When to engage

Elizabeth Barnes has a nice piece in the Chronicle of Higher Education on an important topic: when is it a good idea to engage in a serious way with harmful and offensive ideas? Barnes draws a distinction between, on the one hand, Peter Singer’s discussions of the value of disabled people, and on the other, a hypothetical philosophical argument in favour of rape. She finds both stances morally problematic, offensive, and pretty clearly false, but sees value in engaging with the former, but not with the latter. The difference lies the opinions of people at large. As Barnes puts it: “A pro-rape argument isn’t an important ‘option on the table’ in debates about sexual ethics unless (by repeatedly discussing and citing it) we make it one”; by contrast, Singer’s view about disabled people reflect widespread assumptions.

I like Barnes’s piece, and I think her strategy of looking beyond views’ intrinsic features to social facts about how views are distributed, is a sensible and correct one. (I wrote something making a similar point a little while back.) That said, I think I have a couple of points of disagreement about how this kind of framework plays when we look to specifics.

Labeling lies and knowing minds

I don't have super strong feelings about whether news outlets should use the word 'lies' to describe Donald Trump's lies. As long are they're super clear about how he's saying that p even though p is false, that seems to me to be the important thing. The controversy over whether to use the 'L-word' doesn't really interest me all that much.

That said, I did find it pretty interesting to read NPR's description of why they don't call Trump's lies 'lies'. The basic thought is this: in order for something to be a lie, it has to be said with an intent to deceive. So in calling something a lie, one is in part making a claim about the intentions behind it. As NPR's Mary Louise Kelly puts it: "without the ability to peer into Donald Trump's head, I can't tell you what his intent was. I can tell you what he said and how that squares, or doesn't, with facts."

This is an epistemological claim—a skeptical one. It's often tempting to say that you can never really know what someone is thinking, because all you really have to go on is how they behave. But skeptical temptations are funny things, and there's probably good reason to resist a lot of them a lot of the time. For example, notice that it's also tempting to say that you can never really know anything about the future, since it hasn't happened yet, or that you can never really know historical facts, since you weren't personally there. At an extreme, Descartes famously argued that you can never really know anything about the external world, since you might be the victim of an evil demon who is manipulating your senses in a way that doesn't correspond to reality.

Evidence by Curated Anecdote

Suppose I have a bag with a hundred balls in it. The balls are made either of wood or iron; I don't know how many there are of each, but I know that there's at least one iron ball and at least one wooden ball. I start out with no idea whether there are more iron balls or more wooden balls.

Then I examine a ball, and see that it's iron. How should this impact my estimate of the number of iron balls? It's tempting to think it obvious that my estimate should go up—I've seen an iron ball, so that's at least some evidence in favour of there being a lot of iron balls in there.

But not so fast. It all depends on how the ball was chosen. It depends a lot on how the ball was chosen. If the ball was pulled out at random and proved to be iron, that'd be evidence for more iron in the bag. But what if it was pulled out with a magnet? Then the selection method guaranteed it was going to produce an iron ball. And I already knew there was at least one iron ball in there. So the fact that I got an iron ball gives me no new information whatsoever. My estimate of how much iron there is in the bag should change not at all, if that's how the iron ball got selected.

I think something like this situation, and its attendant tempting fallacy, applies in much more real-world cases with morally significant implications, too. In particular, I'm thinking today about estimates of the prevalence of bad behaviour among certain demographic groups. For example, there are many people who, when thinking about anti-Trump protesters, think of unruly mobs of violent people. There are also many people (mostly different ones) who, when thinking of America this month, think of people committing hate crimes against Muslims and black people.

If challenged about why one should think anti-Trump protesters tend to be violent, or that there are a lot of hate crimes in America, people tend to point to examples: news features about anti-Trump protesters attacking Trump supporters, or about threats of lynchings against black teenagers. I think that most of the time, such news stories are terrible evidence for what they're being used as evidence for. Even setting aside questions about whether the stories are true—let's assume they are—they do not actually provide any evidence at all for their general conclusion. The reason for this is that the cases are structurally analogous to the magnetic drawing method described above.

The world is a big place, full of all kinds of people. So even before we do any serious investigation at all, we know that there are some people who commit hate crimes against black people, and that there are some anti-Trump protesters who are violent. We should all agree that this is obvious. There are some people like that. We disagree about how prevalent these things are, but we all agree they exist.

We also know some things about the media. Namely, that, since lots of people are interested in reading about violent anti-Trump protesters and hate crimes, various media sources will be motivated to find and report on at least some such cases. Furthermore, the media are good enough at finding these things that it's nearly certain they'll do so.

In other words, the antecedent probability of there being some cases in question is practically 1, and the conditional probability of the media reporting on them, supposing they exist, is also practically 1. So when you read about a Trump protester being violent, that should increase your estimate of how violent Trump protesters on the whole are by practically zero. It's like the magnet pulling out the iron ball—it was going to find one, no matter how many there were, so the fact that it found one does not make it likelier that there are lots.

Things would be different if the media worked very differently—if, for example, it picked Trump protesters at random, and then reported on what they were like, no matter what they found. If that is what happened, then reading reports of violent protesters would be significant evidence. But that is very unlike the way our actual media works.

Our own anecdotal experiences actually work a bit (a bit!) better in this respect. If the anti-Trump protester you happen to be standing next to starts beating somebody up, that is evidence in favour of violence in that group. (It wouldn't be if in advance you'd somehow implemented a strategy of standing next to the person you thought likeliest to be violent.) For what it's worth, I spent several hours at anti-Trump rallies in Philadelphia last week. I observed no violence.

I haven't seen comparative numbers about the frequency of hate crimes in America over the past week. As far as data goes, that would be the gold standard. But I am pretty confident they've gone up, probably by a lot. This isn't based on the many news stories I've read about examples—the USA is a big enough place that it's not implausible to me that there are dozens of such cases every week, and that they're being reported and disseminated more now. But I have more specific, more personal experiences that are a bit more similar to random sampling. I haven't been victimized myself, but I do personally know someone who was physically attacked and racially insulted. And, at the university where I happened to be visiting last week, black students had that very day been threatened with lynchings.

This isn't super definitive data, but I think it's a lot more telling than lists of stories turned out by media outlets motivated to turn out lists of stories. The main point is, if you want to know how much something supports a given hypothesis, it makes a huge difference how you found it.

What is proof beyond a reasonable doubt?

As I finish up a few long-standing projects on knowledge (check out my draft monograph!) I'm hoping to start exploring a few new-for-me areas. In recent years my philosophical discussions on this blog have been relatively esoteric, trying out a new objection to so-and-so's third paper on such-and-such; when I was in grad school I used it as an early thinking-out-loud forum about more basic stuff. If I can swallow my pride enough, I may return to that form over the next several months. One area I'm quite ignorant and naive—but also curious—about is law. In particular, I'm curious about how legal concepts like evidence and testimony interact with epistemological concepts like evidence and testimony. I'm a complete novice in this field, so if I'm overlooking things that seem totally obvious to any readers, I'd be grateful to have it pointed out, especially if it comes along with reading advice.

