Category: Consciousness

AI and Humanism

Henry Farrell remains my go-to guy in trying to wrap my head around AI. His latest post on that topic can be found here:

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/henry+farrell/FMfcgzQdzcrgnzCDNhCcmXHCZTzKqBrP

Two caveats. First is that Farrell has zeroed in on large language models in his various posts about AI. So what he has to say may not be relevant if there are other modes of AI functioning. The second caveat follows from the first. I think that I understand LLMs. But not only may I be deluded on that score, but I may also totally miss the reality of AI because assimilating it to LLMs.

That said, the issue that I find myself most fixated on comes down to the word “generative.” Hannah Arendt appropriated the term “natality” from Augustine. She used the term to refer 1) to the way each birth of a human being brought something new into the world (thus increasing the world’s plurality). We can certainly say that Arendt was too humanist; there are other births besides human ones and they, too, add to the world’s plurality. (Recall that “plurality” is a fundamental concept—and value—for Arendt.)

However, 2) “natality” also indexes the way in which action is creative. Action initiates and serves as a base cause of the arrival of the “new.” Novelty and action go hand-in-hand for Arendt; it is the way in which action is unpredictable that is precious to her—and cements the connection between action and freedom in her work. Action is not totally unconstrained, but its constant ability to surprise us, and the ways in which we value creative and innovative responses to given situations, marks a special (and it seems for Arendt unique) human talent.

I have written before about the collapsing distinction between instinctual and deliberate (consciously chosen) behavior. The line between human and animal behavior gets fuzzier and fuzzier with everything we learn about animals and about consciousness. And there’s more evidence all the time that trees are much more active and conscious than was previously thought. In short, humanism as a theory of an unbridgeable, qualitative difference between humans and other living beings has become less and less tenable.

Of course, “humanism” is a term with many meanings. I am using it here to designate the belief that humans are unique among the furniture of the world. That belief often goes hand-in-hand with the additional beliefs that humans are superior to everything else that exists and that humans are entitled to “dominion” over everything else that exists. (The notion of “dominion” has one vastly influential articulation in Genesis. I don’t think the humanist claim to uniqueness necessarily entails assertions of superiority and/or dominion.)

In our current moment, the desire to distinguish between the human and the non-human has focused more intensely on machines, not animals. If I am reading Farrell correctly, he has focused in on what might seem to be a notable lacunae in Arendt’s theory of action: desire. What motivates action? What does the agent strive to accomplish? In Farrell’s post, this question brings him to the concept of “intentionality.” Agents—whether human, animal, or plant—act in order to accomplish something. In the strictest Darwinian terms, they act to accommodate themselves to their environment (which itself is in constant flux) or act to alter the environment to better suit their needs. (That environment includes other beings as well as less intentional forces such as the weather.) I am connecting that concern to the question of what being “generative” means.

Can a machine want anything? Can it initiate something out of its own needs/desires? Just how “generative” is AI going to prove to be? Think of a rock at the top of a hill. It sits there until some external force pushes it. Once pushed, it will, on its own momentum, roll down hill and (perhaps) do some surprising, unpredictable things. But it needs the initial push. Yes, it generates consequences, but only after something external to it begins (natality) the process.

Isn’t AI the same? Doesn’t it just sit there until it is given the starting prompt? I read somewhere the claim from a tech guy that “I haven’t met a program or computer yet that wanted to tell me something.” The machine doesn’t have anything it wants or needs to communicate. It will, of course, have lots to say if prompted to do so. But it will remain silent in the absence of that prompt.

And when it does speak, it will not be trying to accomplish any particular thing. It is indifferent to what it produces—and will alter its product in relation to further prompts and to the desires of the prompter. It is that indifference to (or, put more drastically, its ignorance of) the possible consequences of what it generates that underlies (it seems to me) the most prevalent fears expressed about AI. It is not that AI will develop its own desires and act upon them that is the threat. It is that AI will mindlessly follow a program out to its logical (?) conclusions without any sense of how destructive it will be to go down that path. Mindlessness vs mindfulness. The machine doesn’t intend anything; it just processes its data into new combinations in response to a prompt and the algorithms used to do the processing work.

I may very well have the wrong end of the stick here. It does seem to me that those who believe the distinction between man and machine is fated to go the direction of the now collapsed distinction between humans and animals argue in Cartesian fashion. Descartes said that animals are machines—and he made humans an exception to that rule. The neo-Cartesians deny the exception. They make humans another of the animals that are best understood as machines. Thus, in thinking through the categories of human and machines, they do not try to claim that the machine will develop desires and intentionality. Instead, they argue that humans are already (and always) machines, that our folk psychology of desires and intentions and consciousness are just mistakes. The human mind is simply a data processing entity, following its own algorithms. And as a data processing machine, the human mind is vastly inferior to what our computers can do. Match human intelligence against AI—and AI will win most times right now, and every time in the near future.

The machine will achieve “super-intelligence,” something humans are incapable of.

Perhaps, then, talk of desire and intentions, of wanting to communicate something, is only the last refuge of a desperate humanism, trying to hold on to a dubious distinction between humans and other beings in the world. We can allow for differences (how humans organize their relations to one another is different from how swans do), but not for some hierarchy of beings, nor for some qualitative distinction between human cognition functions and those functions in other beings. I have been convinced by the arguments (and the new empirical discoveries on which they are based) that collapse any such distinction between humans and animals. Humans are not superior to the other animals and are certainly not radically different from them as cognitive processors. Humans are as rational—and as irrational—as all the other animals. It is simply not true that the animals are instinctual beings and humans are conscious, reasoning ones. Both humans and animals (in my view, but this is not universally agreed on) rely on both instinctual and more conscious bases for action.

Since I believe consciousness is not epiphenomenal, but actually exists as a function that enables deliberate choice and strategic action aiming toward the satisfaction of desire, the question does (it seems to me) become how to think about non-conscious intelligence. Despite cinematic representations of computers that anthropomorphize them, I take it that no one is claiming the machines are conscious. As I have already said, the arguments (as far as I can tell) go in the opposite direction: that is, humans don’t have consciousness, not that machines do have it.

In sum, it seems that consciousness is where humanism is making its stand. Maybe its last stand. Which returns me to what I have gleaned from all the work on consciousness that I have read in the past two years. The function of consciousness is primarily one of evaluation. What consciousness provides is an ability to assess a situation and 1) to consider options in how to respond to and proceed within that situation and 2) to do an internal evaluation of one’s various desires, to see which one (or ones) to prioritize in this moment. I think machines follow an utterly, noncomparable, path toward what they produce. The distinction between human and machine seems firm to me. Which is not to say that humans are superior in every way to machines. Obviously that is not the case. There are many things machines can do that humans cannot. But those things are things humans want done—and devise their machines to accomplish. I don’t think the machines want anything at all.

