Controversies and Subjectivity

Controversies and Subjectivity

Controversies Controversies includes studies in the theory of controversy or any of its salient aspects, studies of the history of controversy forms and their evolution, case-studies of particular historical or current controversies in any field or period, edited collections of documents of a given controversy or a family of related controversies, etc. The series will also act as a forum for ‘agenda-setting’ debates, where prominent discussants of current controversial issues will take part. Since controversy involves necessarily dialogue, manuscripts focusing exclusively on one position will not be considered.

Editor Marcelo Dascal Tel Aviv University

Advisory Board Harry Collins

Kuno Lorenz

University of Cardiff

University of Saarbrücken

Frans H. van Eemeren

Everett Mendelssohn

University of Amsterdam

Harvard University

Gerd Fritz

Quintín Racionero

University of Giessen

UNED, Madrid

Fernando Gil

Yaron Senderowicz

Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris

Tel Aviv University

Thomas Gloning

Stephen Toulmin

University of Marburg

University of Southern California

Alan G. Gross

Ruth Wodak

University of Minnesota

University of Lancaster

Geoffrey Lloyd Cambridge University

Volume 1 Controversies and Subjectivity Edited by Pierluigi Barrotta and Marcelo Dascal

Controversies and Subjectivity Edited by

Pierluigi Barrotta Italian Culture Institute in London & University of Pisa

Marcelo Dascal Tel Aviv University

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam
/
Philadelphia

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TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Controversies and Subjectivity / edited by Pierluigi Barrotta and Marcelo Dascal. p. cm. (Controversies, issn 1574–1583 ; v. 1) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. 1. Conflict (Psychology) 2. Subjectivity. I. Barrotta, Pierluigi. II. Dascal, Marcelo. III. Series. BF503.C67 2005 126--dc22 isbn 90 272 1881 1 (Eur.) / 1 58811 615 8 (US) (Hb; alk. paper)

2005042119

© 2005 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa

Table of contents

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix 1

Part I. Discussing with oneself Chapter 1 Debating with myself and debating with others Marcelo Dascal Chapter 2 Being in accordance with oneself: Moral self-controversy in Plato and Aristotle Peter J. Schulz

31

75

Chapter 3 Conversion and controversy Massimo Leone

91

Chapter 4 Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery Ademar Ferreira

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Chapter 5 Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity Frédéric Cossutta

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Chapter 6 Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception Shai Frogel

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Table of contents

Part II. The first person Chapter 7 Intersubjectivity in controversy: A story from the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi Han-liang Chang Chapter 8 Subjectivist and objectivist interpretations of controversy-based thought Adelino Cattani Chapter 9 Temporality, reification and subjectivity: Carneades and the foundations of the world of subjectivity Mihály Szívós

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185

201

Chapter 10 First person singular in 17th century controversies Gerd Fritz

235

Chapter 11 Subjective justifications: Introspective arguments in empiricism Daniel Mishori

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Chapter 12 Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy: The rules of the game and the role of the persons Thomas Gloning Chapter 13 Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge Yaron Senderowicz

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Part III. The politics of subjectivity Chapter 14 Liberals vs. communitarians on the self Pierluigi Barrotta

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Table of contents 

Chapter 15 Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict Omar Barghouti

325

Chapter 16 The role of subjectivity in public controversy Alan G. Gross

337

Chapter 17 The Sokal affair: The role of subjectivity in shaping the controversy León Olivé

353

Chapter 18 Archaic subjectivity and/as controversy in psychoanalytic thinking Shirley Sharon-Zisser

371

The contributors to this volume

395

Name index

401

Subject index

405

Acknowledgments

Most of the chapters in this book have their origin in papers delivered in a conference on subjectivity held in Pisa and Lucca. The authors benefited from the critical discussion that followed their presentations and are grateful for it. The discussion itself suggested inviting additional specialists to submit papers expressly written for this book – a further example of how controversy can lead to new ideas and to significant shifts in the issues initially raised. The editors wish to thank Massimo Barale and the Philosophy Department of the University of Pisa for hosting, within the framework of the International Conference on Dimensions of Subjectivity (19–21 September 2001), several sessions on Controversy and Subjectivity organised by the International Association for the Study of Controversies. The Dino Terra Foundation – Lucca City Council – was of great help with the organization of these sessions. We are also grateful to Adi Simon for her dedicated copy-editing work.

Introduction

.

Controversies on the subject and the subjects in controversies

This book sets out to scrutinize the nature of the subject – and its related notions, such as the self and the first person – from an unusual point of view: controversy. All of the chapters here assembled, specially written for this book, focus on controversies having to do in some crucial way with the notions of subject and subjectivity. In some of them these notions are the very theme of controversy. In others, they intervene significantly in a controversy. And others explore the question of whether and how subjects can hold ‘inner’ controversies, i.e., controversies not with others, but with themselves. Nothing short of a thorough interdisciplinary approach is appropriate for taking full advantage of the vantage point provided by controversy in order to shed light on the embattled concept and role of the subject in contemporary thought. And indeed this multiple-perspective volume, comprising chapters stemming from philosophical, epistemological, psychological, linguistic, and historical disciplinary perspectives will certainly give readers the opportunity of looking at the subject in a different way. It is also intended to give them the opportunity of envisaging controversies as having to do not only with the confrontation of ideas and positions in the inter-personal social arena, but also as an important part of our inner life. Logical positivism and the methodologies of science fashionable in the twentieth century have for long imposed a certain image of rationality upon us. In this image, controversies are brushed aside. Not only are they viewed as marginal phenomena, especially in science, but they are in fact perceived as due to factors that are viewed as irrelevant and harmful for the serious pursuit of knowledge. If the subjects who carry out scientific research – it is believed – were to follow scrupulously the rules of logic and stipulated methodological procedures, no real disagreement could ever arise between them. Controversies only arise because of mistakes, or because scientists very often make decisions in the face of insufficient evidence, or else because they do not act as real scientists should. These three cases are similar in that they share the assumption that



Introduction

controversies are extraneous to scientific research; in other words, that they can only be explained by appealing to factors external to scientific reasoning (such as psychological or social influences). From this point of view, controversies are nothing but an unwelcome and disturbing intrusion of subjectivity in an enterprise that purports to be strictly objective. Obviously, within such a perspective, no room is left for examining carefully the nature and role of controversy and of the subjectivity that seems to be inherent to it in the pursuit of science as well as of all other kinds of our ‘serious’, ‘rational’ activities. Yet controversies are ubiquitous in all such activities. They are stubbornly resilient and resist all attempts to simply overlook their existence or minimize their significance. Given this fact, one must ask whether they should continue to be considered at best as marginal phenomena and at worst as disturbing intruders in our intellectual and practical life. The disappearance of controversies from philosophical enquiry is tantamount to the disappearance of a real and full-fledged plurality of subjects. Such a plurality is rather viewed, in the image depicted above, as pertaining to a realm that rational enquiry has been – or must be – able to get rid of. Rationality is believed to be necessarily universal in nature, so that the diversity of subjects must boil down, insofar as it is concerned, to what is shared by a uniform universal subject – a pure being of reason that embodies the correct rules of logic and methodology. This subject is a fiction. It is a sort of ideal “representative agent”, who is supposed to provide a no less ideally universal “scientific” or “rational” community with the hallmark of rationality that grants it its legitimacy and superiority. This view of rationality is nowadays in disarray. And its crisis has placed controversies in the foreground. They can no longer be considered as extrinsic to rationality. Quite on the contrary: It is becoming ever more apparent that controversies are constitutive of rationality, since cognitive progress takes place only through real debates that involve a plurality of subjects, whose inherent diversity cannot be a priori purged. If we take controversies seriously, it becomes clear that they are complex processes involving a plurality of subjects whose diversity is fully operative in their controversy-related endeavors. This diversity does not vanish behind a domineering universal epistemic Ego by simply overlooking it or positing that it is foreign to rationality. The revaluation of controversies goes hand in hand with the rejection of the ideas of an abstract subject understood as a pure being of reason and of reason as completely disengaged from the peculiarities of concrete subjects. This change of view has given rise to a host of questions about the nature of the subject, the identification of his various ‘components’, the interactions

Introduction

between them, and their role in controversy. Not surprisingly, this has in its turn led to several controversies on these issues. For instance, full-fledged subjects are immersed in a social environment. They very often belong to different cultural traditions. In what sense and to what extent are these environments and traditions constitutive of the subject? How do social and psychological aspects of the subjects involved interact with epistemic factors during a polemic? Aren’t the relevant community’s ethos and the participants’ pathos as important as epistemological norms in accounting for the choice of argumentative strategies in a controversy? In fact, once individual subjects are no longer conceived as mere representatives of a universal Ego, a variety of disciplines other than the customary ones have at least a prima facie right to be involved in epistemological questions. A case in point is rhetoric – traditionally set aside in favor of logic. Should we then conclude that the appeal to emotion, character, style, figures of speech, etc. is essential in conducting and settling a controversy? If so, how a controversy not purged from such factors can be ‘rational’? Can one draw a principled and clear distinction between the use of means that belong to rhetoric qua the art of persuasion in a broad sense and of rhetorical tools more strictly addressing ‘rational persuasion’ alone? Are there significant differences between scientific, theological, philosophical, political, and other controversies regarding the particular mix of logical and rhetorical ingredients they make use of? If the controversies on the subject are thus related to a growing awareness of the role played by subjects in controversies, philosophers who do not overlook the latter issue must join company with psychologists, sociologists, linguists, and theologians, who have always been interested in exploring the several dimensions that are constitutive of the subject. This is why in some chapters of this book the two issues (“subjects in controversies” and “controversies on the subject”) are to such an extent intermingled as to appear barely distinguishable.

. An epistemological excursus We have mentioned logical positivism and contemporary methodologies of science as representatives of the idea of a universal rational Ego that we claimed to be at present in disarray. However, this idea goes back to the origins of modern thought, if not to earlier times. It plays a fundamental role, for example, in the seventeenth century ‘scientific revolution’, as argued, among others, by Peter Machamer (2000). Descartes, for one, argued that “the power of judging well and of distinguishing the true from the false [. . .] is naturally equal in all men,

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Introduction

and consequently [. . .] the diversity of our opinion does not arise because some of us are more reasonable than others” (Descartes 1637: Vol. 1, p. 111). This might appear quite sensible, but the conclusion Descartes wants to come to does not seem to be so sensible in the light of what we know today about controversies: “whenever two persons make opposite judgments about the same thing, it is certain that at least one of them is mistaken, and neither, it seems, has knowledge. For if the reasoning of one of them were certain and evident, he would be able to lay it before the other in such a way as eventually to convince his intellect as well” (Descartes 1620–1628: Vol. 1, p. 11). In other words, both self-persuasion and other-persuasion are mandatory results of truly rational thought, and controversy is the sign that something is wrong with the latter. For Descartes, disagreement is the hallmark of prejudice, not the driving force of progress. Like any illness, prejudice and controversies must be cured by strictly following the rules of method. Like Descartes, Bacon, the other founding father of modernity, is persuaded that adherence to correct method is the only way to overcome controversy and reach knowledge. In a famous passage he writes that his method “goes far to level men’s wits [. . .] because it performs everything by the surest rules and demonstrations” (Bacon 1620: 109, §122). Although his methodological rules are radically different from those of Descartes, like him he firmly believes they are universal and embody the rationality of an unbiased fictional subject. This is why he writes that methodology “leaves but little to the acuteness and strength of wits, but places all wits and understanding nearly on a level” (Bacon 1620: 63, §61). As such, his methodological rules are intended to provide the necessary ‘helps’ for freeing actual subjects from the ‘idols’ that plague the pursuit of knowledge and are, thus, responsible for controversy. Kant, who dedicated the Critique of Pure Reason to Bacon without sharing, of course, neither Bacon’s nor Descarte’s epistemology, nevertheless shared with them a similar view both about controversies and about the universality of the rational subject, albeit acknowledging the limits of ‘pure reason’. For Kant, metaphysical controversies cannot be resolved. But they are very useful for the critical philosopher – provided he does not attempt to take sides or tries to solve them. He should rather observe these controversies as an “impartial umpire”, set aside those that concern “special purposes” and those that involve a “mere artificial illusion such as at once vanishes upon detection”, and use the remaining ones, which “human reason must necessarily encounter in its progress”, as raw material for his transcendental task of marking out the limits of the subject’s rational powers (Kant 1781/1787, A 422–424, B 450–452). Except for this role as data, metaphysical controversies do not play any constitutive role in the

Introduction

actual progress of knowledge for Kant. The attempt to solve them only leads to frustration. The fact that philosophy, unlike science, is plagued by unsolved and unsolvable controversies only shows that philosophers are lacking in their understanding of the subject’s cognitive powers and are “very far from having entered upon the secure path of science”, for unlike scientists, they are “unable to agree in any common plan of procedure” to solve their disputes (ibid.: B vii). Thus, either there is a ‘scientific’ method to solve controversies or there is a philosophical method to show they cannot be solved and draw the consequences of this finding. Either way, the approach to controversies is the result of an a priori analysis of the epistemic capacities of a posited universal subject stripped of any form of singularity. Two centuries later, a similar attitude towards the subject and controversies is still believed by many to be the only way to ensure the objectivity – hence, the rationality – of knowledge. Consider, for example, the strict distinction between a “context of discovery” and a “context of justification” shared by logical positivism and Popperian epistemology alike. To be sure, they acknowledge the plurality of ways in which different subjects perform the creative act of devising new hypotheses and theories. But they assign it to random psychological processes, devoid of epistemic interest: “Scientific discovery is akin to explanatory story telling, to myth making and to poetic imagination” (Popper 1981: 87). Consequently, in the context of discovery there is no room for arguments aiming to rationally persuade interlocutors, which is why there is no point in submitting the process of discovery to critical assessment through rational debate. The exercise of rationality is reserved for the process of justification, conceived as the methodical application of a set of procedures. Indeed, for these thinkers, justification amounts to the application either of the rules of inductive logic (in logical positivism) or of the rules of deductive logic cum methodological norms (Popper), each assumed to be universal characteristics of a rational subject which set the boundaries of rationality in scientific discussion and criticism. In this spirit, logical positivism tried to define a “confirmation function” that would determine, through a subject-independent calculus, the rational acceptability of hypotheses (Carnap 1962), while Popper, even more explicitly, undertook to reconstruct the growth of knowledge as taking place in an ideational world “without knowing subjects” (Popper 1972: 106ff.). To be sure, Popper generalizes his claim that “the objectivity of scientific statements lies in the fact that they can be intersubjectively tested”, replacing ‘intersubjective testing’ by “intersubjective criticism” or “mutual rational control by critical discussion” (Popper 1968: 22). Nevertheless, ‘critical discussion’ for him can only ensure objectivity by purging the subjects involved in it from

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Introduction

any trace of subjectivity. Accordingly, every possible epistemic role of the real subject at variance with that of the posited universal rational subject is anathema and should be proscribed as a dangerous variant of subjectivism or, even worse, of psychologism. Controversies, in science as much as elsewhere, are explained away qua epistemologically significant on the grounds that they result from the interference of such subjective factors in the proper work of rational criticism. The most dangerous of such factors, according to Popper (1981: 81), are ‘ideologies’ – a category in which he would presumably include divergences regarding values, which Kuhn (1977) has shown to play a significant role in the construction, development and evaluation of scientific theories. Again, overlooking the epistemological role of such divergences is nothing but denying the relevance of the plurality of subjects and the possibility of epistemologically significant controversy between them. But different scientists, belonging to different schools and cultures, may diverge in the different epistemic weights they assign to such values (indeed, they may even have an altogether different set of epistemic values), and controversy in this respect cannot be accounted for in terms of violating the rules of a universal reason. Furthermore, in such controversies, even the most heterodox and minority positions can lead to scientific progress insofar as they encourage a fruitful discussion (Barrotta 2000). Therefore, it makes no sense to rule them out as merely ‘ideological’, subjective, or the like. It turns out, then, that neither the rational subjects involved in a Popperian critical discussion are allowed to be ‘subjective’ in any way, nor is such a discussion anything other than the strict exercise of the rules of logic and methodology, dealing exclusively with the relationships between statements detached from the subjects who put them forward and defend or criticize them. The subject as a critic, like the subject as a knower, is totally irrelevant in this kind of epistemology (Dascal 1997). As a result, there is neither room nor role in it for a plurality of interlocutors, arguing from different points of view, holding opposed positions, and confronting each other. And, of course, the disappearance of such a plurality entails the disappearance of dialogue – hence, of dialectics (Barrotta 1998). For the sake of illustration, we have focused our introductory discussion so far on familiar positions in epistemology, highlighting how their implications regarding the closely interrelated topics of this book – controversy and the subject – raise non-negligible difficulties. But the reader should not infer from this initial thematic choice that the book is mainly about epistemology. For similar question marks arise in other areas as well. From political philosophy and ethics to metaphysics, from pragmatics to cognitive science and the philosophy

Introduction

of mind, from theology to psychoanalysis, the traditional conception of a subject of whose singularities it is allegedly easy – in fact, mandatory – to make abstraction, at least for the purposes of inquiry in each particular field, is currently under attack. What emerges as an alternative is the picture of a complex, non-monolithic, plural, dynamic, context-dependent entity, endowed with a holistic structure whose components are in permanent interaction with each other and with the environment without. Controversy, rather than alien to this ‘new’ subject, is the very condition for its possibility. It is also the soil where the subjects thrive, for it is what grants them the opportunity to be creative and thus to contribute to progress in knowledge as well as in other human endeavors. The chapters of this book – the majority of which deal with the subject and controversy outside science – not only demonstrate the multi-faceted character of the subject and the fruitfulness of approaching its study via controversies; they also provide a wealth of so to speak ‘empirical’ material, drawn from case studies in different fields, to elucidate the complexities of the workings of a multifarious and intrinsically controversy-ridden subject. In what follows we will single out some of their specific contributions to some of the issues that underlie the project of this book. For this purpose, rather than focusing exclusively on the epistemological perspective sketched above or following strictly the structure we have chosen for organizing the book and the order of the chapters, we will shuffle the cards, thus offering the reader alternative reading threads.

. De-dichotomizing traditional philosophical dichotomies Ademar Ferreira (Chapter 4) argues against the separation between the contexts of discovery and justification. Drawing on recent contributions to the philosophy of science, he contends that they are not independent of each other, but display a mutual feedback relationship, without which it is hard to account for either. Furthermore, he suggests that it is the competitive-collaborative nature of controversies, characteristic of the collective dimension of scientific research, that plays a decisive role in explaining how a theory is born or ‘discovered’ and develops into ‘justified’ knowledge. This dialectical aspect of science – institutionalized both in the production and in the justification of theories – is also operative in the feedback relationship between the two contexts. Ferreira also shows how this process requires a plurality of subjective viewpoints, due to the different backgrounds of continuously debating – and thereby competing

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Introduction

as well as cooperating – scientists. Since these backgrounds consist mainly in implicit assumptions, which are brought to light through controversy, the latter is essential for making them the object of explicit argumentation – the sine qua non of the possibility of refutation in Popper’s view. However, Ferreira argues, although in this way “a subjective viewpoint can become objective intersubjectively”, this is achieved not thanks to the reduction of the subjective to the logical and the concomitant elimination of divergences between the different viewpoints, but only through the full acknowledgment of the role of controversies in the process of objectification in question in the framework of what he dubs “extended epistemology”. Ferreira concludes his chapter by analyzing a case where intersubjective controversy reverberates in an interesting process of intrasubjective controversy – a parallelism that indicates to what extent these two processes of clarification of the content of a theory are in fact interlocked. Ferreira’s chapter shows the insufficiency of the dichotomies intrasubjective/intersubjective and discovery/justification to account for the complexity of the subject’s involvement in controversies. The explanatory insufficiency of these dichotomies may well be related to that of another one, which has governed the conceptualization of the phenomenon of controversy for centuries: controversy is either conceived as a strictly rule-governed, truth-seeking, and decidable confrontation or else as a manipulative endeavor, where opponents seek to win a battle of wits by any eristic means, and thus to ‘demonstrate’ that their truth is the truth. Popper’s distinction between ‘critical’ and ‘ideological’ discussions and Kant’s distinction between ‘scientific’ and ‘dogmatic’ ones illustrate the poles of this – for them – exhaustive dichotomy. Dascal (1998) has proposed to call the former kind ‘discussion’ and the latter ‘dispute’, and argued that the dichotomy is not in fact exhaustive, identifying at least a third type that occupies an intermediate position between these poles, for which he reserved the term ‘controversy’. Unlike in discussions, where the basic assumptions and the rules that ensure a decision procedure are supposed to be shared by the discussants and cannot be questioned, in controversies – understood in this technical sense – the divergence between the opponents is not limited to solving specific problems by applying norms and assumptions they are not entitled to question; on the contrary, they typically run very deep and wide, calling into question the most entrenched beliefs and procedures of the adversary. What is remarkable, however, is that this does not transform controversies into disputes where ‘anything goes’, for their typical purpose is not victory at any cost, but rather rational persuasion, which, although not confined to the application of posited universal rules of logic and of method, contingently shapes ‘reasonable’ argumentative practices and abides by them.

Introduction

In the conceptual space thus opened by controversy’s deep and wide radical criticism, the plurality of perspectives embodied in the different participant subjects finds an appropriate mode of expression and contribution to the collective enterprise in which the ‘growth of knowledge’ in any field consists. First, because the dialectical confrontation of real opponents, who stand behind their positions, objections, and arguments, is a dynamic process that permits – unlike the disembodied confrontation of statements – their ‘on-line’ clarification through sharpening, extension, restriction and other forms of modification, in the face of a criticism that is ‘serious’ (as required by Popper) precisely because it is engagé and tenacious; quite often, a controversy’s ‘cognitive gain’ consists in nothing but such a clarification of the positions with the consequent more precise identification of where the divergence lies – a non negligible contribution to intellectual and practical progress, of course. Second, because radical criticism, which does not stop short of criticizing entrenched methodological and other dogmas, opens the field for possibilities that would otherwise be barred. Controversy thus contributes to progress because it paves the way for radical innovation. Yaron Senderowicz (Chapter 13) undertakes to examine the ongoing debate between internalist and externalist theories of meaning in the light of Dascal’s model. He begins, however, with an enlightening critical analysis and development of the idea of controversy as proposed in this model. Disagreeing with the way Dascal characterizes the distinction between ‘proof ’ (typical of discussions) and ‘argument’ (typical of controversies) in terms of, respectively, reasons for the truth of p vs. reasons for believing that p, Senderowicz argues that “the only epistemic reason for accepting or believing a proposition is a reason to think that the proposition is true (beyond reasonable doubt)”, and proposes another way to distinguish argument from proof. His basic assumption is that in order for there to be controversy (or, for that matter, discussion), there must be an incompatibility between statements held by the contenders, against an extensive background of statements both accept as true. By skillfully distinguishing between largely implicit ‘positions’ and explicit statements that are ‘symptoms’ of them, and defining controversy as a confrontation of positions, he can then sort out a number of levels where the required incompatibility and sharing may lie, which in turn elucidate how ‘radical’ a divergence between the positions is, as well as the different possible forms of ‘rational persuasion’. The same analytic apparatus is then used by him to discern different modalities of cognitive gain resulting from controversies. In Senderowicz’s view, it would seem, discussion and controversy are not separated by a gap in their aims and procedures, as claimed by Dascal, since their typical moves,

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Introduction

‘proof ’ and ‘argument’, operate in terms of the same notion of incompatibility and appear to lie in a scale, of which the former is simply one extreme. In addition to his substantive contribution to the theory of controversy, Senderowicz’s application of his proposals to the thorny externalism/internalism debate shows the usefulness of the controversy approach and brings to light important aspects of the subject. He identifies this debate as a ‘controversy’ rather than as a ‘discussion’ or a ‘dispute’, and sets out to show how it has contributed to the ‘growth of knowledge’ in the philosophy of mind, not by ‘solving the problem’ and determining which of the theories is ‘correct’, but rather by leading to the internal development of each of them. In particular, he shows how new distinctions and concepts – such as the externalists’ distinction between ‘knowledge of content’ and ‘comparative knowledge of content’ – are in fact directly motivated by objections raised by the other party. Senderowicz singles out for analysis in this controversy a key issue that concerns the nature of the subject, namely whether subjects have a privileged access to self-knowledge – particularly to self-knowledge of content. Whereas internalists have no problem in accepting this idea, it poses a serious challenge for externalists, whose ranks split between those who flatly reject it as incompatible with externalism and those who believe it must and can be incorporated in an externalist framework. Omar Barghouti’s analysis (Chapter 15) of the ethical implications of what he calls “essential conflicts” is, on the face of it, clearly on the ‘externalist’ side. For he argues that the strongly asymmetric power relations – such as those between master and slave, colonizer and colonized, and, more generally, oppressor and oppressed – that characterize these conflicts determine to a large extent the ‘internal’ state of self-perception of identity by the participants in them. The moral and practical recommendations he reaches are, however, more nuanced. Among the effects of such conflict situations on individual and group identities, he singles out the tendency to emphasize inter-personal and inter-group differences and overlook commonalities. This leads to apparently unbridgeable dichotomies of the type “we” vs. “they”, with the opposed group being denied even basic, allegedly universal attributes such as humanity; concomitantly, in-group differences are set aside by the pressure of group solidarity, and group identity becomes the dominant factor in shaping individual identity. Given the weight of the dichotomies in question and their effects in perpetuating the conflict, Barghouti inquires whether a ‘de-dichotomization’ (a term introduced by Dascal 2003) of identities and of the very notion of identity would not be a possible remedy. Employing another dichotomy, this time between ‘concepts’ and ‘reality’, he distinguishes between de-dichotomization

Introduction

“in reflection” and “in action”. The former, which he attributes to Dascal, is argued to be at best ineffective (“moral conciliation between conflicting subjects is impossible if the essence of the oppressive relationship between them is perpetuated”) and at worst morally wrong (“any ‘exploration’ of commonalities between oppressor and oppressed, while preserving the causes of oppression, [. . .] is equivalent to self-delusion or deceptive pacification”). Since changing reality takes precedence over changing concepts, according to Barghouti, it would seem that he would unrestrictedly favor de-dichotomization in action, i.e., the removal of the causes of the dichotomization of identities. Yet, he warns that, even if morally justified, this course of action, if pursued “without addressing the dichotomy of the identities of the subjects involved, has the potential to lead to an unethical outcome, such as role interchange, or revenge, rather than justice”. He concludes by de-dichotomizing to some extent the dichotomies he himself employed throughout the chapter, for his proposed solution, “moral de-dichotomization”, combines both de-dichotomization in reflection and in action, although – so it seems – in a telltale slightly asynchronous order: “conceptualizing the relations between the same two subjects in the process of undoing the injustice, and in the state after the causes of injustice have been overcome”.

. The subject and its social dimension The relationship between group and individual identity is discussed in two other case studies, by Pierluigi Barrotta and Alan G. Gross. Barrotta (Chapter 14) analyzes the debate between communitarian and liberal political philosophers in the 70’s–80’s. An important issue in this debate was the critique by the former of the latter’s conception of the self, which, according to the critics, entirely overlooked the constitutive role of collective factors (such as traditions) in shaping individual identity. Barrotta observes that this critique, to which the liberals involved responded in kind, led the debate to focus primarily on the ontological side aspect of the problem. As a result, what might have been a quiet ‘discussion’ between philosophers became a heated ‘dispute’ with ideological overtones. Barrotta argues that the debate might have evolved otherwise had the opponents made use of the distinction between ontological and methodological individualism, developed by liberals prior to the debate in question. He shows how the notion of methodological individualism can successfully rebuke several of the communitarians’ arguments. Furthermore, if individualism were defended on epistemological, rather than on ethical, political or ontolog-

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ical grounds, much of the heat would fade away, and the debate could have followed at least the path of a ‘controversy’. Alan Gross’ comparative analysis (Chapter 16) of three controversies – one in the public sphere, one in the interface between public concerns and scientific research, and one internal to science – discloses their similarity regarding the role of emotions therein. In spite of their differences, Gross argues, emotions play a decisive role in these controversies at various phases of the ‘social drama’ – a notion borrowed from the anthropologist Victor Turner – in which all of them consist. The acknowledgment of this fact strongly suggests that, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, rational argument is not alone in ruling over controversies of all kinds. But can the veiled or unveiled interventions of emotions in controversy be always equated with irruptions of individual subjectivity, as the usual view of emotion as the most direct and spontaneous expression of the self would suggest? Gross’ answer to this question is negative. Unlike the paradigmatic cases of individual emotions, the emotions he discerns in the three social dramas analyzed have a distinctive social character: they are not motivated by the individual’s immediate perception of an object that happens to cause the emotion, but rather because he or she is “a member of a group who should” feel that emotion. For example, the Air Force veterans who were opposed to the opening in 1995 of a National Air and Space Museum exhibit about the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki containing the restored fuselage of the airplane that dropped the bombs, on the grounds that the description of the event was ‘offensive’ and ‘dishonorable’ to them, certainly felt indignation, but it was a righteous indignation they had a duty – as faithful members of a community – to feel. Gross employs the term ‘social emotion’ to denote this kind of emotion, some of whose properties – such as their ‘contagious’ character – he analyses in detail. The case, reported by Gerd Fritz in Chapter 10, of the 18th century pietist theologian Francke, who feels he must justify “before the whole Church” his entering in an acrimonious debate with an orthodox opponent, instead of “suffering all malice silently in Christian patience”, illustrates well the notion of ‘social emotions’, showing also how they can run in opposite directions. Gross concludes his chapter by pointing out that it is epistemologically disturbing – to say the least – that emotions, individual or social, influence so much deliberative processes regarding the production and dissemination of knowledge; and that it is politically disturbing that social emotions in particular, which are part and parcel of national identity and solidarity, can be so easily manipulated by demagogues for their own purposes. By emphasizing the powerful effects of emotions of both kinds on actual behavior and real events, of

Introduction

the mental on the real, Gross seems to be favoring a line of causality opposite to that favored by Barghouti – unless perhaps they meet somewhere in the middle ground of a social reality where subjectivity and objectivity mingle. There is no question that the social sciences must take into account the social (hence, subjective) dimensions of the subject. But must the natural sciences be affected by them too? In the last decade of the 20th century, this issue broke into general public awareness through the so-called ‘science wars’, triggered by ‘Sokal’s hoax’. Leon Olivé (Chapter 17) discusses the influences of subjectivity in this controversy – specifically on the issues picked up for discussion, the argumentative strategies used, the course of the controversy, and its alleged rationality. In this context, the reader will easily recognize several of the themes discussed in the other chapters of this book. Olivé chooses to view the ‘science wars’ as “a controversy about science”, but he might as well have chosen to view it as having the humanities – more precisely, a certain fashionable, ‘postmodern’ version – as its focus. As the physicist Alan Sokal himself confesses when revealing the hoax, his objective in submitting to Social Text a postmodern sounding paper on gravity was to unmask the lack of “intellectual rigor” of the journal’s editors, as leading representatives of an “academic subculture that typically ignores (or disdains) reasoned criticism from the outside”. Given his own allegiance to a subculture of ‘reasoned criticism’, his choice of satirical parody rather than argument was no doubt a successful bet, if judged by its immediate impact. Indeed, debates across deeply different debating traditions pose a real challenge, for they are a priori poised to become unbridgeable disputes (see Dascal 2001). Sokal shows to be aware of this challenge, and skillfully takes advantage of it in his opening move. But this move had a further purpose, namely, to define the problem as located entirely in the opponent’s camp. If successful, this would (a) confirm Sokal’s presupposition that his own camp – science – is unproblematic and hence needs not be discussed, and (b) lay the burden of proof entirely on the criticized subculture. In this respect, the opening move had only partial success, for a rapid counter-attack brought the debate back to the attacker’s camp and turned around the alleged objectivity of science. This fact no doubt justifies Olivé’s choice of seeing the debate primarily as a controversy about science. But it might have been interesting to analyze it as a re-enactment of the half a century older ‘two cultures’ debate (see Snow 1959), in order to verify whether the evolution of both science and the humanities substantively affected their self-perception and the alleged gap separating them. It is by looking at the Sokal affair as a debate about science as a whole, including the activities and perceptions by the scientists of what they are doing

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and striving toward, rather than merely as a variant of the familiar debates on the validity of scientific theories, that Olivé carves a niche where some sort of subjectivity in science can be properly located. “Reality” – he assumes – “includes objective facts as well as subjective features of people. Science, as part of reality, can fully be grasped only if both its objective and subjective features are understood”. But one must distinguish between ‘genuine’ and ‘non-genuine’ forms of subjectivity, only the former being legitimately included in an account of science as a whole. They are similar to Lockean ‘secondary qualities’, whose identification depends upon the subject’s experience; but they can be traced back to some disposition of objects that instantiate them to produce such an experience. Likewise, some features of science “are subjective because they [. . .] do not exist independently of people’s beliefs about science, of what they find valuable in it, and their attitudes towards it”. Those of these features that are part and parcel of the experience of the practitioners of science – such as the ‘epistemic values’ singled out by Kuhn, which we mentioned above – are, for Olivé, a constitutive part of the reality of science. This is not the case with “ideological or ‘non-genuine subjective beliefs’, that is, subjective beliefs that [. . .] form part of the ideology of some scientists about science”. Controversy can arise in both cases, but the way to handle it is quite different, for genuine subjectivity cannot yield “genuine disagreement” (presumably for the same reasons that there cannot be disagreement, on the classical empiricist view, about introspective experience), whereas ideological subjectivity usually involves ‘genuine disagreement’. According to Olivé, in the former case, it is illusory to think that controversy can remove a disagreement that does not exist; at most it can help to clarify the different experiences, beliefs, and epistemic values of the disputants, none of which can be considered the ‘correct’ ones. In the latter, controversy can serve to bring to light false beliefs about objective aspects of science and eventually persuade one of the parties to abandon them. Although employing concepts and labels reminiscent of Kant’s and Popper’s, Olivé’s classification is at odds with theirs, especially regarding its epistemological implications. Popper, for one, would hardly admit that a disagreement that is both ‘genuine’ and ‘constitutive’ of the reality of science is also unsolvable. Nevertheless, Olivé is certainly right in pointing out that both his ‘genuine’ and ‘non-genuine’ forms of subjectivity are present in the ‘science wars’ and that some of the dogmatic aggressiveness manifested in them might subside were we able to systematically disentangle them, as he does in some cases.

Introduction

. Perspectives on “the first person” Remember the externalist/internalist controversy discussed by Senderowicz? Well, the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi, arguing against the logician Huizi in the polemical dialogue discussed by Han-liang Chang (Chapter 7), seems to hold a strong ‘internalist’ presupposition concerning self-knowledge. When Master Hui contests Master Zhuang’s observation that the white fish in the river are enjoying their swimming, on the grounds that not being a white fish he cannot know the fish are enjoying, Zhuang’s reply is categorical: “You are not I. How do you know that I do not know they enjoy it?”. Apparently, he holds an extreme version of the doctrine of privileged and exclusive access by the subject to his mental states, which bars the possibility of intersubjective communication altogether, as Chang points out. If this doctrine is denied, as most externalists do, then Zhuang’s move “You are not I” becomes ineffective; furthermore, if these externalists (or their predecessors, the behaviorists) are right, and meaning as well as mental states are out there in the open for everyone to inspect objectively, then Hui might even be in a better position than Zhuang to know what the latter thinks. In fact, if we take into account – as Chang suggests – the cotextual and contextual information available about Zhuang’s radical version of skepticism, neither internalism nor externalism (nor perhaps any other ‘doctrine’) can be imputed to him, and the interpretation of this dialogue remains a worthy exercise in philosophical pragmatics. In any case, in spite of his skepticism and his tendency to prefer a life of reclusion, Zhuang obviously does not withdraw from going about the business of ordinary communication, and even ventures beyond it into philosophical dialoguing. Taking care not to impute to him any doctrine, we might at least say that he thereby grants communicative praxis enough objectivity to ensure intersubjective understanding, at least in most cases. Isn’t this precisely what Benveniste and Jacques, despite their controversy about the dyadic or triadic basic setting of dialogue, are saying – albeit in a convoluted way – when they ultimately agree that the very notions of ‘interlocutor’ and ‘subject’ are rendered possible thanks to the objective existence in language of pronouns? The preceding suggestion is fully borne out – with dividends – by Gerd Fritz’s study (Chapter 10) of the uses of the first person singular pronoun in 17th century controversies. His specific purpose is to identify a “rhetoric of individuality” shared by scientific, philosophical and theological controversies, and distinctive of the period in question. Part of this rhetoric is, of course, conventional, being part of the rules of politeness in force at the time, which specify the position, the form and roughly also the content of what must be said (e.g.,

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Introduction

‘epistle to the reader’, ‘dedication’, opening and closing of letters, etc.). ‘Personal’ expressions of humility such as “this humble booklet of mine” belong to this category and of course cannot be taken as expressing a sincere feeling of the author. At most, subjectivity can lurk behind formulaic expressions such as this only through the choice the writer makes between the limited set of available alternatives. The uses of the first person pronoun in unexpected discursive positions are more promising as true expressions of subjective involvement, since they are neither mandatory nor formulaic in nature. They include, for instance, cases such as: “Aristotle says that p, but I say that q”, “What I meant was . . .”, “Nobody has done more to clarify this than I have”. It is to a collection of attested examples of this kind that Fritz devotes his attention. The interesting, and quite surprising result of his analysis is that, considered from the point of view of their role in conducting the controversy, such first person statements have quite definite functions. Fritz singles out, among others, justifying one’s entering in a controversy, marking opposition, making explicit the argumentative structure, detecting and correcting misunderstandings, hedging one’s claims, expressing anti-authoritarianism. These functions are substantive as well as necessary, insofar as they correspond to the tasks a proponent and an opponent undertake to fulfill by the very act of engaging in a controversy. It turns out, then, that the “rhetoric of subjectivity” revealed by an indicator such as the uses of the first person pronoun is, at a deeper, functional level, an essential component of controversy. Since these uses – unlike the mandatory conventional ones – cannot be considered essentially insincere, they show that the subject, instead of being excluded from the proper conduct of a controversy, is in fact required to assert his/her full presence and is explicitly manifesting his/her deep involvement in it. Thomas Gloning (Chapter 12) broadens the scope of Fritz’s linguistic investigation of subject involvement in controversies at roughly the same period. For Gloning, controversy is a particular form of communication, a language game – rather a family of institutionalized language games. From this viewpoint, controversies “can be seen as established procedures for dealing with disagreement and for confirming ideas, findings, decisions, etc. in the light of opposition and counterevidence”. Hence, a comprehensive study of subjectivity in controversies must look for its traces in all the constitutive aspects of the language game in question. Based on a broad corpus of controversies in various domains and of in depth studies of a number of them, he sets out to find such traces in actual expressions of subjective involvement as well as in contemporary discussions of whether it is useful or damaging for achieving the aims of controversy, ethical or unethical, etc. For this purpose, Gloning fruitfully

Introduction

combines a bottom-up with a top-down approach, i.e., using simultaneously evidence collected from his corpus and a proposed framework characterizing the language game ‘controversy’, which suggests where to look for such evidence. The result is a systematic classification, analysis and illustration of subjectivity in controversy and meta-controversy, whose usefulness goes much beyond the historical period referred to. Of particular interest is the fact that controversialists are very much aware of the various ways in which subjectivity is operative in controversies for good or for worse. This is evidenced by the recurrent attempt to formulate rules restricting the repertoire of acceptable moves – such as “Avoid person-related moves (except those related to aspects of the subject matter)”, “Avoid expression of disrespect” – as well as recommendations concerning the attitudes to be adopted or avoided vis-à-vis the opponent – e.g., benevolence in interpreting the opponent’s assertions, moderation, control of one’s emotions, on the one hand, and arrogance, spirit of revenge, on the other. Such principles and advice are formulated with the explicit purpose of purging controversy from ‘negative’ forms of subjectivity and replace them by ‘positive’ counterparts. Nevertheless, they also suggest a far from naïve attitude, namely that the ideal form of controversy they strive to is unattainable and real controversies neither can nor should be purged from subject involvement. Controversies provide yet another vantage point for looking into subjectivity, namely by examining how ‘introspective evidence’ is used for justifying a position or objecting to it. This strategy of argumentation has been extensively used by the British empiricists of the 17th and 18th centuries, and is the object of Daniel Mishori’s contribution (Chapter 11). The efficacy of this kind of argument is predicated upon the empiricists’ central epistemological assumption that ‘experience’ is the basis of all knowledge, and that there are only two sources of experience – sensation and reflection – the former yielding information about ‘external sensible objects’ and the latter about ‘the internal operations of our minds perceived and reflected on by our self ’ (Locke, Essay 2.1.2). Since the self is also assumed to have direct (hence, privileged) access to his or her inner experience, his or her reports about it are unquestionable as evidence. But only of it – which, as Mishori points out, would make introspective arguments very weak and quite uninteresting. Their strength and interest is increased by the empiricists’ further assumption of the uniformity (hence, in a sense, universality) of human experience. Thus, when Locke, in justifying a certain statement, says “Whether this be not so, I appeal to everyone’s observation” (Essay 1.4.21), he is not making a purely rhetorical move. But then, he

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incurs the risk of having to face objections by readers whose self-observations do not conform to his. Berkeley was one of such readers. He would argue against Locke by ‘reporting’ that, in spite of his introspective efforts, he couldn’t find “any such idea” as Locke had found in his mind. Since this kind of move was in full accordance with the empiricist framework, clashes such as these can be seen as clear examples of ‘empirical proofs’ within a ‘discussion’, although sometimes they could touch quite fundamental notions – as Berkeley’s well-known criticism of the existence of ‘general ideas’ shows. While introspection seems to be naturally fit for the investigation of the mind, Mishori shows that, for the empiricists, introspective arguments were not restricted to this domain. Berkeley developed the technique of ‘experimenting with the imagination’ – akin to present-day philosophical use of Gedankenexperimente – which he used systematically in his scientific work. With this kind of ‘subjective way’ of investigation, he reached ‘relativistic’ conclusions concerning movement – quite an achievement, as Mishori observes, in a Newtonianism-dominated era. Plunging in relatively unexplored Ancient waters where intense debate takes place, Mihaly Szivós (Chapter 9) examines the rise of the notion of the subject in the pivotal philosophical controversy running through the whole Hellenistic period, which opposed the Academy to the Stoa. He identifies seven phases of this controversy, discusses its problem-setting antecedents, and provides an illustration of its aftermath by way of its influence in shaping Augustine’s notion of time, five centuries after the controversy’s closure. Szivós’ detailed analysis of each phase reconstructs an argumentative structure of the form: [initial problem →] proposed solution → critique → new problem → new solution. Since representatives of the two schools alternate in their roles as proponents and critics, these “argumentative units” merge in a long, continuous “argumentative chain” of interaction between the two parties. This pattern is illuminating in various respects. It permits to understand the conceptual innovations that emerge in each stage as motivated by the problem the critique generates for the proponent. It shows how the contenders actually make use of elements present in each other’s interventions. It thus explains the nonlinear “cumulative” nature of the conceptual development prompted by the controversy. It also demonstrates how this dialectical “construction of knowledge” is essentially a collective enterprise. For all these reasons (and there are more), Szivós’ analysis fully vindicates a controversy-oriented approach to the history of ideas. Although this controversy touches upon various philosophical topics, Szivós focuses on its epistemological fulcrum and metaphysical underpinnings.

Introduction

Basically, it is a controversy about the objectivity of our knowledge of the world. Subjectivity slowly emerges and gains substance and weight due to the objections raised by members of the Academy to the way in which the stoic philosophers undertake to account for objectivity by reifying the notion of phantasia – roughly, sense impression. Zeno of Citium, the first head of the Stoa, gave the following definition of what he called ‘cognitive phantasia’: “a combination of a sort of impact offered from outside”, from which it follows that the outside world “determines thinking via the sense organs”. The academicians raised increasingly sophisticated objections to such a reification that purported to transform phantasia into the criterion of truth. Arcesilaos (elected head of the Academy ca. 268–264 BC), for example, asked how phantasias bearing appearances or illusions could be distinguished from those coming from real objects. The proper definition of phantasia became one of the foci of the controversy, as well as an exciting example of the dialectical evolution of a concept, which can be followed step by step in this chapter. Step by step the two parties are forced by criticism to enquire into different factors capable of influencing mental representations. This yields an ever more sophisticated picture of aspects of mental life that epistemology must take into account, leading to detailed accounts of illusions of all sorts, of artistic and other varieties of experience, of semiotic processes, of memory, of probabilities, etc. By the time the controversy reaches its peak, with the towering figures of the stoic Chrysippus and the academician Carneades, a wide range of ‘subjective’ elements in knowledge is more or less agreed upon by the contenders, thanks to two hundred years of debate. Drawing the reader’s attention to even earlier times, Adelino Cattani (Chapter 8) links them to present day debates about subjectivism vs. objectivism, as manifest in attitudes vis-à-vis the phenomenon of controversy. The starting point, as well as the axis of his considerations, is Protagoras’ famous two-logoi saying: “On every issue there are two arguments opposed to each other”. Cattani appropriately quotes this in Greek, for any of the many translations implies either a subjectivist or an objectivist reading, depending on whether the phrase perì pantòs prágmatos is translated “on every subject matter (issue, question)” or “on every object (thing, reality)”. Each choice, in its turn, implies a different understanding of what the opposing arguments (hence, controversy and dialectics) are about, namely our conceptions of reality or reality itself. In the light of Cattani’s useful philological discussion of this ‘semantic’ issue, one cannot but admit that Quine had good reasons to argue that, at least in some cases (of which the present case may be a good example), questions of

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Introduction

meaning do not have determinate objective answers (see, for instance, Quine 1969: 29). An outline of the history of the two-logoi tradition is followed by a typically two-logoi way of presenting arguments pro and con this argumentative practice and its alleged consequences. Cattani’s attempt to overcome the apparently unsolvable dilemma this series of arguments poses is the replacement of a ‘first person singular’ by a ‘first person plural’ perspective, which would allow to move from ‘subjectivism’ to ‘intersubjectivism’, a process in which two-logoi argumentation would have its place. In order to ensure this, however, a series of ‘rules’ for the proper conduct of controversy should be adopted – and Cattani mentions some recent proposals along this line. One may ask, however, as we did regarding similar 17th–18th century proposals (discussed in Chapter 12), whether norms of this kind are designed for ideal or for real debates. The consideration of the different arguments adduced throughout the ages in favor and against the two-logoi way of arguing and thinking, leads Cattani through a somewhat different way to the conclusion that the former outweigh the latter. The victory is neither by knock-out nor by a landslide, but just by a slight margin, which inclines the scales towards the benefits of taking into account, in every issue, opposed opinions and arguments. In fact, it is achieved by the importance he assigns – perhaps justly so – to an argument of the “least evil” sort, whose strength is entirely dependent on the kind of alternatives considered. Cattani acknowledges that, faced with two opposed arguments on a given issue, the objectivist alternative “there are these two arguments, but one of them is the truer or better one” would be certainly preferable. But he immediately adds to this statement the crucial hedging: “. . .if indeed available”. He is left then with the subjectivist alternative that does not dismiss any of the two opposing arguments as untrue, which he is not so eager to espouse. Yet, he does so, on the grounds that “assuming deceptive objectivity is clearly more risky”. To attenuate the blow, he consoles himself by recalling that subjectivity is, after all, “an ineluctable part of our experience” and that “it is not so damaging if we take seriously into account the other’s side [opinion], [. . .] thus making a step towards the first person plural”. Consolation apart, what inclines the scales is, ultimately, his admission that objectivity is sometimes out of the question. Under these conditions the two-logoi method is the best available way for protecting us from the subjectivity of prejudice, which disguises itself as pretended objectivity. Some of the contributors to this book might perhaps grant more weight to the positive virtues of controversies, but they would certainly appreciate Cattani’s convincing use of the Leibnizian model of a ‘Balance of Reason’ – itself a good example of the virtues of the two-logoi method.

Introduction

. Philosophical thought and inner debate The classical empiricist subject has no doubts about his or her inner experiences, and therefore has no reason to engage in debates with him or herself. However, why not consider the possibility of controversies and perhaps other forms of debates as occurring in foro interno, with the subject actually discussing with him or herself, rather than with an external opponent? Ademar Ferreira shows how this takes place in the case of scientific discovery. Yet, some of the most interesting instances of this phenomenon lie outside the realm of science. One of the most intriguing instances of inner discussion is provided by philosophy itself. For philosophical thought is intrinsically argumentative, critical and deliberative, and is supposed to lead to the truth through self-persuasion. To what extent does it consist in a real case of ‘debating with oneself ’? Is it not, after all, simply a disguised monologue, with the peculiarly deceptive feature that the ‘thinker’ is necessarily right, for how could it be otherwise, given the lack of a real interlocutor whose criticisms cannot be fully anticipated by him or her? Lacking a fully developed theory of the self, Ancient philosophy should not be expected to have explicitly analyzed philosophical self-controversy. Yet, in addition to the well known Socratic reflections on self-knowledge and the Greek rhetoricians’ analyses of persuasion, the metaphor ‘being in agreement with oneself ’ – which plays a key role in Plato’s and Aristotle’s ethics – provides interesting material to consider their views on the nature of self-controversy and its workings. Peter Schulz’s (Chapter 2) exploration of this material yields insightful results. For Plato, agreement with oneself is the mark of an orderly, harmonious ‘healthy soul’, whereas conflict with oneself, especially selfcontradiction, is the mark of psychic ‘disease’. Justice, as an individual virtue, arises only in the healthy, balanced soul, where the natural relations between its components – which are a condition for their proper execution of their functions – is respected. This view requires a detailed analysis of the ‘parts of the soul’, their functions, and their interactions – which is provided in the 4th book of the Republic. It also implies the acknowledgment that conflict between the motivational drives stemming from the different parts of the soul is not ruled out. In fact, Plato provides a detailed analysis of such conflicts and the ways they should be overcome in order to reach mental harmony, which is a condition for proper public behavior. Schulz shows how a particular kind of such conflicts, which he calls ‘reflexive inconsistency’, are explored by the

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Introduction

Socrates character in several dialogues in order to generate in his interlocutors a self-questioning of their expressed views, and thus a form of self-controversy. The importance of the account of inner conflict for Plato’s ethics is shown to lie, among other things, in the fact that his fundamental moral doctrine that nobody does evil deeds willingly, can only be understood in the light of such an account, for it has to do with the possibility of conflict, within the agent, between the different parts of his or her soul. According to Schulz, Aristotle too traces the source of moral behavior – even when it seems to be social in nature, such as friendship – to the absence of inner conflict in the individual’s soul. Accordingly, a ‘vicious’ person, characterized by having his/her soul in strife, i.e., by “being at odds with itself ”, is unable to hold a real friendship relation with others because, ultimately, this person is also incapable of philautos (self-love), except in the bad sense of doing everything out of personal interest. Such a person is inevitably in permanent self-controversy, split between her/his different inclinations, because s/he doesn’t really know what s/he wants to achieve. In a virtuous person, by contrast, who is aware of the good s/he wants to achieve as well as of her/his soul, moral self-controversy in principle does not arise. To say the least, although both assign a central role to the notion of deliberation in moral life and acknowledge the existence and importance of the phenomenon of self-controversy, neither Plato nor Aristotle – on Schulz’s account – view the latter sympathetically, not only in moral life but presumably also in philosophy. The opposite is true for those who, like Frédéric Cossutta (Chapter 5) argue that inner discussions are typical of philosophical enquiry. In such discussions, philosophers make use of a variety of specifically philosophical pragmatic and heuristic devices, but underlying all of them there is an effort to escape subjectivity and achieve objectivity. The cornerstone of this effort, according to Cossutta, is the mediation of a text that is written having in mind a reader, who gives an intersubjective dimension to philosophical enquiry, even though it is actually performed in the inner fore. In this sense, inner debates are from the very outset open to, and constrained by, a process of externalization, which prevents them from boiling down to a one-sided exposition of the philosopher’s solipsistic meditations (independently of whether the final genre chosen is dialogical, critical, or straightforwardly expository). In this respect, the philosopher as a subject in his or her inner debates plays the alternate dialectical roles of proponent and opponent, defender and critic, which are predicated upon his or her ability to take part in external debates. Is this analysis sufficient to provide philosophy with its purported objectivity? Shai Frogel (Chapter 6) expresses some meta-philosophical doubts about the capacity of philosophical enquiry to escape from the cognitive limits of a

Introduction

way of arguing based on the first person. No doubt, for any philosopher selfconviction is the touchstone for truth. As Frogel emphasizes, the success that philosophers strive to achieve does not depend on the rhetorical effectiveness of their arguments vis-à-vis others. They can succeed in persuading others, but the intrinsic nature of philosophical thinking requires the philosopher to be able to convince, first and foremost, himself or herself. But couldn’t this selforiented rhetorical process ultimately amount to self-deception? Indeed, how can rhetoric, even if first-person based, allow philosophers to reach the universal conclusions they are after? Frogel does not provide answers, but he raises intriguing meta-philosophical questions that require answers, above all from those who do not share his skepticism.

. The subject against itself? The phenomenon of conversion, especially religious conversion, stands out as a likely candidate to be viewed as being the result of painful self-controversy. Massimo Leone (Chapter 3) inquires in what respects, if at all, it can be so considered. No doubt, conversion is usually preceded by painful intra-psychic struggle, which may also involve some sort of inner argumentation and deliberation. But is this sufficient to consider it akin to an inter-personal controversy? Among the reasons for rejecting the analogy, Leone begins by raising a semiotic-epistemological objection. Whereas a public controversy is an observable exchange of signs, the inner struggle leading to conversion is not, though access to it is made possible only through its representation through signs. From this he draws the questionable conclusion that “when studying a controversy one focuses on signs in order to understand the structure of signs themselves”, whereas “in studying conversion, one studies signs in order to understand the structure of minds”. Obviously – as he himself admits – public controversies are not mainly of interest as ‘structures of signs’; so perhaps the objection amounts to calling attention to the special care one must have with first person reports of conversions (the usual ‘signs’ thereof), which may involve self-deception to a much larger extent than, say, the empiricists’ first person reports of introspective experience or the other forms of philosophical self-persuasion discussed by Frogel. Another disanalogy pointed out by Leone is that, if one assumes that opposed beliefs cannot be simultaneously held by a single mind, conversion qua radical change of belief must be a punctual event; in controversies no such difficulty arises, since the opposed beliefs belong to different minds. A usual reply to this objection is to relinquish the belief consis-

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Introduction

tency and mental unity assumptions and contend that to simultaneously hold contradictory beliefs is at most a ‘pragmatic paradox’ and that in fact we often do so; further, appeal may be made to familiar theories of the plural or dialogical mind, where opposed beliefs, desires, etc. co-exist, albeit in different parts of the mind and are expressed by different ‘inner voices’. However, after analyzing semiotic, literary, and psychodynamic versions of this kind of account, Leone concludes that they can only be interpreted as weak, metaphorical ways of depicting conversion or inner conflicts as “molded out of the way exterior conflicts occur”. Other accounts of conversion as an inner controversy – such as William James’, who claims that conversion is the endpoint of a psychological controversy – are also criticized by Leone, before proceeding to a detailed analysis of a number of stories of religious conversion in various times and cultures. As a semiotician, he focuses on what he takes to be “the greatest obstacle for those trying to represent conversion as a form of controversy”, namely “the unity and uniqueness of the mind”. Several attempts to overcome this obstacle – pictorial, cinematographic, ritual, bodily, and linguistic – are discussed. The practice of converts of changing their names, for example, in addition to serving as a sign of a change of identity, approximates conversion to external controversy where the names of the opponents are systematically linked to the positions they hold. This rich chapter defends, ultimately, a puzzling position: conversion cannot be inner controversy because the former requires a single mind whereas the latter requires a multiplicity of minds; therefore, representing conversion as controversy is nothing but the result of the tendency to use social interaction as a source of metaphors for mental activity. This is puzzling, especially from a semiotic viewpoint, because (a) it assumes a strong, a-semiotic, ontological thesis (the unity of the mind), and at the same time (b) it overlooks the ‘reality-creating’ power of a semiotic device such as metaphor, while Leone’s chapter itself shows to be capable to shatter “the mind” to pieces, thus overriding its own ontological assumption (probably itself the fruit of some other metaphor). Shirley Sharon-Zisser (Chapter 18) contributes to both the discussion of self-controversy and external controversy by skillfully (psycho-)analyzing their apparent isomorphism and their interconnections in terms of an eventual “more fundamental structure wherein the structure of controversies dwells or is concealed” – the structure of ‘archaic’ subjectivity. If controversy and subjectivity coalesce at this primordial level, she argues, then its analysis may tell us something about the essence of both. Her psychoanalytic exploration is concentric, following in this the thinking pattern she attributes to both Freud

Introduction

and Lacan. The concentric circles she analyzes include inner controversies in Freud’s and Lacan’s thought as well as the controversy of the latter with some of his disciples, which led to the dissolution of his School after a bitter power struggle. The center shared by these circles lies in the notions of the archaic and of subjectivity. The brief summary and discussion that follow obviously cannot do justice to the subtlety of the argument and to the poetic suggestiveness of the prose of this chapter. Having been educated within the scientific tradition of the medical disciplines, Freud discovers very early in his career that “local diagnosis and electrical reactions lead nowhere in the study of hysteria”, and is surprised to find himself writing case histories that are clinically helpful, but “read like short stories and [. . .] lack the serious stamp of science” (Freud & Breuer 1955: 161). He sort of excuses himself by pointing to the ‘nature of the subject’ as responsible. Sharon-Zisser identifies this conflict between a scientific and some other, more akin to artistic mode of thinking as “the rift, the inner controversy marking Freud’s own thinking from its inception”. Ever since that founding moment, she argues, “intimate scission characterizes the psychoanalytic mode of thinking”, and is echoed in the public rifts within the psychoanalytic movement. She retrieves this pattern – this time in the form of an inner debate with Freud’s way of conceiving of and exploring the depths of the psyche – in Lacan’s attraction by the idea of an ‘archaic’, pre-ego subjectivity, and his refusal to grant this idea a formal status in his theory and to make public his views on the matter. Again, this inner controversy leads to a public rift between Lacan and some of his disciples, who undertake to develop and use precisely the kind of notion of archaic subjectivity their teacher had rejected. The pattern of this inner-public controversies calls to mind the familiar trauma involved in father– offspring separation, but Sharon-Zisser’s attempt to identify the structure of the thinking process involved, especially in the inner side of the story, shows that there is much more to it. Rather than dwelling on this, however, let us focus on the notion of archaic subjectivity, object of the later controversy, upon which the author relies in drawing her own conclusions about subjectivity and controversy. The questions of the temporal point of origin of subjectivity and of when in personal history it is theoretically cogent to posit a ‘subject’ were at the heart of a controversy that tore apart Jacques Lacan’s École freudienne in the late 1970’s. In December 1979, Lacan’s school dissolved, following quarrels over the work of a group of thinkers, including Françoise Dolto, Denise Vasse, and Michèle Montrelay. Parting company from Lacan’s work, these thinkers had risked being personal in their thoughts and clinical practices. Diverging from

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Introduction

Lacan’s orthodoxy, they were concerned with the nature of the feminine, and an elemental, pre-natal subjectivity termed “umbilical” or “placental”. In their clinical work on psychic disturbances in children, Dolto and Vasse detected traces of feelings and traumas lived in utero, which they interpreted as bodily indications, recorded in the unconscious, of this archaic subjectivity. For Lacan, in contrast, subjectivity emerges simultaneously with the unconscious and with language, and what precedes it is the ego, which is preceded in its turn by an elemental psychic substance Lacan refuses to theorize about, on the grounds that it lies beyond formalization. According to Sharon-Zisser, Lacan’s rebel disciples in fact succeed to provide a precise grid for reading this archaic subjectivity that, for them, precedes the ego and even the moment of birth, for it arises in the womb, through the intimate psychic interaction between two bodies or ‘voices’– of the mother and of the fetus. On this view, she suggests, archaic subjectivity, being the result of this dyadic joint work, has the structure of a controversy, which is why “the voice of the archaic subject is always double”. In this respect, the rebels articulate a basic characteristic of the archaic that the unfolding of Lacan’s own inner controversy had hinted at: a “structure of intimate scission of alterities generating one another, concentrically enfolded within one another”. To be sure, their thinking of the archaic does not manifest itself (as far as we know) in intense inner controversy as Lacan’s or Freud’s nor – at least so far – in public rift. But it certainly “suggests significant structural affinities between controversy and the archaic”. If this is the case, one can speculate why. Sharon-Zisser’s speculation, for what it is worth, is that “controversy is so common in the history of thinking [. . .] perhaps because it ever re-launches the most primal pattern of our productive relation to an Other from which new knowledge, constitutive of our subjectivity, is autochtonously born”. This oracular phrase seems to echo Montrelay’s – one of the ‘rebels’ – perhaps naïve belief that creative thought can or should somehow reconcile innovation (“to renew and enable renewal in psychoanalytic thinking” against the process of “rigidifying itself, protecting itself from all renewal”) without a breach with the established institutional and intellectual structures (“the controversy should not necessarily have led to the dissolution of this school”; it could and should have “created the ground of possibility for veritable and hence productive debates” within the school). She and her colleagues were clearly thinking of the controversy they were involved in as a ‘discussion’, rather than as a ‘controversy’ and, much less, as a ‘dispute’ (Dolto could not even “understand the hatred she inspired”). This shows, perhaps, that they and the archaic subjectivity model they developed envisage polemical exchanges, inner

Introduction

or external, as being much less radical than they can turn out to be – at least within psychoanalysis. Marcelo Dascal (Chapter 1) undertakes to analyze intra-personal debates with the help of what has been achieved so far in the study of inter-personal debates. After exploring the direct, ‘metonymic’ connections between the latter and the former, as well as their analogical, ‘metaphoric’ relations, he sets out to systematize his observations and to propose a structural analogy between the two domains. For this purpose he makes use of his distinction between discussion, controversy and dispute – as defined for inter-subjective, social debates – and asks to what extent these ideal types of debate take place also in the intra-subjective, psychological sphere. Inter-subjective debates are discursive episodes that involve confrontation between different subjects; as such, their characteristic moves are studied by what Dascal calls ‘socio-pragmatics’, i.e., the branch of pragmatics that investigates the use of language in communication. What Dascal is interested in is whether there are analogous ‘psychopragmatic’ phenomena – that is, discursive or quasi-discursive confrontations in the mental sphere of a single subject, which are conducted, say, in the subject’s ‘inner speech’. Dascal takes advantage of Aristotle’s analogous tripartite structure of kinds of discourse (in the Rhetoric) and kinds of decision processes (in the Nichomachean Ethics), whose fulcrum is the notion of deliberation – which plays a central role in both. He points out significant similarities between deliberation and his technical notion of ‘controversy’, and proposes a typology of self-debates in terms of their ‘distance’ from ‘self-controversy’. Of particular importance for him is the fact that deliberation involves a form of rationality he dubs ‘soft’, whose model is weighing reasons for or against a belief, a theory, or a course of action, as if they were in the plates of a balance. This process, unlike the ‘hard’ rationality of, say, mathematical or experimental proof, does not however provide a foolproof decision because it only inclines towards one of the options, without necessitating it; consequently, the decision reached can eventually not be carried out, if reasons against it that are weightier than those previously taken into account by the subject emerge before (or even after) action is taken. Dascal analyses several contemporary analyses of self-debates (of which phenomena such as weakness of the will, wishful thinking, lack of self-criticism, stubborn or impulsive behavior, cognitive dissonance, and self-deception are symptomatic). He argues that in most cases these analyses overlook the distinction soft vs. hard rationality and are therefore compelled to make indiscriminate use of hard tools (e.g., logical inconsistency or a partition of the self into ontologically independent parts) in order to account for

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Introduction

these typical cases of self-debate. He believes that this is far from unavoidable and argues that both the psycho-pragmatics of our mental conflicts and the onto-pragmatics of the self can be better served if one grants their due to both their ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ aspects. This ecumenism might be a good way of reconciling the hard-liners and the soft-liners represented in the chapters of this book and surely also among its readers. *** Perhaps Protagoras, rather than any of the recent thinkers credited with this honor, was the real creator of post-modernism, even before its nemesis, modernity, came to the world? And perhaps what this creation is all about is precisely the inherent controversial character of the questions philosophers at all times set out to solve about their, as well as about any subject’s, capacity or incapacity to know objectively anything, including themselves? But then, perhaps modernity was right, with Kant, to rule out such controversies as being inherently unsolvable, and thus as not worth of serious inquiry? Nothing would be perhaps more proper to conclude the Introduction to as controversial a subject matter as subjectivity than to end up with such open questions. Whether they are solvable or unsolvable, however, we are persuaded that debating these issues, which is what this book does, is the only way to know; even if this debate does not provide ‘the solution of the puzzle’, it certainly provides other forms of enlightenment about it.

References Bacon, F. (1620). The New Organon or True Directions Concerning the Interpretation of Nature. In J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, & D. D. Heath (Ed. and Transl.), The Works of Francis Bacon, 1857–1874, Vol. 4 (pp. 37–248). London: Longman. Barrotta, P. (1998). La dialettica scientifica. Per un nuovo razionalismo critico. Torino: UTETlibreria. Barrotta, P. (2000). “Scientific dialectics in action: The case of Joseph Priestley”. In P. Machamer, M. Pera, & A. Baltas (Eds.), Scientific Controversies (pp. 153–176). New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carnap, R. (1962). Logical Foundation of Probability, 2nd ed. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Dascal, M. (1997). “Critique without critics?”. Science in Context, 10 (1), 39–62. Dascal, M. (1998). “The study of controversies and the theory and history of science”. Science in Context, 11 (2), 147–154. Dascal, M. (2001). “ How rational can a polemic across the analytic-continental ‘divide’ be?”. International Journal of Philosophical Studies, 9 (3), 313–339.

Introduction

Dascal, M. (2003). “Identities in flux: Arabs and Jews in Israel”. In G. Weiss & R. Wodak (Eds.), Critical Discourse Analysis: Theory and Interdisciplinarity (pp. 150–166). Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan. Descartes, R. (1620–1628). Règles pour la direction de l’esprit en la recherche de la vérité [English transl. Rules for the Direction of the Mind]. In Philosophical Writings (1985). Descartes, R. (1637). Discours de la méthode pour bien conduire sa raison et chercher la vérité dans les sciences [English transl. Disourse on Method]. In Philosophical Writings (1985). Descartes, R. (1985). Philosophical Writings. Transl. J. Cottingham, R. Stoothoff, & D. Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Freud, S., & Breuer, J. (1955 [1893–1895]). Studies on Hysteria. Transl. J. Strachey. New York: Basic Books. Kant, I. (1781/1787). Critique of Pure Reason. Transl. N. K. Smith. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire and London: Macmillan, 1933. Kuhn, T. S. (1977). “Objectivity, value judgment, and theory choice”. In The Essential Tension: Selected Studies in Scientific Tradition and Change (pp. 320–339). Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Machamer, P. (2000). “The concept of the individual and the idea(l) of method in seventeenth century natural philosophy”. In P. Machamer, M. Pera, & A. Baltas (Eds.), Scientific Controversies (pp. 81–99). New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Popper, K. (1968). The Logic of Scientific Knowledge, 3rd ed. London: Hutchinson. Popper, K. (1972). Objective Knowledge: An Evolutionary Approach. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Popper, K. (1981). “The rationality of scientific revolutions”. In I. Hacking (Ed.), Scientific Revolutions (pp. 80–106). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Quine, W. V. (1969). “Ontological relativity”. In Ontological Relativity and Other Essays (pp. 26–68). New York: Columbia University Press. Snow, C. P. (1959). The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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P I

Discussing with oneself

Chapter 1

Debating with myself and debating with others Marcelo Dascal We all struggle against each other. And there is always something in us which struggles against something else in us.1 Michel Foucault As I set out to establish the plan of this essay, after much reading, consultation and reflection, I consider whether its purported scope isn’t perhaps too broad, whether certain issues that seemed to me at one point or another relevant are indeed relevant to its purported topic, whether certain arguments support the claims I want to put forth and whether certain objections I can foresee are important enough to be discussed, whether one or another order of presentation will be more efficient for achieving my purpose, whether the terminology to be employed should be technical or not, whether I should include summaries of earlier work I make use of or rather refer the reader to such work, and a host of similar questions. In deliberating about these questions, I am in fact debating with myself. Reasons for and against the alternatives raised are confronted in my mind and weighed, and the result is the plan I finally adopt, which spells out the ‘prior intention’ (cf. Searle 1983) – or rather, the set of prior intentions – that I will try to implement in the intellectual activity I am about to engage in. As I set out to implement these prior intentions, by translating them into ‘intentions-in-action’, i.e., by actually writing each section, sub-section, paragraph, sentence, and footnote, I am not satisfied with some of my formulations, which I reject in favor of others. Here too I am debating with myself, exercising self-criticism so to speak ‘in the making’. When I had set up the plan, I had decided, for reasons of conciseness and lack of time, to avoid footnotes and digressions. But at a certain point of my writing I simply cannot resist the temptation to mention or discuss some tangentially relevant work or alternative view. I thus make an exception to my self-imposed rule. Conflicting tendencies within my mind confronted each other in a debate of sorts, and one of them triumphed. I have been the victim of akrasia or weakness of will.

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As I am about to finish the work, to put the final period in the last sentence, I feel I should go on a bit and explain myself better. I re-read what I have written and realize that several of my arguments are problematic and need more work. But I am exhausted and somewhat bored by dwelling so long and intensively on this; my body aches and I badly need well-deserved rest; an important soccer match is about to begin. The motivation for shutting down the computer and dispatching the essay to the publisher without further ado and the desire to turn on the TV overcome my best judgment. I cheat myself into believing that the essay is O.K. as is, that it is perfectly clear, sound, stylish, provocative, persuasive. I give in to self-deception or wishful thinking – the result of yet another kind of inner debate.

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Introduction

The above experiences were indeed experienced by me while writing this piece. Yet, none of them is idiosyncratic to Marcelo Dascal. Anyone who has engaged in writing has certainly experienced them, albeit perhaps without acknowledging and naming them as I suggested above. Nor are these phenomena typical of this particular kind of intellectual activity. Self-debate is as common as inter-personal debate, in all spheres of life. But, unfolding sometimes in the innermost inarticulate recesses of the mind, self-debate is of course much more difficult to observe directly. So, why not try to understand it through its external counterpart, which is a well documented and easily observable – although rather neglected – phenomenon? Why not put to use in the study of self-debate whatever is known and theorized about inter-subjective debate? This is precisely the strategy of the present essay. As obvious as it is, it has not been adopted – as far as I know – by any of the many studies of the most typical kinds of self-debate. I hope to show that this strategy is rewarding, both in complementing and systematizing such studies and in suggesting solutions for some of their problems. The tactics I will employ for implementing this strategy is methodologically unorthodox, for it stresses mainly the analogies between debating with oneself and debating with others. I count on the critics for the next step: pointing out the differences and thus leading to further elucidation of the psycho-pragmatics and onto-pragmatics of the puzzling notion of self-debate.2 I begin by enriching our database with illustrations of self-debate drawn from different sources; these illustrations show the ubiquitous nature and varieties of the phenomenon and the kind of mechanisms invoked in attempts to account for it (Section 2). I then discuss the two main kinds of relation – metonymic and metaphoric – connecting intra-personal and inter-personal

Debating with myself and debating with others

debates (Sections 3 and 4). The possibility of systematizing the structural analogies observed is then discussed in terms of a typology of inner debates parallel to the typology of external debates I have previously developed. Reconstructions of the prima facie similar typologies of external and internal debates in Aristotle’s rhetoric and ethics serve as a starting point for the discussion (Section 5). After an interlude on self-deception – as treated in the recent philosophical literature – and its ontological difficulties (Section 6), I return to the task of elaborating a typology of self-debates, introducing and making use of a distinction between ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ rationality (Section 7). Finally, in a further look at the onto-pragmatic dimension, I explore the possibility of considering the self-debating multiple self as real enough, provided one conceives of its partition as soft rather than hard (Section 8).

. Varieties and sources of self-debate Every time we have to make some choice between alternatives of any sort, we are likely to be torn between the available options and to engage in a decision process in which we must adjudicate between their advantages and disadvantages. It is not far fetched to depict this process as an inner trial in which, as it were, each alternative ‘appeals’ to different interests or motives inside ourselves that endeavor to prevail and thus to determine our choice. Whether this process takes place consciously or unconsciously, through careful deliberation or on the spur of the moment, rationally or instinctively – something akin to a debate seems to be under way between at least two contenders within our mind (whatever they may actually ‘be’) defending opposite positions. And this happens dozens of times a day in our lives. Sometimes the inner debate is prompted by external circumstances – quite informal (a student question to be answered, a road to be chosen when in a crossroads, what to wear in my daughter’s wedding) or more formal (deciding what electrical appliance to buy, how to vote, whether to sign a contract, what to answer to the priest’s crucial question in your wedding ceremony); sometimes it is a purely internal process (does this argument indeed support this thesis?); sometimes we are acutely aware of the debate that is taking place within us (as in some of the formal situations just mentioned) and sometimes totally unaware of it. Whatever their form, these episodes are far from marginal in our mental life, for their outcome determines to a large extent our behavior, the course of our thoughts, our beliefs and desires, our projects – in trivial as well as in crucial matters. Yet, although much has been written about the insidious nature

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of some of them and the consequent difficulties we have in controlling them, little is known about their modus operandi. Let us consider a few examples of such difficulties. Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments devotes a chapter to selfcriticism and its difficulties: There are two different occasions upon which we examine our own conduct, and endeavor to view it in the light in which the impartial spectator would view it: first, when we are about to act; and secondly, after we have acted. Our views are apt to be very partial in both cases; but they are apt to be most partial when it is of most importance that they should be otherwise.(Smith 1976: 157)

According to Smith, in such moments it is impossible to detach oneself from one’s undertaking and to evaluate one’s action as an equitable judge. This is particularly difficult “when we are about to act”, for “the eagerness of passion will seldom allow us to consider what we are doing, with the candor of an indifferent person” (ibid.). Following Malebranche, he argues that the reason for this is that, in such situations, the passions all justify themselves and seem reasonable and proportioned to their objects. After the action, however, we cool down and become almost as indifferent as an indifferent spectator. We can then “identify ourselves, as it were, with the ideal man within the breast” and view our conduct “with the severe eyes of the most impartial spectator”. But, besides being now almost useless, our judgments even then are not “entirely candid”, for self-love makes it “simply too disagreeable to think ill of ourselves” (Smith 1976: 158). He concludes that “this self-deceit, this fatal weakness of mankind, is the source of half the disorders of human life” (ibid.). About one century before Smith, the Jansenist moralist Pierre Nicole is much more critical of self-love and, consequently, much less optimistic than Smith about the prospects of overcoming its deleterious effects. Whereas Smith attributes to the self-deceit induced by self-love, which damages our capacity of self-criticism, the responsibility for half our troubles, Nicole sees in selflove’s impairment of our capacity for self-knowledge the cause of all vices (Nicole 1999: 331). He begins his essay “On self-knowledge” by observing that, although there is universal agreement about the duty to fulfill the Socratic precept know thyself, “nothing is more hateful to men than the light that uncovers them unto their own eyes and forces them to see themselves as they are”. This tendency – which is not just a bad habit of some, but a “general inclination of corrupted human nature” – leads men to do all they can in order to avoid selfknowledge.3 This seems to conflict with the opposed tendency, equally natural, men have to contemplate with pleasure the image they have of themselves.

Debating with myself and debating with others

But the conflict is merely apparent and its examination reveals the core of the strategy of self-deception employed to satisfy simultaneously both tendencies – namely, suppressing one’s defects so as to retain only a pleasing self-image. As a result, while a man “contemplates himself continuously, he never sees himself truly, for instead of himself he sees only the vain phantom he has created of himself ” (p. 312). One of the devices made use of for this purpose is to hold a confused – rather than distinct and detailed – idea of the “I”, since, according to Nicole, were this vague idea of the Moi unfolded, one would hardly find anything lovable in it. But this is not sufficient, for my self-image is not immune to what I observe around me. For example, the defects and misery of others and the opinions others have of me keep reminding me of my own imperfections. In order to prevent such things from tarnishing my cherished self-image, more sophisticated self-deception devices are required. Regarding the variety of defects we observe and criticize in others (including the often voiced ridicule of those who deceive themselves), my mind – “helped by self-love” (p. 319) – develops a technique of not performing the seemingly mandatory double-step inference consisting in (a) generalizing these observations and (b) concluding that, if all men I know have such defects, then I am also likely to have them. This seems to be grounded on an ingrained belief in the singularity of one’s self vis-à-vis all the others, which exempts one from applying to oneself even elementary logic. Whatever its source, its result is a sort of blindness: “[Men] see constantly the image of their own defects in those of all other persons, and they don’t want to recognize them in those images” (p. 320). As for the particular judgments of others about me, the mechanism of self-deception takes different forms. The simplest one is to exercise ‘selective perception’ – simply to ignore those who are against us and to pay attention to those who are favorable to us (p. 318). Things become more complicated when we face the rare charitable and well-intentioned people who “try to rescue us from the illusion in which we live regarding ourselves” (p. 321). The way self-love gets rid of this embarrassment consists in accusing such people of acting on self-interest, ill faith, or similar motives, according to the principle that “nothing can be condemned in us by a concern for equity and justice” (ibid.). Since to be accused of such motives, especially when he believes to be acting altruistically, hurts the critic’s self-image, next time he will think twice before volunteering his criticism, so that in the long run the species of well-intentioned critics will tend to vanish. Instead, people will keep for themselves their criticism or will vent it before everyone else except its target, i.e., the person who might have benefited most from them. In so doing, however,

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they make it easier for one to rank them among the cohorts of slanderers and gossipers; this, in its turn, further justifies one’s discarding of their criticism. Another problem is that one of the greatest defects we do not want to acknowledge in us is that of not wanting to see the truth about us. This, of course, is incompatible with our constant effort not to admit any criticism. The solution is to “grant something to the one as well as to the other” of these passions (p. 323). Self-love’s subtle maneuver for achieving this feat is to be carefully asymmetrical in the partition: While criticism of our essential defects is ruled out, the proof that we do want to know the truth about ourselves is our readiness to admit at least some criticism, provided it is only of “minor defects that do not disfigure the image we have of ourselves, preserving all its beauty” (p. 324). That we create so many successful stratagems to hide the truth in a matter of such importance as the knowledge of ourselves indicates, for Nicole, that our presumed ‘natural love of truth’ is far from actually guiding our behavior. In fact the main usage of this presumption is “to persuade ourselves that what we love is true”. In other words, the idea that we love truth is the very principle of wishful thinking: “[W]e do not love things because they are true, but we believe they are true because we love them” (p. 326). Both Smith and Nicole believe there are ways to combat self-deception. One of these ways is by means of rules of conduct. For Smith, these are the “general rules of morality”, stemming from our “continual observations upon the conduct of others”, which “insensibly lead us to form to ourselves certain general rules concerning what is fit and proper either to be done or to be avoided” (Smith 1976: 159). He insists that these rules are “founded upon experience” and stresses that, although once established they function as standards of judgment of an action, we should not be misled into thinking that “the original judgments of mankind with regard to right and wrong, were formed like the decisions of a court of judicatory, by considering first the general rule, and then, secondly, whether the particular action under consideration fell properly within its comprehension” (p. 160). Nevertheless, “when they have been fixed in our mind by habitual reflection, [they] are of great use in correcting the misrepresentations of self-love concerning what is fit and proper to be done in our particular situation” (ibid.). Nicole’s position is radically opposed to Smith’s moral inductivism. For him, given our corrupt nature, moral rules must stem not from experience but directly from God. Even so, they are not immune to wishful thinking and thus may not suffice to overcome self-deception, for we can attempt to deflect the rule in order to adjust it to our corrupt inclinations: “[Men] do not want

Debating with myself and debating with others

only to follow their interests and their passions; they want also to be approved when following their interests and their passions” (Nicole 1999: 338). We can nevertheless adopt practical, rather than moral, rules that may be of some help in preventing self-deception. A remarkable example of such a rule, which can enable us to steer a correct course between criticism and flattery, is to realize that the language of both is “peculiar” – the former a language of moderation, the latter a language of exaggeration. In both cases we have to learn to discern between the “precise meaning of the expressions and the thoughts they allow us to read in the mind of those who use them” (p. 374). The rule that formulates this accurate lesson in pragmatics is that, in order to assign the appropriate import to criticism and flattery, we must expand what is only half-said in the former and add weight to it, while we must look out for what the latter silences and subtract weight from what it actually says. Self-love, of course, leads us to do exactly the opposite of what this rule prescribes, as we have seen. Another Jansenist thinker, Pascal, whose influence upon Nicole is noticeable, was also concerned with the inner battle between the ‘lower’ and the ‘higher’ parts of the soul. I want to single out here his attack on the ‘imagination’ as a key factor in this battle, because of the particularly insidious character he attributes to it. In a well-known section of the Pensées,4 Pascal describes the deceptive activity of the imagination as follows: It is this deceptive part of man, this master of error and falsity, and the more perfidious because it is not always so; for it would have been an infallible rule of truth if it were an infallible rule of lie. But, although it is for the most part false, it gives no mark of its quality, marking with the same sign the true and the false. . . . [The imagination] is a superb power, enemy of reason, which pleases itself in controlling and dominating it. . . . It makes [one] believe, doubt, deny reason; it suspends the senses, it makes them sense. . . . (Pascal 1960: 95)

Imaginative ability grants self-assurance, hence self-satisfaction and assertiveness. Persons endowed with it regard people imperiously; they dispute daringly and confidently . . . and their joyful face often gives them the upper hand in the opinion of the audience, since imaginary wise men are favored by judges of the same nature (ibid.).

While imagination makes its practitioners happy, “reason cannot but render its friends miserable; the former covers [its friends] with glory, the latter with shame” (p. 96). The overwhelming superiority of imagination over reason ultimately stems from the latter’s prudence, which does not allow reason’s “friends” the same

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unbridled self-assurance afforded by imagination to its. In the camp of reason, there is no decisive and unquestionable principle of truth, whereas imagination provides “many and excellent” principles of falsity. Furthermore, the “two principles of truths – reason and the senses –, besides the fact that they lack sincerity, abuse each other reciprocally” (p. 99). It is within this division of the camp of truth that imagination has a place too, not as a fiend but as a friend. Pascal the scientist is well aware of the positive role of the imagination in geometrical constructions, in conceiving ideal experimental conditions à la Galileo, in the value of analogies for theory construction à la Kepler.5 But, like the senses and reason itself, imagination – even when properly used – does not provide certainty. Furthermore, the fact that the boundaries of its legitimate uses in the pursuit of truth cannot be precisely drawn prevents distinguishing them sharply from their illegitimate counterparts – which form the majority of its uses – and grants the ‘negative’ imagination so much power of deception. What causes the self to be prey to the many kinds of deception Pascal ascribes to imagination is that the deceptive agent cannot be identified as such and ruled out once and for all by some visible ‘mark’; any such attempt would risk to throw the baby with the bath water, since the very same agent may be, in important cases, non-deceptive. Thus, the negative ‘force of the imagination’ – a theme that emerges forcefully in renaissance literature about the relations between the parts of the soul (Piro 1999) – does not stem, for Pascal, from the imagination’s belonging to the lower part or being inherently unreliable. It is because this is not the case, i.e., because the imagination can eventually have also a positive ‘higher’ role, that it can be a persuasive lawyer of the passions and deceive the mind (‘esprit’). Unlike Pascal, other thinkers of the period attribute the force of the imagination to an inherent, closer connection with the sensitive soul and with the will, upon which the passions act: . . . these passions originate in the senses, they are always on their side, the imagination never represents them to the mind without speaking in their favor; with such a good advocate they corrupt their master and are victorious in every cause; the mind listens to them, examines their reasons, considers their inclinations, and in order not to sorrow them pronounces itself very often to their advantage; the mind thus betrays the will whose prime minister it is; it cheats this blind queen and, disguising the truth, presents her with unfaithful reports; . . . the imagination, filled with the species it receives from all the senses, solicits the passion and shows to it the beauties or the ugliness of the objects that can move it; . . . [and] the appetite follows blindly all the objects that the imagination proposes to it. (Senault 1664: 15–17)6

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Whatever the precise ‘location’ of the imagination in the map of the soul, whatever the source of its power, one must beware of it, because it can be – and more often than not actually is – appropriated by the ‘wrong’ party, thus becoming its deception-engendering representative in the self-debate going on within the soul. As a last illustration of the phenomenon of inner debate, let us turn now to the twentieth century, focusing on the phenomenon that came to be known as ‘cognitive dissonance’ in the wake of the psychological theory (Festinger 1957; Festinger (ed) 1964) that first proposed a systematic account of its nature and consequences. According to this theory, a cognitive dissonance occurs when there is a “nonfitting relation” among one’s cognitions – understood as “any knowledge, opinion, or belief about the environment, about oneself, or about one’s behavior” (Festinger 1957: 3). For example, one may think children should be quiet in the presence of adult guests and yet be pleased when one’s child noisily captures their attention; or one may be a convinced antiracist and yet withdraw one’s children from school as soon as Arabs enroll in it. Dissonance is, thus, an inconsistency within an individual’s set of cognitions in a given domain. It is more rigorously defined as follows: two “elements of cognition” x and y are dissonant if not-x follows from y (p. 13). One should not be misled, however, by the formal character of this definition. Festinger himself points out that he introduced the term ‘dissonance’ instead of ‘inconsistency’ because the former “has less of a logical connotation” (p. 2), and stresses that ‘follows from’ should not be invariably interpreted as a strict logical relation (p. 14). Logical inconsistency is but one of the possible sources of dissonance; others include a variety of contextual elements, such as motivation and desired consequences, cultural conventions, past experience, etc. Assuming that “an individual strives toward consistency within himself ” – an assumption amply supported by “study after study” – the theory claims that dissonance is “psychologically uncomfortable”; consequently, it is a “motivating factor in its own right”, which pressures the individual to act in order “to try to reduce the dissonance and achieve consonance”, as well as “to avoid situations and information which would likely increase the dissonance” (pp. 1–3). In this respect, cognitive dissonance is analogous to drives such as hunger. The strength of the pressure to reduce dissonance is claimed to be a function of the degree or magnitude of dissonance, which in turn is a function of the number and importance for the individual of the dissonant elements between two dissonant clusters of cognitions. These factors are also determining – along with other factors – of the resistance experienced in attempting to reduce or avoid dissonance, be it by trying to change a “behavioral cognitive element” (e.g.,

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modifying one’s behavior or one’s perception thereof) or an “environmental cognitive element” (e.g., changing one’s opinion about someone by relying on the support of others for the new opinion), or by suppressing potentially dissonant elements or adding consonant ones, thereby reducing the weight of the dissonant elements in the cluster. Several of these notions can be straightforwardly applied to the examples of inner debate discussed above. For example, the clash between one’s pleasant self-image and one’s unpleasant image as reflected in others’ criticism clearly involves cognitive dissonance, and the various maneuvers described by Nicole amount to attempts to reducing it through one or more of the methods described by Festinger. Generalizing a bit, consider the theory’s view of the resistance to the reduction of dissonance or to the avoidance of its increase as what explains the persistence of certain kinds of dissonance as opposed to cases in which a belief is easily changed in the light of counter-evidence. Persistent dissonance could be seen as an indicator of a sort of inner debate. Its resistance to reduction might be due to the fact that it arises between cognitive elements belonging to a core of basic beliefs, feelings, or behaviors of the self, or else to a set of nodal cognitions, whose change would require corresponding changes in a vast array of cognitions. In either case, the dissonant elements would be ‘entrenched’ components of the individual’s mental set (cf. Dascal & Dascal 2004) – in Nicole’s examples, self-love and the desire for self-knowledge; these components somehow co-exist in the self, in spite of their latent inconsistency; nevertheless, none of them can be easily given up, even when their inconsistency becomes apparent and causes the discomfort characteristic of cognitive dissonance. Research in cognitive dissonance theory has devoted particular attention to the kind of dissonance that arises after a decision between mutually exclusive options has been made. Experimental data (cf. Festinger 1964; Brehm 1956) show that immediately after decision a process of ‘rationalization’ of the decision begins, whereby the “attractiveness” of the non-chosen option is lessened and the attractiveness of the chosen alternative is increased. This “spreading apart” of the alternatives is achieved by lowering the evaluation of the “good” features of the rejected alternative and raising that of the adopted one, as well as by lowering the evaluation of the “bad” features of the latter and raising that of the former – thus reducing the dissonance between the choice made and those cognitive elements in the options considered that are against it. Notice that the dissonance the person is under pressure to reduce after having made the decision arises not between the two alternatives, but between her “knowledge of the direction in which (s)he is going” after having decided and

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the “cognitive cluster of elements” that “accumulated during the process of coming to a decision” (Festinger 1957: 35) and runs counter what she decided. Obviously these elements must remain cognitively available after the decision – otherwise they could not cause post-decision dissonance. Post-decisional dissonance, therefore, is a rather surprising phenomenon, at least insofar as it does not conform to the intuitive idea that a decision ‘puts an end’ to doubt and inner debate by picking up one of the alternatives and removing the others, along with their supporting arguments, from the decider’s cognitive horizon. Instead, it suggests that, as a rule, the pre-decision debate goes on beyond the decision point – albeit in a slightly different and somewhat attenuated form. It is perhaps in order to preserve at least part of the intuition in question that Festinger emphasizes the singularity of the moment in which a decision “is made”, which, according to him, creates a discontinuity in the cognitive process between what precedes and what follows it. Although he admits that the evidence about what happens immediately prior to a decision is both scant and problematic (cf. Festinger 1964: 6, 9), he posits a sharp distinction between pre-decisional ‘conflict’ and post-decisional ‘dissonance’: The person is in a conflict situation before making the decision. After having made the decision he is no longer in conflict; he has made his choice; he has, so to speak, resolved the conflict. He is no longer being pushed in two or more directions simultaneously. He is now committed to the chosen course of action. It is only here that dissonance exists, and the pressure to reduce this dissonance is not pushing the person in two directions simultaneously. (Festinger 1957: 39)

On this picture, self-debate at the stage of cognitive deliberation toward a choice is like a fierce battle between opposed forces trying to win the person’s acquiescence, whereas at the stage of dissonance reduction after the choice is made it is a rather quiet process of suppressing the remaining resistance and regrouping and redeploying the victorious forces after the battle. These metaphors suggest quite different types of self-debate and a sharp gap between them. Nevertheless, the robust experimental results on post-decisional dissonance rather suggest a continuity between them.

. Intra-personal and inter-personal debates: Metonymic relations In what follows, I will assume that the phenomena presented in Section 2 and in the opening paragraphs of this essay illustrate mental processes that can

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be properly termed ‘self-debate’, for they (a) take place within the mind and (b) are significantly similar to the debates we are most familiar with, namely inter-personal agonistic confrontations.7 Let me now begin to implement the strategy of trying to learn more about self-debate through the glasses of interpersonal debate. The first step will be to examine the kinds of relations obtaining between the two phenomena. For this purpose, I will rely on the general classification of relations proposed by Leibniz, who distinguished between two principal types of relation – connexio and comparatio.8 The former involves a (spatial or temporal) contiguity between the relata and some sort of direct influx or link between them; part-whole, part-part, order, possessor-possessed, and causal relations, among others, belong to this type. The second type is characterized by a ‘distance’ between the relata, a lack of direct ‘contact’ (hence of direct influx) between them; this type comprises relations of similitude, difference, opposition, super-ordination, exemplification, and analogy, among others. Jakobson (1962: 64) considers this dichotomy – which he designates with the terms metonymic and metaphoric – as essential for understanding not only verbal behavior, but for human behavior in general. I retain here his terminological suggestion. Let us consider first the metonymic relations. Obviously, there are causal relations between an external debate and several mental activities directly involved in it. In addition to the mental processes normally involved in understanding, interpreting, evaluating, and reacting to any interlocutor’s intervention in a non-agonistic conversation for example, engaging in a debate with someone requires also more specific mental activities such as anticipating what might be the opponent’s replica to a possible reply to his present objection I am considering, and what I might respond to his anticipated replica. These and similar mental activities, however, are part and parcel of the communicative chores of taking part in the social activity “debate”, which takes place between an opponent and a self who interact in a public arena. Although these are mental moves that take place in foro interno, they are entirely subservient to what is currently going on in foro externo. As such, they do not configure per se the quite distinct phenomenon of a debate the self engages with itself, not necessarily in the presence of an external opponent or prompted by the need to react to his objections. Insofar as this phenomenon enjoys a relative autonomy from the social environment, its study belongs properly to psychopragmatics (at least to the extent it involves the use of linguistic/semiotic or quasi-linguistic/quasi-semiotic means), along with other ‘solitary’ mental processes such as meditating, reasoning, daydreaming, etc. In contradistinction,

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the investigation of the mental contributions to inter-personal debate belongs straightforwardly to another branch of pragmatics – socio-pragmatics.9 Genuine self-debate can, however, bear a metonymic relation of the causal type to external debate. Criticism by others may engender, along with a public polemical exchange, an inner process of self-criticism or at least of selfexamination – which may or may not end up with the modification or one’s self-perception. This will depend – in Nicole’s terms – on whether the selflove or the self-knowledge drive prevails, or – in cognitive dissonance theory’s terms – on the comparative resistance to dissonance reduction of one’s selfconcept vis-à-vis the critical challenge to it (cf. Thibodeau & Aronson 1992), or on several other factors (e.g., personality traits such as a tendency to be selfcritical or not, the credibility of the critic in the eyes of the criticized, etc.). Although triggered by a move that usually leads to external debate, the selfdebate in question often pursues its own course and has its own intensity, quite independently of the external debate, which can even abort right at the outset. The impact of suddenly being in the vortex of an intellectual controversy, where “one’s ingrained, taken-for-granted sense of how certain things are . . . is suddenly and insistently confronted by something very much at odds with it”, is powerfully described by Barbara H. Smith (1997: xiv–xv): [A]n impression of inescapable noise or acute disorder, a rush of adrenalin, sensations of alarm, a sense of unbalance or chaos, residual feelings of nausea and anxiety. . . . Thus a sense of intolerable wrongness in some journalist’s description or fellow academic’s analysis can set the mind’s teeth on edge and produce a frenzy of corrective intellectual and textual activity: letters to the editor, exposures, rebuttals, and sometimes tomes and treatises. . . . [These activities are especially energetic when the wrongness is experienced as] bearing on one’s personal safety, dignity, or even identity (social, professional, and so forth), so that a response seems summoned and obligatory.

Although she stresses the public aspect of the response, the inner response she describes to what she views as an example of “the familiar but by no means simple phenomenon of cognitive dissonance” (ibid.) is certainly no less intense, and in all likelihood consists in engaging in self-debate. Confronted with external objections that question the very grounds of my basic beliefs, my data, my research aims, and my methodology, I can hardly content myself with a public reaction. Even if I adopt what Peirce (1877) called the ‘method of tenacity’ (i.e., strict adherence to my position, disregarding the onset of doubt due to the criticism and avoiding further encounters with such critics), I must somehow reassure myself that I am right and “they” are wrong. If I view myself as

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justly tenacious, i.e., as having justifiable grounds for my position, then I must discuss with myself, at the very least, whether I have made no mistakes in my assumptions and in my inferences from them. And if I go as far as maintaining a methodology that calls for ‘symmetry’ between “those beliefs currently seen as absurd or wrong as well as those now generally accepted as true” (Smith 1997: xvi), when facing systematic misrepresentations of my position and radical objections to it, I certainly must engage in a thorough inner search of where I might have gone wrong, perhaps by not really living up to the principle I profess. Any of these forms of self-examination is likely to involve an inner debate, independently of whether I also engage in an external debate or not. The effect of external debate on inner debate may be less direct, in the sense of being more sensitive to the style of argumentation and attitude of an opponent than to the content of the positions he attacks and defends. A beautiful description of this kind of effect is given by Proust: And when Bergotte’s opinion was thus contrary to mine, he in no way reduced me to silence, to the impossibiliy of providing any reply, as M. de Norpois’ would have done. This does not prove that Bergotte’s opinions were less valid than the Ambassador’s; on the contrary. A powerful idea communicates some of its power to the person who contradicts it. Partaking of the universal community of minds, it penetrates, grafts itself onto the mind of him whom it refutes, among adjacent ideas, with the aid of which, counter-attacking, he complements and corrects it; so that the final verdict is always somewhat the work of both discussants. It is to ideas which are not, strictly speaking, ideas at all, to ideas which, based on nothing, can find no foothold, no fraternal support in the mind of the adversary, that the latter, grappling with thin air, finds nothing to answer. M. de Norpois’s arguments (on art) were unanswerable because they were devoid of reality.10

It seems that in genuine cases of self-debate prompted by or influenced by external debate, the voice of the external objector is internalized by the selfdebating self into an ‘inner voice’ that sort of becomes part of the self, thus distancing itself from the objector’s voice and acquiring sufficient autonomy for conducting a debate with other ‘voices’ present in the self. Even in the formal situations that require a decision of sufficient importance to be preceded by a deliberative process, the evidence of post-decision dissonance strongly suggests that the inner debate follows its own course quite autonomously, for it does not cease once it supplies the decision required by the formal situation.

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. Inter-personal and intra-personal debates: Metaphorical relations Metaphorical relations between mental activity and external, bodily activities abound in the literature. Sometimes these relations are (or are taken to be) ‘etymologically’ grounded and as such as providing solid evidence for the nature of mental activities. Locke, for example, invokes the sensory origin of words such as ‘apprehend’, ‘comprehend’, ‘conceive’, ‘imagine’, commonly used to describe mental operations, in support of his thesis that “notions quite removed from sense have their rise thence, and from obvious sensible ideas are . . . made to stand for ideas that come not under the cognizance of our senses” (Essay 3.1.5). Horne Tooke, an influential and controversial figure in English ‘philology’ in the 18th century, goes a step further and views the role of language in thought as straightforwardly metonymic, by claiming – in the footsteps of Hobbes – that “what are called [the mind’s] operations are merely the operations of language” – a thesis he also based on ‘etymological’ evidence.11 In general, language figures prominently in the metaphorical conceptualization of mental processes. Recall, for example, the notions of a ‘mental lexicon’ (Aitchinson), of ‘voiceless speech’ as what thinking amounts to (Watson), of ‘inner speech’ (Vygotsky), of the polyphony of inner ‘voices’ alluded to above, of mental ‘dialogues’ (Bakhtin). It seems all too natural to add to this series the notion of ‘inner debate’ and to explore how far it can take us in conceptualizing adequately the phenomena it is supposed to refer to. In this exploration, we should bear in mind the tendency – illustrated above – to forget that, prima facie at least, a metaphoric, unlike a metonymic relation, relates a target and a source that belong to distinct domains or categories: “A relationship of the form A is B(for example AN ARGUMENT IS A FIGHT) will be a . . . clear metaphor if A and B are clearly different kinds of things or activities” (Lakoff & Johnson 1980: 85). The category-distance between target and source cannot be obliterated if a relation is to count as metaphorical. If one’s concept “fight” includes, in addition to physical aggression and the consequent pain, also psychological aggression and pain, for instance, then ‘an argument is a fight’ would come closer to being just a literal predication.12 What preserves the distance is the selectiveness of the properties metaphors project from one domain onto the other, which requires from their users and interpreters to be attentive to which properties of the source domain are expected to have counterparts in the target domain and which not. The more ‘central’ or ‘essential’ are the properties of the one transferred to the other, the less the relation remains metaphoric.

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In our case, we should ask what – if any – are the counterparts in the target “self-debate” of essential features of the source “external debate”, such as discursiveness or the fact that external debates take place between clearly demarcated and ontologically independent entities. If we go as far as positing as a condition for speaking of self-debate the splitting of the self into ontologically distinct components such as the Freudian id, ego, and superego, each acting intentionally in its combat with the other (as in external debates), then we are very close to interpreting the expression ‘self-debate’ not metaphorically but as providing a literal theoretical account of the phenomena it refers to. This, however, would require the theorist to go further and answer such questions as: What exactly is the ‘discursive’ medium or ‘inner language’ in which selfdebate is conducted? Is this medium more ‘transparent’ than public language, which would prove that the allegedly separate parts of the self are, no matter what, in a close, intimate connection? In what sense can intentions – a typically conscious phenomenon in external discourse – be assigned to an unconscious part of the self? And – last but not least – if several selves indeed co-exist within ‘the breast’ (as Adam Smith would put it), how to account for the (phenomenologically unquestionable) feeling of unity of ‘the’ self and for the (normatively central) properties attributed to ‘the’ person (e.g., responsibility) that seem to presuppose some level of identity at which the ‘several selves’ must become nothing but aspects of the ‘real’, unitary self? No doubt these are important and heavy questions, having to do mostly with ontological matters. Presumably, it is the difficulty of providing satisfactory answers to these and similar questions suggested by the metaphor ‘selfdebate’ that ultimately has led some scholars to disparage the ‘scientific’ status of ideas such as those of dichotomous and tripartite selves, on the grounds that “we ought not to take the notion of ‘several selves’ very literally” (Elster 1986: 30). Elster concludes his analysis of several theories that appeal in one way or another to this notion by claiming that, in the phenomena these theories discuss, “in general, we are dealing with exactly one person – neither more nor less” (ibid.). It is the job of this person, this unitary self, to deal with his problems of cognitive coordination and motivational conflicts, i.e., there is no need, in accounting for the observed phenomena, for additional explanatory constructs such as “several selves”. Particularly misleading, in Elster’s eyes, is the metaphor of inner debate, for motivational conflicts and cognitive coordination problems of an individual “do not sort themselves out in an inner arena where several homunculi struggle to get the upper hand” (pp. 30–31). Regarding Elster’s substantive conclusion, I will try to show later on that it is more profitable to discuss these ontological issues in terms of the ‘onto-

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pragmatics’ (Dascal 1992) of self-debate – a perspective that may help to dissolve the apparently unsolvable dilemmas they seem to involve, just as the ‘psycho-pragmatic’ perspective permits to deal more productively with the traditional issue of whether language is constitutive of thought or not (Dascal 1995). But, in line with my deep belief in the need of metaphoric conceptualization even in science, I beg to disagree with Elster as to the value of pursuing the attempt to understand self-debate via its relation with external debate – even if this relation is “nothing but metaphoric”. I will substantiate this value by considering in the rest of this section and in Sections 5 and 7 what I take to be significant structural analogies between intra-personal and inter-personal debates, regardless of their eventual ontological implications – which I will address in Sections 6 and 7. The metaphor argument is war certainly captures the agonistic aspect of both inner and external debates. It permits, in both, to speak of ‘battles’ between ‘contenders’ who have opposed aims and targets, of ‘forces’ that are ‘mobilized’ in order to achieve these aims, of ‘positions’ that are ‘attacked’ and ‘defended’, of ‘strategic’ and ‘tactical’ moves that may be successful or not, of ‘defeat’ and ‘victory’. Structurally, this metaphorical conceptualization raises such questions as: Who are the contenders in the ‘war’? What are the aims? What are the criteria of partial success and of complete victory? What are the weapons and moves typically used or permitted? In both inner and external debates, the answers to these questions – i.e., the way one fills in the appropriate slots of the general structure – will vary with the particular type of debate and its circumstances. And the fact that one is ‘inner’ and the other ‘external’ constrains the nature of the candidates for each slot. Thus, in inner debate the contenders may be different ‘faculties of the mind’, e.g., the ‘will’ and the ‘intellect’ (as in Pascal and Senault), or opposing components or elements of the same faculty (as the drives “self-love” and “self-knowledge” in Nicole or the dissonant cognitions in the theory of cognitive dissonance). Accordingly, each of the specified contenders will use in the combat ‘his’ characteristic and most effective weapons and moves, pitting – respectively – passions and emotions against reasons, or passions against passions, or reasons against reasons. Each will also attempt to ‘neutralize’ (i.e., rule out or disqualify) the adversary’s weapons: Paraphrasing Pascal, the ‘heart’ will acknowledge reasons that Reason doesn’t accept, and vice-versa. The aims of each side may range from leading the mind into a certain mental state (the adoption of a desire over another, of a belief over another, of an intention over another) to influencing the self ’s behavior (looking for additional information in order to reach a decision, action taken in the wake of a decision,

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acting on an intention). Success or failure in achieving these aims may be total (complete self-persuasion vs. suspension of judgment; implementing a decision vs. not acting on it) or partial (some degree of self-persuasion; partial, hesitating action).