One of my entry-points into the literature here is my UBC colleague John Woods's book Is Legal Reasoning Rational: An Introduction to the Epistemology of Law. (I'm maybe 40% of the way through a first read of it now.) Here's one thing I've found interesting so far. Woods writes, on p. 103:

Spike cannot be convicted unless a jury unanimously finds that his guilt has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Certainty beyond a reasonable doubt is sometimes said to be moral certainty. Under either name, as Gifis writes, it is a conviction based on persuasive reasons and excluding doubts that a contrary conclusion can exist. This is much too strong a formulation. There is plenty of case law that allows for conviction even in the face of a perfectly reasonable case to the contrary, recognized as such by the jury. On an alternative formulation of the standard. A juror is said to be morally certain of a fact when he or she would act in reliance upon its truth in matters of greatest importance to himself or herself. Although better, this appears to omit the essential requirement of criminal proof that this readiness to act, this moral certainty, be grounded in the juror's belief that the burden of criminal proof has been met. In other words, it seems not to be sufficient for criminal conviction that a juror be in a state of moral certainty of the accused's guilt. It also matters how he came to be in that state. 

So we have these notions:

• Proof beyond a reasonable doubt
• Certainty beyond a reasonable doubt
• A juror's being in a state of moral certainty

Woods slides between the first two without comment. Maybe the thought is that there is this tight relationship: proofs establish certainty. (In logic or mathematics, this seems plausible—if I have a proof of something, then it is certain for me.) But as Woods points out, it's another matter whether my psychology reflects this certainty. I might have a proof but doubt anyway; or I might be irrationally certain, even absent a proof.

I wish Woods had explained further what he had in mind when he discusses appropriate conviction in the face of 'a perfectly reasonable case to the contrary'. (I am not sure who Gifis is—I don't see a citation.) Can there be 'perfectly reasonable' cases that have been proven not to be the case? If 'provability beyond a reasonable doubt' is closed under deduction, then it seems like there must be. (If it's been proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Jones committed the crime, then it's provable beyond a reasonable doubt that Jones wasn't framed.)

The alternative formulation mentioned seems to target the psychological state of being in a state of moral certainty. This feels at least analogous, maybe more, to the epistemological notion of belief or commitment. Some epistemologists, like Jennifer Nagel and Brian Weatherson, have emphasized that whether one is in this state depends (causally or constitutively, respectively) on the practical situation—when the stakes are high, one is less likely to believe. Maybe moral certainty is something like, being such that one would count as believing even in very high stakes cases. And although this state isn't, as Woods points out, sufficient for appropriate conviction, a normative connection seems plausible: one should only be in this state if one has a proof of corresponding strength. Don't be sure unless it's proven.

It's hard for me not to think in terms of knowledge. One contextualist way of mapping these thoughts would have it that, given a high standard for knowledge, all and only that which is proven beyond a reasonable doubt is 'known', and jurors should vote to convict if and only if they know the defendant guilty. I think this could make sense of these issues—although it'll probably be too simple in other respects, such as the restriction of admissible evidence. (Some things jurors know, they're not supposed to consider. (Or maybe a weird standard could count them as unknown? Something to think about.))

Anyway, I know I'm being really naive here, but I'd be interested in digging in a little bit, if anyone has ideas or reading suggestions.

Basing Actions on Knowledge at the Supreme Court

People sometimes complain about philosophy for its reliance on esoteric thought experiments. "Suppose someone wants to kill someone else, but falsely believes that she's allergic to a certain medicine that will actually help her, but he was ignoring certain defeaters his belief, but he wouldn't have been doing so if he had been raised by better epistemic role models, etc." No doubt there is a grain of truth behind the stereotype, and the criticism of it. But weird cases do matter—both because we're sometimes after necessary truths which should cover all cases, and because the world is a big and weird case, and sometimes weird cases are actual.

If you don't know it already, I am pleased to present to you the absolutely bizarre case of Heffernan v. City of Paterson, currently before the Supreme Court of the United States. If an undergrad had made it up as a counterexample to some principle in a philosophy course, I'd've raised my eyebrows and chuckled quietly at its cleverness.

Knowing about Sexual Assault, Having Enough Evidence, and the Contextualist Fallacy

Last week I wrote an op-ed in the Vancouver Sun about university sexual assault policies. One of the things I tried to do there was to draw a connection between some of the questions in that area and my own research into knowledge and contextualism. I tried to make the case that a kind of contextualist fallacy lies behind some attitudes about university sexual assault policies. I still think that's plausible and interesting, although there are certainly competing possible explanations. But a tweet I received in response definitely commits the contextualist fallacy.

The contextualist fallacy is the failure to attend to the context-sensitivity of language, allowing for the construction of a superficially apparently-valid argument that is in fact fallacious. For example, the word 'now' is context-sensitive. Sometimes when it is used, it refers to 9:47 am Monday, Jan 18. (In fact, that's the time that word refers to when I utter it right now.) Here is a true sentence:

1. It is before 10:00 Monday right now.

Actually, although it is before 10:00, it's not very far before 10:00, when I have to teach. So I'd better come back and finish this post later.

Hypocrisy, Self-Defeat, and other Ad Hominem Arguments

You learn in intro-level critical thinking to distinguish criticizing a position from criticizing a person holding a position. Doing the latter is an ad hominem argument. (The latin literally means 'to the person'.) In this dialogue, Frank makes an ad hominem argument:

Jill: The minimum wage should be higher. It is important that employees be able to make a living wage, and economic studies indicate that raising the minimum wage will probably not significantly reduce employment.
Frank: Jill often keeps her library books past the due date. Don't listen to her, the minimum wage is fine as it is.

This is a really blatant ad hominem; Frank is ignoring Jill's argument, and instead saying something about Jill herself—in this case, something completely irrelevant. But one can have ad hominems without this kind of irrelevance, as in this version of the case:

Jill: The minimum wage should be higher. It is important that employees be able to make a living wage, and economic studies indicate that raising the minimum wage will probably not significantly reduce employment.
Frank: Jill works a minimum-wage job, so her motives aren't pure. The minimum wage is fine as it is.

This version is less off-the-wall—one can actually imagine Frank arguing in this way—but it's also pretty clearly an ad hominem. Frank has ignored the argument Jill made, and is instead focusing on Jill herself.

Argumentum ad hominem is typically recognized as an argumentative fallacy. Perhaps sometimes it's appropriate to argue about the person—perhaps, for example, in some electoral cases, one of the main questions we're interested in is what kind of a person is this?. But establishing something bad about a person making an argument is not to be confused with arguing against the conclusion. So much is, I think, pretty much obvious, once it's spelled out. But there are at least two kinds of cases where ad hominem arguments can be misleadingly tempting.

Consider arguments involving hypocrisy. Someone is hypocritical when one condemns behaviour of which one is oneself guilty. When Newt Gingrich got all high-and-mighty about Bill Clinton's marital infidelity while at the very same time carrying on with a secret affair, that was hypocrisy. When people are guilty of hypocrisy, it can feel pretty satisfying to call them out for it—it's a strong rhetorical move. But it's also argumentum ad hominem. It says something about the person making the argument, rather than about the argument or conclusion itself.

Jill: The minimum wage should be higher. It is important that employees be able to make a living wage, and economic studies indicate that raising the minimum wage will probably not significantly reduce employment.
Frank: Jill doesn't really care about people making a living wage—her company profits tremendously from underpaying its employees.

Frank may succeed in getting people not to listen to Jill with this argument, but he does so in a way that totally ignores the content of what she actually said. Her argument is about what employees need and the relationship between minimum wages and unemployment. Frank has totally ignored that argument, and focused on Jill instead. That's the definition of ad hominem. If you don't care about Jill and only want to know what to think about the minimum wage, Frank's argument is just a distraction. Accusing people of hypocrisy is ad hominem.

The same goes, I think, for at least some self-defeat arguments. In my introductory epistemology course this week, we're discussing radical skepticism—the view that nobody knows or has any reason to believe pretty much anything. (Think about all the possible ways any of your beliefs could be wrong—you could even be a brain in a vat!) One charge people often level against this view is that it is self-defeating in the following sense: no skeptic can coherently claim to know, or have reason to believe, that skepticism is true. One imagines winning an argument with a skeptic, perhaps along lines like these:

Jill: Nobody knows anything. After all, it's possible to be deceived about any possible belief.
Frank: Jill can't possibly know what she's talking about, because if she did, then that would be some knowledge someone has.

