neither altruism nor egoism nor a conflation of the two, says DD, rightly... But there's no room for desire or cognition...
(still under construction)
Dennett does a wonderful job of pointing out how the desire that one's child prosper in the future corresponds neither to altruism (although, I might add, a theorist committed the existence of altruism might find what he's looking for in this example) nor to egoism (although, I might add, a theorist committed to the existence of egoism would find plenty of what he's looking for); nor does he think (if my memory serves me right) that the desire for this sort of thing is a mere conflation of the two sorts of desires (i.e., altruistic and egoistic). I heartily agree.
I can't help but suspect, however, that there is something autobiographic in his choice of an example. If so, this would be a case of personal experience overruling the tendency to ideology. Unwitting autobiography or not, his example makes the laudable point that human motivations include cases that fall outside of the prefabricated categories of egoism and altruism.
But the very act of bringing up motivation undercuts something else that Dennett has said. For egoism, altruism, and the unnamed alternative (communitarianism?) concern the object of desire. To consider which of these might motivate human action is to assume that actions are motivated by desires. Desires are not epiphenomenal. But in Conway's game of life, which Dennett has introduced earlier in the book, desires are epiphenomenal as I shall now argue.
The argument: Conway's game of life depicts processes in nature as following rules which, when combined behave like a living thing. Like a cognizant and desiring thing. But how is one to make this game "mean" cognition and desire? That's a big problem.
What in Conway's game stands for (the object of desire)?
***continue editing here***
... desire? Before we try to answer that, let us turn away from Conway's game of life to reflect on our own experience: the fist thing we'll notice upon reflecting is that our desires are always directed toward something. More specifically toward something with which we might interact (eating) or something which we may simply cognize (viewing a sunset). An egoistic desire, for example, is directed toward the operation of the one who desires. If the representations used in Conway's game of life are adequate for representing this facet of life, then there must be something in that game that "means" desire. More specifically, it would have to mean the desire to live or act in some way. An altruistic desire would be the desire for another to live or act well. It seems impossible to represent these (or any other sorts of desires) in this game.
A closely related problem attends cognition. Nothing in Conway's game of life can "mean" cognition any better than it can "mean" desire.
One might attempt to dodge this problem via recourse to the concept of inner-representation (which brings with it the problems of the Cartesian theater that DD has rightly pointed out). That is, one can propose that something inside the Conway organism represents what is outside. Such a strategy, however, won't do. After all, what is it in Conway's game of life that could "mean" a representation? Perhaps a little image in the brain of the thing being represented? Let's ignore the fact that neurologist neither have nor do they expect to find literal images in the brain. Let us suppose that something analogous thereto does exist between our two ears. If it is a representation, then how does it stand for something other than itself?
Conway's game of life offers no answer to that question, so we might consider how we even come up with the notion of representation in our everyday experience. Take a family picture, for example: why do I take it as representing my family? Well, because I can relate that image that I presently see to my wife and kids, whom I have frequently seen, talked to, etc. In other words, I am presently able to think of my family as represented in this picture only because I have previously become acquainted with them without the aid of a picture. But no Conway transformations are capable of "meaning" acquaintance as such; hence the recourse to the notion of representation seems question-begging.
Taking Conway's game of life as a representation of nature is to impoverish one's conception of nature. There is no room in it for desire or cognition.
But for the believer in reductionism, this is a problem only for the short term. Eventually, after sufficient scientific progress has been made, a sufficiently complex grasp of nature will arise, and it will explain our desires and cognitions in reductive terms--or so the true believer thinks. On that happy day, science will triumph over simplistic conceptions of nature. Until that day arrives, we can shoo away skeptical objections by proclaiming our confidence in the sophistication and open-mindedness of our approach. Blessed are the sophisticated, for they shall see things as they are, even before science has given naturalism its final vindication. Or we can speak as if that blessed day has already arrived. Let us suppose that there is a process X that is identical with appetite and or cognition (this sort of fiat is not unlike that of a child who pretends that a chair is a cow or a piano bench is a horse). When speaking to those who are not yet convinced, it is important to repeat the words "sophisticated," "complicated," and "simplistic" in order to put the issue in the correct light.
