Alfred

Obviously there are varieties of skepticism.

For example, some people have been reluctant to uncritically accept the existence of wood nymphs, satyrs, and so on. Now wood nymphs are well aware of the existence of satyrs, as would you be, were you an imperiled wood nymph, at least past puberty, and satyrs have no doubt as to the existence of wood nymphs, at least past puberty, for their pursuit constitutes one of life’s joys.

There are local skepticisms and global skepticisms.

For example, a lonely wood nymph may be skeptical of the existence of a satyr in a neighboring glade, or of the honorableness of his motivations, should he lurk there. But what satyr, lacking desperation, would wish to be introduced to a wood nymph’s family, particularly if she was blessed with a stern, suspicious mother and several robust, muscular brothers? And he, in his turn, might be skeptical of the sanity of a wood nymph who might have so dismal an afternoon in mind.

But these are local skepticisms.

Other examples of local skepticisms might be a skepticism regarding an alleged number of quarks in an apple, the true motivations of a homicidal barracuda, the contents of a jam jar, the date of Sherlock Holmes’ birth, and so on. There are reasonably clear ways of looking into such things, and addressing such issues.

Most skepticisms are local

On the other hand, some skepticisms are, as it is said, global.

And surely these are the interesting skepticisms, if only because they tend to annoy philosophers.

Philosophers are strange people.

There is no doubt about that.

They are easily annoyed, or, at least, intrigued, by problems which most folks do not know exist, and, if informed, would just as soon did not exist.

One is global skepticism.

I would not be going into this, if it were not for Alfred.

First, in order to be somewhat more clear on what is going on here, let us distinguish between what we might call classical skepticisms and Cartesian skepticisms.

Briefly, classical skepticism is a salvation philosophy, a recommendation as to how to live, primarily by forgetting about a lot of stuff not worth worrying about in the first place.

To be sure, as these fellows are philosophers they cannot simply go about forgetting, as you or I, or most folks, might. They have to work hard at it. As it might be put, there are five modes, or such, involved: Discrepancy, relativity, regress, assumption and circularity. We won’t go into much detail here because I am trying to get to Alfred. Discrepancy recognizes that not everyone agrees with everyone else; people, cultures, and such, differ; and relativity notes that many folks, cultures, and such, see things relative to their own situations, interests, natures, backgrounds, and such. The most interesting modes, regress, assumption, and circularity, tend to suggest that you are going to be stuck with discrepancy and relativity. How are you going to prove something—for sure, of course, as these guys are serious.

The best way to go about piling up absolute knowledge, and what other kind could there be, is to get your mind on self-evident propositions, and then hasten on to further truths via the avenues of logic. Now discrepancy and relativity suggest that obviously self-evident propositions may be in short supply. If a proposition is not obviously self-evident then perhaps we could derive it from another which is, and if, predictably, that one is not obviously self-evident either, then one can take another shot at things, and so on. And here we have regress. Which in theory could be an infinite regress, but one with no end in sight is probably about as good. One can, of course, simply assume something, but that is not to prove it, and represents not an argument but an abandonment of argument. And, indeed, this exposes one to the philosophical uppercut of being denounced as a dogmatist, which is bad. The skeptics tend to be dogmatic about these things. That approach, move, or dodge, of course, is assumption. But what if folks, most folks, should agree that something is self-evident? Might they not be mistaken? Might it not only seem to be self-evident, and simply be, treacherously, fraudulently, deplorably, merely psychologically coercive? But, even if we sweep this under the philosophical rug, circularity looms. Most simply, there must be a criterion for truth, say, for validity or for veridical perception. And is the criterion right? For example, an argument is valid if and only if it is a legitimate substitution instance of a valid argument form, but where do we get valid argument forms from? We get them from arguments that seem to us valid. Similarly, if we take forcefulness, or nonrepudiability, or such, as a criterion for veridical perception, where do we get that from, from forcible impressions, from things which seem to us ungetoverable, nonrepudiable, and so on.