Frank's argument is clever, and he might even convince people not to listen to Jill. But his argument is ad hominem. He says that Jill is being inconsistent in a certain kind of way, not that the content of her view is. Jill has given an argument having to do with the possibility of error—the argument does not depend on there being any individual who can coherently endorse it. Frank has ignored Jill's argument, and attacked Jill herself. That's the definition of an ad hominem argument.

One difference between this last kind of ad hominem and more prototypical cases is that it doesn't depend on particular contingencies of Jill's—there's a kind of argument template that one could use against any skeptic. But that's just to say that one is prepared to give an ad hominem argument against anyone who thinks radical skepticism is true. But this isn't an argument against radical skepticism itself.

Here is a coherent hypothesis: nobody knows anything. Arguing that nobody could know it is a very different thing from arguing that it's false. The self-defeat argument only does the former; it is ad hominem.

External Factors and Evidential Symmetry

I'm thinking about the relationship between factive reasons and internalism.

A certain gumball machine has two possible modes. In mode A, it delivers blue gumballs with 90% probability, and red gumballs with 10% probability; in mode B, those proportions are reversed. (The probability for each gumball is independent.) Every morning, a fair coin is flipped to determine in which mode it will remain for the duration of the day. Vibhuti knows all of this. She begins our story with an epistemic probability of .5 for proposition h.

h: the machine is in mode A.

Now two of Vibhuti's friends who have been to the gumball machine today come along. Tunc tells her that he bought a gumball, and it was blue. (This is evidence in favour of h.) Eric tells her that he bought a gumball, and it was red. (This is evidence against h.) Tunc and Eric are equally (and highly) honest and reliable (and Vibhuti knows this). The evidential situation looks entirely symmetric, so Vibhuti's evidential probability for h looks still to be .5.

But certain approaches to evidence might disrupt this apparent symmetry. Suppose it turns out that Eric is lying, but Tunc is telling the truth, and indeed, reporting something he knows. (We've stipulated that this is unlikely, but not that it's impossible.) The lie is skillful, and Vibhuti isn't suspicious; she very reasonably takes both of their assertions at face value. Let's also take on board the following epistemic assumptions (if only to see where they lead):

1. Testimony almost always puts one in possession of knowledge of the fact that the testimony occurred.
2. Testimony at least sometimes puts one in possession of knowledge of the fact testified.
3. E=K.

(Note that I am not assuming a reductivist approach to testimony; there's no claim that the knowledge from 2 typically or ever is based on the knowledge from 1.)

Given these assumptions, it looks like we may not get Vibhuti's case as symmetrical after all. Although she has some evidence in favour of h and some against it, it isn't all symmetrical. For it looks like her relevant evidence is the following:

• Tunc says he got a red one.
• Tunc got a red one.
• Eric says he got a blue one.

The first and third on this list look to be symmetrical for and against h. But the strongest item here counts unambiguously in favour of it. You might think that the second swamps the first in evidential relevance—that sort of seems right—if so, then we could just look at this list:

• Tunc got a red one.
• Eric says he got a blue one.

Here we have one piece of evidence in each direction, but the first item, which counts in favour of h, looks stronger than the second. So it looks like there's going to be some pressure against the idea that Vibhuti's evidential probability in h is .5; it seems like it should be higher than .5.

So how, if at all, could E=K (and really, the challenge applies to a broader range of views: anyone strict enough to demand true evidence, but lax enough to allow testimonial contents sometimes to be evidence) accommodate the apparent evidential symmetry in cases like this? I see four options.

1. Deny that one can ever get the contents of testimony as evidence, because we don't really know the things we're told, even when we're told by people who know. (Skepticism about testimony.) This might be more palatable than it seems if accompanied with some kind of contextualism about both 'knows' and 'evidence'.
2. Deny that one can ever get the contents of testimony as evidence, because not all knowledge is evidence—maybe only direct or basic knowledge counts as evidence. (E=BK)
3. Deny that in particular cases like this one can get knowledge via testimony. If one friend is lying to you, then you're in a skeptical situation where testimony is unreliable. (But will this solution be general enough?)
4. Admit everything I've said about what evidence Vibhuti has, but argue that, for purposes of evidential probability, the situation is symmetrical after all. (The relationship between evidence and evidential probability is complex; I'm really working with something of a 'black box' for the latter—must we suppose that the black box delivers the assymetrical verdict in a case like this?)

Maybe there are more, I'm not sure.

Philosophical Assertions

Chapter 9 of Sandy Goldberg's recent book Assertion argues, on the basis of peer disagreement in philosophy, that it characteristic of typical, apparently appropriate, philosophical discussions that they include many assertions of contents for which the speakers are not justified. This is part of a bigger case that the epistemic norms governing assertion do not always make for strong epistemic constraints.

I am not convinced that the cases of disagreement he's looking at are cases in which people are typically making out-right assertions of controversial contents. I am attracted to something like the idea he recognizes in this passage:

I have sometimes heard it said (in conversation) that there really are no straight (first-order) assertions of controversial matters in philosophy, only speculations and conditional (or otherwise hedged) claims. A characteristic claim in this vicinity is that philosophers do not flat-out assert their claims, but instead suggest them tentatively, or with something like a "we have some reason to think that" operator in front of them. (p. 247)

I would weaken this point slightly—perhaps philosophers do sometimes assert things that they can't justifiably believe because of considerations about peer disagreement, but hold that these assertions are inappropriate norm violations. If most of the time, including all of the times that are clearly appropriate, philosophers are doing something weaker than flat-out asserting, then his larger argument for a weaker assertion norm doesn't really get off the ground. (While it may be unacceptable to suppose that philosophy is absolutely full of unwarranted assertions; it seems to me not at all implausible to suppose that some philosophers sometimes make unwarranted assertions.) But I do think that philosophers often tend to exaggerate the strength with which philosophers tend to put forward their philosophical ideas.

In response to this move, Sandy writes the following in defence of 'PASD'—the claim that it is common for philosophers in cases of systematic peer disagreement to assert controversial claims. This is a continuation of the passage quoted above:

I agree that this is sometimes the case. But I find it dubious in the extreme to think that all cases of apparent assertions made in philosophy under conditions of systematic peer disagreement are like this. Surely there are some cases in which a philosopher continues to assert that p, despite the systematic p-relevant peer disagreement. (fn: Indeed, some philosophers have even conceded as much in their own case.) Here, two points of support can be made. First, it should be obvious to anyone who has participated in or observed philosophical practice that there are (some, and arguably many) occasions on which a claim is advanced under conditions of systematic peer disagreement without any explicit hedge or "there are reasons to think" operator in play. For this reason, if the hedging proposal is to work, it must postulate an implicit (linguistically unmarked) hedge or "there are reasons to think" operator in play in all such cases. But such a global postulation would appear to be fully theory-driven, and so ad hoc. What is more (and this is my second point), there are independent reasons to think that such a postulation is not warranted. In particular, the suggestion—that philosophical practice under conditions of systematic peer disagreement always involves hedged rather than straight assertion—appears to be belied by other aspects of our practice. Why the vehemence with which some (apparently first-order, categorical) philosophical claims are made, even under conditions of systematic peer disagreement? Why so much heat, if all we are doing is entering hedged claims? Why do we go to such great lengths to try to defend our claims in the face of challenge? Why not shrug off such challenges to our claim that p, with the remark that, after all, we were merely claiming that there are reasons supporting that p? Relatedly: why is it that the typical response to challenges is to try to defend the claim that p, not the (weaker) claim that there are reasons to believe that p? Finally, if all we are doing in philosophy is entering hedged claims, why is talk of our philosophical "commitments" so prevalent? Reflecting on this practice, I conclude that assertions are made in philosophy, even in the face of systematic peer disagreement. PASD is true.