One final complication. The Farrell post I have cited does ponder a case where human and LLM processing do seem not just comparable, but fairly similar. Farrell is looking toward the famous work of Alfred Lord and Milton Parry on the bards who perform long epic poems in what appear to be mind-boggling feats of improvisation. Farrell sees this bardic practice as shuffling through large, pre-existing bits of language to produce in the moment a coherent, comprehensible utterance. The analogy to LLMs seems clear. What, of course, still remains mysterious (but may become less so in the future) is the algorithm (if that is even the right term) the bards deploy. Like the chess master, the bard has a storage bank of remembered moves/phrases and is able to pick out one element from that bank very quickly. How the feat is accomplished remains unexplained right now, but it could be more similar than not to how a LLM performs its similar feat. But Farrell does not think this particular breakdown in the distinction between human and machine undermines the objection that machines do not have intentions and (my addition) do not have autonomous desires. Does the machine want to learn? Does the machine want to correct its mistakes? Only if humans tell it to.

Life as No One Knows It

Sara Imari Walker is a physicist, (or more properly, an astrophysicist, or even more properly, an astrobiologist since she is looking for “life” in the universe) who has written a book to introduce “assembly theory” to a wider public: Life as No One Knows It: The Physics of Life’s Emergence (Riverhead Books, 2024). I was drawn to read it because a superficial notice about it in the New Yorker suggested that her positions aligned to some degree with the issues I tangled with in my two recent posts on “Consciousness and Life.” (Links: https://jzmcgowan.com/2024/12/05/consciousness-and-life/ and

https://jzmcgowan.com/2024/12/13/consciousness-and-life-response-and-clarification/).

Reading the book showed that those links were not all that substantial. But Walker does declare outright that “to this day . . . we cannot derive life from the known laws of physics, even if we are pretty sure it must be consistent with them” (21). Hence, she shares my view that physics as the science of matter cannot account for life—which leads us to biology, or biochemistry, as the appropriate sciences if we want to get a handle on life.

Interestingly, because “life” stumps physics, there are various physicists who claim life does not exist: since “modern science has taught us that life is not a property of matter” (6), the very category of life is a mistake, “not a natural kind” (22), but a figment of human thought that doesn’t map onto the way the world really is. The parallel with those who declare consciousness an “illusion” is fairly direct. Faced with something we can’t account for within our current scientific paradigms, some just insist those unaccounted-for somethings are not real.

Walker, instead, thinks the available paradigms are insufficient, not that the data (the fact that life exists) should be discounted. Her book is going to introduce the “new paradigm” she and her colleagues are attempting to put into place. That paradigm is called “Assembly theory.”

Before diving into that theory, I must applaud Walker’s quick, but sharp, dismissal of panpsychism. She describes the panpsychist position succinctly: “perhaps consciousness is fundamental, and therefore all matter is conscious” (40). Her dismissal is just as succinct: “an easy way to kill two hard problems [i.e. the nature of matter and the nature of consciousness] with one stone is to make the unexplained thing fundamental” (41-2). Moving the counters around is not a solution (or explanation), but just a way to duck the problem.

So what does “an explanation” look like? “[B]etter explanations are those that explain more observations, change surprising facts into a matter of course, yield accurate predictions of what one should and should not observe, are falsifiable, rest on relatively few assumptions, and are hard to vary such that changing the details dramatically changes the predictions” (152). It doesn’t help that Walker uses the word “explain” in this definition. What does it mean to “explain more observations”? Usually, I dare say the notion of “explain” is linked to some designation of the causal processes that bring the observed thing into existence. And that does seem to be what “assembly theory” attempts to do. I will get to that. In the meantime, we can register Walker’s assertion that “scientific revolutions and paradigm shifts are driven by new explanations, not necessarily new evidence” (152). The observables are there already (in some cases), we just lack a good explanation of them. Such, Walker argues, is the case for “life.” But we should note that, in other cases, there are new observables because new technologies of perception (microscopes, telescopes etc.) bring new objects into view.

Walker’s approach is not to ask “what life is,” but to ask “what life can do”? And that approach starts from consciousness. “Here we are not measuring whether something has experience (what consciousness is), but instead whether something that has experience can do different things because it has an internal world (what consciousness does)” (45). “Does anything in the universe exist that might not be possible if subjective inner worlds did not exist?” (45). The syntax is tortured here, but the question is whether there are existing things that could not exist if consciousness did not exist. Walker’s answer to this question is a resounding Yes. Everything in the built world—cities, technologies, books—depends on humans imagining those things first (in some kind of embodied thought space) and then doing the work of constructing them. “Some things that exist are imagined through abstraction (are counterfactual) and become physical (made actual) through a phenomenon deeply connected to what we call consciousness. It is not that all matter is conscious, but that consciousness is potentially a window into the mechanism for bringing specific configurations of matter into existence across time. If this conjecture is true, consciousness creates the possibility for things to exist that otherwise couldn’t because they did not exist in the past” (47-8). “The key feature is the ability to imagine or represent things that do not exist, such that the act of imagination becomes causal to the existence of some objects” (73).

Construction is, as its name suggests, central to assembly theory. What Walker wants to locate in the universe is causal power (my term, not hers), or to be more Promethean about it, creative power. Basically, she is going to make the same claim about “life” that she makes about consciousness. “Life is the only thing in the universe that can make objects that are composed of many, unique, recursively constructed parts” (90). The word “many” is crucial to this description of life. There are simple objects in the universe, ones that are “prebiotic” (her term); that is, they existed before the emergence of life—and, in some cases, still exist in their simple a-biotic (my term) way. These a-biotic objects are not “life” because they do not possess the capacity to generate new objects. Also, they are generally not complex. Living objects contain many parts. (It seems, although I am not sure I understood this correctly, that Walker tells us that only objects that are comprised of at least 15 different biochemical components cross the threshold over into “life.”)

Walker begins from a variant of a traditional philosophical conundrum: why is there something rather than nothing? Her variant is: why does the universe contain these specific objects instead of the many other possible objects that do not exist? Why possible in this posing of the question? Because there are molecular combinations that do not exist even though they, according to the laws of physics, could exist. In fact, humans have managed to create some of these non-existants in the lab. Humans have added to what nature produced on its own. So there are more possible objects than actually existing ones.

