor’s hermeneutic approach is the most fruitful way of understanding emotions. Thus, i) and ii) are concern-​based construals, typically involving a web of directed sensations. Besides, i) and ii) involve Apelian claims, redeemable in argumentative discourse.

Feeling, Cognition, Art, Science, Values

So, feelings play a host of important cognitive roles in our lives. In contrast to most cognitivists, I maintain that sensations can play a cognitive role; pain help us evade dangerous objects/​situations. Emotions involve construals and, by implication, have a cognitive component. Subject-​referring emotions like pride are based on beliefs and reasons and are thus cognitively constructed. Understanding artworks is a way of cognizing them. Frank Palmer points out that understanding a literary work involves knowing what to feel concerning them. Finding Hamlet funny would, in most cases, be an example of a lack of understanding of the work unless one can put forth interesting arguments in favor of interpreting it as some kind of a comedy (preferably tragicomedy). Palmer compares our understanding of literary works with our understanding of persons. Understanding both persons and literary works involves cognitive understanding and learning to feel the appropriate thing toward the appropriate object in the right degree (Palmer 1988: 224). The inspiration from Aristotle is obvious. A tragedy ought to evoke the feeling of pity and fear in the spectator, fear because of the terrible events on the stage, pity because of the suffering of the fairly good but not a flawless protagonist (Aristotle 1965: 49–​51 (Chap. 14)). Aristotle could be understood as maintaining that the feeling of fear and pity are preconditions for understanding tragedies. There is more than a grain of truth in Palmer’s arguments. But his reasoning is in the first place rather too objectivistic. However, it is hard to see any way we can show with absolute certainty what the appropriate thing to feel toward a literary work is and how we can measure the right degree of feeling. Given that there is no such thing as the correct interpretation of a literary work, it is quite difficult to find exactly the appropriate way of feeling, even though we surely can exclude many inappropriate ways. Maybe there is a very original interpretation of Hamlet that would make finding it funny seem to be the correct

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emotional attitude. However, if imagination is a feeling or is closely related to feelings, then feelings play an important role in interpretation.199 Secondly, one might wonder whether emotions felt toward, say, characters in literary works are real emotions. The fear and pity felt toward the characters in tragedies are very different from the fear and pity felt toward real persons. Nevertheless, that does not make them fake emotions. They are make-​believe emotions of the same kind that we feel when playing absorbing games of make-​ believe. Remember that Walton thinks that understanding artworks requires make-​believe. I add that the characters in tragedies are props in the game of the tragedy and feeling pity and fear toward them is like moves in a game. Now does the make-​believe factor change the nature of the emotions, is not fear, felt while watching a horror movie just like any other fear? My response is that in the make-​believe situation, there is possibility of becoming aware of the fact that there is nothing to fear while at the same time feel the fear intensely. If you understand that your “real-​life” fear was without ground, then it disappears even though you might still feel agitated. Our more or less tacit and intuitive understanding of emotions and situations gives most of us the ability to approximate the right thing when reacting emotionally to literary works of art. There is a huge difference between reasonably appropriate ways of feeling and completely inappropriate ways. Being emotionally competent means knowing the rule of thumb for appropriate emotions and applying them reasonably correctly. The knowledge in question is usually tacit; the emotionally incompetent tend to be oblivious to or mistaken about these implicit rules. Alternatively, they might know them only in abstracto. Usually, they fail miserably, just like the person who tries to reason his or her way into doing the job of a carpenter without any practical training. Let us return to Palmer. We can extend his analysis to our understanding of other artworks, besides literary works of art, and our understanding of other people and ourselves. Does an understanding of Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream not require feeling a certain horror and even pity with the screaming figure? Does an understanding of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 not require a different emotional attitude than does an understanding of Bach’s The Well-​ Tempered Clavier? And would any emotional involvement help us to understand Mondrian’s paintings? Of course, there might be acceptable interpretations of these artworks that do not require the said emotional attitude, in Mondrian’s case, a non-​attitude. However, would an interpretation requiring emotional detachment help us 199 More about imagination as a possible feeling in the next chapter.

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understand Munch’s painting or Beethoven’s symphony? Furthermore, even though there might be acceptable emotional interpretations of Mondrian’s paintings, it is hard to see what intense emotions such as fear and hatred would have in understanding the paintings. Likewise, an interpretation of The Scream as cute, requiring a mild emotion, would be absurd, contrary to the describable features of the painting. We have already seen that emotions are also important when relating to other people and their fate. Is it not emotionally appropriate to be horrified at the thought of the Holocaust? Can one really understand it without this feeling? Is one really able to understand the sad fate of a reasonably good person unless one pities the person and feels sad about his or her fate? It is almost trivially true that literature can move people emotionally and that they can express their emotions by creating literary texts. There is an intimate bond between emotions and imaginative literature. Nelson Goodman arrives at a conclusion, not unlike Palmer but from a very different starting point. He implicitly says that emotions can help us cognize segments of the world in a) our daily life, b) in science, and c) in the artworld. He points out, a) that in daily life, classification by feeling is often of greater importance than classification by other properties. He says, “We are likely to be better off if we are skilled in fearing, wanting, braving, or distrusting the right things, animate or inanimate, than if we perceive only their shapes, sizes, weights, etc.” (Goodman 1976: 251). Obviously, perceiving the latter group of qualities would certainly not help us to discover the danger of tigers while feeling fear performs the job excellently! The chances are that the tigers would have eaten us before cool reason has proven that the beasts are hazardous to our health.200 I want to add that seeing a situation as dangerous involves emotions fundamentally; the situation gets its identity qua dangerous owing to such emotions as fright. The situation is being represented in a particular manner because of the feeling of fright. The emotion twists the situation into a dangerous one. Logical deduction plays no role because we do not infer that the situation is dangerous. It cannot be the same as those involved in simple non-​emotional perception due to the fact that the situation gets twisted, and imagination aids the twisting. Fear, in this case, provides us with twisted understanding. Feelings such as excitement and curiosity can b) play a role in scientific exploration and discovery, Goodman says. We apprehend a work of art, c)

200 This point, or similar points, has been made by several theorists. See, for instance, Ben-​ Ze’ev 2003: 151.

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through feelings as well as through our senses. Often, one remembers and/​or feels the movement of the dancer rather than the visual patterns. Emotional numbness can disable people’s ability to understand artworks (Goodman 1976: 248–​252). My question is whether an emotionally empty (and by implication emotionally incompetent) person can really understand Munch’s The Scream or Kafka’s Die Verwandlung (Metamorphosis). Would not an understanding of these artworks require a great deal of empathy and experience of despair and rejection? Goodman certainly hits the nail on the head when it comes to the role of emotions in the work-​a-​day world and in our perception of artworks. However, he shows only that emotions can play a heuristic role in science, and he does not even discuss the question of whether the evaluation of scientific theories has any necessary emotional moments. Moreover, it is not clear whether curiosity is really an emotion. It is not a prototypical one. The onus is on anybody who thinks that emotions can play more than a heuristic role in science. Goodman’s analysis of emotions is inspiring but somewhat crude; he does not differentiate between emotions and sensations. Let us look at phenomena that might not be easily classified as feelings but play an important role in our cognition and coping. We say in English, “I feel curious,” which might be a sign of curiosity being a feeling. But English is not the only language spoken on this earth. However, curiosity can be understood as a feeling of deprivation, a lack of knowledge, and the desire to acquire knowledge. It obviously has an intentional object; that fact, plus the feeling of lack and the desire for knowledge, must mean that it is an emotion. Something similar holds for interest; an interest certainly does have an intentional object and involves a desire to focus on that object, a feeling of a drive toward this focus. Again, we have an emotion. Without judging some parts of our perceptual and conceptual fields in terms of how (un)interesting they are, perception and conceptualization would not be possible. This means that a certain emotional attitude is a prerequisite for perception and conceptualization, both in ordinary life and science. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it certainly enhances science. Would there be much scientific research if people had no curiosity and no absorbing interest in anything? At least the emotion of curiosity and that of absorbing interest play a role in the context of discovery, if not in that of justification, given that these two can be neatly separated. Curiosity and interest do play an important role in our coping with reality; could humankind have survived and established civilization without it? Curiosity about fire and interest in it might have been among the preconditions for our forefathers and foremothers

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“taming” of fire. Curiosity about new ways of doing things and interest in them might have been among the preconditions of humanity’s development (or degeneration!) toward civilization. Let us return to the issue of feelings in general. It does not seem likely that feelings show us reality as it really is, given that the conception of the really-​ real has any cognitive content; most likely, our feelings taint our picture of ­reality. Our emotions are largely created by evolution, and evolution has an interest only in making us fit, not in enabling us to understand reality unless that increases fitness. It might even be the case that not understanding big slices of reality can increase fitness. Now, could there be evaluations without emotions? There are non-​emotional ways of evaluating, for instance evaluating a business project as very lucrative. One can without emotional engagement evaluate Hitler as bad, given a certain standard for moral goodness. One can also coolly find out that a certain piece of music is more original than another piece. But the realm of evaluation would be pretty small without emotions, because many kinds of evaluation essentially involve emotions. Regarding something as interesting means having an emotional attitude toward it and evaluating it, the evaluation and the emotion not being clearly separable. That we are talking about evaluations can be seen from the grammar of the words in question: something is more interesting than something else, another thing is the most interesting of all the things in a given field. Similarly, we can regard some things as better than other things and yet another thing as the best of the lot. Even though there are non-​emotional ways of moral and aesthetic evaluation, removing the emotional ways of evaluating in these fields might impoverish them so much that they would disappear. Is it by chance that most people feel frightened and angry when experiencing and thinking about murders and massacres? We also tend to feel happy when justice is done, or other moral deeds are performed. Let us assume that there was a world in which inhabitants were exactly like us, except they did not react emotionally to moral deeds and misdeeds. Would these people see any important evaluative difference between describing an action as murder and describing another action as a foul in a football game? Moreover, would there be any aesthetic evaluation if we did not have any emotional attitude toward aesthetic objects? In a world without aesthetic feeling, people might not have any use for aesthetic objects, including artworks. Even if one can decide without emotional attitude that a certain artwork is original, then it is hard to see what role originality would play if nobody experienced the shock of the new or the happiness of

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discovering something fresh. Yet again, the evaluation and the feeling cannot be neatly separated. Feelings play a role in our cognition, but they tend to “color” our everyday thoughts and experiences; the world of the angry person is different from the one of the loving person (twisting is an important element, perhaps the only element, in this coloring). And a person who holds the pope in high esteem perceives him differently than the person who has a low opinion of him. The feelings, values, and norms that take part in constituting our cognition might color our world view in such a way that it does not make any sense to ask, “How is the world without this coloring?” It would be as absurd as asking, “What is to the north of the North Pole?” It makes sense to think of these feelings as parts of conceptual schemes. If so, then these feelings are part of the “coloring” operation of the schemes, part of the way they structure thinking and cognizing. David Hume famously said, “Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions” (Hume 1962: 156). He had a point; it is hard to see how we can make decisions or act without wanting or desiring certain outcomes. However, he did not see that passions (i.e., emotions) are also enslaved by reasons. Reason and emotions are each others slaves: we cannot act on reasonable grounds alone; we need emotions as fuel for our decisions, but at the same time, our emotions are soaked with reason(s). The poetic moderate rationalism must regard reason as partly emotional in contrast to both linguistic and critical rationalism that do not allot emotions any place in the realm of reason.

Intuition and Imagination

Like curiosity, intuition is a phenomenon, which is not easily classified as an emotion. The reason might be that the concept of intuition is an amoebaean one and that, therefore, there are many different kinds of intuitions with few, if any, common denominators. Some might be emotions, while others are not. Intuitions certainly have intentional objects; mathematical intuitions have mathematical themes as intentional objects. Furthermore, intuitions are not reason-​based. Those of them that are bona fide emotions must be construals. If we have an intuitive view of something, then it is like we see that something as something else, the duck-​rabbit as, say, a rabbit; there is no way we can put arguments in favor of that seeing. The moment we have such arguments, our view stops being intuitive and becomes an ordinary belief.

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Now, imagination almost certainly has cognitive import. But it is not clear whether intuitions have such import. Some philosophers, among them Williamson, maintain that philosophical intuitions are basically hazy beliefs and of no greater importance to philosophy (Williamson 2007: 214–​215 and elsewhere). I shall not judge whether he is right. If intuition have cognitive import, then they are preconditions for at least some kinds of argumentation, even argumentation in general. The trouble is that there is no feel necessarily associated with it, with the exception of the illuminating aha-​feel or eureka-​feel, i.e., the joy of sudden discovery or flash of insight. Maybe the joy of the eureka-​feel has been instrumental in making intuitive thinking attractive, and therefore, strengthened and perpetuated such a way of thinking. However, we can safely say that even if intuitions were not emotions, at least some of them have a strong family resemblance with emotions; maybe they are semi-​emotions (curiosity and interest should perhaps be classified as semi-​emotions). Now, if intuitions play a vital role in cognitive endeavor and at least some of them are emotions, we have yet another example of a cognitively important emotion. The same holds for the eureka-​feel, both if it were a part of intuition or an independent emotion in its own right. Another possibility is that the concept of feeling (encompassing both emotions and sensations) is an amoebaean concept such that intuition and imagination can be subsumed under it but are not prototypical emotions. Thus, we have several possibilities. 1. Neither intuitions nor imagination is an emotion. 2. One of them is an emotion, the other not. 3. Some kinds of intuitions are emotions. 4. Some kinds of imagination are emotions. 5. Both are emotions, and emotions can be defined essentially. 6. Both are emotions but not prototypical ones, and the concept of emotion is an amoebaean one. Each of these alternatives shall be ranked equally high. I said earlier that scientific rhetoric could induce emotions in scientists. Given that emotions can have rational moments, these rhetoric-​caused emotions can have such moments, at least if their intentional object is the cognitive content of a scientific theory or investigation. The rhetoric might get the scientists to experience a particular theory or investigation as really interesting, at the same as it is a fact that this theory is better than its competitors. The emotion induced helps the scientists to understand this fact. It might also be the case that scientific rhetoric can influence scientific intuitions, even enhance them. Be that as it may, emotions play an important role in the context of discovery, probably less in the context of justification. But as we have seen earlier, Haack shows that there is a blurred line between these contexts, and that the one of discovery is not necessarily beyond the pale of

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reason. Notice that this means that, in the context of discovery, we find some of the rational traits usually associated with the context of justification. Now, if intuitions are related to emotions, we might ask whether imagination does. We have seen that imagination plays an important role in our emotional life, our cognition, and in the creation of metaphors, narratives, and ­fictions. However, there is no typical subjective feel involved in imagination, even though we cannot exclude the possibility of there being certain feels that often relate to imagination, some content of imagination can make the imaginer feel elated, others can frighten her. Perhaps, imagination would not be worth much without such emotions. There is no such thing as logical calculation essentially involving imagination. Imagination is often spontaneous just like intuitions and many kinds of feelings (not least sensations). Nevertheless, it is possible to consciously exercise imagination, just like we can consciously think about things. Imagining is thinking in a special way; imagination has intentional objects, like thoughts and emotions. Imagination can be exercised by a subject seeing pictures in her mind, hearing sounds, or even feeling smell. And as Ricœur points out, it can be linguistic. It can also be in the guise of non-​sensory abstract imagining of the solution to mathematical and philosophical problems. Notice that there are no necessary cognitive moments in imagination; inner images can be pure fantasies, and there is hardly anything necessarily cognitive about imagined sounds. While not obviously involving feels, imagination cannot be a kind of sensation. Perhaps it makes sense to classify it as semi-​emotion. Imagination (and even intuition) play a vital role in reason and emotional life. Intuition and imagination are related to feeling even though they might not be classifiable as such.

Conclusion

There is a difference between emotions and sensations; the first-​named have intentional objects, the second not. Solomon’s cognitivism concerning emotions is inspiring, but it is hard to see that every kind of emotion is based on beliefs and reasons. Emotions are construals and some of them are also essentially subject-​referring and belief-​based. Taylor’s concept of articulation and Roberts’s concept of construal can be unified in the rpe hermeneutic construalism. Taylor correctly emphasizes the role of interpretation in emotions, Goldie the role of subjectivity, and Apel the role of claims. Goldie also points

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out that there is no gulf between sensations and emotions. Goodman points out that emotions can play an important role in science. I add that feelings, including sensations, can play important coping and cognitive roles, but they hardly show us reality as it is; they instead shape or taint our view of the world, perhaps as parts of conceptual schemes. Emotions provide us with twisted understanding and are within the realm of reason. Sensations can have cognitive import, but they are corporeal cognitions outside the bounds of reason but can be raw material for reasoned reflections. Imagination and even intuition play an important role in emotional life and rationality; they are closely related to emotions and might be semi-​emotions like curiosity and interest. Palmer is right about us needing to emote in particular to understand literary works. And I maintain that one must be emotionally competent to understand them and other people. The emotions felt toward artworks are make-​ believe emotions. There is no gap between emotions and reason; reason has an emotive component while emotions have a rational one. This “No-​Gap Theory 2.0” is part and parcel of the poetic moderate rationalism.

­c hapter 2

The Poetic of Emotions In the last chapter, we discovered a host of good arguments in favor of emotions being constituted by meaning. In rpe parlance, they are meaningful entities. And such entities can be Literary. I shall try to show that it makes sense to say that emotions have Literary traits by virtue of being partly constituted by the threesome, stories/​narratives, metaphors, and fictions. Emotions shall be destabed.

Emotions and Metaphors

Robert Roberts discusses metaphors only in connection with moods. Moods are characterized by metaphors, we say, “He is gloomy” or “his mood was grey.” Emotions have moods; joy is bright, while grief is dark and heavy. But metaphors do not play any great role in his theorizing. Fluency in metaphors can enrich our ability to recognize, experience, and discriminate moods (and, by implication, emotions). Nevertheless, they can never become substitutes for direct acquaintances (Roberts 2003: 112–​113). While this is undoubtedly true, Roberts underestimates the role of metaphors in emotional life. He does not see that we can regard concern-​based construals, and hence emotions, as having a metaphoric nature. If metaphors essentially involve seeing-​as, they are construals, which could be, but are not necessarily concern-​based. If we see Man metaphorically as a wolf, we have construed him in wolf terms. According to Roberts, construals involve “in-​ terms-​ of-​ relationships” (Roberts 2003: 76). However, as we have already seen, so do metaphors, according to Black and Lakoff. Further, we remember that Roberts correctly thinks that construing emotively means synthesizing various elements. We also remember that this is precisely what metaphors do, according to Paul Ricœur. In the metaphor, Man is a wolf, heterogeneous elements (men and wolves) are fused (Ricœur 1984a: x). He also claimed that there was an emotional moment in the metaphoric process involving as-​if emotions of a metaphoric kind. They seem to be of the same or similar kind as those, which I have called “make-​believe emotions.” In the last chapter, we discovered that emotions transform reality without necessarily distorting it. Construals transform reality without necessarily creating new realities; I construe the tiger as fearful, and this construction “colors”

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_026

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my full understanding of a certain situation. However, the chances are that the tiger is real and hazardous to my health; thus, my emotions do not distort reality. In this case, I do not create fearfulness of the beast ex nihilo. Metaphors work in a similar way. As earlier said, Black maintained that metaphors constitute and reshape objects and, in the process, deepen our understanding of them. Thus, the chess metaphor for battles transforms battles into something chess-​like and underlines the strategic and tactical aspect of battles, make our understanding of battles deeper. Now, Joseph Glicksohn and Chanita Goodblatt put forth interesting arguments in favor of metaphors being Gestalts. Metaphors are emergent wholes, which cannot be understood by focusing solely on their constituent parts because they are (as Black said) constituted by an interaction between their primary and secondary subjects. Similarly, Gestalts are constituted by the interaction between their parts (Glicksohn and Goodblatt 1993: 83–​97). British-​Canadian philosopher Ronald de Sousa calls emotions “perceptual Gestalts,” Emotions are somewhat like Kuhnian paradigms; we see the world through them (de Sousa 1980: 127–​151). In contrast, Roberts maintains that emotions are far more complex than Gestalt figures (Roberts 2003: 81). Yet, if emotions are construals, they are close relatives of Gestalts; they may have an ineliminable Gestalt moment. The upshot of this is that if these theorists are right, then metaphors and emotions have some important things in common. Both are construals and have Gestalt-​like qualities. Heavily inspired by Lakoff and Johnson, the Hungarian linguist Zoltán Kövecses maintains that emotions have a metaphoric structure (Kövecses 2000). In a typical Lakoffian manner, he maintains that the sources of emotional metaphors tend to be bodily experiences. We experience emotions non-​ metaphorically as embodied and our bodies metaphorically as containers. Therefore, we tend to regard emotions metaphorically as being inside containers. We talk about (our containers) bursting with anger and so on. Even though the followers of generative metaphorics probably overestimate the role of the corporeal in the creation of emotional (and other) metaphors, there is no reason to doubt that the corporeal dimension plays a vital role in the creation of a host of such metaphors. After all, emotions have much to do with bodily reactions, and so it is no wonder that many of our metaphors for emotions have such reactions as their source. But there is no mentioning of seeing-​as or Gestalts in the writings of the Lakoffians, a glaring lack. Metaphors and emotions are construals, even Gestalts, which unify different elements into wholes. In the process, they transform their objects and make certain features of these objects salient. This way of making features salient is

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one of the ways both metaphors and emotions can give us cognitive insights, more precisely, twisted understanding. There would not be any emotions if certain phenomena were not understood through certain other phenomena, certain concepts seen in terms of other concepts. To be sure, there would be sensations, on the one hand, and thoughts, on the other, but never the twain should meet. Without metaphoring no emoting.

Narratives and Emotions

Such ideas as the one that narratives constitute emotions and that we learn to emote with the aid of stories already have a certain pedigree in philosophy (Schapp 1976) (Nussbaum 2001). However, de Sousa was perhaps the first thinker to elaborate systematically on this idea. He argued that our emotional vocabulary is made familiar to us by association with paradigm scenarios. They are first drawn from daily life, later reinforced by stories and fairy tales, and then supplemented and refined by literature and art. A paradigm scenario involves two aspects: first, a paradigmatic situation providing the characteristic objects of emotion, and second, the scenario provides us with characteristic responses to the situation. More than this, the role of scenarios in relation to emotions is analogous to the ostensive definition of a common noun. Unfortunately, even though extremely absorbing, de Sousa’s theory is somewhat limited in scope; it focuses only on the way emotions are taught. Further, his theory is strictly empirical, although it certainly can inspire analyses of emotional concepts (de Sousa 1987: 181–​184). Despite it being empirical, de Sousa does not invoke any empirical evidence in favor of it. Until that evidence is provided, I cannot take a stance on the theory.201 I maintain that E cannot count as an emotion unless it has a storied structure or is constituted by narratives in other ways. An emotion is a mental state of processual nature, and as a process, it has a beginning, middle, and ending. What kind of emotion would it be that had neither a beginning nor an end and 201 As for the empirical aspect of emotions, I dearly want to know how spontaneous stories function in certain emotions like anxiety, hatred, and anger. The anxious, hateful, and angry often seem to be enthralled by recurring scenarios. I do not exclude the possibility that the experience of such recurring spontaneous stories is an essential part of some brands of hatred, anxiety, anger, and other similar emotions. But now I am indulging in possibilology, yet again!

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never changed? Such an emotion could be postulated in some thought experiment, but it would not help us understand real emotions; they exist in flux. Like other mental states of this processual nature, it has a plot-​like theme that organizes sensations, perceptions, actions, and so forth, into one whole. Being angry-​at-​John for having stolen my car is the theme of a certain emotion and certainly unfolds in time like a story. This is the main thesis of this subchapter. However, I shall vindicate this thesis via a vindication of my other thesis. The second thesis is as follows: e­ motions are (at least typically) embedded in stories and narratives in such a manner that the way they are embedded is crucial to their identification, justification, explanation, and understanding. It might not be a necessary condition for E to be an emotion that it has to be embedded in all these ways, even though that might very well be the case. There might be emotions that are neither explainable nor justifiable narratively. But I find it hard to imagine that there is an (at least human) emotion, which is neither explainable, identifiable, nor understandable in a narrative manner. In order to show that this is the case, I want to argue in favor of the following. Narratives can function as 1) indispensable tools for the identification of emotions, 2) part of the reasoning in favor of person P being justified in having E (call such narratives “justificatory narratives”), 3) explanations for the fact that person P has emotion E (these are explanatory narratives), and 4) an important tool for P in his examination and understanding of his own emotions (notice that, broadly understood, explanation ranges over understanding). I shall discuss 1–​4 in that order, afterwards I shall distill from this treatment a proof for my main thesis, that emotions have storied structure. 1) Identifying emotions: to show that we need narratives to identify emotions, we must seek guidance from Peter Goldie. However, before we can turn to the question of identification, it is best to give a general outline of his theory about the narrative structure of emotions. According to him, emotion is typically complex, episodic, dynamic, and structured. The complex in question involves episodes of emotional experience, including perceptions, thoughts, and feelings of various types. Moreover, it involves bodily changes and dispositions, including the dispositions to experience further emotional thoughts and feelings and act in certain ways. Emotions are neither static nor given; they tend to change. Goldie states, “Emotions are episodic and dynamic in that, over time, the elements can come and go, and wax and wane” (Goldie 2000: 13). An emotion is structured such that it constitutes a part of a narrative in which the emotion is embedded. The narrative unites the different elements and thus molds them into a coherent whole, which we call “an emotion.” Note that what Goldie calls “narrative structure” is the same as my storied structure

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since emotions do not need a narrator in order to exist, even though narratives are needed for their identification . Note further that, if this is true, emotions must have a storied structure, regardless of whether the emotions are reason-​based. We can hardly explain the emotions of a given individual without invoking narratives of important parts of his or her life, which in most cases are pretty complex stories. Ultimately, emotions must be embedded in the narratives of lives, in the biographies of individuals and even societies. Goldie gives an example of a boy who is brought up by extremely timorous parents. As a result of this upbringing, he tends to fear things excessively, even in adulthood. For us to understand his fearful response at the sight of a wasp, the story of his upbringing must be told (Goldie 2000: 35). Now it is time to show more precisely how Goldie thinks we identify emotions. He maintains that there is a paradigmatic narrative structure for each sort of emotional experience, meaning that emotions such as anger and jealousy have their respective paradigmatic narrative structure. The narrative structures contain paradigmatic recognitional thoughts and paradigmatic responses involving motivational thoughts and feelings, among other characteristics. He sees connections between this idea and James Russell’s theory about different emotions having different “scripts.” If we know the scripts, then we can identify the emotions. The script of anger looks like this:

1. The person is offended; the offense is intentional and harmful. The person is innocent. An injustice has been done. 2. The person glares and scowls at the offender. 3. The person feels internal tension and agitation as if heat and pressure were rapidly mounting inside. He feels his heart pounding and his muscles tightening. 4. The person desires retribution. 5. The person loses control and strikes out, harming the offender. russell 1991: 39

Goldie maintains that these five “steps” can be related to his idea of a paradigmatic narrative structure in the following fashion: Step 1: paradigmatic recognitional element involved in anger; Step 2: paradigmatic facial expression for anger; Step 3: paradigmatic bodily changes and feeling of these changes; Step 4: paradigmatic motivational response involved in anger; Step 5: paradigmatic action out of anger. goldie 2000: 93–​94

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One can recognize when other people have given emotional experience on the strength of knowing the paradigmatic narrative structures. Goldie seems to think that knowing this kind of narrative structure is a precondition for identifying emotions, at least from the third-​person perspective. (Let us call narratives of the type implicit in Russell’s script “identifying narratives”). Goldie’s arguments shall be ranked very highly. In the first place, he shows that synthesizing narratives at least partly constitutes emotions, giving them a storied structure. Secondly, he correctly states that knowing narratives is the precondition for identifying emotions, at least from the third-​person perspective. This holds for both non–​irrational and irrational emotions. 2) The justification of emotions: Let us leave Goldie for a while and return to my theorizing. It is important to remember that I am talking about the vindication of beliefs woven into certain emotions when I talk about “justification of emotions.” I am not discussing the moral aspects of emotions. Further, I am not saying that all emotions need justification, but only those where beliefs or judgments play a constitutive role. Let us scrutinize an example of such a justification. Someone asks Jill, “Why are you angry at John?” Jill answers (S), “I am angry at John because he stole my car.” However, (S) hardly makes sense unless it can be embedded in some kind of narrative. It does not make sense to say that (S1) “John stole my car, but he did not commence the undertaking, since there is no moment in the process that can be called its “beginning” and neither is there a ‘middle part’ (let alone climax or reversal) nor did the undertaking operation stop at any given time.” If there is no tellable essentially involved, then S1 makes sense. However, it does not. Furthermore, there is a sort of description of the acts of an agent in (S) and the reaction of another agent (Jill) to these acts. Now, stories are typically recounted by storytellers, and they typically are about the acts of agents. It does not seem farfetched to call Jill “the storyteller” and add that she is also one of two protagonists in the tale, the other being John. (She would remain the storyteller, with her and John as the protagonists, even if she “said” (S) only in her mind.) Furthermore, S would not count as a description of theft if there was no way it could be embedded in a more elaborated narrative about how John presumably broke into the car, started the engine, drove down the main street, etcetera. This elaborated, full narrative must give an answer to the question of whether the action being described qualifies as theft, in contrast to, say, an innocent practical joke. It must, as it were, emplot the events as theft-​events by containing a sub-​story that shows that John had, for instance, no right to drive the car. Another sub-​story about John’s earlier thefts might be decisive for making his stealing of the car plausible.