The supposed upshot of all this is to undercut the dogmatic pretense to absolute knowledge, particularly inferences from experience to transempirical claims.. Indeed, there are even logical problems with such inferences. Now things are, of course, much more complicated than this, truly, given conflicts of appearances, the fragilities of inductive reasoning, the various strategies of counterpoise, and so on, but we are trying to move toward Alfred.

We might note, in passing, however, before we leave these views, that the skeptic is not claiming to know one cannot know anything, which would be paradoxical, at the least, but rather is suggesting that we refrain from dogmatism. A suggestion is neither true nor false. The idea seems to be that one should not waste one’s time on insoluble problems, but, realizing they are insoluble, abandon them and get on with life. One tends to make do with one’s local values and beliefs, but one sees them now, of course, in a new light.

Perhaps the most interesting form of global skepticism, and that in the context of which I first met Alfred, is “Cartesian skepticism.” This term is derived, of course, from the name of the substantially 17th Century French philosopher René Descartes, who had to cope with one of the most brilliant, remarkable, and peculiar minds in the Western tradition, his own. Descartes was a marvelous mathematician, to which every x-axis and y-axis will attest, and he was also, in his day, a leading physicist, perhaps most famous for his theories of the plenum (no empty space) and vortices (rather like lusty, turbulent, on-the-move gravity wells, and such). His physics was eclipsed by that of Isaac “Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Newton but it does have its affinities, remote or otherwise, to that of Albert “No-Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Einstein. There seems to be little doubt, except possibly on the part of Descartes, that Descartes was a much better mathematician and physicist than he was a philosopher, at least given what we know of his philosophy. He seems to have bequeathed to philosophy some of her most shocking non sequiturs and circularities. I, personally, effect nothing critical on this score, being personally fond of non sequiturs and circularities, without which it seems that philosophy must remain forever mired in the ruts of prosaic ratiocination. Too, one cannot expect everything of everyone. One does not object should it turn out that Sir Isaac Newton was not skilled at checkers, or that Einstein might have played a mediocre third base. Now, whereas it seems clear that Descartes was not a very good philosopher, it is also quite clear that he was a great philosopher. To be a great philosopher, you see, does not necessitate being a good philosopher. These are diverse properties, but both are valuable to the discipline. Although this is controversial, as is just about everything else in philosophy, Descartes awakened philosophy, turned her around, and gave her new directions. After Descartes philosophy was different. He shut the door on the middle ages and opened that to a modern world, one attentive to mathematics, physics, observation, experiment, open-mindedness, and untrammeled thought, maybe not good thought, but untrammeled thought. As Galileo was to physics Descartes was to philosophy, though Descartes had the common sense to keep a low profile on certain sensitive matters. I will mention only three philosophical triumphs, or catastrophes, amongst several, for which philosophy is primarily indebted to Descartes, the mind/body problem, introspective foundationalism, and methodological skepticism. The mind/body problem is how the mind, presumably not in space, thus without physical location, and not extended, and without mass, solidity, weight, and such, can interact with an extended substance in space, matter, with mass, solidity, and weight, and such, and, indeed, vice versa, how can matter interact with the mind, which, presumably not in space, would seem thereby to be somewhat out of reach. Luckily for us Descartes, as a substance whose essence was thought, managed to solve this problem for us, in virtue of nonexistent animal spirits congregating in an obscure, unpaired gland. That leaves, of course, introspective foundationalism and methodological skepticism. Introspective foundationalism suggests that all we can initially be absolutely sure of are aspects of our own first-person experience, for example, appearances, or, better, seemings and looks, and logical truths. Note that one is starting here, so to speak, on the inside. The problem then is how from the inside one can obtain knowledge of the outside. Now methodological skepticism is going to be what is of most interest to us here, for, you see, this will lead us to Alfred.