. Towards a typology of intra-personal debate: The Aristotelian clue Taking now into account the different types of debates in each of the two domains, let us try to see whether the structural analogy extends to the level of a parallel between the typology of external debates and that of inner debates. I refer the reader to my publications on the former (e.g., Dascal 1998). For our purposes here, the following schematic summary should suffice. Traditionally, two main types of debates are distinguished. Systematically, they can be described as ‘ideal types’ and characterized by their differences in aim, extension, procedures of decision, preferred moves, form of conclusion, and cognitive gains. One is taken to be paradigmatic of what a scientific, rational debate should be, while the other is typical of conflicts of interest, where emotion and power struggles prevail. I have chosen to call them, respectively, ‘discussion’ and ‘dispute’: Discussion Aim: determining the true position Extension: a well-defined problem or issue Decision procedure: application of a method of decision the contenders accept Preferred move: proof Possible closing: solution Possible cognitive gain: elimination of mistaken belief Dispute Aim: victory over the adversary Extension: a well-defined content and attitudinal divergence Decision procedure: no “internal” method of decision agreed upon by contenders Preferred move: stratagem Possible closing: dissolution by intervention of “external” factors Possible cognitive gain: discovery of irreconcilable positions or attitudes

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The discussion-dispute dichotomy is usually perceived as exhaustive, so that contenders (as well as analysts) tend to view a particular dispute either as belonging fundamentally to one of these types or to the other, and to emphasize one or more of the following oppositions between them: Discussion The truth The issue can be decided Logic Rational About content Leads to change of opinion

Dispute My truth The divergence cannot be decided Rhetoric Irrational About attitudes Does not lead to change of opinion

One of the contributions of recent research on inter-personal debates has been to propose a third, intermediary ideal type, which mitigates to some extent the dichotomous character of these oppositions. It has been labeled ‘controversy’ and has the following features: Controversy Aim: persuasion of the adversary or of a competent audience Extension: begins with well defined issue and quickly extends both to ‘horizontally’ and ‘vertically’ related problematizations Decision procedure: the opponent’s methods are questioned Preferred move: argument Possible closing: resolution Possible cognitive gains: clarification of divergence; conciliation of opposites; emergence of innovative ideas In a controversy, unlike in a dispute, each contender does not assume a priori that the adversary is entirely wrong and he himself is entirely right, thus abandoning from the outset any hope of rationally persuading the other to change his mind. External intervention (e.g., by a tribunal) can dissolve the dispute, but usually does not change the contenders’ confidence in the correctness and justice of their positions. On the other hand, controversy differs from discussion in that, while it is predicated upon the possibility of rational persuasion, it does not assume that this can only be achieved through the acceptance by the contenders of the unquestionable results of the application of a method both unconditionally accept. In controversy, questioning of basic assumptions, methodology, and the modularity of issues is the rule. This leads to a wide span of disagreements that can be quite radical – including doubts about the alleged

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certainty of the decision procedures. Hence, rational persuasion in controversy, unlike in discussion, is not usually comparable to the dramatic revelation of the truth and compelling full conversion. Our task now is to attempt to spell out a parallel typology for self-debates and to find out whether it is adequate for accounting for the phenomena this expression is supposed to refer to. In other words, we must characterize the presumed inner analogues of discussion, dispute and controversy as described above (let us call them ‘self-discussion’, ‘self-dispute’ and ‘self-controversy’), to check how far the analogy goes, and to show the descriptive and explanatory power of these theoretical constructs. We can begin by following a clue provided by Aristotle. He applies the same term, deliberation, to the external debate that takes place in an assembly in the course of a collective decision and to the inner debate that takes place within an individual who seeks to determine the proper ethical course of action for himself, in his particular circumstances.13 Aristotle’s terminological choice is not casual, for it reflects a deep analogy between his conceptions of the two domains, and there is significant overlapping between the two texts.14 Deliberative discourse – one of the three kinds of oratory dealt with in the Rhetoric – gives advice to individuals (in private counseling) or to an assembly about taking a certain course of action. Deliberation – as dealt with in the Nicomachean Ethics – is the mental process through which an individual establishes his preferences and decides how to act. In both domains, deliberation’s aim is to lead to rational persuasion in favor of one of the options – in the external domain, other-persuasion; in the inner domain, self-persuasion. In both domains, deliberation concerns the choice of a future action among a set of possibilities – none of which is certain to occur. Therefore, it deals not with the necessary – which is the object of science – but with the probable. Nevertheless it is a rational procedure of evaluating the available options through comparison of their advantages and disadvantages. Consequently, deliberating well comports a form of correctness, although it does not yield knowledge or truth. It is a “correctness of thinking” which differs from the correctness of ‘demonstrating’ characteristic of science; Aristotle calls it ‘calculating’, which he considers to be characteristic of deliberation.15 These shared properties alone, I submit, clearly suggest that ‘deliberation’ occupies, in Aristotle’s scheme – both in its inter-personal and intra-personal versions – the slot occupied by ‘controversy’ in my inter-personal typology. This would justify (at least as a weighty ad verecundiam argument) taking intra-personal deliberation, as described by Aristotle, as a prime example of a type of self-debate that may be called ‘self-controversy’. It remains to be seen

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whether a similar analogical argument applies to the other components of the Aristotelian typology. As we have seen, Aristotle emphasizes the difference between prudence or practical wisdom, the ‘intellectual virtue’ that relies upon deliberation, and science. Unlike the former, where the ‘calculating’ deliberative procedure evaluates the best alternative but does not determine it with certainty, self-debates in scientific matters are those capable of being solved by rigorous proof. In this respect, they correspond quite straightforwardly to what I have provisionally termed ‘self-discussion’. So, the Nicomachean Ethics suggests, for the sphere of self-debate, a plausible analogue for my ‘discussion’ in the inter-personal debates. A certain kind of ‘self-criticism’ might be taken as a paradigmatic example of self-discussion in this sense. It would consist in examining (e.g., in a Cartesian or in a Popperian way) one’s reasoning or explanation by applying to them a precise ‘method’ (e.g., methodical doubt or the logic of refutation, respectively) that would be capable of determining whether we should reject them as mistaken or be assured of their correctness. Does the Rhetoric support this second analogy? Of the two genres of discourse that flank the deliberative genre, the most likely Aristotelian candidate for the inter-personal counterpart of self-discussion seems to be the forensic. One might think that the juridical system provides the judge, who has to decide whether an injustice or wrongdoing (defined as an action that violates the law and inflicts damage; Rhet 1368b8) has been committed by the accused, with the methodical tools necessary to decide with certainty. Ideally, he would have to accept nothing but the ‘complete proofs’, rather than ‘probabilities’ or ‘signs’ (Rhet. 1359a7). If this were the case, there would be no room for ‘deliberation’, and the judge’s decision would be certain if it resulted from the correct application of the method. It turns out, however, that none of the five kinds of juridical ‘proofs’ examined by Aristotle (Rhet. 1375a23–1377b14) – laws, witnesses, contracts, tortures, oaths – are exempt of qualifications and variations. This prevents their mechanical application and requires the judge to deliberate about each and to attribute to them an appropriate relative weight, regardless of the conviction displayed by the counsels who base their case on them. We are thus in presence of a process that resembles more self-controversy than self-discussion. If we turn now to the remaining rhetorical genre, the epideictic – the kind used in ceremonial oratory for praise or censure of some person, action or event – it seems to be quite removed from anything like debate, and even less of ‘dispute’, since no agonistic element is present in it at all. The audience attending this kind of discourse functions as a sympathetic spectator, and as such is

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not addressed in order to deliberate or decide about the merits of the eulogized person; only the quality of the eulogy and the capacity of the orator in moving the audience is the subject matter to the audience’s evaluation (Rhet. 1358b8). In this respect, epideictic discourse is similar to the work of an artist or artisan, and corresponds somehow to the third kind of intellectual virtue – ‘art’ – that the Nicomachean Ethics contrasts with deliberation (Eth. Nic. 1140a). The only resemblance I discern with dispute in either case lies in the deep self-conviction that animates the orator and the artist, which cannot be shaken by reasons of any sort, internal or external. So, in spite of a promising beginning, with a clear support for ‘selfcontroversy’ as a distinct type of self-debate and for the role of deliberation therein, and in spite of the triadic structure of Aristotle’s typology in both the internal and the external spheres of debate, his authority only partially supports my proposal. Let us turn, then, to other venues (including Aristotle himself) in order to show the plausibility and usefulness of this proposal.

. Self-deception and the splitting of the self Self-deception is a mental phenomenon of a clearly agonistic nature, and thus a prima facie example of self-debate. It seems also obvious that, qua selfdebate, it must belong to the category of ‘self-dispute’. Recall how, in Nicole’s description, ‘self-love’, engaged in a ruthless battle with reason, is not at all embarrassed in employing a rich assortment of devious maneuvers in order to induce one to hold beliefs about oneself which are contrary to those one’s best judgment would recommend. Although easy to classify, if one grants it is a form of self-debate, it is not evident that self-deception actually can be viewed as such. For, under closer analysis, self-deception consists not only in a situation in which somehow a person believes at one and the same time that a proposition is true and that the same proposition is false; it also is such that – in its most acute cases – one of the contradictory beliefs is a causal factor in bringing about the other and even causally ‘sustains’ it (Davidson 1986: 89). Self-deception thus displays such a flagrant form of inconsistency, such aberrant irrationality, that one must ask whether one ‘self ’ can bear it, and if so, what kind of self it is. No wonder that recent philosophical accounts of selfdeception (e.g., Davidson 1986; Rorty 1986; Pears 1986; Searle 2001: 235–236) have reached the conclusion that, in order for self-deception to be possible, it is necessary to posit some sort of splitting of the self. This section will examine

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this ontological issue – a detour from the typological enterprise pursued in the previous section, to which we will return in the next section. Let us assume, for the sake of the argument, that the self is split in at least two subsystems – be they quite permanent (as for Pears and Searle), evolving and variable in their configuration (as for Rorty), or having their borderline traced according to the case at hand (as for Davidson). Once one splits the self in any of these ways, one lands squarely in a situation basically equivalent to that of external debate. If the contradictory beliefs p and not-p of a self-deceiver are each held by one of two contenders, there is no logical inconsistency in any of them per se, for each holds only one of these beliefs. Metonymically, the awareness by one contender that his opponent holds a belief that is inconsistent with his own, poses, of course, an inner problem for him: is he right and the opponent wrong or vice-versa? But this problem does not consist in discovering an inconsistency within himself, for the situation is not that he, John, believes that p and not-p nor that John believes that p and John believes that not-p. Just as in the inter-personal case each of the beliefs in conflict is held by one of the contenders, John or Tom, so too in the intra-personal case each is held by one of John’s subsystems, J1 and J2 , none of which can be blamed for contradicting itself, nor – a fortiori – for self-deceiving itself. Self-contradiction – and self-deception – only arises if the two subsystems are co-present and interact at some ‘integrative’ level of the self, where the contradiction is explicitly represented and must be dealt with. As long as the subsystems are independent ‘mini-selves’ operating strictly apart and not actually integrated in a common self, as seems to be the case in Dissociative Identity Disorder (previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder), no self-contradiction arises. Self-deception can thus exist without challenging the self ’s consistency because its logically clashing elements are, so to speak, distributed among different constituents of the self. But this solution seems to raise more problems than it solves. First, if the self is no longer unitary or integrated, then what is the point of preserving ‘its’ consistency or ‘its’ rationality? By giving up its integrative character, it seems that one has ipso facto given up the requirement that the self should possess any of the family of ‘coherence’ properties to which certainly consistency belongs. So, perhaps what is to be preserved is the consistency of some privileged component of the self. Which one? To be sure, the consistency of each of the contending components of the split self is preserved thanks to the distribution of the logically clashing elements across them. But surely the aim of the exercise was not to preserve these posited mini-selves’ consistency. Maybe the aim is then ‘consciousness’? But since this presumed higher order component

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of the self integrates the conflicting inputs of the mini-selves and ‘is aware of ’ them, it explicitly contains the clashing cognitive elements, so that the inconsistency that was to be avoided by the distribution maneuver raises its head once more. What this shows is that the proposed solution fails as an account of self-deception because it is achieved at the expense of depriving the prefix ‘self-’ in ‘self-deception’ of significance. For the same reason, this solution rules out the possibility of considering self-deception as a genuine example of self-debate, i.e., as a debate that takes place between one entity and itself, one entity that argues with itself, playing the alternating roles of proponent and opponent. Given what we know about cases of self-deception, were it a genuine self-debate, it would certainly be a particularly good example of the type ‘self-dispute’. Yet, on the solution discussed above for the problem of its irrationality, self-deception is in fact an ‘inter-subsystems’ dispute, completely equivalent to an inter-personal dispute, for which the prefix ‘self-’ does not add anything. We may indeed imagine selfdeception as a particularly ruthless dispute between two virtually autonomous entities (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?), each absolutely convinced of being right and consequently as allowed to fight without constraint for its own interests by means of whatever deceptive stratagem available in order to achieve victory, at any price, over its competitor. The ‘self ’ is exempted from inconsistency by playing no role in this dispute other than that of a thin membrane enveloping the contending subsystems and of an arena where the fight takes place.

. Towards a typology of self-debate: ‘Hard’ and ‘soft’ rationality Obviously, the role of the self should be more substantial than that of a tenuous container in order to account for genuine ‘self-debates’. This ‘substantiality’ has, as we have seen, an onto-pragmatic side; but it has also a psycho-pragmatic side. The later pertains to the conduct of the debate, i.e., to the kind of interaction that takes place between the ‘debaters’ in a self-debate (be they subsystems of the self or the self as a whole) and its underlying norms: What are – if any – the explicit or implicit rules of the debate? What are the aims of the debate and its criteria of success? Does each of the participants have a distinct role, e.g., of accuser or defender, of mere spectator or third party, of a judge that must decide the issue? What kinds of moves are permitted and what kinds of moves debaters fulfilling specific roles are expected to perform at each stage? What kind of rationality – if any – is presupposed by each of these moves? It is the answers to questions such as these that should differentiate between distinct

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ideal types of self-debate. Though each of these questions deserves full and detailed attention, for reasons that will become apparent I will focus here mainly on the last one. A comparison between self-deception and weakness of will is a good starting point. Recent philosophical analyses of weakness of will and self-deception highlight a profound difference between these two phenomena (e.g., Davidson 1969, 1986: 80–81; Searle 2001: 234–236, 2005; and also Rorty 1986, although to a lesser extent). On the face of it, both involve some sort of irrationality. Yet, the irrationality characteristic of the former is somewhat ‘milder’ than the hard rationality that characterizes the latter. For, strictly speaking, while in a typical case of weakness of will or incontinence (e.g., having decided to do something and doing something else instead) there is no formal inconsistency, self-deception, on the contrary, involves the simultaneous holding by someone of the belief that p and the belief that not p, which is logically absurd. This difference in the kind of irrationality involved goes a long way in explaining why weakness of will is ‘less of a problem for philosophical psychology’ than self-deception (Davidson), why the former is ‘less dangerous’ than the latter (Rorty), and why it is a ‘common and natural form of irrationality’, stemming from the very nature of rational action (Searle). The reason for that, in my opinion, is that, being ‘milder’, the irrationality of akrasia can be handled in terms of a plausible conception of rationality as reasonableness, whereas the hard irrationality attributed to self-deception implies either the impossibility of this phenomenon or else some implausible splitting of the self into independent or at most very loosely connected subsystems in order to render it possible. In the preceding section I have discussed the ontological difficulties caused by such a splitting and, in the next section, I will try to show how the distinction between hard and soft rationality can help to mitigate – at least ontopragmatically – these difficulties. Before this, in the present section I make use of this distinction as the psycho-pragmatic basis for my proposed tripartite typology of self-debate. Let me first explain the distinction I have in mind.16 By ‘hard’ rationality I understand a conception of rationality that has standard logic and its application as its fundamental model. This conception views logical inconsistency as the paradigmatic expression of irrationality and regards certainty as the principal aim and sign of knowledge. Since mathematics is the most successful implementation of this ideal of rationality, hard rationality privileges what it takes to be the basic reasons of this success. Accordingly, it considers, as conditions of rational thinking and praxis or as their preferred manifestations, such

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parameters as: uncompromising obedience to the principle of contradiction; precise definitions formulated in terms of necessary and sufficient conditions; conclusive argumentation modeled upon deduction; formalization of this procedure by means of a symbolic notation; quantification and computability; axiomatization of domains of knowledge; and the like. By ‘soft’ rationality I understand, broadly speaking, a conception of rationality that seeks to account for and develop the means to cope with the host of situations – theoretical as well as practical – where uncertainty and imprecision are the rule. Although acknowledging the applicability and usefulness of the high standards of hard rationality in certain fields, it rejects the identification as ‘irrational’ of all that falls short of them. It deals with the vast area of the ‘reasonable’, which lies between the hard rational and the irrational. The model underlying the idea of soft rationality is that of a balance where reasons in favor and against (a position, a theory, a course of action, etc.) are put in the scales and weighed. But there is a deep difference between ‘weighing’ reasons and ‘computing’ them.17 For, except in a handful of cases, the weights of reasons are not precisely quantifiable and context-independent. Consequently, weighing them does not yield conclusive results whose negation would imply contradiction. The balance of reason, unlike deduction, “inclines without necessitating” – in Leibniz’s felicitous phrase.18 Even so, if the weighing is properly performed, the resulting inclination toward one of the plates provides reasonable guidance in decision-making.19 Soft rationality’s logic is, thus, non-monotonic and cannot be reduced to standard deductive logic. It is the logic of presumptions that rationally justify conclusions without actually proving them, of the heuristics for problem-solving and for hypothesis generation, of pragmatic interpretation, of negotiation, and of countless other procedures we make use of in most spheres of our lives. It is also the logic of deliberation, a process that is usually depicted in terms of the balance model.20 It is because its rationality is of the soft variety that deliberation can be associated with ‘self-controversy’, in which no hard decision procedure is available. Let us now try to position ‘self-dispute’ and ‘self-discussion’ in the typology of self-debate in terms of how they distance themselves from deliberation. We begin with a detour via weakness of will. Aristotle, as we have seen, considers deliberation the cornerstone of rational decision-making and rational action. It is through deliberation that one establishes one’s preferences, according to which one should act – if one is to act rationally. Failing to do so is to be guilty of akrasia. This sin is, thus, a sin against rationality. Remember, though, that deliberation for Aristotle is not demonstration. The latter implies necessity, whereas the former precludes ne-

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cessity, since where things occur necessarily, there is no choice, and therefore no room for deliberation.21 So, weakness of will can be blamed at most for using soft, not hard irrationality. This makes it easier to account for than the presumed hard irrationality of self-deception, for two reasons. First, since the negation or rejection of conclusions of soft inferences does not imply contradiction, it is no great scandal if such a negation or rejection happens. Rather, it is a matter of routine, which does not challenge (unless it happens massively) its soft rationality’s ‘rules’ of inference. Second, since the main reason for splitting the self was to prevent logical inconsistency, such a need does not arise in the case of soft irrationality, which at most displays less acute forms of cognitive dissonance. These, the self is used to handle without disintegrating, just as it is used to assess opposed reasons in the course of a deliberation without being literally torn apart by them. John Searle’s (2001, 2005) explanation for the routine – hence rather unproblematic from the point of view of philosophical psychology – character of akrasia takes a prima facie quite different route. It is based on his deeply anti-deterministic concern for the freedom of choice characteristic of voluntary human action. As such, human action cannot be, in his view, compelled by anything – not even by the most strictly rational reason for action. This concern leads him to posit a series of ‘gaps’ – between the process of deliberation and the formation of an intention or decision to act according to its result, and between the intention and its actual execution (Searle 2001: 14–15). These gaps are required for the human agent to be able to exercise her freedom. For, were she not free to decide otherwise than ‘recommended’ by her best deliberative judgment and to act otherwise than she decided to act, the judgment would be ‘causally sufficient’ to produce the decision and the decision, to undertake the action; in this case the agent could just sit back and passively watch the causal chain deliberation-decision-action to unfold without his intervention. That we often experience such a smooth flow should not, however, mislead us into believing that there is no gap, nor that the agent’s active ‘doing’ in every step of the chain is absent. Fortunately akrasia is there to remind us of this – it is “but a symptom” of what is going on each time we act voluntarily (Searle 2005: 76). Akrasia happens routinely and is easy to account for because all it does is to break the appearance of smoothness, by bringing to light what is always there anyhow, albeit hidden: the gaps and free agency, which is supposed to be possible only thanks to them. Searle’s mode of argumentation erects mighty barriers between a “Classical Model” (as he calls it) that he considers to be entirely mistaken and his own theory, wherein gaps are excavated and establish no less mighty abysses

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between mental processes. In his search for a formal model of practical reason, he considers exclusively deductive models, and – on this basis alone – concludes: “it is impossible to get a formal logic of practical reasons which is adequate to the facts of the philosophical psychology” (Searle 2005: 56). All this suggests a puzzling reliance on hard rationality as the only available model and tool for the account of rational action, even when this model seems to be patently inadequate for Searle’s own purposes. It is to some aspects of his position that might benefit significantly if handled in terms of a soft rationality approach that we now turn. Let us ponder first about Searle’s treatment of akrasia. He gives (Searle 2001: 235) the following formula summarizing its basic form: (1) It is best to do A and I have decided to do A, but I am voluntarily and intentionally doing B.

It should not come as a surprise that this is directly connected to the gap theory. It provides direct support to it: That there is akrasia is a decisive counterexample against those who do not accept the thesis that the same freedom not to do what one has decided occurs in all cases of voluntary action. Accordingly, there should be a parallel formula for non-akratic rational action: (2) It is best to do A and I have decided to do A and I am voluntarily and intentionally doing A.

Notice, however, the telltale difference between the two formulae: but in the former vs. and in the latter. The interpretation of the adversative conjunction but in general requires a delicate pragmatic operation, for it rarely – if ever – refers to a semantic or logical opposition between the two conjuncts (see Dascal 2003: Chapter 6). To make a long story short: Cases of akrasia are no doubt knock-out counter-examples to the thesis that deliberation and decision are causally sufficient for the corresponding action and thus necessarily bring it about; but per se they do not eliminate the possibility that, having made his mind after deliberation, the agent is more likely than not to act upon his decision; in other words, (2) rather than (1) is the default rule; i.e., one is expected to act according to (2), though not forced to do so, as shown by (1); this explains the but in (1) – its function being to indicate that the performance of B is a strong enough reason to cancel, in a particular case, the expectation that A would be performed, which is generated by the default rule (2). The notion of default is a soft notion, and what has been sketched above is a plausible soft rationality account of the feeling of irrationality akratic action arouses. Similarly, the feelings of having an infinite range of possibilities each

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time we make a choice and the freedom of choosing any of them, which Searle describes as “the way in which akrasia characteristically arises”,22 can be traced back to the fact that deliberation is not conclusive, among other things because of its context-dependence. Each possible choice is associated with its own set of relevant reasons and their weights, so that the simple consideration of its possibility is likely to modify the balance’s inclination, by bringing into focus ‘other grounds’ for the decision.23 In this sense, akrasia – and possibly the very idea of the gap – stems from the fact that deliberation is an open-ended process that always goes on, an idea corroborated by the phenomenon of post-decision dissonance discussed in Section 2. Going metaphysical, one might ask whether these and many other ways in which soft-rational factors incline us toward an action without compelling us to do it should lead to viewing them as an entirely different type of causation, ‘intentional causation’, thus transforming what is observed as “a certain amount of slack between deliberation and formation of intention . . . and between the intention and the actual undertaking” (Searle 2001: 231) into a metaphysical gap rather than the normal way in which soft reasons exercise their causal powers. Having so many motives for going soft-rational,24 perhaps Searle does not decidedly do so simply because he himself obliterates the distinction soft vs. hard rationality by arguing that even the latter has no compelling power: An inference may be valid, “but there is nothing that forces any actual human being to make that inference” (p. 21). Like Descartes’s God whose freedom was above the rules of logic, the freedom of Searle’s rational agent seems to be absolutely unbounded, i.e., neither compelled nor inclined by anything. Returning to earthly matters, consider again the akratic in the fraction of a second between concluding his deliberation with a decision and acting contrary to this decision. At precisely this moment, he is only a potential akratic. Some reason against his decision, which he had not put in the balance, pops up in his mind, perhaps due to an objection coming from an external critic. This is when the potential akratic’s self-debate is most acute. To do or not to do? He had decided to stop smoking; but he didn’t take into account the weight of the painful urge to puff his pipe precisely in moments like these, when he needs all his mental powers focused on the essay he must by all means finish today. This is a strong reason not so much for reconsidering his sensible decision to stop smoking, but for admitting an exception, only this one, please. He has been told to be especially careful against such “only this one” pleadings and to resist them by sticking to the decision no matter how persuasive they are. Obviously, this person has already engaged, in this very fraction of a second, in a

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new round of deliberation, which may yield a different decision and action. If it does, then he will have committed akrasia. How extensive and careful the new round of deliberation will be, and how this may influence its results, depends on such factors as how solid is my previous conviction, how serious I take the objection to my previous decision to be, how important the issue is for me, how urgent it is to act on it, etc. It also depends upon character and style. In a letter to Leibniz, Thomas Burnett of Kemeny describes an extreme deliberative attitude: “Mr. Locke is known here as a man who meditates and thinks more than anyone at what he writes, especially in philosophy. He considers and reconsiders, he examines an idea front, back and across (so to speak), and he sees a thing through all possible points of view, so that he will always have an advantage over a man who does not think so much as he does”.25 The more you examine an issue from all sides, the more likely you are to question entrenched assumptions, methods, and solutions – yours or others’ – i.e., the more controversy-like the self-debate is. This may of course lead to indefinite suspension of judgment, and will be justified only regarding important issues that are not pressing.26 More often, however, the result of the re-deliberation can be the re-confirmation of one’s previous position, conversion to the opposite position, or a new position emerging from some conciliation between the contending positions that accommodates the new configuration of weights in the balance. In each case, the balance’s inclination may become stronger or weaker in the wake of the re-deliberation process. But there are other ways of reacting to the (inner or outer) objection and to the ‘new reason’ it brings to the fore. If I am very strongly persuaded of my decision, feeling certain about it, an objection – however well grounded – is unlikely to make me doubt that decision. I may then entirely overlook it, and avoid engaging in a costly re-deliberation process. In this case, no selfcontroversy will arise, and there is no danger of akrasia. Now, my virtually absolute confidence in my decision and its consequent virtual immunization vis-à-vis objections may have its origin in one of the following scenarios: (i)

There was no deliberation and I have a firm intuition, a gut feeling that this is what I have to do.

(ii) There was deliberation and – as a matter of principle or of habit – I do not change my mind after I make a decision. (iii) There was deliberation and I am sure the decision is correct because it was reached by the application of a faultless method.

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In scenario (i), there was no deliberation before the decision because I never had any doubt about it being the right decision. My confidence is based on immediate ‘evidence’, which stems from my privileged self-knowledge. Just as it does need justification (hence, is not a matter of deliberation) it does not admit objections (hence, is unquestionable). Since others do not have the privileged access I have to the source of my evidence, they are a priori disqualified to question my certainty. If their objections to my choice surreptitiously ‘infect’ my mind, I must beware of this treacherous ‘voice’ disguised as my own and not listen to it at all. If I appear to argue against it inside myself, it is not because I admit there is room for a real debate about my decision; I do so only for eristic purposes, for reassuring myself through ‘winning’ this pseudodebate of what I anyhow know is right. I am just fighting back the siren’s voice, the stratagem designed to divert me from what I am sure I have to do, with a counter-stratagem. I may also avert the danger by Peirce’s already mentioned ‘method of tenacity’, namely, refusing to expose myself to those who might challenge my self-assurance and thus “systematically keeping out of view all that might cause a change in [my] opinions”.27 In both cases, my maneuvers are examples of self-deception. Aristotle calls the kind of person described in this scenario ‘impulsive’ or ‘excitable’ and classifies her as someone who has no self-control, i.e., as a potential akratic (Nic. Eth. 1141a20). But her decisions are far from volatile, for they will change only as the result of a clash with a more powerful contrary gut feeling. In the absence of such a clash, she will cling tenaciously to her decision no matter what. In scenario (ii), the person resembles rather the continent man who is in full self-control. He has deliberated and reached a decision to which he is committed and which he abides by. The difference between them lies in the fact that a person of the first kind is “hard to convince, and not easily persuaded to change her convictions”, whereas the continent man is “ready on occasion to yield to persuasion”. Whereas the latter stands his ground against passion and yields to reason, the former holds her ground against reason. Aristotle calls such persons ‘obstinate’, and lists among the motives of their stubbornness “the agreeable sense of victory in not being persuaded to change their mind and the annoyance of having the decrees of their sovereign will and desire annulled”.28 For these people, the decision point marks the end of the deliberative process. Reopening this process and accepting any modification of its outcome would mark for them self-defeat, in the sense that the self would thereby admit serious imperfections in both its reason and will – in the performance of rational choice and in the capacity to stand for it.

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In scenario (iii), as opposed to (ii), the basis of the person’s conviction is not one’s personal pride, eager to defend post factum the decision made even if one realizes that it clashes with reason. It is, rather, a deep belief that the deliberation method was appropriate to the issue at hand, correctly applied, and rigorously conclusive, so that the decision reached admits of no revision whatsoever on rational grounds. The person can eventually admit that, although having carefully checked the results, both by herself and with the help of competent colleagues, some minimal possibility of mistake remains. This may be a human mistake or a ‘bug’ in the procedure. A doubt about the results, provoked by internal or external questioning, is a good occasion for verifying the correctness of the procedure, her way of applying it, or similar possible problems. This gives rise to what might look like re-deliberation. But the only way this kind of person admits of persuading her to abandon her conviction is to show that some mistake in the strict sense was made – i.e., a mistake that could be corrected by re-running the procedure (hopefully through independent researchers). Once the truth is determined through such a re-calculation, no reason for doubt can remain, and she, on her own accord, is compelled to accept the result (whatever it is) and have in it the same degree of confidence she had in her previous – whether to be preserved or abandoned – result. Unlike in scenario (ii), to abandon in this way her previous conviction is not perceived in scenario (iii) as a defeat, but rather as a victory of the method one has adopted and as a further proof one is in the right track. Each of the sources of conviction in (i), (ii), and (iii) differ in their positioning vis-à-vis deliberation; but they all share their repugnance for it. Each has its own reasons for dispensing with deliberation in self-debate, but all are persuaded that they can handle the problem better than deliberation. Deliberation is repugnant to them because of the time and energy consuming its appropriate execution demands. As against this, conviction of the three sorts is supposed to provide a finite, mental energy and time saving way of deciding any self-debate. Furthermore, deliberation is repugnant to conviction-based strategies because of its open-ended nature. One can begin deliberating about a well-delimited issue and may end up discussing the whole universe, due to the eagerness not to overlook in the weighing process any of the relevant reasons. As against this, convictions keep the discussion within watertight compartments, for which they are most effective, and thus avoid the dangerous spreading of doubt to broad philosophical and methodological issues. And, most of all, the great enemy of conviction is – rightly – perceived to be the soft rationality characteristic of deliberation. Conviction believes to be able to overcome this enemy either by adherence to a hard rationality method (sce-

Self-dispute

Impulsive

Stubborn

Doubt

Intuition

Post-decision Conviction

Pre-decision

Post-decision Conviction

Pre-decision

Doubt

Tenacity

Tenacity

Deliberation

Rationality

Conviction

Conviction

Persuasion [strong]

Wishful thinking

Technical mistake, methodological dogmatism

Weakness of warrant, weakness of will

Typical failures

Eristic Self-deception

Mistaken self-awareness

Rationalization Self-deception

Soft [strong]

Hard

Persuasion Soft [inclination]

Ends with

Demonstration Certainty

Deliberation

Begins with Procedure

Self-discussion

Phase Doubt

Subtype

Self-controversy

Type

Table 1. Types of self-debate

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Marcelo Dascal

nario iii), or by the adamant refusal to call into question a decision made, even though it was made by a soft-rational deliberation whose results can in principle be questioned (scenario ii), or else by giving up altogether the assumption that reliable decisions and beliefs are those based on rational (soft or hard) decision making processes and replacing such presumed grounds by unexplainable intuitions, feelings and impulses (scenario i). If we put together what we have been belaboring in this and previous sections, we come up with a typology of self-debate that is roughly parallel to that of inter-personal debate, which I depict schematically in Table 1.

. A soft-partitioned self? To conclude, consider again self-deception, a typical tactics in self-dispute, which has provided some of the strongest philosophical arguments in favor of the self ’s partition. Maybe Davidson is right in claiming that self-deception cannot achieve its objective of inducing in oneself a belief contrary to one’s best judgment through the kind of causality by which reasons operate, for “nothing can be viewed as a good reason for failing to reason according to one’s best standard of rationality” (Davidson 1986: 92).29 If so, “one’s best standard of rationality” functions as a strong demarcating criterion, which segregates ‘reasons’ from whatever else that is capable to influence one’s beliefs. The emphasis on the inconsistency that, according to Davidson, is what makes self-deception irrational suggests that the criterion in question is a hard criterion. That is to say, it excludes soft, non-monotonic influences, especially those of a noncognitive character, such as one’s habits, tastes, and inclinations. Admittedly, on Davidson’s category distinction between reasons and causes, such influences are causes, not reasons. But all they need in order to become members of the privileged club of reasons is to cross the thin threshold of awareness and become “represented as internal reasons” as Searle (2001: 115) puts it, i.e., to become accessible to consciousness. We know, however, that mental representations can be vague and obscure, that they comport a lot of implicit elements, and that they move easily in and out of consciousness. This threshold seems, therefore, to be too thin to establish a hard demarcation, not to mention a gap. There are other reasons for softening the self ’s presumed partition. Indeed, the fact that Davidson attributes a provisional and ad hoc character to the division of the self in his account of self-deception suggests that the demarcation is, for him, quite soft in nature. Consider, for instance, the role the ‘principle of total evidence’, a central piece of Davidson’s ‘best standard of rationality’, plays

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in the demarcation. Suppose this principle is softened, for who in fact acts on total available evidence and how should availability be defined – as Davidson himself (1986: 81n) asks? As a matter of fact, Davidson argues that, in order for the irrationality of self-deception to be possible, there must be a causal (i.e., not involving reasons) step in its generation, and proposes that this step consists in the “temporary exile or isolation” (from the domain of reasons) of the requirement of total evidence. But isn’t a principle that can be temporarily suspended best viewed as a presumption, whose occasional violation is to be expected and does not amount to an inconsistency? Obviously, such routine violations do not create any permanent boundaries or gaps. At most they reveal the need of pragmatically motivated, variable soft lines one draws within the self in order to make possible the understanding of phenomena such as self-deception that otherwise not even the most charitable version of the principle of charity could rescue from hard irrationality. Davidson is not alone in hinting at the possibility of mitigating the self ’s partition. Others are more explicit about this possibility and less concerned about the partition’s eventual failure in performing its alleged explanatory job if the softening goes too far. A case in point is the work of George Ainslie (1982, 1986), which suggests a way to soften what is perhaps the hardest ever proposed partition of the normal self – the Freudian triad id, ego, and superego. Ainslie distinguishes between two different functions of what is usually lumped together as ‘mechanisms of ego defense’: “(1) the avoidance of unpleasant perceptions per se” and “(2) the avoidance of impulses, that is, reward-seeking behaviors which could lead to unpleasant perceptions” (Ainslie 1982: 737). The first task has to do with current perceptions whose avoidance gives immediate reward; the second is concerned with long run interests of the ego and requires some mechanism capable of giving up an immediate reward that might lead to future unpleasantness for the sake of a delayed reward. Mechanisms of this kind include ‘precommitting devices’, which are “farsighted but must stay in control of behavior over the long run if they are to obtain the rewards that are their raison d’être” (p. 746). Ainslie analyzes a wide variety of such devices, but the one which is most interesting for our purposes here is the ‘bunching of choices’. This consists in grouping choices according to their diagnostic value for the chooser, i.e., according to whether each of the choices is perceived as a “precedent for future choices in the same set” or bunch (p. 772). In our terminology, this perception endows a choice under consideration with extra weight in the deliberation process. Suppose I have decided, after careful deliberation, to stop smoking. But I feel an intense urge to smoke right now. If I give in and violate my self-imposed rule, this will signal to myself that I may do the same

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Marcelo Dascal

in the future. This additional weight must be put in the balance when deciding whether to satisfy my urge, because ignoring it may lead, against my best judgment, to the crumbling of the rule I adopted following my best judgment. The ‘bunching of choices’ thus functions as a reasonable self-control mechanism that may help to prevent incontinence. However, it may be hardened into compulsive behavior that forbids any exception to the particular rule in question, as well as to any other rule – which is precisely the superego’s strategy (Elster 1986: 22). Just as it has to defend itself from the immediate pleasure-seeking id, the ego has thus to defend itself from the imposing of hard rules by the superego. The way to do this, in Ainslie’s theory, is a sort of inner bargaining that loosens the bunching of choices in rigid sets, while at the same time not allowing the person “to shift boundaries repeatedly in order to make exceptions” at will, by setting up ‘bright lines’ that tell him when the circumstances are such that an exception is justified (Ainslie 1982: 772). Whether or not this account of the ego-superego conflict obviates the need to posit them as separate autonomous entities, it illustrates well how this conflict involves several of the types of self-debate discussed in this essay, as well as how soft rationality and the context-sensitive onto-pragmatic perspective are directly relevant to this issue. In any case, if we grant some of the above ways of softening the self ’s partition, then the posited parts of the self are, in fact, not so separated as the personalities “Dr. Jekyll” and “Mr. Hyde”. Furthermore, the self would thus acquire some substance of its own. First, because each of its presumed parts would no longer be constituted by a fixed set of elements, since what is at one point in one of them can routinely become a member of another; these elements, thus, would become multi-functional entities that ‘belong’ de facto to the self, not to any one of its supposed parts; they are elements that the self can use for different purposes, just like words can be used for thinking as well as for communicating; the partition of the self would turn out to be, therefore, not ontological but onto-pragmatic. Second, because even those who insist on a strict boundary separating the domain of rationality from the causal domain, like Davidson and Searle, ultimately allow these parts of the self to interact causally, “since reason has no jurisdiction across the boundary” (Davidson 1986: 92). Together, the mobility of the elements and the causal interaction between the self ’s posited parts requires enough shared ground for seeing them as belonging to one and the same substantial ‘personality’.30 Does the softening of the partition lines in the ‘multiple self ’ make it, ultimately, a ‘mere metaphor’, a mere ‘way of speaking’, a mere ‘pragmatic device’ because it does not correspond to something ‘stable’, ‘embodied’, ‘real’ in the

Debating with myself and debating with others

person? To answer this question would require us to embark in a new inquiry about what might qualify the self ’s subsystems (not to mention the self itself) as ‘real’. For example, would their functional identity suffice or should one also find in the brain separate modules in charge of performing these functions? Provisionally, we can stop here and suggest that the answer to this question depends on whether one considers the literal vs. metaphorical boundary a hard or a soft boundary.

Notes . Quoted in P. Dews, “The nouvelle philosophie and Foucault”. Economy & Society 8: 164– 165 (1979). . I wish to thank Varda Dascal, Yaron Senderowicz, Ilana Arbel, Adelino Cardoso, and Mark Glouberman for their suggestions and especially for being the ‘others’ in a debate that helped me in conducting the self-debate that this essay reflects. . Nicole (1999: 310, 311). . Paragraph 82 of the Brunschvicg edition, as published in Pascal (1960). . Recall, for example, his experiments on the vacuum and his essay De l’esprit géometrique. Pascal (1985) contains, along with this essay, the draft of a Preface for a planned Traité du vide, as well as other posthumously published texts, notably the Ecrits sur la Grâce. This volume is a judicious juxtaposition of writings, which highlights the dual role Pascal assigns to the imagination. . Quoted in Piro (1999: 168). . In my previous work on inter-personal debates (e.g., Dascal 1998, 2000), I have employed the expression ‘polemical exchange’ as the general term for their various types. In the present context, I prefer the more neutral term ‘debate’. . Leibniz (1903: 355). He also employs the terms conjunctio for the former and convenientia for the latter. On this classification of relations and their counterparts in 19th–20th century thought, see Dascal (1978: 106–115). . For the distinction between socio- and psycho-pragmatics, see Dascal (1983: 42–52). Viewing ‘psycho-pragmatics’ as a branch of pragmatics or the theory of language use is justified in the present case insofar as one takes into account that language is actually ‘used’ in mental processes not only by way of employing in them words or a ‘mental lexicon’ (Aitchinson 1994), but also through the presence in such processes of underlying structures that are originally or typically linguistic. One such structure is the dialectic structure of inter-personal debate (cf. Dascal 2002). . Proust (1954: 562). . John Horne Tooke, Diversions of Purley (1786), II, 51b (quoted in Aarsleff 1967: 13). . For further analysis of the metaphoric and metonymic relations in ARGUMENT IS WAR, see Dascal (2004).

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

Marcelo Dascal . Hampshire, who elaborates the Aristotelian notion of deliberation as the cornerstone of his moral theory, puts to use the external-internal debate analogy in this vivid passage: “The picture of the mind that gives substance to the notion of practical reason is a picture of a council chamber, in which the agent’s contrary interests are represented around the table, each speaking for itself. The chairman, who represents the will, weighs the arguments and the intensity of the feeling conveyed by the arguments, and then issues an order to be acted on. The order is a decision and an intention, to be followed by its execution. This policy is the outcome of the debate in the council chamber” (Hampshire 1991: 51). . Aristotle considered the notion of deliberation sufficiently important on its own to write a special treatise devoted to it (Peri Symboulías, which is listed in Diogenes Laertius’ catalogue). On possible traces of this treatise in the Rhetoric, see the Spanish translation and commentary by Q. Racionero, pp. 99, 214, 222. . In this paragraph, I refer to, paraphrase and extrapolate statements that can be found in Rhet. 1357a-b, 1358b, 1359a; Eth. Nic. 1112a–1113a, 1139a–b, 1141a, 1142b. . For details, see Dascal (2005). . “Rationes non esse numerandas sed ponderandas” (reasons are not to be counted but weighed), stresses Leibniz on several occasions (this quote, e.g., is from his letter to Gabriel Wagner, 27.2.1697; in Leibniz 1875–1890, Vol. 7: 521). . Again, a phrase often employed by Leibniz. The locus classicus is the Discours de Metaphysique [1686], par. 13 (in Leibniz 1999: 1546). . It should be noted that, being based upon non-conclusive inferences, soft rationality provides only a weak warrant for its recommendations, if compared with the strong warrant provided by hard rationality. Nevertheless, this does not mean that it is chronically guilty of a cognitive error analogous to weakness of will, which Davidson calls ‘weakness of the warrant’ and defines as follows: “a person has evidence both for and against a hypothesis; the person judges that relative to all the evidence available to him, the hypothesis is more probable than not; yet he does not accept the hypothesis” (Davidson 1986: 81). A person using soft rationality may, of course, incur in this error, but only if he fails to take into account the reasons he considers relevant, to assign them proper weights, to compare them properly, and to admit that the result may be overridden by the eventual presentation of ‘heavier’ reasons. . Although certainly relevant for the soft vs. hard rationality distinction, Hampshire’s (1991: 52) emphasis on the argument-dependence of a deliberative decision (as opposed to the argument-independence of the rightness or wrongness of an arithmetical calculation) focuses on the fact that a moral or political decision is a decision to act for certain reasons, and not on the soft character of the inference, which is what I am stressing here. . In the same vein, Leibniz writes: “The nature of the will requires freedom, which consists in that a voluntary action is spontaneous and deliberate, i.e., that it excludes necessity, which suppresses deliberation” (Causa Dei [1710], in Leibniz 1875–1890, Vol. 6: 441). . “[A]s a result of deliberation we form an intention. But when the moment comes there is an indefinite range of choices open to us and several of those choices are attractive or motivated on other grounds. For many of the actions we do for a reason, there are conflicting reasons for doing not that action but something else. Sometimes we act on those reasons and

Debating with myself and debating with others

not on our original intention. The solution to the problem of akrasia is as simple as that” (Searle 2005: 76–77). . This might explain Hampshire’s notion of argument-dependence of a deliberative decision (see Note 20), while at the same time not restricting it to the case in which the decision is that of acting for certain reasons. . From the choice for the jacket of Rationality in Action of Vermeer’s masterpiece Woman Holding a Balance, which depicts a situation of extremely delicate weighing of jewels, to the explicit use of the balance model – the emblem of soft rationality – there would be but a small step, were it not for the gap. . Letter from Burnett to Leibniz, 3 May 1697 (in Leibniz 1875–1890, Vol. 3: 198). . “This is how the Areopagytes would in effect absolve this man whose case was too difficult to be decided; they would postpone it for a long time and grant themselves one hundred years to reflect about it” (Leibniz, Nouveaux essais sur l’entendement humain [1705], 2.21.23; in Leibniz 1875–1890, Vol. 5: 167). . “The fixation of belief ”. In Peirce (1931–1958, Vol. 5: 235; first published in Popular Science Monthly 12: 1–15, 1877). For a critical discussion of this article by Peirce, see Dascal & Dascal (2004). . The quotes in this paragraph are from Nic. Eth. 1151b4-15. . On the distinction between ‘reasons’ and ‘causes’, see Davidson (1963). . Furthermore, the across boundary possibility of causal interaction may be all that is required for the intervention, in a self-dispute, of an ‘external’ factor not directly involved in it, which can however be causally effective in ‘dissolving’ it or reducing its level of conflict. Consider some sort of self-regulating mechanism analogous to an analyst who interprets the fighting parties’ aims and moves in the hope of dissolving or reducing the unrest or the dysfunctions caused by the conflict, or the inner analogue of Kant’s ‘umpire’ or ‘legislator’ (similar to Smith’s ‘impartial observer in the breast’), who does not take sides in the metaphysical disputes between ‘dogmatic sects’ but only draws from their combats lessons about the limits of pure reason (Kant 1971: Aviii, A423, B452; Dascal 2000, for further details). These speculations suggest that the quarreling parts of the ‘self ’ share, after all, a common interest in preserving a functioning condition, a well being that regulates the wildness of self-disputes.

References Ainslie, G. (1982). “A behavioral economic approach to the defense mechanisms: Freud’s energy theory revisited”. Social Science Information, 21 (6), 735–779. Ainslie, G. (1986). “Beyond microeconomics. Conflict among interests in a multiple self as a determinant of value”. In Elster (Ed.), 133–175. Aitchinson, J. (1994). Words in the Mind: An Introduction to the Mental Lexicon, 2nd ed. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Aarsleff, H. (1967). The Study of Language in England, 1780–1860. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Aristotle. (1990). Retórica. Trans., intro., and notes by Q. Racionero. Madrid: Gredos. Aristotle. (1996). Nicomachean Ethics. Trans. H. Rackham, intro. S. Watt. Ware, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth. Bakhtin, M. M. (1984). Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Ed. and trans. C. Emerson. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Brehm, J. W. (1956). “Post-decision changes in the desirability of alternatives”. Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 52, 384–389. Dascal, M. (1978). La sémiologie de Leibniz. Paris: Aubier-Montaigne. Dascal, M. (1983). Pragmatics and the Philosophy of Mind, Vol. 1. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Dascal, M. (1992). “Why does language matter to artificial intelligence?”. Minds and Machines, 2 (2), 145–174. Dascal, M. (1995). “The dispute on the primacy of thinking or speaking”. In M. Dascal, D. Gerhardus, K. Lorenz, & G. Meggle (Eds.), Philosophy of Language – An International Handbook of Contemporary Research, Vol. 2 (pp. 1024–1041). Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. ˇ Dascal, M. (1998). “Types of polemics and types of polemical moves”. In S. Cmejrková, J. Hoffmannová, O. Müllerová, & J. Svˇetlá (Eds.), Dialogue Analysis VI (= Proceedings of the 6th Conference, Prague 1996), Vol. 1 (pp. 15–33). Tübingen: Max Niemeyer. Dascal, M. (2000). “Controversies and epistemology”. In Tian Yu Cao (Ed.), Philosophy of Science (= Vol. 10 of Proceedings of the Twentieth World Congress of Philosophy) (pp. 159–192). Philadelphia: Philosophers Index Inc. Dascal, M. (2002). “Language as a cognitive technology”. International Journal of Cognition and Technology, 1, 35–61. Dascal, M. (2003). Interpretation and Understanding. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Dascal, M. (2004). “Argument, war and the role of the media in conflict management”. In T. Parfitt with Y. Egorova (Eds.), Jews, Muslims and Mass Media (pp. 228–248). London: RoutledgeCurzon. Dascal, M. (2005). “The balance of reason”. In D. Vanderveken (Ed.), Logic, Thought and Action (pp. 27–47). Dordrecht: Springer. Dascal, M., & Dascal, V. (2004). “A des-fixação da crença”. In F. Gil, P. Livet, & J. P. Cabral (Eds.), O Processo da Crença (pp. 321–353). Lisboa: Gradiva. Davidson, D. (1963). “Actions, reasons, and causes”. In D. Davidson (2001), pp. 3–19. Davidson, D. (1969). “How weakness of the will is possible?”. In D. Davidson (2001), pp. 21–42. Davidson, D. (1986). “Deception and division”. In J. Elster (Ed.), pp. 79–92. Davidson, D. (2001). Essays on Actions and Events, 2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press. Elster, J. (1986). “Introduction”. In J. Elster (Ed.), pp. 1–34. Elster, J. (Ed.). (1986). The Multiple Self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Festinger, L. (1957). A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Festinger, L. (Ed.). (1964). Conflict, Decision, and Dissonance. London: Tavistock. Hampshire, S. (1991). Innocence and Experience. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Jakobson, R. (1964). “Deux aspects du langage et deux types d’aphasie”. In R. Jakobson Essais de Lingüistique Générale (pp. 43–67). Paris: Minuit. Kant, I. (1971). Kritik der reinen Vernunft. Leipzig: Reclam [A = 1st ed., 1781; B = 2nd ed., 1787]. Lakoff, G., & Johnson, M. (1980). Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Leibniz, G. W. (1875–1890). Die Philosophischen Schriften, ed. C. J. Gerhardt. Berlin [repr. Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1965]. Leibniz, G. W. (1903). Opuscules et fragments inédits de Leibniz, ed. L. Couturat. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Leibniz, G. W. (1999). Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe, Series 6, Vol. 4, ed. LeibnizForschungstelle der Universität Münster. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Locke, J. (1690). An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. J. W. Yolton. London and New York: Everyman’s Library [1967]. Nicole, P. (1999). “De la connaissance de soi-même”. In Essais de morale, ed. L. Thirouin (pp. 309–379). Paris: Presses Universitaires de France [1st ed. 1675]. Pascal, B. (1960). Pensées. Text of the Brunschvieg edition, with introduction and notes by Ch.-M. des Granges. Paris: Garnier Frères [1st, posthumous ed. 1669]. Pascal, B. (1985). De l’esprit géométrique, Ecrits sur la Grâce et autres textes, ed. A. Clair. Paris: Flammarion. Pears, D. (1986). “The goals and strategies of self-deception”. In J. Elster (Ed.), pp. 59–77. Peirce, C. S. (1931–1958). Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, ed. C. Hartshorne. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Piro, F. (1999). Il Retore Interno: Immaginazione e passione all’alba dell’età moderna. Napoli: La Città del Sole. Proust, M. (1954). A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs, 1ère partie. In M. Proust, A la recherche du temps perdu, Vol. 1, eds. P. Clarac & A. Ferré. Paris: Gallimard. Rorty, A. O. (1986). “Self-deception, akrasia and irrationality”. In Elster (Ed.), pp. 115–131. Searle, J. R. (1983). Intentionality: An Essay in the Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Searle, J. R. (2001). Rationality in Action. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Searle, J. R. (2005). “Desire, deliberation and action”. In D. Vanderveken (Ed.), Logic, Thought and Action (pp. 49–78). Dordrecht: Springer. Senault, J.-F. (1664). De l’usage des passions. Paris: Le Petit [1st ed. 1641]. Smith, A. (1976). The Theory of Moral Sentiments, ed. D. D. Raphael & A. L. Macfie. Oxford: Clarendon Press [6th ed. 1790]. Smith, B. H. (1997). Belief and Resistance: Dynamics of Contemporary Intellectual Controversy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Thibodeau, R., & Aronson, R. (1992). “Taking a closer look: Reasserting the role of the selfconcept in dissonance theory”. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 18, 591–602. Vygotsky, L. S. (1962). Thought and Language. Transl. E. Hanfmann and G. Vakar. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Watson, J. B. (1913). “Psychology as the behaviorist views it”. The Psychological Review, 20, 158–177.

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Chapter 2

Being in accordance with oneself Moral self-controversy in Plato and Aristotle Peter J. Schulz

.

Introduction

One reason for the issue of self-controversy to be considered as a typical modern one is the fact that in ancient philosophy one could hardly find a fully developed theory of self-relation or self-reflexivity, which lies at the core of every inquiry into self-controversy. However, the texts of Plato and Aristotle, both representative of ancient philosophy, entail a cluster of phenomena that might be considered as the background of being in controversy with oneself. In fact, the metaphors ‘being in accordance with oneself ’ and ‘being in discordance with oneself ’, which both Plato and Aristotle use in connection with moral theory, refer to the broader topic of self-controversy.

. Plato: Psychic health as a metaphor of being in accordance with oneself To readers of Plato, the phenomena of being in accordance and being in discordance with oneself are rather familiar. Especially in Gorgias and the Republic, Plato uses these two terms and other similar expressions as key notions for his moral doctrine. Instead of ‘being in accordance with oneself ’ he sometimes refers simply to the idea of mental health, and in order to describe the effect of being in discordance he makes reference to psychic and physical disease. The framework within which the reader of Plato’s dialogues can find a description of self-controversy seems to be the way in which the platonic Socrates discusses the psychic or mental health of the human soul. Already in Gorgias, Socrates speaks of a healthy soul (479c, 525e, 526d) as well as of a psychic dis-

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ease, comparing these states with a body’s disease. Both evils – the vices of one’s soul and the disease of one’s body – may be relieved by the ministrations of the corresponding arts: the art practised by judges and the art of medicine (464a– 465e). Although the metaphors of psychic health and psychic disease are rarely used, it is fairly obvious that they refer to the disorders of the soul and consequently to being in accordance and being in discordance with oneself. While the former refers to the soul insofar as it shows an inner order (kosmos), the latter is characterized by self-contradiction and discord (diafonein; 482b). The different kinds of conflicts a man can suffer are mainly discussed within Plato’s moral doctrine. This doctrine embodies a rather simple view of self-conflicts, which are described predominantly by reference to the state of the soul: the good souls enjoy order (kosmos), concord (xumphonia), and harmony (harmonia), whereas the bad are in perpetual conflict with themselves (444b). Later on, in the Republic, we are again reminded that injustice is a sort of civil strife among the elements of the soul, which usurp each other’s functions. The parallel between justice and being in accordance with oneself on the one hand, and being healthy on the other seems to be the following. Justice is produced in the soul, like health in the body, by establishing the elements concerned in their natural relations of control and subordination. Conversely, injustice is like a disease that subverts this natural order. . The parts of the soul (Republic) In order to understand how self-controversy might arise, let us begin by Plato’s discussion about justice in the individual person in the Republic. This is not only the work in which we find the use of metaphors of psychic health, but where a well-developed theory of the phenomena they refer to is elaborated. The theme of this dialogue is the nature of justice in the state and in the soul. State and soul are compared to an organism, whose parts have typical functions. In both cases, justice is what is healthy in an organism: the balanced functioning of its parts. According to this view, the phenomena of being in accordance with oneself as well as being in discordance with oneself are understood by reference to the right functioning of the elements of the soul. The canonical tri-partition of the soul can be found in the forth book of the Republic. Its introduction actually starts with a description of self-controversy. Socrates faces this matter by asking whether we do everything with the same part of our soul, or different things with different parts (436a). Plato uses a rather vague terminology in his answer. Talking of parts of the soul, instead of the Greek word for part – meros – he sometimes uses noncommittal prepo-

Being in accordance with oneself

sitional phrases that seem clumsy in English, like “that by which we desire”. However, what Socrates proceeds to outline is the notion that complexity exists in the person, although he does not say how that complexity might be realized. In other words, the various kinds of complexity to be found in human behaviour cannot be adequately accounted for unless it is admitted that the person himself is complex. We will not understand a person’s actions unless we acknowledge that there is more than one motivational source. The example Plato gives is that of a man who is thirsty and is yet unwilling to drink; what impels one to act must be distinct from what restrains one from acting. Consequently, we have to distinguish the part of the soul that is the vehicle of hunger, thirst and other physical desires (439d) from the part that reflects upon the fact of hungering. The first element is called appetite or desire (to epithum¯etikon; 439d). Together with this “desiring part”, Plato stresses the fact that desire is characteristically limited to its object and does not necessarily involve any further considerations. Desire is thought of as manifold and often chaotic, because it can focus on practically any kind of object; the only thing that unifies all cases of desiring is the fact that some particular thing is being sought after. Plato’s long discussion of desire, which concentrates on basic, easily recognizable examples of desire – especially bodily desires for food, drink, sleep and sex – is not the issue at stake here. It should be mentioned, however, that the emphasis on the basic and forceful nature of desires makes it look as though no cognitive effort at all should be ascribed to this part of the soul. The other part of the soul, usually called “the reasoning part” (to logistikon; 439d), has two main functions; the first is to search for the truth and increase one’s knowledge in a practical as well as an intellectual sphere; the second is to rule in the soul (441e, 442c). Ruling in the soul implies that this part takes care of the whole soul and not just of itself, whereas the other two parts care only for themselves and not for the whole of which they are parts (441e). Thus, the reasoning part is the source of practical judgement about what is best for the person as a whole. Since other elements of the soul – passion, for example – cannot be attributed to either of the previously mentioned parts, in Plato’s view we have to infer that there is another element, which he calls temper (to thumoeides; 440b), whose function is to assist reason, which is powerless by itself. The tripartite division is made simply in order to describe what happens when the “whole soul is at work”. Moreover, as Socrates states at the beginning of his claim (436b), the distinction is based on the general principle “that one thing cannot act in opposite ways or be in opposite states at the same time and in the same part of itself in relation to the same other thing” (436b). Some in-

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terpreters (e.g., Kenny 1973: 4; Irwin 1995: 204) have read this as an expression of the Principle of Non-contradiction: If X and Y are contrary relations, nothing can unqualifiedly stand in X and Y to the same thing. However, this seems to be misleading, since Plato is not concerned here with contradictions, but with opposites in a very broad sense. What he is arguing is that there are apparent conflicts in the individual, wanting something and refusing it, agreeing and disagreeing. He doesn’t deal with conflicts in general, but with the particular conflict that results from the presence in a person of two opposed states at the same time. The example that Plato provides is clear on this point: if somebody wants to drink and simultaneously abstains from doing so, a conflict will arise; this person both accepts and rejects the same thing at the same time. According to Plato, this kind of conflict needs an explanation that admits distinct parts or elements in the soul. By the distinction of the two parts of the soul he emphasizes the fact that there are two completely distinct kinds of motivation. Here one should consider that the conflict Plato is describing cannot be compared with other kinds of conflicts, such as that typical of a situation in which one wants to write a paper but also wants to play with his children. That these two desires conflict is due to the special circumstances of the situation, in which both actions cannot be performed within the same period of time. While this kind of conflict is created by the nature of both activities and by the objects of the motivation, the former conflict Plato is dealing with has to do with the nature of the motivations themselves. This also makes it more evident why Plato stresses constantly that the “desiring part” that concerns him is just desire, that desire is only for drink, that desire on its own is not qualified as for example to drink something cold or hot, but it is presented simply as the urge to drink (437d–439b). Now, Plato’s description of the different parts of the soul, which are irreducible to one another, does not necessarily imply a conflict or controversy between reason and appetite. Nor does he assert that they are spatial or temporal parts. It should be clear simply that it is only by reason that a person is able to approach his own desires. The fact that someone is able to act in a reasonable way given his own desires also implies that he might be less successful in acting in a reasonable way. However, what could be missing in the fourth book of the Republic as well as in other dialogues are the specific criteria according to which we might distinguish the right way in which man’s reason should fight with thirst or, more generally, what it means to behave in a reasonable way when faced with one’s appetites. The simple fact that somebody is capable of behaving adequately given his own appetites does not permit any further assumptions about the right way to do so. It only allows us to infer that there are

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at least two different ways of acting: the way of confrontation and the way of conformity. These two alternatives are also stressed in the subsequent reflections of Book 4. After the introduction to the three parts of the soul, the way is open for the identification of justice with mental health. In the state, as in the soul, justice means that each of the three elements performs its own work: “Each one of us likewise will be a just person, fulfilling his proper function, only if the several parts of our nature fulfil theirs” (442a). What is important in this respect is that justice is not to be understood as a result of one corresponding action, but rather as an inner disposition of the soul. And Socrates describes this inner disposition in a man as that which “is properly his own”, a “self-mastery” (491d), a “beautiful order within himself ” (443d). We are not going to describe in detail other phenomena which are mentioned in the previous books of the Republic, where the topic of self-controversy is already foreshadowed (on this point, see Kenny 1973). Interestingly, the topic of being in accordance with oneself recurs again in Book 9, when Socrates together with his interlocutors start to discuss the social implications of being in accordance or discordance with oneself. Being in discordance with oneself is described here as a falling-out of the elements of the soul. The description of the bad state of the soul when somebody is at odds with himself turns into a proof that this soul is also incapable of maintaining any other relation with other people. In other words, self-controversy is the cause of what provokes controversy with other people (580a). Moreover, in Book 9 Socrates presents a vivid image of what could be called the foundation of self-controversy: Appetite is a many-headed beast, constantly sprouting heads of both tame and wild beasts; temper is compared to a lion, and reason to a man (588b–589a). Injustice starves the man, profligacy fattens the beast, and ill temper gives too much licence to the lion. And on the other hand he who says that justice is the more profitable affirms that all our actions and words should tend to give the man within us complete domination over the entire man and make him take charge of the many-headed beast – like a farmer who cherishes and trains the cultivated plants but checks the growth of the wild – and he will make an ally of the lion’s nature, and caring for all the beasts alike will first make them friendly to one another and to himself, and so foster their growth (589a–b).

From all that has been said so far, there is no doubt that the topic of being in accordance or discordance with oneself is a central concept in Plato. And it is more than simply a metaphor for mental health. Plato’s conception of being in

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accordance with oneself is fundamentally a moral concept. As such, it determines the essentials of the so-called eudaimonia. Actually, being in accordance with oneself seems to be the touchstone of any happy and fulfilled life: Only when a man has linked these parts together in well-tempered harmony and has made himself one man instead of many, will he be ready to go about whatever he may have to do, whether it be making money and satisfying bodily wants, or business transactions, or the affairs of state. (443e)

In the background of this inner harmony of the soul, Plato describes each kind of injustice as something which makes the actor become an enemy of himself and consequently, an enemy of all other people (352a; 351d).1 . Reflexive inconsistency (Gorgias) Although the metaphor of mental health as a description of living in accordance with oneself plays a significant role in Plato’s ethics, it is not the only way that Plato deals with the topic of self-controversy in a broad sense. Being in accordance with oneself in the sense of being congruent with one’s own convictions is another way in which Plato approaches this topic. A good example of this is given in Gorgias. Here, Socrates’ opponent Callicles is arguing that Socrates’ moral concepts are contrary to all that people usually think as well as to their way of life (481c). Contradicting the general opinion is, according to Callicles, proof of the fact that Socrates is wrong in what he is claiming. It is interesting to see how in his reply Socrates does not attack Callicles’ claim about the general opinion itself; rather, he refers to Callicles’ identity: the fact that Callicles never contradicts himself stems from the fact that in all he says and claims, whether in public or private discourse, he always depends on what other people maintain. Since he is not able to contradict others, he is unsteady in his own concepts.2 For his part, Socrates states that in all he aims for, in his actions as well as his concepts, he tries to be congruent with himself. If Callicles is not able to justify his own claims, he will be without any agreement with himself (482b5), that is, he will live in discord with himself (b6). This way of conflict would be more harmful than being in discordance with other people (omologein, 482b7–c3): I should rather choose to have my lyre, or some chorus that I might provide for the public, out of tune and discordant, or to have any number of people disagreeing with me and contradicting me, than that I should have internal discord and contradiction in my own single self. (482b–c)

Being in accordance with oneself

From these brief observations it already becomes clear that when dealing with congruency within oneself, Socrates does not primarily refer to some form of logical incongruence of assertions. Instead, the question is to what one refers when referring to oneself. In this respect, the question of being in accordance or discordance with oneself deals with what might be called a reflexive inconsistency, which occurs whenever an assertion is contrary to the life and action of the corresponding subject. The problem of reflexive inconsistency, a special form of self-controversy, is introduced by Nikias in the dialogue Laches. Nikias states that Socrates leads each conversation with his partner back to the person himself, even if the conversation started with a completely different issue (187e). Indeed, one of the most characteristic features of Socrates’ way of testing a hypothesis of his interlocutors, the so-called elenchos, is to make explicit the extent to which the subject making the utterances is involved in what s/he says. And it is thanks to Socrates’ personal ability that he is able to make evident these latent implications of his interlocutor. This is also the case when, through the elenchos, Socrates brings people to the insight that what they originally assumed to know for certain is actually by no means sure, or is even simply wrong. Usually, the dialogues start with the examination of the truth of some affirmations. In many cases these sentences establish only the roof of the dialogue, under which the identification of the partners with such affirmations is to be investigated. By means of the Socratic elenchos the interlocutor does not only come to the conclusion that something is wrong with his/her own assumptions, but that primarily s/he should give up his/her identification with such affirmations. In this way, Socrates’ interlocutor gets a chance to prove the defensibility of his own opinion and is consequently led to a kind of self-controversy. Self-controversy, in this respect, starts with understanding how someone’s intentions lead back to their own person. In other words, the dialogue between Socrates and his interlocutor serves as an examination of the interlocutor’s thesis as well as of his life. The refutation of the interlocutor’s thesis often reflects some incoherence between the life and the doctrine. In particular, this becomes clear when the dialogue deals with the intentions of actions. A famous example is the sentence “wrongdoing is worse than being wronged” (473a), one of the few places where Socrates adopts an explicit position in a dialogue. The main argument he gives in support of this statement is that the soul doesn’t suffer any harm when experiencing injustice, whereas the soul damages itself when doing something unjust. It is remarkable to see that Polos, one of the speakers in the Gorgias, is actually unable to realize that this kind of self-relation un-

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derlies doing unjust things; further argumentative steps are necessary in order to bring him to perceive this hidden reflexive self-relation. From this point of view it could be argued that the most interesting argument concerning selfcontroversy that we find in Plato’s dialogues has to do with the way a person becomes aware of his or her own reflexive inconsistency. However, in the background of the platonic view of self-controversy, we find some important assumptions that are necessary to explain why certain states of the soul are considered as not commendable. A fundamental assumption of Plato’s moral doctrine is that nobody ever does evil deeds willingly (Protagoras 345d–e, 352d–f, 358a–b; Hippias 296c–d; Meno 77b–78a). The term ‘willingly’ here describes the attitude of somebody who already knows what he intends; it doesn’t refer to a somehow unfounded decision to act. Moreover, the unwillingness to do wrong implies that one is unable to perform certain actions knowingly and willingly. We would fail to grasp the entire meaning of Plato’s thesis if we overlooked the fact that it refers mainly to the relation in which the agent is via-à-vis himself and his own intentions. In other words, the thesis means that nobody could knowingly act against his own intentions. In order to verify this claim we should consider at least two conditions: (1) the agent must have intended a precise goal; (2) this goal has not been achieved, but rather the action by which the actor intended to reach his goal generated a result which as such was not intended. Therefore, the Socratic sentence is based on a common experience: one might fail in his actions, but one cannot do so willingly and knowingly. One might err and miss the target, but not intentionally. In the latter case, one would have simply intended something else. Of course, the goal we are talking about is not something externally determined: the agent has chosen this goal for himself. In this model of human action, where the goal might be missed only unintentionally, there is an underlying teleological dimension. The unjust or bad actions are unintentional insofar as the agent fails to accomplish his own true intentions. Whoever actually performs unjust actions does not pursue a wrong goal; rather, he fails to achieve the goal with which he had originally identified himself. Now, Socrates presupposes an ultimate goal, which is intrinsically linked to the agent human nature and, as such, does not depend upon him to determine. Even when failing in single actions one remains related to this ultimate goal. One might fail to recognize the real character of the goal or be unable to achieve it, but nobody can ever act against it knowingly and willingly. One has always already identified oneself with the ultimate goal. If somebody fails to reach this goal, he also fails in realizing himself.

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It is clear, therefore, that the universal teleology of human actions should not be identified with some kind of natural determination of the human will. The Socratic teleology always relies upon the knowledge and the intentions of the agent. The goal may be achieved only through the agent’s explicit knowledge and understanding of this goal. But of course, errors are possible. Although the goal is always intended by the agents, they may be led astray by their wrong ideas about it and thus fail to achieve it. The teleology within each human action has to be seen and understood, and this requires a further differentiation of the level of the awareness that the agent has of his own intentions. Once we admit that a failure with respect to one’s own goals is possible, we might consequently also distinguish a true will from a will that is self-deceiving. Once more, Gorgias gives us important pointers as to this distinction, by means of a precise analysis of human will. Here Polos and Socrates are discussing whether a tyrant really might have power in a state. Socrates’ position is that a tyrant does not actually do what he wants to do. Although Socrates admits to Polos that tyrants do what seems to be the best for them, he claims that there is a difference between the two assumptions. This difference entails that one might actually do what seems to be best, without doing what one really wants to do. When Polos doubts whether such a difference exists, Socrates refers to the teleology of the human action in his answer: What one really wants is not the specific action itself, nor its immediate result, but the intended purpose of the action. The purpose is now always good, in the sense that it is really useful for oneself. To Plato, it is like a medicine; with respect to the intended purpose, one considers taking the medicine as something good and useful for oneself. It seems evident, therefore, that self-controversy in the sense of reflexive inconsistency is to be discussed and understood against the background of Plato’s claim that all human beings desire good and pursue it in all of their actions (Gorgias 468b–c, 499e; cf. Meno 77c–78b; Republic VI, 505d11). In this respect, we have to consider that each kind of self-controversy relies on the acceptance of something which is recognised to be truly good for all human beings and on the assumption that all human beings are motivated by a rational desire (boulesthai) for the good. Without this basis, in Plato’s view, there would be no possibility of (self-) controversy. Moreover, precisely because such a default position exists (namely, the rational desire for the good), a kind of legitimate (self-)controversy can arise in order to sharpen the single and adequate forms in which the good may be realized in each single life. The controversy actually starts by looking for the good that allows one to be in accordance with oneself.

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. The Aristotelian model of self-relation In this area as in many others, Aristotle’s ethics is more of an elaboration than a correction of Plato. In his treatments of friendship, in Books VIII and IX of the Nicomachean Ethics (EN), as well as in Book VII of the Eudemian Ethics (EE), we find him justifying and explaining what Plato had already described metaphorically as psychic health.3 There are two different claims we are going to investigate in the EN. The first deals with the topic we have already described in Plato as the main field where self-controversy might arise, that is, within the right relation between reason and appetite. Although Aristotle has theoretical doubts about any partition of the soul (cf. De Anima III, 9), he often follows Plato’s division of desires and beliefs as ruled by reason, anger, and appetite.4 Within this context we are going to examine what view Aristotle holds when referring to the model of living in accordance/discordance with oneself. What does it actually mean to speak about the way a person relates to himself? This question will bring us to the discussion of some of the aspects of being “a friend to oneself ”, an issue which Aristotle deals with in Books VIII and IX (EN). This discussion leads us to another aspect of self-controversy, that is, the question of altruism as opposed to egoism. . Being a friend to oneself What we have already described as the major aspects of self-controversy in Plato can be found in similar form in Aristotle. The types of controversies both are interested in are usually related to the domain of striving for some good. Consequently, a self-controversy or being in discordance with oneself will arise when an ambiguity regarding this aim exists. How is the question of self-controversy related to Aristotle’s treatment of friendship? Friendship (philia), Aristotle stipulates, is the mutually acknowledged and reciprocal exchange of goodwill and affection among individuals who share an interest in each other on the basis of virtue, pleasure, or utility (EN VIII, 2). Within the sphere of friendship Aristotle also includes the involuntary relations of affection and care that exist among family members and fellow citizens. Although the term is used quite broadly, Aristotle’s primary focus is on the paradigmatic case of virtuous friendship, in which he contends ethical and intellectual virtues are required. A vicious person, he claims in the second part of Chapter 4, Book VIII, is unable to live a virtuous friendship,

Being in accordance with oneself

which, incidentally, Aristotle considers not only as an instrumental, but as an intrinsic part of happiness. Why shouldn’t vicious people be able to live the paradigmatic case of virtuous friendship? The answer to this question lies in Aristotle’s sketch of the vicious person as being in the state of self-conflict. According to Aristotle, badness exists typically in a state of conflict and manifests itself as hypocrisy, deception and lying, denial, distraction and ambivalence. He claims that none of the characteristic features of friendship could occur in bad persons: Bad people are at odds with themselves. . . Moreover, bad people seek to spend their time with other people, yet they avoid themselves: since when they are on their own, they remember many repulsive things, and they anticipate others similar to these. . . And since bad people have nothing lovable about them, they lack any friendly feeling towards themselves, and people like that, therefore, do not even share in their own joys and sorrows. For their soul is in strife, and one part, because of its badness, is distressed when it is kept from something, while another part is pleased; and one part is drawn this way, another part that way, as though it were breaking apart (see also EN VIII, 1167b6–8).

On this point we find Aristotle defending what we already described in Plato as psychic harmony. What Aristotle is introducing here as a key concept – the psychic balance of the good person – is related to his concept of happiness, which also includes subjective connotations, i.e., living in harmony with oneself. However, the Aristotelian concept of psychic harmony is somehow only an indicator for an underlying model of self-relation, which I want to discuss in the following section. The theoretical framework of how somebody is living in accordance with himself is constituted by the more general question of whether one might be a friend to oneself, a question Aristotle raises in EN (IX, 4). At the beginning of chapter 4 of Book IX, he puts forward the thesis that the relationship between friends is isomorphic to that of a good person with himself. He establishes this thesis by distinguishing four characteristics of friendship (philika; 1166a2–10) and then argues that they apply to a good person in relation to himself. The four characteristics of friendship are: (1) wishing and doing good, or things that appear to be good, for another’s sake; (2) wishing that another may exist and live, for his sake; (3) spending time with another and choosing the same things; (4) sharing another’s joy and sorrow. Applying these characteristics to the intrapersonal relation of the virtuous man, it turns out that he (1) “agrees with himself and desires the same things with

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his entire soul”, and (2) “acts for the sake of himself (since he does so for the sake of his thinking part, which in fact each person seems to be)” (1166a13– 14; a16–17). It seems obvious that each of these claims refers to the harmony between the thinking part of the soul and itself or to the disharmony between the thinking part and the non-rational part of the soul. In fact, a few chapters later it becomes clear that Aristotle identifies the non-rational part with the appetites and feelings (1168b20). The Aristotelian distinction between the “thinking part” – sometimes he uses other equivalent expressions like “the part that can think” (to dianoêtikon), “that with which he reasons” (hôi phronei), “that which thinks” (to nooun; cf. Pakaluk 1998: 170) – and the “non-rational part” can be already found in the first book of EN. A distinction is drawn between the “non-rational” (alogon) part of the soul, which includes the “nutritive” (threptikon) and “appetitive” (epithumêtikon kai holôs orektikon) functions, and the rational part (to logon echon), which can understand and give reasons for action (see I 13). Here, as in Book 9, we find a description of the relationship between the two parts, according to which in a virtuous soul everything is “in agreement” with reason (1166a13; cf. 1102b28): the non-rational part “shares” in reason, the rational part rules over it (1168b35; 1169a1; cf. 1102b30) and the non-rational part should be “obedient” to reason (1168b31; cf. 1102b33). Yet, the distinction in the context of Book IX 4 has more functions, which go beyond the simple explanation of the psychic equilibrium of the rational agent. What Aristotle is arguing for here is that, against the background of the analogy between the relationship between friends and that of a good person in relation to himself, there must be a subject who is the beneficiary of the good wished also in an intrapersonal relationship. And this is, according to Aristotle, exactly the “thinking part”, which receives the good by being responsible for it. The same might apply to the second feature of friendship, the “wishing that another may exist and live for his sake”. It is to his thinking part that a person wishes existence, wishing that he himself may exist. It is at this point that Aristotle establishes a self-relation that goes beyond the point of mere psychic harmony. The idea is that any particular virtuous action can be considered as an instance of a good person’s wishing good to himself. Consequently, selfcontroversy will arise only when the beneficiary is not identical with the “true self ”. This becomes more evident when taking into account how Aristotle approaches the question of whether one should love oneself (Book IX 8).

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. The right way of ‘self-love’ as an issue of self-controversy This eighth chapter of Book IX is divided into three major parts, and, as he often does, Aristotle introduces his topic by listing controversial views. In the first section (1168a29–1168b11), he begins by offering arguments for the conviction that one should love others more than oneself. In the following lines, he gives reasons for the opposite view. Since both positions seem to contain a measure of truth, Aristotle attempts to solve the dilemma in the second section (1168b12–1169a11), in which he examines how each view understands the key expression “self-loving” (philautos). Then, in the third section, Aristotle differentiates between two types of self-love, concluding that one kind of self-love describes a morally excellent behaviour that, thus, can be rightly promoted. Another kind of self-love, however, is morally reprehensible and should be rejected. The first definition of loving oneself, which Aristotle derives from the common use of the expression, has a pejorative ring; “to love oneself ” is commonly seen as morally objectionable: a bad person, it seems, does everything for his own sake, and the more wicked he is the more he is like that (hence people complain about him by saying, for instance, that he does nothing without himself in mind) (1168a30–32).

Over against this common meaning of self-love, which includes a kind of practiced egoism, Aristotle expounds another way of perceiving self-love: if, when using the term philautos, one means to define the kind of human behaviour always concerned with the ethical areté and always laying claim to noble deeds (kalon), then such self-love can neither be criticized nor considered as self-loving in any morally debased sense. And such self-love could even be considered as philautos in a superior way, since at all events he assigns to himself the things that are noblest and best, and gratifies the most authoritative element in himself and in all things obeys this (1168b30–31).

The next sentences (1168b29–1169a6) explain what Aristotle means by the phrase “most authoritative element” in relation to humans: it is the nous (intellect), identical to or almost identical with one’s own self. And since the virtuous person values this nous above all else, Aristotle concludes that the term philautos in the strict sense can rightly be applied to that person. In contrast to what Aristotle describes as a bad sort of self-love, the insightful, justifiable orientation of one’s own life in genuine self-loving is distinguished by the fact that that which he desires will also be of use to himself:

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For if someone happened to be always eager that he, above all others, did just actions, or temperate actions, or any of the other actions in accordance with the virtues, and if, in short, he was always acquiring what is noble for himself, no one would call him a self-lover or find fault with him. (1168b25–28; cf. 1169a6)

It is important to note that when Aristotle defends the genuine self-lover (philautos), he does so by applying the first characteristic of friendship, namely the “wishing and doing good, or things that appear to be good, for another’s sake” (see above). It is indeed the true self-lover who wishes for a distinct kind of goods, and he wishes them for a part of himself other than that gratified by a self-lover in the usual sense of the term. From what Aristotle is claiming here, one might infer that a kind of selfcontroversy will arise regarding whether one should give things like money and honour to one’s friend. Indeed, many interpreters have read Aristotle in such a way, claiming that he defends either an egoistic or an altruistic position. It appears more likely that Aristotle had something else in mind. What he wants to defeat is simply the idea that when the virtuous person P gives X to B, we should maintain that there are actually two different goods: on the one hand, there is the gift X, which B acquires; on the other hand, we have to consider that P’s giving X to B accomplishes P as a virtuous person, and is, hence, also a good for P. Moreover, if we understand Aristotle to be claiming that, for a virtuous person, giving the thing is a greater good than the thing itself, it also becomes evident why he claims that the true self-lover loves himself more than he loves anyone else. If this view is correct, it turns out that a self-controversy as Aristotle describes it for the bad person (the self-lover in the usual sense of the term) is somehow unavoidable, and this is due to the fact that the bad person simply does not realize what the nature of his human being is. Later on, Aristotle argues that a bad person should not love himself, since he will harm both himself and those around him by following his bad inclinations. So then, for a bad person, the things he should do are at odds with the things he does. (cf. 1169a14–16)

On the contrary, a self-controversy will never happen for the virtuous person, since all he does, independently of the single goods, is in line with his nature.

Being in accordance with oneself

. Final remarks To sum up, the phenomenon of self-controversy, as discussed by Plato and Aristotle, involves two different levels. It occurs, first of all, on the metaphorical level described by both authors as an intrapersonal controversy between higher and lower parts of the soul, i.e., between reason and desires. As long as the self is ruled by desires, controversy abounds. As soon as reason becomes its master, an order emerges in the soul. From this point of view, self-controversy appears merely as a symptom of an internal conflict within the self, which could be resolved only by the mastery of reason. Indicators of this self-mastery are the opposite of self-controversy, i.e., unity with oneself, calmness, and self-possession. The metaphorical level does not, however, exhaust the conception of selfcontroversy present in the writings of Plato and Aristotle. As we observed previously, Plato discusses the phenomenon of self-controversy on another level as a form of reflexive inconsistency. He does so within a more general conceptual framework that can be summarized in the statement that all actions of human beings are motivated by their rational desire for the good. Whenever the phenomenon of self-controversy appears, it is thus due to the fact that the self is unaware of what it wants to achieve. Consequently, self-controversy could be described on this second level as an indicator of a lack of knowledge on the part of the self as to what, ultimately, its real good consists in. Each theory of self-controversy presupposes at least a basic idea of what self-awareness or self-consciousness is. Although Plato as well as Aristotle did not develop a proper theory of self-consciousness – at least not in the way we know it from modern philosophy – they were, however, aware of reflexive structures of knowledge and awareness. Whenever they deal with the phenomenon of self-controversy, they discuss mostly those forms of knowledge where the person directly refers to objects. Knowing means always knowing something, it always refers to something (Gorgias 451; Charmides 165cf, 168a, 171a; Republic 438c; Theaeteus 146d). Neither Plato nor Aristotle take into account a form of knowledge which is directly related to its bearer. Whenever somebody refers to himself, he does so through a certain object or a broader realm made up of objects. Reflexive structures of awareness, which might be considered as indispensable for any discussion of the phenomenon of selfcontroversy, are – according to Plato and Aristotle – always structures of a mediated self-relation. Any form of knowledge that is directly related to its bearer without being mediated by an object is excluded from their considerations. On the one hand, this epistemological framework advances the discussion of self-

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controversy by leading it toward the above-mentioned question about the good pursued by the self. On the other hand, however, it leaves open the question of whether all phenomena of self-controversy can be properly described within such a framework without any proper theory of self-awareness.

Notes . In the Topics, Aristotle will later criticize the description of the sophrosynes as a harmony of different parts; see 123a3–37. . Aristotle will use the same verb for describing how the bad person doesn’t live metaballein in accordance with himself (EN IX 6.1167b6–8). . Interestingly, Aristotle considers being in accordance with oneself as one of the most characteristic features of the virtuous person. He is living with himself in accordance (omognomonei eauto), aiming with his entire person one and the same thing (kai ton auton oregetai kai pasan ten psuchen, 1166a13–14). . In V, 11, 1138b5–14, Aristotle says that justice can be ascribed to the soul only metaphorically, since the parts of the soul are not truly distinct.

References Aristotle ([1998]). Nichomachean Ethics. Book VIII and IX, transl. with a commentary by M. Pakaluk. Clarendon Aristotle Series (ed. by J. L. Ackrill and L. Judson), Oxford: Clarendon Press. Irwin, T. (1995). Plato’s Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kenny, A. (1973). “Mental health in Plato’s Republic”. In A. Kenny (Ed.), The Anatomy of the Soul: Historical Essays in the Philosophy of Mind (pp. 1–27). Oxford: Blackwell. Kraut, R. (1973). “Reason and justice in Plato’s Republic”. In E. N. Lee, A. P. D. Mourelatos, & R. M. Rorty (Eds.), Exegesis and Argument (Phronesis, Supplement 1) (pp. 207–224). Plato (1969). Plato in Twelve Volumes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd. Sachs, D. (1963). “A fallacy in Plato’s Republic”. Philosophical Review, 72, 141–158. Vlastos, G. (1971). “Justice and happiness in the Republic?”. In Plato: A Collection of Critical Essays II (pp. 66–95). New York: Anchor.

Chapter 3

Conversion and controversy Massimo Leone

.

Relations

Relations between conversion and controversy can be analysed from two different points of view. From an external point of view, the relation between them can be explained by the fact that conversion is very often an object of controversy. For instance, at the present time, conversion to Pentecostal or charismatic Christian movements is a controversial phenomenon in South America, especially from the perspective of the Catholic hierarchy; the activity of Mormons in contemporary Russia is viewed with hostility by the local political and administrative establishment (since it allegedly gives rise to aggressive social behaviour); conversion of Chinese people (and even members of the communist party) to the Falun Gong movement is firmly disallowed by the Chinese government; orthodox Hindus in the North of India despise the conversion of some Indian groups to Islam (see Lamb & Bryant 1999). This list could be endless, since religious conversion has always been and continues to be a controversial phenomenon, for very understandable reasons. This is especially evident when people put an end to their attachment to a given religious institution in order to affiliate themselves with another; whereas the members of the former institution react polemically against this choice, the converts tend to play down the value of their past spiritual condition in order to praise their new religious attachment (Leone 2004). Conversion can also be a controversial phenomenon from an internal point of view: the process leading to religious conversion can be seen as a form of intra-subjective controversy. In the present paper, I shall try to understand whether the psychological struggle that a person might experience while converting from one religion to another (religious transition), while leaving atheism or agnosticism to adhere to a particular religious denomination (religious affiliation), or while quitting a given denomination in order to become secular

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(religious defection; see Rambo 1982) can be defined as ‘controversy’, a term that usually designates public discussions or arguments. In other words, I shall try to explain whether psychological struggle and social controversy share some common features or structures.

. Differences . Semiotic structures Since the way in which the question formulated above is answered strictly depends upon the models of religious conversion and of controversy, the first step of the present paper will be to try to pinpoint such models. Obviously, there can be a vast variety of types of conversion and controversy, depending on all the determinations of various orders somehow affecting them. Nevertheless, as in all phenomena and objects of analysis, it may be hoped that these variations share a single kernel, a general pattern justifying the application of either of the words “conversion” or “controversy” to some real phenomenon of the relevant kind (see Taylor 1999). So, what is the kernel of conversion and what is that of controversy? In order to answer these questions, different epistemological strategies may be adopted, depending upon the extent to which deductive thought is admitted. The analysis of a controversy naturally focuses on signs exchanged by contenders, no matter what kind of signs they are, either verbal or belonging to other semiotic systems (for example, gestures, postures, distances, intonations and so on). Controversy, which is a social phenomenon, is studied through the analysis of social interactions. By contrast, in the study of religious conversion the focus naturally bears on what transformations are happening in a person’s psychological system. Yet this system is not directly observable. One can study the signs through which religious conversion is encouraged or stimulated, described or reported, and infer from them an abstract psychological model of conversion. However, no matter how accurate, this model is shaped by studying psychological phenomena through the analysis of social interactions. This epistemological difference between the analysis of conversion and controversy must be borne in mind: when studying a controversy, one focuses on signs in order to understand the structure of signs themselves; when studying conversion, one studies signs in order to understand the structure of minds. It could be argued that in controversies too, one might wonder about the state of the minds of the contestants. However, the question is whether the relation

Conversion and controversy

between the text of a controversy and the minds producing it is the same as the relation between the signs (or texts, which are systems of signs) of a conversion and the mind affected by it. The answer is probably negative: signs studied in order to articulate an abstract model of controversy actually are the controversy, whilst signs studied in order to articulate an abstract model of conversion are not conversion. Conversion is what may be inferred, or guessed, from these signs. . Temporal structures Further differences between controversy and conversion are related to the idea of time and its representation. Conversion strictly depends upon time, because it implies a sequence of at least two phases: of disbelief and belief. Conversion is neither the time of disbelief nor the time of belief, but the passage between them. This is why some specialists prefer to speak of “converting” instead of “conversion” (see Rambo & Farhadian 1999). Conversion is the moment when one ceases to disbelieve and starts to believe. There can be oscillations between belief and disbelief, but there cannot be any coexistence of both, due to the principle of non-contradiction: one may believe in God and not believe in the Holy Trinity, but one cannot both believe in God and not believe in him at the same time, since this would contradict the very idea of belief. Conversion is, therefore, a punctual event, and not a durative one. On the other hand, it could be argued that the idea of time is not fundamental in shaping the model of controversy, where the coexistence of contradictory beliefs is always possible, and perhaps even essential; what is fundamental in a controversy is rather the presence of different and independent minds holding different beliefs. While in conversion different beliefs must belong to a single mind at different times, in controversy different beliefs must belong to different minds even at the same time. Can we therefore deduce that conversion and controversy are incomparable? I believe that in order for this comparison to be possible and relevant, it has to be built upon the level of semiotic representations of both conversion and controversies.

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. Similarities . Representations of time Representations of controversy depend on the idea of time, just as representations of conversion do. Although one might define the perfect coexistence of opposite beliefs as a form of controversy, this opposition would not be intelligible if these beliefs were not represented or communicated at different times (or in different spaces). This is also true in the case of conversion: a model representing religious conversion does not only imply the succession of belief and disbelief, but also the awareness of having believed, disbelieved, and of believing. If there cannot be coexistence of belief and disbelief, there must be coexistence between awareness of believing and awareness of having disbelieved. In order to experience conversion, it is not sufficient to pass from disbelief to belief: one has to have memory of having disbelieved, awareness of believing and (eventually) the assurance of continuing belief. In other words, if conversion implies the separateness of belief and disbelief in different times, the representation (and awareness) of conversion implies the coexistence of representations of belief and disbelief at the same time. Thus, representations of religious conversion unite beliefs previously separated, while representations of controversy separate beliefs previously united. Yet, in conversions the necessity of both the separateness of contradictory beliefs and the unity of their representations is paradoxical. How can the coexistence of opposite beliefs be both impossible for the mind and necessary for the representation that the mind has of itself? . Representations of identity The conflict between these two opposite requirements endangers the idea of personal identity. How could this idea be defined in the model describing conversion and controversy? Identity is the permanence of a group of beliefs and disbeliefs within a single mind, in the course of time. Although a converted person might experience the strength of his/her psychological identity at the present time, this feeling is inevitably disrupted as soon as this person tries to develop a representation of his/her own psychological life encompassing past, present and future. At this stage, the question is to understand to which strategies this person might have recourse in order to be able to represent his/her own identity. As a preliminary step toward answering this question, it is useful to wonder whether the coexistence of different beliefs endangers the intelligibility

Conversion and controversy

manifested by a controversy. The answer is certainly negative: since the essence of a controversy is the opposition between different and often contradictory beliefs, what could really dismantle a controversy is the coexistence of identical beliefs. In any controversy whatsoever, as soon as the contestants agree, the controversy disappears, and there is no longer any need to use the word “controversy”. So, as previously stated, the representation of different beliefs is as essential for conversion as it is for controversy.

. Intersections A strategy that converts could adopt in order to soothe their loss of identity is the following: different beliefs can be described as belonging to different minds. This psychological strategy of representation is very common not only in the case of religious conversion, but also in representations of any sort of internal struggle. When two different psychological elements are seen or experienced as too distant from each other to be borne by the same mind, the mind itself is represented as if it were split into two or more parts, each carrying and voicing a different point of view. Countless examples of this kind of representation can be found in the literary genre called the “psychological novel”, whose main feature and aim is indeed the exploration, analysis and description of psychological states and transformations. One could even argue that the division and multiplication of the mind, as in Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, is the conventional narrative device through which fictional texts express the internal struggles of the characters. . An example of intra-subjective controversy: Die Blendung A significant example of this particular narrative strategy can be found in a passage from Elias Canetti’s masterpiece Die Blendung (1935). The story told in this magnificent book is the following. Peter Kien is a distinguished sinologist who has spent all his life studying in his own huge library. Thanks to his father’s inheritance, Peter Kien has never had to care about any social or practical activity. He has systematically rejected the prestigious academic positions he has been offered, he has avoided all kinds of social or human contact and developed an attitude of disdain towards other human beings. All in all, he has done nothing but devote all his energies to the study of Oriental literature and philosophy. The turning point in Peter Kien’s life is marked by the improvident decision to get married to his aged house-

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keeper, a semi-literate woman who has conquered his esteem by demonstrating a scrupulous care towards his books. From this hurried decision on, Peter Kien’s life becomes a domestic hell. Therese, his new wife, asserts more and more rights on her husband’s property, and exasperates him to the point that the erudite sinologist decides to leave his own house. Being completely unprepared for practical life, Peter Kien ends up as the victim of Fischerle, a sordid individual, a humpbacked dwarf who earns his life cheating the miserable people surrounding him and who cultivates the obsessive dream of becoming a chess world champion. Peter Kien employs Fischerle as his assistant and the first night they sleep together in a hotel room, Fischerle is tortured by a psychological and decisional struggle: he cannot decide whether he is going to rob Peter Kien of all his money, or rather wait until he completely subjugates the sinologist.

In an extremely evocative passage, Canetti describes the intra-subjective controversy that takes place within the divided self of the dwarf. First of all, it is important to underline that, in his Freudian understanding of human psychology, Canetti depicts this internal controversy as occurring in a state of drowsiness, very close to a dreaming state of mind. In dreams, people can temporarily loose the firm grasp they hold on their own psychological identity, voicing opinions otherwise repressed. The following passage perfectly exemplifies this point: Fischerle was really afraid of going to sleep. He was a man of habits. Should he dream he would be perfectly capable of stealing all Kien’s money. In his sleep he had not the least idea what he was doing.1

The title of the passage is very significant too: der Buckel, i.e., “the humpback”. The two opposite psychological intentions contained in Fischerle’s mind are voiced by different parts of his misshapen body: the delinquent drive to immediately steal Peter Kien’s money is represented by the humpback, while Fischerle’s conscience voices the opposite intention of acting more astutely in order to gain Peter Kien’s confidence. The controversy is distributed over the body of the dwarf by means of an evident symbolism: the humpback being a misshapen bodily feature, it is perfectly suitable for symbolising deformed moral or psychological attitudes. This is why Fischerle expresses the wish of having his physical imperfection removed, in order to achieve psychological righteousness: An operation would be the sensible thing. Dangle a million in front of the famous surgeon’s nose. Sir, you said, cut off my hump and that’s for you. For a million a man would become an artist. . . The hump was burnt. Now you might walk straight for the rest of your life.2

Conversion and controversy

Another metaphor in Fischerle’s delirium has to be pointed out: while he is torn apart by psychological struggle, the dwarf imagines engaging in a chess game with a world champion. Suddenly he perceives that his contestant is moving in perfect accordance with his own suggestions. Fischerle is constantly winning, hence he realises that he is playing both parts of the game. . Chess A controversy following some pragmatic rules can be compared to an agonistic game, for example chess. Chess is a very suitable game for this sort of comparison, for more than one reason. First of all, in chess the dialogical structure of the play is strictly ruled; with very rare exceptions, it is forbidden to move more than one chessman at the same time. After performing their chosen move, players have to let their contestants play. Analogously, in a controversy there would be no game where members of one party made all the moves. Another important point that chess and controversy share is that in both activities a certain amount of mental inaccessibility is required in order to have a good exchange.3 In chess there would be no competition if one of the players were able to perfectly read his/her contestant’s mind. If two players with the same level of ability played, and one of them were endowed with such a supernatural gift, he/she would certainly win all the games. One might wonder whether this same paranormal ability could decree the end of a controversy. It would certainly be so only in the case where human language had the same degree of perfection as chess. Unfortunately, natural language is full of ambiguities, and perhaps it would be more effective to compare it to a chess game between two people who do not master perfectly the rules of the game. Yet, if one postulates total mental transparency between some of the contestants, it could be imagined that someone having complete access to someone else’s mind would also be able to harmonise one’s own language to that of his/her contestant. The most interesting point in Canetti’s metaphor concerns the possibility of comparing an intra-subjective controversy, and even the psychological struggle leading to conversion, to a chess game. In the case of Fischerle, this comparison is not adequate at all: very soon he understands that a part of his self is dictating and imposing all the moves on another part of his same self, and that the first part is ineluctably winning. In other words, he realises that his mind is playing all the possible roles of a controversy: When their insults ceased to be effective and he was fed to the back teeth with the police and already had one arm hanging out of bed, he fell back on some

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games of chess. They were interesting enough to keep him firmly fixed in bed; but his arm remained outside, ready to pounce. He played more cautiously than usual, pausing before some moves to think for a ridiculously long time. His opponent was a world champion. He dictated the moves to him proudly. Slightly bewildered by the obedience of the champion he exchanged him for another one: this one too put up with a great deal. Fischerle was playing, in fact, for both of them. The opponent could think of no better moves than those dictated to him by Fischerle, nodded his head gratefully and was beaten hollow in spite of it.4

The structure of this game is very close to that of textual interpretation. Although textual interpretation might be compared to a kind of strategic game, or even to a war (i.e., to activities having the dialogical structure of a controversy), it should rather be compared to a chess game played by a single person, where the self of this single player occupies all the possible textual positions and plays all the possible roles (see Barthes 1970). Nevertheless, the coexistence, and even the coalescence, of opposite beliefs within a single self can be so hard to understand and accept, that the body itself is used as a written text, voicing opposite points of view, which are projected over different parts of it. Following this representational strategy, Fischerle can do more than simply embody an internal struggle; he can even be the bodily theatre of a physical combat. This last possibility is exploited when he engages in a fight against his own humpback: Fischerle stood with his feet planted on a spot exactly in the middle between the door and the bed, whipping his own humpback. He would raise his arms in turn as a whip and fling ten gnarled belts, his own fingers, on the shoulders beyond the humpback.5

In this case, conversion is represented as a kind of aggressive controversy. . The self as theatre The text analysed above implies that the way in which the mind represents its own struggles, and especially the complicated psychological evolution of a religious conversion, is moulded out of the patterns of social interaction. Hence, despite the deep differences between the structure of belief and disbelief in either conversion or controversy, they give rise to similar representations. Conversion is therefore represented as a special kind of controversy, enacted by only one person. At this stage, it has to be pointed out that many of the terms used above belong to theatrical terminology: representation, acting, staging,

Conversion and controversy

enacting. The theatrical metaphor is central to the understanding of the relation between conversion and controversy. It is not by accident that this same metaphor is also fundamental to narration theories. In order to describe the structure of narration, A. J. Greimas has developed two useful concepts: “acteurs” and “actants”. The “acteurs” (or actors) are the characters of a text, while the “actants” of a text are its general narrative roles. Actors and narrative roles can be combined according to the three following situations: 1) There are as many actors as narrative roles, each actor representing a specific narrative role. 2) There are more actors than narrative roles, a narrative role being represented by more than one actor. 3) There are more narrative roles than actors, an actor representing more than one narrative role. A controversy is likely to be described by the first or the second situations, while conversion is likely to be described by the third theoretical possibility. In a controversy, different narrative roles, including different beliefs, are supposed to be embodied by different actors; in a controversy involving more than two people, it might happen that more actors support the same belief (this is situation number two). In religious conversion, on the contrary, a single actor embodies different beliefs. Yet this third possibility, which has already been encountered in Canetti’s masterpiece, triggers some problems of representation. In A. Hitchcock’s Psycho, for example, the protagonist simulates a dialogue between his mother and himself, and it is only at the end of the film that this simulation is unmasked. It is interesting, though, to wonder about what elements make this simulation credible. First, spectators never see the body of the simulator; second, the dialogue is actually embodied by two different voices (although, it will be found out, belonging to the same larynx). So, the audience is actually led to believe that two bodies (and two actors) exist. When this kind of simulated dialogue is represented through non-iconic media, i.e., through media unable to represent the body analogically, other artifices must express the alternation between two different voices. In written texts, for example, there can be a change in typography, or a change of style. In addition, different semantic structures (or ‘isotopies’, in Greimas’ language) can convey the idea of a splitting of personality – although not without ambiguities for the reader. This point becomes very important where representation of conversion is considered as a kind of simulated dialogue or internal controversy. A written dialogue is usually recognisable by means of some expressive conventions. This

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is why a good writer can easily simulate a dialogue between two people. On the contrary, in representations of religious conversion (especially in representations that the mind holds about its own psychological history) there are no such expressive conventions to convey the oscillation between different beliefs. There is only one voice, only one mind, and conversion must therefore be expressed through semantic differences. . Monologues and dialogues This point deserves closer attention, since it relates to M. Bakhtin’s interpretation of interior language. In his article “Konstrukcija vyskazyvanija” (1929), Bakhtin claims that dialogues are the most natural form of language. Even the prolonged enunciations of a single speaker (the speech of a rhetorician, the conference of a teacher, the monologue of an actor, the reasoning in a loud voice of a solitary man) have merely the exterior form of a monologue, whilst their essential, stylistic and semantic construction is dialogical. Is there no difference, therefore, between dialogue and monologue? Of course there is. The expressive form of dialogue implies the presence of two voices, while monologue only requires one voice. This is why Bakhtin affirms that monologues and dialogues have different expressive forms. Is it true, then, that they share the same semantic structure? Undoubtedly, even monologues have a communicative aim, for every monologue could be defined as a dialogue between a speaker and a perfectly silent person. Since every sign is potentially a sign for somebody, a perfect monologue does not exist. Perhaps only the word of God is a perfect monologue, as mystical thinkers might suggest. Yet, although dialogues and monologues share the same general semiotic conditions, they do not follow the same pragmatic rules: a monologue can possibly evoke an interpretation, but it does not necessarily evoke an answer. On the contrary, dialogues always imply an alternation between at least two voices. This is why one can say that a speaker who is not respecting the rules of good dialogical interaction is soliloquising. If monologues had the same pragmatic structure as dialogues, accusing someone of soliloquising would make no sense. Furthermore, there is a big difference between monologues embodying the idea of an answer and monologues simulating a dialogue. Since the mind of the convert is unique, the interior language of conversion is not a dialogue, but a monologue simulating a dialogue. Bakhtin’s belief in the essentially dialogical nature of language is even wider. In the article mentioned, he claims that even the interior language of a speaker is dialogical. According to him, intimate enunciations are also to-

Conversion and controversy 

tally dialogical, totally imbued with the evaluations of a potential audience, even when the thought of a potential listener has barely touched the mind of the speaker. Every verbal thought is therefore socially conditioned and has a dialogical form. Bakhtin extends this conception of the mind to encompass decisional processes: when a difficult decision has to be taken, it is as if the mind was split into two independent voices opposing each other. In Bakhtin’s interpretation, the hierarchy between these different voices derives from the social structure of classes. Thus, the dominant voice is that of the ideal member of the class one belongs to. This interpretation is certainly influenced by socialist ideology, i.e., it considers what happens in the structure of the mind as a consequence of what happens in the social structure. This is a delicate point, requiring a deeper analysis. In order to confirm the existence of a direct relation between the mind’s structure and social class structure, empirical evidence should be provided. If one does not accept this kind of relation, however, a weaker assumption can be made: the way in which inner conflicts are represented is moulded out of the way exterior conflicts occur. This affirmation is quite different from Bakhtin’s interpretation: the social structure does not determine representations of conversion (or other psychological conflicts). On the contrary, one gets the impression of this determination merely because the (semantic and pragmatic) structure of social controversy is adopted as a metaphor to describe what happens in the mind. There are no classes in the mind, but only in the way the mind is represented and described. If one agrees to this model of the mind, representations of conversion (but not conversion tout court) can be interpreted as a form of controversy, where different beliefs are expressed by different voices. Yet, it has to be stressed that this is nothing but a metaphor (among the countless metaphors that everyone uses to build their own knowledge), which is not different from Bakhtin’s metaphor comparing monologues and dialogues.

