Assessing the Burden of Proof

Well, I've been awfully busy lately but somehow the fact that I'm almost done with my work for the semester makes it that much easier to procrastinate and not finish it. Figures. Anyway, there's an issue that seems to be coming to the fore a lot in my thinking lately, so I'd like to post some thoughts about it. The issue in question is this: How should we go about assessing where the burden of proof should fall in debate?

I should back up a bit, so that we can see why this is an important question. The issue comes up perhaps most readily in some relatively recent work in epistemology (see, in particular, Jim Pryor's "The Skeptic and The Dogmatist"), where it is admitted that we may not have any means by which to refute the skeptic, but this does not mean that we must accept that his conclusions either (i.e. that we have no knowledge, or justified beliefs, or whatever the conclusions of the particular skeptic are). That is, the fact that we cannot, as it were, beat the skeptic at his own game by offering convincing (i.e. sound and non-question-begging) arguments against him does not show that his conclusions are correct. The issue here thus comes down to assessing the relevant burden of proof. In particular, is the burden on us (non-skeptics) to refute the skeptic on her own terms or, rather, is the burden on the skeptic to give us some reason to think that we ought to take her argumentative presuppositions seriously? Much of the "classical" work in the literature seems to suppose the former but, absent an argument, why not think the burden is on the skeptic (or, is at least shared by the skeptic)? To make this perhaps a bit clearer, let's imagine an example argument that could be offered by a "Cartesian" skeptic:
(1) You can't know anything about the external world unless you can rule out the possibility that some epistemically "bad" conditions obtain (e.g. that one is being deceived by an evil demon, etc.)
(2) If you were being deceived by an evil demon (i.e. some "bad" conditions obtain), then your experiences would be, from your point of view, indistinguishable from veridical experiences.
(3) So, if (2), you would be unable to rule out the possibility that some epistemically "bad" conditions obtain based on your experience.
(4) (And here's where we break from Descartes) There's no good reason to think that you can rule out the possibility that epistemically "bad" conditions obtain (since this is, presumably, a contingent matter) by pure internal reflection alone (i.e. on a priori grounds).
(5) So, you cannot know anything about the external world.
Now, this argument looks valid (and, if it isn't, it could easily be patched up), but why should we, as the skeptic thinks we should, accept the premises? Indeed, one might think that since we clearly do know things about the external world, this argument constitutes a reductio against the conjunction of the premises (i.e. (1)&(2)&(4)). Now, it is true that such a maneuver could not refute the skeptic, since it would beg the question (i.e. by taking as given the claim that we really do know things about the external world which, according to the skeptic, is the very claim whose truth is at issue). However, it might be that it is eminently more reasonable to reject one of the premises ((1), in particular, seems weakest) than to accept the conclusion.
Here then is the crux of the issue: We have reached a dialectical point at which neither interlocutor can make a non-question-begging argument against the other. We are at utter loggerheads (this seems to happen quite a lot in recent debates in metaphysics, especially in issues involving qualia and consciousness in the philosophy of mind) with, apparently, no means by which to resolve the issue.

So, the problem that we've reached is this: we must assess a burden of proof issue in some debate, and it seems clear that the strategy of providing sound arguments from premises that both parties accept will not work (because there are no such premises that can do the needed work). How, then, shall we proceed? Richard Creath gave a talk on Carnap yesterday, and he discussed an idea that might be of use here: Carnap's Principle of Tolerance. Now, I should warn you ahead of time that I haven't actually read the relevant sections of Carnap, but Creath's Carnap was clear enough, so I'll be talking about Creath's take on Carnap. In any event, this principle seems to be a softening of the hardcore positivist stance with respect to metaphysics (i.e. that most of the statements employed therein are meaningless). The idea of the Principle of Tolerance, rather, is that we should treat theoretical claims as proposals and not statements and thus, that we should assess them in terms of their pragmatic usefulness (especially in undergirding scientific research programmes) and not in terms of their truth. Thus, says the Tolerant Carnap, let the metaphysicians have their day, provided that their concepts can at least be stated clearly enough so that their pragmatic benefits can be assessed.

Something like the Principle of Tolerance, then, seems to give us the resources to resolve burden of proof issues. Even in cases where the disagreeing parties might have radically different conceptual schemes, such that neither can argue against the other without begging the question, they may still agree to let pragmatic usefulness (in the sense of underwriting a research program) arbitrate the dispute.

