This book is intended to be a simple, clear and elementary introduction to modern views about the nature of science. When teaching philosophy of science, either to philosophy undergraduates or to scientists wishing to become familiar with recent theories about science, I have become increasingly aware that there is no suitable single book, or even a small number of books, that one can recommend to the beginner. The only sources on the modern views that are available are the original ones. Many of these are too difficult for beginners, and in any case they are too numerous to be made easily available to a large number of students. This book will be no substitute for the original sources for anyone wishing to pursue the topic seriously, of course, but I hope it will provide a useful and easily accessible starting point that does not otherwise exist.
My intention of keeping the discussion simple proved to be reasonably realistic for about two-thirds of the book. By the time I had reached that stage and had begun to criticise the modern views, I found, to my surprise, first, that I disagreed with those views more than I had thought and, second, that from my criticism a fairly coherent alternative was emerging. That alternative is sketched in the latter chapters of the book. It would be pleasant for me to think that the second half of this book contains not only summaries of current views on the nature of science but also a summary of the next view.
My professional interest in history and philosophy of science began in London, in a climate that was dominated by the views of Professor Karl Popper. My debt to him, his writings, his lectures and his seminars, and also to the late Professor Imre Lakatos, must be very evident from the contents of this book. The form of the first half of it owes much to Lakatos’s brilliant article on the methodology of research programs. A noteworthy feature of the Popperian school was the pressure it put on one to be clear about the problem one was interested in and to express one’s views on it in a simple and straightforward way. Although I owe much to the example of Popper and Lakatos in this respect, any ability that I have to express myself simply and clearly stems mostly from my interaction with Professor Heinz Post, who was my supervisor at Chelsea College while I was working on my doctorial thesis in the Department of History and Philosophy of Science there. I cannot rid myself of an uneasy feeling that his copy of this book will be returned to me along with the demand that I rewrite the bits he does not understand. Of my colleagues in London to whom I owe a special debt, most of them students at the time, Noretta Koertge, now at Indiana University, helped me considerably.
I referred above to the Popperian school as a school, and yet it was not until I came to Sydney from London that I fully realised the extent to which I had been in a school. I found, to my surprise, that there were philosophers influenced by Wittgenstein or Quine or Marx who thought that Popper was quite wrong on many issues, and some who even thought that his views were positively dangerous. I think I have learnt much from that experience. One of the things that I have learnt is that on a number of major issues Popper is indeed wrong, as is argued in the latter portions of this book. However, this does not alter the fact that the Popperian approach is infinitely better than the approach adopted in most philosophy departments that I have encountered.
I owe much to my friends in Sydney who have helped to waken me from my slumber. I do not wish to imply by this that I accept their views rather than Popperian ones. They know better than that. But since I have no time for obscurantist nonsense about the incommensurability of frameworks (here Popperians prick up their ears), the extent to which I have been forced to acknowledge and counter the views of my Sydney colleagues and adversaries has led me to understand the strengths of their views and the weaknesses of my own. I hope I will not upset anyone by singling out Jean Curthoys and Wal Suchting for special mention here.
Lucky and attentive readers will detect in this book the odd metaphor stolen from Vladimir Nabokov, and will realise that I owe him some ackowledgment (or apology).
I conclude with a warm ‘hello’ to those friends who don’t care about the book, who won’t read the book, and who had to put up with me while I wrote it.
Alan Chalmers
Sydney, 1976