. Models . Conversion, controversy, and psychodynamics There is another important point in Bakhtin’s analytical strategy: since the mind contains different beliefs, these beliefs must be ascribed to different and independent parts of the mind, interacting with each other in the same way as speakers interact in a controversy. This image of the functioning of the mind

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is similar to the way psychodynamics models mental processes, implying that different parts of the mind express different voices, and that one is never totally aware of what exchanges go on between these parts. The concept of the unconscious is, as a matter of fact, fundamental to this approach. In Bakhtin’s conception of inner language, although one may believe oneself to speak with a personal voice, this voice is always severely affected by the social class one belongs to. In psychodynamics, the plurality of voices which mingle within the mind is explained through a different theoretical framework, but the same general structure is affirmed: one can neither know nor control what goes on in one’s own mind. In M. J. Horowitz’s (1988) psychodynamics – an interesting synthesis of old psychoanalysis and new cognitive psychology – the interaction between unconscious and conscious mental processing is thoroughly analysed. The ways in which unconscious processing affects conscious mental activity are divided into different categories: computational information processing, such as constructing words into grammatical sentences; unconscious solutions to problems and contradictions; long-standing intentions organised into unconscious fantasies, instinctive drives, and so on. The interaction of all these phenomena is not so different from the interaction of voices in a controversy. In a controversy, one never knows how the contribution of the other speakers will affect the course of the interaction, so that a controversy is always more than the sum of the individual beliefs. In the same way, the mind is more than the sum of the different mental activities. It is therefore reasonable to assert the need of distinguishing between socio-pragmatics, which studies inter-subjective interactions, and psycho-pragmatics, which analyses the interaction between different mental activities (Dascal 1985). Nevertheless, it might be argued that just as in Bakhtin’s interpretation, so too in psychodynamics what it is imagined to occur in the mind is nothing but a metaphoric projection of what is observed in social interactions between people. In other words, if this hypothesis is true, there should not be such things as unconscious drives in the mind: structures and patterns of social phenomena are used in order to metaphorically describe psychological activities. The same goes for textual semiotics: the meaning is nothing but what is projected over the expression of a text on the basis of what is known from social interactions. The classical graphical representation of the sign, for example F. de Saussure’s signifiant/signifié, should therefore be transcribed as follows: signifié/signifiant. The meaning is neither injected nor uncovered under the significant, but is rather imposed on it. From a phenomenological point of view, religious conversion is therefore not a kind of controversy. It can be described as

Conversion and controversy 

a kind of controversy, merely because patterns of social interaction are the only models at one’s disposal to describe how the mind works. . William James’ interpretation of conversion William James’ interpretation of conversion may be classed in this category of metaphorical understanding of psychological phenomena through sociological patterns. In 1901 and 1902, James delivered the prestigious Gifford Lectures at Edinburgh University, afterward published as The Varieties of Religious Experience – A Study in Human Nature (1902). Lessons number nine and twenty were devoted to religious conversion. The first paragraph of lesson nine proposes a famous definition of conversion, quoted in all the literature on this topic: To be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion, to gain an assurance, are so many phrases which denote the process, gradual or sudden, by which a self hitherto divided, and consciously wrong, inferior and unhappy, becomes unified and consciously right, superior and happy, in consequence of its firmer hold upon religious realities. This at least is what conversion signifies in general terms, whether or not we believe that a direct divine operation is needed to bring such a moral change about. (James 1902: 189)

This quotation needs a scrupulous perusal. First of all, the text does not distinguish between conversion and being converted. As has been pointed out supra, conversion is an ineffable moment between disbelieving and being converted. The unity of the self may characterise a mind after conversion, but not during conversion. Furthermore, this unity is only a unity of beliefs, and not a unity of representation. It is striking that James describes the consequences of a religious conversion as if he were describing the end of a controversy: people hitherto divided by opposite views reach a common agreement and put an end to their discussions. The way in which James understands the psycho-pragmatics of conversion is shaped according to the structure of sociopragmatic phenomena. Yet, if this dependence of psychological interpretation on social interactions is accepted, one has to take into account the way social interactions evolve. A collection of essays edited by R. Porter, bearing the title Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the Present, tries to demonstrate that the idea of the self can be classed among the myths of Western civilisation. The way the mind has been imagined is deeply influenced by certain social values, so that currently “the secret of selfhood is commonly seen to lie in authenticity and individuality, and its history is presented as a biogra-

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phy of progress towards that goal, overcoming great obstacles in the process” (Porter 1997: 1). James’ interpretation of conversion as being the end of a psychological controversy embodies this same idea of the self, which is reinforced by the way he imagines the causes of sudden conversions. According to him, sudden conversions are like a controversy in which one of the participants unexpectedly uses a very strong argument, forcing the other contestants to agree. In the case of unforeseen conversions, James claims that it is not necessary to postulate the existence of a supreme being in order to explain them. Through the analysis of both the field of consciousness and subliminal stimuli, James proposes to demonstrate that these conversions might be explained simply with reference to the way external stimuli lying on the fringe of mental life suddenly penetrate the limits surrounding the field of consciousness. The structure of this mechanism is analogous to the way psychodynamics imagines the sudden rise of new solutions to personal problems or contradictions (Rothenberg 1979; Gardner 1982; Weiss & Sampson 1986). In this model, one has no access to what is going on in one’s mind, and it is precisely through a sudden and unforeseen communication between consciousness and unconsciousness that a solution to artistic, scientific or religious problems can be found. It might be argued that this point of view is nothing but a secular embodiment of the very old concept of grace. A God hidden within the mind replaces a God hidden in the sky. Actually, this shows that in James’ interpretation of religious conversion, grace and unconscious mental mechanisms are more or less the same. His idea of the development of the self in Western history is characterised by an increasingly direct relationship between human beings and God, but also between the self and the parts of the mind that the self cannot control: From Catholicism to Lutheranism, and then to Calvinism; from that to Wesleyanism; and from this, outside of technical Christianity altogether, to pure “liberalism” or transcendental idealism, whether or not of the mind-cure type, taking in the mediaeval mystics, the quietists, the pietists, and Quakers by the way, we can trace the stages of progress towards the idea of an immediate spiritual help, experienced by the individual in his forlornness and standing in no essential need of doctrinal apparatus or propitiatory machinery. (James 1902: 211)

Religious grace is therefore compared to a brilliant flash of inspiration that one might experience during a controversy. In the same way, in the pragmatics of human communication formulated by Palo Alto researchers, sudden psycho-

Conversion and controversy 

logical changes are compared to unexpected turning points in the course of a conflict (i.e., within social interaction). In Change, P. Watzlawick et al. (1974) introduce their analyses of psychological changes by the story of a conflict: In 1334, the duchess of Tyrol Marguerite Maultasch’s soldiers besieged the castle of Hochosterwitz. After a long and extenuating siege, the besieged have almost finished their provisions. They only have an ox and two sacks of barley. The situation of the duchess’ army is not much better: soldiers start to manifest some signs of indiscipline. Suddenly, the captain of the castle gives orders to butcher the last ox, to fill it with the last two sacks of barley and to throw it to the enemies. After receiving this message, the duchess decides to raise the siege and leave.

The authors of Change consider this episode a good example of what happens in the mind when an unforeseen change (for example, an unexpected conversion) occurs. Thus, some particularly surprising and unexpected psychological changes are nothing but the eruption of what has for long been accumulating beneath the threshold of consciousness, which eventually and forcibly makes its way into the open (see also Van der Leeuw’s definition of religious conversion), exactly as the outcome of a siege is often determined by tensions which become manifest all at once. . Accessing the mind It might be wondered whether the comparison between social and psychological levels is always adequate, and whether the way one cannot have access to one’s own mind is comparable to the way one cannot have access to other people’s minds. Some philosophers have argued that one has privileged access to one’s own mind. This “doctrine of privileged access” has been the object of endless (and inconclusive) debate so far. In any case, it might be argued that the unity and uniqueness of the mind is the greatest obstacle for those trying to represent conversion as a form of controversy. When the tension between the necessity of a single mind and the coexistence of different beliefs is unbearable, there can be a phenomenon of mental multiplication. This phenomenon, well represented in Psycho, is very close to schizophrenia. If different beliefs cannot be subsumed in the same mind, the mind multiplies itself in order to produce a multiplicity of cognitive receptacles. This narrative strategy is very common in iconic media, especially in painting. Actually, the representational difficulties of the mind are very close to the representational difficulties of paintings. Like the mind, paintings must

 Massimo Leone

exist in the present time; they can only represent instants, with neither a past nor a future. Thus, in order to depict conversion, paintings usually choose to represent the most significant moment of a religious conversion. Yet, the representation of this moment is not a representation of conversion, but a fragment of it, from which the whole representation of conversion must be inferred. Another strategy paintings may adopt is the multiplication of the body. This is the case, very common in the history of Western art, of “schizophrenic” painting: the same body is represented more than once in the same painting, so as to convey the coexistence of different beliefs. Spectators are now accustomed to this kind of representational convention, but it would be otherwise totally natural to believe that a painting reproducing the same body in different postures depicts twins with different personalities instead of believing that it represents the same person in different moments of his/her psychological history. However, it is only by recognizing the same body that pictorial representations of religious conversion can be understood. In the same way, when the mind represents its own conversion as a controversy, it is only with reference to the persistence of the mind that the unity of different beliefs in the same representation may be grasped. The mind is at the same time a fastidious obstacle and a useful resource in order to experience a feeling of identity. On the one hand, memory of the opposition between different beliefs is held precisely because a single mind has contained them; on the other hand, the persistence of a single mind as a receptacle for contradictory beliefs enables mental representations of conversion.

. Stories In this section some stories of religious conversion will be analysed and compared with controversy. The following distinction between the pragmatics of conversion and of controversy is important. In a controversy, it is normal, and even essential, that different beliefs be supported alternately, sometimes through a rapid exchange of different points of view. In religious conversion, as soon as one comes to believe in a certain denomination, going back to a state of disbelief or embracing a different faith is very problematic. Yet some examples of multiple conversions can be found in religious history. In multiple conversions, one experiences multiple shifts across different sets of religious beliefs. This oscillation is not the same as the indecision that one may experience through the process leading to conversion. In multiple conversions, there is not merely alternation between opposite religious beliefs

Conversion and controversy 

but alternation between opposite religious intentions. Intentions are persistent beliefs, connected with plans of action, which are to be performed by the body. This strong connection between religious intentions and bodily actions makes multiple conversions very problematic for the psychological integrity of an individual. Sometimes intentions can be so opposed that one cannot imagine bearing them in the same mind. The mind is therefore multiplied, so as to simulate a controversy between different actors. This form of conversion is the most similar to a real inter-subjective controversy: the mind is split in several parts, which are not able to represent the unity of the self any more. As a consequence, the mind itself is multiplied through different strategies of multiplication. One of these strategies stems from the strict connection between self, body and name. . Selves, bodies, names A comparison between the representation of conversion and controversy will be useful in order to understand the connection mentioned above. In the written account of a controversy, it is central to distinguish which person is supporting which belief. In the representation of a political debate, for example, the possibility of distinguishing between the parts is essential to the intelligibility of the exchange, so that as soon as a contestant takes the floor, his/her name is mentioned. In the same way in religious conversions, a sharp change of beliefs is frequently marked by a change of personal name. This happens for both social and psychological reasons. From the social point of view, names always bear a precise meaning, often connected to a certain religious tradition. Every religion has its own set of favourite personal names: Paul, Luke and Mark are typical Christian names, while Muhammad, Ali and Ishmael are typical Muslim names. It is natural that, after conversion, and especially in the passage from one religious faith to another (religious transition), the name is also changed. The personal name is a label pinpointing the relation between a self and a social tradition. People entering Christian religious orders, for example, are always requested to adopt a new name, more consistent with their new beliefs. In multiple conversions, adopting different names is a strategy of mental multiplication. Since naming a body means choosing a single name, the use of more than one name implies the multiplication of the mind, so that it becomes the arena of a real controversy.

 Massimo Leone

. Miguel de Barrios This is the case of Miguel de Barrios. Miguel de Barrios, a poet, was born in Montilla (province of Códoba) in a family of Jewish conversos, after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492. Miguel was baptised on November 3, 1635. Soon afterwards, the Barrios family left Spain. The poet’s parents and some of their children settled in Algeria, while Miguel went first to Nice and then to Livorno, where a strong Jewish community had long been established. Here, guided by his aunt, he converted to Judaism and went through the rite of circumcision. In 1660 this adventurous and restless poet moved to Tobago, in the Dutch Antilles, so as to settle down, but immediately returned to Livorno, then he moved again to Brussels. The most interesting part of this story is that for a very long time Miguel de Barrios would oscillate between Brussels and Amsterdam, living a double life: he would be a Catholic in Brussels, while in Amsterdam his name would suddenly change into Daniel Leví de Barrios, Jewish.

This story has many interesting points, which deserve closer attention. First of all, it has to be pointed out that Miguel the Barrios was born in a particular social context, which forced some people to hide their faith and to superficially embrace Catholic religion. This terrible social context must have had a deep influence on Miguel de Barrios’ religious intentions. In addition, it has to be stressed that the restless geographical displacement of Miguel de Barrios, first with his family, then on his own, certainly contributed to the shaping of his mind as the arena of a controversy. Here the theatrical conception of the bodymind relation is useful again. As E. Goffman (1959) has shown, one presents different social masks and even different beliefs within different social contexts, so that moving between separate spaces enables one to oscillate between opposite representations of oneself. Miguel de Barrios’ unceasingly travelling from place to place was therefore indispensable for the staging of his multiple conversions. Moreover, it has to be underlined that Miguel de Barrios’ changes of faith were constantly marked by changes in both his personal name and his poetic inventions. He would not only be at the same time Miguel de Barrios and Daniel Leví de Barrios; he would also affirm his religious beliefs through literary texts. For example, the following verses by him celebrate his first conversion to the Jewish faith: “I owe my aunt Raquel Coén de Sosa the first light of the pure Law”.6 As a Catholic living in Brussels, he would mock Jewish religious beliefs, and, vice versa, as a Jew living in Amsterdam, he would write satirical poems concerning the Gospels. One of these poems is particularly suitable

Conversion and controversy 

in order to show Miguel de Barrios’ internal controversy: the “Fable of Christ and the Magdalene, written by Fray Antonio Márquez, Professor in the University of Salamanca, who, being in the Inquisition wrote this speech in London, the 45th of January of the coming year 1003 and ¾”.7 This surreal title introduces a harshly satirical poem concerning the relation between Christ and the Magdalene, having its peak in blasphemous coitus. According to A. Alatorre (1993), this parody, which he first edited from the manuscript 17.687 of the Spanish National Library in Madrid, was not written for publication. It was a text for Jewish people only, probably destined exclusively for men, given its obscene content. Miguel de Barrios’ moving from Judaism to Catholicism and vice versa was so sharp that it would enable him even to adopt satirical points of view on either religion. This is quite common in controversies: opponents adopt harshly satirical attitudes towards each other’s ideas. However, this kind of bitter irony is not frequent at all in normal conversions: it is impossible to hold religious beliefs and to mock them at the same time. Yet, this happened in the life of Miguel de Barrios, which ended tragically. In 1674 Barrios experienced a tremendous mental breakdown: he had fanatically believed, like many other Jews, in the new Messiah Shabbatai Zevi, a charismatic but unstable prophet who disappointed his supporters by converting to Islam. The history of this conversion is very complicated, and it is described in an extremely fascinating manner in a famous book written by G. Scholem (1973). At Easter of 1674 Barrios spent several days in deep madness, haunted by strange visions. He eventually recovered his mental stability, but not completely: he went through new crises in 1682 and 1685. Miguel de Barrios had been able to manage the continuous switches of his conversions, but the unity of his identity eventually cracked before the conversion of a religious leader of his to a third creed (Islam). T. Oelman (1981), who studied the life of this poet, has also argued that his religious instability was the main cause of the poet’s breakdown. As in a controversy, different parts of his mind voiced opposite arguments, which nevertheless had to be expressed by the same single body. The multiplication of Miguel de Barrios’ body could not be as effective as the multiple representation of a painting, since even changing names or literary attitudes could only temporarily postpone the inevitable fragmentation of the self (of the mind). . Fucan Fabian Another story of conversion may shed light on the way the mind can become the place of an internal controversy (although with all the limits signalled

 Massimo Leone

above): it is the story of one of the first Japanese Jesuits, reported by P. Akamatsu in a very interesting article (1996). Fucan Fabian was a Japanese converted to Catholicism and allowed to enter the Jesuit order in 1586. This was his first conversion. Twenty years later he abjured Catholic religion (second conversion) and embraced it again on the point of dying (third conversion). The most amazing aspect of Fucan Fabian’s life is that he was the protagonist of a controversy whose many roles he played alone. Furthermore, in his psychological history one cannot suspect that he was simulating conversion, since he was not forced either to accept or to abjure the Catholic religion (as might have been the case in Miguel de Barrios’ life). In his multiple switches, Fucan Fabian did what the protagonists of a controversy usually do: each time he converted, he wrote an essay in praise of his new religion denigrating his old one. When he converted to Catholicism, he translated many Latin religious texts into Japanese, and wrote a meticulous essay, bearing the title Myo-Tei Mondo (“Questions and Answers of Myoshu and Yutei”). This essay is noteworthy for at least two reasons. First of all, it criticises Buddhism, Shinto and Confucianism in favour of Christian religion. Second, it is a perfect example of what has been called supra a simulated dialogue: a single mind invents two actors playing two different narrative roles. Myo-Tei Mondo is a sort of projection of Fucan Fabian’s confused state of mind. Yet, at this stage, and in order to distinguish between internal and external struggles, between psychological and social exchanges, another element in Fucan Fabian’s life must be underlined. His abjuration of Catholicism, twenty years after his ordination as a Jesuit, was probably triggered by his encounter with the young Japanese erudite Hayashi Razan. Personal encounter is important also in Miguel de Barrios’ life, his first conversion to Judaism being promoted by his frequenting a Jewish aunt in Livorno. This shows that although conversion can be seen as a form of internal controversy, especially with regard to multiple conversions, whose structure is very close to that of a controversy, it is rather through social interactions that the balance between belief and disbelief is modified. This is true also in the most famous conversion in Christianity: Augustine describes the slow and tumultuous development of his conversion as if there were a controversy between two parts of his mind; nevertheless, it is through the social interaction with a book (instead of a social interaction with a person) that this development reaches its climax. Likewise, after his encounter with Hayashi Razan, Fucan Fabian wrote the essay Io Ha Dajiusu, commonly translated as Contra Deum. This witty text is the perfect counterpoint to Myo-Tei Mondo: the author analyses the weak points of Christian religion. Among other episodes, he describes how in Macao

Conversion and controversy

he had seen Jesuits and monks of different orders fighting with each other with sticks and rifles. He is also filled with indignation against the kind of conversation he had heard between Jesuits and lay people and against the racism European Jesuits hold towards Japanese Jesuits. Reading Fucan Fabian’s texts together, it is natural to wonder whether the same person might have written them. Yet, the history of philosophy offers many examples of this kind of experience. The vast majority of these sudden turning points are triggered by social interaction rather than by psychological struggle. Psychological struggle is just a consequence of social controversy, a sort of internal representation of it. For example, L. Wittgenstein’s change of mind about the nature of language was triggered by a conversation with the Italian economist Sraffa. . The others The way in which these philosophical or religious turning points occur shows the importance of personal encounters in the development of religious conversion. Although an internal controversy might take place in the mind of a person, inter-subjective difference is always more decisive than intra-subjective difference in the shaping of a conversion. The mind can represent itself as a theatre where several actors play different roles or as a chessboard on which different people are moving their chessmen, but it is through real encounters, and through inter-subjective exchanges, that one can experience a feeling of otherness. The most articulated current models of conversion also stress this predominance of social interaction over psychological dynamics. The seven stages which compose the model of L. R. Rambo and C. E. Farhadian (1999), for example, all have a social nature: context, crisis, quest, encounter, interaction, commitment, consequences. In this model, encounter is the central stage. This is not simply because a sociological approach is privileged: it shows, in fact, the importance of external exchanges in the formation of religious conversion.

. Conclusion Conversion has always been interpreted by focusing on two different models. Some interpretations have privileged the influence of elements external to conscious mental activities (this is the case of theological interpretations stressing the importance of grace and predestination, or the case of psychoanalytical ex-



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Massimo Leone

planations focusing on unconscious mental processes). Others have privileged the conscious activity of the mind and its ability to shape itself. The first group of interpretations has considered conversion as a phenomenon comparable to a sort of controversy (the controversy between God and Satan, for example, or the controversy between different parts of the mind). The present paper has tried to elucidate the relation between conversion and controversy, by defending the following points: 1) Although the structure of some religious conversions may be similar to the structure of a controversy, deep differences exist between these two elements, concerning their relation with the mind: conversion requires a single mind, while controversy requires a multiplicity of minds. All the further differences between conversion and controversy derive from this fundamental opposition. 2) Although conversion is essentially different from a controversy, it is represented as a controversy, because people tend to use metaphors deriving from social interaction in order to represent the activity in their minds. 3) The inter-subjective encountering of people supporting different beliefs (also through media) is central to the development of conversion. Representations of intra-subjective arguments derive from inter-subjective discussion.

Notes . “Fischerle fürchtete sich wirklich davor einzuschlafen. Er ist ein Mensch mit Gewohnheiten. Während des Schlafs ist er imstande, Kien das Ganze Geld zu stehlen. Wenn er träumt, hat er keine Ahnung, was er macht” (Canetti 1935: 227; translation mine). . “Eine Operation wäre das Gescheiteste. Man hält dem berühmten Chirurgen eine Million vor die Nase. Herr, sagt man, schneiden Sie mir den Buckel herunter und Sie kriegen die Million dazu. Für eine Million wird er ein Mensch zum Künstler... Der Buckel wird verbrannt. Jetzt könnt’man sein Lebtag grad sein” (Canetti 1935: 209; translation mine). . While I am revising the last draft of this paper, sitting in the Doe Library at Berkeley, a few desks far from me a silent and very concentrated young man plays a solitary chess game on his portable board. Perhaps, with some training, skilful chess players manage to simulate a sort of partial access to their own mind, as if they forgot the strategy they are using as player A when they switch to be player B, and vice versa. . “Als die Beleidigungen unwirksam werden, die Polizei ihm zum Hals und ein Arm schon zum Bett heraushängt, besinnt er sich auf einige Schachpartien. Sie sind interessant genug, um ihn selbst im Bett festzuhalten; der Arm hingegen bleibt draußen auf dem Sprung. Er spielt vorsichtiger als gewöhnlich, vor manchen Zügen überlegt er lächerlich lang. Als Geg-

Conversion and controversy

ner setzt er sich einen Weltmeister hin. Dem diktiert er stolz die Züge. Ein wenig verwundert über den Gehorsam, der er findet, tauscht er den alten Weltmeister gegen einen neuen aus; auch er lässt sich viel von ihm gefallen. Fischerle spielt, strenggenommen, für beide. Der andere findet keine besseren Züge als die von Fischerle befohlenen, nickt ergeben und wird trotzdem aufs Haupt geschlagen” (Canetti 1935: 210; my translation). . “Genau in der Mitte zwischen Bett und Tür steht Fischerle festgewurzelt auf einem Fleck und geißelt den Buckel. Wie Peitschenstiele hebt er die Arme abwechselnd in die Höhe und schleudert fünf zweifach geknotete Riemen, seine Finger, über die Schultern hinweg auf den Buckel” (Canetti 1935: 228; my translation). . “A mi tía Raquel Coén de Sosa / debo la primer luz de la Ley pura” (my translation). . “Fabula de Christo y la Magdalena compuesta por frai Antonio Márquez, catedrático de Visperas en la Universidad de Salamanca, que estando en la Inquisición escrivió este discurso en Londres en 45 de enero del año que viene de 1003 y ¾ ” (my translation).

References Akamatsu, P. (1996). “Catholiques et non-catholiques au Japon du XVIe siècle aux années Meiji – Le dialogue entre cultures”. In M. Spindler (Ed.), L’accueil et le refus du christianisme: Historiographie de la conversion (pp. 119–145). Lyon: Université Jean Moulin Lyon III, Centre de recherche et d’échanges sur la diffusion et l’enculturation du christianisme. Alatorre, A. (1993). “La fábula burlesca de Cristo y la Magdalena”. Nueva Revista de Filología Hispánica, 41, 401–458. Bakhtin, M. (Valentin Nikolaeviˇc Vološinov) (1930). “Konstrukcija vyskazyvanija” Literaturnaja uˇceba, 3, 65–87 [French transl. T. Todorov, “La structure de l’énoncé”, in Bakhtin, M. 1981. Le principe dialogique (pp. 287–316). Paris: Seuil]. Barthes, R. (1970). S/Z. Paris: Seuil. Canetti, E. (1935). Die Blendung. Wien: Herbert Reichner Verlag [English transl. C.V. Wedgwood, Auto da Fé. London: Jonathan Cape]. Dascal, M. (1985). “Language use in jokes and dreams: sociopragmatics vs. psychopragmatics”. Language and Communication, 5, 95–106. Gardner, H. (1982). Art, Mind and Brain: The Cognitive Approach to Creativity. New York: Basic Books. Goffman, E. (1959). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Anchor. Horowitz, M. J. (1988). Introduction to Psychodynamics – A New Synthesis. New York: Basic Books. James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience – A Study in Human Nature. New York and Bombay: Longmans, Green and Co. Lamb, C., & Bryant, M. D. (Eds.). (1999). Religious Conversion: Contemporary Practices and Controversies. London and New York: Cassel. Leone, M. (2004). Religious Conversion and Identity: The Semiotic Analysis of Texts. London and New York: Routledge.

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Oelman, T. (1981). “Tres poetas marranos” [João Pinto Delgado, Enríquez Gómez and Miguel de Barrios]. Nueva Revista de Filología Hispánica, 30, 184–206. Porter, R. (Ed.). (1997). Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the Present. London and New York: Routledge. Rambo, L. R. (1982). “Interview, Update”. A Quarterly Journal of New Religious Movements, 6 (1), 21–33. Rambo, L. R., & Farhadian, C. E. (1999). “Converting: Stages of religious change”. In C. Lamb & M. D. Bryant (Eds.), 23–34. Rothenberg, A. (1979). The Emerging Goddess: The Creative Process in Art, Science and Other Fields. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Scholem, G. G. (1973). Sabbatai Zevi: The Mystical Messiah, 1626–1676. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul [revised and augmented transl. of the Hebrew ed., Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1957]. Taylor, D. (1999). “Conversion: Inward, outward and awkward”. In C. Lamb & M. D. Bryant (Eds.), 35–50. Van der Leeuw, Gerardus (1938). Religion in Essence and Manifestation, 2 vols. New York and Evanston: Harper & Row. Watzlawick, P., Weakland, J. H., & Fisch, R. (1974). Change: Principles of Problem Formation and Problem Resolution. New York and London: Norton. Weiss, J., & Sampson, H. (1986). The Psychoanalytic Process: Theory, Clinical Observation and Empirical Research. New York: Guilford Press.

Chapter 4

Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery* Ademar Ferreira

.

Introduction

It is the role of epistemology to explain how scientific theories are created and critically evaluated, so that the progress of our knowledge of the world can be accounted for. Ever since the failure of Logical Empiricism in characterizing and evaluating science, philosophers have strived, without much success, to replace that model. Positions currently held range from normativist ones, like those of the Popperian type, to descriptivist ones, of Kuhnian extraction. The first type restricts epistemology to the so-called context of justification, which can be accounted for in logical terms; the context of discovery is left outside of its scope. The second group focuses on the description of how science is actually done throughout history, considering this either sufficient or what can be done in accounting for scientific progress. Popper, like the logical positivists, considers the process of discovery of scientific theories as a pure psychological phenomenon, not subject to logical or rational constraints. For Popper, the rational activity of scientists begins when they, after advancing tentatively an idea, articulate it into an explicit formal theory and proceed to critically testing it. These tests consist basically in deducing conclusions from the theory and applying these conclusions empirically. This characterization of science presumes or creates a sharp divide between discovery and justification – the divorce thesis – which has yielded continued debates in the philosophy of science. By denying a role for logical criticism in the process of conceiving a theory, Popper gives way to the descriptivists’ or relativists’ position in this domain. Thomas Kuhn, the most influential of them, believes that ‘normal’ science does not concern the discovery of new theories, while revolutionary discoveries occur in contexts of crisis of rationality.

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Ademar Ferreira

In this paper, my focus will be in outlining a model for understanding the production of scientific theories, which might correspond to “science in the making”. It is my claim that separating epistemically discovery from justification is artificial and misleading, for it does not allow to see the process of scientific inquiry as a whole. In pursuing this end, use will be made of the concepts of scientific controversies and subjectivity as inherent to the building of scientific knowledge.

. Towards a model of scientific inquiry Apart from the “friends of discovery”, like Pera (1982) and Mclaughlin (1982) who defend an epistemic role for discovery, Laudan, a supporter of logical divorce, has granted one of the first concessions to a possible attenuation of the divide: Invention sometimes is a rational and rule-governed process. I can even imagine that many of the rules of a logic of discovery might be the same as those of a logic of justification. (Laudan 1983: 321)

In spite of this, Laudan insists that any factor used in the generation of a theory is not essential per se to its justification. Of course, from a justificationist viewpoint, no logical necessity can be attached to generative factors in justifying a theory. And vice-versa, theories can be generated without regard for their justification. In scientific practice, however, things are different. The need for the efficiency of research activities, following Peirce, imposes a connection between generation and justification, as Nickles (1985) rightly argues. Nickles, however, retains the logical or de jure divorce thesis, claiming that a de facto coupling is sufficient for efficiency. This efficiency consideration further allows Nickles to introduce the concept of discoverability or generative justification, which is a form of justifying a claim by reasoning to it from the evidence of data and/or established results. Since this is different from consequential, indirect testing, it provides additional support for the claim. According to Nickles (1985: 194), this is valid if discovery means “the initial generation of ideas”, and not “the initial historical conception of an idea”. Nickles’ concept of discoverability or generative justification is in fact very important, and I will have occasion to use it in my considerations to follow. I find it difficult, however, to justify his concern for preserving the logical divorce between discovery and justification. One reason for my objection is that Nickles bases his defense of divorce on counterexamples without scientific in-

Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery

terest, despite the fact that they are imaginative. Another and more important reason is that what really counts is that generation and justification must be connected through efficiency considerations, as Nickles also states clearly. So, why insist that their mutual connection is not a de jure one? Based on these arguments and on Nickles’ notion of discoverability, the following theoretical model of scientific production can be advanced. Scientific theories are produced by means of a two-pronged process: from discovery/generation to justification and, vice-versa, from justification to generation. In the first move, the scientist starts with a problem and tries to find a solution to it, by searching the problem space in the context of data and previous knowledge. This search process is non algorithmic, and only heuristics can be of any help in reducing the search space. A hypothesis advanced at first, as Pera (1982: 78–79) contends, carries some plausibility, due to the guided search of the original discovery process. This initial plausibility means that the advanced proposal has much greater probability of success than if it had been chosen at random. This provides no assurance of correctness, however, and the assessment of the hypothesis’ plausibility in solving the initial problem comes from the context of justification. This constitutes the second move of theory generation and consists mostly in discoverability, that is, in the hypothesis’ generative support. This means that a hypothesis can be justified directly from data or previously established results, eliminating or reducing its conjectural status. This is quite different from justifying the claim indirectly by testable consequences, as Nickles (1985: 194) remarks, and might be thought of as a reconstructed discovery (i.e., derivation from data and theory already justified) of what is being claimed. By assigning credit to the original hyphotesis, discoverability also points to improved search directions, complementing the initial guided search of the problem space. According to this model, the production of scientific theories is a unified and interactive process of generation and justification, including a feedback mechanism formed by the generative support of discoverability.1 In this process there are two types of justification: the consequentialist empirical testing, defended by traditional justificationism, and the derivation of a hypothesis from established results, which is generationist. What is to be stressed is that this is a unified model of scientific theory production, recovering an epistemic role for the discovery/generation context. Since it relies on efficiency of research considerations, which means efficiency of means to ends, this adds to the epistemic rationality, enlarging the amplitude of this concept, as I will further argue.

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The features of the proposed model do not guarantee yet that the model, as it is, represents “science in the making”, as can be appreciated from the situations that will be considered. Once one enters the realm of efficiency of means to ends, one leaves the strictly logic, but unreal World Three, for the human World Two of knowing subjects. This means, adapting from Laudan (1996: 128), that the appropriate conception of rationality becomes agentdependent, because of differences in the cognitive aims and background beliefs of scientists, and also context-dependent. Let us figure out what this might yield when using the model just described to represent the work of different individual scientists. For example, in generative justification researchers might have to use “less than rigorous, strong-heuristic procedures which require experienced judgment for their application” – in the words of Nickles (1985: 195). Furthermore, suppose researchers have to decide whether evidence e is more supportive of a hypothesis h when used as a premise (generative support) or when derived from h as a prediction (consequential support). In real cases, as Nickles (1985: 199) notes, the answer would depend on “several complicating factors”. It is not difficult to imagine that when scientists confront each other in situations like the above, their strategies and decisions will usually vary. This strongly suggests that science can be controversial in practice. In fact, this is testified in the history of science, including contemporary science.2 This characteristic of scientific practice indicates that our model is not realistic as it is. It is my contention that the incorporation of the concept of scientific controversies gives the model the ability to analyze science closer to reality than the other available models.

. Scientific controversies and the practice of science Although controversies have always existed in the history of science, their importance, not to say their necessity, to the growth of scientific knowledge, has not been adequately recognized yet. In recent years, however, studies of the phenomenon of controversies, and examinations of several historical cases thereof, have been undertaken (see, for example, Barrotta 2000; Mamiani 2000). Controversies, as conceived by Dascal (1995),3 are one of the types of discursive dialogical polemical exchanges between at least two persons, who confront each other in oral or written debates. In confrontations between scientists, the unpredictable reactions of the opponents, and their correspondent responses, are thought to guarantee the criticism needed for certifying

Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery

the rationality of the process of developing scientific theories. It is my second contention that scientific controversies form a priveledged, if not the most appropriate, argumentative environment, that renders possible the invention and justification of new scientific theories. In what follows, by reference to empirically observed characteristics of controversies, I will argue, in outline, for both claims. If the process of development of a scientific controversy is observed in practice, the moves from discovery/generation to justification and vice-versa can be identified, although they do not evolve orderly, and not even progressively. At the incipient stages of a theory, the initial problem is not yet fully clarified. The property of a controversy of spreading rapidly (Dascal 1995) at its beginning, in extension and in depth, favors the focus on new topics relevant to the initial question, enlarging its scope and finally making it more clearly delineated. This achievement facilitates heuristic search, contributing to the generation of more plausible hypotheses. Tentative criticism against the opponent’s idea may, on the other hand, result in generative support of the opponent’s reply. Several other characteristics of controversies deal with the so-called background assumptions, inherent to any process of inquiry. These assumptions are central to connecting scientific conceptual systems to the scientist’s experience (Baltas 2000). The disagreement over background assumptions by scientists may be determinant of controversies, from superficial to deep ones. The properties of these controversies involve the questioning of conceptual presupositions and of various interpretations, that can render apparent the inadequacy of an otherwise acceptable justificatory reasoning or generative support argument. It thus seems reasonable to accept my first claim that the combination of the model proposed with the notion of scientific controversies yields, in principle, the means for a quite realistic description of the practice of science. I would like now to point out one property of controversies, highly relevant for the question of discovery/generation of scientific theories. As Dascal (1995: 18) has remarked, “the questioning of the presupositions, and the ‘hermeneutic freedom’ the contenders grant themselves” in scientific controversies, characterize their ‘openness’, which is essential to the emergence of novelty or radical innovation. This is not to say that scientific controversies totally lack order or control: their openness is not an impediment to resolving disputes. If, however, no clear-cut decision is arrived at, at least the controversial moves are perceived as ‘productive’ by both contenders and observers (Dascal 1995). This amounts to saying that scientific controversies, in spite of a possibly chaotic appearance, manifest “some sort of order or systematicity”. If one concedes that an appropriate argumentative environment for the growth of

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scientific knowledge is one that efficiently stimulates the generation and justification of new hypothesis, then my second claim results from these properties of scientific controversies.

. Scientific controversies, subjectivity, and the objectivity of science There is no way of knowing a priori what theory is justifiable as an appropriate account of a given body of evidence. Thus, it is appropriate to qualify the activity of scientists in producing a theory with the words Polya (1968: 158) employed vis-à-vis mathematics: “The result of the mathematician’s creative work is demonstrative reasoning, a proof, but the proof is discovered by plausible reasoning, by guessing”. The process that leads from the initial, guessed conception to the justified theory is not straightforward. But whatever it is, it is best accomplished in a controversial environment, as already argued. When one talks about plausible reasoning or of a de facto connection between discovery/generation and justification, one is talking about human reasoning. Pure deductive reasoning can also be performed by machines, as Polya remarked. But only humans are capable of plausible reasoning.4 This means that the creation of scientific theories cannot be realized in Popper’s World Three, a logical world of necessary relations. So it is apposite to consider the nature and role of the knowing subject when efficiency of research conditions and controversial environments are taken into account. From previous arguments, one might think that a scientist proceeds rationally in scientific inquiry if he acts according to what he thinks will accomplish his cognitive aims, that is, if the used means are adequate to the research goals (Nickles 1985; Laudan 1996). These aims or ends depend on the scientist’s background beliefs, and so, his decisions, although rational, are necessarily biased, even though they might be judged correct a posteriori. Recognizing this characteristic of human rationality might endanger the objectivity of scientific knowledge. To avoid such a difficulty, Popper stipulated that scientific knowledge is objective by definition, allocating it to World Three of “problems, theories and arguments”. Quoting Frege, Popper (1979: 109) establishes a difference between ‘the subjective act of thinking’, that is, the domain of the individual knowing subject, and ‘its objective content’, which belongs to World Three. This viewpoint is consistent with consequentialist epistemology, which denies a role for logical criticism in the context of discovery. One could however argue, on the contrary, that scientific knowledge is not only ‘invented’, but also legitimized in World Two. To raise this possibility is to consider the ques-

Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery

tion of the interrelations of subjectivity and objectivity in scientific knowledge. This is a very complex topic and I intend here only to discuss briefly its most apparent or external aspects in the constitution of scientific knowledge – more specifically, the possibility of objective knowledge arising from the activity of individual knowing subjects. A subjective viewpoint can become objective intersubjectively. If one recalls that objectivity in scientific knowledge lies in “the criticizability of its arguments” (Popper 1979: 137), one may expect that scientific arguments are objectified when they are criticized intersubjectively. And this is precisely what happens in scientific controversies, which create an argumentative environment at the same time competitive and collaborative. In general, a controversial confrontation of ideas occurs when the participant subjects do not share background ‘assumptions’ (Baltas 2000). Here the quotation marks (Baltas’) mean that the assumptions are not proper ones, that is, they are not explicitly stated. As such, “they cannot be the object of any kind of justificatory move”, unless they “emerge from the background”, as might be the case during the course of a controversy. These hidden assumptions can be classified in four types (Baltas 2000): ‘constitutive’, ‘interpretative’, ‘participation’, and ‘preference’ background assumptions. The first two kinds refer to the cognitive dimension of science, regarding the constitution of its conceptual system and its interpretation. Once unshared interpretative assumptions are disclosed, in the course of a controversy, a new scientific result may be established, ensuing epistemic agreement. Here, controversial generative-justifyng criticism will contribute to render hypotheses less biased by background beliefs, increasing the possibility of justifying the corresponding theory within common grounds. In the case of extremely deep controversies, when constitutive background ‘assumptions’ of identity and coherence (Baltas 2000) are at stake, a totally novel conceptual system may be the result of a generalized and open controversial, and thus, eventually revolutionary process. Consequently, the winners of the confrontation impose a new, more comprehensive cognitive rationality system, that incorporates the old one, but not vice-versa. Briefly, scientific controversies, in all the above cases, help enhancing the rational content of the surviving ideas. This progressive rationality, made possible by the controversial environment, can be portrayed as a composite rationality, made of sufficient efficiency of means to ends, and of logical conditions. Using Dascal’s (1995) concepts, a complementary role is played by a ‘soft’, sufficient rationality, prevailing at early stages, and a logical, necessary, ‘hard’ rationality, predominant at final stages of a scientific controversy engendering a solution to a theory generation problem. Correspondingly,

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 Ademar Ferreira

I would suggest one could speak of an extended epistemology, including both types of rationality.5 The practice of science is actually organized to be controversial or at least to permit and even favor controversy. Consider, for instance, the daily discussions with colleagues, scientific congresses, the refereeing of papers and proposals for research funding, public debates, etc. The individual researcher (as well as the member of a research team) cannot confront the polemical content of these activities without anticipating it, by building for himself a controversyoriented attitude reflecting not only specifics but his whole attitude as a working scientist. In other words, in his thinking processes there must be room for elaborating the necessary agonistic discursive attitude. This ‘reflexive-debate’ might be termed an ‘internal’ or ‘inner’ controversy, to be distinguished from the usual ‘external’ controversies. The study of the possibility of inner controversies is dealt with in other chapters in the present volume (e.g., Dascal; Cossutta). Here, I would like to suggest that scientific controversies comprise a dual dialogical argumentative space, internal and external to the subject.

. A case of scientific controversy To illustrate how the dynamic interaction of these subspaces operates, involving epistemic and nonepistemic elements, I will present now a brief description of a scientific controversy, based on my interview of one of the participants, a colleague of mine. I apologize for not disclosing names and references, as not all of the participants in this controversy were consulted. Once I have the opportunity of interviewing them, a more complete analysis of this controversy will be published. Besides my colleague, two other people participated in this controversy. Let us call them A, B and C. The object of the controversy belongs to systems theory, as part of applied mathematics and engineering. I will describe it without using mathematical expressions, and I apologize if a few terms may appear not explained, because my intention here is just to convey a general idea. The problem deals with the notion of decoupling for implicit and generalized systems. The polemic started with a simple example of a system, from whose state and output equations it is possible to see that a disturbance input is eliminated from the output expression, and so does not influence the output. However, the same example also shows that the initial condition of the output is influenced by the initial condition of the disturbance – which is incompatible with the standard notion of decoupling. Based on this last fact, two of the researchers, A

Controversies and the logic of scientific discovery 

and B, defended the view that the perturbation influences the output, and the third one, C, the originator of the discussion, argued that it does not. In the beginning, C had to convince the others of the mathematical interest of the subject under discussion. In the first two or three days, the confrontation went off as a dispute, where opinion and emotion prevailed over arguments, and where each one complained that he did not understand the point of the others, or to be misunderstood by them. In the sequel, with arguments more philosophical than mathematical, C, dialectically adopting the point of view of B and using B’s standard definition of decoupling, conceded that the system of the example discussed should be declared as not decoupled from the disturbance. However, the consequences of this result were not so interesting from a theoretical perspective, since then it would be very difficult to find examples of decoupled systems at all. After much discussion, A, now willing to accept the decoupling hypothesis (i.e., ‘reasoning to the item being justified’), began to agree that it might be interesting to consider a weaker definition of decoupling. So, from this moment on, in reality, they found themselves contending about which concept of decoupling was significant for the problem discussed. It resulted that with a weaker definition of decoupling the exemplified system could be, after all, considered decoupled. As a result of this polemics, a scientific paper was published, with precise definitions and mathematical proofs. It is worth noticing the evolution of criticism in the course of the confrontation process, from the initial dispute to the final resolution with general agreement. The criticism led to the disclosure of the interpretative background assumption underlying the standard definition of decoupling. The timing of its development, however, was not linear at all. The whole process took place along one month, with almost daily meetings. The participants’ expectations regarding the possibility of finding a solution often changed from optimism to pessimism and vice-versa. For example, C’s belief in the decoupling thesis was seriously affected several times in the course of the polemics. On the other hand, the time needed to formulate precise mathematical definitions and to elaborate the necessary proofs was much shorter than the whole period of the controversy. As one might imagine, this controversy, in addition to its public episodes, also occurred within the inner reflections of each participant. I think it can be easily accepted that the progress of the external controversy depended on the ‘homework’ done by each participant, whereby new ‘ammunition’ for the next day’s moves was prepared. And these moves certainly have been anticipated by the opponents, to the extent of one’s ability to predict the opponents’ tactics. This homework, stimulated by the conflictuous and emotive character of

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each actual ‘round’ of the debate, attests to the fact that the participants’ inner thoughts were fed by the controverted ideas of the day. It seems clear that two domains or spaces of controversy can be singled out. Of course, the external one is much easier to empirically characterize, because it is an observable dialogic exchange between two (or more) persons: the interventions of the participants can be recorded and can be properly examined. On the other hand, it is almost impossible to empirically study their inner counterpart, due to the inexistence of records, diaries, or other observational data. Interviews, with all their disadvantages, stand as a unique possibility for this study. We must, however, in this case, be aware of the innacuracies of self-assessments in cognitive processes, and, perhaps, rather rely on our transcendental reasoning interpretations, a variety of inductive inference, in Kantian terms, as a substitute for eyewitnesses (Flanagan 1991: 184). This difficulty, however, should not withhold the theoretical and empirical study of controversies, in the dual space where they unfold, as a previledged place of criticism, resulting from the rational activities of persons in the practice of science. Philosophy, psychology, cognitive science, and especially psychopragmatics, are important disciplines to help assigning both types of controversies their due role in the evolution and evaluation of science.

Notes * I am greatful to the editors for very helpful comments on the manuscript. . Here it is opportune to remind that Popper (1965: ix), in the preface to the second edition of his Conjectures and Refutations, had already referred to the concept of feedback, namely, to “learning from our mistakes”. However, since he defends the total separation between the psychological discovery and the subsequent logical criticism characteristic of justification, it is not clear how that feedback of error correction contributes to (further) discoveries. . See, for example, Engelhardt Jr. and Caplan (1987), Dascal (1999), Machamer et al. (2000). . Marcelo Dascal (1995: 18–19) defends the thesis that the impasse that divides epistemology between normativism and descriptivism is due to either “the complete neglect, or to a misguided treatment, of the role of scientific controversies in the evolution of science”. . Today, machines perform some kind of heuristic reasoning, however questionable it is whether this reasoning is of the same sort as human reasoning. See Langley et al. (1987). . A related idea had been advanced long ago in Lalande’s Dictionary (1988: 294), which proposed to enlarge the meaning of epistemology to include even the psychology of science, in order not to separate the actual development of science from its logical criticism.

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References Baltas, A. (2000). “Classifying scientific controversies”. In P. Machamer et al. (Eds.), 40–49. Barrotta, P. (2000). “Scientific dialectics in action: The case of Joseph Priestley”. In P. Machamer et al. (Eds.), 153–176. Dascal, M. (1995). “Epistemología, controversias y pragmática”. Isegoría, 12, 8–43. Dascal, M. (1999). “A polémica na ciência”. In F. Gil (Ed.), A Ciência tal qual se faz (pp. 65– 77). Lisboa: Edições João Sá Costa. Engelhardt Jr., H. T., & Caplan, A. L. (Eds.). (1987). Case Studies in the Resolution and Closure of Disputes in Science and Technology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Flanagan, O. (1991). The Science of the Mind. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Lalande, A. (1988). Vocabulaire Technique et Critique de la Philosophie, 16th ed. Paris: Quadrige/Presses Universitaires de France. Langley, P., Simon, H. A., Bradshaw, G. L., & Zytkow, J. M. (1987). Scientific Discovery – Computational Explorations of the Creative Process. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Laudan, L. (1983). “Invention and justification”. Philosophy of Science, 50, 320–322. Laudan, L. (1996). Beyond Positivism and Relativism. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Machamer, P., Pera, M., & Baltas, A. (Eds.). (2000). Scientific Controversies. New York: Oxford University Press. McLaughlin, R. (1982). “Invention and induction: Laudan, Simon and the logic of discovery”. Philosophy of Science, 49, 198–211. Mamiani, M. (2000). “The structure of a scientific controversy: Hooke versus Newton about colors”. In P. Machamer et al. (Eds.), 143–152. Nickles, T. (1985). “Beyond divorce: Current status of the discovery debate”. Philosophy of Science, 52, 177–206. Pera, M. (1982). Apologia del Metodo. Roma: Laterza [2nd ed. 1996]. Polya, G. (1968). Patterns of Plausible Inference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Popper, K. R. (1979). Objective Knowledge. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Popper, K. R. (1989). Conjectures and Refutations. London: Routledge.

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Chapter 5

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity Frédéric Cossutta

Within the Western tradition, I intend to look at some aspects of the process of interiorization and to limit myself to the field of philosophy, even if this decision is necessarily somewhat arbitrary. Should these aspects be considered as the counterpart, the extension of an external dimension of controversy? Or are they, on the contrary, radically different and their irreducible specificity should be accounted for? I shall adopt a number of textual markers in texts by Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Saint Augustine, Descartes and Leibniz, following the work I have undertaken about dialogue and controversy in philosophy in the last few years (e.g., Cossutta 2000, 2001b, 2003a).

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Polemicity and subjectivity in philosophical discourse

. The constitutive nature of polemicity for philosophy The polemical or controversial dimension (disregarding, for the time being, this lexical distinction) is constitutive of the philosophical discourse, to the extent that it does not proceed from a constraint extrinsic to that kind of discourse, but is inscribed in its very foundations. There is no philosophical discourse devoid of an explicit or implicit degree of adversity (see Cossutta 2001a). Philosophy is the discourse which makes explicit the multiplicity of voices, only better to reduce it; but it is condemned to repeat this gesture ad infinitum, since alterity is always repeated from the outside by a new voice which tries to cover the previous ones. Each philosophy reenacts this elementary and founding scene, which consists in introducing itself by de-legitimating a previous speech and instituting the conditions of its own discourse as universal. In this sense, philosophical activity does not reside so much in the internal ela-

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boration of a doctrine as in the movement that links and opposes the doctrines in a polemical field. But should we speak of controversy or of polemic? It could be argued that there is no controversy in philosophy in the sense defined by M. Dascal (1998). Indeed, according to his view, the notion of controversy presupposes that the debated question may or may not be solved in the process. For him, controversy can lead to theoretical innovations, possibly to an agreement. But in philosophy disagreement is the rule and not to decide is de jure, not just de facto. Let us employ the term polemicity to signify the intrinsic nature of the adversity found in all forms of philosophical writing, and the term polemic when this adversity takes on an explicit form, be it in a codified disputation or in an open debate. It is true that the search for an agreement is constantly staged, mimed to the point that the allegedly faultless processes of conversion, of initiation, of explanation, of persuasion, of argumentation or of demonstration are foregrounded in philosophical awareness and discourse and are translated into appropriate generic forms and choices. To be sure, every philosophy sets up multiple processes of integration taking alterity into account. Philosophers nevertheless remain closed upon themselves in so far as they claim to hold not only the only possible point of view, but also indeed not a point of view at all – which is what is supposed to make their philosophy come across as universal. Elsewhere (Cossutta 2003a, 2003b) I have tried to show that, from a transcendental point of view, it is impossible to ground any communicative a priori and that philosophy couldn’t therefore claim to play any privileged role vis-à-vis other forms of linguistic interaction. In this endeavor, I have made use of skeptical arguments against the performative contradiction argument employed by K.O. Apel to defend the transcendental nature of successful communicative and argumentative activity.1 However, it would be equally vain to argue for the definitive de jure ‘inter-incomprehension’ between philosophies.2 In fact, both the theses of the translatability or communicability and of the incommunicability of universes of discourse in general, and of philosophical discourse in particular can be rejected back to back. . The roles of subjectivity within internal and external controversy How does this intrinsically polemical dimension appear in fact and what are its forms? Polemic and controversy are usually defined as a relation between real interlocutors. Marcelo Dascal (1998: 1584) defines polemics as follows:

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[A] polemic is first and foremost a discursive phenomenon, belonging to the category of dialogue (taken in a broad sense). It arises in linguistic exchanges, often written ones (reports, correspondence, critical accounts, etc.) and sometimes oral ones (public debates, symposia, etc.), linguistically marked by the presence of explicit markers of opposition (‘I don’t agree with you about...’; ‘your text contains a paralogism which can in no way be excused’, etc.) [my translation].

Dascal’s definition presupposes a real interlocution: controversy consists in a dialogued interaction which progressively drifts according to its own dynamics and, with the participants’ interventions, leads onto unexpected thematizations. I have elsewhere (Ali-Bouacha & Cossutta 2000: 167–206) tried to develop a characterization of the various forms of discursive polemicity in philosophy making it possible to account for forms that are not taken into account by a strict distinction between inner and external polemics, criticized by Maingueneau (2000). I mainly relied upon an analysis of the generic and pragmatic characteristics of philosophical dialogue. I would like to develop further this analysis by contrasting dialogue with the different modes of exposition written in the first person. If the internal modes are not really dialogical, the question is how to exhibit the marks of controversy. Could this be a mere artifice, a false dialogism only aping what it imitates at the cost of fiction? A hypothesis immediately comes to mind: bringing plurality and antagonism into a monological discourse is one way of giving it an objective consistence. Alterity guarantees the truthfulness and the universalization of a discourse that would otherwise sink into a lack of coherence and drift towards madness. Conversely, the subjective aspects (whether affective or autobiographical ones) of a controversy appear as factors of inefficiency, of failure, and systematically draw the debate towards sterile polemic. Contrary to this hypothesis, I wish to defend the thesis according to which, within interior discourse, the discursive mediations allowing its objectivation through writing only reinforce the scriptural solipsism that encloses every philosophy within its doctrinal monolithism. Conversely, in the case of external controversy, it is not certain that the subjective aspects ought to be considered as the useless rubbish of controversy. Can controversy really be reduced to its result, as if the journey made towards agreement or disagreement had to be forgotten? Must it be rejected as being purely contingent, the simple psychological or social backing-up of the propositional objectivation?

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We should therefore distinguish the role of “subjectivity” in controversies that unfold in an internal forum, being then mimed in a written piece meant for communication, from its role in external controversies. Is the latter a residual subjectivity, which should disappear behind the effect of truth that it seeks to create, an effect that disqualifies it or puts it back to its place as a simple transitory mediation? Or is it a finally triumphing subjectivity that becomes objectivized in the works of thought only the better to curb the risks of a world vowed to multiplicity and difference? To give a rigorous answer to this question, it would be necessary to carry out a comparative study of the respective role played by the controversial dimension in the diverse forms of inner speech and by the marks of subjectivity in the external forms of polemic. Since I am not sure that I can successfully carry out this double task, I shall focus on the first. . Defining ‘internal’ polemic from a discursive point of view From which point of view should we approach this analysis? What methods should we use to underscore some constants beneath the diversity of the forms of ‘internal’ polemical dialogism? The viewpoint chosen to explore the internal forms of subjectivity (a somewhat anachronistic term for the Antiquity) present in the conflict with the self is not that of a philosophy of consciousness or of psychoanalysis, nor that of a transcendental theory of intersubjectivity, nor that of anthropology, but rather that of a theory of discourse; in particular, the point of view of Discourse Analysis as applied to philosophy. Defining subjectivation as a textual function manifested in discursive operations allows us not to frame our discussion as part of a philosophy of the subject. It also makes it possible to avoid believing that there are simple structural effects that make the subjective a pure illusion. The theory of genres and enunciative linguistics allow us to view philosophical texts as traces of discursive activity. I speak of a discursive staging of philosophical activity within the written text, because philosophy, whether it is considered as a mere activity of thought or in its institutionalized dimension, can neither be reduced to a pure subjective interiority which would put a subject in relation with himself nor to a simple communicational activity following purely social constraints. The internal cleavages will be studied from the perspective of the interlocutory settings which inscribe them within the realm of discourse. Addresses to oneself, as in Marcus Aurelius’ Thoughts for myself, the use of a first-person meditative form as in Descartes’ Meditations, and the call to a quasi-divine

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

voice in a Soliloquy as in Saint Augustine or in Malebranche’s Christian Meditations – all constitute as many dramatizations of an interiority that must fight with itself and consider “itself as someone else”, to quote Ricoeur (1990). This intimate, yet more than internal, polemicity – a conflict of conscience and tearing apart of the subject – is not, however, independent from a general conception of intersubjectivity nor from the social practices which are linked to it in the history of individuation. Most importantly, although it is seemingly construed from a monological standpoint, this pluralization of inner voices is not secluded from exteriority, since it borrows its dialogic systems and negates its own closure upon the inner self, insofar as it is published and meant for a reader. It is interesting, as far as the authors mentioned above are concerned, to compare their actual practice of public controversy with their intimate and polemical writings and their theories of subjectivity (or the ones they come close to). We would see, then, in parallel with the process of interiorization mentioned earlier (see Section 1.2 above), how a controversial movement of exteriorization develops, how the appropriate generic and interlocutory settings allow it to objectify its plural instances: dialogued form, correspondence, narratives and fiction, multiple characters and use of pseudonyms. The subjective aspects are set on the coordinates of a schema of intersubjectivity which is built as much from the outside as from the inside and which is the object of transaction in the course of the interplay: personal implications, misunderstandings, innuendoes, unfounded accusations, imputations or ad hominem arguments are not the contingent “precipitates” resulting from the clash of two personalities anchored in their biographical identities. They are the evidence of a discursive co-construction of controversial activity, which, in order to objectify itself, must produce a co-subject in the text. We shall begin to bridge the gap between external and internal polemic by analyzing a range of intermediate forms, going from the most ‘subjectified’ towards the most ‘exteriorized’ pole. We will then compare the discursive properties and the generic characteristics of philosophical dialogue, of thoughts, meditations and dialogues with the self.

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. Interior discourse: Dialogue or soliloquy? . From someone to someone else: Philosophical dialogue as a kind of speech of the soul with itself and of the souls with each other Plato often remarks that thought is a conversation of the soul with itself (Theaetetus, 189e–190a; Sophist, 263e–264a): Socrates: it seems to me that the soul when it thinks is simply carrying on a discussion in which it asks itself questions and answers them itself, affirms and denies. And when it arrives at some definite decision, either by a gradual process or a sudden leap, when it affirms one thing consistently and without divided counsel, we call this judgment. So in my view, to judge is to make a statement, and a judgement is a statement that is not addressed to another person or spoken aloud, but silently addressed to oneself. (Theaetetus, 189c–190a)3

We could therefore expect Plato to write texts in the form of ‘soliloquies’. The practice of the logos endiathetos means that the internal verbal formulation of unexpressed thought could have several internal modes of discursive explicitation: cleaved interior monologues with two voices answering each other, a more meditative device in which two enunciation planes would be superimposed, a forefront voice interrupted or redoubled by the intervention of a second one or, finally, the fictitious dialogue a speaker holds with himself. The germs of such processes can indeed be found in Plato’s texts. In the First Hippias Socrates creates a fictitious interlocutor which makes it possible to spare Hippias’ face by delegating to this fictitious interlocutor the humiliating task of refuting Hippias (291c). This process also allows Socrates to build an inner voice/path acting as a counterweight (like that of the Daimon) against the risk of accepting the positions of one’s detractors: I then hear nothing but unpleasant things both from the rest of the audience and from this man who keeps refuting me! The thing is, I no longer have any relatives in my family, and he lives in the same house as me. (First Hippias, 304d)

The remaining section of the dialogue sketches the beginning of an intervention of this internal interlocutor. Platonism, however, even if it opens up this possibility, does not make this mode of interlocution into a constructive principle for a whole work. As we have just observed, concerning this example, it is only within a dialogue built according to the laws of the genre that interior speech becomes possible. According to Plato, dialogue with external partners is of interest, as a number of

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

his texts clearly indicate, insofar as both partners are, the one for the other, the ‘touchstone’ and the guarantee of the logical continuity and coherence of their respective remarks – all the more so as the people watching the debate participate in its arbitration (see, for example, Menon and Gorgias). For a number of concurring reasons that I have explained elsewhere (Cossutta 2003a), the dialogue form is intimately tied (as a form of expression) to the structure of the doctrine (form of the content), at least at one level of its development. Hence, Plato’s philosophical work, at least in its exoteric part, is almost entirely written according to the tightly controlled codification of the dialogue form in relation with the developing tradition of the logoi socratikoi. The Platonic process has, however, too many faces and implications as a mode of exposition for us to develop here. Let us just make a couple of remarks. First, Plato’s choice of the dialogue form presupposes an equivalence or at least an acceptable rule of transposition between interior discourse (logos endiathetos) and dialogue, so that there is no difference between dialogue with the self and dialogue with another. Secondly, dialogue is the frame or the model of reference for the transposition and not the opposite. If there is a dialogue of the soul with itself, we can have access to it only through language at the cost of its transposition into the schemas of exterior dialogue. The center of dialogical gravity, that of an intimate conversation of the soul with itself or of two souls together, has to be moved towards the provisional exteriority of a published and exoteric dialogue. This is possible through the positioning of philosophical activity within a published communicational interaction: to comprehend one reader, then two, then to shape virtually a community of disciples which ensures the universalization of the practice and the doctrine. It is up to the reader then to put himself in the positions of asking questions and providing answers, of identifying either with the character of the answering disciple or of the questioning Socratic master. The reader can walk back the path leading him away from the conflicting field of diverging opinions and inner contradiction towards agreement (omologia) – a process that yields both, a transformation of the self and harmony with the other. Reading thus constitutes a necessary moment of philosophical activity. Using this generic form allows Plato to build the fiction of an open space where conflict and polemic can be progressively reduced by making explicit the rules of a real ‘conversational contract’, always present in Plato’s dialogues, whether it is implicit or explicit, renewed, renegotiated or transgressed (see Cossutta 2003a). This subtle setting holds only due to the subterfuge through which Plato withdraws from his own text and constructs a polyphony that takes us directly

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into the universe of dialogue (whether mimetic or diegetic).4 Plato is never a character in his dialogues, which can nonetheless be ascribed to him. He is thus not forced to undertake a univocal narrative perspective and a philosophical point of view constituting a unified and static doctrinal body. The de-subjectivation carried out by the apparent erasure of the auctorial function (de-individualization) is at the expense of a shift and of a subjective re-investment in the shape of fictitious characters endowed with a ‘psychology’, set in a system of roles, of places, and of interactions (which amounts to a re-individuation). Philosophical writing imitates a dialogical opening; it erases the markers of subjectivity to the benefit of an emblematic personification of the theoretical; it places the philosophical process on a reading stage comparable to that of a stage performance (that is, it stages a pedagogy of dialogue). This kind of writing reinstates all the more strongly the monological dimension and the non-conflictual longing underlain by the unity of a heavily stylized philosophical gesture. It gives itself publicly only through the modalities of ‘acting’, of a flexible ‘making do’ linked to the twists and turns of conversation and persuasion, which is enhanced, in turn, by the unquestionably literary dimension. This is in order to better impose a converging direction, lines of force which attract the participants in the dialogue toward a unity always desired but never reached. The reader is placed in an initiatory path and is thus led to anticipate the multiplicity to which the field of the visible remains subjected. We can thus see that it is the choice of a genre, of a discursive force, which allows Plato to solve the question of controversy. Writing treatises would suppose an (apparent) erasure of the enunciation markers of the auctorial subjectivity, a mode of exposition and resolution specific to philosophical conflict. On the contrary, writing in the first person would have to invent its own form through a new system of writing making it possible to untie the self-identity and the intimate fracture of the self.5 By banking on a theory of the identity between interior discourse and dialogue, carried out in the dialogue form which gives the philosophical work its final shape, Plato chooses an intermediate solution, which in the course of history will be used time after time, despite many avatars and adaptations. This introduction of controversy and debate at the heart of philosophical activity allows for an objectivation of ideas and of ways of thought. However, the de-centering thus carried out reinstates subjectivity in Plato’s own name – Plato who is a philosopher and at the same time a writer who denounces the risks of writing. And yet, is it not possible to challenge the idea of an identity between inner speech and dialogue? Isn’t there a fundamental asymmetry between the two?

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

Aren’t the methods of investigation of an interior dialogue different from those enabling us to understand the way in which dialogue operates? We are supported in this reorientation by some developments in linguistics. According to Benveniste (1970: 85–86), for example, interior monologue is only a variety of dialogue: Monologue, despite appearances, must be set down as a variety of dialogue, a fundamental structure. ‘Monologue’ is an internalized dialogue expressed into/as an ‘inner language’ between the speaking self and the listening self. The speaking self is sometimes the only one who speaks; the listening self is nevertheless still there; its presence is both necessary and sufficient to give significance to the speaking self.

And several recent studies of the status of internal speech, as G. Philippe’s book on the monologues in Sartre’s novels, have shown that [t]he equivalence monologue = dialogue cannot (therefore) be applied to interior monologue, neither on the theoretical level (since, on the pragmatic level, monologue is a very specific situation of discourse), nor on the formal level (since the dialogic structure is far from accounting for the totality and especially for the diversity of the ways in which discourse may appear in novels. (Philippe 1998: 147; see also Bergounioux 2001)

It is not by chance that processes developing in a rich and complex way, written transpositions of monologues, can be revealed in a context which binds a certain understanding of subjectivity to the modern age and to the transformations of the genre of the novel: the de-centering operated upon the central function of the classical subject, identified as the conscience of the self, is indeed carried out within the literature of the 20th century, partly through the use of such processes as interior monologue (just think about the end of Joyce’s Ulysses, or about some of Beckett’s texts, or about American literature). However, in the philosophical, religious or literary fields the use of interior monologue is much more ancient. We must therefore ascertain whether the use of this technique reveals a kinship with the dialogic processes or whether it delineates an asymmetry between the two. . From self to self: The practice and writing of soliloquy as interior dialogue in Saint Augustine Augustine’s practice of soliloquy, a sort of two-voiced inner meditation, as well as its reconstruction in writing, leads to the recognition of the specificity of a writing mode particular to interior discourse. Beyond its immediate interest –

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avoiding some drawbacks of dialogue – it allows the setting up of a writing of the self, whose author considers a new textual genre. A number of conditions are necessary for such an innovation to take place. The three main ones – the last of which is most important for our subject – are: –

–

–

An anthropological transformation, carried out in part by Christianity, which, according to J. Dumont, truly marks the coming of an “era of the individual”. For Dumont, Augustinian doctrine plays an important role in the conceptualization of this transformation (Dumont 1986: xxxx). A theory of the subject in which subjectivity may be spoken of without having the subject break free from his subordination to what overpowers him from the outside (i.e., from a transcendent point of view) and from the inside (i.e., from an immanent point of view). We know that the reference to the ‘language in the heart’ (verbum in corde or verbum mentis, verbum mentale, as it was called in the Middle Ages) is an important piece of Augustine’s Trinitarian theology: the intimate relation of the mind to its own inner speech follows the model of the begetting of the Son by the Father in God.6 The elaboration of forms of writing and of discourse allowing for interiority, representation and communication to be linked together. This is the point we are concerned with here.

Augustine created the word ‘soliloquy’, which is the title of one of his works from the Cassicium period (see Martin & Gaillard 1990). He is aware of the novelty of this creation, which he presents as follows: It is ridiculous if you are ashamed, as if it were not for this very reason that we have chosen this mode of discourse: which, since we are talking with ourselves alone (qui cum solis nobis loquimur), I wish to be called and inscribed Soliloquies; a new name, it is true, and perhaps a difficult one, but not ill suited for setting forth the fact. (Soliloquies II, 14; in Augustine 2004)

Here, the fictitious interlocutor is embodied in ‘Reason’ which leads ‘Augustine’ to an initiation – following quite precisely the model of the direction of conscience: “I wrote another two volumes, asking questions to myself and answering them as if we were two when I was all alone” (Revisions I, 4, 2; in Augustine 1998). What reasons does Augustine give to justify the ‘invention’ of this form? He mainly puts forward the necessity to overcome some of the difficulties set by dialogue. Dialogue traps the participants within shame and self-esteem, the

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

consequence of which is a stubborn and insincere determination that turns the dialogue into a dialogue of the deaf: For since Truth can not be better sought than by asking and answering, and scarcely any one can be found who does not take shame to be worsted in debate, and so it almost always happens that when a matter is well brought into shape for discussion, it is exploded by some unreasonable clamor and petulance, and angry feeling, commonly dissembled, indeed, but sometimes plainly expressed; it has been, as I think, most advantageous, and most answerable to peace, that the resolution was made by thee to seek truth in the way of question by me and answer by thee: wherefore there is no reason why you should fear, if at any point you have unadvisedly tied yourself up, to return and undo the knots; for otherwise there is no escape from hence. (Soliloquies II, 14)

Recall the way in which the three consecutive conversations in Gorgias, with Gorgias, Polos and Callicles, end. During the soliloquy, Augustine confesses to being prisoner of a similar oscillation between shame and resentment, to which the voice of reason answers back that the function of the soliloquy is precisely to avoid this type of behavior: “It is ridiculous to be ashamed. Think of the very reason we have chosen this type of conversation” (Soliloquies II, 14). The soliloquy does indeed make it possible to seek truth through questions and answers, and, to this end, it retains a certain enunciation dualism, while protecting it against risks of rupture thanks to the unity of a direction of conscience. But the paradox lies in the fact that the conversation with the self seems to develop only by means of an internal dialogue. We would have expected to see dialogue replaced with a form of monologue, allowing for the development of a gradual access to truth. In fact, monologue entails risks symmetrical to those of dialogue. These risks are linked to three intrinsic limitations of pure inner speech. They are considered explicitly in the Introduction and elaborated later. The first risk relates to the question of who is speaking. How to avoid, in the oratio mentalis, the risk of an inner drifting, of a logical heretical frenzy, or of a submission to the fancies inspired by the devil? What is this voice which speaks to Augustine within himself and which is personified in the text as ‘Reason’? What is the status of this authority? Is it he himself or that part divided from himself which wants the good and the truth after having once reveled in error and wandering? Or is it a voice linked to the presence of God in himself? The Preamble, which makes the origin of his project explicit, leaves room for doubt: As I had been long revolving with myself matters many and various, and had been for many days sedulously inquiring both concerning myself and my chief

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good, or what of evil there was to be avoided by me: suddenly some one addresses me, whether I myself, or some other one, within me or without, I know not. For this very thing is what I chiefly toil to know. (Soliloquies I, 1)

S. Dupuy-Trudelle sees in this setting-up more than a simple pedagogical aim; it rather opens the possibility to create an initiatory gap between self and self, in order for a progression towards truth to be possible: [J]ust as the philosopher will confront a requirement which he carries in himself but nevertheless feels to be superior to him, so Augustine confronts a requirement which he finds in himself, but with which he does not yet become one entirely. (Augustine 1998: 1196)

Indeed, the task of philosophical and religious elaboration (determining that the question of truth comes before the knowledge of the soul and of God which is the stake of the reflection) comes with a dramatization of the tension between the spiritual aspirations and the dark drives of a sensual nature (see Augustine’s tears in paragraphs 25–26 of Soliloquies I). The text thus entails the inscription of an intermediate alterity between God and man (Reason), avoiding the dangers to which an internal meditation is exposed. If this meditation were reduced to the intimacy of the self with itself, there would be a proliferation of diverse and uncontrollable voices within the self, or, on the contrary, a simple empty monologue. The personification of an enunciating authority opposed to the self makes it possible to avoid the pragmatic contradiction set by interior discourse in which the speaker and the addressee are one. Thus, dialogue with oneself is made possible through the scriptural inscription of dialogism. The second risk of inner speech concerns the following question: How can we keep inside ourselves a contagious joy, an illumination which must be passed on and stand both as a testimony and as an initiation in the context of transmission and knowledge of truth? Paragraph 23 takes up the images of a luminous progression developed in book VII of the Republic in order to thematize the order of progression towards truth: “The nature of good teaching is to lead it in a certain order” (Soliloquies I, 23). The necessary adaptations of the rhythm and stages of this initiation according to the person upon whom it is bestowed are thus formulated: Among which things, whether sooner or later, whether through the whole succession, or with some steps passed over, each one accustoming himself according to his strength, will at last without shrinking and with great delight behold the sun. (Soliloquies I, 23)

Thus, interior dialogue makes it possible both to embrace, within the fluidity of the meditative pace, the hazards linked to the particular resistance of the

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subject, and to follow the rigorous sequences linked to the specific order of the development of truth. But the risk of such a spiritual exercise is that it may serve only to the personal edification of the person undertaking it, whereas the love of truth is shared between reasonable souls: But what measure can the love of that beauty have in which I not only do not envy others, but even long for as many as possible to seek it, gaze upon it, grasp it and enjoy it with me; knowing that our friendship will be the closer, the more thoroughly conjoined we are in the object of our love? (Soliloquies I, 22)

This justifies the necessity of writing. And finally, the third risk concerning inner speech: How could the thematic continuity, the coherence of the interior mediation be guaranteed when our memory is faulty? The course of the meditation is subjected to the hazards of time and forgetfulness; how can we have a sufficient memory to remember all its moments? They took place over a period of about three days but they lack any exterior chronology. As described by Dupuy-Trudelle, “they are set in a time without coordinates, that cannot be located, an intimate time freed from all requirements but that of the search for truth” (Augustine 1998: 1196). The tempo of the soliloquy, with its sequences, its interruptions and its resumptions (“Reason: But we’ve written enough for one day, I think. We must have some thought for health”; I, 23) thus makes it possible to conjugate a ‘psychagogy’ or direction of conscience and an explanation of the methodical conditions of the access to truth by means of the guide embodied by the fictitious interlocutor. His inscription within the time of writing allows, in turn, the meditation by alterity of the two voices to capitalize, at the same time as it is unfolding, its own moments, and thus endows it with the status of a support for a spiritual exercise. It thus becomes possible to trace back the different phases of the initiation, as with a continued mediation which resumes, day after day, its previous moments. Publishing the written text will eventually make it possible for others to take up again this initiatory journey, others who will in turn undertake the same journey and thus meet the universalizing aims of testimony. It is not enough to re-introduce dialogue within internal meditation, to double the voice of the ego with that of the alter ego. The position of the dialogic markers and of the rules of the sequencing of the turns of speech would not be possible if the interior vocality did not yield to a mode of inscription mediating time with space, the external with the internal, voice with trace. Faced with the risks of a solitary thought, which would watch its object melt away as it is in the process of constructing it and would see the subject

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undertaking it quaver, the inner voice suggests a solution to Augustine – that of writing: Then the voice that speaks to me, let us call it Reason, says- Behold, assuming that you had discovered somewhat, to whose charge would you commit it, that you might go on with other things? A. To the memory, no doubt. R. But is the force of memory so great as to keep safely everything that may have been wrought out in thought? A. It hardly could, nay indeed it certainly could not. R. Therefore you must write. But what are you to do, seeing that your health recoils from the labor of writing? nor will these things bear to be dictated, seeing they consent not but with utter solitude. A. True. Therefore I am wholly at a loss what to say. R. Entreat of God health and help, that you may the better compass your desires, and commit to writing this very petition, that you may be the more courageous in the offspring of your brain. Then, what you discover sum up in a few brief conclusions. Nor care just now to invite a crowd of readers; it will suffice if these things find audience among the few of thine own city. A. I’ll do that. (Soliloquies I, 1)

This writing is neither that of a self nor that of a subject in the Cartesian sense, but of a self addressing another self. I, the author of the word I, am addressing myself and someone other than me, since it is necessary, as was Socrates’ daimon, that at least there should happen within myself a tangible demonstration that I am not mad, and that he who is speaking within me has an absolute nature, although it appears at the heart of my intimacy. . First person narration: The writing of the self in Augustine’s Soliloquies and Confessions Bringing the Soliloquies and the Confessions together is quite illuminating, insofar as it helps to understand the genealogy of what may become a new generic frame: at the meeting point of the heavily autobiographical narration and of soliloquy, there is an interior monologue with a meditative form. Whereas the Soliloquies date from 386–387, the later text of the Confessions is from towards 400 and is usually seen as the prototype of the autobiographical genre. However, we mustn’t retrospectively apply our own model for reading autobiographies to this text in which the word ‘confession’ must be simultaneously interpreted as a confession of life, a confession of faith, and a confession of praise. Even if it is formally innovative and sets up a new genre, this text belongs to the field of discourse and of religious practices, and it is located within the context of Greek literature, especially linked to Petronius’ and Apuleius’ novels.

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

In the Soliloquies, the biographical dimension is mentioned only just beneath the surface, as a data of personal story inscribed in historicity and chronology. It is the horizon of inner transformations that Augustine accomplishes under the rule of Reason enlightened by faith. Here, this individual dimension shows less in the autobiographical indications than in the emotional features and climate that color many pages: their pathetic tone brings back to mind the climate of the Confessions. Due to a non-narrative logic of sequences, the interior dialogue merely makes a synthetic mention of the journey of life, through the intellectual and spiritual journey of its author. It is interesting to compare briefly the Soliloquies with previous dialogues written by Augustine. The end of his Contra Academicos was already bringing into play a biographical reference by relating the skeptical crisis he had to undergo before his conversion: Nevertheless, although I am now in the thirty-third year of my age, I do not think that I ought to despair of understanding it (human wisdom) some day; for I have resolved to disregard all the other things which mortals consider good, and to devote myself to an investigation of it. And whereas the reasonings of Academics used to deter me greatly from such an undertaking, I believe that through this disputation I am now sufficiently protected against those reasonings. (Answer to Skeptics, III, §20; Augustine 1943)

This autobiographical confession comes as a surprise at the end of a dialogue that seemed to be entirely devoted to the training and edifying of the disciples he had gathered around him in Cassicium. The pastoral philosophical stage, the reference to the characters’ names and their lives’ circumstances, the staging of the author within his own text, all indeed constitute an autobiographical framing of dialogue which suggests a parallel with Cicero’s. However, the characters in Cicero’s dialogues, despite their historical greatness, allowed him to locate himself within a lineage with a political and intellectual value, without the slightest mention of his interior life (see Lévy 1992; Auvray-Assayas 2001). Here, on the contrary, this concluding remark compels us to redefine the criticism of probability as a key moment in the intellectual and spiritual journey that led Augustine to conversion. This moment is thus simply restated and somehow reinvented, no longer in the frame of a narration relating a personal crisis, as in the Confessions, but in the frame of a dialogue between master and disciple. The Soliloquies display a stage of evolution coming after this skeptical crisis and followed by a refutation of skepticism. But it seems to me that the Solilo-

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quies are mistakenly compared with the dialogues written in Rome after his return from Africa. According to Martin and Gaillard (1990: 243), for example, in fact there is no fundamental difference between this work and the dialogues of the second category: Reason addresses Augustine as he himself addresses his young disciple, so that the second sort of dialogues are soliloquies too.

It is true that the second group of Augustinian dialogues, with a low dialogical content, is close to scholastic exercises and to a mode of exposition which merely uses the presence of the interlocutor as a support for the argumentation, whereas no real interaction is achieved between the interlocutors. However, these cannot be linked to the Soliloquies; they ought rather to be related to some aspects of Platonic dialogue, as we have shown earlier. We have compared them with the First Hippias, in which the origin of the dialogic mechanism that Augustine used can be observed. While for Plato the fictional philosophical dialogue is the only recognized mode of exposition of the dialogue of the soul with itself, it remains nevertheless true that dialogue itself, which apparently consists in the written account of a spoken interlocution, is in fact a “dialogue between souls”, provided one is willing to follow the lesson in the First Alcibiades: Under such circumstances, is it not fair that by talking together, you and I, and by using discourse, our souls are in fact talking to each other? (130d)

“So we have come full circle”, since we are now once again confronted, after external dialogue, with the dialogue between souls. The inner duality of the soul being virtually reducible through dialogue, just as the duality separating too souls is reducible by dialogue. Indeed, as within the interior dialogue of the soul with itself, the duality of voices is temporary and must slowly fade away (as the quotation from the Theaetetus showed), in order to make room for a “single-voice speech”, which has decided in favor of a thesis or of an opinion, so too in the dialogue-genre omologia the agreement between the interlocutors is the cornerstone of a successful dialogue. The Alcibiades clearly indicates that this discursive unification comes with an ontological unification, since the souls contemplating each other in their dianoetical centers may thus lose themselves in a demonstration of love that shows their unification and identification with the divine. The horizon of (the) dialogue is the reduction of differences and the return to the unity of the ONE. Thus, soliloquy as a genre oscillates between two interlocutory settings: that of the dialogue with fictitious characters, and that of the first-person monologue that can be compared to or assimilated with meditation.

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

In Plato’s dialogue, we are faced with a textual genre resting upon an enunciation polyphony linked to fictitious speakers. In Augustine’s soliloquy, we have the deliberate creation of a mixed genre that uses the dialogical schema but “fictionalizes” only one of the two interlocutors. Augustine is present both as the author overseeing his text and as a character immersed within his own dialogue. The scene thus produced is that of a subjective identity struggling between the prejudices linked to its past and its longing for a journey towards truth and faith. The process used in the Soliloquies has its antecedents not only in Plato but also in the cynic diatribe and its transformations in a stoic context with Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, as well as in the Hermetic or Gnostic homilies of the second century (Jacquet Francillon 1989: 846-847), sources to which we turn presently. . To speak to the other as to myself: Stoic diatribe and conversation (Epictetus’ Conversations) A form derived from the cynic diatribe7 was quite popular in Marcus Aurelius’ formative years and is well represented by Epictetus’ Conversations. According to Jacquet Francillon (1989: 847), the texts reproducing the cynic predication or declamation have two main features: In their contents, on the one hand, they most often show a debate between the reference character and a fictitious addressee. But the latter is looked upon as an opponent, the champion of common opinion, and his answers are the reason for an argumentation mixed with apostrophes and insults. In its form, on the other hand, this vehement exhortation uses rhetorical devices, which brings diatribe further from Socratic dialogue and closer to sophistry.

In this respect, the genre of the diatribe is quite in accordance with the ‘ostensive’ and provoking nature of the doctrinal transmission in the cynic school. As the skeptics, but with different doctrinal and technical reasons, the cynics have to develop forms of enunciation and of philosophical practice that foil the traps of conformism and convention. Stoic sermons take up this genre, which is supposed to imitate the different stages of the lessons, by adapting it to their protreptic aims; they also reveal the influence of Socratic dialogue.

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. To address oneself as another: “Thoughts” or “To myself ” by Marcus Aurelius Can we speak of a meditation of the self with itself or of the self upon itself? Is this a personal conscious interiority? Much less so, as we have just seen in the Confessions characterized as a life narration, if we consider the autobiographical and narrative markers. Here, the inner self is developed and shared only insofar as it sets an exemplum in the context of a psychagogy with a pedagogical value. Interior dialogue performs a double meditation: it allows internal debate to give itself a direction and it allows writing to include the other in an analogous process. This journey can be seen and experienced again if one identifies oneself with Augustine, the disciple of Reason. Life narrations or confessions are still neither (philosophical) meditations nor really autobiographical writings (literary in the modern sense of a ‘journal’), because they can be dissociated neither from a “spiritual exercise” nor from an oratory and praying dimension locating them within the sphere of religious discourse (see Hadot 1987). The use of the first person is not in itself a sufficient condition for the existence of an interior monologue or of a meditation, since its referential, denotative, or fictional range is not univocal. For instance, in Marcus Aurelius’ Thoughts for Myself the first person does not imply an enunciation of the interior monologue type, but the use of an “I” addressing himself constitutes a splitting in two of the enunciating authorities; the “I” speaking addressing a “you” is not indicated by a specific marker and does not answer either, except in the passages where a dialogue is sketched. Hadot (1992: 47) remarks quite pertinently that “in Augustine, the ‘I’ of the writer is not located, as is often the case with Marcus Aurelius, at the level of the Reason urging the soul, but on the contrary when the soul is listening to Reason”. This is not the same splitting in two: the ‘I’ of the writer occupies the high position and at the same time he addresses himself as if he were someone else – the inner master (to eudon kurieon). In Augustine, however, he occupies the humble position of disciple and addresses a personified other like Reason. The Greek title Ta eis eauton is sometimes taken to mean “to myself ” or “to himself ” and rendered as “thoughts” or “thoughts for myself ”, the word ‘thoughts’ being inferred. “To himself ” does not mean that there is a dialogue with questions and answers. The address is rather unilateral, except in some passages where the splitting of the voices is achieved through a setting-up of well-materialized speech turns (as for instance in VII, 40). It should be noted that the text mixes different genres and that in many passages Marcus Aurelius does not at all address himself (pros eautos).8

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

A more accurate translation of the title is in fact one of the factors that have led commentators to reconsider the genre of this text. This title, which isn’t one, most certainly gives an indication of the nature of the manuscript at hand. It is not made of fragments of a lost manuscript, or of notes towards the elaboration of a treatise. On the contrary, for Hadot, this writing has the status of hypomnèmata (Marcus Aurelius also uses the shorter word: hypomnèmatia), that is to say, of personal notes to back up memory. The remaining fragments cannot really be used for publication.9 In his new translation, Hadot significantly chooses to give up the term “thoughts” and use instead “writings for himself ” (Marcus Aurelius 1998: XXII). The inner speech, through which the stoic disciple carries out the spiritual exercises, is not self-sufficient: the repetition of formulae or thoughts would be an endless repetition of the same, and would have no hold on our lives if we couldn’t link thought and life. It is therefore necessary to produce the internal articulations susceptible to make up for the faults of interior discourse and memory, so as to ensure the continuity of the effort of personal reform. Personal notes written daily can do this by providing the landmarks of an interior work. As such, they represent a precious help for their author, and also for the audience – in spite of the fact that they were not intended for publication – due to their spiritual elevation and their intrinsic ‘literary’ value. If they do provide the traces of a journey and the support for a solitary meditative recollection, they nonetheless do not give the continued program of a well-organized and reasoned journey towards the good, probably to a large extent because of the dialogical lack we have just discussed. And yet, the publishing of the intimate writing changes the meaning of the setting-up of enunciation and writing, by over-determining its pragmatic range. How does an inner speech, carried out daily, turn into a personal reminder, and then acquire the value of a philosophical work with universal value? We are confronted with an interlocutory set-up that is neither responsorial nor dialogical, but rather a form of address without reciprocity. It often consists in a admonition, a call to be what truth summons us to be in our inner dispositions and in our acts. This philosophical language of the action upon oneself is similar to the one used in the genre of letters from a master – e.g., Epicurus or Seneca – to a disciple. The fundamental difference with edifying or protreptic correspondence derives from the fact that the status of the model reader cannot be interpreted quite in the same way: the absent disciple, only alluded to in Epicurus’ Letter to Meneceum, fits the stereotype of every disciple. In this case, the first name does in no way prevent the identifications of a different reader. On the other hand, Seneca’s Letters to Lucilius come closer to a

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direction of conscience suited to a singular personality. Still, we, as readers, are meant to share with the addressee the common features of human nature, and thus also benefit from their teaching. In this sense, the addressee plays a role that can be compared with that of the fictitious interlocutor in the diatribe. The fact that Marcus Aurelius’ writings were indeed published endows them with a similar role, since we readers, too, can identify with that part of himself which he addresses and admonishes or supports – albeit anachronistically. As with Seneca’s Letters, we can remark that there is not necessarily a contradiction between the hypothesis of a text for private use and its relocation within a reading circuit. There is no contradiction in seeing them as notes written daily, with no close organization or mixing several genres, while identifying some structured parts. We can identify the influence of the forms and style specific to stoic sermons, conversations and diatribes, not to mention the more unconscious recollections linked to the Greek and Latin cultural background. The effort applied to the writing and to the form is itself one element of the exercise through which one tries to transform the care for the self into an inner reform. As a number of contemporary stoic texts make clear, there is no opposition between stylistic exercise and “spiritual exercise”.10 What convinces oneself can have the same effect upon others. Thus, enunciating the elements of the doctrine for oneself has a performative value only through a discourse whose modalities already constitute an invitation to act according to a stoic way of life. Marcus Aurelius writes for himself, having internalized the characteristic features of the relation master-disciple specific to the school practices of later stoicism. He adopts the generic, stylistic, and rhetorical patterns of his masters. We can now understand that this part of the self which he addresses coincides with the model reader who is called out as if by an interior master. The text read by its author is an address to the self; it is a relation between two parts of the self, in return for the mediation of the figure and of the discourse of the master. Its publishing undertakes an externalization and a personification of the speech authorities, since Marcus Aurelius appears just as soon to be addressing me, the reader. Through him, I address myself and set myself off looking for the good and the truth. Marcus Aurelius, when addressing himself, addresses no one but himself; but when he is addressing himself as a human being, he addresses every man, and he thus touches every man. Whereas Marcus Aurelius’ “For myself ” (if this title can be suggested) displayed the emperor addressing himself as if he were someone else, the Conversations stage Epictetus addressing the other as himself. As with Augustine’s Soliloquies, we can establish a necessary relation between the development of a

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity 

philosophical genre and the characteristics of the doctrine. More precisely, we can link the theorizations of the status of interior discourse (logos endhiatetos, entos dialogos, esô logos) with the chosen interlocutory settings and modes of exposition. . Speaking from oneself: The first person and interior monologue in Descartes’ (metaphysical) meditations Saint Augustine’s work brings together a great diversity of dialogic and internal forms, as if it benefited from the extraordinary diversity of the forms and genres developed by the ancient philosophical schools, both Greek and Roman. It adapts some of these, inaugurates others, and is a landmark for understanding the way in which subjectivity and controversy are tied. We have brought into play a series of formal/historical variations that have taken us from dialogues to soliloquies and confessions. We should go further and try to understand what type of discourse, what historical and anthropological transformations, what philosophical changes have presided over the constitution of a strong connection between the philosophy of the subject and meditative monologue. Descartes’ Meditations begin with autobiographical narration but they quickly strip it from its chronological substratum and its reference to Descartes’ contingent person, so as to devise a stable enunciation plane. Compared with soliloquy, the duality of voices disappears, the setting of questions and answers gives way to an interior monologue, indeed open to the outside through a communication process. The nature of the first person indicators (e.g., the use of the singular or plural first-person pronouns in French) should not conceal the systematic variation of its referential range that quickly goes beyond Descartes the individual.11 And yet, this is not a dialogued enunciation, even if there are some traces of dialogism, as was stressed by some interpretations, which highlighted implicit dialogic marks in Descartes’s text (see Beyssade & Marion 1994; Bouvier 1996). Cartesian meditative discourse is structured according to the order of demonstrations (ordre des raisons), but it is also structured according to a tempo shaped by the efforts and reservations inherent to a philosophical initiation (Cossutta 1996). The erasure of the dialogic dimension within the Cartesian text is not accidental; it can be linked to the theme of a specific force that reason draws from itself without the help of God or anyone. This is in sharp contrast with Augustine, for whom the personification of Reason built by the dialogued authority was a way of splitting the subject, as in the case of a conversation with oneself where one was one’s own disciple. It also indicated the place, at the very heart of

 Frédéric Cossutta

individual human intimacy, of a presence whose immanence nonetheless refers to a radical alterity. A link can thus be seen between the Augustinian doctrine of God within the self and the choice of the set-up of interior dialogue, just as there is a link between Descartes’ doctrine of the autonomous subject and the strictly monological nature of his Meditations. . To be addressed by God and to dialogue with him: Malebranche’s (Christian and metaphysical) meditations An indirect and retrospective confirmation of this is found in the fact that Malebranche, because he is writing Christian Meditations, alters the Cartesian model to reintroduce a set-up of a radicalized Augustinian type. The presence of God in the Soliloquies is materialized by Augustine’s constant address to him through the prayers and calls for help that punctuate the progress of the initiation. God is not addressing him, but he is addressing God. In order to bring in the interlocutory set-up that will regulate meditative discourse, Malebranche seems to take up the preamble of the Soliloquies in which Augustine was asking “who spoke” in him.12 But the answer to the question does not come immediately. . . He does not start with the dialogue with God’s voice right away, but introduces instead an external voice through progressive transitions that summarize the patterns we have just described. It is remarkable that this inner voice of the incarnate word should not appear immediately but come only after the initial attempt at addressing the self. In the first two paragraphs of the first meditation it is stated that “I am for myself my reason and my light” (Malebranche 1986: §2, 11). The third paragraph brings in a second authority which addresses, as a second person, the “I” of the previous paragraph: “My spirit, beware, are you not mistaken?” (§3, 11). “Why do you consider that you are the cause of your ideas? Ask your Reason, consult your conscience, go into yourself ” (§11, 22). This long series of admonishments and objections leads to a confession of powerlessness which occupies the beginning of the third meditation: “I. I am convinced that. . . II. I still agree that I am not my own light to myself (§4). . . As long as I will look only at myself, I will never find what I am. Because all I can see in myself is darkness” (19–20). A further source of misunderstanding arises since the meditating voice puts itself in the hands of an intermediate power: “Familiar demon which rules me, enters my mind and gives it its light. Pure intelligences, if you can enlighten men, make yourself known to them” (II, §5, 20). This voice would be the equivalent of the Socratic Daimon or of Augustinian Reason. But it is immediately refuted by the dashing intervention

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity 

of the mediator between man and God, who is God even in the form of the incarnate word: “Peace, poor mind. Suspend your judgment. . . Leave out even the purest and most perfect Intelligences, if you want to meet Him you must adore. . . I will endeavor to lead you to him: make some effort to follow me” (II, §6, 20). Angels and demons do not have a sufficient degree of universality to utter the words of a universal Reason. The rest of the second meditation deals with the reasons why men err in imagination and passions. The answer of the meditating person comes at paragraph 15: “My Jesus! Are you yourself talking to me in the most secret place of my Reason? Is this your voice I’m hearing then?” (23). From the third meditation, the responsorial set-up is developed regularly between the meditating person and Christ who addresses him as “my dear disciple”, “my dear son”. This process of a progressive setting-up of the interlocutory mechanism takes the opposite course of the Cartesian work carried out in the first and at the beginning of the second of his Metaphysical Meditations. Malebranche does indeed take as his starting point a thinking subjectivity enunciated in the first person in order to tear it from his linguistic solipsism so as to make it part of a mechanism of answers. It reverses the Cartesian process, in which the identification from self to self of a purely thinking and speaking subject is the outcome of the enunciative reduction, the object of a long effort and the fruit of a conquest. The point is, indeed, to carry out the reduction of a double enunciation polyphony. First, that of the multiple voices of opinion, prejudice and error; the cacophony can only be destroyed if, through doubt, every assertion is suspended. The subject is thus purified of all the inter-textual or inter-discursive parasites, whether they come from well-intentioned nurses or fake scientists, from angels or from demons. To the analytical process of hyperbolic doubt there corresponds a work of a temporary suspension of judgment that turns the speaking subject into an enunciating subject “disconnected” from what he says. Even God’s voice has gone silent and it will be heard again only once its existence is ontologically validated. The second step of this reduction concerns the subjects as apprehended from a referential point of view. The one saying “I” presents itself as being Descartes-author, Descartes-speaker and Descartes-subject, thinking and being endowed with an identity, before becoming an ordinary subject, devoid of all specificity, located only in relation to the present of the discourse and likely to be taken over by any reader. One goes from the multiple to the one, from diversity to identity, from the particular to the general through a sort of egological reductio which results in a quasi transcendental subject that is actualized in the cogito.13

 Frédéric Cossutta

In Malebranche’s Christian and Metaphysical Meditations, one starts with this kind of monological subject by showing that he is the victim of an illusion, that he is empty and unable to draw any certain knowledge from its own self. The solitary voice of Cartesian discourse is considered as tautological and hollow as long as it does not sport a difference that can be acquired through a dialogical multiplicity. Still, one mustn’t trust neutral or false voices, those of angels or of the devil, but one must trust the embodied logos given to man through God’s son. Malebranche rejects all the pretenses of the self, not only those of the hateful self of passions but also that of a self cleansed of all flesh which would, in vain, try to reach pure transparence by the mere force of thought. He needs the helpful voice of a benevolent master and of an undeniable authority, as was already the case for Saint Augustine. But Malebranche does not share Augustine’s scruples, his doctrine of truth within God legitimating a set-up whose audacity scandalized his contemporaries.14 He makes God Himself speak with those justifications: Since I am convinced that the Eternal Word is the universal Reason of the minds, and that the same Word made flesh is the Author and the accomplisher of our faith, I think I should have him speak in these meditations as the real Master, who teaches all men by the authority of his word and the evidence of his lights. (Malebranche 1986, Avertissement 7)

Malebranche is, however, careful to ascribe, in his Foreword, the possible mistakes to himself!

. The relation between controversy and subjectivity: A pragmatic paradox? I have tried to tackle the relation between controversy and subjectivity by shifting the focus of my analysis of the subjective dimensions of controversy. Instead of focusing on the subjective aspects of an interaction between real interlocutors scattered over a shared, as well as distinct space–time, I have rather remained on the side of the intimate manifestations of subjectivity in order to try to understand the nature and significance of the phenomena of antagonism and internal conflict unfolding in it, and asking whether one can speak of a “controversy with oneself ”. However, in order to understand the gap a controversy in this sense would set up with the self, I have left aside the theories of the subject and of inter-subjectivity (e.g., Husserl, Ricoeur, Habermass or Apel) which would have necessarily implied a particular (and thus, subjective!)

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

philosophical point of view, at the risk of an unwise interference with the object of my research: “controversies” in philosophy. To underscore these phenomena, I have looked for the linguistic marks of intimacy, assuming that an inner speech was accessible to us and also to the subject performing it only at the expense of a ‘discursivization’ which grounds it, through writing, into language and communication. Discourse Analysis appears particularly relevant to the study of these linguistic indicators since it provides the study of a literary, religious, scientific or philosophical text with categories and protocols of analysis linking thinking devices to expressive ones as well as the text to its context. Indeed, philosophical discourse is instituted when elaborated within the institutional, social and historical frames of the production, communication and reception of speech. It is simultaneously set up by devising concepts (‘philosophemes’) and doctrinal schemes that locate every philosophy within a universe of discourse, which plays the part of story and archive. The scene of discursive enunciation, the textual genres, the pragmatic and communicational pre-constraints of their reception – all of them simultaneously shape the forms of the expression and the forms of the doctrinal contents (see Cossutta 2001b). My purpose was not to provide a proper historical analysis of the genesis and evolution of the dialogical-internal forms, nor to solve the question of the discursive status of interior monologue in philosophy. I have made some significant cuts in my narrative, seeking affinities and differences bearing upon interlocutory, pragmatic and generic criteria. It has thus been possible to identify the stages of an “internalization” of the dialogical structure set up by Plato and the transformations of this set-up in the Hellenistic and Roman times, or during their later resurgences. Augustine’s work plays a key role in my analysis, since it condenses numerous dialogical genres drown from the Antiquity, adapting them to a Christian context. He creates new set-ups that allow interior discourse to develop according to multiple registers, either focusing on the identity of a subject identified through a single voice, or animated by the internal polyphony of the authorities which compose or break up the self. These transformations concern the philosophical practices within each school or in the context of the intimate activity of the thinker, as much as the textual genres that further duplicate or reinvent them through writing. These transformations take into account the necessary relation of adaptation between the doctrinal conception of the logos endiathetos and the interlocutory settings it requires.15 They also take into account the necessary relation of adaptation between these expressive modes of interiority and the forms of communicative activity linked to the conditions of transmission appropriate for the given doc-

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Frédéric Cossutta

trine (the respective roles of written and spoken speech in teaching, the type of relation between master and disciple, academic courses, the teaching methods and the institutional dimensions applied in the philosophical or religious centers). One can thus observe a correlative variation of the ways of saying, of making and of writing a philosophy of the intimate (see Table 1). This means that a conflict with oneself is possible, insofar as it is simultaneously lived, thought/spoken, and communicated. It is always already represented on a discursive stage which, to acquire some objective consistence, presupposes the choice or creation of interlocutory and pragmatic settings, of appropriate generic frames. I have attempted to show, through a comparative study (though a superficial one) of some of these characteristic forms of philosophical writing, that the relation between controversy with the self and external controversy consists in a sort of pragmatic symmetry. On the one hand, the making explicit and exhibiting the internal conflict entails submitting to a constraint of exteriority: the relation of thought with itself must use the mediation of a third party, resort to an exteriority – that of language, which inscribes the mark of the other at the heart of the relation to the self. We have to produce a text and write it. This always means opening an intimate stage, like a theater or a show, which grants concrete consistence to philosophical ideas, for the benefit of the readers. This provides ideas with a general and trans-temporal range by endlessly repeating the paths of reading that are proposed to them. The first consequence is that alterity is always already located at the heart of the thought activity, its interiorization being the condition of subjectivization. The second consequence is that the use of exteriority is the condition allowing for the constitution of the reader as subject and, beyond that, making subjectivation the condition of externalization. The Author must be his own Reader, but this can be done only by importing into the self the function of reading, at the expense of the intrusion of the other within the self. The different dialogical and internal phenomena we have just uncovered make this clear. Conversely, the Reader must become the Author of the text he is reading, which can happen only if he “de-constructs” it by resubjectivizing it, which shows up in the polemic markers through which he distances himself from it. On the other hand, the conduct of a polemic or an open controversy presupposes, not as a marginal condition, but really as one of its main aspects, a parallel subjectivization of the two authorities which ensure its mode of functioning and growth. Unfortunately, within the limited scope of this chapter, this part of my argument was not developed.16

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity

Table 1. Correlative variation of ways of saying, making and writing a philosophy of the intimate. Pragmaticinterlocutory settings

School practice and «spiritual exercises»

Textual genres

Texts and works

Address of the one to the other

Dialogued conversations

Philosophical dialogue

Dialogues by Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, St. Augustine, etc.