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Even though generalizations about such phenomena as theft-​events play an important part in many narratives, they are typically about unique events, and an emotional event tends to have individuating aspects. We can safely say that every emotion is, to a certain extent, unique. An important part of Jill’s anger with John is that it is Jill’s particular wrath directed to a particular person in a given situation. Do not forget that emotions tend to have a subjective component, more precisely, a component of sensation; obviously, only a given individual has a given sensation at a given time in a given situation. This component of sensation is an important element in the particularity of emotions, their Einmaligkeit. Now to the main point, that of justification. The narrative can also function as part of a justification of the emotion in question. If I ask, “Are you really justified in being angry with John?” Jill can answer, “I certainly am! John stole my car.” I can ask, “Are you sure?” Jill, then, must be able to relate the story of the theft, that is, provide a justificatory narrative if I am to be able to evaluate whether Jill is justified in being angry (I must, of course, also have access to the empirical evidence concerning the alleged theft). Furthermore, I must be in the position to evaluate whether Jill should be relieved that the old, battered car is now off her hands; whether it would be in Jill’s and everybody else’s interests for her to become more stoical about unpleasant events, etcetera. It seems fairly obvious that narratives play an important role in such an evaluation. It is important to note that this narrative justification does not need to be an intersubjective affair; it could very well be a part of Jill’s reasoning, taking place only in her head. She must be able to tell herself stories to be able to justify her emotions. We can connect my idea of justification with the idea of a narrative script. To justify an emotion, one tacitly supposes the validity of a narrative script of an emotion. In addition, one must be able to show that the events were in accordance with the script. Jill must be able to show both that John took her car without her permission and that she is completely innocent in the affair. She, for instance, did not pay him to take it to fool the insurance company. In this case, the events are in accordance with step 1. But unless Jill believes in the validity of the script for anger, she cannot be justified in being angry with him; she is not justified in moving from step 1 to step 5. Usually, we do not have to recount the script because it is a part of the background knowledge of our interlocutors.202 So it suffices to say, “I am angry with John because he stole my car,” and then proceed to prove that he is the culprit. On top of that, 202 If they had belonged to another culture, a telling of the script’s tale could have been necessary in many cases. The scripts too might vary from culture to culture.

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more elaborate narratives are very often required to justify an emotion. There are cases when I have to tell a long story about my relationship with a person to justify that certain actions, which she performed made me terribly mad or very glad. Maybe the action in itself was not very important, but it was the umpteenth time the person in question annoyed me, and so I was justified in losing my patience and becoming extremely angry. Be that as it may, we can obviously reconstruct Jill’s justification in the following manner: Premise (1): Everyone is justified in being angry if his or her property is stolen. Premise (2): A description of the reason for anger (and other emotions) makes sense if, and only if, it is a part of a narrative that is about an actual instance of the possibility mentioned in the if-​clause in premise (1). Premise (3) (the description of a reason for anger): John stole my (Jill’s) car. Premise (4): The description in premise 3 is part of a narrative about an actual instance of the possibility mentioned in the if-​clause in premise (1). Conclusion: I (Jill) is justified in being angry with John. Remember that (3) does not make sense outside of a narrative, and therefore, (4) must be postulated. As I have hinted, the narrative in our example would be about what happened when John stole Jill’s car. That event was obviously an actualization of the possibility mentioned in the if-​clause of premise (1). Let us recall the person who was irrationally scared of spiders; let us call her “the Spiderwoman.” Would she tell tales to justify that what made her frightened was a spider? Would it not suffice to cite non-​narrative evidence that a spider was indeed present? Regardless, to justify the claim that it is true that the Spiderwoman had a fit of spider-​fright, someone must be able to show that her emotional reaction was in accordance with a spider-​fright script. Thanks to this script, narrativity plays a necessary role in the justification of this emotion. 3) Explanation of emotions: we have already seen Goldie’s convincing example of a narrative explanation. We can add that I can explain Jill’s anger with John by telling my interlocutor(s) about John’s theft of the car. As we remember, Danto showed that narratives play an explanatory role. It would not make sense to say that the story of the theft and its consequences only describes the events but does not explain them. Add the script to the story, and we have a reasonably good explanation of the emotion in question. Consider also that our emotional reactions tend to have some idiosyncratic moments. This means that, in many cases, an explanation of an emotion requires telling the story of an individual’s life or of the emotion, as we saw in the example of the boy and the wasp. Someone might respond by saying that narratives give only a superficial explanation of emotions. A true understanding of them requires a non-​narrative

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explanation. We can, for example, explain emotions in a truly scientific way by invoking social and biological causes in a non-​narrative fashion. “If person P has genetic disposition D and has lived in the circumstances C, then P will get angry if P’s car gets stolen.” I see no reason to believe that such nomological explanations are of a narrative nature until someone proves otherwise. Be that as it may, we may consider the following points. Firstly, narrative explanations are usually sufficient. Telling the story of how the Spiderwoman came to abhor spiders in such an irrational manner is in most cases sufficient to explain her predicament. To be sure, explaining with the aid of a story requires background knowledge, including the knowledge of natural and possibly psychological laws. No story is an island, and the same holds for theories. A ­nomological theory with great explanatory power also requires background knowledge, but that does not mean that it is really the background knowledge that has the explanatory power, not the nomological theory. Mutatis mutandis, the same holds for the relationship between the story and its background knowledge, including such knowledge that is embedded in nomological theories. Secondly, and most importantly, an individual experiences emotions as an integral part of his or her individual life. Abhorrence is always someone’s experience of an abhorrence of something. As we have seen earlier, a typical emotion has a unique aspect by being felt by someone in a given situation at a given time. This fact limits the role of nomological explanations; they must be supplemented by some kind of idiographic explanation of which narratives provide good examples. To understand Jill’s particular anger or the Spiderwoman’s particular fright, there must be a story told about each of them. Any explanation must invoke an individual case history. This means that the explanation of emotions must at least partly be narrative. 4) Our understanding of our own emotions: to show that our understanding of our respective emotions has a necessary narrative component, we must take another look at the role of actions and behavior in our emotional life. Remember the story about the jerk who thought he was in love with Anne, but his actions and behavior showed that he was not? How can we identify this complexity of actions, behavioral patterns, and emotions unless we know the story of Stanley’s behavior and actions toward Anne? Can Stanley himself, or we for that matter, identify the emotions in question without knowing the story of his actions? Can we understand his emotions without knowing this story? Notice that this realization strengthens the arguments in favor of narratives as indispensable tools for identifying and understanding emotions. By studying the narratives of his behavior and actions, Stanley can correctly identify his emotion. Indeed, he can examine his emotional life with the aid of narratives.

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So can we all. This possibility means that narratives are important tools in our examination of our emotional life, is an unexamined emotional life worth living? From my treatment of 1)–​4), we can see that my conditions for something having a storied structure are obtained by emotions. In the first place, emotions essentially unfold in time; there is no such thing as an emotion that does not have some kind of beginning, middle, and end. Here the scripted nature of emotions plays a vital role; the scripts take part in constituting emotions and giving them a temporal shape, the shape of beginning-​middle-​end. The scripts form a part of the storied structure of emotions due to the fact that the scripts are stories, but not necessarily something, which is being narrated. Secondly, we have seen that emotions form a unified whole in their unfolding in time. John’s love of Jane certainly changes over time, but it could not be given the identity of John’s love of Jane unless there is a unifying thread of certain attitudes and actions toward Anne. The unifying thread is partly created by the synthesizing stories and is plot-​like.

Fictions and the Meeting Places of the Threesome

What about fictions? Are there fictional moments in emotions? Yes, indeed, there must be fictional moments in emotions since they have metaphoric and narrative moments, and metaphors and narratives are largely fictional. There is something fictional about magic, and Jean-​Paul Sartre regarded emotions as involving a magic of sorts. He said that an emotion is a transformation of the world (Sartre 1948). We can experience an object as frightful, saddening, irritating, and suchlike only on the basis of a total alteration of the world. This alteration or transformation has, metaphorically speaking, a magical nature. This means that whenever we see things emotionally, we do not see them as obeying natural laws but as magical objects. In fear, we act as though we use magic instruments to make fearful things disappear. Furthermore, when joyful, we sing and dance like shamans performing a rite. We can get a better grip on this idea by looking at Sartre’s analysis of the horrible. For an object to appear as something that might be perceived as horrible, it must manifest itself as an immediate and magical presence, face-​to-​face with consciousness. The face that appears four meters away from me in the window frame must be experienced as being immediately present to me in its menacing way. The distance is not experienced as one that must be physically traversed in contrast to what natural laws require. It is perceived as the unitary basis of the horrible. The window is not perceived as something that must

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be opened for the menacing thing to crawl in. It is perceived as the frame of the horrible face. The kinship with the seeing-​as mode of thinking ought to be obvious; Sartre’s analysis strengthens my conviction that emotions transform their objects, as metaphors do. However, I do not agree with Sartre’s contention that emotions are necessarily magical or illusory, even though irrational emotions certainly are. He seems to think that because there is a fictional moment in emotions, they must be illusions. Sartre’s analysis gave an excellent insight into the phenomenology of irrational emotions, while he mistakenly thought that he was studying emotions in general. He also adds support to the contention that imagination plays a central role in emotions and that emotions are transformative. Notice that irrational emotions have fictional intentional objects, and there is no doubt that there are fictional moments in any emotions. Being construals, they have the constructive moment in common with fictions. Even though I might have good reason to loath Jim because of his bad behavior toward my best friend, it is hard to see how Jim-​being-​loathsome can be an objective fact. My wrath makes me a poet and a teller of fictional tales, using my imagination in the process. The narrative built into my loathing of Jim certainly has fictional moments, and the same holds for emotions in general, the irrational ones having a bigger fictional moment. Metaphors, narratives, and fictions have meeting places. Myths figure prominently among them. Solomon had a point when he said that emotions are myths or mythologies consisting of metaphors and images (Solomon 1976: 202–​ 211 and elsewhere). The mythologies or mythic stories of the emotions synthesize and dramatize the judgments, which are built into the emotions.203 Here we see yet another example of a theory related to Ricœur’s theories about the synthesizing nature of metaphors and narratives. Solomon thinks that emotions form our view of the world in a subjective fashion, just as mythologies do. We make individuals heroes or villains in our emotional narratives, which take the shape of a heroic tale or a myth (Solomon 1976: 276–​279). (In my view, the heroes can be seen as metaphors for the good, the villains for the bad.) Every emotion has its own mythology. The mythology of wrath is the Olympian mythology of the courtroom. The angry person is a legislator, judge, and representative of moral values; the object of the anger is the defendant. Notice how the wrath dramatizes reality (remember what I said earlier about the dramatization of judgments). Solomon does not explain why this mythology is Olympian. Perhaps he is thinking of the fact that Zeus was 203 Solomon maintains that emotions in general are judgments (Solomon 1978: 185).

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judge, legislator, and upholder of morality, all rolled into one. He was also a hot-​tempered deity! Despising has a different mythology. If we despise someone, we regard him or her as a despicable individual. In such a mythology, a host of metaphors, both dead and alive, play a particular role. We often call people we despise “cockroaches” or “dirt.” Solomon’s idea is useful, even though he seems both to regard mythologies as ideological systems and to ignore the fact that they are stories. After all, “plot” and “story” were some of the original meanings of “myth.” More importantly, how can Solomon’s mythology of wrath be what it is without stories? We cannot call a certain event “legislation” unless we are talking about a process with narrative characteristics, that is, beginning, climax, and end, as well as a plot. The same holds for other emotions and their mythologies. If emotions such as wrath dramatize reality, then it is pretty clear that they are somehow related to stories since dramatizing something means giving it a storied structure. The mythical stories of emotions are among the stories or myths we live by. Given my sketch of the idea of ur-​stories we live by, we could imagine that our raw-​ feel dispositions and the nature of our culture somehow filter our experience of raw feelings, creating abstract patterns of emotional ur-​stories that then contribute to the constitution of emotions proper. The ur-​stories function as deep structures, activated in various ways depending on the circumstances. It is clear that emotions have storied, narrative, and metaphoric moments that meet in the mythologies. Moreover, mythologies are fictions, so this mythological moment in emotions endows them with fictional moments (the metaphoric side of emotion also furnishes it with fictionality because metaphors are fictional). Furthermore, myth can be regarded as a literary genre; we shall, for the sake of argument, assume that they are such a genre. We have already seen that emotions have a cognitive component, for instance, by showing us in a flash that certain objects are dangerous. We have also discovered that narratives can be a tool for cognition. We have also seen that metaphors have such a cognitive component; one of the reasons that metaphors can give us cognitive insight is that the metaphoric transformations make certain sides of reality salient. The same holds for transformations due to emotions. The transformation of perceived features of a situation due to fear makes those features salient, which we feel to be threatening our well-​being. An emotion cannot be reasonably rational unless it makes the “right” features salient; to be reasonably rational, fear must make the features of danger to our well-​being salient. Irrational fear makes features salient that are not really dangerous.

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This squares well with Antonio Damasio’s empirical studies of patients who lost their ability to judge the relevance and salience of phenomena owing to emotional impairment (for instance, Damasio 1999). Ronald de Sousa has pointed out that emotions are one of the mechanisms we use to make features of reality salient (de Sousa 1987: xv). Maybe de Sousa’s analysis of argumentation and emotions can fortify Damasio’s conclusions. De Sousa says that emotions can endow one set of supporting considerations with more salience than others and thus break a deadlock in argumentation when reason cannot help us to make up our mind between alternatives. The chances are that people with “Damasioan” brain injuries lose the ability to endow some supporting consideration with more salience than others due to the loss of emotional competence. As a consequence, they cannot make rational decisions. Thus, emotions can be of essential importance for rational decision-​making. Notice that this also holds for rational decision-​making in the sciences, for example, deciding what research program to pursue. This means that emotions matter for scientific decisions; we would not have any science without curiosity or the emotions that enables scientists to make prudent decisions. If we take emotions away, science would be seriously hampered.

Conclusion

Emotions are meaningful entities and therefore, they can possibly be Literary. Roberts correctly says that emotions are construals; I add that the same holds for metaphors. Both emotions and metaphor have a seeing-​as component. Both synthesize disparate objects. Both metaphors and emotions transform their objects and can, through transformation, provide twisted understanding. Both are like Gestalten. There cannot be any emoting without metaphoring. Ronald de Sousa points out that we learn emotions through paradigm scenarios, which are like stories. Goldie argues well in favor of emotions having a narrative structure. I add that stories and narratives play an essential role in the identification, justification, and explanation of emotions. In addition, they are good tools for people’s examinations of their emotions. Emotions have a storied structure. Solomon argues well in favor of his contention that each emotion has its characteristic myth. I add that myths are stories, and a myth is a literary genre. Thus, emotions can be subsumed under a concept of literary genres.

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It makes sense to say that emotions have metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits, besides being subsumable under the concept of a literary genre. They have all four Literary traits; hence they are Literary. Therefore, emotions have been destabed. It makes sense to talk about the poetic of emotions.

­c hapter 3

Deflated Disclosure In this chapter, I introduce my idea of “deflated disclosure.” I experiment with variations on some themes, especially Heidegger’s concept of world disclosure and some themes of Wittgensteinian provenance, somewhat in the vein of Stanley Cavell and Stephen Mulhall.204 Nicolas Kompridis’s concepts of reflective and pre-​reflective disclosure are also a source of inspiration (Kompridis 2006). Those theorists who believe in disclosure shall be called “disclosists.” Deflated disclosure is a cautious version of world disclosure, enriched with some Wittgensteinian ideas. There are no claims that it is a primordial truth, like those made by Heidegger regarding disclosure. However, there are two kinds of deflated disclosure. One is rather passive and aids meaning and cognition, and the other is focused; it is cognitively active and has existential import. The latter kind of disclosure can provide us with a twisted understanding. The main focus of this chapter will be on focused disclosure and its connection with the disclosive potential of art, mainly imaginative literature. It shall be shown that disclosure is one of literary artworks’ most important cognitive functions. Philosophical disclosure may also play a role, and I raise the question whether philosophy and literature have yet another meeting place in deflated disclosure. Finally, I shall briefly discuss the relations between disclosure and rationality. Is disclosure a department of reason?

Heidegger’s World Disclosure

Heidegger discussed “Welterschließung,” i.e., world disclosure, the unveiling of a meaningful totality (a world). This creates meaning, at least for a given culture (even a given person) at a given time. According to Heidegger, world disclosure is a precondition for any understanding of linguistic meaning, truth, or anything resembling reality. Such disclosure leads to “unconcealedness” (in German Unverborgenheit, in Ancient Greek aletheia), as Heidegger understood this term. It is a primordial form of truth—​a sort of ur-​truth.205 All our mental acts have intentional objects, and 204 I am especially inspired by Mulhall’s Cavellian analysis of aspect-​seeing in connection with Wittgenstein and Heidegger (Mulhall 1990) (see also Cavell 1979: 241–​242). 205 This is my neologism, which sounds rather Heideggerian.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_027

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before we can learn whether these objects really exist, our intentionality must disclose them. Therefore, before we can discover whether the proposition “unicorns really exist” corresponds to reality, our intentionality must disclose that unicorns are intentional objects. The “same” phenomena can be disclosed in various ways. For the carpenter, the hammer is disclosed as a tool, but for the physicist qua physicist, it is a collection of atoms. For the merchant, the hammer is a commodity. The carpenter discloses the hammer as a practical tool by using it without reflecting on the fact that it is a tool. If he constantly reflected on its practicality, the hammer would cease to be a practical tool; it is only such a tool if it is used as such unreflectively. It is only when the hammer malfunctions that reflection sets in, and the carpenter perhaps thinks, “What can I do to make this thing work?” (Heidegger 1977: 212–​230 (§44)). When the hammer is disclosed to the carpenter as a tool, a meaningful whole is disclosed as well. There cannot be any hammer without something to build or demolish. Hammers are of limited use without nails and other materials. In the last analysis, the hammer refers to human needs and ideas. Those needs and ideas, plus the practical tool, form a meaningful whole: a “world” in Heidegger’s terminology. In addition, when something is disclosed, something else is veiled/​concealed. Similarly, to when we focus on an object, we cause the surroundings to recede into the background. When using a hammer as a tool, we focus on it as such, and other possible ways of focusing on it recede into the background. The possibilities of regarding it as a commodity or a bunch of atoms are veiled. The worlds of commodities and scientific theories are concealed when the hammer is used as a tool. Conversely, being busy selling hammers means that a business world is disclosed, and a tool world becomes veiled.206 Kompridis correctly writes about Heidegger’s early conception of disclosure: Heidegger argued that prior to confronting the world as though it were first and foremost a super object, or as though it were identical with nature, we operate ‘always already’ with a pre-​reflective, holistically structured, and grammatically regulated understanding of the world. And so, prior to establishing explicit epistemic relations to the world ‘out there,’ our theoretical understanding of the world always refers back to, as much as it draws upon, a concerned practical involvement with what

206 Notice that there might be affinities between the concepts of a world in Heidegger on the one hand, Goodman on the other. Heidegger stresses ordinary practices (e.g., carpentery) more than Goodman.

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we encounter in the world–​a world we do not ‘constitute’ but into which we are ‘thrown’. kompridis 2006: 33

In Being and Time, intentionality and practical activities play the main disclosive roles. After Heidegger’s Kehre, his linguistic, aesthetic, and mystical turn, language and art become the main means of disclosure.207 We must know the meaning of words to know the world. To decide whether there are such things as unicorns, we must understand the word “unicorn” and other words that matter for such a decision. Cristina Lafont maintains that world disclosure is the precondition for linguistic meaning in Heidegger’s view. Through world disclosure, we grasp the meaning (in German Sinn) of words and sentences; for that reason, we can determine whether the words denote anything real and whether the sentences have any reference (Lafont 2000). Heidegger’s disclosure operates similarly to what R.G. Collingwood and later P.F. Strawson called “absolute presuppositions,” that is, that which makes truth and falsity possible. It makes no sense to ask whether one meter in Paris is really one meter long because it is an absolute presupposition for measurement in the metric system (Strawson 1952: 175). Collingwood mainly thought of presuppositions as a subject that metaphysicians study (Collingwood 1998). Presuppositions are not propositions; therefore, they have no truth value. They are instead that which makes propositions possible and, by implication, their truth value (Heidegger 1977: 212–​230 (§ 44)). Analogously, it makes no sense to ask whether disclosure is true or false; just like absolute presuppositions, disclosive content does not have any truth value. However, without disclosure, there cannot be any truth value (Heidegger 1954). Notice that absolute presuppositions are conceptual schemes of sorts and that disclosure functions in a similar way as such schemes. It makes sense to assume that such schemes exist; hence it makes sense to say that there could be absolute presuppositions and disclosure. Furthermore, absolute presuppositions can be called “transcendental presuppositions,” and the same holds for their close relative, Heidegger’s disclosure. Disclosure has another analytical relative, Wittgenstein’s notion of showing, introduced earlier in this book. His arguments in Tractatus can be understood as making showing almost a transcendental condition for there being 207 The first sign of the Kehre can be seen in the Letter On Humanism of 1947. There, Heidegger speaks poetically about language as the house of being where Man lives. Reality and language are interwoven, but language is essentially poetic (Heidegger 2010).

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propositional knowledge, somewhat like disclosure in Heidegger’s way of thinking. But Heidegger seems to regard disclosure as existing independent of propositions, in contrast to Wittgenstein of the Tractatus. However, the more or less implicit understanding of showing in the later philosophy is possibly closer to Heidegger. Winch’s analysis of deduction is in the vein of this later version; although he does not use the expression “showing,” his conclusion seems to be that correct deductive inferences show themselves, are disclosed. If showing in the later philosophy requires aspect-​seeing, then it is close to my conceptions of disclosure. As hinted at above, in his later writings, Heidegger claimed that artworks can perform world disclosure. He famously used as an example one of Vincent van Gogh’s paintings showing a pair of old shoes. He wrote that the shoes in question were those of an old peasant woman. We use shoes in our daily lives without really noticing them; if we were constantly thinking about them, then they would be of little use to us. A scientific study of shoes would not be useful; science shows shoes to be a collection of swirling atoms.208 However, so is any other object in the scientific view; therefore, science cannot tell us what makes a given X into a pair of shoes and not something else. In short, science cannot grasp the differentia specifica of shoes. Nonetheless, artwork such as van Gogh’s painting provides a view of the shoes that is neither as myopic as the practical view of them nor as distanced as the scientific view. By contemplating the shoes in the painting, the world of the old peasant woman is disclosed. We see how the shoes are connected to her toil, which only makes sense in connection to the land she tills, the shifting weather conditions, and so on (Heidegger 1950). At this juncture, I shall evaluate Heidegger’s theory. One of its virtues is Heidegger’s poetic pragmatism, that is, his emphasis on how our practical activities disclose reality (the pragmatic side) and the disclosive function of artworks (the poetic side). Nonetheless, his thought is not above criticism. First, he considered that disclosure came before classification and the conception of objects, but it is difficult to see how a minded being can relate to the world without at least a hazy conception of objects. Secondly, disclosure can only be given identity through propositions, in the guise of definitions of the concept of disclosure—​and definitions consist of propositions. 208 Heidegger uses a different example: Aristotle’s understanding of the concept of an object. However, I consider that my example explicates Heidegger’s main idea just as well. In addition, I have insufficient space for a long discussion of Aristotelian metaphysics in this short chapter.

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Thirdly, I can find whether X really is a disclosure only if I can test whether the proposition “X is a disclosure” is true or not. In the fourth place, the possible insight that propositional truth has disclosure as a precondition can only be expressed in propositions. Thus, Heidegger’s contention of the primacy of disclosure is self-​defeating.

