How Mice Know What They Know
I promised a friend that today I would write a blog on epistemology, that branch of philosophy that deals with how we know, and how we know that what we know is true. This grew out of a bumper sticker milady stuck on her car: DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU THINK. I mentioned this sticker in a group discussion and out of that came the promise to say something Mousefully meaningful about epistemology.
But think about it: Saying something -- saying anything -- about “how we know” is closely akin to lifting yourself by your bootstraps. The apparatus we use to make meaningful statements is the same apparatus we’re trying to explain. It’s like a mirror looking at itself in another mirror; all it’s gonna see is an infinitely regressing image of itself. No matter how deeply we peer into the array of pictures of ourselves, there never will appear in any of the images anything completely new. So, what’s a poor little old Mouse supposed to do who has promised to say something meaningful?
Well … maybe the problem is not so difficult as that trick with mirrors has made it seem. Let’s say the Mouse is one of the mirrors, the one who’s looking into a real mirror. True, as the Mouse reflects the image of himself back into the facing mirror, he’ll still be the same Mouse, but the Mouse can say at least one thing without fear that he’ll be saying something false. He can point to the mirror he’s facing and say, “Those images are not me.” Then, pointing to himself, “I’m me and those images are just reflections of me.”
Bearing in mind that the mirrors are metaphors for the thought process, that each image is an idea, the Mouse will know, for sure, that he and his thoughts are different things. He knows that he will remain “the Mouse” regardless of what he thinks, so what he thinks and what he is must be different things.
Sounds reasonable, at least at first glance. But then – on second glance – the Mouse realizes that some part of himself must be changing when he thinks whatever he thinks. His brain, the whole apparatus he has come to call his neurological system is constantly changing, and every changed state of the system relates in some way to his changing ideas. He’s not sure how those two “parts” of himself interact, or even if they do. He just knows that for every brain state there is a corresponding idea. The brain may be physically causing his ideas, or it may just be operating in parallel with them. Whichever of those happens to be the case, the fact will remain that the order and connection of his ideas will be the same as the order and connection of his brain states.
At a more general level, the Mouse will have come to the conclusion that his ideas emerge out of something he is. To believe otherwise would be to believe that what he calls “his ideas” are actually pumped whole into his mind from somewhere outside him. He suspects – but cannot know for sure – that that’s a false notion. It seems almost a certainty that his senses receive signals from outside, but that those signals remain essentially meaningless until they enter his brain and get “processed” into ideas. The Mouse would never have known that those images in the facing mirror were of himself unless he were more capable of thinking than he would be if he were merely another mirror. The reflections would still exist as light rays (or what have you) but they would never become ideas without the special capabilities of his neurological system.
Hmmm. So, now the Mouse knows a trifle more than he knew when he first acknowledged that the images of himself were not him. He knows that he is the source of that idea. True, he would never have had the idea had not his senses admitted the light into his body, but it was still him, his brain and its supporting network of senses, that converted the light rays into ideas. Without even trying to do it the Mouse has placed himself at the center of a different philosophical sub-category. He has identified himself as the “object” responsible for all ethical decisions.
But that’s not what the Mouse promised to do today. Getting a leg up on the question of ethics is important, but whether the Mouse and all mice can function effectively as moral agents must finally depend on whether the ideas forming in their bodies are true or not. The Mouse can behave absolutely in accord with his ideas and think he’s doing the right thing, but unless those ideas are in some sense “true,” the Mouse, though he may have very good reasons for his actions, may be doing all the wrong things.
And that’s where we came in. How can the Mouse know that the ideas he is basing his actions on are true?
Answer: Apart from the sorts of knowledge we’ve already admitted must be true, the Mouse can never know that any of the ideas he forms of the world are completely and consistently true. He may know that his body and his thoughts are different, he may know that his ideas form internally to himself, and he may know that his senses provide unprocessed data. But he can never know that the sense he makes of his sensations is the absolute truth. His ideas of the world and of its complexities may be valid, but they are almost certainly not the whole and unquestionable truth.
Valid ideas are those that an observer – if he knew them – could correctly analyze to interpret our behavior. We act in accord with what we believe to be the truth, and those beliefs would be a valid explanation of our actions and our subsequent thoughts. We think they are true because the neural apparatus that has formed our ideas operates like a logic machine, with the difference that it not only draws its conclusions from immediate premises – raw input data – but works also to make its “new” ideas fit neatly with all the other ideas we have formed. And some of those “old” ideas entered our heads as unexamined “facts” that were merely assumed to be true.
If our brains have managed to do their job well, if they have produced a concoction of ideas that is quite capable of dealing with new sense data with a minimum of pain, then we will have an array of valid ideas that works for us, and it wouldn’t matter a rat’s ass whether that array were even marginally the truth.
