u n d e r v e r s e

6.5 of one, half a baker's dozen of the other

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

The Paupers' Death

Over the next two weeks I'm going to mock up some proofs-of-concept in garageband for the Baudelaire CD I'm working on. Here's the first one:



The final product will be much more professionally and lovingly recorded, with a fair amount more instrumental diversity that you'll hear here. I'm picturing strings in the place of some of these guitars, for example. Maybe a horn, maybe an accordion. Hell maybe an oboe, I don't know.

But you can help support the project by pre-ordering your copy through my Kickstarter campaign. $10 for the download, $15 for the physical CD. Or, make my year and give at one of the higher pledge levels. If I can raise $5,000 by January 24, all manner of things become possible.

Thanks, and happy listening!

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

How His Naked Ears Were Tortured


Shorter Jerry Coyne:
My meticulous reasoning has allowed me to discard the proposition that we have the ability to employ reason to evaluate propositions. It is abundantly clear that it is not within our power to elect to do anything which might have an impact on the physical world, or on the lives of other human beings. Now let's get out there and make the world a better place.
Seriously. After strenuously asserting that we have no capacity whatsoever to choose our behaviors, Coyne concludes thusly: "With that under our belts, we can go about building a kinder world." Well OK, then!

Arguments like Coyne's that human agency is an illusion and that we are in fact automatons tend to fall into two categories: those that are self-refuting, and those that have no bearing on anything whatsoever. Because Coyne is such a poor reasoner, he splits the difference. On the one hand he writes that the discovery that we are in fact automatons should powerfully influence how we treat other human beings:
[W]e should continue to mete out punishments because those are environmental factors that can influence the brains of not only the criminal himself, but of other people as well. Seeing someone put in jail, or being put in jail yourself, can change you in a way that makes it less likely you'll behave badly in the future. […] And we should continue to reward good behavior, for that changes brains in a way that promotes more good behavior.
Who is this "we" that "should" thusly modify our systems of jurisprudence--or advocate that others do so? "Should" is a choice-word; it has no place in discussions of deterministic causality. If humans are really no more than "meat computers," if we can't "change our outputs" any more than a computer can "reach inside itself and change its program," then why would we advocate any proscribed behavior at all? We don't reason with our laptops--or our thermostats. What would be the point of reasoning with autonomous "meat computers"? To be logically consistent, a belief system that avows humans have no volition, no choice, and no agency, must refrain from employing any prescriptive moral language whatsoever. If you can't do this, chances are you don't "really" believe that humans are automatons after all.

Elsewhere in the column (and on his blog, the stated purpose of which is to persuade others of the scientific rectitude of evolutionary theory), Coyne retreats to defense that we can never free ourselves of the sense that our agency is real. "We have no choice but to pretend that we do choose," he writes. If this is true, of course, then the hypothesis that we have no ability to choose can never be more than a speculation, entirely outside our ability to evaluate either logically or scientifically. It's like the persistent but ultimately futile speculation that humans are "actually" brains in vats: If everything we believe to be real is actually a simulation, then the whole concept of "evidence" becomes meaningless. It hardly matters what "reality" is if we have no hope of access to it. Likewise, it hardly matters what the truth is about our own volition, if we cannot be brought to "think" in non-volitional terms.

Whatever that might mean. As John Pieret has argued at Thoughts In A Haystack, it would be impossible, without some faculty to select from among rational propsitions,  to assign any meaning whatsoever to the content of science or reason:
Certainly Coyne cannot “reason” unless he has the choice to accept or reject arguments on the basis of logic. Heck, he can't even recognize what is logical without the choice to accept good arguments and reject bad ones. Nor can he infer anything based on evidence unless he also has the choice to accept relevant and valid evidence and reject irrelevant and invalid “evidence.”
"Incompatiblism" (the doctrine that determinism precludes contra-causal volition) is not entirely unknown in philosophy. There are a handful of "eliminative materialists" like Paul and Patricia Churchland, but these go nowhere near as far as Coyne in announcing determinism as a choice-defeater. Patricia Churchland, for example, suggests that instead of "free will," (a problematic concept, without any doubt--Just how "free" is it?) we focus on the faculty of self-control, using the example of Odysseus lashing himself to the mast of his ship. The question then is just who is doing the controlling? Churchland's answer is that there is a construct of the brain we call the "self," having evolved to solve problems. We can take issue with this explanation (noting, for example, that at first blush it seems awfully teleological), but we observe nonetheless that to Churchland this "self" is "every bit as real as the three-dimensional world we see." This is the strange juncture (we also see it in writers like Dennett and Dawkins) where the hardcore physicalist becomes a Deleuzian constructivist: sure, free will is a construct, consciousness is a construct, but so too is the "middle world" of our experience a construct, including space and time, and motion, and physicality. The only thing that is "really real," is evolution. All else is phantasmagoria.

There is a mystical lilt to this doctrine: as we live and die in the world of Maya, so must we play by its rules. Coyne gives lip service to this view when he talks about contemplating selfhood as a "convincing illusion fashioned by natural selection." But he cannot commit to it. To him, the mechanical billiard-ball world of objects, forces and causes is all that is real. As robotic inhabitants of that world, we have no choice but to disavow any semblance of moral responsibility. We are all "victims of circumstance" without even Churchland's proposed faculty of "self-control." Bernie Madoff is no more responsible for his crimes than Nelson Mandela for his trials and triumphs; in each case their actions were predestined. Criminals who calculate their crimes with cost-benefit analysis "don't differ in responsibility" from those whose capacity for moral reflection is diminished by, for example, a brain tumor. Such is the ethical nuance of Coyneian hard determinism.

I would propose that in the end we take such a doctrine about as seriously as he does himself, when death is on the line. In a recent defense of the infamous (and deadly) vices of Christopher Hitchens, Coyne invoked the spectre of "leisure fascists" who
come out of the woodwork, for example, when I put up a post about barbecue. Tough, I say: life is to be enjoyed, and I’d rather have my tenure on Earth be shortened by a few years if I can sometimes eat barbecue instead of only raw vegetables.  Hitch liked his Johnnie Walker and ciggies; he said they helped him think and enjoy his life. (my emphasis)
Note what Coyne did not say in his own (or Hitchens') defense. He did not say "So help me, I just can't stop myself, and I'll be damned if I let anyone hold me responsible for deterministic forces reaching back to the beginning of the universe." He did not say "Leave poor Hitchens alone, he couldn't possibly surmount his biologically determined addictions!" No; perhaps inspired by the example of the magnetic man of action to whom his blog became a temporary shrine after Hitchens' death, Coyne used those magic words "I'd rather." Quality over quantity. Tomorrow Ye May Die. (Etc.) This is Coyne the true philosopher, unburdened by a need to buttress an unsustainable ideology. This is Coyne the Bartlebian Hero. Let these wise words "I'd rather" be the ones we recall, and let's chalk up the others to a failure to lash himself to the mast of True Preference, to stop up his ears against the siren song of reductive scientism.





Postscript: Over at Rationally Speaking, Massimo Pigliucci dives into the Wittgensteinian distinction between reasons and causes. This is the way out of the forest, though Pigliucci takes the wrong fork in the road. (Yes, Wittgenstein wasn't very forthcoming about where reasons "come from," but I think we are too greedy in this day and age for ultimate explanations. We can't presently explain gravity in terms of fundamental physics, but we can feel confident in our right to talk about gravity as a real thing. So too can we talk about the distinction between rational and causal explanations without anyone's head exploding.)


See also Jean Kazez and Russell Blackford.



Monday, January 02, 2012

Pencil Cup

One large reason posting has been slow over the last year or so is that I've been involved in a large-scale project translating and writing cabaret-style songs based on Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. I've been performing the songs as cantastoria, with the visual component created by my collaborator, Dave Buchen. It looks like this:


And it sounds like ... well, there are links for that too if you click through the links below, or the widget in the top right corner.

This Winter I'm recording an album of these songs, and to the end of making of making this as lovely as thing as it is in my power to make, I'm raising funds through Kickstarter, and you can read all about the project there.

I have a very modest funding vision: If everyone interested in the project gave at the $15 level (which will be the price of the physical CD--and by coincidence, the physical CD is the premium you will receive for donating that that level),  I will easily make my $5,000 goal. (Of course you can always give more! -- or less. Every bit helps.)

I hope you'll consider donating. Underverse has very few costs associated with it--just my time, really, which I'm happy to devote when I have it. But making this CD will mean paying collaborators--musicians, engineers, designers, as well as paying for things like replication, mastering, and packaging.

Plus, if it doesn't seem too grandiose, you're also supporting the whole concept of crowd-funding, one of the unambiguously good things to come out of the internet age.

Thanks in advance for your support, and I'll see you back here soon!