Introducing Deflated Disclosure

Before explaining deflated disclosure, further reflections on disclosure are required. Call the following “my further preliminary reflections.” Using a language automatically makes the world—​or at least large parts of it—​appear as meaningful (is disclosed as meaningful), even though one is not aware of it and even though one does not make assertions like “the world is meaningful.” The very act of speaking and the possession of language carry this disclosive baggage. Something similar applies to thinking. Without intentionality and propositional attitudes, there would be no thinking. The thinker does not have to think this thought about the nature of thinking; it is disclosed through any act of thinking. Emotions make objects appear meaningful in the sense of features that make them good or bad. Hating someone implies regarding the person as a wrongdoer or evil, as the word shares features with other words that make something bad. Understanding slices of the world through emotions—​as good, bad, ugly, and so on—​means, however implicitly, endowing them with meaning. These world slices, and even the world as a whole, disclose themselves as good or bad. Performing actions has the same effect. One cannot perform actions unless at least some slices of the world appear to make sense as fields and means for acts. Some objects appear to be tools, others are ends, and being a tool and an end means belonging to specific categories of objects, so they are meaningful. Thus, actions also make the world (or some parts of it) appear meaningful, even though the agent does not consciously believe that they are. Acts carry a disclosive baggage, just like language, emotions, and thinking do. Notice that the disclosive baggage functions much like language, according to lingualism. Language is the baggage that any act of perception carries, any determination of anything as being a fact or the truth about something. Language does not create facts, the contents of percepts, or truth; it is just that without language, it would not make any sense to determine something as true, a perceptual content, or a fact. But this does not exclude the possibility of tacit knowledge and non-​lingual mental representations playing a role in

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this determination. As earlier said, it is possible that tacit knowledge and such representations function as input to propositional knowledge, which is lingual by nature. When I mention deflated disclosure, I use “disclosure” in the sense of these preliminary reflections. In light of my criticism of Heidegger, disclosure can hardly be anything but deflated, given that the Heideggerian idea of disclosure’s primacy is non-​deflated. There is no reason to assume that disclosure, however important, can provide absolute presuppositions or be the precondition of all meaning and truth. There are two variants of deflated disclosure. One is rather passive, akin to a servant to cognition and meaning. As stated above, this is like baggage carried by acts, language, propositions, thinking, emotions, and acting. Let us call this “passive deflated disclosure”: language use, thinking, and action automatically, and hence passively, carry disclosive baggage. This kind of disclosure can fill in gaps in propositional thinking. This holds for Wittgensteinian showing, a correct deduction shows its (the deduction’s) correctness and thus does some work that propositional thinking cannot do (I am alluding to Winch’s example). An example from the artworld could be Goodman’s example of how your perception of ordinary things can change after you have visited an exhibition of abstract art. You start to see abstract figures in things around you, see them in the light of the artworks, but not through any act of will. It happens to you; you are passive in the process. The other is the more active and focused variant of deflated disclosure; it can play an important active role in creating conceptual schemes and in our emotional, aesthetic, and moral views, not least through artworks. It requires imagination. I shall use expressions such as “to d-​disclose,” “d-​disclosure,” “and “d-​ disclosing” instead of such cumbersome expressions as “to disclose in a deflated manner.” I shall use the expression “p-​d-​disclosure” for passive deflated disclosure, and “f-​d-​disclosure” for focused disclosure. The main emphasis shall be on f-​d-​disclosure. It seems difficult, even impossible, to find both necessary and sufficient conditions for the application of the concept of deflated disclosure. I shall use the term “d-​disclosure” as denoting unveiling, which is similar to Heidegger’s concept of unconcealedness. It refers to eye-​opening phenomena that help us see familiar things in a new light, giving us new perspectives on them. Such phenomena are holistic, and they can provide a sort of epiphany or vision. We have already seen an example of this in Leibniz’s question, “Why is there something rather than nothing.” By contemplating this question, we disclose reality

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anew; we see it as something entirely contingent, in contrast to our usual view of it as something absolutely necessary. Leibniz awakens us from our dogmatic slumber. The following is perhaps more a hint than a fully-​fledged definition of the concept; we can call it “a tentative definition of d-​disclosure”: Deflated disclosure is a mode of cognition that gives insight into or throws light upon phenomena, typically as a result of aspect-​seeing or showing. D-​disclosure does not essentially involve truth value; if it makes sense to say that a given d-​disclosure can be true, then it cannot be propositional truth. It functions as an aid to propositional thinking. This definition holds for both variants of d-​disclosure, but p-​d-​disclosure has no other features than those mentioned in the definition, while the focused form has both these features and some additional ones. They are mentioned below. The obvious critique of this definition is that parts of its definiens are less clear than the definiendum; for instance, the expressions “gives insight into” and “throws light upon.” I use these terms in the same sense. Aspect-​ seeing (seeing-​as) can provide insight into phenomena. To use an example of Wittgensteinian provenance, we can suddenly see that John’s face is very much like the face of George. Wittgenstein says: “I observe a face, and then suddenly notice its likeness to another. I see that it has not changed; and yet I see it ­differently. I call this experience “noticing an aspect”” (Wittgenstein 2009: 193 (ii, §113)). He adds that an aspect has dawned upon us.209 In my vocabulary, we have received insight into their faces; the aspect-​seeing throws light upon them. I shall continue to explicate the concept of d-​disclosure in various ways. I shall continue my comparison with related concepts and use examples of their application. The examples are of paramount importance because the concept of d-​disclosure is broad, and there is a motley assortment of phenomena that can be subsumed under it. Let us turn to the focused kind: f-​d-​disclosure. Such focused d-​disclosure is not only “baggage” and “aid” but requires attention, focus, and imagination. Focused d-​disclosure is closer to that which Nikolas Kompridis calls “reflective disclosure” or “redisclosure” than what he calls “pre-​reflective disclosure.”

209 Stephen Mulhall maintains that Heidegger’s disclosure through practical use of instruments is a kind of aspect-​seeing; the tool is seen as useful (Mulhall 1990: 120–​121).

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Moreover, what he calls “pre-​reflective disclosure” is similar to passive d-​ disclosure. He states that in pre-​reflective disclosure, background structures of intelligibility are revealed. Reflective disclosure is second-​order disclosure or meta-​disclosure. Through such reflective disclosures, the background structures of intelligibility are reopened and transformed through novel interpretations and cultural practices (Kompridis 2006: 34–​36). However, a focused d-​disclosure is not necessarily second-​order disclosure. The reflective moment in my theory is that f-​d-​disclosure requires attention and focus; it is not merely something that happens to the discloser, in contrast to pre-​reflective disclosure. In the course of this chapter, we shall discover several means of focused d-​disclosure; “means” is used here in a very broad sense of the word. Among these means are intuitions, visions, imagination, emotions, artworks, metaphors, literary devices such as Verfremdung, and last but not least, the very important aspect-​seeing (the list is not exhaustive). As we shall see, emotions and metaphors tend to have a moment of aspect-​seeing, which enhances their focused d-​disclosive potential, provided everything else is equal. Focused d-​disclosure can throw light upon tacit knowledge, and as we shall see below, contribute to the recreation of our vocabularies and, in relation to such recreation, provide us with new perspectives. This recreation can be a part of the creation of new conceptual schemes. F-​d-​disclosure must have either epistemological or existential import (it must matter to our lives) or both to count as a focused disclosure. An example of the epistemological version is when perspectives on reality or slices thereof change in such a way that new conceptual schemes are created. Aspect-​seeing and the creation of new vocabularies are the prime tool for such changes, cf. Kuhn’s description of how paradigms change similarly to changes in aspect-​ seeing (Kuhn 1970a: 111). Vocabulary is used here in a wide sense; it is not necessarily a group of words; it could be mathematical symbols, visual signs, even signs in body language. If all vocabularies are parts of and functions of conceptual schemes, then there cannot be any neutral vocabulary with which to build new conceptual schemes. So, changes in vocabularies that are at the same time changes of schemes must happen like a conversion where the meaning of large parts of older vocabularies change radically. This conversion is a kind of disclosure, perhaps taking place with the aid of rhetoric and being fueled by emotions. Let us turn to f-​d-​disclosure of the existential kind. I shall use more space for that kind, and because of that, I shall mainly focus on the disclosive power of literature and the arts in the existential dimension. Needless to say, imaginative literature and the arts have more to do with the existential than the epistemological. But that does not exclude the possibility of artworks taking

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part in the creation of new conceptual schemes, e.g., schemes that form our emotional outlook on life. Religions might be such conceptual schemes, a perspective from which the believers see reality as a whole and which form and create their perception of facts, besides a change in vocabulary, for instance, body language. Hymns, religious symbols, and poetry might be examples of how artworks can take part in the creation of conceptual schemes. Imaginative rationality, of the Mark Johnson kind, might be of importance in the creation and/​or function of existential conceptual schemes. However, this is pure speculation; it is not clear that there could be existential conceptual schemes, in contrast to “purely” epistemological ones, for example, paradigms. Therefore, I shall not discuss such possible existential conceptual schemes any further. I shall use “f-​d-​e-​disclosure” as shorthand for “focused, deflated disclosure of the existential kind.” What is existential import? Something has existential import if it is important for our identities, overall goals in life, our concept of moral rights and wrongs, and other aspects. Seeing a duck-​rabbit picture as a rabbit hardly qualifies as existentially important. We cannot, of course, forbid people to believe that seeing a rabbit is of great existential importance for them, even though they have no religious, scientific, political, or moral reasons to consider it important. However, can we not ask whether these people really understand the expression “being of great importance to one’s life”? If they understand the expression at all, they do so in an idiosyncratic manner. Seeing similarities between faces in the revelatory manner that Wittgenstein describes, counts only as f-​d-​e-​disclosure if the similarities have existential import. For instance, seeing similarities between the faces of those that suffer in the Ukrainian war and the suffering face of Jesus as depicted in Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece can be a case of deflated disclosure (notice that to see this similarity, we must exercise our imagination). Suffering is certainly a part of la condition humaine. The f-​d-​e-​disclosure, in this case, has universal reverberation; suffering is revealed to us as universal, but not in any abstract or theoretical way. In a sense, we “see” its universality. Had I only noticed a simple similarity between Jesus’s face and the face of someone I just saw at a bus stop, it would not have counted as deflated disclosure. Even though Wittgenstein did not use the expression “tacit knowledge,” it makes sense to assert that our knowledge of the similarities between faces is tacit. The knowledge of Gestalts, for instance, faces, is tacit unless algorithms that seemingly recognize faces can be said to possess knowledge. We recognize the faces of friends and relatives without any effort; nevertheless, we find it difficult, even impossible, to describe them. I can visualize a simple stick from

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a description in a generally objective manner, even though I have never seen it; the knowledge of this aspect of a stick is propositional. Nevertheless, from a description alone, I cannot form a reasonable impression of a face I have never seen. Tacit knowledge is not entirely beyond the realm of meaning. It is expressed in meaningful gestures, body languages, and to a certain degree in words. We can come to grips with it in various ways even though it cannot be entirely explicated in propositions. Instead, due to the fact tacit knowledge is not beyond meaning, we can make a “sketch” of individual pieces of tacit knowledge, seeing its rough outlines, “through a glass, darkly.”210 If we could not make any such sketch, then we have good reasons to doubt that there is any tacit knowledge. As we shall discover, among the instruments of sketch-​making is deflated disclosure. A precondition for this sketch-​making is that we can become aware of the fact that this piece of knowledge is tacit. For example, we become aware of something we did not know: our mastery of language is to a large degree tacit. We can also put this piece of knowledge in wider context, which can involve propositional knowledge. In the case of language, it can be put in the context of theoretical linguistics. Putting the piece of tacit knowledge in such context can enable us to understand it better, make a better sketch of it. The aspect-​seeing of faces in Wittgenstein’s example certainly does not account for our tacit knowledge of faces. If it did, then such knowledge would not be tacit. Instead, the aspect-​seeing indicates, as it were, a piece of knowledge concerning the similarity between the faces. It remains a fact that we cannot adequately describe the faces and their similarities in words. Now, if aspect-​seeing of faces has existential import, as it does in the example of the Ukrainian refugees, we have a case of f-​d-​e-​disclosure of tacit knowledge. The knowledge of Gestalts can be d-​disclosed, and if this piece of knowledge concerns a matter of existential import, then it can be f-​d-​e-​disclosed. Let us look at the potential of emotions for f-​d-​e-​disclosure. Moods disclose the world passively and unfocused, while emotions such as love, and anger are focused emotions. Moreover, they essentially disclose slices of reality as good or bad so that “good” and “bad” denote something that has existential import. Robert Roberts’s idea of emotions as concern-​based construals suits the conception of f-​d-​e-​disclosure perfectly. That which is concern-​based has obvious existential import. Consider fear: it f-​d-​e-​discloses the charging tiger as a mortal danger (we construe the tiger as a fearful object because we are

210 This a quotation from the Bible, from one of Saint Paul’s letters, 1 Corinthians 13: 12.

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concerned about our lives). At the same time, fear of harmless spiders veils segments of reality, the fact that spiders are harmless. Metaphors function in a similar manner. If we claim metaphorically that battles are games of chess, then we disclose the strategic and tactical aspects of battles while veiling the suffering, aggression, and violence. Furthermore, the twisted understanding that emotions and metaphors provide is a cognitive insight that does not essentially involve truth claims. This is the same kind of insight that we gain from disclosure. Therefore, either twisted understanding is a kind of disclosure, or there are strong family resemblances between the two. Both alternatives will be ranked equally highly. Imagination can also assist focused d-​disclosure, at least the existential kind. One can imagine how it is to feel fear of harmless spiders, even though one does not suffer from such irrational fears. In addition, imagination can aid artists in disclosing emotions—​for instance, when Picasso showed the fear, terror, and confusion of war in Guernica. The painting certainly has no truth value; nevertheless, it has cognitive import. This cognitive import can be called “focused d-​disclosure.” We can also say that Picasso’s Guernica is doubly disclosive; it d-​discloses emotions such as fear, which in their turn d-​disclose in a focused way that segments of reality are extremely dangerous. What is dangerous certainly is existentially important: witness Roberts’s conception of concern. Emotions are notoriously difficult to express and describe in ordinary language, but the languages of art, including the visual arts, could assist, not least if they are tools for focused d-​disclosure, like Picasso’s painting. Emotions are tools for f-​d-​e-​disclosure but also need it. Another example of visual f-​ d-​ e-​ disclosure of emotions is Munch’s painting—​or series of paintings—​The Scream. The painting discloses emotions such as fear, anguish, or desperation. Again, we have a case of double disclosure, and these emotions, in turn, disclose reality or segments of it as dangerous or horrifying. Let us examine yet another example of f-​d-​e-​disclosure by visual means. We can aspect the witches in Francisco Goya’s painting The Witches’ Sabbath as one being, or a group of humanlike ants that Satan is fooling. Why is this an example of f-​d-​e-​disclosure? In the first place, it is because it involves aspect-​ seeing. Second, it is because aspecting the painting in this way requires a certain degree of attention and focus. Third, it is f-​d-​e-​disclosure because it concerns something that matters to human existence. In seeing the painting in this way, we touch upon the themes of evil and herd mentality; evil is, of course, an important moral category, and

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herd mentality concerns both identities and questions of right and wrong (is it morally right to be a conformist, or should we cultivate our individuality?). I can aspect the witches as forming a whole—​a kind of anthill. Then, I can reflect on the possibility of interpreting the painting as an illustration of the masses bowing to evil forces, such as the German masses bowing to Hitler. Considering this, I can aspect the painting as showing metaphorically the masses bowing to evil. This is also a case where focused d-​disclosing becomes reflective disclosure; my reflection on masses bowing to evil is an essential part of the f-​d-​e-​disclosure. Furthermore, it is another case of double disclosure; the painting has been disclosed as something that discloses a segment of reality in a particular way. Notice that when we see the picture this way, we interpret it as metaphorical. Metaphors essentially involve aspect-​seeing, and like aspect-​seeing in general, they can be d-​disclosive.211 The metaphor Time is money shows time as money. As said earlier, there is no prior similarity between time and money; the metaphor, as it were, creates the similarities. The metaphor discloses both time and money anew through this creation, giving us a new perspective on them. It should be rather obvious that time and money can have existential import, so the disclosure in question is a focused d-​disclosure of the existential sort.

Literature and f-​d-​e-​Disclosing

Now, I am going to kill two birds with one stone, giving more specific examples of the use of the concept of f-​d-​e-​disclosing and showing how imaginative literature can be f-​d-​e-​disclosive. The fictional and/​or non-​realistic nature of imaginative literature can help us understand reality through the complex interaction between proximity to and distance from reality that such works provide. We are not too myopic because of excessive involvement in the world of the literary work, unlike our absorption in our respective workaday worlds.212 Furthermore, we do not see the world of the work from a completely external perspective as we would if we were studying the phenomena scientifically. 211 Max Black argued in favor of metaphors essentially involving a sort of aspect-​seeing. It might not be so for all of them, but there are certainly examples of such metaphors (Black 1993: 19–​41). 212 What is said here about literature, distance, and nearness owes much, not only to Heidegger’s aforementioned work, but also to Frank Palmer and Paul Ricœur (Palmer 1992; Ricœur 1981d: 131–​144).

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A fictional story or poem replete with imaginative metaphors that are not a part of our ordinary lives gives us the necessary distance from the issues thematized in literary works, and this distance helps us to take a reflective stance. At the same time, we can immerse ourselves in the world of the literary work, for instance, by almost seeing things through the eyes of the protagonists in a novel. Ideally, reading a literary work should lead to a reflective equilibrium between the inside and outside perspectives of whatever is thematized, between distance and proximity. It also makes sense to talk about the dialectic between distance and proximity. The relationship between the two is dialectical because the tension between distance and proximity is constitutive of both simultaneously, as it creates a constant change in them. The tension also leads to something new, the synthesis of two antitheses. In fact, f-​d-​e disclosure can take place due to the dialectics between distance and proximity. A good example could be Kafka’s short story Die Verwandlung, in English, The Metamorphosis (Kafka 1970: 56–​99). It starts with a bang, not a whimper—​an estranging bang: “Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt” (Kafka 1970: 56). In an English translation: “As Gregor Sansa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect” (Kafka 1972: 89). We receive a new perspective on family life by Kafka’s transforming ordinary reality into a bizarre world where people could instantly become insects. Kafka estranges ordinary life in a way that can be eye-​opening; we see things as something else, such as seeing ordinary people as monsters. At the same time, he describes this reality in such a realistic manner that readers can immerse themselves in the story, seeing its world through the eyes of Gregor Samsa. Thus, the dialectical interplay between the distance (estrangement) and proximity (immersion) makes the f-​d-​e disclosure of the story possible. However, notice that the language Kafka uses in the short story is predominantly literal. Disclosure often requires figurative language, but not always. Kafka’s use of plain and literal language enhances another disclosive factor, that of Verfremdung, that is, the estrangement of slices of reality with which we are familiar. The very shock of the first sentence contributes to the Verfremdung. Furthermore, his prose sounds so plain that one rather expects him to write about a more prosaic topic. Therefore, the shock effect of Gregor Samsa’s metamorphosis into an insect is intensified. At the same time, this story is read as though it were one great metaphor about outsiders in families, people’s tendency to see what they want to see, and similar topics.

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Of no less importance is that the story is about existential themes, our identities, and our relations with our significant others. There is no lack of attention to and focus on these themes in the story. We can only conclude that Kafka’s story is an f-​d-​e-​disclosing piece of imaginative literature. The f-​d-​e-​disclosive side of Kafka’s stories has prompted the creation of the word “Kafkaesque.” Typically, everyday phenomena can be Kafkaesque, for example, bureaucracy or the relatively ordinary Samsa family. They become Kafkaesque if they can be aspected in a certain fashion and/​or seen in a certain metaphorical way as bizarre, absurd, and/​or uncanny in an inexplicable fashion. Moreover, the phenomena should be described in a dry, prosaic way, as though it were normal. Gregor Samsa’s bizarre transformation is described in that manner, without explanation. Let us now examine the function of figurative language as a tool for f-​d-​e-​ disclosure. Figurative language figures prominently in poetry and poetic language that f-​d-​e-​disclose segments of reality. It does so by using techniques such as rhythm and Verfremdung. Kafka’s way of producing Verfremdung by describing an extremely strange event in a prosaic manner is just one of many ways of producing this effect. One can also produce Verfremdung by using original metaphors and similes that show some part of reality in a new light. Thus, imaginative literature can awaken us from dogmatic slumbers. It can do so by changing and/​or enriching parts of our vocabulary as well as the manner of speech and use of symbols, including visual ones. This is one of the main functions of focused deflated disclosure. It can enrich our vocabulary about the field of existential import, “vocabulary” being understood in a broad sense. Munch’s painting The Scream has become a part of our visual vocabulary, symbolizing despair, or madness. Of course, the introduction of the expression “Kafkaesque” enriched our vocabulary. Let us now examine how poems can f-​d-​e-​disclose emotions, in casu grief, an emotion not easily described in ordinary language. It would be an arduous task to explain what grief is to people who have never experienced it. However, perhaps their imagination could help them understand, and poetry could enhance that use of imagination. Old Icelandic/​Norse poetry of the Viking age is not famous for being personal, but there is at least one exception to that rule: Sonatorrek (The Sons’ Loss or The Lament over the Sons) by the Icelandic poet and Viking Egill Skallagrímsson (ca. 910–​990 ad), recorded in Egill’s Saga. The poet or the voice in the poem expresses his enormous grief because of the death of his sons with the use of metaphors and powerful rhythm. It starts with an avowal of this terrible loss, expressed with powerful rhythm, metonyms, and metaphors. Most of the rest of the poem evolves around this avowal, explaining its background,

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and helping us to understand the nature of the grief expressed. The voice of the poem states that grief has rendered him speechless; he can hardly create a poem; his mind is almost paralyzed. The grieving person seems to sense the grief intensely and physically. Here we have the first stanza in the original: Mjǫk erum tregt tungu at hrœra eða loptvætt ljóðpundara; esa nú vænligt of Viðurs þýfi né hógdrœgt ór hugar fylgsni.213 In an English translation by C.W. Green: Much doth it task me My tongue to move, Through my throat to utter The breath of song. Poesy, prize of Odin, Promise now I may not, A draught drawn not lightly From deep thought’s dwelling.214 Now, translators are traitors, so even this excellent translation has its faults. The translator translates “loptvætt ljóðpundara” as “Through my throat /​To utter the breath of songs.” A more precise translation would be “it is hard to lift the scales of poems,” the scales of poems being a metonym for the tongue. Illiterate as the great poet and Viking was, Egill Skallagrímsson could only make his poems public using his tongue. Furthermore, the translator translates “Viðurs þýfi” as “Poesy, prize of Odin.” A more precise translation would have been “Viður’s loot,” Viður being one of the god Óðinn’s (Odin’s) many names. The expression alludes to the mythical story of how the god stole the mead of poetry, making it possible for humankind to create poems. Therefore, poetry is the god’s loot. Knowing these mythological allusions and the metonym of the tongue enriches our experience of the poem and helps us understand the brilliance of its avowal of grief. 2 13 Egils saga 1933: 246 (78th chapter). 214 Egil’s Saga 1893: (78th chapter).

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The paralyzing effect of grief is not only expressed in the poem when the speaker’s voice says that he cannot move his tongue. It is also expressed by the slow but heavy rhythm of the poem, created partly by the systematic use of alliteration. The poem as a whole sheds light on this grief through a dialectic between immersion and estrangement. The complex metaphors and metonyms (only partly conveyed in this translation) create an effect of estrangement. This estrangement gives us the chance to see the grief expressed as if from afar, and the distance opens up the possibility of reflection on the whatness of the emotion. The rhythm, together with the literal meaning of the poem, creates the possibility for immersion and gives us (including those who have never experienced grief) a chance to see the grief from the point of view of the poem’s speaking voice. In the dialectics between immersion and distanciation, grief is disclosed. It goes without saying that grief matters to our lives. A poetic, f-​d-​e-​disclosure can also be expressed in philosophical writings, for instance, in some of Gaston Bachelard’s texts. Through his poetic of space, he attempts to reveal the ways in which we in our lived experience approach the spaces of the houses we inhabit, the spaces of drawers and cupboards, and so on. The house is not primarily something physical but something that exists in and through imagination and memories. The home is a sort of primary space; being human means, in most cases, having a home. The home is the manifestation of the soul, being the product of imagination and memories. Furthermore, the soul must be situated somewhere. For this reason, studying the house and the home can be a way of approaching inner, mental spaces. Thus, Bachelard tries to show how spaces and places are disclosed in lived experience and how experiencing intimate spaces, and places is a primordial kind of experience. In this connection, he introduces an auxiliary to psychoanalysis which he calls “topoanalysis,” witness Old Greek “topos,” meaning “place.” He wrote: “Topoanalysis, then, would be the systematic psychological study of the sites of our intimate lives” (Bachelard 1964: 30). The drawers in a home symbolize secret information, its open cabinets secrets revealed. Wardrobes, desks, and chests are “… hybrid objects, subject objects.” (Bachelard 1964: 99). They partly in and through the imaginative work of disclosure. Something similar holds for the corners of the house: “Consciousness of being at peace in one’s corner produces a sense of immobility, and this, in turn, radiates immobility. An imaginary room rises up around our bodies, which think that they are well hidden when we take refuge in a corner” (Bachelard 1964: 156). This squares with my childhood memories of finding tranquility in corners and experiencing wardrobes and drawers as something mysterious. Another good point is Bachelard disclosure of doors:

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But how many daydreams we should have to analyze under the very heading of Doors! For the door is an entire cosmos of the Half-​open. In fact, it is one of its primal images, the very origin of a daydream that accumulates desires and temptations: the temptation to open up the ultimate depths of being, and the desire to conquer all reticent being. (237–​8) The central moment of daydreams shows itself here. Daydreams are the product of imagination; in his poetic of space, Bachelard discloses imagination as it functions in relation to inhabited space. This and the Leibniz example show that philosophy can be disclosive, just like imaginative literature. And if Wittgenstein were right about showing, not saying, being the essence of philosophy, then philosophy would be disclosive. Maybe we have found yet another meeting place between the literature and philosophy. This subchapter shows that imaginative literature can be f-​d-​e-​disclosive, mainly through the dialectics between immersion and distanciation (Verfremdung is a kind of distanciation). Furthermore, it can enrich our vocabulary in the same way as visual arts can enrich our visual vocabulary.

Disclosism and Rationality

Habermas was originally quite critical of disclosism. He criticized such philosophers as Heidegger on the grounds that they absolutized linguistic world disclosure, and therefore ignored the importance of the problem-​solving and action-​coordinating role of language and reason. A further consequence of this approach was the devaluation of philosophy as a cognitive endeavor. These disclosists did not see that a world-​disclosing language and practice is not prior to the question of truth; it is the other way round. This kind of language and practice must be tested against the reality they are supposed to illuminate. Furthermore, Habermas seemed to have considered that disclosure creates a closed space of meaning and knowledge, somewhat like Kuhnian paradigms, making meaning and knowledge relative to this space and making the search for new knowledge in a sense impossible because searching knowledge can only yield confirmation of the disclosive space’s preconditions (Habermas 1985: 158–​190 and elsewhere) (Kompridis 2006: 97–​98). However, given the arguments in favor of deflated disclosure, we cannot maintain that the question of truth is primordial to that of disclosure. Rather, they are the preconditions for each other; there is no truth without disclosure and no disclosure without truth.

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Moreover, disclosure is not necessarily an ally of relativism. Who says that there cannot be some general, “absolute” disclosure, which is the precondition for general meaning and knowledge? Furthermore, Kompridis has some forceful arguments against validity being the logical precondition for all meaning. He approvingly quotes John Dewey, who stated that truth and other forms of validity are but one class of meaning. Truth and falsity have jurisdiction over their respective class of meaning, but there is an ocean of meaning where they are irrelevant, such as new meanings, new interpretations, new styles of reasoning, etcetera. Witness Goodman, Margolis, the alethetic theory, fuzzy logic and more. Kompridis writes: Truth and falsity are irrelevant for this particular class of meanings, not because they are by definition beyond the reach of evaluation and justification but because they are beyond the reach of our current practices of evaluation and justification. In so far as they can enlarge the cultural conditions of intelligibility and possibility, they “create” the conditions under which their “truth”—​that is, the possibilities they disclose—​can be tested and verified. kompridis 2006: 139

Kompridis adds that language has the capacity to transform the world; this capacity is a part of its world-​disclosing power. Kompridis further points out the haziness of Habermas’s notion of the way new meanings are tested against the world across its entire breadth. He never specifies the elements of such a test. Furthermore, he suggests on the one hand that these tests are successful, while on the other, he admits (in Kompridis’s words): that the ‘world’ is a holistically structured background understanding disclosed by language is not fully surveyable. Now, if this is the case, how can one ever be in a position to know that this background has been tested ‘across its entire breadth,’ particularly when one also holds that we cannot refer to ‘something in the lifeworld’ in the same that we can refer ‘to facts, norms, or experiences?’. kompridis 2006: 140215

215 A word seems to be missing in Kompridis’s text when he writes in the quotation “… in the same that we …” Presumably, he meant “… in the same way that we …”.

