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# Thought Itself

### Wittgenstein

My math teacher was trying to hide a graph.  She must be plotting something…

This joke works because plot means to draw a graph to visualize information, but it also means to scheme, to plan evil, to hatch a sinister plot.  The joke works because a math teacher can plot a graph, which could be involved in plotting a crime, but not usually, which makes the speaker seem suspicious, and in a silly way, as if the plan of the graph could be the plan of a crime simply because the word plot is used to say both.  It is possible our math teacher is planning a bank heist, with the suspicious graph.  The math teacher is certainly plotting something, the graph, and what is normal isn’t suspicious.  This shows us the word plot is used by us in two ways, and the difference is fear, suspicion that a plan is more than a plan, it is a plan for evil, and we brace for evil with fear.  A plan is someone being calm and resolute in a way, and a sinister plot is a plan, a resolution, that others fear.  The turn from a calm, normal, plotted mathematical situation to unreasonable paranoia and aggression is the jerk of the joke.  If we look at language use in particular situations from a pragmatic perspective, and keep an eye on the situation of emotions, and how emotions can change, we can understand what jerks us around and makes us laugh at some jokes and not others.

In Umberto Eco’s piece on fascism for the New York Review of Books, he uses Wittgenstein’s idea of family resemblance and example of games to understand the “structured confusion” of fascism:

The notion of fascism is not unlike Wittgenstein’s notion of a game. A game can be either competitive or not, it can require some special skill or none, it can or cannot involve money. Games are different activities that display only some “family resemblance,” as Wittgenstein put it. Consider the following sequence:

#### abc bcd cde def

Suppose there is a series of political groups in which group one is characterized by the features abc, group two by the features bcd, and so on. Group two is similar to group one since they have two features in common; for the same reasons three is similar to two and four is similar to three. Notice that three is also similar to one (they have in common the feature c). The most curious case is presented by four, obviously similar to three and two, but with no feature in common with one. However, owing to the uninterrupted series of decreasing similarities between one and four, there remains, by a sort of illusory transitivity, a family resemblance between four and one.

This is a point that can be made about fascism, apples, cats, philosophers, or anything else in our world.  I typically use apples to explain this idea of Wittgenstein, and was pleasantly surprised to find Eco using it to understand fascism, as I am teaching Wittgenstein for Intro Philosophy this week, and fascism for Social & Political Philosophy next semester.

The Journal of the Philosophical Society of England just posted an article I wrote for them about Wittgenstein and the work of Lewis Carroll, one of my favorite subjects. Here is the link:

Here is Herr Wittgenstein as an infant, adjusting to our complex forms of life.

I imagine it shows a family resemblance.

Here he is on a rocking horse:

I recently posted a review of Dreyfus and Taylor’s new book Retrieving Realism (2015) in which I am critical of their treatment of Rorty and pragmatism.  In his piece Charles Taylor on Truth (1998), Rorty challenged Taylor to explain or abandon the distinction between “in itself” and “for us”, arguing that we do not need to appeal to an independent, objective reality separate from the forms of life we live.  Against Rorty, Dreyfus and Taylor argue that we know our reality through our practices, but also that there may be a single coherent structure of reality independent of our practices.  I myself am a proponent of pragmatism, and I agree with Rorty that we do not need truth or meaning in itself beyond what they are for us, nor do we learn about reality as it is independent of our interaction with it through our interactions with it.

From a pragmatic perspective, and in accord with the later work of Wittgenstein, it is nonsensical to speak of reality independent of ourselves or of facts that we have yet to experience.  It makes perfect sense to speak of matters deep in space that we have yet to encounter, but it makes no sense to speak of facts deep in space that we have yet to establish.  Facts are fashioned in language and judgement through our interactions.  Thus, facts do not exist in locations we have yet to encounter and encode, even as we imagine all sorts of things to be there.  To say that there are facts we have yet to encounter is to say that there are accurate judgements and descriptions we share that we have yet to discover.

Let us say that there is a green chair we leave in a room out of sight.  It makes sense for us to agree with each other, after consultation, that the green chair is in the room and that this is a fact even when we do not see the chair, but only because we have seen the chair, last saw it in the room and have no reason to think it has been moved.  The reason that the positivist, as opposed to the pragmatist, wants to say that there are facts independent of our experience is that we are always in the uncomfortable position that what seems like a fact for you and I may, in any instance, turn out to be false.  It may be that someone has moved the chair or painted it blue, in which case our “fact” turns out to be false.

