Displaced Hours is an out-of-print novel by Ace Boggess (Gatto, 2004). In this tale of magic realism, a professor develops the belief that he can insert his consciousness into other people’s bodies, whereby he briefly controls their actions and enjoys their experiences before returning to his own body. The mechanism for this consciousness shift is a haunted clock. The device “gave me everything I wanted,” he says. “There was nothing I couldn’t find in time. Now I used that clock like a wiretap or a hidden camera.” He takes the journey many times.
Another character in the novel calls the concept “cross-consciousness.” Whatever such experiences may properly be called, they allow the professor to “go anywhere and do anything” and thus turn his life into a series of philosophical “thought experiments,” especially of the ethical sort. That is: By granting him a temporary lease on life that is measured in minutes and is devoid of consequences, these experiences allow him to make choices that are ethically questionable and that he would not otherwise make. The professor refers to the haunted clock as an “ethical device” and a “morality machine” because “it set up an infinite number of hypotheses I could test to their extremes.”
Cross-consciousness experiences become increasingly alluring for him. They also lead him to madness.
“…I locked myself away like the changing werewolf in an old horror film, except that I was more dangerous in my cage than out. I think I might have said a prayer of some sort, but I doubt anyone heard it. These were idle words without repentance and just a few hints of remorse. I pulled my chair over as usual and opened the dome of the clock.”
—Ace Boggess, Displaced Hours
The novel makes me wonder what philosophers are really doing when we engage in “thought experiments.” When we provisionally consider a course of action, are we mainly curious to establish what it would feel like to take that action? Do we also need to know what the consequences would be for ourselves or others? Is the assumption that, if the consequences were bad, we would immediately end the thought experiment rather than stick around and take responsibility?
It also reminds me that there are many real-life consequences we never face because our actions cannot be tied back to us in a straightforward manner with evidence a detective could use. This happens for nearly all collective actions (as when a million people use a scarce resource that is denied to another million people, for example), and also for personal actions that no one else happens to witness or follow up on. By some twist of fortune, we often escape others’ prying eyes and don’t have to take any more responsibility for our choices. But in another sense, the lingering consequences are tied to us in (shall we say?) a “spiritual” sense. That’s because, after all, we were the ones who did it. Not some experimental personae. It was we who made the choice. We remember (even if no one else does) that we used our conscious minds to make the choice. We know this is true, even if there is little evidence in the material world that traces the current state of affairs back to us. We live with the knowledge of what we did.
–– from 6 years ago; proving that the Philosophers’ Cafe is a tradition!
The Philosophers’ Cafe, a forum for intellectual discussion and enlightenment, held at Mrs. Riches Dinner Club in Nanaimo on Monday, began like no other; it began with a test!
Bob Lane, the speaker for the evening, was in fine form, asking his audience to digest more than their dinners.
After an energetic and colourful introduction, Bob told us to forget everything the moderator had just said; he then introduced the theme for his discussion: Paradox and Discovery, and began to administer his test.
“No talking,” Bob said. “And each question on the test will be asked once and only once.” As a former student of Bob’s, I was dreading what I thought would come next: “And wrongs will be subtracted from rights” I was waiting for him say; but he didn’t. The audience was up for the test – pens and paper came out – some used napkins – but we all began the same way: by trying to follow Bob’s deliberately twisted and convoluted tale of an airplane which goes off course, twice, and crashes on the Canada/US border. Question one: “Where do you bury the survivors?” Question two: “Who is closer to the baby bull – the mama bull or the papa bull?” Question three: “Draw a small cased “I” with a dot over it”. And finally number four began: “Imagine you are a bus driver…” Pens were heating up as the audience tried to keep track of the number of passengers getting on and off the bus, until, finally, Bob poses his question: “How old is the bus driver?”
There were a few “sharpies” in the audience who got all four questions right (me, included, but I had heard these puzzles previously in “Rhetoric and Reasoning” and epistemology classes, so I had a just a slight advantage over some of the others who were puzzling over these puzzles for the first time). The puzzles were just the warm-up, for what was to follow, however.
Bob suggested that we look at philosophy as a process of Paradox and Discovery. “Puzzles” he said, “are at the heart of philosophy and of science”. Then, he read us: “The Swirl” – a verbal paradox first suggested by pragmatist William James, in which we try to determine if, in circling a tree, we “go around” the squirrel, while the squirrel “goes around” the tree. Feeling a little dizzy? Puzzled perhaps? There’s more.
Following the warm-up puzzles, Bob poses another question; this one is not on the test: “How do you know that you are NOT a brain in a vat on Venus?” In an attempt to solve the puzzle, and remove some puzzled looks from puzzled faces, Bob reviewed Descartes‘ Meditations on First Philosophy in which Descartes proposes puzzles of his own.