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Just a Fluke




[NOTE: This post was originally published in 2009. I've made a few revisions to this version, for the sake of clarity and logical consistency, as well as just plain rhetorical correctness.]

A fluke (or flounder) is a kind of flat, bottom-feeding fish that is (according to lore) easily caught, even with inferior tackle or technique. (In the Gunther Grass novel The Flounder, the fish jumps right into the fisherman's arms). Over time, owing to its near-ridiculous catchability, it loaned its name to a type of billiard shot, by which a shooter, having no good shot to make, sinks the desired balls by improbable or near-random means, much like a Hail Mary in football, or a "garbage" shot in basketball. Eventually it took on the meaning common today of a happy accident, unrepeatable and beholden only to the vagaries of fortune.

A fluke is also a type of flat parasitic worm, one variety of which, the lancet liver fluke, is employed by the philosopher Daniel Dennett to illustrate his theory of memes, an improbable or near-random hypothesis that Dennett has had the happy accident of getting many otherwise intelligent people to believe in. The lancet fluke spends its adult life cycle in the liver of sheep and cattle. To get there, the fluke first parasitizes a species of common black ant, taking residence near a ganglia of cells that--somehow--alter the behavior of the ant so that it now spends the cool dewy portions of the day on top of blades of grass, instead of going about its normal business at a safer remove from the teeth and gums of grazing livestock.

A meme is supposed to be similarly parasitic, spurring its host (a human mind) to behave in ways orthogonal to its rational interest. Before parasitization, an organism does what we would expect it to do according to Darwinian logic. After parasitization, all bets are off. The meme might lead to fantastic cultural achievements, cathedrals and sonatas and elaborate cuisines. Or it might lead to tragic cultural afflictions; harmful ideologies and superstitions. In either case the important detail is that the minds hosting these memes have not consciously evaluated or chosen them; rather they were "selected" on the basis of their effectiveness, by Darwinian logic. The meme-parasite is thus enlisted to explain all manner of irrational behavior, and the beliefs that underlie them. In Dennett's recent book, Breaking the Spell (2006), the irrational beliefs and behaviors in question are religious ones, and the primary meme postulated to explain why they persist is called "belief in belief."

Many more able critics than I have taken on meme theory for the modern day phlogiston it is (See, for example, here and here.) I want to limit myself now to this question: If memes were real, how would we know? Put another way, how can we know that our thoughts and values, whatever they may be, are really our thoughts and values, and not the duplicitous effect of some kind of parasitic infection? How can we protect ourselves from "bad" memes, when the whole strategy of bad memes is to appear to be good?

To explore this I want to return to the parasitized ant. Such ants are sometimes called "zombie ants," to indicate that their free will and good sense (or whatever the equivalents of these might be in the ant mind) have been usurped. As a thought experiment, I want to imagine what the experience of a zombie ant might be as it climbs a blade of grass to await mastication. Granting formicidae, for the moment, a faculty of consciousness and reflection, how might the ant understand its strange and deviant mission? It might, for example, feel guilt over abandoning the important tasks of the hive, but impelled to climb the stalk all the same by some quasi-instinctual engine--like a gambling addict skulking shame-faced to the casino. Alternatively, we have to allow that it might feel something like glory in fulfilling a higher purpose than was selected for the normal members of the community, much as a martyr might feel. There need be no clue at all that anything could be bad or wrong about grass-blade climbing, despite the high risk of an early death. To the ant, it may feel like entirely justified and morally unimpeachable behavior. Or there may be any number of gradations of doubt, guilt, shame, or confusion associated with it. In any case, the subjective experience of the ant, who cannot know the real reason it climbs the blade of grass, is doomed to irrelevance. It's beliefs about its own motives simply cannot track with reality.

I don't imagine meme advocates would have any problem with this thought fable, as far as it goes. Dennett, in particular, acknowledges that many religious people go freely and gladly toward fates that strike outside observers as absurd, just as the zombie ant seems to. The trouble is: in the case of humanity in general, who is to act as the "outside" observer? Who has the neutral or objective perspective to say definitively than any of us aren't foolishly pursuing an absurd fate? Once we analogize human belief about our own motives with the zombie ant, on what foundation can we say that any of our thoughts or actions make any sense at all?

Dennett's answer is that rational inquiry can evaluate various beliefs and behaviors and demonstrate which ones are left wanting. His entire project in Breaking the Spell is an appeal to open up allegedly "sacred" beliefs and practices to scientific investigation*, so we can know if they make any sense or not, or have any good in them at all, rather than relying on custom or faith.

But now we have a serious problem. In Dennett's earlier books he has proposed that the mechanism underlying both genes and memes, natural selection, is a "universal acid," that corrodes through everything. Anything which purports to operate by some different means than natural selection is, in Dennett's coinage, a "skyhook:" a miracle or deus ex machina. If we are to break the bonds of belief and "belief in belief," which, we have just finished explaining, are the products of a process so universal it melts away all competing explanations, then how are we to explain the faculty of Reason? It must be either that it is, on the one hand, somehow impervious to the corrosiveness of natural selection, making it just another "skyhook," or, on the other hand, a product of natural selection, making it just another meme, with nothing to privilege it above any belief, delusional or otherwise.



In other words, if meme theory is true, how are we know that our new and improved sacred values of Truth, Reason, Enquiry and Democracy which Dennett hopes will supersede faith and tradition and "belief in belief" aren't themselves "bad memes," serving interests antagonistic to our own? (Whatever that might mean). How do we know that free and critical inquiry, free from fetters and taboo, is not our own seemingly purposeful climb up the blade of grass? Against what do we test our sense that rationality is ... rational? How could we know for sure that our most prized and cherished ideas, values, theories and methodologies are not just flukes?


--

*That Dennett is so bad at this investigation will have to be the subject of a future post.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Suicide Bombers who love too much

Shorter Barbara Oakley:

"You know who else was also really into Altruism? The Hutus and Tutsis. (Also, Hitler!)"

(Yes, she really does argue that genocide happens because people care about each other too much. Read it and weep--but not too much! We don't want a body count).

Sunday, December 18, 2011

On Comprehension

While hardly a direct (or even indirect) response to my query, last year, of a suitable term to replace the epithet "scientism,"  I seem to be, at long last, getting some answers all the same. Not particularly satisfying answers, but answers nonetheless. And so I pick up where I left off.

Jerry Coyne, for example, writes:
If you want to see a philosopher’s justification of scientism—in this case “philosophical naturalism,” read Barbara Forrest’s paper published in 2000 in Philo.
All fine, except that "philosophical naturalism" is not what is usually meant by scientism. Philosophical naturalism just means a disbelief in supernatural entities. Scientism, on the other hand, is the assertion that the only things that count as "knowledge" can be derived from science. An exemplar of this view is the chemist Peter Atkins, who perhaps can be excused for the exuberant characterization of science as "limitless" (we all get carried away), but not for his assaults upon both philosophy and poetry:
Although poets may aspire to understanding, their talents are more akin to entertaining self-deception. They may be able to emphasize delights in the world, but they are deluded if they and their admirers believe that their identification of the delights and their use of poignant language are enough for comprehension.  Philosophers too, I am afraid, have contributed to the understanding of the universe little more than poets … They have not contributed much that is novel until after novelty has been discovered by scientists … While poetry titillates and theology obfuscates, science liberates.
Now that's scientism. We also see it in the writings of E.O. Wilson from time to time, as he expresses the conviction that science will overtake all the humanities before we're through--not just philosophy, but literature, economics, jurisprudence, and aesthetics. He calls this "consilience," and means it as a good thing.

Coyne is able to resile to the defense of scientism as merely philosophical naturalism because he has a conveniently pliable definition of what science is depending on who's asking. He twists a magic ring on his finger, and science is the renowned practice that is able, through concise and rigorous methodology, to make reliable predictions about the world. (In WVO Quine's phrase, "a device for working a manageable structure into the flux of experience.”) This kind of science--professional science--has resulted in targeted gene treatments and missions to mars, and is now looking for the Higgs boson in a cave below Switzerland. This definition of science is narrow and rarefied. Only with a great deal of patience and effort is it able to come to any reliable conclusions at all.

Speaking of that cave under Switzerland, for example, there was much to-do recently about preliminary data suggesting neutrinos were traveling at faster-than-light speed, which would cause problems for the Theory of Special Relativity, upon which much of our present understanding of physics relies. Professional science treats this as matter for great skepticism, and we will, I'm sure, be seeing a number of carefully constructed experiments conducted and analyzed before any conclusions are reached that will either confirm or challenge the Theory of Special Relativity on those grounds.

As important and valuable as this type of science is, it has obvious limitations. For one thing, there simply isn't time to apply these methods to all aspects of our lives. We need folk empiricism to get by--to find a good babysitter, to buy food safe from contaminants, to accept a "good" job offer, to pick a good date movie. Even just to confirm rather simple empirical observations, such as "The sun is shining outside my window."