So: what caused some objects to come into existence and others not? The causal mechanism Walker turns to is no surprise: evolution and selection. Evolution here is doing its usual work, producing random variations over time as organisms reproduce. Coming into existence takes place over long stretches of time. It is not clear to me how radically Walker wants to upset the idea that all the matter that ever existed or will ever exist was present from the very start. But she does want to insist that “time” is an intrinsic component of (living?) matter, not just the stage upon which matter does its thing. (My “living” with the question mark indicates I am not sure if she is saying “time” is an intrinsic property of all matter, or only of living matter. I am clear that she does divide matter into that which has life and that which does not.) In any case, evolution over time means the emergence of new forms of matter, including forms we would designate as “living.” Life is not there from the beginning, but emerges somewhere down the line. But what emerges as evolution unfolds sets up a variety of constraints; some possible objects become very improbable, close to impossible, once evolution produces a different group of possible objects. The chain of causes is pretty determinative (even if there is always some randomness in reproduction).

Evolution, thus, produces variants (but within fairly predictable ranges once things are fairly launched), just as it does in modern-day (i.e. genetically informed) Darwinian theory. More novel is Walker’s understanding of “selection.” Assembly theory asserts that objects that are “alive” are too complex to simply emerge as products of random genetic mutations, or through any other random physical process. “Some objects require information—an algorithm—to make them. These objects will never spontaneously form and must always be constructed via selection and evolution. . . . All objects that require information to specify their existence constitute ‘life’” (146). “Complex objects, such as molecules, can come into existence only if there is something that can build them reliably, whether it is a cell, an environment, or an intelligent agent. These objects require an algorithmic process to assemble them. Assembly theory considers the algorithm to be an intrinsic property of the object, rather than a feature of the machine that outputs it” (143). [Sidenote: Walker does seem to reproduce the very error she mocks the panpsychists for making; she takes the causal mechanisms she needs, namely time and the informational algorithm, and make them “intrinsic” to matter.]

Selection, then, is made by the algorithm that informs (quite literally) the reproduction of the object—or, maybe it is better to say the persistence of the object over time. It is not the individual who possesses life so much as it is the “lineage” of information that causes the continuity of life forms over time. This shift in locus can be illustrated even in the case of the individual human being. “Over your lifetime you are alive because you are constantly reconstructing yourself—what persists in the informational pattern over time, not the matter (at least not in the traditional sense of the word ‘matter’). . . The fundamental unit of life is not the cell, nor the individual, but the lineage of information propagating across space and time” (150).

Life is a process—a process of regeneration where the information to bring new forms into existence (or to continually reproduce existing forms that substitute in for prior ones) plays the role of selection. Without that information’s causal power, no life. It is clear that, in Walker’s view, information is necessary to the existence of life, is, in fact, the distinctive “marker” of life. But whether information is also sufficient to the existence of life is less clear. Presumably, there is physical “stuff,” the “objects” she keeps talking about. Information, it would seem, needs to be embodied. There has to be “matter” for information to be “intrinsic” to. I don’t think Walker would deny this. She wants to retain all the laws of current-day physics; she just wants to supplement its accounts of matter and causation with this addition of information as a causal agent embedded in matter. She is not such a complete “process theorist” as to deny any “objectivity” to objects (as William James and Alfred Whitehead at times approach doing.) Or if she is that radical a process theorist, her continual (unexamined) talk of “objects” (possible and existing) undermines that radicalism. Life in her view, it is clear, is a continual making and unmaking, but some of the made things have a relatively stable existence for at least some duration.

In sum, the basic innovation of assembly theory, its supplement to contemporary physics, is the claim that information is causal—and that we cannot explain life without seeing information as its basic cause. There are secondary innovations about how “life” designates complex objects that are “assembled” out of earlier existing objects which embody the information required to construct the new forms. That view opens up vistas of novelty and creativity a more straight-jacketed physics might deny. As usual, the precise biochemistry of information’s creativity is not specified—just as the neural correlates of consciousness continue to elude researchers. Like panpsychism, assembly theory works to animate matter, to introduce principles of motion within matter that do not reduce to the laws of gravity, acceleration, and entropy found in standard physics.

I have left out of my account, Walker’s interest in finding out if life exists in worlds (planets) other than Earth. That’s her astrobiology hat. I will confess to having little interest in that question. Life here on earth is more (in fact, too much!) than enough for me. But to offer a quick and dirty summary of her position (especially since it explains the title of her book, which from my summary of it thus far would be utterly mysterious): since the emergence of life on this planet followed a determinant path set out by the earliest moves in the game, there is no reason to believe that life outside Earth would follow a similar path. Thus, looking for “signatures” of life on Mars (or anywhere else), such as water or oxygen or amino acids, is the wrong way to go. Life on other planets might very well have developed from completely different material bases. The key is informationally driven reproductive processes, not specific molecules or elements. So “life” elsewhere might differ radically from “life as we know it.”

How does Walker’s book—and assembly theory more generally—jive with the questions I raised about consciousness and life? Certainly, I have to appreciate someone who is a real scientist asserting that physics does not have a way of addressing the concept (the fact) of living beings. And Walker, as well, must be counted among the thinkers who is trying to advance new accounts of causation, ones that supplement (at least; perhaps they supplant) traditional mechanistic understandings of cause. Which reinforces my sense (derived from a number of writers) that Darwinian theory does not align with mechanistic (“efficient” in Aristotle’s terms) models of causation–and thus calls for other ways of understanding causation. I also think Walker’s focus on what life and consciousness do (their observable effects) as contrasted to worrying about what they are seems a fruitful and sensible way to proceed. Finally, although she never explicitly says so, I think Walker would agree that consciousness is a feature of “living matter,” not of all matter–and that addressing the puzzle of what life is and does is prior to understanding the nature of consciousness. Understanding life is the best way to make progress in understanding consciousness.

Judgment: Quality, Qualities, and Qualia

I have been noodling on about judgment on this blog for quite some time now (years!). And I have written about judgment in Kant and Hannah Arendt in published work, including a forthcoming essay on Arendt that I will post on this blog sometime in the near future.

Still, judgment is a very capacious term and it is often unclear what various thinkers—or me—actually is using the term to designate. So this post will be an attempt to list a variety of ways the term judgment gets used (Wittgenstein: a word’s meaning is its use) and to see if the various uses are tied to one another or are separate (and better left separate). Quality, Qualities, and Qualia as a title is meant to outline the territory to be covered although I am afraid those three terms won’t quite do the whole trick. Complexities will creep in. But let’s start.

Quality.