Suppose there’s an evil genius bent on deceiving you. Everything you thought to be true would be false. One member of the audience asked: “Does it matter that we can be deceived?” Bob’s answer, after a short clarification of what he meant by describing Descartes’ skepticism as “corrosive,” (the way in which Descartes systematically erodes every day beliefs) was a clear and succinct: “You can’t hold false beliefs”.
In attempt to to assist those who were truly puzzled, by this point in the discussion, moderator, and sometimes mediator, reminded us of Neo, the hero of the sci-fi movie: The MATRIX, and his reality. “Our senses or perceptions are not the same for everybody” said one audience member. And, I think unbeknownst to himself, a Criminologist solved the philosophical problem of solipsism, by arguing that we have “shared experiences of reality, although our experiences are of different colours, shades, or hues”. “Truth corrodes – truth is arbitrary” said the same audience member who had earlier asked: “does it matter?”
Moderator’s answer: “It matters (at least sometimes) when we say: Truth, or Really”.
“Reality and truth turn the cranks of philosophers” Bob said.
And he closed with Russell’s Teapot:
“If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.”
And in case we digested the discussion thus far, Bob offered us dessert by giving Richard Dawkins the last word:
“The reason organized religion merits outright hostility is that, unlike belief in Russell’s teapot, religion is powerful, influential, tax-exempt and systematically passed on to children too young to defend themselves. Children are not compelled to spend their formative years memorizing loony books about teapots. Government-subsidized schools don’t exclude children whose parents prefer the wrong shape of teapot. Teapot-believers don’t stone teapot-unbelievers, teapot-apostates, teapot-heretics and teapot-blasphemers to death. Mothers don’t warn their sons off marrying teapot-shiksas whose parents believe in three teapots rather than one. People who put the milk in first don’t knee-cap those who put the tea in first.”
I enjoyed much more than my tea at the Philosopher’s Cafe. But I’m still puzzled – and I guess, as a Philosopher (not a scientist), that’s the way it should be!!
Thanks, Bob. As usual, it was more than good; it was great!
[Photo credit: Erik M. Lane, BS, BSc]
How do conspiracy theories arise? Why, despite how implausible they sound to most people, are they so “sticky” for others?
Telling stories that aren’t true
Neal Roese, in If Only: How to Turn Regret Into Opportunity (2005), discusses the role of counterfactual expressions—that is, things that just aren’t so. At their best, they help us analyze a situation and seek a better path. One type of counterfactual is “it could have been worse” which is supposed to serve as consolation.
Here’s one of Roese’s examples. An employee of Cantor Fitzgerald—a company that suddenly lost hundreds of employees in New York City when the World Trade Center fell on September 11, 2001—survived because he happened to be inquiring about a gym membership and was not in the office when the plane hit the building. The counterfactual narrative that he easily might have died does not meaningfully explain why he lived. The simple observation of his near-brush with death, applied to this situation of survivor’s guilt and when taken up as an existential perspective, “is a counterfactual that shoots blanks,” Roese says. Such an approach “can get in the way of successful coping by conjuring phantom explanations and phony sense making or simply by failing to provide resolution and understanding.”
The man’s survival is random, yet that answer leaves most of us itching. Some will contort themselves to come up with a different explanation.
What existential function might a conspiracy theory serve?
A conspiracy theory—pick one, any one—is, in my view, a more elaborate kind of counterfactual. It asserts itself to be true, or at least plausible and meriting more inquiry, but it is not true. Like other counterfactuals, it serves the need to point out unresolved questions and find some way to make sense of the world.
“seems to be part of a coping mechanism: a human instinct to deal with large, unexpected, and often tragic events. Sometimes things just happen randomly; not for any reason, not because of sinister forces. And in human psychology, randomness is much more threatening than discernible causes, even if those causes are shadowy or sinister.”
We tend to want to believe that Someone (or Something) is calling the shots and that what happens to us (or to our known world) matters within some grand plan.
Conspiracy theories are often products of paranoia. A paranoid person believes that “you can’t trust what you see, so you need to interpret and see behind the surface presentations of situations,” David J. LaPorte wrote in Paranoid: Exploring Suspicion from the Dubious to the Delusional (2015). Such people report experiencing a “sudden clarification,” which feels as if they “immediately recognize [an event] for ‘what it really is.’” Their sudden clarification feels true even if it is not.
A believer in a conspiracy theory, Klaas says, is “choosing to discount evidence and rational thought in favor of snippets of ‘What if?’ speculation.” In this case, unfortunately, “the normal way of convincing someone of an idea by presenting rational thought and evidence just isn’t very effective.” It is hard to persuade someone to abandon these theories. They are constructed in such a way that they cannot be falsified, and criticism only triggers a paranoid person’s suspicion of outsiders.
