Pity is an emotion which is intimately connected with virtue. If I were impervious to anger I could still be a paragon of rectitude. My emotional peculiarity might even be explained by moral saintliness. If I had a pitiless heart my entire life would surely be an abject moral failure. The imputation of an inability to pity strikes us as a damning moral criticism; it is one we are likely to make, for example, against those who commit acts of extreme cruelty. Yet pity is hardly ever welcomed by its recipients, and for that reason it differs in a puzzling way from other emotions which are closely associated with virtue, such as gratitude or compassion. The prospect of becoming an object of pity is alarming, and not merely because we fear the misfortune that would evoke pity in others; it is alarming in part because we suspect that being on the receiving end of that emotion could seriously aggravate our plight. We also regard an aversion to being pitied as commendable, perhaps even morally commendable. There is something shameful in wanting to be pitied, just as there is in the indulgence of self-pity. The aged and the physically disabled do not want our pity, as a rule, and we think better of them for not wanting it. Finally, we know that those who give pity are frequently guilty of serious wrongdoing. A pitiless heart may be a terrible thing, but a fondness for dispensing pity is scarcely any better.

It is a commonplace amongst communitarians, socialists and feminists alike that liberalism is to be rejected for its excessive ‘individualism’ or ‘atomism,’ for ignoring the manifest ways in which we are ‘embedded’ or ‘situated’ in various social roles and communal relationships. The effect of these theoretical flaws is that liberalism, in a misguided attempt to protect and promote the dignity and autonomy of the individual, has undermined the associations and communities which alone can nurture human flourishing.

My plan is to examine the resources available to liberalism to meet these objections. My primary concern is with what liberals can say in response, not with what particular liberals actually have said in the past. Still, as a way of acknowledging intellectual debts, if nothing else, I hope to show how my arguments are related to the political morality of modem liberals from J.S. Mill through to Rawls and Dworkin. The term ‘liberal’ has been applied to many different theories in many different fields, but I’m using it in this fairly restricted sense. First, I’m dealing with a political morality, a set of moral arguments about the justification of political action and political institutions. Second, my concern is with this modem liberalism, not seventeenth-century liberalism, and I want to leave entirely open what the relationship is between the two. It might be that the developments initiated by the ‘new liberals’ are really an abandonment of what was definitive of classical liberalism. G.A. Cohen, for example, says that since they rejected the principle of ‘self-ownership’ which was definitive of classical liberalism (e.g. in Locke), these new liberals should instead be called ‘social democrats.’My concern is to defend their political morality, whatever the proper label.

For those of us who are sympathetic to the research program of cognitive science, it is especially useful to face the deepest and sharpest critic of that program. Charles Taylor, who defines himself as a ‘hedgehog’ (1) whose ‘single rather tightly related agenda’ fits into a very ancient and rather elusive debate between naturalism and anti-naturalism, may well be that critic. My ambition in this paper is to distill Taylor’s central objection to the cognitive science approach to agency and the self as it is expressed throughout Human Agency and Language. After trying to set out the core of this objection, I want to remark on some rather curious aspects of the dispute of which it is a part, and then sketch, in relation to one or two examples, what I take to be the most promising line of resistance to Taylor’s attack. I conclude with a proposal as to how Taylor may – narrowly – escape one logical consequence of his position, according to which he should stop knocking the cognitive science program and instead go to work building a robot.

In my 1984 book on The Foundations of Psychoanalysis, I addressed two main questions: (1) Are the analyst’s observations in the clinical setting reliable as ‘data,’ and (2) if so, can they actually support the major hypotheses of the theory of repression or psychic conflict, which is the cornerstone of the psychoanalytic edifice, as we know? In the book, I argued for giving a negative answer to both of these questions. Clearly, if the evidence from the couch is unreliable from the outset, then this defect alone suffices to jeopardize the very foundations of the clinical theory. But, as I strongly emphasized, even if clinical data were not contaminated by the analyst’s influence, the inability of the psychoanalytic method of clinical investigation by free association to warrant the required sort of causal inferences leaves the major pillars of the theory of psychic conflict ill-supported (1984, 172). Thus, I see a two-fold threat to the psychoanalytic case-study method as a means of scientific inquiry.