This is mostly the easy one. Judgment is very commonly tied to an evaluation of something. I judge whether something is good or bad. I am, then, considering what is the “quality” of the item in question. Aristotle thought such judgments were based on a prior conception of the item’s purpose. A good knife is one that cuts well since cutting is a knife’s purpose. Judgments in such cases may be absolute (to cut well is to be a good knife), but in practice tend to be comparative. This knife is better than that knife because this knife cuts better. It requires a Platonic ideal of good cutting to make an absolute judgment about a particular knife. In practice, we usually have something rougher in mind: this knife is “good enough” because it gets the job done. Whether it is the ne plus ultra of knives doesn’t concern us. We are dealing with the knives available to us in the here and now, not the whole range of all existing and possible knives. We make our judgment, we choose, among the alternatives we actually have access to.

Judgments, however, can proceed along different axes. We can judge the knife aesthetically. In that case, its qualities (first appearance of my second term in the title) as a cutter are subordinated to other qualities (its shape, its color, its weight). Aesthetic qualities are ones that please the senses (the root meaning of the word “aesthetic”) and are only tangentially related to function, if at all. Aristotle’s focus on “purpose” is functionalist, whereas the aesthetic is usually only tangential to function, and can be in overt hostility to function. An aesthetic judgment, then, considers an item’s quality in relation to a different set of criteria than a functional judgment does. Notoriously, aesthetic judgments seem squishy as compared to functional ones—and generate much more confusion and controversy over what the criteria for judgment are. Even where there is some agreement and clarity about the criteria being invoked in an aesthetic judgment, disagreement in actual judgments remains very common.

The lack of such disagreements in functional judgments is connected to the use to which the object is being put. If I am using the knife to cut something, then the degree to which it aids or hampers that effort provides the ground for judgment. If I am trying to use the knife to punch a hole in leather or paper, the fact that the knife proves a poor tool for that endeavor indicates I am using it for a purpose it cannot do well. With aesthetic objects, however, their purpose is less clear cut. Do I value the painting because it is pleasing to the eye, because it fills up an empty space on the wall, because it reflects upon a certain tradition in painting, because it indicates my wealth, status, education, and taste? All of these are possibilities and none of them necessarily excludes the others. Aesthetic objects have multiple uses, while seemingly not tied to any specific use. Hence the fuzziness of aesthetic judgments, which vary according to the objective criteria being applied and according to the subjective taste of the one who judges.

The term “value” snuck into last paragraph. A judgment is an evaluation. It makes a determination as to the “quality” of some thing—and such judgments seem inevitably tied to an assessment of that thing’s “value.” A knife that cuts well is more valuable than one that does not. I would rather possess (and use) the good knife than the poor one. (Again, comparative in relation to the possible.) We value things in relation to whether their qualities are desirable and are conducive to advancing our own purposes.

To pragmatic (purpose oriented) and aesthetic judgments, we must add moral judgments. The criteria in moral judgments is not exclusively whether an action furthers achievement of a purpose or if the action is “pleasing” to witness or contemplate. These two bases for judgement need not be excluded in making a moral judgment, but they are neither necessary nor (crucially) sufficient. A moral judgment must involve a further consideration: the quality of the action in relation to specifically moral criteria. Identifying moral criteria has proved just about as tricky and ambiguous as identifying aesthetic criteria. The ongoing debates between Kantians and utilitarians is just one instance of the inability to designate criteria for moral judgments that convince everyone. Such debates often end up appealing to “moral intuitions” to make their case (Wittgenstein: here my spade turns; I can say no more). It’s as if “I know a moral action when I see one” for moral judgments crops up alongside the “I know what I like when I see it” explanation of aesthetic judgments. Moral judgments seem to be endemic—and necessary!—to human social life. But disputes over moral judgments are as frequent as (and seem much more consequential than) disputes over aesthetic judgments.

To sum up before moving on to qualities: judgments are evaluations of the “quality” of something (an object, an action, even of a person). Such judgments, at the crudest level, decide whether something is good or bad. A good knife, a good painting, a good action, a good person as contrasted to ones that are less good or even positively bad. And we in most cases value good instances of things over bad instances. There are notable exceptions to this last statement. We perverse humans can find all sorts of reasons to make the bad our good (to quote Milton’s Satan).

OK. Right now, we are in the land of endless and irresolvable disputes over aesthetic and moral judgments. One common response to that problem has been to say the fact of disagreement can be wildly exaggerated. Do we really disagree over whether the sexual abuse of a child is good or bad? Is there anyone out there insisting that Love Story is a better novel than Middlemarch? Of course there are difficult cases for making moral and aesthetic judgments, but there are many more cases where there is widespread, close to universal, agreement. It’s only philosophers who agonize over the hard cases. For the rest of us, we have “good enough” consensus and learn to live with the instances where consensus cannot be reached. Yes, some disputes lead to serious conflict since human beings are an argumentative and aggressive lot. But humans have also instituted procedures for conflict resolution—and when we are persistent and lucky such institutions do their job and bloodshed is avoided.

Qualities

The informal, non-institutionalized, form of conflict resolution is talking things over and through. And this is where “qualities” enter the picture. We disagree over the quality of a painting. To talk through that disagreement, the best strategy (it seems to me) is to step back from the judgment and to instead focus on describing the painting to one another. Are the colors vibrant or muted? Do they harmonize or clash? How is the space of the canvas allotted? Are the figures representational or abstract (or some blend of the two)? Et cetera. Judgment relies upon, is based on, a discernment of qualities. Various writers, Hannah Arendt among them, wrap this discernment function into the very notion of judgment.

Arguably, Kant does as well. A Kantian determinate judgment is an act of apprehension. For Kant, we apprehend the qualities of a thing—and then judge what kind of thing it is. We very rarely disagree as to whether something is a knife, not a spoon, fork, or kettle. So the most basic judgment is what kind of thing a thing is. And the “kind” is supplied to us by culture, by our language. We don’t invent a new category, or word, or kind, to identify this knife as “a knife.” We use the term our language has already given to us. In this way, we occupy a common world.

Judgment understood this way is non-individual. It is the way that individuals participate in a shared universe. Individuals re-affirm their deep connection to others as they make these mundane (automatic, rarely reflective) judgments constantly. Solipsism is a boogy-man. It is impossible to be a solipsist so long as you use the common language. I read Wittgenstein’s claim that a private language is impossible as saying that the individual cannot construct a world to occupy on his or her own. The world only achieves solidity through its being “worded” by an ensemble of selves. Kant’s determinate judgments refer to specific instances where we encounter some thing and need to identify it. But there is no individual ability to make determinate judgments based on a completely individual set of “categories” or “kinds” or “concepts” (to go back to my earlier posts on percept/concept).