Now, perhaps I've put the view unfairly, but I'm skeptical as to whether, ultimately, this will help. If we are considering radically divergent types of views here, it seems a legitimate possibility that they might agree to let pragmatism win the day and yet disagree regarding which position would, in fact, be more fruitful. Indeed, if the debate is between, say, competing logical systems (or positions in philosophy of logic, say, between Logicists and Intuitionists), the disagreeing parties might not even be able to agree on what follows from what. At most, each could claim that, according to their inference rules, such-and-such follows but, of course, the other could rely on some other, incompatible, inference rules. Another problem is that, by requiring "precise" formulations, Carnap's principle might not be so tolerant after all. Again, if we're dealing with radically divergent conceptual schemes, it may be simply impossible for either side to explain themselves in terms that are intelligible to the other.

So, the question remains: How should we go about assessing burden of proof issues? There seem to be situations wherein we simply cannot resolve disputes by argumentation; where does this leave us? Does it show that, at least in some cases, it is neither necessary nor sufficient to refute one's dialectical opponent in order to continue to (rationally) hold onto one's position, or is this intolerable dogmatism?

Whew, that was quite a post. Making up for lost time, I guess.

What's in a Name?

As those of you familiar with philosophy and logic already know, using quantifier terms as names is a really bad idea. In case you're not familiar with this, the problem is basically that, presumably, we wouldn't want the claim "Everybody loves tacos" to be true just because someone decided to name their kid 'Everybody' and he, in fact, loves tacos. So, this is pretty clear to those of us with backgrounds in even a little bit of logic. However, you may need to teach this to your students at some point and, in thinking about this today, I thought of a funny (and perhaps useful) way of looking at it.

In the Odyssey, there is a scene in which Odysseus and his crew are stranded on an island populated by hostile cyclopes. They are captured by a particular cyclops named Polyphemos, who intends to eat them, I think. Anyhow, when Polyphemos inquires after his name, Odysseus cleverly introduces himself as 'Nobody', which Polyphemos more-or-less uncritically accepts. When Polyphemos falls asleep, Odysseus and his men poke out his eye with a huge sharpened stick, and escape by tying themselves to the undersides of his sheep. Polyphemos cries out for help, and his fellow cyclopes reply by asking him who is hurting him. Now the real problem is apparent: Polyphemos replies by stating that "Nobody is hurting me." As a result, the other cyclopes are puzzled and fail to come to the aid of Polyphemos while Odysseus and his men escape.

So, the moral of the story is: If you interpret quantifier terms as names, you'll have your eye poked out, your sheep stolen, and your friends won't even help you. If that's not a Brandom-esque proto-norm, I don't know what is! (By "Brandom-esque proto-norm" I am referring to Brandom's picture of norms arising from non-normative sanctions--punishment basically--as described in Making It Explicit, which is an extraordinarily complex and interesting work.)

I Have a Blog?!

(The title of this post should be read with an expression of slightly irritated astonishment, in order to pay homage to Prince John's line in Robin Hood: Men in Tights: "I have a mole?!") Welcome to my blog! Before I get down to anything serious, I should make a few caveats. First, those who know me can attest to the fact that, despite my being a philosopher, having a blog, and having given said blog a seemingly pretentious title and description, neither I nor my blog is accurately described as pretentious. In fact, it is my view that, as far as purportedly philosophical blogs go, it is a general truth (perhaps nomological!) that pretension and quality of philosophical inquiry are inversely proportional. Furthermore, I think it is also a fact that the philosophical quality of blogs often varies more-or-less directly with their jocularity. Hence, my Augustian advice for interpretation of this blog: if it appears pretentious to you, reinterpret the offending lines in a manner such that it is obvious that they are intended humorously.

Now, with that out of the way, why am I making a blog? As far as I can see, there are at least three advantages (can you tell that I'm an analytic philosopher now?). First, there's the obvious but important fact that it will provide me with an excellent way to pretend to get something productive accomplished when I don't feel like doing serious work. Second, I've noticed that, since beginning graduate school, the quality of my thinking has increased while the quality of my writing has decreased, so I'm hoping that writing in a less formal style will help to improve my serious writing as well. Third, this blog should give me a forum in which to write about things which I find philosophically interesting, but that don't really fit into the sorts of discussions that I have normally. I'll do my best to be clear, but prepare yourself for some ideas that may be less than half-baked.

Finally, I'll offer an explanation as to the title of this blog. I once saw a bumper sticker that advised (commanded? I can never tell how forceful the imperatives in bumper stickers are supposed to be) that I "Live an Incredible Life." That's not a bad slogan, I suppose, but I think a much better slogan is: "Live an Incredulous Life." Now, I'm hardly a committed skeptic or anything like that, but I think that's more-or-less the rule that I live by (whether I want to or not!)--the world just strikes me as a profoundly strange place, which presents more fascinating questions than could possibly be answered (or even asked) in a lifetime. Philosophy is, I think, ultimately about confronting this strangeness. I think Wilfrid Sellars expressed this sentiment (or something quite similar) better when he noted that: "The aim of philosophy is to understand how things in the broadest possible sense of the term hang together in the broadest possible sense of the term."