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These musings of Kompridis shall be ranked highly. In addition, Habermas changed his tune and later admitted that disclosure plays an important role in our dealings with reality. When ordinary problem-​solving ceases to be effective, we can disclose the problematic field in such a way as to see it in a new light, creating a new vocabulary for the solution to its problems (Habermas 1992: 106). Furthermore, he also admitted that artworks could be disclosive: “The aesthetic ´validity´ or unity we attribute to a work refers to its singularly illuminating power to open our eyes to what is seemingly familiar, to disclose anew an apparently familiar reality” (Habermas 1985b: 203).216 Not only Kompridis but also Charles Taylor goes farther than Habermas. Taylor maintains that we can call world disclosure “a new department of reason” (Taylor 1995: 15). This department seemingly provides new perspectives and vocabularies (I may add: twisted understanding). Moreover, neither perspectives nor vocabularies have truth values; nevertheless, they can help us make sense of the world by disclosing it in particular ways. Here, rhetoric must play a role, as stated earlier. One aim of rhetoric is to induce people to see slices of reality or reality as a whole in particular ways, giving them new perspectives. A close relative of rhetoric is directive reasoning, which is the way an art critic attempts to have his interlocutors see a particular artwork in his preferred way and judge its merits accordingly. An expanded version of directive reasoning may play a role in this purported new form of reason, and one can use it to encourage one’s interlocutors to see a specific slice of reality from a particular perspective. Rhetoric may then be the instrument that leads people to see reality as a whole from that perspective and, in that connection, help create new conceptual schemes. Discussing disclosure as a new form of reason, Taylor scarcely considered deduction. However, if understanding a deductive inference to be valid in the last analysis is a matter of seeing in the Wittgensteinian sense, then such an understanding could be disclosive. This means that disclosure is at the heart of reason, that is if reason essentially entails drawing logically correct inferences. Note that I wrote that drawing a correct inference may be disclosive. I do not know whether disclosure is another voice of reason, as Kompridis and Taylor believe, whether it assists reason, as Habermas later believed. But it is hardly irrational, hardly the converse of reason, as Habermas previously maintained. If conceptual schemes make meaning and knowledge possible and if f-​d-​disclosure takes part in their creation, then disclosure plays a rational role.

216 Here we can here echo from the Russian formalist Victor Shklovsky, who said that estrangement is one of art´s most powerful devices (Shklovsky 1965: 5–​24).

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Whether it is a voice of reason or not, disclosure has a place in philosophy. However, owing to the pluralism of rpe, I cannot accept that disclosure is all there is to philosophy. Furthermore, I have already stated that disclosive and propositional knowledge need each other and that there is a necessary dialectic between them. Therefore, there must also be a place for propositionally oriented philosophy. Maybe the rpe should seek to unify disclosive and propositional approaches to philosophy. Note that deflated disclosure has an existential side, like the everyday reasoning I destabed earlier, showing that it has Literary traits. Perhaps disclosure can assist in such everyday deliberations, it could possibly feed deliberators with “raw material” for coming to grips with their existential problems. Notice further that deflated disclosure might be a part of aesthetic rationality and forms a part of everyday deliberation through its existential side. By implication, it is a part of rationality in general, as seen by the rpe.

Conclusion

I have introduced the concept of deflated disclosure (d-​disclosure), which is not only a deflationary version of Heidegger’s concept of world disclosure but also draws on Wittgenstein’s thought, Mullhall’s analysis, and the theories of Nikolas Kompridis. Heidegger believed that disclosure was the precondition for meaning and propositional truth but could only convey that purported insight through propositions. This does not mean that disclosure has no cognitive value. Passive d-​disclosure can aid cognition and grasping meaning, but it plays no independent, cognitive role. It is mainly extra baggage that comes with anything meaningful. But it can fill in some gaps of propositional thinking. Wittgensteinian showing is a kind of passive d-​disclosure, showing that a piece of deduction is in order fills in a gap of propositional thinking. In the last analysis, such thinking cannot show the correctness of correct deduction. In contrast to passive d-​disclosure, focused d-​disclosure requires focus and attention. Such f-​d-​disclosure either concerns epistemological or existential matters; the latter kind is called “f-​d-​e-​disclosure.” The former helps create new conceptual schemes through aspect-​seeing and the recreation of vocabularies (rhetoric also plays a role in this creation). F-​d-​disclosure is close to Kompridis’s reflective disclosure, while passive d-​disclosure is related to unreflective disclosure. D-​disclosure of both kinds does not essentially possess truth value. It gives insight into phenomena, often with the aid of aspect-​seeing. Among the means for deflated disclosure are

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intuitions, visions, imagination, emotions, artworks, metaphors, and such literary devices as Verfremdung. Among the cognitive functions of deflated disclosure is the disclosure of certain kinds of tacit knowledge. Aspect-​seeing plays an important role in such disclosure. Emotions and metaphors also involve aspect-​seeing, which does not diminish their d-​disclosive powers. Emotions concern matters of existential import and are therefore the domain of f-​d-​e-​disclosure. Artworks are eminent tools for f-​d-​e-​disclosing; such disclosure is one of their main functions. This point is illustrated in paintings by Grünewald and Goya, a poem by Egill Skallagrímsson, and Kafka’s short story. In literature, the dialectic between immersion and distanciation is the main tool for f-​d-​e-​ disclosure. Some philosophical works can be disclosive in a similar fashion as artworks; Bachelard’s writings on the poetics of space disclose emotions and imaginings concerning inhabited space. Leibniz, Heidegger, and Wittgenstein have shown how to be disclosive and philosophical at the same time; maybe literature and philosophy have in common the ability to disclose. Yet another important function of f-​d-​disclosure (both the existential and epistemological kinds) is its power to rejuvenate our vocabulary, both verbal (“Kafkaesque”) and visual (Munch’s Scream as a symbol for despair). Deflated disclosure is important for our cognition and existence; disclosism deserves a high ranking. Such a disclosure might be either a part of rationality or an important aid to it.

­c hapter 4

Background and Literature We have been discussing some epistemological themes like whether narratives, metaphors, fictions, emotions, and disclosure have cognitive import. Some aspects of the concept of meaning have also been in focus, for instance, the meaning of metaphors. Now, meaning, meaningful entities, and knowledge only make sense on a vast background of practices and cognitive assumptions. Reason-​bearers and other me s only make sense given such a background. We shall start by discussing this notion of background; then, we shall see whether metaphors, narratives, imagination, and imaginative literature can help us come to grips with the background. Henceforth, it shall be written “Background” to discriminate from backgrounds as referred to in ordinary parlance. Need I say that I shall be experimenting with ideas, cutting, pasting, and ranking?

The Background

There shall be a focus on that which I call “Backgroundists,” i.e., the thinkers who maintain that meaning and knowledge is based upon a massive Background, which is at least partly something that cannot be articulated. Among the earliest versions of the concept of the Background is the phenomenological concept of Lebenswelt, in English “Life-​World.” The concept stems from Edmund Husserl and can be defined as “the totality of everything we take for granted without necessarily being aware of it, and which forms the necessary Background for our speech acts, language in general, perceptions, beliefs, theories, thoughts, and actions.” Even a simple action like the turning of the handle of a door has as a precondition the agent’s more or less tacit assumption that this is the way to open the door, that opening it will not start an atomic war, that there is cause and effect, that the actor is not hallucinating and so on. This simple action “swims” in a sea of a myriad of more or less implicit, taken for granted, assumptions; in principle, the number of these assumptions is infinite, and therefore it is not humanly possible to make all of them explicit. If I perceive a black lamp, I automatically assume that the lamp is real, that there are colors, that I am neither dreaming, nor hallucinating, nor being

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_028

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fooled by an evil demon, and so forth. The Big Bang theory has as a precondition that science is not a sham, that a demon does not fool scientists, that God did not create the universe in six days, that the universe is not only five minutes old, that systematic, scientific observations and mathematical calculations can yield knowledge, and so on and so forth. Husserl maintained that our work-​a-​day Life-​World provided the sciences with their foundations (Husserl 1962a) (Husserl 1970: 149–​192).217 The scientists had forgotten for instance that the abstract geometrical figures of mathematics have their roots in the everyday perception of things of various shapes. Moreover, the Life-​World experience of time as a fusion of past, present, and future is the precondition of the scientific conception of time, which has no use for past, present, and future. The scientist who measures time can only perform measurement by judging some of the steps she has taken in the past as being correct or incorrect steps toward the goal of correct measurement. And she must plan some steps to be taken in the future. Furthermore, an observation can only be made if one experiences the moment of observation as having the protention-​retention structure of the subjective experience of time. This meant that the now of observation must retain moments of the immediate past and point toward moments in the immediate future.218 Husserl had a tendency toward transcendental thinking in the period when he performed his Life-​World analysis. In the last analysis, the Life-​World is the product of our transcendental subjectivity, he said.219 In contrast to Husserl, Habermas does not think that the subject produces the Life-​World; it is a product of our communicative actions. More precisely, the Life-​World is reproduced by communicative actions. Such actions have always the Life-​World as a necessary background and it can therefore not entirely be their product. 217 There are probably some important similarities between Husserl’s conception of the Life-​ World as the precondition of science and Heidegger’s conception of disclosure as being the precondition of propositional thinking and hence science. His idea of world is related to that of Life–​World. 218 These examples are of my own making, I ask: what about observations made by computers and a.i.? Maybe they can only be interpreted in terms of the retention-​protention structure. 219 It has to be emphasized that Husserl did not use “transcendental” in the exact same sense as Kant. According to Husserl, transcendental conditions are woven into our different ways of approaching phenomena, besides there are unclear boundaries between subject and object. Therefore, the transcendental conditions are not like the Kantian ones, which are in the guise of abstract conditions, placed in a trans–​phenomenal, intelligible reality. On the relationship between Kant’s and Husserl’s conception of the transcendental, see Kockelmans 1977: 269–​285. See also Carr 1977: 202–​212 and Føllesdal 2010: 27–​45.

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The concept of a Life-​World is complementary to the concept of communicative actions (Habermas 1981b: 182). Our communication always has one or more Life-​World as a precondition. We cannot communicate unless we take a myriad of things for granted, that our words are meaningful, that our interlocutors and we exist, that our interlocutors are not evil spirits in disguise, that the world is not an illusion, and so on. A bodily gesture, an utterance, or a text can only be satisfactorily understood on the background of Life-​World (Habermas 1988a: 91). How is the Life-​World reproduced by communication? The answer is as follows: when we communicate, then a segment of our Life-​World will be ­subjected to the explicit or implicit validity claims that we make in our communication. Some parts of it might not withstand this test of validity claims, show itself to be, say, absurd, while other parts might be augmented in the process. And thus, become in an improved shape an even more important part of the Life-​World than before. More precisely: in communication, we “draw” something out of our Life-​ World and use the validity claim to test it and improve it. Then it, so to speak, floats back to the Life-​World, which thereby is enriched with new knowledge. It must not be forgotten that the Life-​World plays an almost transcendental role in Habermas’s thinking. The Danish scholar Troels Nørager has reconstructed this conception in an excellent manner: 1, The Life-​World has a quasi-​transcendental status because it is constitutive for understanding and communication. 2. It has this status in virtue of being something that determines limits. It creates context, and even if this context has no limits, it nevertheless provides limits. 3. It has this status in virtue of a Kantian non-​analytic a priori (synthetic a priori?) for communicative actions. 4. Despite this, the Life-​Worlds are culturally created and can vary from culture to culture. The LifeWorld knowledge is an implicit action knowledge (know-​how and suchlike) and has nothing in common with Kant’s transcendental subject, witness its cultural and hence contingent character. Moreover, our knowledge of general competences for actions, which is structured by the Life-​World, is empirical and fallible. Habermas maintains that the reconstruction of such knowledge is fallible, witness his criticism of Apel (Nørager 1987: 163–​164).220

220 Unfortunately for most of my readers, Nørager’s book is in Danish and has as far as I know not be translated.

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It must be added that the Life-​World changes all the time; it does not possess the stability of a transcendental subject. We can conclude that the Habermasian Life-​World can never be fully transcendental, only quasi-​transcendental.221 Wittgenstein was also a Backgroundist, in practice at least. From his analysis of rule-​following, it follows that language only makes sense, given a rather diffuse, hardly explicable Background, consisting of language games, practices, and forms of life, woven into each other with forms of life perhaps being the most important part: “What has to be accepted, the given, is–​one might say–​ forms of life” (Wittgenstein 2009: 238 (§345)). Given Wittgensteins’s earlier mentioned analysis of rules, there are infinite possible ways of understanding and applying a rule. But that which is infinite cannot be explicated by the human mind and is therefore diffuse. We can add that at the same time, all these possibilities form the Background for rule following. To this we can add that Wittgenstein Weltbild is somewhat like Lebenswelt, a variation on the theme of the Background. As earlier said, Weltbild consists of the totality of such undecidable propositions as “there is reality;” which are the precondition for meaningful propositions, at least in our epoch and culture. Just like the Life-​World, the Weltbild is changeable. There are two kinds of Backgroundists; one is rather logocentric, the other the opposite. The first one regards the Background as something easily conceptualized, the other as largely non-​conceptual. The latter type maintains that Background knowledge is tacit knowledge. An example of the first is John Searle, the second Charles Taylor, while Husserl’s student, Alfred Schütz, occupies the middle ground. Schütz drew an implicit boundary between Life-​World knowledge, which is “pre-​predically given” (tacit, non-​conceptual), and the kind which is “formulable in predictive judgment” (propositional knowledge) (Schütz 1978: 268).222 Searle points out that the sentence “the cat is on the mat” is meaningful only in light of a host of implicit assumptions (Searle 1979: 85). We must presuppose, for instance, that the cat is within a certain gravitational field, for outside 221 It makes sense to say that Habermas’ analysis of the Life-​World is better than Husserl’s analysis. But the theory of the Life-​World might not be true and the continental approach of both philosophers less fruitful than analytical approaches. If Habermas’ analysis constitutes a cognitive progress, then that progress is probably minimal, even though it could be maximal. It might be true! 222 Schütz gave the concept of the Life-​World a social turn. The Life-​World is produced by society and forms its inescapable background (Schütz 1978: 257–​274) (Schütz and Luckmann 1979). Habermas developed this social concept of the Life-​World in his own manner.

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of such a field, words like “on” or “below” have no designation. Would it make sense to say that the cat is actually lying on the mat if we saw the cat and the mat outside a window of a spaceship in outer space? Hardly. Moreover, even if we were to see the cat and the mat on solid ground, we would still have to presuppose that the cat is not somehow glued to the mat, that it is not hovering a few millimeters over the mat, and so on usque ad nauseam. The number of these implicit presuppositions is, in principle, infinite; hence, we have no chance of explicating them all. Notice that the same must hold for metaphors, narratives, and fictions; they are only understandable given a myriad of implicit assumptions. Searle maintains that a belief cannot exist in isolation; it cannot but be a part of a Network of beliefs and intentional states. Thus, stating that the cat is on the mat has a precondition that cats exist. The Network, in its turn, is a part of what Searle calls “The Background,” which contains practices and capacities (including know-​how), some of which are tools for fixing the interpretation of sentences. Our practices and capacities make us interpret “cat is on the mat” as not referring to a cat in outer space (Searle 1992: 175–​196).223 This must also hold for beliefs expressed in metaphors, narratives, and fictional works of imaginative literature. A substantial number of the Network and Background presuppositions of the cat-​mat kind cannot be explicated in propositions. This holds for the presuppositions concerning the action contexts in which the propositions must be embedded. A proposition in physics is understandable only in the context of some actions that physicists perform. To be able to perform and understand them, one must possess various kinds of know-​how, and know-​how can only partly be explicated in propositions, if at all. But Searle does seem to think that we cannot rule out that the Background can be explicated in propositions. His emphasis on the role of practices and capacities in the Background is more than a bit pragmatist and shall be ranked reasonably highly. Charles Taylor is an important Backgroundist who denies that the Background can be thus explicated. This is how he understands the Background: It is that of which I am not simply unaware, as I am of what is now happening on the other side of the moon, because it makes intelligible what I am uncontestably aware of; at the same time, I am not explicitly or focally

223 Searle’s conception of Network and Background seems more than a bit like Edmund Husserl’s concept of Lebenswelt.

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aware of it, because that status is already occupied by what it is making intelligible. taylor 1995: 69

He attacks that which he calls “representationalism” and that which can be called “the meditational picture of knowledge.” The proponents of the last-​ named picture think that knowledge comes through something inner within human beings or is produced by their minds; we can understand our grasp of the world as something separable from what it is a grasp of. Taylor talks about the “I/​O theory” (inner/​outer theory), which claims that the inner, mental dimension is clearly separated from the outer material dimension. According to the proponents of representationalism, our thinking is entirely representationalist; we understand the world through mental representation of objects and sentences, which represent states of affair correctly.224 Taylor calls the linguistic version of the I/​O theory “the Hobbes–​Locke–​Condillac (hcl) theory.” According to the hcl: “Words are given meaning by being attached to the things represented via the “ideas” which represent them. The introduction of words greatly facilitates the combination of ideas into a responsible picture” (Taylor 2016: 4). The ideas are the aforementioned mental representations. Taylor is critical of the representationalists (the followers of the I/​O and the hcl). They do not understand that the representations that we frame and our ability to do so are underpinned by our ability to cope with the world. This ability is our capacity as bodily beings to make our way around things, pick them up, lean on them, and use them in various other ways. There is also a social dimension to our coping with the world: our ability to interact with friends, lovers, and strangers. That which enables us to cope is the Background, i.e., the skein of semi-​ understandings or utterly inarticulate understandings that make sense of our explicit thinking and reactions. The Background is holistic; every element of the world that we encounter is determined by Sinn (e. sense) and can be defined only as a larger whole in relation to the Background. Inspired by Heidegger, Taylor emphasizes that our world is soaked with meaning; a world is a locus of shared understandings organized by social practices. Therefore, an element in our world can only be such elements by virtue of being meaningful for us, having a Sinn. Nicholas Smith expresses the kernel of Taylor’s view in a clear fashion:

224 Williamson seems to belong to that group.

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The background is a transcendental condition of knowledge in the sense that it is required for the intelligibility of the knowledge claims we make. It cannot be completely objectified (or represented), since any objective knowledge claimed of it, to be intelligible at all, must itself have a ‘background’ presupposition–​precisely what complete objectification would annul. This transcendental level of reflection, therefore, exposes limits to the objectifiable, representable world. smith 2004: 34

This means that any attempt to explicate the Background must lead to an infinite regress. This contention shall be ranked very highly. I want to add that this can only mean that reason and non-​rational understanding have a limitation; the Background is necessary for any understanding of reality but cannot itself be fully understood. How does the Background work, and how do we cope with the world? Taylor gives the following example: I notice the rabbit against a stable background of trees and suchlike. And without me having found my feet in this place there could not be any rabbit sighting. My having found my feet in this locus is not a matter of me having extra bits of information, it is an exercise of my ability to cope, something which I have acquired as an embodied being brought up in a particular culture. Our ability to cope incorporates an overall sense of our world and ourselves. This sense includes and is carried by a spectrum of rather different abilities. At one end of the spectrum, we have beliefs, which may or may not be in the mind at the moment; on the other end, we have the ability to get around and deal intelligently with things. As the spectrum metaphor implies, there is no sharp line between the implicit grasp of things and explicit formulated understanding. Any particular understanding mixes explicit knowledge and unarticulated know-​how. The existence of the Background shows that the representational and the mediational theory of our grasp of the world cannot be correct. Now, the mediational theory’s claim that our beliefs are separated from their objects seem plausible when it comes to explicit beliefs. You can believe X about the Himalaya mountains even though you do not see it and even though they do not exist. Your belief and its object are separated. But the same does not hold for know-​how. My ability to throw a boomerang cannot be exercised in the absence of a boomerang. Your ability to get around a particular town, say London, can only be demonstrated in London. It is ability to move in exactly this London environment, not in towns in general. This ability to move does not just exist in my body, but in my-​body-​walking-​the-​streets-​of-​London. The ability to charm other people exists in your body and your voice in conversations

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with an interlocutor, it does not have any existence outside of interaction with concrete human beings. So, in coping, the inner and the outer are not separated, our beliefs and their objects are intertwined. Taylor does not hide the fact that these reflections on the body are influenced by Maurice Merleau-​Ponty. For him, the body is far from an ordinary material object. It has almost a transcendental function: we can only see things from a given point of view, and the body (a material body in space and time) provides these points of view and, therefore, the conditions for the possibility of seeing. Something similar holds for the other senses as well. In fact, corpo-​ reality provides the conditions for the possibility of perception in general: the body is the horizon for all possible experiences. This meaningful and transcendental side of the body is the “le corps propre (the proper body), in contrast to the anatomical “le corps objective ou réel’ (the objective or real body), a distinction that originates in Husserl’s discrimination between the Leib (the living, feeling body) and Körper (the anatomical body) (Husserl 1973: 3–​6). Even though our Körper has rather clear boundaries, writes Merleau-​Ponty, the same does not hold for the Leib. When a blind person uses his cane to orient himself in the world, the cane is not an object that exists between him and the world. It is a sort of sense organ, an extension of the blind man’s Leib. Merleau-​Ponty states as follows: “The blind man’s stick has ceased to be an object for him and is no longer perceived for itself; its point has become an area of sensitivity, extending the scope and active radius of touch, and providing a parallel to sight” (Merleau-​Ponty 2002: 165). He regarded the sentient body as the subject of cognition, which at the same time is an object. Thus, subject and object are not strictly separated. Taylor seems to concur. I shall call Merleau–​Ponty, Taylor, Lakoff, Johnson, and others, “somatists.” A somatist is someone who thinks that the sentient body is primordial to consciousness and constitutes the ground of our coping with and cognition of the world. While many materialists tend to focus on the inside of the body, and especially on the brain and the nervous system, somatists tend to be more interested in the outside of the body, not least the limbs, and the way in which the sentient body as a whole interacts with its environment. It might be added that somatists are critical of thought experiments since all real experiences involve essentially the body/​minds interaction with the world (according to Pedersen 2013: 122). Yet again we see the lack of agreement among philosophers, not even thought experiments are accepted by all. As hinted at, Taylor thinks that things figure for us in their meaning or relevance for our purposes, desires, and activities. When we take a walk, we treat things in the terrain as obstacles, support, openings, and so on. Moreover, we

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do that even when we are not thinking about them. The relevance of things for a walker shows itself in their knowing their way around them. The coping knowledge in question is non-​conceptual; language does not play any direct role. However, language matters, of course; through it, we can pick out an object X as an X and thus place our identification of X into the domain of possible criticism. Others can ask, “Is X really an X?” But what happens when we bring the preunderstanding of coping to speech? It is not like we are discovering an unsuspected fact. You might recognize that what made you uncomfortable in a certain conversation was jealousy. Now, in a sense, you feel that you were ignorant of it; you, so to speak, knew it without knowing it. When we bring it to speech, it is not like an unsuspected fact. I recognize that what has made me uncomfortable in this conversation is jealousy. I feel it, in a sense, that I was not totally ignorant of it before. I knew without knowing it; it has a sort of intermediate status between known and quite unknown. Conceptual thinking is embedded in everyday coping. In order to focus on something, we have to keep going, for instance, on a path even if we are thinking very intensely in some abstract matter. Furthermore, the mass of coping is an essential support to the episodes of conceptual thinking in our lives. The background understanding that we need to make sense of our conceptual thinking resides in our ordinary coping. Taylor writes: “Theoretical knowledge has to be situated in relation to everyday coping to be the knowledge that it is” (Taylor 2003: 166). All exercises in reflective conceptual thought have the content they have only as situated in a context of Background understanding. We can form conceptual beliefs, guided by our surroundings: “because we live in a preconceptual engagement with these that involves understanding” (Taylor 2003: 166). Percepts cannot be the building blocks of knowledge because nothing is a percept unless it has a place in the world. Minimally, nothing could be a percept without a surrounding sense of myself as a perceiving agent, moving in some surroundings of which yellow is a feature. Understanding reality is holistic from the beginning; it cannot be reduced to atomistic percepts. The Background plays an important role in making understanding holistic. It is important to note that the Background is, in many cases, not really determinable. This can be shown in light of what Wittgenstein says about ostensive definitions and ostensive teaching (Wittgenstein 2009: 7–​8 (§ 6)). They are not just a matter of fixing a particular with an ostension. We must take heed of the whole surrounding, of what kind of object is being defined; is it a thing or shape or color? Moreover, what is the role of the ostension? Is it a part of a teaching process or some Kripkean original baptism of a natural kind? Most probably the former.

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The indefinitely extending Background is sustained and evolved in coping. The flower lover’s recognition that the goldenrod is out is sustained by a context, for example, that she is now entering a field, and it is August. She knows where she is because she has walked there, and she has lived the summer and so on. These are not reflective inferences; they are just part of the understanding that she has in everyday coping. It does not make any sense to talk about an inner, mental, dimension with an external boundary, because living things in a certain relevance to us cannot be situated within us. In my terminology, it is the interaction itself: it has an interactive mode of being. The understanding and the know-​how by which the mountain climber climbs the path and goes on knowing where she is, is not within her like a picture. It resides in her negotiating the path; the understanding is in her interaction with the surroundings, “It can’t be drawn on outside of this, in the absence of the relevant surroundings” (Taylor 2003: 167). The proponents of representationalism see this differently. They think that knowledge is distinct from the world and that all knowledge consists of representations and reasoning involving the manipulation of them. The only inhabitants of the space of reasons are explicit beliefs. But Heidegger and Merleau-​ Ponty maintained that explicit beliefs are embedded in Background grasp. Now, is it not a fact that a belief can be checked only with another belief, as many modern representationalists think? No, says Taylor: when Johnny checks whether a picture hanging in his room is crooked or not, he does not check it against a belief. What justifies his belief is his knowing how to do this, his being able to deal with objects in this way, which is inseparable from other ways he is able to use them, manipulate, get around, and so on. When he checks the picture, he uses his multiple abilities to cope. Taylor accepts the scheme/​content distinction but emphasizes that we can sometimes rank schemes. Being a realist involves accepting the idea that we can rank some schemes, that, for instance, the Copernican scheme is superior to the older one. To be sure, there might be alternative construals of reality that may be systematic and far-​reaching. However, any such construal must be within the context of a basic engagement with or understanding of the world; this is a contact that cannot be broken. We cannot be totally wrong about everything. The mountain climber might be wrong about the field she is in, but hardly that she is on planet earth. The reality of contact with the world is inescapable. The question is whether Taylor is being completely consistent when he, on the one hand, rejects foundationalism and, on the other, talks like the Background with its coping is the foundation of knowing and thinking. The concept of the Background is somewhat mysterious; what exactly is it?