It is, I am suggesting, just a further refinement on judgment as discernment to dive down into the “qualities” of things. There is the crude first determination: that is a knife. But now we can appeal to other culturally provided descriptors to be more detailed. The knife has a certain shape, a certain weight, a certain size. Again, agreement about these features should not be hard to achieve. Evaluation of these features is likely to be more various. I might prefer a knife of a certain heft, while you find it too heavy. I might find a certain shape of its handle comfortable and thus a way to make it better for me to use—while that may not be the case for you. But we have narrowed down, specified more concretely, why your evaluative judgment of the knife differs from mine.

We can take the same approach to aesthetic disputes. If we can agree that the work’s colors are vibrant and non-harmonious, we can then understand if we disagree about whether such an effect is pleasing or not. Aesthetic objects, however, are complex. What we value in certain critics is their ability to draw our attention to features of the aesthetic object that we had not noticed. Here we recognize that some people, in relation to some kinds of objects, have greater powers of discernment. These people apprehend more—and have a talent for articulating what they apprehend. When we read a superb critic of a literary work (for example), we see things in the work that we missed. Judgment as discernment highlights “qualities” and appeals to others to acknowledge the presence of those qualities. It enriches the experience of encountering a thing. Taking a hike with a naturalist is analogous. I am alerted to features of the forest that I miss when hiking by myself.

It is still an open question how to evaluate those features. I may find them boring and wish the naturalist wouldn’t bang on about this or that. But I am not inclined to disagree about whether the features actually are present in the forest. Again, when it comes to aesthetic objects, matters can be more complicated. Since a certain form of literary criticism highly values “unity,” we find critics who work very hard to “prove” that Moby Dick or Ulysses are unified works, whereas I find those two books wildly incoherent, manic in their throwing together of disparate materials and thought. But, then again, I don’t rate “unity” as such a valuable criteria for aesthetic judgment as many others do. A conversation about such matters can make at least some progress by clarifying what features (qualities) I think a work has and what criteria I employ to judge its quality. My interlocutor and I can at least see where we agree, where disagree.

Another way to say this is that our stake in making evaluations generates our powers of discernment. That is why judgment comes to encompass both evaluation and discernment. I have increased powers of discernment where something is of value, of particular interest, to me. If I don’t care much about the differences between oaks and spruces or between different varieties of ferns, then I am much more likely not to notice those differences. Where I am engaged, I can discern more. And that’s why we turn to “experts,” to people who have a command of the relevant terms and features that allow more discerning and detailed descriptions of particular things. Those are the people whose judgment about a thing’s “qualities” we have come to trust. I think this is what we mean when we talk of an “informed judgment.” Someone able to apprehend the “qualities” of something in rich detail is more informed about that thing and, thus, has more information on which to base a judgment of its quality.

Pragmatic Judgment

This lead me (before I get to qualia) to another common way to use the term “judgment”—a way not quite consonant with my quality, qualities, qualia rubric. This meaning of judgment is pragmatic, and connected with the Aristotelean term “phronesis” (often translated as “practical wisdom.”) The colloquial usage here is to characterize a person as having “good judgment.” Judgment in this case involves evaluating what is possible and/or desirable to do in this particular set of circumstances. It requires (so the thinking goes) an excellent discernment of the actual features of the situation plus an ability to discern what the situation affords plus a clear sense of one’s own needs/desires plus a sensible prioritizing among those needs/desires in relation to what is possible here and now. Phronesis is both very specific (tied to this situation and to my purposes) and very holistic (it sees the situation in its full complexity). Quality and qualities are intertwined here. I must discern the features of the situation even as I aim to act in ways that enhance the quality of my position. Embedded in the world, I have the meliorist (William James) goal of bettering my position at every turn, fending off threats to well-being even as I also try to improve that well-being. Good judgment leads to success in that endeavor—a fact brought home by witnessing how often human actions are counter-productive, make things worse instead of better. Good judgment is hard and fairly rare, hence its being awarded the honorific term of “wisdom.”

One version of good judgment is to be a “good judge of character.” Since one of the most crucial wild cards in judging any situation is how much I can rely on the other people who occupy the world alongside me, it is very important to assess accurately the talents and trustworthiness of others. I can only expect help from people capable of providing that help (I don’t expect a doctor to fix my clogged pipes) and can only enlist that help from people who will be willing to provide it. So I must make a judgment before the fact as to whether this or that person will actually do what I need them to do. Relying on someone who lets me down is a failure of judgment, of phronesis.

Qualia

OK. Now let me turn to qualia. In the literature on consciousness, the term “qualia” names the “sensation” that accompanies any experience. It feels like something to see a Matisse painting. There is the perception of the painting—and there is the feeling that the perception produces. An organism can be conscious of something; it is only when that consciousness of something is accompanied by consciousness of an internal feeling (some state of being for the perceiving consciousness) that we have “sensation” as well as “perception.” (I am following Nicholas Humphrey here, from his book Sentience: The Invention of Consciousness (MIT Press, 2023), but Humphrey’s usage is fairly standard in the literature. Only “fairly standard,” of course, because there is disagreement about everything relating to these matters among those who consider them.) “Phenomenal consciousness” is the term deployed to designate the experience of a “feeling,” a sensation (an awareness) of an internal state of being.

Quick aside: the “hard problem” in consciousness studies is how to explain the fact of phenomenal consciousness. Current science can do a good job of explaining the physiological processes that enable one to see the Matisse painting, but we have no remotely adequate account of the processes that would generate the “feeling” that accompanies that perception. The holy grail of consciousness studies is to explain phenomenal consciousness. The “mysterians” say we will never get that explanation; the hard-core materialists say phenomenal consciousness is an illusion, not a real thing that needs to be explained. But most writers accept that phenomenal consciousness is real—and that we lack a good account of its reality.

Back to qualia. What has they got to do with judgment? Everything if we adopt the James-Lange theory of emotions. Basically, that theory says that our bodies react immediately to the environmental circumstances one confronts in any situation. (And situations keep unfolding, keep popping up, because the world we inhabit is much more one of constant change than one of stasis.) Living things are reactive—finely tuned to apprehend the environment and to adjust to the circumstances. For James-Lange, feelings (sensations) follow from that bodily adjustment/attunement. The sensation is how we come to realize what our body’s reaction is. Feelings are informational; they inform us of how our body has responded to what the world is throwing at it.