We would like our facts to be infallible, but if we cannot speak with complete certainty about the location of a single chair, it is difficult to secure anything we consider true as completely immutable and indisputable.  Consider that, if I ask you if the chair is green, you could say that it looked green when you last saw it.  However, it would be strange for you to say that the chair looks green right now when we are unaware that anyone is currently looking at it.  Just as the Zen Buddhist muses that the tree which falls in the forest does not make a sound if there is no listener to receive it as “a sound”, delimited and individuated, it does not make sense to say that a green chair looks green at this very moment when neither you nor I are looking at it.  Rather, the chair has looked green regularly to us when we have looked at it, and this is the evidence available.  The question is how we establish and share truth in our interactions with others and things, not how we establish that it is completely independent of us.

Wittgenstein would argue that there are circumstances in which we would be presented with evidence that calls the chair’s location or color into question, and that in the absence of this evidence we would find it nonsensical to question our shared understanding as fact.  However, this does not mean that our fact is itself absolutely certain or guaranteed to be true.  Rather, there is little need to establish certainty in most circumstances when there are no problems or changes.  Thus, it makes sense for us to believe in the fact that the chair is green, but it makes no sense to insist that this fact is absolutely certain beyond disbelief, nor to insist that it is a fact that the chair looks green when we do not know of anyone currently looking at it.

The positivist says that this would make our facts sadly uncertain, and the pragmatist agrees.  The positivist says that some things are indisputable, and the pragmatist agrees, as we are not in this moment disputing all things, but we could, if we choose, dispute any particular thing if and when we want to.  In philosophy, of course, we upset all kinds of people by disputing endlessly about what the true and the good are, which is useful for developing critical and creative minds.

It is here that we come to our most confusing conclusion: Facts are not simply true, nor are they simply to be believed.  Sometimes, our facts turn out to be false and should not be believed.  This sounds odd because we use the word in two overlapping ways, both as a positivist who affirms the idea of an independent objective reality and as a pragmatist who rejects it.  This is why putting “fact” in scare quotes feels fitting, as in one way a “fact” is a fact, but in another way it is not.  A “fact” that turns out to be not true is an agreeable belief fashioned in judgement and language, but it is not in that we cease to agree with it when we find it is false.  If something was a true fact but is now false, we could say that it is a fact that is false, or we could say that it is not a fact, as it is false.

Ever since I read Richard Rorty’s piece in the Cambridge Companion to Heidegger (1993), I have been fascinated with his comparison of the early work of Heidegger and the later work of Wittgenstein to American pragmatism, the philosophy that truth is determined by use and practices.  This led me to Lee Braver’s Groundless Grounds (2012) and Mind, Reason, and Being-in-the-World: The McDowell-Dreyfus Debate (2013).  These works offer a glimpse into the latest debates about the relationship between subjectivity and objective truth. When I learned that this year (2015) Hubert Dreyfus and Charles Taylor would be publishing Retrieving Realism, developing their position in the debate, I eagerly looked forward to securing a copy.  I have just finished reading this latest work, and as someone who is inclined towards pragmatism, relativism and perspectivism, enjoying the work of Nietzsche, Wittgenstein and Rorty, I feel the need to respond.  I was hoping, as I enjoyed in the work of Braver, to find new insights about embodied reasoning, but instead found Dreyfus and Taylor trying to agree with Heidegger and Wittgenstein while attacking the position of Rorty and pragmatism.  Essentially, the authors want to close the gap between mind and world, but also save the idea of a single, independent and objective truth discovered by the sciences from the subjectivity of pragmatism, maintaining the divide of inside and outside they propose to close.

In his piece Charles Taylor on Truth (1998), Rorty challenged Taylor to explain or abandon the distinction between “in itself” and “for us”, arguing that we do not need to appeal to an independent, objective reality separate from the forms of life we live.  Against Rorty, Dreyfus and Taylor argue that we know our reality through our practices, but also that there may be a single coherent structure of reality independent of our practices.  They acknowledge that this will be displeasing to both realists and skeptics, both positivists and pragmatists, and I could not agree more.  Ultimately, they do not prove that this is the case, but argue that it may turn out to be true after further investigation.  At no point to they explain how we can know things independent of our interaction with them through our interactions with them.