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And what criteria are there for knowing that X is what it is because of the Background or that Y is happening for the same reason? How can we be certain that we are directly involved with reality when we are coping with the world? Perhaps the world is somehow an illusion. Furthermore, Taylor just assumes that non-​linguistic knowledge is non-​ conceptual. What if there are corporeal concepts? In addition, it is not given that there is tacit knowledge even though there certainly are tacit experiences and even tacit thoughts. A few years ago, people thought that knowing faces was tacit knowledge, but now we have algorithms that can recognize them at least as well as human beings. Then again, we might ask whether the algorithms understand what they are doing. It seems like they do not, so it might be misleading to say that they recognize faces. Not knowing that one recognizes something is an absurdity; recognizing is a way of knowing. Perhaps we can judge whether a piece of tacit experience really provides knowledge only by taking a stand on propositions explicitly expressed in language. I shall refrain from talking about tacit knowledge and instead talk about tacit experiences. Yet again, the rpe plays the game of maybeism, of trying to find good questions rather than answers. Moreover, the rpe emphasizes that there is something poetic, and therefore appealing, in Taylor’s view of the Background as something mysterious. Furthermore, his weight on coping is in accordance with pragmatism, which is a good-​making feature, all else being equal. It should be added that his non-​rationalist view of language is a powerful alternative to linguistic rationalism. I shall not say whether Taylor is right about coping being primordial to cognition. Arguments are not automatically true even if they fit pragmatism, and I shall, for the sake of argument, stipulate that coping and cognition are equally primordial and are necessary prerequisites for each other, just as disclosure and propositional knowledge are. Be that as it may, the conception of that which can be called “Background” is fruitful and can be supported by ppqi: Husserl, Habermas, Wittgenstein, Searle, and Taylor put forth different, but good, arguments in favor of the existence of the Background. At least a host of these arguments is acceptable, even true. Therefore, we can state that the idea of Background is a viable one, as long as we do not encounter any convincing counterarguments. Backgroundism makes perfect sense. Furthermore, Alfred Schütz was on the right track when he differentiated between the tacit and non-​tacit aspects of the Life-​World/​Background. There is no problem expressing a myriad of our Background assumptions in propositions: believing that I am using my pc has an assumption, among others, that

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I am not a leopard in the jungle. The problem is that they are infinite in number, and therefore we can never express them all. Furthermore, a large chunk of our background assumptions is tacit, not least the know-​how assumptions, and therefore not expressible in propositions. The Background is the Other of language, cognition, beliefs, metaphors, and narratives. There are no languages, cognition, beliefs, metaphors, and narratives without it and no Background without them. Just like there is no coping without cognition, no cognition without coping. This view is ranked high by the rpe. Notice that the Background functions like conceptual schemes in being the necessary precondition for meaning and knowledge. The different theories of the Backgroundists can be added to the aforementioned arguments of the schemists and used in the ppqi attempt to support schemism. Notice also that there are interesting arguments in favor of the Background being transcendental. Perhaps, values, language, metaphors, narratives, fictions, conceptual schemes, our bodies, disclosure, and the Background together build a transcendental or quasi-​transcendental foundation for knowledge. Maybe every single instance is too “weak” to carry the burden of transcendentality, but together they might be strong enough. This is an interesting possibility, but as we have seen, it is not certain that there can be valid, transcendental arguments.

The Literary Factors, Artworks, and the Ineffable

Let us see whether narratives, metaphors, imagination, and imaginative literature (including fictions) can be of any help when it comes to coping with the Background. Can they disclose it? As said earlier, Hayden White claimed that when cognizing reality, narratives help us understand the new or that which is difficult to grasp, for example, the Holocaust. I want to add that using this narrative also means that we subsume the Holocaust partly under the concept of a literary genre, that of tragedy. Furthermore, we are also using a metaphor, The Holocaust is a tragedy. One day, we might discover some surefire, nomological explanations of the Holocaust. But we can never grasp the horror felt by its millions of victims; fictional narratives, literary genres, and metaphors are our best tools for grasping it, especially if they are aided by philosophical reflection and empirical research. Metaphors can help us grasp the ineffable, as Lakoff and Johnson indeed have pointed out. Inspired by the Norwegian Wittgensteinian Kjell S. Johannessen,

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I add that metaphors, similes, analogies, and meaningful gestures can help us get a grip on tacit experiences (Johannessen 1994: 217–​250). They can disclose those experiences. However, why is it difficult to get a grip on them? We certainly cannot express this kind of knowledge satisfactory in language, not even a figurative one. But figurative language and meaningful gestures can hint at this knowledge, as it were, point toward it. Take sensory knowledge as an example. The closest we come to describing colors successfully (not to the blind, though) is by analogy: by telling a person who cannot perceive green that it is a color somewhat like blue and brown. Perhaps we can describe music to someone who has never heard it or cannot perceive it by likening it to the sound of birds or the wind, using perhaps metaphors such as Instruments are human birds or A singer is a human bird. Gestures and the use of examples are likewise of paramount importance. I can point at samples of different hues of red and add that this and things like that count as red objects. Let us look at another kind of tacit experience, the one of experiencing Gestalts and suchlike. A face is a Gestalt, at least for a human observer. We know the faces of significant others with somnambulistic certainty but find it almost impossible to describe them in a satisfactory manner. Try to make people recognize a face they have never seen on the basis of literal descriptions alone, and you are almost certainly bound to fail (that is unless the face has some strange individual mark like a huge wart). Try to make people correctly visualize an unknown face solely on the basis of such descriptions, and your attempt is doomed. The same holds for the description of individual ways of walking. Similes and metaphors improve the situation. I can say, for instance, “He walks like an old cow” and thus use a simile. When describing his face, I can say metaphorically, “He has a beaver’s face”. These metaphors and similes can be quite instructive; there is nothing subjective about them; they are fallible. If someone has very regular teeth, it would be misleading to say that his face is beaverlike. If someone limps, it would be misleading to say that she walks like an old cow. Metaphors and narratives can, due to their synthesizing capacities, help us grasp the holistic nature of the Background. Metaphors are useful tools for coming to grips with the tacit side of the Background, while narratives might be a better tool for understanding the non-​tacit side of it. Furthermore, making fictional scenarios might be indispensable for the analysis of the concept of the Background. Now it is time to redeem what was said earlier in this book about the kinship between philosophy and literature. I shall do that by making a poetic experiment and see whether art and imaginative literature can help us grasp some aspects of the Background, more precisely, its tacit side and its being an

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infinite totality, an idea we cannot grasp with the aid of reason alone. If this is true, philosophy does not monopolize the ability to thematize and understand the Background. However, literature needs the aid of philosophy in this thematization. I shall try to provide some philosophical assistance to literary works. Remember that metaphors, narratives, and fictions play an important role in imaginative literature. If they can be tools for reflective disclosure, literary narratives, replete with metaphors, could be such tools as well. In our Life-​World, sounds and silence, even sounds of silence, are often a part of the background of our thoughts and actions. It is extremely difficult, even impossible, to describe deafening silence in a literal way. But poetic metaphors can help. This how the Icelandic writer Einar Már Guðmundsson describes deafening silence in a metaphoric manner: The silence. It is a blind man with a stick. It plays a drum solo by the kitchen sink, flushes the toilet, and turns the raindrops, lashing against the windowpanes into speakers with pulpits like humps on their backs, continually raising their voices. Louder, louder, louder, until they end up sounding like a male voice choir singing part–​song, so overpowering that floor cloths cover up their ears. guðmundsson 1994: 32

The author uses striking and original metaphors to articulate our intuitive understanding of this part of the Background, which manifests itself in the feeling of an overwhelming, “loud” silence. We could say in a Lakoffian fashion that the author develops an everyday metaphor (Deafening silence) by creating new metaphors on the basis of it. Notice also that he uses concrete phenomena (the sound of a toilet flushing, the sound of raindrops on windowpanes, and so on) as means for disclosing something abstract and intangible, that is, the part of the Background in question and feelings connected with it. Also notice the role of imagination in creating this picture of the sounds of silence. Husserl said that imagination plays an important role when we thematize segments of our Life-​World. We can, for instance, get a grip on such a segment by alienating ourselves, so to speak, from its givenness by imagining an alternative reality. Thus, imagination helps us to see that this segment of our Life-​ World, which before seemed given in an unproblematic fashion, is not thus given (Husserl 1962b: 383). Now, just like metaphors and narratives, artworks and literary works are typically products of the imagination that help activate

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the imagination of those who study artworks. There is no lack of alternative, fictive realities, in art that help us estrange ourselves. Given Husserl’s musings, art and literature must be excellent instruments for the thematization of the Life-​World, even though he does not say so explicitly. The alternative reality of The Game of Thrones might help us become aware of aspects of power struggles in our lives that we have not been reflecting on, something we took for granted. And modernist poets create alternative worlds of using language and, through that, can help us understand that the work-​a-​day meaning of words is not a part of the natural order. Habermas states that it is only with the aid of a shock that we can start to doubt that which we believe with absolute certainty, for instance, Life-​ World beliefs. Life-​World knowledge is, in a sense, not knowledge, given that we regard knowledge as fallible by definition. It cannot without further ado be “translated” into fallible knowledge. This “translation” can take place only with the aid of shock effects (Habermas 1988a: 91–​92). And as we remember, he said that artworks can open our eyes to seemingly familiar reality (Habermas 1985b: 203). The following seems to be on the tip of Habermas’s tongue: the seemingly familiar can be the Life-​World, the artwork can have a shock effect on us in such a manner that it helps us “translate” the Life-​World knowledge into fallible knowledge. Look at Lev Tolstoy’s famous short story Kholstomer–​The Story of a Horse. The speaking voice in the story is a horse, which describes the world of men as if from afar. The horse wonders why giving papers to another person can give you the right to possess all kinds of goods, including living beings like horses. The Russian literary theorist Victor Shklovsky uses this as an example of literary estrangement, in his view the prime device of literature. Our human, familiar, all too familiar, world is made strange by the horse’s remarks and the fact that the horse speaks and thinks (Shklovsky 1965: 5–​24). The same holds for Guðmundsson’s metaphoric description of overwhelming silence; he estranges silence in order for us to understand it. Using Habermas’s terminology, the Tolstoy story has a shock effect on us, helps us disclose a familiar reality anew. Usually, we take it for granted that money can buy us things, but the story shows us that it is not a part of the natural order of things. One artwork can hardly do the job of translation alone; perhaps we need a host of shocking, estranging artwork to do the job better. And a philosophical analysis of them. Kafka’s aforementioned story, Metamorphosis, might have a similar shock effect on us, disclosing anew the familiar reality of family relations. After his family members discover that Gregor has changed into a vermin, they pretend that nothing has happened but secretly lock him in his room and slowly but

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certainly forget his existence. The reader is shocked into reflecting on all that which is taken for granted in family life, how one member of a family can be ignored subtly, so subtly that he or she does not understand it but feels that something is wrong. Salvador Dalí’s and Louis Bunuel’s surrealist movies might help us become aware of the contingencies of our physical realities and our perceptions of reality. In their movies, there is no such thing as a stable reality and natural laws; we take for granted that natural laws control our world, and that reality is rather stable. Bunuel’s movie, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie, is also a shocking, estranging, and eye-​opening work of art. In one scene, the guests at a highly civilized, haute bourgeois party sit around a table but on toilet cans. Then some of them stand up and ask the hostess in a low, polite, voice, discretely, where “it” is. She answers in the same kind of a low, polite, voice. The guest walks toward a door, gets into a little room that looks like a toilet, presses a button, and food arrives. He eats it alone while the guests use the toilet facilities together. The eye-​opening effect here is obviously that the mores we take for granted concerning toilets and food are not a part of the natural order. Yet another important estranging and eye-​opening work is Eugene Ionesco’s The Bald Soprano (fr. La chantarice chauve). This play takes place in England where a couple goes to visit another couple. They spend their time together chatting in a normal but bizarre way, and it does not seem that they are really communicating. This play can make us aware of the emptiness of ordinary parlance, a ubiquitous way of speaking. He thought that one of the cognitive functions of art and imaginative literature is to give insight into our Life-​World. This work-​a-​day world of that which is given is such that we usually do not reflect on it (Ricœur 1981b: 140–​142). Paradoxically, this insight can be attained because fictional literature suspends both ostensive and descriptive references. Art (and not only literature) opens our eyes to the given, that which we tend to overlook in our daily lives, by distancing us from it or alienating it, and, owing to this alienation, making it ­conspicuous (Ricœur 1976: 40–​42).225 The suspension and the way art makes certain aspects of the ordinary salient can make us more conscious of our familiar surroundings. Most of the time, the contrast in the visual qualities tends to neutralize our ordinary experience, but paintings can emphasize these contrasts by exaggerating them. In this way, visual art can help us grasp or become

225 He admitted being influenced by a theorist named François Dagognet. We are possibly also hearing echoes from Shklovsky and his theory of estrangement.

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conscious of that which is given.226 Like metaphors, art recreates reality and helps us understand it precisely because of this recreation or transformation. Science and literature have in common an ability to give us a deeper understanding of reality by challenging common sense. Science says, for instance, that time is relative, common sense that it is absolute. Both science and literature use language in a hypothetical manner; both approach reality by making models of it. At the same time, he emphasizes that there is an important difference between science and literature. We do not understand a literary work just because it alienates reality, but also because of our appropriation of its world, where we inhabit it and let it change us, for instance, by changing our views of reality in accordance with this world (we do not become good scientists by appropriating scientific findings) (Ricœur 1981b: 131–​144) (Ricœur 1981d: 182–​ 193). Ricœur theorizing about these issues shall be ranked highly. Kamal Daoud’s novel The Mersault Files completely changed my view of Albert Camus’s novel, The Stranger. By immersing myself in the world of Daoud’s novel, I came to see the racist tendency in Camus’s novel, the way the Arabs were described as non–​persons, menacing shadows rather than full-​ fledged human beings. Reading Camus’s short stories after having read Daoud’s book made me see the same tendency; the Arabs in the short stories are just as non-​human as those in The Stranger. Could non-​fiction books like Edward Said’s Orientalism have made me just as sensitive to these issues as Daoud’s novel? Why are imaginative literature and art so important for the shedding of light on the Life-​World? Cannot imaginative philosophers, perceptive psychologists, and other academics do the trick? Yes, but they cannot do it alone without the aid of artworks; conversely, the artworks need philosophical interpretations like the ones performed here. It is not certain that all of the taken-​for-​granted ideas are part of the Life-​World; a philosopher can help sort out those that are and those that are not. Maybe my blindness to possible racist aspects in Camus’s novel cannot be called “a Life-​World phenomenon.” Furthermore, psychologists and other empirical scientists might contribute to the effort of translating Life-​World knowledge into “genuine,” fallible knowledge. Maybe Said’s book, in tandem with Daoud’s novel, can help people discover blind spots in their reading of Camus. Moreover, literary theorists, art specialists, perceptive readers, and art lovers could aid in understanding the eye-​opening, “translating” artworks.

226 This theory could be merged with Goodman’s contention that abstract paintings can help us see the world in new way.

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Husserl, Habermas, and Ricœur were on the right track but did not quite see where it led: to the conception of literature and the arts as prime instruments for cognitively coming to grips with the Background. However, we must not forget that meaningful units, including narratives, metaphors, fictions, and artworks, are meaningful only given a Background. So, they cannot explicate the Background in its entirety; some parts and aspects always escape our attempts at explication.

Conclusion

According to Backgroundism, language, coping, and cognition work only if given a background consisting of a myriad of presuppositions. It has its roots in phenomenological musings concerning the Life-​World which is more or less the same as the Background. Husserl thought that the Life-​World was a product of transcendental subjectivity, Habermas that it is the product of communicative actions. Wittgenstein’s conception of Weltbild has a strong family resemblance to the concept of the Life-​World. Logocentric Backgroundists like John Searle think that the Background can be entirely explicated in propositions; the believers in tacit knowledge like Charles Taylor think not. Taylor maintains that coping is primordial to cognition, that our background knowledge is basically embodied, and that the I/​O theory does not hold water. At the same time, the background has a transcendental status. I criticize Taylor for thinking that all versions of the I/​O theory must be representationalist. The concept is no more mysterious than that of the Background, in contrast to what Taylor says. Then I postulated that language and Background, coping, and cognition are equally primordial. That view shall be ranked reasonably high, at least for the time being. The idea of the Background shall be ranked quite high; it can be supported with the aid of the ppqi. The logocentric view of Searle and the somatist one of Taylor shall be ranked equally; both are inspiring. The conception of Background as transcendental in conjunction with other elements is also very inspiring. Moreover, since the Background cannot be entirely explicated, then our understanding and rationality have their limits. Finally, inspired by Husserl, Habermas, and especially Ricœur I said that imaginative literature is an excellent tool for disclosing the Background, not least thanks to its use of metaphors, narratives, shock effects, and the effect of estrangement.

­c hapter 5

The Amoebae of Reason

Concluding Comments on Rationality

Rationality and reason have been one of the main themes of this book. Now it is time to conclude the discussion about rationality and the poetic of reason. The first part of this chapter is, in a way, a summary of that which has been said about these issues in this book, at the same time as I add something new to my theory of literary understanding. The last two subchapters include arguments in favor of the concept of rationality being an amoebaean one, and that rationality can be defended rationally—​up to a point.

Reason and the Poetic

We have seen in this book that rationality has imaginative, disclosive, evaluative, emotive, metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits. The three last-​named traits are Literary, in addition, f-​d-​e-​disclosure, imagination, evaluation, and emotions matter to literature. All this pushes rationality in the direction of literature, and by showing it has Literary traits, rationality has been destabed. Rationality can be pushed further in the literary direction if we consider that understanding all aspects of reality (including literature) can be a part of rationality. We have seen that understanding a literary work requires conferring identity upon it and that can only be done if we relate it to reality. Therefore, literary works are not isolated from the real world and might therefore have some means for cognizing it. I have highly ranked Carroll’s theory of a particular kind of literary understanding and my theory that literary works can shed light on tacit knowledge. Deflated disclosure is one of literature’s instruments for shedding this light. “Shedding light” means helping us to become aware that we have a certain tacit knowledge of X, help finding a place for it in our system of beliefs and explicate it up to a point in the guise of a sketch. Remember that tacit knowledge is not entirely cut off from the linguistic dimension. Hence, we cannot exclude the possibility that literary works can shed light on it. Again, we can use Einar Már Guðmundsson’s metaphor about deafening silence. It helps us to understand that we actually have a tacit

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knowledge of such silence. We can try to explicate it in literal words but to no avail, we understand that the Icelandic writer has wisely chosen to describe it in figurative language. By using words, denoting diverse sounds, as a part of the metaphors about silence he helps us understand that knowing what silence is requires understanding it in relationship with sounds of various kinds. There is a sound of silence; diverse forms of silence can only be understood in relation to, say, musical sounds, the sounds of voices, the sounds of machines, and so on. What about the sketch? The sketch of this kind of tacit knowledge emerges out of the way that deafening silence is situated vis-​à-​vis ordinary silence and diverse sounds. We must go down a via negativa, contemplate what deafening silence is not to be able to sketch it. Narratives, stories, metaphors, and fictions can have cognitive capacities mainly because they can provide us with twisted understanding. Certain (even all) fictional, literary narratives, with strong metaphoric traits ought therefore to have the capacity to provide such understanding. Examples of this could be Kavan’s Ice and Lem’s Solaris. They are clearly fictional and narratives, even though Ice is not a linear one. Being fictional, we get a distance to the world described in them. Being narratives helps us immersing in their worlds, see them from inside. And because the novels are both fictional and narrative, there is a productive dialectic between the distanciation and the immersion. These novels might be understood as models and/​or thought experiments. If the latter, they put human beings in unusual situations and abstract ordinary circumstances away in order to show what capacities for actions, dreams, and thoughts these beings might have, even though these sides of them are hidden in ordinary life. The fictions transform them and gain some twisted understanding of the role of obsession in human life. Kelvin of Solaris and the narrator of Ice become totally obsessed with certain women. This obsession comes to life due to the strange circumstances they find themselves in. In ordinary life they might be able to suppress the obsession, forget themselves in work-​a-​day activities. As earlier said, there is no lack of metaphors in these novels, they might even be read as being metaphoric as wholes. Ice could be a metaphor for rigid minds, even for the male tendency to objectify women. Solaris could also be read in this feminist perspective but also as a metaphor for the way our past can dominate our lives. These metaphors twist reality but the twisting can enhance our understanding of it. Thus, The world of the novel Ice is the rigid mind is a false statement because a world that consist of the content of a novel cannot be a mind. Nonetheless, it makes metaphoric sense;

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it transforms a rigid mind into a nightmarish world of overwhelming ice. Through this transformation, we get a twisted understanding of rigid minds. We see them as masses of ice and through that we understand them as having some of the qualities of icebergs. We get a new insight into rigid minds, not only due to the metaphor but also the way the fictional, narrative, and metaphoric components of the novel work together in transforming the conception of rigid minds into this uncanny world of ice. The fictional bit transforms it into something unreal, the narrative bit into something we can see from inside, and the metaphoric bit into something we can see it as something else (ice masses). This threefold transformation yields twisted understanding.227 Thus, imaginative literature can, like science, enhance our understanding of reality. I have in this book emphasized what science and literature have in common but at the same time stressed that there are important differences between them. Let me add to the latter: science tries to grasp the world with the aid of nomological explanations; literature does not. Besides, literature can function in various other ways, for instance, by giving the reader aesthetic pleasure or urging her to think and act in new ways. In contrast, the main roles of science are cognitive and coping roles, including the one of aiding technological development. I have pointed to several possibilities that could undercut the belief in the cognitive power of science. But if the concept of rationality has any content, then it is hard to claim that scientific knowledge is irrational or completely devoid of rationality, while claiming that literature contains rational insights. At the same time, the arguments, and experiments in this book show that it is hard to deny that literature has a moment of rationality. Let us turn to emotions and rationality. I have highly ranked Palmer’s idea of emotive understanding of artworks. But the emotions, for example, fear and pity that we have for literary characters, are different from the fear and pity we have for real people, including ourselves. The former is somewhat like the way we have when we are absorbed in a game of make-​believe; I call them “make-​believe emotions.” The latter is like the way we are absorbed into reality where our and other people’s wellbeing is at stake. The propositional content in the emotions can be a belief. At the same time, these literary emotions are important tools for understanding literary works. It is almost paradoxical that make-​believe emotions can play this epistemic role.

227 As earlier said, it makes no sense to talk about the true interpretation of literary works. I can only hope that this interpretation makes sense and is apt, that it deserves a reasonably high ranking.

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Scientific emotions are probably somewhat less intense than the feelings we have in dramatic situations, but less of the game-​character than our literary emotions are. The scientist’s curiosity is hardly as absorbing as the dramatic emotions of our real lives, but it does not have the fake/​game aspect of literary emotions. If scientific emotions were all-​absorbing, then scientists might not be able to perform calculations and other non-​emotional but important tasks of their trade. Nonetheless, emotions play a role both in philosophy and in literature. Moreover, emotions can provide us with understanding of reality, be based on reasons, and be fallible; hence they can have rational moments. There is no gap between reason and emotions. Imagination might be an emotion or have strong family resemblances to emotions. A work of imaginative literature is typically a product of imagination and an instrument for the reader’s exercise of imagination. We have seen that imagination is an important ally of rationality, including the scientific type. To be sure, the literary and the scientific imaginations are in many ways different. The former tends to be looser, wilder, the latter constrained by logic and common sense. Were science not thus constrained, it would become a fairy tale. Were literature constrained by logic in the same way and amount, it would cease to be literature and become a bleak parody of science. Emotions can provide twisted understanding just as metaphors and narratives. This kind of understanding is one of the many elements that can be said to belong to rationality or be of assistance to it. Deflated disclosure is related to twisted understanding and is either a part of the reason or its indispensable helper. Science and rationality are value-​impregnated, and so are literary works. They are objects for evaluation, for instance, in aesthetic terms. Furthermore, literary works often have an ethical message and lend themselves to ethical evaluation. This holds for Jaroslav Hasek’s novel The Good Soldier Svejk, where militarism and authoritarianism are mocked. It also holds for Comte de Lautréamont praise of evil in his bizarre prose poem The Songs of Maldoror. In a not entirely dissimilar fashion, reason has an ethical side, as both Popper and Apel have shown us. But it has to be emphasized that, by and large, values play a different role in science than in literature. Such scientific values as fruitfulness, precision, simplicity, and explanatory power do not play a major role in literature. If they did so and were applied in the same way as they are in science, then again, literature would become a bleak parody of science. Perhaps, aesthetic values play a dominant role in literature. They certainly have a role to play in science, not least mathematics, where the more elegant solution is preferred if the mathematicians have to choose between two otherwise equally good solutions. However, if aesthetic values played the same enormously

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important role in science as they do in literature, then science would decline and become a parody of literature or the arts in general. The Literary traits can be found in science and other realms of reason, including emotions and practical rationality. But that does not mean that metaphors, narratives, and fictions function exactly in the same way in science as in literature. Given that stringency and precision are not entirely relative to language games, we can assume that the threesome is more stringent and precisely defined in science than literature. In literature, they tend to be looser, more open to interpretation. Without stringency and precision, there would not be much science; without the possibility of diverse interpretations, literature would not be worth much. What if stringency and precision were entirely relative to language games? That would make the following statement meaningless: “Science is more stringent and precise than imaginative literature.” But this does not feel intuitively right. A more interesting possibility of overlap between literature and science is the aforementioned one of both science and literature essentially involving willing suspension of disbelief. The Literary traits in emotions and practical rationality might be somewhere in-​between the two; they need to be somewhat stringent and precise for practical decisions to be workable and emotional reactions to function as they should. Giving an understanding of reality and sending messages to others are among the main functions of emotions, but that requires some precision and stringency. Hence, the metaphors, narratives, and fictions involved in emotions and practical rationality cannot be entirely flights of fancy. To evade misunderstanding, I must emphasize that I do not regard the poetic and reason as identical. They are largely independent of each other but there is an overlap and a dialectical interplay between the two. Such interplay means that they cannot exist without the other but that there is productive tension between them. In science, reason is not the slave of the Literary traits but shapes them to a certain degree. In literature, the poetic is somewhat stronger than reason. In emotions and practical rationality, they might be equally strong. What about the understanding through metaphors, narratives, and fiction (the threesome)? It is not given that such an understanding is rational; it might be an example of non-​rational or even irrational ways of gaining understanding. There are ways of understanding through this threesome, which is rational, while others are not. Understanding reality through scientific models is, ceteris paribus, rational but at the same time Literary because the threesome partly constitutes them.

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However, if I explain the fact that I am now sitting in my office by telling the story of how I got there, the readers will gain knowledge of a fact, but that knowledge is so trivial that it might be non-​rational. Moreover, if I make a fictional picture of how I will get home after work, that fiction would possibly be non-​rational or contain only a small amount of rationality. The same holds if I metaphorically call an untidy person metaphorically “a pig.” In a similar fashion, there might be kinds of tacit knowledge that are non-​ rational, while others are rational. Feelings are also not easy to categorize, with the exception of the fact that the kind of feeling called “sensation” can give understanding but hardly a rational one. But such understanding can be raw material for rational reflection. So, the threesome, feelings, and tacit knowledge are borderline phenomena between rationality and the non-​rational. Furthermore, the Background is a precondition for reason-​bearers, but it does not seem that we can explicate it in its entirety. Hence, we cannot know whether it creates rational, non-​rational, or irrational preconditions for reason. That which is beyond understanding, e.g., the entire Background, is a hot candidate for being beyond reason.