If this theory is correct, then judgment is instantaneous. Our body both judges what the circumstances are (picking out especially what is most relevant to its most important concerns) and judges (acts upon) what an appropriate response to those circumstances are. Qualia (our sensation or feeling) registers for our conscious selves the judgment that has already been made on an unconscious, bodily level.

There are various ways one can argue that it’s evolutionary useful for organisms to acquire an ability to be consciously aware of these unconscious bodily responses. If we know what our body is doing, we can monitor and even (possibly) revise its responses. I return here to the recurrent notion that consciousness introduces a pause into the processes of stimulus/response. The body (in the James-Lange theory) responds immediately and automatically, without any involvement on the part of consciousness. The bodily judgment is direct; it does not pass through consciousness. But the ability to pick up the signal that informs consciousness of what that response is provides the possibility of assessing it and revising it. I.e. there is now a second moment of judgment superimposed on the first, automatic one. This seems similar to the “thinking fast and slow” that Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky introduced into the social sciences. (Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow [Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2011]). And it chimes with the work of Martha Nussbaum and others on the cognitive function of the emotions. (Martha Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions [Cambridge UP, 2003].) We know about things, about our environment, through our emotional responses to things. But we are not ruled entirely by our emotions if consciousness allows for us to examine them, to consider if they are appropriate responses to the situations that elicited them.

What, then, of the discernment judgement calls forth (as described in my thoughts on “qualities.”) For James, efforts to explain a judgment always come after the fact. We strive to “rationalize,” to provide reasons for, the judgments our body has already made. We want to “justify” a decision after the fact. Deliberation, we might say, comes after, not before, action. Still, this desire to justify can hone attention, can make us more discerning. And that training of apprehension can then influence future instances of immediate, bodily judgment. Organisms learn. Feedback from one instance gets incorporated (in the literal sense of that word: taken into the body) in ways that manifest themselves in future interactions.

The desire to justify points us toward the communal pressures upon judgment that Kant (and Arendt in her reading of Kant’s Critique of Judgment) emphasizes. Others demand of us an explanation of our judgments and the actions based upon them. Why do you think Picasso a lesser artist than Matisse? Why did you do that? In answering such questions, we are very likely to point toward features of the paintings or features of the situation we faced as explaining why made the choices we made. Even if these explanations are “rationalizations” in the negative sense of being excuses for judgments or actions actually made unthinkingly, they do heighten consciousness about our own proclivities and about the complexities (the manifold details) of worldly things and situations. Because we are called upon to give an account of our judgments and actions, we develop our powers of discernment.

Arendt translates Kant as saying that our attempts at justification “woo the consent of the other.” There are no absolutely compelling justifications; they are always contestable. But we want to stand in the good graces of others, so we try to get them to see it our way (as Paul McCartney puts it).

For Nicholas Humphrey, this need to justify ourselves provides an evolutionary reason for the emergence of phenomenal consciousness. Because we are social animals, humans must find a way to “work it out” (to quote McCartney again). And we can only do that, Humphrey thinks, if we have some sense of what others think and feel. How can we know what “reasons” others will find convincing as we strive to get them to accept our excuses, our ex post facto explanations? The self-consciousness that phenomenal consciousness enables allows us to imagine how our fellow humans take things, what their sensations are in response to different situations. Judgment moves from being the purely individual response to the environment toward an always already socially-inflected response. Our need for, dependence on, others means that their responses to our judgments (and the actions those judgments will inspire) influence the judgments from the start. Another way to say this: the environment humans face always includes other humans and maintaining desirable relations to those humans is a high priority in any assessment of appropriate responses/adaptations to the environment. Our learning includes a big dose of learning how other humans respond to us when we make this or that judgment, take this or that action. We “norm” our taste to fit the groups to which we want to remain members in good standing.

The changing musical tastes of college students offer a good illustration of that last point. Students will abandon old favorites in favor of more ”sophisticated” ones as they learn new codes of distinction. Is the music they now listen to “better” than the music they abandon? Hard to say. Depends on the criteria applied. But they will almost certainly acquire a richer vocabulary in which to describe and justify their tastes, while also learning what counts as compelling justifications of taste judgments to the people whose consent they are trying to “woo.” And they will learn what musical tastes are deemed outside the pale.

I will end by saying that the entanglement of judgment with “sociality” (to invoke Arendt on Kant again) is where much of my interest lies. I want to nail down (and feel I have yet to do so to my satisfaction) the way that judgments are not just influenced by, but are only possible within, intersubjective relations. Relevant factors are the non-private languages in which judgments are articulated/communicated and the pressure to explain/justify our judgments. But I still feel like something is missing here, some key piece to the puzzle of how what seems individually located (the response of my body to a situation and my subsequent conscious awareness of that response) is not very individual at all.

Consciousness and Life: Response and Clarification

My friend Daniel has sent me some questions/responses related to my recent post on Consciousness and Life. (Here’s the link to that post: https://jzmcgowan.com/2024/12/05/consciousness-and-life/).

Daniel’s thoughts are in standard type and my attempts to address the issues he raises are in italics.

Some thoughts:
1. It may be true that Goff is a “monist,” but it seems a strange description of his position, since he is very much arguing against physicalism–hardly a dualist position. Physicalism, too, isn’t an account “that multiples basic entities.” There is one entity–physical matter, whether it’s a rock, an animal, or a brain within an animal. So I’m confused by the idea that your “pluralist views” coincide with physicalism. I would think the point of physicalism, within the consciousness debate, is to say that there is only one substance. (I know you like the idea of pluralism, but…) The “hard problem” poses a challenge that asks how it is that something that seemingly is without physical substance (a feeling of pain, for instance, or the feeling of a rough fabric touched by a hand) might be, in fact, a physical artifact with a physical location–that is, no different than any other physical substance.

As I read Goff, he is deeply committed to monism, which is why he champions “Russellian monism” as his position. Basically, like almost everyone these days who participates in these conversations, Goff is a fervent anti-dualist because he rejects any “extra” non-materialist entity (spirit, soul, whatever). Once he has dismissed dualism, he thinks there are two contenders for a monist account: physicalism and panpsychism. (To be clear, panpsychism is a materialist position; it just bakes in the psychic from the beginning. Matter has a physic component—or, to us Goff’s term, a psychic “aspect.”) He works hard to eliminate physicalism as worthy of belief—and thus to boost his preferred position of panpsychism on the back of physicalism’s flaws. But he also admits panpsychism’s shortcoming, which is why he mostly falls back on “elegance” and ”parsimony” as the reason to prefer panpsychism. And he even comes to accept a tiny bit of “noumenalism” as most likely inevitable, where “noumenalism” means the existence of a “thing in itself” to which human cognition will never have access. (Pages 230-231 in his book, Consciousness and Fundamental Reality.)