It is an immediate corollary of my challenge that it applies not only to Freud’s own original hypotheses, but also to any and all post-Freudian versions of psychoanalysis that rely on his clinical methods of validating causal inferences, though the specific content of their theories of psychic conflict is different. After all, the alteration in the content of the hypotheses hardly makes their validation more secure. Therefore, as Morris Eagle documented in a recent publication (1983), those analysts who have objected to my critique as anachronistic have simply not come to grips with it. For example, such inadequate engagement is present, in my view, in the recent Freud Anniversary Lecture ‘Psychoanalysis as a Science: A Response to the New Challenges,’ given by Robert Wallerstein (1986), the current president of the International Psychoanalytical Association. As he tells us (1988, 6, n.1), ‘The Freud Anniversary Lecture was intended primarily as a response to Grünbaum.’ Yet he does not come to grips at all with the gravamen of my challenge: Even if clinical data could be taken at face value as being uncontaminated epistemically, the inability of the psychoanalytic method of clinical investigation by free association to warrant causal inferences leaves the major pillars of the clinical theory of repression ill-supported.

Adolf Grünbaurn’s criticisms of psychoanalytic theory are the most sustained and powerful effort in our time to make the philosophy of science useful, useful in the pursuit of theories and evidence and useful in the relief of suffering. His work shows, I think, that some important claims that psychoanalytic theory has achieved certain scientific goals at best express unjustified hopes. These failures will not discourage those who think that the goals of the human sciences are radically different from those of the natural sciences. But, like Professor Griinbaum (and, as he has shown, in rich detail, like Freud), I don’t think there is a relevant difference, here. Psychoanalytic theory, like any field of science, strives for at least approximately true descriptions of causes, that are justified in light of the data.

Still, I think that there is a core of psychoanalytic theory that is empirically justified. Moreover, most (though not quite all) people whose theoretical commitments are psychoanalytic are now fully committed to no more than this core. In responding to his paper, ‘The Role of the Case Study Method in the Foundations of Psychoanalysis,’ I’ll start by sketching this core, indicating why I take it to embody the same scientific goals as familiar, well-justified natural-scientific theories. My view of the goals of theorizing is so basic to my failure to be converted by Professor Griinbaum that this prelude will be the longest part of my comments. If it turns out that he doesn’t want to convert someone with this kind of theory, i.e., that these claims for psychoanalysis are acceptable to him - that will itself be significant as clarifying the aims of his important work.

Different people live different lives. Each life consists of experiences that are not shared with the other lives. These facts are sometimes referred to as the ‘separateness of persons.’ Some writers have appealed to the separateness of persons to support or to criticize moral views. John Rawls thinks that the separateness of persons supports egalitarianism, while Robert Nozick believes that it supports a rights view. I will call the claim that the separateness of persons counts in favor of a particular moral view the ‘positive connection.’ Both these writers think that utilitarianism is objectionable because it ignores the moral importance of the separateness of persons. I will call the claim that the separateness of persons counts against a moral view the ‘negative connection.’

In this paper I will discuss several different attempts at explaining the connection between the separateness of persons and specific moral views. I will begin by describing how egalitarianism, unlike utilitarianism, treats individual lives as morally important units. I will discuss the kind of egalitarianism that aims at equality, but the same points could be made about egalitarian views that give priority to helping the worst off or require that everyone should receive at least a specified minimum share of resources or happiness.