We make decisions such as these with some combination of reason and observation, add in a bit of gut feeling, and hope for the best. We try not to delude ourselves that we aren't putting our trust where it doesn't belong--if we're especially honest and courageous we might examine the flaws in our judgement from past decisions and see if we can find where the distortion lies, but this is not science in anywhere near the same sense as discovering the helical nature of DNA or deriving the combined gas law. Everyday knowledge, that is, employs a great deal of reason and empiricism, but lacks a number of characteristics that professional science is typified by: quantification of terms, articulation of a hypothesis, isolation of variables, experimental design, gathering of data, and applying the "null hypothesis" (where a scientist questions his or her own assumptions by asking how the data might also support a contrary hypothesis.)

The second, and more profound, limitation of professional science as a source of all knowledge is that so much of what we "know" is subjective. We know that we like Woody Allen movies, that we hate humid weather, that we trust certain politicians, are creeped out by spiders, and sexually aroused by (let's say) damsels in distress. The best science can do, here, is verify what we already know firsthand, or will come to know. It cannot contradict this knowledge. No brain scan can tell you, while you are in the heights of delight, or apprehension, or disgust, that you actually feel something other than what you feel, or that you believe other than what you believe. And these too, are important types of knowledge, that we can't do without--they are every bit "facts about the world," just as much as the corresponding states of our neural activity that might be observed by a third party are also facts.   

We cannot have "science" both ways as it pleases us. We cannot on the one hand call Intelligent Design, or homeopathy, or telekinesis, or climate change skepticism "unscientific," and in the same breath say, as PZ Myers has done, that courting one's wife is doing science: The methods and rigor (or lack of same) in each case are the same. What is needed is to determine where folk empiricism is appropriate, and where it is not.

***

Coyne's post is a commentary on an earlier post by Jason Rosenhouse, who writes to object that philosopher Michael Ruse has recently unfairly accused biologist David Barash of scientism. Rosenhouse's defense is nearly as silly as Coyne's, but has the virtue of being problematic in slightly more interesting ways. After a frivolous annexation of Rosenhouse's own field, mathematics, yielding "scienceandmathematicism*" as the One True Epistemology, Rosenhouse's principal objection to Ruse is that instead of scientism, what he really means is positivism:
Even if we take that at face value, [Ruse's article is] a refutation of positivism, not scientism. The issue before us is not whether we can make meaningful but nonscientific statements about the world. Moral statements are only a refutation of scientism if you assert that we can learn their truth values by some method that isn't scientific. From the way Ruse phrased this paragraph, it seems clear that he sees it as a statement of opinion, not of fact, that the authorities should be ashamed of themselves in this case. At least in this case, then, he is not asserting that we can have knowledge of, as opposed to strong opinions about, the truth or falsity of moral assertions.
The move Rosenhouse makes here is the very move that makes scientism plausible in the first place (and he's right that there is a direct lineage to positivism), re-defining "knowledge" as "scientifically verified knowledge," making scientism true by virtue of a tautology. This is nothing less than linguistic imperialism, and it is on these grounds that most of scientism''s critics are moved to object to it, myself included.

Such a theory of knowledge is, unfortunately, deeply embedded in mainstream analytic philosophy, most strains of which formally define "knowledge" as a "justified true belief" (JTB). Such a phrasing has a veneer of respectability to it (oh, well if it's justified, then!), but even over the course of its short history this veneer has been laid bare in enough places to expose the rather shoddy construction underneath. Brandon Watson had a post at Siris a couple of years ago critiquing the myth of the timelessness of JTB theory, which he recapitulated on a comment thread at John Wilkins' Evolving Thoughts.

In response, John, citing Quine, reiterated his assertion that "knowledge is a species of belief." But if we take this seriously, it seems to trivialize both concepts. For example, to comment on an illustration by Quine, I can state that I “know” there are no such "things" as Homeric gods, but I also know a great deal “about” the Homeric gods. What is the role of belief in all of this? If it is just that I believe other people told certain stories, then technically my knowledge implies a belief in the fact that these stories were actually told, but it’s hard to see why anyone would ever want to consult or invoke this belief. The question gets even more trivial when we ask what Homer believed he wrote about the Homeric gods (or what Apollonius Rhodius, Ovid, et al, believed they wrote). Such belief has little to no bearing on the meaning or value of these stories—or on the structure of their content.

I propose that the formulation opposite to John's is true. That we "know" things, first, before we believe them. This accords with Brandon's reportage of Locke's view of knowledge as "perception of the agreement or the disagreement between two ideas." To have an idea of something is to know it; the greater we can articulate the properties of it, the better we know it. Belief then follows as a secondary concern. How dedicated are we to an idea, once articulated? I can know a great deal about The Austrian School of Economics, or Epicurianism, or Moral Error Theory, without believing they represent all that much that is true. My belief is a higher order of perception, then, because it attempts to integrate what I know into some kind of coherent picture.

Such a view of knowledge allows us to be much more creative and playful about how we talk about the things that matter. If we can "know about" before we decide that we "know that," we have a huge repository of metaphors to help explicate difficult concepts. (I consider it an open question whether Friedrich Kekule would ever have discovered the ring structure of benzene if he did not "know" the myth of Ouroborus.)

But mythic or metaphorical knowledge is not merely instrumentally important. It is part of the natural way we think about things, which is why literature remains such an important part of our culture. There are things we will always best understand in their guise as stories and dramas, even if later we may try to generalize from them with moral reasoning. This is why it is so alarming that in the case of an extreme scientism like Atkins', we are seriously asked to consider that poetry (or literature generally) can offer us "delight," but not "comprehension." It is a minor relief to this alarm to see that when the chips are down in the contest between poetic and literal knowledge (needless though it be) even such a one as Atkins finds it proper and wise to adopt the language of metaphor--of poetry--over "brute fact" to best make his case.




*Can two play this game? I counter-propose "sciencemathpoetryhistoryalchemymusicmysticismliterarytheorydialecticaestheticsismadvaitism"?

Monday, November 07, 2011

On Not Talking About It

[I delivered this piece at Lucky Pierre’s “What We Don’t Talk About,” a 12-hour continuous presentation on the War in Afghanistan, in Chicago, on November 5, 2011. Have a read, you might learn something.]

If the basic story of the Afghanistaniad is to be believed, the facts are as follows:  some 3,200 years ago, in October 2001 by the old Gregorian calendar, a prince of the Kingdom of Wilusa, named Alaksandu, came over the seas to a land called The United States to claim the lesbian daughter of the Viceroy Dick Cheney. This daughter had been promised to Alaksandu by the goddess Ishtar, or Ashtar, in exchange for a golden apple, the present-day whereabouts of which are currently unknown.

Thus began a bloody 14-year war that claimed many of the most promising warriors and princes of both sides, laying waste to vast and ancient olive groves and opium poppy plantations, and driving terror into the hearts of villagers and townspeople across the Hindu Kush. Terror became a fact of life, perhaps the defining fact of life, perpetrated by a people trying to put up a barricade against their own terror, the terror of having a Babylonian goddess give away your daughters for no reason--or worse than no reason: vain, reactive, thoughtless reason. The terror of vicissitude, of bad luck, or of immortal sociopaths who can neither be stopped nor succored.

Today you have heard many stories from that epic war, how George Bush, the son of George Bush, sacker of cities, poured salt into the furrows of his mesquite plantation, so that the war council would surmise he was unfit for battle, How the boastful General Stanley McChrystal pouted in his tent for days after Barack Obama, deadly archer, seized for himself the war prize slave girl Briseus. You have heard of the conversation that strong-greaved Pat Tillman had with his horse, Xanthus, before leading the Myrmidons into battle, during which Xanthus prophesied the warrior's death from friendly fire, and how the Furies punished Xanthus by striking him dumb on the spot. How in the battle of Wanat, the Waigal River became so affronted by the number of dead piling up between her banks, that she personally appealed to the United Nations for relief, forcing David Petreus, son of Sixtus, to order the destruction of the United Nations with Hellfire missiles launched from rosy-fingered drones, killing everyone inside, including the Waigal River herself. Once considered fanciful, these tales are today regarded as perhaps the best historical document of this period. And yet, even as history, these stories must be given a kind of context. Why should we care—we, with our teleportation machines, our rocket ship public transportation systems, our single unit washer and dryers, our climate controlled pantsuits, our tricorders and phasers—why should we care what happened in a war that ended over three millennia ago?