Dreyfus and Taylor begin with Wittgenstein’s statement in his Philosophical Investigations (1953) that a picture of reality has held us captive, the idea of mind and meaning exclusive and separate from world and context.  They then follow Heidegger in saying that this picture began with Descartes, who did indeed dualistically separate mind from world but may not have been the first human in history to frame things this way or convince everyone to follow him.  Because Western philosophy has followed Descartes, Dreyfus and Taylor argue that we misunderstand knowledge as mediational, grasping external reality exclusively through internal representations, whether these are Cartesian ideas, Kantian categories or beliefs stated as sentences in language.

Against this mediational theory, Dreyfus and Taylor propose an alternative contact theory, such that we have unmediated contact with reality as understanding and knowledge, and identify this with the work of Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty and Wittgenstein.  The mediational approach wants to take each belief as standing alone, without a framework, because our frameworks have often been unreliable.  For contact theories, truth and knowledge are not separate from their justifications and ground, nor are beliefs justified in terms of a finite number of isolatable features, and we will always be thinking within frameworks which are vulnerable to challenges and revisions.  Dreyfus and Taylor argue that it is good to disengage with our practices in order to critically analyze them, but if we mistakenly believe ourselves to be completely disengaged with context and meaning we are misled by a modern pride in the production of the free, critical agent and the urge to control rather than be controlled.  This is in part a result of the transition from religious cultures to secular cultures with specialized sciences.

Rather than attempt to cut ourselves off from our world, our emotions and each other, we can acknowledge that our grasp of reality is not entirely representational, nor is it a monological compound that accumulates in individual, isolated minds.  Rather, truth is dialogical, involving others in a world that we share through experience which involves more than language and logic.  Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty argue that we are engaged with things before we learn ways of disengaging with them.  Children who are beginning to speak learn concepts that are emotionally significant, and learn to deal with others and objects before they learn systems of measurement.  We can know things in the abstract, apart from their objects, but we cannot know practices without engaging in them.  Our practices are not entirely represented in the mind conceptually, but are found in our trained responses to specific situations.  We can respond to tensions in our environment directly, without disengagement or abstract concepts.  As Wittgenstein said (PI 123) we “know our way about”, even if we cannot fully describe what we do with our words.

Dreyfus and Taylor argue that Sellars, McDowell and many others ascribe to the mediational picture, unlike Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty and Wittgenstein, and so they think that knowledge is representation and reasoning is the manipulation of representation, failing to acknowledge our preconceptual engagement with our surroundings.  We often engage in practices which we do intentionally but have not articulated conceptually, such that we learn more about what we stop and analyze our actions.  Dreyfus and Taylor suggest that it may be impossible for us to experience reality as we do awake, as opposed to the fluidity of a dream, without a body and nervous system active in a world, which would make an evil genius or Matrix manipulating our brain in a vat impossible.  When we take critical stances in our abstract thinking, this is always a socialized response to others who share our world and forms of life.

All of this is excellent, but it is here in the second half of the book that Dreyfus and Taylor begin to have problems.  Centrally, they want to straddle the divide between cultural relativism and scientific objectivity, between there being many perspectives about truth and a single coherent truth which is the object of these perspectives.  Dreyfus and Taylor argue Gadamer’s idea of a fusion of horizons can lead us to seek greater coherence between perspectives and practices that resist full convergence, and that humans share a general coherence of cultures that allows for understanding between different cultures, which is admirable.  However, they also provide problematic examples that contrast Western culture with non-Western cultures to illustrate perspectives that do not fully converge with each other, such as an ancient  Persian being unable to understand Socrates questioning others as if they are equal to himself, and Spaniards being unable to understand Aztec sacrifices.  We do relate to each other as equals within particular social classes as part of our general human culture, which a Persian could understand, and we do believe in sacrificing individuals for the future good of the whole, which a Spaniard could understand, though we are all quite talented at misunderstanding each other.