But what does it avail us to know this? How can this view of the epistemological problem be made to work for us? Well, if we know that the ideas we have formed of the world (as apposed to those intuitive ideas that cannot be doubted) are only satisfying arrangements put together by a pragmatic neural mechanism … well, think about it … if we know that of ourselves, then we must also know it of all who are like us, whether they are Christians, Jews, Muslims, Democrats, Republicans, neighbors, strangers, or what have you. We must know that we are all fundamentally alike.
And with that idea firmly implanted in our mechanism, isn’t it possible that we might deal with the world in a significantly different manner than we would have if we all made the mistake of treating our merely “valid” data as the truth. We might be able finally to see ourselves as a unity of similar beings, all facing the same epistemological reality.
It seems to me that if we were finally awakened to the reality of what we are, we would experience a form of joy quite unlike the joy we obtain from believing we are solely and uniquely right. We might actually all fall in love with the same God, the one within which we, and all other beings, exist as whatever we are.
But think about it: Saying something -- saying anything -- about “how we know” is closely akin to lifting yourself by your bootstraps. The apparatus we use to make meaningful statements is the same apparatus we’re trying to explain. It’s like a mirror looking at itself in another mirror; all it’s gonna see is an infinitely regressing image of itself. No matter how deeply we peer into the array of pictures of ourselves, there never will appear in any of the images anything completely new. So, what’s a poor little old Mouse supposed to do who has promised to say something meaningful?
Well … maybe the problem is not so difficult as that trick with mirrors has made it seem. Let’s say the Mouse is one of the mirrors, the one who’s looking into a real mirror. True, as the Mouse reflects the image of himself back into the facing mirror, he’ll still be the same Mouse, but the Mouse can say at least one thing without fear that he’ll be saying something false. He can point to the mirror he’s facing and say, “Those images are not me.” Then, pointing to himself, “I’m me and those images are just reflections of me.”
Bearing in mind that the mirrors are metaphors for the thought process, that each image is an idea, the Mouse will know, for sure, that he and his thoughts are different things. He knows that he will remain “the Mouse” regardless of what he thinks, so what he thinks and what he is must be different things.
Sounds reasonable, at least at first glance. But then – on second glance – the Mouse realizes that some part of himself must be changing when he thinks whatever he thinks. His brain, the whole apparatus he has come to call his neurological system is constantly changing, and every changed state of the system relates in some way to his changing ideas. He’s not sure how those two “parts” of himself interact, or even if they do. He just knows that for every brain state there is a corresponding idea. The brain may be physically causing his ideas, or it may just be operating in parallel with them. Whichever of those happens to be the case, the fact will remain that the order and connection of his ideas will be the same as the order and connection of his brain states.
At a more general level, the Mouse will have come to the conclusion that his ideas emerge out of something he is. To believe otherwise would be to believe that what he calls “his ideas” are actually pumped whole into his mind from somewhere outside him. He suspects – but cannot know for sure – that that’s a false notion. It seems almost a certainty that his senses receive signals from outside, but that those signals remain essentially meaningless until they enter his brain and get “processed” into ideas. The Mouse would never have known that those images in the facing mirror were of himself unless he were more capable of thinking than he would be if he were merely another mirror. The reflections would still exist as light rays (or what have you) but they would never become ideas without the special capabilities of his neurological system.
Hmmm. So, now the Mouse knows a trifle more than he knew when he first acknowledged that the images of himself were not him. He knows that he is the source of that idea. True, he would never have had the idea had not his senses admitted the light into his body, but it was still him, his brain and its supporting network of senses, that converted the light rays into ideas. Without even trying to do it the Mouse has placed himself at the center of a different philosophical sub-category. He has identified himself as the “object” responsible for all ethical decisions.
But that’s not what the Mouse promised to do today. Getting a leg up on the question of ethics is important, but whether the Mouse and all mice can function effectively as moral agents must finally depend on whether the ideas forming in their bodies are true or not. The Mouse can behave absolutely in accord with his ideas and think he’s doing the right thing, but unless those ideas are in some sense “true,” the Mouse, though he may have very good reasons for his actions, may be doing all the wrong things.
And that’s where we came in. How can the Mouse know that the ideas he is basing his actions on are true?
Answer: Apart from the sorts of knowledge we’ve already admitted must be true, the Mouse can never know that any of the ideas he forms of the world are completely and consistently true. He may know that his body and his thoughts are different, he may know that his ideas form internally to himself, and he may know that his senses provide unprocessed data. But he can never know that the sense he makes of his sensations is the absolute truth. His ideas of the world and of its complexities may be valid, but they are almost certainly not the whole and unquestionable truth.
Valid ideas are those that an observer – if he knew them – could correctly analyze to interpret our behavior. We act in accord with what we believe to be the truth, and those beliefs would be a valid explanation of our actions and our subsequent thoughts. We think they are true because the neural apparatus that has formed our ideas operates like a logic machine, with the difference that it not only draws its conclusions from immediate premises – raw input data – but works also to make its “new” ideas fit neatly with all the other ideas we have formed. And some of those “old” ideas entered our heads as unexamined “facts” that were merely assumed to be true.