I want to make three observations about this argument. First, for the reasons mentioned above, I think that Sandy is wrong to focus on the question of whether philosophers ever make assertions of controversial claims. For his argument to work, he needs this to be common enough that the verdict that such claims are unwarranted is undermining of philosophical practice. Second, he seems to be focused primarily on the idea that philosophers are asserting something weaker, like an existential claim about reasons; a more promising version of the idea seems to me that we are often making weaker commitments to categorical philosophical contents—that we're often speculating that p, for instance, rather than out-right asserting it. (Sandy recognizes that there is an important distinction here elsewhere in the book.)

Third, I think that when we really get down to what philosophers actually say and write, outright assertions of contentious claims are much rarer than we sometimes suppose. We very often use 'it seems to me that' etc. hedges. I think the passage I've just quoted from Sandy is reasonably representative in terms of philosophical force and style—but how often does it contain actual assertions of contentious claims? Let's look in detail:

• I agree that this is sometimes the case. May or may not be an assertion, but if it is one, it's an uncontroversial one Sandy makes about himself.
• But I find it dubious in the extreme to think that all cases of apparent assertions made in philosophy under conditions of systematic peer disagreement are like this. Ditto.
• Surely there are some cases in which a philosopher continues to assert that p, despite the systematic p-relevant peer disagreement. To my ear, the 'surely' makes this an invitation to notice for oneself, not an outright assertion. (I can almost hear question-marks on 'surely' claims.) But if it is an assertion it's a very weak one, and not one I'd expect to see systematic disagreement about.
• Indeed, some philosophers have even conceded as much in their own case. An assertion, but not a contentious one.
• Here, two points of support can be made. Ditto.
• First, it should be obvious to anyone who has participated in or observed philosophical practice that there are (some, and arguably many) occasions on which a claim is advanced under conditions of systematic peer disagreement without any explicit hedge or "there are reasons to think" operator in play. Plausibly an assertion, but not controversial.
• For this reason, if the hedging proposal is to work, it must postulate an implicit (linguistically unmarked) hedge or "there are reasons to think" operator in play in all such cases. An assertion. If 'the hedging proposal' is the idea that philosophers never make assertions in these cases, it looks like an uncontroversial one; if it's the more general idea that one can avoid his argument by invoking hedging moves, I think it's an unwarranted assertion for the reasons mentioned above.
• But such a global postulation would appear to be fully theory-driven, and so ad hoc. Exhibits the kind of hedges he's talking about.
• What is more (and this is my second point), there are independent reasons to think that such a postulation is not warranted. Exhibits the kind of hedges he's talking about.
• In particular, the suggestion—that philosophical practice under conditions of systematic peer disagreement always involves hedged rather than straight assertion—appears to be belied by other aspects of our practice. Exhibits the kind of hedges he's talking about.
• Why the vehemence with which some (apparently first-order, categorical) philosophical claims are made, even under conditions of systematic peer disagreement? Why so much heat, if all we are doing is entering hedged claims? Why do we go to such great lengths to try to defend our claims in the face of challenge? Why not shrug off such challenges to our claim that p, with the remark that, after all, we were merely claiming that there are reasons supporting that p? Relatedly: why is it that the typical response to challenges is to try to defend the claim that p, not the (weaker) claim that there are reasons to believe that p? Finally, if all we are doing in philosophy is entering hedged claims, why is talk of our philosophical "commitments" so prevalent? Six rhetorical questions provided to invite the reader to share in the appearance mentioned in the previous point. No assertions here.
• Reflecting on this practice, I conclude that assertions are made in philosophy, even in the face of systematic peer disagreement. Not obviously a contentious assertion. It could be an uncontentious assertion about Sandy. It could be the very weak assertion that assertions are sometimes made in philosophy under systematic disagreement.
• PASD is true. Looks like a contentious assertion; I'd be willing to call it unwarranted, because of the objections mentioned above. (PASD is a claim about what is normal; the existential doesn't justify it.) Note also that this could be interpreted as embedded within the previous sentence's 'I conclude that' operator, in which case it would not be a contentious assertion.

Again, I don't think Sandy's writing here is idiosyncratic; this is what lots of analytic philosophy looks like. If this is representative, it seems that quite a small proportion of philosophical writing constitutes outright assertion of contentious claims. So the idea that such assertions are unwarranted does not imply that warranted philosophical dialogue and debate is impossible. Sandy exaggerates the role of contentious assertions in philosophical discussion.

Internalism and the Meditations

Here's a Cartesian idea: there is special epistemic access to facts about our own subjective, internal experiences. Other knowledge we may have, like knowledge of the external world, must be derived from the more basic knowledge, which concerns the internal.

This is clearly something Descartes thinks, but is there an argument to that effect? I'd always thought he did; the Meditations offers something like this:

1. There are possible skeptical scenarios for beliefs about the external world
2. There are no possible skeptical scenarios for beliefs about the internal
3. Being such that there's no possible skeptical scenario for it is the marker of the kind of epistemic fundamentality in question; so
4. The internal, not the external, is what has the kind of epistemic fundamentality in question

Premise (3) is no doubt dubitable, but I'll decline from dubiting it at present. I want to get clearer about (1) and (2). What's it take to be a skeptical scenario with respect to some belief? It seems like maybe Descartes treats a skeptical scenario with respect to a given belief as a possible case where one is wrong about that belief, but things seem exactly the same. But if that's the working understanding of a skeptical scenario, then it looks like we're just assuming the kind of internalism I'm looking for justification for. Why should we think the key question, for whether a given scenario has skeptical implications, is whether things seem the same? It seems that one would only sign up to that criterion if one were already convinced that seemings are really epistemically important.

Note that a more neutral characterization of skeptical scenarios might have it that a skeptical scenario with respect to p is a possible case where one is wrong about p, even though one has all the same basic evidence. But putting things this way, premises (1) and (2) become much less obvious.

So I'm tempted to think there's not actually any pressure in favour of internalism in Descartes's reflections on skeptical scenarios; reflection on which kind of deception is and isn't possible might just amount to teasing out the internalist commitments one initially finds oneself with.

Factoring Views about Having Reasons

I have been thinking about Mark Schroeder’s very interesting paper, “Having Reasons”. He argues against a ‘factoring account’ of having a reason for action, and he also argues that epistemologists have been misled by assuming a parallel factoring account of evidence.

I have three reactions.

1. Schroeder is unclear about what exactly the commitments of the factoring account are; I think he may slide between a stronger and a weaker reading of it. This isn’t disastrous for his own project, because he wants to reject both readings, but I think it’s important to keep them separate (in part because of (2) below).
2. The stronger reading is pretty plausibly false (though maybe not just for the reasons Shroeder says) but the weaker reading is pretty plausibly true (despite his arguments).
3. Epistemologists have not been misled by assuming (a strong form of) the factoring account.

I’ll try to defend (1) in this post.

What is the factoring account? Schroeder first introduces it via an analogy:

When someone has a ticket to the opera, that is because there is a ticket to the opera, and it is in her possession—she has it. Similarly, if one has a golf partner, this can only be because there is someone who is a golf partner, and one has him. But here, it is not like there are people out there who have the property of being golf partners, and one is in your possession. Rather, being a golf partner is simply a relational property, and the golf partner you have—your golf partner—is simply the one who stands in the golf partner of relation to you. 