At one point in his life, apparently having some time on his hands, Descartes decided to embark on a fascinating philosophical journey, the outcome of which was to establish what he knew—for sure. Both classical skeptics and Cartesian skeptics are interested primarily in knowledge for sure. Knowledge maybe was just not good enough. The following few days were surely amongst the most momentous in the history of philosophy. The first thing he wanted to do was to make sure he existed. I do not know if he explained this project to his landlady. Here is where the famous cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am—comes in. He wanted to doubt everything possible, to pare away what he did not know, and thus come eventually to an irreducible nodule of the indubitable. Since he was doubting, he supposed there had to be a doubter, and this required thinking, and thinking required a thinker, and so on. And then he jumped to the surprising conclusion that the thinker involved must be a being whose essence was thought, and so on. Here comes the mind/body problem. The brain, one supposes, would not do the trick. How could matter think? And where in a brain might one find a thinker, and so on. And then he was off and running with a series of desperate, peculiar, interestingly unconvincing arguments which, even to this day, confuse, startle, and dismay undergraduates, even those whose majors are media studies. And Descartes would not rest, of course, until he had, at least to his own satisfaction, confidently guaranteed, replaced, and restored everything, to the last jot and tittle, which he had resolved to doubt in the first place. After all, what’s the point of going away, if you can’t come home? That’s where you want to be. Things are different, of course. Now you are entitled to live there.

We are nearly to Alfred, of course.

Thank you for your patience.

Descartes asked himself, in the course of undertaking his campaign of relentless methodological doubt, not letting his landlady in on this, whether he might not, while thinking himself awake, not being in bed, tucked under the covers. and such, actually be dreaming. After all, do we not do a number of things in our sleep, some of which are at least morally neutral, if not praiseworthy, which we think are actually occurring in waking life? Then we awaken and the last laugh is on the pursuing, slavering tyrannosaurus rex, lucklessly destined to go hungry once again. But what if we have dreams within dreams, and life itself, with all its sober reflections, pains, bills to be paid, pretzels, joys, peanut-butter sandwiches, rashes, and so on, should all be in the nature of a dream itself, not a dream as we usually think of dreams, but something along those lines? An illusion founded on a reality quite other than we suppose? How do we know such is not the case? It certainly seems to be a logical possibility, if nothing else? Perhaps most of what we take to be real, say, tables, chairs, rocks, trees, Susan, our bodies, and such, are part of the illusion? How do we know that that is not the case? Might it not be the case? If it were the case, it would solve a number of puzzles, the mind/body problem, for instance.

This is an example of methodological doubt.

The notion is that if we can’t be sure, we can’t know, and we can’t be sure, so we don’t know.

This does raise the possibility that we might awaken, so to speak, and discover the tyrannosaurus rex is not part of a dream, but a part of the real world, and is patiently waiting around for us, in the real world, like a cat at a mouse hole. Perhaps this is why some philosophers have a certain amusing eccentricity, that of seldom letting themselves stray far from their elephant guns.

A couple of other examples will make this sort of thing clear to anyone who is not determined that it will not be clear.

Neither of these examples is due to Descartes, but they are forms of “Cartesian skepticism” in a broad sense, namely, a radical and profound skepticism which seems to be, however unfamiliar and annoying, irrefutable. Every experience which you could possibly have is compatible with your inhabiting one of these two following domiciles in logical space. First, you might be the only entity in reality and all that seems to you other than yourself, your body, trees, hamburgers, hurricanes, sweet Susan, solar systems, and stars, are merely aspects of your experience. You are, so to speak, a limited, ignorant, deluded, tortured, confused god, who does not even know he is god. This is a form of what is called metaphysical solipsism. Schopenhauer suggested that this sort of thing requires not a refutation but a cure, but that is, of course, to both beg and dismiss a question, something somewhat unworthy of a philosopher, and particularly embarrassing in the case of a German philosopher, as it assumes without argument that the supposition is false, which it may well be, but what if it isn’t? Another example, rather contemporary, is suppose that you are not what you seem to be, a dashing fellow thinking about Susan, and fettuccini, but a brain floating about in a vat, or bucket, or bottle, if you like, being nourished with sustaining fluids and being somehow stimulated, perhaps in virtue of controls, implants, computer programs, and such, to seem to have the exact experiences which you now seem to have. You can’t escape this one by referencing the primitive level of current technology, its inability to pull off such illusions, and such, because this merely reveals your ignorance of the current secret projects along these lines underway even now in the Caucasus, or, if they are behind schedule, the advanced state of the art in such matters on Epsilon Eridani Four, amongst abducting, quadrupedal, multiple-livered, antennaed scientists trying to understand why you think Susan is pretty neat, and fettuccini digestible. Once again, this is a room in logical space? Do you live there? How do you know you don’t?