Charles Taylor claims that ‘… human life is constituted by self-understanding,’ a self-understanding which is achieved in part by our capacity to use language (9). Because of this, the philosophy of language is important in Taylor’s philosophical views and central to these are his views on expression. I shall argue that one way to understand Taylor’s theory of expression is to place it within a theory of speech acts. And I shall try to show that this gives us a way to interpret his contention that expression is a subject-related property and that there cannot be an objective science of it. Finally, I shall argue that Taylor’s grounds for the latter claim are defective and that this leaves open the possibility that there can be an objective science of expression.

Fatalism is a doctrine about which philosophers have by and large been in complete agreement. Even the arguments they have used to dispose of it have been remarkably constant. Yet some of these arguments are surprisingly inadequate. The purpose of this discussion is to point out a set of fallacies which are especially common in recent discussions of fatalism. Their common feature is an emphasis on the relation between fatalism and deliberation. The claim they make is that if fatalism is true, any deliberation over one's future actions is pointless. If this is not quite a refutation of fatalism by itself, it is at least a strong objection, especially when advanced ad hominem. Yet I think that it is wholly false. In the following discussion I will show how every argument intended to establish this incompatibility between fatalism and deliberation involves some fallacy.

Here’s a problem that any reliability theory must face, whether it’s one that holds that beliefs are justified just when they’re products of belief-forming mechanisms with the potential of having good records of yielding true beliefs (as in Goldman 1979 and 1986), or one that holds that a belief meets the standards for knowledge if and only if its causal basis rules out any relevant chance of mistake (as in Dretske 1971 and 1981, and Nozick 1981). The problem is made evident when cast in probabilistic terms. Let r be S’s reason for tokening the true belief that p under conditions c. Then, according to reliabilism (and with a number of other things being equal), Sis justified in believing that p under c iff r makes it sufficiently probable that p, whileS knows that p iff the conditional probability that p on r and c is unity. But how do we specify the belief context c to be counted as epistemically relevant? As urged recently by John Pollock (1984), on the face of it there seems to be no principled reason for excluding mention of the truth value of the proposition believed. As he says, ‘The only obvious way to construct an objective non-epistemic kind of definite probability is to make it conditional on everything that is true [at the belief’s tokening]’ (Pollock 1984, 110); and, as he notes, ‘one feature of the present circumstances is a characterization of the belief as a belief in [p ], and another feature is the truth value of [p]’ (109). But if we allow both the belief token and its truth value membership in the relevant belief context, we then have the hopeless task of explaining how the probability of the token’s being true can be anything but one or zero, one if what is believed is true, and zero if it’s false. This in tum would commit reliabilism to the foolish doctrines that a belief’s truth is sufficient for knowledge, while no false belief is ever even justified. No wonder, then, that Pollock says ‘there is no way to construct an intelligible notion of reliability which does the job required by the reliabilist’ (105). And he is surely right in this: Neither knowledge nor justification can be explained as the chance of a belief’s being true if the relevant belief context is required to mention both the belief tokened and its truth value. We would be engaged in a comparably pointless task were we to try to explain the likelihood of a wager’s being a good bet on a horse race when we had to include among the givens both which horse was picked and its finish, or were we to try to make sense of the assertion that a theory’s predictions have a good chance of being true when both what the theory predicts and its outcome had to be included among the givens. (Quine makes a similar point when he says, ‘If there is no distinguishing between a thing’s disposition to act in a certain way in certain circumstances and the mere fact of its so acting in those circumstances, then whatever the thing may do can be laid to a disposition, by defining the circumstances narrowly enough’ [Quine 1973, 5]. See also Goldman 1979, 12; Goldman 1986, 49-51; and Feldman 1985 for related discussions.)

The papers by Ronald de Sousa and Steve Davis raise very interesting issues. I think that they have the issue almost right between us, but I want to make some small amendments, which will make a big difference.

First, de Sousa: with all the talk about the ‘significance feature,’ I’m not trying to make an in principle argument against the reduction of purpose/action to physical movement/change. Perhaps such an argument is possible, perhaps not. For the moment, all we have is the a posteriori. But that involves our making the most dear-headed possible judgments about our actual intellectual predicament, using this term as a shorthand for a whole set of issues to do with the nature of the phenomena we face, and how they relate or don't relate to the theories on offer. Philosophy can help in this, not because philosophers wheel in bright, shiny a priori (im)possibility arguments, but rather by clarifying what is at stake, and what is going on.