It is here, just after discussing the partial convergence of perspectives and cultures, that Rorty’s challenge to Taylor is brought out and the problem of Dreyfus and Taylor’s position comes to the fore, as they say they want to argue for “a realist view of science as describing the things in the universe as they are in themselves, independent of their relation to our bodily capacities and our coping practices” (p132, italics theirs).  Why make this move, when everything that came before suggests we should move in the opposite direction?  Dreyfus and Taylor accuse almost everyone other than Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty and Wittgenstein of falling prey to the inner/outer dichotomy, but there is no way to distinguish the world as independent and external to us without maintaining this very picture.  They argue that our understanding transcends our direct contact with our world, after arguing that our understandings are in direct contact with it.

Dreyfus and Taylor argue that the progress of science in grasping our world with an ever-greater fit is evidence that we should believe in a single structure of the world, independent of ourselves, but they admit that this is not proven and do not show how the progress of science contradicts the pragmatist position of Rorty, failing to distinguish what “works” (their scare quotes) for the pragmatist from what “really works” (my scare quotes) in the sciences.  I have always been fascinated by the argument that humanity has always done things that work and known things, but now with the sciences we really do things and really know things, which I find here in this work yet again.  Dreyfus and Taylor say that if the skeptical anti-realist, which they identify with Rorty, is not moved by the progress of science, perhaps they will be by the speculation that there may be evidence provided by science that confirms this in the future.  I would suggest that no amount of successful practice will if all so far has not already, as any amount of practice can only show us things in practice, not things independent of it.

What makes matters worse is that Dreyfus and Taylor go on to contrast the ancient Egyptians and all other non-Western cultures with the West without citing specifics in ways that praise the West for doing what is generally human across all cultures.  After saying that the Egyptians understood different cultures to have different gods, and tolerated religious pluralism, they write, “Other cultures do not ask about the universe as it is in itself, in the sense of modern Western science.  They have no notion of a view from nowhere… Our peculiar culture did ask about the structure of the universe as it is in itself, independent of all cultural interpretations, and eventually developed a science that claims to be approaching a view from nowhere.” (p150-151)  It seems that the progress the ancient Egyptians made in building the pyramids is not evidence of their belief in reality as a whole, but the progress of Western science is.  In no way do they offer specifics or quote texts to demonstrate this.

Dreyfus and Taylor write that “Plato and Aristotle build from the understanding that we are trying to understand a single, coherent cosmic system.  The step to unity was taken way back then.” (p155)  Neither Plato nor Aristotle seemed to notice that they were unique this way and unlike the ancient Egyptians, whom Plato admires very much and says gave birth to the sciences long before he lived.  Dreyfus and Taylor also write, “Judaism, Buddhism and Christianity…claim to have a true and universally valid perspective, but have no notion of a view from nowhere…(T)his understanding of the unicity of the universe is a venerable tradition in our civilization…” (p155)  The view from nowhere is a view from nowhere in particular, not a view of nothing at all.  How is it possible to have a “universal view” that is not a “view from nowhere”?  Doesn’t universal mean everywhere?

Doesn’t the story of the blind men and the elephant, originally from ancient India but admired in China and Islamic lands as well, show us that humanity is concerned across cultures with the coherence of individuals in a single whole, viewed partially through perspectives?  Dreyfus and Taylor argue that we disagree on what progress is, with some saying it is the dream of the Enlightenment, others the will of God, and yet others the path of the Buddha, but they do not seem aware that each of these, in different words, describes a common ideal of objectivity and totality that can be understood across cultures due to the commonality of human forms of life.

If I wander into a crowded train station and scream “One plus one equals two!” at the top of my lungs, or mutter it to myself, and there is no apparent pair I am gathering together, are my words true?  Are they true even if they do not connect with anything or do anything for anyone?  If we say they are true in the abstract, is that true in a particular context, or in all contexts?

If Bertrand Russell and Alfred North Whitehead spent over 350 pages in the Principia Mathematica (1910) to prove, with absolute certainty via logic, that one and one make two, was it just as true as it was before?  Is it now more certain?  How certain are children, compared to Russell’s readers?

I have been thinking lately, in lieu of conversations with friends, about where thinking starts and stops, the grounds and the ends, with the means in the middle. Just as Lee Braver says in his book Groundless Grounds, we do not examine the grounds from which we start as we use them, giving them a kind of nothingness underneath rather than turtles all the way down in an infinite regress.  Wittgenstein’s child at the blackboard is a perfect illustration of this point.  Children learn math as a regular practice, not as a complete and coherent set of rules.  Rules are only called in when there are misunderstandings in following the regular practice, just as road signs are employed when one does not know the way to San Jose.  If we need rules to understand things, then we need rules to understand the rules, and so on, and we have an infinite regress again, this time without turtles.