A contemporary writer from around the time the Afghanistaniad was composed, Simone Weil, who we believe may have been a Queen or regent of a state called either “DeGaulle” or “Bon Appetit,” had this to say. Please note that while we don't know with certainty what this work she calls "the Iliad" refers to, the best scholarship suggests it must have been some kind of precursor to the Afghanistaniad that all of our children know so well today. Queen Simone writes:
The true hero, the real subject, the core of the Iliad, is force. That force which is wielded by men rules over them, and before it man’s flesh cringes. The human soul never ceases to be modified by its encounter with force, swept on, blinded by that which it believes itself able to handle, bowed beneath the power of that which it suffers. Those who dreamt that force, thanks to progress, belonged henceforth to the past, have been able to see its living witness in this poem: those who know how to discern force throughout the ages, there at the heart of every human testament, find here its most beautiful, most pure of mirrors.
If I may enter a side note from my own research, later in the text, the Queen refers to a book or series of books she calls "The Gospels." These, too have been lost to us, and while most scholars today regard “The Gospels” as some kind of sex manual or pillow book, it is our belief that these manuals were never actually written down at all, but were rather a loose, orally transmitted song cycle, performed by wandering bards and troubadours, each of whom added his or her own signature feats of sexual congress to the recitation.

The text continues:
The progress of war in the Iliad is simply a continual game of seesaw. The victor of the moment feels himself invincible, even though only a few hours before he may have experienced defeat; he forgets to treat victory as a transitory thing. At the end of the first day of combat described in the Iliad, the victorious Greeks were in a position to obtain the object of all their efforts, i.e. Helen and her riches. That evening, the Greeks are no longer interested in her or her possessions.
“For the present, let us not accept the riches of Paris
Nor Helen; everybody sees, even the most ignorant,
That Troy stands on the verge of ruin,”
He spoke and all the Acheans acclaimed him.
What they want is, in fact, everything. For booty, all the riches of Troy; for their bonfires, all the palaces, temples, houses; for slaves, all the women and children, for corpses, all the men.

The auditors of the Iliad knew that the death of Hector would be but a brief joy to Achilles, and the death of Achilles a brief joy to the Trojans, and the destruction of Troy but a brief joy to the Achaeans. Thus violence obliterates anybody who feels its touch. The conquered brings misfortune to the conqueror, and vice versa.
How tragically this echoes the themes we see treated in that much more famous poem, the Afghanistaniad, not to mention—for those unable to ignore them—recent developments of our own war-torn time, some three millennia later.

We believe that the year Queen Simone wrote these words, the year 1940 by the Gregorian Calendar, was a time of great peace for the nation of Bon Appetit and her neighbors. But we know from fragments of another epic poem called the Annamiad or Vietnamiad, that this could not last. I would like to close with a recently discovered musical fragment of that latter poem—please excuse me while I see if I I can get this ancient 3,000 year old technology to operate properly. This device was called “Your Tube,” which we believe refers to the Eustachian tube in the middle ear, reflecting the fashion of the time for music to sound as though one was hearing it from deep within a long hallway, warm and dark, and covered with fine and sensitive hairs.  


Song for the Corpses
Trinh Cong Son

Dead bodies float along the river
They lie in the rice fields, soaked in sunlight
On the rooftops of the city
On the winding, tortuous streets

Dead bodies lying around aimlessly
Beneath the verandas of pagodas
Within the churches of the city
At the doorstep of deserted houses

Oh, Spring, the corpses deliver a scent to the rice paddies
Oh, Vietnam, the corpses breathe life into tomorrow’s soil
The path forward, though full of treacherous obstacles
Because humans have already resided here

Dead bodies lying around here
Beneath the cold, pattering rain
Beside the dead bodies of the old and weak
Lie the dead bodies of the young and innocent

Which body is the body of my sibling?
Within this dark cave
Within the scorched areas
Beside the maize and sweet potato fields.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

On Jubilation

Via Naked Capitalism, this extremely interesting interview with anthropologist David Graeber about the historical development of money, credit, and debt. He begins with the standard story in economics that money was invented to replace an unwieldy barter system:

[This] story goes back at least to Adam Smith and in its own way it’s the founding myth of economics. Now, I’m an anthropologist and we anthropologists have long known this is a myth simply because if there were places where everyday transactions took the form of: “I’ll give you twenty chickens for that cow,” we’d have found one or two by now

[... ]

Think about what they’re saying here – basically: that a bunch of Neolithic farmers in a village somewhere, or Native Americans or whatever, will be engaging in transactions only through the spot trade. So, if your neighbor doesn’t have what you want right now, no big deal. Obviously what would really happen, and this is what anthropologists observe when neighbors do engage in something like exchange with each other, if you want your neighbor’s cow, you’d say, “wow, nice cow” and he’d say “you like it? Take it!” – and now you owe him one. Quite often people don’t even engage in exchange at all – if they were real Iroquois or other Native Americans, for example, all such things would probably be allocated by women’s councils.

[...]

So really, rather than the standard story – first there’s barter, then money, then finally credit comes out of that – if anything its precisely the other way around. Credit and debt comes first, then coinage emerges thousands of years later and then, when you do find “I’ll give you twenty chickens for that cow” type of barter systems, it’s usually when there used to be cash markets, but for some reason – as in Russia, for example, in 1998 – the currency collapses or disappears.

[...]

But once you understand that taxes and money largely begin with war it becomes easier to see what really happened. After all, every Mafiosi understands this. If you want to take a relation of violent extortion, sheer power, and turn it into something moral, and most of all, make it seem like the victims are to blame, you turn it into a relation of debt. “You owe me, but I’ll cut you a break for now…” Most human beings in history have probably been told this by their debtors. And the crucial thing is: what possible reply can you make but, “wait a minute, who owes what to who here?” And of course for thousands of years, that’s what the victims have said, but the moment you do, you are using the rulers’ language, you’re admitting that debt and morality really are the same thing.
(This last paragraph aligns nicely with a point made by Alan Watts in his 1968 essay "Wealth Versus Money." When the government prints money, instead of properly calling it credit, we immediately redefine it as debt:
No one goes into debt except in an emergency;  and therefore prosperity depends on maintaining the perpetual emergency of war. We are reduced, then, to the suicidal expedient of inventing wars when, instead we could simply have invented money.
We were still on the "gold standard" when Watts wrote this. The "Nixon Shock" that ended the Bretton Woods system in 1971, was precipitated, in part, by the enormous expense of the Vietnam War.)

The interview is worth reading in its entirely. One of Graeber's main points is that modern capitalism has found a way to opt out of a historical cyclical pattern attenuating between credit and currency--a cycle which periodically breaks the hold of creditors over debtors with debt forgiveness (the Israelite jubilee, and Babylonian clean slate) or with social injunctions against usury (medieval Islam and Christianity.)  Our present direction is precisely the opposite: we now insist that all monetary debts are sacrosanct and must always be paid in full. Not only does this point to an ultimate form of virtual slavery for the mass of humanity, but it violates one of the important axioms of social debt (from which our concept of financial debt has arisen): that forgiveness is often essential for harmonious social relations.

The comments are great, too.




Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Reliable Wonder

Shorter Jerry Coyne:

I'm not a Logical Positivist, I just believe that all truth claims are scientific.

Shorter PZ Myers:

I, too, believe that all truth claims are scientific. Also, there is no such thing as math. And computers are empirical.

(These remarks in response to Andrew Brown's criticism of Harold Kroto's remark that "Science is the only philosophical construct we have to determine TRUTH with any degree of reliability." (His CAPS). A few months ago another scientist, Peter Atkins, put forth the same sort of view on the BBC, in a short discussion with philosopher Mary Midgley, who quickly boxed him into a corner. After she pointed out that science's revealed truths were actually relatively small in relation (and subservience) to the truths that concerned humanity the most, the dialogue concluded as follows:

Atkins: But it adds wonder to it.
Midgley: That was there before.
Atkins: But this is reliable wonder.

At which point the moderator quickly ends the discussion before things can get any sillier.

[UPDATE: John Wilkins writes, on this topic:
Now there are those who think that science effectively exhausts our knowledge-gathering. This, too, is a philosophical position, which has to be defended, and elaborated (thus causing more philosophy to be done). I don’t object to that view, but for me, it is better to be positive (say that science gives us knowledge even if other activities may do) than to be negative (deny that anything but science gives us knowledge). It may be that we get to the latter position after considering the former; if so, that would be a philosophical result. (my emphasis in bold)]

Monday, April 18, 2011

Amod Lele on Humility in Science

I like a lot of the things Amod Lele says here about the Humbler Than Thou stance taken in the conflict of religion and science. Of course anyone who attempts to claim the mantle of humility immediately puts herself in a thorny spot.