This Bible quotation can be understood as a rudimentary conception of personal morality, affirming that the moral assessment of your (anyone’s) life depends, in part, upon your conduct toward your least fortunate neighbors. But a conception of personal morality does not capture all that matters morally about our lives - we must also consider our social institutions. These may be morally flawed; for example, they may define positions of utter dependence (for slaves, serfs, and women, in some historical societies). And such flaws are not natural or necessary. Social institutions are created, perpetuated, and changed by human beings, who may then bear some responsibility for such flaws. Thus morality may demand more than to treat the oppressed with kindness and charity: It may require efforts toward institutional reform. And such a requirement presupposes a further moral conception: for the assessment of social institutions.

One of the most frequently discussed passages from Locke's An Essay Concerning the Human Understanding is that which occurs in IV.vii.9, where he writes:

I shall not pretend that what Locke is claiming in this passage is wholly clear, nor shall I try to defend the views expressed in it. My intention is to show that what he says here has been widely misinterpreted. It has become common to treat the contents of the passage as aberrant; as presenting a ridiculous variant on his main thesis on abstraction, or that very thesis elaborated with a foolish rhetorical flourish. But what is said in this passage is not something said elsewhere, nor is it an alternative to something said elsewhere. Here, and nowhere else, Locke shows awareness of implications for his doctrine of abstraction, of views he holds about simple ideas.

There is a distinction between being afraid and being afraid that something is the case. Kathy may be afraid that it will rain without being afraid, and may be afraid without being afraid that it will rain. We shall say that the distinction is between experiential and propositional fear. To be afraid is to experience fear, to be in a state of fear. The state takes many forms, such as fright, terror, and dread. To be afraid that something is the case is to have a certain propositional attitude. We may have reasons for fearing, or being fearful, that it is. My goal is to explain what it means to experience fear. I shall argue that experiential fear can be defined in terms of propositional fear. The basic idea is that fear is experienced when an occurrent propositional fear of harm causes involuntary arousal and unhappiness in a direct way. The degree of fear experienced is the extent of involuntary arousal attributable to the subject's propositional fear. We shall see how this definition accounts for the similarities and differences between fear and the related concepts of hope and anxiety.

Empiricist theories of knowledge are attractive for they offer the prospect of a unitary theory of knowledge based on relatively well understood physiological and cognitive processes. Mathematical knowledge, however, has been a traditional stumbling block for such theories. There are three primary features of mathematical knowledge which have led epistemologists to the conclusion that it cannot be accommodated within an empiricist framework: 1) mathematical propositions appear to be immune from empirical disconfirmation; 2) mathematical propositions appear to be known with certainty; and 3) mathematical propositions are necessary. Epistemologists who believe that some nonmathematical propositions, such as logical or ethical propositions, cannot be known a posteriori also typically appeal to the three factors cited above in defending their position. The primary purpose of this paper is to examine whether any of these alleged features of mathematical propositions establishes that knowledge of such propositions cannot be a posteriori.

Hobbes’ account of these issues is conspicuously brief and puzzling. Indeed it has been criticized by some commentators as ‘confused.’ I hope to show, however, that it appears confused only because it has not been read with sufficient precision. Properly understood, Hobbes’ account is both exact and profound. It is also, in my view, far more interesting as a conception of natural right than the modern ‘confusions’ which have come to be read into it.

To show this, the text must be read as it is presented: on its own terms, analytically and exactly. In what follows, therefore, I shall focus upon Hobbes’ definitive account of the right of nature in chapter XIV of Leviathan, with only minimal reference to other passages and other works. I do not pretend that this is the only possible approach to Hobbes on this point; but it does show how his account may be read intelligibly, and with greater respect for the power and precision of his thought.

