Pirking i materien.

Blogger har akkurat slukt et lengre innlegg jeg har jobbet med en stund. Det som følger er et forsøk på hastig å rekonstruere hovedtankene.

I et innlegg på Salongen leverer Georg Kjøll et forsvar for språkfilosofien. Filosofens oppgave er å "pirke borti implisitte antakelser bak, og nyanser i, ting vi sier og gjør," og stille kritiske spørsmål til vitenskapens teoretiske forsøk på å forklare hva menneskespråket er. Kjøll gjør en god jobb med å demonstrere filosofiske vanskeligheter med en rekke teorier og folkelige intuisjoner om hva språklig mening er:

1. Teorien om at ord er navn, og at meningen med ordene er de tingene ordene navngir. (Hva med ord som ikke navngir konkrete ting, men abstrakte størrelser som for eksempel "mening"?) 2. Tanken om at ords betydning er gitt ved definisjoner. (De "aller fleste definisjoner vi gir som ordforklaringer enten er for vage eller for spesifikke til at de kan være ordenes faktiske innhold.") 3. Troen på at ords mening er fast og endelig. ("Mange ord kan gi uttrykk for mange ulike meninger, og ofte vil disse meningene variere fra person til person, og over tid." Hvis ordene hadde en endelig betydning, hvordan kan slike variasjoner forklares?) 4. Tanken om at det finnes et en-til-en-forhold mellom ord og mening. (Hvis ordene sto i et uløselig forhold til de meningene de uttrykker, skulle unnskyldninger som "det var ikke det jeg mente" i prinsipp være umulige.)

Men hva er egentlig mening? Alle normale mennesker lærer etterhvert å bruke språket på fornuftig vis -- vi snakker forståelig med hverandre, vi gjør oss forstått og forstår andre -- men hvordan får vi det egentlig til? Et ord som "god" for eksempel betyr vidt forskjellige ting avhengig av om vi tenker på en god kniv, om en god person eller en god historie. Betydningen varierer også med hva slags egenskap ved tingen eller personen vi snakker om. Setningen "Per er god" har ulik betydning i en sammenheng hvor vi snakker om Pers ferdigheter som skiløper, i en sammenheng hvor vi snakker om hans musikalske evner og i en sammenheng hvor vi snakker om hans store nestekjærlighet. "Hvordan kan det ha seg at vi som oftest skjønner meningen i dette ordet, når det kan variere så voldsomt i bruk, og betegne så mange ulike egenskaper," spør Kjøll, og går ganske langt i retning av å fremstille dette som et mysterium.

Kjøll hevder at "måten vi snakker om mening som noe uproblematisk i det daglige, er med på å maskere hvilket enormt mysterium menneskets evne til å lære seg å uttrykke og forstå språk egentlig er," men jeg vil snarere mene at Kjøll er med på å fabrikere dette mysteriet.

Mening er det som gjør at ord og setninger kan brukes til å snakke om i ting i verden. Ords mening er en helt sentral forutsetning for at språk skal kunne fungere, og at ord kan brukes til å oppnå forståelse.

Selvsagt må ordene være meningsfulle for at vi skal kunne si noe fornuftig med dem. Men å hevde at ords mening er en forutsetning for at språk kan fungere, antyder at ordene må ha en mening før de kan anvendes på forståelig vis. Men dette er å snu tingene på hodet. Ess kan være både det høyeste og det laveste kortet i kortspill. Da kan det ikke være spillkortenes valør som avgjør hvordan vi kan bruke dem, men -- omvendt -- måten vi bruker dem på, hvilke regler vi følger, hvilket spill vi spiller, som bestemmer kortenes valør. Slik er språk også. Språk er ikke et system av (meningsfulle) tegn. Language is something we do, for å sitere Lars Hertzberg. Språket er vevd inn i våre liv. Det er ved å bli en del av våre praksiser at ord og uttrykk får sin betydning. Ords betydning er ikke en forutsetning for at språket kan fungere. Et fungerende språk er en forutsetning for at ord og setninger kan bety noe som helst. "I en stor klasse tilfeller -- men ikke i alle tilfeller," skriver Wittgenstein, "kan man forklare anvendelsen av ordet "betydning" slik: Et ords betydning er dets anvendelse i språket." (Filosofiske undersøkelser §43) At vi oftest forstår hva som menes med utsagnet "Per er god", skyldes ikke at vi tilfeldigvis gjetter hvilken betydning av "god" man tenker på, men at vi som oftest kjenner sammenhengen der utsagnet brukes. Når det er fotballferdigheter vi diskuterer, er det ikke uklart om ordet "god" brukes som i "Maradona er god" eller som i "Mors fløtepudding er god". Innenfor slike konkrete språkspill har ord en nokså klar betydning. Utenfor enhver kontekst -- hvis du finner en papirlapp med teksten på gaten, for eksempel -- betyr ikke "Per er god" noe som helst.

