This is the last part of my wee methodological mini-manifesto. In the first part, I claimed that philosophy isn’t all about argument. In the second part, I argued that the method of philosophy, insofar as there is such a thing, is the method of inquiry. This time I am going to talk about one thing that some philosophers do, and what I do.
Part of my dissertation is on what people sometimes call the “metaphysics” of cognition. In that part, I’m trying to figure out what sort of a thing cognition is. Is it stuff, like brains? Or activities, like hearing and deciding? Or is cognition like a program on a computer? And whatever it is, what precisely makes it cognition and not something similar, but that isn’t cognition (like a dead brain, or what a microphone does, or like your web browser)? But I think of my work as a kind of “critical metaphysics” in the Kantian tradition. One of the better-known doctrines in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason is what he calls the “Copernican revolution in philosophy.” He claims that metaphysical knowledge, such as it is, is not really about the ultimate structure of reality, but the structure of our own concepts. So metaphysical claims about space and time are not really facts about the world, truly and independently of us, but facts about the basic ways we organize our own experience. I don’t think Kant is totally right about all of that (I’m not an idealist in quite the way he is), but that’s mostly how I think of what I do. My work won’t tell us what cognition really is, but if I’m right I’ll have learned something about how cognitive scientists think about the world, and what we learn from their research (after Sellars: how it is that their bailiwick fits into the countryside of science and understanding).
I think of what I do as a sort of logical anthropology. (The expression is a little awkward, but I took to it. Besides, I recently discovered that “philosophical anthropology” is already taken by a continental research program, and “rational anthropology,” well… it just sounds too “post-Enlightenment atheist” to me.) Sociologists and anthropologists are interested in describing various human practices and social structures, perhaps especially with an eye toward making comparisons across different communities, or attending to power dynamics and forms of organization and so on. What philosophers (some of them) do is examine human practices with an eye toward their rationality. For example, epistemologists are interested in characterizing and evaluating our evidential practices in general, philosophers of science are interested in scientific practices like explanation and theory-construction, philosophers of action and ethicists are interested in various features of our deliberative practices and practices of evaluating actions and holding people responsible. So like anthropologists, these philosophers are interested in human practices. But unlike most anthropologists, the philosophers are not interested primarily in things like power dynamics or the diversity of cultural practices (though they’re interesting)—philosophers are especially interested in practices that involve reasoning, and whether and why these practices make sense.
(My view here turns out, predictably, to have been anticipated somewhat. For example, the idea of logical anthropology has some affinity with George Graham and Terry Horgan’s notion of “ideological inquiry,” and Katrin Flikschuh’s notion of “philosophical field work.” But my view differs from these others on some details, and was worked out independently with different aims and different cases in mind. Nevertheless, I suspect all three views spring from the same post-Kantian place. I guess it’s the Zeitgeist. Sorry, journal access is required to read the linked articles.)
I think that logical anthropology is important, but when I talk about my project (which I think is similar, insofar as it is logical anthropology, to a lot of other philosophical projects) I get criticism from two sides. The first side is what might be described as the side of analytic metaphysics (or “speculative” metaphysics of the kind Kant didn’t like). I was once asked by some philosophers, “Why bother figuring out what scientists think cognition is? Why not just figure out what it really is?” More generally, one might suppose that it is a better use of time to figure out how things really are, rather than what experts who aren’t trained in philosophy seem to think but don’t tend to say out loud. After all, reconstructing what is implicit in scientific (or other) practices and making it explicit seems to be a roundabout way of figuring out how things really are, and the scientists might not be right, anyway.
There is a weaker reply and a stronger reply to these worries. The weaker reply is that science is an expensive and complicated enterprise, involving a lot of money and time and effort and a lot of people and technology. Similarly, we humans are deeply invested in our everyday practical and epistemic practices. Surely, given that we spend so much time and energy on these things, there should be some interest in being clear about how they work and what their presuppositions are. But this reply doesn’t vindicate logical anthropology as a way of doing metaphysics, or learning about how the world is (rather than how we do things). The stronger reply is that the scientific enterprise is our best effort to figure out how the world is, and that our everyday practices of learning and inferring and acting reflect the priorities and limitations we actually live with. Doing logical anthropology is a good way to learn about the world while taking advantage of our existing knowledge, and avoiding the philosopher’s temptation to simplify and generalize too much. Logical anthropology isn’t a roundabout route to understanding; it’s a route that takes seriously the fact that we can learn by examining practices that have already emerged to learn about the things we philosophers might want to learn about.
Philosophers should be vigilant against ultracrepidarianism, or giving opinions when we don’t know what we’re talking about. I think there is always at least a worry that when you don’t pay enough attention to what people are actually doing, and then you criticize them, you find they are doing a poor job of what you wish they were doing instead of a good job of what they mean to be doing.