The neo-Lockean justification of the highly unequal distribution of income in capitalist societies is based upon two key premises: that people are the rightful owners of their labor and talents, and that the external world was, in the state of nature, unowned, and therefore up for grabs by people, who could rightfully appropriate parts of it subject to a ‘Lockean proviso.’ The argument is presented by Nozick. Counter-proposals to Nozick’s, for the most part, have either denied the premise that people should morally be viewed as the owners of their talents, or have challenged Nozick’s Lockean proviso.

Rawls, and to a more limited extent Ronald Dworkin, deny self-ownership. As Rawls writes: ‘…the difference principle represents, in effect, an agreement to regard the distribution of natural talents as a common asset … The naturally advantaged are not to gain merely because they are more gifted, but only to cover the costs of training and education and for using their endowments in ways that help the less fortunate as well. No one deserves his greater natural capacity nor merits a more favorable starting place in society.’ Behind the Rawlsian veil of ignorance, those who deliberate about justice are deprived of knowledge about characteristics whose distribution is morally arbitrary. In Dworkin’s proposal for resource egalitarianism, agents calculate the insurance policy they would hypothetically ask for, were they denied knowledge of what talents they will draw in the birth lottery. Compensation for unequal talents is, according to Dworkin, properly made by taxing and transferring income according to the way it would have been distributed as a consequence of such insurance. Dworkin’s veil of ignorance is thin, because agents in the appropriate posture for deliberating about income distribution know their preferences and attitudes toward risk, but not their talents. For both Rawls and Dworkin, the self-ownership premise is challenged by constructing a veil of ignorance in which people are deprived of knowledge of certain personal characteristics, knowledge of which would bias their opinions, from a moral viewpoint.

The capacity of a work of fictional literature to elicit (some) emotional responses is part of what is valuable about it, and having (relevant) emotional responses is part of appreciating it. These claims are not very controversial; perhaps they are even common sense. But philosophy rushes in where common sense fears to tread, raising questions and looking for explanations.

Are the emotions we have in appreciating fictional works of art, what I call art emotions, of the same sort as those which occur in ‘real life’? Which emotions are appropriate to the work, and why: what justifies having one emotion rather than another? And why should we think emotionally responding to fiction is desirable, something which should be respected and encouraged, rather than looked at as a little weird or a waste of time?

In the Critique of Pure Reason Kant argues for a position he calls transcendental idealism. And although it comes as no surprise to claim that Kant was an idealist, it is far from clear how this idealism should be understood. Traditionally, Kant’s idealism has been understood as a version of phenomenalism. ‘Objects of experience’ (appearances) are constructions of mental data caused by mind independent reality (the realm of things in themselves). This reading has been labeled the ‘ontological’ interpretation since on this view ‘objects of experience’ are ontologically dependent on our minds and ontologically distinct from the world outside of our minds. And, corresponding to the supposed ‘two worlds’ of objects, it is thought that Kant allows for two perspectives from which objects can be described. Human descriptions are limited to the mere collections of sense data while God can describe the set of objects outside our mind as they really are ‘in themselves.’

The resurgence of interest in systematic moral theory over the past ten to fifteen years has brought to the fore debates concerning issues in moral epistemology, in particular, questions regarding the correct method for moral inquiry. Much of the controversy has focused on John Rawls’ method of reflective equilibrium. One merit claimed for this coherence method is that it transcends the traditional two tiered approach to moral inquiry according to which one must choose as one's starting points either particular moral judgments or general moral principles. Several of Rawls’ prominent critics have charged that Rawls’ loosely assembled rabble of starting points are not epistemically hefty enough to hoist a moral theory upon their shoulders. Perhaps unwittingly, these critics cling to the two level conception of theory construction, for they both defend general principles as the only appropriate starting points for theory construction and insist upon viewing Rawls as one working within the two tiered conception who opts for more particular judgments as starting points.