Videre skriver Kjøll:

Ikke bare er språklig mening en vag ting, det er også umulig å ta og peke på mening, eller identifisere det fysisk på noen spesiell måte. Vi vet ikke hvordan ords mening kan identifiseres i hjernen, og selv om vi visste det, er det fortsatt en lang vei å gå herfra til å forstå hva det er som gjør at mening skapes og på bakgrunn av hva det oppstår.

Men mening er ikke en objektiv egenskap ved ord, setninger og uttrykk på denne måten. Hvis en tanke betyr noe, så betyr den noe for noen. Hva jeg mener med utsagnet "Per er god" ligger ikke gjemt inne i hjernen min. Tanker må alltid tolkes. Det er derfor Wittgenstein skriver: "Om Gud hadde sett inn i vår sjel, ville han ikke der ha kunnet se hvem vi snakket om." (FU s. 247) Hvis jeg tenker på et tre og forestiller meg et grantre og Gud ser dette som et juletre i plast, hvem har rett? Hva slags tre jeg mener viser seg gjennom min atferd; gjennom hva jeg sier og gjør. Det er her, ikke i selve ordene eller i hjernen min, men i min bruk av ordene at deres mening ligger. Følgelig vil ingen MR-skanning bringe oss det minste nærmere en forståelse i spørsmål om mening.

Så lenge det finnes teorier, avslutter Kjøll, "vil det finnes behov for filosofer som kan pirke i materien, stille de vanskelige spørsmålene og se de store linjene i studiet av språk." QED

Listen up!

I love audiobooks. They keep me going when I am out running or walking, and, because I don't like to read while lying down, I listen to them in bed at night before falling to sleep. In the last few days, however, I have been walking around with earplugs all the time. I am listening to the correspondence between J. M. Coetzee and Paul Auster. In 2008 Coetzee suggested that the two of them begin exchanging letters on a regular basis. Here and Now is the result of that proposal. Over three years their letters touched on almost every subject, from friendship to sports, from food to death, philosophy to poetry, from film festivals to family life, travels, memory, the meaning of names, and the financial crisis. Though some comments on political and economic matters are less than profound, the book has the feel of a casual table conversation between two intellectuals. What keeps me listening, though, is not the brilliance of the minds -- "though that feature is generously on offer as well," to quote one reviewer -- "but the warmth, unpretentiousness, and honesty that emerges from these pages". Such qualities may be of interest primarily to fans. It is always nice to discover your favourite author to be a likeable person too. If you have no relationship to either of the writers, I am not sure this publication is meant for you.

What a great idea, I thought, upon discovering the audiobook edition, and learning that the letters would be read by the authors themselves. What better way to deliver personal reflections than in your own voice! And I am happy to report that the qualities of their thinking are reflected in the tone of their voices too.

Narrow escapes.

The other day I overheard a couple of tourists talking about how they had been only inches from death on a field trip earlier that day. I do not know what had happened. Nothing very serious, judging by the light hearted tone of their conversation. But if things had been just a little different, if they hadn't turned around exactly when they did or whatever, then, I imagine, they would hardly have been talking so merrily about the incident, perhaps not talking at all.

When someone trips and falls close to a cliff, he may, as he picks himself up, look over the edge and into the abyss with relief. Had he lost his footing only a step or two later, he would have plummeted to the very bottom of the gorge. Later, when relating the incident, he will no doubt describe how he was close to dying up there.

This figure of speech is commonplace. However, I am wondering about what may or may not be an underlying picture here. Saying that he was inches away from dying, makes it sound as if death were present but that he somehow managed to escape it. That is what he means too, in some sense, but consider this: As he approached the edge, was he also walking closer to his death?

I once startled my wife (only slightly, she knows me too well) with a remark along that line of thought. Everyday, on my way from work, I had to cross some busy streets; seconds later the traffic would thunder by. Coming home one day, I told my wife how I had been only seconds away from being run over. It was a joke of course. Nothing had happened, not even almost -- yet, if I had in fact run across that street the way I did those few seconds later, then I would hardly have been alive to tell her about it....

Goldielocks Universe.

Before the Big Bang no-one would have guessed that life would ever evolve. For life to evolve innumerable things had to turn out exactly as they did. According to science, the tiniest alteration of just one of many crucial parameters, and life as we know it would never have existed. Some calculations indicate that the force of gravity must be accurate to one part in 10⁴⁰ in order for this to happen. "It's as if there are a large number of dials that have to be tuned to within extremely narrow limits for life to be possible in our universe. It is extremely unlikely that this should happen by chance," according to Alvin Plantinga, "but much more likely that this should happen if there is such a person as God."

This is sometimes known as the design explanation for the fine-tuned universe. A life supporting universe is intrinsically unlikely, or so it is argued. But if there is an intelligent Creator, then that would explain everything. Random chance would only raise the question as to why this universe could be so "lucky" as to have precise conditions that support life (at least here and for the time being). But if everything were designed according to some intelligent plan, then this mind boggling precision would be exactly what to expect.

