A television nature programme a year or two ago contained a striking sequence in which a giant squid was under threat from some other creature (no doubt a human being with a video camera). The squid responded in a way which struck me immediately and powerfully as one of fear. Part of what was striking in this sequence was the way in which it was possible to see in the behaviour of a creature physically so very different from human beings an emotion which was so unambiguously and specifically one of fear.

Here is a short, rough statement of the Platonism I defend:

There exist things that are not the objects of any actual or possible sense-experience, and that are not themselves experiences of any sort. These things can only be grasped by the intellect: they can′t be seen, touched, tasted, heard or smelt but they can be known.

Further, these things are a main concern of philosophy.

There is a long-standing tradition in Western thought that sees religion as a bolster for morality. In its vaguest version, the idea is that religious belief provides a kind of social cement, fostering an ‘ethos’ in which traditional moral values are respected.1 Religious observances are thus often prized by the ethical conservative, who fears secularization as subversive of the moral and social fabric. Religion, at the very least, serves to keep people in line: as Descartes put it, ‘since in this life the rewards offered to vice are often greater than the rewards of virtue, few people would prefer what is right to what is expedient if they did not fear God or have the expectation of an after life’.2

A man has sexual intercourse with his three-year-old niece. Teenagers standing beside a highway throw large rocks through the windshields of passing cars. A woman intentionally drives her car into a child on a bicycle. Cabdrivers cut off ambulances rushing to hospitals. Are these actions wrong? If we hesitate to say yes, that is only because the word ‘wrong’ is too mild to express our responses to such acts

Imagine a child′s toy arrow, sticking by its rubber sucker to a mirror′s reflective surface. We can call the direction in which such an arrow would point the finwards direction (forwards into the mirror); and we can call the opposite direction boutwards (backwards out). When we look at things in a mirror, their images are apparently just as far finwards of the mirror as the things themselves are boutwards of it. For example, if we look at the tail of our arrow and cast our glance finwards, we see first the tail, then the head, then the mirror, then the reflection of the head, and finally the reflection of the tail. We can therefore say that a mirror reverses things in the finwards/boutwards dimension. Moreover, the straight line connecting each thing to its image passes perpendicularly through the plane of the mirror. Hence there is no plane, apart from that of the mirror itself, such that the apparent location of each thing′s image is just as far to the one side of that plane as the original is to the other. This means that the reversal in the finwards/ boutwards dimension is the only reversal of its kind to take place. In particular, there is no such reversal in any dimension at right angles to finwards/boutwards.

Since many varieties of self-deception are ineradicable and useful, it would be wise to be ambivalent about at least some of its forms.1 It is open-eyed ambivalence that acknowledges its own dualities rather than ordinary shifty vacillation that we need. To be sure, self-deception remains dangerous: sensible ambivalence should not relax vigilance against pretence and falsity, combating irrationality and obfuscation wherever they occur.