If our brains have managed to do their job well, if they have produced a concoction of ideas that is quite capable of dealing with new sense data with a minimum of pain, then we will have an array of valid ideas that works for us, and it wouldn’t matter a rat’s ass whether that array were even marginally the truth.
But what does it avail us to know this? How can this view of the epistemological problem be made to work for us? Well, if we know that the ideas we have formed of the world (as apposed to those intuitive ideas that cannot be doubted) are only satisfying arrangements put together by a pragmatic neural mechanism … well, think about it … if we know that of ourselves, then we must also know it of all who are like us, whether they are Christians, Jews, Muslims, Democrats, Republicans, neighbors, strangers, or what have you. We must know that we are all fundamentally alike.
And with that idea firmly implanted in our mechanism, isn’t it possible that we might deal with the world in a significantly different manner than we would have if we all made the mistake of treating our merely “valid” data as the truth. We might be able finally to see ourselves as a unity of similar beings, all facing the same epistemological reality.
It seems to me that if we were finally awakened to the reality of what we are, we would experience a form of joy quite unlike the joy we obtain from believing we are solely and uniquely right. We might actually all fall in love with the same God, the one within which we, and all other beings, exist as whatever we are.
posted by Benedict S. at 10:24 AM
7 Comments:
"we are the music-makers and we are the dreamers of dreams" -- O'Shaughnessy
From my Humanities class I have learned the objective and the subjective are never entirely separate. Every conclusion is a mixture of fact and opinion. I believe in the exact opposite of the idea that pure objectivism and pure subjectivism are the only two choices. Those are the only two choices which are NOT
available. For a conclusion to make sense, it must be based on a
reasonable amount of fact. But there is no such thing as a pure fact, nor is there any such thing as a pure opinion. No conclusion is free of subjective judgment, nor is any conclusion free of objective fact.
This is why the probability of the accuracy of a conclusion is always
somewhere between 0% and 100%.
I like that thought, Miss R. That pure objectivism and pure subjectivism are the only two choices that are ruled out. I kind of like the idea that we are subjectively objective about everything.
Indeed we are all fundamentally alike, but the trick isn't to disregard what we know to be true in order to get along. The trick is to treat each other with the fundamental respect we expect from others despite our differences. Obviosuly fallible human beings that we are, none of us fully understands truth; yet truth exists regardless of what we know or don't know, regardless of what we do or don't understand...
In the end, the scriptual exhortation " to act justly ,to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God" is the attitude that will bring peace to the world.
BTW, viewed your profile- I read One Hundred Years of Solitude about 20 years ago- I thought it was an excellent read...
Anonymous: Some of the things we know are in fact knowledge of the "third kind," to use Spinoza's term. That's knowledge that does not depend on the senses for its proof. We know the law of causes is true because if it's not than nothing makes sense. It needs no proof, nor is there a proof of it that will work.
Immanuel Kant expanded this view into a more-or-less accurate epistemology. Unfortunately, though he and Spinoza were working the same side of the street, Kant finally concluded that the existence of God could not be proven. Spinoza started out talking about God and never stopped. If God does not exist, nothing can ever make sense.
But -- again unfortunately -- many have treated their sensations of joy and their readings of great miracles as evidence of God. They have believed in God for the wrong reasons. The God of Spinoza needs no proof. If anything is, he is.
What else of Marquez's have you read. My favorite, though it does not appear in the profile, is "Love in the Time of Cholera." It's a personal thing.
In theory and logically, we really shouldn't claim 100% certainty about any idea since it really is possible to get new evidence tomorrow which
contradicts the claim. In theory, we should rely on probabilites and
degrees of confidence. In theory, even the highest degree of confidence is
not the same as 100% certainty.
John (A): How about the laws of probability themselves. Should we rely on them? The test of truth, if you need one, is this: can I conceive of a world in which this [purported] fact is not true? Obviously, Newton/Einstein's gravitation theory, even its mathematical expression, can be imagined false, but not mathematics itself. Obviously, we can imagine a world in which Baptism is not necessary for salvation [or whatever Baptism is necessary for today], but we cannot imagine a world in which human beings like us would not be concerned about their "salvation."
Now. it may be imagined that a world could exist in pure chaos, but if so, then we would certainly not be there to imagine it. (This last one is interesting, though.)
In short, nothing can be imagined without certain things being true, and those things are true even if there is no consciousness of them. That is, God is real, and those "ideas" that would be found true in any universe are ideas in the mind of God.
So, yes, there are absolutes, but they have nothing directly to do with how human beings ought to behave. Instead, they constitute the underpinnings of all that is, including us and our brain/minds. If those ideas were not absolutely true the world would indeed be a chaos. But it is not. The world is a cosmos, a predictable existence, and it is that very predictability that lies at the heart of all morality, and consequently, of all justice.
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