I have never knowingly been a conspiracy theorist on any matter. Generally, such stories are repugnant to my occasionally obsessive fact-checking habits, to my worldview in which ethics does not reduce to a battle between good and evil, to my personality that tends to be more trusting and less paranoid, and to the social bonds I form with people whose attitudes are similar to my own.
I do, however, see how conspiracy theories might appeal to someone else. Counterfactuals more generally—the past that wasn’t, the future that isn’t yet—are “entertaining,” according to Roese, because they are imaginative variations on a known theme, and they are “cognigenic, meaning that they spur further creative thought.” I suggest that conspiracy theories, too, fit this description. They are intricate fictions and mostly self-contained worlds. If I were to allow myself to spend time with one and if I were to engage it on its own terms, I could see myself growing fond of it.
One of Klaas’ interviewees for Power Corrupts says that believing in a conspiracy theory predisposes one to begin believing in yet another, even if the two theories are unrelated or contradictory. Klaas describes conspiracy theories as having “a weird way of metastasizing: they morph as they spread; they grow more outlandish; the conspiracy gets weirder and weirder as people build on the unhinged beliefs of others.” For this reason, to me, such stories feel a bit dangerous, like ideological gateway drugs, and I have always avoided them when I recognize them.
What we become
At the end of the road of a multitude of conspiracy theories, a person may be well trained in the consistent rejection of logic.
According to Michael Specter, author of Denialism: How Irrational Thinking Harms the Planet and Threatens Our Lives (2009), the rejection of science is a coping strategy for living in an increasingly technological society that every day becomes a little harder to understand. When people are fearful and “decide that science can’t solve their problems,” they may abandon scientific process and findings, gravitating instead toward some other answer on the merits of its perceived popularity. This is a problem: “Either you believe evidence that can be tested, verified, and repeated will lead to a better understanding of reality,” Specter warns, “or you don’t. There is nothing in between but the abyss.”
In politics, similarly, embracing a multitude of conspiracy theories may lead a person to distrust and reject democratic principles. Ultimately, experts are not believed; leaders are not trusted; process is not given credibility; norms are not understood; facts cannot be verified; no one can be held accountable. This is a terrible outcome, but it is hard to stop conspiracy theories from starting and spreading. Perhaps being aware of their psychological function can prompt us to think of other ways to confront the human fear of random, small, and impersonal causes.
We’re all hypocrites. Why? Hypocrisy is the natural state of the human mind.
Robert Kurzban shows us that the key to understanding our behavioral inconsistencies lies in understanding the mind’s design. The human mind consists of many specialized units designed by the process of evolution by natural selection. While these modules sometimes work together seamlessly, they don’t always, resulting in impossibly contradictory beliefs, vacillations between patience and impulsiveness, violations of our supposed moral principles, and overinflated views of ourselves.
This modular, evolutionary psychological view of the mind undermines deeply held intuitions about ourselves, as well as a range of scientific theories that require a “self” with consistent beliefs and preferences. Modularity suggests that there is no “I.” Instead, each of us is a contentious “we”–a collection of discrete but interacting systems whose constant conflicts shape our interactions with one another and our experience of the world.
In clear language, full of wit and rich in examples, Kurzban explains the roots and implications of our inconsistent minds, and why it is perfectly natural to believe that everyone else is a hypocrite.
Does religion spur persons to engage in such nonviolent political activities as signing petitions, joining in boycotts, participating in demonstrations, taking part in unofficial strikes, occupying buildings and factories, or voting and membership in political parties?
A large cross-national study recently published in Religion, State, and Society examines the relationship between religion and political activity. Researchers at the University of Kansas examined data that covered over three decades in order to look at the influence that various religious factors had on political participation. The lead researcher, commenting on the new study, reckons from the data that “religious beliefs, by themselves, do not suffice to motivate individuals to act politically.” Thus: “it is incorrect to infer political behavior from religious beliefs alone.”
The study itself informs us that while religion may well influence individuals’ opinions on hot-button issues (take same-sex marriage, abortion as examples), personal religiosity doesn’t necessarily propel persons to political participation. Rather, it interacts with secular configurations and pressures to encourage or deter individuals from engaging with the political world. The study abstract, in summarizing the research, indicates that individuals become more likely to engage in political activity of the types examined due to their affiliation with others, whether it be membership in religious organizations or belonging to other voluntary associations of a secular nature.