Rationality Again

What more precisely is rationality of beliefs or other reason-​ bearers? Some propositions are “rational” if they are fallible and justifiable, but the Popperians deny that justification is possible and desirable. They might be right. Furthermore, we saw that there are rational propositions that are neither fallible nor justifiable and non-​rational propositions that are both. We have also discovered that suspending the law of noncontradiction and the one of the excluded middle might be rational in some cases. Being open and flexible can be a rational virtue. What has been said here points against there being a “still point in the turning world”, something rationality essentially is. It makes sense to say that rationality is a loose confederation of various heterogenous elements with fuzzy boundaries. There does not seem to be clear boundaries between reason and imagination, reason and emotions, reason and disclosure, rationality, on the one hand, the literary realm on the other. Is disclosure a faculty of reason or only loosely affiliated with it? Moreover, science has ethical, Literary, and rhetoric traits, without this making science irrational. Besides, science has no monopoly on rationality; literature can provide us with an understanding of slices of reality that science cannot provide. Further, fictions, metaphors, and narratives can help us understand slices of reality while there are also modes

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of understanding that have nothing to do with these Literary factors. Like an amoeba, rationality is changeable and has unclear boundaries. We can add that it makes sense to say that the concept of rationality is an amoebaean concept with strong traits of family concepts. The amoebaean side consists in the first place in the unclear boundaries between rationality and, say, imagination, disclosure, emotions, and the literary realm. If there are such unclear boundaries, then it does not seem to be fruitful to define the concept of rationality essentially, even though there might be prototypical examples of rational thinking or other potential reason-​bearers, including theories, actions, and propositions. Furthermore, there might also be fruitful to think of the concept of rationality as a cluster concept. One could enumerate a host of properties that would possibly constitute a cluster. A potential reason-​bearer must then have some of such properties as being noncontradictory (at least in most contexts), fallible, justifiable, realizing certain epistemic values, and being in accordance with certain moral values and norms. Moreover, it must be some of the following: disclosive, provider of emotional or narrative insight, an instance of a good, informed judgment, and so on. But none of these properties is such that having them is necessary and sufficient for making a potential reason-​bearer rational. It must be added that systems of reasons-​bearers are woven into practices, cf. the Wittgensteinian and pragmatist tendency of the rpe. The meaning of the reasons-​bearer cannot be neatly separated from their use. A reason-​bearer such as Newton’s “f =​ma” is hardly understandable if one does not know the practices of scientists, including the ones of scientific measurement. If literary texts are to be considered as reasons-​bearers, then one must know such practices as the willing suspension of disbelief. Else one would not be able understand a text qua a literary one. Hence, the rationality or lack of such of these practices must also be taken into account. Just like in the analysis of literature and philosophy earlier in this book, I shall use these properties as parts of “indicators” of something being a rational system of reason-​bearers. The system can be a scientific research program Lakatos style, a system of moral beliefs, a political ideology, and so on. We have seen that beliefs, theories, and other reason-​bearers make sense only as parts of systems; hence we can only hope to measure the rationality of systems. It makes sense to think that such systems cannot be entirely rational, that they are partly based on premises that, for instance, cannot be justified. The more of these indicators there are to be found in a system of potential reason-​bearers, and the more weight they have in the system, the better it makes sense to call the system in question “rational”, given that all else is

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equal. So, just like in the case of literature and philosophy, this means that the indicators function as criteria. In contrast to the indicators of literature and philosophy, there are three main groups of indicators, and any system of potential reason-​bearers must contain indicators from all three groups. A potential reason-​bearer with only one indicator in each group but some or all of them, having an enormous weight, could be a better candidate for being rational than a reason-​bearer where more indicators are present but play only a minor role. “Playing a minor role” can mean that irrational properties play a greater role in the system of reason-​bearers; “having great weight” can mean that the entire system is dominated by one indicator. What do I mean when I say that among the properties and indicators is that reason-​bearers realize certain epistemic values? And when I add that another indicator is that reason-​bearers are in accordance with certain moral values and norms? A reason-​bearer realizes epistemic values if they are non-​trivial, precise, have scope, and so on (we have discussed these epistemic values earlier). A reason-​bearer is in accordance with certain moral norms and values if it, for instance, is not an ad hominem argument. The same holds if it is not in the guise of a command where everybody is required to accept certain arguments without criticism, and they are threatened with physical violence if they do not comply. The three groups are the following: group A consists of indicators that are epistemic, which concern the acquisition and determination of knowledge. Group B consists of indicators, which are emotional, Literary, and suchlike. The Literary traits are among these indicators. Group C consists of indicators of values and norms that matter to rationality, and with the notable exception of the first indicator, the focus in C is on practices and practitioners not on systems of reason-​bearers as in A and B. The following list is not exhaustive. Group A: The epistemic indicators. The first indicator in group A is that the entire content of a system of the reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, is or can be correctly deduced from given premises (it might only be so if the deduction is not in accordance with the law of noncontradiction, the same holds for 2–​6). The second indicator is that the entire content of a system of the reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, is or can be correctly induced from given premises. The third indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, is or can be correctly induced from given premises.

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The fourth indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, is or can be correctly abduced from given premises. The fifth indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, is justifiable. The sixth indicator is that the entire content of the system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, is fallible. The seventh indicator is that the entire content of the system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, is empirically testable. The eighth indicator is that the entire content of the system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains the content of well-​argued informed judgments. The ninth indicator is that the entire content of the system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains well-​grounded dialetheias and/​or the results of well-​performed fuzzy logical operation, given that dialetheism and fuzzy logic are acceptable. Group B: The emotional and Literary indicators: The first indicator of group B is that the entire content of a system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains emotional insights. The second indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains metaphoric insights. The third indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains narrative insights. The fourth indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains fictional insights. The fifth indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains imaginative insights. The sixth indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​bearers, or a fair amount of it, contains disclosive insights. The seventh indicator is that the entire content of a system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, provides twisted understanding. Group C: The value indicators: The first indicator of group C is that the entire content of a system of reason-​ bearers, or a fair amount of it, is in the guise of realizing certain epistemic values. The second indicator is that the practices (for instance science) surrounding a system of reason-​bearers, are in accordance with certain moral values and norms (those mentioned earlier in connection with the theories of Popper and Apel). This could mean that a given system of reason-​bearers is rational because its content is entirely deduced from a set of premises, a fair amount of it contains

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emotional insights, and its surrounding practices are in accordance with certain moral values. What do I mean by “fair amount”? I admit that this notion is pretty intuitive but bear in mind that this is not a definition but rather a picture of rationality or, more precisely, something in-​between a definition and a picture. I trust that the kind reader understands this intuitively, informed judgment might help. Could we call a system of reason-​bearers and its practices, which contain all the indicators irrational or non-​rational? Would this system not be a hot candidate for deserving the honorific “rational”? Why is it not sufficient for a system to contain indicators 1–​7 of group A to be rational? One of the reasons for this is that, as we have earlier seen, induction, deduction, abduction, the law of noncontradiction, justifiability, and fallibility have issues, making it very hard to say that their presence alone guarantees the rationality of a system of reason-​bearers. Another reason is that we have seen that it is impossible to disentangle rationality from the Literary, the emotional, and the dimension of values. The conclusion must be that It makes sense to say that the concept of rationality is an amoebaean concept. There is a poetic of reason.

The Crossword Puzzle of Reason

Have I not been stressing the limits of reason, how it is limited by the Background? Moreover, do not the fuzzy boundaries between reason and non-​ reason make it impossible to ground reason rationally? I am not sure that reason is so limited after all. There might be a way of showing that reason is rational, not by going the way of Apel and Kuhlmann, but by using some arguments that stem from Susan Haack. She never commented on the Teutonic debate on rationality, but some of her arguments might have bearings for it. She is a proponent of what she calls “foundherentism” about empirical beliefs, a middle way between foundationalism and coherentism. The former thinks that empirical beliefs must have a secure foundation, while the latter maintains that a belief is justified if and only if it can be supported by other beliefs, which make a continuous web. The problem with coherentism is that we cannot exclude the possibility of all the beliefs in the web being wrong or that there are many different webs and, therefore, no possibility of finding out which beliefs are true or justified. Haack quotes C.I. Lewis, who likened coherentism with that which happens when two dead-​drunk sailors think they can support each other even though they can hardly walk. She concludes that

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the web of beliefs can only make sense if it is somehow connected with reality, for instance, through experience. What about foundationalism? There are at least three versions of it. 1. Foundationalism that is of an empirical kind: according to it, knowledge is based upon sensory experience, which is the ultimate foundation of ­knowledge. 2. Foundationalism: according to this version, the foundation of knowledge comprises priori truths about empirical knowledge. 3. f­ oundationalism: according to this version, empirical knowledge is based upon yardsticks, which are not based on conventions “but stand in need of objective grounding, being satisfactory only if truth-​indicative [i.e., which takes criteria of justification to be founded by their relation to truth]” (Haack 2009: 244). Haack claims that foundationalists have wrongly assumed that certain beliefs are the presuppositions of other beliefs and provide foundations for them. But no beliefs are entirely foundational, and no beliefs are simply deduced from foundational beliefs. The foundationalist’s belief in a sharp division between foundational and non-​foundational beliefs is based on the mistaken theory that pure deduction is used in science. Such as deduction plays only a minor role in science; deduced or semi-​deduced beliefs are supported by a belief that is almost foundational and vice versa (thus, no belief is really foundational). Therefore, coherentism has its advantages. However, foundationalism is not without its redeeming features; we can learn from foundationalism nr. 1 that sensory experience and facts about reality are not without importance when it comes to justifying empirical beliefs. The coherentists do not accept this; they think that only abstract arguments matter when it comes to justifying empirical beliefs. Haack does not agree; causes and experience also play a role. She differentiates between S-​evidence and C-​evidence. S-​evidence concerns the state of mind of the one who has a belief. Their causes matter. It could matter for A’s belief that B was murdered that she saw it happen. Her visual experience causes her to believe this (in contrast, Rorty and Davidson do not accept that causes can be parts of justification). The C-​evidence concerns only the evidence, whether the different pieces of evidence in this murder case cohere. How to bridge the gap between S-​and C-​evidence? S-​evidence must be expressed in sentences and propositions, which are clearly true, given that we cannot doubt our own experiences. At the same time, C-​evidence is not worth much unless it can somehow be connected to S-​evidence and thus be connected to experience and reality. C-​evidence can justify beliefs with the aid of logic, but the content of the beliefs must, at least to a certain degree, stem from experience and hence from causes. Haack calls her theory the “Double

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Aspect Theory;” it takes heed both of causes and arguments when it comes to justification. Justification can be likened to the solution of crossword puzzles. In some of these puzzles, we find words that are indicators of what letters of the alphabet to put in a given slot. These indicators work like experience does, according to foundationalism nr. 1. Such an indicator can be the word “bird” in front of a horizontal slot for five letters; the answer could be “eagle.” At the same time, the hypotheses about what word to put in slots support each other; a letter in a word written vertically could support a hypothesis about which word to write horizontally. In the vertical slot, the word “bakery” could intersect with the “bird slot” in such a way that it supports the hypothesis that it is correct to write “eagle” in that slot. Haack’s explains why she chose the crossword metaphor: The main motivation is that the crossword model permits pervasive mutual support, rather than, like the model of mathematical proof, encouraging an essentially one-​directional conception. The clues are the analogues of the subject´s experiental evidence; already filled-​in entries, the analogue of his reasons. The clues don’t depend on the entries, but the entries are, in variable degree, interdependent; these are the analogues of the asymmetries already noted between experiential evidence and reasons. haack 2009: 126

Even though she mainly talks about empirical beliefs, she emphasizes that her theory might have implications for beliefs that are not empirical. Here is where critical and linguistic rationalists come into the picture. Both would almost certainly have rejected all three versions of foundationalism, but Apel and Kuhlmann would add their version, the fourth one. That version alone can give rationalism a secure foundation, they would say. Be that as it may, maybe we could justify rationalism using Haack’s analysis. More precisely, we can perform a rpte concerning such a justification. Rationalism has hardly any foundations; nevertheless, it can be justified, at least up to a point. We can talk in a somewhat phenomenological style about “experiences of reflection;” that kind of experience shows that it is very hard to ignore the law of noncontradiction completely and such principles of informal logic as the ban on whataboutism, arguments against strawmen, and ad hominem arguments. Experience shows that we simply cannot have a serious discussion if we ignore both the law and the bans, and in addition do not listen to our interlocutors or even use violence against them. I call it “experiences” because they

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might be, for all we know, on the one hand, psychological fact (in the case of the law), on the other, a sociological fact in the case of the bans, stemming frominformal logic (“do not indulge in whataboutaism” etcetera). Moreover, experience shows that ignoring the law of noncontradiction, induction, deduction, and abduction makes it hard for us to do practical things. We come home after a long absence and discover a foul smell, while noting that the windows are closed. We open the windows, but the smell does not disappear. After some further inquiries, we conclude abductively that some old mop is the culprit. Look at the way one puts together an ikea kind of easy chair. Repeated failures to fasten the back of the chair to the rest show us inductively that we have been using the wrong method. We deduce from this that we must find another method. And we cannot use nails and screws at the same time on the exact same spot of the chair; thus, we must (at least for the time being) respect the law of noncontradiction. There is, however, no reason to exclude the possibility that Graham Priest is right about certain experiences being contradictory and best understood logically through dialetheias. Experiences of phenomena with blurred edges such as the experience of young people and tall persons might be best understood with the aid of fuzzy logic. Experience also shows us that it is difficult to perform practical tasks and think abstractly if we do not differentiate between trivial and non-​trivial facts, important and not important ways of trying to solve a problem. This is, so to speak, the empirical side of non-​poetic rationality, the clues in the crossword puzzle. Let us now turn to the non-​empirical side of the crossword puzzle. The empirical problems involved in entirely ignoring the law of noncontradiction can be explained partly by invoking the Popperian and Aristotelian defense of this law. Yet again, we must not forget the challenge of dialetheism and fuzzy logic. We cannot exclude the possibility that there a context where we do not have to respect the law or for that matter the law of the excluded middle. This purported fact of having difficulties ignoring induction and deduction in practical activities can be supported by Goodmanian types of arguments in favor of induction and deduction (any argument in favor of deduction is, by implication, an argument in favor of the law of noncontradiction, because there is no deduction without it). They are virtuous circular arguments (but notice that this statement is not necessarily true, maybe they are viciously circular). Furthermore, our experience of having difficulties ignoring entirely the bans involved in informal logic can be justified theoretically by the Canons of

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informal logic. Earlier attempts to show the importance of values in rational thinking ought to provide the theoretical side of that problematic. The experience we have of it being impossible to conduct a rational discussion if we disrespect our interlocutors and even mistreat them can be explained with the aid of Popper and the discourse ethics of Habermas and Apel. So, we can obtain a reflective equilibrium between the empirical and non-​ empirical side of rationality and hence give reason a boost. To be sure, we cannot justify comprehensive rationalism, Apel style, but we come pretty close. In contrast to Apel and Kuhlmann, I have used a lot of small arguments to support rationalism inductively, not trying to vindicate it with one big blow. But that does not exclude the possibility of using their peritropic argument as one of the many small arguments. The same holds for the Popperian defense of the attitude of reasonableness and of the fallibility of at least a host of rational theories. We have already seen that fallibility is not a necessary condition for a theory to be rational, but would there be much rationality if there were not any fallible theories? Thus, we can vindicate or at least support rationality in an inductive fashion with the aid of a lot of small arguments, including some based on experience. The latter can be called “foundational,” while the theoretical arguments invoked can be called “coherentist.” The induction in question is not the systematic, scientific one but the rather unsystematic ppqi kind. What about emotions? We tend to experience emotions as something that can give information and be justified and criticized. That can be explained with the aid of my variation on themes of the cognitive theory of emotions. What about the poetic side of reason? It can be justified in a similar manner: many of us have the experience of seeking not only consolation and inspiration in literary works but also illumination and understanding. We often think we have found such understanding in these works. Our experience of illumination and understanding through literary artworks can be justified by me, Noël Carroll, and Frank Palmer. It might be added that people sometimes experience epiphanies which might in some cases have a genuine cognitive function, be illuminating. The theory of deflated disclosure might explain this kind of epiphany and show that it can be cognitively productive. We have also experienced that narratives can be used as instrument for explanation, that metaphors can help us understand phenomena, and that fictional tales can be an instrument for planning and even explanation. In this book, we have found theoretical explanations for why narratives, metaphors, and fictions can have cognitive functions.

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But the main argument in favor of reason being poetic is the various destab arguments: that language has four Literary traits, scientific models three, emotions also three, and so forth. Now, there are possible weaknesses in this rpte, a critic might say. Thus, I invoke experiences without mentioning any empirical evidence for these experiences being something that people tend to have. The answer is that I might be right even though I cannot produce any evidence, aside from my own experiences and that which I think (maybe wrongly) are the experiences of countless others. The critic might add that there is at least another weakness in this rpte. Those who might have the experiences mentioned might have the theories mentioned in the back of their mind. Their experience is theory-​impregnated, impregnated by precisely the theories that were supposed to explain and support their experiences. To make matters worse, I rely on induction, which the critic thinks is not viable. My response is that it is my educated guess that a lot of people feel that there is something wrong with contradictions even though they have never heard of the law of noncontradiction. They might also have the intuition that there are cases where it is in order to ignore purported contradictions. Moreover, persons who do not know what informal logic is feel discomfort when people are using ad hominem arguments or use the strategy of whataboutism. Empirical studies might confirm this conjecture. However, I admit that induction might not be a viable method, despite Goodman’s and Strawson’s excellent defense of it.

Conclusion

The concepts of reason and rationality are fuzzy ones with unclear edges. Rationality is like a loose confederation of various elements, some poetic, some not. The concept of rationality is an amoebaean one. This is in accordance with poetic moderate rationalism, which is a viable philosophical view. Despite its various limitations, the contention that reason is somewhat rational can be strengthened with the aid of Susan Haack’s arguments. Reason is moderately rational. The crossword puzzle of reason has been solved.

Conclusion and Summary of Section ii, Part B Rationality has emotional moments, while emotions have rational moments. Emotions can also be destabed, shown to have the four Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, fictionality, and subsumability under concepts of literary genres. There is no gap between reason and emotions. Heidegger went too far when he said that world disclosure was primordial to propositional knowledge. They are equi-​primordial; hence disclosure must be deflated. Wittgensteinian showing and aspect-​seeing are incorporated in the concept of deflated disclosure. Metaphors, narratives, and emotions are among the instruments of disclosure. Deflated disclosure can be passive or focused. One type of focused disclosure plays an epistemological role and takes part in the creation of conceptual schemes. The other kind is a tool for understanding our existential situation. Artworks, especially literary works, can be disclosive in an existential way; they can be disclosive of our tacit knowledge of emotions. Philosophy might also be disclosive. If that is the case, the purported gap between philosophy and literature narrows even more. Moreover, disclosure plays a role in or for reason; this expands our conception of reason even further. Language, the reason-​bearers, metaphors, narratives, fictions, emotions, disclosure, and literary artworks only make sense given a Background. The Background can be partly understood with the aid of metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary artworks. They disclose the Background. But that understanding is bound to be partial, as Charles Taylor points out. The metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary artworks used to throw light upon the Background have themselves necessary Background condition, which they cannot help us grasp. There are unclear boundaries between rationality, on the one hand, and imagination, rhetoric, the Literary traits, and emotions on the other (both science and literature have rhetoric moments. The concept of rationality can hardly be defined successfully. It makes sense to understand it as an amoebaean concept. There are indicators of rationality belonging to one of the three main groups of indicators, the epistemic group, the emotional and Literary group, and the value group. A system of reason-​bearers must contain indicators from all three groups.

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By using Susan Haack’s arguments in my rpte way, I tried by using ppqi arguments to show that it is not absurd to say that reason is (at least somewhat) rational. It makes sense to talk about the poetic of reason and defend poetic moderate rationalism.

Concluding the Book

∵

Concluding the Experiments, Concluding the Book I shall start this conclusion by giving an overview of the main ideas introduced in this book. Finally, there is a short personal note. In this book, Rational Poetic Experimentalism (rpe) has been introduced and defended. It celebrates the statement from Goethe’s Faust “In the beginning was action.”228 Hence, rpe has pragmatist tendencies. More precisely the one of poetic pragmatism, a tendency it shares with Rorty, Margolis, Goodman, and Heidegger. Being experimental is one of the pragmatist traits of the rpe. I want to find out in an experimental way whether it makes sense to talk about literary factors in phenomena outside the realm of imaginative literature and related artforms. There might be fields outside of the realm which are Literary. However, the experiments must be conducted in a rational, fallibilist manner. They are entitled Rational Poetic Thought Experiments (rpte). The rpe has an open, non-​dogmatic, experimentalist, and “opportunist” view of philosophy. There is also a post-​modernist streak in the rpe; I want to perform destabing, a somewhat rationalist relative of deconstruction. Furthermore, I use such methods as the Principle of Philosophical Quasi-​Induction (ppqi), and the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation, methods which he hopes are rational. “Ordinary” induction and Inference to the Best Explanation have been defended valiantly by some philosophers; hopefully, their defense can be used to vindicate the ppqi and the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation. Philosophical truths are not easy to attain, rather the opposite. I do not exclude the possibility of philosophical problems being pseudo-​problems or problems insolvable by humankind. I agree with Robert Nozick that it is often better to rank philosophical ideas than to believe in them. To do this, the rpe connects its possibilology, the idea that what philosophers do best is to point toward new possibilities. The relationship between literature and philosophy is one of the main themes of this book. I mentioned that philosophy can be said to be about the discovery of new possibilities. However, this is exactly what writers of imaginative literature do; there is no gap between philosophy and imaginative literature. The concepts of philosophy and literature cannot fruitfully be defined in an essential manner; both are amoebaean concepts. The same holds for the concept of rationality. Nevertheless, there are indicators of philosophy, 228 „Im Anfang war die Tat“, Goethe 1808: Chapter 6.

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literariness, and rationality. The fields of literariness and philosophy deal in fictional stories, and even if the philosopher were aiming at analytical truth, it is not certain that his stories can help it attain such truths or whether these analyses yield anything but tautologies. And who says that philosophical truths must be analytical truths? They might instead be transcendental, phenomenological or of a hitherto undiscovered kind. What is certain is that good fictional, philosophical stories can be food for thought, just like imaginative literature. Just like philosophy, literature does not seem to make clear-​cut cognitive progress; just like philosophy, literature often thematizes itself. The forte of both is the proliferation of interesting and thought-​provoking possibilities. The rpe is all about the proliferation of possibilities. And in that connection, it is maybeism; finding could questions is just as important as looking for good answers. The latter can be very hard to find in philosophy, but it is somewhat easier to fi invent good questions and qualify what one says with “maybe.” There is no gap between philosophy and literature, even though there are important differences. Argumentation plays necessarily a more important role in philosophy than in literature. I tried in this book to show how such literary factors as narratives, stories, fictions, metaphors, and other tropes can play a pivotal role in our understanding and coping with reality, being at the same time tools for destabing: 1. Meaningful entities (me s) are constituted by meaning. Artworks, actions, mathematics, language, and scientific models are among the me s. me s can have Literary traits, the ones of metaphors, narratives, fictions, and literary genres-​hood (and even more traits). Moreover, some me s are symbolic structures, they can represent slices of reality. This holds for metaphors, scientific treatises, diagrams, paintings etcetera. Some meaningful entities have Literary traits and can be destabed. 2. The essence of that which I call “metaphorism” is as follows: metaphors constitute a large swath of meaning and knowledge, not least our understanding of tacit knowledge. I introduce and defend my alethetic theory of metaphoric understanding; the precondition for such an understanding is knowing the truth-​like values of the metaphor in question. However, they represent reality in a transformed fashion and provide us with a twisted understanding. The transformation of the objects enhances our understanding of them, somewhat like the transformation of objects in scientific models enhances understanding of them. This is a part of my defense of metaphorism. Another side is the use ppqi. There are many different, well-​argued, theories that defend

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metaphorism, while criticism of it seems wrong. Thus, I inductively conclude that metaphorism is a viable option. 3. Emotions can also provide twisted understanding. 4. The essence of that which I call “narrativism” is as follows: narratives and stories mediate and construct parts of our practical and theoretical knowledge. As part of a poetic experiment, I add that mental acts and causal explanation have a storied structures. Just like metaphorism, narrativism is also defended using the ppqi. Moreover, narratives can provide us with twisted understanding like metaphors and emotions. 5. Fictionalists claim that big chunks of what we hold for real are really fictions. This theory shall be ranked highly, not least because it fits pragmatism and because it enhances the theory that imagination plays an important role in our cognitive activities. 6. Metaphors and narratives are also products of the imagination and play a vital role in our cognition. Ricœur has a transcendental and cultural theory of imagination, while Turner has a cognitive science theory with more stress on the role of physical objects in our imagination. Those theories can hopefully be unified. 7. Metaphors, narratives, fictions, and emotions have a common seeing-​as factor. 8. Scientific models are of great importance for rational inquiry, but they can be destabed. It makes sense to say that such models have metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits. They are hyperboles, and hyperboles, like metaphors, are tropes of rhetoric. 9. Metaphors, narratives, fictions, and models are important cognitive instruments. The concepts of cognition and understanding can be destabed, shown to have three Literary traits: metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. 10. Metaphors, narratives, and fictions might be indispensable elements of some conceptual schemes. 11. Reality, as understood by humans, is at least partly structured by metaphors, narratives, and fictions (also by values). Hence the concept of reality (or some sub-​concepts thereof) can be destabed, shown to have three Literary traits. Partly because of 1–​9, literature can have cognitive impact: 1. Literary works can only be given identity through a comparison between their content and that which we think is reality. 2. Therefore, these works can relate to reality.

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Carroll has a good point when he says that even though literature cannot give us empirical information, it can provide understanding by helping us to see and to be responsive to connections between our beliefs. 4. In a similar fashion, I maintain that literature can help us grasp our tacit knowledge by making us aware that we have it, help us find a place for it in our system of beliefs, and partly explicate it in the guise of sketches of it. 5. The dialectics between immersion and distanciation helps the reader activate the cognitive potential of many literary works. 6. The twisted understanding, provided by metaphors, narratives, and fictions, gets enhanced in literary works when these three intertwine. 7. Literature can provide disclosive insights. Let us turn to the concepts of reason and rationalism. A poetic moderate rationalism is ranked highly; such rationalism is not necessarily antithesis neither to a poetic nor emotional approach. Rationality cannot be reduced to the canons of formal logic and the methods of empirical sciences. It also has some traits of informal logic, besides being soaked with values, including moral ones. At the same time, such instruments of rationality as induction and abduction can be justified; hence ppqi and the Inference to the Least Bad Explanation can be justified. I performed a rpte and try to show that science has rhetoric sides, pathos, ethos, logos, and tropicality. Furthermore, it cannot be ruled out that mathematics and logic have metaphoric and fictional traits. If true, that would enhance the Literary moment of reason. At the same time, everyday reasoning was destabed and shown to have the three Literary traits of metaphority, narrativity, and fictionality. All these points in the direction of rationality having Literary traits. Thinkers like Habermas and Apel regard language as the cornerstone of rationality. That may be true; I made a rpte and tried to destab language. It makes sense to say that it has metaphoric, narrative, fictional traits, being in addition partly subsumable under concepts of literary genres (language certainly is a me). Thus, it has all four Literary traits, and if it is the fountainhead of reason, reason must have these traits, at least in small doses. Moreover, the linguistic rationalism of Habermas and Apel can also be destabed, having all four Literary traits. If their conception of rationality is correct, rationality has these four traits. The rpe is interested in linguistic rationalism because of its (the rpe’s) interest in lingualism. In this book, six different arguments in favor of lingualism has been introduced. From the rpe point of view the best ones are those that operate with a broad understanding of language as for instance Goodman

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and Peirce do. According to my own version of this broad sense of language, it encompasses all meaningful entities, some of which are symbolic structure. But even language in this broad sense has its limits because it is hard to deny that there is tacit knowledge or even just tacit experience.229 A moderate lingualism that allots tacit experience some place shall be ranked somewhat higher than its opposites. And schemism shall be ranked a bit higher than its opposites, valueism also. So, it makes sense to think that our view of reality is partly constituted and constrained by language, values, and conceptual schemes. Emotions are meaningful entities and can be symbolic structures, while rationality has emotive aspects. Emotions were destabed and shown to have metaphority, narrativity, fictionality, and being partly subsumable under the concept of a literary genre, that of myths. Due to the connection of emotions to reason, this must enhance the poetic moment of reason further. The question of whether intuitions and imagination are emotions was discussed. The tentative conclusion was that they are related to emotions but can hardly be classified as such. Reason-​bearers, including beliefs and propositions, carry with them disclosive baggage; propositions have a disclosive showing baggage. But disclosure is not primary to propositions and beliefs as Heidegger thought; they are equi-​primordial.230 Therefore, disclosure should be deflated. Emotions and metaphors play an important role in deflated disclosure, and artworks are also among its best tools. Artworks can disclose tacit knowledge of emotions. Reason-​bearers, narratives, metaphors, fictions, and language make sense only given a Background of a myriad of more or less tacit assumptions. The Background can never be entirely explicated, but metaphors, narratives, fictions, and imaginative literature works can help us cope with the Background and disclose it to a certain degree. Let us take another look at destabing. Destabing is the main instrument that has been used in the rpe experiments made in this book. The main tools for destabing were the Literary traits. Language, emotions, and linguistic rationalism were shown to have all four Literary traits, while understanding/​cognition, scientific models, everyday reasoning turn out to have three of them: metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits. All this gives rationality some Literary traits; the concept of rationality can be destabed. 2 29 Maybe the tacit dimension is located in its own module, if the mind is indeed modular. 230 In a similar fashion, the concepts of propositional knowledge and tacit knowledge might be logically interdependent. Also, the same might hold for the concepts of cognition and coping, and those of metaphor and literal meaning.