Dennett does a wonderful job of pointing out how the desire that one's child prosper in the future corresponds neither to altruism (although, I might add, a theorist committed the existence of altruism might find what he's looking for in this example) nor to egoism (although, I might add, a theorist committed to the existence of egoism would find plenty of what he's looking for); nor does he think (if my memory serves me right) that the desire for this sort of thing is a mere conflation of the two sorts of desires (i.e., altruistic and egoistic). I heartily agree.
I can't help but suspect, however, that there is something autobiographic in his choice of an example. If so, this would be a case of personal experience overruling the tendency to ideology. Unwitting autobiography or not, his example makes the laudable point that human motivations include cases that fall outside of the prefabricated categories of egoism and altruism.
But the very act of bringing up motivation undercuts something else that Dennett has said. For egoism, altruism, and the unnamed alternative (communitarianism?) concern the object of desire. To consider which of these might motivate human action is to assume that actions are motivated by desires. Desires are not epiphenomenal. But in Conway's game of life, which Dennett has introduced earlier in the book, desires are epiphenomenal as I shall now argue.
The argument: Conway's game of life depicts processes in nature as following rules which, when combined behave like a living thing. Like a cognizant and desiring thing. But how is one to make this game "mean" cognition and desire? That's a big problem.
What in Conway's game stands for (the object of desire)?
***continue editing here***
... desire? Before we try to answer that, let us turn away from Conway's game of life to reflect on our own experience: the fist thing we'll notice upon reflecting is that our desires are always directed toward something. More specifically toward something with which we might interact (eating) or something which we may simply cognize (viewing a sunset). An egoistic desire, for example, is directed toward the operation of the one who desires. If the representations used in Conway's game of life are adequate for representing this facet of life, then there must be something in that game that "means" desire. More specifically, it would have to mean the desire to live or act in some way. An altruistic desire would be the desire for another to live or act well. It seems impossible to represent these (or any other sorts of desires) in this game.
A closely related problem attends cognition. Nothing in Conway's game of life can "mean" cognition any better than it can "mean" desire.
One might attempt to dodge this problem via recourse to the concept of inner-representation (which brings with it the problems of the Cartesian theater that DD has rightly pointed out). That is, one can propose that something inside the Conway organism represents what is outside. Such a strategy, however, won't do. After all, what is it in Conway's game of life that could "mean" a representation? Perhaps a little image in the brain of the thing being represented? Let's ignore the fact that neurologist neither have nor do they expect to find literal images in the brain. Let us suppose that something analogous thereto does exist between our two ears. If it is a representation, then how does it stand for something other than itself?
Conway's game of life offers no answer to that question, so we might consider how we even come up with the notion of representation in our everyday experience. Take a family picture, for example: why do I take it as representing my family? Well, because I can relate that image that I presently see to my wife and kids, whom I have frequently seen, talked to, etc. In other words, I am presently able to think of my family as represented in this picture only because I have previously become acquainted with them without the aid of a picture. But no Conway transformations are capable of "meaning" acquaintance as such; hence the recourse to the notion of representation seems question-begging.
Taking Conway's game of life as a representation of nature is to impoverish one's conception of nature. There is no room in it for desire or cognition.
But for the believer in reductionism, this is a problem only for the short term. Eventually, after sufficient scientific progress has been made, a sufficiently complex grasp of nature will arise, and it will explain our desires and cognitions in reductive terms--or so the true believer thinks. On that happy day, science will triumph over simplistic conceptions of nature. Until that day arrives, we can shoo away skeptical objections by proclaiming our confidence in the sophistication and open-mindedness of our approach. Blessed are the sophisticated, for they shall see things as they are, even before science has given naturalism its final vindication. Or we can speak as if that blessed day has already arrived. Let us suppose that there is a process X that is identical with appetite and or cognition (this sort of fiat is not unlike that of a child who pretends that a chair is a cow or a piano bench is a horse). When speaking to those who are not yet convinced, it is important to repeat the words "sophisticated," "complicated," and "simplistic" in order to put the issue in the correct light.
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