To address the other as oneself

Cynical and Stoicist lessons

Diatribe and sermon

Bion from Borysthène Epictetus/Arrianus Conversations

To address oneself as another

Interior meditation, soliloquy

Writings for oneself, thoughts, notes, private diary (hypomnèmata)

Marcus Aurelius For himself

To address oneself through the medium of a third other (Reason, God)

Soliloquy two voices meditations

Interior dialogue

St. Augustine Soliloquies Malebranche Christian Méditations

First person narration

Life-account (biographies) and mind searching

Confession Autobiography

St. Augustine Confessions Descartes Discourse on Method

To address oneself in oneself

Inner reflexion Meditation

Meditations

Descartes Méditations métaphysiques

In any case, subjectivity and controversy are each the condition of the other and support or oppose each other in complex ways. The movement through which they are associated, dissociated, counterbalanced or mingled is in itself a mediation and a necessary condition in the constitution and objectivization of philosophical ideas (concepts, propositions, systems, and doctrines). Controversy, brought into the heart of subjectivity thanks to different textual forms, entails a de-centering, an expatriation which, by submitting it to the trial of alterity, thereby gives it the possibility to constitute itself as a constituting subject. Subjectivity, lying at the center of controversy through equally diverse textual forms, entails a deviation from the process of objectivization by exposing it to the hazards of subjective identities, of subject consciences. These consciences, divided into heterogeneous authorities, make possible the contextualization of the process of objectivization into discursive structures, which alone ensure

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 Frédéric Cossutta

its endless movement of de-constitution and re-constitution. Philosophy, thus, fragmented into multiple competing paths, risks to be forever inconsistent, as the skeptics realized. In contrast, in science controversy and subjectivity are the necessary condition of agreement. Although precarious, such an agreement is, nevertheless, a regulating ideal – the prerequisite for the accumulation of knowledge.

Notes . “If I cannot contest something without also contesting myself, and if I cannot deduce its foundation without committing logical-formal petitio principii, then this something belongs intrinsically to the pragmatic-transcendental presuppositions of argumentation, presuppositions that one must have already acknowledged for the language game of argumentation to retain its significance” (Apel 1992: 132). . To use Maingueneau’s neologism. See Maingueneau (1984, Chapter 4, which is entitled “La polémique comme interincompréhension”). . On inner language in the Ancient and Middle Ages, see Panaccio (1999). . For the distinction between these two kinds of representation – the “mimetic” and the “diegetic” – see the Republic Books II and III. . Which would have been quite incompatible with the anthropological structures of individuality in Ancient Greece at the time; see Dumont (1986), Foucault (1984), Vernant (1989). . See Panaccio’s (1999: 94, 108–118) chapter on Saint Augustine. . In the initial context of its formation, traces of it can be found in the writings of Bion of Borystene and Teles (3rd century BC), such as Stobée reproduces them in the Florilèges (5th century BC). Studying this form would lead us to think about another facet of controversial subjectivity, that of irony and comedy, from Timon of Phlionte’s Silles to Lucien’s comedies. . In the introduction to his recent translation of Marcus Aurelius (1998: XXXV) Hadot counts 301 (out of 470) “chapters” in which Marcus Aurelius addresses himself by ‘you’. . Hadot (1992, Chapters 2 and 3). . See the many passages (for instance: I, 30; II, 1) in Epictetus’ Conversations on the adequate style for the exercise of philosophy. . The generic forms used by Descartes throughout his life are too numerous: life narration or intellectual autobiography, meditations, objections and answers, school textbooks, dialogues, etc. For a comparative analysis from the perspective of discourse analysis, see Cossutta (1996, 2000). . Malebranche (1986); note (c) of the text quoted below is a reference to Saint Augustine’s De magistro, which supports the relationship which we are in the process of sketching.

Controversies and dialogic intersubjectivity . For more details, see Cossutta (1996). For a more directly linguistic approach, see AliBouacha (1995). For a semiological approach, see Bordron (1995). . See Arnauld’s (1685–1686: 169) indignant protests. . In the context of this study, however, I have not undertaken a systematic comparative analysis of the relations between the Logos endiathetos or Verbum in corde, the theories of the soul, and the dialogical-internal modes of expression. . See, however, the other chapters in the present volume.

References Ali-Bouacha, M. (1995). “De l’ego à la classe des locuteurs: lecture linguistique des Méditations”. Langages, 119, 79–94. Ali-Bouacha, M., & Cossutta, F. (Eds.). (2000). La polémique en philosophie (la polémicité philosophique et ses mises en discours). Dijon: Editions Universitaires de Dijon. Apel, K. O. (1992). “Normatively grounding: ‘Critical theory’ through recourse to the lifeworld. A transcendental-pragmatic attempt to think with Habermas against Habermas”. In A. Honnet (Ed.), Interventions in the Unfinished Project of Enlightenment (pp. 125–170). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Arnauld, A. (1685–1686). Réflexions théologiques sur le nouveau système de la nature et de la grâce, 3 Vols., (Œuvres, XXXIX). Lausanne: Edition de Lausanne. Augustine (1943). Answer to Skeptics, transl. D. J. Kavanagh. New York: Cosmopolitan Science and Art Service Co. Augustine (1998). Les confessions, dialogues philosophiques. In L. Jerphagon (Ed.), Œuvres, Vol. I. Paris: Gallimard. Augustine (2004). Two Books of Soliloquies. In C. C. Star (Ed.), Early Church Fathers, Nicene and post-Nicenne Series. www.cczl.org/fathers2. Auvray-Assayas, C. (2001). “Réécrire Platon? Les enjeux du dialogue chez Cicéron”. In F. Cosssutta & M. Narcy (Eds.), La forme dialogue chez Platon. Evolution et réception (pp. 237–255). Grenoble: G. Jérôme Millon. Benveniste, E. (1970). Problèmes de linguistique générale, Vol. 2. Paris: Gallimard. Bergounioux, G. (Ed.). (2001). La parole intérieure (= Langue françaises no 132). Beyssade, J. M., & Marion, J. L. (Eds.). (1994). Descartes, objecter et répondre. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Bordron, J. F. (1995). “Signification et subjectivité”. Langages, 119, 63–78. Bouvier, A. (1996). “La cohérence de l’argumentation philosophique et les normes de la communication”. In F. Cossutta (Ed.), 43–84. Cossutta, F. (1994). Le scepticisme. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Cossutta, F. (1996). “Argumentation, ordre des raisons, et mode d’exposition dans l’œuvre cartésienne”. In F. Cossutta (Ed.), 111–185. Cossutta, F. (2000). “Anticipations réceptives et reconfigurations doctrinales dans l’œuvre de Descartes: le cas du dialogue inachevé. La recherche de la vérité par la lumière naturelle”. In Y. Senderowicz & Y. Wahl (Eds.), Descartes: Reception and Disenchantment (pp. 25– 49). Tel-Aviv: University Publishing Projects.

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Cossutta, F. (2001a). “A typolgy of polemical phenomena in philosophical discourse”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres, Technical Report 2, Controversy and Philosophy (pp. 37–59). Tel Aviv. Cossutta F. (2001b). “Les formes en philosophie: le dialogue, étude de son emploi par Descartes et Leibniz”. Cahiers philosophiques, 29, 66–89. Cossutta, F. (2003a). “Dialogic characteristics of philosophical discourse: The case of Plato’s Dialogues”. Philosophy and Rhetoric, 36 (1), 48–76. Cossutta, F. (2003b). “ Toward a skeptical criticism of transcendantal pragmatics”. Philosophy and Rhetoric, 36 (4), 301–329. Cossutta, F. (Ed.). (1996). Descartes et l’argumentation philosophique. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Dascal, M. (1998). “La controverse en philosophie”. Encyclopédie Philosophique Universelle, Vol. IV, Le discours philosophique (pp. 1583–1604). Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Dumont, J.-P. (1986). L’ère de l’individu. Paris: Union Générale d’Edition. Foucault, M. (1984). Histoire de la sexualité, Vol. 3, Le souci de soi. Paris: Gallimard. Hadot, P. (1987). Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique, 2nd ed. Paris: Etudes Augustiniennes. Hadot, P. (1992). La citadelle intérieure. Introduction aux Pensées de Marc Aurèle. Paris: Fayard. Jacquet Francillon, F. (1989). “Dialogue, entretien”. Encyclopédie Philosophique Universelle, Vol. 1 (pp. 846–849). Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Lévy, C. (1992). Cicero Academicus, Recherhce sur les Académiques et sur la philosophie cicéronnienne à Rome. Rome: Ecole Française de Rome. Maingueneau, D. (1984). Genèse du discours. Brussels: P. Mardaga. Maingueneau, D. (2000). “Les deux ordres de contrainte de la polémique”. In M. Ali Bouacha & F. Cossutta (Eds.), 153–165. Malebranche, N. (1986). Méditations chrétiennes et métaphysiques. In H. Gouhier & A. Robinet (Eds.), Oeuvres complètes, Vol. X. Paris: Vrin. Marcus Aurelius (1968 [1944]). The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, transl. A. S. L. Farquharson. Oxford. Marcus Aurelius (1998). Ecrits pour lui-même, Vol. I, transl. P. Hadot. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Martin, R., & Gaillard, J. (1990). Les genres littéraires à Rome. Paris: Nathan Scodel. Panaccio, C. (1999). Le discours intérieur: De Platon à Guillaume d’Ockham. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Philippe, G. (1998). Le discours en soi, la représentation du discours intérieur dans les romans de Sartre. Paris: Honoré Champion Editeur. Plato (1990). Theaetetus, transl. B. Myles. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company. Plato (1925 [1871]). The Dialogues of Plato, 5 Vols, transl. B. Jowett. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ricoeur, P. (1990). Soi-même comme un autre. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Vernant, J. P. (1989). L’individu, la mort, l’amour: Soi-même et l’autre en Grèce ancienne. Paris: Gallimard.

Chapter 6

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception Shai Frogel

.

Subjectivity and truth

The subjectivity of judgment is an essential problem in philosophical thought. As a critical thinker the philosopher cannot but consider himself the superior judge of his own beliefs, yet he must simultaneously convince himself that his judgment reflects an objective truth rather than a subjective reality. This point is well illustrated by comparing Descartes’ criteria of “clear and distinct” thought with Hume’s criteria of “force and liveliness”. Both Descartes and Hume argue that the individual subject is the authority over his own beliefs, yet that subjective judgment is incommensurate with the aim of philosophical inquiry, which is to reflect a necessary truth. Their positions differ in that Descartes finally posits an exclusive certainty that meets the requirements of philosophical inquiry, while Hume emphasizes the subjective status of any certainty and by so doing negates the possibility of ascertaining necessary truths. Neither of them explicitly addresses the assumption behind their thinking and their different positions, namely that philosophy requires subjective thinking but objective conclusions. Kant, who regarded Descartes as a dogmatic thinker (he accused him of “dreaming idealism”) and Hume as a radical skeptic, tried to negotiate an intermediate path. Nevertheless, despite his “Copernican revolution”, he never quite comes to grips with the tension between subjective thought and objective truth. Like Descartes and Hume, Kant accepts the value of subjective judgment, yet regards it as incommensurate with the required conclusions of philosophical inquiry. His consideration of the idea of sensus communis is a good example: [W]e must [here] take sensus communis to mean the idea of a sense shared [by all of us], i.e., a power to judge that in reflecting takes account [a priori], in our

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thought, of everyone else’s way of presenting [something], in order as it were to compare our own judgment with human reason in general and thus escape the illusion that arises from the ease of mistaking subjectivity and private conditions for objective ones, an illusion that would have a prejudicial influence on the judgment. (Critique of Judgment, §40, Ak. 293; Kant 1987: 160)

Kant believed that distinguishing between states of certainty is the philosopher’s essential mission. He regards as an illusion a state of certainty that originates from the subjective conditions of an individual person. By this logic, revealing those subjective conditions will facilitate distinguishing between objective and subjective states of certainty, between truths and illusions. Kant’s faith in the ability to make such a distinction aligns him with Descartes in opposition to Hume. However, philosophers like Descartes and Kant who believe that a subjective certainty can be distinguished from an objective one usually claim to have arrived at necessary truths themselves,1 an important fact that suggests the likelihood of self-deception.2 The Platonic dialogues also make reference to this issue. The controversial theory of recollection mediates between the “early Socrates”, who regards wisdom as the exclusive province of the Gods and human beings as lovers of wisdom (philo-sophers) at best, and the “later Socrates” who not only considers the possibility of human transcendence into the world of forms (ideas) but also suggests that he himself knows the way to this world. Plato was also troubled by the fact that the same subjective feelings accompany both beliefs (which can be false) and knowledge (which cannot be false),3 and many of the dialogues are dedicated to this issue. Phaedo is a particularly pertinent example. In this dialogue, moments before his execution Socrates expounds his thinking and indicates the question that troubles him the most. He does this by comparing himself to the sophists: Now the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about the rights of the question, but he is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own assertions. And the difference between him and me at the present moment is merely this – that whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am rather seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. (Phaedo 91a; Plato 1937, I: 475)

A philosopher, according to this perception, is a thinker for whom convincing others to accept his point of view is not the primary goal. This, Socrates argues, is the only distinction between him and the sophists; their main aim is to convince others while he, as a philosopher, aims only to convince himself. Socrates explains that this is what sets apart those who are indifferent to

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception

the question of truth (the sophists) and those whose only aim is to search for truth (the philosophers). Yet the comparison also draws attention to a point of similarity between sophists and philosophers, and that is that their activities are described in terms of conviction. Socrates is aware of this fact and hence appeals to his friends Simmias and Cebes with a philosophical requirement: This is the state of mind, Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you to be thinking of the truth and not of Socrates; agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I died. (Phaedo 91c; Ibid.)

Moments before his death, Socrates is more troubled by the prospect of possibly deceiving others and himself than by his own demise. It would not be unreasonable to claim that Socrates is afraid that his persuasive power might mislead others and himself. As a proponent of the philosopher as someone who addresses himself, first and foremost, Socrates is aware of the problem of selfdeception that is embodied in philosophical thinking. This awareness makes him more sober than the philosophers discussed above, recognizing that the more consistent a philosopher’s thinking is the more likely the possibility that he will perceive his subjective certainty as objective. A state of certainty attained by philosophical thinking, which is actually a process of self-conviction, is likely to be perceived as a necessary truth with validity that extends beyond the merely subjective. Therefore, Socrates is aware of the paradoxical demands of philosophical thought. This is not the “early Socrates” who does not presume to know, nor the “later Socrates” who speaks of transcendent forms, but the Socrates who reflects on his own thought processes. The philosopher, in a psychologically understandable but philosophically problematic process, must face truth alone, yet is seldom aware of this loneliness. He is alone because his state of mind is the result of self-conviction, but he is not aware of when the will behind philosophical thought inspires its conclusions. The more consistent he is in his thinking, the less he can consider his conclusions subjective. The subjective character of his thinking is disguised by his critical efforts and his sense of certainty. This scenario has no bearing on the truth or falsity of philosophical conclusions, but only on the philosophical need to deny the subjective origin of the conclusions in order to accept them as philosophical ones. The philosopher is not necessarily alone, for others may accept his position, but as Socrates explained, the agreement of others can only be a secondary goal of philosophical activity

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and never the primary one; that is, the agreement of others cannot replace the philosopher’s agreement with himself.

. Self-agreement and disagreement As a critical thinker the philosopher cannot accept anything as truth unless he himself has judged it so. Therefore, unlike literature in the Aristotelian sense, philosophy always begins ab ovo, a fact that largely determines the structure of philosophical arguments. Searching for the most basic assumptions of a thought and making an intensive effort to refute them are unavoidable steps in any philosophical inquiry. Only this struggle with what are perceived as necessary and universal truths can lead philosophers to argue for the necessity of their conclusions. This struggle may lead back to the same (old) assumptions, to the adoption of new assumptions, or to a skeptical attitude. Regardless of the results, the process of confronting basic assumptions leads philosophers to feel, at the end of it, that they have less illusions about reality than they did beforehand. An individual philosopher can therefore hardly avoid perceiving his personal conclusions as deserving broad acceptance even when other philosophers disagree with him. This fact is clearly represented in the history of philosophy. Philosophers, especially the great ones, used to accuse each other of being responsible for the biggest illusions in human thought. If we refuse to believe that all the great philosophers were motivated by a desire to deceive, we must see them instead as those misled by philosophical thought processes, having been convinced and having tried to convince others that their subjective conclusions were objective and necessary truths. My claim, however, is not a historical but a meta-philosophical one. As long as philosophical thinking is guided by the assumption of a contradiction between subjective judgment and objective truth, it will almost necessarily lead to self-deception. The assumption creates a paradoxical situation, where the philosopher only argues for truths that he personally judges as such, but he only regards what he is convinced are not personal judgments as truths. Is this not fertile ground for self-deception? In Theaetetus Socrates tries to test Protagoras’ claim that man is the measure of all things.4 He finds it difficult to either refute or accept this claim. On the one hand, it is clear to him that philosophical thinking requires that the individual thinker be posited as the measure of all things; yet on the other hand, accepting this as the case curtails his philosophical effort to distinguish between

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception

beliefs and knowledge. Philosophers who think there is room to regard the thinker as the ultimate measure must also recognize the concomitant problem. The common philosophical solution to this problem is to argue for a transcendent and hence non-subjective measurement: the forms, God, the rules of logic, transcendental ideas, the idea of universal reason, etc. Philosophers present these transcendent measures in the service of distinguishing between the subjective and objective, but also, not surprisingly, as justifying their own philosophical perceptions. Philosophers who adopt this position are often accused of dogmatic thinking by philosophers who disagree with them. Hence the multiplicity of allegations of begging the question (petitio principii) in philosophical discourse. The accusation of dogmatism is unavoidable in this discourse. A petitio principii, as Chaim Perelman explains it, is a rhetorical fallacy (as opposed to a logical one) that implies that the addressee does not accept the speaker’s premises.5 A thinker is accused of petitio principii when he is suspected of basing his argument on granting certainty to controversial assumptions. Since philosophers, like all people, construct their arguments according to the audience they are trying to convince, it stands to reason that a different audience, one that regards his assumptions as controversial, would remain unconvinced.6 Since presuppositions are the prime target of philosophical inquiry, exposure to such criticism is an unavoidable and dominant aspect of philosophical thinking and argumentation. As Socrates teaches us, the philosopher’s only obligation is to convince himself. Philosophy is first and foremost a process of self-conviction designed according to the beliefs of the philosopher himself. The philosopher’s need to first convince himself is fertile ground for self-deception as it is fertile ground for controversies and disagreements. However great a rhetorician and however strong his devotion to truth, should a person’s arguments convince those that he did not identify in advance as his audience, this can only be regarded as accidental. Thus, philosophy is not merely a search for one truth, as traditional presentations would have it, but also a rhetoric of one person. The failures and successes that certain philosophers have experienced in their attempts to convince others of their positions are more interesting from a rhetorical point of view than from a philosophical point of view. Both failure and success can be attributed to rhetorical mistakes or maneuvers, but the aim of the present paper is to investigate philosophy from a rhetorical point of view and not vice versa. From this perspective the success of a philosophical argument is not measured by whether others are convinced of its validity, but by whether the philosopher agrees with himself. For this purpose he is both the speaker and

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the addressee. This is a unique rhetorical construction not dependent on the duality of speaker and addressee, where the speaker is relieved of the need to believe what he claims and whether or not he convinces himself is unimportant. His failure or success is judged in terms of whether or not his audience agrees with him. Yet in the philosophical encounter the speaker must believe what he is claiming and be convinced of its validity. Although others’ agreement or disagreement can influence his judgment, they cannot replace it.7 Therefore, agreement – if it does not come from the philosopher himself (a very common occurrence in the Socratic dialogues) – cannot be perceived as a sign of truth, while a philosopher’s self-agreement (a very common occurrence in the history of philosophy) is perceived as just that. The philosopher’s own conviction is all that is important in philosophical inquiry. The logic of philosophy entreats philosophers to suspend any feelings of certainty prior to philosophical inquiry and to accept those that arise as a result of this inquiry (even if they relate to the same content). One can claim, thus, that the rhetoric of philosophy is the rhetoric of self-conviction. Since the essence of philosophical thinking is not merely a process of collecting knowledge but rather one of improving self-awareness, it makes no difference whether the end result is a skeptical or an affirmative position. In both instances it is the devotion to critical thinking per se that philosophers experience as improving self-awareness. Therefore, even if a philosopher does not make a claim to truth, he necessarily perceives his state of awareness as improved by the process. Is this process really infallible?

. The philosophical principle of critique History shows that, although great philosophers have been convinced that they had achieved their goals, the goal of philosophy itself is perceived as elusive. This paradox requires an explanation. Up to this point I have shown how the feeling of certainty is a product of critical thinking, which thus transpires to be a process of self-conviction. I was nevertheless cautious not to equate selfconviction with self-deception, but only to indicate that philosophical thinking is fertile ground for it. Not all self-conviction is self-deception, but when a person believes that his thinking has been, as Kant put it, tested against the reason of every man, the likelihood of self-deception soars. The history of philosophy bears witness to this assertion. It is usually presented as a series of philosophical failures that nevertheless gave rise to important scientific, moral or social changes. This depiction caused many thinkers to declare philosophy defunct

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception 

and to argue for replacing philosophical will for truth. In my opinion, precisely this approach that posits the end of philosophy sheds light on the nature of philosophical thinking itself. It does so by revealing the asymmetrical nature of philosophical thinking and argumentation and by exposing the philosophical will for truth as a will for avoiding self-illusion. The classical question ‘how does one know that he knows?’ leads us to ask ‘how does one know if he is deluded?’. A satisfactory answer to the latter question must be so for the former as well. Positing illusion (untruth), like positing truth, is only meaningful in terms of a positive perception of truth and as such involves as great a commitment. A person who rejects a philosophical position as untrue is committed by the very act of rejection to the conditions of positive truth, whether he is aware of this or not. Even an individual who rejects a philosophical position on grounds of inconsistency or internal contradiction is subject to the same commitment, not simply because these terms (‘inconsistency’ and ‘contradiction’) do not function in philosophy as they do in formal logic, but because this kind of refutation reflects an understanding of the nature of truth (i.e., that it cannot be contradictory). Refutation, in other words, cannot be impartial. Therefore, arguments for justifying negative and positive claims are supposed to be symmetrical, as is the critical consideration that underlies them. Yet the ostensibly simple logic of this relationship repeatedly slips out from under philosophical thinking. Philosophers reject philosophical positions as untrue without being committed to a different truth, as though refutation can be independent of assumptions about the nature of truth. How can a position be judged illusory if not in relation to truth?8 What assumptions implicit in philosophical thinking facilitate this asymmetry? The answer is another essential characteristic of philosophical thinking, namely, that just as every individual philosopher is required to regard any certainty he feels before inquiry as illusory, other philosophers are similarly bound. It is reasonable that philosophical arguments do not always convince others, given their focus on self-conviction. Also, since philosophical thinking is not and cannot be subordinated to known criteria, it is an intensely personal process despite its general outlook. Hence, it is natural for any philosophical position to be criticized by other philosophers. Indeed, the philosophical demands of critical thinking force every philosopher to doubt any claim that he is not personally convinced of; this is an asymmetrical point of departure that is reminiscent of “the juridical principle of justice”. According to the “juridical principle of justice” a person is innocent until proven guilty. From a logical point of view, this is a fallacy known as argumentum ad ignorantiam, appropriate though it may be to our moral intuitions.

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It is a logical fallacy because it constitutes an argumentative asymmetry between establishing guilt and innocence. Dubious guilt is enough to establish innocence but dubious innocence does not establish guilt. The “philosophical principle of critique” must be similarly understood. Every philosopher operates on the critical intuition that all beliefs are illusory unless he can convince himself otherwise. This principle, which is surely not a logical one, enables him to claim that a position is untrue while simultaneously claiming not to know the truth. The juridical-moral justification for juridical asymmetry is the deep fear of punishing an innocent person. The prospect of a guilty person mistakenly judged innocent is preferable to the converse. The asymmetry of critical-philosophical thinking works similarly. There is a clear, although seldom conscious, preference for the scenario where truth is mistaken for illusion, rather than vice versa. Indeed, this preference encourages certain philosophers to argue that the idea of necessary truth should be abandoned because it leads repeatedly to illusion.9 The desire to avoid illusion is what guides this thinking over and above the desire to attain the truth.10 This is why, in philosophical discourse, it is possible to judge something as untrue without asserting knowledge of the truth. If philosophical inquiries were really motivated by the simple desire for truth, there would be no reason for truth being mistakenly perceived as illusory to be preferable to its converse. This asymmetry, which is ready to pay the price of perceiving truth as illusion in order to avoid doing the opposite, would not have come about.11 This is why any philosopher must necessarily claim the success of his inquiry, while others must claim otherwise. Philosophical thinking is a process, as I have said, wherein an individual convinces himself that his subjective judgment reflects an objective truth. When he is successful in this endeavor a feeling of certainty prevails in him, but even when he fails he cannot avoid the sense that he has improved his self-awareness. In other words, every individual philosopher necessarily completes a process of philosophical inquiry with a sense of success. Descartes explains this guaranteed success succinctly at the end of the first chapter of his Meditations: I shall stubbornly and firmly persist in this meditation; and, even if it is not in my power to know any truth, I shall at least do what is in my power, that is, resolutely guard against assenting to any falsehoods, so that the deceiver, however powerful and cunning he may be, will be unable to impose on me in the slightest degree. (Descartes 1988: 79)

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception 

In these words Descartes emphasizes that success is guaranteed because the fear of mistaking truth illusion is not present. Descartes’ “deceiving demon” is a metaphor for the asymmetry of philosophical thinking. The role of this asymmetry is actually to reduce the possibility of mistaking illusion for truth but its result may be missing the explicit goal of philosophical inquiry – the truth. Descartes totally ignores the possibility that his approach might lead him to mistake truth for illusion. He is convinced that it will ultimately lead to the truth, or at least to heightened self-awareness. Even without disputing Descartes’ conclusions, the problematic nature of his approach is evident. Not only does it create conditions where truth might be mistaken for illusion; it may well, and often does, cause philosophers to consider whatever they are unable to refute as necessary truths. Descartes’ philosophical journey commences with strong belief in its positive results. He is not at all troubled by the possibility that it may lead him to mistake truth for illusion and he is convinced that it will necessarily prevent him from mistaking illusion for truth. From the opposite perspective, the asymmetry of philosophical thinking explains why the philosophical conclusions of one philosopher will almost necessarily be rejected by other philosophers. The process of self-conviction the philosopher has undergone is not theirs, and hence the logic of philosophical thinking compels them to reject his conclusions unless they can convince themselves of them independently. Thus, philosophical inquiry is not objective in two basic senses: (a) the individual subject’s self-conviction is the touchstone of truth; (b) critical asymmetry guides philosophical thinking. For this reason, even if a philosopher should accept another philosopher’s position, he does so after adapting it to his own investigation and concepts and never in its original form. But critical asymmetry usually makes agreement difficult and this, in an important sense, is its main role: to ensure the continuity of critical thinking. It would appear that someone who claims to not know the truth could not judge any position to be true or untrue, but this asymmetry enables, indeed compels, philosophers to argue against what they do not understand or cannot convince themselves is true. The logic of philosophical thinking, as I averred before, prefers to see truth as illusion rather than the converse. Philosophers are therefore troubled by the possibility of mistaking illusions for truth, but less concerned about the inverse scenario. It is not surprising then, that most philosophical arguments take the form of refutations and that these refutations are less dogged by doubt than confirmations.

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. Self-deception If philosophical thinking is an asymmetrical process of self-conviction, then a philosopher’s ability to escape self-deception becomes an essential philosophical question. Descartes’ confidence in the positive results of his endeavor, even before it commenced, reflects an unlimited trust in the approach, in which he is not unique. One might deduce from this absolute trust that philosophers’ ability to escape self-deception is very limited and dubious. “I will not deceive, not even myself ”, which Nietszche (1974: 282) defined as “the will to truth”, is revealed as the real motivating force behind philosophical thinking and argumentation. Critical asymmetry gives refutation an advantage in this argumentation. An asymmetry always reflects a preference, in this case the preference for mistaking truth for illusion rather than the opposite. The fear of illusion is thus not only the main motivation behind philosophical inquiry, but also the central axis of philosophical thinking, determining its internal logic and boundaries. This would explain why positions that call for abandoning the search for truth in the name of the “will to truth” are possible and justifiable within this discourse. Philosophers construct their arguments in a context that presupposes the problem of illusion. The philosopher must convince, mainly himself, that he has reduced the likelihood of illusion as much as possible. Skeptical positions have an a priori advantage in this type of discourse, because of their suspension of judgment. This, insofar as it can be accomplished, is one solution to the problem of illusion.12 Skeptical positions are hence considered more legitimate that dogmatic ones in philosophical discourse. An alternative way to avoid illusions, more difficult to accomplish, is to know the truth. Unlike the ability to identify an illusion, which in philosophical discourse is not conditional on knowing the truth, the truth is, in Spinoza’s words, “the sign of itself and of falsehood”.13 Thus, philosophical thinking is not always satisfied with skepticism but strives repeatedly to formulate universal and necessary truths. These and only these can give a philosopher the certainty he seeks. If every philosophical inquiry begins with an individual’s questioning of the validity of his own beliefs, then the end of the inquiry can only be heralded by his doubts being assuaged. Because subjective beliefs and states of mind are what direct philosophical investigations, these inquiries must be understood as subjective processes even when they claim to reach objective conclusions. Although sometimes presented by philosophers as ‘demonstrations’, philosophical arguments are rarely – if ever – formal demonstrations, as already pointed

Disagreement, self-agreement, and self-deception 

out by Passmore (1970). And for good reason, as I tried to point in this paper, since they are invented for the purpose of convincing a subject who is motivated by the “will to truth” and who considers his own self-agreement as the touchstone of that truth. Self-agreement stands above any rule or external authority in philosophical thinking. This fact explains why the possibility of self-deception threatens all philosophical thinking and why disagreements are hence unavoidable in philosophical discourse.

Notes . Descartes, contrary to the way some of his critics presented him, did not regard any feeling of certainty as a sign of truth. He considered the state of clear and distinct perception to be very rare, and wrote the following in Principle 45 of his Principles of Philosophy under the title “What is meant by a clear and distinct perception?”: “Indeed there are very many people who in their entire lives never perceive anything with sufficient accuracy to enable them to make a judgement about it with certainty” (Descartes 1988: 174). Descartes was convinced, of course, that he himself was not one of those unfortunate people. Kant, who claimed that a critical philosopher should be able to distinguish between subjective and objective convictions, believed that he had accomplished this critical end. . Nietzsche, who presented himself as a rigorous opponent of philosophical systems, wrote in Beyond Good and Evil that “as soon as ever a philosophy begins to believe in itself, it always creates the world in its won image; it cannot do otherwise; philosophy is this tyrannical impulse itself, the most spiritual will to power, the will to ‘creation of the world’, the will to the causa prima” (Nietzsche 1964: 14). . The following short excerpt from Gorgias is a good, clear example: Soc: . . . If a person were to say to you, ‘Is there, Gorgias, a false belief as well as atrue?’ – you would reply, if I am not mistaken, that there is. Gor: Yes. Soc: Well, but is there a false knowledge as well as true? Gor: No. Soc: No, indeed; and this again proves that knowledge and belief differ. Gor: Very true. Soc: And yet those who have learned as well as these who have believed are persuaded? Gor: Just so (Gorgias 454d; Plato 1937, I: 513). . This is the complete version: “Man, he [Protagoras] says, is the measure of all things, of the existence of things that are, and of the non-existence of things that are not” (Theaetetus 152a; Plato 1937, II: 153). . Perelman explains petitio principii as follows: “Indeed, the orator who builds his discourse on premises not accepted by the audience commits a classical fallacy in argumentation – a

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petitio principii. This is not a mistake in formal logic, since formally any proposition implies itself, but it is a mistake in argumentation, because the orator begs the question by presupposing the existence of an adherence that does not exist and to the obtaining of which his efforts would be directed” (Perelman 1979: 14–15). . In Elements of Logic Whately also points out the subjective status of the claim for begging the question: “It is not possible, however, to draw a precise line, generally, between this fallacy [petitio principii] and fair argument; since, to one person, that might be fair reasoning, which would be, to another, ‘begging the question’; inasmuch as, to the one, the premises might be more evident than the conclusion; while, by the other, it would not be admitted, except as a consequence of the admission of the conclusion” (Whately 1864: 107). . This explains why the term ‘self-evident’ became so dominant in philosophical discourse. The only thing that can counteract philosophical doubt is a self-evident claim. But we are dealing with a subjective state of a person and not with an objective status of a proposition. Arguing for the self-evidence of a claim indicates a person’s subjective belief rather than the objective, logical status of a proposition. In other words, a claim can be evident to a self (or to individual selves) and not evident in itself. . This question paraphrases Spinoza’s famous claim: “Even as light displays both itself and darkness, so is truth a standard both of itself and of falsity” (Ethics II, Prop. XLIII, Note; Spinoza 1951: 115). . See, for example, the chapter entitled “The limits of philosophical knowledge” in Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy. . This is the wisdom Socrates was referring to when he presented himself, in his apology, as one who neither knows nor thinks he knows. . The only philosophers who departed from this line of thought were the “common sense philosophers”. Considering their approach to David Hume’s philosophy, Kant regards it as ridiculous: “One cannot observe without feeling a certain pain, how his opponents Reid, Beattie and finally Priestley, so entirely missed the point of his [Hume’s] problem. By always taking for granted what he was doubting and on the other hand proving, with violence and often with great unseemliness, what it had never entered his mind to doubt” (Prolegomena, Ak. 10; Kant 1971: 7). Another good example can be found in Wittgenstein’s response to Moore: “Moore’s mistake lies in this – countering the assertion that one cannot know that, by saying ‘I do know it”’ (Wittgenstein 1969: 68). . One can therefore see the Socrates that appears in the earlier Platonic dialogues as a very consistent skeptic, who can proudly declare that he is a wiser man for neither knowing nor thinking he knows. . See Note 8.

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References Aristotle. (1991). The Art of Rhetoric, transl. H. C. Lawson-Tancred. Hardmonsworth: Penguin. Descartes, R. (1988). Selected Philosophical Writings, transl. R. Stoothoff. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (1971 [1783]). Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, transl. P. G. Lucas. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Kant, I. (1987 [1790]). Critique of Judgment, transl. W. S. Pluhar. Indianapolis: Hackett. Nietzsche, F. (1964 [1887]). Beyond Good and Evil, transl. H. Zimerman. New York: Russell and Russell. Nietzsche, F. (1974 [1882]). The Gay Science, transl. W. Kaufman. New York: Vintage. Passmore, J. (1970). Philosophical Reasoning. London: Gerald Duckworth. Perelman, C. (1979). The New Rhetoric and the Humanities. Dordrecht: Reidel. Plato (1937). The Dialogues of Plato. Vols I. and II, transl. B. Jowett. New York: Random House. Spinoza (1951). Works of Spinoza, transl. R. H. M. Elwes. New York: Dover. Russell, B. (1980). The Problems of Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whately, R. (1864). Elements of Logic. London: Longman Green. Wittgenstein, L. (1969). On Certainty, transl. D. Paul and G. E. M. Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell.

P II

The first person

Chapter 7

Intersubjectivity in controversy A story from the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi Han-liang Chang

The topic of this paper, as its title indicates, is intersubjectivity in controversy. I chose the word ‘intersubjectivity’ rather than ‘subjectivity’, because it seemed to me that controversy and subjectivity make strange bedfellows and need much negotiation. Etymologically ‘controversy’ already means ‘contradiction’, a discursive situation in which two voices are set against each other, and thus it precludes the articulation of subjectivity, unless ‘subjectivity’ means ‘contra-subjectivity’, a term hitherto unused perhaps for its implied violence. On the other hand, ‘controversy’ and ‘intersubjectivity’ seem to go hand in hand or in any event are mutually implicative. Communicational ethics aside, discursive exchange deprives the interlocutors of autonomous, solipsistic subjectivity and replaces it with intersubjectivity. Now what is intersubjectivity? Is it a phenomenological category, a psychological category, or an ideological category? The answer to all these questions can be positive depending on the nature of scientific enquiries. According to Emile Benveniste, subjectivity is a pronominal category. Discourse is perceived by him as socialized language that necessarily presupposes the participation of interlocutors and interaction between two parties which are reciprocally registered as the pronominal couple I-Thou. Now, since dialogue suggests logos carried across by multi-vocality rather than shared (so goes the corruption) by bi-vocality, the subjectivity of dialogue is multi-faceted and multi-voiced. The interlocutors that constitute this trans-subjectivity are mutually implicated, interfered, and contaminated in ideology and shape of belief. A polemics involving Benveniste and his critic Francis Jacques raises the issue whether dialogue is performed by the two persons involved in the speech situation alone or entails an absent third person. I shall dwell on their debate. Because neither Benveniste nor Jacques is concerned with the ideologi-

 Han-liang Chang

cal dimension in discourse, I shall avail myself of the concept of ideologeme in Mikhail M. Bakhtin’s and Julia Kristeva’s discussions of intersubjectivity and intertextuality under the term ‘ideologeme’, and finally re-enact the famous debate on intersubjectivity between the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi (Master Zhuang) and his dialectician opponent Huizi (Master Hui) in the China of approximately the third century BC. My ultimate concern is to enquire whether it is ideology that constitutes discourse or, the other way around, whether discourse lays formal constraints upon ideology, i.e., whether they intersect as deployment of ideologemes. The first volume of Benveniste’s Problems in General Linguistics (1971) contains five chapters (18–23) which deal with, and are accordingly put under the general heading of, “Man and Language”. Among the numerous topics that the author addresses, relevant to us are (1) subjectivity in language or, more precisely, discourse, and (2) human subjects as pronominal categories. Rather than rehearsing the Saussurian distinction between langue and parole, Benveniste is concerned with discours (discourse). His argument can be summarized as follows. Performed by human agents, discourse is language in action (p. 223), it is an “act of speech” (p. 224). One could say that man constitutes himself as a “subject” in and through language, i.e., speech or discourse. It goes without saying that Benveniste’s use of discourse is different from the American stylistic use of the term in discourse analysis beyond the sentential level, and has little to do, though it may lead to, the Foucauldian discourse charged with power. Benveniste observes that whether ‘subjectivity’ is placed in phenomenology or psychology, it emerges “as a fundamental property of language” (p. 224). Finally, the foundation of “subjectivity” is determined by the linguistic status of “person” (ibid.). In other words, subjectivity is to begin with a problem of pronouns. Benveniste further distinguishes between the personal and a-personal systems in the pronominal category. The persons that construct, and are thus involved in, the discursive situation are the first-person “I” and the second person “you”, while “he” or “she” are reduced to the a-personal (pp. 217ff.).1 Jakobson (1971), following Jespersen (1922),2 calls these personal pronouns “shifters” precisely because of the shifting role they play in identifying and defining human relationship. Jespersen does not restrict shifters to personal pronouns though he admits they are the most important class. This class of words, which puzzles children in their language acquisition, also includes father, mother, enemy, and home. According to Jespersen (1922: 123),

Intersubjectivity in controversy

[a] class of words which present grave difficulty to children are those whose meaning differs according to the situation, so that the child hears them now applied to one thing and now to another.

The child say “I”, but hears his allocutor also say “I” and is therefore confused. According to Jakobson (1971: 134), discursive categories that imply a reference to the speech event (procès de l’énonciation) are “shifters”. A notable example would be a situation involving both the narrated person and the speech performer. As he observes, [f]irst person signals the identity of a participant of the narrated event with the performer of the speech event, and the second person, the identity with the actual or potential undergoer of the speech event. (Jakobson 1971: 134)

Both persons are therefore “marked”, not only by the indexical signs “I” and “you” because, for that matter, the third person is also likewise marked by a “he” or “she”, but also by the discursive and dialogic reciprocity which serves to construct their subjectivity and intersubjectivity. We shall return to the discursive situation and its relation to ideology later. For now, we ought to consider the alternative project of Francis Jacques, who bases his theory on Benveniste but takes a polemic thrust against him. Unlike Benveniste, who has reduced the third person to a non-person because of its absence from the speech situation, Jacques tries to reinstate this third person in order to construct a theological trinity of subjectivity via the neatlooking tri-partition of the pronominal (Jacques 1991: 127).3 There are two main points on which Jacques takes issue with: first, the relationship between utterance and subjectivity, and second, the role of the third person. I shall examine these in turn. Jacques (p. 6) criticizes Benveniste’s claim that “utterance . . . installs subjectivity within discourse” for being “clumsy” and “in the final analysis, inaccurate”. For the language user does not immediately establish his or her subjective reality simply by saying I. The meaning of I is not created at the moment when the speaker appropriates the first-person singular pronoun to designate him or herself, and thereby bear witness to his or her presence. To believe otherwise would be to forget that the speaker’s activation of language conventionally occurs within a dialogue. In other words, at the moment when language’s potential for conversion into discourse is realized in the act of utterance, what is inserted into the statement is not the speaker alone but the speakers, plural. Or better, what is created is the completely inescapable interlocutive relationship which links them together and constitutes them as co-utterers (ibid.).

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Jacques is quite right in pinpointing the essentially dialogic structure of language’s social use. However, one suspects there is an innate linguistic competence before human communication: as homo loquens, man is endowed with that competence, and it qualifies him as human subject in the first place. This competence Benveniste calls, as we shall see, “capacity”. Therefore, the issue can be complicated by a series of transformations from linguistic competence to performance, from subjectivity established by the enunciating subject and intersubjectivity established through human interlocutive relationship, the latter involving such psychological mechanisms as mirror identification, miscognition, and interpellation. To untangle the issues, it would require, among other things, the discovery procedures of psycho-linguistics and pragmatics, if not psychoanalysis. The preliminary observation one might make here is that enunciation does not amount to monologue or dialogue but serves as its foundation, indeed the very foundation of all linguistic signification and communication. It is a manifestation of corporeality, in the manner of mobilization and discharge of physical energy known as articulation. This physical aspect of language belongs to semiotic firstness, so to speak, irrespective of the participation of secondness, i.e., without the subject’s, say, the child’s being called. When a person, be he male or female, newly born or moribund, utters a sound, however incomprehensible and meaningless, he announces his existence as a human subject though not yet as “subject”: The ‘subjectivity’ we are discussing here is the capacity of the speaker to posit him as ‘subject’. (la capacité du locuteur de se poser comme <sujet>.) It is defined not by the feeling which everyone experiences of being himself . . . but as the psychic unity that transcends the totality of the actual experiences it assembles and that makes the permanence of the consciousness. (Benveniste 1971: 224; emphasis mine)

Note that Benveniste does not say “immediately” and “simply” here. What follows from this initial enunciation is appropriately interpersonal discourse, which Benveniste defines in terms of I-Thou relationship. Posing the human capacity of enunciation does not suggest, as Jacques has put it into Benveniste’s mouth, a transcendental I. Nor does it mean that subjectivity can be equated to enunciation. In fact, subjectivity develops along with the sophistication and socialization of enunciation, which includes the distinctions between enunciation (énonciation) and enunciated (énoncé), as well as between locutor, allocutor, and interlocutor. That’s where and why Benveniste introduces the second person. Ideology gets involved only when this semiotic secondness has a role to

Intersubjectivity in controversy 

play. One cannot reverse the order of first and second persons; nor can one, at any rate, valorize the third person who is not available in the speech situation. The a priori category that Jacques posits instead of the first person is primum relationis. [T]he human relation is indeed primordial. . . The relation is independence of its components, and in principle it even takes priority over them. (Jacques 1991: 117) Indeed, a relation no longer has to be conceived of only as an emergent reality, one derived to a certain extent from the terms from which it emerges; it can also be seen as primary. In that case, the relation calls its terms into existence, constituting them and establishing them on either side of itself. (p. 122)

Several reservations can be raised about his postulate. First, about the a priority of this triangular structure, which proclaims the total independence of the structure from its components as if the latter did not have any semantic value, and as such, had no effect on the structure and would not cause its mutation. To many, both critiques would sound familiar because they seem to be rehearsing the well-known semanticist critique of grammarians in the history of structuralism. In fact, there is nothing wrong with structural thinking, and between binary dyad and tertiary triad there is no winner, just as in semiotics one can opt for the model of a Saussure or that of a Peirce. The problem with Jacques’ model is that it is neither linguistic nor logical, but theo-teleological of a Trinitarian brand, and that it attempts to reconcile theology with linguistics. His model is that of a Saint Augustine though even the saint is faulted for not extending the relational concept of trinity to humanity. It is therefore not surprising that Saint Augustine, in his great desire to discover analogies for the trinitary mode of existence, should have found them more readily in being in general, in human rational activity or the structure of the human soul, than in the relational structure of the person. To be sure, no analogy with the person was reasonably accurate. In my opinion, the personal identity of communicating persons is the most beautiful mirror of the Trinity: when a human person turns to look at herself, she is present to herself as a trinity (I, you, he/she). (Jacques 1991: 68)

Let us examine what kind of difficulty Jacques runs into when relating discourse to this trinitary notion: Let us dwell on the case of interlocution, which will serve as a paradigm. Asserting that interlocution is primary obviously does not mean in terms of set theory that the relation, taken extensionally, is prior to its terms. On the other hand, it does imply first that the concept of interlocution is a primitive one,

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whereas those of locutors (locuteur) and allocutor (allocutaire) are derivative. Second, these two concepts cannot be assimilated to particular empirical beings: locutor and allocutee are agencies brought about by and in discourse, and not concrete individuals – even if in the real world they can be secondarily attributed to individuals. In particular, the locutor must not be confused with the speaking subject, from which it is explicitly distinguished, for instance in indirect discourse. Equally, the allocutee must not be confused with the listener, a particular real individual who overhears the discourse or eavesdrops on it when it was not intended for his or her ears. Furthermore, just because an utterance is addressed to someone, this does not automatically make that person the allocutee. The direct addressee, or ‘intended’ recipient (Lyons) is not yet a partner in an interlocutive relation. If I do not understand the words you are saying to me – poor me – I am only their recipient and not your allocutee! (Jacques 1991: 122–123)

It is not easy to make sense out of this linguistically confused passage. First of all, it violates the commonsense truth that communication is directional (i.e., sender-to-receiver) and dialogic (where the direction is reciprocal and the relation bilateral), being performed by and between two human agents who act alternately as addresser and addressee, i.e., as interlocutors. This precondition has precluded other non-dialogic uses of language, such as the monologue of a “speaking subject” or the eavesdropping of a third party. These uses can be integrated into the larger system, but they do not belong here. For further discussion, one could refer to Benveniste on the distinction between discursive and historical utterances and their applications in various speech and written genres. The idea of “mutual understanding” is indeed superfluous because a shared code is essential to successful communication. Furthermore, we all agree that the six elements in the Jakobsonian model (Jakobson 1960), including addresser and addressee, are functions rather than real people and entities, and no sensible reader would confuse the functional actant with the performing acteur because a function can be performed by an infinite number of actors. However, if the above baffling passage is cast in a non-human context, it becomes decipherable. For example: God the locutor speaks only to his chosen allocutee, and as allocutee himself listens only to him who in his image speaks his language, etc., and all the others are either eavesdroppers or aphasics. In language study, a pre-conceived theological model can be more of a hindrance than help if it fails to account for language universals. What Jacques terms primum relationis that links the two relata does not render them secondary; on the contrary, there must be a third entity of another functional category that links them. Therefore, the so-called primary relation is actu-

Intersubjectivity in controversy 

ally a third party, a tertium relationis, or more precisely, tertium comparationis, which exists outside the discursive situation in which I and thou are registered. Jacques’ argument suggests that the third party is as inaccessible as an absolute alterity and thus he confirms ironically Benveniste’s designation of it as non-personal. Ideology and theology do not seem to go hand in hand. However, ideology has been regarded as a modern version of theology (see Todorov 1982). As in theology, there is in ideology a textual problem to be solved, i.e., how expression and content, syntactic structure and semantic system can be reconciled. Earlier we noted that the here-and-now situation of discourse brings along the interlocutors’ respective ideological interests and thus complicates their interlocutive relationship. Bakhtin and Medvedev introduced the concept of ideologeme in their early writings on novelistic discourse. As “an inseparable element of the unified ideological horizon of the social group” (Bakhtin & Medvedev 1985: 21), the ideologeme can be both ethical-philosophical or artistic, depending on its location outside or inside the artistic text (p. 23). The coinage of the word obviously follows the tradition of linguistic analysis in segmenting phone into phoneme, graph into grapheme, with Algirdas Julien Greimas, seme into sememe, and finally with Claude Lévi-Strauss, myth into mytheme. Given the fact that ideology, whether inside or outside the text, remains fundamentally a semantic element, one fails to see the necessity of this neologism. But Bakhtin’s coinage was later picked up by Julia Kristeva (1980: 59, n. 2; 1969: 114, n. 2) and redefined in a new light: The ideologeme is the intersection of a given textual arrangement (a semiotic practice) with the utterances (sequences) that it either assimilates to its own space or to which it refers in the space of exterior texts (semiotic practices). The ideologeme is that intertextual function read as ‘materialized’ at the different structural levels of each text, and which stretches along the entire length of its trajectory, giving it its historical and social coordinates. (Kristeva 1980: 36)

Here ideologeme becomes an intertextual function where various kinds of semiotic practice intersect. We shall be able to testify its use in the dialogues of Zhuangzi. The well-known dialogues between the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi (circa 4th–3rd centuries BC) and his logician friend Huizi are worth rereading from the perspectives of controversy and subjectivity. First, some background is in order. The book of Zhuangzi bears the name of the philosopher who presumably flourished in the third century BC. Despite the speculations of authorship

 Han-liang Chang

and dating, the work is generally regarded as expounding the philosophy of Zhuang Zhou or Master Zhuang. Among other things, the skepticism, agnosticism and relativism preached in the work have attracted a long tradition of followers, and numerous analogies in the West have been drawn by sinologists. The text is a collection of short pieces, which can be variously categorized as philosophical treatises, allegories, animal fables, and above all philosophical dialogues. In addition to expounding his own philosophy, Master Zhuang is often dramatized as a powerful critic of his predecessors and contemporaries who belong to other contending schools, in particular Confucianism and Mohism, a point to which we shall return. One of the popular themes of Master Zhuang is his skepticism regarding universal truth as well as his severe questioning language’s claim of representing truth. In an essay from the famous book entitled Qiwulun (On the Equality of Things), Master Zhuang is found questioning the semantic substance of the deictics: ci (this or now or self) and bi (that or then or other). According to the Master, these two seemingly opposing terms can be easily reversed as soon as the speaking subjects change roles. That is to say, both the locutor and allocutee are legitimate to refer to themselves now as ci, now as bi, especially in dialogues. Interestingly, the expressions ci and bi are shifters according to Jespersen and Jakobson, or indexical signs according to Peirce. At the end of his argument for discursive relativism, Zhuang alludes to the controversy between the Confucianists and the Mohists. One does not see an actual exchange between these two “other” philosophical camps, but it is frequently re-enacted by the dialogues between Master Zhuang himself and his best friend, the logician Master Hui, who, unlike his non-conformist friend, served as the Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Wei. In the following, I will cite an interesting dialogue between the two philosophers on the subjectivity of fish, and then discuss another dialogue of theirs concerning the philosopher’s commitment to politics. Before doing so, I should perhaps allude to a recent news story I read in the UK about the Australian Miss Piggy, who made the headlines by diving off a thirteen feet platform into a pool of water at the Royal Brisbane Show (The Daily Telegraph, Friday 17th August 2001, p. 15). The writer observed, according to the photograph, that Miss Piggy seemed to be enjoying the dive. But, queried the writer, “[a] more relevant issue for this animal-loving kingdom [i.e., the UK] is whether Miss Piggy enjoys the experience, fears it, or does not care much either way. Our guess is that, like a winning racehorse, she likes it but who knows? We should be wary of those who claim to read the minds of pigs or fish – or foxes”.

Intersubjectivity in controversy

Now it is fish that concerns human thought in the philosophical dialogue under discussion, on whose subjectivity Master Zhuang and the logician Master Hui engage in a debate. Master Zhuang and Master Hui are wandering on the dam of river Hao. Master Zhuang says, “Lo! yonder white fish enjoy swimming down there”. Master Hui asks, “You are not a white fish. How do you know they enjoy it?” Master Zhuang replies, “You are not I. How do you know that I do not know they enjoy it?” Master Hui replies, “Indeed I am not you; hence do not know what you know. Since you are not fish either, you cannot possibly know what the fish feel. This is undeniable”. Master Zhuang says, “Let’s get back to the original argument. You first asked me, ‘How do you know they enjoy it?’ Apparently you know me, i.e., knowing that I was not fish. Knowing me does not imply that you have to be me. I know because I am on the dam [as a human being and do not have to be in the water]’ (Guo 1975: 606–608).4

This dialogue is too well known to provide us with food for thought. It is performed by two interlocutors and it would be absolutely unnecessary to identify them as locutor and allocutee who alternate the role of I-Thou. There is no third person, except the non-human fish. What theoretical implications can this banal story have? First of all, in this purely phenomenological debate, Master Hui believes that humanity and fish cannot become intersubjective, hence his question “How do you know they enjoy it [swimming in the river]?”. However, he does not seem to have any doubt about human communication. Only when asked “You are not I. How do you know that I do not know they enjoy it?” does he reply “Indeed I am not you; hence do not know what you know”. The counter-question of Master Zhuang actually questions the very possibility of human intersubjectivity (Chang 1986: 138). Our next question would be “Why is there no intersubjectivity between these two philosophers who are old friends?”. The text itself provides no answer, and we must seek elsewhere for an adequate interpretation. That is why Michael Riffaterre (1985: 42) says that whenever we run into an interpretive impasse we run into a place which calls for an intertext. Within the corpus of the book of Zhuangzi and indeed in the larger ideological context during the Warring States Period of China, the above dialogue serves as a nodal point, an ideologeme – where at least two philosophies and indeed two kinds of political praxis, represented respectively by Master Zhuang and Master Hui, clash. Hence the message of the text is embedded in a heavily semanticized code, and the interlocutors’ (i.e., addresser and addressee’s) ver-

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bal contact is staged in a socio-political context that in turn serves a referential function. There are several other dialogues in the book dramatizing Master Zhuang’s commitment to a recluse life rather than public service. I shall give only one example, which I have discussed at length elsewhere (1998: 19–20). Master Zhuang and Master Hui engage in a dialogue. Hui opens the dialogue by asking Zhuang about the use of two natural objects, seeds of gourd and a tree. It runs as follows: Master Hui told Master Zhuang, “King of Wei had given me some seeds of big gourd, and I had them sown and grown. Now the fruit was as large as five stones. I tried to use the gourd to contain water, but it was too heavy to carry. I halved it to serve as dippers, but they were too shallow to contain much. You can’t say it was not big enough, but I had found it so useless that I smashed it”. Master Zhuang said, “Now you had a gourd of five stones. Why didn’t you make a wine bowl out of it, so that with it you could wander about in rivers and lakes [outside public life]? Your mind is not liberated, so you worry about the gourd’s lack of use”. On another occasion, Master Hui then told Master Zhuang, “There is a big tree in my garden which is called shu. Its trunk is too cankerous and its branches too twisted to be useful in construction and carpentry. Left on the road, it was ignored by carpenters”. Master Zhuang said, . . . “Now you are worried that your tree is useless. Why don’t you idle by its side and repose beneath it? Thus like all useless things it has no danger of being harmed. What’s the worry then?” (Guo 1975: 36–39)

If we compare this dialogue with the previous one on fish by the same philosophers, we find more information about Master Hui the dialectician-turnedpolitician (but not about the locutor because the dialogic function remains the same). He is concerned with material gain and utilitarianism, whereas Zhuang poses as a Taoist recluse. Through an interpretant shaped and governed by the ideology he subscribes to, each reified and historicized locutor perceives the material signs of gourd and tree entering into a series of metaphorical substitutions. Thus, the seeds of gourd are transformed into water container or dippers and wine bowl, and the tree into timber and means of repose. This metaphorization is realized, in the original Chinese writing, by a semic element mu (wood) shared by all the signs. One could say, pace Kristeva, that the material wood, after semantic and ideological investment, becomes a kernel and catalytic ideologeme inside and outside the text, linking textual practice and social practice. Whilst Master Hui’s semiosis ends in social and political use, Master Zhuang’s ends in non-use, and indeed in spiritual transportation.5

Intersubjectivity in controversy 

What is our conclusion? It is indeed very banal: Interlocutors are textual and discursive functions, and as such, are potentially intersubjective. As discursive functions, ideology plays a relatively minor role, if at all, under the formal constraints. Only when each instance of verbal communication is historicized can one perceive the force of ideology.

Notes . Earlier, when talking about bee communication, Benveniste claims that “the language of the bees lacks the dialogue which is distinctive of human speech” (p. 53). . Jakobson used the 1923 American edition, but the edition I consulted is the 1922 British edition. . Jacques acknowledges that “[he] discovered the priority of the [interlocutive] relation within the theological paradigm of the Trinity” as follows: “The ‘personal’ properties that constitute the three Persons are a way of expressing their relations. For the true God is He in whom the relation produces Being. The Word made flesh with a terrestrial body and born of a woman. This union of Word and body is indestructible” (ibid.). . Master Zhuang’s argument is cryptic and infelicitous. But it should be understood in a larger context. In the book of Dazongshi (The Masters), Zhuang uses Confucius to comment on the Taoist sages who become “forgetful” [about differentiation] “having acquired the way of nature [beyond nature], just like fish which become forgetful [about differentiation], having acquired rivers and lakes” (Guo 1975: 272). The fish is a recurrent motif in Zhuangzi; it actually opens the corpus. . From another persuasion, that is, from the biosemiotic point of view, the story offers an entirely different interpretation. Both Zhuangzi and Huizi as identical life “systems” enter into interactive relationship with their environment. It’s springtime now, time for excursion, so they go to River Hao. The word used in Chinese for excursion is you which happens to mean both “wandering” and “swimming”. Now there is a striking parallel between men’s Umwelt and fish’s Umwelt (von Uexküll 1982); this parallelism is made possible by a biological given, i.e., system and environment interaction. Based on this, there should be not only intersubjectivity between Zhuang and Hui, but also between man and fish, as Zhuang suggests. The lack of intersubjectivity then is a result of socialization, or, one could say, of ideologization.

References Bakhtin, M. M., & Medvedev, P. M. (1985 [1928]). The Formal Method in Literary Scholarship: A Critical Introduction to Sociological Poetics, transl. A. J. Wehrle. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Benveniste, E. (1971). Problems in General Linguistics, transl. M. E. Meek. Coral Gables: University of Miami Press [French edition Paris: Gallimard, 1966]. Chang, H.-l. (1986). Bijiao wenxue lilun yu shijian (Comparative Literature: Theory And Practice). Taipei: Dongda. Chang, H.-l. (1998). “Controversy over language: Towards pre-qin semiotics”. Tamkang Review, 28 (3), 1–29 [Special Issue on Chinese Semiotics]. Greimas, A. J. (1983). Structural Semantics: An Attempt at a Method, transl. D. McDowell, R. Schleifer, & A. Velie. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Greimas, A. J. (1987). On Meaning: Selected Writings in Semiotic Theory, transl. P. J. Perron & F. H. Collins. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Guo, Q. (Ed.). (1975). Zhuangzi jishi (Collected Annotations of Zhuangzi). Taipei: Weiyi. Jacques, F. (1991). Difference and Subjectivity: Dialogue and Personal Identity, transl. A. Rothwell. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Jakobson, R. (1960). “Linguistics and poetics”. In T. Sebeok (Ed.), 350–377. Jakobson, R. (1971 [1956]). “Shifters, verbal categories, and the Russian verb”. Selected Writings 2: Word and Language (pp. 130–147). The Hague: Mouton. Jespersen, O. (1922). Language: Its Nature, Development, and Origin. London: George Allen and Unwin. Kristeva, J. (1980). Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art, transl. T. Gora, A. Jardine & L. S. Roudiez. L. S. Roudiez (Ed.). New York: Columbia University Press. Riffaterre, M. (1985). “The interpretant in literary semiotics”. American Journal of Semiotics, 3 (4), 41–55. Sebeok, T. A. (Ed.). (1960). Style in Language. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Todorov, T. (1982). Symbolism and Interpretation, transl. R. Carter. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. von Uexküll, J. (1982). “The theory of meaning”. Semiotica, 42 (1), 25–82.

Chapter 8

Subjectivist and objectivist interpretations of controversy-based thought Adelino Cattani

Arguments, when opposed to testimony, may make a fact seem strange, but cannot make it not seem a fact. (F. Bacon, Antitheses of Things, 1623, n. 47) There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. (W. Shakespeare, Hamlet, II, 2) “Xaì prôtos éphe dúo lógous eînai perì pantòs prágmatos antikeiménous allélois”. (Diogenes Laertius on Protagoras, IX.51; Diels & Kranz, 1951, 80, B 6a)

This famous saying of Protagoras, the inventor of anti-logoi and the first rhetorician who proposed a principle of uncertainty, expresses in a nutshell the essence of controversy-oriented thought. An approximate translation could be: “On every issue there are two arguments opposed to each other”. Crudely stated: any proposition may be affirmed or denied. This is what the famous Dissoi Logoi in fact illustrates.1 Some, even if quite few, people think that destroying the Twin Towers of New York was the most beautiful thing to do; most people think it was ignominious. “If a group of people were to collect from all the nations of the world their disgraceful customs and then would call everyone together and tell each man to select what he thinks is seemly, everything would be taken away as being a seemly thing”, says the Protagorean author (Dissoi Logoi, II, 26). One problem is whether good and bad are identical (following Protagoras) or whether good and bad are different (following Plato); that is, whether there is identity or difference of true and false, of right and wrong, of acceptable and unacceptable, of sane and insane, of clever and stupid. A second problem is to explain how both subjective and objective experiences are possible. The subjective is in constant tension with the objective. Are

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these dimensions in irreducible competition? Could we assume that an “objective” reading can be defined or should we defend the association of objectivity and subjectivity? Figuratively speaking, the question is whether there are two sides of the same coin or whether there are two readings of the same side of the coin: while “the other side of the coin” is compatible with objectivity, “another reading of the same side of the coin” involves subjectivity. We find many other occurrences of the (in)famous thesis that on every issue there are two arguments opposed to each other: in the stasis (status or controversial issue) theory, in the classical tradition of controversiae, and in the practice of disputatio in utramque partem. The rhetorical form controversia is concerned with generating arguments with an eye on the opposition. Disputatio in utramque partem, on the other hand, consists in setting ideas in contrarias partes, in the form of a pro and con debate; it is, thus, a procedure for seeing both sides of a question, a debate in which both sides of an issue are argued for. The exercise in utramque partem argumentation was of major importance also in education. Today, two-sided debate, such as the Affirmative and Negative procedure of American Collegiate debating, is still used.

.

A historical outline of the two-logoi tradition

A controversy-oriented approach is the standard and ubiquitous “protocol of traditional rhetoric”, as the subtitle of a work by Thomas Sloane (1997), On the Contrary, states. We may also find confirmation of Protagoras’ sentence in conflicting proverbs (e.g., “Out of sight, out of mind” vs. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”), as it has been frequently noted.2 Further and better confirmation can be found among philosophers. Aristotle denies that it is equally possible to affirm and to deny anything of anything – an assumption that must be accepted by those who share Protagoras’ views, he says in Metaphysics (1007b21–23) – but he asserts that strong, convincing rhetorical arguments could be offered on both sides of an issue. Cicero, following Aristotle, asserts for the students the necessity to have “the fluent style of the rhetorician, so that they might be able to uphold either side of the question in copious and elegant language” (Orator, XIV, 46), advocating the benefit of “Disputandum de omni re in contrarias partes”; that is, according to Cicero, “we must argue every question on both sides, and bring out on every topic whatever points can be deemed plausible” (De Oratore, I, 34, English transl., 158–159). Quintilian asserts that the perfect orator is also a perfect debater (“neque perfectus orator sine hac virtute dici potest”; Institutio

Subjectivist and objectivist interpretations of controversy-based thought 

Oratoria, VI, 4, 3) and emphasizes the usefulness of speaking on both sides of an issue, a habit of disputing that “approaches most nearly the actual practice of the courts” (XII, 2, 25). Not to mention the well-known Sic et Non by Abelard, as well as the celebrated Antitheses of Things by Francis Bacon (1623), where the very principle x is proposed and an opposing principle, non-x, is juxtaposed. Bacon introduces forty-seven sets of assertions, arranged in antithetical form, opposed but equally sustainable. This list of his maxims or proverbs is intended to be “seeds, not flowers of argument”. The last, number forty-seven, For witness against arguments, is a series of antitheses concerning argumentation itself, namely, arguments about argumentation: “He who relies on arguments decides according to the merits of the pleader, not of the cause” vs. “If witnesses are to be believed in spite of arguments, it is enough if the judge be not deaf ”. Or: “He who believes arguments more than witness, ought to give more credit to the wit than to the senses” vs. “Arguments are the antidote against the poison of testimony”. Or: “Arguments might be trusted, if men never acted absurdly” vs. “It is safest to believe those proofs which seldomest lie”. Another relevant, though eccentric text is The Defense of Contraries (1593), the English translation by Anthony Munday of Paradoxes (i.e., assertions contrary to the current and prevailing opinion) of Ortensio Lando.3 Here we find discussed and defended positions such as: ignorance is better than knowledge and scarcity is better than abundance. It echoes the surprising and provocative assertion made by Erasmus in his successful De conscribendis epistolis: “Nothing is so inherently good, that it cannot be made seen bad by a gifted speaker”. If this is the case, the good man skilled in speaking (vir bonus dicendi peritus, as Cato and Quintilian put it) becomes a bad man (cf. Sloane 1997: 178). Skipping the subsequent developments in the two-logoi tradition that places arguments at the heart of the educational curricula, we may quote the subtitle and the program of Nicholas Rescher’s (1977) Dialectics: “A controversy-oriented approach to the theory of knowledge”, where again adversarial reasoning and methodology are proposed and appreciated. We have a tendency to think in polarised opposites: polarised opposition has affected all our culture, from knowledge to society, from debate/argument conception to relationships with others.4 Our social system of life is inherently adversarial in its structure. Politics and the legal system reflect and reinforce the idea of the adversarial principle: people may judge that truth too lies in having advocates of the two sides making their best case. If no one advocates for one of the sides, there can be neither justice nor truth (cf. Tannen 1999: 132).

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To make a two-sided division is a normal, but risky, operation. The special status acknowledged for the pairs is justified, but it is also necessary to justify the special status given to each item of the pair and the kind of opposition (exclusion or complementarity, co-ordination or subordination, for example) existing between them. In this respect, the difference between contradictory and contrary opposition is relevant. If sometimes it is obvious and appropriate to present a question as a two-sided fight, “opposition does not lead to truth when an issue is not composed of two opposite sides but is a crystal of many sides” (Tannen 1999: 10). Contrary theses (such as black and white notions, which are the joint resources of transitional degrees of grey) allow an intermediate position, a compromise, a tertium quid. Contradictory theses (like black and not-black) do not admit an intermediate position. Sometimes the opposite does not deny and replace the original but complements it.

. The two-logoi fragment: Philological and epistemic questions Our opening sentence, first attributed to Protagoras, poses a philological problem and an epistemic trouble. . The philological problem How do we have to interpret “perì pantòs prágmatos”? Pragma is not a simple word to translate: it means the fact (the state of affairs, the event) or the case (the controversial point, the problem, the theme of inquiry, the suit). Logos too is a difficult notion to translate, and very often it remains untranslated. So it is not surprising that there are several different translations.5 The different translations of Protagoras’ philosophical two-logoi fragment can be usefully grouped, as Edward Schiappa (1991) suggests, in two categories: the subjective interpretation and the objective one. Does perì pantòs prágmatos mean “on every subject” (on every issue, on every question) and refers to logos-speech or does it mean “on every object” (on every reality) and refers to things? The same happens with the notion of “dialectic”, of which we find a platonic logical-discursive conception (dialectic as an argumentative interplay) and a Hegelian ontological one (dialectic as a development of the world). Does contradiction occur in the representation of reality or in reality itself? The distinction is between two different conceptions of opposition: an argumentative opposition of propositions or a cosmological opposition of terms.6 In the first

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case, we have a subjective reading of pragmata; in the second, an objective (or Heraclitean) interpretation.7 Today we are told not to make assertions we know to be merely subjective. ‘I believe’, ‘I think’, ‘It seems to me that’ are the opening clauses of subjective statements, a kind of statements that cannot be argued for, insofar as they are assertions of belief, that is, of a subjective state of the speaker, indisputable for the believer and disputable for other people. But “facts” too may be subjective. German criminal law distinguishes between two types of “facts”: “objective facts”, representing observable features of an action (e.g., to damage a car or to kill another person), and “subjective facts”, relating to the actor’s state of awareness in bringing about an offence (e.g., intentional, by negligence, unknowingly; Mischo et al. 1999: 587). Thus, an “objective fact” such as a rule violation is different from the corresponding “subjective fact”, i.e., from the awareness, varying in degree, of committing a rule violation. This distinction is theoretically right and possible; in the same way, it seems that there is a clear distinction between perception and reason, sense and thought; but in practice, these differences are very difficult to maintain as these dimensions are entangled; there is an inextricable interplay between the objective and the subjective. The difference between them is not that of verifiable vs. unverifiable, but rather between what depends chiefly or exclusively on our personal interests, desires and emotions and what is free from the influence of these personal factors. Obviously, “establishing different levels of rules consciousness requires different supporting evidence” (Shimanoff 1980: 126):8 self-reflection is often thought of as a subjective, unreliable, possibly irrational process; but subjective self-reflection is the necessary condition for a communicative intersubjective interaction, which consists in using one’s experience in order to construct a common experience.9 ‘Experience’ is perhaps a better solution to the translation problem mentioned above: everything may be the object of human experience; an experience may be sensible, fantastic, speculative, and it may be subjective and objective. For this reason, the least unsatisfying rendering would be: “There are two readings of every experience”. Or, following the good translation by Mario Untersteiner, “in every experience there are two logoi in opposition to each other”.10 We would say that nothing becomes true if it is not experienced, i.e., till someone has the experience of it; using the words of John Keats (1935: 318), even “a proverb is no proverb to you till life has illustrated it”.

 Adelino Cattani

. The epistemic trouble: Pro two-logoi or against two-logoi? One can welcome and enjoy the spirit of controversy as did Aristotle, Sextus Empiricus, D. Hume, Voltaire, J. Stuart Mill, K. Popper, C. Perelman and many others. For these, controversy and rhetoric are perceived as entering “into an intellectual process that the rhetoric-hater Socrates calls maieutic” (Sloane 1997: 3), a process and a method practised in order to elicit new ideas in other people. On the other hand, many others dislike controversy insofar as it does not preserve harmony and some philosophers condemn rhetoric as it permits to develop a bewildering speech on both sides of an issue. The trouble may be expressed, following Trudy Govier (1999: 264), as follows: adversarialness seems to be bad; controversy seems to be good; and yet, adversarialness seems to be a necessary feature of controversy. Or, more simply put: is the method of debating in utramque partem only a practical way for making one a better advocate for obtaining success, or an intellectual way of research aimed at finding the truth? .. Pro two-logoi: The power of conflict Our system of life and of knowledge is intrinsically adversarial in its structure. Politics is naturally oppositional and partisan. The legal system empowers the idea that justice and truth spring from two polarized positions. Great educational emphasis is set on the employment of antithetical ideas: a thing is known better from an adequate consideration of its contrary (contrariorum eadem est scientia). So opposition and antagonism are considered as a method of developing knowledge, society and technique. In the words of Thomas Gilby (1949: 110), a brilliant thomist philosopher, opposition is a condition of advance both in the manufacture of armaments, for new weapons of attack are countered by new weapons of defence, and in the arts of peaceful government through parliamentary institutions, for the party in opposition must have an alternative programme and be set on becoming the party in office.

Why are controversies essential?, asks Marcelo Dascal. His response, historically and epistemologically supported, is that controversies are crucial for the development and evaluation of thought and of theories, also and especially in science: Science manifests itself in its history as a sequence of controversies; these are, therefore, not anomalies but the ‘natural state’ of science; controversies are the locus where critical activity is exercised, where the meaning of theories is dialogically shaped, where change and innovations arise, and where

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the rationality or irrationality of the scientific enterprise manifests itself. (Dascal 2000: 65)11

From another perspective, the value of opposition as a method of developing knowledge consists in the fact that [the] resolution of argumentative conflict is a particular kind of peace – a peace that can be established only through conflict. It is not the kind of pacification that allows all forms of being-in-the-world to coexist indifferently. It is not the end of all argumentative conflict; that would be the opposite of conflict, a kind of hegemonic peace, the peace of indifference and scepticism. (Crosswhite 1996: 104)

Many modern educationalists dislike a view of rhetoric “based on antagonism, hostility, strife, competitiveness, indeed all those objectionable male-oriented qualities modern education is seeking to ‘go-beyond”’ (Sloane 1997: 3). But there is a strong tradition holding the opposite view. Classical pedagogy, for one, is strongly controversy-oriented. For Protagoras, Cicero, Quintilian and Erasmus, the fondness in engaging in controversy is an educational principle.12 In Elizabethan Oxbridge pro and con argumentation was part of class practice and the final exams consisted in oral debates, not written themes for monologic composition. A historical survey, from the sophists to our time, of the relationship between rhetoric and education shows that antithetical ideas stand at the core of educational systems (Conley 1990). By adopting the double function of proponent and respondent, advocating alternatively the two sides in an imaginary internal debate, we acquire the “virtutes altercationis”: to recover a similar ancient attitude is perhaps possible and desirable. In short, controversy has a positive value for a number of reasons. It reveals faulty interpretations and suggests unexpected readings. It contributes to the progress of knowledge. It is a powerful and essential educational tool. The adversarial culture is a product or a cause of a non-authoritarian culture: it is not easy to establish a cause-effect relationship between the two but we know that there is a strong connection between them. Controversy is an antidote to dogmatism because it reminds people that believing that something is certain is not knowing it for certain. Pro and con reasoning can thus be liberating. And to think controversially is to think critically, which seems the only worthy intellectual work. We are left, however, with the following question: Does this thesis presuppose that the truth will always emerge from a fight between two opposite sides or that it will not emerge at all?



 Adelino Cattani

.. Against two-logoi: The power of conciliation Opponents of the adversarial culture argue, first, that it contributes to partisanship and to relativism. “Continual reference to the other side results in a pervasive conviction that everything has another side – with the result that people begin to doubt the existence of any fact at all” (Tannen 1999: 11). Second, a complaint is put forth that in controversia and disputatio the student was and is trained to argue either side of an argument, instead of to discover the truth. Third, the risk of an adversarial style of teaching is to confuse a critical evaluation with a criticizing game, that is to say, the act of evaluating the merits and demerits of something, of estimating its worth or value, with the act of unilaterally stressing its faults, errors or demerits. Another obvious danger of the two-logoi approach is the removal of moral distinctions. Punctilious free thinkers and rhetoricians are perhaps able to produce arguments for both sides, but in real life it is not considered ethical to do so, because basic moral distinctions can be obliterated when ideas are framed as a debate. For example, a side-by-side comparison of a murderer’s and his victim’s opinions would set the first on an equal footing with the second. Or, if it is our common aim to find a satisfying compromise, a reconciliation (e.g., to reduce the number of abortions, or to reduce social conflict), an issue pressed into the polarised debate format – it is argued (Condit 1994) – is less likely to produce a viable solution, because this agonistic format contributes to obscure the “truth” rather than to reveal it, and induces one to manipulate facts in order to win rather than to mediate. Finally, ignoring positive results and focusing on failures may be damaging from a psychological point of view. For Deborah Tannen, a vigorous opponent of the two-logoi position, the idea that every issue has two sides is troublesome because it may happen that there is no other side, but only one side: the truth. Thus, the two-sided flexibility finds itself opposed to the one-sided inflexibility. One-sidedness in supporting the truth is a must. The dramatic example of Holocaust denial is pivotal. Those who deny the Holocaust or the practice of slavery are taking advantage of our two-side flexibility. To put the abundant historical documentation and its negation on an equal footing does not seem to be warranted (Tannen 1999: 37, 39). In short, the hazards of over-controversialism include: criticism encourages skepticism; criticism is not necessary when people criticize for criticism’s sake and it is not helpful when people criticize for destroying their opponents; pro-con reasoning is a sophistic practice; it aims at plausibility or verisimilitude, not at truth, because nothing is affirmed, nothing is negated with cer-

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tainty. Examining all the problems as a two-sided dispute leads the disputants to become opponents or enemies and allows the growth of vicious opposition and polarization, vituperation and partisanship.13 To be sure, criticism encourages skepticism and partisanship only if one assumes the doctrine of isosthéneia, i.e., the view that all opinions are equally founded or equally unfounded.14 But ‘x is y’ and ‘x is not y’ are not incompatible if we add ‘for person A’ and ‘for person B’ or if we consider that one thing may be good for A at a certain time and bad for him at another. The Protagorean ‘twofold arguments’ raise an insurmountable problem if arguments for and arguments against are simply juxtaposed, by simple subjective addition: this makes impracticable any choice between the possible alternatives. But ‘twofold arguments’ are fruitful when we realize that the differences in our arguments point out a difference in the “perspective” from which we see the world (rules, principles, ideals, values) or reflect a multiform composition of things as well as the extremely multiform composition of society.

. From first person singular to first person plural Sic rebus stantibus, we are left with different and opposite possibilities: we may agree or disagree on the premises; we may agree or disagree on the rules of debate; we may agree or disagree on the aims and on the spirit of debate and we may assume a dialogical stance or a polemical one. If the disputants agree on a premise, they can proceed in meeting the second requirement of an acceptable argument – validity – until they run into another disagreement, which needs again to be settled or clarified by mutual consent. Clarifying or settling a difference of opinion is not definitively resolving a difference of opinion. A true resolution is eventually possible in dialogical contexts (e.g., a scientific or a technical committee) and more difficult or impossible in polemic contexts (e.g., a parliamentary committee) where non-epistemic criteria intervene, permitting at most a practical compromise between the parties. If there is a common starting point, a shared ground, arguing and debating is a way for measuring dialogically ourselves against the others. In debate we want to transform our subjective truth into intersubjective or hopefully objective truth – truth not only representing the state of our private beliefs, but truth for many or for all, because it represents the state of many or all participants in the debate. The “subjective” debate (for example, a political one) is normally conducted from the first-person standpoint, while in an “objective” discussion

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(for example, a discussion between scientists) the perspective is that of a third person. In the former the subjective-argumentative attitude prevails, while in the latter the objective-informative one predominates. I do not intend to invoke acceptability instead of truth,15 but rather to emphasize the role of agreement in a discussion whose aim is to come as close as possible to the truth by moving from “self ”, from the first person point of view, to the collective “us”. No doubt human beings are generally motivated by selfinterest rather than by common interest or by concern for others. It is normal to adopt a first person stance. It is normal to make appeal to self-perspective, self-confidence, self-interest, logical self-defence or self-justification in defending a position.16 Nevertheless, sincerely talking in the first person plural “we”, even if the common solution is not necessarily the “true” one, may yield at least the feeling – however questionable it may be – of a collective and common knowledge. This leads to the question, what is the role of the self in controversy?17 Apart from the question of subjectivism, we should also inquire whether discussing with oneself is the same as discussing with other people. Considering that the dialogical approach has become the dominant one in argumentation theory, it seems helpful to ask whether we engage in the same processes when we are considering and resolving a problem within ourselves, say, in meditation, as when we are disputing with another.18 Dialogue (e.g., Plato’s Phaedrus) is different in structure and in nature from disputation (e.g., Cicero’s De Oratore). Even Platonic dialogues – which are not examples of true debates, since they are a sort of Socratic bullying, whereas true disputes are a sort of pingpong battle of wits (Sloane 1997: 27, 30) – make the difference between ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ debate manifest. Monologue is indeed very different from dialogue. We don’t persuade other people and deliberate in our mind in the same way: thinking and arguing are not one and the same act. They become the same if we consider our self as another person different from us, a ‘someone’ upon whom we can act in many ways – among them, through rational as well as emotional persuasion. As Prezzolini (1991: 30) says, beside the art of persuading other people, there is the art of persuading oneself. We sometimes hold dialogues and debates with ourselves, we discuss with, argue and urge ourselves. In such occasions we are acting upon ourselves as we act upon other people. And one can persuade oneself of the acceptability of disputable, controversial, poor ideas (as the title of a social-epistemological essay – Boudon’s (1990) – suggests). Indeed, there are cases where it is vain to discuss with other people. An epistemic intersubjective criterion for evaluating the presumed truth does not

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work when there is no shared ground, as in the case of Kuhnian incommensurability, where different values, definitions and rules prevail. If each side bases his arguments on premises that the other rejects, this situation generates a particularly distressing kind of controversy: it will lead to opposition without resolution because there is a problem of substantial irreconcilability. If this is the case, only a kind of reasoning called by Aristotle (Metaphysics, Book IV) “elenchical”, which aims to demonstrate the impossibility of one of the two conflicting assumptions, could work. But if one is willing to move from polemic to dialogue, there are some rules of engagement designed to make discussion between disputants holding different or even opposite views more constructive. Amitai Etzioni (1996: 1041050) proposes, inter alia, the following: – – – –

Parties should not “demonize” one another. Don’t affront the deepest moral commitments of those with whom you disagree. Use less of the language of rights, which are non-negotiable, and more of that of needs, wants, and interests. Leave some issues out of the debate, both to narrow down the area of contest and to be able to draw on existing shared foundations.

If one engages in a “dialogue of convictions” (as opposed to a “dialogue of proceduralists”) – that is, if s/he supports a strong position along with the willingness to listen and to respond to others or if, as the saying goes, s/he has one hand tied behind her/his back – it is possible, without losing touch with a core of belief one passionately espouses, to prevent value talks from deteriorating into culture wars.19

. Concluding remarks When we disagree, there are at least two possible reasons. Sometimes we are in disagreement owing to a simple mistake or to our human capacity of interpreting “the same thing” in different ways, like what happens in the perceptual illusion that raises doubt about whether the train moving is my train or the train in the next rails. In this case, when we acknowledge the mistake, the question is resolved, because one of the two conflicting assertions or interpretations is clearly wrong. In other cases, different interpretations arise because one and the same event is seen from different points of view. In this case, each opinion is real and tenable, correct and admissible, even though none of them is im-

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partial and exhaustive. We are in the situation called “perspectivism”, a visual metaphor suggesting, first, the interpretative nature of our knowledge, i.e., the combination and the interplay in it of subjectivity and objectivity, and, second, the fact that complementarity is an essential part of knowledge. In order to move from the first person singular to the first person plural, the practice of controversy is essential. A complex interaction between participants in a controversy can, ultimately, make a thesis intersubjective and acceptable. But this is not enough, for in every theory or argument and in every controversy the central problem is the problem of truth: the issue of the “objective truth” vis-à-vis “subjective certainty”.20 We are in a circular situation. If there is controversy, there is no certainty – and this runs against our vital need to have at least some, if only a few, certainties, even if our certainty is not necessarily a truth. But controversy, the only reasonable way to resolve issues, is also a way to manage uncertainty. No doubt controversies do have the effect of reducing belief in truth. But they do not necessarily lead to subjectivism or relativism. The classical example is Aristotle’s dialectics. And the more modern one is Leibniz. Dialectics provides a means of adjudicating contrary positions on the basis of weighing them in scales that “incline without necessitating”, i.e., that provide rational justification even in the absence of necessitating proofs.21 This is a way to handle the two-logoi situation different from simply counting reasons for and against.22 A better and ideal way would be to play in controversial, but co-operative, debate, not one role, but two and even three roles, as Antonius suggests: “in my own person and with perfect impartiality I play three characters, myself, my opponent and the judge” (De Oratore II, 24). In this paper I began by reviewing the reasons for and against the two-logoi tradition and I have tried to deal with the crucial question: when we find two opposed logoi, should the emphasis be on the fact that they are or on the fact that they are both true? I know that the first option (“there are two-logoi and one of them is true or better”) would be certainly preferable if indeed available. But I also know that subjectivity is an ineluctable part of our experience as well as of our beliefs and theories, and that it is not so damaging if we take seriously into account the other’s side (the author taking the side of the critic, the defendant taking the side of the prosecutor, the supporter taking the side of the faultfinder), thus making a step towards the first person plural. Anyhow, it is my subjective certainty that assuming a deceptive objectivity is clearly more risky than professing subjectivity, because it is like going blindly; if the worst comes to the worst, it would be better admitting that objectivity, in some

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specific cases, is not possible and supplying protection against the dangers of subjective partiality, prejudices and bias.

Notes . Dissoi logoi (Twofold Statements) is a sophistic treatise (ca. 400 BC), seemingly influenced by Protagoras, consisting in an inventory of contrasting arguments on the same issue. . See, for example, the opening pages of a textbook of social psychology (Krech et al.1962) or those by McKeachie and Doyle (1966), where some contradictory popular sayings are listed and commented upon. . On love for self-contradictory statements and paradoxes in the sixteenth centyry, see Colie (1966). . On the so-called “philosophical couples”, see Gil (1978). . Nine references are proposed by Schiappa (1991: 100, n. 4 and n. 6). The following is a list of the current translations or occurrences: “On every issue there are two arguments opposed to each other”. “On every question there are two speeches, which stand in opposition to one other”. “On every question there are two sides to the argument opposed to one another”. “Every issue has two sides”. “There are two contrasting sides to any case”. “There are two opposite arguments opposed to each other”. “There are two reasons opposed to each other”. “There are two sides, opposed to each other”. “There are two contrary speeches to describe things”. “There are two contrary accounts to explain things”. “There are two opposing ways to describe, to explain”. “Every issue admits at least two arguments”. “One can speak on both sides about every subject”. “One can argue on either side of any question”. “There are contrary arguments on every subject”. Independently of the philological questions, the substantive problem is a sort of metadilemma: “all arguments have two sides except the argument that all arguments have two sides” or “all arguments have two sides including the question itself whether both sides of any question can be argued”? . A similar distinction is drawn by Aristotle in Categories, 11b–12a. . The difference between the subjective interpretation and what Schiappa calls the Heraclitean interpretation “turns in the translation of two key words, logos and pragmata. In the subjective interpretation pragmata is translated with such words as ‘issue’, ‘question’, and ‘subject’. These words anachronistically subjectify pragmata since issues and questions are obviously human creations. It is implied further that two logoi – sides, speeches, or arguments – are created solely by the arguers rather than being aspects of an object of inquiry”

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(Schiappa 1991: 90). In Schiappa’s opinion, however, in fifth century BC Greece and in Protagoras “things” we now call subjectively created and things objectively given were not clearly distinguished. . Susan B. Shimanoff (1980) proposes a useful taxonomy of various relationships between rules and behavior, based on the criterion of rule-consciousness in acting, which defines a continuum, ranging from the most conscious rule-compliant to rule-absent behavior. Nine points in this continuum are singled out. (1) rule-absent behavior. If the behavior is rulegoverned but without knowledge of the rule, we have (2) rule-fulfilling behavior or (3) ruleignorant behavior. If there is tacit knowledge of a rule, there are again two other possibilities: (4) rule-conforming behavior or (5) rule-error behavior. If there is conscious knowledge of the rule, the possibilities are: (6) rule-following behavior or (7) rule-violation behavior. Finally, in the case of conscious knowledge plus evaluation of a rule, the last two possibilities are (8) positive rule-reflective behavior and (9) negative rule-reflective behavior. . “Common experience” is intended as a result of a dialogos-polemos process, not simply as an experience shared by many people. . The Italian version is: “intorno a ogni esperienza vi sono due logoi in contrasto fra di loro” (Untersteiner 19662 : 35). Other Italian renderings are: “Intorno ad ogni oggetto ci sono due ragionamenti contrapposti” (Rambaldi 1978: 632) and “esistono su ogni tema due argomentazioni opposte l’una all’altra” (Gil 1978: 1058). . For a fuller treatment of the nature and value of controversy, see Dascal (1990, 1998). . The reader who is interested in the pedagogic argument with reference to Quintilian should see, for example, Mendelson (2000). . On the “power of dialogue”, see Kögler (1996). . The classical reference is Sextus Empiricus, Hypotheses Pyrrhonianae, I, 27: “pantì lógo lógos ísos antíkeitai”, which means: “to every argument another argument is opposed with the same strength”, that is, all arguments are counterbalanced by arguments of equal weight. Cf. also Diogenes Laertius, IX, 73 and 76. . Ralph H. Johnson, a supporter of a pragmatic theory of argument, also believes that we should not abandon the truth requirement in informal logic and in argumentation theory (Johnson 2000: 197–199). . On the causes and consequences of bias in human reasoning, see Evans (1990). . Some relevant, even if relatively marginal, considerations are proposed by Langsdorf (1999), Klemm (1997), and Taylor (1989). . Francis Bacon thinks that this is not true. See his Of Dignity and Advancement of Learning (1858: 243). . On the value of the art of replying, the desirability of co-operative discursive conflict, and the significance of argumentative “tit for tat”, see also Cattani (2001: Chapters 4 and 13). . In fact, the conflict between the dread of subjectivity and the cult of objectivity is slightly softened is we consider that every subjective interpretation contains a recognition of objective reality, in two ways: first, it affirms that the subjective interpretation, if it aims to be

Subjectivist and objectivist interpretations of controversy-based thought 

successful, must represent itself as objective; and, second, a subjective interpretation in a controversy must conform to the rules of intersubjective evaluation. . The assertion – “If we had a balance of reason, where the arguments presented in favor and against the case were weighed precisely and the verdict could be pronounced in favor of the most inclined scale . . . [we would have] a more valuable art than the miraculous science of producing gold” (Leibniz 1923–, #60; original Latin text) – is commented upon by Marcelo Dascal (1996; English version in Dascal’s home page). . This is also Johnson’s (1999: 412) idea: “We could, for example, proceed to determine the strength of the various reasons. Some . . . would do this by assigning some numeric values to the premises. Or we might proceed to burrow deeper into the individual arguments. Or we may wish to cast about for additional reasons on one side or the other”.

References Bacon, F. (1858 [1605])). Of Dignity and Advancement of Learning. London: Longman. Bacon, F. (1999). The Essays or Counsels Civil and Moral. B. Vickers (Ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press [includes a selection from Antitheses of Things (1623)]. Boudon, R. (1990). L’art de se persuader des idées douteuses, fragiles ou fausses. Paris: Fayard. Cattani, A. (2001). Botta e risposta. L’arte della replica. Bologna: Il Mulino [Spanish transl., Los usos de la retórica, Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2003]. Cicero (1929). De Oratore. E. W. Sutton & H. Rackham (Eds. and Transl.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Colie, R. L. (1966). Paradoxia Epidemica. The Renaissance Tradition of Paradox. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Condit, C. M. (1994). “Two sides to every question. The impact of new formulas on abortion policy options”. Argumentation, 8 (4), 237–336. Conley, T. M. (1990). Rhetoric in the European Tradition. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Crosswhite, J. (1996). The Rhetoric of Reason. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press. Dascal, M. (1990). “The controversy about ideas and the ideas of controversy”. In F. Gil (Ed.), Scientific and Philosophical Controversies (pp. 61–100). Lisboa: Editora Fragmentos. Dascal, M. (1996). “La balanza de la razón”. In O. Nudler (Ed.), La racionalidad: Su Poder y sus Límites (pp. 363–381). Buenos Aires: Paidós. Dascal, M. (1998). “Types of polemics and types of polemical moves”. In S. Cmejrkova et al. (Eds.), Dialogue Analysis VI, Vol. 1 (pp. 15–33). Tübingen: Max Niemeyer [Proceedings of the 6th International Conference, Prague, 1996]. Dascal, M. (2000). “Controversies and epistemology”. In T. Y. Cao (Ed.), Philosophy of Science [Proceedings of the Twentieth World Congress of Philosophy, Vol. 10] (pp. 159– 192). Philadelphia: Philosophers Index. Diels, H., & Kranz, W. (Eds.). (19516 ). Die Fragmente der Vorsocratiker. Berlin: Weidemann. Diogenes Laertius (1972). Lives of Eminent Philosophers, transl. R. D. Hicks. Loeb Classical Library, London: Heinemann.

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van Eemeren, F. H. et al. (Eds.). (1999). Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference of the International Society for the Study of Argumentation. Amsterdam: Sic Sat. Etzioni, A. (1996). The New Golden Rule: Community and Morality in a Democratic Society. New York: Basic Books. Evans, J. St. B. T. (1990). Bias in Human Reasoning: Causes and Consequences. Hove and London: Lawrence Erlbaum. Gil, F. (1978). “Coppie filosofiche”. In Enciclopedia, Vol. 3 (pp. 1050–1095). Torino: Einaudi. Gilby, T. (1949). Barbara Celarent. London: Longmans Green. Govier, T. (1999). “Argument, adversariality, and controversy”. In F. H. van Eemeren et al. (Eds.), 260–265. Johnson, R. H. (1999). “The problem of truth for theories of argument”. In F. H. van Eemeren et al. (Eds.), 411–415. Johnson, R. H. (2000). Manifest Rationality: A Pragmatic Study of Argument. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associated. Keats, J. (1935). Letters. M. B. Forman (Ed.). London: Oxford University Press. Klemm, D. E. (1997). Figuring the Self: Subject, Absolute, and Others. Albany: State University of New York Press. Kögler, H. H. (1996). The Power of Dialogue. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Krech, D., Crutchfield, R. S., & Ballachey, E. L. (1962). Individual in Society. New York: McGraw Hill. Langsdorf, L. (1999). “The tacit dimension in argumentation”. In F. H. van Eemeren et al. (Eds.), 495–499. Leibniz, G. W. (1923–). “Brief commentaries on the judge of controversies or the balance of reason and norm of the text”. In Sämtliche Scrhiften und Briefe (VI, 1, pp. 548–559). Berlin: Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften. McKeachie, W., & Doyle, C. (1966). Psychology. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Mendelson, M. (2000). “Quintilian and the pedagogy of argument”. Argumentation, 15 (3, August 2000), 279–293. Mischo, C. et al. (1999). “Argumentational integrity: a training program for dealing with unfair argumentational contributions”. In F. H. van Eemeren et al. (Eds.), 586–590. Prezzolini, G. (1991). L’arte di persuadere. Napoli: Liguori [1st ed., 1907. Firenze: Lumachi]. Rambaldi, E. (1978). “Dialettica”. In Enciclopedia, Vol. 4 (pp. 631–689). Torino: Einaudi. Rescher, N. (1977). Dialectics. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Schiappa, E. (1991). Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric. Columbia, NC: University of South Carolina Press. Shimanoff, S. B. (1980). Communication Rules: Theory and Research. Beverly Hills, CA and London: Sage Publications. Sloane, T. (1997). On the Contrary: The Protocol of Traditional Rhetoric. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. Tannen, D. (1999). The Argument Culture. New York: Ballantine Books. Taylor, C. (1989). Sources of the Self: The Making of Modern Identity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Untersteiner, M. (19662 ). I sofisti. Milano: Bruno Mondadori.

Chapter 9

Temporality, reification and subjectivity Carneades and the foundations of the world of subjectivity Mihály Szívós

.

Introduction

According to several contemporary handbooks and encyclopedias giving definitions of subjectivity, the possibility of its philosophical treatment is closely linked to the problems of self-consciousness, of the reference of thinking to the external world and of the possibility of errors. These aspects of the definition are deeply rooted in the history of European philosophy and go back to the Hellenistic period. The first description of a special state of consciousness which can be considered as completely subjective, even on the basis of the mentioned recent definitions, that of the Pyrrhonean ataraxia (tranquillity), was born at the dawn of this epoch. In the period of Hellenism (322–330 BC) examined in the present paper, this discovery was followed by other ones of great importance in this field. The history of Hellenistic philosophy is one of the best examples of how opinions that mature in several phases of a long controversy could gradually modify one another and of how the philosophical schools mutually took into consideration the criticism of their standpoints and built it into their own theories. Not only the interrelations between these schools – mainly the Academy and the Stoa – can be showed by the reconstruction of the development of the doctrines, but also some statements of their important actors, which explicitly refer to the connections between personalities, schools and philosophies. The phases and several moments of the academic-stoic controversy deserve special attention because they can be also examined from the viewpoint of the general theory of controversy. By applying some key concepts of this theory, like emergent process and result, extensive and intensive phases of the debate

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and semantic debate as the basis of analysis, the historian of philosophy can have access to additional pieces of information. In the present paper, the conception of emergent process and result will have a central role. According to this concept, changes can take place in the standpoints of the adversaries, which lead to emergent ideas, which are not reducible to the original inner potential of the principles of the adversaries. Only due to these emergent moments great philosophical and scientific debates are able to exert a strong influence on the thinking of the coming centuries. This phenomenon will be illustrated by the example of the Augustinian time concept stemming from the Chrysippean epistemology and its Carneadean criticism. In addition to the identification of the determining results of the long controversy between the Stoa and the Academy, the analysis of its emergent moments can also contribute to the improvement of the reconstruction of the ideas and arguments of academic skepticism, which were less well preserved than the stoic ones. The academic-stoic controversy was at its peak in Carneades’ criticism of Chrysippus’ philosophy. The reconstruction of this part of the controversy between these two schools can also shed a new light on the outstanding philosophical achievement of Carneades (214/3–129/8 BC), the eleventh head of the Platonic Academy. By his new definition of the concept of phantasia (sense impression),1 and by his theory of probability created to solve the problem of reference and that of the suitable attitude and moral decisions in everyday life, he contributed to a large extent to the philosophical foundation of subjectivity. In this context, he also elaborated new arguments against the strong external determination of thinking via the sense organs. In so far as the lack of reference to the external world is an important philosophical criterion of subjectivity or of a subjective state of mind, the negation of the strong external determination by the criticism of reference becomes one of the most efficacious arguments for the existence of the subjective sphere in philosophy. The Carneadean synthesis is a result of a long development, especially in the field of dialectics. That is why it is also necessary to get an overview of the earlier events via the sense organs controversy, and especially of Chrysippus’, the third head of the stoic school, epistemological innovations, for he was Carneades’ philosophical forerunner in the opposition camp. The presentation of the academic and stoic standpoints as well as the phases of the controversy between them requires an extensive reconstruction, due to the scarcity of our sources. Philological difficulties have lead historians of philosophy to give up delineating the probable logical connections between the achievements and the development of the major actors. A reconstruction of the development of stoic

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

epistemology and its academic criticism, however, can clearly indicate with an acceptable probability that the results of both schools have not come from a separate immanent development. Rather, they are born from the succession of collisions, as consequences of the reactions to the critical opinions of each other. In fact, each of them is also imbued with the viewpoints of the other. The present paper aims at giving an overview of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa and of the modifications of their standpoints, first of all from the viewpoint of the concept of subjectivity. In order to better highlight the contribution of the Hellenistic philosophers, it seems useful to apply two fundamental categories, necessary to grasp subjectivity: temporality and reification. With relation to subjectivity, each of these categories can be ranged in opposite poles of the same scale. The reference of a process or a problem to a context of time fosters the discovery and assertion of subjective aspects, while reification reduces the influence of subjectivity. In the framework of this analysis, the history of a special Greek concept, phantasia, which stood in the centre of the big philosophical controversy of the Hellenistic era, will also be highlighted, in order to reconstruct the most important and longest semantic conflict evolving around it. The semantic debate about the definition of phantasia was interpreted by the participants and by the immediate successors as a dispute about the criterion of truth. The various definitions of phantasia, mainly those of its special cognitive version (kataléptiké phantasia), played an important role in the long process that finally paved the way to the explicit philosophical treatment of subjectivity after Hellenism.

. Antecedents of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa The central topics of the great controversy of Hellenistic philosophy can be understood on the basis of the following antecedent problems. . The status of thinking The history of subjectivity begins with the emergence of moral consciousness, as is manifested in Socrates’ philosophy, and in epistemology, with the systematic research into appearances and with the treatment of the status of thinking. It was Plato who considered thinking as non-material and non-reified. In his dialogues, many aspects of this thesis are discussed. Later on, the stoic and Epicurean schools re-established a close connection between thinking and material processes. This constitutes part of their controversy with the Academy.

 Mihály Szívós

. The emergence of the concept of phenomenon The new interest in philosophy, science, aesthetics and religion in the Hellenistic age brought about a close interest in the ‘phenomenon’. One of the most important documents of the spread of a phenomenalist attitude, a sort of ars poetica, survived from Lysippus, the sculptor (active from 370/64 until 316 BC): “The people were represented as they are but me, I represent them as they appear” (Tatarkiewicz 1979: 100). This indicates the shift of the artistic way of looking towards the phenomenalist view. The representation of visual illusion, the perspective distortion included, was integrated into this artistic method. During the Hellenistic period, the procedures suitable to produce illusions in painting, sculpture and architecture developed. The phenomenalist attitude created a favourable atmosphere for them. The whole process drew attention to the fact that the sense organs could be deceived. In philosophy, two figures of early skepticism, Pyrrho and Timon, put the phenomenon at the centre of their theories. Both contributed to a great extent to the philosophical discovery of subjectivity by introducing the concept of ataraxia, i.e., freedom from disturbance. According to Timon, Pyrrho defines ataraxia as a consequence of the interruption of every reference relation and as a state of mind that cannot be referred to the external world: [N]either our acts of perception, nor our judgements are true or false. Therefore we should not rely upon them but be without judgements, inclining neither this way nor that, but be steadfast saying concerning each individual thing that it no more is than is not, or that it both is and is not, or that it neither is nor is not. For those who adopt this attitude the consequence will be first a refusal to make assertions and second, freedom from disturbance.2

The state of mind called ataraxia is the second phase of a process embedded in time. Due to the freedom of disturbance caused by the outer world, ataraxia is a subjective state of mind, in conformity with recent definitions of subjectivity. The novelty of ataraxia lies in this freedom of the mind from any kind of reference to external objects or processes. The tendency of maintaining, on the one hand, the freedom of mind from any external reference, and establishing, on the other, the sphere of subjectivity, will be typical of all forms of ancient skepticism. Academic skepticism, especially Carneades, transforms this negative and passive subjectivity into an active and better temporalized one (set in time context) by attributing important functions to the human mind in the verification of the new phantasias (sense impressions).