A factoring account of having opera tickets is true. There is an opera ticket, and moreover, one has it. A factoring account of having golf partners, however, is to be rejected. What exactly is wrong with this view? Schroeder says it’s a commitment to the implausible claim that “there are people out there who have the property of being golf partners, and one is in your possession.” But of course, strictly speaking, there are people out there who are golf partners, and one of them is mine. I agree with Schroeder that there’s an important contrast between these cases, but I don’t think he’s quite articulated what it is. I think it has to do with grounding. What makes it the case that I have an opera ticket is the existence of this thing the opera ticket, combined with me standing in a suitable relationship to it. But the existence of the golf partner, combined with my relationship to her, doesn’t make it the case that I have a golf partner. On the contrary, it is my having her as a golf partner that makes it the case that she is a golf partner. The relationship, not the object, is relatively fundamental here; the existence of the golf partner—though genuine—is derivative.

So distinguish these claims:

• Weak Factoring: Any time S has R as a reason, there exists a reason R, and S stands in a suitable having relation to R.
• Strong Factoring: What it is for S to have R as a reason is for there to exist a reason R, and for S to stand in a suitable having relation to R.

As the names imply, Strong Factoring implies Weak Factoring, but not vice versa. If what I said about golf partners is correct, Weak Factoring does not get at the intuitive contrast between opera tickets and golf partners. The analogue of Weak Factoring is true of golf partners. (Contra the letter of Schroeder's text, any time one has a golf partner, there really is someone who is a a golf partner that one has.) I don’t think Schroeder is at all clear about this; he writes at times as if ‘the Factoring Account’ is just Weak Factoring. (i.e., “[T]he Factoring Account has two major commitments. In any case in which it seems that there is a reasons someone has to do something, whatever is the reason that she has must be just that: (1) a reason for her to do it, and (2) one that she has.” p. 58)

The distinction makes an important difference when it comes to thinking about the views one might have about reasons. For example, here is a possible view one might have about reasons: R=K. (A proposition is among a subject’s reasons if and only if the subject knows that proposition.) This view counts as a Weak Factoring view—any time you have knowledge, there is some knowledge, and moreover, you have it. But it is not a Strong Factoring view; the extinct of the knowledge ontologically depends on your having the knowledge. It is more like golf partners than opera tickets.

“Weak Factoring” is probably a misnomer, really—the view in question isn’t a kind of factoring at all. It’s a mere entailment claim. So when Schroeder’s argument against what he calls ‘The Factoring View’ takes the form of counterexamples to Weak Factoring, he’s really making a much more radical claim than anything we should call the rejection of a factoring treatment of having reasons. He's rejecting the mere entailment from having a reason to there being a reason.

(His counterexamples are cases where a subject acts on a reasonable but mistaken belief—like Bernard Williams’s subject who takes a sip of the liquid in his glass because he falsely believes it’s a martini. I don’t think these are counterexamples, for reasons I won’t go into right now.)

Perceptual Justification and the Logic of 'Because'

Here's an invalid argument form:

1. If x is F, then that's because x is G.
2. If x is G, then x is H. Therefore,
3. If x is F, then that's because x is H.

This instance should make it obvious that this form is invalid, if it's not already obvious:

1. If Laila got an A, then that's because she received a total score of 80 or higher.
2. If Laila received a total score of 80 or higher, then she passed the course. Therefore,
3. If Laila got an A, then that's because she passed the course.

I'm not sure just what inferences are valid in the logic of this sort of 'because', but this one isn't. If there were an appropriate 'because' in premise (2), then transitivity of 'because' would establish the validity of the inference. I'm not sure whether I think 'because' is transitive'. But it's not closed under the material conditional, or even entailment.

So I think that Eli Chudnoff is mistaken in supposing that these two arguments support the idea that perceptual and intuitive justification obtains in virtue of phenomenology:

1. If your perceptual experience representing that p justifies you in believing that p, then it does so because in having this experience it is for you just like having a perceptual experience that puts you in a position to know that p.
2. If in having an experience it is for you just like having a perceptual experience that puts you in a position to know that p, then it has presentational phenomenology with respect to p.
3. So if your perceptual experience representing that p justifies you in believing that p, then it does so because it has presentational phenomenology with respect to p. (Intuition, p. 92)

1. If your intuition experience representing that p justifies you in believing that p, then it does so because in having that experience it is for you just like having an intuition experience that puts you in a position to know that p.
2. If in having an experience it is for you just like having an intuition experience that puts you in a position to know that p, then it has presentational phenomenology with respect to p.
3. So if your intuition experience representing that p justifies you in believing that p, then it does so because it has presentational phenomenology with respect to p. (Intuition, p. 97)

These arguments are invalid. The validity would, I think, be debatable if each premise (2) were strengthened into a 'because' claim. Maybe that is the most charitable interpretation of Eli here?

Maximizing the Value in Life

I like Amanda MacAskill's piece on sleeping in. Amanda argues very sensibly that while we think life is the kind of good where it's better to have more of it, we don't measure the relevant quantity by subtracting the date of birth from the date of death; the value in life comes from experiencing it. So ceteris paribus, if you spend more of your life asleep, you're missing out on some of what's good about life. This seems completely right. (Whether Amanda's advice to sleep less is good depends on the degree to which the quality of waking life would be degraded, which of course will vary between individuals.)

I have wondered for a little while, however, about a further development of a point like this. If it is the experience of life that is valuable, such that more of the experience is better than less, even if the biological lifespan is the same, it seems to me that there's also a case to be made that it's better to have more of the experience, even holding fixed the amount of time in which one is conscious. It's a familiar phenomenon that sometimes, the passage of time feels faster than at other times. If I'm sitting at home playing Dominion, I could spend eight hours and barely notice it. But if I'm taking photographs in a city I've never been to before, those eight hours feel much more full of my life.

I suspect, then, that for reasons much like the ones Amanda articulates in her piece, we have some reason not merely to sleep less, but to engage in those activities that slow perceived time down, and avoid those that speed it up. This suggests, for instance, that it might be a great idea to travel more, or that it might be a terrible idea to have children. Ceteris paribus.

Challenges for Anonymous Review

I'm continuing to think about journals. There are a lot of serious problems, and it's really unclear how to fix them. I want to lay out another problem I haven't seen remarked on before. This one's more about referees and authors than editors. I'll start with a problem that has been remarked on before:

As has recently been observed several times, even with the best editorial practices in the world, it's not very difficult for a referee who isn't committed to anonymous review to google the title of a submission and learn the author. If, like most of us, you don't submit your paper until after it's been around in various forms for a while—you've presented it at workshops, posted drafts online for comments, etc.—the anonymity of the review process is contingent on the whim of the referee. It's possible to take some steps here as an author—you can change the title prior to submission, for example. This will make it harder for a referee to discover your identity, but likely not impossible.

Here's the twist on the problem: the reason that anonymous refereeing is important is to avoid bias—preferential treatment of some submissions (those by established figures, white people, native English speakers, men, people educated at prestigious departments, etc.) over others. So while it's possible for authors to go to extraordinary measures to protect their anonymity, in many cases, it's against their own selfish interests to do so. Suppose for the purpose of argument—and this strikes me as fairly plausible—that I am someone who is more likely to be unfairly benefitted, than unfairly harmed, by a breakdown in anonymous review. I'm at least most of the kinds of people mentioned in that parenthetical. (I've never quite figured out whether I'm a white person or not.) When I submit my paper to a journal, the journal has a rule, and the profession has a norm, that I should anonymise my paper. I remove self-citations or put them into the third person, I omit acknowledgements, etc. But now I have a choice to make: in addition to removing that straightforward information from my submission, should I take my draft down from my website, and change the title? Should I paraphrase key sections that are too similar to the abstract of a talk I gave last year that's still up on a workshop website? If anonymous review were very important to me, I could go to extra effort to preserve it. But if I'm thinking selfishly—and I do think it's reasonable for individuals participating in this system to be making these kinds of decisions selfishly—I'm not going to be very motivated to do so.