But now we are ready for Alfred.

And this does go back to Descartes.

In the course of his ruminations on these matters, Descartes entertains the possibility that for all he knows he might be the victim of an evil genius, an evil deceiver or a demon, an entity out to fool him, out to trick him, out to make him think for some reason he is experiencing a real, external world when, actually, all of this is going on in his own mind only, produced there by the machinations of the demon.

Might this not be the case?

How do you know it isn’t?

This is the famous Cartesian demon.

His name, as I have discovered, is Alfred.

I was grading philosophy papers one afternoon when I noticed Alfred, who is about the size of my daughter’s cat, sitting on the desk to my right.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I said.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.

“I am a philosopher,” I explained.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I am grading philosophy papers,” I said.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I don’t,” I said.

“Right,” he said.

“You remind me of Chelsea, my daughter’s cat,” I said.

“How is that?” he asked.

“You’re about the same size, and you have pointed ears,” I said.

“She’s not around, is she?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Good,” he said, glancing about. “Do you have anything against pointed ears?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said. I was all for diversity, particularly ideological diversity, which, given hiring practices in the academic world, is scarce.

To be sure, it is well to keep a low profile on sensitive matters. One can still learn much from Descartes.

“I suppose you think I’m a demon,” he said.

“I’m for diversity,” I assured him. It occurred to me, an uneasy thought, that not one member of my philosophy department was a demon. It was not up to me, however, as I saw it, to bring this lacuna to the attention of local affirmative action officers.

“Your daughter’s cat has pointed ears,” he said. “Do you think she’s a demon?”

“Only occasionally,” I said, “sometimes in the early morning.”

“I am not a demon,” he said.

“I thought you might be the Cartesian demon,” I said.

“I was actually trying to get through to Descartes,” he said, “but I failed.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Don’t let the pointed ears fool you,” he said.

“What about you and Descartes?” I said.

“Maybe it was my 17th Century French,” he muttered.

“You are the evil deceiver, the evil genius, the Cartesian demon, aren’t you?”

“My 17th Century French is pretty good now,” he said. “I’ve been working on it.”

I prepared to return to my philosophy papers.

“I don’t understand all this business about an evil genius, an evil deceiver, a demon, and such,” he said. “It’s a bum rap.”

“Oh?” I said.

“I’m not a bad fellow,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. I may be hard to get on with sometimes, but isn’t everyone? And I am certainly not an evil genius. I think of myself as a nice guy of average intelligence.”

“What is your IQ?” I asked.

“About forty-six thousand,” he said.

“I think that would put you well in the top five percent of the population,” I said. I was thinking of various recommendation forms I had filled out for students.

“Not for my population,” he said.

“I see,” I said. “Then you are not unique.”

“There are thousands of us,” he said. “Maybe millions. At any rate I am not evil, and I am not a deceiver, at least not on purpose. And I am not a demon. Don’t let the ears fool you.”

“Very well,” I said.

He seemed to sense my difficulty.

“My name is Alfred,” he said.

“But you did have something to do with Descartes?” I pressed.