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

. The problem of appearance The issue of appearance was discussed by different schools, such as the stoic, the Epicurean, the peripatetic and the skeptic, and it was connected to various philosophical themes. This makes the problem of appearance and the history of phantasia – which is closely intertwined with it –the most suitable guidelines to a synthetic view of the development of mainstream Hellenistic philosophy. The three basic fields of the investigation of appearance – natural visual appearance, artistic appearance or illusions and the social appearances – drew the philosophers’ attention to the cognition of human nature. This was the case in the Hellenic period, too. Considering the inaccuracy of sense perception and the misleading effects of visual illusions, many thinkers questioned the reliability of the sense organs. In the beginning of the Hellenistic era, Theophrastus (372/370–288/286 BC) – probably relying upon Aristotle’s achievements – created the best theory of this period, which elucidates at least some aspects of the nature of appearance and avoids its dangers in the process of cognition. The rational phantasia stood in the centre of this theory. This notion refers to “what remains from the material of perception due to our judgement and choice”.3 Relying upon experience, the rational phantasia as an ability of mind filters out the appearances. This implies a temporalization of the cognition process, which can also be found in a passage of Aristotle’s Second Analytic where he treats the development of knowledge and skills: So from perception there comes memory, as we call it, and from memory (when it occurs often in connection with the same thing), experience; for memories that are many in number from a single experience. And from experience, or from the whole universal that has come to rest in the soul (the one apart from the many, whatever is one and the same in all those things), there comes a principle of skill and of understanding – of skill if it deals with how things come about, of understanding if it deals with what is the case. (Aristotle, Post. An. 100a3–9)

The idea of the connection between memory of past experience and perception was later used by Chrysippus, who totally renewed the stoic theory. He could either know Aristotle’s doctrine from Theophrastus’ public lectures or he could directly borrow the revised version of this idea from the philosopher of Eresos.4 . Appearances in society The many forms of make-belief and the application of the strategies of deception have been organic parts of every civilization. Homer’s Odyssey con-

 Mihály Szívós

vincingly illustrates this fact. In the Hellenistic era, new versions of social appearances arose due to changes in moral values inspired by intercultural effects, which made the maintenance of old norm systems and education towards these norms more difficult. Theophrastus’ character studies provided many very suggestive examples of make-belief and deception. Philosophers explored the subjective ground behind these forms of behavior. . New patterns in moral thinking Anaxarchos and his disciple Pyrrho – like Epicurus – taught that the moral obligations cannot be established, and consequently that epoché – the suspension of judgement – is justified concerning moral issues too. That was a very sharp answer to the change in public morality. The suspension of judgement in moral problems became a very important condition of ataraxia. At the same time, however, the Pyrrhonists adapted to the norms and the habits of everyday life and suggested that everyone should do so. This theory-praxis duality paved the way to the philosophical discovery of subjectivity. In fact, this skeptical conception was also considered valid by Sextus Empiricus (1967: III, 165). On the other hand, this doubt concerning the foundation of moral principles certainly exerted an influence on the debate on practical ethics to be delineated later, which burst out between the Academy and Zeno of Citium (334/333–262/61 BC), the founder of the stoic school. . The emergence of the subjective attitude in poetry The conscience of poets appeared like the philosophical conscience. The poet dealing with his internal world first appeared in Callimachus’ (310–240 BC) poetry. At the end of the Hellenistic period, Horatius, who had a good grasp of Greek literature and philosophy, clearly differentiated the moral world included in his poetry, namely, a publicly declared and objectified moral order, and his everyday moral, just as the Pyrrhonist separated his theory from his normal life. The clear differentiation of subjective and objective moral values made necessary the definition of the poet’s relation to his art, that is, the creation of his ars poetica which was the most peculiar manifestation of the poetic consciousness.

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

. The strengthening of philosophical consciousness The philosophical consciousness signified first of all the consolidation of the intellectual positions of individual thinkers who distinguished themselves from the rest of society at the levels of culture, behavior and speech. This situation was then strengthened by the conscious separation of the philosophers’ activity from the everyday life as well as by the new approaches to the main tasks of philosophy in the different schools. The unfolding of this philosophical reflection can be traced back to several sources, not only to philosophical ones, as Hegel, who otherwise correctly pinpointed Hellenism as the birth period of the philosophical consciousness, supposed. All these philosophical problems inspired the explicit or implicit thematization of different aspects of subjectivity. The dynamic of the controversies among the philosophical schools, however, did not allow all of them to unfold completely or even partially. Most of these controversies, in fact, made their way through epistemology.

. Reconstruction of the first phases of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa . First phase of the controversy: The problem of teaching practical ethics One of the most important philosophical events in the long-lasting parallel existence of Zeno’s5 new stoic school and the Old Academy headed by Polemo (355/4–270/69 BC), his former teacher, was a debate of how to teach practical ethics.6 Only later (ca. 268/264 BC) Arcesilaos (315/14–241/40 BC) took the lead of the Academy after Crates’ and Socratides’ short periods, developing his skeptical arguments against stoicism. However, in this long period before Arcesilaos, the seventh head of the Academy, a debate arose between Zeno of Citium and his teacher Polemo on practical ethics (kathékonta), which arose from the question of how to teach practical ethics. Zeno, who held ethical views different from those of his teacher, began to develop his own system during the more than thirty-year period from 300 to 268/4 BC. At the same time, this was a phase in the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa in the course of which both schools enlarged the scope of their own doctrines. Sedley (1999: 151) sums up the essence of the controversy in the centre of which stood the method of efficacious teaching of practical ethics as follows:

 Mihály Szívós

Zeno’s stoicism evolved largely as an attempt to develop a fully scientific system of ethics – to complete the project which Socrates was easily thought of as having initiated when he equated virtue with knowledge. This meant that at every level, from first principles down to the most detailed practical rules, ethics must be conducted exclusively in universal terms. The Platonic dialogue, meanwhile, was being presented in the Academy as having done one part of the same job far better by its depiction, especially in the proems, of exemplary individuals. Much of the ethical tradition that Zeno inaugurated – including its avoidance of exempla and of the dialogue form, and its concentration on the composition of detailed formal rulebooks – may be thought of as springing from the debate between him and Polemo.

The standpoints crystallized during the long controversy resulted in a sharp opposition. The stoics were inclined to emphasize the reified character of moral rules, and thus they described them in scrupulous ethical rulebooks, applying formal logic too. Thus, according to the technical terminology of the time, Zeno was an adherent of dialectic deduction.7 The academics, however, wanted to avoid this kind of rigidity by highlighting Plato’s practice of presenting in his writings exemplary moral individuals. They argued that dramatic representation of this sort could be more efficacious than the establishment of a canon of ethical rules. This dramatic representation through the plot is at the same time an interpretation of moral problems, set in a temporal frame, along which the characters evolve. According to Diogenes Laertius (1972: IV, 16–18), the fourth head of the Academy emphasized the importance of moral practice against the “mere speculations”: Polemo used to say that we should exercise ourselves with facts and not with mere logical speculations, which leave us, like a man who has got by heart some paltry handbook on harmony but never practised, able, indeed, to win admiration for skill in asking questions, but utterly at variance with ourselves in the ordering of our lives.

This conception fits the interpretation of ethical content of Plato’s dialogues and correlates with the nature of subjectivity too. At the same time, it explains why the contemporary Epicureans introduced the regular moral evaluation of the everyday activity of school members. . Second phase of the controversy: Appropriating the Socratic tradition The evolution of the Stoa led to the appropriation of Socrates’ philosophical legacy. That is why during Arcesilaos’ period the Academy put in the forefront the Socratic argumentation of the early Platonic dialogues. The next moment

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

of this stoic dynamic – inseparable from the first one – was the appropriation of the Platonic heritage and its development and expansion (as a continuation of Socrates’ philosophy) in a wider sense. Nevertheless, Zeno’s activity took place in a very complicated situation. While Polemo, whose ethical teaching was questioned by Zeno, already worked as the third post-Platonic leader after Speusippus and Xenocrate, the still active Theophrastus, a direct disciple of Plato, could provide original pieces of information about Plato himself, as well as explanations and criticism of his ethics and its interpretation by Aristotle.8 Any new interpretation of the Socratic-Platonic heritage could come into being only in arduous controversies with all other schools, the peripatetic one included, which had strong links to the doctrines of both eminent philosophers. Under these conditions, the confrontation of doctrines and arguments inevitably began. As Zeno heard Theophrastus’ lectures too, the peripatetic interpretation certainly influenced his thinking – which is manifest in the application of syllogisms in his ethics, a symptom of a more general peripatetic effect. This effect became even stronger after Zeno transformed the Theophrastean rational phantasia into cognitive phantasia. By introducing the cognitive phantasia as a criterion of truth, Zeno took over the initiative in the field of dialectics, which comprised epistemology, too. This opened the second phase of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa. Zeno gave the following definition of phantasia: “a combination of a sort of impact offered from outside”.9 Sense impressions come into being by an external impact that he dubs phantasia. Although Zeno postulates the subjective sphere of the decision by permitting the act of assent based on “free will”, he actually declares the immediate validity of the external determination by emphasizing the fact that the cognitive phantasia has a reified distinguishing mark. The Zenonian definition suggests that this special, reified distinguishing mark referring to the external object of perception is very close to the iconic sign of modern semiotics (cf. Szívós 2000b). The icon is a sign having a share in the entirety of the form of the signed thing; that is, it is similar to this thing at least in one feature.10 As compared to Aristotle’s concept of phantasia and Theophrastus’ rational phantasia, the Zenonian concept of cognitive phantasia’s innovation consists in the introduction of this reification in the relation between the phantasia and the thing represented.11 The reified imprint coming from the outer object constituted the iconic share. Relying upon this, he declared this phantasia self-evident.12 The reified distinguishing mark and together with it also the cognitive phantasia became the centre of the controversy between the Academy and the

 Mihály Szívós

Stoa, and remained there for more than two hundred years. The philosophers of the Academy fiercely contested the existence of such a phantasia. In this semantic close-range fighting, the standpoints on both sides were partly completed by the additional arguments that emerged, and partly reformulated by means of the integration of the rival school’s criticism. Assuming a reified distinguishing mark in the cognitive phantasia, Zeno also reduced its temporal dependence, thus eliminating from cognition a part of the temporal dimension. The opposite trend emerged two generations later, when Chrysippus’ criticism stressed the temporal nature of the process of assent to cognitive phantasia, and thereby the dynamic nature of the cognitive process as a whole. Through its reified distinguishing mark, the Zenonian cognitive phantasia supported the thesis that existence immediately determines thinking via the sense organs. This thesis, on the other hand, laid the epistemological foundation of stoic fatalism and weakened the recognition of the internal subjective sphere. If an existing thing marks the phantasia coming from this external object and through this mark, this impression becomes a cognitive phantasia, that is, a true phantasia, then the being in question exerts an immediate influence on thinking, conceived as always functioning with phantasias. In this epistemological construction, the freedom of human decision and the subjectivity attached to it is limited, in favor of the determination coming from the natural world. In this respect, the stoic declares in vain his allegiance to the cognitive impression as a manifestation of human freedom. The dynamics of Zeno’s role in the emerging stoic school can be summarized by the following characteristics: – In the force field of philosophical trends inspired by the Socratic and Platonic heritage, Zeno tried to establish a self-legitimation through the vindication of the only ‘correct’ interpretation and development of the Socratic ethics, first of all at the expense of the academic conception. – As the mutual effects among the schools elaborating the SocraticPlatonic philosophical-ethical heritage had already unfolded, Zeno perhaps merely radicalized the habit of taking over concepts and theory rather than creating them. The fact that during his lifetime Zeno had not so much authority as later, after the systematization and canonization of his oeuvre – a fact corroborated by the success, during Zeno’s life, of his adversaries Ariston, Herillos, Persaeus and Sphaerus (see Sedley 1999: 149) – supports the traditional doxography according to which he renamed and slightly transformed the philosophical terms borrowed from other philosophers. Yet, by rewriting

Temporality, reification and subjectivity

and revaluing a considerable part of the academic philosophy, he slowly put the Academy in a very difficult position: pressure was brought to bear on the Academy to change its philosophy by the emergence of the stoic school. – Zeno’s borrowing and renaming philosophical terms and conceptions also conforms to the claim, also found in ancient sources, that Chrysippus was the real founder of stoic theory. Chrysippus’ superiority can be also supported by an indirect proof: the well-informed habit of Carneades, who always referred, when considering stoic themes, to Chrysippus and his successors, and never to Zeno. . Third phase of the controversy: The Academy takes over the initiative The academic counter-attack initially remained behind that of the stoic school. At first, Polemo condemned Zeno as a thief of his ideas. After Zeno’s aspirations to reinterpret Socrates’ and Plato’s moral teaching, the academics formulated their views of Plato’s moral theory and the effect of his dialogues on moral education. Inside the Academy, the three different views of Crantor, Polemo, and Crates regarding the proems’ role in Platonic dialogues were crystallized. They answered to Zeno’s challenge in the matter of practical ethics with the revitalization of the moral content of Platonic dialogues, especially of their proems (see Sedley 1999: 142–143). This pertained, however, to the first phase of the controversy. The real counter-attack on the stoics was launched by the Academy only when ca. 268–264 BC Arcesilaos was elected head of the school. He realized the danger and took the initiative lost during the period of his predecessors. This radical change in orientation was also inspired by the decline of orthodox Platonism, once mathematics became an independent science. Nevertheless, the strongest motive of Arcesilaos’ skepticism was undoubtedly the rapid expansion of stoic philosophy, which sharpened the rivalry between the two schools (see Mette 1985a: 91). Arcesilaos certainly knew Anaxarchos’ and Pyrrho’s conception of the impossibility of providing a foundation for ethics. This view, contrary to the new stoic standpoint on practical ethics, might also have inspired him, as it is assumed in the literature. The most important immediate philosophical antecedent of Arcesilaos’ counter-attack, however, was Zeno’s new theory of human cognition from the second phase. As already mentioned, Zeno introduced his most important innovation, the cognitive phantasia (kataléptiké phantasia), in dialectics. Arcesilaos realized the key role of cognitive phantasia in Zeno’s

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 Mihály Szívós

new system. Consequently, he undertook its refutation by questioning the existence of absolute cognition guaranteed by cognitive phantasia.13 He preferred to use the arguments of the Socratic and Platonic heritage, which were contrary to the elements borrowed by Zeno. Arcesilaos presumably also relied upon arguments used by other schools against stoic theses or similar theorems. According to the sources mainly represented by Cicero’s and Sextus Empiricus’ works, Arcesilaos could subtly apply the method of arguing pro and contra a question: he sought arguments for the contrary theses concerning a theme, too, and strengthened them without ever deciding for this or that standpoint. He proposed the epoché, the refrain from assent, not in order to arrive at the ataraxia, the freedom from disturbance, but to be a wise man who does not risk to be mistaken (see Mette 1985a: 91); the arguing both sides must convince the wise man that because of the equal force of arguments, it is necessary to suspend judgement and there is not an exact cognition guaranteed by the cognitive phantasia. The dynamic of Arcesilaos’ counter-attack can be characterized as follows: the defence and the revindication of the Socratic-Platonic heritage in order to prove the academic continuity with it, too; the legitimation of his new line at the level of the history of philosophy; the renewing of the Socratic argumentation of the early Platonic dialogues and its transformation into the arguing both sides; the development of a new guideline to the practical ethics, that is a feedback to the origin of the academic-stoic controversy. All the abovementioned elements of the dynamic of Arcesilaos’ criticism contributed to the extension of the world of subjectivity. The argument pro and contra everything, although its renewing by Arcesilaos did not aim at defending a special subjective mental state, indirectly supported the belief in thinking independent of reality and, consequently, paved the way to the philosophical thematization of subjectivity. The defence of subjectivity in another field was linked to the refutation of the existence of the cognitive phantasia. The third moment fostering subjectivity in ethics came from the eulogon, a special concept of rationality. That was an answer to the stoic objection apraxia (anti-practical attitude), meaning that the academic skepticism with its refutation of assent made impossible the rational deliberation and decision in moral practice. . The problem of appearance in the conception of the cognitive phantasia In this third phase of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa, Arcesilaos also sharpened the question of the criterion of truth,14 focussing his

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attention on the basis of the assent given to the cognitive phantasia; more exactly, he attacked the question of how phantasias bearing appearances can be separated from those coming from real objects. As a crucial argument against the theory of the recognizable cognitive phantasias, he pointed out that these two sorts of phantasia couldn’t be distinguished from each other. This direction of his criticism brought with it the research into the different forms of appearances and it raised the issue of their neutralization in the cognition for both schools. The Zenonian definition of phantasia as cited by Cicero already expresses this concern: On Arcesilaos’ question what a phantasia is like Zeno answered as follows: “...a presentation [visum in Latin, which is the Ciceronian translation of phantasia] impressed and sealed and moulded from a real object, in conformity with its reality”.15 Then Arcesilaos raised a new question whether this is the case if the true sense impression resembles a false one: At this I imagine Zeno was sharp enough to see that if a presentation proceeding from a real thing was such a nature that one proceeding from a nonexistent thing could be of the same form, there was no presentation that could be perceived. Arcesilaos agreed that this addition to the definition was correct, for it was impossible to perceive either a false presentation or a true one if a true one had such a character as even a false one might have; but he pressed the points at issue further in order to show that no presentation proceeding from a false one might not also be of the same form. This is the one argument that has held the field down to the present day. (Cicero 1979: XIX, 77–78)

Although some commentators doubt the exactitude of this report, it still obviously conveys the essence of Arcesilaos’ criticism that remained in several formulations. Cicero’s remark in the last sentence of the above quotation – “This is the one argument that has held the field down to the present day” – is particularly important. At the philological level, it proves that the problem of the differentiation between true and false phantasias, as mentioned above, stood at the centre of philosophical debates for more than two hundred years. The long semantic discussion of phantasia put on the agenda the problems of human error, appearance, subjective opinion, and probability. . The Arcesilean answer to the stoic apraxia argument In order to discover what is true, Arcesilaos developed his method of arguing both sides, that is, arguing pro and contra everything. Having used this method to refute Zeno’s cognitive phantasia, Arcesilaos was criticized by the stoic school because of his undermining moral philosophy and of the logical consequences

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of his skeptic standpoint, according to which one should withhold assent in the case of all phantasias, since both the pro and contra arguments are convincing. Thus, until the end of the third phase of their controversy, both schools managed to find an important weak point in the argument system of the rival school, the elimination of which steadily inspired them to introduce innovations. The stoic counter-argument against Arcesilaos’ method was appropriate, but Arcesilaos’ answer – the introduction of the principle of the reasonable to be followed in moral philosophy – also proved to be adequate. Although Arcesilaos presumably relied upon his teacher, Polemo, his proposal transcended the Platonic-academic heritage and became an emergent development – that is, a theoretical innovation stemming from the inner logic of the controversy among the Athenian philosophical schools. In this respect, my opinion differs from the literature on the origin of Arcesilaos’ moral rationality in the following way. Creating this theoretical answer to the stoic objection of apraxia, Arcesilaos probably benefited from the Epicurean reaction to the debate on practical ethics, that is, on how to teach moral behavior. The Epicureans established the system of self-examination of each school member in front of another member of the school as an everyday practice of moral self-improvement. In the course of this exercise, the Epicurean could rationalize his deeds afterwards, or seek his own motivations. The experience gained during these exercises was in fact a temporalized and subjective moral background for the new everyday decisions to be taken. This practice directly fostered the everyday reconstruction of the sphere of subjectivity by means of memory. Arcesilaos also grasped the rational aspect of this moral experience as a background. The formulation of the relevant passage in Sextus Empiricus’ Against the Logicians – “the right action is that which, when performed, possesses a reasonable justification” (Sextus Empiricus 1967: I, 158; Against the Logicians I–II) – seems to support the similarity between the Epicurean practice and the Arcesilean concept of eulogon.16 This rationality was constituted without any general theoretical assent in the course of the recollection of everyday acts in their temporal succession. By involving the memory of past events and deeds, Arcesilaos obviously elaborated a solution involving temporality. Memory as an indispensable condition of rational choice in Arcesilaos’ moral rationality theory became one of the most important starting points for Chrysippus, the third head of the stoic school, when he began to reconstruct the whole stoic epistemology.

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. Reconstruction of the fourth and fifth phase of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa . Chrysippus and the problem of reference Chrysippus took over the leadership of the institution in a very difficult situation in 232 BC; the authority of the school was declining and heretic trends, which he later managed to integrate into his movement, flourished. As the stoic doctrines were considerably weakened by the academic Arcesilaos’ criticism, the Zenonian heritage was first of all renewed by Chrysippus to the extent that his contemporaries described the result as a philosophical re-establishment of the school. The greatest stoic philosopher was able to get the initiative back from the Academy for several generations. He, who was also trained by academicians and wrote essays applying the method of arguing both sides of an issue, appropriated many elements of the academic criticism in his new building of stoic philosophy. The stoic school prospered and was frequented by many young men. Chrysippus realized the need to transform the definition of phantasia because Arcesilaos’ criticism had undermined it. In addition to the abovementioned criticism based on a subtle use of the problems derived from visual appearances, Arcesilaos found another weak point in the stoic definition, namely, that a successive sense impression, which was interpreted as a seal imprint, should in fact erase the former impression, for the soul could receive only one phantasia at a time. The dimension of time appears in this argument without being thematized by the opponents in the debate. Chrysippus studied in depth the academic criticism and the original sources of stoic philosophy. In his work On the Soul, he considerably modified the approach represented by Zeno and Cleanthes (331/0–230/29 BC), by specifying that phantasia, instead of being an impression in a sense organ, was a change taking place there. He thus diminished the reification suggested by the former definition of phantasia (see Hülser 1987: I, fragment 255). The other part of his answer to this problem was setting the assent to a phantasia as taking place in a temporal process. Due to the academic criticism, Chrysippus was deeply interested in the problem of appearance too. Later stoics complained about his having collected the further cases of appearance in which the deceiving appearance manifests itself, as well as about his incapacity to elaborate the necessary arguments for their explanation, which could fend off the academic and especially Carneades’ criticism (see Cicero 1990: 87). This reproach was, however, exaggerated. He developed a meaning theory distinguishing sense, reference and object, which

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resembles the triangle of linguistic sign (expression), meaning (intention), and factual value (denotatum) introduced by Frege. In fact, the stoic version was the most important antecedent of the Fregean theory (see Ruzsa & Máté 1997: 413). Chrysippus also created the concept of lekton, which was considered as incorporeal (Hülser 1987: 1, fragment 69). The notion of the bodiless lekton softened the former stiff attitude of reification that characterized the early materialist conception and paved the way towards subjectivity. . The temporalization of the cognition process I As compared to his predecessors, Chrysippus also improved the doctrine of the function of the parts of the soul connected with the problem of appearance. Following Aristotle and Theophrastus, and taking into consideration Arcesilaos’ concept of rationality in practical ethics, he attributed an important function to memory in cognition – more precisely, in the obtainment of experience – and connected it with the assent to cognitive phantasia. Theophrastus’ rational phantasia already referred to the knowledge acquired earlier by the researcher. Presumably following him, Epicurus also formulated a rule to the effect that a certain phantasia can contradict another one “which is already present in your external or inner perception or in every intuitive representation of your soul” (Diogenes Laertius 1972: X, 147). The head of the stoic school also indicated that the pure presence of a phantasia is not enough for the act of assent (Gould 1971: 58), as his predecessors assumed it to be. The thinking carrying out the act of assent must also rely upon memory and, consequently, upon experience. Chrysippus called ‘experience’ the “treasury of phantasias”,17 and spoke about the “power of memory” as well. By referring to memory, he addressed the crucial issue of how the phantasias without appearances could be separated from those burdened with appearances – an issue highlighted by academic criticism (Gould 1971: 60– 61). According to Chrysippus, the phantasias burdened with appearances can be distinguished from the true ones by the mobilization of former groups of phantasias and by the operations with them. Thus, the most recent cognition is judged through the result of the former cognition. As compared to Aristotle and Theophrastus, Chrysippus made steps forward by tightly coupling memory with the phantasias and by introducing the concept of “common notions” based on the groups of former phantasias.18 Both innovations created a basis for the inner temporalization of the cognition process: he put the cognitive phantasia in a time context and thus he fundamentally transformed the Zenonian concept fiercely attacked by the academicians.19

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This fourth phase of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa resulted in a considerable change in the philosophical approach to the dimensions of subjectivity. Chrysippus not only developed, but also embedded the Zenonian cognitive phantasia in the cognition process, which – in its original form – strongly reduced the sphere of decision and consequently that of subjectivity, in a better way. According to him, if a cognitive phantasia is unambiguously marked by the external object and this markedness is realized by the mind, thinking should accept it. Chrysippus’ conception leaves more scope for thinking to find cognitive phantasias and to give assent to them. By introducing new concepts, he assigned the respective roles of subjective elements in the soul. However, even he did not abandon the idea of the reified mark in the cognitive phantasia. By coupling temporality with cognitive phantasia through the involvement of memory in the cognition process, he diminished the determining effect of this reified mark of the phantasia, but still allowed for its effect on thinking. Although he introduced innovations essentially favourable to subjectivity, Chrysippus also maintained the connection between the external natural necessity and the internal logical one. . Fifth phase of the controversy: Lacydes and the criticism of the exactitude of memory After Arcesilaos’ death (ca. 241 BC), Lacydes of Cyrene took over the leadership of the Academy. He co-founded the Middle Academy with his predecessor (see Diogenes Laertius 1972: IV, 58–59). He must have known the whole history of the academic-stoic controversy as an eyewitness. As a talented and industrious leader having many disciples, he managed to stabilize the new trend inside the Academy. One of the few pieces of philosophical information we have about Lacydes can highlight his initiative to enlarge the scope of the academic argumentation. He emphasized the attachment of memory to opinion in order to present the visions of memory themselves as distorted by the individual and by public opinion. That was a new academic perspective on memory, although not enough to slow down the stoic pressure. Lacydes’ argument questioning the exactitude of memory and opening the way to the acknowledgement20 of its subjectivity was undoubtedly directed against his contemporary, the stoic Chrysippus who, as we have seen, called experience based on memory “the treasury of phantasias”. As the doxography retained only this argument from the head of the Academy after Arcesilaos, it is highly probable that the role of memory stood in the centre of the fourth and

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fifth phases of the controversy, during the time of Lacydes’ and Chrysippus’ parallel leaderships. . The temporalization of the cognition process II Chrysippus extended temporalization not only toward the past, but also toward the future, by defining forecasting as a further function of the soul. This function relies again upon the “common notions”. On their basis, after having identified a phantasia by means of the perceived attributes, the soul can deduct and, therefore, forecast its further features. In this sense, forecasting itself also becomes a criterion of truth. The two-directional temporalization of the truth criterion – namely, the verification of the cognitive phantasias and the forecasting of their features – is Chrysippus’ outstanding achievement. That is true even if we take into consideration the pressure exerted by the Academy and first of all by Arcesilaos on stoic philosophers who had to move towards temporalization, away from the reification trend as developed earlier by Zeno and his personal disciples. By questioning the certainty of the reference of cognitive phantasia, the academicians forced the stoics to extend the time dimension of cognition in both directions. Under the aegis of this polemic, the academic criticism of the reference relation supported, at the same time, the two-directional extension of subjectivity. So, the two directions of time were integrated by Chrysippus into the inner world of human cognition process. This philosophical result also emerged because Chrysippus subtly took advantage of Arcesilaos’ conceptions: from the hidden temporality of the problem of successive phantasias clearing out each other, from the moral rationality (eulogon) based on ethical experience and memory; and from the problem of the synchronous, indistinguishably similar phantasias. The real force of this new construction in the history of philosophy can be gauged from Augustine’s time concept, which unifies the Chrysippean application of the time dimension (temporalization) and the Carneadean foundation of subjectivity more than five hundred years later. The subjective side of the Chrysippean construction could not get in the forefront unless the philosopher accepted the separation between natural and logical necessity. As I will show in the section on the sixth phase of the academic-stoic controversy, Carneades accomplished this separation.

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. Chrysippus and the double nature of phantasia By introducing new concepts, Chrysippus also strengthened the stoic positions in the semantic close-range fighting around the definition of phantasia. In addition to this, he reduced the uncertainty stemming from the many meanings of ‘phantasia’. This permitted him to analyze the cognition process in a finer resolution. He called the external cause of a given phantasia phantaston. By coupling phantasia with phantaston, he linked his meaning theory with the most important category of the analysis of the cognition process. The phantastikon, the obssessive idea, is a feeling in the soul that is not caused by the phantaston, an external factor; it is rather a subjective phenomenon of the soul. This psychological (subjective) element produces the phantasma, the visionary image attached to the phantastikon. These conceptual innovations proved his growing interest in the world of subjectivity, as well as the necessity for him to separate it from objectivity. Following Theophrastus, Chrysippus identifies the pathos as a genus concept above phantasia: “the (representation) phantasia is a feeling (pathos) which was born in the soul and which in itself also refers to the object causing it” (Hülser 1987: 273, fragment 268). Referring to the concept of pathos, Chrysippus defines phantasia as a form of feeling, although as an inner element, the feeling is between thinking and the external object, having a passive mediating role (Dumont 1985: 118). According to Chrysippus, the soul endures the feeling, resigns itself to it, and then tries to grasp its external cause, that is, the phantaston. He extends the double nature of feeling – showing itself as well as referring to its external cause – to the phantasia, on the basis of his definition (Hülser 1987: 1, fragment 269). In his elaboration of this topic, Chrysippus uses the Aristotelian etymological derivation of the meaning of ‘phantasia’ from light, which reached him presumably through Theophrastus: “just as the light shows itself and at the same time all the other objects covered by it, phantasia too is that which shows itself and the external creating force producing it” (Stoicorum veterum fragmenta 1923: II, 54). The key concept of phantasia is thus step by step endowed with meanings pointing to the later idea of consciousness examining itself, that is, to the philosophical description of self-consciousness. Chrysippus managed to re-establish the stoic philosophy by extending the investigations of the school to new fields, by integrating several important elements of the academic criticism into stoic doctrine, by putting the examination of the cognitive phantasia and the whole cognition into the temporal context, and by introducing new terms and concepts in the raging battle for its proper definition. His achievements laid the foundations for the brightest period of

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the school. Only a philosopher of the same capacity and flexibility, an academician having a thorough knowledge of his philosophy, could go beyond his innovations more than half a century later.

. The sixth phase of the controversy between the Academy and the Stoa: The criticism of the Chrysippean philosophy by Carneades . The Carneadean criticism of the stoic conception of phantasia Carneades of Cyrene (214/3–129/8 BC), who was also called the founder of the New Academy because of his radically original arguments and of his radically modifying the criticism of the stoic standpoint, became the leader of the Platonic school ca. 164 BC. He knew in detail the stoic philosophy since he also pursued his studies with Diogenes of Babylon (240–250 BC), then head of the Stoa in Athens. In particular, he was extremely well acquainted with Chrysippus’ works, which he regularly used and criticized. He transformed the well-known saying of his time – “if Chrysippus had not been, there would not have been the Stoa, either” – in the following one: “if Chrysippus had not been, I would not have been, either”. Carneades’ humor, demonstrated not only by this example, also expressed his capacity to self-consciously display a subjective way of looking at things. As the problem of cognitive phantasia marked in a reified way continued to stand in the centre of the controversy between the two schools, Carneades also contributed to the enlargement of the academic collection of examples demonstrating the unreliability of human sense organs and knowledge, in order to improve the efficacy of the academic criticism. Carneades refined the argument introduced by Arcesilaos against the stoic thesis, namely that every true phantasia can be coupled with a completely similar, false phantasia coming from a non-existent object, and the elements of these couples cannot be distinguished. Thinking cannot be the criterion, either, says Carneades, because it functions only by means of phantasias, which, in turn, cannot be identified as true or false. That is why a wise man must continue to practice the epoché, withholding his assent to any phantasia. Concerning the phantasia, the founder of the New Academy starts from the analysis made by Chrysippus. Carneades transforms significantly the stoic definition of the double nature of phantasia by taking into consideration an aspect of this definition: the phantasia as a sort of feeling (pathos). His argument can be reconstructed as follows. Feeling is a human feature strongly differing

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from the other feature, thinking. Perception is accompanied by feeling because one feels that one perceives something. Phantasia is an inner consequence of perception. Since thinking cannot be felt, it is separated from perception – the Academy traditionally always tended to distinguish the one from the other. Due to this separation, thinking has an independent relation to the phantasias coming into being through perception. This is the second relation of phantasia, whereas the first relation connects it to the external object. Carneades puts this double relation as follows: The presentation [i.e., phantasia], then, is a presentation of something – of that, for instance, from which it comes and of that in which it occurs; that from which it comes being, say, the externally existent sensible object, and that in which it occurs, say, a man. And such being its nature, it will have two aspects, one in its relation to the object presented, the second in its relation to the subject experiencing the presentation.(Sextus Empiricus 1967: I, 167–168)

There is nothing new in the description of the relation between phantasia and the external object. The other relation, however, is a completely new element in the description of phantasia, as compared to the Chrysippean conception. Characterizing the relation between phantasia and man – but also between phantasia and the external object – Carneades uses the word ‘relation’ in order to express the fact that the phantasia is determined not only by phantastikon, that is, by the external object which this phantasia takes the shape of, but also by the body and personality of the person in whose sense organs the phantasia was born and conveyed to his mind. This subjectivization of phantasia, which pursues Lacydes’ initiative, is an essential innovation, for this aspect of the definition directly denies the reified part as a dominant element of the phantasia marked by the external object, which ought to present itself in every man exactly in the same way according to the stoic theory, being determined or sealed up by the same object. By this turn, Carneades widens the path to the acknowledgment of the subjective moment in the cognition process. In his definition, he transgresses first the framework established by the Theophrastean concept of rational phantasia and its modified stoic and Epicurean versions. Strictly speaking, Carneades developed an important idea in epistemology and in the theory of the mind, which put to test his forerunners from Plato through Aristotle and Theophrastus up to Chrysippus: he conceived phantasia as a turning point between the world of external reality and that of thinking, by means of which the material impulses generating material processes in the sense organs can nevertheless convey “knowledge of immaterial character” to thinking. With this innovation, the philosopher of Cyrene eliminated the latent contra-

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diction in Chrysippus’ theory, who identified the common notions with the groups of phantasias assented to, in order to integrate them into the world of thinking, but at the price of characterizing them as a sort of feeling. In the ensuing part of the above-quoted text Carneades comes to the conclusion that, as a result of the double relation of phantasia, human thinking cannot be determined by any external factor: “for neither that which itself appears false, not that which though true does not appear so to us, is naturally convincing to us” (Sextus Empiricus 1967: I, 169–170). In the history of subjectivity, this is one of the most important theses, indeed.21 Here Carneades challenges the theory of external determination unanimously proposed from Zeno to Chrysippus on the basis of the reified distinguishing mark of the cognitive phantasia. A cognitive phantasia having a compelling effect from nature could also exert an irresistible influence on thinking itself, and this external determination would limit subjectivity as well. In Carneades’ conception, the phantasia also has a relation to the man who perceives the external object, so that it is sealed up in the sense organs and determined not only by the external object but also by the body and the personality of the man in question. The Carneadean distinction between logical and natural necessity, which opened a new era in philosophy, is well-known but not appreciated enough. Due to this conception, he also contributed to a more complete thinkability of subjectivity and to a wider interpretation of memory.22 This trend of his philosophy also relied upon the criticism and development of the double nature of the Chrysippean phantasia, which removed the narrow connection between thinking and perception, and thus provided a larger scope for thinking about subjectivity. Carneades’ new argument suppresses not only the stoic short-circuiting between sense perception and thinking coming from the cognitive phantasia, but also that of the sensualism of the Epicurean school, which has been also continuously criticized by the Academy since Arcesilaos’ time. From the point of view of Greek philosophy, this separation of logical necessity from natural necessity means the end of a long process. The idea of identity or close relationship between thinking and existence already appeared in pre-Socratic philosophy. Parmenides ranked among the most important philosophers holding this identity. According to him, existence prescribes how thinking should think it. Because of the then unclear relation between perception and thinking, several philosophical schools taught this idea of a determining force directly influencing thinking. Protagoras weakened this conception first by his homo mensura thesis. Due to its epistemological relativism, he is considered as a forerunner of the conception of subjectivity. The history of arguing both sides of an issue is also traced back to him. Finally, in a more refined

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way, if compared to their predecessors, the stoics elaborated a new conception of the close connection between perception and thinking. After the peak of stoic philosophy, Carneades’ conception, initiating a new epoch in epistemology, differed from all the former ones, which underwent many transformation and which fundamentally included two main trends. And he was fully aware of his transcending all the former theories of the criterion of truth based on the relation between perception and thinking. . The weakening of the reference relation and the theory of probability23 The academicians contested the stoic theory of reference, which was renewed by Chrysippus with his meaning theory. Although they maintained the topos of the possible falsehood of phantasia elaborated by Arcesilaos as their chief argument, they completed it with the claim that, in general, concepts could not be exactly defined. This argument thus attacked the reference relation at an additional point: at the concept. In order to prove the uncertainties in the definition of concepts, the academicians applied the so-called sorites-arguments (the “bald man” argument). This sort of argument, coming from the Socratic school of Megara, was widely used at the New Academy. In addition to the basic meaning of the argument, the word sorites itself developed into a comprehensive denotation of all the difficulties found in the field of examination of the incertitude in the definition of concepts. So, the skeptics expounded to the stoics that it is impossible to define how many hairs one should lose to be bald, how many seeds amount to a stack, etc. After having weakened the stoic conception of the reference relation, the academicians still had to elaborate a principle suitable to be a guide in everyday life, in moral practice, in order to overcome the stoic argument of apraxia. This principle is based on the Carneadean theory of probability, which relies upon several pillars. One of its preconditions is the weakening of the stoic conception of the reference relation at both of its poles. The separation of thinking from the external world facilitates in general the grounding of probability because, according to Carneades, philosophical thinking counterbalances the misleading effects of the sense organs. First philosophical self-consciousness, then the relation itself in the framework of which this correction can take place are needed in order to account for this correction. From the two fundamental relations of phantasia, the latter is the one that connects it with the external object. The other relation between the phantasias and thinking becomes uncertain because the abstract concepts appearing steadfast at first glance prove to be unstable due

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to the sorites arguments. Consequently, there are not “common notions” based on the groups of formerly assented to phantasias. In a certain sense, the theory of probability also follows from the criticism of the Chrysippean theory of forecasting. By proving the inexactitude of concepts, Carneades also weakens the basis of the forecasting considered by the stoic thinkers as steadfast. Thus, Carneades reduces it to the rank of conjecture, of probability that can be described as a subjective supposition confirmed or not by practice. This is the second pillar of probability theory. From the Chrysippean theory of forecasting – due to the sorites argument – the principle of the theory of probability follows directly. It was necessary only to elaborate the details. The third pillar of probability theory is built upon the philosophical traditions of the Academy. In the course of the construction of his theory of probability, Carneades could use Arcesilaos’ doctrine of the attitude based on rational discretion in matters of everyday life, which created the principle of eulogon, as explained above, in order to overcome the stoic criticism of apraxia. In his probability theory, the founder of the New Academy differentiates three degrees of the probable or convincing phantasia (phantasia pitané): probable, unimpeded, and verified. From the three degrees, the third one is the real novelty. The probable and the unimpeded phantasias still assume only an internal supervision of the conditions and the results of perception: the phantasias; whether they seem false, and whether the former phantasias and matured notions contradict them. Here Carneades relies upon the Chrysippean temporalization. The third degree of the Carneadean phantasia, however, goes beyond the former framework and prescribes a systematic, active verification in order to minimize the misleading effect of the external conditions and appearances (see Sextus Empiricus 1967: I, 182–184). Carneades does not reject the results of the Chrysippean temporalization in this case either, which was the result of the interpretation of the phantasia as referred to experience. On the contrary, he extends this temporalization; he completes the Chrysippean inner temporalization with the external one insofar as he prescribes the posterior supervision of the birth conditions of a given phantasia. If we turn our attention to the temporalization of some cognitive act as presented in Hellenistic philosophy, we can establish the parallel presence of processes pointing to the foundation of the concept of subjectivity. That happened in the case of Carneades, who strongly relied upon Chrysippus’ philosophy. In epistemology, the integration of the capabilities of memory and forecasting into the cognition process required temporalization, which was accompanied, on the other hand, by the pressing back of the conception of

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

determinism based on reified connections. Carneades gave a finishing touch to this development by separating logical from natural necessity and, consequently, by opening an internal space of action for thinking that turns to itself. His probability theory permitted the application of the philosophical concept of subjectivity from philosophy to everyday life. Carneades contributed decisively to the real foundations of subjectivity on both counts: by creating a new definition and classification of phantasia and by constructing his probability theory. He managed to come closer to the functioning of thinking as an activity which exists on the basis of its own relative independence and of the detachment of its internal phases, as well as through the internal conditions of the representation of time, and consequently, of its own internal time.

. Seventh, closing phase of the academic-stoic controversy: “Opening the gates” In the closing phase of the controversy, a mutual advance of academic and stoic standpoints took place, first of all in the field of the central topic, that is, of the criterion of truth or cognitive phantasia. The persuasiveness of Carneades’ arguments and his huge authority24 had an extraordinary effect not only on the Academy but also on almost all the contemporary philosophical schools, the stoic one included. This school began to “retire” (as Augustine put it in his Contra Academicos – 1970: 59; quoted in Brittain 2001: 363) when Panaitios integrated the Carneadean probability theory based on the persuasive phantasia into the stoic epistemology. Panaitios (185–110 BC), who became the leader of the stoic school in 129 BC, was a contemporary of Carneades’ disciples. He could follow the succession of events in the Academy, where the most talented disciples – Clitomachos, Hagnon, Charmadas, Melanthios Rhodos, Aischines and Metrodorus – elaborated quite different interpretations. Inside the Academy, the orthodox Carneadean party under the guidance of Clitomachos had a solid majority. Another of these trends, however, mitigated the sharpness of the Carneadean criticism and developed a strong probability theory. Panaitios built the description of the supervised phantasia into the stoic theory still during Clitomachos’ leadership (128–110 BC). The positing of the five conditions of his theory of correct cognition as a guarantee of exact cognition clearly indicates a strong Carneadean inspiration.25 The successful Carneadean criticism and probability theory exerted an important influence on the stoic school which transformed to a certain extent his theory, by devel-

 Mihály Szívós

oping the conception of consciously controlled observation – coming close to the notion of scientific experimental observation. Panaitios – recall that we are speaking of the head of the stoic school – also gave free play to subjectivity in epistemology by connecting the criticism of new knowledge conveyed by new phantasias with these five conditions. Metrodorus (ca. 170/165-after 110 BC) transformed his teacher’s theory of verified phantasia in the spirit of moderate skepticism. Several years after Panaitios’ death, this Metrodorian interpretation gradually prevailed over the other similar trends in the post-Carneadean period and was finally accepted even by Philon of Larissa (159/8–84/3 BC), who was originally elected head of the Academy in 110 BC as an orthodox Clitomachian disciple (Brittain 2001: 41). The Philonian/Metrodorian interpretation differed from the orthodox Clitomachian one in several points. The crucial difference was the shift from the purely subjective Clitomachian interpretation of the pithanon – under which there is no inference from what is persuasive to what is true – to the Philonian/Metrodorian quasi-objective use of it as evidence for truth. The Philonian/Metrodorians adapted the Clitomachian version of Carneades’ scheme, interpreting the persuasiveness of their impressions as having objective grounds and thus as producing (in some cases) provisional or ‘probable’ results. It is at any rate clear that the Philonian/Metrodorians extended the application of the pithanon beyond practical life and introduced immediate perception into the philosophical realm (Brittain 2001: 16–17). From the point of view of subjectivity, the Carneadean conception of pithanon (credible) was developed by the disciples in two main directions. The orthodox camp maintained the strongly subjective interpretation of Carneadean epistemology. The next generations of disciples continued this line which inspired even Ainesidemos (active in the first half of the 1st century BC), who finally left the Academy being dissatisfied with the advance of a moderate skepticism more tolerant with stoicism. On the other hand, Metrodorus and his disciples reduced the subjectivity in epistemology by considering the persuasiveness of phantasias as a way to probable knowledge that had some “objective basis”. Philon of Larissa as head of the Academy, along with his disciples accepted this interpretation of the Carneadean legacy, abandoning at the same time the Clitomachian orthodoxy. Later, Philon’s best disciple, Antiochos of Ascalon (130–68 BC), radically broke even with this moderate Carneadean standpoint and acknowledged the stoic cognitive phantasia as a real criterion of truth. Augustine observed this mutual advance of both schools. Although his interpretation does not have the value of a Ciceronian work, and he certainly tries

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

to justify his own synthesis, he is nevertheless close to a correct assessment of the final result of this closing phase. The stoic “retirement” mentioned in the Contra Academicos (Augustine 1970: 363) really took place, whereas the subjectivity of Carneadean epistemology was indeed reduced by Metrodorus, the moderate skeptic, and by Philon from the second generation. As the head of the Academy (110–84/3 BC), Philon “opened the gates” in fact with this act to reformed and moderated stoic ideas. In spite of the uncertainty of some events and motives of the agents in this story, the mutual approach of the stoic school and the Academy seems to be clear. This development had a considerable effect on the later reception of the controversy, as exemplified by Augustine’s case, who unified the academic doctrines with the stoic ones in several fields, mostly without referring to any school’s philosophy as his source.

. “Time remaining in soul”: The Chrysippean philosophy and its Carneadean criticism as the basis of Augustine’s conception of time The new Carneadean definition of persuasive phantasia and its function in the cognition process is the peak point of the academic-stoic controversy. After more than two hundred years of discussion on the definition of phantasia, this concept unified several approaches and allowed for a bundle of theoretical links to other problems of philosophy. As a real emergent result of a long development, the Carneadean theory could influence thinkers of later centuries. From the point of view of temporality, the most consequent follower of the Carneadean subjectivization of phantasia was Augustine, who ranked the Academy above all other philosophical schools. Deeply influenced by academic skepticism for several years, he was very interested in the problems of time, even after his conversion to Christianity. In formulating his time definition in his Confessions, he relied upon the academic-stoic controversy. On the one hand, he defines time as based on the present, considered to be its only real part. On the other, he connects this present to phantasia conceived as a subjective phenomenon: It is in my own soul [‘soul’ is used here instead of ‘mind’], then, that I measure time... For everything which happens leaves an impression on it, and this impression remains after the thing itself has ceased to be. It is the impression that I measure, since it is still present, not the thing itself, which makes the impression as it passes and then moves into the past. (Augustine 1961: XI, 27, 276)

 Mihály Szívós

The impressions of ephemeral things are really phantasias both in stoic and academic sense. The passage “this impression [i.e., phantasia, sense impression] remains after the thing itself has ceased to be” is particularly suggestive; this is a part of the classical definitions of phantasia, unanimously accepted by all Hellenistic schools. Augustine extends temporalization to the extent of identifying time with phantasia interpreted as a short interval of time that took shape in the soul. As he conceives phantasia as a subjective event, although differently from Carneades about five hundred years earlier, he makes time, of which the present is the only real part, subjective as well.

. Conclusions . A controversy rich in turning points from the viewpoint of the theory of controversy It is obvious that this paper cannot exhaust the great potential of the academicstoic controversy at the level of the general theory of controversy. Methodologically, the most important events and turning points of the controversy were highlighted by employing several key concepts of such a theory: emergent process and result, taking the initiative, semantic fighting, the role of terminological innovations, identification of the phases of the debate. The emergent processes in the controversy, resulting in new conceptions or new definitions of concepts, which are not reducible to the conceptual framework of either of the adversaries, could unfold only thanks to the subtle appropriation of the arguments of the opponent. The developing definitions of phantasia and its versions, especially the notion of cognitive phantasia, constitute the most typical example. The criticisms connected to these concepts inspired the Athenian schools to view them in an ever-wider context. On the other hand, however, the extension of the context of phantasia and especially of cognitive phantasia can be also attributed to a semantic close-range fighting which started in an early phase of the controversy, when the Academy heavily discussed the first definition of the concept. In fact, the continuous semantic debate indicates the close relation of both disputants to the Socratic-Platonic heritage. If a concept remains in the centre in spite of its different interpretations, it reacts to the evolution of theories and arguments by reinforcing the elaboration of those elements that are linked to it. Thus, the position of such concept will be even stronger as a consequence of this feedback, which is typical of an emergent process.

Temporality, reification and subjectivity 

Due to their profound understanding of the other’s theory and to the innovations and corrections, both the Academy and the Stoa took over the initiative one after the other. The former took place when Arcesilaos launched a critical attack against Zeno’s concept of cognitive phantasia by using several cases of visual appearances. This point of attack proved to be very well chosen because it was an Archimedean point in the stoic system. The stoic school could regain the initiative only when its third leader, Chrysippus, rethought and rebuilt the whole system. The Stoa managed to maintain this position until Carneades, who – imitating Chrysippus’ method – returned to the sources of both schools, studying the history of their controversy and introducing a new approach to the criterion of truth. Relying upon this strong background, he could win in the semantic fight about the concept of cognitive phantasia by introducing a new typology of phantasias and a theory of their systematic checking. Thus he prepared a strong probability theory too. The stoic reaction to this new approach comprised, above all, the integration of Carneades’ achievements by Panaitios – which clearly demonstrated Carneades’ success based on his criticism and innovations. . Temporalization and reification as dimensions of the foundation of subjectivity The distance between the totally passive subjective state of mind of ataraxia and active subjectivity as formulated by Augustine is really considerable. In terms of the history of ideas, the academic-stoic controversy and the use of the theories of both schools by later generations of philosophers and by the church fathers constitute the bridge between these two conceptions of subjectivity. In addition to the Chrysippean and Carneadean temporalization of the cognition process, the Augustinian definition of time based on the concept of phantasia defined as a kind of pathos also demonstrates the constitutive effect of temporality on the emergence of the conception of active subjectivity. Whereas temporalization contributes to the foundation of subjectivity and becomes its inherent component, reification marks out its boundaries. The stoic definition of cognitive phantasia illustrates this important aspect. This phantasia contains a reified imprint from the outer object and thus limits the scope of decision of the perceiver, i.e., his subjectivity. Another example is the rigorous ethical rulebooks of the stoic school, which hardly leave any scope for creative subjectivity in everyday life. The positive consequence stemming from the revealing of the reifying character of a philosophical theory, on the

 Mihály Szívós

other hand, can manifest itself in its contribution to a correct – because more balanced – conception of subjectivity. In the battle arena of temporalization and reification, a new complex of problems emerged – that of relation. Carneades’ new approach to phantasia resulted in the realization of the crucial importance of its relation to man’s thinking, personality and body. In this way, he contributed to the foundation of subjectivity because it is relations that constitute subjectivity’s bridges to the outer world.

Notes . The meaning of this Greek word does not at all correspond to that of modern fantasy, although the latter stems from the former – via several transformations. The best English translation of the word is sense impression. Fundamentally, phantasia can be translated into modern languages only with serious compromises. . Eusebios, Preparatio evangelica XIV, 18, 2–4 (English transl. A. A. Long, 1974: 80–81). . Pamela M. Huby (1989) has shown that Theophrastus’ studies of memory and phantasia were actually attributed to Aristotle for centuries. . J. Gould (1971: 56) stresses that the identification of sense impressions charged with illusions and of false phantasia can be linked to the soul’s activities of considering and reflecting. Yet, he could not have known Theophrastus’ fragments of the concept of rational phantasia, which were reconstructed by Huby (1989). . Zeno attended both Polemo’s (354–270/69 BC; fourth head of the Academy) and Theophrastus’ lectures. He began to teach in his own school in 300 BC. . David Sedley reconstructs the early stoic and academic debate on kathékonta, practical ethics, in his excellent article of 1999. This article marks a turn in the literature on this epoch, since this debate had been quite neglected before. . Seneca quotes a typical example from Zeno (Ep. 83.9); it is also cited by Sedley (1999: 146). . There is a remarkable passage in Cicero (1990: 33) concerning Theophrastus’ conception of the foundation of ethics, where he is alleged to ruin the traditional basis of moral teaching by stating that happiness can be only partially based on virtue. . Cicero (1951: 40–41). Near this passage, the definition of cognitive phantasia can also be found: “. . .well, to this presentations received by the senses he joins the act of mental assent which he makes out to reside within us and to be a voluntary act, he held that not all presentations are trustworthy but only those that have a ‘manifestation’, peculiar themselves, of the objects presented; and the trustworthy presentation, being perceived as such by its own intrinsic nature, he termed ‘trustable”’ (Cicero 1951: 41–43). . “The icon is characterized by a relation of similarity between the sign and its object” (The Routledge Companion, p. 204).

Temporality, reification and subjectivity . In the literature on stoicism, the attribute “physicalist” is still widely used to describe the simplifying materialist and reifying trend of this philosophy. This expression seems to be misleading in two respects. First of all, it erroneously suggests the primacy of physics as a philosophical discipline. Secondly, it wrongly merges the conception of psychological processes and their material basis with the conception of material processes rightly considered as material ones. Instead of the expressions “material”, “physical” or “materialized”, the categories “reification” and “reified” seem to be more suitable in this respect. . Another version, coming from another source, of the Zenonian definition also indicates the reified distinguishing mark of the cognitive phantasia: “For if they [the stoics] are saying that in their account ‘to apprehend’ means ‘to assent to an apprehensive phantasia’, where an apprehensive phantasia is ‘one that is derived from and stamped and impressed in accord with, an existent object, or state of affairs, and is such as would not arise from something nonexistent’, then perhaps not even they themselves will want to claim inability to raise questions about things that they have not apprehended in this sense” (Sextus Empiricus 1996: II, 4–5). . H. J. Mette (1985a: 87) pointed out this fact: Arcesilaos “was deeply interested in the epistemological problem: is absolute cognition possible at all and how can it be guaranteed?” (my translation). . The Greek word criterion means literally an aid to distinguish between things. . Cicero (1979: XIX, 77) quoted Zeno’s answer to Arcesilaos’ question. . In the literature, the posteriority of the eulogon’s crystallization was realized but not connected with the similar practice of the Epicureans. “The formulation ... suggests that Arcesilaos thought of a posterior checking and confirmation of the practical decision. . .” (Flashar 1994: 808; my translation). . This expression will appear later in Augustine’s Confessions (VIII, 8) too. . Gould’s (1971: 61) hypothesis of the connection between groups of phantasias and the common notions is one of the most considerable achievements of his book. On the basis of the report of Alexander of Aphrodisias, the duality in Chrysippus’ epistemology, that is, the fact that designated the criterion of truth now as cognitive phantasia and then as common notion, can be eliminated only by the thesis that common notions stem from former phantasias. The passage of Alexander of Aphrodisias containing Chrysippus’ idea is quoted by Arnim (1923: II, 473). . Stoic formulations such as those in the papyrus of Herculaneum already show the effect of academic criticism. See Hülser (1987: 1, fragment 88; Papyrus Hercul. 1020). . Gould (1971: 59) arrives at the same conclusion, though in a different way. . Presumably referring to other evaluations, Cicero classifies the achievement of the philosopher of Cyrene in his Lucullus as follows: “I agree with Clitomachos, when he writes that Carneades really did accomplish an almost Herculean labor in riding of our minds of that fierce wild beast, the act of assent, that is of mere opinion and hasty thinking” (Cicero 1951: 108). . In Cicero’s Lucullus (1990: 106), the advocate of the academic doctrines emphasizes the stoic reduction of the functions of memory, arguing that one can remember not only the



 Mihály Szívós

true things grasped and understood earlier but also the false ones. In this way he treats one of the central problems of subjectivity. . According to some historians of philosophy, the existence of a pure Carneadean probability theory cannot be clearly proved (Long & Sedley 1987: 459). . “So great was Carneades’ stature and authority that after his death it was his philosophy more directly than that of Socrates and Plato that academics felt required to interpret and defend” (Long & Sedley 1987: 448). . The “‘later’ stoics added to the necessary attributes of a cognitive impression a requirement strongly reminiscent of Carneades’ ‘undivertedness’, and they also specified five ‘concurrent’ factors, which closely resemble his account of what must be ‘thoroughly explored’ in the third level of convincing impression. These later stoic additions read like actual importations from Carneades, gratefully accepted as improvements to the original stoic doctrine in response to his criticisms” (Long & Sedley 1987: 459).

References Ameriks, K. & Sturma, D. (Eds.). (1995). The Modern Subject. Conceptions of the Self in Classical German Philosophy. Albany: State University of New York Press. Annas, J. (1992). Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind. Berkeley: University of California Press. Annas, J. (Ed.). (1989). Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, Vol. VII. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Aristotle. (1995). The Complete Works. Revised Oxford translation, J. Barnes (Ed.). Princeton: Princeton University Press. von Arnim, H. (1923). Stoicorum veterum fragmenta (SVF) 2. Chrysippi fragmenta. Logica et physica. Stuttgart: Teubner. Augustine. (1961). Confessions, transl. R. S. Pine-Coffin. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Augustine. (1970). Contra Academicos, Libri Tres, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina 29, 2. W. M. Green (Ed.). Turnholt: Brepols. Barnes, J. (1990). The Toils of Skepticism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barnes, J., Brunschwig, J., Burnyeat, M., & Schofield, M. (Eds.). (1982). Science and Speculation. Studies in Hellenistic Theory and Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brittain, C. (2001). Philo of Larissa. The Last of the Academic Skeptics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brochard, V. (1932). Les sceptiques grecs. Paris: Vrin. Cicero, M. T. (1951). Academici Libri. H. Rackham (Ed.), revised edition, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cicero, M. T. (1979). Cicero in Twenty-Eight Volumes. Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press/W. Heinemann. Cicero, M. T. (1990). Hortensius, Lucullus, Academici Libri. Münich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag. Cobley, P. (Ed.). (2001). The Routledge Companion to Semiotics and Linguistics. London: Routledge.

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Diogenes Laertius (1972). Lives of Eminent Philosophers, transl. R. D. Hicks. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dorandi, T. (1991). Ricerche sulla cronologia dei filosofi ellenistici. Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner. Dumont, J. P. (1985). Le scepticisme et le phénomˇcne. Paris: Vrin. Fladerer, L. (1996). Antiochos von Askalon. Hellenist and Humanist. Graz: Horn. Flashar, H. (Ed.). (1994). Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie. Die Philosophie der Antike, Band 4. Die hellenistische Philosophie. Basel: Schwabe. von Fritz, K. (1978). Schriften zur griechischen Logik I–II. Stuttgart and Bad Canstatt: Frommann-Holzboog. Gigon, O. (1944). Zur Geschichte der sogenannten Neuen Akademie, Museum Helveticum 1. Zeitschrift für klassische Altertumwissenschaft. Basel: Schwabe. Gould, J. (1971). The Philosophy of Chrysippus. Leiden: Brill. Griffin, M., & Barnes, J. (Eds.). (1989). Philosophia Togata I. Essays on Philosophy and Roman Society. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Glucker, J. (1978). Antiochus and the Late Academy. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Hankinson, R. J. (1995). The Skeptics. London: Routledge. Huby. P. M. (1989). “Theophrastus and the criterion”. In P. M. Huby et al. (Eds.). Huby, P. M., Neal, G., & Kerferd, G. B. (Eds.). (1989). The Criterion of Truth: Essays Written in Honour of George Kerferd. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Hülser, K. (Hrsg.). (1987). Die Fragmente zur Dialektik der Stoiker, Band 1–3. Stuttgart and Bad Canstatt: Frommann-Holzboog. Ierodiakonou, K. (Ed.). (1999). Topics in Stoic Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Krämer, J. H. (1967). Der Ursprung der Geistmetaphysik. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Platonismus zwischen Platon und Plotin. Amsterdam: Grüner. Long, A. A. (1974). Hellenistic Philosophy. London: Duckworth. Long, A. A., & Sedley, D. N. (1987). The Hellenistic Philosophers. Translations of the Principal Sources with Philosophical Commentary, Vol. I. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Luck, G. (1953). Der Akademiker Antiochus. Bern: Haupt. McGinn, C. (1983). The Subjective View. Secondary Qualities and Indexical Thoughts. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Mette, H. J. (1985a). Zwei Akademiker heute: Krantor von Soloi und Arkesilaos von Pitane. Lustrum. Internationale Forschungsberichte aus dem Bereich des klassischen Altertums. Band 26. Mette, H. J. (1985b). Weitere Akademiker heute (Forts. von Lustrum 26, 7–94): Von Lakydes bis zu Kleitomachos. Lustrum. Internationale Forschungsberichte aus dem Bereich des klassischen Altertums. Band 27. Moreau, J. (1979). Stoicisme – épicureisme, tradition hellénique. Paris: Vrin. Robin, L. (1944). Pyrrhon et le scepticisme grec. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Ruzsa, I., & Máté, A. (1997). Introduction in the Modern Logic (Bevezetés a modern logikába). Budapest: Osiris. Schofield, M., Burnyeat, M., & Barnes, J. (Eds.). (1980). Doubt and Dogmatism. Studies in Hellenistic Epistemology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sedley, D. (1999). “The stoic-Platonist debate on kathékonta”. In K. Ierodiakonou (Ed.), Topics in Stoic Philosophy (pp. 128–153). Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Sextus Empiricus (1967). Sextus Empiricus in Four Volumes, transl. R. G. Bury. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press and W. Heinemann. Sextus Empiricus (1996). The Skeptic Way: Sextus Empiricus’ Outlines of Pyrrhonism, transl. B. Mates. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Szívós, M. (2000a). A látszat története. A kezdetektöl az i.e., I. század közepéig (History of Appearance. From the Beginning Until the Middle of the 1st Century BC). Budapest: Aron K. Szívós, M. (2000b). “The role of iconicity in the debate between the Academy and the Stoa”. Semiotische Berichte, 24, 1–4. Tatarkiewicz, W. (1979). Geschichte der Ästhetik I–III. Basel and Stuttgart: Schwabe. Temporini, H. (1973). Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Von den Anfängen Roms bis zum Ausgang der Republik IV. Berlin: de Gruyter.

Chapter 10

First person singular in 17th century controversies Gerd Fritz

.

Introductory remarks

This paper presents research conducted in the framework of an interdisciplinary project on “Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800)” by a group of philosophers from Tel Aviv (Israel) and a group of linguists from Gießen (Germany).1 One of the objectives of this project is to analyze the pragmatic organization of controversies in the 17th and 18th centuries. What we are mainly looking for are the historical rules and principles guiding various types of controversy in this period, including characteristic types of moves and strategies and also patterns of text-production.2 Focussing on the expression of individuality in the controversies of this period provides a rewarding new perspective. There are various aims one could pursue in the study of subjectivity in historical controversies. One could, for example, try and find out something about the personalities of individuals engaged in controversies in the distant past. The German astronomer Johannes Kepler, for instance, who wrote four hundred years ago and whom I shall mention on several occasions, is a very interesting personality, with a lively style and a remarkable sense of humour. But this is not my primary aim in this paper. What interests me most is the function of first-person singular utterances as moves in the game of controversy in the period from 1600 to 1800. What I am looking for specifically is indicators of a characteristic rhetoric of individuality in the controversies of this period. The following list provides a basic survey of some types of utterances in modern English and some typical functions with which I shall deal in the course of this paper. The examples in my paper will be taken from controversies in English, French and German.

 Gerd Fritz

(1) I only enter into this dispute because ... (function: justifying one’s entering into a controversy) (2) I shall now turn to the second argument (function: making explicit an aspect of text organization) (3) In my opinion this is not true (function: first person hedging) (4) My opponent says that p, but I say that q (function: marking a disagreement in quasi-dialogue) (5) Aristotle says that p, but I say that q (function: marking a disagreement with an authority) (6) Nobody has done more to clarify this than I have (function: self-praise, self-advertising) (7) I saw it myself (function: presenting one’s own observations or experience) (8) What I meant was ... (function: giving an interpretation of one’s own words) (9) I do not understand what these words mean (function: claiming incomprehension or incomprehensibility of one’s opponents’ utterances) (10) After observing this / reading this I realized that my original view was wrong (function: first person narrative of one’s progress from error to truth)

There are of course many other moves in controversies which one can perform with first person expressions, e.g., personal complaints about the uselessness of controversies, apologies, explaining one’s intentions, confessions, even prayers, but I shall restrict my inquiry to the types I mentioned just now.

. On reading 17th century texts Before going into more detail, I would like to mention the problems of interpretation which we, as modern readers of 17th century texts, have to keep in mind if we want to avoid being misled by certain forms of utterance. I shall give two examples. The first example concerns dedications in 17th century pamphlets, a standard textual element at that time. In these dedications we often find formulations like “this humble booklet” (e.g., “diese meine geringe Arbeit”, Feselius

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

1609, Vorrede; (dieses) von mir aufgesetzten geringen Tractätleins”, Geuder 1689, Dedication). Taken at surface value, this sounds like an expression of humility, but in fact it is nothing of the kind; it is a typical expression of polite self-depreciation which is a part of the style of dedications. As a rule, humility is not one of the outstanding virtues of the authors of pamphlets. On the contrary, they very often indulge in self-praise and self-advertising, of which I shall mention two instances later on. As examples of polite diction are not always as obvious as in the case I just referred to, we have to be careful to find out where the authors express genuine humility or admiration and where they are just performing routines of politeness.3 In fact, even for contemporaries it could be embarrassing if what was meant as mere politeness was taken as a genuine expression of attitude. For example, Johannes Kepler, as a young man, wrote a letter to the then famous mathematician Ursus in Prague and in polite exaggeration told him that he (Kepler) had learned all his mathematics from the books of Ursus, when in fact he had learned mathematics from his professor Mästlin at Tübingen University. Later on, when Kepler himself was well-known, Ursus published this letter, which was rather embarrassing for Kepler, as his former professor was quite annoyed with this misrepresentation.4 The second example is more subtle, and therefore it is also more interesting. It is taken from the controversy between Thomas Hobbes and the Anglican Bishop Bramhall on the question of free will, which culminated in the 1650s. On one occasion, when Bishop Bramhall reflected on the “horrid consequences” of Hobbes’ doctrine, he wrote: “I must confess ingenuously, I hate this doctrine from my heart” (Bramhall, Defence, 63). Now this is about as obvious an expression of subjectivity as you can get. It is explicitly styled as a confession of personal hatred. However, in the margin of this passage, we find the note: “Psalm 139, verses 21/22”. These are the last verses of this psalm, where King David complains about the enemies of God: 21 Do I not hate them O LORD, that hate thee? and am not I grieved with those that rise up against thee? 22 I hate them with perfect hatred: I count them mine enemies.

Thus, in this passage, Bramhall was not using his own words but was quoting, perhaps you should say he was alluding to, King David’s psalm. In so doing, Bramhall indicated that his hatred was not just a personal feeling but the appropriate feeling for a Bishop to have when dealing with atheists or heretics. So what at first sight looks like an expression of quite personal feeling, is an expression of the kind of feeling that goes with Bramhall’s role as a fighter against

 Gerd Fritz

God’s enemies. This kind of pious hatred (“frommer Zorn”; Gierl 1997: 158) was not only permitted to someone who was fighting heretics in the 17th century; it was actually his job to express this kind of hatred. Therefore, what prima facie looked like a fairly clear example of pure subjectivity, turns out to be strongly filtered through role requirements. This is the kind of thing we have to be aware of when we analyze 17th century texts. Of course, problems of this kind also occur with modern texts, but the problem of interpretation is much more serious when we are dealing with a fairly distant historical period. Incidentally, in his answer to this passage, Hobbes complains: “To the end of this number there is nothing more of argument. The place is filled up with wondering and railing” (Hobbes, LNC, 114).

. Uses of first-person singular expressions I shall now look at a number of uses of first-person expressions in controversies which I consider interesting from a historical point of view, as they differ, at least partly, from what we know as present-day practice of first person singular use. . Justifying one’s entering into a controversy As traditional controversies in pamphlets often cost a lot of time and effort which could be usefully spent on other activities, authors frequently felt they had to explain why they took up a challenge and entered into a controversy. The standard place for such a personal justification in a traditional pamphlet was the preface to the reader. A case in point is the preface which August Hermann Francke, the pietist theologian, wrote for a pamphlet against an orthodox opponent in 1707.5 There he explains why he reluctantly decided to write this pamphlet. (1) Therefore, although my soul normally despises quarrels amongst religious teachers and although I would much rather suffer all malice silently in Christian patience ... this time I have to justify myself openly before the whole Church ... in order to prove my innocence. Dannenhero wie feind auch sonst meine Seele dem Zanck unter Lehrern ist / und wie viel lieber ich mich in der Gedult Christi alleine fassen ... wolte ... so kann ich mich dennoch für dißmal nicht entbrechen / mich

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

öffentlich vor der gantzen Kirche zu verantworten / ... meine Unschuld zu zeigen (1707: 277).

Apart from justifying their entering into a controversy, authors often use prefaces and the closing passages of pamphlets for other personal statements, especially for presenting their personal view of the course of the controversy. So prefaces and closing passages are an important source of information for an enquiry into the personal aspects of controversies. . Making explicit aspects of text organisation I continue with a fairly inconspicuous type of utterance, which does not seem to express anything very personal but is an interesting indicator of the authors’ awareness of their writing strategies. The following example is taken from a pamphlet by the astromer Johannes Kepler. (2) Here I have to introduce a question in between, which is however important enough to deserve a detailed treatment of its own. Allhie muß ich eine Frage zwischen eynführen / welche zwar wol der Wichtigkeit ist / daß absonderlich von derselben gehandelt werden solte (1610: 169, 21).

This kind of utterance is very frequent in our corpus of controversies. It shows that most of these authors were highly expert writers with an excellent grounding in rhetoric, who closely monitored their own text production and tried to help their readers understand the structure of their texts. Textual organization in controversies is a topic in its own right, which I shall not go into in the present paper.6 . First person hedging The next type of utterance I shall mention briefly is of the type “I think”, “I am of the opinion” and “I suppose”. This type can be used to mark the personal commitment of the author to a certain belief, which is an important move in a controversy. But in many cases it seems to be used, rather, for first person hedging. The central function of what I call “first person hedging” is to reduce the commitment of one’s claim from general to personal level. As we know, merely personal commitments are sometimes easier to justify than general ones. In addition, in certain contexts, personal statements tend to be considered more

 Gerd Fritz

polite than sweeping general statements. As an example I quote a theological hypothesis put forward by Kepler: (3) And I suppose that man in his original state of innocence could have performed these natural movements without committing sin... Vnd erachte ich/ daß der Mensch im Standt der Vnschuldt gar wol ohne alle Sünde/ ... dieser natürlichen Bewegungen sich hette gebrauchen können (1610: 158).

What Kepler is referring to with the words “these natural movements” is sexual intercourse. As his view on this matter is a bit unorthodox and in conflict with the views of Augustine, he is careful to present his claim somewhat guardedly. This kind of cautious speech occurs regularly in those passages where Kepler treats delicate matters of theology. But he also uses hedges in other contexts, e.g., when presenting his own astrological hypotheses. These are just preliminary observations which should be followed up in a special study of forms of hedging in 17th century controversies.7 . Contrastive (emphatic) uses The next group of uses of first person expressions is what I call contrastive or emphatic uses: .. Contrastive use in quasi-dialogue The first type frequently serves to highlight contrast of opinion in the typical quasi-dialogical structure of a staged polemics (cf. Fritz 2002). An example from Kepler may suffice to illustrate this type: (4) Feselius says that my view contradicts the laws of physics. I say no... Feselius sagt / es sey der Physica zuwider. Ich sage nein darzu... (1610: 189).

This vivid presentation of the opponents’ positions gives the reader a lively sense of dialogue and contributes to the readability of the pamphlet. So this is a very effective bit of rhetoric. .. Anti-authoritarian use of first person expressions The second type of contrastive use is what one could call an anti-authoritarian use (cf. Machamer 2000: 85). The prototype of this use is: Aristotle says that p, but I say that q. This move is very frequent in 17th century controversies: it is

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

used by Kepler, Hobbes and many others. It is part of the rhetoric of innovation which is characteristic of this period. But this move was no invention of the 16th or 17th centuries. In fact, we find this type of utterance even in the Middle Ages. For example, at the beginning of the 13th century, the Emperor Frederic II wrote in his book on falconry, using the pluralis majestatis: (5) Wherever it was appropriate, we followed Aristotle in our work. In many cases, however, as our experience has taught us, especially concerning the nature of certain birds, he seems to deviate from truth. Therefore, we shall not follow the prince of philosophers in all points; for he only seldom or never went hunting birds, whereas we have loved [falconry] from our youth and have practiced it ever since (Frederic II, De arte venandi cum avibus). In scribendo etiam Aristotilem, ubi oportuit, secuti sumus. In pluribus enim, sicut experientia didicimus, maxime in naturis quarundarum avium, discrepare a veritate videtur. Propter hoc non sequimur principem philosophorum in omnibus, raro namque aut nunquam venationes avium exercuit, sed nos semper dileximus et exercuimus (In Willemsen 1942, Vol. I, 1).

And in 1340, the German scholar Konrad von Megenberg wrote in his Book of Nature: (6) According to Pliny and Jacobus [the lynx] has such sharp eyes that it can see through thick walls. I don’t believe this. (Der Luhs) hat so scharpfiu augen, sam Plinius und Jacobus sprechent, daz er durch starch wend siht. des gelaub ich niht (Buch der Natur, 146, 27ff.).

This self-assured attitude is remarkable in medieval authors, but in the 17th century it is quite typical, as I shall illustrate with a few examples from Kepler and from Hobbes. In his refutation of a pamphlet by the Astrologer Röslin, Kepler wrote: (7) I have studied (these things), and I showed that there is a much closer relationship between the heavens and Earth than Aristotle – and Röslin with him – believes. Dann ich hab so viel gestudiert vnd erwiesen / das zwischen Himmel vnd Erden vil ein grössere Verwandnis seye / als Aristoteles, vnd mit jhme Roeslinus mainet (1609: 107).

In a similar context, when writing about his theory of the connection between the heavens and the Earth in a later pamphlet, Kepler claimed: “Aristotle

 Gerd Fritz

knew little about these things” (“Darvon hat Aristoteles noch wenig gewust”; Kepler 1610: 200). This anti-authoritarian tendency is also shown in the way Kepler enjoyed mentioning himself in the same breath as classical authorities: “Galenus does not say so. I say so even less” (“So sagt Galenus nit (ich noch vil weniger)”; 1610: 223). Like Kepler, Hobbes is also well-known for his anti-authoritarian tendencies. On several occasions Hobbes claimed that he, as opposed to his opponent Bramhall, arrived at his views by thinking and meditating, and not by reading traditional texts: (8) [I] may with as good a grace despise the Schoolmen and some of the old Philosophers, as he [i.e., Bramhall] can despise me, unless he can shew that it is more likely that he should be better able to look into these questions sufficiently, which require meditation and reflection upon a man’s own thoughts. (LNC, 63; cf. also LNC, 311)

What is at stake here is the epistemological choice between personal reflection and the received doctrine of scholasticism. Hobbes used this move in the following passage as well: (9) Another reason why [Bramhall thinks] I should be of his opinion, is that he [i.e., Bramhall] is “in possession of an old truth derived to him by inheritance or succession by his ancestors”. To which I answer, first, that I am in possession of a truth derived to me from the light of reason. (LNC, 337)

Of course, the traditionalists tended to criticize this move. A good example is Hobbes’ opponent, Bishop Bramhall, who countered Hobbes’ attack on scholastic jargon with the following complaint: (10) It is strange to see with what confidence, now-a-days, particular men slight all the Schoolmen, and Philosophers, and classic authors of former ages, as if they were not worthy to unloose the shoe-strings of some modern author.... (Bramhall, quoted in Hobbes, LN, 58)

. Self-praise and self-advertising 17th century rules of politeness condemned self-praise. Nevertheless, few authors could resist the temptation to praise their own achievements and advertise their own writings. A case in point is Leibniz’s reference to his own Theodicy in the following passage from the Leibniz/Clarke controversy:

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

(11) [people tend to misrepresent my position on necessity and fate] although probably no one else has explained better and more fundamentally than myself in the Theodicy the real difference between liberty, contingency, spontaneity on the one hand and absolute necessity, chance, and force on the other. (Leibniz 1715/1716: 389)

In a similar fashion Kepler referred to an earlier work of his and advertised his successful theories: (12) For I have set up these Principles of Physics in my recently published Commentaries on the movements of Mars in such a fashion as to enable anyone to follow my calculations and to treat the whole of astronomy on this basis. Dann ich hab diese principia Physica in meinem newlich außgangenen commentario Martis motuum also angestellt / daß man jhnen nachrechnen / vnd die gantze Astronomiam damit abhandeln kann. (1610: 193)

An extreme case of self-advertizing is Hobbes’ statement at the end of his “Epistle to the reader” in Of liberty and necessity: (13) thou art now acquainted with that man, who, in matters of so great importance as those of thy salvation, furnishes thee with better instructions, than any thou hast ever been acquainted with, what profession, persuasion, opinion, or church soever thou art of. (LN, 238)

That man, of course, is Hobbes himself. A variant of this kind of self-praise is the self-ascription of victory which we often find in the title-pages of 17th century pamphlets (cf. also Gloning 1999: 101). Hobbes, for example, uses this move in the title-page of Of liberty and neccessity: (14) Hobbes, Thomas: Of liberty and necessity: A treatise wherein all controversy concerning predestination, election, free-will, grace, merits, reprobation, etc. is fully decided and cleared. In answer to a treatise written by the Bishop of Londonderry, on the same subject.

. Presenting one’s own observations and experience In the field of science, the main motivation for not following the lead of classical authors was that authors of the “modern” period emphasized the importance of their own experience and their personal observations as instruments of knowledge.

 Gerd Fritz

Kepler is again a good example of this attitude. When his opponent Feselius asserted that the Astronomer Valeriola had claimed that certain forms of astrology could not become a serious science, Kepler answered: (15) That this is true I do not believe because Valeriola said so. As far as he is concerned I could easily deny it and then make him prove it: But I have my own experience in this matter. Daß es also wahr sey / gläube ich nicht eben von deßwegen / weil es Valeriola gesagt / seinethalben köndt ichs wol verneinen / vnd es jhn probiern lassen: sondern ich hab es selbst erfahren. (1610: 179, 14ff.)

On another occasion, when Feselius denied that a certain constellation of the Sun and Saturn could influence the weather, Kepler presented a long extract of his daily metereological observations, which he had made for the last 16 years, i.e., from 1592 to 1609 (Kepler 1610: 254f.). It is, incidentally, interesting to see that these metereological observations had originally been motivated by a hypothesis concerning the parallelism between musical harmonies and stellar geometry, which Kepler had to give up later (p. 205). It is important to note, however, that Kepler did not accept observation alone as the guide to scientific knowledge. When his elder friend Röslin argued that he – Röslin – himself had observed and taken notes of the movements of the comet of 1580, when Kepler was not yet 10 years old, Kepler admitted that these observations were highly valuable and that he himself could use them. But he insisted that in order to understand the phenomenon correctly, one had to have an adequate theory (Kepler uses the word theoremata), i.e., the theory that comets fly in a straight line (cf. Kepler 1609: 119–124). And, of course, the senses might mislead. When Röslin claimed that the hypothesis that the Earth moves around the Sun contradicts the testimony of the senses, Kepler replied: (16) I will gladly admit that it contradicts the senses that the Earth should move around the Sun. But that is not important. For it is for that purpose that God gave us Reason to compensate for the deficiencies of our outward senses. Das es wider die eusserliche Sinne das die Erden soll vmblauffen / bekenn ich gern / vnd hat nit viel zu bedeuten: dann eben darumb hat vns Gott die vernunfft gegeben / das wir darmit den mangel der eusserlichen Sinne ersetzen sollen. (1609: 107, 5ff.)

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

Thus, according to Kepler, it is observation compensated by reason which furthers scientific knowledge. Interesting examples of reports of personal experiences are also provided by the medical controversy between Gehema and Geuder on the topic of bloodletting and other traditional forms of therapy.8 As arguments for their respective sides both doctors report their own cases of successful therapy; Geuder, the traditionalist, reports a case where bloodletting was successful (Geuder 1689: 32) and Gehema, the modernist, reports how he successfully treated fever with warm beverages, which another doctor had unsuccessfully treated with cold drinks (Gehema 1688: 58f.). Obviously, in the case of medical controversies, personal reports of successful treatments play a significant role not only as empirical data but also as a means of strenghthening the doctors’ authority. I should like to add that 17th century scientists knew very well the traditional wisdom that it was a fallacy to infer a general statement from a particular observation, and used this principle in refuting the opponent’s “argument by experience”: “An inference from a particular [premise] to a universal [conclusion] is invalid” (Geuder 1689: 66f.).9 . Misunderstanding and self-interpretation Misunderstandings and possibly intentional misinterpretations frequently occur in the controversies of our corpus. Very often these misunderstandings indicate deep-seated differences and lack of mutual knowledge. Thus, attempts at clarifying such misunderstandings play an important role in the growth of mutual knowledge. It is worth mentioning that we noticed no debate about first-person authority concerning the interpretation of one’s own utterances. The requisite principle, formulated in Latin, was obviously generally accepted: quisque optimus verborum suorum interpres.10 Clarifying misunderstandings by giving an interpretation of one’s own text is a very frequent move, which I shall not document here in detail. An example is Kepler’s dedication of his Antwort to Röslin (1609), where Kepler claimed that Röslin had misunderstood several passages from his (Kepler’s) book De stella nova in pede Serpentarii and that he intended to clarify these misunderstandings, which he did in various passages of his pamphlet.

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. Claiming incomprehension I do not understand what these words mean is one of Hobbes’ favourite objections against his opponent Bramhall. The following is a wonderful example of the irony connected with this move: (17) This term of insufficient cause, which also the Schools call deficient, that they may rhyme to efficient, is not intelligible, but a word devised like hocus pocus, to juggle a difficulty out of sight... I can make no answer; because I understand no more what he means by sufficiency in a divided sense, and sufficiency in a compounded sense, than if he had said sufficiency in a divided nonsense, and sufficiency in a compounded nonsense. (Hobbes, LNC, 384)

On the one hand, this is an aggressive and arrogant move, which implies that the opponent is either too stupid to realize that he is talking nonsense or that he is talking nonsense on purpose in order to fool his opponent and his readers, which is even worse. On the other hand, it is a defensive move that gives the controversialist a chance to avoid getting drawn into a maze of scholastic discussions. From this point of view the move has a therapeutical function. For an opponent of scholastic thought it is probably the only chance to avoid being forced to play the scholastic game. It is therefore not surprising that anti-scholastics like Galileo, Bacon and others should have used this move (cf. Biagioli 1993: 211f.). But Hobbes is probably the 17th century author who cultivated this strategy with most delight. Two more examples of this kind of move come from Samuel Clarke, who used this move twice against Leibniz in their controversy on space and other matters: (18) 41. What the meaning of these words is; An Order (or Situation) which makes Bodies to be Situable; I understand not (in Leibniz 1715/1716: 387). 20. What This tends to prove, with regard to the Argument before us, I understand not (in Leibniz 1715/1716: 385).

In the first case, Leibniz answered that he was misquoted: (19) 104. I am not saying that space is an order or situation which makes objects positionable; to say that would be nonsense... I am thus not saying that space is an order or situation, but an order of situations. 104. Je ne dis point que l’Espace et un ordre ou situation qui rend les choses situables; ce seroit parler galimatias... Je ne dis donc point que

First person singular in 17th century controversies 

l’Espace et un ordre ou situation, mais un ordre des situations. (Leibniz 1715/1716: 415)

In the second case Leibniz just complained that his opponent intentionally refused to understand why Leibniz had said what he had said (Leibniz 1715/1716: 409). . Personal narrative of one’s progress from error to truth Progress from error to truth is a model situation for the growth of knowledge. It is therefore not surprising that we find personal narratives representing this kind of event in a more or less propagandistic manner. I shall give two examples, one from Kepler and one from the medical controversy between Gehema and Geuder. In the course of his answer to Feselius and Röslin, Kepler told his opponents that he had originally assumed a close parallelism between musical harmonies and the geometry of the planets’ constellations. But as his observations did not bear out this assumption, he had to modify his theory (1610: 205). The moral of this story was that, as an open-minded scientist, Kepler was prepared to change his theories if his observations forced him to do so. More dramatically, in 1688 the medical man Gehema related his conversion from traditional Galenic medicine to modern medicine in a first person narrative. He told his readers that he had already started doubting the wisdom of traditional medicine when he read some of the medical reformers of his day. He then reported that, soon after, he saw the light of truth, for which enlightenment he still thanked God every day (1688: 74f.). Of course, the main function of this story of enlightenment was to emphasize the contrast with the traditionalists, who still lived in the darkness of medical ignorance.

. Conclusion For modern readers, subjectivity is probably not the most striking feature of contributions to 17th century controversies. On the contrary, in this period controversies seem to be very much guided by traditional rules and principles, not the least of which is the principle that one should deal with realia and not with personalia. In judging potential loci of subjectivity, we have to take into account, amongst other factors, the typical rhetoric of contemporary genres

 Gerd Fritz

(e.g., dedications and prefaces), contemporary rules of etiquette and principles of text construction. As the material presented in this paper shows, however, we do find many remarkable passages where authors mention personal experiences, voice personal opinions, and make personal reflections. And this is not just the case in Descartes’ Meditations and other major works of the period, but also in texts of minor authors. Thus, there is much material for a comprehensive study of the 17th century rhetoric of individuality or subjectivity. At least some of these forms of expression of subjectivity could be regarded as facets of the rhetoric of innovation typical of the period.

Notes . The project was supported by the German-Israeli Foundation for Scientific Research and Development (GIF) in the years 1999 to 2001. . This project is part of a long-term research endeavour in historical pragmatics, especially in the history of forms of communication (cf. Fritz 1995). The importance of a pragmatic approach to the study of controversy was first emphasized by Marcelo Dascal (cf. 1989). . On routines of politeness characteristic of the period under survey cf. Beetz (1999). . The history of Kepler’s controversy with Ursus is investigated in Jardine (1984). . A pragmatic analysis of the controversy between August Hermann Francke and his opponent Johann Friedrich Mayer is presented in Fritz and Glüer (2001). . The strategies of text organization in 17th and 18th centuries controversies have been analyzed in detail in the case studies produced in the course of the project, e.g., Fritz (2001), Fritz (2002) and Fritz and Glüer (2001). . Hedging in present day scientific writing has recently been studied by several authors, e.g., Hyland (1998). . The results of an in-depth case study of this controversy are presented in Gloning and Lüsing (2002). . “A particulari ad universale nulla valet consequentia”. . “Everyone is the best interpreter of his own words”.

References Beetz, M. (1999). “The polite answer in pre-modern German conversation culture”. In A. H. Jucker, G. Fritz, & F. Lebsanft (Eds.), Historical Dialogue Analysis (pp. 139–166). Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

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Biagioli, M. (1993). Galileo Courtier. The Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Bramhall, J. (1655). A defence of true liberty from antecedent and extrinsecal necessity; being an answer to a late book of Mr. Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, entitled a treatise of liberty and necessity. In The works of The Most Reverend Father in God, John Bramhall, DD. Sometime Lord Archbishop of Armagh, Primate and Metropolitan of all Ireland, Vol. IV (pp. 3–196). Oxford: Parker, 1844. [Defence] Dascal, M. (1989). “Controversies as quasi-dialogues”. In E. Weigand & F. Hundsnurscher (Eds.), Dialoganalyse II (pp. 147–160). Tübingen: Niemeyer. Francke, A. H. (1707). “Gründliche und Gewissenhaffte Verantwortung gegen Hn. D. Johann Friedrich Mayers/ Professoris Theologi auff der Universität zu Greiffswald/ harte und unwahrhaffte Beschuldigungen/ [...]. Halle: in Verlegung des WaysenHauses”. In P. Erhard (Ed.), August Hermann Francke. Schriften und Predigten. Band I: Streitschriften, 1981 (pp. 265–381). Berlin: De Gruyter. Fritz, G. (1995). “Topics in the history of dialogue forms”. In A. H. Jucker (Ed.), Historical Pragmatics. Pragmatic Developments in the History of English (pp. 469–498). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Fritz, G. (2001). “Remarks on the pragmatic form of the Hobbes/Bramhall controversy (1645–1658)”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800). Technical Report 1: The Hobbes-Bramhall Controversy (pp. 5–24). Tel Aviv. Fritz, G. (2002). “Dialogical structures in 17th century controversies”. In M. Bondi & S. Stati (Eds.), Dialogue Analysis 2000 (pp. 199–208). Tübingen: Niemeyer. Fritz, G., & Glüer, J. (2001). “The pamphlet and its alternatives ca. 1700: A historicalpragmatic study of the final phase of the controversy between Johann Friedrich Mayer and August Hermann Francke (1706/1707)”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 42–79). Technical Report 4: Theological Controversies. Gießen. Gehema, J. A. à. (1688). Grausame Medicinische Mord=Mittel/ Aderlasse/ Schröpffen/ Purgiren/ Clistiren [...] Brehmen / Gedruckt im Jahr Christi 1688 [Reprint Lindau: Antiqua Verlag, 1980]. Geuder, M. F. (1689). Heilsame Medicinische Lebens=Mittel/ Denen grausamen Medicinischen Mord=Mitteln / Herrn D. Jan. Abrah. à Gehema Entgegengesetzt [...]. Ulm: Im Verlag Georg Wilhelm Kühn [Reprint Lindau: Antiqua Verlag, 1980]. Gierl, M. (1997). Pietismus und Aufklärung. Theologische Polemik und die Kommunikationsform der Wissenschaft am Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Gloning, T. (1999). “The pragmatic form of religious controversies around 1600: A case study in the Osiander vs. Scherer and Rosenbusch controversy”. In A. H. Jucker, G. Fritz, & F. Lebsanft (Eds.), Historical Dialogue Analysis (pp. 81–110). Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

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Gloning, T., & Lüsing, J. (2002). “Die Kontroverse zwischen J. A. Gehema und M. F. Geuder (1688/1689). Zur pragmatischen Form einer medizinischen Kontroverse um 1700”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 87–142). Technical Report 3: Scientific Controversies and Theories of Controversy. Gießen. Hobbes, T. (1654). Of liberty and necessity: A treatise wherein all controversy concerning predestination, election, free-will, grace, merits, reprobation, etc. is fully decided and cleared. In answer to a treatise written by the Bishop of Londonderry, on the same subject. London 1654. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury; now first collected and edited by Sir William Molesworth, Vol. IV. London 1841 [Reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1962, 229–278]. [LN] Hobbes, T. (1656). The questions concerning liberty, necessity, and chance, clearly statted and debated between Dr. Bramhall, Bishop of Derry, and Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury. London 1656. In The English works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury; now first collected and edited by Sir William Molesworth, Vol. V. London 1841 [Reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1962, 1–455]. [LNC] Hyland, K. (1998). Hedging in Scientific Research Articles. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Jardine, N. (1984). The Birth of Philosophy and Philosophy of History: Kepler’s A defense of Tycho against Ursus with essays on its Provenance and Significance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kepler, A. (1609). Antwort Joannis Keppleri Sae. Cae. Mtis. Mathematici Auff D. Helisaei Röslini Medici & Philosophi Discurs Von heutiger zeit beschaffenheit [...] Gedruckt zu Prag bey Pauln Sesse. Im Jahr. In Hg. von M. Caspar & F. Hammer (Eds.), Johannes Kepler. Gesammelte Werke, Band IV, 1991 (pp. 102–144). München: Beck. Kepler, J. (1610). Tertius Interveniens. Das ist / Warnung an etliche Theologos, Medicos vnd Philosophos, sonderlich D. Philippum Feselium, daß sie bey billicher Verwerffung der Sternguckerischen Aberglauben / nicht das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten ... Gedruckt zu Frankfurt am Mayn / In Verlegung Godtfriedt Tampachs. Im Jahr. In Hg. von M. Caspar & F. Hammer (Eds.), Johannes Kepler. Gesammelte Werke, Band IV, 1991 (pp. 151–258). München: Beck. Leibniz, G. W., & Clarke, S. (1715/1716). Correspondence Leibniz/Clarke. In C. J. Gerhardt (Ed.), Die philosophischen Schriften von Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Band VII, 1978 (pp. 345–440). Reprint Hildesheim: G. Olms. Machamer, P. (2000). “The concept of the individual and the idea(l) of method in seventeenth-century natural philosophy”. In P. Machamer, M. Pera, & A. Baltas (Eds.), Scientific Controversies: Philosophical and Historical Perspectives (pp. 81–99). New York: Oxford University Press. von Megenberg, K. ([about 1350]). Das Buch der Natur. Hg. von F. Pfeiffer. Reprint Hildesheim/ Zürich/ New York: Olms, 1994. Willemsen, C. A. (Ed.). (1942). Friderici Romanorum. Imperatoris Secundi De Arte Venandi cum Avibus, 2 Vols. Leipzig: Insel.

Chapter 11

Subjective justifications Introspective arguments in empiricism Daniel Mishori

.

Introduction I do not . . . pretend that my books can teach truth. All I hope for is that they may be an occasion to inquisitive man of discovering truth by consulting their own minds and looking into their own thoughts. (Berkeley to Dr. Johnson, 25/11/1729)1

In the above quote, Berkeley speaks about a method of “discovering truth” by means of “consulting” one’s own mind and “looking into” one’s “own thoughts”. That is, Berkeley suggests that we can discover truth by means of resorting to our inner subjective experiences. Usually, subjective justification is perceived as rhetorically weak in comparison with objective proofs. Think, for instance, about (the worn-out example of) the differences between sentences (1) “you are beautiful” and (2) “in my eyes, you are beautiful”. The first sentence is perceived as much stronger than the second. While the second sentence denotes “merely” a subjective judgement from a personal point of view, the first sentence relates to a fact in the world that, presumably, everybody ought to agree with. In philosophy too, the merely subjective is often perceived as a weaker kind of justification. Therefore, we constantly encounter in philosophy attempts to construct more “objective” or “rigorous” methods of justification, such as logical or linguistic analysis. Nevertheless, in certain issues, it is precisely the appeal to subjectivity and personal experience that seems to be the most beneficial. The appeal to intuition regarding the signification of concepts is one such example (which I shall not discuss here). The different manifestations of the introspective2 argument, which is prevalent in the empiricists’ texts

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since Hobbes3 and Locke, is another example, whose basic manifestations and characteristics will be discussed below.4 It should be noted that, in some sense, the introspective argument is even more “subjective” than the appeal to intuition in conceptual analysis. After all, in appeals to intuition we assume that we are expressing the content of a concept in language, i.e., something that all native speakers of a given language understand in it. Introspection, by contrast, consists in observing certain inner private experiences that, by their very nature, are not shared by other subjects. Yet, in empiricists’ argumentation we often encounter precisely such moves. I will examine several moves of this sort in the following sections, and will suggest a typology of such arguments.

. “Reports” and “appeals” Consider, for instance, the following quotations from Locke’s Essay, where the quasi-empirical character of introspective reports is clearly manifested: That desire is a state of uneasiness everyone who reflects on himself will quickly find (Essay 2.21.32). For if we look immediately into ourselves, and reflect on what is observable there, we shall find our ideas always, whilst we are awake or have any thought, passing in train, one going and another coming, without intermission (Essay 2.7.9).

I will term such arguments ‘reports’, since in such instances Locke is simply describing the empirical content of his own subjective experience. It is a kind of testimony, a description of inner empirical findings, which is presented as sufficient for substantiating philosophical theses. In the first example Locke is characterizing the phenomenal traits of ‘desire’. In the second, he observes the constant flowing of thoughts in his mind from which, according to him, we acquire the idea of ‘succession’. Since Locke is discussing in these instances the properties of ideas, their empirical (inner) observation seems indeed to be the most adequate and direct method of investigation. The second type of introspective arguments that Locke uses is ‘invitations’ (Colie’s term; 1969: 259) or ‘appeals’ to the readers (Locke’s own term); they function as the argumentative counterparts of “reports”. In these appeals, Locke requests his readers to try to observe by themselves a certain mental fact. Unlike

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the “reports”, the rhetoric of the “appeals” implies that they offer conclusive justification – that the thesis defended requires no further support: Whenever the memory brings any idea into actual view, it is with a consciousness that it had been there before and was not a wholly stranger to the mind. Whether this be not so, I appeal to everyone’s observation (Essay 1.4.21). For I appeal to every man’s own thoughts whether the idea of space be not as distinct from that of solidity as it is from the idea of scarlet colour? (Essay 2.13.11).

In “appealing” to the reader’s own experience, the subjective character of the introspective report is slightly undermined. The act of appealing to the reader is based on the presumption that all human minds operate in the same way. If this is really the case, then Locke’s private observations could be verified (or contested) by all people who are capable of reflection.5 The appeal to the reader is a calculated risk. If the reader agrees with the philosopher’s report, or at least remains silent, then the arguer can consider his thesis as sufficiently demonstrated. However, there is always the risk that the reader will deny the disputed claim. For instance, Locke claimed that the idea of Unity is “suggested to the understanding by every object without, and every idea within” (Essay 2.7.7), and that it is conveyed to the mind “by all the ways of sensation and reflection” (Essay 2.7.1). Berkeley contested this claim by arguing that he cannot “find” in his mind such an idea: That I have any such idea answering the word unity I do not find; and if I had, methinks I could not miss finding it; on the contrary, it should be the most familiar to my understanding, since it is said to accompany all other ideas, and to be perceived by all the ways of sensation and reflexion (P, 13).

The “appeal” to the reader does more than just enabling the reader to approve or to question a given claim. The burden of proof is somehow transferred to the reader, who is required to reflect on himself, and to perform the prescribed inner observations. In this manner, the philosophical line of reasoning turns into a succession of instructions as to the introspective observations needed to be performed, and the results that are to be expected. The most salient example of such argumentation is found in Berkeley’s metaphysical and scientific work.6 It is worth noting that Berkeley was considered by many of his contemporaries as an author of arguments that “cannot be confuted”.7 As I will show, many of these arguments directly rely on inner subjective experience.8 For instance, in

 Daniel Mishori

his Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous we encounter discourses of the following type: (Philonous) In short, do but consider the point, and then confess ingeniously, whether light and colours, tastes and sounds, etc. are not all equally passions or sensations in the soul . . . examine your own thoughts, and then tell me whether it is not as I say? (Hylas) I acknowledge Philonous, that, upon a fair observation of what passes in my mind, I can discover nothing else but that I am a thinking being, affected with variety of sensations; neither is it possible to conceive how a sensation should exist in an unperceiving substance. (D, 1st Dialogue, 160)

Again, Philonous (Berkeley’s representative in these Dialogues) does not simply testify as to his own experiences. Instead, the burden of the empirical examination is transferred to the opponent, the materialist Hylas who, after “observing” his mind, is “forced” to accept the idealist doctrine.9 In the above example, Berkeley is following Locke in his usage of “reports” and “appeals” (though Berkeley employed such arguments more extensively). But Berkeley also employed a unique form of introspective arguments (which Locke almost never used10 ) – arguments that rely on experimenting with the imagination.

. Berkeley’s “tree argument” Berkeley “specialized” in introspective “appeals” to his readers, a central motif of his rhetorical strategy, especially when he urged his readers to experiment with their imagination. The most familiar example is Berkeley’s “tree in the quad” argument (also known as the “master argument” or his “masterstroke”; Sosa 1988). I will quote it almost in full: I am afraid I have given cause to think I am needlessly prolix in handling this subject. For, to what purpose is it to dilate on that which may be demonstrated with the utmost evidence in a line or two, to anyone who is capable of the least reflexion? It is but looking into your own thoughts, and so trying whether you can conceive it possible for a sound, or figure, or motion, or colour to exist without the mind or unperceived. . . I am content to put the whole upon this issue – if you can conceive it possible for one extended moveable substance or, in general, for any one idea ... to

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exist otherwise than in a mind perceiving it... I say, the bare possibility of your opinions being true shall pass for an argument that it is so. (P, 22)

And Berkeley continues: But, say you, surely there is nothing easier than for me to imagine trees, for instance, in a park, or books existing in a closet, and nobody by to perceive them. I answer, you may so, there is no difficulty in it. But what is all this, I beseech you, more than framing in your mind certain ideas which you call books and trees, and at the same time omitting to frame the idea of any one that may perceive them? But do not you yourself perceive or think of them all the while? . . . it only shews you have the power of imagining, or framing ideas in your mind; but it does not shew that you can conceive it possible the objects of your thought may exist without a mind. (P, 23)

In my opinion, the “tree” argument undoubtedly belongs to the “family” of introspective arguments. First, because Berkeley is manifestly using here an introspective rhetoric (“calmly attend to their own thoughts” etc.; P, 24) similar in vocabulary and form to the “reports” and “appeals” quoted above. Secondly (and most importantly), images of imagination are a type of inner experience, not an external one.11 Nevertheless, Berkeley combines this introspective appeal with a very powerful philosophical move, which Perry (1910: 9) denominated (in another context) the ego-centric predicament (ECP): This then, is what I mean by the ego-centric predicament. It is a predicament in which every investigator finds himself when he attempts to solve a certain problem. It proves only that it is impossible to deal with that problem in the manner that would be most simple and direct. To determine roughly whether A is a function of B, it is convenient to employ Mill’s “joint method of agreement and difference”, that is, to compare situations in which B is and is not present. But where B is “I know”, it is evidently impossible to obtain a situation in which it is not present without destroying the conditions of observation.

Berkeley’s argument is clearly a case of an ECP, since it is a case of a failure to imagine situations that exclude my own (perceiving or imagining) mind. Berkeley is emphasizing the fact that all perception is fundamentally subjective, and that I cannot even imagine a situation without being somehow in the picture. Berkeley’s move does not depend upon any specific content of my imagining something, but only on the fact that every case of imagining is always a case of

 Daniel Mishori

myself imagining something. True, this fundamental subjectivity of the imagination also occurs in ordinary sense perception. But sense perception is always an actuality. The experiment with the imagination, on the other hand, shows us that we cannot even conceive it to be otherwise. It is not merely trying to perceive something, but the very fact that every act of perceiving or imagining involves the subjective point of view. The master argument illustrates another type of an introspective argument, whose force relies on a logic not quite the same as the logic employed in the “reports” and “invitations”. First, because it employs the ECP, thus demonstrating the fact that (since the ECP can be applied also in nonintrospective arguments) introspective arguments could be joined with other forms of justification, thus yielding arguments whose force is not exclusively introspective. And secondly, because it is conducted in the realm of the imagination – a realm that gradually receives primary methodological importance in Berkeley’s system. However, it should be noted that the “tree argument” cannot be regarded as a paradigmatic example of an imagination-employing argument, since Berkeley does not manipulate any intrinsic properties of the imagination (and because it relies on the ECP). The best instances of Berkeley’s manipulations of the imagination are found, in my opinion, in Berkeley’s discussion of motion.