Carl Sagan, whose Demon Haunted World Lele highlights in his post, partially dodges this issue by asserting in that book not his own humility, but that of his tribe, the scientists, but I think the effect is the same. (Epimenides, remember, didn't claim that he was a liar, specifically, but rather that all Cretans were.) In particular, I am inclined to be less generous than Lele regarding the following quote, from DHW:
I maintain that science is part and parcel humility. Scientists do not seek to impose their needs and wants on Nature, but instead humbly interrogate Nature and take seriously what they find.
This has a mythical flavor to it, that I don't think is borne out by the actual spirit and practice of science. Is it really humble to desire to know the secrets and regularities of nature, in order to render it more predictable, and thus easier to tame and control? Is it humble to build underground caverns the size of a small city, in order to smash particles together at immense speeds? To perform medical research on animals so that humans might be, for a time, spared the ravages of disease? To send manned spacecraft, and unmanned probes, to other planets? To test, develop, and mass produce synthetic materials whose brief usefulness is eclipsed by their long lifespan as detritus (think of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, twice the size of Texas.) To genetically engineer crops and livestock?

I am not anti-science; not wholesale, anyway. I don't argue here against the potential benefit of many of these endeavors. But to my ear, "humble interrogation" is just the wrong word for them. And I would argue that in few other areas of life do we "impose our needs and wants on Nature" with as much brio as we do in the scientific arena; our needs and wants not just to understand nature, but to master it, to perhaps even outwit it. A position farther from humility would be difficult to stake out.

Sagan was sincere, I think, in his belief that science was humble, as are, surely, most if not all of advocates for science today. And it's true that the best scientists are always prepared to find themselves in the wrong. Every now and again a scientist will even express the hope that his hypothesis is overthrown, and you can't get much more humble than that. But for each one of these, how many feeding frenzies, such as the one Jerry Fodor stirred up with his recent book critiquing natural selection (which is not to defend his thesis in that book, though the response was instructive.)

Humility isn't everything. Sometimes what is called for is self assertion, sometimes bared teeth. The question is whether, where humility is a virtue, it is in any more ready supply in scientific communities than religious ones (or, since the world not is not actually divided in merely two, in artistic ones, political ones, historical ones, literary ones, etc.) Lele shows that Sagan needs some pretty creative bookkeeping to make his point, by personifying Science. Because of the tenacity and arrogance of a Galileo, for example, "Science" gets the credit for revising its picture of the cosmos from geocentrism to heliocentrism. And while science may, as Sagan claims, bestow its highest laurels on "those who convincingly disprove established beliefs," there are a lot of stops along the way where the incentives run in the opposite direction. You don't make your career by conceding other people's theories.

The basic point being that science is participated in by humans, just as religion is, and it is hard (and not always wise) for humans to be humble. There should be no shibboleth here. Let each tend to his own garden.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Flatland of Dreams

—For the second time in a week, Jerry Coyne, a secular Jew, has blamed the Shoah on ...  Judaism. On April 1st he wrote, in the context of the recent massacre in Mazar-i-Sharif, that Anne Frank was killed "because of religion." When a commenter challenged this idea, Coyne responded, tersely, "Jews are a religion, not a 'race'." Then, yesterday, he blithley caricatured the (correct) view that not all conflicts involving religion are about religion:
We’re all familiar with those people who claim that ... while religion may seem to be involved in today’s horrors and evils, when you look deeper ... you’ll ultimately find the real causes.  The Protestant/Catholic fracas in Northern Ireland?  A historical squabble—religion was just a “label” for political opponents.  The persecution of Galileo?  A civil and political affair, not involving faith.  The institutionalized slaughter of the Jews during World War II? Well, the Nazis needed a scapegoat somewhere. (my emphasis in bold.)
The notion that Nazi antisemitism was a "religious" matter is, of course, utterly unhistorical; the kind of non-fact one is used to hearing from people like Ann Coulter. The Nazis were concerned with Judaism as a racial phenomenon, not a theological one. The Nuremburg Laws were very clear in defining Jewishness along bloodlines. Even the descendants of Jews who had converted to Christianity in generations past were considered as Jews, and marked for extermination. And while Jews were killed in larger numbers by far than any other group, they were not of course the only victims of the Reich. The Nazis killed Poles for being Poles, Roma for being Roma, homosexuals for being gay, political leftists, the disabled, and many more, adding up to several millions of victims.

There was one group that was persecuted on strictly religious grounds: the Jehovah's witnesses. Unlike Jews, they were allowed to escape persecution by renouncing their faith. In this sense, Coyne is close to being correct—a relatively small percentage of the Nazis' victims were killed "because of religion." But the point is a perverse one. Religion "caused" the death of some 2,500 Jehovah's Witnesses under the Nazis in the same sense that being physically weaker "causes" many women (and several men) to be raped, or that being non-white "causes" one to be disproportionally stopped, harassed, arrested, and jailed. It's just the wrong way to look at causality.

Because Jerry Coyne doesn't value the ideology of Jehovah's Witnesses, or religious Jews, he declares them objectively without value: extraneous, moribund. If these ideologies were absent, there would be no conflict, no bloodshed. Things will be better when we all cleave to the same metaphysical certainties, without dissent or pluralism. Sam Harris makes the case for this state of affairs in The Moral Landscape. Marcuse called such a society "One Dimensional." With less subtlety we could call it hegemonic.

Louis Ruprecht has a piece at Religion Dispatches on the recent study proposing mathematical models to explain the impending extinction of religion, in which he makes an excellent comment on the authors' invocation of enlightened self-interest ("utility") in one's choice of language, and, by extension, religion:
Deliberations over “status” in a colonial context are not matters of utility; they’re exercises in power. [Choosing to speak] Spanish or Quechua was a political decision as much as anything; a decision to accept or reject the new imperial order. Those who chose the more difficult bi-lingual option were often enormously useful as translators, though often deeply unhappy since they effectively belonged nowhere—no longer native and not quite imperial was their tragic new location.
From the point of view of mathematics, it's easy to interpret social change as a function of competing options in the marketplace of ideas, where the fittest wins. The study of social sciences—history, philosophy, anthropology, even literary criticism—is a needed counterweight to this view. It is easy to forget that power and privilege always regard themselves as rightful and inevitable. We abhor "might makes right" as an abstract principle, but in the real world we endorse it every time we neglect to ask if what is happening around us is what should be happening. To describe our moral choices as matters of "utility" gets us nowhere, since we can always rationalize the course of history as furthering the good of something.

The tragedy of social monopoly—hegemony—is patently obvious in the case of the loss of our linguistic diversity (the capitulation of countless indigenous languages to colonial usurpers), making it a strange analogy for the authors of the extinction-of-religion paper to employ. Even in John Lennon's warm and fuzzy formulation, the idea of the world "living as one," with "nothing to kill or die for," has always had a very chilling (and ultimately boring) monotonic quality to it. Lennon, ironically, was a deeply iconoclastic man, who would not have lived comfortably in the "Borg Collective" milieu conjured in his song (another image suggested by the song is, also ironically, the Christian heaven).

Our task on this planet is surely not to end conflict. Manage it, as best we can, yes, but not end it. The call to celebrate ideological diversity is no more a platitude than the call to celebrate, and preserve, genetic diversity. It's more like recognition of a law of nature. Hegemony has never yet ruled the day, and likely never will. It takes two to tango, and, as Emma Goldman is supposed to have said, a revolution without dancing is not a revolution worth having.

Friday, April 01, 2011

Maybe Michael Ruse is onto something

One main problem with bias and projection is that it inclines one to believe almost anything without taking time to understand the facts.

Today in Afghanistan, the UN compound in Mazar-i-Sharif was overrun by rioters, who massacred at least a dozen, and as many as 20 people, including several UN workers. Details are still sketchy and forthcoming. Most reports mention that the mob was protesting the recent burning of a Quran by Florida pastor Terry Jones, but in a statement following the attack, UN spokesman Dan McNorton said the situation was “still confusing.” Early press reports after a catastrophe are almost always distorted and incomplete, and we still have a lot to learn about what happened today in Mazar-i-Sharif.

These sketchy details were apparently enough for Jerry Coyne to conclude, less than an hour after the first reports, that “religion” killed those slaughtered there, and that in a world without faith they would still be alive. Coyne then writes:
Can anybody attribute this faith-inflamed murder to mere xenophobia—something that would have occurred anyway had there not been faith? I think not.
Those last words may be more revealing than he means them to be. Let’s imagine, for a moment, that the United States is not the world’s sole superpower, but a small, resource-poor country with the bad fortune to be located on the doorstep of some of the world’s most strategically desirable locations. Let’s further imagine that the United States was currently playing host to the latest in a centuries-long chain of occupiers, a powerful nation, viscerally antagonistic to many of the US’s more popular social movements. It might be helpful to imagine this occupier as Nazi Germany, or the Soviet Union--or the much-feared New Caliphate one hears about in certain circles.