It is only those who need the protection from negative bias who are incentivised to go to great lengths to ensure anonymous review. And so now we get to the next layer of the problem: if, as seems likely, the people most incentivised to ensure anonymous review are more likely than others to take the steps to render their submissions ungooglable, then ungooglibility becomes evidence a submission by someone referees are biased against. If a referee decides to google the paper, and finds nothing, the referee can take this to be evidence against the paper's having been written by someone "important".

I can only see two solutions to this problem; both seem very difficult to implement. The first is that authors don't treat these kinds of extraordinary measures as optional—journal policies or disciplinary norms could make clear that authors must not include drafts online, or references to titles, or submit papers with language too similar to language on workshop websites, etc. This seems like a very intrusive requirement, but if the rules could be articulated clearly enough, it might do the job. The other is the obvious one: that referees don't go seeking this information out. This requires sound judgment on the part of referees, and is hard to enforce, but it would also work. The difficulty here, of course, is that it's so hard for editors to get good referees (or any referees), because there's so little incentive to do the job well, ethically, or at all.

I don't know how to make the economics work, but I feel like a lot of things would be much easier if there were some way we could pay referees for their work.

Journal Editorial Practices and an Anecdote

I was interested to read the recent Daily Nous conversation about journal editorial practices. Much of the discussion there focused on whether double-anonymous refereeing (where the authors and referees are ignorant of each others' identities) was good enough, or whether triple-anonymous methods (where the editors are also unaware of the authors' identities) are necessary for a fair system.

I was interested to see many journals' editors describing their methods, and how they try to avoid bias. One question I didn't see addressed, however, concerns oversight. Is there any system in place to confirm whether journals are actually run the way they're said to? I would consider this a somewhat paranoid question, except that I know firsthand of at least one high-profile journal which at least sometimes, at the discretion of the editor, suspends its official policy of double-anonymous refereeing.

My experience happened shortly after I finished my PhD, when I was a postdoc. I knew at the time it was a problematic situation, but I decided it probably wasn't prudent to make a fuss at that stage in my career. I'd been intending to wait until I was tenured, but I think that given the conversations happening in the discipline at the moment, now is an appropriate time for the story to come to light. This is the story of "Quantifiers and Epistemic Contextualism," one of my first papers defending contextualism, which was eventually published in Philosophical Studies.

I apologize for the length of the narrative. I'd make more of a point of being concise, but I want to make sure that I explain exactly what happened, without editorial summarizing. (I'll express some opinions after telling the story.)

So here's the story.

After defending my PhD in 2008, and beginning work as a postdoc in St Andrews the same year, I started to develop some of the ideas from my dissertation into publishable papers. I submitted one of them, a defence of contextualism, to Philosophical Studies in March of 2009. That journal uses an online program for submissions where an author can watch the progress of his submission as it goes through various stages—'editor assigned', 'reviewer assigned', 'review completed', etc. I noticed in July that four months had passed and it still just said 'editor assigned'. (I knew from a previous paper that it ought to be progressing through other stages.) So I submitted a query through the online submission, asking whether my paper might have fallen through the cracks.

I received a response to that question in the form of a personal email from Stewart Cohen, the editor of the journal. Cohen wrote that "the reason your paper is listed as editor assigned, is that I'm going to review it myself." He said he hoped to get a chance to review it soon, and invited me to email him directly if I had any further questions. This happened in July. (Potentially relevant background not everyone might know: Cohen wrote several influential papers in defence of contextualism in the 1980s and 1990s; he is one of the prominent figures in this subfield of epistemology.)

In September 2009, Cohen was hired as a part-time professorial fellow at Arché, the same institution where I was working.

In October, Cohen came to St Andrews in connection with his new job. He spoke briefly with me about my submission then, saying that he generally liked it, but had some particular concerns. He sent me a lengthy email detailing them, and we had a rather involved back-and-forth exchange on various of the substantive philosophical questions. At the conclusion of this exchange, after I'd agreed to make various changes to the paper, we'd gotten down to just one major remaining point of disagreement. In my paper, I argued that my neo-Lewisian form of contextualism avoids a challenge that Cohen himself had leveled against Lewis, concerning his ability to handle both Gettier cases and lottery cases. Cohen had argued, in a 1998 paper, that Lewis can't have it both ways; but I suggested in my submission that the issue could be avoided. Cohen was unconvinced by my treatment of this part of the paper, but invited me to work on it further. He wrote to me in an email:

Let's call it a conditional acceptance. I'm not sure you've made any advance in applying the RA view to Gettier cases and so I don't want to commit to publishing that part of the paper. You may convince me that I'm wrong, but even if you don't, you can always just cut that part. So unless you think you'll refuse to cut it, even if I'm not satisfied, you can list it as forthcoming.

In November 2009, I submitted (via direct email to Cohen) a revised version of the paper. We corresponded briefly about it in January when Cohen was visiting Arché again, but he didn't read and respond to my new draft until April 2010, when he wrote back, saying that he was still unconvinced by my treatment of lotteries and Gettier cases. We had another email exchange, which continued until his next visit to Arché in May. On May 24, we met over coffee about whether the section in question ought to be published. By the end of that meeting, he did agree to publish it, and on May 25 I received an official acceptance from the journal, and an invitation to upload my final version. The paper did end up being published, including the revised version of the section defending Lewis from Cohen.

Ok, those were 'just the facts'. From here on out, I'm editorializing. These seem to me the important problematic points to emphasize:

• The editor of Philosophical Studies seems to be treating submissions in his own area of research interest very differently from the way he treats other submissions, sometimes deciding to referee papers himself. As far as I know, Cohen was the sole referee for my submission.
• At least sometimes, refereeing at Philosophical Studies isn't even double-anonymous. (Indeed, in this case it wasn't even single-anonymous.) I spent two hours sitting with my referee over coffee, arguing about whether his concern about my paper was correct. (This is at odds with their explicit policy of a "double-blind review procedure".)
• There is lots of research showing the potential for various sorts of bias to come into play when one isn't making these decisions via anonymous review. But this is an extremely clear instance in which privilege worked to my advantage. I was a Rutgers PhD, with a job at a prestigious research institution, where my colleague literally down the hall (well, down the hall and around several corners) was the editor, who was also the referee. I was also the kind of person willing to be bold enough to argue with a senior figure who was repeatedly suggesting that my idea wasn't suitable for publication. (It helped that I was already on a first-name basis with him before the story began.) These factors, which had nothing to do with the quality of my submission, played a huge role in getting this early publication. And even with the advantages I had, I was still a fresh PhD without a tenure-track position—my desperation for a publication, combined with the strange relationship I was in with a powerful figure, was disconcerting to say the least. I very much doubt that Cohen understood how awkward my position was, or how uncomfortable it made me.
• In addition to worries about anonymous review, I think it's also potentially problematic that Cohen's biggest concerns about my paper had to do with the particular section where I engaged critically with his own work. I don't think for a minute that he was motivated by a desire not to have critiques of his work published. (And I'm not also totally sure that his worries were unfounded—I think my paper probably improved when I took his worries more seriously.) But I do think that it's easy to be biased in favour of our own views, and that this is something a journal should be very careful to avoid. It wouldn't be practical or particularly desirable, I think, to prohibit referees who are being criticized in submissions—but I do think that this is a situation that calls for an editor (who is not the referee!) to observe particularly carefully, and take the referee's advice in the appropriate context. I don't know to what degree my experience represents a pattern, but I think it would be a very poor feature of a journal if submissions criticizing the ideas of the editor were quite likely to (a) be refereed by the editor himself, and (b) be scrutinized particularly critically. There is a very nearby possible world where I simply deleted the section of my paper critical of Cohen. 

