This is the first post in what will be an ongoing series about what I like to call “philosophical technology” or, sometimes, “metadiscursive” or “metaconceptual technology” (since it’s not relevant only to philosophers). I said last time that the method of philosophy is just the method of inquiry, but in practice a lot of philosophy these days involves a lot of attention to the way we use words or concepts (more on that next time). Since that’s a thing that philosophers do, we need to have some conceptual resources for talking about ways of talking, or for thinking about ways of thinking. I like to refer to these resources as bits of technology to emphasize the fact that developing these resources requires some ingenuity and effort, that using them effectively involves a bit of training, and that they can be developed or improved over time. I like to emphasize that last part because, like a lot of philosophical work, progress in metadiscursive technology tends to become invisible once it’s been made.
Some bits of philosophical technology are pretty well-known to most everyone—distinctions, objections, counterexamples—though most people don’t think about them explicitly or as bits of technology for getting around. Introductory philosophy classes often cover some simple metadiscursive technology. Perhaps most commonly arguments, soundness and validity for arguments, and necessary and sufficient conditions. More specialized philosophy classes will often also cover such things as the analytic/synthetic distinction, and the difference between a priori and a posteriori or empirical knowledge (and whether and how those bits of technology are useful, or even make sense, is a subject of controversy among philosophers). Some classes will cover modality (roughly: necessity, possibility, and related notions) which comes in various forms—alethic, epistemic, practical, and others. All of these notions are examples of what I’m calling metadiscursive technology, tools that philosophers use to think clearly about the ways we reason. I won’t retread over all this well-worn territory here on Explicit Content, but I suppose I would if I were to write a big, heavy philosophy textbook or a philosophical field guide (that sounds fun, doesn’t it?). But I will talk about some other bits of technology that aren’t as commonly discussed, and that I’ve got something to say about.
To start off, though, I’m going to talk about something pretty basic: the difference between a claim, a view, and an argument. Although it’s simple it trips up a lot of students writing their first philosophy papers. And you might also think there has been progress here, since in the Greek of Plato’s time there was just one word, logos, which was used to describe each of these three things (as well as “word” and “sentence” and “speech.” But not “story.”). Because this stuff is so basic, the main body of the post may be kind of boring to anyone with some experience with philosophy, but in the interest of making things explicit I’m going to write on anyway.
First, a claim is the sort of thing that is expressed by a declarative sentence. A lot of what philosophers do is examine claims, and eventually commit themselves to affirming some of them, and denying others. (If you both affirm and deny the same claim then you’ve got a contradiction on your hands, and almost everybody thinks that’s bad.) “The mind is a nonphysical substance” and “Free will is not compatible with determinism” are claims that some philosophers have made. Claims are the sorts of things that can be true or false, or plausible or implausible. Some claims have become important enough that they get their own names. The second claim above is called incompatibilism. Another named claim is hedonism, which is the claim that “The only thing that is good for its own sake is pleasure, and the only thing that is bad for its own sake is pain.” Claims get more complicated when you consider that there can be claims about claims, and claims about arguments, and so on. For example someone might claim that “Hedonism is false,” or that “Incompatibilism is true because the consequence argument is sound.” But although consideration of claims is a necessary part of philosophy, the job of the philosopher doesn’t stop there.
Views are collections of claims that are supposed to be coherent. Views, like claims, can be true or false (though it’s more common to say they are right or wrong), and sometimes have names. Often a view is supposed to explain various things. For example, an old view called machine functionalism was supposed to explain why humans and octopuses can have the same mental states, like pain, where the view called mind-brain identity theory could not. Incompatible views may still share claims. For example, libertarianism and hard determinism are names for views about free will. Both the libertarian and the hard determinist believe in the claim that “Free will is not compatible with determinism,” but the libertarian is committed to the claim “We have free will,” and denies the claim “Determinism is true.” The hard determinist takes the opposite attitudes toward those other claims.
Views are often associated with the particular philosophers who explain them, like Ruth Garrett Millikan’s teleosemantics (roughly a view that meanings of words or thoughts, like biological functions, are determined by their causal history according to a process of natural selection). But popular views often fragment. Now teleofunctionalism is a word for a family of related views, like Millikan’s and Karen Neander’s. There is a folk caricature of philosophy that it consists in the elaboration of lots of different views, and that philosophers are people who know about lots of views and prefer some of them. But views are not the dominant currency of contemporary analytic philosophy, either.