Now imagine that, several years into this occupation, a renegade party member or cleric burns the  foundational documents of the United States as a piece of agitprop. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and perhaps “Common Sense” and some of the Federalist Papers, all of which are held by this party member or cleric and his followers to wield the most demonic influence on world affairs. Nothing much happens at first, but over time, protests are organized, at town meetings, and in union halls. Some of the rhetoric at these meetings gets heated--perhaps because of the conscious and organized agitation of American ultra-Nationalists, who want to throw off the occupation by any means necessary, or perhaps just because of a spontaneous eruption of emotion. The crowds get stirred up, someone suggests a march on a local outpost. The march turns violent. The outpost is stormed, and several civilians assisting in the occupation are killed. Not a single one of the assailants was religious.

Implausible? The fact is that we just don’t know what combination of factors contributed to today’s rampage. Perhaps without religion it would not, could not have happened. I’m very doubtful of this. But we know for sure it could not have happened if the assailants did not have a sense of outrage, or indignation, a capacity for aggression, or the ability to be moved to action by stirring rhetoric. These are neither good nor evil human qualities in themselves, but how many of us would want to be rid of them? Where are the blog posts speaking out against these dispositions?

This is not, it should be clear, to defend or excuse today’s massacre. Those civilian UN workers did not deserve to die, no matter what the rectitude of the occupation of Afghanistan (or lack thereof), no matter what the actions of a demented preacher in Gainesville (whose church has been designated as a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center.) It is simply to militate against an easy reduction of causes for human behavior, especially when those causes are imputed to come only form outside your own in-group. How easy to say, with Steven Weinberg, that “for good people to do bad things, that takes religion.” How hard to actually account for this causality. How do we explain the restraint of the billion or so Muslims who managed not to kill anyone in retribution for Quran burning?

***

In the end, it’s not fully clear that Coyne has even worked out what he means when he talks about the baleful effect of religion and faith.  At the end of his post he invokes Anne Frank, who was also, he writes, “killed because of religion.” What could this possibly mean? Judaism was an ethnic problem to the Nazis, not a dispositional one. A “cultural jew” like Coyne would be just as vulnerable to be rounded up as the most fervent rabbi. And even if the Nazis had cared about the devotional sincerity of their prey, how is it not blaming the victim to say that religion was the cause of Frank’s death, and six million others? We can make all sorts of statements along these lines that have no ethical justification whatsoever. If there had been no Native Americans, for example, there could have been no genocide of Native Americans by Europeans. Does that, too, make them responsible for their own extermination?

There’s been a lot of righteous indignation over Michael Ruse’s recent comparison of neo-atheism to the Tea Party. Maybe on the whole the comparison is unfair. it’s certainly rash. But rushing out to blame a massacre on “religious faith” before the dust has even settled, and then implicitly blaming the victims of the holocaust for their own destruction, these are just as scurrilous as anything in the Fox News playbook. After so many instances of this kind of shallow, reactionary, sensationalist, poorly researched, and outright bigoted analysis of the relationship of religion and society, we have to ask why anyone of any reputation would want to ally themselves with its purveyors at all.

***

UPDATE: Here's Juan Cole on the Mazar-i-Sharif riots:
I think Afghan intellectuals and leaders know that Terry Jones is a minor nut job. But this issue allows some of them to organize to protest the over 100,000 US troops in their country, which is really what they are objecting to.

The decision of the Obama administration to do wide-ranging counter-insurgency rather than targeted counter-terrorism in Afghanistan has left that country full of frustrations with the US heavy footprint.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

History is over, if you want it

A recent paper by is making the rounds, concluding that religion is heading for "extinction" in certain parts of the world. Having built up half a head of steam to write a few words on it I see that Brandon Watson has beat me to much of what I was going to say. (See also John Wilkins and John Pieret, though whom I originally became aware of it).

In brief, the paper, by Daniel M. Abrams, Haley A. Yaple, and Richard J. Wiener, argues that it can be mathematically demonstrated that current declines in religious affiliation in several secular democracies will trend to zero in coming years, owing to the same sort of diminishing returns one sees when fewer and fewer people speak a traditional language (e.g. Quechua).

Brandon begins with the most immediate and obvious objection that religious affiliation is not coextensive with religious belief or observation. To underscore this, I would note the commenter on the BBC website who writes "I don't see the decline of religion to be a particularly bad thing. And I say this as a Born-again follower of Jesus."

We should keep in mind that the study relies on census data to track membership in a religion. This data is probably accurate enough as far as it goes (despite complicating factors like the Jedi Census phenomenon), but it primarily measures social labels, not belief or practice. There is. obviously, a widespread discouragement with "organized religion" in the West, though in it sell this no more signals a disinterest in religion or spirituality than the rise of the political "Independent" in the US signals a disinterest in politics.

I have a little bit more trouble with Brandon's second point, that the authors of the study don't really mean what they say when they suggest religion will trend to zero, because their conclusions are based on an overly idealized model. He writes that their conclusions
should really should be understood to be qualified by "if no significant countervailing factors arise." (The authors are quite above-board about the fact that they are abstracting from things that could have real effect -- this is an 'assume a cow is a perfect sphere' sort of exercise, to get an idealized model that is at least reasonably close to serve as a starting point for further work.)
True, they are "above-board" about the fact that they are eliding any complicating factors, but only deep within the bowels of the paper. In the summary, introduction, and conclusion, they clearly imply that their model validates to the real world, writing, for example, that the "data suggest a particular case of our general growth law, leading to clear predictions about possible future trends in society." (Namely, the "continued growth of non-affiliation, tending toward the disappearance of religion.") This is an extremely strong claim, which the authors take few pains to qualify with disclaimers that it is a preliminary finding.

When we talk about idealized theories that are later subject to fine tuning on the particulars, we usually don't have in mind the kinds of fine tuning that completely shatter the premises of the theory. Copernicus and Galileo, for example, theorized that the earth travelled around the sun in a circular orbit. The math didn't work out, because, as Kepler showed, this orbit was actually an ellipse, not a perfect circle. But the main point, that the earth was not the stationary center of the universe, proved sound.

The main point of Abrams et al is that religion is subject to being driven to extinction by secularism in a Darwinian contest. This presupposes at least two major things that are not controlled for in the study:

(1) That people choose (and cleave to) their religion for its "perceived utility."
(2) That adherence to religion in the general sense can be extrapolated from individual instances, like Catholicism.

Brandon writes that he finds the first assumption plausible (though insufficient.) This seems to me quite an understatement. Granted, there are numerous historical cases of people converting for self-interested reasons. In the 16th century, the upper classes in the Balkans, for example, living under the Ottomans, were able to get a far more favorable tax rate if they converted to Islam, which large numbers of them did. And there is at least one case of even a putative Messiah, Sabbatai Zevi, converting from Judaism to Islam to save his neck, in 1666.

But for the model of Abrams et al to work, this motive has to function at the exclusion of all others. This requires stretching the concept of "perceived utility" so that it is all-encompassing. How to explain the martyrdom of so many of the early Christians, when it would have been so much easier to go along as a pagan? We can invoke the rewards of the afterlife in this case, perhaps, but only at the price of the presumption of Darwinian zero-sum competition between social groups. Similar problems are presented by the Falun Gong in China, the Crypto-Jews in Spain and the New World, and myriad similar cases. If "perceived utility" is allowed to become a placeholder for "the rationale for whatever people ultimately decide to do," it loses much, if not all, of its predictive power.

Metaphysical beliefs, whether "religious" or not, indicate one's orientation to the profoundest truths, whether that means that the universe is meaningless, that earthly life is all there is, that there is a loving god, a natural order, that "all is one," that there is an eternal return, or that a race of immortals mocks us from on high. Brandon is absolutely correct to suggest that, under pressure, these beliefs are subject to modulation. Some of these pressures are private--we can "lose our faith" or "get religion." Some are social, as in Brandon's example of anti-Catholic legislation, though I think he overstates this influence on actual beliefs and observances, as opposed to publicly visible religious identification. But "perceived utility" cannot be the primary driver of these beliefs, as I think would become clearer to the authors if they would inquire into their own reasons for believing as they do.

The second assumption is harder to parse, mostly because the very concept of "religion" itself is such a recent one. There is no secular/religious divide in most pre-modern societies. The Greeks had no cognate for it, nor the Chinese. Pascal Boyer goes so far as to suggest there is really no such one thing as "religion," and I while I think the term still has a lot of value,  I think Boyer's argument is helpful in pointing out just how many disparate social forms are subsumed in a single word. In a passage that demonstrates just how greatly their work could have benefited with a greater intimacy with the history and sociology of religion, Abrams et al write
We speculate that for most of human history, the perceived utility of religion was high and of non-affiliation low. Religiously non-affiliated people persisted but in small numbers. With the birth of modern secular societies, the perceived utility of adherence to religion versus non-affiliation has changed significantly in numerous countries[11], such as those with census data shown in Fig. 1, and the United States, where non-affiliation is growing rapidly[18].
There's no need to speculate. This account bears little resemblance to the actual history of religious belief and observance.  It's important to note here two things: the alleged existence, in "small numbers" of a quasi-atheist vanguard waiting since the beginning of history for the "birth of modern secular societies" to give rise to the conditions of their ascendance, and (2) the implicit fealty among the religiously affiliated, at the time of this birth, not just to their own beliefs but to "religion" itself. Dennett calls this phenomena "belief in belief," a phrase that only makes sense if you subscribe to the notion that to be secular is to have no faith at all--to believe in nothing for which you have no evidence. This is the "post-metaphysical" myth ginned up by the logical positivists a century ago, and still embraced by those in the thrall of the "Conflict Thesis" (among whose number would appear to be the authors of this study), wherein science and reason are the crucibles of truth, and religion is the sum of all the delusional impurities waiting to be boiled away.