. Experiments with the imagination Berkeley’s work reveals an infatuation with the imagination, which he considered to be a central methodological principle in philosophy. The methodological importance of using the imagination stems primarily from the fact that it can replicate sense-perception experiences:12 For nothing enters the imagination which from the nature of the thing cannot be perceived by sense, since indeed the imagination is nothing else than the faculty which represents sensible things either actually existing or at least possible. (De Motu, 53)

Hence, the imagination, as the faculty that enables us to form images, just like sense perception, becomes an ideal “internal laboratory”, simulating various sense-like situations. In this sense, the fundamental subjectivity of the imagination is no obstacle for using it as a tool for considering “objective” phenomena in the external world – such as motion. Therefore, Berkeley advises his reader “to consider motion as something sensible, or at least imaginable” (De Motu,

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66). Then, in order to understand the nature of motion, Berkeley performs a number of experiments in his imagination: [L]et two globes be conceived to exist and nothing corporal besides them. Let forces then be conceived to be applied in some way; whatever we may understand by the application of forces, a circular motion of the two globes round a common centre cannot be conceived by the imagination. Then let us suppose that the sky of the fixed stars is created; suddenly from the conception of the approach of the globes to different parts of the sky the motion will be conceived. That is to say that since motion is relative in its own nature, it could not be conceived before the correlated bodies were given. (De Motu, 59) We are sometimes deceived by the fact that when we imagine the removal of all other bodies, yet we suppose our own body to remain. On this supposition we imagine the movement of our limbs fully free on every side; but motion without space cannot be conceived. (De Motu, 55)

A similar argument appears also in the Principles: I must confess it does not appear to me that there can be any motion other than relative: so that to conceive motion there must be conceived at least two bodies; whereof the distance or position in regard to each other is varied. (P, 112)

Thus, motion provides Berkeley with an ideal opportunity to imagine (that is, to form in his imagination images of) a state of affairs that is connected with an intricate theoretical question. His “relativity theory” of motion, in a way anticipating Einstein in a Newtonianism-dominated era, is certainly an achievement for Berkeley’s way of doing philosophy from a subjective point of view.

. Conclusion It seems that subjective-introspective arguments may do significant work in justifying or disproving philosophical theses. These arguments may take various forms – reports, appeals to the reader, and imagination-employing experiments. Each of these different forms accomplishes a different argumentative task: “reports” prove or disprove theses by observing inner “facts”; “appeals” transfer the burden of proof to the reader; the experiments with the imagination introduce a concept of philosophical likelihood and conceivability which depends on the capability and manner of visualizing images.

 Daniel Mishori

In certain issues – such as questions about perception, the way our mind operates, etc. – the appeal to subjective experience seems indeed to be most appropriate; at least in the eyes of philosophers and scholars who adhere to the empirical method in philosophy (e.g., Thomas Reid and J. S. Mill) and to introspective experimental psychology (e.g., James, Brentano, Titchener and Wundt). The fact that the classical empiricists (Locke, Berkeley and Hume) employed such arguments could be related to the fact that empiricism professes the importance of experience in generating knowledge. Practically all the empiricists identified two sources of experience: external sensations, and internal thoughts and feelings.13 A complete picture of the workings of the human mind, which was perceived by the empiricists as an essential component of an epistemological theory, required frequent references to inner experience as well. Furthermore, the empiricists even defined knowledge in empirical terms. They characterized knowledge as the perception of the agreement or disagreement (Hume’s “resemblance”; Treatise 1.3.1) between ideas, whose paradigmatic example is the felt difference between black and white. According to Locke, Knowledge then seems to me to be nothing but the perception of the connexion and agreement, or disagreement and repugnancy, of any of our ideas. In this alone it consists. Where this perception is, there is knowledge; and where it is not, there, though we may fancy, guess, or believe, yet we always come short of knowledge. For when we know that white is not black, what do we else but perceive that these two ideas do not agree? (Essay 4.1.2).

And Berkeley agrees with this definition: To discern the agreement or disagreement there are between my ideas, to see what ideas are included in my compound ideas and what not, there is nothing more requisite than an attentive perception of what passes in my own understanding (P, Introduction, 22).

When knowledge is conceived in experiential terms, as the empirical recognition of “agreement” or “resemblance” between ideas in the mind, a common denominator is established between epistemology and introspection: both the inner observation of thoughts or feelings and the “agreement or disagreement” between ideas are described in similar visual terms;14 and both are described as acts of inner perception. In this manner, the very definition of knowledge practically prescribes introspective reasoning. Hence, subjective arguments, or any other type of arguments for that matter, may be used or not because of certain methodological or epistemological

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presumptions that are more or less agreeable with them. This is why the choice of arguments may reveal hidden presumptions of philosophers as to the nature of knowledge, the methods of philosophical inquiry, and the proper forms of philosophical justification.15,16

Notes . In this paper, all underlines in the quotations are mine, whereas all italicized words in the quotations appear in the original texts. . I employ the term ‘introspection’ in its common psychological sense as the method of looking into one’s own mind or thoughts or feelings or ideas by means of a quasi-empirical inner observation. The word “introspection” is derived from the Latin introspicere – “to look into”. The OED defines it as “the action of looking within, or into one’s own mind; examination or observation of one’s own thoughts, feelings, or mental states”. Likewise, an “introspectionist” is defined in the OED as “a. One who practices introspection or selfexamination. b. One who adopts the method of introspection in psychology”. . A good example of a “pre-Lockean” introspective argument is found in the controversy between Hobbes and Bramhall on free will. There, Hobbes (LN) rejected Bramhall’s scholastic appeals to verbal definitions, and defended his unusual conception of liberty by appealing to reflective experience: “[what liberty is] . . . there can be no other proof offered but every man’s own experience, by reflecting on himself, and remembering what he useth to have in his mind, that is, what he himself meaneth, when he saith, an action is spontaneous, a man deliberates, such is his will, that agent or that action is free. Now he that so reflecth on himself cannot but be satisfied, but that “deliberation” is the considering of the good and evil sequels of the action to come; that by “spontaneity” it meant inconsiderate proceeding. . .” (quoted in Bramhall, Vindication, 175). See also Mishori (2001). . Introspective argumentation in empiricism is discussed in detail in Mishori (2003a). . It should be noted that it is not properly the issue of the capability to reflect but the tendency and the proper training to do so. The reason thereof is man’s natural preoccupation with external experience – a habit which, according to Locke, many never relinquish: “Men’s business . . . is to acquaint themselves with what is to be found without; and so growing up in a constant attention to outward sensations, seldom make any considerable reflection on what passes within them” (Essay 2.1.8). . An excellent example of an “appeal” in a scientific context appears in Berkeley’s Essay Towards a New theory of Vision (1709). One of Berkeley’s main opponents in this essay is Descartes, whose theory of perception presumes an incipient “natural” geometrical calculation of distances. Berkeley refutes this theory by challenging his readers to examine whether they are conscious of such inward calculations: “But those lines and angles, by means whereof some men pretend to explain the perception of distance, are themselves not at all perceived; nor are they in truth ever thought of by those skilful in optics. I appeal to any one’s experience, whether, upon sight of an object, he computes its distance by the bigness of the angle made by the meeting of two optic axes? Or whether he ever thinks of the greater

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or lesser divergency of the rays that arrive from any point to his pupil? . . . Every one is the best judge of what he perceives , and what not. In vain shall any man tell me, that I perceive certain lines and angles, which introduce into my mind the various ideas of distance, so long as I myself am conscious of no such thing” (1709: 12). . It should be noted that Berkeley was arguing for some really extraordinary doctrines: that matter does not exist (immaterialism), and that all seemingly material bodies are actually collections of ideas or sensations depending upon perceiving minds (idealism). . Elisabeth Montague (1753), in Walmsley (1990: 1). Thomas Reid also expresses similar sentiments when he states that Berkeley’s arguments “neither have been, nor can be confuted”, though some of his “unanswerable arguments” prove something that “no man in his senses can believe” (1785: 101b). . We find this dual rhetorical strategy of “reports” and “appeals” also in Hume. For instance, when Hume discusses his maxim, that all simple ideas are derived from simple impressions, he uses both tactics: (Report) “First, when we analyze our thoughts or ideas, however compounded or sublime, we always find that they resolve themselves into such simple ideas as were copied from a precedent feeling or sentiment” (Enquiry 14).(Appeal) “Those who would assert that this position is not universally true nor without exception, have only one, and that an easy method of refuting it; by producing that idea, which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source” (ibid.). . I have found only two (consecutive) cases of appeals to the imagination in the Essay (and none in Drafts A and B of the Essay!). In these cases, Locke speaks of the impossibility to imagine simple ideas of which he had no previous experience:“I would have anyone try to fancy any taste which had never affected his palate, or frame the idea of a scent he had never smelt; and when he can do this, I will also conclude that a blind man hath ideas of colours and a deaf man true distinct notions of sounds” (Essay 2.2.2).“. . .I think it is not possible for anyone to imagine any other qualities in bodies, howsoever constituted, whereby they can be taken notice of besides sounds, tastes, smells, visible and tangible qualities. And had mankind been made with but four senses, the qualities then which are the objects of the fifth sense had been as far from our notice, imagination, and conception as now any belonging to the sixth, seventh, or eighth sense can possibly be. . .” (Essay 2.2.3). . An introspective method has already been attributed to Berkeley by some scholars. Dalmiya (1992: 220) specifically mentions Berkeley’s “tree in the quad” argument as an example of a methodological use of introspection. Johnston (1965) discusses the similarities between Berkeley’s alleged introspective observations and the 18th century’s notions of experiment and observation in the natural sciences. And Pitcher (1977: 72) shows how Berkeley’s usage of introspective arguments is related to his conception of the mind, as Berkeley “regards the mind as a kind of transparent medium; by introspection, he thinks, we can tell exactly what the mind contains – we can ‘see’ what goes on in it, what sorts of ideas it has, and so on. So it comes as no surprise to find Berkeley sometimes saying, in effect, ‘if you look into your mind, you will find images there, but no abstract ideas”’. . Hume followed Berkeley in this respect, and considered the imagination to be a central methodological tool. What made the imagination such an important tool in his eyes was the fact that it was considered to be totally free to manipulate every idea, which made it a convenient internal laboratory for simulating the perception of external objects: “The

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imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can join and mix and vary them, in all the ways possible. It may conceive a fictitious object with all the circumstances of space and time. It may set them, in a manner, before our eyes, in their true colours, just as they might have existed” (Enquiry 40). . Locke was the first to explicitly articulate the dual source of all experience; “the materials of all our knowledge”, he claims, “are suggested and furnished to the mind only by those two ways above mentioned, viz. sensation and reflection” (Essay 2.2.2). “Our observation, employed either about external sensible objects, or about the internal operations of our minds perceived and reflected on by our self, is that which supplies our understanding with all the materials of thinking” (Essay 2.1.2). . Locke’s understanding of knowledge in visual terms is clearly manifested in his description of intuitive knowledge: “[In] intuitive knowledge . . . the mind . . . perceives the truth, as the eyes doth light, only by being directed toward it. Thus the mind perceives that white is not black, that a circle is not a triangle, that three are more than two and equal to one and two. Such kind of truths the mind perceives at first sight of the ideas together, by bare intuition, without the intervention of any other idea; and this kind of knowledge is the clearest and most certain that human frailty is capable of. This part of knowledge is irresistible and, like bright sunshine, forces itself immediately to be perceived, as soon as ever the mind turns its view that way; and leaves no room for hesitation, doubt, or examination, but the mind is presently filled with the clear light of it. It is on this intuition that depends all the certainty and evidence of all our knowledge” (Essay 4.2.1). . This point is further exemplified by Thomas Reid, the founder of the Scottish school of common sense. Although Reid criticized all the proponents of the “theory of ideas”, including the empiricists, he still embraced the experimental method and regarded the introspective method (reflection) as a primary method in his science of mind. Consequently, he also treated the arguments of the empiricists (including the introspective ones) as valid. For instance, Berkeley and Hume’s contention that the existence of bodies cannot be inferred from sensations, “hath been proved by unanswerable arguments” (I, 122b), and “beyond the possibility of reply” (I, 129a). Their contention that sensations cannot resemble qualities of bodies, has been “proved . . . unanswerably” by Berkeley, and was later “confirmed . . . with his authority and reasoning” by Hume (I, 142a). For a discussion of Reid on the introspective method, see Mishori (2003a, b). . I would like to thank Ruthrina Daniels and Gad Mishori for commenting on drafts of this paper.

References Armstrong, D. (Ed.). (1965). Berkeley’s Philosophical Writings. New York: Macmillan. Berkeley, G. (1709). An Essay Towards a New Theory of Vision. In D. Armstrong (Ed.). [NTV] Berkeley, G. (1710). The Principles of Human Knowledge. In D. Armstrong (Ed.). [P] Berkeley, G. (1713). Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous. In D. Armstrong (Ed.). [D]

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Berkeley, G. (1721). De Motu. In D. Armstrong (Ed.). Berkeley, G. (1929–30). Philosophical Correspondence with Samuel Johnson. In D. Armstrong (Ed.). Colie, R. L. (1969). “The essayist in his Essay”. In J. W. Yolton (Ed.), John Locke: Problems and Perspectives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 234–261. Dalmiya, V. (1992). “Introspection”. In J. Dancy & E. Sosa (Eds.), A Companion to Epistemology (pp. 218–222). Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Hobbes, T. (1654). Of Liberty and Necessity. Quoted in J. Bramhall (1655), A Vindication of True Liberty. In The Works of The Most Reverend Father in God, John Bramhall, D. D., Vol. IV. Oxford: Parker, 1844. [LN] Hume, D. (1739–40). A Treatise of Human Nature, Vol. I: “Of the understanding”. L. A. Selby-Bigge (Ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press [1888/1978]. Hume, D. (1748). Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. In L. A. Selby-Bigge (Ed.), Enquiries. Oxford: Oxford University Press [1989]. Johnston, G. A. (1965). The Development of Berkeley’s Philosophy. New York: Russell and Russell. Locke, J. (1990 [1671]). “Drafts A and B”. In P. H. Nidditch & G. A. J. Rogers (Eds.), Drafts for the Essay Concerning Human Understanding, and Other Philosophical Writings, Vol. I. Oxford: Clarendon Press. [Drafts] Locke, J. (1979 [1691]). An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. P. H. Nidditch (Ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press. [Essay] Mishori, D. (2001). “Bramhall and Hobbes on extrinsical and intrinsical necessity”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 41–47). Technical Report 1: The Hobbes-Bramhall Controversy. Tel Aviv. Mishori, D. (2003a). Arguing from Inner Experience: The Inner Sense from Locke to Reid. PhD Dissertation, Tel Aviv University. Mishori, D. (2003b). “The dilemmas of the dual channel: Reid on consciousness and reflection”. The Journal of Scottish Philosophy, 1 (2), 141–155. The Oxford English Dictionary (1933). Oxford: Clarendon Press. [OED] Perry, R. B. (1910). “The ego-centric predicament”. The Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods, 7, 5–14. Pitcher, G. (1977). Berkeley. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Reid, T. (1764). An Inquiry into the Human Mind, On the Principles of Common Sense, 4th ed. In Sir W. Hamilton (Ed.), The Works of Thomas Reid, Vol. I (1846), [Reprint Virginia: Lincoln-Rembrandt Publishing, 1993]. Sosa, E. (1988). “Berkeley’s master stroke”. In J. Foster & H. Robinson (Eds.), Essays on Berkeley. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Walmsley, P. (1990). The Rhetoric of Berkeley’s Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 12

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy The rules of the game and the role of the persons Thomas Gloning

.

Introduction

The Early Modern period in Europe1 is full of controversies, polemics and critical activity of all sorts. From a linguistic point of view, controversies and polemics are forms of communication. This view implies a set of more specific assumptions: (a) to contribute to a controversy is to perform linguistic acts according to one’s goals in the controversy and according to the rules (the established practice) governing this specific form of communication; (b) there is something like a typical linguistic or pragmatic form of controversies (at a certain time or place, in a certain field); (c) the pragmatic form of controversies is subject to change and to historical development over time. This view amounts to a Wittgensteinian picture of controversies as a well-established family of language games. Language games (or forms of communication) are supra-personal; they are social institutions which have emerged over time. Individuals are related to such social institutions in various ways. On the one hand, the ‘rules’ of language games restrict the persons involved in a controversy; they are expected to act according to the established practice. On the other hand, the established practice (the set of rules) leaves room for individual preferences and choice, e.g., concerning different moves and strategies or concerning the use of vocabulary items. In a third respect, social institutions relieve individuals of the pressure of continually having to find new solutions for communicative tasks/problems. Controversies as social institutions can be seen as established procedures for dealing with disagreement and for confirming ideas, findings, decisions, etc. in the light of opposition and

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counterevidence. Finally, there is a historical aspect: language games change over time, but they do not change by themselves. The historical development of the language game of controversy is a result of individuals responding to the challenge of changing circumstances. Therefore, changes in the established practice come about as a result of innovative individual practice under specific circumstances. For example, from the 17th century onwards a number of persons used the newly established journals as a medium of controversy, so they had to respect the somewhat different textual conditions of journal publishing compared to pamphlet publishing. In the long run, this leads to significant changes in the established practice of controversy. The global function of controversies as a means of research, decisionmaking, etc. frequently leads to a positive evaluation of this form of communication. However, being involved in a controversy can be extremely awkward, annoying and face-threatening for a person, depending on the type of polemic one is involved in. Thus, there seems to be a certain tension between the global function of critical activity and the personal ‘costs’ for the people involved, e.g., losing face. In addition, certain personal feelings like anger, hate or grievance are not only annoying, but can also be dysfunctional as far as a solution of a given problem is concerned. In this paper, I shall first describe certain ‘aspects of the subject’ in Early Modern polemics, and then discuss contemporary meta-polemic attempts at purifying polemics of personal involvement or at least at controlling certain kinds of personal involvement.

. ‘Aspects of the subject’ in Early Modern controversies In this section, I would like to highlight some aspects of the subject/of the person, as far as they are relevant to linguistic activity in Early Modern controversies. The main point I shall be making can be stated in the form of a thesis: The amount and the role of ‘subjectivity’ in Early Modern controversies depend on the basic goal of the respective controversy. The role of personal aspects varies in different types of controversy.

. Function and evaluation of controversies There is a certain spectrum of views on the function of Early Modern controversies, ranging from the assumption that controversies contribute to testing

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

personal beliefs and to increasing one’s personal mastery of a subject matter to the assumption that they contribute to reaching supra-personal ‘truth’. There are many Early Modern theories of controversy stating that controversies contribute somehow to the progress of knowledge and science. Kepler, for example, claims that science is a joint enterprise, where mutual criticism is necessary to come closer to truth.2 Here, the epistemological function of controversies aims beyond the individual subject, towards a sphere of truth independent of personal beliefs. In other places, e.g., in the Geuder/Gehema corpus, the role of controversies is viewed as a means to control and to improve personal beliefs and convictions: whereas Gehema claims to possess some kind of ‘higher’ truth and to be able to enlighten other people with it, Geuder states that all kinds of knowledge may be incomplete and faulty and, therefore, must be open to test and mutual criticism.3 One could put this view of the function of controversies roughly as follows: ‘Lacking the truth, the second best one can get is a common opinion based on the critical examination of personal beliefs’. Another aspect related to truth and knowledge is argumentative mastery of a subject matter. This aspect is closely connected to the duties of a scientist, namely, to give an account of a subject matter. To fulfill this duty successfully, it is important for the scientist to know the counterevidence for competing positions, in order to defend his own position in a most effective way. Regarding the argumentative mastery of a subject matter, controversies have two basic functions: to provide the individual with counterevidence not yet known to him or her and to provide a testing ground for argumentative strategies, the experience of which can be used for presenting a written account. This point is mentioned by Kepler, who said that oral discussions at the Prague court contributed much to his mastery of the subject matter and that he was able to make use of this experience in his written accounts on the respective topics (see Kepler KGW 4: 128; see also Gloning 2002, especially Chapter 4.1.). In addition, producing argumentative mastery of a subject matter was considered a crucial function of academic disputations from the Middle Ages until the 17th/18th century, as mentioned in meta-texts on disputations, such as Juan Maldonado’s Oratio de disputatione (1574). In some Early Modern theories of controversy, the model of science as a collaborative enterprise is given an anthropological motivation: Controversies and criticism are necessary, because human nature is too weak for the immense tasks in the field of knowledge. Nobody is free from error, nobody can know everything that might be relevant for a problem, sometimes memory does not serve, etc. Mutual criticism serves to overcome these human limitations. Such

 Thomas Gloning

a position is found, for example, in the Geuder/Gehema controversy as well as in Kepler.4 In many theories of controversy, polemics and criticism are highly esteemed. However, in the field of religion and theology, the effects of public controversies on laymen are often considered problematic: theological controversies were thought to threaten the laymen’s faith and religious certainty, a view presented, for example, in text passages by Bullinger (16th century), Wotton (17th century) or Goeze (18th century).5 Only later, in the 18th century, controversies were thought by some contenders to contribute to a better understanding and to more certainty in the subject matter of religion. Lessing, for instance, in the famous Fragmentenstreit defended the view that even if personal belief is threatened for a while, in the long run religion gains more certainty by criticism. At this point, there is a clear distinction between personal (subjektiv) and factual (objektiv) aspects of the controversy (see, for example, Lessing WB 9: 102f.). . Entering into a controversy and answering points: Rights and duties The language game(s) of Early Modern controversies comprise among other things a system of rules for entering into a controversy and rules for answering certain points within a controversy. Basically, the rules for entering into a controversy include aspects of the position represented in the controversy as well as aspects of the persons involved. A person A was ‘entitled’ to enter into a controversy with a person B (i) if either the position of B was incompatible with the position of A or (ii) if B either attacked A personally or B attacked personally someone else, for whom A felt some duty of defence (e.g., Kepler for Tycho Brahe). In respect of certain ‘points’ of the controversy, the global rule says that each point proposed by one’s opponent has to be refuted. However, there are exceptions. If the contribution of an opponent on a certain point is below a certain intellectual or linguistic standard, the duty to refute this point is cancelled. Likewise, questions of standard are a reason not to enter into a controversy with some opponent at all, even if his position is incompatible with one’s own position, and even if one has been personally attacked by the opponent. Among the personal aspects relevant for entering into and for acting within a controversy, two are outstanding: honor and competence. As to honor, Kepler, for example, in his Answer to the discourse of Röslin, mentions that his personal honor and his scientific reputation were two of his motives to answer to Röslin’s text. As for competence, Goeze, in a contribution to the Fragmenten-

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

streit, says that not everybody should be allowed to write pamphlets and to attack the Christian religion.6 At any rate, intellectual standards and standards of controversial ‘style’ seem to be a criterion both for entering or not entering into a controversy and for answering or not answering certain points within a controversy that may be below a certain standard. Röslin, for example, did not enter into a controversy with Ursus because he felt Ursus did not deserve an answer.7 Likewise, Kepler did not refute certain points he felt to be below a certain intellectual standard.8 . Person-related moves Types of moves are perhaps the most important aspect of the linguistic organization of controversies that is related to subjectivity and person. In this section, I shall attempt to portray a range of important person-related moves. .. Aggressive moves: Insults, defamatory accusations A first group of person-related moves are aggressive, face-threatening moves, which are intentionally used to harm the opponent. In the first place, insults and invectives were used to deprecate the opponent or a group of opponents in various ways. Luther, for instance, refers to his opponents with various insulting expressions (Esel, Sudler, Buchstabilist, Teufelslehrer, Rotzlöffel), as do the Jesuits 80 years later (Giftspinne, Lotterbube, Schalksnarr, Irrgeist) and as does Gehema in his medical pamphlet from 1688 (Titul-Doctor, Träumer, Galenischer Suppen-Doctor, Blutvergiesser). These insults refer to various aspects of the opponent’s personality, to his beliefs, to his intellectual capacity, to his actions and to his teachings. Another group of moves are defamatory accusations. For example, Luther accuses his opponent Eck of being a liar and of writing his pamphlets in a state of drunkenness.9 Lucas Osiander reproaches the catholic priests for living in sexual libertinage (see Gloning 1999: 96–97). Gehema accuses his opponents of following old-fashioned ways of medical treatment for purely economic reasons.10 It should be noted that this kind of move is restricted to a type of controversy where victory over the opponent is a prominent goal. This type is called “dispute” in Dascal’s (1988) typology. And it should be noted that there is a counter-strategy against such ad hominem moves, i.e., to state that personal aspects have nothing to do with the question at hand. Luther himself, for example, makes ad hominem moves against Eck, but counters such moves by Eck

 Thomas Gloning

against himself by claiming that personal aspects do not affect the positions at stake.11 .. Inherent face-threatening potential of argumentative moves, e.g., contradicting There are other kinds of moves with a face-threatening potential that are used without the intention to derogate the opponent. For example, a simple move like contradicting someone has an inherent face-threatening potential, but, clearly, such a move is vital for controversies. This seems to be the basic point in Kepler’s and Röslin’s quarrel about stumpffieren. What Röslin experienced as a case of stumpffieren, i.e., a form of dishonest treatment, Kepler regarded as a quite regular form of opposition in a controversy. (Kepler KGW 4: 112, 116, 124 and 126) .. Appeals to an audience/to an arbiter/to a sovereign Many controversies of the Early Modern period have a threefold participant structure: a proponent (party), an opponent (party), and an audience consisting of the public and in some cases of certain sovereigns, too. The third party is often hidden, but there are ways of explicitly appealing to the members of this third party, e.g., in the dedication passages to sovereigns at the beginning of pamphlets or in explicit appeals to the public to act as a judge. In the former case, the personal aspects of power and support play a role – in the latter it is a matter of consent and approval – based on the assumption that the readers are reasonable and therefore fit to judge. A specific kind of person-related strategy consists in attacking the opponent by showing that his behavior harms his own sovereign. In the controversy between Osiander and the Jesuits, both parties appeal to the superior(s) of the opponent, claiming that the opponent’s behavior does not contribute to the reputation of the Jesuit order viz. the Stuttgart court, where Osiander was a preacher (see Gloning 1999: 99f.). Another example of such an appeal to the opponent’s superior is Goeze’s strategy in the Fragmentenstreit with Lessing to show that certain consequences that follow from Lessing’s publications are harmful for Lessing’s sovereign.12 He expresses his hope that powerful sovereigns will put an end to the activities of ‘such fools’.13 Basically, Goeze appeals to sovereign power in order to (i) restrict religious criticism to certain persons, (ii) to allow discussions in religious matters only in Latin, (iii) to censure newspaper reports in these matters. In the end, Goeze’s strategy was successful: In 1778, Lessing was forbidden by his sovereign to publish any further contributions to the controversy.

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

.. To impute personal motives Personal motives can affect the search for truth in controversies adversely, and consequently one type of aggressive move consists in imputing personal motives to the opponent. Such motives can be one’s personal honor, one’s scientific reputation or the purpose to make money with a pamphlet. A case in point is Luther, who in a pamphlet against Eck accuses him of not accepting a certain proposition for the sole reason of protecting his honor and reputation.14 In another instance of this kind of argument criticism, Leibniz accuses Boyle of following the personal motive of demonstrating his intellectual qualities and abilities: [D]espite all the beautiful, ingenious and well-informed arguments of Mr. Boyle, who has wanted to show his wit and ability. . . (Quoted in Dascal & Marras 2002: Chapter 2, p. 4, Note 4; my emphasis)

Finally, Reuchlin imputes to his opponent Pfefferkorn the personal and mean motives of revenge and of wanting to gain money from his pamphlet.15 The fact that imputing personal motives can be used as a means of argument criticism and of criticism of publication strategies in controversies seems to corroborate the thesis that personal aspects were seen as a disturbing factor that needed regulation. .. Moves related to epistemic states and the dynamics of controversies One of the functions of certain types of controversies is to improve the epistemic states of the participants. For example, academic disputations were meant to provide the participants with new information, with new objections and, generally, with a well-founded, defensible view concerning a certain question, which they did not have before. But changes in the epistemic state of the participants also play a role in controversies aiming at knowledge and suprapersonal truth. E.g., Kepler reported that discussions at the Prague court lead him to improve his views for later written documentation.16 These changes in knowledge and beliefs of the participants are closely connected to certain kinds of moves.17 In Early Modern controversies, it seems that explicit retractions are extremely rare and virtually non-existent. A notable exception is the German 18th century chemist Friedrich Albrecht Carl Gren, who, after being a staunch defender of the phlogiston theory for a long time, converted to the oxidation theory in 1793, much to the surprise of his contemporaries (see Seils 1995). Concessions occur now and then, but they are often combined with moves to the effect that the concession does not affect the argumentation in a central way. Reformulations occur much more frequently.

 Thomas Gloning

The reason seems to be that retractions are closely connected with “being wrong” and, therefore, with personal honor. Concessions are much less dangerous because they affect only parts of an argumentation and not one’s position as a whole. A reformulation, finally, is a kind of move that both contributes to further clarification of a problem and allows a proponent to be right in the end. These kinds of moves seem to be an example, again, of how personal aspects are a factor potentially disturbing the ‘rationality’ of controversies. .. Expression of emotions and personal evaluation Expression of emotions like hate, anger or joy is rarely found in controversies of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. It seems that in those instances where emotions are expressed explicitly, they serve a specific function. For example, when dealing with Lessing, Goeze expresses disgust at Lessing’s use of figurative speech and at the self-contradictions which, in his view, were caused by this use.18 Here the explicit expression of disgust seems to serve as an explanation why the promised reaction is delayed. One must keep in mind that not to react comprehensively in due time was often taken as a sign of weakness in the Early Modern tradition of polemics. Despite the fact that explicit expressions of emotion and of personal evaluation are rarely found in Early Modern controversies, commitments to emotions and evaluations are sometimes part of the illocutionary logic of speech acts performed in controversies or they are part of a ‘reasonable’ interpretation of utterances in controversies (see Alston 1967). If, for example, in a controversy a person A accuses a person B of having done X, it is part of the illocutionary logic of accusations that A has conventionally, though implicitly, expressed disapproval of B’s having done X. . Meaning and understanding: Individual and ordinary language use Controversies are communicative events, and therefore questions of meaning and mutual understanding are important as well. Among the most prominent types of problems arising from the linguistic basis of controversies are questions of word usage and problems of the proper interpretation of utterances. An example of word usage problem is the Leibniz/Clarke controversy and the quarrel about the use of sensorium. Basically, the question is what the criteria for the use and for the understanding of words are; Leibniz claims that the established usage is the relevant criterion for the meaning and for the interpretation of words used in controversies, whereas Clarke claims that one has to understand how the author intended to use the word in question, and that au-

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

thors may use words in a manner different from ordinary language or from the ordinary language of philosophy (see Clarke/Leibniz, transl. Dellian, 31, 37, 46, 57). Other examples related to problems of word meaning and interpretation include quasi-semantic descriptions in the Hobbes/Bramhall controversy (see Fritz 2001: 14–16), in the Kepler/Röslin controversy (see Gloning 2002: 69f.) and in the Gehema/Geuder controversy (see Gloning & Lüsing 2002: 140f.). To clarify individual word usage can be crucial both in respect of the truth of statements and in respect of winning or losing: statements may be true or false, depending on the use of words contained in them; to say that a word was used in this or that sense may severely affect the truth of a statement and, thus, the outcome of a controversy. In the 17th century medical controversy between Gehema and Geuder, for example, one of the contenders claimed that there was no fermentation in the blood. In response to that, the opponent distinguished two ‘senses’ of the word fermentation and showed that only in one of the senses the statement is true (see Gehema 1688; Geuder 1689). In one of his contributions to the Fragmentenstreit (‘Lessings Schwächen, I’), Goeze complains about Lessing’s frequent use of parables, figurative speech and comparisons.19 One of the reasons for these complaints is Goeze’s misunderstanding of Lessing’s instances of figurative speech. He particularly mentions problems of understanding and interpretation of Lessing’s ‘Parable of the palace’. In his answer to this text, Goeze distinguishes between (a) what the author meant in using the parable and (b) how the parable would normally be understood, based on the use of common sense.20 Goeze’s interpretation starts out from established language use and from a common sense interpretation. The possibility that Lessing might have meant something different is explicitly acknowledged. In the latter case, Goeze ascribes to Lessing a kind of ‘burden of explanation of personal meanings’. An underlying principle, regulating such a burden of explanation, could be stated thus: In case you are using words in a way that deviates from established usage, you must explain what you mean/how you are using your words.

There are other kinds and aspects of misunderstanding and problems of interpretation in controversies as well: problems of mutual knowledge, problems of vagueness, problems of ambiguity, and others. The problems of misunderstanding and of individual language use as opposed to established usage were one of the starting points for several attempts to construe ideal languages.

 Thomas Gloning

. What is ‘personal style’ in controversies? Contemporary readers and controversialists of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries sometimes make remarks that point to something like ‘personal style’ of acting in a controversy. Lessing, for example, in his controversy with Goeze, complains about Goeze’s immoral style of discussion (“unmoralische Art zu disputieren”).21 Likewise, the modern reader of the Gehema/Geuder controversy on matters of medical treatment (1688/89) gets a strong impression that the personal style of Janus Abraham à Gehema is quite different from the personal style of Geuder. But how can we go beyond statements of impressions like “Somehow, X is more aggressive than Y”? Quoi qu’en dise Buffon, I suggest that this kind of impression of personal style can be analytically reconstructed – at least partially – (i) in terms of types of moves together with the respective commitments, (ii) in terms of types of linguistic expressions used in controversies, and (iii) in terms of the communicative principles that the opponents seem to follow. These categories are used ante litteram by the contemporaries themselves. Lessing explains thus what he meant by ‘immoral style of discussion’: Goeze published a reproach which Lessing had already answered earlier, and Goeze did not take Lessing’s defense seriously. Both can be seen as kinds of moves, and one can reconstruct the communicative principles that underlie Lessing’s critique. Similarly, Goeze characterizes Lessing’s style of conducting a controversy basically by enumerating communicative activities and typical kinds of moves.22 Likewise, Gehema’s tough and aggressive style can be described in terms of types of aggressive moves (e.g., person-related accusations to the traditional doctors) and in terms of the use of extremely derogatory vocabulary items. Geuder, in his answer, criticizes both the person-related moves (“Schänden und Schmähen”, “personalia tractieren”) and the use of derogatory expressions (“die härtiste und unverantwortlichste Schmähwort”). In addition, he points to communicative principles like friendliness, personal respect and moderation (“Glimpfflichkeit”, “Sanfftmuth”).

. Principles of communication Generally speaking, many meta-polemic contributions can be seen as attempts to purify the communication from certain ‘aspects of the subject’ or at least to strongly regulate the involvement of personal aspects that were thought to

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

be less fruitful vis-à-vis the overall aims of controversies. These aspects are basically regulated by the principles of communication governing the choice of moves and the principles governing the relevant attitudes of controversialists towards their activity. Moves and attitudes are closely connected: the place where attitudes show up is in communication, in the kinds of moves performed by a person. One cannot find out about the attitude of benevolence towards the opponent, for instance, unless one looks at the moves directed at the opponent. And in case there are confessions of benevolence without benevolent moves, one is inclined to assume that the confession was not expressed truthfully. . Principles governing the repertoire of moves As to the Early Modern principles governing the repertoire of moves, a supermaxim for a certain range of controversies could be thus stated: Avoid person-related moves (except those related to aspects of the subject matter).

The functional background for such a principle is that most person-related moves do not contribute in a fruitful way to the goal of the controversy, the pursuit of knowledge. Another super-maxim can be stated as follows: Avoid expression of disrespect.

Expressions of disrespect not only do not aid the attainment of the goal of the controversy, but on the contrary, they obstruct the achievement of goals like the improvement of knowledge. In order to support the maxim of respectfulness, Geuder quotes in translation a functional motivation given by Robert Boyle to the effect that expressions of disrespect make it more difficult to come to an agreement or to find a solution to the dispute at hand.23 Indeed, in most theories of controversy that lead to a modern, ‘civilized’ view of controversies, the kinds of moves that deprecate people or damage the face of a person, e.g., to scorn or to insult somebody, were banned from the repertoire of admissible moves.24 Two restrictions to this generalization seem to be necessary. First, there is a family of person-related moves that were obviously admissible: the moves that are person-related, but are related to aspects of the subject matter, too. It was, for example, admissible to accuse somebody of lack of linguistic competence in foreign languages, in case such a lack leads to a wrong interpretation of a text that was used as an argument in the controversy. Or: the accusation of

 Thomas Gloning

lack of knowledge was admissible, if it had something to do with the quality of the argument proposed by the opponent. Secondly, there were types of Early Modern controversies, where the global goal was not the pursuit of truth and knowledge, but to depreciate and to ‘intellectually obliterate’ the opponent. In these controversies, person-related moves clearly belonged to the standard repertoire. Examples can be taken from religious controversies of the 16th and 17th centuries or from polemic texts fighting against traditional medicine (e.g., Gehema; Paracelsus). . Principles about communicative attitudes of controversialists Early Modern theories of controversy often include communicative principles specifying attitudes of contributors to controversies, either in the form of criticism against people violating such principles, or as depictions of communicative ideals. Among the recommended attitudes we find: politeness, respect, tolerance, benevolence in the interpretation of the opponent’s utterances, moderation,25 a ‘professional’ spirit of criticism both able to bring forward critique in a fair manner and to accept criticism, the ability to change one’s opinion, freedom from personal motives, freedom from passion, or at least a principle of control of emotions like anger in public speech.26 On the other hand, contrary attitudes that count as violations of these principles are mentioned as well, e.g., the spirit of revenge (Reuchlin), quarrelsomeness (“Zancksucht”), proudness or arrogance (Montaigne Essais 3.8, ‘De l’art de conferer’). Here is an example from Lessing in his controversy with Goeze; Lessing criticises the opponent’s attitude (Stolz; ‘proudness’) and the kinds of moves that originate from this attitude: [T]here is one thing I will not stand: the proudness/arrogance, which denies reason and erudition to everyone, who uses them differently than you yourself. Especially, all my gall will become active, if you will continue to treat the author I have edited and whom you only know from the short passages I edited like a schoolboy.27

Combinations of such attitudes can be put together to yield an overall picture of what could be called ‘communicative types’: i.e., a verbal depiction of a kind of person characterized by the typical attitudes and the typical communicative behavior of such a person. Apart from these descriptions, there are also specific expressions that can be used to refer to these communicative types or to specific persons of such a kind, e.g., Haderkatze (Kepler), used for a quarrelsome person.

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

. Concluding remarks Early Modern polemics can be seen as a family of forms of communication. In this paper I have tried to outline (i) linguistic aspects of the subject and of subjectivity in polemics and (ii) meta-polemic attempts to purify polemics and critical activity from certain aspects of the subject/of subjectivity, or at least attempts to strongly regulate the involvement of such personal aspects as were thought to be less fruitful in respect of the overall aims of controversies. It seems to me that these attempts are part of an overall tendency towards more politeness and more respect, which develops in the late 17th and the 18th century. But, clearly, this assumption needs further investigation.

Notes . In the present article I will deal with certain controversies that range from the beginning of the 16th century up to ca. 1780, which is a bit later than what is usually called Early Modern. . See Gloning (2002: Chapter 4.1); the relevant passages quoted there are from Kepler (KGW 4: 126; 4: 128; 4: 35). . “ES muß ein jeder vernünfftiger Mensch frey und offentlich bekennen/ daß leyder all unser Menschliches Wissen/ es habe auch Namen wie es immer wolle/ nichts ist als lauter Stuckwerck/ und daß in denen so schön/ hellgläntzend/ und ohnzweiffelich vor Menschlichen Augen scheinenden Wissenschafften allezeit eine Unvollkommenheit sich einschleichet/ und immer einige Fehler und Jrrthummer mit unterlauffen. Wird dannenhero nicht wol ein weiser Mann zu finden seyn/ der nicht vor ein hoch nothwendiges Werck halte/ daß einer den andern/ deren da und dorten etwa eingeschlichenen Fehlern erinnere: Und ist auch billich/ daß der jenige/ so gefehlet/ eine freundliche Erinnerung gern und gebührend annehme” (Geuder 1689: A3b, first page of the unpaginated Vorrede). See also Gloning and Lüsing (2002: Chapter 4.2). . “. . .in sollichen sachen soll einer dem andern fort helffen” (Kepler KGW 4: 126). For Geuder, see the quotation in Note 3. See also Gloning (2002); Gloning and Lüsing (2002). . “ES befindt sich täglich in dem widerwertigen span der Religion vnserer zeyten/ das sich vil lüten (vnder denen ouch etlich guotwillig/ insonders an denen orten/ da man das Euangelium Christi nit offentlich vnnd ordenlich prediget/ sind) träffenlich beklagend/ sy wüssind schier nit woran sy syend/ was sy glouben/ thuon oder lassen söllind. Dann die Geleerten habind vndereinandern allenthalben in der wält/ ein so häfftigen stryt/ da einer diß/ der ander das säge/ ouch zuo beiden syten einandren so übel schältind/ das einem einfalten vngeleerten menschen nit bald zuo wüssen sye wohin er sich keere/ oder welcher part er glouben vnd volgen sölle. Es werdind wol büecheren gnuog geschriben: die syend aber so lang vnnd vilfaltig/ ouch mit strytigen disputationen dermassen yngewicklet/ vnnd mit schälten verbitteret / das sy die zuo läsen nun gar keinen lust habind” (Bullinger 1558:

 Thomas Gloning

Vorrede). Izaak Walton, in his ‘Life of Sir Henry Wotton’: “After this account of his Faith, and this Surrender of his Soul to that God that inspir’d it ... he proceeded to appoint that his Executors should lay over his grave a Marble stone, plain, and not costly...‘Twas directed by him, to be thus inscribed: ... DISPUTANDI PRURITUS, ECCLESIARUM SCABIES... Which may be Englished thus, ... THE ITCH OF DISPUTATION WILL PROVE THE SCAB OF THE CHURCH”. Walton seems to subscribe to this view himself, saying: “... in this Nation where the weeds of controversie grow to be daily both more numerous, and more destructive to humble Piety” (Walton 1962 [1651]: 142f.). One of the main issues in the Fragmentenstreit was the question whether or not public critique or discussions in German did harm to religion and faith and if and how one could restrict such discussions; see the contributions of Goeze, Behn and others published in Lessing WB 8 and WB 9; see also the following note. . “wird nicht mit der Ehrerbietung gegen die heil. Schrift und Religion, auch zugleich die Bereitwilligkeit ihren Oberherren den schuldigen Gehorsam zu leisten, und der Abscheu gegen Rebellion, in ihren Herzen ausgelöschet werden, wenn es jedem Witzlinge und Narren frei stehet, mit der christlichen Religion und mit der Bibel vor den Augen des ganzen christlichen Publici das dollkühnste Gespötte zu treiben?” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 36.20; my emphasis) – The use of Narr (‘fool’) seems to refer to a criterion of intellectual soundness. The use of Witzling is more complicated. The word Witz in 18th century German means something like ‘Esprit’, and Witzling probably refers to a person aiming to demonstrate or to show off his or her intellectual capacities without a sincere interest in the subject matter at hand. . “D. Röslin aber hab Vrsum nit für würdig geachtet/ Jhme zu antworten” (Kepler KGW 4: 105.5). . “Dann ich warlich in seinen Einreden/ die er hie wider etlicher Jahr prognostica führet/ nichts finde/ das ein Philosophischer Kopff mit Ehren vnd Reputation fürbringen kan: Welches ich nit zu Beschützung derselben prognosticorum, sondern allein zur verweisung eines solchen liederlichen Eynwurffs gemeynt haben wil: welcher von einem jeden Bauwern fürgebracht werden köndte/ ohne noht/ daß ein Philosophus den Kopff drüber zerbreche/ vnnd ein Buch darvon schreibe” (Kepler KGW 4: 253.42ff.). . “warumb schreybstu nit nuchtern deyne buchle?” (Luther WA 6: 582). . “Solten unsere Hnn. Titul-Doctores ihrem Hn. Schwager dem Hn. Barbier eine solche gewisse jährliche Rente/ welche er von der [!] Aderlasse einzunehmen hat/ auß den Händen spielen/ und die Ader zu öffnen verbiethen/ das wäre ja die Schwägerschafft nicht wol conserviret/ und derselbe würde ihnen hinwiederumb keine Patienten recommendiren wollen; oder solten sie ihrem Hn. Gevattern dem Hn. Apotecker/ (welcher so viel tausend in seine Apotecken/ und ein so merckliches auff die grosse Compositiones der Electuarien, Syrupen, Theriac, Lapis Bezoar, und andere Prætiosa mehr verwendet) zum Nachtheil die Purgationes, Clistiren/ Juleppen/ Hertzstärckungen etc. zu præscribiren unterlassen/ das würde ja die guten Männer ruiniren/ dardurch würde denen gewinnsüchtigen Hnn. Doctorn ein braver Braten aus ihrer Küchen/ oder ein jährlicher Tribut an allerhand Specereyen und aqua vitæ entgehen/... So und solcher Gestalt prædominiret/ oder prævaliret vielmehr eigener Nutzen und interesse für der Krancken Wohlfarth/...” (Gehema 1688: fifth and sixth pages of the unpaginated Vorrede).

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy  . “Er schild auch meyne hoffart, das ich mich erhebe ubir die heyligen lerer und Concilia. Das ich hoffertig und mit mehr lastern sey beladen, weysz ich nit zuvorfechten. Ich hab mich meyner heylickeit in keynem stuck yhe berumpt. Ist doctor Eck szo demutig unnd heylig, als ehr furgibt, yderman zu tadlen am lebenn, lasz ich geschehen. Wir handeln nit von leben, szondern von leren, lere bleybt wol recht in einem, ob schon sein leben bosze ist, szo ist bosze lere tausent mal schedlicher, denn bosz leben: der selben lere halben thue ich was ich thu, unnd sag, das D. Eck aber mal der warheit sparet, ich erhebe mich nit ubir die doctores und Concilia, ich erhebe Christum ubir alle lerer und Concilia...” (Luther WA 6: 581; my emphasis). . “folglich die biblischen Aussprüche, auf welchen die Rechte der Obrigkeit beruhen, als Irrtümer verwirft” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 21.15ff.). . “Ich habe die Hoffnung zu Gott, daß die Zeit nahe sei, welche diesem unsinnigen Unfuge ein Ende machen wird, und daß große Herren, um ihrer eignen Sicherheit willen ... solchen Toren und den verwegenen Ausbrüchen ihres Unsinns, Grenzen setzen werden” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 36.22ff.; my emphasis). . “Darumb sag ich, zur redtung meynsz gewissens von dem unschuldigenn blut, kegen alle, die solch artickel vordampt halten, das sie wissen sollen, wie sie Christum selbs leugnen und vordampnen, und doctor Eck, der wol weysz, das sie unrechtlich vordampt sein, doch, in das widerfechten kummen, sich schemet das widerspiel zusingen, wolt ehe alle welt mit seinen lugen vorblenden, das nur sein rum und ehre bestund, ehe er die warheit wolt lassen recht haben” (Luther WA 6: 588; my emphasis; see also 586 “und furchtest deyner ehre”). . Revenge: “im selbs zu ainer vnnottürfftigen muttwilligen rach”; Augenspiegel fol. 32b; economic motives: “das er mit mir als ain buchgrempler vil gelts möcht gewinnen”; Augenspiegel fol. 32b. . “... hernach aber in offnen schrifften/ dessen so ich verlohren geben/ ingedenck sein/ vnd der philosophiæ standhafftigkeit in acht nehmen” (Kepler KGW 4: 128). . “An important aspect of the pragmatic analysis of controversies is the dynamics of epistemic states, e.g., the way the participants incorporate new information, revise their views and deal with changes of mind. For this kind of analysis moves like concessions, retractions, and reformulations are useful indicators” (Fritz 2001: 17). . “Verdient ein Mann, der seiner selbst so sehr vergessen kann, daß Männer, welche wichtigere Arbeiten zum Besten der Gelehrsamkeit und der Wahrheit unternehmen könnten, ihre Zeit damit verderben, sein unzählbares Heer von Gleichnissen, die Munsterung passieren zu lassen, um die Widersprüche, welche solche Vernünftigen zum Ekel machen, ans Licht zu bringen? Ich habe zwar eine solche Bemühung versprochen, auch den Anfang damit bereits gemacht, allein diese Arbeit wird mir so ekelhaft, und so unbedeutend, daß ich solche wieder bei Seite geworfen habe” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 169; my emphasis). (Munsterung: a common 18th century form of Musterung; die Munsterung passieren lassen: here ‘to examine critically’.) . “Er scheint die Logik und gesunde Vernunft aus diesem Streite verbannet zu haben, und will schlechterdings bloß durch Witz, durch Parabeln, Bilderchen und Gleichnisse den Sieg behaupten” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 167).

 Thomas Gloning . “Ich kann seinem Nordlichte schlechterdings keine andere Deutung geben, und ich glaube, daß der gesunde Menschenverstand bei dieser Erklärung auf meiner Seite sei. Hat Herr Leßing damit etwas anders sagen wollen; so muß er sich darüber erklären” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 168). . Lessing (WB 9: 154.22); see also (9: 168.8ff.) for Goeze’s reproach that Lessing uses stratagems from the theatre in controversies (“Diesen Kunstgriff hat er in seinen Lustspielen sehr häufig, aber mit mehrerer Überlegung angewandt”). . “Bei dieser Gelegenheit etwas über die gegenwärtige Art des Herrn Leßings, Streitigkeiten zu führen. Vor einigen Jahren controvertierte er eine Zeitlang mit dem Hallischen Geheimenrate Klotz, über Gegenstände, welche eigentlich in das Feld liefen, dem sich Herr L. vorzüglich gewidmet hat. Er führete diesen Streit mit Nachdruck, er demütigte seinen Gegner wo es nötig war, er nahm ihm die fremden Federn, wenn er Parade mit denselben machen wollte; aber er führete diesen Streit auch mit Würde und vollkommener Anständigkeit. Er verachtete mit wahrer Großmut alle kleine und niedrige Kunstgriffe, Vorteile über seinen Gegner zu erhalten, oder die Leser mit Vorurteilen gegen ihn einzunehmen. Er stritte mit Gründen, und machte von seinem Witze nur alsdenn Gebrauch, wenn derselbe ein besonderes Licht über den Gegenstand, den er eben vor sich hatte, ausbreiten konnte: denn er war überzeugt, daß die Wahrheit auf seiner Seite war. Allein bei dem gegenwärtigen Streite müssen wir sagen: ‘quantum mutatus ab illo!’ Hier ist es die vornehmste Absicht des Herrn L. seine Gegner, ja auch die Gegner seines FragmentenSchreibers, wenn sie ihm auch nicht im geringsten zu nahe getreten sind, zu unwissenden und mitwilligen Laffen zu erniderigen” (Goeze, in Lessing WB 9: 166). . “wann ich aber seine Jrrthümer scharff/ hitzig/ und zancksüchtig angreiffe/ so verdopple ich mir die Arbeit/ und vermehre die Zwistigkeiten und Beschwerlichkeiten/ welche zu überwinden und beyzulegen ich Vorhabens bin/ und bringe nichts anders zu wegen/ als daß er nun nicht nur allein eine widerwärtige Meynung heget/ sondern auch mein Feind wird. Es ist traun kein geringes/ den jenigen zu überreden/ der nicht allein widerwärtiger Meynung ist/ sondern ein feindliches Gemüth gegen einem hat” (Geuder 1689: Vorrede, p. A4bf.). . “Wird ein Streitender ertapt, daß er unter seinem Schreibzeuge Knüttel oder Keule versteckt liegen habe, so wird er auf ein Jahr Landes verwiesen” (Klopstock 1975 [1774]: 27). . “Wegen zugeschickter Continuation dero gelehrter gedancken betr. den Uhrsprung der Thüringer, bedanke mich dinstlich. Hätte wohl von Hertzen wunschen mögen, daß es allerseits zu diser hefftigkeit nicht kommen. Daß H. Sagittarius seel. H. Tenzelium zu seiner Critick angefrischet, und ihm die Materi dazu an hand gegeben, kan ich kaum glauben. Und solte fast dafur halten H. Tenzelius habe proprio motu, varietatis causa seine unterredungen mit dieser Materi auszieren wollen. Ich habe gegen ihn, deßen ohngemeine gelehrsamkeit ich sonst sehr schätze, vor längst zu erkennen zu geben, die freyheit genommen, daß man fast nicht circumspect und moderat gnug sein könne, in examinandis et censendis aliorum sententiis; zumahl in öffentlichen Schrifften; und daß man es nicht thun solle als mit solchen bezeigungen, die den Autorem zu vergnügen auch einen vom autore besorgenden tort zu verhuten dienen können” (Leibniz an Johann Just Winkelmann, see Leibniz SB I/10: 593; my emphasis). . There are notes by Lessing on what he felt like when he was forbidden in an official letter by the Duke of Braunschweig to publish anything further in the controversy with Goeze.

Early Modern controversies and theories of controversy 

They show that there were emotions like anger in controversies, and that authors had personal strategies to deal with them (“geschwind abärgern, damit ich bald wieder ruhig werde, und mir den Schlaf nicht verderbe, um dessen Erhaltung ich besorgter bin, als um alles in der Welt”; Lessing WB 9: 692f.). It seems that there was a principle not to express anger in writing: “Er versichert mehr als einmal, daß er [Mascho] sich von keiner Heftigkeit irgendeiner Leidenschaft hinreißen lassen wolle” (Anonymus, in Lessing WB 9: 92.13). . The (rough) translation is mine; “nur eines werde ich nicht aushalten können: Ihren Stolz nicht; der einem jeden Vernunft und Gelehrsamkeit abspricht, welcher Vernunft und Gelehrsamkeit anders braucht, als Sie. Besonders wird alle meine Galle rege werden, wenn Sie meinen Ungenannten, den Sie nur noch aus unzusammenhängenden Bruchstücken kennen, so schülerhaft und bubenmäßig zu behandeln fortfahren” (Lessing WB 9: 51.29ff.; my emphasis).

References Alston, W. P. (1967). “Expressing”. In M. Black (Ed.), Philosophy in America (pp. 15–34). Ithaca/New York: Cornell University Press. Bullinger, H. (1558). Summa Christenlicher Religion. Zürich: Christoph Froschauer. Digital version: Zürich/Grüsch: Limache Verlag 1995. Clarke, S. Der Briefwechsel mit G. W. von Leibniz (1715/1716). A collection of papers which passed between the late learned Mr. Leibniz and Dr. Clarke in the years 1715/1716 [...]. Übersetzung, Einführung und Erläuterungen von Ed Dellian. Hamburg: Meiner, 1990 (PhB 423). Dascal, M. (1988). “Types of polemics and types of polemical moves”. In S. Cmejrková, J. Hoffmannová, O. Müllerová, & J. Svetlá (Eds.), Dialoganalyse VI. Teil 1 (pp. 15–33). Tübingen: Niemeyer. Dascal, M., & Marras, C. (2001). “The République des Lettres: A republic of quarrels?”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 3–19). Technical Report 3: Scientific Controversies and Theories of Controversy. Gießen/Tel Aviv. Edelmann, J. C. (1971). Streitschriften 1737–48. Faksimile-Neudruck Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog. Fritz, G. (1995). “Topics in the history of dialogue forms”. In A. Jucker (Ed.), Historical Pragmatics (pp. 469–498). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Fritz, G. (2001). “Remarks on the pragmatic form of the Hobbes-Bramhall controversy”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 5–24). Technical Report 1: The HobbesBramhall Controversy. Tel Aviv. Gehema, J. A. à. (1688). Grausame Medicinische Mord-Mittel/ Aderlasse/ Schröpffen/ Purgiren/ Clistiren/ Juleppen/ und Ohnmacht-machende Hertzstärckungen [...] Brehmen [Reprint Lindau: Antiqua-Verlag, 1980].

 Thomas Gloning

Geuder, M. F. (1689). Heilsame Medicinische Lebens-Mittel/ Denen grausamen Medicinischen Mord-Mitteln/ Herrn D. Jan. Abrah. à Gehema Entgegen gesetzt [...]. Ulm [Reprint Lindau: Antiqua-Verlag, 1980]. Gloning, T. (1999). “The pragmatic form of religious controversies around 1600: A case study in the Osiander vs. Scherer & Rosenbusch controversy”. In A. H. Jucker, G. Fritz, & F. Lebsanft (Eds.), Historical Dialogue Analysis (pp. 81–110). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Gloning, T. (2002). “Zur sprachlichen Form der Kepler/Röslin/Feselius-Kontroverse über Astrologie und Kosmologie um 1600”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 35–85). Technical Report 3: Scientific Controversies and Theories of Controversy. Gießen/Tel Aviv. Gloning, T., & Lüsing, J. (2002). “Die Kontroverse zwischen J. A. Gehema und M.F. Geuder (1688/1689)”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800) (pp. 87–142). Technical Report 3: Scientific Controversies and Theories of Controversy. Gießen/Tel Aviv. Kepler, J. (1602/1611). Gesammelte Werke, Band IV: Kleinere Schriften. Dioptrice. Hg. von M. Caspar & F. Hammer. München: Beck, 1941. [KGW] Kepler, J. (1609). Antwort Joannis Keppleri [...] Auff D. Helisæi Röslini [...] Discurs Von heutiger zeit beschaffenheit [...]. Prag (Sesse). In Gesammelte Werke, Band IV, 101–144. Kepler, J. (1610). Tertivs interveniens. Das ist/ Warnung an etliche Theologos, Medicos vnd Philosophos [...]. Frankfurt a.M. (G. Tampach) In Gesammelte Werke, Band IV, 147–258. Klopstock, F. G. (1975 [1774]). Die deutsche Gelehrtenrepublik. Hg. von R.-M. Hurlebusch. Berlin: De Gruyter. Leibniz, G. W. (1694). Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe. Erster Reihe: Allgemeiner politischer und historischer Briefwechsel. Zehnter Band. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1979. [SB I/10]. Leibniz, G. W., & Clarke, S. (1715/1716). Streitschriften zwischen Leibniz und Clarke. 1715. 1716. In C. J. Gerhardt (Ed.), Die philosophischen Schriften von Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Vol. 7 [Reprint Hildesheim: Olms, 1978, 345–440]. Lessing, G. E. (1989). Werke und Briefe in zwölf Bänden. Hg. von W. Barner u.a. Band 8: Werke 1774–1778 (Zur Geschichte und Literatur III/IV; Fragmentenstreit I; Notizbuch der italienischen Reise). Hg. von A. Schilson. Frankfurt a.M.: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. [WB 8] Lessing, G. E. (1993). Werke und Briefe in zwölf Bänden. Hg. von W. Barner u.a. Band 9: Werke 1778–1780 (Fragmentenstreit II; Nathan der Weise). Frankfurt a.M.: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. [WB 9] Luther, M. (1520). “Von der newen Eckischenn Bullen und lugen”. In M. Luther, Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe (Weimarer Ausgabe). Band 6. Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger/ Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt 1966, 576–594. [WA 6] Maldonado, J. (1947). “Oratio IV (de disputatione, 1574)”. In R. Galdos (Ed.), Miscellanea de Maldonato anno ab eius nativitate quater centenario (1534?–1934) (pp. 111–130). Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Montaigne, M. de (1962). Œuvres complètes. Textes étabilis par Albert Thibaudet et Maurice Rat. Introduction et notes par Maurice Rat. Paris: Gallimard.

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Paracelsus (1589). “Das Ander Buch/ Labyrinthus medicorum genant”. In Ander Theil Der Bücher vnd Schrifften/ des Edlen/ Hochgelehrten vnd Bewehrten Philosophi vnnd Medici, Philippi Theophrasti Bombast von Hohenheim/ Paracelsi genannt: Jetzt auffs new auß den Originalien (...) auffs trewlichst vnd fleissigst an tag geben: Durch Iohannem Huserum (...) (pp. 191–243). Basel: Conrad Waldkirch [Reprint Hildesheim/New York: Olms 1971]. Reuchlin, J. (1961). Augenspiegel (Tübingen, Thomas Anshelm, 1511). Faksimile mit einem Nachwort von Josef Benzing. München: Froben. Seils, M. (1995). Friedrich Albrecht Carl Gren in seiner Zeit 1760–1798. Spekulant oder Selbstdenker?. Stuttgart: Steiner. Sommervogel, C. (Ed.). (1890–1932). Bibliothèque de la Compagnie de Jésus. Nouv. éd., 12 Vols. Bruxelles/Paris: Schepens. Walton, Izaak (1962 [1640–1670]). The Lives of John Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, Richard Hooker, George Herbert and Robert Sanderson. With an Introduction by George Saintsbury. London: Oxford University Press. Wittgenstein, L. (1967). Philosophische Untersuchungen. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp.

Chapter 13

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge Yaron Senderowicz

.

Introduction

My goal in the present paper is to defend some claims concerning the epistemic function of controversies. After presenting in outline a model of the epistemic function of controversies that I developed elsewhere (2001), I will apply this model to the ongoing controversy between externalists and individualists concerning the compatibility of externalism with self-knowledge. The present study owes its main intellectual debt to Marcelo Dascal. Following Dascal, I take controversies to be “dialogues between radically opposed views”. I endorse Dascal’s typology of controversies (see, in particular, Dascal 1995, 1998a and 1998b). Dascal distinguishes between two macro-levels of controversies: “strategical” and “tactical” (1998a: 19). At the strategic level, Dascal differentiates between three ideal types of polemical dialogues: “discussion”, “dispute” and “controversy”. The criteria for this typology are: (a) the scope of the disagreement, (b) the kind of content involved, (c) the presumed means for solving this disagreement and (d) the ends pursued by the contenders (1998a: 21). At the tactical level, he distinguishes between three types of moves employed in polemical exchanges: “proof ”, “stratagem” and “argument”. As Dascal claims, each type of dialogue “has an inherent affinity with one of these types of moves” (21). “Discussion” has an inherent affinity with “proof ”, “dispute” with “stratagem” and “controversy” with “argument”. According to Dascal, the fundamental property distinguishing controversies from discussions is that the former are not typically ended by a “solution”. Arguments are the typical tactical means used by contenders involved in a controversy. In contrast to proofs, arguments do not provide solutions. According to Dascal, an argument purports to persuade the addressee to believe that a proposition is true, while a proof purports to establish the truth of a proposition (1998a: 25).

 Yaron Senderowicz

Controversies are also different from disputes. The difference between “argument” and “stratagem” – the typical tactical means used in disputes – is that the latter “purports to cause a relevant audience to react in a certain way by inducing it to believe that a proposition is true” (1998a: 25), whereas arguments “achieve their effect by providing recognizable reasons” for the desired belief (25). Like proofs and unlike stratagems, arguments persuade by using reasons. Hence, the concept “reason” designates the underlying device used in proofs and arguments. As I argued elsewhere (2001), Dascal’s typology raises some difficulties. The main difficulty concerns his alleged distinction between arguments and proofs. According to Dascal, in proofs the proposition is “established beyond reasonable doubt”. Arguments are supposed to persuade one to believe or accept a proposition. However, it seems to follow that there is a distinction to be drawn between “reasons to believe” and “reasons that establish the truth”. My claim was that since the only epistemic reason for accepting or believing a proposition is a reason to think that the proposition is true beyond reasonable doubt, i.e., that it is likely to be true, one must look elsewhere for the difference between proofs and arguments. A first step towards avoiding the above difficulty is to point out the following condition related to the dialogical situation (controversy) within which arguments are used: if S1 intends sincerely to persuade S2 that p, then (a) p is beyond reasonable doubt for S1 according to her standards of justification and (b) p is either doubtful or likely to be false according to S2 ’s standards of justification. In other words, S1 has reasons for p, reasons that make p beyond reasonable doubt, while S2 does not accept these reasons as reasons that support S1 ’s case as providing the required justification “beyond reasonable doubt”. In this case, the property a controversy has of not providing a solution is related not to differences in the ends of persuasion (believing that p, p) but rather to the way the reasons provided by the argument are evaluated by each contender. The end of persuasion in this context is not merely to validate a statement by using reasons, but rather to lead the opponent to accept these reasons qua reasons.1 One should be careful to notice, however, that bringing the opponent to see the reasons by causally inducing her to see them is incompatible with the nature of arguments qua ideal type of moves. If it is rational for S1 to try to persuade S2 by means of reasons, and if it is possible for S2 to change her beliefs in a rational way in the light of the reasons embedded in the argument that intends to persuade her, there must be some conceivable reasons that are part of S2 ’s

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

system of beliefs by means of which she can be persuaded, reasons that are related to the reasons provided by S1 ’s argument as part of justifying her position.

. Some preconditions of “controversy” The above concept of controversy has at least two preconditions. The first is that both contenders must share some natural language, including the background knowledge required for knowledge of language. The second concerns the content that should be attributed to the terms ‘radically opposed views’. I take ‘commitment to radically opposed views’ as equivalent to a commitment to incompatible positions. Incompatible positions can be identified within a controversy by means of some incompatible statements. I take these incompatible statements to be symptoms of the ‘radical differences’ between the positions involved.2 If controversies are possible, knowledge of meanings must leave room for the possibility of incompatible positions. The term ‘position’ is, from the epistemic standpoint, vague. It is a truism that knowledge of the meaning of a statement does not require knowledge of all the possible statements entailed by it. Since the contenders, arguably, lack knowledge of some of the implications of the statements they endorse, they lack knowledge of some of the statements to which they are committed in being committed to a position.3 I take controversies (in the above sense) to be a confrontation of positions. Positions cannot be identified with any set of statements actually held by their representatives; they include statements that are “not yet” conceived, values of various kinds, preferences, principles of relevance, etc. However, the explicit topics of the exchange are normally statements that are the symptoms of the differences between the positions, the statements that one party accepts and the other rejects.4 Arguments are used either for establishing the “symptomatic” propositions (or propositions that are entailed by them) or for undermining them. Nevertheless, one should distinguish, at least in certain cases, between the explicit and implicit goal of arguments used in controversy. The explicit goal is to advocate acceptance of or withdrawal from the symptomatic proposition. The implicit goal is to undermine one position and to establish the other position involved (arguments used in controversies usually comprise both goals). Accomplishment of the explicit goal does not entail that the implicit and more fundamental goal is achieved. One way of explaining (at least with respect to some cases) why arguments used in controversies do not provide solutions is the above discrepancy be-

 Yaron Senderowicz

tween their explicit and implicit goals. As I said, controversies are held between positions. The real goals of the arguments used within them are the positions: to enhance the force of one and to diminish the force of another. It follows that what an argument aims to achieve is far more complicated than what most individual arguments might actually establish. The force of the arguments is evaluated not individually but rather with regard to the whole position. Nevertheless, in evaluating the development and the results of a controversy one should evaluate the way in which the actual arguments used in them effect the positions involved.

. Epistemic function The epistemic function of controversies should be understood mainly in terms of their contribution to the growth of knowledge. Again, this claim appears in Dascal’s relevant writings. I said before that controversies are distinguished from discussions in that the former “have no solution”. The expression “have no solution” should be understood as an abbreviation of “has no solution within the actual state of knowledge that characterizes the initial state of the controversy”, i.e., within the actual set of justified propositions and theories, available reasons, concepts, methods and procedures with which the contenders are already familiar. Since controversies may cause a change in the state of knowledge in the above sense, the expression “have no solution” is relative to time. I claimed before that if persuasion is a rational activity of the subjects involved, if it is possible for a subject to change her beliefs in a rational way in the light of reasons embedded in the argument intending to persuade her, there must be some conceivable reasons that are part of her system of beliefs, reasons that are related to the reasons provided by her opponent’s argument. Such a relation between both sets of reasons may take various forms. If one endeavors to show that controversies have epistemic significance one has to show that there is an internal connection between (a) the recognizable reasons that are part of the position endorsed by a subject S1 (at the initial state of the controversy) and (b) the arguments used by her opponent S2 that intend to persuade her. In order to point out the features of this connection let me add two further characteristics of positions involved in controversies: (1) A position is “internally complete” if it can account for all the facts and phenomena, problems and questions that it purports to deal with. In

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

particular, it is able to cope with “internal” difficulties, problems and questions that are conceived within the position itself and are, therefore, problems and questions that the advocates of the position themselves acknowledge. Both incompatible positions involved in a controversy are not internally complete relative to what is “really possible”.5 (2) The contenders are not necessarily aware of the scope and force of these internal difficulties, problems and questions before the controversy begins, or even not aware of them at all.6

Not all difficulties pointed out by contenders in a controversy are internal difficulties of the position attacked. My concern here will be with difficulties, problems and question that representatives of a position tend to consider as internal difficulties of their position. The reason for this choice is that this is where the connection between the recognizable reasons used by one contender is related to the recognizable reasons used by his opponent. We should now try to build some conception of an actual case of growth of knowledge that might result from a controversy.7 My purpose here is merely to provide some characteristics that enable one to distinguish between different types of growth of knowledge. As a preliminary step, let me introduce a distinction between two kinds of arguments that might be used by contenders involved in controversies: (3) Arguments that aim to reveal internal difficulties, problems and phenomena that the arguer takes to be unexplained by the position that she attacks. However, the premises of the argument that she presents do not include any statements that are manifestly part of her own position (statements that are incompatible with the position attacked). Such an argument might either use statements that are part of the shared background or part of the position attacked.

Arguments of type (3) might be regarded as providing direct support to the arguer’s position only if either position A is well founded or B is well founded and not both. However, in some cases it is possible that both positions will be revealed as ill founded and will be replaced by a third position. (4) At least one of the premises of the arguments used by a representative of a position B against a position A is a proposition that the arguer accepts and her opponent denies. The conclusion is a proposition that they both seem to accept (at least in the initial state of the controversy).

 Yaron Senderowicz

If arguments belonging to type (4) are sound, the attack on a position A provides direct support to the position held by the arguer.

. Three types of growth of knowledge One can distinguish between at least three different types of growth of knowledge: (5) A certain kind of phenomena that is so far unexplained by S1 by using the rules, principles and theories of her position is now explained by applying the already established reasons, type of arguments and existing evidence as a result of a challenge posed by the opponent.

This case is probably the weakest case of growth of knowledge. It requires only the application of existing types of reasons, procedures, methods and theoretical knowledge. (6) A certain type of phenomena that is so far unexplained by S1 by the rules, principles and theories of her position is now explained by applying new reasons, new types of arguments, new evidence or new methods as a result of a challenge posed by her opponent S2 . In providing these new explanations S1 might acquire new beliefs without having to revise significantly her old beliefs, in particular those beliefs that are the symptoms of her position, the propositions that she accepts and her opponent rejects.

Type (6) represents a case of what might be titled growth of knowledge within the position. The opponent’s challenge triggers the discovery of new explanations, new reasons, etc., without having to give up the propositions that are questioned by the opponent, those that are the primary cause of the controversy. (7) Suppose that the positions held by two subjects S1 and S2 , respectively, are distinguished among other things by the fact that S1 holds {A, B. . .} and S2 does not accept {A, B. . .}. Difficulties and unanswered questions revealed by the arguments presented by S2 lie within the scope of what S1 regards as the desired goals of her position, of what from her own standpoint needs an answer. It is not really possible to provide an answer to these difficulties without changing some of the symptomatic propositions of the position. Given the above, one should distinguish between two possible cases: (a) the arguments used by S2 belong to type (3) and (b) the arguments used by S2 belong to type (4); i.e., either they use the symptomatic statements of

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

S2 ’s position or the corroboration of some of the premises of the argument used by S2 is based on reasons and evidence that depend epistemically on some of the “symptomatic” statements of S2 ’s position.8

Type (7) is presumably the kind of case where the epistemic relevance of controversies is most salient. If the arguments used by S2 belong to type (4), S2 ’s position (that is incompatible with S1 ’s position) becomes directly relevant to S1 ’s internal coherence. This is where one can clearly show that reasons that are part of S1 ’s system of beliefs are directly related to S2 ’s arguments. However, if the arguments used by S2 belong to type (3), the result might be different. These arguments would point out the deficiencies and incoherence of S1 ’s position without providing support to S2 ’s position. Let me stress that this distinction is not meant to be exhaustive. There is much to be said about it that cannot be said in the present context.

. Externalism and narrow content I shift now to the controversy about externalism and self-knowledge. My concern here will be mainly with the externalist’s side of the story, more precisely, with Burge’s version of externalism. First I introduce some general facts regarding externalism and self-knowledge. Then I will present two different arguments that exemplify, respectively, type (5) and type (7) of growth of knowledge. Externalism with respect to mental content is the thesis that the content of an individual’s propositional mental state is not determined by the individual’s properties considered in isolation from her social and physical environment. By self-knowledge one means in the present context the direct non-inferential privileged knowledge of one’s own mental state, knowledge that is a priori in the sense that it is not dependent on any empirical investigation. It might be claimed that the tension between externalism and self-knowledge in the above sense is already manifested in Putnam’s seminal paper “The meaning of meaning”. This paper presents the first explicit formulation of externalism upon which subsequent works rely. Putnam’s concern is to undermine a prevalent conception of meaning and understanding. This conception is committed, according to Putnam, to the following two claims: (i)

That knowing the meaning of a term is just a matter of being in a certain psychological state.

 Yaron Senderowicz

... (ii) That the meaning of a term (in the sense of ‘intension’) determines its extension (in the sense that sameness of intension entails sameness of extension). (Putnam 1975: 219)

No doubt, anti-psychologism is widespread. According to Frege (and Husserl), concepts are abstract entities that can be grasped by different persons and by the same person at different times. However, Frege thinks that understanding a term, knowing it’s meaning, is grasping a concept. And grasping a concept, claims Putnam, is a psychological act or state. A “psychological state” in the required sense is subject to methodological solipsism, namely, the assumption “that no psychological state . . . presupposes the existence of any individual other then the subject to whom the state is ascribed” (Putnam 1975: 220). Putnam’s Twin Earth thought experiment purports to reveal the impossibility of any theory of meaning committed to the above two claims. Let Earth and Twin Earth be two exactly similar planets apart from the fact that on earth water = H2 0 and on Twin Earth water = XYZ. Let Oscar and Toscar be two physically type identical individuals. Oscar and Toscar are, claims Putnam, in the same psychological state narrowly construed with respect to “water”. Nevertheless, the extensions of their terms differ. Since knowledge of the meaning of a term is a (narrow) psychological state and since their psychological states (narrowly construed) are identical, meanings do not determine reference. Burge is generally sympathetic to Putnam’s position. However, he objects to Putnam’s distinction between narrow and wide psychological states. He rebuts Putnam’s claim that Oscar and Toscar share the same internal attitudes towards water or that they share the same concept WATER. As Burge maintains, the claim that they share the same concept rests on the dubious assumption “that each must have verbal means beside ‘water’ of expressing his concept – means that suffice in every outlandish context to distinguish that concept from others” (Burge 1982: 111). Burge thinks that there is no reason to accept this assumption. The individuation of the content of mental states presupposes the physical and social environment no less than the individuation of the meanings of terms. As Boghossian (1998: 271) observes, the externalist’s thesis “is supposed to apply at the level of sense and not merely at that of reference”.

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

. Externalism and self-knowledge The fact that externalists think that the content of a mental state is individuated by means of facts external to the person’s “skin” seems to engender a serious difficulty with respect to self-knowledge. Self-knowledge is traditionally conceived as (a) introspective, (b) non-inferential, (c) privileged and (d) a priori, i.e., not dependent on any empirical investigation. Externalism seems to leave no room for such knowledge. This was indeed the view of Woodfield, himself an externalist, in his introduction to the collection of papers Thought and Object. According to Woodfield (1982: viii), if externalism is true then: One doctrine that will need to be dropped is the Cartesian view that the subject is the best authority on what he or she is thinking. The doctrine has been attacked before, by behaviorists for example, but the present line of attack is more subtle. According to de re theorists, the subject can have full conscious access to internal subjective aspects of a thought while remaining ignorant about which thought it is.

The standard argument undermining the compatibility of self-knowledge and externalism seems to be the following: if the individuation of the content of a mental state necessarily presupposes facts external to the person’s skin, knowing the content of one’s belief, say, that “water is wet”, seems to require knowledge of the external fact itself. However, knowing that ‘water’ refers to H2 O (and not to XYZ) requires empirical investigation. Such knowledge is not based on reflection or introspection, and is not privileged. The original drive for externalism was the need to provide an account of empirical reference. However, if some argument similar to the above is sound, externalism seems to be unable to account for claims to knowledge that are easily explained within the set of positions that externalism aimed to undermine.9 In terms of the epistemic theory of controversies presented above, we may say that Woodfield and others did not regard this argument as pointing out an internal difficulty within the externalist’s position. This was indeed the case in the early phase of externalism. Nevertheless, this attitude changed. Leading externalists such as Burge (1988) and Davidson (1987) admitted that if externalism entailed the impossibility of self-knowledge, this would be a serious objection against the adequacy of externalist theories of mental content. The incompatibility of externalism and self-knowledge was transformed into an internal problem for externalism.

 Yaron Senderowicz

Burge defends the compatibility of externalism and self-knowledge in “Individualism and self-knowledge”. He concedes at the beginning of this paper that: Much of our self-knowledge is similar to knowledge of other’s mental events. It depends on observation of our own behavior and reliance on others’ perception of us. And there is much that we do not know, or even misconstrue, about our own minds. (Burge 1988: 649)

Nevertheless, Burge continues, Descartes was right to be impressed with the directness and certainty of some of our self-knowledge. (p. 649)

Judgments such as “I am now thinking” or “I judge that water is more common than mercury”, which Burge calls “basic self-knowledge”, are self-verifying; making these judgments itself makes them true (ibid.). Burge’s claims are based on the following argument. Among the conditions of first order empirical thoughts are some that can be known only empirically. For example, thinking about water presupposes a causal relation with water or some other substances that enable one to theorize about water (p. 653). But it is a mistake to claim that in order to think the thought that water is liquid one needs to know all the complex conditions presupposed by this thought. Basic self-knowledge consists in a reflexive judgment that involves thinking a first order thought. The reflexive judgment inherits the content of the first order thought. As Burge points out, the capacity to make basic self-knowledge judgments should be sharply distinguished from the perceptual model. Reflection is not inner perception.10 Although the concept of objective perception leaves room for the possibility of perceptual mistakes, there is no room for mistakes in basic self-knowledge. Basic self-knowledge judgments are self-verifying because they inherit their content from the first order judgments that they are about.

. Knowledge of content and self-knowledge In his paper “Content and self-knowledge”, Boghossian rebuts Burge’s defense. He presents two distinct arguments against it. As I shall demonstrate, the first exemplifies my type (5). This argument points out an ambiguity. Nevertheless, it has an answer within Burge’s externalism, merely by applying what is already known.

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

According to Boghossian, Burge’s position is committed to the supposition that self-knowledge judgments are cognitively insubstantial. As Boghossian puts it, these judgments do not represent any cognitive achievement. Boghossian thinks that the main deficiency of this supposition is that it is incompatible with the fact that self-knowledge judgments are both fallible and incomplete. However, Boghossian (1989: 21) maintains, judgments such as I judge: I believe that writing requires concentration I judge: I fear that writing requires concentration

are not self-verifying. One might be mistaken about whether or not one fears that writing requires concentration as cases of self-deception demonstrate. According to Boghossian, Burge’s best possible case is the judgment “I think that writing requires concentration”. However, these judgments are self-verifying only if the time in which the judgment is made is absolutely coincidental with the act of thinking that it is about. Hence, Burge’s basic self-knowledge judgments are either incompatible with the fallibility and incompleteness of self-knowledge or unimportant. The claim that basic self-knowledge judgments are self-verifying is indeed part of Burge’s position. Nevertheless, Burge does not commit himself to the claim that every self-knowledge judgment is a basic self-knowledge judgment. As I showed, he explicitly acknowledges the fallibility of self-knowledge at the very beginning of his paper. Burge does not even claim that basic self-knowledge judgments are the paradigmatic type of self-knowledge judgments. Indeed, what seems to confuse Boghossian is that Burge’s basic selfknowledge judgments are not self-knowledge judgments in Boghossian’s sense. Boghossian supposed that his counter examples make clear that he takes selfknowledge to be about the particular mental event or state of the person that makes them, while Burge thinks that they are about the content of these states and events. Let me explain: we may assume that self-knowledge judgments are of the form “I Ψ that p”. Their subject term is a first person indexical; it is followed by the expression of a propositional attitude, the corresponding “that” clause that contains a sentence expressing the content of the prepositional attitude. Burge’s examples are: “I think that writing requires concentration” and “I judge that water is more common than the mercury”. One may interpret these statements in two distinct ways: as being about the psychological event or about the content of the thought. One might be mistaken as to whether one does believe that p without being mistaken as to what one thinks that one believes in making this first person judgment. Hence both interpretations are compatible.

 Yaron Senderowicz

Burge’s main concern regards contentions such as Brueckner’s (1986, 1990, 1994) that externalism is committed to content skepticism. Yet, notwithstanding the fact that Boghossian’s argument uncovers an ambiguity in Burge’s position, this ambiguity can be eliminated without requiring any change in Burge’s position. In fact the alleged challenge posed by this ambiguity is eliminated in Falvey and Owens paper “Externalism, self-knowledge and skepticism”, one of whose goals is to defend the compatibility of externalism and self-knowledge without introducing any new concept. As Falvey and Owens (1994: 108) point out, it is the denial of direct and authoritative knowledge of content that poses a threat to externalism.

. Knowledge of content and comparative knowledge of content Boghossian (1989) presented another argument that was developed by Butler (1998). This argument is close to my type (7). In my view, there is no adequate answer to the problem revealed by this line of argument within the present state of externalism. As we have seen, the naïve argument that aspires to show that externalism entails content skepticism is founded on the following assumption: if the content of one’s thoughts is determined by the nature of one’s surrounding, and if the thoughts of a person counterfactually placed in different surroundings have different contents, then a person can know the content of her thoughts only if she can rule out the counterfactual possibilities. Since ruling out such counterfactual possibilities can be done only by means of empirical investigations, a subject can have no authoritative privileged knowledge of the content of her thoughts. The immediate response to this naïve line of argument is to point out that not every counterfactual possibility is epistemically relevant. Nevertheless, as Burge (1988) himself notes, there are cases in which the counterfactual possibilities are epistemically relevant. These are the so-called slow switching cases, in which one is transported unknowably from Earth to Twin Earth several times. It seems that a person suffering from such switches would have to conduct empirical investigation in order to know the content of her thoughts. Hence her knowledge of content would be incompatible with the required demands. This is how Boghossian (1989) presented the matter. Burge (1988) already anticipated an answer to these worries, an answer that was developed by Falvey and Owens. First, they presented a new distinction between two concepts: “introspective knowledge of content” and “introspec-

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

tive knowledge of comparative content”. Introspective knowledge of content is introspective knowledge of the content of a singular thought. Introspective knowledge of comparative content is introspective knowledge that two thoughts have the same (or different) content. Externalism is compatible, they claim, with introspective knowledge of content, although as the slow switching cases demonstrate it is incompatible with introspective knowledge of comparative content. However, as they point out, despite the fact that many philosophers have assumed that we have introspective knowledge of comparative content there is simply no good reason to think that we have. (Falvey & Owens 1994: 112)

We lack introspective knowledge of comparative content independently of externalism. Knowing that two distinct sentences express one identical thought is not based on mere reflection. It is implausible, they claim, that such knowledge “can be acquired independently of a serious empirical investigation into linguistic practice” (p. 113). The content of Oscar’s second order reflective judgment “I think that water is wet” inherits its content from his first order judgment “water is wet”. This judgment is, to remind the reader, self-verifying. If Oscar were transported unknowably to Twin Earth and stayed there long enough, the content of his reflective second order judgment “water is wet” would be (when he is on Twin Earth) that “twater is wet”. Oscar has in both cases introspective knowledge of the content of his judgments. In both cases his second order reflective judgment inherits its content from the first order judgment. It is not based on inner or outer perception or on any other source of evidence but simply on the act of making the judgment. It represents, as Boghossian puts it, insubstantial knowledge. What Oscar lacks, however, is introspective knowledge of comparative content, knowledge that his two thoughts have distinct content. The above move is close to represent type (6) of growth of knowledge. The statement that claims that we possess introspective knowledge of comparative content is revealed to be incompatible with externalism. However, the need to overcome this incompatibility leads to an argument that establishes a new so far unknown statement, namely, the claim that we do not possess introspective knowledge of comparative content. This argument introduces a new concept that makes new distinctions possible. Nevertheless, the overall change of the state of knowledge that is caused by this move does not require any significant change in what I dubbed the symptomatic statements of the externalist’s position.

 Yaron Senderowicz

Although this response to the threat posed by introspective knowledge of comparative content improves the externalist position, it is unable to cope with the difficulty pointed out by Boghossian, Butler and others. Boghossian refers to a passage in Burge (1988: 659) where he concedes that a person that is a victim of such slow switching may learn about the switches and ask “Was I thinking yesterday about water or twater?” – and not know the answer. Here knowing the answer may sometimes indeed depend on knowing empirical background conditions. But such sophisticated questions about memory require a more complex story. If a person aware of the fact that switching has occurred, were to ask “Am I now thinking about water or twater?”, the answer is obviously “both”. Both concepts are used. Given that the thought is fixed and that the person is thinking it self-consciously, no new knowledge about the thought could undermine the self-ascription – or therefore its justification or authority.

A person suffering from sets of switches seems to have no knowledge of the content of his thoughts, as Boghossian and Butler maintain. However, Burge dismisses this difficulty as being a “sophisticated question about memory” that requires more complex story. Boghossian (1989: 23) retorts as follows: If S knows that p at t1 and if (at some later time) t2 S remembers everything S knew at t1 , then S knows that p at t2 . Now let us ask: why does S not know today whether yesterday’s thought was a water thought or a twater thought? The platitude insists that there are only two possible explanations: either S has forgotten or he never knew. But surely, memory failure is not to the point. In discussing the epistemology of rationally individuated content we ought to be able to exclude memory failure by stipulation. It is not as if thoughts with widely individuated contents might be easily known but difficult to remember. The only explanation, I venture to suggest, for why S will not know tomorrow what he is said to know today is not that he has forgotten but that he never knew.

Boghossian’s argument poses a real threat to externalism. It points out an internal difficulty within the externalist’s position. As he stresses, Burge’s portrayal of this difficulty as a sophisticated question about memory is inadequate. This difficulty cannot be dismissed by claiming that externalism requires a change in our commonsensical conception of knowledge of past thoughts. The problem can be stated in the following way. S, suffering of such switches, supposedly acquired two concepts – “water” and “twater” – which he is unable to apply correctly to his reflective memory statements. As Butler (1998) points out, in this case one cannot sever the connection between in-

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge 

trospective knowledge of content and introspective knowledge of comparative content, though not necessarily for the reasons that Butler provides. The problem concerns the nature of our intellectual capacity of understanding concepts. No one will doubt, I think, that understanding a concept involves a capacity to reapply the concept to new formerly unobserved instances. Concepts might very well be acquired through experiencing certain particular events. But the concept that is acquired is not confined to these particular perceptual events. If one has understanding of a concept one is able to apply it to new particular instances. Moreover, such new applications involve, in principle, the introspective consciousness that it is a new application, namely, that the present experienced event or object exemplifies the same concept that was instantiated in the past event or object. The externalist’s response to the difficulties engendered by the switching cases that sever between introspective knowledge of content and introspective knowledge of comparative content is unable to account for this capacity involved in knowledge of content. Individualists such as Butler regard the alleged incompatibility of externalism and self-knowledge as a reason justifying their position. To be sure, the above difficulty is not part of the individualist’s position. Nevertheless, as I claimed earlier, controversies are held between positions. Arguments are assessed with regard to the way they affect the whole position. It is not enough in this sense to point out a difficulty in order to win a controversy. Indeed, the above argument spells out the merits of the individualist’s position. It does this by making some symptomatic statements of individualism directly relevant to externalism. However, this by itself is not conclusive with regard to this controversy as a whole. For externalism has its own merits. It is far from clear, for example, whether individualism can provide a reasonable response to the externalist Twin Earth thought experiments. Boghossian draws a different conclusion. He is no less skeptical with regard to the Cartesian and functionalist accounts of self-knowledge. Functionalists that base themselves on the notion of causal role cannot account for the immediate non-inferential nature of introspective self-knowledge. Cartesian accounts make self-knowledge too infallible. They ignore, unjustifiably, externalist considerations about content. As a result, Boghossian (1989: 5–6) regards the problem of self-knowledge as having the status of a paradox: Apparently acceptable premises lead to an unacceptable conclusion. For I do not seriously envisage that we do not know our own minds. Our capacity for self-knowledge is not an optional component of our ordinary self-conception, a thesis we may be able to discard while preserving all that really matters. It is a fundamental part of that conception, presupposed by some of the very con-

 Yaron Senderowicz

cepts that constitute it (consider intentional action). So long as we are not able to see our way clear to abandoning that conception – and I am assuming that we have not yet been shown how to do so – there can be no question of accepting the skeptical claim. The point of advancing it, then, is not to promote skepticism but understanding: I hope that by getting clear on the conditions under which self-knowledge is not possible, we shall better understand the conditions under which it is. I have to confess, however, that at the present time I am unable to see what those conditions might be.

Boghossian’s conclusion is a typical result of controversies that instantiate my type (7). Each of the positions is conceived as providing an inadequate account of the problem at stake. The result is a call for a conceptual breakthrough that exceeds what each of the parties envisions. It is here I think that the function of controversies in promoting growth of knowledge is most notable.

Notes . Not all cases in which a subject intends to persuade someone by bringing her to “see” her reasons can be described as a controversy. A teacher might persuade her student to endorse her position by leading him to “see her reasons”, reasons that the student cannot recognize before the teaching process takes place. It is clear, however, that a teaching process cannot be regarded as a controversy. We may assume that in contrast to a teaching process a controversy is a communicative exchange in which each of the interlocutors conceives herself as having (at least) equal authority as her opponent (as far as the matter at stake is concerned). . Using Quine’s (1953) metaphor one may add that the incompatible statements and principles that are the symptoms of the incompatible positions lie at the center of the conceptual scheme and not at the periphery. . This natural fact enables contenders to highlight some so far unrecognized implications that are undesired from the opponent’s viewpoint. . These statements can be either acknowledged to be such symptoms at the beginning of the controversy or such that are revealed to be a matter of disagreement as the controversy develops. . I use the term ‘real possibility’ as designating what is considered as possible within the state of knowledge at the various stages of the controversy. The “real absence of a solution” means that a solution is not possible within the scope of what is “really possible”. . For a closely related claim see Freudenthal (1998: 158). As Freudenthal claims, “the opponent . . . does not necessarily know all the statements which are or can be integrated into this system”. . It goes without saying that not all cases of growth of knowledge result necessarily from controversies.

Externalism, internalism, and self-knowledge  . To be sure, the notion of epistemic dependence to which I appeal here needs to be elucidated. This I intend to do elsewhere. In the present paper I leave this notion unanalyzed. . It might be argued that this was not a problem for Putnam. For, if self-knowledge is subject to the requirements of methodological solipsism, self-knowledge may be knowledge of narrow content. However, such an argument does raise a problem within Burge’s refinement of externalism. . Many other externalists endorse the claim that introspection is not inner perception. See, for example, Shoemaker (1996) (in particular essays 1, 10–12).

References Boghossian, P. (1989). “Content and self-knowledge”. Philosophical Topics, 17 (1), 5–26. Boghossian, P. (1998). “What the externalist can know a priori”. In C. Wright, B. Smith, & C. MacDonald (Eds.), Knowing Our Own Minds (pp. 271–284). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Brueckner, A. (1986). “Brains in a vat”. Journal of Philosophy, 83 (3), 148–167. Brueckner, A. (1990). “Scepticsm about knowledge of content”. Mind, 99, 447–451. Brueckner, A. (1994). “Knowledge of content and knowledge of the world”. Philosophical Review, 105 (2), 327–343. Burge, T. (1982). “Other bodies”. In A. Woodfield (Ed.), Thought and Object (pp. 97–120). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Burge, T. (1988). “Individualism and self-knowledge”. Journal of Philosophy, 85, 649–663. Butler, K. L. (1998). Internal Affairs. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Dascal, M. (1995). “Epistemología, controversias y prágmatica”. Isegoría, 12, 8–43. Dascal, M. (1998a). “Types of polemics and types of polemical moves”. In S. Cmejrkova, J. Hoffmannova, O. Mullerova, & J. Svetla (Eds.), Dialogue Analysis VI – Proceedings of the 6th Conference, Prague 1996 (pp. 15–33). Tübingen: Max Niemeyer. Dascal, M. (1998b). “The study of controversies and the theory and history of science”. Science in Context, 11 (2), 147–154. Davidson, D. (1987). “Knowing one’s own mind”. The Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association, 60, 441–458. Freudenthal, G. (1998). “Controversy”. Science in Context, 11 (2), 155–160. Flavey, K., & Owens, J. (1994). “Externalism, self-knowledge and skepticism”. The Philosophical Review, 103, 107–137. Putnam, H. (1975). “The meaning of meaning”. Mind, Language and Reality [Philosophical Papers, Vol. 2] (pp. 215–271). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Quine, W. V. O. (1953). “Two dogmas of empiricism”. In From a Logical Point of View (pp. 20–46). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Senderowicz, Y. (2001). “The epistemological relevance of controversies: Hobbes and Bramhall on free will”. In M. Dascal, G. Fritz, T. Gloning, & Y. Senderowicz (Eds.), Controversies in the République des Letters (pp. 63–83). Technical Report 1: The HobbesBramhall controversy. Tel Aviv.

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Shoemaker, S. (1996). The First Person Perspective and Other Essays. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woodfield, A. (1982). “Foreword”. In A. Woodfield (Ed.), Thought and Object (pp. v–xi). Oxford: Clarendon Press.

P III

The politics of subjectivity

Chapter 14

Liberals vs. communitarians on the self Pierluigi Barrotta

.

Introduction

In philosophy controversies very rarely come to a conclusion, and the controversy between liberals and communitarians is by no means an exception. Should we thus say that philosophical controversies are useless, unfruitful, and even frustrating? As a matter of fact, it seems plain that they show different characteristics from the metaphysical quarrels described by Kant as a “random groping”, where “ever and again we have to retrace our steps” (1787 B xiv–xv). Indeed, there are several good dialectical reasons that show why and in which sense at least some philosophical controversies are successful from a cognitive viewpoint, even though they do not usually end up with a unanimously acknowledged winner. I would like to mention three reasons that allow us to distinguish philosophical controversies from unfruitful quarrels.1 All of them are relevant to a correct understanding of the controversy between liberals and communitarians on the notion of the self. First, it is worth emphasizing that each party plays two different roles in a controversy: each party is both the proponent of a standpoint and the opponent of the other party’s standpoint. One of the many consequences of this dialectical distinction is that however weak a party might be as a proponent it could prove to be a very good opponent, in the sense of being able of raising penetrating criticisms to the standpoint upheld by the other party. In our controversy, the communitarian standpoint is harshly rejected by liberals, although many of them have acknowledged that communitarians raised good criticisms to the notion of the self upheld by some eminent liberals such as Rawls. As is well-known, Rawls himself (at least implicitly) recognized the worth of such criticisms. His partial retreat on this issue could reasonably be considered as the result of the communitarian critique, though he has never explicitly admitted that their arguments played any role in it.2

 Pierluigi Barrotta

Second, philosophical controversies do not usually concern simple and well-defined standpoints. On the contrary, they very often concern two complex clusters of concepts, which include, among others, ontological and methodological views, epistemic and moral values, empirical theories, and even commonplace facts belonging to both nature and society. During a controversy parties are forced by their opponents to clarify the kind of relationships existing among the several components of a cluster together with the meaning and scope of the concepts used. As we shall see, the controversy between liberals and communitarians has been considerably helpful in elaborating a more realistic and adequate notion of individualism. Third, interesting controversies evolve. Although they could persist unsettled, the dynamic process of questioning and answering leads to the exploration of new ideas and approaches, which show to be different from those explicitly taken into consideration by the two parties at the outset. Therefore, it is not the case that “ever and again we have to retrace our steps”, since controversies push us to explore new territories. In our case, communitarian critique leads one to consider a different kind of liberalism, which can at least partially answer communitarian concerns. Indeed, in the framework of this type of liberalism the notion of the self is placed in the foreground – the very same notion that plays a fundamental role in the communitarian critique of Rawls’ liberalism. While some scholars, such as Larmore and Rawls himself, try to answer to communitarians by severing the link between liberalism and ontological commitments regarding the nature of the self (see Larmore 1987; Rawls 1993), the liberalism I refer to in this paper maintains that liberalism and individualism (both in the methodological and ontological sense) are strictly connected. It is beyond the scope of this essay to examine the development of Rawls’ view, although it is worthwhile emphasizing that Rawls’ answer is dialectically different from that proposed here. Rawls’ move tries to minimize conceptual changes, whereas my answer allows for a more radical innovation.3 Furthermore, it should be clear that this essay is not intended to provide a historical reconstruction of the controversy, whose development cannot in any case be considered as exhausted. On the contrary, my suggestion is that the controversy could be further developed through the examination of a kind of liberalism so far neglected in this controversy. In the next section, I clarify the aspects of the controversy on which I would like to focus my attention. In Section 3, I examine two basic communitarian criticisms to liberal individualism. The first concerns Rawls’ alleged individualism, the second concerns the relationship between individual and value pluralism, on the one hand, and individual and market economy, on the

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other. The first criticism can be readily accepted, whereas the second gives rise to problems. In Sections 4 and 5, through the analysis of the concepts of choice and value pluralism, we shall see how the kind of liberalism worked out by F. Hayek, M. Oakeshott, and M. Polanyi can deepen our understanding of the relationship between the self and its social surroundings and as a consequence answer communitarian worries on this specific issue.4

. Restricting the scope of ‘liberalism’ and ‘communitarianism’ When examining a controversy, it is firstly advisable to characterize as precisely as possible each of the opposed standpoints. This is not always an easy task. In our case, the first difficulty arises from the ambiguity and vagueness of the word ‘liberalism’. Broadly speaking, we may equate liberalism with an allegiance to individualism, pluralism, tolerance, justice, universal human rights, moral autonomy, equality, and, of course, freedom. However, not all liberals give the same importance to, or even accept, all these values. Furthermore, liberals tend to interpret and connect them in different and incompatible ways. This is especially true if we consider how liberal values relate to freedom, since the very meaning of freedom, the ultimate value of liberalism, changes according to the way it relates to other liberal values. I shall not argue this point here, because I think that it is nowadays almost commonplace among scholars. For instance, in this regard Ronald Dworkin (1985: 183) writes: The word ‘liberalism’ has been used, since the eighteenth century, to describe various distinct clusters of political positions, but with no important similarity of principle among the different clusters called ‘liberal’ at different times.

In a similar vein, Joseph Raz (1986: 1) claims that “it is probably true to say that no political cause, no one vision of society nor any political principle has commanded the respect of all liberals in any generation, let alone through the centuries”.5 Fortunately, in order to examine the controversy there is no need to provide a definition of liberalism. What needs defining, however, is what I shall call the principle of ethical individualism, which may be defined as follows: no one is allowed to impose his or her preferences upon the preferences of other people. This principle is intended to highlight the value of equal freedom for each member of a community and consequently to allow all its members to adopt their own life plans. Of course, these concepts should be carefully scrutinized. I have deliberately left vague the relations of this principle with other princi-

 Pierluigi Barrotta

ples or concepts, such as the priority of justice over the individual conceptions of the good or the relevance of economic equality to freedom. Nonetheless, however broad it may look, we shall see that it will considerably help us in examining the controversy between liberals and communitarians. The second difficulty is analogous to the first. Communitarians do not form a well-defined and coherent school of thought either. Communitarianism covers several different spectra, which range from the extreme left to conservatism.6 However, in this case too, I can legitimately narrow down the scope of my investigation. Here I am basically concerned with the communitarian critique of liberal individualism and its related notion of the self. Therefore, I shall not directly deal with the whole set of issues raised by communitarians but shall mainly focus on the works by MacIntyre, Sandel and, to a lesser extent, Taylor, who are probably the authors most committed to a critique of the liberal concept of the self. In their view, the liberal individual is like a ‘ghost’.7 By emphasizing the importance of the freedom of choice, liberals have neglected to characterize the moral psychology of the chooser and the role played by tradition and community in shaping his or her desires and values. This is the topic that I shall try to examine.

. Individualism and communitarianism A good way to understand the role played by the principle of ethical individualism is to begin with Michael Sandel’s reflections on Rawls’ individualism. Although for different reasons, many scholars claim that Rawls’ theory of justice implicitly assumes an individualistic conception of human values. For instance, for Thomas Nagel (1973) the hypothesis that in the ‘original position’ individuals are mutually disinterested (that is, they do not take an interest in each other’s interests) is strictly related to liberal individualism, since the hypothesis implies that everyone is free to choose his or her own plan of life, provided that this does not interfere with the plans of other people. For Nagel, Rawls unfairly favors individualistic values to collective ones, such as the feeling of belonging to a community. Sandel defends Rawls, but only because he believes that Rawls’ theory is individualistic in a subtler and more profound way. The basic point is that in Rawls’ theory the self is conceptually prior to its ends and purposes. As Rawls (1971: 560) writes in a passage several times quoted by Sandel:

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We should not attempt to give form to our life by first looking to the good independently defined. It is not our aims that primarily reveal our nature but rather the principles that we would acknowledge to govern the background conditions under which these aims are to be formed... For the self is prior to the ends which are affirmed by it; even a dominant end must be chosen from among numerous possibilities.

This implies that the self is always a subject of possession: I can have whatever aims A, B or C, but they never become part of my identity. I and my values or desires are always conceptually distinct. However important and basic they might be for me, I can always change them without my identity undergoing changes. As Sandel (1982: 62) writes: Rawlsian self ... [stands] always at a certain distance from the interests it has. One consequence of this distance is to put the self beyond the reach of experience, to make it invulnerable, to fix its identity once and for all. No commitment could grip me so deeply that I could not understand myself without it. No transformation of life purposes and plans could be so unsettling as to disrupt the contours of my identity.