“Sure,” he said. “He was a great guy, even if he liked to stick his head in ovens. He seemed genuinely interested in the nature of reality, or so I thought, that was my mistake, and so I tried to help him out. I let him know that I had been assigned the business of concocting a world for him, giving him the illusion of a comfortable, reliable external world, one he could count on, one with laws, one in which he could feel secure, one designed to reassure him and make him happy, but he wouldn’t buy it. He wouldn’t settle for the truth, even though I gave it to him, pointed ears and all. His world was an illusion, but a benevolent illusion I had worked out for him, one designed in his own best interests, one in which he was supposed to contentedly, innocently, and joyfully flourish.”

“You were out to do him a favor, to enlighten him?”

“Of course,” said Alfred, “but he wouldn’t listen. He was determined to prove that the illusion was actually a mind-independent, material, physical, out-there, external world.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I gave up on him,” he said. “He was hopeless.”

“I see,” I said.

“There may have been a mental problem involved,” said Alfred. “I think he was in a state of denial. I’m sure there was some sort of neurosis involved, perhaps one of an obsessive compulsive sort.”

“Perhaps,” I granted him. I supposed it was logically possible, however unlikely, that philosophers could be as pig-headed as anyone else. I supposed that the major difference between ordinary pig-headedness and philosophical pig-headedness, if it existed, would be that philosophical pig-headedness would at least be embedded in an impressive matrix of sophisticated adducements and inferences; it would be commonly argued for, often at length, not unoften peculiarly, and occasionally awesomely. Philosophical mistakes may be abundant, but at least they are commonly well camouflaged. Various life forms could learn much from philosophy. Philosophical survival often depends on judicious concealment. To paraphrase a famous remark, anything that can be said can be said obscurely. Obscurity is clearly the philosopher’s best friend. It is rationality’s best defense against detection. There is much historical evidence in favor of this hypothesis.

“Are you trying to convince me that no mind-independent, external world exists?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “If I couldn’t convince a guy as smart as Descartes why should I try to convince you? I am content to let you wallow in your naive dogmatism.”

“Why did you come to see me?” I asked.

“I was lonely,” he said. “I haven’t talked to a philosopher since the 17th Century. I talked to a few accountants, and a dentist or two, but it’s not the same.”

“How do you produce these realities?” I asked.

“I could tell you, but you wouldn’t understand,” he said.

“I thought it might be a trade secret.”

“No, but you need an IQ of thirty thousand or so, to do it.”

“Why do you do it?” I asked.

“It’s fun,” he said. “It’s my job. One could do worse.”

“Is there one of you guys for every conscious being?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, “and believe me, the insects keep us busy.”

“I have something for you to think about,” I said.

“Shoot,” he said.

“Are you conscious?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, warily. His pointed ears went up, alertly. I was reminded somewhat of those of my daughter’s cat when her suspicions were aroused. “What’s the catch?”

“Is there one of you guys for every one of you guys?” I asked.

“You just want to get back to your grading,” he said.

“Not at all,” I said. Surely he knew that teachers sought avidly for distractions in such matters.

“So you think that there’s one of me for every one of me to give us guys a world,” he said, “and then this leads to an infinite regress of me’s?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said.

“No dice,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I’m not a philosopher, personally,” he said, “so I don’t have to worry about that sort of thing. I just make up problems for you guys to worry about.”

“Does that seem fair?”

“How do you know an objective morality exists?’ he asked.

“Suppose,” I said, “that your own world is an illusion produced unbeknownst to you by a mind-independent, physical, external, out-there-really world,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “That’s a possibility!”

“Thus,” I said, “perhaps your own experience, including your conviction that you are producing worlds for other conscious beings, and that there is more than one of you, is itself an illusion, produced by such a world.”

“Neat!” he said. “Stupid, but neat!”