What I am groping toward is a physicalist pluralism, i.e. a physicalism that is neither monist nor dualist. As I say, I may just have the science entirely wrong—and I also have no doubt that most of the experts in these consciousness debates would find my position out of bounds. More about this is response to point #2.

2. In that sense, yes, a rock and a dog are both made up of the same stuff, even if one is living and one is not. (By the way, it seems that rocks, too, evolve, along with those “living things” you speak of.) I don’t mean to belittle the distinction, but opponents of physicalism are the ones who argue that a dog is different than a rock, not because a dog is alive but because it has consciousness, and consciousness defies physical explanation. Or am I missing something here?

What I am trying to deny is exactly the idea that a dog and a rock are made of the same stuff. Here’s my basic idea. BIG BANG: out of that big bang comes a bunch of different stuff. Basically the periodic table. There are hydrogen atoms, oxygen atoms, iron atoms, gold atoms etc. These atoms are different things; they behave differently and interact with other atoms differently. Since what we get on the ground is a universe composed of many different things—rocks, water, air, plants, animals—it seems odd to assume we started from one thing. Furthermore, evolution precisely results in a wide range of living creatures as different “niches” are exploited by different creatures. William James says of pragmatism: “an attitude or orientation is what the pragmatic method means. The attitude of looking away from first things, principles, ‘categories,’ supposed necessities; and of looking towards last things, fruits, consequences, facts” (29 in Penguin edition of Pragmatism.) And when we look at what’s on the ground now, as opposed to speculating about origins, James asserts: “The world of concrete personal experiences to which the street belongs is multitudinous beyond imagination, tangled, muddy, painful, and perplexed. The world to which your philosopher introduces you is simple, clean and noble” (15). Philosophers are always trying to clean things up. This is Goff’s “elegance.”

But why believe the universe is elegant when all of our experience of it screams that it is not? So I am trying to say 1) why not believe we had many different things from the very beginning and 2) why obsess about origins at all? I’d rather we focused on trying to explain what we have here in front of us right now instead of positing a just so story that claims we got to current multiplicity from some primal unified and monolithic substance. And then we can think about how things present now interact in ways to produce what comes next.

So how to get physicalist pluralism? Precisely through the dynamics of evolution for living things and of physics for non-living things. Do we believe that water or salt existed from the very beginning? Or are they products that emerge later through the interactions of basic atoms? Similarly, do we believe life existed from the start? Or does life emerge from interactions of different elements? You can’t get water from one element; you have to have two. So if everything at the beginning is the same stuff, then emergence of water is a mystery. You get an infinite regress here. Because you are going to have to account for the existence of hydrogen and oxygen (also two different things) if you say we start from one basic stuff. Here is where I admit I may have the science totally wrong. But even if I do, there still has to be some account of how new forms appear on the scene. Evolutionary theory goes a long way (although not the whole way) to providing that explanation for new species on the living creatures side.

Furthermore, if I am right that consciousness is a feature of living beings, then what the philosophers need to explain is the presence of life, not the presence of consciousness. They should be pan-lifeists, not panpsychists. The emergence of life is much more mysterious than the emergence of consciousness, since once you have life the evolutionists have a pretty compelling account of why consciousness is of benefit to life, to how it would give a living creature an evolutionary advantage. In other words, once you have living creatures, evolution can kick in and its mechanisms account for the growing complexity of life forms. But there is no evolutionary explanation for why life itself emerges.

This is not to say that evolution offers a full mechanistic, biochemical explanation of how consciousness emerges. That emergence is lost in the mists of time. But evolutionary theory makes the emergence of consciousness plausible since consciousness serves the basic evolutionary goals of survival and reproduction. Those goals presume the existence of living forms. Evolutionary theory does not help at all in explaining why living forms themselves come into being. The hard problem is identifying the interactions that produce the phenomenon of consciousness and accounting for why those interactions would generate the particular “feelings” or “sensations” or “states of mind” that they do. I am not claiming to solve the hard problem. I am just saying it seems more plausible to me—or, at least, a hypothesis that should be entertained—to say that the physical bases of consciousness are interactions between different elements rather than manifestations of one basic stuff.

To my mind, the interactional thesis better captures the dynamism that characterizes a universe in which life and consciousness did not always exist—and a universe in which life and consciousness (through evolution) are still in the process of emerging, with old forms dying out and new forms coming on the scene (as well as less holistic changes within specific forms.)

3. You probably know it, but I think that you’re forced to include plants in what you’re saying, if “consciousness is a tool for evaluation”; they, too, like any other living thing, “evaluate possible courses of action in response to…circumstances,” no? They certainly seem different, in your sense, from rocks.

Happy to include plants. The problem here, it seems to me, is one that I have been surprised to find gets little attention in all these books we have read. Namely, the line between instinct (or automatic stimulus/response) and consciousness. All living creatures, plants very much included, respond to their environment. Therefore, they must have a way of taking in information about the environment and of altering behavior in relation to that information. Consciousness is, I think, an obvious way of assessing incoming information and evaluating what behavior is best suited to the circumstances. But it seems that instinct does the same work without going through the experience of consciousness. My sense is that all the current research in animal studies and even plants (the book How Trees Think has been a path-breaker here) has pretty consistently lessened the terrain governed by instinct while expanding the domain of consciousness. Still, there does seem to be something we can call instinct that is different from consciousness. The newborn “knows” how to suck at the mother’s breast. That seems instinctual, as does breathing. In short, I’d love to see a convincing account of (what I suspect is) the continuum from instinct all the way up to full self-consciousness.

I think (although here, again, I could be horribly wrong) that consciousness comes in degrees, with pure instinct at one end of the spectrum but with nothing definitive at the other end. I certainly don’t want to say the form of consciousness that seems typical of humans is “full” (the be all and end all) and therefore marks the other end of the spectrum. Rather, at that other end, we find (I think) a variety of forms of consciousness, each (in most cases) evolutionary adequate for the creatures who have that form. Evolution is not flawless, but we can say that it tends to provide for each creature the consciousness it needs to survive and to reproduce. What sends living creatures to extinction is drastic changes in the environment—new predators/competitors and altered basic conditions—not the failure of current capacities to survive if the environment holds constant (which it never does over the long haul—or even the short haul in some cases).