The main business of philosophy involves giving and evaluating arguments. Arguments are what I focus on most when I teach philosophy, and there are a few different ways to describe them. The slogan that I’ve been using lately is that an argument is a reasoned defense of a claim. On this view (see what I did there?), arguments consist of two parts: a claim, called the conclusion, that the argument is supposed to support, and a reason that supports the conclusion. Philosophers use arguments to support claims (where the claim is the conclusion) and views (where the various claims that make up the view are conclusions, usually of different arguments). And just like there can be claims about claims, there can be arguments about arguments. For example, criticisms or objections about arguments are arguments about arguments (they are arguments that some other argument is bad). Opinion essays and most papers for classes are structured around a main argument (and usually contain other arguments). The conclusion of the main argument is what you call a “thesis” when you’re learning to write in school.
If arguments are reasoned defenses of claims, then you see that they are not bare statements of claims, and not disputes or questions or problems. Philosophilcal controversies, like the “mind-body problem” or the “problem of personal identity,” are not arguments in this sense because they do not have conclusions and they do not provide reasons. People make arguments for various views that resolve these controversies in different ways, but philosophers do not usually call the controversies themselves “arguments” (it gets confusing quickly).
The most common way to model arguments in the analytic tradition is based on the form of a deductive inference in classical logic, or a syllogism in Aristotelian logic. Either way, the reason is made up of claims called premises that, if they are arranged right, support the conclusion through some rule or combination of rules (but rules are not just like more premises, as Lewis Carroll demonstrates in a well-known story). I say that logic models arguments, rather than saying that logic expresses arguments, since most philosophical arguments are given in the form of reasons, not in the form of logical deductions. But modeling arguments with logic can be very useful for determining whether the argument is good, and determining how an argument might be weak (undergraduates take note). Philosophers sometimes model their own arguments in logical form, and often model arguments in order to make clear objections to them.
It’s important to note that arguments cannot be true or false. Conclusions or premises, since they are also claims, can be true or false, but arguments have more complicated ways of being good or bad. Arguments can be valid or invalid, or cogent or not cogent, or sound or unsound, and so on. It would be tedious to explain what all these terms mean here (that’s taught in most introductory philosophy or logic classes, at least as they apply to deductive arguments, and perhaps inductive arguments). Basically, though, an argument is bad if it doesn’t give you a good enough reason to believe its conclusion, and the ways that reasons are bad are different and more complicated than being false.
There are at least three main ways to criticize arguments in philosophy. First, one can claim that the premises or presuppositions of the argument are untrue. That doesn’t make the argument “untrue,” and it doesn’t mean that the conclusion is false, it’s just one way that an argument might not give you reason to believe its conclusion. A second way to criticize an argument is to say that the reason doesn’t support the conclusion, regardless of whether its presuppositions are true. A simple example:
Edinburgh is in Scotland. Humans often wear clothes. Therefore, George Clooney is famous.
The premises and the conclusion are all true, but the premises don’t support the conclusion. They don’t give you reason to believe it. (However, this does not always make an argument invalid in classical logic… another reason to say that logic only models arguments.) A third way to criticize an argument is to claim that we have an independent reason to believe that the conclusion is false, and that this reason is better than the reason given in the argument. (But undergrads should note that it’s tricky to make a good paper out of a criticism like that unless you also figure out what specifically was wrong with the first argument, and explain it clearly.)
That’s a very brief and introductory pass at arguments, but arguments are complicated creatures and it can be difficult to understand all the ins and outs of how they work, especially when they are complicated or abstract (that’s why philosophy is hard). Or when they are about things that are difficult to think about clearly. But we deal with them all the time in life, whenever we are considering what to believe or what we should do. Whenever we consider what our reasons are, and whether they are good enough for believing or doing something, we are reflecting critically on arguments (even if we’re not doing it very clearly or explicitly). Even if not all philosophy is about arguments, critical examination of arguments is a central activity of philosophers, especially analytic philosophers. And while most disciplines do the same thing a lot of the time, philosophers are often the ones that are most concerned with developing the metadiscursive technology for doing so with self-conscious clarity and precision.
In fact, I think the skills of using basic metadiscursive technology are the most important things to teach in an introductory philosophy class, where many or most of the students do not intend to major in philosophy. Sure, it can be fun for some students to learn a bunch of views about free will or personal identity or ethics, but the most valuable and transferable skills for liberal arts students are the ones that are learned from sustained attention to arguments, and for the complicated ways of supporting and evaluating claims, arguments, and views.