I was pleased. Few philosophers, I suspected, have had an opportunity to bask in the approval of a Cartesian demon. I was, of course, in effect, leveling his own artillery against the little fellow. I felt momentarily ashamed of seizing so deplorable an opportunity to score so unworthy a point, but it is difficult at such times to resist such temptations. Philosophy is, of course, merciless. The nearest analogy which occurs to me is that of the shark frenzy.

“How do you know that that is not true?” I asked. “Maybe that out-there world is really out there.”

“Preposterous,” he said. “An idea that idiotic requires not a refutation, but a cure.”

“If that didn’t work for Schopenhauer,” I said, “why should it work for you? Too, Schopenhauer thought that belief in your world, or something rather like it, was the idiotic belief, the one that required not a refutation but a cure.”

“It’s a silly idea,” he said.

“But you can’t refute it, can you?” I asked. “It’s a genuine possibility. How do you know you aren’t living in such a world, a real, physical, material, mind-independent, out-there world?”

“I suppose I don’t, strictly,” he grumbled.

“Right,” I said.

“I’m supposed to be the troublesome one,” he said, “not you guys.”

“Take that for a taste of your own medicine,” I said. Actually, in my own view, such medicine, however benignly administered, would be ineffective, there being, happily, no cure for philosophy.

“No fair,” he said.

“How do you know there is an objective morality?” I asked.

“You’re looking for trouble, buster,” he said. “I could zap you a good one for that.”

“Zapping,” I said, “is no substitute for thought.”

“It usually works pretty well,” he said.

“But,” said I, “how do you know that if you zapped me, I would be truly zapped? I might just seem to be zapped. It might all be a dream, or an illusion produced by a demon new to you, and perhaps not well disposed toward you, perhaps a renegade demon.”

I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing something akin to confusion, perhaps even tragic fear, in the little fellow’s eyes.

“Philosophy is dangerous,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“What’s that?” he suddenly said.

“Chelsea,” I said. “My daughter’s cat.” And sure enough, Chelsea had entered the office, blinking after her fourth afternoon nap, and doubtless thinking about supper.

“Take her away!” he cried.

I saw Chelsea’s ears go up. Then prior to her projected attack behavior, she paused to wash for a time. She then yawned.

“Look at those teeth!” said Alfred.

“She’s harmless,” I assured him, “except occasionally in the morning, before breakfast.”

“Not to demons,” he said.

“Oh?” I said.

Some people feel that a cat’s day is not complete until she has lacerated a loved one. But that is a vile canard. Chelsea seldom laid stress on her feline prerogatives, usually not more than once a week.

“Those claws!” said Alfred.

She was now licking, cleaning and honing, carefully, meticulously, the claws on her left paw, keeping one eye on Alfred. Chelsea was left pawed. This sometimes threw the defense off.

“You’re not afraid of a cat,” I said.

“I seem to be,” said Alfred, with epistemic guardedness.

“You could zap her, couldn’t you?” I said.

“Cats don’t zap,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked. Philosophers often have an interest in science.

“It’s something about the static electricity in the fur,” he said. “Cats are bad news for demons.”

I seemed to remember that the ancient Egyptians had hit on this.

I speculated on the possibility that Alfred might lie within Chelsea’s prey range. I supposed not, since they were about the same size. But of course the decision was not mine, but Chelsea’s.

“I think it’s the ears,” said Alfred. “They think they have a corner on pointed ears. Or they think we’re odd cats. They are territorial brutes, you know.”

Chelsea had now leaped lightly, significantly, to my desk, and was approaching Alfred, crouching down, tail twitching, moving stealthily across the keyboard of my computer.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said to Alfred, but he had disappeared, or, at least, seemed to have done so, as I could not spot him.

This seemed to puzzle Chelsea for a moment, but as she was in her way a practical little skeptic, of the classical variety, she dismissed the question as insoluble, and lay down on the blue books I was grading. I did not have the heart to disturb her, and so I was forced to postpone returning to my grading, for some time, indeed, until suppertime, when I went downstairs, accompanied by Chelsea.