Similarly, the mundane and meaningless has a nothingness to it for the opposite reason. Consider the things around us that are serving no purpose, which we barely notice.  While we proceed from grounds towards ends, the mundane serves no ends, and thus it recedes as nothing important, bringing us nowhere and to nothing.  Similarly, our ends have a nothingness to them because, in spite of giving things their importance, we do not think beyond them as to where they lead. When I think about pouring myself another cup of sweet, satisfying coffee, I am not thinking about what caffeine will do to my body, and if I am thinking about what caffeine will do to my body, I am not thinking about what significance this may have for scientific studies. One has to move in thought from one to the other, shifting grounds and ends, to put each end in sight.

Thus: The nothingness of grounds is our lack of seeing beneath them, the nothingness of the mundane is our lack of seeing them as leading beyond themselves to other things, and the nothingness of ends is our lack of seeing beyond them.

Lately, I have been studying the connections between the early work of Heidegger and the later work of Wittgenstein.  One of the most fascinating issues involved is the ordinary way that we act when we are “in the flow”, conscious of an action but not self-conscious or critically thinking.  How much must we conceptualize ourselves or our actions in order to act?  This is the issue debated between Hubert L. Dreyfus, who taught me Heidegger at Berkeley, John McDowell and others in the book Mind, Reason, and Being-in-the-World (2013).

One example featured in the debate is Chuck Knoblauch, a famed second-baseman who began to have problems throwing to first to get runners out because he was over-thinking his throws.  As Lee Braver points out, there seems to be an antagonistic relationship between conceptual thought and skillful action, such that thinking can interrupt action.

In his book Groundless Grounds (2012), Braver says that if we think about walking as we walk, we walk like Frankenstein.  Zhuangzi, my favorite Chinese philosopher and the second patriarch of Daoism, said that if the centipede stops to figure out how he coordinates all of its legs, it would fall all over itself.  That said, how much is thought or conceptions involved when we are consciously acting but “in the flow”?

Dreyfus, following Heidegger, Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, argues that in absorbed action, we do not have a conception of ourselves or reasons for why we are acting.  Sartre said that when he runs to catch the streetcar, there is no ego.  We could also say that when Sartre is focused entirely on catching the streetcar, he also is not thinking of reasons as to why he is catching it, such as getting to Cafe de Flore to sip espresso and chain smoke.  Merleau-Ponty, friend of Sartre, said that when we are absorbed we act in a “field of forces”, reacting to threats and opportunities without thought.

Against Dreyfus and very much in accord with Kant, McDowell argues that for an act to be intentional, it must be done consciously, and this requires that it be conceptual.  McDowell would say that Sartre must conceptualize himself, the streetcar, and that his purpose is to catch it in order for his dashing towards it to be an intentional act, different from the way one’s leg jerks when we are struck in the knee by a doctor.  The question is, if Sartre sees the streetcar as an opportunity, or Knoblauch sees the runner as a threat, how much must they conceive of things in addition to perceiving them?  It is difficult, and hence the Dreyfus-McDowell debate, because our perceptions and conceptions are so intertwined in so many complex ways.

Lee Braver has offered what I think is a brilliant architectural metaphor that could reframe the debate, leading to new insights and solutions. In his later work, Wittgenstein presented philosophy and math as extensions of embodied physical action.  Heidegger wants us to see that we do philosophy like we use a hammer, as we respond intuitively and immediately to words as we do to arguments.  McDowell says that all is conceptual, which Dreyfus criticizes as upper floor abstract aristocrats all the way down.  Dreyfus says there is a basement beneath the upper floors where absorbed servants toil, but the two are disconnected.  Braver says that we can go with a third plan, that it is basement servants all the way up (as opposed to turtles all the way down).  We get rid of the class distinction between the aristocrats on the upper floor and the servants in the basement.  This gets rid of Dreyfus’ gap but reverses the direction of McDowell.

What do you think?  In what ways are action and thought interrelated or opposed to each other?