I've said more on this elsewhere. I mention it now only to show the unfortunate influence of the Conflict Thesis on Abrams et al's reasoning, leading them to suggest there is something exceptional and irreversible about the transition in Western Europe from Christianity to secular modernism, something that makes it different from  (for example) the transition from paganism to Christianity. The authors predict not just the inevitable extinction of the local religion, but the extinction of Religion, period. This would imply that the conditions favoring the perceived utility of secularism, are not, like every ideological movement that preceded it, subject to ebb under the influence of some future scheme--that secularism is not merely non-religious, but post-religious. This assumption may in fact be true, but there is no explanation for it in the authors' model.

Finally, a short word on the strange passivity of Abrams et al's approach to the phenomenon of social change. The existence of religion and secularism are no doubt valuable, in differing ratios, to the readers of their paper, all of whom comprise part of the social ecology that would contribute to the "perceived utility" of adhering to these allegedly competing groups. If the authors had written on the decline of trade unionism in the West over the last half century, and predicted, either blithely or wistfully, its ultimate demise, would we nod sagely at the accuracy of the modeling? Or would we remember that as stakeholders in our own society we can participate in its direction, through rhetoric, political action, economic action, and a number of other social modes (including the writing of scientific papers)? Culture and society are a conversation we have, not a movie or slide show we passively watch. Predicting its trajectory is fine for Vegas oddsmakers, but the rest of us can never have too many reminders that the world is not just the aggregate of what other people do. There is no person named “Society” whose behavior we can observe from behind a two-way mirror. I have no serious problem with the secularization of Europe, nor, depending on how you conceive it, with the end of religion as we know it. But any prediction of what is going to happen by our own collective hand, for good or ill, that doesn’t take into account the facts of agency or intention, is of very dubious worth.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

On pausing to grab a robe for the Emperor

Russell Blackford and Jean Kazez are brandishing competing denouments to the "Emperor's New Clothes," fleshing out what might happen after the brave innocent child says out loud that the Emperor is actually naked. In Kazez's version, meant to analogize what she sees as an over-emphasis on truth without regard for social relations (politics), the brave innocent child inspires a degraded second-tier response among the other children, who somewhat boorishly point out that the Emperor is not only naked, but also tubby to boot. In Blackford's version, meant to warn against a dangerous obsequity to social status, the brave innocent child is shouted down by the adults, who tell her she must never speak certain truths.

I've never liked the analogy of the Emperor's non-existent clothes to religion's supposed non-existent empirical underpinnings (and not just for the obvious reason that a great deal of what goes under the name "religion" does not aspire to empirical truth in the same way that science or history do.) I think the analogy does violence to the story, which (in the Anderson version) is a fable about vanity, not ignorance. The Emperor is able to be so easily swindled because he greedily desires the finest possible garments, and because he desires to maintain his Imperial station even when he appears to himself unfit to rule (inability to see the garments being putative evidence of lack of discernment). The irony is that it is his vanity that makes him unfit to rule. His senses don't deceive him, nor his reason; his insecurity does.

Furthermore, while we, the readers of the tale, know that the King has been deceived, the brave innocent child does not, and cares not. Nor has she heard the lie that not seeing the non-existent clothes is evidence of foolishness. She only knows that he is naked. This simplicity is what makes her innocent, and also what makes her a bad model for any thoughtful social critic, who we would like to have studied the ways of the world, or at least read some William Blake. (I take this to be Kazez's main point: that while calling a spade a spade has value, all things being equal, it is not always the wisest choice. We blunt, temper, dress up, and postpone the truth for a host of reasons, sometimes legitimate, sometimes less so; truth is one value among many.)

Having said that, I can see why Kazez's story rubs Blackford the wrong way, since she explicitly compares the Incompatiblists to children, and the Compatiblists to grownups. This would come off as undeservedly condescending, if Blackford did not reply--in a voice very much like a child's--that his side was innocent and noble, while the other side is mendacious, simplistic, underhanded, and just mean. (This isn't the first time Blackford has assigned the black and white hats thusly):
As far as I can see, the incivility is generally not coming from people who could be considered part of the New Atheist movement - such as Dawkins, or Ophelia, or maybe Jerry Coyne [...] Most of the mockery, name-calling, gotcha rhetoric, twisting of the truth for effect, adopting outrageous and wildly implausible lies as "Exhibits", and various others forms of downright unfairness actually seem to be coming from such people as Chris Mooney and Josh Rosenau, i.e. people who wish that the Gnus would go away.

What we actually tend to see is reasonably civil, courteous, thoughtful critiques of religion from the Gnus being met with the response that it is so far beyond the pale that it should not be said. Thus, the crucial moment that set off the current round of debates was when Jerry Coyne reviewed two books by religious authors who argued for a compatibility of religion and science. The review was as civil as one could expect from any reviewer who disagrees strongly with key elements of non-fiction books that he or she is reviewing. It was thoughtful, detailed, and followed all the courtesies. See for yourself.

The response from Chris Mooney was that such things should not be said.
Without even getting into particulars, this is a suspect stance. It's human nature that one's argument will appear to oneself as highminded, while one's opponent will seem to be illegitimate and sniping. This is one of the tendencies that the best discourse tries to meet head on, and rise above. The same is true of the position that our arguments are in the spirit of debate, dialogue, truth and inquiry, while our opponents arguments are censorious and scolding. "There is no God, and people should not believe there is," is an opinion which may be supported by rhetoric and logic, just as "Attacking religion in a withering, alienating fashion will have undesired blowback" is an opinion which may be supported by rhetoric and logic. Each can be presented in good, or bad, faith.

To be fair, it's true that Coyne's TNR article was pretty measured and tame. And it's true he was gentle and respectful when addressing that group of Methodist parishioners. But before we take these examples as typical and endorse Coyne's self-congratulation for never having "criticized an evolutionist, writer, or scholar in an ad hominem manner," it's worth taking a quick glance at his blog, where it's hard to find a post that doesn't devolve into ad hom (unless it's about kittens). Starting with the most recent example, earlier this week Coyne called Deepak Chopra (not someone I particuraly admire, but a writer nonetheless) "Deepity Chopra," whose significant wealth he calls "an indictment of America." 

Prior to this he suggests that the critiques ("tripe") of Phil Zuckerman--writer and scholar--are motivated mainly by jealousy of the New Atheists' book sales. Thomas Jackson writes "babble," Mary Midgley is "dumb" and "superannuated" (Coyne loves the 10 cent words Hitchens and Grayling teach him). Elaine Ecklund is a "disingenuous" "Templeton-funded automaton," (regular readers of Coyne's blog will learn that everyone funded by Templeton has been horribly corrupted) Laurie Lebo has "lost neurons," Rob Knop is "mushbrained, and Josh Rosenau has been taken over by a demon. That's just in the last 3 weeks.

Now, I really do mean to be sociological about this. There are numerous fair, interesting and important criticisms to make about religious belief and practice in this world, and I have no interest in stopping anyone from making them. Some I've even made myself. But do we really need to erect a firewall between these criticisms, and similar good-faith criticisms of science, humanism, or enlightenment values? Debate unavoidably divides people into teams, but we can acknowledge this division as a structural artifact, rather than mistaking it for a carving out of ontological categories. If we're interested in truth, dialogue, learning, and similar values, does it really matter so much where the lines are between us and them?

Not that I have any illusions about our ability to reject shibboleths altogether. But we can periodically direct our attention to the high-amperage jolt of human nature that runs through this debate, fueling (in this case) the self-serving myth of the big bad accomodationists trying to stamp out the decent, unimpeachable, eminently rational arguments of the "Gnus." And yes, there's sanctimony and snark to go around on all sides. That crack above about the 10-cent words, for example. That was jerky of me to say. It was and is an obstacle to clear vision and communication, every bit as much as the vanity of the Emperor in Anderson's story was an obstacle to his own clear sight and judgement.

Update I: Jeremy Stangroom, in response to Blackford's post, calls him out for some choice ad homs of his own. His post is more concise than mine, if also slightly more testy.