On the whole I'm very confident in asserting that in at least one instance, Philosophical Studies engaged in seriously problematic editorial procedures. I don't know how atypical my story is.

I also want to explicitly note that this story occurred five years ago. I see that Jennifer Lackey and Wayne Davis were both added as Associate Editors of Philosophical Studies in 2011, after my paper was accepted in its final form. (Cohen is still the editor-in-chief.) I don't know how much change that represents. For all I know, it may be that a system is now in place such that stories like mine couldn't occur again. But I'd like to know. I'd like to call for a statement from Philosophical Studies about its editorial practices. (Phil Studies was not one of the journals whose practices were described in the Daily Nous post linked above.) In particular, does the editor still have the discretion to decide to referee a paper himself, with full knowledge of the author? Does the journal sanction the kind of back-and-forth discussion between editor–referee and author I describe? If not, are there procedures in place that prevent it from happening?

I'm not an anonymous-review absolutist; if a journal prefers not to have an anonymous refereeing system, I'm OK with that. But transparency is important; if Philosophical Studies is not a journal run with a commitment to anonymous review, then the philosophical community should probably be thinking of that journal in a very different way than it does.

New paper on knowledge first epistemology

Carrie Jenkins and I have written a paper exploring what it means to put "knowledge first". Here is our current draft. From the introduction:

There is a New Idea in epistemology. It goes by the name of ‘knowledge first,’ and it is particularly associated with Timothy Williamson’s book Knowledge and Its Limits. In slogan form, to put knowledge first is to treat knowledge as basic or fundamental, and to explain other states—belief, justification, maybe even content itself—in terms of knowledge, instead of vice versa. The idea has proven enormously interesting, and equally controversial. But deep foundational questions about its actual content remain relatively unexplored. We think that a wide variety of views travel under the banner of ‘knowledge first’ (and that the slogan doesn’t help much with differentiating them). Furthermore, we think it is far from straightforward to draw connections between certain of these views; they are more independent than they are often assumed to be.

High School Popularity: A Modest Proposal

One of the difficult things about high school is figuring out which people to be friends with. After all, it can make a big difference in your life! Being friends with popular kids is a good way to become more more popular yourself. Plus, your teachers might treat you better, you'll get more cool stuff (from being friends with the popular kids, who are also often the richer ones), etc. In the status quo, however, freshmen often enter high school without a very clear idea of who the popular kids are, so they're aiming their friendship aspirations pretty haphazardly.

But here's an idea for an enterprising popular kid to provide an invaluable service to everybody. He gets a group of his friends together, and they rate everybody in the school (or at least everyone they think is at least minimally popular) for popularity. Then he can make the results known to the whole school, free of charge! Now everyone worth thinking about trying to be friends with comes along with a numerical popularity rating. Sure, everybody's going to try to be friends with that one girl who was already a 4.8, and she doesn't have the time or energy to be friends with everyone, but since she's the most popular, it makes sense for her to be able to be the most selective about choosing her friends. And aren't the best candidates for friends the ones who deserve to have access to the most popular kid's friendship?

Now I'm the first to admit this system won't be perfect. The popular kids are likely to get ever more popular, since everyone will know that they're the people to try to be friends with. And of course everyone will have some incentive to be friends with that one kid who started the rating system, and with the raters that make up his circle of friends. (The latter can be mitigated somewhat if that first kid occasionally makes changes to the roster of kids who do the ratings.) So yeah, maybe there are better possible systems. But in the status quo, people are just trying to guess who's most popular by asking a couple of people or -- even more unfairly -- by judging by superficial cues like race and attractiveness and athletic ability. How is that fair.

Introspective and Reflective Distinguishability

Mooreans, including neo-Mooreans, think that we know lots of ordinary stuff, and that we also—maybe on this basis—know the denials of extraordinary skeptical scenarios. Duncan Pritchard defends a particular disjunctivist brand of neo-Mooreanism, according to which, in cases of successful perception, one has reflective access to factive reasons of the form I see that p, and perceptual knowledge based on such reasons. So for instance, when one looks at red wall under ordinary circumstances:

• One sees that the wall is red.
• One has reflective access to the fact that one sees that the wall is red.
• One knows that the wall is red on the basis of the fact that one sees that the wall is red.

Since Duncan also accepts a closure principle on knowledge, he accepts:

• One knows that the wall isn't a white wall illuminated by red light.

Like all forms of Mooreanism, Duncan's view is in tension with certain skeptical intuitions. For example, it is in tension with this intuition:

(S) One can't tell by introspection that one is faced with a red wall rather than a white wall with red light.

As Duncan puts it,

If, in the non-deceived case, one has reflective access to the relevant factive reason as epistemological disjunctivism maintains, then why doesn't it follow that one can introspectively distinguish between the non-deceived and deceived cases after all, contrary to intuition? ... In short, the problem is that it is difficult to see how epistemological disjunctivism can square its claim that the reflectively accessible reasons in support of one's perceptual knowledge can nonetheless be factive with the undeniable truth that there can be pairs of cases like that just described [ordinary perceptual cases and corresponding deceptions] which are introspectively indistinguishable. (21)

(Duncan defines 'introspective indistinguishability' as the inability to know by introspection alone that the cases are distinct. (p. 53))

If I wanted to be a neo-Moorean of broadly Duncan's style (something I might well want to do), I'd just deny S, along with the many other skeptical intuitions that come out false on this view. But Duncan doesn't want to go that way; as this passage indicates, he considers S and claims like it to be 'undeniable truths'. (On p. 92 he even says that disjunctivists in particular are "unavoidably committed to denying that agents can introspectively distinguish" between the relevant cases.) I confess I don't see why it's so important to hold on to this particular skeptical intuition while happily rejecting others, such as the intuition that an ordinary person at the zoo doesn't know that she isn't looking at a cleverly disguised mule.

How does Duncan go about resolving the tension between his disjunctivism and S? By leaning on the 'by introspection' qualifier. He does think that, if one in the good case, one can reason thus, resulting in knowledge of the conclusion: "I have factive reason R. Only in the good case would I have factive reason R. Therefore, I'm in the good case." But, he says, this is consistent with intuitions like S, which are about introspective abilities. And while one may be able to tell by introspection what reasons one has, one cannot tell by introspection that factive reasons obtain only in the good cases. This is something one can come to know by a priori reflection, but not by introspection. (And maybe the same goes for the epistemic standing of the inference from the two premises to the conclusion.)

This is ultimately a much milder concession to skeptical intuitions than at first it appeared. Although he preserves the letter of his interpretation of the claim that we can't introspectively distinguish the good cases from the bad cases, he does so by pointing out that "introspectively" is a stronger qualifier than one might have realised. He does think (p. 95) that one can reflectively distinguish between good and bad cases, where reflective distinguishability is the ability to know distinct base on a combination of introspection and a priori reasoning.