4. When you say that “consciousness is not an illusion,” I think you may be referring to Illusionism–I’m thinking of Daniel Dennett and Keith Frankish. In that odd philosophical way, there is a little consequence to illusionism one way or the other; we continue to feel things exactly the same, whether or not our qualia or feels are real or not. So I would think you’d find it a more interesting theory, if only because it (a) gets rid of the hard problem (okay, perhaps too easily), and (b) counters Goff’s anti-physicalist arguments. Frankish is especially bullish on the idea of generating new research projects on the brain; the “illusion” seems to be, from his point of view, simply another name for a process in the brain whereby we fool ourselves (probably for good reason, but certainly in keeping with other ways we respond to, say, optical illusions.) He is thoroughly a physicalist.

Yeah. The physicalists’ task is pretty straightforward. They need to get the experimental results that show the physical processes that produce consciousness and connect those physical processes to the “feel,” the phenomenology of consciousness. I am of the camp that says this is theoretically possible. I am only saying 1) I think working from the various physical elements involved in these processes is much more likely to produce results than thinking there is some sort of primal stuff that explains things and 2) that the phenomenology will also prove to be a product of those processes, not some illusion. (In fact, I am confused by the very notion of illusion. If the processes produce the illusion, then how is the illusion somehow not real? It’s a real product of an actual physical process. I need to read more about illusionism to overcome this basic misunderstanding of what distinguishes an illusion from something “real”.) In short, I am betting on bio-chemistry as “the answer,” even as I admit an answer seems very far from being reached right now.

5. I do agree with you that a biological approach is missing in Goff’s view, and I wonder whether this sort of approach amounts to a “functionalist” account of consciousness. (I’m out of my league here.) The point would be, as you suggest, that consciousness is very useful, for any number of reasons, and likely the result of animal evolution. Though I find myself uncomfortable with the idea of evolution having a teleology. There’s a long history of seeing evolution as having some purpose (in its worst version, a divine design, or, just as bad, the goal of humankind as its epitome); I realize that this is not your intent, but I wonder if it’s even necessary to explain the “emergence” of consciousness by some sort of pull of nature. There is a lot of controversy about teleology in respect to both Darwin and subsequent evolutionary theory. (See, for example, John Reiss’s Not By Design, a detailed and historical argument against any teleological understanding of evolution.)

Yes, evolution acts blindly; it does not have any “purpose.” But, of course, we almost inevitably end up talking about it as having agency. The very term “natural selection” is agency-laden. To “select” is an act—and “nature” is proposed as the agent. Personifying evolution is a bad habit that just about everyone finds difficult (close to impossible) to avoid. That’s because evolution produces things and we (by virtue of grammar Nietzsche would say) connect production to agency. The product is the noun and the action that produced it is the verb.

And, yes, using the term “teleological” only increases the chances of mistaking evolution for some kind of intention-guided agent. But the field of evolutionary studies, especially the writers focusing on consciousness, appear to have decided that “teleological” is the term they are going to use when speaking of evolutionary causes. I assume this choice of terminology comes from relying on Aristotle’s famous—and still canonical—account of causation.

I do think, and here is where we may fundamentally disagree, that the basic point is still valid: an evolutionary cause is not a mechanical, efficient (in Aristotle’s use of that term) cause. How so? What is a cause? A cause is a force that makes something happen in the world. An efficient cause requires an interaction between the cause and the effect. Causation, in this case, is direct. The cause acts upon something and brings about a change (the effect) in the thing acted upon. The water is spilled and the tablecloth gets wet.

An evolutionary cause does not act that way. It is indirect. The efficient cause in evolution is genetic mutation (another source of pluralism, by the way, even as its randomness drains any “purpose” from its generation of effects). But the evolutionary cause is the “fitness” of that mutation for an organism living in a specific environment. So an evolutionary cause has these multiple elements: a living organism embedded in a specific environment, a genetic mutation, a competition for resources required for life and reproduction within that environment, and an environment complex enough to have different “niches” so that multiple species can co-exist. With those elements in place, evolution “selects” for the features of an organism that give it a better chance to survive and reproduce.

What the theorists I reference (Deacon and Solms) do is take this high-level evolutionary cause and bring it into the organism itself. Living creatures become increasingly complex as evolutionary history unfolds. Thus, animals have digestive systems, hearts (blood circulation), lungs (oxygen intake), reproductive systems, and more as well as consciousness. These various systems are regulated (governed) in terms of the needs of the organism as a whole. They are not free agents, but subordinated to the primary evolutionary goal: survival and reproduction. Hence the argument for top-down causation attuned to an end result. The coordination of the various parts of a complex organism cannot be explained solely by efficient causes. That’s the argument.

Is this functionalism? Yes. Darwinian theory is adamantly functionalist. And there have been various ways to try to wriggle out from under what might be called “vulgar functionalism” or what some writers have called “Darwinian fundamentalism.” Basically, vulgar functionalism claims that every instance of animal behavior must be understood as advancing the primary evolutionary imperatives of survival and reproduction. Hence, baseball must be understood in terms of its helping its players find a mate.

The most common way people (Stephen Gould is a major source here) try to sidestep Darwinian fundamentalism is to say that certain capacities (like the hand/eye coordination that helps someone be a skilled baseball player) evolve in relation to the Darwinian imperatives, but then these capacities are put to uses in ways unconnected to those imperatives. In short, this is a surplus theory. It does not take all our energy and time to fulfill our Darwinian needs, so we use our spare energy and time to do things that our evolved capacities make possible. Needless to say, this solution has not pleased everyone. Plenty of people want to be able to introduce some other fundamental motives into animal existence than just the two Darwinian ones.

Finally, rocks. My life/non-life dualism amounts, I think to saying that efficient causes are sufficient to explain the changes time brings to non-living things. Rocks are not subject to evolutionary causes. Geology has no need or uses for teleological or Darwinian causes. Rocks are not selected in relation to criteria of fitness. Biology is the science that attends to living things, which is why physics and geology are not the right place to go when considering questions about consciousness (if I am right that consciousness is confined to living things). Yes, rocks change over time, but not as a result of evolution; only as a result of brute, mechanical causes.

6. Still, I think we can make general observations about the usefulness or function of consciousness: If I reach for the pan on the stove, I will feel the presence of heat and think twice about grabbing it barehanded. The feel of heat is mine, an instance of consciousness. This feel doesn’t seem like a physical thing; and as skeptics of physicalism point out, it’s not as though you’re going to cut into my brain and find that feel (though you might find the neural correlates). For some reason, none of this seems to trouble me (at least not today). I have a sense that the feel is a function of my brain; or it may be function of my brain in coordination with networks associated with other parts of my body; but one way or the other, it’s related to my physical body. Or, again, it may be a less a thing–what I’ve been referring to as a “feel”–than an illusion my brain creates. No difference.