Update II: Josh Rosenau chimes in:
But when Russell claims in the post linked above that I "wish that the Gnus would go away," he's wrong. I wish they'd make better arguments, ones which engage the peer reviewed literature in the relevant fields, including philosophy of science, philosophy of religion, science/religion studies, metaethics, and even theology. I wish they cited that literature more, and I wish they published their arguments there and engaged with the relevant communities of scholars that way, rather than just through blogs, and TED talks, and mass-market books and magazines. I wish they'd study the literature of social movement theory, and take what lessons can be learned from past efforts to change society and apply that research to their own efforts. I wish they'd lay out some sort of consensus platform, including both big principles and practical changes to be made. I wish they'd work with, rather than against, their most likely allies. I wish they wouldn't drive wedges within the pro-science movement, and would focus their righteous ire on the religious authoritarians who deserve it, or who at least we all agree deserve it most. I don't want them to go away, I want them to be better at what they're trying to do.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Friday, February 11, 2011

Posting shall resume. Don't pluck me from your newsreader feeds just yet, vaqueros.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Finally, Localizing the "View From Nowhere"

 It's in the District of Columbia, of course.

Ned Resnikoff has a nice post on the similarities between modern day positivists like Sam Harris and  the "No Label" movement in the Democratic Party. Both claim, implicitly or otherwise, to transcend ideology. In the case of Harris' The Moral Landscape, the ideology is concealed in the presumption that no sensible person could argue with his definition of the moral imperative (a rather fuzzy advocacy of "human flourishing" which magically aligns with Harris' own moral preferences.)

Similarly, the No Labels people rally under the seemingly pragmatic slogan "Not Right, not Left, but Forward." But the whole point of the argument between right and left is what just what "forward" means. (It depends on which direction you are facing, and where you stand.) Thus politics is supplanted by the pretense that we all want what the Villagers want; namely, a privileged status for financiers and mandarins, paid for by a nobly suffering indentured middle and lower class.

The objection has lately erupted through many a cyber-fissure that science should not be "politicized." Politics, according to this objection, is getting your hands dirty, making unseemly compromises, privileging social concord over truth, which science is supposed to reside above. This is an understandable objection, given the enormous cover this has provided to, well, our political enemies. But the response to this must be to embrace, not reject, the political nature of science, for it is this political nature which assures our agency. There is all sorts of trivial knowledge that is not worth our time studying (though we may not agree on what this is). We need to prioritize what we know, and how well we know it, and this is a political act.

Ned writes that he doesn't like using the word "scientism" to characterize this attitude, since it implies a critique of science itself, rather than an ideology of the view-from-nowhere. He proposes "reductionist empiricism" instead, which I don't think is such a good candidate to play honey to scientism's vinegar: the same people up in arms about scientism tend to think reductionism is a slur as well. A couple of months ago I asked Russell Blackford if there was a term for the omnicompetance of science he would not consider as pejorative. I have not heard back from him, but others have made some helpful coinages. Marilyn Robinson applies a term I like a lot, parascience, indicating a subjective statement or idea that aspires to the status of objectivity. Brandon Watson proposes "sciencefictionism" suggesting much the same idea. I think all of these notions were captured by the shopworn term "positivism," (which like "bright" seems almost too sunny to be against), but in the spirit of Pound's injunction to Make It New, I support putting them all into circulation.

Ned has a series of posts on The Moral Landscape over at his place. See also John Pieret, who catches Harris in just the kind of logical error you would expect when someone embarks on a philosophical argument with the attitude that moral philosophy "increases the amount of boredom in the universe."

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Tuesday Baudelaire Blogging: The Assassin's Wine

[My adaptation of "Le Vin de L'Assassin." See the original here.]

My wife is dead, I am free!
Now I can drink my troubles hence
When I came home without a pence
Her nagging ripped at every part of me.

Now I'm as happy as a king
The air is pure the sky is bliss
The days were lovely just like this
When I knelt and offered her my ring

This wicked thirst that wracks my thoughts
Could not be sated truth be told
By all the wine her tomb can hold
And my friends you know that that would be a lot:

For I threw her down a well,
And her body I did wedge
With all the rocks around the edge
I still might hope to blot her out in Hell

Thinking of those tender bonds,
Which can never be unsealed,
And hoping to be reconciled
Like we were in drunken days of yon

I implored her in distress
To meet me on a darkened night
She agreed – the crazy wight!
We are all crazy more or less.

She was still my pretty wife
But very tired round the eyes
I loved her too much! that is why
I told her it was time to quit this life!

Above you all I sail like a cloud
How many of you stupid clods
Could ever dream in your wildest thoughts
To make your wine into a shroud?

You scoundrels not worth half a sou
Melodic as a hammer's tune
Not in December or June
Have you ever even known a love that's true

With its fantasies of moans
Its carnival of hellish fears
Its vials of poison, all its tears,
the clattering of manacles and bones

And now at last free and alone!
I will get dead drunk tonight;
And then without a single fright
In the street I will lay down my tired bones

And I'll sleep just like a stray
Though some overburdened cart
So full of stones it falls apart
But not before it rolls my lucky way

To pulverize my guilty skull
Or to cut me down the middle
Of either one I care as little
As I do for Holy Bible, God or Dev-il!

Monday, December 27, 2010

Monday Baudelaire Blogging: The Sick Muse

[My adaptation of "La Muse Malade." See the original here.]

Oh, my poor muse, what afflicts you this dawn?
Morbid visions have taken command of your gaze
By turns I see cast on your face, pale and drawn,
Madness and horror, ennui, and malaise.

Did the green gremlin and rouge-spattered faun
Empty out love and alarm from their urns?
Have all your nightmares revolted, with sabers drawn?
Banishing you to the depths of Minturn?

I wish for you vigorous breath to exhale
Your breast ever buzzing with every detail
Your fervent blood coursing in metrical waves

Calling forth stanzas from the ancients’ graves
Ruled by Apollo, the father of rhyme
And great god Pan, the lord of the harvest time!

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Chimps Love Our Sticks

Tell it, Echidne:
I have noticed a clear trend during my years as a blogger. Anything vaguely smelling of science which supports traditional gender roles immediately develops humongous wings and flies all over the place, crapping on our upturned faces.
She's talking about a new chimp study in Current Biology, now viral, that purports to show that gender roles in modern human children (girls like dolls, boys like trucks) are hard-wired, rather than cultural. Researchers studied a community of chimps in Uganda, and observed that more juvenile females than males engaged in "stick carrying" behavior that (very loosely) resembles maternal care-giving. In the words of the study's co-author, Richard Wrangham, "What we've got here is evidence that without any kind of socialisation by adults, females seem to be predisposed to react to sticks as though they were dolls."

This is true, in the sense that the sun "seems" to go around the earth, or that sticks "seem" to bend when you plunge them into water. But none of the evidence presented by Wrangham and his co-author Sonja Kahlenberg actually supports this "predisposition." It's a short study, hardly needing my summary, and you can read for yourself that every case of "sex difference" in stick-carrying could just as easily be explained by cultural, as by genetic factors. In fact, given that stick-carrying has not been observed in any other chimp community, the cultural explanation is far more plausible.

What is most striking about this study (apart from how ardently it is being embraced by the popular and social media), is how lax the researchers' reasoning is: Since mothers don't carry sticks (the behavior ceases after a female's first birth), young females can't learn stick carrying from them. Thus, the behavior is instinctive, QED. But there are a number of alternate ways that stick-carrying can be a cultural development. The young chimps can learn it from adult chimps who are not yet mothers, for example, or from older siblings.

But more to the point, it is also plausible that young chimps devise the stick-carrying behavior as a symbolic expression of the maternal act. They don't need to be taught a specific behavior for it to be considered cultural (and the wide variety of "sticks," including "pieces of bark, small logs or woody vine," militates against this being a question of following instructions.) Nobody, for example, taught mother chimps Vire and Vuavua to carry around the corpses of their children, after they died of respiratory disease. And neither would we be quick to say that carrying around your dead infant, grooming it, chasing away flies, was some kind of biological adaptation. (Though it might be).We aren't limited to attributing behavior--human or primate--to strictly passive, mechanical reactions, whether they be rote mimicry, as the behaviorists would have it, or instinctual imperatives, as nativists would have it. We are also empowered to characterize these creatures as actively, creatively engaging with their environment.

There's no real hypothesis testing in the stick-carrying study, just faux-scientific dressing up of a dull and unreflective belief in gender determinism. Studies like these come and go. But as Echidne notes, it's not bad science we should be worried about, but bad journalism. Nobody seized on the report, 3 years ago, that female chimps, not males (in roughly the same female-to-male ratio as in this stick carrying study), were the primary tool users, weapon users, problem solvers, and teachers. It just wasn't newsworthy, for some reason.