This is why Rawls’ philosophy is individualistic: individuals may perhaps choose communitarian values, like any value, but such values can never constitute their identity. From the point of view of a sensible moral psychology, this notion of the self is implausible, since it makes our selves pure beings of reason, detached from any historical and social contingencies. Furthermore, Sandel strongly emphasizes that the idea of a purely noumenical entity, to which Rawls seems to be drawn by his own concept of the self, gives rise to problems in the very foundation of Rawls’ theory of justice. In fact, as Rawls himself remarks, a Kantian transcendental subject provides too weak a basis for a theory of justice that has to be applied to the real world.8 Criticisms like this have some credence, but it seems to me rather questionable to claim that the Rawlsian philosophy of justice accepts the kind of individualism which liberals refer to. I would go as far as saying that Rawls’ philosophy is altogether incompatible with liberal individualism, in the precise sense that it is at odds with the principle of ethical individualism. Let us examine how Rawls conceives individuals in the ‘original position’. Apart from some general facts of nature, they are not allowed to be aware of those attributes that characterize them as specific individuals in real life situations. The veil of ignorance imposes that

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no one knows ... his fortune in the distribution of natural assets and abilities, his intelligence and strength, and the like. Nor, again, does anyone know his conception of the good, the particulars of his rational plan of life, or even the special features of his psychology such as his aversion to risk or liability to optimism or pessimism. (Rawls 1971: 137)

Given these severe limits on the knowledge of their individual characteristics, it is not surprising that Rawls comes to the conclusion that “we can view the choice in the original position from the standpoint of one person selected at random” (1971: 139). Is it possible to reconcile individualism with a theory that deprives individuals of their personal characteristics to such an extent that any randomly chosen individual may be considered as representative of everyone? What the theory infringes is the sovereignty of the individual over his or her preferences – the principle of ethical individualism. Here it is immaterial that such an infringement is not due to an authoritative action but to the subtle philosophical arguments put forward by Rawls in the description of the ‘original position’.9 Let us now turn to MacIntyre, whose attack on liberal individualism is slightly different in scope from Sandel’s. For MacIntyre liberalism unavoidably leads to the ‘emotivist self ’, which characterizes the present age. Although our moral language continues to assume the existence of objective criteria of evaluation, its use is fundamentally emotivist, since all value judgments are reduced to expressions of preferences and tastes: [W]hatever criteria or principles or evaluative allegiances the emotivist self may profess, they are to be construed as expressions of attitudes, preferences and choices which are themselves not governed by criterion, principle or value, since they underlie and are prior to all allegiance to criterion principle or value. (MacIntyre 1985: 33)

Like Sandel’s unencumbered self, the emotivist self is detached from any social roles and historical circumstances: [T]he emotivist self [has] suffered a deprivation, a stripping away of qualities that were once believed to belong to the self. The self is now thought of as lacking any necessary social identity... [It has] the capacity to detach [itself] from any particular standpoint or point of view, to step backwards, as it were, and view and judge that standpoint or point of view from the outside. (MacIntyre 1985: 33, 126)

Modern selves are like ‘ghosts’, and the disarray of contemporary moral language is skillfully concealed by liberals beneath the idea that men are free to

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choose their own values. Thus, value pluralism is only the name used by liberals to dignify the anomie of present western societies: In the domain of facts there are [objective] procedures for eliminating disagreements; in that of morals the ultimacy of disagreements is dignified by the title ‘pluralism’. (MacIntyre 1985: 32)

To sum up: the liberal self is an emotivist self, who reduces values to subjective preferences. Taking this for granted, liberalism and liberal societies may legitimately be characterized as follows: [I]n the liberal public realm individuals understand each other and themselves as each possessing his or her own ordered schedule of preferences. Their actions are understood as designed to implement those preferences, and indeed it is by the way in which individuals act that we are provided with the best evidence as to what their preferences are. Each individual, therefore, in contemplating prospective action has first to ask him or herself the question: What are my wants? And how are they ordered? (MacIntyre 1988: 338)

There must be something wrong in MacIntyre’s argument. In fact, value pluralism is incompatible with the reduction of values to preferences. This must be carefully scrutinized if we want to understand the role and significance of the principle of ethical individualism. Scholars who defend value pluralism emphasize both the mutual irreducibility of values and their irreducibility to a single metric that has to act as a common currency. This requires some form of incommensurability among values. It is not easy to explain what exactly is meant by incommensurability,10 but this idea at the very least implies that in the choice between two incompatible values the foregone value must be counted twice: the first time it is counted as an ‘opportunity cost’, the second time it is counted as an objective remainder, since the foregone value keeps its normative strength.11 The fundamental point is that the reduction of values to preferences does not allow for this double counting. The best-foregone value is just an opportunity cost, which can give rise to psychological remainders (for instance, in the form of regret), but not to an objective or normative remainder. It is quite clear that value pluralism provides liberalism with a strong support. MacIntyre is certainly right in emphasizing such a connection. Yet, contrary to MacIntyre’s view, this means that values must be irreducible to subjective preferences. This conclusion is rather obvious if we consider that the reduction of values to subjective preferences straightforwardly leads to a form of utilitarianism that denies the distinctiveness of people12 and, by the same token, what I have called the principle of ethical individualism. Those familiar

 Pierluigi Barrotta

with the work of Isaiah Berlin should easily appreciate how value pluralism is closely related to the incommensurability of values and consequently to their irreducibility to a common metric.13 Why a distinguished philosopher such as MacIntyre has clearly misunderstood the nature of the link between liberalism and pluralism? One reason possibly lies in a difficulty stemming from his philosophical theory. As Larmore (1987) notes, MacIntyre’s works are pervaded by a nostalgia for monism. However, when MacIntyre has to face the historical plurality of moral traditions, which he himself describes with great philosophical expertise, he eventually accepts pluralism as a matter of fact. As a consequence he finds an easy (indeed too easy) way to distinguish his position from that which characterizes liberalism: unlike the latter, the former allows for the tragic dimension of value conflicts, since it recognizes the normative strength of the foregone values.14 As Larmore correctly remarks, this criticism is simply unfair. There is, however, another possible reason, which seems much more interesting to me. Liberalism is historically and conceptually closely connected to the market economy. As a matter of fact, the principle of ethical individualism seems very similar to the economic notion of ‘the sovereignty of consumers over their preferences’. In both cases there is no attempt to explain the nature of individual preferences. Values, life styles, cultural and historical considerations are all left in the background. Therefore it appears sensible to consider liberalism as an extension of the logic of the market economy to all the other fields of human activity. Preferences are always considered as given and they form the starting point of the liberal view. MacIntyre (1988: 336) develops precisely this line of argument: What is permitted in the [public] arena is the expression of preferences, either the preferences of individuals or the preferences of groups, the latter being understood as the preferences of the individuals who make up those groups, summed in some way or other... The parallels between this understanding of the relationship of human beings in the social and political realm and the institution of the market, the dominant institution in a liberal economy, are clear. In markets too it is only through the expression of individual preferences that a heterogeneous variety of needs, desires, and goods conceived in one way or another are given a voice.

It is doubtless tempting to think of liberalism as holding that “individuals understand each other and themselves as each possessing his or her own ordered schedule of preferences” (MacIntyre 1988: 338). Nonetheless, as I shall show in the next section, it is also misleading, at least as far as a respected interpretation of liberalism is concerned.

Liberals vs. communitarians on the self

. Choices and choosers Economists use to consider preferences and desires as given. As an economist, Hayek is no exception.15 However, as a social theorist, Hayek realizes that the market economy itself requires rules of conduct for it to work, rules whose nature is linguistic, moral and legal. Indeed, all these aspects of social life form what Hayek calls an “order”. The emergence of social rules of conduct is analyzed by Hayek through the analogy with the market process. In both cases his starting point is the ignorance peculiar to human beings. In economy, for example, Hayek criticizes the assumption that all present and future prices are known by the agent. This would reduce economics to a pure logic of choice, which conceals the real significance of economic competition (see Hayek 1937). For Hayek, market economies allow for a competitive selection through a process of trial and error: in the endeavor to carry out their plans, agents modify their actions until the economy reaches a point of equilibrium or order, where all or most plans are mutually compatible.16 Social rules of conduct emerge from an analogous selective process. They are not the product of human design, but the result of a learning process through trial and error. In fact, and more precisely, the emergence of successful rules is often an unintended consequence of human actions.17 So far there is nothing that might appear to answer communitarians’ concerns. However, Hayek’s work becomes relevant as soon as we examine two connected issues: on the one hand, the relationship that he establishes between the rules of conduct and the shaping of personal identities, and, on the other, the relationship between tradition and human rationality. In Hayek’s view, what he calls the constructivist version of liberalism is wrong in contrasting tradition with rationality. First, Hayek argues that the rules of conduct we inherit from tradition have been selected through a rational process of problem solving that goes beyond the knowledge possessed by each individual;18 second, the characteristics of the human mind evolve together with the evolution of the rules of conduct embodied in our tradition: [M]ind is an adaptation to the natural and social surroundings in which man lives and . . . it has developed in constant interaction with the institutions which determine the structure of society. Mind is as much the product of the social environment in which it has grown up and which it has not made as something that has in turn acted upon and altered these institutions. (Hayek 1973: 17)

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 Pierluigi Barrotta

This is why Hayek underlines that our morality is not a matter of choice: “Ethics is not a matter of choices. We have not designed it and cannot design it” (1979: 167). In other words, since the rules of conduct shape what we are, we can never completely detach ourselves from them and choose those that appear more appropriate to us. In believing the contrary, the constructivist versions of liberalism show an irrational faith in human reason. I have previously noted that the selective process of the social rules of conduct is analogous to that of market economies. Now we can grasp an important difference between the two. In economics, reason is instrumental, since the aims of individuals are, so to speak, exogenous or antecedently given. On the contrary, in Hayek’s social philosophy rationality becomes constitutive in the sense that it presupposes the habits and values that shape our personal identities. From the concept of choice the emphasis has shifted considerably to the characteristics of the choosers. Hayek follows a different conceptual path from MacIntyre’s. His starting point is epistemological, since he underlines the limits of human knowledge. MacIntyre’s critical target is instead emotivism, which is in his view peculiar to the present age. However, they both agree on the social dimension of the self. Hayek’s individualism has nothing to do with MacIntyre’s emotivist self or Sandel’s unencumbered self. He defends individualism, but his idea of it is far from that criticized by MacIntyre: From the standpoint of individualism I am what I myself choose to be. I can always, if I wish to, put in question what are taken to be the merely contingent social features of my existence. (MacIntyre 1985: 220)

Hayek’s individualism is firmly grounded in human ignorance: since all individuals are endowed with a partial and limited knowledge, each individual must be free to use it to the best of his or her capacity. As Hayek himself emphasizes, this view is radically different from the idea that individuals are like “atoms”, whose character is not determined by their existence in society.19 Now we are in a position to understand the significance of the principle of ethical individualism. It is related to the concept of (negative) liberty, not to the idea of a self detached from all social and cultural facts. On the latter issue, Hayek’s view does not appear to be very far from MacIntyre’s. Further evidence to this is provided by the way MacIntyre understands the relationship between tradition and rationality. For instance, against conservatism, MacIntyre (1985: 223) writes: [C]onservative political theorists [contrast] tradition with reason and the stability of tradition with conflict. Both contrasts obfuscate. For all reasoning

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takes place within the context of some traditional mode of thought, transcending through criticism and invention the limitations of what had hitherto been reasoned in that tradition.

No doubt, MacIntyre could be right in emphasizing the weakness of a certain kind of conservatism. Certainly, as I have previously mentioned, there is very little in what he claims regarding traditions and rationality that Hayek would not be happy to accept. At a critical point, however, Hayek’s and Macintyre’s views part company. In order to understand where this point is located, I need first to examine other similarities, which lead us to deal once more with the nature of the self vis-à-vis value pluralism.

. Morals and the concept of “order” We have seen that the incommensurability of values implies a conceptual, not merely psychological, remainder. For this reason, MacIntyre speaks about ‘tragic choices’. Yet, choices between values are not always tragic, and even less so do they necessarily lead to moral dilemmas, where one has no good reason to prefer one option to the other. This is hardly surprising, since many ordinary choices involve conflicting values, whereas dilemmas and tragic choices very rarely occur in our ordinary lives. For instance, I have no doubt that I ought to break the promise to go to a party with a friend of mine if there is no one to take care of my young daughter. Values remain incommensurable, but this is not incompatible with firm and free from doubt actions. This raises an interesting problem. While the conflict of values instantiated in the specific circumstances of our ordinary lives is usually resolved, the conflict between values understood as types, namely in their different categorical meanings, gives rise to puzzles whose nature is even difficult to grasp. Which is morally more important – the value of friendship or the value of truth? Likewise, is keeping a promise more important than the value of gratitude? If we insist on such questions, the answers are unlikely to be able to reveal the real moral commitments of individuals. One might argue that sensible answers depend on countless and ever changing circumstances. At any time, one may prefer friendship to truth or truth to friendship. This implies that, at this level of abstraction, a complete and consistent preference ordering is simply out of place.

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 Pierluigi Barrotta

This leads us back to the rules of conduct. Hayek, Oakeshott, and Polanyi all emphasize that such rules do not concern the choice of the best action given some ends. Rather, they represent modes of conduct or habits of behavior. Of course, this is another way of stating that they have an intrinsic, not instrumental, value. In this context, the word ‘rule’, used by Hayek, may be misleading, since it suggests that they belong to our propositional knowledge, whereas they form the tacit dimension of our practical knowledge. Of course, we can reflect on our modes of conduct and derive propositional rules from them. This theoretical reflection is important and useful, especially when we do not find in our tradition adequate tools to cope with new problems due to radically new circumstances.20 Yet, reflection does not supply morality with its ultimate foundation. The reason is that, first, propositional rules derive their authority from our practices, not vice versa;21 second, and even more importantly, our practical knowledge can never be entirely brought out in a linguistic form.22 As Oakeshott argues, propositional rules are only ‘abridgements’ of our practice. They are so at least because the knowledge of how a rule applies in the countless and changing circumstances of everyday life is not given even in the best reflective knowledge of the rule itself. Hayek, Oakeshott, and Polanyi develop these ideas in different modes and fields, and suggest different arguments, which show their distinct originality as thinkers. I cannot explore their works in depth here. However, I hope that what I try to emphasize is already sufficiently clear. The rules of conduct provide us with a habit of acting, rather than with a habit of justifying our priorities or even reflecting on them. To use Polanyi’s terminology, when we face a plurality of conflicting values, we tacitly commit ourselves to the circumstances in order to assess the relative moral strength of the conflicting values. If we simply reflect on the relative importance of values understood as types, outside specific circumstances, we deprive ourselves of the resources of our practical knowledge, which we have learnt through education in our tradition. As Polanyi (1962: 54) points out: “This procedure recognizes the principle of all traditionalism that practical wisdom is more truly embodied in action than expressed in rules of action”. If we agree with this, we can easily grasp why a complete and consistent preference ordering is out of place at the level of “type-values”. Rules of conduct help people to form their character, namely their disposition to act in a certain way. They also help individuals to perceive the moral character of other individuals. This implies that moral judgments have an empirical import, at least in the sense that they can be true or false. An education in the correct use of moral words is not different from an education in the correct use of scientific terminology. When we claim that a person is ‘brave’ or

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‘coward’, ‘generous’ or ‘selfish’, ‘polite’ or ‘rude’, ‘modest’ or ‘arrogant’ (an exhaustive list is impossible), we commit ourselves to the circumstances and we focus on the character of the person. Polanyi, who was also an eminent scientist, emphasizes the continuity between scientific and moral language, since in both these languages perception and personal evaluation are strictly connected. Both in science and in morality the correct use of a language is more a matter of practice than learning by heart the formal definitions we find in textbooks. Needless to say, the rules of conduct do not exhaust moral discourse. It is difficult to understand and use words such as ‘distributive justice’, ‘fairness’, and ‘rights’ without ascending to the level of reflective morality. Both moralities are required and necessary. What this kind of liberalism argues for concerns the conceptual priority of our ways of acting over reflective morality. Although communitarians admittedly follow a different intellectual route and refer to a different cultural context, those familiar with their work should find several important similarities. For instance, skepticism about the role played by formal rules in ethics, the re-evaluation of practical wisdom, the idea that morality is more concerned with the kind of beings we want to be than with the formal rules of rational choice, and even the strong evaluation envisaged by Taylor (1977: 19), who defines it in the following way: [S]trong evaluation deploys a language of evaluative distinctions, in which different desires are described as noble or base, integrating or fragmenting, courageous or cowardly, clairvoyant or blind, and so on. But this means they are characterized contrastively. Each concept of one of the above pairs can only be understood in relation to the other.

It is not by chance that in the very same paper Taylor quotes Polanyi approvingly (p. 42). The provisional conclusions that we have come to may seem too good to be true. After all, communitarians harshly criticize liberalism. How is it possible that we can find analogies and similarities everywhere? My answer is simple. First, at the outset I stated that this paper would focus on the alleged differences regarding the nature of the self. I never claimed that in other areas of the controversy we could find analogous similarities. Second, I said that at a crucial point liberals and communitarians also part company on the role played by the individual self in a morally well-ordered society. I believe that the main area of disagreement lies in the way liberals and communitarians connect the constitution of the self with value pluralism. We have already seen how the liberal view of value pluralism does not lead to the emotivist self envisaged by MacIntyre. We have seen it through the analysis of

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one-person conflict of values, namely the conflict of values occurring in the belief set of a single individual. What we have to do now is just to extend the same argument to the conflict of values among many parties, namely the conflict of values occurring within a society. In this case we have to show how value pluralism does not lead to anomie. Charles Larmore (1987) is one of the few scholars who noticed, although only in passing, that Hayek’s concept of social order has been unjustly overlooked in the controversy. He remarks that the constitutive sense of belonging to a community and social organicism are independent ideas. In other words, there is no reason to think that society is either ruled by an organic hierarchy of values or inevitably broken up from a moral viewpoint. This is what the Hayekian concept of order shows. An order is a system of interconnected sets of rules of conduct, which allows individuals to both predict the behavior of others and adjust their mutual expectations, without assuming a common hierarchy of values.23 As we have seen, the rules of conduct have an intrinsic, not merely instrumental, import, since they help individuals to form their personal identities. Interactions among individuals and the unintended consequences of such interactions form a social order, which in its turn tends to modify the rules of conduct and consequently the social identities of individuals. An order is not brought about by individuals who bargain over the rules, the reason being that, first, the idea of a bargain overlooks the unintended consequences of the interaction, which are essential in determining the general and abstract features of the order; and, second, since the rules of conduct are constitutive, individuals rationally take them for granted in order to predict the behavior of the others. As Hayek underlines, rules of conduct considerably reduce the uncertainty of our social world. They are not the result of our rationality. On the contrary, our rationality must presuppose them in order to predict the behavior of other individuals.24 Because it is so abstract, the relevance of the notion of order may seem unconnected to our discussion. Yet the basic ideas can be easily simplified. An order is made up of several distinct institutions or associations, such as families, universities, economic associations, and so on. Each institution or association has its own rules of conduct, and in a Great Society people belong to several and different institutions or associations. Since all of them are interconnected, there is a sense, however weak it may be, in which we can state that people are moral members of the Society as a whole. This feeling of belonging to a Society makes tolerance not a mere ‘negative’ value. We can further appreciate this if we bear in mind that diversity increases our chances of being able to cope with entirely new situations.25 However, it should also be emphasized that the strength

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of moral obligation is not uniform throughout a Great Society. We obviously feel a stronger sense of moral obligation to our family and to the individuals with whom we share the membership of a specific association than to people whom we have never met.26 This difference in moral strength is a feature of a Great Society, and it is precisely this difference that is overlooked by communitarians, since for them the sense of obligation is a matter of ‘all or nothing’. For instance, just after denying that families and associations are sufficient to form our identities, Taylor (1979: 207) comes to the conclusion that “since the free individual can only maintain his identity within a society/culture of a certain kind, he has to be concerned about the shape of this society/culture as a whole”. I cannot analyze his arguments in detail here. What I want to emphasize is that Taylor does not say one word to clarify that the belonging to a family, a party, an association, or a Society, must give rise to obligations that are endowed with a different moral strength.

. Conclusions The controversy between liberals and communitarians has taught us that individualism cannot straightforwardly be based on the theory of (rational and free) choice. However important the concept of choice may be in contemporary social sciences, we need to think about the specific nature of the choosers to understand human action. The communitarian arguments on the nature of the self revealed themselves to be to the point. Many liberals understood the importance of the problem raised by communitarians and, following Larmore and the latest Rawls, tried to solve it by severing the link between liberalism and ontological commitments regarding the nature of the self. More than a solution of the problem, this answer consists in its dissolution, at least as far as its relevance for the foundation of liberalism is concerned. In this paper I have shown another possible development of the controversy, which appears to me more innovative, since it leads to a different kind of liberal tenet. Though this kind of liberalism does not renounce to place individualism (in both its ontological and methodological aspects) in the foreground, it is able to merge individualism in ethics and politics with the sense of belonging to a community and a tradition. It carefully analyzes how the social environment shapes personal identities and its moral psychology does not consider individuals as if they were ‘ghosts’, since its starting point is not the concept of choice, but the people who make choices. Indeed, we have seen that the formation of our personal identities is a pre-condition of the very possi-

 Pierluigi Barrotta

bility of making rational plans. To sum up: this liberalism willingly accepts the relevance in political philosophy of the role played by the notion of the self, and this allows it to provide more pertinent answers to the communitarian objections.

Notes . I have explored the idea of a cognitive progress within a controversy in Barrotta (1998). This kind of progress must be carefully distinguished from that characterizing a temporal sequence of different standpoints. Philosophy of science has traditionally focussed on the latter, since it typically considers a sequence of theories T1, ..., Tn, where each theory includes, more or less strictly, the former as a special case. The former kind of progress has been unfortunately much less analyzed. This view is very close to Dascal’s typology, which distinguishes between controversies and disputes. For Dascal, controversies allow for cognitive progress. As he writes: “Controversies in fact can terminate without agreement, without thereby becoming disputes. What is interesting is that even in such cases they are perceived by the participants and analysts alike as ‘productive’, i.e., as making some sort of cognitive or epistemic contribution: they clarify the problem, they permit one to identify conceptual or methodological divergences or difficulties, they reorient the research effort, or they simply produce ‘understanding”’ (Dascal 1998: 152). . After A Theory of Justice, Rawls devoted several papers to expounding a political theory of justice, which tries to be independent of metaphysical and ontological assumptions on the nature of the self. These ideas are methodically organized in Rawls (1993; see in particular Lecture 1, §§4–5). It is worth noting that another eminent American liberal, R. Dworkin, has admitted the relevance of some communitarian criticisms; see Dworkin (1989). . In Senderowicz’s terms (this volume), Rawls’ move involves changes “within the position”, whereas my view involves a change of the position on the part of liberals. . This kind of liberalism may rightly be labelled ‘conservative liberalism’. Of course, some could argue that Oakeshott claimed to be a conservative, not a liberal. Conversely, Hayek claimed to be a liberal, not a conservative. However, given the broad meaning of these terms, it is reasonable and legitimate to consider both of them as ‘conservative liberals’. On this issue, see Gray (1983, 1992). . Of course, the problem has also been recognized by communitarians. No doubt it is nowadays difficult to criticize liberalism as such, since its constitutive elements are so broadly understood and interpreted as to become ubiquitous in our present-day culture. As MacIntyre (1988: 392) writes: “Liberalism, as I have understood it in this book, does of course appear in contemporary debates in a number of guises and in so doing is often successful in pre-empting the debate by reformulating quarrels and conflicts with liberalism, so that they appear to have become debates within liberalism... Contemporary debates within modern political systems are almost exclusively between conservative liberals, liberal liberals, and radical liberals. There is little place in such political systems for the criticism of the system itself, that is, for putting liberalism in question”.

Liberals vs. communitarians on the self  . The following is just a list of selected readings: R. Beiner (1992), J. Kekes (1997), A. MacIntyre (1985, 1988, 1990), M. Sandel (1982), C. Taylor (1985a, b, 1989, 1992), P. Selznick (2002), R. Unger (1975, 1976), M. Walzer (1983). For more comprehensive bibliographies see Avineri and De-Shalit (1992), E. F. Paul, F. D. Miller and J. Paul (1996), and D. Rasmussen (1990). . The word ‘ghost’ frequently occurs in the works by MacIntyre. See for instance MacIntyre (1982). . Cp. Rawls (1971: 256): “The original position may be viewed, then, as a procedural interpretation of Kant’s conception of autonomy and the categorical imperative. The principles regulative of the kingdom of ends are those that would be chosen in this position, and the description of these principles expresses our nature as free and equal rational persons. No longer are these notions purely transcendent and lacking explicable connections with human conduct, for the procedural conception of the original position allows us to make these ties”. . This point is rightly emphasized by Galeotti (1988: 117–118). It is worthwhile noting that Rawls’ anti-individualism concerns not only the way he conceives of the original position. When Rawls argues against meritocracy he claims that people are from a moral viewpoint arbitrarily endowed by nature not only with their talents, such as intelligence, but also with their character, as shown by their effort and application. Indeed, such a moral fortuity explains why these attributes have been previously removed in the original position. As a consequence, individuals cannot have the right to the results of the use of their talents. As, among others, Chapman (1975) and Nozick (1974: 214) note, if even the effort and application depend on social and natural circumstances then very little is left to the autonomy of the individual. What a person is or will become completely depends on contingent facts. Sandel emphasizes the very same point when he criticizes Rawls for wavering between an unencumbered self (detached from any social circumstances) and a self so radically situated as to depend completely on contingent circumstances. This shows how insecure is the Rawlsian notion of autonomy and its related notion of the self. . Unlike in the philosophy of science, the word ‘incommensurability’ has no commonly accepted definition in political philosophy. Sometimes it refers to moral theories and sometimes (and more often) directly to moral values. On this issue see Griffin (1977), Kekes (1993: 55ff.), MacIntyre (1977), Nagel (1979), Raz (1986), Statman (1995), Stocker (1990), Taylor (1982), and Williams (1981). . I borrow this terminology from Stocker (1990). . This point has been argued by several scholars. See Rawls (1971: 29–30), Sen and Williams (1982), and Williams (1973). . Berlin’s view is expressed in several of his writings. The following quotation is from one of his best-known papers: “Liberty is not the only goal of men... Everything is what it is: liberty is liberty, not equality or fairness or justice or culture, or human happiness or a quiet conscience. If the liberty of myself of my class or nations depends on the misery of a number of other human beings, the system, which promotes this, is unjust and immoral. But if I curtail or lose my freedom, in order to lessen the shame of such an inequality, and do not thereby materially increase the individual liberty of others, an absolute loss of liberty

 Pierluigi Barrotta

occurs. This may be compensated for by a gain in justice or in happiness or in peace, but the loss remains” (Berlin 1969: 125). . As MacIntyre (1985: 224) writes: “One way in which the choice between rival goods in a tragic situation differs from the modern choice between incommensurable moral premises is that both of the alternative courses of action which confront the individual have to be recognized as leading to some authentic and substantial good. By choosing one I do nothing to diminish or derogate from the claim upon me of the other; and therefore, whatever I do, I shall have left undone what I ought to have done”. . See Hayek (1952: 68): “For the social sciences the types of conscious action are data and all they have to do with regards to these data is to arrange them in such orderly fashion that they can be effectively used for their task”. . See, for instance, Hayek (1968). It is probably worth noting that the concept of “order” is different from that of equilibrium, since an order allows for local disequilibria. However, these are technicalities that mainly interest economists and philosophers of economics (on this issue see Barrotta & Raffaelli 1998, Chapter 2). It is more important for us to focus on the concept of “order”. For a definition of order see Section 5 of this paper. . Cp. Hayek (1979: 161): “the law-breakers, who were to be path-breakers, certainly did not introduce the new rules because they recognized that they were beneficial to the community, but they simply started some practices advantageous to them which then did prove beneficial to the group in which they prevailed”. . “Every change in a sense creates a ‘problem’ for society, even though no single individual perceives it as such; and it is gradually ‘solved’ by the establishment of a new over-all adjustment. Those who take part in the process have little idea why they are doing what they do, and we have no way of predicting who will at each step first make the appropriate move, or what particular combinations of knowledge and skill, personal attitudes and circumstances, will suggest to some man the suitable answer, or by what channels his example will be transmitted to others who will follow the lead. It is difficult to conceive all the combinations of knowledge and skills which thus come into action and from which arises the discovery of appropriate practices or devises that, once found, can be accepted generally” (Hayek 1960: 28). . “What, then, are the essential characteristics of true individualism? The first thing that should be said is that it is primarily a theory of society, an attempt to understand the forces which determine the social life of man. . . This fact should by itself be sufficient to refute the silliest of the common misunderstandings: the belief that individualism postulates . . . the existence of isolated or self-contained individuals, instead of starting from men whose whole nature and character is determined by their existence in society” (Hayek 1946: 6). . “So long as the individuals act in accordance with the rules it is not necessary that they be consciously aware of the rules. It is enough that they know how to act in accordance with the rules without knowing that the rules are such and such in articulated terms. But their ‘know how’ will provide sure guidance only in frequently occurring situations, while in more unusual situations this intuitive certainty about what expectations are legitimate will be absent. It will be in the latter situations that there will be the necessity to appeal to men who are supposed to know more about the established rules if peace is to be preserved

Liberals vs. communitarians on the self 

and quarrels to be prevented. Such a person called in to adjudicate will often find it necessary to articulate and thereby make more precise those rules about which there exist differences of opinion, and sometimes even to supply new rules where no generally recognized rule exists” (Hayek 1973: 99). In a similar vein Oakeshott distinguishes between habits of behavior and a reflective morality. In the following passage we find other reasons that underline the importance of reflective morality: “[Through the education in a moral habit] we may learn ... to play a game, and we may learn to play it without breaking the rules, but we cannot acquire a knowledge of the rules themselves without formulating them or having them formulated for us. And further, without a knowledge of the rules we can never know for certain whether or not we are observing them, nor shall be able to explain why the referee has blown his whistle” (Oakeshott 1962: 63). . According to Oakeshott (1962: 99), “though his participation in this concrete activity (the activity of being a cook or a scientist) may on some occasions appear to take the form of the application of a rule or the pursuit of a purpose, he would see at once that this rule or this purpose derived from the activity and not vice versa, and that the activity itself could not as a whole be reduced to the pursuit of an end or the application of a rule determined in advance of the activity”. Hayek extensively develops analogous ideas in his philosophy of law. For instance, he writes: “the rules of just conduct ... are discovered either in the sense that they merely articulate already observed practices or in the sense that they are found to be required complements of the already established rules if the order which rests on them is to operate smoothly and efficiently” (Hayek 1973: 123). . Oakeshott (1962: 62) writes: “We acquire habits of conduct, not by construing a way of living upon rules or precepts learned by heart and subsequently practised, but by living with people who habitually behave in a certain manner... What we learn here is what may be learned without the formulation of its rule. And not only may a command of language and behavior be achieved without our becoming aware of the rules, but also, if we have acquired a knowledge of the rules, this sort of command of language and behavior is impossible until we have forgotten them as rules and are no longer tempted to turn speech and action into the application of rules to a situation”; Hayek (1973: 76–77) writes: “Although still an unfamiliar conception, the fact that language is often insufficient to express what the mind is fully capable of taking into account in determining action ... has been clearly established in many fields. It is closely connected with the fact that the rules that govern action will often be much more general and abstract than anything language can yet express”; and Polanyi (1962: 62) writes: “The unspecifiability of the process by which we thus feel our way forward accounts for the possession by humanity of an immense mental domain, not only of knowledge but of manners, of laws and of the many different arts which man knows how to use, comply with, enjoy or live by, without specifiably knowing their content”. Polanyi is the author who has most extensively investigated the epistemological aspects of the tacit dimension of our knowledge. See also Polanyi (1966). . Hayek uses the concept of order in a very abstract way, since he wants to apply it to physical and natural systems as well. This is his definition of order: “By ‘order’ we shall throughout describe a state of affairs in which a multiplicity of elements of various kinds are so related to each other that we may learn from our acquaintance with some spatial or temporal part of the whole to form correct expectations concerning the rest, or at least

 Pierluigi Barrotta

expectations which have a chance of proving correct” (Hayek 1973: 36). In a similar vein, Oakeshott (1975: Part II) explores the idea that common rules of conduct do not involve common ends or a common hierarchy of values. It is worth emphasizing that also Paul Franco (1990: 225ff.) has noticed that the philosophy of Oakeshott provides a better defense of individualism in the face of communitarians’ criticisms. . Cp. Hayek (1973: 11): “We live in a society in which we can successfully orientate ourselves, and in which our actions have a good chance of achieving their aims, not only because our fellows are governed by known aims or known connections between means and ends, but because they are also confined by rules whose purpose or origin we often do not know and of whose very existence we are often not aware. Man is as much a rule-following animal as a purpose-seeking one”. . “Unlike any deliberately imposed coercive rules, which can be changed only discontinuously and for all at the same time, rules of this kind allow for gradual and experimental change. The existence of individuals and groups simultaneously observing partially different rules provides the opportunity for the selection of the more effective ones” (Hayek 1960: 63). . However indirectly, Hayek (1973: 45) makes this point clear when he writes: “There will often be a nucleus, or several nuclei, of more closely related individuals occupying a central position in a more loosely connected but more extensive order. Such particular societies within the Great Society may arise as the result of spatial proximity, or of some other special circumstances which produce closer relations among their members. And different partial societies of this sort will often overlap and every individual may, in addition to being a member of the Great Society, be a member of numerous other spontaneous sub-orders or partial societies of this sort as well as of various organisations existing within the comprehensive Great Society”.

References Avineri, S., & De-Shalit, A. (Eds.). (1992). Communitarianism and Individualism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barrotta, P. (1998). La dialettica scientifica. Torino: UTET-libreria. Barrotta, P., & Raffaelli, T. (1998). Epistemologia ed economia. Torino: UTET-libreria. Beiner, B. (1992). What’s the Matter with Liberalism?. Berkeley: University of California Press. Berlin, I. (1958). “Two concepts of liberty”. Reprinted in I. Berlin, Four Essays on Liberty, 1969 (pp. 118–172). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chapman, J. (1975). “Rawls’ theory of justice”. The American Political Science Review, 2, 588–593. Dascal, M. (1998). “The study of controversies and the theory and history of science”. Science in Context, 11, 147–54. Dworkin, R. (1985). “Liberalism”. A Matter of Principle (pp. 181–204). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dworkin, R. (1989). “Liberal community”. California Law Review, 77, 479–504.

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Franco, P. (1990). The Political Philosophy of Michael Oakeshott. New Haven: Yale University Press. Galeotti, A. (1988). Individuale e collettivo. Milano: Angeli. Gray, J. (1983). “Hayek as a conservative”. Reprinted in J. Gray 1993, 32–39. Gray, J. (1992). “Oakeshott as a liberal”. Reprinted in J. Gray 1993, 40–46. Gray, J. (1993). Post-Liberalism. Studies in Political Thought. New York and London: Routledge. Griffin, J. (1977). “Are there incommensurable values?”. Philosophy and Public Affairs, 7, 39–59. Hayek, F. A. (1937). “Economics and knowledge”. Reprinted in F. A. Hayek 1948, 33–56. Hayek, F. A. (1946). “Individualism: True and false”. Reprinted in F. A. Hayek 1948, 1–32. Hayek, F. A. (1948). Individualism and Economic Order. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Hayek, F. A. (1952). The Counter-Revolution of Science: Studies on the Abuse of Reason. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Hayek, F. A. (1960). The Constitution of Liberty. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Hayek, F. A. (1968). Competition as a Discovery Procedure. First English version in F. A. Hayek, New Studies in Philosophy, Politics, Economics, and the History of Ideas. London: Routledge, 1978. Hayek, F. A. (1973/76/79). Law, Legislation and Liberty, 3 Vols. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Kant, I. (1787). Kritik der reinen Vernunft. English transl. N. Kemp-Smith. London: Macmillan, 1958. Kekes, J. (1993). The Morality of Pluralism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kekes, J. (1997). Against Liberalism. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Larmore, C. (1987). Patterns of Moral Complexity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacIntyre, A. (1977). “Epistemological crises: Dramatic narrative and the philosophy of science”. The Monist, 40, 453–72. MacIntyre, A. (1982). “How moral agents have become ghosts”. Synthese, 53, 295–312. MacIntyre, A. (1985). After Virtue. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press [1st ed., 1981]. MacIntyre, A. (1988). Whose Justice? Which Rationality?. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. MacIntyre, A. (1990). Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition. London: Duckworth. Nagel, T. (1973). “Rawls on justice”. In N. Daniels (Ed.), Reading Rawls (pp. 1–15). Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Nagel, T. (1979). “The fragmentation of value”. In T. Nagel, Mortal Questions (pp. 128–41). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nozick, R. (1974). Anarchy, State, and Utopia. New York: Basic Books. Oakeshott, M. (1962). Rationalism in Politics and Other Essays. London: Methuen & Co. Oakeshott, M. (1975). On Human Conduct. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Paul, E. F., Miller, F. D., & Paul, J. (1996). The Communitarian Challenge to Liberalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Polanyi, M. (1962). Personal Knowledge. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul [1st ed., 1958].

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Polanyi, M. (1966). The Tacit Dimension. Garden City, NJ: Doubleday. Rasmussen, D. (Ed.). (1990). Universalism vs. Communitarianism. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Rawls, J. (1971). A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rawls, J. (1993). Political Liberalism. New York: Columbia University Press. Raz, J. (1986). The Morality of Freedom. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sandel, M. (1982). Liberalism and the Limits of Justice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Selznick, P. (2002). The Communitarian Persuasion. Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press. Sen, A., & Williams, B. (Eds.). (1982). Utilitarianism and Beyond. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Statman, D. (1995). Moral Dilemmas. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Stocker, M. (1990). Plural and Conflicting Values. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Taylor, C. (1977). “What is human agency?”. Reprinted in C. Taylor 1985a, 15–44. Taylor, C. (1979). “Atomism”. Reprinted in C. Taylor 1985b, 187–210. Taylor, C. (1982). “The diversity of goods”. Reprinted in C. Taylor 1985b, 230–247. Taylor, C. (1985a). Human Agency and Language, Philosophical Papers, Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, C. (1985b). Philosophy and the Human Sciences, Philosophical Papers, Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, C. (1989). Sources of the Self. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Taylor, C. (1992). The Ethics of Authenticity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Unger, R. M. (1975). Knowledge and Politics. New York: Free Press. Unger, R. M. (1976). Law in Modern Society: Toward a Criticism of Social Theory. New York: The Free Press. Walzer, M. (1983). Spheres of Justice. New York: Basic Books. Williams, B. (1973). “A critique of utilitarianism”. In J. Smart & B. Williams (Eds.), Utilitarianism: For and Against. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Williams, B. (1981). “Conflicts of values”. In B. Williams, Moral Luck (pp. 71–82). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 15

Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict Omar Barghouti

If I knew something useful to my nation but ruinous to another, I would not propose it to my prince, because I am a human being before I am a Frenchman, because I am by necessity a human being, whereas I am a Frenchman only by chance. (Montesquieu, 15)

.

Introduction

The moral dilemma alluded to by Montesquieu has arisen, according to Hans Kohn, during the formative stage of nationalism. In a conflict situation, which of the two ought to take precedence: national identity or human identity? Montesquieu here takes the position that relations between two opposing identities must be judged according to what is “by necessity” common between them, their human identity, and not according to the particularities of one of the two identities. The identity of the “other”, in this case, is not perceived as mutually exclusive with one’s own identity, but rather as sharing a common domain with it. From this perspective, a dichotomy between two conflicting identities can only be examined in light of the more general dichotomy between particular and universal identities. This paper explores the ethical implications of adopting an alternative conceptualization of an inter-identity conflict, especially in a relationship where asymmetry, injustice and oppression exist or are perceived to exist by either of the opposing sides, or by both. It examines the link between two dichotomies: national vs. human identity on the one hand and revenge vs. justice on the other. The latter arises in the consideration of possible resolutions of conflicts of the former type.

 Omar Barghouti

. Definitions and assumptions Throughout this paper, the following definitions are assumed: a. Dichotomy: Separation into or between two groups that are opposed, or entirely different. [Dict] b. De-dichotomization: Narrowing the separation, or bridging the gap between the two opposed groups. c. Objects: Those who are known and acted upon, as the Brazilian educator Paulo Freire puts it. d. Subjects: Those who know (i.e., reflect) and act, according to Freire, or selfconscious beings, according to Hegel. An object becomes a subject when he/she ejects the “oppressor within”, to use Freire’s term (see Wallis 2003), or regains his right to reflect consciously and act upon this reflection. This requires a process of “catharsis”, whereby the subject rids himself of what the famous Brazilian playwright, Augusto Boal, calls the “cop in the head” (1996). e. Oppression: Hindering someone’s “pursuit of self-affirmation”, and therefore interfering “with man’s ontological and historical vocation to be fully human”, as Freire (1972: 40) declares. f. Essential conflict: a conflict between two subjects over issues that concern attributes of their identities that are considered relatively central. Colonization and slavery are among many other contexts of oppression that give rise to such conflicts. g. Identity: Although this is a sizeable topic that is well beyond the scope of this paper, I shall borrow a previous definition that I have presented elsewhere. Briefly, identity may be viewed as a dynamic, animated “majal” (Arabic for domain, field) of attributes, which are inter-related, relative to time and space (or context) and incessantly in flux. These attributes are themselves processes that undergo transformation due to reflection and action. Some of these attributes are particular to a specific subject or group; others are universal, shared among all humans. In a specific time-space context, the centrality of each attribute and its degree of presence are factors that influence the overall identity of the subject.

Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict 

. Selected cases As I was writing the introduction to this paper, the shocking September 11th attack on the United States took place. From all the myriad of reactions, I selected three specific cases that illustrate the moral conflict mentioned above. Each of the cases comprises two opposing voices, emanating from the same context, the same national identity, but expressing divergent views on the ethical dilemma at hand. Although the conflict in the September 11th case involves a dichotomy that is more global and less distinct than the afore-mentioned class of national conflicts, it nevertheless includes some of the same core themes. . The first case Asked by a TV interviewer for his reaction to September 11th, a young Palestinian boy from a refugee camp in Gaza, holding shrapnel from a missile fired by an Israeli Apache helicopter – both missile and gunship manufactured by the U.S. – near his home, said: “Look what America is sending us every day – how can I sympathize with them?”. On the other hand, a statement issued by prominent Palestinian intellectuals reflected on the same events saying: “Nothing, nothing can justify this terrorism that kneads human flesh with iron, cement and dust”. Insisting on pursuing justice, the statement further says: “and nothing can justify dividing the world into two camps that can never meet: one of absolute good and another of absolute evil; for civilization is the end result of what world societies have contributed towards the cultural heritage of the globe accumulating and interacting to reach the elevation and nobility of man” [Palestine]. . The second case A well-known American columnist, Ann Coulter, reacted by first defining those responsible to include “anyone anywhere in the world who smiled in response” to the tragedy. And then, referring to Islam and Muslims, she added: The nation has been invaded by a fanatical, murderous cult. And we welcome them. We are so good and so pure we would never engage in discriminatory racial or ‘religious’ profiling. . . We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity. We weren’t punctilious about locating and punishing only Hitler and his top officers. We carpet-bombed German cities; we killed civilians. That’s war. And this is war. [Counter Punch]

 Omar Barghouti

Espousing the same view, but expressing it more philosophically, a New York Post editorial bellowed: “Forget justice: we want revenge!”. “Justice”, it further explained, “should not take precedence over vengeance . . . we should turn their country into a glowing desert” [Counter Punch]. Senator Zell Miller, D-Georgia, said: “I say bomb the hell out of them. If there’s collateral damage, so be it. They certainly found our civilians to be expendable” [Counter Punch]. Quite on the contrary, the renowned African American author and educator, Dr. Maya Angelou, addressed exactly that dichotomy, when she told an ABC TV interviewer a few days after the attacks that no matter how much pain there might be towards the “other”, Americans were obliged to make a clear distinction between justice and revenge, the latter being unjustifiable under any circumstances, from her perspective. . The third case Reflecting on the New York calamity, educator and political scientist Norman Finkelstein recently wrote: My late mother was a survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto and Maidanek concentration camp. I once asked her what she thought as news filtered back during the war that the Russians were indiscriminately bombing German cities with a massive toll of civilian lives. ‘I wanted the Germans to die’, she replied without hesitation. ‘I knew I wouldn’t live, so I wanted them to die, too. We cheered the Russians. We wanted them to destroy anything and everything German. We wished [the Germans’] death every second of the day because we faced death every second of the day. [Finkelstein]

Although he passionately condemned the terror attacks, Finkelstein proposed a perspective that might conflict with his mother’s: The United States government – a government the responsibility for which we [Americans] all share – directly and indirectly inflicts misery and horror on large parts of humanity. [Finkelstein]

Describing U.S. military assaults on Lebanon, Iraq and Serbia, he wrote: It was mass murder without consequence; it was almost fun. Now we reap the terrifying whirlwind that we have sown. [Finkelstein]

Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict 

. Human identity vs. group identity From these three cases, we can see that over-emphasizing group identity leads to a strictly dichotomous perception of the conflict, which in turn translates into lumping together everyone on the other side of the dichotomy into one category of “bad guys”, while considering everyone on one’s side as a coherent mass of “good guys”. It follows that if “they” did something wrong, then “we” should punish “them”, or if “we” were in a position of weakness, “we” ought to at least nourish the grudge against “them”, until an opportunity arises for “us” to express more aggressively “our” hostile emotions towards “them”. Despite the obvious differences – both moral and political – between the three, the boy in Gaza, Ann Coulter and Finkelstein’s mother may all be accused of some degree of collectivization, or arbitrary aggregation of individual subjects into collectives that can be handled much more conveniently as a “target”. Hence the concept of assignment of collective responsibility emerges. In its extreme form, and given suitable conditions of power, this concept leads to collective punishment, which is widely condemned in the human rights organizations milieu as immoral, precisely because it indiscriminately seeks to injure everyone whose identity substantially overlaps with that of an accused entity (individual or group), without establishing their specific or unqualified responsibility for the alleged wrongdoing. On the other hand, when the human identity takes precedence, the conflict can no longer be oversimplified into a strife between “us” and “them”. What the Palestinian intellectuals who signed the cited statement, Maya Angelou and Norman Finkelstein have in common is precisely their refusal to reduce human beings who belong to opposing identities into that dichotomy. If a group of humans is viewed as only, or predominantly, possessing a group identity, then any conflict between a subset of that group and a subset of another can be easily extended to the entire set. In numerous instances around the world, what starts as a minor conflict between two individuals – who happen to have two distinct national, religious or ethnic identities – rapidly triggers, or degenerates into, a full-blown conflict between the respective groups. Besides historical and socio-economic factors that usually help explain this phenomenon, the underlying dichotomous perception of the world as a domain of separate, autonomous, mutually-exclusive spheres, each representing a distinct identity, cannot be excluded from the list of culprits. This opposition between national vs. human identity is interlaced with another thorny one, between justice and revenge, the ethical import of which is momentous in the above cases. The latter dichotomy is perhaps as old as hu-

 Omar Barghouti

mankind, and is just as intricate. It assumes crucial significance and particular relevance in relations of oppression, where injustice is ingrained. In an essential inter-group conflict, how a group perceives its own subjective identity and how it perceives that of the other directly affect this group’s conceptualization of the conflict, hence of any possible resolution of that conflict. I shall concentrate here on one specific aspect of this wide issue: the ethical implications of challenging the dichotomy between opposing subjects in a conflict. An important question arises from the presentation above: if a dichotomous conceptualization of a conflict can be accused of complicity in proposing unethical solutions to the conflict, does it follow that a de-dichotomization of the conflicting identities will necessarily lead to an ethical conceptualization of the resolution of that conflict? As the following arguments will establish, there is no binary – yes or no – answer to this question.

. De-dichotomization In cases of essential conflict between two groups, a strict dichotomy often separates the respective collective identities of the collective subjects. In such a state of opposition, whatever is common between the two dichotomous subjects may be ignored, marginalized, or simply forgotten. As a consequence, as evident in several of the above cases, a subject may wish for his/her “other”, indeed the generalized “other”, harm and injury as an expression of revenge for some act that part of that “other” has done against that subject. In the specific case of a relationship of oppression, the dichotomy is even more entrenched, and the borders are more impregnable. Each side may claim moral superiority or righteousness, while concurrently discounting the other’s claim to justice, or even devaluing that other altogether, thereby denying him/her some of the most fundamental rights due to him/her qua humans, as stipulated in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Article 1, which states: All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

The assumed common ground, the human essence, which Montesquieu stresses (see the motto to this paper), is what is compromised or omitted altogether in such dichotomous relationships. In response to a continuing controversy, the concept of de-dichotomization may be presented as a possible alternative to the existing conceptual division

Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict

between the conflicting identities; both groups or subjects may, accordingly, be urged to question the presumed unity in their own self-identity. This concept may further invite each subject to have empathy for, or at least understanding of, the identity of the “other”, seeing it in terms that are not necessarily mutually-exclusive with one’s own identity; this in turn opens the door for each side to explore whether some attributes, constituting a common domain, or majal, are indeed shared between the two “poles”, and therefore if there is a possibility for reconciliation in their conflict, based on, or at least paying tribute to, that commonality. In order to arrive at a sound concept of de-dichotomization, though, one has to first examine the nature of the dichotomy itself, whether it is a cause or an effect of the conflict between the two entities in question. It could be argued that ingrained dichotomies exist in a conflict due to an exclusive sense of subjectivity, or a resilience of traditional forms of identification. Alternatively, they may be conceived as reflections, or embodiments, of established existential – i.e., concrete – conflicts. Each of these two views will influence the foundations of any conceptual process of de-dichotomization. In the former case, efforts are focused on challenging the prevailing or the established forms for defining identity, and therefore, these efforts explore inter-group commonalities or attributes that are shared across the subjective borderlines. Precedence, in this case, is given to conceptual change. In the latter case, on the other hand, the struggle to change the concrete reality of the conflict, that is the actual experiences of the subjects involved in the conflict, is given priority in affecting a corresponding flux in intra-group awareness, with the ambition that such awareness would promote the prospects for inter-group compromise. The question can thus be reformulated as follows: Which should take precedence – reflection or action? The above arguments and the question raised, themselves, tend to dichotomize reality and conceptualization, presenting them as mutually-exclusive; a different approach is to examine the interaction between the two, their dialectical relation, which makes each of them cause and effect, simultaneously. What varies is the degree of relevance of each in a given time-space domain. As Freire (1972: 22) explains, the subjective aspect [of oppression] exists only in relation to the objective aspect (the concrete reality which is the object of [the] analysis). Subjectivity and objectivity thus join in a dialectical unity producing knowledge in solidarity with action, and vice versa.



 Omar Barghouti

From this viewpoint, there is a need to explore a process of de-dichotomization that takes into account the epistemological as well as the ontological dimensions of the conflict between the two identities. However, there are ethical implications that should not be ignored even in such a dialectical approach. In essential conflicts involving oppression and injustice, in particular, this notion of de-dichotomization is put to a crucial test of morality: (A) If de-dichotomization takes place in reflection (conceptualization, perception) alone, then it may be accused of complicity, of ignoring the tangible injustice inherent in the relation of oppression, or even of perpetuating the conditions of injustice and oppression; (B) If de-dichotomization is sought only in the relation, in the action that aims at changing this relation, without a corresponding change in reflection, it may lead to role interchange, or any other form of revenge. Each path must be further scrutinized. . De-dichotomization in reflection In this case, an attempt at conceptual de-dichotomization will draw attention to those non-essential attributes in each of the otherwise opposed group identities, to the porosity and flux of the identity of each group, and to the inter-group commonalities as well as intra-group conflicts, as philosopher and linguist Marcelo Dascal (2003) argues. Neither group can maintain a stringent “us” vs. “them” in this scenario. De-dichotomization here could be an incremental process aimed at softening the conceptual borders between the two identities, and building upon that to address the remaining, more difficult-totackle aspects of the conflict. However, from the point of view of the oppressed, such a call for conceptual de-dichotomization of the conflicting identities, independent of the concrete reality of the conflict between them, may be construed as advocating a change in the “consciousness of the oppressed, not [in] the situation which oppresses them”, as Simone de Beauvoir perceptively remarks (see Freire 1972: 60). I shall here allow myself to briefly use a dichotomy just to make the argument clearer, without giving any undue credence to the accuracy of breaking up any relationship into such a dichotomy. The moral critique leveled at the de-dichotmization in reflection argument particularly holds in an oppressive, non-symmetric relationship, such as a master-slave type of bond. Changing perceptions and self-perceptions may

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lead to what I term the “content slave” situation, whereby the essence of the master-slave relationship is largely maintained, but the slave “acquires” a sense of satisfaction with her role as a slave and with her relation to her master. In this type of coercive relationships, there is a “systematic negation of the other”, as well as a “furious determination to deny the other person all attributes of humanity”, as Frantz Fanon (1965: 203) argues. Therefore, any “exploration” of commonalities between oppressor and oppressed, while preserving the very cause of oppression, hoping that such root causes would be addressed later or would somehow be mitigated, is equivalent to self-delusion or deceptive pacification. Even if the oppressed ostensibly agrees to such a process, it cannot be by his/her free will, and therefore the process cannot be considered moral. It could be argued, though, that in this case a slave cannot be considered a “subject”, according to the definition given above. Once she starts reflecting on her most central attribute as a slave and acts accordingly, only then can she be considered a subject, with a subjective identity. The relationship between master and slave will, in that case, involve two subjects, each aware of his/her own identity and human aspirations. Each can start to realize the common attributes, but along with that each will perceive those other conflicting attributes and relations. As Hegel (1973: 320) argues, realizing who I am is precisely realizing who I am not. A self-conscious slave cannot but realize that the very essence of what she is (or is not) is directly related to her relationship with her master, to the process of oppression created in, and perpetuated through, this relationship. What started as a de-dichotomization at a conceptual level will then lead to addressing the concrete aspects of the dichotomy as well. In brief, since the very attribute “oppressed” is only created as a result of the relation of oppression, it is dialectically related to this concrete relation, and therefore may not itself be transformable, unless coupled with change in the reality of the conflict. Moral reconciliation between conflicting subjects is impossible if the essence of the oppressive relationship between them is perpetuated. The objectively contradictory identities of the oppressor and oppressed cannot find a moral middle ground. So long as the relation of oppression obtains, only coercion, submission and injustice are possible outcomes. . De-dichotomization in action (relation) De-dichotomization in action should not be confused with simply ending a dichotomy, since the latter may be achieved if one side subjects the other, dominates it, or utterly annihilates it, thereby resolving the contradiction and ending the conflict altogether. The above quoted citation by Ann Coulter gives an ex-

 Omar Barghouti

ample of that. Such an outcome can also be realized, from the point of view of the oppressed subject, through an activist type of struggle to end a relationship of oppression by just abolishing all those who are substantially identified as belonging to the current oppressor. Both paths aimed at ending the dichotomy are actually based on extrapolating it to mutual exclusion, by making the “other” disappear. Therefore, neither can be accurately regarded as a form of de-dichotomization, at least not in the ethical sense sought in this paper. But even a sincere attempt at de-dichotomization in action alone, e.g., a morally-justifiable struggle to change the reality of oppression, without addressing the dichotomy in the identities of the subjects involved, has the potential to lead to an unethical outcome, such as role interchange, or revenge, rather than justice. As Hegel (1973: 73) elucidates, revenge, because it is a positive action of a particular will, becomes a new transgression; as thus contradictory in character, it falls into an infinite progression and descends from one generation to another ad infinitum... The demand that this contradiction ... in the manner in which wrong is annulled, be resolved ... is the demand for a justice freed from subjective interest and a subjective form and no longer contingent on might... Fundamentally, this implies the demand for a will which, though particular and subjective, yet wills the universal as such.

Whether this is practically possible or not is questionable, but even if not, the abstract objective itself might be desirable to strive for, to come close to, to approximate, nonetheless. Once the oppressed decides to pursue the path of revenge, far from ending a relationship of oppression, the oppressed would be in this case interchanging roles with the oppressor, while maintaining a relationship of oppression. So long as the oppressed can only see the “other” as devoid of all attributes except being oppressor, he cannot possibly challenge the dichotomy of oppressoroppressed; he can only reverse it. Such a challenge would require delving with valor into the commonalities, the shared majal, or what Hegel calls the “universal”. Nevertheless, this “universal” must be viewed in a specific context of time and space, rather than as absolute, eternal or transcendental; otherwise, it may turn into a tool of imposing conformity, or forced identification, a more subtle form of oppression.

Ethical implications of de-dichotomization of identities in conflict 

. Moral de-dichotomization Alternatively, de-dichotomization may be envisioned in reflection and action, that is in praxis, and only then can it be transformative, conceptualizing the relations between the same two subjects in the process of undoing the injustice, and in the state after the causes of injustice have been overcome. In this case, the oppressor-oppressed dichotomy itself is viewed not as an abstract concept, but as a transient state of mind, and a state of being. Such a dichotomy is often perceived as a ‘carved-in-stone’ reality that cannot be readily transcended or glossed over. However, if this is true in analyzing the history and/or the present of a conflict, it should not necessarily be extended, unchallenged, in the future. We cannot change the fact that X has oppressed Y, and has caused her injury, suffering and injustice, which have all become embedded into Y’s subjective identity; therefore, we may not be able to challenge the current dichotomy of oppressor vs. oppressed in analyzing this conflict. But, this does not imply that we cannot envision a process leading to a future which precludes the roots and causes of oppression, and which is concomitantly based on a more fluid, hence tolerant, concept of identity. According to Freire (1972: 35), [s]ince it is in a concrete situation that the oppressor-oppressed contradiction is established, the resolution of this contradiction must be objectively verifiable. Hence, the radical requirement – both for the man who discovers himself to be an oppressor and for the oppressed – that the concrete situation which begets oppression must be transformed.

In other words, in a situation of oppression, changes in perceptions of identity cannot by themselves extinguish the oppression – which is objectively present, irrespective of perceptions – but are necessary in deciding and shaping the outcome of the struggle to end this oppression. In order for a process of de-dichotomization of two conflicting identities to be moral, it is therefore necessary for it to be a dialogical and transformative conceptual tool, which is intricately and inseparably related to the concrete struggle to end oppression. Only in that context can de-dichotomization lead to a transformation in the identities of both subjects, which is a necessary condition for conflict resolution, for true reconciliation and amiable co-existence. Such a vision can only arise from changes on the ground in that direction, dialectically accompanied with ever evolving concepts that can guide such changes and afford them insight and purpose.

 Omar Barghouti

Summing up, I unequivocally subscribe to the prophetic insight and the principled ethical stance revealed in Freire’s (1972: 28) following words: Dehumanization, which marks not only those whose humanity has been stolen, but also (though in a different way) those who have stolen it, is a distortion of the vocation of becoming more fully human. . . [The] Struggle [for humanization] is possible only because dehumanization, although a concrete historical fact, is not a given destiny but the result of an unjust order that engenders violence in the oppressors, which in turn dehumanizes the oppressed. . . In order for this struggle to have meaning, the oppressed must not, in seeking to regain their humanity (which is a way to create it), become in turn oppressors of the oppressors, but rather restorers of the humanity of both.

References Boal, A. (1996). Interview. www.artswire.org Counter Punch (2001). September 14th 2001. http://www.counterpunch.org/aftershocks.html [Counter Punch] Dascal, M. (2003). “Identities in flux: Arabs and Jews in Israel”. In G. Weiss & R. Wodak (Eds.), Critical Discourse Analysis: Theory and Interdisciplinarity (pp. 150–166). Houndmills, Basignstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Finkelstein, N. (2001). 13 September 2001 Teach-In. De Paul University. [Finkelstein] Freire, P. (1972). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Herder & Herder. Hegel, G. W. F. (1973). Philosophy of Right. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kohn, H. (1969). The Idea of Nationalism. Toronto, Ontario: Collier-Macmillan Canada. [Kohn] Montesquieu, B. G. de (Ed.). (1899). Pensées et fragments inédits, Vol I. [Montesquieu] Statement by Palestinian Intellectuals, 16 September 2001, http://www.palestine-pmc.com. [Palestine] Wallis, J. (2003). “The uncomfortable responsibility to problematise progressive thinking”. Paulo Freire Institute, Freire Online, Vol. I, issue 2, http://www.paulofreireinstitute.org/freireonline/volume1/1wallis2.html. Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1983. [Dict]

Chapter 16

The role of subjectivity in public controversy Alan G. Gross

This paper has as its purpose the investigation of the role of the personal and private in the conduct of public controversy, assuming, initially at least, that the emotions are paradigmatic of the subjective, that, if anything is our own, it is our indignation, our fear, and our disdain. To test, or rather to trouble this assumption as it applies to the public sphere, to assert that the phrase “social emotion” is not an oxymoron, I examine three contrasting controversies – over a museum exhibit, over the process of scientific research, and, finally, over its product, moving deliberately from fields where the role of the emotions is relatively uncontroversial to those in which it is controversial indeed. I do not claim that these three cases are each typical in their spheres, only that they are all typical of their class: each takes the form of a social drama, a concept borrowed from the social anthropologist Victor Turner. What is a social drama? It is a form of collective social action that moves from threat to resolution in four phases. The first, the breach, is an act that brings an underlying social conflict to the surface of social life. If the breach is not sealed off quickly, it will widen into a second phase – crisis, a state “coextensive with some dominant cleavage in the widest set of relevant relations to which the conflicting or antagonistic parties belong” (Turner 1978: 35). Crisis is followed in turn by redressive action: society tries to adjudicate rival claims by means ranging from informal mediation to formal justice before a supreme judicial body. The final phase of a social drama is reintegration, by which a society attempts to return to the status quo ante. This pattern of events is sociologically interesting because it is repeated across societies and in the same society over time. It is interesting from this paper’s point of view because, especially in the crisis phase of social dramas, the emotions play a significant role. They do so because the crisis phase is so deeply coincident with conflicts that lie at the heart of the particular societies in which they take place.

 Alan G. Gross

The following, taken from Charles Mackay’s Extraordinary Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, illustrates the crisis phase of social drama. It concerns the Mississippi Scheme, an 18th century French financial project gone bad. In this case, a breach had been created by an edict that, while intended to restore confidence in the Scheme, had the opposite effect. The disastrous loss of public confidence that attended this unfortunate edict led to a crisis that brought France to the threshold of revolution. The scene at the Mazarin Gardens epitomizes the emotional character of the crisis phase, in this case the panic of the crowd: [From June 10th] all the population of Paris hastened to the bank to get coin for their small notes; and silver becoming scarce, they were paid in copper. Very few complained that this was too heavy, although poor fellows might be continually seen toiling and sweating along the streets, laden with more than they could comfortably carry, in the shape of change for fifty livres. The crowds around the bank were so great that hardly a day passed that some one was not pressed to death. On the 9th of July, the multitude was so dense and clamorous that the guards stationed at the entrance to the Mazarin Gardens closed the gate and refused to admit any more. The crowd became incensed, and flung stones through the railings upon the soldiers. The latter, incensed in their turn, threatened to fire upon the people. At that instant one of them was hit by a stone, and taking up his piece, he fired into the crowd. One man fell dead immediately, and another was severely wounded. It was every instant expected that a general attack would have commenced upon the bank; but the gates of the Mazarin Gardens being opened to the crowd, who saw a whole troupe of soldiers, with their bayonets fixed ready to receive them, they contented themselves by giving vent to their indignation in groans and hisses. Eight days afterwards [on July 17th] the concourse of people was so tremendous that fifteen persons were squeezed to death at the doors of the bank. (Mackay 1932: 35)

It is at the crisis stage of social dramas that the opportunity is greatest for particular interests to draw on and direct the raw energies resident in emotions like panic. In this paper, we shall see this process at work in the closure of three public controversies that take the form of social dramas. In the cases I shall examine – cases of public knowledge, public policy, and scientific knowledge – emotional force is a factor so prominent that it becomes impossible to assert unequivocally that the outcomes were primarily a consequence of rational debate. This process forces us to reconsider how controversies are resolved, especially those that purportedly turn exclusively on intellectual issues, controversies in which the better argument is allegedly determinative.

The role of subjectivity in public controversy 

The fact that emotional force is significant in the resolution of controversy also forces us to reflect on the nature of our emotions. It is commonplace to think of our emotional lives as paradigmatic of our subjectivity, our lives as private persons; the social dramas in which we become embroiled we think of as paradigmatic of our sociality, our lives as public persons. In this paper, I will try to show that, in controversies that take the form of social dramas, we are dealing with a different category of emotion – social emotion – a category that troubles the boundary-line between public and private. Although still experienced subjectively, the emotions people feel in the crisis phase of social dramas seem less expressions of themselves than manifestations of their sense of belonging to a group whose interests coincide with one or another of the fault-lines of deep-seated societal conflicts in which we are invested. At the Mazarin Gardens, for example, each member of the crowd experiences panic, but this panic belongs not to the individual, but to the group; it exists only because the group exists. In contrast, the panic of the lone soldier who fires into the crowd is his alone.

.

Enola Gay: A political controversy

My first case is that of a museum exhibit designed to convey to the public the consensus among historians concerning the American bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The centerpiece was to be the fuselage of the newly restored Enola Gay – the airplane that delivered the first atomic bomb. In February 1994, a year before the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum was to open, its Advisory Committee was extremely supportive. The Air Force historian, Richard Hallion, and his colleague, Herman Wolk, commented: “Overall this is a most impressive piece of work, comprehensive and dramatic, obviously based on a great deal of research, primary and secondary” (quoted in Harwit 1996: 220). This consensus was to prove fragile. John Correll, the editor of the Air Force Magazine, the official journal of the Air Force Association, had the opportunity to read the script and to comment on it. From Correll’s point of view, the plans for the display of the Enola Gay were severely and unacceptably critical of air power. In Air Force Magazine, he made his case to his immediate constituency of air force members, air force veterans, and the aerospace industry. Later in that year, presumably to capture a larger audience, Correll’s appeal broadened from the defense of air power to the defense of the veterans of World War II: the horrific photographs of Hiroshima casualties still in the exhibit were labeled

 Alan G. Gross

“provocative”; the plan for the exhibit as a whole was said to have a “distinctive ideological tilt”. The tone throughout this later article was one of righteous indignation, a form of anger justified by the superior moral position of the person experiencing that anger: in the case of righteous indignation, I have a duty to be angry. Correll’s campaign created a breach that initiated a social drama, forming an apparently unbridgeable gap between the motives of the curators and the wishes of the American people. Support of the exhibit was linked, apparently indissolubly, to the dishonoring of America’s veterans. The angry polemics that ensued from all sides turned breach into crisis. One excerpt from the original script particularly rankled: “For most Americans”, the script had said, “it was a war of vengeance. For most Japanese, it was a war to defend their unique culture against Western Imperialism”. Although the offending passage was soon removed, the alleged exhibit theme – American vengeance as a motive for the war – was constantly repeated, along with another leitmotif, the exhibit’s allegedly low casualty estimates for the proposed American invasion of the Japanese mainland. The two themes are closely connected: the higher the casualty estimates, the more easily justified was the decision to drop the bombs, not as a final act of vengeance, but as a legitimate act of war. In the following Letter to the Editor, drawn from the crisis phase, a veteran comments on a political cartoon sympathetic to the exhibit: [If cartoonist Steve Benson] is truly grieved about the Japanese victims of the bomb, he may be comforted to know of the millions (not a figure of speech) of Japanese whose lives were saved by the bomb. I know. I was set to go into Japan with the Third Corps (U[nited] S[tates M[arine] C[orps]) and the planners of that invasion expected to kill about 20 million Japanese before the islands were secured. The fact that we expected to lose 1 million Americans in the operation is of little or no concern to Benson, judging by his expressed attitude, but it was of much concern to me. I had no reason to expect to survive the action. The bomb killed tens of thousands, and saved tens of millions. That it saved my life is unimportant, but I still feel that sympathy for the enemy in the Pacific is both misplaced and unappreciated. I well remember Pearl Harbor. (In Enola Gay Coverage 1994, 1)

It is easy to counter these arguments. The figures cited are absurd. In all theaters, under 300,000 Americans lost their lives, a horrendous number to be sure, though it pales against Russian, German, or Japanese combat and civilian deaths. But, of course, we cannot compare combatant and non-combatant deaths, as the letter’s author wishes. A state of war does not give us the right to

The role of subjectivity in public controversy 

aim at non-combatants, as we did at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And, especially, we cannot equate the atomic bomb with conventional bombs, as the writer implicitly does. It is precisely the character of the atomic bomb that it cannot be aimed. The argument is also absurd because it compares actual with conjectured deaths, civilians who actually died with soldiers who might have died by being in harm’s way. And it is, after all, the duty of soldiers, and not the duty of civilians, to be in harm’s way. But all of this is beside the point. We have, not an argument, but an emotional outburst in the form of an argument. It is mediated, not by a meditation on events, or by a study of the exhibit script, but by an urge to represent oneself as a loyal member of a particular group by exhibiting moral outrage at an appropriate target. The arguments of the letter will seem like arguments only to those at the same emotional pitch as the writer, his fellow veterans, indignant at an insult. In its intensity, the letter is paradigmatic of the height of the crisis stage of the social drama that was the Enola Gay controversy. The writer feels his indignation personally, but it is not his personal indignation. It belongs to the group of which he is a member. In a manner also typical of social dramas, the circles of dispute widened and targets of contention broadened. First Correll, the Air Force Association staff and its members were involved; then veterans organizations, then the veterans themselves, then political columnists, then the Congress of the United States. As the circles widened, the issues also broadened: toward the end of the crisis phase, the Enola Gay exhibit became the symbol for a nation brought to cultural crisis by the reign of tenured radicals, university professors whose mission is to undermine American values. In columnist Pat Buchanan’s diatribe, righteous indignation is national in scope: What is underway here is a sleepless campaign to inculcate in American youth a revulsion toward America’s past. The Left’s long march through our institutions is complete. Secure in tenure, they are now serving up, in our museums and colleges, a constant diet of the same poison of anti-Americanism upon which they themselves were fed. (Enola Gay Coverage 1994, 24)

The climax of the crisis phase occurred at the conclusion of the negotiations between the chief veterans group, the American Legion, and the Museum. After long and tedious sessions an agreement had been reached on the sensitive label concerning American casualty estimates for an invasion of Japan. At this point Martin Harwit, the museum director, learned that, through no fault of his own, he had been mistaken in his facts. As a consequence, he sent a letter to Hubert Daigley, Internal Affairs Director for the Legion, concerning the revised exhibit

 Alan G. Gross

label: “I am sending you the text of the label as it now reads. It does not alter the figures Truman cited after the war, but gives a different interpretation of what he might have had in mind” (Harwit 1996: 381). To Harwit, both parties had to give way to the facts that the archival records revealed; for the Legion, the sting of the letter was the phrase, “different interpretation”. It meant that casualty estimates needed to be modified downward. From the Legion’s point of view, the truth about the past was, and continued to be, malleable, despite the archival record. It was this position that finally rode home on the tide of righteous indignation John Correll had initiated. After the fatal letter of January 9, 1995, redressive action soon followed. Harwit was asked to resign, and a politically innocuous exhibit substituted.

. Recombinant DNA: A controversy between science and society My second case concerns a controversy between science and society, a matter of public policy. The social drama of recombinant DNA research began with a breach, a letter indicating that a pause in the ordinary progress of biological research was appropriate, a pause dedicated to the examination of the propriety of pursuing such research. The discovery of recombination, a direct consequence of the discovery of the double helical structure of DNA and the subsequent breaking of the genetic code, gave molecular geneticists the capacity to create new organisms, not at the level of hybridization or breeding, but of the gene. The letter was suffused with awe for the power scientists had bestowed upon themselves, and with a spirit of altruism. At the time, and subsequently, the ten signatories were much praised for the social responsibility reflected in the letter. Deeply stirred by their convictions, they felt “a sense of urgency about rapid publication” (Morgan & Whelan 1979: 283). Their letter was quickly printed in Science and Nature, two of the most prestigious and widely circulated journals in science. It began on a scientific note but ended by recommending an ethical and political program: “Recent advances in techniques for the isolation and rejoining of segments of DNA now permit construction of biologically active DNA molecules in vitro [in an artificial environment]”. But the process of recombination leads to “the creation of novel types of infectious DNA elements whose properties cannot be completely predicted in advance”. Because these recombinations “could prove biologically hazardous” and might have “unpredictable effects”, the letter urged “all scientists working in this area to join in a voluntary moratorium on research”. It also recommended a conference, which later took place at Asilomar,

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where these matters would be discussed, and guidelines developed (Watson & Tooze 1981: 11, 44–47). The language of the appeal deliberately avoided any emotional valence: the potential danger is described, not evoked. Despite this attempt to ward off a crisis, an opposition soon developed and increased in intensity: as awe turned into anxiety, the alleged altruism of proponents was dismissed with contempt. The crisis was initiated by another letter – an open letter addressed to all Asilomar participants from the Genetic Engineering Group of Science for the People. Signed by scientists from both Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the letter called recombination a “crossroad of biological research”, citing the potential of recombination for “linking together of DNA molecules across natural species barriers”. This linkage could have serious negative consequences, the letter said: “perhaps tragic results already caused by, for example, radium, asbestos, thalidomide, vinyl chloride and dieldrin”; perhaps “human genetic manipulation”. The letter charged that such research was a result of a conspiracy of selfish interests that diverted attention from “the massive health needs of the population as a whole” (Watson & Tooze 1981: 49). The language of the appeal deliberately contains a strong emotional valence: the potential danger is not merely described, but also evoked by using expressions such as “tragic” and “manipulation”, and by linking recombination with substances already known to be extremely hazardous. The goal was the creation of fear. As the crisis deepened, the language of scientists and non-scientists opposed to recombination exhibited a common alarm and, not incidentally, a common rhetoric. Indeed, the rhetoric evident in the recombination debate, especially in its crisis phase, is a common resource in debates between science and society, debates concerning nuclear power, fluoridation, and cloning. As a consequence of these commonalities, we see in these debates the verbal traces of social rather than private emotion. Columbia University biochemist Erwin Chargaff (1976: 940) charged molecular biologists with megalomania: “Have we the right to counteract, irreversibly, the evolutionary wisdom of millions of years, in order to satisfy the ambition and the curiosity of a few scientists?”. For her part, Francine Simring of the Friends of the Earth compared the recombinant DNA dispute to the “nuclear energy controvers[y]”. Concerned that as a result of “human fallibility and technical failures” an accident would “inevitably occur”, she wanted to “take into account the biohazards of accidental release of uncontrollable new organisms, the implication of interference with evolution” (Watson & Tooze 1981: 95). The mayor of Cambridge, Massachusetts, reminded us of the literary precedents of such language when he voiced his fear that molecular biologists “may come up with a disease that can’t

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be cured – even a monster! Is this the answer to Dr. Frankenstein’s dream?” (Rogers 1976: 109–110). As social drama intensified, the crisis widened to the Congress, the city of Cambridge, and the courts: fear became general. Finally, by way of judicial and quasi-judicial processes, recombinant DNA research was reintegrated into the activities of the scientific establishment. But the prominence of the social emotions in this controversy makes impossible an unequivocal insistence that rational debate decided the issue.

. Spontaneous generation: A controversy within science Can the emotions also have a role in controversies internal to science? My example is the well-known controversy between Félix-Archimède Pouchet and Louis Pasteur concerning spontaneous generation. Told from the point of view of the more famous of the protagonists, Pasteur, the answer is No. In the late 1850s Pouchet had published several experimental papers in favor of spontaneous generation and, notoriously, a book, Hétérogenie. In a series of papers, eventually collected in his prize-winning memoir of 1861, Pasteur refutes Pouchet’s central claim. The experimental portion of the Memoir is preceded by a history of spontaneous generation: “it would be pointless to present a complete historical account of the dispute [between Needham and Spallanzani over spontaneous generation]”, Pasteur asserts. “But it is important to make precise the experimental difficulties to which they more particularly applied their efforts, and to find if this long debate has dispelled all our doubts on this subject”. Recently, Pasteur avers, there has been an interesting turn of events: Pouchet has announced that he has “results on the basis of which he believed himself able to assert the principles [of spontaneous generation] in a definitive manner”. When this announcement was made, “no one could point out the true cause of error in his experiments” (Oeuvres, 213). Pasteur goes on to refute Pouchet on experimental grounds: he adduces experimental error: “I affirm with the most perfect sincerity that I have never performed any experiment, prepared as I have just indicated, that has given me a result less than certain” (Oeuvres, 223): spontaneous generation creates a burden of proof no experiment can discharge. The effect on French science was virtually immediate. As a consequence of Pasteur’s award of a French Academy Prize, and the subsequent verdict of a Commission appointed for the purpose, French science spoke: spontaneous generation was just bad science.

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Despite his loss of this first round, Pouchet continued the fight. To show that the degree of alleged spontaneous generation depended on the relative density of air-borne micro-organisms, Pasteur had performed his experiments at higher and higher altitudes, demonstrating that the further away from sealevel he went, the fewer were the micro-organisms, and, consequently, the less the contamination. To negate this latter argument – to show that spontaneous generation occurred even at these relatively microbe-free altitudes – Pouchet climbed even higher, a thousand meters higher, to perform his experiments; even at these heights, he found, spontaneous generation occurred: This identity in the results demonstrated most decisively the way that the air of high mountains, nearly completely deprived of microbes – exactly the condition achieved by our opponents – did not prevent the decoctions of organic matter from becoming very fecund... [W]e repeat with a profound conviction, based on very numerous experiments, that it is to the infusion itself and not to alleged microbes floating here and there in the air, that we must attribute the emergence of life in the flask. (Pouchet et al. 1863: 560)

But Pouchet’s efforts were in vain. This time, Pasteur did not even bother to repeat Pouchet’s experiments; he merely pointed out that, despite Pouchet’s efforts, his design and Pasteur’s differed on two crucial points (1863a: 724– 725). (In a moment we shall take up the issue of just how crucial these points were.) The audience at the Academy affirmed the value of Pasteur’s “precautions”, if a result were to be obtained that would be “free from all objection” (1863b: 846). A second Commission, appointed to adjudicate the continuing quarrel, reached the same conclusion. The Pasteur-Pouchet controversy, like the Enola Gay and the recombinant DNA controversies, is a social drama whose first phase, the breach, we have just been investigating. The controversy appears to take place wholly within the intellectual precincts of pure science. But this superficial impression is misleading. By defending spontaneous generation so vigorously, as historian of science Gerald Geisen makes clear, Pouchet had threatened the alliance of Church and State on which the French Second Empire was founded: spontaneous generation stands directly opposed to God’s active role in the creation of life. Pouchet had created a breach potentially so threatening to the social fabric that Pasteur’s work had to seal it before a crisis was reached. This premature closure was fuelled by a social emotion: the disdain of Pouchet’s Academy colleagues, an emotional barrage that overrode any reasonable defense. Pasteur’s objections to Pouchet were far from crucial: Pasteur averred that Pouchet used too few flasks to obtain a valid statistical result and

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that he used a file rather than iron pincers to open his flasks (1863a: 724–25). The former objection was a natural consequence of difficult experimental conditions, the latter, simply absurd. Yet no one pointed out that these objections had little substance. Moreover, the two Commissions that finally dismissed Pouchet’s work were openly biased, and Pouchet was continually denied an opportunity to defend himself. There is ample evidence of Pouchet’s reaction to this cumulative social disdain. In his correspondence with one of his collaborators, Joly, he asserts that “Pasteur was vileness itself!” Of his colleagues in the Academy, he says: “they want to squash us; there is no doubt of it. To have resisted is for us an unpardonable crime” (Vallery-Radot 1954: 72, 70). It was “an unpardonable crime” because public knowledge of spontaneous generation would have threatened the social and political stability of second-Empire France. The controversy over spontaneous generation shares with the controversies over the Enola Gay exhibit and recombinant DNA the crucial causative role of the social emotions. But a veil of rationality makes this crucial causative role difficult at times to discern.

. Defining the social emotions A person experiences the psychological and physiological changes specific to a particular emotion as a consequence of the immediate perception of its intentional object: John is angry at Mary now; he is angry at Mary because she has just insulted him. This is the paradigm case. But this can hardly be true for emotions generated as a part of social dramas whose goal is public knowledge. Those veterans who exhibited righteous indignation as a consequence of their participation in the Enola Gay controversy were experiencing that emotion in the absence of any immediately perceived intentional object. This was equally the case with the fear of scientists and citizens in the recombinant DNA controversy and the disdain of the French Academicians in the controversy over spontaneous generation. In these cases, an emotion is experienced because someone is a member of a group who should be indignant, fearful, disdainful. The particular target of indignation, fear, or disdain – Harwit, DNA researchers, Pouchet – is not the cause, but the consequence of the emotion. The English language does not have a separate vocabulary for social emotions. For example, panic can refer to any fear so profound that it can rob each of us of our reason, as was the case of the lone soldier firing into the crowd at the Mazarin Gardens. It can also refer to an intense fear that robs a group of

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its reason, as in the case of the crowd itself. Hatred can also refer to the social rather than the personal. I can hate particular people who happen to be blacks or Jews, but I can also hate them because they are blacks or Jews. Thus I can hate them before I meet them; I can hate them even if I never meet them. When I do meet them, of course, I will experience my hatred subjectively, as a set of physiological and psychological changes specific to that emotion. Nevertheless, my hatred will be the product, not of an interaction with a person who has earned my hatred, but of a sense of solidarity I feel with a group with whom I have strong, positive emotional ties. A similar story can be told concerning the moral indignation of the veterans groups, the fears evoked by the opponents of recombinant DNA research, and the disdain the French Academy felt for Pouchet and his collaborators. They are also expressions of group solidarity, deep affirmations of belonging. We are indignant, fearful, or disdainful because we are American veterans, or Friends of the Earth, or French Academicians. The social emotions have another property: they are infectious; like an air-borne disease, they spread from member to member and, as they do, they gather strength. In extreme cases, we see an emotional tsunami, overwhelming all restraints, as in a soccer riot in South Africa in which spontaneous panic led to a stampede that killed 43 and injured more than 150 (South African). Under certain conditions, without apparent conscious intervention or control, people suddenly converge behaviorally: their facial expressions synchronize; they speak, shout and move as if compelled by a common force. This can happen suddenly and directly as in the soccer riot just mentioned; it can also be mediated, as in the case of Orson Welles’ broadcast of H. G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, which led to wide-spread panic over a fictional alien invasion (Hatfield et. al. 1994: 153–154, 5). This behavior exemplifies a phenomenon well-known but not well-understood in social psychology: emotional contagion. We can understand better the emotional contagion evident in social dramas by looking more carefully at the Enola Gay controversy. In his appeal to veterans, Correll was sowing the seeds of indignation on fertile ground. As Schuman, Belli, and Bischoping (1997: 71) point out, “there is persuasive evidence that adolescence and early adulthood constitute a critical period during which events can have a significantly greater impact on knowledge than they do for people beyond this period”; this is particularly true when this period is also one of military service during war, a time very often systematically overvalued in retrospect. It is this social psychological phenomenon that makes fiftieth anniversaries of important events especially emotionally salient for their participants. It is the final opportunity for living memory to impress itself on the historical record, to place its seal on public knowledge. The fiftieth anniver-

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sary of the dropping of the atomic bomb was such an occasion (Schudson 1995: 350). So much shared feeling so long after the event need not surprise us. The phenomenon is common whenever combat veterans reminisce. In In Our Own Hands, a documentary about the Jewish Brigade in World War II, one of its British officers, David Spector, recalls a Chanukah celebration in Italy. It was a time when “every soldier [was] dancing with a child on his shoulders. Really wonderful. You could have wept. Every soldier had a child on his shoulders”. Articulating this last sentence, Spector himself begins to weep. For him, to remember is not merely to recall, but to re-experience: memory and emotion are simultaneously engaged. The cases of recombinant DNA and of PasteurPouchet are analogous in the social dimension of their salience. In PasteurPouchet, professional reputation and identity, set in place in early adulthood, are at stake; in recombinant DNA, professional reputation and identity clash with deep-seated ethical imperatives. A final point concerns the global nature of social dramas. There is no question that the social dramas we have examined are all coincident with the borders of the nation state. This is true of the Enola Gay debate; it is also true of the recombinant DNA debate: neither the British nor the Soviets shared the American sense of crisis (see Morgan & Whelan 1979: 275; Graham 1980). And the social drama of spontaneous generation was largely confined to 19th century France (Geisen 1995: 125–138). Because these controversies stop at national borders, other nations can adopt toward them an ironic stance. In a German article on the Enola Gay controversy with the ironic title, “The nation cannot mourn”, Peter Gruber (1995) speaks of the political power of the veterans groups: “And since America is drawn into many wars, it has many veterans. They are loyal voters. No politician would be foolish enough to forfeit their votes”. In another German article with the equally ironic title, “On stage with the barbarians”, Andrea Boehm (1995) emphasizes the influence of veterans groups relative to the historians: “In the USA veterans organizations have more political influence than historians”. In the French press irony also rules, though what is emphasized is the unreasonable power of historical myth. In Le Monde, in “The United States at war with its history”, Sylvie Kaufmann (1995) speaks of “the political climate, the social and economic tensions [that] do not as it happens countenance calling the great American myths into question”. Again in Le Monde, in “America’s selective memory,” Laurent Zecchini (1995) writes of a consequence of this myth, the American unwillingness to accept even well-justified blame: “The absence of second thoughts on the part of the former commander of the Enola Gay

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indicates a feeling probably shared by the majority of Americans.... The government of the United States for its part is wary of provoking debate of this sort; it dreads it”. But this ironic distance is no more than a psychological defense against the tidal pressure of a common emotional response. Neither the French nor the German is immune to the seduction of national myths that conflict with the obvious facts on the ground, a conflict that generates social dramas and social emotions: the extensive use of torture during the Algerian war, and the complicity of ordinary Germans in the Nazizeit. There are enough uncomfortable topics, enough potential social dramas, to go around. Although it manifests itself differently from nation to nation and from social group to social group, the phenomenon is the same.

. Epistemological consequences The hypothesis that the social emotions play a significant role in the three controversies I have examined entails disturbing epistemological consequences. In the case of the Enola Gay exhibit, public knowledge was at stake. In an allegedly free society, public debate concerning a controversial turning point in America’s past was thoroughly suppressed by a private interest, a coalition of the veterans groups, the military, and the political right. This suppression forces us to distinguish between knowledge available to the public, in libraries for example, and public knowledge, claims that can be endorsed and debated with impunity in particularly sensitive public arenas: school books, historical museums, or motion pictures. While in a closed society like China, both sorts of knowledge are targets for government control, in the “open” societies of the West, it is only public knowledge that is so politically sensitive and so vulnerable to the sweep of social emotions like righteous indignation. In the recombinant DNA controversy, the issue was public policy, the direction scientific knowledge should take. On the evidence of eventual social reintegration, it might be possible to believe that the merits and demerits of recombinant research were fairly weighed and a rational decision finally reached. But our analysis of the case shows that it is impossible to disengage the fear generated by opponents from the judicial and quasi-judicial procedures that apparently prevailed. Our final example, the Pasteur-Pouchet controversy, is, in some ways, the most disturbing, since what counted as scientific knowledge was seriously influenced by a social emotion: disdain. Pasteur’s dismissal of Pouchet’s science

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is, simultaneously, a victory for experimental technique and for the Second Empire, a victory that has at its center, not only a triumph of superior technique, but also a cascade of disdain founded not on individual feelings toward Pouchet, but on group solidarity. In this case, a social emotion played a causal role in the creation of scientific knowledge.

. Conclusion In this paper, I have tried to show that in the case of controversies that are also social dramas, in spheres of activity as diverse as science and public life, concerning issues as different as the status of a museum exhibit and the status of a scientific fact, public knowledge, public policy, and scientific knowledge are influenced causally by our emotions, our subjectivities. But, in a sense, these subjectivities are not our subjectivities. While our social emotions may feel to us exactly like our private ones, the former, those we experience as participants in a social drama, are primarily expressions of group solidarity. It is a group solidarity with potentially dangerous consequences. In the wake of the events of September 11, 2001, the United States has been forcefully reminded of its vulnerability as a nation. But equally it has been forcefully reminded of the fragility of the rights that are its most precious possession as a people. When we see laws promulgated in haste that abridge our rights to privacy and to a fair trial, we are forced to reflect on Aristotle’s view of rhetoric in his Politics (5.5.5): In early times, when oratory was still in its infancy, demagogues were always drawn from the ranks of military commanders. To-day, with the growth of the art of rhetoric, men with the gift of speech are the men who make themselves demagogues, but men of this type, unversed in war, make no attempt at becoming tyrants – though here and there a case or two may have occurred.

The social emotions I have just spoken about, the pathetic ‘proofs’ that Aristotle so excoriated in Book I of the Rhetoric, are just those that demagogues find useful in turning fear and hatred into public knowledge and public policy. And, recently, a case or two may have occurred.

References Aristotle. (1969). Politics, transl. E. Barker. London: Oxford University Press. Boehm, A. (1995). “On stage with the barbarians”. Contrapress media, July 27.

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Chargaff, E. (1976). “On the dangers of genetic meddling”. Letter. Science, 192, 940. Correll, J. T. (1994a). “The Smithsonian plan for the Enola Gay: A report on the revisions”. Air Force Magazine (June 28). In Revisionism Gone Wrong: Analysis of the Enola Gay Controversy: March 1994–December 1996. Arlington, VA: The Air Force Association. Correll, J. T. (1994b). “War stories at air and space: At the Smithsonian, history grapples with cultural angst”. In Revisionism Gone Wrong: Analysis of the Enola Gay Controversy: March 1994–December 1996. Arlington, VA: The Air Force Association. Correll, J. T. (1994c). “The crossroads: The end of World War II, the atomic bomb, and the origins of the Cold War”. (January 12). Arlington, VA: Air Force Association. Elster, J. (1999). Alchemies of the Mind: Rationality and the Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Enola Gay Coverage (1994). Arlington, VA: Air Force Association. The Enola Gay Debate: August 1993–May 1995. Arlington, VA: Air Force Association. Geisen, G. L. (1995). The Private Science of Louis Pasteur. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Graham, L. R. (1980). “Reasons for studying Soviet science: The example of genetic engineering”. In L. L. Lubrano & S. G. Solomon (Eds.), The Social Context of Soviet Science (pp. 205–240). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Gruber, P. (1995). “The nation cannot mourn”. Focus Magazine, February 25. Harwit, M. (1996). An Exhibit Denied: Lobbying the History of the Enola Gay. New York: Copernicus. Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. T., & Rapson, R. L. (Eds.). (1994). Emotional Contagion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaufmann, S. (1995). “The United States at war with its history”. Le Monde, March 24. Lazarus, R. S., & Lazarus, B. N. (1994). Passion and Reason: Making Sense of Our Emotions. New York: Oxford University Press. Mackay, C. (1932). Extraordinary Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. Wells, VT: Fraser Publishing Company. Morgan, J., & Whelan, W. J. (Eds.). (1979). Recombinant DNA and Genetic Experimentation. Proceedings of the Conference on Recombinant DNA, jointly organized by the Committee on Genetic Experimentation (COGENE) and the Royal Society of London, held at Wye College, Kent. April 1–4, 1979. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Pasteur, L. (1863a). “Note en réponse aux observations critiques présentées à l’Académie par MM. Pouchet, Joly et Musset, dans la séance du 21 Septembre dernier”. Comptes Rendus des Séances de l’ Académie des Sciences, 57, 724–726. Pasteur, L. (1863b). “Remarques”. Comptes Rendus des Séances de l’Académie des Sciences. Paris, 57, 846. Pasteur, L. (1922–1939). Oeuvres de Pasteur, Vol. II. V.-R. Pasteur (Ed.). Paris: Masson et Cie. [Oeuvres] Pouchet, F. A., Joly, N., & Musset, C. (1863). “Expériences sur l’hétérogénie exécutées dans l’intérieur des glaciers de la Maladetta (Pyrénées d’Espagne)”. Comptes Rendus des Séances de l’ Académie des Sciences, 57, 558–561. Revisionism Gone Wrong: Analysis of the Enola Gay Controversy, Parts I and II. Arlington, VA: Air Force Association, 2000. Rogers, M. (1976). Biohazard. New York: Knopf.

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“South African Soccer Stampede Kills 43”. Minneapolis Star Tribune (April 12, 2001), Page A8. [South African] Schudson, M. (1995). “Dynamics of distortion in collective memory”. In D. L. Schater (Ed.), Memory Distortion: How Minds, Brains, and Societies Reconstruct the Past (pp. 346–364). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schuman, H., Belli, R. F., & Bischoping, K. (1997). “The generational basis of historical knowledge”. In J. W. Pennebaker, D. Paez, & B. Rimé (Eds.), Collective Memory of Political Events: Social Psychological Perspectives. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 47ff. Turner, V. (1967). The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Turner, V. (1978 [1974]). Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Vallery-Radot, P. (1954). Pasteur Inconnu. Paris: Flammarion. Watson, J. D., & Tooze, J. (Eds.). (1981). The DNA Story: A Documentary History of Gene Cloning. San Francisco: W. H. Freeman. Zecchini, L. (1995). “America’s selective memory”. Le Monde August 3.

Chapter 17

The Sokal affair The role of subjectivity in shaping the controversy León Olivé

In this paper I want to analyze the way in which personal desires, emotions, interests, values, beliefs, and goals have influenced the controversy triggered by the “Sokal affair”.1 This controversy has addressed a number of important issues. These include: technical issues in the philosophy of science; the social role of science and technology; the relationship between scientists and humanists; the academic standards in the humanities; the political, intellectual and academic role of tendency and peer reviewed journals; the relationship between the American academic Left and the political Left, and in general the role of the Left and the future of politics, at least in the USA. In this paper I’ll view this controversy mainly as a controversy about science, in which some working scientists took part. I will examine the way in which subjective factors have influenced: 1) The issues that are picked up for discussion in the controversy (e.g., the conception of science and its role in society, the relationship between science and politics, particularly between science and “the Left”). 2) The selection of argumentative strategies, how these are applied and the effects they have had (e.g., Sokal’s decision itself to make his point as a hoax, or some scientists’ decisions, for instance Weinberg’s, to put forward subjective beliefs about their “own experience with laws” as unquestionable reasons). 3) The rationality of the controversy itself. We’ll see that there are in this controversy, on the one hand, “non genuine disagreements”. That is, divergent opinions which are apparently in opposition, but cannot be brought to a close through rational discussion because there is no fact of the matter to disagree about – for instance concerning some values cherished by

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some (but not all) scientists. On the other hand, there are “genuine disagreements” about matters of fact, which could at least in principle be closed through rational discussion – for instance whether or not quantum mechanics has philosophical implications. And finally, 4) The course of the controversy. For instance, Weinberg opened a new path within the controversy by promoting his own ideological view of science, which in turn invited criticism from other people, and thus extended the controversy to issues not previously considered, or which were not prominent in previous exchanges. I’ll start by making some comments about how subjective beliefs, values, interests and goals influenced the very setting of the stage of this controversy. Then, I’ll make some general points about the influence of subjectivity in the controversy focusing on it as a controversy about science. Finally I’ll illustrate these general remarks with some more examples.

.

Setting the stage

Assuming that, apart from the original hoax, Sokal has been honest, we have direct access to some of his motivations, concerns, purposes, beliefs, desires, hopes and even emotions, through his own writings. In the paper that can be considered as the first document of the controversy (not the one that triggered the controversy, but his first paper in the controversy), Sokal (1996a: 51) explicitly mentions his motivations: Why did I do it? While my method was satirical, my motivation is utterly serious. What concerns me is the proliferation, not just of nonsense and sloppy thinking per se, but of a particular kind of nonsense and sloppy thinking: one that denies the existence of objective realities, or (when challenged) admits their existence but downplays their practical relevance. At its best, a journal like Social Text raises important questions that no scientist should ignore – questions, for example, about how corporate and government funding influence scientific work. Unfortunately, epistemic relativism does little to further the discussion of these matters.

Thus we are told that Sokal’s motivation was “utterly serious”, although he tried to achieve his goal through a hoax. The subsequent controversy has focused as

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much on his motivations and the significance of his action as on his ends and the means chosen to get them.2 Sokal’s perception of the circumstances, that is, his representation of the situation in which he wanted to intervene at the very beginning, which was based upon conceptual analysis and influenced by some personal beliefs, is summarized as follows: In the end, I resorted to parody for a simple pragmatic reason. The targets of my critique have by now become a self-perpetuating academic subculture that typically ignores (or disdains) reasoned criticism from the outside. In such a situation, a more direct demonstration of the subculture’s intellectual standards was required. But how can one show that the emperor has no clothes? Satire is by far the best weapon; and the blow that can’t be brushed off is the one that’s self-inflicted. I offered the Social Text editors an opportunity to demonstrate their intellectual rigor. Did they meet the test? I don’t think so. (Sokal 1996a: 53)

Whether Sokal was right in believing that his opponents constitute “a selfperpetuating academic subculture that typically ignores (or disdains) reasoned criticism from the outside” I shall not discuss. What I want to draw attention to is the fact that he was convinced that such was the case, and it is this conviction of his that propelled him to set the stage in a particular way, which had important consequences for the controversy itself. His decision had the consequence – among others – of bringing into the controversy some issues which otherwise might not have been touched by any of the participants. These include the discussion of intellectual values such as “honesty”, the evaluation of his action as ethically right or wrong, and the standards or rigor within some camps of the humanities in the USA. Indeed, Sokal’s strategy produced resentment and mistrust in some people, and it was certainly one of the topics in the controversy. Andrew Ross, one of the editors of Social Text, reflecting upon the hoax, said: “The deceptive basis of Sokal’s hoax might have generated widespread distrust for scientific authority, while reinforcing the fierce insularity of many scientists” (The Sokal Hoax, 248). In the opinion of the editors of Lingua Franca this beginning marked the course of the controversy to a considerable extent: Partly because it began with a hoax, this event has been an occasion for taking sides, for finding holes in arguments, rather than building on them. At the same time the discussion has inspired scholars to write with unusual passion and vividness on both sides of the issue . . . (The Sokal Hoax, 6)

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I want to stress that Sokal’s motivations to act as he did were based on two conflated beliefs. On the one hand, a subjective (and false) belief (although shared by many people nowadays), that a good deal of the philosophy of science in the second half of the twentieth century – namely that derived from the work of Hanson, Kuhn and Feyerabend – is responsible for the “subjectivist view” of reality and of science. This view displaced “the idea that facts and evidence matter by the idea that everything boils down to subjective interests and perspectives” (Laudan 1990: x; quoted in Sokal 1996a). “Responsible” here means “directly articulating and advocating”. To put matters in this way is utterly unfair to the views of those philosophers of science. However, this is what Sokal suggests in quoting (out of context) Larry Laudan, one of the most prestigious philosophers of science in the USA: The displacement of the idea that facts and evidence matter by the idea that everything boils down to subjective interests and perspectives is – second only to American political campaigns – the most prominent and pernicious manifestation of anti-intellectualism in our time. (Laudan 1990: x)

I suggest that Sokal’s mistaken belief is conflated with a correct one, perhaps what Laudan had in mind: there has been an intellectually and politically dangerous “spread of subjectivist thinking”. But there is a big gap from Laudan’s quotation to the thesis that Kuhn and Feyerabend’s work are responsible for such a displacement of ideas. The problem does not lie in, nor does it emerge from – as Sokal has erroneously and uncritically assumed – the philosophies that have analyzed and criticized inherited views about the objectivity of science and about the ontological status of the entities postulated and referred to by scientific theories. In other words, Sokal is right – in my opinion – in identifying a problem of intellectual and political significance: the spread of an extreme and unjustified subjectivist vision of science, as well as of a style of writing with an unreadable prose and a mistaken use of scientific concepts and theories. But he fails to distinguish between two different intellectual and philosophical views. And he erroneously lumps together as “the enemy” both, epistemic and moral pluralist theories such as Feyerabend’s and Kuhn’s (calling them, as many others do, “epistemic relativists”), along with the “subjectivist” conception that the philosopher of science Richard Boyd called “debunking constructivism” (cf. Boyd 1992). Some works of Bruno Latour and Steven Woolgar are indeed representatives of the latter point of view (cf. Latour & Woolgar 1979; Woolgar 1988).

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Although I won’t elaborate here the difference between these views, I want to suggest that Kuhn’s and Feyerabend’s conceptions follow a Kantian constructivist tradition, whereas people like Latour and Woolgar defend a strictly subjective constructivism, at least when they maintain that “reality is the consequence of the stabilization of controversies, and not its cause” (Latour & Woolgar 1979: 237). This is an extreme subjectivism that wipes out practically every objective feature of reality, at least as far as science is concerned. Sokal’s perception of the situation was also due to his adoption of some well-known values commonly held by working scientists, some of which he extrapolates to the political arena (and thereby he confesses that certain emotions have entered the scene): In short, my concern over the spread of subjectivist thinking is both intellectual and political. Intellectually, the problem with such doctrines is that they are false (when not simply meaningless). There is a real world; its properties are not merely social constructions; facts and evidence do matter. What sane person would contend otherwise? And yet, much contemporary academic theorizing consists precisely of attempts to blur these obvious truths – the utter absurdity of it all being concealed through obscure and pretentious language. (Sokal 1996a: 51) Politically, I’m angered because most (though not all) of this silliness is emanating from the self-proclaimed Left. We’re witnessing here a profound historical volte-face. For most of the past two centuries, the Left has been identified with science and against obscurantism; we have believed that rational thought and the fearless analysis of objective reality (both natural and social) are incisive tools for combating the mystifications promoted by the powerful – not to mention being desirable human ends in their own right. The recent turn of many “progressive” or “leftist” academic humanists and social scientists toward one or another form of epistemic relativism betrays this worthy heritage and undermines the already fragile prospects for progressive social critique. Theorizing about “the social construction of reality” won’t help us find an effective treatment for AIDS or devise strategies for preventing global warming. Nor can we combat false ideas in history, sociology, economics and politics if we reject the notions of truth and falsity. (Sokal 1996a: 52)

We can appreciate here a mixture of beliefs, values and emotions. Concerning beliefs and values, it is clear that Sokal thinks that: a) science is objective and rational, and its main goal is truth; b) facts and evidence do matter in science; c) science is valuable and governments and corporations should devote funds to enhance scientific research;

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d) epistemic relativism is bad (for “it does little to further the discussion” of matters such as the problem of government policies or corporation interests in funding science, and it precludes people from getting at the truth); e) science is valuable, e.g., because it helps to combat obscurantism and to provide solutions to humanity’s great problems such as AIDS; f) science is the paradigm of objectivity and rationality, therefore the (good) Left should be identified with it. Concerning (a) and (b), I do not mean to deny that science is objective and rational, nor that facts and evidence do matter. I’ll come back to these issues later. Suffice for the moment to recall that all those are concepts that have admitted a large number of interpretations, both within the philosophical and within the scientific camp. With respect to truth as the goal of science, I won’t enter into this discussion here. But it would be appropriate to recall that this is a very old topic of debate between realism and antirealism in epistemology and philosophy of science, the history of which largely precedes what is now known as science studies. Sokal’s view in this respect, like that of many of his fellow scientists intervening in the controversy, is quite naïve, and neglects important developments in epistemology and the philosophy of science in the twentieth century. Elisabeth Lloyd, professor of history and philosophy of science at Indiana University at Bloomington, put it bluntly: “As for his initial presentation in Lingua Franca, I have undergraduates who do better than he [Sokal] does in philosophy of science” (The Sokal Hoax, 255). I don’t want to elaborate further on Sokal’s abilities as a philosopher of science. But I’ll come back to this issue later, because one of my points in this paper is precisely that some scientists’ conceptions about science, although not objective in the sense of describing a reality independent of all subjective views, are nonetheless constitutive of some features of science. That’s part of what is revealed through controversies of this kind and this is the reason why those subjective views emerge through and contribute to shape the controversy. My point is that most scientists hold naïve realist views concerning their activities and the relationship of their theories to reality. That naïve realism is not an objective view of science, yet it is part of science, and to some extent it affects scientists’ experience and their idea of what science is.

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. Subjective evaluations of the outcome of the hoax Thus far I’ve emphasized the role of subjectivity in setting the stage for the controversy. But subjective views were also present in attempts to evaluate the outcome of the hoax by different parties. Sokal summarizes his opinion concerning the outcome of his “little experiment” and the motives of Social Text editors (as “representatives of the American academic Left”) to accept his original paper in the following words: The results of my little experiment demonstrate, at the very least, that some fashionable sectors of the American academic Left have been getting intellectually lazy. The editors of Social Text liked my article because they liked its conclusion: that “the content and methodology of postmodern science provide powerful intellectual support for the progressive political project”. They apparently felt no need to analyze the quality of the evidence, the cogency of the arguments, or even the relevance of the arguments to the purported conclusion. (Sokal 1996a: 52)

I will not discuss the claim that “the American academic Left have been getting intellectually lazy”, which is highly problematic and certainly has been one of the topics of the debate. I want to draw attention to Sokal’s suggestions that it is the subjective high regard for scientists (the appeal to authority) and the possibility of having a scientist as their ally that seduced Social Text editors to accept his paper. Once again it is suggested that the subject matter of the controversy (the stage) was possible because of subjective attitudes by one of the parties. Sokal’s opinion is in turn a subjective interpretation of his opponents’ motivations, but it seems reasonable to admit that it pinpoints a subjective motivation that is very likely to have been present in setting the stage. While Sokal’s opinion was that his “little experiment” succeeded to some extent, Andrew Ross (one of the editors of Social Text) maintained six months after the publication of Sokal’s article a radically different view. “The Sokal affair” – he said – “[didn’t] prove anything (it was an anomaly in almost every respect)”. However, “it did expose a landscape of resentments and suspicions that may have to be negotiated” (The Sokal Hoax, 248). This suggests the hypothesis that the controversy itself has served to modify feelings and attitudes of the participants (resentment, suspicion, mistrust, etc.), but I will not examine this issue any further. These examples suffice to show the role played by personal motives and emotions, subjective beliefs (false and personal), and personal values in set-

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ting the stage for the controversy as well as in the evaluation of its outcome by representatives of each side.