So two thoughts. First the smaller one: is it really right to exclude a priori reasoning from the considerations that establish 'introspective distinguishability'? It's very hard for me to even make sense of just what that constraint is. (In The Rules of Thought, Ben and I argue that we can't divorce any kind of thought from a priori reasoning.) Consider these two cases: (1) I am presented in ordinary circumstances with a blue ball. (2) I am presented in ordinary circumstances with a black ball. Given the way my perceptual faculties work, we should consider these cases to be distinguishable in the relevant sense if any are. But is it clear that I can know them to be distinct without using a priori reasoning? It's not like the proposition that they're distinct is made available to me directly via introspection. Instead, I have introspective access to how one case looks, and to how another case looks, and I observe that they're different. From this I infer, using something like Leibniz's law, that they're distinct.

Second, supposing Duncan is right about introspective distinguishability: maybe this just shows that the worry wasn't properly articulated in the first place. I submit that someone motivated by the kinds of skeptical pressures that would drive someone to say that you can't tell good cases and bad cases apart by introspection, isn't going to feel better if you allow a priori reasoning along with introspection. The key skeptical intuition in the first place was just that it shouldn't be that easy to tell the good cases and the bad cases apart. And there's no getting around it: that's just an intuition that disjunctivists need to deny. Once we come to appreciate this fact, I'm not sure how important it is to conform to the letter of certain idiosyncratic statements of the intuition.

More on the well of knowledge norms

Dustin Locke has published a response to my Thought article, "Knowledge Norms and Acting Well". My paper (draft here) argued that lots of counterexample-based arguments against knowledge norms of practical reasoning take a problematic form: generating a case where it seems like S knows that p, but where it seems like S is not in a strong enough epistemic position to phi. These verdicts together tell us nothing interesting unless we assume some story about the relationship between p and phi; but defenders of knowledge norms needn't and shouldn't accept many such relationships.

For example, in Jessica Brown's widely-discussed surgeon case, it is thought to be intuitive that before double-checking the charts, (a) the surgeon knows that the left kidney is the one to remove; but (b) the surgeon ought not to operate before double-checking the charts. This is only a problem for the idea that one's reasons are all and only what one knows if the proposition the left kidney is the one to remove would, if held as a reason, be a sufficient reason to justify operating before double-checking the charts. But why should one think that?

Dustin resists my argument at several points. I'm not sure what to say in response to many of them; I think they're helpfully clarifying the sources of disagreement, but they don't make me feel any worse about my point of view. For example, Dustin seems to be happy to rest on certain kinds of very theoretical intuitions, like the intuition that the surgeon isn't justified in using the proposition that the left kidney is the bad one as a reason that counts in favour of removing the left kidney immediately. I don't have this intuition, and I wouldn't want to trust it if I did. I feel pretty good about intuitions about what actions are ok in what circumstances, but deeply theoretical claims like these don't seem to me to be acceptable dialectical starting places.

In what I found to be the most interesting part of his paper, Dustin also constructs a version of Brown's surgeon case where, if one assumes that (a) a Bayesian picture of practical rationality is correct and (b) practical reasons talk translates into the Bayesian talk by letting one conditionalize on one's reasons, we can derive the intuition mentioned above. I think that both of these assumptions are very debatable, but I also think that the case Dustin tries to stipulate is more problematic than he assumes. He offers the following stipulations:

1. The surgeon cares about, and only about, whether the patient lives.
2. The surgeon has credence 1 that exactly one of the patient's kidneys is diseased, and a .99 degree of credence that it is the left kidney.
3. If the surgeon performs the surgery without first checking the chart, she will begin it immediately; if she first checks the patient's chart, she will begin the surgery in one minute.
4. The surgeon has credence 1 that were she to check the chart, she would then remove the correct kidney.
5. If the patient has the correct kidney removed during the operation, then there are the following probabilities that he will live, depending on how soon the surgery begins: (5a) If the surgery begins immediately and the correct kidney is removed, there is a probability of 1 that the patient will live; (5b) If the surgery begins in one minute and the correct kidney is removed, there is a probability of .999 that the patient will live.
6. If the patient has the wrong kidney removed during the operation, then the probability that he will live is 0.

(This list is quoted directly.) I have two worries. First, Dustin also says of the case that "it's quite plausible that the surgeon knows that the left kidney is diseased", and assumes that she does. But this requires a very substantive epistemological and psychological assumption about the relationship between credence and knowledge. It is not at all innocent to assume that knowledge is consistent with non-maximal credence like this. For lottery-related reasons, Dustin is probably committing himself to the denial of multi-premise closure here. (Indeed, for reasons like the ones Maria Lasonen-Aarnio has emphasized, he may very well commit himself to denying single-premise closure.) That's not a completely crazy thing to end up being committed to, but I think it substantially mitigates the rhetorical force of an argument against me here. Similarly, there are probably good reasons to deny that the surgeon outright believes that the left kidney is diseased under these circumstances, either for conceptual/metaphysical reasons (see e.g. Brian Weatherson's "Can we do without pragmatic encroachment" or Roger Clarke's "Belief is credence one (in context)" or for psychological reasons (e.g. Jennifer Nagel's "Epistemic anxiety and adaptive invariantism"). If any of these views are right, the Dustin is committing to knowledge without outright belief.

My second worry concerns stipulation number 1: this is a surgeon who cares only about the life of the patient. From a realistic point of view, this is a very strange surgeon. According to Dustin's stipulations, the surgeon cares nothing at all about any of the following: whether she follows hospital procedure; whether she sets a good example for the students observing; whether she acts only on propositions that she knows; whether she is proceeding rationally. These strong assumptions are not idle; if we allow that she cares about any of these things, the utility calculus will not require her to go without checking, even when she conditionalizes on the content of her knowledge that the left kidney is diseased. (Suppose she cares about whether she acts only on that which she knows, and that she doesn't know whether she knows; then there is a substantial risk of the negative outcome of acting on something she doesn't know.) But these very strange assumptions will make our intuitions harder to trust. When we try to imagine ourselves in her position, we naturally assume she cares about the ordinary things people might care about. Stipulating that she only cares about one thing—not even mentioning the many other things we have to remember to disregard—makes it very hard to get into her mindset. So I'm inclined to mistrust intuitions about so heavily-stipulated a case.

Diary of a Narcissist

This is a recent diary entry by Reginald, a confused narcissist. 

Dear Diary,
I am perturbed. As you know, I've long thought that, if I'm not perfection itself, I must at least be the next best thing to it. I thank Providence every day for so far elevating me above the common man. It is no exaggeration to say that hitherto, I have counted myself among the very most beautiful and significant people in the world. But today I received a terrible shock. While searching the internet for further discussions of me, I happened across a paper by a philosopher called David Kaplan. What I found there shook my deepest convictions to the core. Kaplan argues that certain words—'demonstratives' or 'indexicals', he calls them—are context sensitive; that is to say, the referent of these terms can vary according to the conversational context in which they're used. My first thought, on reading this, was that it seemed like an interesting and plausible semantic claim. The referent of the word 'that', for example, is simply whatever it is at which my flawless finger happens to be pointing when I speak.
But that isn't all.^[*] It's one thing to recognise the general semantic framework—it's quite another to make particular entries in the list of context-dependent terms. Among Kaplan's list of context-dependent terms are the very dearest and most important to me! He includes on his list, for example, such touchstones as 'I' and 'me'! Can you imagine, diary? I—Reginald the all-right—dependent on such contingencies as conversational contexts? Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that anyone would so trivialise me. Needless to say, I am deeply shaken. Can I really accept that I am so unimportant? That there is nothing special about me, but rather than I'm just whoever happens to be speaking in a given conversation? The thought terrifies me. Tomorrow I shall read works by Gareth Evans and Christopher Peacocke to see if they might restore me to the glory I thought I deserved.
Fondly,
Reginald