428 

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Notice that destabing the difference between literature and philosophy is made in a somewhat different fashion than the earlier destabing. Several factors, besides the four Literary ones, play a role in this destabing. The same holds for what can be called “destabing of the difference between rationality and literature.” It is pointed out that imagination, values, emotions, and rhetoric play rational and literary roles. Moreover, such instruments of rationality as scientific models have Literary traits. Furthermore, in both science and literature, willing suspension of disbelief is of paramount importance. We have seen in this book that rationality has imaginative, evaluative, emotive, metaphoric, narrative, and fictional traits (rationality is a me). The three last-​named traits are Literary, in addition, f-​d-​e-​disclosure, imagination, evaluation, and emotions matter to literature. All this pushes rationality in the direction of literature, and by showing it has Literary traits, rationality has been destabed. Poetic moderate rationalism is a part of the rpe. It is of the pragmatist kind, its proponent stressing that the mainstay of reason, such as the law of noncontradiction and fallibilism, are useful in our present age. The same holds for deduction, induction, abduction, and the peritrope; they are good tools for rational purposes, but we might find better tools tomorrow. Furthermore, it is rational to be flexible about the usefulness of these tools; there might be cases where it is rational to suspend the law of noncontradiction and that of the excluding middle. Witness Margolis, fuzzy logic, and dialetheism. The rpe also emphasizes that rationality is soaked with values and that some of these values are just as objective and universal (or as subjective and non-​universal) as any tool of rationality. The literary realm is likewise value-​ impregnated. But the poetic side of this kind of rationalism stems mainly from another source: metaphors, narratives, and fiction can enhance our understanding in rational a rational manner. They do that, e.g., through scientific models. At the same time, it is not given that the threesome always enhances understanding in rational ways; there might be cases where they do so intuitively, without being fallible or justifiable (fallibility and justifiability are often conditions of rationality). Moreover, of course, the threesome has all kinds of functions that have nothing to do with the cognitive dimension, for example, the dimension of understanding and the like. The concept of reason is an amoebaean one, just like the concepts of literature and philosophy. Furthermore, the Background, the moment of rhetoric, and the unclear boundaries between reason and non-​reason put constraints on reason. Nevertheless, we can use inspiration from Susan Haack’s foundherentism to show that we can support, even vindicate, reason with arguments

Concluding the Experiments, Concluding the Book

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that are partly coherentist, partly foundational. In this context, we can use the ppqi to support the claim that poetic moderate rationalism makes sense.

Conclusion of the Conclusion

The main conclusion of the book is that it makes perfect sense to regard the dimension of literature (and its artistic relatives) and the rest of reality as not being clearly demarcated from each other. The rpe deserves a reasonably high ranking. I put my bet on it and just hope that I strike luck, that my theory is true. Or at least interesting and challenging, hopefully, tasty food for thought. Call this “the rpe wager.” Whether the bet will be successful, no one knows.

A Concluding Personal Note Plato was skeptical of poetry and imaginative literature while extolling the virtues of philosophy. He talked about the “old quarrel between philosophy and poetry” (Plato 1955: 385 (607b). This book is written to make peace between the two, show that one can do tolerably rational philosophy and be poetical at the same time. For me to make peace with myself, attain ataraxia. I am not only an academic but also a published poet; the poet and the professor have often been at loggerheads; now they can live together peacefully. To use or abuse a Nietzschean conception, I was like a camel in my younger days, overburdened with philosophical worries. Then I changed into a roaring lion which defended some philosophical theories aggressively. Now, I have become like a child who plays with ideas, but the game it plays is a serious game.231 I have toiled in the vineyard for a while; now it is time to rest—​for a while. 231 Nietzsche’s Zarathustra tells the tale of the three transformation. There is a spirit that first incarnates as a camel, ready to bear any burden. Then it becomes a lion, fighting for its cause and at last a child that can start with a clean slate, create new values, untainted by the old (Nietzsche 1978: 19–​20). So, I changed the tale for my own purposes.

© Stefán Snævarr, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004523814_032

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Index of Names Adorno, Theodor W. 75, 431 Albert, Hans 227, 237, 241–​242, 274, 431 Alexeiwich, Svetlana 43 Aldiss, Brian 319, 431 Anscombe, Elizabeth, 140, 431, 452 Apel, Karl-​Otto 30, 79n.55, 200n.115, 221–​ 254, 301n.186, 331, 341, 348, 406, 412, 416, 426, 431 Aquinas, Thomas 40, 86 Arbib, Michael A. 101, 258, 439 Aristotle 9, 99, 121, 122, 133, 152, 153n, 201, 214, 235, 237n.155, 309, 311, 341, 367n.208, 431 Austin, John 222–​223, 293, 431, 432 Ayer, Alfred Jules 61, 311, 432 Babich, Babette 61, 432 Bach, Johann Sebastian 86 Bachelard, Gaston 7, 115, 379–​380 Bailer-​Jones, Daniela 273, 432 Ball, Hugo 42, 53, 432 Barenboim, Daniel 86 Barnes, Barry 5, 294, 307, 432 Bartolomei Vasconcelos, Tereasa 247–​248 Beethoven, Ludwig van 342, 343 Bloor, David 5, 294, 307, 432 Bartley iii, William Warren 242, 432 Basho 8, 58, 432 Beckett, Samuel 10, 432 Beardsley, Monroe 62, 91, 115–​117, 122, 432 Beatch, B. Richard 294, 432 Ben-​Ze'ev, Aaron 343, 432 Berkeley, George 39, 303, 432 Bernstein, Charles 45, 432 Bernstein, Jeremy 66, 432 Best, David 45, 432 Black, Max 98–​101, 102, 116, 118, 120, 121, 129, 130, 187, 255–​256, 260, 261, 262, 265–​ 266, 267, 274, 276, 318, 338, 350, 351, 375n.211, 433, 439 Bohr, Nils 40, 203, 269, 433 Borges, Jorge Luis 65, 66, 87, 433 Boyd, Richard 260–​263, 433 Bourget, David 61, 80, 433 Brando, Marlon 177

Brandom, Robert 239–​240n.160, 244, 252, 433 Brecht, Berthold 312, 433 Brock, Stuart 176, 441 Bunge, Mario 265–​266, 432, 433 Bunuel, Lous 400 Burroughs, William 68 Byron, Lord 43 Calvino, Italo 65 Caldwell, Mark 147n.98, 433 Camus, Albert 401 Cappelen, Herman 80–​81, 93, 433 Carnap, Rudolf 75n.53, 282, 286–​288, 433 Carr, David 132, 135–​139, 158, 166, 187, 387n.219, 433 Carroll, Lewis 211–​212 Carroll, Noël 46, 63, 73n.52, 214, 305, 403, 416, 426, 433, 434, 436 Carroll, Sean 305, 434 Cartwright, Nancy 271–​272, 277, 314, 315, 434 Carver, Raymond 59 Cavell, Stanley 10, 39, 224n.137, 364, 434 Celan, Paul 313 Céline, Louis-​Ferdinand 63, 157 Cervantes, Miguel de 82 Chalmers, David 61, 79–​80, 93, 433 Chomsky, Noam 106n.67, 115, 434 Clinton, Bill 112–​113 Cohen, Daniel Harry 67–​68, 200, 434 Cohen, Jonathan 178 Cochnitz, Daniel 289, 434 Collingwood, R.G. 366, 434 Conan Doyle, Arthur 170 Conrad, Joseph 177 Cooper, David 127, 434 Cotterel, Arthur 14n.11, 111n.72, 434 Culler, Jonathan 23n.16, 434 Currie, Gregory 164, 434 Dagognet, François 400n.225 Dalí, Salvador 400 Damasio, Antonio 362, 434 Danto, Arthur 132, 133, 139–​140, 162, 165, 166, 187, 357, 434

454  Daoud, Kamal 401 Darwin, Charles 206, 215, 261 Davidson, Donald 67, 76, 98, 123, 126–​130, 282.285, 287, 288, 300, 301, 413, 434 Davies, Jefferson 163 Davies, Stephen 51n.36, 298–​299 de Sousa, Roland 351–​352, 362, 450 Dellsén, Finnur 26n.20, 73, 81, 434 Deleuze, Gilles 9n.9, 437 Derrida, Jacques 23n.16, 435, 448 Descartes, René 222, 304 Dewey, John 14, 19n.14, 38, 62, 381, 435 Dilthey, Wilhelm 136, 233n.150, 435 Diop, David 316, 435 Donne, John 315, 435 Don Quixote 105, 292 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor 60, 62, 86 Douven, Igor 206, 435 Dray, William 132, 138–​140, 162, 166, 435 Dylan, Bob 315, 316, 435 Einstein, Albert 59, 66, 260, 432 Eklund, Matti 173, 435 Eliot, T.S. 88 Enzenberger, Hans Magnus 59 Fauconnier, Gilles 111–​113, 120, 130, 143, 183, 435, 436 Feyerabend, Paul 70n.51, 75–​76, 83n.58, 196n.113, 206, 279–​280, 287, 288, 289, 307, 436 Field, Hartry 179, 275, 276, 277, 436 Fine, Arthur 169, 436 Fodor, Jerry 306, 436 Fokt, Simon 52n.36, 436 Føllesdal, Dagfinn 387n.219, 436 Foucault, Michel 65, 288, 436 Frege, Gottlob 202–​203 Frigg, Roman 268–​270, 273, 277, 314, 436 Galilei, Galileo 102, 281, 449 Gallie, W.B. 60n, 132, 134, 154, 436 Gaut, Berys 49, 50–​52, 56n.40, 436 Genette, Gérard 132, 133, 436 Gibbs, Ray 128, 437 Giddens, Anthony 280, 437 Giere, Roland 265, 270, 274, 437 Glicksohn, Joseph 351, 437

Index of Names Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 291, 423, 437 Goldie, Peter 326, 331–​333, 341, 353–​357, 362 Goodblatt, Chanita. 351, 437 Goodman, Nelson 14n.40, 98, 104–​106, 108, 109, 115n.78, 122n.87, 128, 129, 175, 208, 209–​210, 214, 215, 289–​294, 343–​344, 349, 365n.206, 369, 401, 415, 423, 434, 437 Gould, Glenn 86 Gould, Stephen Jay 262 Goya, Franscesco 374, 384 Greimas, Algirdas 154, 437 Groarke, Leo 308, 437 Grice, Paul 116, 437 Grünewald, Mathias 372 Guattari, Felix 9n.6, 437 Guðmundsson, Einar Már 398, 399, 437 Guttenplan, Samuel 128, 252, 437 Haack, Susan 258, 266–​267, 276, 311, 412–​ 414, 417, 428, 437 Haas, Stephanie 141n, 142–​143, 437 Habermas, Jürgen 30, 89–​91, 200n.115, 221–​ 248, 251–​254, 301n.186, 303, 380–​382, 386–​388, 395, 399, 402, 416, 426, 437, 438, 439, 449, 451 Hacker, P.H.S. 78–​79, 204, 438, 452 Handke, Peter 42–​43, 46, 53, 438 Harman, Gilbert H. 206n.126, 438 Harward, Donald W. 150n.101, 439 Hasek, Jaroslav 312, 406 Hawking, Stephen 77, 439 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 57, 58, 79n.55, 203n.121, 221, 282n.176, 295, 439, 446 Heidegger, Martin ix, 59, 64n.48, 142, 364–​368, 369, 370n.209, 375n.212, 380, 386n.217, 390, 418, 427, 439, 444, 450 Hemingway, Ernst 88, 318 Hempel, Carl Gustav 264, 439 Henderson, Leah 210, 439 Hesse, Mary 59, 99, 101–​104, 125, 129, 169, 187, 246, 253, 256–​260, 263, 266–​267, 274, 275, 276, 310, 311, 437, 439, 448 Hindess, Barry 72, 439 Hintikka, Jaako 213, 437, 439 Hirsch, E.D. 91, 439 Hitler, Adolf 198, 234, 309, 345, 375

Index of Names

455

Hodell, Åke 45, 432, 439 Hollinger, Robert 281n.175, 439 Holmes, Sherlock 169–​170, 174 Honderich, Ted 439 Horkheimer, Max 75, 431 Humboldt, Wilhelm von 115 Hume, David 159, 177, 206, 207, 346 Husserl, Edmund 14n.8, 68, 135, 136, 385–​ 386, 388, 389n.223, 392, 398, 399, 402, 433, 439, 440, 441

Kriegel, Uriah 178 Kripke, Saul 67, 80, 224n.137, 260–​261, 393, 441 Kristjánsson, Kristján 49, 441 Kroon, Frederick 176, 441 Krugman, Paul 274, 441 Kuhlmann, Wolfgang 235–​240, 412, 414, 441 Kuhn, Thomas 67, 68, 71–​3, 196, 243, 256n.167, 262–​3, 279, 283–​4, 288, 371, 380, 441

Ibsen, Henrik 103 Ionescu, Eugene 65, 68, 400 Isaacson, Walter 30n.25, 440

Lacey, A.R. 18n.12, 442 Lafont, Cristina 366, 442 Lawler, Insa 73, 81, 434 Lakatos, Imre 83, 195–​6, 409, 441, 442 Lakoff, George 6, 49, 99n.62, 100–​101, 106–​ 111, 129, 180, 246, 260, 275–​277, 350, 352, 398, 442 Lamarque, Peter 45–​47, 162–​166, 442 Lang 86 Langford, C. H. 28, 79, 442 Laudan, Larry 73, 305, 442 Lautréamont, Comte de 406 Laxness, Halldór 13 Lee, Robert E. 163 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 64, 84, 91, 369–​ 370, 380, 384, 442 Lee, Harper 313, 442 Lem, Stanislaw 314, 404, 442 Leng, Mary 179, 442 Lermontov, Mikael 83 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 271–​272 Levin, Samuel 121, 443 Lewis, David 65–​66, 169–​170, 176, 443 Lewis, C.I. 412 Lewis, C.S. 143n.96 Li Po 43 Lodge, David 268, 269 Longworth, Francis 52n.36, 443 Lynch, David 319

Jakobson, Roman 116, 117n.81 Jesus 372 Johannessen, Kjell S. 396–​397, 440 Johnson, Mark 6n.1, 98, 99n.62, 101, 106–​113, 129–​130, 147, 246, 248–​251, 258, 372, 392, 396, 440 Joyce, James 41, 43, 61n.44, 88 Joyce, Richard 178, 440 Kafka, Franz 43, 61n. 44, 117, 174, 319, 344, 376–​377, 384, 399, 430 Kahneman, Daniel 49, 440 Kalderon, Mark Eli 169, 440, 443, 451 Kant, Immanuel 12, 57, 67, 76, 77, 80, 88, 107, 118–​119, 153, 154, 156, 157, 183, 215n.132, 221, 227, 235, 248, 282n.176, 283, 386n.219, 387, 440, 441 Kári (Old Norse god) 111 Kasparov, Garri 120 Kaurismäki, Aki 20 Kavan, Anna 319, 404, 440, 443 Kearney, Richard 114n.77, 118, 440 Kenny, Anthony 327, 328 Khayyam, Omar 43 Khlebnikov, Velimir 43 Kierkegaard, Søren 38, 40, 65, 84, 87 Kittay, Eva Feder 127, 440 Knausgård, Karl Ove 41, 441 Knobe, Joshua 9n.5, 441 Kockelmans, Joseph 387n.219, 441 Koestler, Arthur 113–​114, 120, 183, 441 Kosko, Bart 203–​205, 216, 242, 441 Kövecses, Zoltán 351, 441

MacCormac, Earle 203–​204, 316–​318, 443 MacIntyre, Alasdair 244–​246, 248, 252, 253, 443 Malone, Tyler 319–​320, 443 Maradona, Diego 120 Margolis, Joseph 206, 289, 294–​300, 307, 308, 381, 423, 428, 432, 443

456  Marcuse, Herbert 40, 61, 75, 76, 443 Marx, Karl 10, 62, 64, 67, 203n.121, 297, 443, 446 McCarthy, Cormac 141, 443 McDowell, John 225, 443 McGinn, Colin 10–​11, 62, 73, 82, 443 McKeowan-​Green, Jonathan 176, 441 Mead, George Herbert 239, 444 Melville, Hermann 13 Merleau-​Ponty, Maurice 75, 76, 392, 444 Mink, Louis 132, 149–​152, 155, 156, 166, 444 Moran, Richard 338–​339, 444 Mulhall, Stephen 364, 370, 444 Munch, Edvard 342, 343, 344, 374, 384 Musil, Robert 62 Nagel, Thomas 39, 444 Newton, Isaac 268, 269, 272, 304, 409 Næss, Arne 24, 444 Nichols, Shaun 9n.5, 441 Nietzsche, Friedrich 6, 22, 42, 64, 65, 87, 88, 281, 301, 311–​312, 430, 444 Nixon, Richard 298–​299 Noiville, Florence 61, 444 Nørager, Truls 387, 444 Norton, James 73, 81, 434 Nosek, Brian 81, 444 Nozick, Robert v, xi, 17–​21, 31, 33, 64, 185, 442, 444, 445 Nunez, Rafael 109, 180, 260, 275–​277, 442 Nussbaum, Martha 23n.15, 62n.45, 352, 445 Odin (old Norse God) 14n.11, 378 Óðinn. See Odin Odysseus 144 Okasha, Samir 206n.128, 305, 445 Olsen, Stein Haugom 45–​47, 162, 442, 449 Olson, Eric T. 75, 445 Ortony, Andrew 49, 318, 433, 442, 443, 445, 449 Orwell, George 83, 91, 312 Palmer, Frank 65, 68, 400 Papineau, David 81–​82, 93, 445 Parfit, Derek 59 Parmenides 59 Parsons, Keith M. 86, 445 Pascal, Blaise 177 Patterson, R.F 39, 445

Index of Names Pedersen, Arild 392, 445 Peirce, Charles Sanders 9n.4, 19n.13, 25n.19, 206n.127, 236n.154, 238–​239, 427, 438, 445 Pendercki, Kryztof 52 Pepper, Stephen 66–​67, 68, 445 Piaget, Jean 221n.135, 280, 446 Picasso, Pablo 374 Plantinga, Alvin 262n.169, 445, 446 Plato 25, 46, 64, 65, 66, 79, 274, 430, 446 Polanyi, Michael 111n.71, 446 Polkinghorne, Donald 161, 165, 446 Popper, Karl 25n.18, 67, 72, 80, 82, 83, 195, 198, 200, 202, 207–​208, 215, 217, 218, 221, 222, 226–​227, 232, 237, 240, 243, 255, 280, 408, 415, 416, 446, 451 Potter, Harry 182, 270 Pound, Ezra 312, 446 Priest, Graham 202–​203, 218, 415, 446 Prior, A.N. 38, 211, 215, 294 Prothero, Donald 262, 446 Putnam, Hilary 63, 65, 89, 157, 198, 219, 250, 285–​287, 288, 291n.180, 300n.184, 305, 446, 448 Quine, Willard Van Orman 67, 80, 196, 205, 298, 447 Rabelais, François 313 Ramberg, Bjørn 301, 447 Richards, I.A. 99n.63, 447 Ricœur, Paul 6, 83, 99, 114–​123, 125, 129, 130, 152–​154, 166, 169n.108, 175, 178, 183, 185, 187, 203n.121, 221, 266, 348, 350, 360, 375n.212, 400, 402, 425, 440, 447–​448, 450, 451 Roberts, Robert C. 327, 330–​331, 340, 348, 350–​351, 362, 373, 374, 448 Rorty, Richard 6, 11, 15, 62, 76, 79, 88, 127n.92, 289, 300–​303, 311, 413, 423, 437, 439, 447, 448, 450 Rosch, Eleanore 48, 49, 50, 79, 448 Rosenberg, Alexander 81, 274, 448 Rossberg, Marcus 289, 434 Rothenberg, Albert 114, 130, 183, 448 Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques 311 Russell, Bertrand 40, 64. 68, 202, 203 Russell, James 354–​355, 448 Ryle, Gilbert 67

457

Index of Names Said, Edward 401 Saint Paul 373n.210 Sartre, Jean-​Paul 328, 359–​360, 448 Searle, John R. 43, 44, 89, 90, 91, 100, 388–​ 389, 449 Scarantino, Andrea 52n.36, 443 Schapp, Wilhelm 132, 138–​143, 149, 166, 352, 449 Schiff, András 86 Schütz, Alfred 388, 395, 449 Searle, John 43, 44, 90–​91, 100, 223, 388–​389, 395, 402, 432, 449 Seurat, Georges 171, 173 Shapere, Dudley 102n.66, 449 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 6, 449 Shakespeare, William 7, 13, 43, 59, 125, 269, 313, 449 Shklovsky, Victor 382n.216, 399, 400n.225, 449 Shusterman, Richard 38, 53, 449 Singer, Peter 82 Singer, Isaac Bashevich 61 Skallagrímsson, Egill 377–​378, 384, 435 Skilleås, Ole Martin 45–​46, 449 Skjei, Erling 235n.152, 449 Smith, Nicolas 390–​391, 449 Snævarr, Stefán xi, 21, 26, 123n.88, 213, 296n.182, 450 Snell, Bruno 280, 449 Solomon, Robert 327–​331, 348, 360–​361, 362, 449 Soskice, Janet Martin 98, 99, 450 Spinoza, Baruch de 38, 88 Statkiewicz, Max 117, 450 Stecker, Robert 298, 450 Stegmüller, Wolfgang 205, 450 Stendahl 85 Strawson, Peter Fredrick 208–​209, 210, 366, 417, 450 Swift, Jonathan 171 Swinburne 27n.23, 28n.24, 85–​86, 445, 450 Swoyer, Chris 280, 450 Taylor, Charles 118, 244, 251, 326, 333–​341, 348, 382, 389–​395, 402, 449, 450 Thomasson, Annie 269, 450 Thompson, John B. 221n.133, 438, 439, 447, 451 Tolstoy, Lev 43, 63, 270, 399

Toon, Adam 267–​268, 451 Trump, Donald 161 Turner, Mark 6n, 111–​113, 120, 130, 132, 143–​147, 157, 166, 183, 187, 272, 425, 436, 442, 451 Tversky, Amos 49 Urmson, J.O. 197 Vaihinger, Hans 169, 451 van Fraassen, Bas 169, 451 Varzi, Achille C. 177, 451 Verikukis, Hristos 72, 451 Vinogradovs, Valery xii von Wright, Georg Henrik 164–​165, 451 Waisman, Friedrich 52–​53, 451 Walton, Kendall 170–​176, 179, 181, 183, 185, 187, 267–​269, 342, 451 Weinberg, Justin 57, 451 Weber, Max 227, 232n.149, 451 Weber, Zach 202, 203, 446 Wheelwright, Philip 316 White, Hayden 133, 160, 166, 396, 451 Whitehead, A.N. 40 Whitman, Walt 203, 312, 452 Williamson, Timothy 25–​26, 31, 74–​79, 84, 93, 110, 183, 185, 204–​205, 218, 265, 274, 298, 347, 390n.224, 451, 452 Wimsatt, William 91, 432 Winch, Peter 212–​213, 214, 367, 369, 452 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 11, 15, 21, 22, 39, 40, 47, 48, 49, 62, 64, 65, 73, 74, 77, 78, 80, 84, 86, 88, 102, 110, 118, 122, 130, 149–​150, 152, 164, 213, 214, 221, 222, 224–​226, 251, 282n.176, 304–​305, 307, 326n.191, 330–​ 331, 333, 364, 366–​367, 369, 370, 372, 373, 382, 383, 388, 395, 396, 402, 409, 418, 434, 439, 440, 441, 444, 452 Wollheim, Richard 63, 452 Wreen, Michael 299–​300, 452 Yablo, Stephen 179–​180, 184, 260, 275, 276, 277, 452 Yeats, William Butler 315, 320, 452 Zeus 360 Zola, Emile 313

Index of Subjects Abduction. See Inference to the Best Explanation Absolute presupposition 366, 369 Aesthetic (the property of being) v, xii, 9–​10, 14, 17, 19, 20, 31, 44, 46, 52, 56n.40, 63n.46, 71, 85, 86, 89, 92, 227–​234, 243, 251, 253, 270, 345, 366, 369, 382, 383, 406 Aesthetic value 234, 406 Aesthetical(ly). See Aesthetic Aesthetic-​practical rationality (Habermas’ conception of) 227, 231, 232–​234 Alethetic theory (of metaphoric understanding) 98, 123–​126, 130, 157, 159, 187, 293, 318, 381, 424 Alethetic value 123–​124, 318 Also sprach Zarathustra 42, 43, 430n.231, 444 Amoebaean concepts 47–​54, 55, 60, 79, 84, 94, 204, 205n.125, 223, 346, 347, 403, 409, 412, 417, 418, 423, 428 Analogical fallacy 49–​50, 87, 129 Analytical philosophy 17–​19, 34, 47, 61–​62, 65, 74–​83, 87, 118, 120, 153, 168, 221, 252, 288 Analytical philosophers. See analytical philosophy Anna Karenina (a novel) 44, 92 Anti-​narrativist 132 Art xii, 7, 8, 13–​15, 20, 25, 31, 33, 44, 45, 47, 50–​57, 75, 76, 84, 109, 113, 122, 125, 170, 171–​176, 198, 232–​233, 278n.174, 280, 290–​292, 297–​298, 300, 307, 318, 321, 336, 341–​345, 349, 352, 366–​367, 369–​ 374, 380, 382, 384, 396–​402, 405, 407, 416, 418, 423, 424, 427, 429 Artist. See Art Artistic. See Art Artform. See Art Artworks. See Art Articularity. See Articulation Articulation (Taylor’s concept of) 327, 336–​ 340, 348 Aspect-​Seeing 21–​22, 33, 63, 99–​101, 115, 118–​119, 121–​122, 129, 150, 157, 166, 175, 183, 185, 187–​188, 315, 330–​331, 333, 339,