. Objective and subjective views of science I want now to make some general remarks concerning this controversy as a controversy about science, and explain some of the political consequences of the different conceptions of science at stake. One presupposition of this paper is that reality includes objective facts as well as subjective features of people. Science, as part of reality, can fully be grasped only if both its objective and subjective features are understood. But its subjective aspects must be comprehended through the understanding of the features of subjectivity of the people involved, mainly scientists. That’s why it is important to understand the “scientists’ view of science”, both its objective and subjective components. Controversies help a lot to make those views explicit. Let us see how. Science, “not unnaturally”, strives to offer an objective description of the world that “will eschew these subject-involving representations” (McGinn 1983: 21). But when the subject matter is science itself, i.e., a complex of beliefs, knowledge, actions, practices, institutions and values (among many other things), then there is necessarily a set of subjective views. Yet, among them, as we shall see, we can distinguish between what I’ll call “genuinely subjective” and “non-genuinely subjective” ones. I’ll take for granted the thesis that a subject’s perception of a situation depends on the subject’s place in that situation. I submit that this is one of the reasons why many natural scientists – being inside natural science – tend to adopt a particular conception of science. This is well exemplified by the Sokal controversy and by Nobel laureate Steven Weinberg’s views. How does a “subject’s place” affect her perception of the situation, and consequently, how does the subject’s place influence this particular controversy? In order to answer the first question I’ll follow Colin McGinn’s treatment of secondary qualities according to the Lockean tradition, i.e., “as those whose instantiation in an object consists in a power or disposition of the object to produce sensory experiences in perceivers of a certain phenomenological character” (McGinn 1983: 5). Secondary qualities are subjective in the sense that “they are accessible only from a particular experiential point of view” (McGinn 1983: 9). That is,

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experience enters into their analysis: to grasp the concept of red it is necessary to know what it is for something to look red, since this latter constitutes the satisfaction condition for an object’s being red. . . The ultimate criterion for whether an object has a certain color or taste (etc.) is how it looks and tastes to perceivers; whereas this is not how we think of qualities like shape and size. (McGinn 1983: 8)

Since secondary qualities are therefore to be analyzed as dispositions to produce sensory experiences, those “experiential facts are constitutive of the presence of the quality in question” (ibid.). In an analogous way, I suggest there are some features of science that are subjective because they depend on the subject as much as they depend on the object (science, whatever it is). Those features do not exist independently of people’s beliefs about science, of what they find valuable in it, and their attitudes towards it; they cannot be seen from the point of view of nowhere (cf. Nagel 1979: Chapter 14, “Subjective and objective”). When the subjects that reflect upon science, both as an “intellectual system” and as a “social and cultural system” (Sokal’s terms), are themselves part of it, like scientists, the conceptual apparatus they apply in perceiving and analyzing their situation is constitutive of some (but not all) aspects of science. To follow the analogy with secondary qualities, we can say that the ultimate criterion for whether science has a certain feature of that sort is how it looks to that kind of perceiver. My claim is that some particular features of science depend on a specific class of subjects, on their experiences, and on the conceptual schemes that make those experiences possible. The viewpoint of subjects of that class plays a constitutive role in their experience. In other words, not only are there properties attributed to science by those subjects, but there are properties that come into existence by that very fact. The subjective experience of those subjects and what is involved in it are necessary for the existence of those properties. These are relative to that particular class of subjects. Good examples of features of this kind can be found in the axiology of science. Goals and values are, by definition, pursued by intentional subjects and cherished by them. At the same time science is unthinkable without goals and without values (other than epistemic) – although this is admittedly still a matter of (another kind of) controversy. I’ll stick however to epistemic values, since their existence is less controversial. Examples of this kind are truth, objectivity and rationality as goals of science. This is not to deny that science is objective and guided by reason. The claim is rather that there is no unique way of interpreting these concepts. There are different interpretations, and very often

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the interpretations of working scientists and those of philosophers of science are at odds. In these cases, there cannot be “genuine disagreement” between subjects of different classes (say, philosophers of science and scientists), for there is no fact of the matter in the dispute. The situation here is analogous to what McGinn suggests concerning secondary qualities. There cannot be genuine disagreement about them, since such qualities are dispositional and therefore necessarily relative to a class of perceivers and to the conceptual schemes available to them. This is not to say that, if scientists believe that scientific theories that have passed their standard tests are true, this belief makes their theories true. What I mean is that there is an important feature of science (not of scientific theories), which consists in scientists’ attitudes and interpretations of their actions and their results. Part of what science is, is constituted by those attitudes and beliefs. Scientists’ attitudes towards successful scientific theories – they treat them as if they were true – are thus constitutive of science. The disagreement between an antirealist philosopher of science and a realist scientist may partially be a genuine disagreement as to the relationship between theory and reality. But there cannot be a genuine disagreement between the antirealist philosopher and the realist scientist concerning the scientist’s attitudes and beliefs. They play an important role in science, for if the scientist says that it is precisely that belief which motivates her to go on (although so far no scientific theory really corresponds to reality), then it is hard to imagine how the antirealist philosopher can dispute that (although she can try to illuminate the scientist and make her recognize that she’s after an impossible goal). But, as we shall see, this kind of belief plays an even more important role in controversies about science. Having said that, I do not want to deny that there are also objective aspects of science, which are independent of people’s beliefs and attitudes. In short, I want to suggest that the debate that followed “the Sokal affair” involves two aspects: a) Aspects of science understood both as an intellectual system and as a social system (cf. Sokal), which are relative to groups of interested people. There cannot be genuine disagreement about those features; there may be at most different points of view. I’ll call these “genuinely subjective features”. These features depend on a point of view that can be adopted by a number of people, persons belonging to a specific kind of subjects. Therefore, they are not subjective in the sense of depending on an individual point of view and

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on the particular interests of just one person. Rather, they are intersubjective in the sense of being features that are acknowledged, and I would even say perceived, by people of a specific class (who in turn share a conceptual scheme). This is what some of the participants in the “science wars” share: A particular view of science, which cannot be shown to be wrong, but which cannot be shown to refer to objective features of science either. This is the view of science articulated to a good extent by some scientists participating in this controversy. But I also want to claim that

b) there are aspects of science – as a social system that produces knowledge, among other things – that are objective, in the sense that they are not relative to subgroups of disputants. These aspects range from rather trivial and uninteresting features such as that science is nowadays necessarily a collective and an institutional product, to the contested (but in my opinion true) one, that science is necessarily value-laden – with values that go beyond the pure epistemic realm, that is. Some beliefs about these aspects are ideological or “non-genuine subjective beliefs”, that is, subjective beliefs that are not constitutive of science, but form part of the ideology of some scientists about science. Some of them may be false beliefs concerning objective features of science. The role of controversies is different with respect to these two kinds of beliefs. With respect to (a), controversies cannot, and should not, have the aim of removing disagreement and bring the controversy to a close on the basis of rational agreement. Nevertheless, they play an important role in (a), namely, (1) they help to make explicit different beliefs that are held by distinct groups of interested people; (2) they help to clarify the points of view on which they depend, including the subjective features (values, interests, and so on), and thus show where people stand; and (3) controversies help to make it clear that there is no genuine disagreement between opponents and that there is no fact of the matter to dispute about. c) With respect to (b), controversies (1) bring to the fore what I previously called “non-genuine subjective beliefs”, that is, beliefs with respect to objective aspects of science that normally remain implicit; (2) are helpful to make explicit what the fact of the matter is; and (3) sometimes they may help people to change their (old ideological) beliefs.

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. Three images of science Thus far we’ve seen that it is reasonable to talk about two images of science: “the scientific image” and the “philosophical image”. The “scientists’ image of science” or the “scientific image” is the image scientists themselves have and promote about their practices, institutions and outcomes. There is no single and unified view of science, from the scientific point of view, of course. However, there are relevant and influential ideas that can be traced in scientific documents, declarations, interviews, and so on. Corresponding to the prestige of a particular scientist, and the media through which such views are made public, their impact and importance can be seriously analyzed. The “philosophical image of science” is here understood as the idea of science that emerges from academic philosophy, history and sociology of science. “Social studies of science” and “science studies” in general are here included within the sociology of science. It is well-known that there is no agreement as to what science is from this point of view. But the fact that there is no unified view does not preclude an understanding of science that is socially relevant, which is also relevant for scientists, and which can be said to have progressed during the twentieth century. I’ll not argue this point any further however, for the sake of brevity. But there is still another image of science: the “public image of science”, which is mainly produced by the media, with occasional contributions from scientists and sometimes philosophers, historians and sociologists of science. To a lesser extent, basic education also contributes to this public image of science. This is the image of science that educated citizens may have nowadays. It is through these three images that subjective views of science emerge more clearly. Let’s see some examples from “the scientific image” present in the Sokal controversy.

. Genuine subjective views I’ve suggested that examples of “genuine subjective views”, that is, of features of science that genuinely constitute part of what science is, and which also depend on the subjectivity of scientists, can be found among science’s goals and values, as they are conceived by working scientists. Those features – which belong to “the scientific image” – may become prominent in the controversy about science and its relationship to society and politics.

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A good example is offered by Sokal himself in his “Reply to Social Text editorial”. Sokal declares that [The Social Text editors] conflate science as an intellectual system with the social and economic role of science and technology. They conflate epistemic and ethical issues. These confusions lead Robbins and Ross into a serious error: setting up an opposition between science and progressive politics. They describe science as a “civil religion” that supports existing social and political structures. It is of course true that scientific research is skewed by the influence of those with power and money. But a scientific worldview, based on a commitment to logic and standards of evidence and to the incessant confrontation of theories with reality, is an essential component of any progressive politics. (Sokal 1996b; my emphasis)

This is admittedly a value judgment with respect to science and the relationship between science and politics. My thesis here is that commitments to truth, reason and objectivity, as each scientist understands them, are constitutive of science in a twofold way. First, whether or not scientific theories have in fact something to do with truth in a philosophically interesting sense is one thing, and the belief of many scientists that science seeks to produce true theories is quite another. What I mean is that this belief cannot simply be discarded as irrelevant to science, on the basis that it is a mistaken idea of scientists from a philosophical point of view. This belief is significant because from the point of view of scientists it is a subjective interpretation of their actions, their meaning and the status of their products (theories). And those actions and meanings, as interpreted by scientists, are part of what science is. This is by no means to suggest that scientific theories, when good, are true. All I want to stress here is that part of what science is derives from scientists’ actions and scientists’ interpretations of those actions. The same goes for values such as objectivity and rationality. Scientists’ interpretations of their actions and of their results, guided by these values, are also a part of what science is. But more important for our discussion here is that what I have just said might be wrong and still, the scientist’s beliefs, being subjective, certainly influence a controversy such as the one under analysis. For those values (truth, objectivity, confrontation with reality, etc.), are constantly present in the debate and are frequently referred to by participants in the controversy.

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Take, for instance, the letter to the editor of the New York Review of Books, written by two professors of physics, Nina Byers and Claudio Pellegrini. Commenting on Weinberg’s article, they said: As working physicists we know that the laws of nature we study are apprehended – tested and validated by independent experiments – the same by women or men, and by people in every culture. The scientific revolution and continued discoveries give knowledge of the universe that can be comprehended and used by all. We commend Sokal and Weinberg for their defense of the scientific revolution. (The Sokal Hoax, 166)

Or take Weinberg himself: What I mean when I say that the laws of physics are real is that they are real in pretty much the same sense (whatever it is) as the rocks in the fields, and not in the same sense as the rules of baseball. . . Our statements about the laws of physics are in a one-to-one correspondence with aspects of objective reality. To put it another way, if we ever discover intelligent creatures on some distant planet and translate their scientific works, we will find that we and they have discovered the same laws. (The Sokal Hoax, 155)

“Objectivity” and “reason” turn out to be tremendously complex and sophisticated notions in terms of philosophical analysis. But this is no obstacle for holding commitments to truth, reason and objectivity, as scientists naïvely understand them to be constitutive of science and therefore important aspects of its identity. These are the properties of science, which I want to compare with secondary qualities. They belong to science, but they depend on subjective attitudes and ideas of scientists. However, they don’t tell the whole story about science. In particular, they are utterly insufficient, albeit necessary, to answer the simple question – what is science? To sum up, scientists’ opinions about features of scientific theories such as truth, objectivity and rationality are certainly controversial, but as subjective interpretations of scientists of what they do and produce, those opinions are certainly part of science (as much as they are part of the scientific image of science). Furthermore, they influence debates about science, for instance, with respect to the themes they stress and their forms of argumentation.

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. Non-genuine subjective opinions Let us now finally see some examples of non-genuine subjective opinions that also affect the themes and the course of the controversy. According to Weinberg, with two large exceptions, the results of research in physics (as opposed, say, in psychology) have no legitimate implications whatever for culture or politics or philosophy. (I am not talking here about the technological applications of physics, which of course do have a huge effect on our culture, or about its use as a metaphor, but about the direct logical implications of purely scientific discoveries themselves). The discoveries of physics may become relevant to philosophy and culture when we learn the origin of the universe or the final laws of nature, but not for the present. (The Sokal Hoax, 152)

The laws of physics are real because “the laws of physics as we know them work, and there is no other known way of looking at nature that works in anything like the same sense” (p. 155). But perhaps Weinberg’s subjectivity intrudes more clearly where he insinuates that he has had experiences (perceptual experiences, that is) of a unique kind. For he affirms: “I have come to think that the laws of physics are real because my experience with the laws of physics does not seem to me to be different in any fundamental way from my experience with rocks” (p. 155). Weinberg’s suggestion that he is able to perceive “the laws of physics” in the same way in which he perceives rocks can be understood either as the claim that he has extra-sensorial powers, or simply as metaphorical talk. Assuming that the latter is the case, his rhetoric simply tries to impose his subjective point of view about science, appealing implicitly to his prestige as a scientist. I take this as an example where a subjective belief (constituting a part of “the scientific image”) or an attitude based upon subjective beliefs and values affects the contents of what is said in the controversy, and leads nowhere. For it cannot lead to genuine agreement between the participants in the controversy, but at most it is useful to try to convince others that one’s views are the right ones (just on the basis of prestige). This is an example of what I called a “non-genuine subjective view”, that is, a subjective view that is simply wrong, which plays an ideological role in trying to convince others of a particular idea (Weinberg’s idea of science). We can mention other interventions in the controversy along similar lines. The two professors of physics at the University of California at Los Angeles mentioned above, for instance, celebrated that

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Sokal’s hoax and Weinberg’s article explaining and amplifying its message effectively remove the smoke and mirrors from those social critics, philosophers, and historians of science who want to regard the human circumstances of a scientific discovery as more important than the discovery itself. (The Sokal Hoax, 166)

This opposition between “the discovery itself ” and “the human circumstances” of that discovery, in terms of its “importance”, admits several interpretations. On one charitable reading, one could agree that indeed the “human circumstances” of the discovery are irrelevant for the epistemic assessment of its validity, that is, for the justification of the belief that such and such is in fact a “discovery”. This much can be granted, although “discovery” is a highly problematic term, the use of which already presupposes controversial philosophical interpretations. But even if this is granted, there are other aspects of the process of a scientific discovery, which cannot be easily isolated from other relevant “human circumstances”. M. Norton Wise, from the Program in History of Science of Princeton University, put it clearly in replying to Weinberg: Weinberg presents us with an ideology of science, an ideology which radically separates science from culture, scientists from “others”, and splits the personalities of rational and irrational components. However desirable this ideology may be in other respects, it will never do for comprehending the history of science. To preserve it, he has to indulge in the unsavory rhetorical ploy of dismissing other Nobelists, who have regarded their physics as having considerable philosophical and cultural significance. . . Thus Heisenberg’s discussion of the subject-object problem becomes “philosophical wanderings” from someone who “could not always be counted on to think carefully”. But scientists who have drawn on their philosophical, political, economic, and other beliefs for conceptual resources and motivation in pursuing their best scientific work permeate the history of physics. To remove them from quantum mechanics would be to wipe out the field: Planck, Bohr, de Broglie, Heisenberg, Pauli, Jordan, Schrödinger, Weizsäcker, to list only the obvious. So what is Weinberg up to? Is he not promoting a cultural agenda of his own in his attempt to rewrite history? (The Sokal Hoax, 165–166)

Why shouldn’t disciplines other than physics, then, focus on the “human circumstances” and cultural atmosphere, say, of the emergence of quantum mechanics? In his reply, Weinberg once again made the well-known point that anyone can find the inspiration he likes from science, and he acknowledged that physicists in the early twentieth century did find “cultural or philosophical

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implications in relativity or quantum mechanics”. His point was simply that “those inferences were not valid” (p. 168). It is not easy to understand Weinberg, for he does not explain what kinds of inferences were made by those physicists (say, deductive, inductive, abductive, analogical). But it should be clear that Wise’s and others’ point was not that quantum mechanics implies in a deductive sense philosophical theorems. On the other hand, to deny that quantum mechanics cried out for a philosophical interpretation, controversies about which are still open one hundred years later – for instance, about the status of the metaphysical principle of causality – is simply to deny “historical reality”. But as M. Norton Wise ended his comment, we should not forget that although “historical realities can be interpreted with validity in various ways”, they – “like physical laws and rocks” – “resist when kicked” (The Sokal Hoax, 166). Weinberg’s denial of this historical reality is simply a misunderstanding of the history of science and the history of culture. And it is fair to say that Weinberg’s misunderstanding is the result of his ideological – non-genuine subjective – view of science, a subjective view that, by the way, has enjoyed a great deal of attention in this controversy.3

Notes . I assume that this episode is well-known worldwide. But in case anyone needs her memory refreshed, here is a quotation from the back cover of a book that puts together a collection of essays and short news articles that “show how the Sokal hoax was presented by the media and discussed in the academy” (The Sokal Hoax, 6):

In May 1996 physicist Alan Sokal published an essay in the fashionable academic journal Social Text. The essay quoted hip theorists like Jacques Lacan, Donna Haraway, and Gilles Deleuze. The prose was thick with the jargon of poststructuralism. And the point the essay tried to make was counterintuitive: gravity, Sokal argued, was a fiction that society had agreed upon, and science needed to be liberated from its ideological blinders. When Sokal revealed in the pages of Lingua Franca that he had written the article as a parody, the story hit the front page of the New York Times. It set off a national debate still raging today: Are scholars in the humanities trapped in a jargon-ridden Wonderland? Are scientists deluded in thinking their work is objective? Are literature professors suffering from science envy? Was Sokal’s joke funny? Was the Enlightenment such a bad thing after all? And isn’t it a little bit true that the meaning of gravity is contingent upon your cultural perspective?

 León Olivé . The editors of Lingua Franca and of The Sokal Hoax have summarized some of the expressions used to refer to the original essay: “In the headlines alone, Sokal’s article has been called a hoax, a joke, a sting, an affair, a paródia, a prank, uno sfregio, a spoof, a con, un canular, a fraud (delicious and malicious), a ruckus, la farce parfaite, a Pomolotov Cocktail, a bricandeira, a mystfication pédagogique, double-speak, un’atroce befa, nonsense, gibberish, rubbish, and hokum” (The Sokal Hoax, 6). . I want to thank Samir Okasha for his comments and help with the English version of this paper.

References Boyd, R. (1992). “Constructivism, realism and philosophical method”. In J. Earman (Ed.), Inference, Explanation and other Frustrations (pp. 131–198). Berkeley: University of California Press. Latour, B., & Woolgar S. (1979). Laboratory Life. The Social Construction of Scientific Facts. London and Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Laudan, L. (1990). Science and Relativism. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. McGinn, C. (1983). The Subjective View. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Nagel, T. (1979). Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ross, A. (1996). “Reflections on the Sokal affair”. Forum at New York University, October 1996. Reprinted in The Sokal Hoax, 245–248. Sokal, A. (1996a). “A physicist experiments with cultural studies”. Reprinted in The Sokal Hoax, 49–53 [Previously published in Lingua Franca May/June 1996, 62–64]. Sokal, A. (1996b). “Reply to the Social Text editors”. Lingua Franca July/August 1996, quoted from http://www.physics.nyu.edu/faculty/sokal/reply.html. The editors of Lingua Franca. (2000). The Sokal Hoax. Lincoln and London: The University of Nebraska Press. [The Sokal Hoax] Weinberg, S. (1996). “Sokal’s hoax”. New York Review of Books, 8 August [Reprinted in The Sokal Hoax, 148–159]. Weinberg, S. et. al. (1996). “Sokal’s hoax: An exchange”. Reprinted in The Sokal Hoax, 159– 171 [Previously published in New York Review of Books 3 October]. Woolgar, S. (1988). Science: The Very Idea. London: Tavistock Publications.

Chapter 18

Archaic subjectivity and/as controversy in psychoanalytic thinking Shirley Sharon-Zisser

The “confrontation” which has always been under way between poetry and philosophy is . . . much more than a simple rivalry. Both seek to grasp that original, inaccessible place of the word, which, for speaking man, is the highest stake. (Giorgio Agamben, Language and Death) The conflict is not a rift (Riss) as a mere cleft is ripped open; rather, it is the intimacy with which opponents belong to each other. . . This rift does not let the opponents break apart; it brings the opposition of measure and boundary into their common outline. (Martin Heidegger, “The origin of the work of art”) From off a hill whose concave wombe reworded A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale My spirits t’attend this double voice accorded And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale (William Shakespeare, “A lover’s complaint”)

Controversies wrench. They tear the subjects involved in them apart from one another psychically, they tear them from locations which had operated as sites of their transference. Sometimes, controversies transport people involved in them to Other (spatial) locations, where they lead their mental lives in a hyper-cathexis of what had been their side of the controversy, yet in intellectual isolation. Alone but safe, safe but still alone. Controversies wrench. While they occur, they tear those involved in them psychically. Controversies traumatize. And yet, controversies can be intellectually, and perhaps at the same time psychically, productive. Controversies, Marcelo Dascal explains, “are the locus where critical activity is excercised, where the meaning of theories is dialog-

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ically shaped” (2000: 165). Trauma aside, controversies “make a cognitive or epistemic contribution: they clarify the problem . . . [and] permit one to identify conceptual . . . divergences” (172). Controversies, Dascal argues, dispel the Kantian illusion about any possible solution or dissolution of philosophical problems which would mark the triumph of pure reason, or its limits. They could, however, lead to the resolution of philosophical problems, i.e., “to an improved understanding of their underlying structure” (2001: 336). And if any given philosophical controversy has a discernible structure, a “building” in the Heideggerian sense (1975b: 148–149), could one not think, derive, a more fundamental structure wherein the structure of controversies dwells or is concealed? And could one not unconceal, as Heidegger might put it, the fundamental structure of controversies, their dwelling, if one seeks to analytically disclose the essentials of a particular building? If one regards a specific controversy as, in Heidegger’s sense, a “work” qua “reproduction of . . . general essence” of controversies (1975a: 36–37), one might disclose the fundamental structure or dwelling of controversies. What might this general essence, this fundamental structure of controversy as a work unfolding the recursive thinking of Being from its originary concealednesses involve? Dascal indicates that the components of this structure cannot be limited to pure reason in its Kantian definition. These components are tainted by a remainder, a supplement exceeding pure reason; they implicate subjectivity. Perhaps the structural (and real) trace, the symptom, of this implication, the cusp of subjectivity and controversy might be the inherent in(dis)solubility of controversies. If controversy constitutively implicates subjectivity, the point of in(dis)solubility of a given controversy, what Dascal calls its point of resolution, could be what Freud, in speaking of dream as a paradigmatic manifestation of subjectivity, might have called its navel-point, its “point of contact with the unknown” (1995: 143), a point inevitably left obscure (p. 564). An analysis of this navel point, of the originary cusp where subjectivity and controversy intricate may, then, be able to tell us something about the essence of subjectivity and at the same time about the essence or fundemental structure or dwelling of controversy. And what better controversy through which to explore the relation between controversy’s navel-point of (ir)resolution, the point, one might say, itself left obscure while clarifying controversy’s and subjectivity’s constitutive structures, than a controversy within a branching, fractal line of thinkers engaged with the recursive exploration of the deep reaches of subjectivity itself, an in-verted thinking productively risking the encounter with psychic and conceptual origin?

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This line of thinkers of subjectivity in relation to origin, one may argue, goes at least as far back as Parmenides, and aesthetically, at least as far back as Simonides (see Sharon-Zisser 2001b). The thinking of the deep reaches of subjectivity in relation to origin, I have argued elsewhere (Sharon-Zisser 2000), reached an apex in the aesthetics and linguistic theory of the Renaissance. This thinking of the psyche, which necessarily involves what Heidegger would call a stepping back into Being, not a linear progression finding illusory gratifcation in Being’s reified semblants, Stephen Whitworth (1997) has argued, finds forceful manifestation in the poetics of late sixteenth-century English pastoral, a mode of writing poeticizing the archaic zones of the psyche. One of the most significant aspects of the structures characterizing this mode of thinking is symptomatized by Freud’s naming its point of impasse a “navel point”, his conceptualizing this point in relation to umbilicality. The umbilical structure of archaic drives Michèle Montrelay would amplify as “concentric” (1991), constituted by points each of which is separate from all others yet contains all others (1984b). But long before Montrelay’s invaluable contributions to the thinking of the archaic, Freud had specified concentricity as constitutive to the thinking of subjectivity in relation to origin, a conception he had retrieved from the ancients and their humanist legatees. Towards the end of Studies in Hysteria (1893–1895), when summarizing his first major articulation of the structure of the psychic dwelling, which the ancients and the humanists had named the underworld and he renames the unconscious, Freud describes this structure as “stratified concentrically around the pathogenic nucleus”, which several sentences later is re-signified umbilically as “nodal point” (Freud & Breuer 1955: 289–290; italics mine). Umbilicality, circularity, centripetality, concenricity, turns and returns. Such structures seem to characterize the thinking of subjectivity in relation to origin from mythology’s earliest versions of descents to the underworld to the “irregular and twisting path” Freud self-reflectively alludes to in his early exploration of the “depths” of subjectivity and origin (Freud & Breuer 1955: 289). Perhaps, as Freud suggests in one of the first chapters of The Interpretation of Dreams, this line of the recursive, concentrically and non-linearly stratified thinking of the psyche and of origin became quasi-dormant for a few centuries, as science and medicine, modes of thinking privileging a linear progression from one self-contained point to another, a progression fleeing from the umbilicality of originary Being to seek immediate satisfaction in the empiricist illusions of grounding and containment were on the ascendant. “There can be no doubt”, Freud writes,

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that the psychical achievements of dreams received readier and warmer recognition during the intellectual period which has now been left behind, when the human mind was dominated by philosophy and not by the exact natural sciences . . . the introduction of the scientific mode of thought has brought along with it a reaction in the estimation of dreams. Medical writers in paticular tend to regard psychical activity in dreams as trivial and valueless. (Freud 1995: 96)

But with Freud and Breuer’s Studies in Hysteria, the recursive, concentric thinking in the inverse of the deep reaches of subjectivity – termed by Breuer, in recognition of this mode of thinking’s shattering but productive confrontation with origin, “the [oppressive] descent to the Mothers” (Freud & Breuer 1955: 192) – was re-initiated in a form Freud would label “psychoanalysis”. Since its re-initiation, psychoanalysis as a mode of stepping back into Being has been plagued by disputes and controversies with other modes of thinking which denounce its alleged irrationality or unscientificity. Most influentially, Karl Popper has argued that psychoanalysis cannot be counted a science because it does not measure up to the standard of refutability. Psychoanalysis could never be thought of as verifiable. Nor has it ever claimed scientificity in the sense of a pedantic and obsessional adherence to empirical verifiability as a hallmark of rationality. Trained in the medical profession, in the scientific mode of thought, Freud as theorist led an intellectual life marked from its inception by an inversion, a turning against the grain of sceintism and empiricism as modes of rationality. Even before claiming to be a thinker in his own right, even while co-writing with Breuer his first major published work, the Studies in Hysteria, Freud asserts his break, his rift with the tradition in which he had been educated: I have not always been a psychotherapist. . . Like other neuropathologists, I was trained to employ local diagnoses and electro-prognosis, and it still strikes me myself as strange that the case histories I write should read like short stories and that, as one might say, they lack the serious stamp of science. I must console myself with the reflection that the nature of the subject is evidently responsible for this, rather than any preference of my own. The fact is that local diagnosis and electrical reactions lead nowhere in the study of hysteria, whereas a detailed description of mental processes such as we are accustomed to find in the works of imaginative writers enables me, with the use of a few psychological formulas, to obtain at least some kind of insight into the course of that affection. (Freud & Breuer 1955: 161)

The “scientific mode of thought” with its empiricist bias pitted against a mode of creative reflection whose fundamental affinities with the work of art did not escape Freud, even before Heidegger pointed out the artwork’s essence as

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“a happening of truth at work”, the aesthetic’s ability to effect truth’s emergence “into the unconcealedness of its Being” (1975a: 36) – so might one describe the rift, the inner controversy marking Freud’s own thinking from its inception. Something more essential, more constitutive than the faults psychoanalysis’ critics presume to find distinguishes psychoanalysis as the modern age’s stepping back into Being so as to retrieve earlier modes of aesthetic and meta-aesthetic, mythological, and philosophic thinkings of psychic depths unto their fundaments, their origin. Internal, intimate scission characterizes the psychoanalytic mode of thinking retrieved and named by Freud; as intimate as a person’s spending an intellectual lifetime thinking against the grain of the “profession” in which she was educated, then against whatever conclusion this thinking led her to. What more productive way to sound the depths of the human soul, to explore origin? And between the psychoanalytic “descent to the Mothers” marked by intimate scission, and primordial myths of journeys to and returns from the underworld involving an encounter with death or the death drive as the most primordial, fundamental rift, such as the myth of Orpheus predominating late sixteenth-century humanism, what structural difference? The structure of intimate scission within non-linear reversal and cyclicality endemic to Freud’s thinking ripples through the explorations he inspired. The originary intimate rift within Freud’s thinking echoes in his repeated rifts with fellow thinkers who had been close companions: Fliess, Ferenczi, Adler, Jung. And as Freud’s life drew to a close, another thinker, Jacques Lacan, began staging what he appropriately termed a reversing “return to Freud” (e.g., 1977b: 116–117), which was no more, and no less, than a disclosure of intimate scission with Freud’s “descent to the Mothers”. In its precisely avowed “re-turn”, Lacan’s thinking turns and turns again, whirls in, deeply in and around the nodal points of Freud’s texts, which it analyzes with the “primary rigour” (rigueur première) it attributes to these texts (Lacan 1977b: 116; French version, Vol. 1, 401). Re-turns, productive repetitions of what was from its inception a re-verse, an amplification of the movement of the structure of the thinking of “imaginative writers”, more specifically the poets who had always, Freud wryly remarked, beat him to what he thought of as discoveries, whom Freud invoked as he began intropsecting the structure of his own mental processes. The verse of these poets, Giorgio Agamben would explain, etymologically and conceptually derives “from verto, the act of turning, to return, as opposed to prorsus, to proceed directly, as in prose” (Agamben 1991: 78).

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Lacan explicitly invokes and stages such an act of turning as he speaks of his return to Freud. While speaking of Freud’s articulation of the truth of the subject of the unconscious, Lacan re-verses the myth of the goddess Diana and Actaeon, the mortal whose love she would not have, whose love she punished by turning him into a stag on which she unleashed her dogs of prey. Freud’s work, Lacan writes as he conceptualizes his “return” to this work, shows us in Freud an Actaeon perpetually slipped by dogs that have been tracked down from the beginning and which he strives to draw back into pursuit, without being able to slacken the chase in which only his passion for the goddess leads him on. Leads him on so far that he cannot stop until he reaches the grottoes in which the chtonian Diana in the damp shade, which makes them appear as the emblematic seat of truth, offers to his thirst, with the smooth surface of death, the quasi-mystical limit of the most rational discourse in the world, so that we might recognize the place in which the symbol is substituted for death in order to take possession of the first swelling of life. (Lacan 1977b: 124)

In Lacan’s re-versal of the myth of Diana and Actaeon, Freud-as-Actaeon slips the hounds who pursue him. He shuns the fate of being the effect of Diana’s drives. She as place of truth, the truth of limits – of death and of “the first swelling of life”, of pregnancy and of tumescence – might be thought as the object of his. A reversal of mythic material originally sung as hymn, in verse. The structure of Lacan’s fecund re-verting rearticulation of Freud involves the structure of a whirl, a cloud of circles encircling one another and their fundamentally poetic, versal, self-encircling object, the structure Freud early on attributed to the unconscious and termed ‘concentric’. And the structure of Lacan’s rearticulation of Freud involves, throughout, the characteristically Freudian move, the move which would become a structural hallmark of psychoanalytic thinking: the attempt to pursue truth unto the very end, notwithtanding how frustratingly enigmatic, cryptic to thought, and how “malodorous” (Lacan 1977b: 131) to sense and feeling its dwelling. For psychoanalysis, to paraphrase Yeats’ Crazy Jane, truth always pitches its mansion at the place of excrement. And death, to which Lacan dedicates an appropriately poetic passage, the true psychoanalyst makes present by his silences, by the annulment of his resistances (Lacan 1977b: 140). If, following Derrida, we have become accustomed to think of aporias as places where thinking must stop short, we had better remember Lacan’s caution in “Lituraterre” that enigmas are precisely psychoanalysis’ concern; we had better retreat some more and remember Freud’s observation, early on in what he aptly describes non-linearly, dendrically, rhizomatically, as the “irregular and twisting path”

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of his intellectual journey, of how those aspects of any symptomatic manifestation of the subject posing the greatest resistance to analysis are those which are “closest to the pathogenic nucleus”, to the core of neurosis (Freud & Breuer 1955: 289). The task of the analyst, and by implication, of any thinker of subjectivity, Freud implies, “lies in overcoming . . . this resistance” (p. 270). At least a commitment to trying to overcome. The points posing the greatest resistance to analysis, the “tangles” one encounters in interpreting material emanating from the subject of the unconscious, demand the most meticulously careful and rigorous analysis, even if one can never completely “unravel” them (p. 564). These points require the opposite of analysis’ stopping short, as deconstruction’s category of aporia suggests, running, with effects disastrous to current humanistic thinking, the risk of relativism. Freud called these tangled points of resistance “nodal points”, and then, allowing their archaic dimension to emerge, “navel points”. Freud describes these umbilics as subjectivity’s point of contact with the unknown. And although in The Interpretation of Dreams he underscores the impossibility of ever completely unravelling the tangles constitutive of navel points, when he revisits this category in writing in 1901, in a short version of this volume – On Dreams – Freud, in a characteristically wry comment, admits he could indeed “draw together the threads in the material revealed by the analysis and . . . converg[ing] upon a single nodal point”; yet, “considerations of a personal . . . nature prevent [his] doing so in public”, lest he “be obliged to betray many things which had better remain [his] secret”, things he discovered in the course of his reflection on dream as a fundamental manifestation of subjectivity which he was “unwilling to admit even to [him]self ” (Freud 1989: 15). One can think the archaic, but should never fully expose it, physically or intellectually. Lacan somewhat less jocularly suggests the reason for Freud’s insistence to conceal in public the inner workings of the navel he had unconcealed in his re-versal reflections on the oneiric. When Lacan makes his return to Freud, his (re)version of the “descent to the Mothers”, psychoanalysis’ vers-ion of mythology’s and early modern literature’s journies to the underworld, he implies these umbilics in Freud’s own texts can, when umbilicalized, made to speak to their fullest capacity, disclose “the answer one finds (in Freud’s text) to questions of the real” (Lacan 1977b: 116). One cannot expose, reveal, unconceal (as distinct from recognize) umbilics, perhaps even to one’s self, without running the risks of an encounter with the real, the risks of ecstasy coupled with trauma, of jouissance, and of a consequent falling out from the symbolic to a place wholly Other, the place Montrelay calls the Shadow.

 Shirley Sharon-Zisser

Concentricity and umbilicality. Cyclical non-linearity and re-versal characterize Lacan’s return to Freud, abysmally reflecting ad infinitum the fundamentally archaic structure of Freud’s thinking. Structurally versal language, language sharing the deep structures of what Freud called the work of “imaginative writers”, grasps, Giorgio Agamben (1991: 78) writes, the “originary place”. Language structurally cyclical, re-versal, poetic in its symbolic dimension, accesses the archaic. Especially when this versal language, like Freud’s, like Lacan’s, simultaneously touches upon something more essential, more constitutive than the faults psychoanalysis’ critics presume to find, philosophizes, engages with the full speech insisting on articulating truth. Perhaps, Agamben writes, “only a language in which the pure prose of philosophy would intervene at a certain point to break apart the verse of the poetic word, and in which the verse of poetry would intervene to bend the prose of philosophy into a ring, would be the true human language” (p. 78). Intrications of philosophy and of verse, so might one describe the language of Freud and Lacan, the poetic prose of psychoanalysis as a mode of thinking subjectivity, in its reversals, its unravelling of nodal points, its unfolding of umbilics into umbilicals. The language of psychoanalysis in Freud and Lacan accesses the archaic symbolically, underscoring the inextricability of the symbolic and the archaic. As Stephen Whitworth (2002: 6) has recently argued, “the archaic . . . is . . . no more the retroactive product of the symbolic than the symbolic is the ‘descendant’ of the archaic. Each is constitutive of and a bolstering of the other”. But if the archaic is constitutive of the symbolic and this constitutive function is reinforced when the symbolic assumes the deep cyclical structures of reversal and the unfolding of nodal points as it simultaneously reflects upon subjectivity, as it does in the texts of Freud and of Lacan’s re-turn to Freud, how might one think the function of the imaginary in relation to the archaic? Lacan famously theorizes the imaginary, a dimension of the signified, of semantic meaning, as the register most prone to méconnaissance. As Stephen Whitworth explains, for Lacan, the imaginary is associated with every ego’s eternally doomed (and therefore aggressive and paranoid) attempts through demand to turn the subject’s relationship to the Other into an object-relation. The Other as object or fetishistic “psychic crutch” (objet petit a) then aids the ego in its struggle to (re)establish a fantasmatic originary state of pre-linguistic autonomy [Lacan 1977d: 6]. This imaginary, egoic relationship to the world intricates the subject . . . in a series of alienating and objectifying identifications, and it denies the crucial role played by [the symbolic] . . . in the constitution of the subject. As a result, Lacan views analysis as a dialectical struggle between the empty speech of the

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analysand’s ego (which attempts to seduce the analyst into playing the role of the perfect object reflecting the ego’s ideal image of itself back to it) and the “full speech” or “primary language” of truth and desire to be found in his/her unconscious [Lacan 1977c: 81]. (Whitworth 2002: 3)

But misrecognition, alienating egoic identifications and aggressions do not exhaust the imaginary’s possible functions. Besides blocking the unconscious, censoring it (in Montrelay’s terms), the imaginary can help unconceal the subject’s unconscious and enable a relation to the real to be established (Author’s convesration with Michèle Montrelay, 9 January 2002). In “Le tambour et l’arc” Montrelay (1988: 237) precises: certain clinical interventions, she says, paying homage to her colleague and mentor Françoise Dolto, seem to have a wondrous effect on subjectivity. They “can mobilize the analysand in an instant”. And Montrelay explicitly and carefully evokes an “image” (the cord of a bow) in order to talk of such interventions which “make the [analyst’s] unconscious message shoot forth, soar up, fly straight to the target” (ibid.). Finding the right image for such an intervention (the cord of a bow instead of a tambourine, despite the tambourine’s connection to the archaic, the “primitive character of sound”; p. 236) is Montrelay’s conceptual concern in “Le tambour et l’arc”, stated in the piece’s title, no less than the homage to Dolto stated in the (imagistic) title of the volume in which the piece was published (Quelques pas sur le chemin de Françoise Dolto; Certain steps on the path of Françoise Dolto). The image partaking of the speech of an analytic thinker (Montrelay) becomes coeval in function with respect to the unconscious and the real with the clinical intervention of an analytic thinker (Dolto) to which she pays homage. Certain images (like the cord of a bow) can make psycho-analytical messages relating to the subject of the unconscious surge forth no less than the clinical interventions of a particular analyst endowed with an extraordinary capacity to “mobilize the most ancient drives . . . to scan the rhythm without which no speech could have a place” (ibid.), to make the archaic emerge. If used carefully, Montrelay implies, the imaginary can make the archaic emerge. And Lacan’s “Freudian thing” proliferates with imagery and with signifieds making the archaic surge forth. Lacan precises Freud’s rigour as “primary” (première), elemental, archaic. When he reflects upon Freud’s articulation of the truth of subjectivity, Lacan resorts to more than the constitutively archaic non-linear but curvilinear structures of re-versal, concentricity, and the unfolding or unravelling of umbilics. He resorts to ancient myth, emphasizing myth’s defining exploration of the archaic by the use of archaic images. Lacan invokes a “chtonic” Diana, of the earth in its mythic, originary function that

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Heidegger too mentions as a fundamental, “primal” dwelling, as “the serving bearer, blossoming and fruiting, spreading out in rock and water, rising up into plant and animal” (Heidegger 1975b: 149). Lacan images Diana as “chtonic”, related to earth as origin. If situated in the function of earth as origin in addition to the function of truth like the earth, Lacan’s Diana may be imagined as (re)productive in the most fundamental sense. Lacan’s imaging Diana as “chtonic” implicitly relates her to another mythic imagining of the archaic: to the myth of autochtony, of the most primal birth, the birth of humans from the earth, the myth in-forming, underpinning, Dolto (1996: 185) writes, every human representation of creativity, and in particular any representation of the mother as generatrix.1 In casting Diana as chtonic and invoking the myth of autochtony, a myth of generation, Lacan seems at odds with mythological castings (such as the one in Ovid’s Metamorphoses) of Diana as goddess of chastity violently shunning sexual unions such as Actaeon yearns for, which might lead to generation. Yet another archaic image Lacan resorts to at the end of his invocation of Diana in the function of truth, the image of “the first swelling of life” (la première boursouflure de la vie) (Lacan 1977b: 124; French version, Vol. 1, 409) suggests he invokes, through images, the chtonic, implicitly auto-chtonic, reproducing Diana as the truth, the dwelling masked by the chaste Ovidian Diana. Through the image of swelling, Lacan discloses Diana as archetype of chastity as a contingent, secondary building concealing something more primal, more archaic. What is the “first swelling of life”? Should we search for the answer in the heterosexuality marking the Ovidian casting of Diana, we shall be perplexed by an inability to tell the tumescence upon which Actaeon would act from the pregnancy Diana would murder in order to avoid.2 Beyond the difference between the tumescent and the pregnant, beyond sexual difference, Lacan’s perplexing image suggests, dwells a fundamental sameness. Heterosexual generation such as fantasized and made impossible in the Ovidian myth of Diana and Actaeon rests on a structure, a building, comprising three different functions: two progenitors, one male, one female, and one offspring or more, male or female. Yet the myth of generation within sexual difference fills all of these functions by humans. The triadic myth of generation within sexual difference ultimately discloses itself as a myth of endless repetition, monotony, a structure, Montrelay would say, characteristic of desolate sterility on the psychic level (see Montrelay 1983). How might such psychic sterility be avoided? Perhaps if we consider how, in the imagining of generation, sexual difference might be secondary, in Heidgger’s terms, might be a contigent and reducible building, not a dwelling, but

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what might, if subjected to thinking’s reduction, disclose, unconceal originary dwelling. If one obviates sexual difference in the imagining of generation, one could reduce the number of functions in generation, could think generation as limited to progenitor and offspring. And this diadic thinking of generation would make it possible to insert difference, alterity, elsewhere, somewhere more fundamental, than in the domain of sexual difference, whose possibilities feminism has overused and abused. The obviation of sexual difference and consequent reduction of the number of functions in the imagining of generation makes it possible to identify a primordial alterity, an alterity which might have been before the human: the alterity between the earth as fundamental dwelling, archetypal origin and the humans the earth generates autochtonously, “bearing and jutting”, as Heidegger describes the earth (1975a: 63), without mediation of a progenitor. Such thinking obviates sexual difference as a mask for the monotony of heterosexuality. It emanates from an originary place before sexual difference and the banalities to which the focus on sexual difference has given rise. A thinking disclosing Diana not as chaste but as chtonic and autochtonic, primordial generatrix not of a copy but of an Other underscores yet another strctural, symbolic characteristic of the archaic. Misrecognized as fusional (for example, by Julia Kristeva), the archaic, as Stephen Whitworth (1997) has argued, may more accurately be conceptualized as the site of primal, inaugural scission. The imaginary Lacan activates when re-versing the myth of Diana as Actaeon as he articulates his return to Freud. He thus makes surge an unconscious message concerning a structural characteristic of the archaic: the structure of intimate scission of alterities generating one another, concentrically enfolded within one another, the structure Heidegger too invokes when thinking origin (1975a: 63). Intimate scission discloses curvilinear containment of alterities as another formal feature of the archaic. The images of Lacan’s imagining his return to Freud disclose this feature of the archaic Other-wise too. Unlike Ovid, Lacan does not situate Diana in forests and groves offering her animals to hunt, springs to bathe in along with her nymphs. Lacan imagines the chtonic, archaic Diana as dwelling “in grottoes”, in the “damp shade” (grottes . . . dans l’ombre humide; 1977b: 124; French version, Vol. 1, 409). She dwells in caves, in orificial spaces, spaces isomorphic with orificial organs whereof Montrelay speaks as constitutive of the archaic, orificial organs finding their archetype in the genertrix’s womb and their prototype, Montrelay (1977: 87–88) specifies, in “any musical instrument making vibrations and breaths resonate”. And the chtonic Diana, the autochtonous generatrix disclosed as the fundament of the chaste Diana categorically barring heterosexual copulation entailing the risks of gen-

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eration even at the price of sadistically inficting dismemberment, the chtonic Diana Lacan imagines as he stages and reflects upon his return to Freud, dwells in the Shadow (l’ombre). This is precisely the image Lacan’s student and then colleague Michèle Montrelay chooses to make surge while thinking of the archaic zones of the real, the zones at once “expressing and establish[ing] a limit for the expression of originary trauma and/or desire in analysis” (Montrelay 1977: 39), the zones lovingly, protectively barring jouissance and the infinite through their forms while enticing (and enabling) the subject to know and establish a relation to jouissance (see Whitworth 2002). More than the cyclical, curvilinear structures of return, re-versal, and the unfurling of umbilics characterizing Lacan’s statement of his “return to Freud” disclose the archaic’s presence in Lacan’s thinking. His images no less forcefully make the archaic surge forth, dislcosing an implicit theorizing of the imaginary more nuanced than his usual statements about the imaginary. Lacan’s poetic images in “The Freudian thing” disclose the imaginary as not only the register most prone to egoic captations and misrecognitions, but at the same time as launching point for explorations of the archaic as constitutive of and constituted by the symbolic. When invoking the archaic by means of the imaginary in the course of a return to Freud, Lacan recursively and perhaps inevitably repeats Freud’s recourse to images mobilizing the archaic. Besides the famous navel Freud claims he could but never would expose, Freud invokes, as Lacan would, the image of the shadow as related to origin. In his 1931 essay on ‘female sexuality’, when speaking of the importance of the primal mother figure psyche, Freud says: “[e]verything connected with th[e] first mother-attachment has in analysis seemed to me so elusive, lost in a past so dim and shadowy . . . that it seemed as if it had undergone some specially inexorable repression” (Freud 1993b: 195–196). Freud and Lacan invoke the archaic, make the archaic emerge in the imaginary and the symbolic dimensions of their work. Yet especially in Lacan’s work, where the psychic registers undergo rigorous theorization, this invocation, this disclosure of the archaic through the imaginary, seems to be at odds with the theorization of the symbolic. For Lacan did not share Montrelay’s vision of the mutual constitution of the archaic and the symbolic. In his public work, Lacan excercised caution to deny the archaic’s intrication with the symbolic. Lacan insisted on limiting the symbolic’s structures to desire and the unconscious, famously said to be “structured like a language” (Lacan 1993: 167). For Lacan, the unconscious, seat of subjectivity, comes into being with the entry into language, the signifying chain constitutive of the symbolic. What precedes

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subjectivity is the ego, the imaginary captation of a unary “I” in the mirror stage (Lacan 1977d: 1–7). The emergence of the ego, not yet subjectivity, complements an elemental psychic substance Lacan terms ‘homelette’ but refuses to theorize other than pointing to its incoherence, its constitutive resistance to formalization. As Stephen Whitworth (2002: 3) points out, [o]n those rare occasions when Lacan does venture to discuss ‘origin’ or the archaic, he inevitably relegates it to the sphere of fantasy or retroactive signification. ‘In man,’ Lacan claims . . . the ‘archaic’ epos (voice) ‘by which [we] bring back into the present the origins’ of our own person is only ever ‘like an indirect discourse, isolated in quotation marks’. [Lacan 1977c: 47]

Origin, the archaic, the elemental, cannot be known by the subject of the uncnonscious and within the symbolic except through the untearable veils of the symbolic, “the elements of the signifier” (Lacan 1977a: 170). Yet the archaic Lacan claims untheorizeable and absent from the unconscious and the symbolic insistently surges through the forms and images constituting Lacan’s theorizations of desire and the unconscious. The imaginary and symbolic dimensions of Lacan’s work forcefully affirm the presence within the symbolic of what he claims foreign to the symbolic and inaccessible except as mere fiction. If the archaic subsists in the forms and images of a writing denying the possibility of its theorization, might this not be because, as Michèle Montrelay attests, Lacan was for years preoccupied with the possibility of exploring the archaic, and discussed this with close colleagues like Montrelay, but for considerations related to the dissemination of his thinking, preferred to go no further than disavowing statements staging the archaic implicitly? Had he gone where he considered but chose not to, Michèle Montrelay says, Lacan may have had not tens of thousand of disciples but no more than a handful (Author’s conversation with Michèle Montrelay, 3 May 2001). Lacan’s private admissions of his attraction to the category of the archaic relegated in his public work to the status of the veiled, the opaque, if not the fictive, and the implicit persistence of the archaic in the forms and images of his writing signal a rift, an intimate sundering in his thinking. No less endemic than in the work of Freud, the structure of intimate scission, the traces of a thinker pulled in a conceptual direction he would resist, marks Lacan’s work too. Freud, trained as a scientist, thought the unconscious against the grain of his positivist training. Lacan returned to Freud and rethought the unconscious as independent of an archaic constitutively opaque to it while consistently attracted to the archaic and betraying this attraction. Inner controversy, intimate scission, seems to have been transmitted from Freud’s thinking of subjectivity

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to Lacan’s. So do the constitutively archaic structures of umbilicality and concentricity. But as Lacan avows his relation to Freud as a re-turn, transmission from Freud to Lacan could never be direct, linear. When one transmits curvilinearly, transmission occurs in waves, ripples, fractally. Freud and Lacan alike think in structures of intimate scission and the constitutively archaic forms of umbilicality and concentricity. But within intimate scission, Freud follows the direction he would resist; Lacan allows resistance to stop him. And while Freud resists (and resists his resistance to) the linearity of scientism and positivism, Lacan resists (and avowedly gives in to the resistance to) the thinking of the archaic, whose forms are non-linear but infinitely enfolding. In Freud, the category of the archaic underpins (through its umbilical and concentric forms, and through images of nodal points and shades which make it surge) a thinking of subjectivity structured at the same time by a dialectical split not itself directly related to the archaic. In Lacan, the category of the archaic underpins (through its umbilical and cylical forms, and through images of shades, cavities, the chtonic) a (re)thinking of subjectivity structured at the same time by a dialectical split including the archaic as one of its poles. In Lacan, the archaic features at once as part of the infrastructure of thinking and as the content of a structure of an intimate rift, an inner controversy. What happens when, in going down in what seems to be a hierarchy, we find ourselves right back where we started? We find ourselves in the structure of a mise en abîme, tangled hierarchy or “strange loop” (see Hofstadter 1979: 10). Levels coincide, as they do in the non-linear structure of points each of which is different from yet contains the others. In Lacan, the category of the archaic, avowedly part of a dialectic which would deny the possibility of its theorization, ultimately discloses itself as the point where thinking caves in to form an abysmal, cavernous structure of infinite regress within reversal, itself, if cavernous and orificial, constitutively, in Montrelay’s terms, archaic, a variant of the human’s first “insatiable organ-hole”, before sexual difference: the fetus’ navel (Montrelay 1977: 88). Freud and Lacan. Each caught in the structure of an intimate rift, an inner controversy. One compelled to go toward the unknown, oppressive pole of the dialectic, the other halting as he is drawn to make the “descent to the Mothers”, to the underworld of the archaic constituting his pole of the dialectic structure he repeats. And the dialectical structure of this intimate rift, Heidegger (1975a: 63) says, carries the opposing poles “into the source”, the origin “of their common ground”. This originary common ground, what is it, in the inner controversy marking the thinking of Lacan and Freud, if not the container of their thinking, the outline, in Heidegger’s terms, of their subjectivities? So long as the controversy remains intimate, inner, the originary common ground of

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its poles remains identical with their breach. But what if the breach, which Heidegger describes as intricated with this outline within the strcuture of intimate scission, should become external to this outline? Would this not change the relation between the two poles of intimate scission to a relation of birthing wherein one generates the other as Other? And would not this relation repeat the diadic structure of autochtonous, archaic birth? One might use these terms to try and understand another fractal branch within the rhizomatic, rippling path of modern psychoanalysis. The archaic pervades Lacan’s thinking, becomes the umbilic organ-hole where this thinking turns in upon itself, yet this thinking always denies the possibility of its theorization. Eventually, the inner controversy within Lacan’s thinking was externalized into a controversy between Lacan and titular members of the École Freudienne he had founded, most notably Michèle Montrelay, who had been Lacan’s analysand, Françoise Dolto, who had been Montrelay’s training analyst and Lacan’s partner, alongside Daniel Lagache, in the founding, in 1953, of the SFP (Société française de psychanalyse) following a resignation from France’s first psychoanalytical organization, the SPP (Société psychanalytique de Paris), and Denis Vasse (see Roudinesco 1997: 201; 1990: 520, 650–651). In the late 1970’s, as Lacan’s life drew to an end, quarrels erupted in his school as to what would become of it after his departure. The school was dissolved in December 1979, then re-established under the directorship of Lacan’s son-in-law, Jacques Alain Miller. Dolto and even more so Montrelay were involved in attempts to prevent the dissolution (see Roudinesco 1990: 647–653) so as to enable the continued existence of a school whose future intellectual course would be democratically decided by its members, only to find themselves ultimately excluded from the re-established school as “bad” (mauvais) influences (see Montrelay 1999: 91). The quarrels, whose political details Roudinesco documents at length, felt, Montrelay attests (1999: 91), “increasingly invasive” and “scathing” to herself and her allies, such as her close friend Michel de Certeau. They involved fierce struggles over “stakes of power” (ibid.). Montrelay was intensely involved in attempts to prevent the dissolution of the school in which she held, alongside Dolto, the key position of a member of the jury presiding over the process of the passe and endowing the school’s most craved and prestigious title of “Analyste de l’École” (AE). Others, perhaps envious of her status and genius, suspected her having a political agenda of founding her own party or even institution. For all her status, brilliance, and engagement, Montrelay, she attests, found herself, along with de Certeau, marginalized in the École, a “stranger” to the vicious power politics around her (ibid.). Much disillusioned (detrompés)

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by what ensued, as she wryly says, were those who believed she had a political agenda (ibid.). Montrelay’s choice since the dissolution of Lacan’s École was to remove herself from the public affairs and institutions of psychoanalysis in order to continue to work as analyst, to write, to occasionally present her thinking. Montrelay’s agenda was and is not political but ethical. Her goal remains to renew and enable renewal in psychoanalytic thinking, the thinking she found, at the time of the quarrels at the École, to be in the course of “rigidifying itself, protecing itself from all renewal” (ibid.), hostile to those like herself, like Dolto, like Vasse, who had “risked” using Lacan’s work as a point of departure (partir) from which to launch (avancer) “personal”, Other thinking and clinical practice (p. 90). Does not Montrelay’s formulation of the relation of her work and of the work of her colleagues Dolto and Vasse to the work of Lacan indicate a relation of Otherness to a formative predecessor of which one is initially a “part” yet from which one “parts”, separates? And is not this relation of birth without mediation from a predecessor who happens to be a founding father (père) structurally autochtonous and hence constitutively archaic? Unlike Lacan in “The Freudian thing”, Montrelay manifests no intimate rift, no inner controversy in her thinking when she uses signifieds mobilizing the archaic, launching it, making it surge forth, to describe her thinking and the thinking of those affiliated with her. Her work – dense, rhapsodic, aphoristic, poetic as much as analytic – epitomizes the type of writing Giorgio Agamben diagnoses as the truest to the common aspiration of poetry and philosophy (if it is true to its “musical inspiration”) to “grasp that original, inaccessible place of the word” (Agamben 1991: 78), to establish a relation to the archaic. As the title of one of her seminal essays, “On folding and unfolding: An example of dream interpretation in analysis”, suggests, Montrelay’s thinking always seeks to unfold, unravel those nodal points of subjectivity encountered in the transference Freud first termed “navel points”, in terms of an image mobilizing the archaic. As part of the “unknown” these navel points or umbilics at once indicate and keep partially in the shadow. Shadow, umbilic (in French nombril, a word anagrammatically shadowed in the title of Montrelay’s book, L’ombre et le nom), placental; these images and signifieds mobilizing the archaic recur again and again in Montrelay’s writing, a writing performing the archaic in its musicality. But unlike Lacan’s, Montrelay’s work does much more than perform the archaic in its imaginary and symbolic dimensions. Lacan performs the archaic in the forms and images of the thinking of his return to Freud while insisting on the impossibility of theorizing the archaic. Montrelay performs the same, much more emphatically and pervasively, at the same time as she devotes her thinking to the unravelling of the archaic.

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Dolto and Vasse shared this devotion. As Montrelay attests in “On folding and unfolding”, in their clinical work on psychic disturbances in children, Dolto and Vasse detected traces “of feelings and traumas . . . lived in utero [and] worked out during the transference” (Montrelay 1984b: 214). In her history of the psychoanalytical movement in France, Elizabeth Roudinesco (1990: 513) gives credit to “Dolto’s teaching on childhood sexuality” for having “encouraged inquiries into the archaic levels of sexual identity”. Dolto emphasized the essential femininity of those archaic sexual levels of subjectivity, speaking, in her book on feminine sexuality, of the pre-natal navel as the “archaically dominant erogenous zone first wounded, then replenished, transfigured” (Dolto 1996: 329). Dolto’s editors credit Montrelay, Dolto’s training analysand and colleague, with being the only other psychoanalytic thinker to share Dolto’s vision of the feminine essence of the archaic (Dolto 1996: 52). But though Denis Vasse does not emphasize the femininity of the archaic as do Dolto and Montrelay, he shares Dolto’s and Montrelay’s fascination with the relation between the umbilics of the archaic and the signifiers of the symbolic, the two categories evoked in the title of his first book, L’ombilic et la voix (The Umbilic and the Voice) of 1974. Archaic feelings whose source may be traced back to the uterine, the pre-natal, Vasse writes (1974: 75), “emanate from the body of the subject” and “write the subject’s history in the unconscious”. The symbolic, the “network of signifiers organizing speech”, then unfolds the umbilics inscribed on the subject’s body and functions as a substitute umbilical, link of blood and of life (pp. 74–75). The subsistence of the archaic within the symbolic, the possibility of formally (and clinically) mapping the archaic – such conceptual, not political concerns stood at the heart of the controversy which wrenched Lacan’s school in the late 1970’s and ultimately led to its dissolution and re-establishment in an institutional form from which Montrelay, Dolto, and Vasse were excluded and to which they did not wish to belong. Members of what was to become the re-established school, the École de la cause freudienne, virulently objected to the teachings of Montrelay, Dolto, and Vasse; Charles Mehlman, for example, considered their teaching “feminist, obscurantist, or religious” and maintained that they were “at odds with the ethic of [Lacan’s] thinking” (Plus-Un December 1, 1979, quoted in Roudinesco 1990: 651). The École, Mehlman claimed, should be “purged” of the “propagators of these teachings” (Montrelay 1999: 94). In one of the heated meetings preceding the dissolution of the EFP, Jacques-Alain Miller, who was to become the head of the École de la cause freudienne established after the dissolution, “lashed out violently” against one of the propagators of the teachings of archaic subjectivity, Françoise Dolto, who could not, Roudinesco writes, “understand the hatred

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she inspired” (1990: 656). What had been an inner controversy within Lacan’s thinking between an avowed denial of the possibility of theorizing the archaic and a symptomatized attraction to this possibility was externalized into the school Lacan founded and headed. The controversy concerning the possibility of theorizing the archaic rippling from Lacan’s thinking into members within his school, Montrelay has said, should not necessarily have led to the dissolution of this school. The controversy could and should have “created the ground of possibility for veritable and hence productive debates” within the EFP (Montrelay 1999: 90). But there seemed to be “nothing for” such veritable debate within the school (ibid.). The school dissolved, and the controversy became a split between Miller, Mehlman, and other members of what became the ECF and Montrelay, Dolto, and Vasse, who chose to remain outside of an institution whose establishment involved the denunciation of their teachings. If the externalization of the controversy regarding the possibility of theorizing the archaic from Lacan’s thinking into his school ultimately led to a split between institutionalized Lacanian psychoanalysis and the independent theorizing of the archaic by Montrelay and other analysts and thinkers, what has happened to the archaic structures which inhered in the psychoanalytic thinking of Freud and Lacan, where this controversy manifested itself inwardly? Did the split in Lacan’s school terminate the transmission of archaic structures of thinking whose twisting paths unfold from Freud onwards? To be sure, the institutionalized psychoanalysis which has flourished since the demise of Lacan has known its own controversies, some of them fierce. Dolto (until her death in 1982), Vasse, and Montrelay, and other analysts and thinkers such as François Baudry continued to advance what Montrelay calls the “Other practice of the unconscious”. The substance of their thinking, Montrelay implies, may be thought of as Other to Lacan’s thinking, as bearing to it the relation of offspring to a chtonic ancestor from whom it was generated diadically, without mediation. But besides bearing a relation to intellectual ancestry which manifests an autochtonous structure mobilizing the archaic, does this Other practice of the unconscious which does not fall, like Lacan’s, into inner controversy, bear any traces of the archaic it at once performs in its imaginary and symbolic dimensions and theorizes explicitly? The Other practice of the unconscious draws on clinical material, whether articulated by analysands or in literary texts, which seems to the analyst at once to speak subjectivity and to resonate from before the veil, even before the mirror, voices seeming to come from an origin which cannot be either forgotten nor mourned. This clinical material emanates from an archaic subjectivity preceding, not succeeding, the ego, the mirror, even the moment of birth which

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Freud had (mis)-theorized as primary separation (1993a: 73), forgetting the anterior, pre-natal fundamental sundering of mother and fetus by the umbilical cord and placenta. In advancing their Other practice of the unconscious, Vasse, Dolto, and Montrelay provide a nuanced and precise grid for reading archaic subjectivity. These thinkers theorize archaic subjectivity as arising in the psychic field of interaction between two bodies: the body of the mother-qua-subject and of the fetus in relation to whom she already functions as Other (Montrelay 1984a: 45). Linking and scission structure the relation obtaining within this field, what Montrelay calls the “floating field”, between the bodies of mother and fetus, fundamentally Other to one another, prior to the trauma of birth and what Montrelay, following Dolto’s Image inconscient du corps, calls “umbilical castration”. What provides the linking scission, the intimate sundering, the limit fragmentizing mother and fetus as their bodies and psychic lives float towards and away from one another outside linear time, as they psychically and corporeally envelop, enfold one another, disabling absolute differentiations while making alterity irreducible? Montrelay tells us the umbilical cord and placenta function as the “privileged organs” performing the loving limit, the asymmetrical reciprocity of the archaic mother-fetus relation, at once corporeal and affective. These organ-izing organs, structures of the symbolic preceding the signifier, create “a sexuated intimacy” between mother and fetus (Montrelay 1984a: 44). These archaic organs, Denis Vasse (1974: 13) explains, function as an organic, umbilical “link of blood . . . and of life” making possible the organization of psychic information and its transmission as voice between two subjects. The organic link of blood constituted by the umbilical cord and placenta enables mother and fetus as subjects to psychically interact “entre-deux” (13), or as Montrelay puts it, “work together” (1984a: 43) in a symbolic and genuinely intersubjective relation. Gestation, Dolto (1996: 102) says, involves an “organoaffective” relation between the “archaic pre-person” and its (m)Other, within an “amniotic aquatic milieu” (p. 104) in which they non-linearly “cannibalize”, enfold one another’s libido (p. 93). If the liquidity of uterine life has misled thinkers like Kristeva to fall into an archetypal thinking wherein the archaic is misrcognized as fusional, singling out the umbilical as a constitutive part of the archaic enables thinkers like Dolto, Montrelay, and Vasse to emphasize the “rapport of contiguity” “of being alone with” (être seul avec) between fetus and maternal body qua Other from which the fetus is always already separated as the structuring component of intra-uterine intersubjectivity within the amniotic (Vasse 1974: 67, 75).

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The flotation within the organo-affective amniotic milieu enabled by fragmentation, the intersubjectivity enabled by an intimate intra-uterine sundering whose severing links, describable in terms of the signifier, of the structures of rhetoric, as at once copula and caesura are performed by gestational organs subtending the symbolic. The “non-fusional” relations structuring the prenatal bond between mother and fetus as floating field enable desires, strivings, what Montrelay calls “memories for the future” to circulate between mother and fetus. And the intimate sundering structuring the pre-natal floating field as intersubjective enables the unconscious of the mother as primal Other to transmit to the fetus always already different from her yet never completely severed from her before umbilical castration “ancestral memories”, understood not as stories but as psychic familial and historic patterns emanating from what Montrelay calls the “transgenerational unconscious” (1994b: 22), to the archaic subject (1984a: 44). Remobilized, relaunched throughout the subject’s life, this transmission links the subject to the archaic of his personal history, and to the collective “universality” of the history of speaking beings, to humanity (Vasse 1974: 13). If this transmission of the ancestral is allowed to take place within the archaic, if it is not foreclosed by a psychotic mother who cannot access the floating field beyond the Shadow where the symbolic and the arcaic intricate, the “animated” intersubjective circulation of affect and information between mother and fetus, Dolto writes, “may persist throughout life without blockage” (1996: 487). A floating field of memories and transferences made to productively circulate or leap between alterities kept apart by linking limits whose precedence of the signifier does not exclude them from the symbolic but makes them the substrate for the symbolic’s signifiers. Does not this theorization of the archaic in Montrelay, Dolto, and Vasse manifest a striking isomorphism with the intimate rift, the inner controversy rippling in the modern history of psychoanalytic thinking from Freud to Lacan? Archaic subjectivity as theorized by the proponents of the Other practice of the unconscious, jutted out by controversy from Lacan’s school, does not itself manifest the inner controversy plaguing the thought of Freud and Lacan, an inner controversy symptomatized in the two cases by the prevalence of circular archaic structures and archaic images, and in the case of Lacan’s thinking, involving a disavowal of the possibility of theorizing the archaic this thinking performs. But though never plagued by internal controvesy, the thinking of the archaic in the works of Dolto, Montrelay, and Vasse involves the theorization of the archaic as a structure isomorphic with controversy. Does this not imply the structure of controversy has affinities with the structure of the archaic, affinities we might explore further if we wish

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to learn more about the nature of controversies, in particular when they relate to subjectivity, of which archaic subjectivity is the most primal form? The analysis of controversies rippling within the psychoanalytic thinking of subjectivity, from Freud to Lacan and from Lacan to those Other practitioners of the unconscious, Montrelay, Dolto, and Vasse, suggests significant structural affinities between controversy and the archaic. If controversy is so common in the history of thinking, it is perhaps because it ever relaunches the most primal pattern of our productive relation to an Other from which new knowledge, constitutive of our subjectivity, is autochtonously born. For what is controversy, etymologically, if not the counter (contra) of a turn (versus), a counter-turn which ever yields a return in knowledge which involves a return to the work entre-deux structuring our earliest experiences, at once affective, corporeal, and symbolic, of gaining knowledge? If controversy constitutively involves a structural return to/of the archaic, a productive way to study the deep structures of controversy might be through the exploration of a form of transmission itself constitutively archaic: poetry or verse, which “always commemorates its own inaccessible originary place” (Agamben 1991: 78). The study of verse might be most productive for the exploration of the deep structures of controversy in their affinity with the archaic especially when, like pastoral poetry, verse is explicitly concerned with origin. Shakespeare’s “A lover’s complaint”, a repressed verse, the in-verse of the Shakespearean canon, is such a pastoral verse, explicitly enunciating itself as a counter-versal, constitutively archaic “double voice”, the voice of two subjects intimately torn asunder, whose alterities, marked by the scissional umbilcial copulas of hollowed similes and apostrophes, are “re-worded” to give birth to new knowledge within the originary frame of a “concave wombe” (lines 1–2). Centuries before the fractal lineage of psychoanalytic thinkers extending from Freud, to Lacan, Dolto, Montrelay and Vasse, whose work, examined in relation, yields knowledge of the intimacy between controversy and the archaic, Shakespeare had already poetically reflected upon the dialogic structure of this intimacy and its relation to the most primal intimacy, the intimacy between mother and fetus experienced with-in the organ of origin, the “concave womb”. But to understand more completely we had better re-turn to Shakespeare’s verse.3

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Notes . Translations from the original are mine, unless reference to translation is indicated. . For an analysis of another instance (this time Renaissance humanist) in which anaclitic distinctions between the tumescent and the pregnant become impossible, see Stephen Whitworth (1999). . See Shirley Sharon-Zisser 1999 and forthcoming.

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Lacan, J. (1993 [1955–1956]). Seminar III: The Psychoses, transl. R. Grigg. New York: Norton. Lacan, J. (2001). “Lituraterre”. In Autres écrits (pp. 11–20). Paris: Seuil. Montrelay, M. (1977). L’ombre et le nom: sur la féminité. Paris: Minuit. Montrelay, M. (1983). “Lieux et génies”. Cahiers Confrontation, 10, 111–125. Montrelay, M. (1984a). “L’inceste”. Patio Psychanalyse, 7, 38–50. Montrelay, M. (1984b). “On folding and unfolding: An example of dream interpretation in analysis”. Psychoanalytical Inquiry, 4 (2), 193–219. Montrelay, M. (1988). “Le tambour et l’arc”. In Quelques pas sur le chemin de Françoise Dolto (pp. 236–248). Paris: Seuil. Montrelay, M. (1991 [1977]). “Inquiry into femininity”. In C. Zanardi (Ed.), Essential Papers on the Psychology of Women (pp. 352–373). New York: New York University Press. Montrelay, M. (1994a). “Why did you tell me I love mommy and that’s why I’m frightened when I love you”. American Imago, 51 (2), 213–227. Montrelay, M. (1994b). “L’entame paternelle”. Che Vuoi? Revue de Pychanalyse, 2, 13–26. Montrelay, M. (1999). “Une autre pratique de l’inconscient – Enretien”. Rue Descartes, 25, 81–96. Montrelay, M. (2001). Author’s conversation with Michèle Montrelay. Paris, 3 May. Montrelay, M. (2002). Author’s conversation with Michèle Montrelay. Paris, 9 January. Roudinesco, E. (1990). Jacques Lacan & Co.: A History of Psychoanalysis in France 1925–1985, transl. J. Mehlman. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Roudinesco, E. (1997). Jacques Lacan, transl. B. Bray. New York: Columbia University Press. Shakespeare, W. (1986). “A lover’s complaint”. In J. Kerrigan (Ed.), The Sonnets and A Lover’s Complaint. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Sharon-Zisser, S. (1999). “Similes hollowed with sighs: The transferential erotics of the similaic copula in Shakespeare’s ‘A lover’s complaint”’. Exemplaria: A Journal of Theory in Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 11 (1), 195–220. Sharon-Zisser, S. (2000). The Risks of Simile in Renaissance Rhetoric. Baltimore: Lang. Sharon-Zisser, S. (2001a). “‘Some little language such as lovers use’: Virginia Woolf ’s elemental erotics of simile”. American Imago, 58 (2), 567–596. Sharon-Zisser, S. (2001b). “Rhetorical simulation, the myth of Simonides, the rites of repression”. In J. Bernard & G. Withalm (Eds.), Myths, Rites, Simulacra: Semiotic Viewpoints, Vol. 1 (pp. 419–432). Vienna: OGS. Sharon-Zisser, S. (Ed.). (Forthcoming). Suffering Ecstasy: Essays on Shakespeare’s “A Lover’s Complaint”. London: Ashgate. Thompson, H. (1998a). Fragments of the Archaic: Modernist Short Fiction and Structuralist Alterity. PhD Dissertation, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Thompson, H. (1998b). “Virginia Woolf and Michèle Montrelay’s unconscious signifier”. Virginia Woolf Miscellany, 52, 5–6. Vasse, D. (1974). L’ombilic et la voix. Paris: Seuil. Whitworth, S. (1997). The Name of the Ancients: Humanist Homoerotics and the Signs of Pastoral. PhD Dissertation, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Whitworth, S. (1999). “Far from being: Rhetoric and dream in John Dickenson’s Arisbas”. Exemplaria: A Journal of Theory in Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 11 (1), 167–194. Whitworth, S. (2002). “Comus and the umbilics of mask-ulinity”. Paper presented at the International Conference on Psychoanalysis and the Arts, Arezzo, Italy, June, 26–30.

The contributors to this volume

Adelino Cattani teaches Theory of Argumentation at the Philosophy Department of Padua University. His present research interests include logical and rhetorical aspects of reasoning, fallacies, theory and practice of debate, and common and juridical argumentation. His latest book – Botta e risposta (2001) (Spanish translation: Los usos de la retórica, 2003) – deals with the art of reply. Ademar Ferreira graduated in Electrical Engineering at the University of São Paulo, where he also obtained his Ph.D. in Physics and Technology of Semiconductors and Integrated Circuits. He was a post-doctoral fellow at Stanford University, and is now Associate Professor at the Escola Politécnica, University of São Paulo. He has also recently graduated in Philosophy at the same university. His present research interests are in artificial intelligent systems, cognitive science, epistemology and scientific controversies. He is currently supervising a research program in mobile robotics. Alan Gross is Professor of Rhetoric at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. He is the author of The Rhetoric of Science, Communicating Science (with Joseph Harmon and Michael Reidy), and of Chaim Perelman (with Ray Dearin). He has edited two collections: Rereading Aristotle’s Rhetoric (with Arthur Walzer) and Rhetorical Hermeneutics (with William Keith). His web page address is www.umn.edu/home/agross. Daniel Mishori (Ph.D. Tel Aviv University, 2003) teaches eco-philosophy and environmental ethics at the Porter School of Environmental Studies and in the Department of Philosophy, both at Tel Aviv University. His dissertation focused on the interconnections between argumentation and epistemology in British empiricism. He has an extensive experience in actual negotiations, and is an advisor for several organizations. He participated in a joint German-Israeli project for the study of controversies (Giessen-Tel-Aviv,

 The contributors to this volume

1999–2001). He is a fellow of the Environmental Fellows Program at the Heschel Center for Environmental Learning and Leadership, Israel. Frédéric Cossutta is Professor of Philosophy, and member of CEDITEC- Université Paris XII. His main research interests are in the philosophy of language and in discourse analysis as applied to philosophical doctrines. His publications include: Eléments pour la lecture des textes philosophiques (1989), L’analyse du discours philosophique (1995), “Dialogic characteristics of philosophical discourse: The case of Plato’s Dialogues” (2003), and “Toward a skeptical criticism of transcendental pragmatics” (2003). His research undertakes to connect a pragmatic outlook on discourse with the way philosophical systems employ rhetorical, stylistic, and other persuasive devices. He established and directed until 1993 the Groupe de Recherche sur l’Analyse du Discours Philosophique, whose works are available in various collective publications, such as La polémique en philosophie (2000), and Le dialogue: Introduction à un genre (2004). Gerd Fritz is Professor of Linguistics at the University of Giessen, and he formerly taught at the University of Tübingen. His main research interests are discourse analysis, historical pragmatics and historical semantics. His publications include: Kohärenz. Grundfragen der linguistischen Kommunikationsanalyse (1982), Historische Semantik (1998), and Historical Dialogue Analysis (co-edited, 1999). Han-liang Chang is Hu Shih Professor of Semiotics and Literary Theory at National Taiwan University and chief executive officer of Taiwan’s Language Training and Testing Center. He has published extensively on semiotics, language theory, and ancient philosophical traditions in China and Greece. He has taught and lectured at Charles University (Prague), at the University of Athens, and at leading universities in the People’s Republic of China, the U.K. and the U.S.A. León Olivé is Professor of Philosophy at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. He has been Visiting Professor in various universities in Latin America, Spain, and the U.S.A. His main research interests are rationality and multiculturalism. He has published in epistemology, philosophy of science and political philosophy. He is the author of seven books, including Knowledge, Society and Reality (1993), El Bien, el Mal y la Razón. Facetas de la ciencia y la tecnología (2000), and Interculturalismo y Justicia

The contributors to this volume 

Social (2004). He has edited eleven books, the most recent one with Andoni Ibarra: Cuestiones Éticas de la Ciencia y la Tecnología en el Siglo XXI (2003). Marcelo Dascal is Professor of Philosophy and former Dean of Humanities at Tel Aviv University. He received the Humboldt Prize and was Leibniz Professor at the Center of Advanced Studies of Leipzig University in 2002–2003. He was also a Fellow at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Studies and at the Institute of Advanced Studies of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where he coordinated an international research group on “Leibniz the Polemicist”. He is currently President of the New Israeli Philosophical Association and of the International Association for the Study of Controversies (IASC). His research interests include controversies, pragmatics, the history and philosophy of science, and the history of modern philosophy – especially Leibniz. His recent books include Interpretation and Understanding (2003), The Gust of the Wind: Humanities in a New Old World (2004; in Hebrew), and (with Q. Racionero and A. Cardoso) G. W. Leibniz, The Art of Controversies and Other Writings in Dialectics and Logic (forthcoming). He is the Editor of the journal Pragmatics & Cognition and of the book series Controversies. Massimo Leone lectures in the Semiotics of the Arts at the University of Siena, and currently is Fulbright Visiting Professor at the Graduate Theological Union at the University of California, Berkeley. He has written extensively on the semiotics of religion, and is the author of Religious Conversion of Identity: The Semiotic Analysis of Texts (2004). Currently he is conducting research in controversies that arise when two or more different religious traditions claim the same territory. Mihály Szívós is Senior Researcher at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. He was Visiting Researcher in several European countries. Currently, he investigates new approaches to the problems of classical metaphysics, Hellenistic philosophy, the history of Hegelian logic, and Hungarian philosophy between the two World Wars. His most important publications include a book on the history of appearance in antiquity, and writings on Diderot’s and Hegel’s philosophies, as well as on the theory of tacit knowledge and on the sociology of science. Omar Barghouti is a Palestinian doctoral student of Philosophy at Tel Aviv University. He holds a Masters degree in Electrical Engineering from Columbia University. He is also an independent analyst who has written to several political and cultural publications, including The Hartford

 The contributors to this volume

Courant, Open Democracy, Z Magazine, Counterpunch, Al-Adab (Beirut), Al-Ahram (Cairo), Peace News, and Ballet Tanz. His article “9.11 Putting the moment on human terms” was chosen among the “Best of 2002” by The Guardian. He is also a dance choreographer with El-Funoun dance ensemble in Palestine. He contributed to the recently published book The New Intifada: Resisting Israel’s Apartheid (2001). He has spoken in several conferences on his ethical vision for a unitary, secular democratic state in mandate Palestine. Peter J. Schulz is Professor of Semiotics at the School of Communication Sciences at the University of Lugano, where he directs the Health Care Communication Laboratory. His main research interests are: Health communication, subjectivity and intersubjectivity in a semiotic perspective, and theories of communication sciences. His published books include E. Stein’s Theory of the Person (1994), The History of Modern Subjectivity (1998), Friendship and Self-Love in Plato and Aristotle: Semantic Studies in Subjectivity and Intersubjectivity (2000), and the forthcoming Semiotics and Communication Sciences and New Perspectives on Manipulative and Ideological Discourse in Pragmatics and Discourse Analysis. Pierluigi Barrotta graduated in Philosophy at the University of Pisa and in Economics at the University of Cambridge. After obtaining a Ph.D. in Philosophy of Science from the University of Genoa, he was Visiting Fellow at the Centres for Philosophy of Science at the University of Pittsburgh and at the London School of Economics. He has published in the philosophy of science and the methodology of the social sciences, and has been working on dialectical rationality for years. On this latter issue he has published a book in Italian, La Dialettica scientifica (1998). He is currently Professor of Methodology of the Social Sciences at the University of Pisa and Director of the Italian Cultural Institute in London. Shai Frogel teaches philosophy at Tel-Aviv University. His book The Rhetoric of Philosophy (forthcoming in the Series “Controversies”) examines the relationships between the rhetorical and the logical aspects of philosophical argumentation. He has published articles on philosophical argumentation, existentialism, and ethics. Currently, he is writing a book on the philosophies of Spinoza and Nietzsche. Shirley Sharon-Zisser is Senior Lecturer at the Department of English, Tel Aviv University. She specializes in aesthetics, rhetoric, theory of language, and the psychoanalytic theory of Freud and Lacan. She is the author of The

The contributors to this volume 

Risks of Simile in Renaissance Rhetoric (2001) and of numerous articles on the interrelations among the categories of rhetoric and psychoanalytic theory. She has edited essay collections on psycho-rhetorical theory and criticism and the first collection of essays on Shakespeare’s “A Lover’s Complaint”. Thomas Gloning is a Linguist and a Historian of the German Language. He teaches at Marburg University. His research interests include: (i) central fields of linguistics, e.g., semantics, lexicology, pragmatics; (ii) history of the German language (vocabulary development, history of media and specialized texts, history of forms of communication), especially from the 15th century to the present day; and (iii) applied linguistics (research in usability and comprehensibility). He was one of the contributors to a joint Israeli-German research project on Controversies in the République des Lettres (1600–1800). His website is http://www.staff.unimarburg.de/∼gloning. Yaron Senderowicz is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Philosophy at Tel Aviv University. He has published on Kant, German philosophy, the philosophy of mind, and the theory of controversies. His most recent publications include “Maimon’s ‘Quid Facti’ argument” (2003), “Figurative synthesis and synthetic a priori knowledge” (2004), and the book The Coherence of Kant’s Transcendental Deduction (2005).

Name index

A Abelard  Agamben, G. , , , ,  Ainesidemos  Ainslie, G. ,  Aischines  Aitchinson, J. ,  Akamatsu, P.  Alexander of Aphrodisias  Ali-Bouacha, M.  Alston, W. P.  Anaxarchos ,  Angelou, M. ,  Antiochos  Apel, K. O. , ,  Apuleius  Arcesilaos , , , –, , –, ,  Ariston  Aristotle , , , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  Arnauld, A.  Aronson, R.  Augustine , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , –, ,  Auvray-Assayas, C.  Avineri, S.  B Bacon, F. , , , ,  Bakhtin, M. M. , –, ,  Baltas, A. ,  Barghouti, O. , , , 

de Barrios, M. – Barrotta, P. , , , , ,  Beckett, S.  Beiner, B.  Benveniste, E. –, , ,  Bergounioux, G.  Berkeley, G. , , – Berlin, I. , ,  Boal, A.  Boghossian, P. , – Bordron, J. F.  Boudon, R.  Bouvier, A.  Boyd, R.  Boyle, R. ,  Brahe, T.  Bramhall, J. , , , ,  Brehm, J. W.  Brentano, F.  Breuer, J. , , ,  Brueckner, A.  Bullinger, H. ,  Burge, T. –, ,  Burnett, T. ,  Byers, N.  C Canetti, E. –, , ,  Caplan, A. L.  Carnap, R.  Carneades , , , , , , , – Cato  Cattani, A. , , ,  Chang, H.-l. , ,  Chapman, J.  Charmadas 

Chrysippus , , , , , –, , ,  Cicero , , , , , , , , , ,  Clarke, S. , , ,  Cleanthes  Clitomachos , ,  Colie, R. L. ,  Condit, C. M.  Conley, T. M.  Cossutta, F. , , –, , , , ,  Coulter, A. , ,  Crantor  Crates ,  Crosswhite, J.  D Dalmiya, V.  Daniels, R.  Dascal, M. , –, , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Dascal, V. ,  Davidson, D. , , , –, , ,  Descartes, R. , , , , , , , –,, , , , –, , , , ,  De-Shalit, A.  Dews, P.  Diogenes Laertius , , , , ,  Diogenes of Babylon  Dolto, F. , , , , – Doyle, C. 

 Name index Dumont, J.-P. , ,  Dupuy-Trudelle, S. ,  Dworkin, R. ,  E Eck, J. , ,  Elster, J. , ,  Engelhardt, H. T.  Epictetus , , , ,  Epicurus , ,  Erasmus ,  Etzioni, A.  Evans, J. St. B. T.  F Farhadian, C. E. ,  Ferreira, A. , , ,  Festinger, L. – Feyerabend, P. ,  Finkelstein, N. ,  Flanagan, O.  Foucault, M. , , ,  Francke, A. H. , ,  Franco, P.  Frege, G. , ,  Freire, P. , , , ,  Freud, S. –, , , , –, –, , – Freudenthal, G.  Fritz, G. , , , , , , ,  Frogel, S. , ,  Fucan, F. – G Gaillard, J. ,  Galeotti, A.  Galileo, G. ,  à Gehema, J. A. , , –, , , ,  Geuder, M. F. , , , , , –, ,  Gil, F. ,  Gilby, T.  Gloning, T. , , , , , , , ,  Goeze, J. M. , , –, , – Goffman, E. 

Govier, T.  Gray, J.  Greimas, A. J. ,  Gren, F. A. C.  Griffin, J.  Gross, A. G. – H Hadot, P. , ,  Hagnón  Hampshire, S. ,  Hanson, N. R.  Hayek, F. , –, , , – Hegel, G. W. F. , , , ,  Heidegger, M. –, , , ,  Herillos  Hitchcock, A.  Hobbes, T. , , , –, , ,  Horowitz, M. J.  Hui , , , – Hume, D. , , , , , ,  Husserl, E. ,  I Irwin, T.  J Jacques, F. , , , –, , , ,  Jacquet Francillon, F.  Jakobson, R. , , , , ,  James, W. , , ,  Jespersen, O. ,  Johnson, M.  Johnson, R. H. ,  Johnson, S.  Johnston, G.  Joyce, J.  K Kant, I. , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 

Keats, J.  Kekes, J.  Kenny, A. ,  Kepler, J. , , , –, , , –, , – Klemm, D. E.  Klopstock, F. G.  Kögler, H. H.  Kohn, H.  Krech, D.  Kristeva, J. , , , ,  Kuhn, T. S. , , , ,  L Lacan, J. , , , –, , ,  Lacydes , ,  Lakoff, G.  Lalande, A.  Lando, O.  Langley, P.  Langsdorf, L.  Larmore, C. , , ,  Latour, B. ,  Laudan, L. , , ,  van der Leeuw, G.  Leibniz, G. W. , , , , –, , , , , , , , –,  Leone, M. , ,  Lessing, G. E. , , –, , – Lévi-Strauss, C.  Lévy, C.  Lloyd, E.  Locke, J. , , , , , –, –,  Luther, M. , , ,  Lysippus  M Machamer, P. , ,  MacIntyre, A. , –, , , , – Mackay, C.  Maingueneau, D. ,  Maldonado, J.  Malebranche, N. , , –, , 

Name index  Mamiani, M.  Marcus Aurelius , , –, ,  Marion, J. L.  Martin, R. , , ,  McGinn, C. – McKeachie, W.  McLaughlin, R.  Medvedev, P. M.  Melanthios Rhodos  Mendelson, M.  Metrodorus – Mill, J. S. , ,  Miller, F. D.  Miller, J.-A. , ,  Miller, Z.  Mischo, C.  Mishori, D. , ,  Mishori, G.  Montague, E.  de Montaigne, M.  de Montesquieu, B. G. ,  Montrelay, M. , , , , – Munday, A.  N Nagel, T. , ,  Nickles, T. –,  Nicole, P. –, , , , ,  Nietzsche, F. ,  Norton Wise, M. ,  Nozick, R.  O Oakeshott, M. , , , ,  Oelman, T.  Olivé, L. , ,  Osiander, L. ,  P Panaccio, C.  Panaitios , ,  Paracelsus  Parmenides ,  Pascal, B. , , ,  Passmore, J.  Pasteur, L. –, 

Paul, E. F.  Pears, D. ,  Peirce, C. S. , , , , ,  Pellegrini, C.  Pera, M. ,  Perelman, C. , , , ,  Perry, R.  Persaeus  Petronius  Pfefferkorn, J.  Philippe, G.  Philón ,  Piro, F. ,  Pitcher, G.  Plato , , –, –, , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Polanyi, M. , , ,  Polemo –, , ,  Polya, G.  Popper, K. R. , , , , , , , , , , ,  Porter, R. , ,  Prezzolini, G.  Protagoras , , , , , , , , , , ,  Proust, M. ,  Putnam, H. , ,  Pyrrho , ,  Q Quine W. V. O. , ,  Quintilianus , , ,  R Rambaldi, E.  Rambo, L. R. , ,  Rasmussen, D.  Rawls, J. , , –, – Raz, J. ,  Razan, H.  Reid, T. , , ,  Rescher, N.  Reuchlin, J. ,  Ricoeur, P. ,  Riffaterre, M. 

Robbins, B.  Rorty, A. O. , ,  Röslin, H. , , , , –, ,  Ross, A. , ,  Russell, B.  S Sandel, M. –, ,  Sartre, J.-P.  de Saussure, F. ,  Schiappa, E. , ,  Scholem, G.  Schulz, P. J. , ,  Searle, J. R. , , , , –, , ,  Selznick, P.  Sen, A.  Senault, J.-F. ,  Senderowicz, Y. , , , , ,  Sextus Empiricus , , , , , , , ,  Shakespeare, W. , , ,  Sharon-Zisser, S. –, , ,  Shimanoff, S. B. ,  Shoemaker, S.  Sloane, T. , , , ,  Smith, A. , , ,  Smith, B. H. ,  Snow, C. P.  Socrates , –, –, , , –, , , , , , ,  Socratides  Sokal, A. , –, – Sosa, E. , ,  Speusippus  Sphaerus  Spinoza, B. , ,  Sraffa, P.  Statman, D.  Stevenson, R. L.  Stocker, M.  Szivós, M.  T Tannen, D. , , 

 Name index Taylor, C. , , , , ,  Theophrastus , , , , , ,  Thibodeau, R.  Timon ,  Titchener, E.  Todorov, T.  Tooke, J. H. ,  Turner, V. ,  U von Uexkull, J.  Unger, R.  Untersteiner, M. ,  Ursus, R. , , 

V Vasse, D. , , – Vermeer, J.  Vernant, J. P.  Voltaire  Vygotsky, L. S. 

Wittgenstein, L. , ,  Woodfield, A.  Woolgar, S. ,  Wotton, H. ,  Wundt, W. 

W Walmsley, P.  Walzer, M. ,  Watson, J. B. ,  Watzlawick, P.  Weinberg, S. , , , – Whately, R.  Williams, B. 

X Xenocrates 

Z Zeno of Citium , –, –, , – Zevi, S.  Zhuang , , , –

Subject index

A access , , , , , , , , , ,  see also inaccessibilty privileged , , , ,  to truth ,  accusation , , , – actant ,  adversarial – agonistic , , , , , , ,  agreement , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , ,  see also disagreement akrasia , –, ,  American Academic Left ,  appearance , , , , –,  appetite , –, ,  apraxia –, ,  ataraxia , , , ,  audience , , , , , , , –, , , , ,  autobiography , , , , , ,  autonomy , , , ,  availability , , , , , , , , , , ,  axiology  B background assumption , ,  belief , , 

balance of reason , ,  see also inclination body , , , , , , , , ,  bunching ,  C catharsis  causality , , , , , , , , , , , ,  certainty , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , ,  see also uncertainty charity see communicative principle choice , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also deliberation Christianity , , , ,  cognitive aim ,  dissonance , , , , ,  gain ,  phantasia , –, –, , , , – science , ,  collaborative , ,  collective , , , , , , , , ,  commitment , , , , , , , , , ,  commonality , , –,  communicative aim 

form , , ,  interaction  praxis  principle , , ,  problem  type  communitarian , –, , , , ,  concentricity , , ,  conceptual analysis ,  change ,  framework ,  innovation , ,  system , , , – concession , ,  conciliation , , ,  conflict of values , ,  essential , , ,  exterior ,  inter-identity – motivational  power of – pre-decisional  self- , , , , , , , , , , , –, –,  semantic  social , ,  consciousness , , , , , , , , , ,  field of  moral  of the oppressed  self- , , , ,  conservatism , ,  consistency ,  see also inconsistency

 Subject index consonance  context of discovery , ,  of justification , ,  contradiction , , , , , , , , , , , , , , – see also self-contradiction controversy –, , –, –, , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , –, , , , , –, , , –, , , –, –, –, –, , , , –, –, , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , – see also debate and dispute academic-stoic , , , , , , ,  and epistemology see epistemology external , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , ,  in Aristotle  in Plato ,  inner , –, , , , , , , , , –, , –, , , –, ,  move in political  scientific , , ,  self- see self-controversy and controversy, inner theory of , , , , , , ,  conversion , , , , –, –, , , , , , ,  converso 

conviction , , , –, , , , –, , , , ,  see also persuasion and self-conviction counterevidence , ,  criticism , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  culture , , , , , –, , – sub- ,  D debate , –, , , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also controversy, discussion, and dispute semantic , ,  deception , , ,  see also self-deception decision , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  post- , , ,  pre- ,  dedication , , , , ,  de-dichotomization , , , , – see also dichotomy default ,  dehumanization  deliberation , , , , , , , –, –, , , , 

demagogue ,  demonstration , , , , ,  dialectics , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  dialogical , , , , , , , –, , , , , , –, –, , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , ,  dichotomy , , , , , , , – see also de-dichotomization disagreement , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  discovery , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also generation discussion , , –, , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , –, , ,  see also controversy, debate, and dispute dishonor , ,  disputation , , , , ,  dispute , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also controversy, debate, and discussion disrespect see respectfulness dissonance , –, , , , ,  dogmatic , , , , ,  doubt , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , 

Subject index  dream , , , , ,  drive , , , , , , , , , , ,  dual , , , , ,  E ego , , , , , , , , , ,  see also superego and id elenchos  emergent , , , , ,  emotion , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , ,  see also feeling empiricism , , , , , , , , , , , – entrenched , , , ,  epistemic , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , ,  epistemology , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  equality , , ,  error , , , , , , , , , , ,  ethics , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  eudaimonia  eulogon , , , ,  evaluation , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  evidence , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –,  see also counterevidence

experience , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , –, –, , –, , , , , , , , ,  externalism , , , , –, –,  F faculty ,  feeling , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also emotion feminine ,  figurative , ,  first person , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, ,  flattery  forensic  formulaic  Fragmentenstreit , , ,  freedom –, , , , , , , , ,  friendship , , –, , , , , , , ,  G gap , –, , , , , , , ,  Gedankenexperiment  generation – see also discovery H hedging , , , , ,  heuristics , , , ,  homunculus  honor , , ,  see also dishonor humanities , , , 

I icon ,  id , ,  identity , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , ,  individual , , , , ,  see also personality group –, , , , , , , , –, –, , , –,  ideologeme , , ,  ideology , , , , , –, , –, , , , –,  ignorance , , , ,  illusion , , , , , , , ,  see also self-illusion imagination , , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , –, ,  inaccessibility , , , , ,  see also access inclination , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also balance of reason incompatibility , , , ,  inconsistency , , , , –, , , , –, ,  incontinence see akrasia individualism , , , –, , , ,  ethical –,  methodological  individuality , , , ,  individuation , ,  injustice , , , –, , , , , 

 Subject index inner , , –, , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , –, ,  coherence  controversy see controversy, inner and self-controversy perception , , ,  speech , , , , , –, ,  innovation , , , , , , , , , ,  insult ,  intellect , ,  intention , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , ,  interlocution , , , , , , , , , , ,  interpersonal see intersubjectivity internalism , , ,  interpretation , , , , –, , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  intersubjectivity , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , ,  see also controversy, external intertextuality  intra-group ,  introspection , , , –, –, , –,  intuition , , , , , ,  irrationality , , , –, –, , , , ,  Islam , ,  isosthéneia  see also balance of reason

J justice , , , , , , , , , , , –, , –, , –, ,  see also injustice justification , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  K kathékonta ,  knowledge growth of , , , , –, ,  of content , , , ,  practical  self- see self-knowledge tacit ,  L language competence ,  game , , , , ,  inner see inner speech use see pragmatics liberalism , , –, , , , ,  linguistics , , ,  logic –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also necessity inductive  deductive , ,  non-monotonic ,  logoi , , , – see also two-logoi logos , , , ,  endiathetos , , ,  M majal , ,  manipulation , ,  master / slave ,  inner –

disciple , , , – memory , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , ,  mental health , ,  lexicon ,  multiplication ,  processing  representation , ,  metaphor , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  methodology , , , , , , , ,  metonymy , , –, ,  Middle Academy  misunderstanding , , , , , ,  modernity ,  monological , , , ,  moral consciousness  dilemma  doctrine , , ,  evaluation  rationality ,  reconciliation  superiority  motivational , ,  N narrative , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  nationalism  necessity logical , ,  natural , ,  New Academy , ,  normativism  O objectivity , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 

Subject index  objectivism  Old Academy  onto-pragmatics , , , ,  ontological , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  opponent , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , –, –, , –, , , , , , , , , ,  opposition , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  oppressed , , – otherness ,  P Palestinian , ,  pamphlet –, , , ,  partition , , , –,  pathos , , ,  person , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , –, , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also first person, inter-personal, intra-personal, personality, and self personality , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  multiple , ,  see also self, split perspectivism  persuasion , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also conviction and self-persuasion

phantasia , , ,  see also cognitive phantasia phantasma ,  phlogiston  pietism ,  plausibility , , ,  pluralism , , , , , ,  polemics , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also controversy, debate, discussion, and dispute politeness , , , , ,  see also honor and respectfulness positivism , , ,  pragma , ,  pragmatic , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  pragmatics , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also onto-pragmatics, psycho-pragmatics, and socio-pragmatics preference , , , , , – presumption , , , ,  probability ,  , , , , , –, ,  problem solving  proof , , , , , , , , , , , ,  burden of , , ,  proponent , , , , , , , , , , ,  prudence ,  psycho-pragmatics , , , , , ,  , , ,  psychoanalysis , –, , , , , –, , –, ,  psychodynamics , , , 

R rationality , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , –, , , , , , , ,  see also irrationality composite  epistemic  hard , , , –, , ,  moral ,  soft , , –, , , ,  rationalization ,  re-calculation  re-deliberation ,  reason, universal , , ,  see also balance of reason reasonable , , , , , , , , , , , ,  reconciliation , , ,  see also conciliation reference, problem of ,  reflection , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also introspection reformulation  reification , , , , –, – relativism , , , , , , , –,  religious see conversion reply, art of  reproach , ,  reputation , , , ,  respectfulness see communicative principle retraction , ,  rhetoric , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  of individuality , ,  of innovation ,  rights , , , , , , , ,  human , ,  role interchange , , 

 Subject index rule , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  methodological  of conduct , , , –,  S scales , ,  see also balance of reason science see also controversy, scientific axiology of  features of , , , ,  image of ,  practice of , , ,  search space  secondary quality , –,  self , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , –, , , , , –, , , , –,  conscious see consciousness contradiction ,  controversy –, , , , , , , , –, – conviction , , –, – deception , , –, –, , , –, , , –, , ,  delusion ,  discordance , , , ,  emotivist , , ,  examination ,  harmony , , , , ,  illusion – image ,  knowledge , , , , , , , , , , –, –

love , –, , , , ,  perception , ,  persuasion , , , ,  questioning  Rawlsian  relation , –, –,  split , , , , , ,  unencumbered , ,  semiotics , , , , , , , , , , , – see also sign sensation , , ,  sense see sensation impression , , , , ,  organs , , , , , – perception , ,  September 11  shifter ,  sign , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  skepticism , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  social drama , –, , – emotion , , , , ,  institutions  socio-pragmatics , ,  Socratic ,  Sokal affair , , , , , , – solidarity , , , ,  soliloquy , , –, –,  solipsism , , , , ,  sophistic , , ,  soul , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , 

parts of , , , , , , , ,  stasis  Stoa , , –, –, , , , ,  stratagem , , , ,  strategy , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  stubborn , ,  style , , , , , , , , , , , ,  subject(s) see also self knowing  plurality of ,  transcendental ,  universal ,  subjectivation , , ,  subjectivism , , , , , , ,  subjectivity , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, –,  see also intersubjectivity active  archaic –, , – dimensions of  foundation of , , , ,  sense of  subliminal  superego , ,  suspension of judgment , , ,  symbolic , , , –, – sympathize 

Subject index

T Taoism , , , , ,  “tit for tat”  temporality , , , , , , , , , –, , –, ,  tenacious , , , ,  theology , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  tolerance , ,  total evidence, principle of  see also epistemology tradition , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

–, , , , , ,  transcendental , , , , , , , , , , ,  twin earth , , ,  two cultures  two-logoi , , –, , , ,  U umbilical , , , , ,  Umwelt  uncertainty , , ,  unethical , , , 

Utilitarianism ,  V value epistemic , ,  incommensurability of ,  verification , ,  virtutes altercationis  voiceless speech  see also inner speech warrant, weakness of  will , , , ,  weakness of , , –, ,  see also akrasia



In the series Controversies the following titles have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication: 3 2 1

FROGEL, Shai: The Rhetoric of Philosophy. 2005. ix, 156 pp. EEMEREN, Frans H. van and Peter HOUTLOSSER (eds.): Argumentation in Practice. 2005. vii, 368 pp. BARROTTA, Pierluigi and Marcelo DASCAL (eds.): Controversies and Subjectivity. 2005. ix, 411 pp.