A rival explanation is the Multiverse-hypothesis, according to which there is a whole bunch of universes -- not just galaxies within our own universe, but complete universes. Given a string of universes, one would expect the various combinations of parameters for basic physical factors to show up in endless combinations. That one combination is suitable for life should not surprise anyone."If there is a large stock of clothing, you're not surprised to find a suit that fits," in the words of Martin Rees. "If there are many universes, each governed by a differing set of numbers, there will be one where there is a particular set of numbers suitable to life. We are in that one."

Replies Plantinga:

Well, of course our universe would have to be fine-tuned, given that we live in it. But how does that so much as begin to explain why it is that [our universe] is fine-tuned? One can't explain this by pointing out that we are indeed here—anymore than I can "explain" the fact that God decided to create me (instead of passing me over in favor of someone else) by pointing out that if God had not thus decided, I wouldn't be here to raise that question. It still seems striking that these constants should have just the values they do have; it is still monumentally improbable, given chance, that they should have just those values; and it is still much less improbable that they should have those values, if there is a God who wanted a life-friendly universe.

There are difficulties here. Whether or not this God-hypothesis is more probable than other explanations depends, as John Perry argued in a teaser for a recent Philosophy Talk, on what is required for the existence of such a God. "Wouldn’t that in turn require the existence of a Creator-friendly universe, or proto-universe, with parameters set to allow for the development of such a powerful and wonderful Being, capable of setting the parameters for our universe?" A clever question, no doubt; but I am sure Plantinga would have an answer ready and argue that intelligent design nevertheless is the more plausible hypothesis. I am not writing this to take sides. In fact, I am not sure what the discussion is all about. Arguing over which explanation (for why the universe is suitable for life) is more probable, looks like an argument where language has gone on holiday. Probability is something we normally talk about within the universe -- when unlikely things happen, we ask for explanations -- but here the question is how probable the universe itself is? How unlikely is a life-supporting universe? And how unlikely is that to develop by sheer coincidence? Unlikely, compared to what?

I am not sure I see why there is something here to explain either. Consider the following quote from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything:

To be here now, alive in the twenty-first century and smart enough to know it, you also had to be the beneficiary of an extraordinary string of biological good fortune. Survival on Earth is a surprisingly tricky business [...] Not only have you been lucky enough to be attached since time immemorial to a favoured evolutionary line, but you have also been extremely -- make that miraculously -- fortunate in your personal ancestry. Consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, a period older than the Earth's mountains and rivers and oceans, every one of your forebears on both sides has been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and sufficiently blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stuck fast, untimely wounded or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result -- eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly -- in you.

Of this, I am tempted to say, if things had gone differently, I simply wouldn't have been here to raise the question at all. I fully agree that that doesn't explain anything, but I do not share Plantinga's (and other's) need for an explanation. Reading Bryson's tale fills me with amazement too, momentarily at least. Of all the things that could have gone wrong, none did! It is incredible that I got here at all, yet here I am! But there seems to be a certain (mischievous?) picture here -- of a tiny charge of genetic material that has made it safely through 3.8 billion years of continuous narrow escapes in order to make me. This looks like quite an accomplishment. When a package reaches its final destination unscathed, despite having faced earthquakes, avalanches, blizzards, mine-fields and so on, then that might make us look for an explanation. Calling it chance will hardly satisfy our need. (That's because chance isn't really an explanation at all, but rather something we appeal to when there are none.) Intelligent design (or Providence or Destiny) might look like much better options.

However, I cannot settle with this picture, mainly, I guess, because I cannot see any sense in saying that if things had been a little different and my parents hadn't met, then I would have been a package forever lost in the mail, as it were. One can say (and some do), how amazing it is that my mother, of all the men in the world, happened to meet my father. What were the chances!? But to me this sounds confused. It does make some sense to praise yourself lucky that your parents met and fell in love. But the sense is not that it would have been very unfortunate if they hadn't met, because then you would never have been born. One cannot say, bad luck for all those whose parents never meet.(Though that seems to be exactly what Plantinga is saying, when claiming that God, in creating me, somehow decided not to pass me over in favour of someone else.) When one say, how very lucky I am to be alive, this is normally a way of expressing one's gratitude, not a probabilistic judgement.

Your parents did meet, of course. Good for you, but is it more than that? Is it amazing? Today your father, of all the people in the world, sat next to this particular odd person on the bus. Why should the first be more in need of an explanation than the second? The first strikes you as wondrous because it was crucial for your existence. But if your father hadn't met your mother on that day, say, if he had gone to the movies instead of the beach, possibly to fall in love with someone else, and father, not you (you simply wouldn't exist) but someone else. Would that have been amazing too?