340, 350, 351, 360, 362, 364n.204, 367, 370–​375, 377, 383–​384, 418, 425 At Night All Blood is Black (a novel) 316, 435 the Background 244, 304, 385–​402, 408, 418, 428 Backgroundism. See Backgroundist Backgroundist 385–​389, 395, 402 Berkeleyan fictionalism 177 Bible 42, 303, 373n.210 Bisociation 113–​114, 120–​121, 183 Bivalentist logic 203–​205 Blending theory 111–​114, 120, 130, 143–​148, 166, 183 Borrowed intentionality 332 Canto xlv (a poem) 312, 446 Claimism 331 Cluster theory of art 50–​57 Cluster concept. See Cluster theory of art Cognitive value 8, 18, 49, 63, 65, 87, 129, 255, 318, 383 Cognitive-​instrumental rationality (Habermas’ conception of) 227, 231 Coherentism 412–​413 Communicative action (Habermas’ conception of) 228–​230, 236, 239, 387, 402, 438, 449 Conceptual archetype 256 Conceptual blending. See Blending theory Conceptual scheme 80, 129, 195, 278–​288, 289, 296, 300, 307, 310, 349, 366, 371–​ 372, 382, 396, 425 Concern-​based construal 330, 340–​341, 351–​352, 373 Configuration (in narratives) 139, 151–​152, 156, 166 Construalism 326, 330–​331, 340, 341, 348 Continental philosophers. See Continental philosophy Continental philosophy 10, 11, 19, 34, 47, 61, 75, 83, 183, 221, 288, 311, 432 Contradiction 22, 23, 25, 27, 45n28, 115, 120, 174, 182, 183, 194, 200, 201–​206, 207, 210, 213, 214, 216, 219, 223, 235, 237, 242, 253,

Index of Subjects 275, 287, 294, 299, 302, 315, 316, 317, 321, 322, 408, 410, 412, 414, 415, 417, 428 Corporeal cognition 326 Creativity 30, 113–​114, 118, 120–​121, 129, 130, 183, 447, 448 Crime and Punishment (a novel) 60, 62, 85 Critical Rationalism (of the Popperians) 83, 226, 243, 251, 346 Critique of Pure Reason (a book) 57 Deconstruction 21, 23–​24, 31, 33, 53, 423, 434 Deduction 26, 161, 194, 206, 208–​214, 216, 218, 257–​258, 264, 276, 294, 311, 321, 343, 367, 369, 383, 412, 415, 428, 445 Death Be Not Proud (a poem) 315 Death Fugue (a poem) 313 Deflated disclosure xii, 365, 368–​380, 383–​ 384, 406, 416, 418, 427 Destab(ing) 21–​25, 31, 32, 33–​34, 37–​94, 97, 131, 167, 186, 188, 193, 221–​222, 244–​251, 253–​254, 256, 276–​277, 308–​309, 321, 322, 325, 350, 363, 383, 404, 417, 418, 423–​428 d-​disclosure. See Deflated disclosure Dialectics 10, 22, 23, 116, 120, 155, 203n.121, 221, 282n.176, 376, 379, 380, 383, 384, 404, 407, 426, 446 Dialetheism 202–​203, 204, 205, 214, 216, 218, 219, 242, 275n.171, 287, 294, 298, 300, 308, 314, 315–​316, 318, 321, 411, 415, 428, 446 Dialetheist. See Dialetheism Dialetheias. See Dialetheism Die Verwandlung (a short story). See The Metamorphosis Directed sensation 333 Directive reasoning 382 Disclosism 380–​384 Disclosure xii, 52n.37, 71, 84, 150n.102, 195, 325, 364–​384, 386, 395, 396, 398, 403, 406, 416, 418, 427 Discourse ethics 233, 236, 240, 247, 416 Distanciation 44, 120, 379, 380, 384, 404, 426, 447 Easter 1916 (a poem) 315, 320, 452 Egil’s saga (a book) 378n.213 and 214 Emblem (a kind of parable) 145–​146

459 Emotion xi, 6, 8, 22, 24, 25, 29, 51, 85, 90, 91, 97, 101, 107, 118–​120, 123, 141, 142, 153, 158, 159, 226, 238, 244, 245, 308–​309, 310, 313, 326–​363, 368–​384, 385, 403, 405–​412, 416, 417, 418, 425–​428, 434, 441, 445, 448, 450 Emotional(ly). See Emotion Emotional competence 342, 344 Emplotment 153, 156, 166 Ethical value. See Moral value Ethos 309–​313, 321–​322, 426 Evaluation xii, 41, 44, 103, 162, 194–​201, 208, 219, 235, 279, 344, 345–​346, 356, 381, 403, 406, 428 Experiential meaning 334, 340 Experimental philosophy v, 6–​16, 441, 451 Factuality (in fictionalism) 176 Fallibilism 9n.4, 10, 15, 18, 25, 202n.118, 241, 428, 445 Fallibilist. See Fallibilism Falsification 195–​196, 202n.118, 208, 442 Family concept 39, 47–​49, 52–​54, 258, 263, 409 1 fc Nürnberg (a poem) 41, 438 Feeling 9, 90, 119–​120, 134, 158, 174, 233, 250, 259, 291–​292, 310, 316, 320, 325–​363, 398, 406, 408, 432, 434, 447 Fiction vii, xi, 6–​8, 12–​15, 22, 33, 42–​46, 58–​ 60, 62–​63, 65–​66, 68, 69, 77, 83, 85, 89, 90, 91, 93, 97, 133, 134, 151, 157, 160–​161, 162–​188, 199, 220, 222, 227n.141, 246, 247, 250, 252, 253, 254, 255, 264, 267–​ 277, 292, 293, 302, 303, 306, 309, 311, 314, 322, 331, 348, 350, 359–​361, 363, 375, 376, 385, 389, 396, 397, 398, 400–​405, 407, 408, 411, 416, 418, 424–​428, 433, 436, 437, 442, 443, 444, 445, 449, 450, 451 Fictional. See Fiction Fictionalism vii, xi, 97, 164, 168–​186, 187, 246, 252, 267, 302, 303, 306, 307, 425, 434, 435, 440, 443, 449, 451, 452 Fictionalist. See Fictionalism Fictionality (the rpe conception of) 167, 180, 182, 185, 246, 248, 251, 254, 273, 277, 309, 322, 425–​427 Fictionality (the fictionalist’s conception of) 173–​176

460  Figuralism (in the philosophy of mathematics) 179 Finnegan’s Wake (a novel) 41, 42 Focused d-​disclosure 364, 369–​384, 403, 428 Focused deflated disclosure of the existential kind (f-​d-​e-​disclosure) 372–​380, 383–​ 384, 403, 428 Followability (of narratives) 134, 156 For Whom the Bell Tolls (a novel) 88 Foundationalism 394, 412–​414 Foundherentism 412–​415, 428 Four Quartets (volume of poetry) 88 Fuzzy logic 48, 203–​204, 210, 216, 218, 219, 242, 275n.171, 298, 300, 308, 314, 317–​ 318, 381, 408, 411, 412, 415, 417, 428, 441 Fuzzy concepts, sets, boundaries. See Fuzzy logic Game of Thrones (TV-​series) 399 Generative metaphorics (Lakoff’s and Johnson’s theory) 106–​114, 129, 130, 187, 246 Gestalt 279, 351 Guernica (a painting) 374 Gulliver’s Travels (a novel) 171–​172 Hamlet (a play) 20, 43, 59, 60, 77, 173, 176, 269, 297, 341 Hamlet Goes Business (a movie) 20 Heart of Darkness (a novella) 177 Hermeneutic circle 52, 242, 335–​336, 340 Hermeneutic cognitivism (Taylor’s theory) 333–​334 Hermeneutic fictionalism 177 Hermeneutic construalism 348 Holocaust 7, 9, 15, 41, 42, 45, 160, 313, 343, 396 Homerian 280 Homospatial process 114 Humean fictionalism 177 Hyperbole 98, 273, 309, 312, 313, 425 Ice (a novel) 319–​320, 404, 440, 443 Icelandic sagas 43, 47, 297 Identifying narrative (of emotions) 355 Imagination xii, 6, 29, 62, 101, 113, 114–​115, 118–​121, 124, 129, 130, 138, 146, 151, 155, 161, 162, 171–​172, 174, 180–​183, 185,

Index of Subjects 187–​188, 215, 217, 219, 249, 250, 256, 266, 270, 273, 285, 297, 298, 314, 322, 331, 332, 338, 341–​343, 346–​349, 360, 369–​372, 374, 377, 379–​380, 384, 385, 396, 398, 399, 403, 406, 408, 409, 418, 425, 427, 428, 440, 447, 451 Imaginative literature xi, xii, 7, 13–​14, 20, 31, 33, 38, 41–​93, 182, 183, 308, 312–​322, 343, 364, 371, 375–​380, 385–​402, 405, 406, 407, 423, 424, 427, 429 Incommensurabilism 277, 279, 282–​285, 288, 296, 300, 307, 309 Incommensurability 277–​288 Indicator (of something being a work of philosophy or literature) 42, 55–​60, 68, 84, 94, 423 Indicator (of something being a system of reason-​bearers) 409–​414, 418 Induction 25–​28, 34, 98, 193, 195, 206–​219, 227, 242, 249n.165, 258, 294, 311, 412, 415, 416, 417, 423, 426, 428, 439, 445 Inference to the Best Explanation (ibe) 25–​ 26, 31, 32, 193, 194, 206–​211, 214–​218, 219, 242, 249, 258, 304, 305, 311, 412, 415, 423, 426, 428, 435, 438 Inference to the Least Bad Explanation (ilbe) 21, 25, 31, 193, 206, 211, 215, 216–​218, 242, 304, 423, 426 Informed judgment 8, 19, 28, 31, 41–​42, 45, 50, 52, 60, 84, 85, 113, 196, 210, 214, 219, 250, 409, 411, 412 Informal logic 161, 200, 218, 219, 258, 309, 414, 415–​416, 417, 426, 437 Institutional theory of literature 43–​47, 54 Internal realism 285–​287 Interpretation 15, 21, 22, 42, 45n.28, 52, 60, 68, 86, 88, 92, 116, 127, 224n. 137, 225, 232, 284, 293, 297–​298, 300, 315, 320, 335–​343, 348, 371, 381, 389, 401, 405n.227, 407, 434, 443, 447, 448, 450 Intersubjectivism 235 Intuition (the faculty of) 154, 156, 346–​349, 371, 384 Iron-​cageism 303, 306 Janusian process 114, 120–​121, 183 Journey to the End of the Night (a novel) 63, 157

Index of Subjects Justificatory narrative (of emotions) 353, 355–​357 Kafkaesque 377, 384 Karawane (a poem) 42n.27, 432 Kholstomer-​The story of a horse (a short story) 399 Körper 392 La Grande Jatte (a painting) 171 Lament over the Sons (a poem). See Sonatorrek Language game 47n.32 and 33, 239, 244, 301, 388, 407 Law of the excluded middle 205, 294–​296 Law of noncontradiction 201, 215, 302, 322, 415 Leaves of Grass (a cycle of poems) 203, 312, 452 Leib 392 Life-​World 14, 15, 385–​388, 395, 398–​402, 433 Lingualism 110–​111, 201, 222n.135, 224, 238, 241, 279, 287–​288, 289, 292, 303, 306–​ 307, 368, 427 Lingualist. See Lingualism Linguistic Rationalism (Apel’s and Habermas’ position) 221–​254, 276, 346, 395, 414, 426, 427 Literariness 58, 60, 68, 87, 424 the Literary 6–​8, 15–​16, 22, 24, 31, 38, 41–​43, 54, 58, 60, 219, 246, 275–​276, 307, 321, 426, 428 Literary factors xi, xii, 7, 9, 15, 22, 24, 30, 33, 41, 42, 60, 97, 168, 221, 246, 255, 396, 409, 423, 424 Literary genre xi, 7, 8, 12–​15, 33, 41, 42, 58, 85, 88, 97, 180, 222, 245–​246, 248, 253, 254, 273, 322, 362, 363, 396, 424, 426, 427 Literary traits xii, 7, 22, 24, 42, 43, 97, 180, 185, 188, 193, 194, 198, 219, 222, 244, 246, 247, 249, 252–​254, 255, 272–​273, 276–​ 277, 306, 309, 321, 351, 363, 383, 403, 407, 410, 417, 418, 424–​428 Literature. See Imaginative literature Logic (the discipline) 26, 39, 64, 75, 77–​79, 83, 85, 91, 109, 130, 169, 184, 197, 200, 201–​206, 210, 212, 214, 216, 217–​218, 226,

461 242, 258, 260, 265, 275–​277, 294–​301, 307, 308–​309, 314, 316, 317–​318, 321, 322, 328, 330, 381, 406, 411, 413, 414, 415–​416, 417, 418, 426, 428, 432, 437, 446, 447, 450, 451 Logos (rhetorical concept) 309–​311, 321, 322, 426 Lost Highway (a movie) 319 Love Minus Zero/​No Limits (a song) 315 MacBeth (a play) 13 Make-​Believe 44, 46n.31, 163–​164, 169, 170–​ 182, 185, 188, 268–​269, 342, 351, 405, 451 Make-​Believe emotion 350, 405 Mathematics 7, 26, 39, 56, 64, 75, 77, 80, 102, 109, 113, 125, 130, 178, 179–​180, 193, 205, 215, 259–​260, 274–​277, 306, 309, 322, 386, 406, 424, 426, 442 Maybeism 89, 276n.172, 395, 424 Meaning-​bearer 318 Meaningful Entity (me) 7–​8, 33, 41, 58, 150, 244, 247, 249, 272 Mentalism 303, 306 Mental philosophy 222 Metaphor xi, xii, 6–​8, 12–​15, 22, 33, 41, 59, 66–​131, 143–​146, 148, 151, 152, 154, 156–​157, 166, 167, 174–​176, 179–​180, 181, 185, 186, 187–​188, 220, 243n.163, 246, 248–​251, 254, 255–​277, 278, 282, 287, 290, 291–​292, 301, 309, 312–​322, 331, 338, 348, 350–​352, 359–​363, 371, 374–​379, 384, 385, 389, 391, 396–​399, 401, 402, 403–​409, 418, 424–​428, 432, 433, 434, 436, 437, 439, 441, 442, 443, 445, 447, 448, 449, 450, 451 Metaphorism 97, 101, 106, 113, 131, 179, 181, 187, 425 Metaphority 98, 104, 131, 180, 185, 245, 248, 251, 254, 273, 277, 287, 309, 322, 425, 426, 427 Metonym 98, 103, 377, 378, 379, 436 Mimesis 155–​157 Moby Dick (a novel) 13 Models xii, 6, 7, 8, 22, 44, 77, 79, 97, 111, 113, 121, 123, 125, 193, 239, 255–​277, 287, 308, 310, 311, 314–​321, 322, 401, 404, 407, 414, 417, 424, 425, 427, 428, 431, 432, 433, 436, 439, 443, 450, 451

462  Moral-​practical rationality (Habermas’ conception of) 227 Moral value 198, 200, 217, 219, 234, 237, 360, 409–​412 Multivalentism (in logic) 203n.122, 294, 314, 321 Münchhausen trilemma 227 My Struggle (a novel) 41 Mythology. See Myth Myth 14n.82, 111, 115, 141, 147, 154, 169, 281, 297, 360–​362, 378, 434 Narrative xi, xii, 7, 8, 12–​16, 25, 33, 41–​44, 52, 58–​59, 61, 62–​63, 65–​66, 68, 69, 87, 91, 94, 97, 98, 114–​115, 119, 132–​167, 174, 175, 185–​188, 222, 244, 247–​248, 250, 253, 254, 255, 270–​274, 277, 309, 311, 314, 322, 331, 348, 350, 352–​363, 386, 389, 396–​ 398, 402, 403–​407, 408, 409, 411, 416, 408, 424–​428, 433, 434, 435, 436, 440, 442, 444, 446, 447, 448, 450 Narrative competence 156, 250 Narrative cognitivist 132, 166 Narrative constructionist 132, 148 Narrative realism 132, 138–​143, 166 Narrative sentences 44, 139–​140, 155, 156, 165, 166 Narrativism 132–​167, 181, 187, 425 Narrativity 132, 145, 152, 159, 160, 166, 167, 180, 185, 246, 248, 251, 254, 273, 277, 309, 322, 357, 418, 426, 427 Network (Searle’s conception of) 389 Network theory of language (Hesse’s theory) 129 No-​Gap theory 38–​93, 349 No miracles argument 305 Open-​textured concept 48, 52–​53, 54 Orderbuch (a volume of poetry) 45 Orientalism (a book) 401, 432, 439 Paraconsistent logic 202, 446 Paradigm (Kuhn’s conception of) 67, 71, 72, 93, 196, 217, 243, 256n.167, 279, 283, 351, 371, 372, 380 Paradigmatic narrative structure (of emotional experience) 354–​355 Paradigm scenario (de Sousa’s conception of) 352, 362

Index of Subjects Pascalian fictionalism 177, 184 Pathos 309–​313, 321, 322, 426 Peritropic argument 213–​215, 218, 237, 253, 294, 416, 428 Petrouchka (a ballet) 290 Phenomenologist. See Phenomenology Phenomenology 10, 68, 115, 134–​135, 141, 147, 157, 360, 385, 402, 414, 424, 432, 440, 444, 449 Phenomenology of the Spirit (a book) 58 Philosophy of the as-​if 169 Poetic moderate rationalism xii, 193, 218, 219, 221, 243, 278, 322, 417, 419, 426, 428–​429 Poetic of emotions 350–​363 Poetic of models 255–​277 Poetic of reason xi–​xii, 7, 193–​430 Poetic pragmatism 15, 288, 293, 300, 367, 424 Possible worlds 59, 67, 91, 104, 121, 169–​170, 174, 176, 289–​290, 293 Possibilology 21, 24, 33, 352n.201, 423 Postmodernism 29, 34 Pragmatism 15, 19, 34, 67, 222, 288, 293, 300, 367, 395, 423, 424, 448 Prefacing fictionalism 170, 176 Prefiguration (in connection with narratives) 156 Prefixing fictionalism 169, 170, 176 Pre-​reflective disclosure 364, 370–​371 Pretense theory (theory of make-​ believe) 185, 187, 267, 268–​269 Principle of Philosophical Quasi-​Induction (ppqi) 25–​28, 31–​32, 34, 99, 130, 166, 167, 175, 183, 184, 187, 188, 193, 211, 216–​ 217, 219, 274, 288, 293, 395, 396, 402, 416, 419, 423, 424, 426, 429 Principle of Proliferation (Feyerabend’s conception of) 70n.51, 281 Principle of the Proliferation of Possibilities (ppp) 24 Principle of Tenacity 196 Private Language Argument 222, 223–​225, 233n.150, 235–​236, 238, 240, 244, 282n.176, 441, 443 Progress (in science, philosophy, and literature) 58, 69, 70–​94, 217, 267, 280, 301, 388n.221, 424, 434, 442, 448 Propositional knowledge 150, 278, 327, 367, 369, 373, 383, 388, 395, 418, 427n.230

Index of Subjects Props (in games of make-​believe) 171–​175, 185, 268–​269, 342 Protention 135–​137, 386 Proto-​story 161 Prototypical concepts 38, 48, 53, 54, 94 Quasi-​Fictionality (in fictionalism) 176 Rank (verb). See Ranking Ranking 18–​22, 27, 29, 31, 33, 53, 63, 84, 93, 98, 101, 104, 110, 114, 126, 129, 130, 131, 137, 139, 143, 147, 148, 152, 160, 162, 165, 166, 167, 176, 181, 183, 184, 185, 187, 195, 198, 199, 201, 207, 208, 210, 214, 215, 218, 219, 243, 246, 253, 264, 267, 272, 276, 277, 278, 287, 288, 292, 293, 298, 300, 302, 305, 306, 307, 322, 331, 340, 347, 355, 374, 382, 384, 385, 389, 391, 394, 396, 401, 402, 404, 405, 423, 425, 426, 427, 429 Rational Poetic Experimentalism (rpe) xi–​ 95, 114, 115, 118, 129, 132, 143, 156–​162, 165, 166, 169, 170, 176, 180–​182, 183, 184, 187, 194, 205, 210, 216, 238, 242, 243, 267, 272, 276n.172, 278, 288, 294, 306, 307, 313, 322, 348, 350, 383, 395, 423–​430 Rational Poetic Thought Experiments (rpte) 8, 15, 24, 29, 32, 33, 53, 54, 55, 59, 93, 97, 123, 158, 166, 215, 221, 242, 244, 248, 253, 260, 276, 308, 309, 314, 414, 417, 419, 423, 426 Rationality xi–​xii, 29, 30, 154, 159, 162, 193–​ 254, 277, 308–​309, 311, 313, 321, 322, 325, 327, 340, 349, 364, 372, 380–​383, 384, 402, 403–​419, 423–​424, 426–​428, 432, 440, 446, 450 Realism (philosophical concept of) 140, 163, 285–​286, 305, 435, 442, 443, 446 Reason xi–​xii, 6–​7, 8, 18, 22, 24, 29, 32, 65, 118, 193–​254, 276, 277, 278, 280, 287, 288, 289, 307, 308–​309, 314, 321, 322, 341, 343 Reason-​bearer 194–​196, 278n.174, 385, 408–​412, 427, 325, 326, 346, 348–​349, 362, 364, 380, 382, 383, 385, 391, 398, 403–​419, 426–​428, 434, 437, 438, 439, 442, 446, 450 Reasons and Persons (a book) 59 Red and Black (a novel) 85 Refiguration (through narratives) 156–​157, 185

463 Reflective disclosure 364, 370–​371, 375, 383, 398 Reflective equilibrium 22, 52, 210, 376, 416 Relativator 278–​279, 294 Relativism 18, 213n.131, 214, 278–​307, 322, 381, 432, 434, 443, 448, 450 Retention 135–​137 386 Revolutionary fictionalists 177 Rhetoric xii, 59, 89, 90, 278, 281, 307–​322, 347, 371, 382, 383, 408, 418, 425, 426, 428, 431, 447 Rígsþula (The Song of Rig) 147, 431 Robust relativism 294–​296 Rocky Horror Show (a musical) 168, 449 Romeo and Juliet (a play) 7, 125 Rubiayat (a cycle of poems) 43 Saga of Burnt-​Njal (a book) 298 Sapir-​Whorf hypothesis 279–​280 Schachter and Singer experiment 329 Schemism 278, 282, 285–​288, 289, 396, 427 Science 11, 12, 25–​28, 39, 56, 57, 61, 66–​68, 70–​83, 85n.59, 87, 92–​93, 102, 108, 111, 120, 149, 151, 164, 168–​171, 179–​185, 194–​ 220, 227, 233, 236, 243, 244, 251, 255–​ 277, 279–​314, 321–​322, 327, 341, 343–​344, 349, 362, 367, 386, 401, 405–​408, 411, 413, 418, 425–​426, 428, 432, 433, 434, 435, 436, 439, 440, 441, 442, 444, 445, 446, 447, 448 Seeing-​as. See Aspect-seeing Semi-​emotion 347, 348, 349 Semi-​interpretation 21, 340 Semi-​objective values 199 Sep-​con process 114 Showing (vs. saying) 84, 149–​150, 213, 366–​367, 369–​370, 375, 380, 383, 418, 427, 439 Solaris (a novel) 314–​315, 404, 442 Sonatorrek (a poem) 377–​379 Somatist 392, 402 Spatial stories 144, 146, 148 Speech act 89–​92, 222–​223, 228–​232, 235–​ 236, 244–​248, 253, 386, 449 Split reference 114, 116–​117, 122, 126, 157 Storied structure 133, 135, 137–​140, 143, 158–​ 160, 162, 163, 169, 187, 220, 272, 309, 352, 353–​354, 355, 359, 361, 362, 425

464  Story (as a narratological concept) 41, 117, 132–​167, 170, 174, 176, 247, 250, 268, 314, 319–​321, 353–​358, 361, 376–​377, 399, 408 Subject-​referring property. See Subject-​ referring emotion Subject-​referring emotion, 335–​336, 339–​ 341, 348 Symbolic structure 123, 125, 160, 272, 338, 424, 427 Symphony No.5 (Beethoven’s) 342–​343 Tacit knowledge 22, 110–​111, 303, 307, 317, 326, 368–​369, 371, 372–​373, 384, 388, 395, 402, 403–​404, 408, 418, 424, 427 T–​correctness 125–​126, 160, 272, 338 Tellable 139, 159, 162, 166, 355 Tensive theory of metaphor 115 The Bald Soprano (a play) 400 The Castle (a novel) 319 The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie (a movie) 400 The Good Soldier Svejk (a novel) 312, 406 The Gospel of Saint John 43 The Hobbes-​Locke-​Condillac (hlc) theory 390 The Isenheim Altarpiece 372 The Light of the World (a novel) 13 The Man without Qualities (a novel) 62 The Metamorphosis (a short story) 174, 344, 376–​377, 440 The Meursault Files (a novel) 401 The Old Man and the Sea (a novel) 318 The Scream (a painting) 342–​343, 344, 374 The Songs of Maldoror (a cycle of poems) 406 The Stranger (a novel) 401 The Trial (a novel) 117, 319 The Way of truth (a philosophical treatise) 59 The Well-​Tempered Clavier 86, 342 The Witches’ Sabbath (a painting) 374–​375 Thesis M 101, 103, 129 Three Penny Opera (a play) 312 Thus Spoke Zarathustra. See Also sprach Zarathustra To Kill a Mockingbird (a novel) 313, 442 Topic (as part of metaphors) 99n63, 316–​317 Topoanalysis 379

Index of Subjects Traditionality 155 Transcendental arguments. See Transcendental philosophy Transcendental philosophy 10, 11, 22, 118–​ 119, 130, 141n.95, 144, 153, 155, 157, 166, 187, 201, 206, 219, 221n.134, 235, 241, 242, 253, 294, 366, 386–​388, 391–​392, 396, 402, 424, 425, 440 Transformative Correctness. See T–​correctness Transformative Symbolic Structure. See Symbolic structure Trivilalists (members of a school of logic) 202n.120 Truth value 12, 18, 21, 44, 62, 64, 66, 82, 89, 123, 126, 149, 176, 202, 204, 269, 288, 293, 294, 295, 296, 299, 301, 317, 319, 320, 321, 366, 370, 374, 382, 383 Twisted understanding 125, 126, 130, 160, 166, 185, 263, 272, 338, 340, 343, 349, 352, 362, 365, 374, 382, 404–​406, 411, 424, 425, 426 Tropicality 98, 273, 309, 313, 321, 426 Ulysses (a novel) 43, 82, 88 Ur-​stories we live by 147, 361 Validity-​bearer 278 Valueism 201, 219, 427 Vehicle (as part of metaphors) 99n63, 316–​317 Verfremdung (literary device) 371, 376, 377, 380, 384 Wanderers Nachtlied ii (a poem) 291 War and Peace (a novel) 43, 270 War Does Not Have a Woman’s Face (a book) 43 Weltbild 304–​306, 307, 388, 402 Willing suspension of disbelief 44, 182, 185, 407, 409, 428 World disclosure 364–​368, 382, 383, 418 x-​phi (experimental philosophy) 9, 16, 26, 57, 59 Zen-​Buddhism 67, 227n.140