My brother and his family were visiting Greece these past days. They went to Athens, and then from there they sailed to the islands of Santorini and Mykonos. What a wonderful trip! My 12 year-old niece loves mythology and knows a little bit about philosophers so they really enjoyed seeing all the classical sites and museums (besides enjoying wonderful wine, food and views of course). The first picture my brother sent was the front view of the Parthenon. He pointed out that the one sculpture remaining in the pendant of the actual building is that of Dionysius. As my mother loves wine he joked: “after 2500 years, Dionysius is the only survivor!” However, the Dionysius they found in a museum had only half face, no neck, torso, neither arms nor legs, and only one hand holding a glass. Here he said: “ Well, here only the glass survived!” (Perhaps he drank in excess – haha).But not everything was about humor, pictures, restaurants, museums, or being a tourist. He told us that being there gives you a natural motivation to think about thinking… nice. Traveling and thinking about thinking sounds like a good life; feeling that you are really alive. I don’t have the money to travel to Greece but it is my consolation to think that going back to the Greeks and thinking about what they said is as good as travelling there (this is half joke, half serious).
Today is Sunday and on Sundays I rest as most. On Sundays I have time to do laundry, to plan my week, to go for a long bike ride, to think. I sit down or lay down here on the sofa sometimes, staring at the window, the blue sky and the cloud formation, listening to the birds and feeling the breeze. I need to use this time I have to think, to learn something, to make my mind a better mind, to clear it so I have some insight about something. But how do I do that. I read good stuff, I download some podcast and then I think about it, I think about what bothers me, my never ending ruminating, my feelings. However, sometimes I think I don’t make any progress and my mind is still not very clear, not very clever. The Greeks said that before trying to learn something new we need to know ourselves: ‘Know Thyself’. Know my self sounds wise,but if the self is just an artifice, an illusion, what exactly am I to get to know?If I analyze my thoughts or my actions, then I interpret them, I go on and on with analysis: labeling something good or bad, convenient, undesirable, mistaken, well done, etc. But I do not think the Greeks meant such a methodology could lead to self-knowledge. All right, let me go back: If we accept that self is not an entity to be known, we surely can accept that mind is, just because mind simply exists. OK, I need to understand mind. That requires knowledge in philosophy, psychology, neurology, and more. Wow, that is a lot of studying! But surely the Greek saying was meant for everyone as a practical motto relating to living a good life, not an academic endeavor, so not only experts could achieve the goal. It has to be hard but not so hard; one hopes!
Know thyself: knowledge of my own self, an exploration of my own self to find something true about its nature, its workings. My mind is something amazing. My work is done thanks to my mind’s prodigious processing capacity. Has it happened to you that sometimes your brain corrects some mistake it has made WAY AFTER the fact and when not even thinking about the fact (which is what I find amazing)?
I remember when I was working for a telecommunications shop in Canada; I was always very worried about doing things correctly.My job was repairing radio equipment for loggers. When a radio fails and you are in the middle of the forest, it can be trouble, so I was very keen on doing a good job. One afternoon I had repaired a radio and the client had picked it up and left satisfied. That night I woke up at midnight with the thought that I hadn’t installed a small protection component. Next day I called the client who came back to have his equipment re-checked. I had not, in fact, installed that component. My brain told me in my dream what I had forgotten while doing the job. Fantastic! But my brain is also very annoying! The ever present chatting, rumination, story making and the feelings all those thoughts give me drive me crazy. I have explored meditation in order to be more focused and to stop the chatting, and although I have not had success in adopting the practice, I think it definitely works. I am wondering now how meditation could relate to knowing myself. Here, then, is something to explore. I have to try to retake the practice first. Despite my not understanding how to go about knowing myself, I surely believe it is fundamental.
Well, it is 6 pm, no more time for thinking. It is time for drinking. No more Socrates but Dionysus! Until next time.
Imagine taking a substance that alters your perception of reality such that the language you have developed so far according to your naturally occurring experience is useless to convey these new thoughts. But you know they make sense, and you know if you could talk about them they would make sense to others too.
Well, you can’t really, unless you’re the one taking the trip down these newly carved neuronal pathways. In this case, it’s me and the magic mushrooms I just took. I came out on the other side all shaken up/out and with one main question: If a philosopher takes a mind-altering drug alone in her room, is she still philosophizing?
Let me start off by saying it is very rare for me. In the few times I have taken psychedelics I have been too modest in my dose to achieve anything resembling a trip (with the exception of salvia, which I do not recommend). This is the first I’d felt, if I can attempt a vague metaphor, an opening of the mind. I thought I’d have to wait until my deathbed to have any entirely new thoughts, and yet here they were a fungi away. I felt frightened, exhilarated, frustrated, and like I wish I did this more often, though my typical arrangement does not think that’s a good idea.