The second direction I get criticism from is experimental philosophy. Experimental philosophers collect data, often from surveys that catalogue intuitions, in order to answer philosophical questions while avoiding the ideological prejudices of philosophers (who are trained in very particular ways, and who tend to be overwhelmingly white, male, and cisgendered to boot). Experimental philosophers ask, “If you’re so interested in what scientists think, why not ask them and collect data? Why go through this rigmarole of rational reconstruction?” The reason to go through the rigmarole, I think, is that people are often not self-conscious about the details of their practice. For example, the English you speak has an intricate grammar, but if asked you’d be hard-pressed to be clear about what its rules are. I don’t particularly mean when to use ‘who’ versus ‘whom’ (most modern speakers always use ‘who’), but e.g. when is it natural to use ‘do’ (or ‘did’ or ‘doing,’ &c.) in a sentence? In this and other matters, competent speakers follow complicated rules of which they’re unaware. Similar considerations apply to epistemology and decision-making, and to a host of other practices in which we participate regularly. I talk to scientists whenever I can, and I think it is fantastic that philosophers of science are starting to attach themselves to laboratories in order to observe the messy details of science being made. My own research involves reading between the lines in a lot of articles by scientists. And while surveys and direct questioning may sometimes get us the answers we’re looking for in logical anthropology, they often won’t.
To be clear, I don’t refrain from trusting scientists’ views on what they do because I think they are stupid (I don’t). It’s just not their job to do what I do. Epistemologists who study experience don’t have to think laypeople are stupid for knowing things based on experience but not having an epistemological theory, and philosophers of action don’t have to think laypeople are stupid for acting without having a theory of action. Linguists and philosophers of language don’t think that most people are stupid for not being able to describe the syntax of their own language, or for not having a theory of meaning. It’s enough for scientists that they can just do science, and talk about it with their similarly-trained peers, and sometimes explain it in simple terms to the public. I’m interested in saying clearly what scientists do, and explaining it to other inquirers. (That is, if I may, I’m interested in making it explicit.) And sometimes logical anthropology is important because making things explicit allows us to see that something is amiss, and criticize the practices we describe.
Sometimes I think this criticism is entirely appropriate, and it’s not always ultracrepidarian of philosophers to criticize scientists. For example, I think there is something rotten in the state of consciousness science (though the same goes for a lot of philosophy of consciousness). Even science that is mostly in good shape requires conceptual maintenance to run smoothly. Biologists with different specializations often mean different things by “gene,” and even the concept of concept is complicated and troubled, so that researchers talk past each other and stumble into false disagreements. But the best of these philosophers’ criticisms of science take logical anthropology as their starting point. That is, they begin by paying attention to the practices of sciences, and then inquire as to whether the practices make sense by the lights of the scientists themselves. These projects don’t involve speculating about how world is independently of what scientists do and think, and they also aren’t made by soliciting the opinions of scientists. The kind of useful criticism offered here is based on attention to how scientists go about their business.
But I don’t want to claim that philosophy, or logical anthropology, or critical metaphysics has to result in criticism in order to be valuable. Edouard Machery argues in his book Doing without Concepts (I linked to the précis above) that cognitive scientists investigate at least three different kinds of cognitive structure that are all called “concepts,” that the result is confusion and false disagreement, and that we’d be better off using three different words instead. But suppose things were different, and cognitive scientists didn’t get confused about this. Maybe the scientists avoid confusion without knowing how they do it. Or maybe although the researchers who investigate concepts can keep everything straight, researchers in other areas get confused when they hear about research on concepts. It would still be worthwhile, I think, for philosophers to investigate and describe the practices of those scientists, either in order to explain their practices to others or in order to learn something about the rational organization of scientific institutions, or perhaps for some other reason.
While not all philosophers are engaged in kinds of logical anthropology, I think that a lot of us do something like this (although I think few of us think of our work this way). I think it’s a valuable kind of research for philosophers to do—our training makes us suited to it, and not a lot of other researchers do work like this, and it reveals an interesting dimension of human activity that, sometimes, allows us to better understand what we do, and why it does or doesn’t make sense given the world that we live in. At any rate, this I how I think of my own work and its value. And, I suppose, trying to describe logical anthropology as a philosophical project is itself a kind of logical anthropology of philosophy. The main goal I have with Explicit Content is to say clearly what I think philosophers do, in order to explain it to non-philosophers and to induce discussion about whether our practices are good ones (and, of course, whether I’ve even gotten it right in the first place). I think we’ll be better off for some explicit discussion of these things, so I hope you readers will let me know what you think.