Showing posts with label I. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I. Show all posts

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Inconsistent Mathematics



Inconsistent mathematics is the study of commonplace mathematical objects, like sets, numbers, and functions, where some contradictions are allowed. Tools from formal logic are used to make sure any contradictions are contained and that the overall theories remain coherent. Inconsistent mathematics began as a response to the set theoretic and semantic paradoxes such as Russell’s Paradox and the Liar Paradox—the response being that these are interesting facts to study rather than problems to solve—and has so far been of interest primarily to logicians and philosophers. More recently, though, the techniques of inconsistent mathematics have been extended into wider mathematical fields, such as vector spaces and topology, to study inconsistent structure for its own sake.

To be precise, a mathematical theory is a collection of sentences, the theorems, which are deduced through logical proofs. A contradiction is a sentence together with its negation, and a theory is inconsistent if it includes a contradiction. Inconsistent mathematics considers inconsistent theories. As a result, inconsistent mathematics requires careful attention to logic. In classical logic, a contradiction is always absurd: a contradiction implies everything. A theory containing every sentence is trivial. Classical logic therefore makes nonsense of inconsistency and is inappropriate for inconsistent mathematics. Classical logic predicts that the inconsistent has no structure. A paraconsistent logic guides proofs so that contradictions do not necessarily lead to triviality. With a paraconsistent logic, mathematical theories can be both inconsistent and interesting.

This article discusses inconsistent mathematics as an active research program, with some of its history, philosophy, results and open questions.

1. Introduction

Inconsistent mathematics arose as an independent discipline in the twentieth century, as the result of advances in formal logic. In the nineteenth century, a great deal of extra emphasis was placed on formal rigor in proofs, because various confusions and contradictions had appeared in the analysis of real numbers. To remedy the situation required examining the inner workings of mathematical arguments in full detail. Mathematics had always been conducted through step-by-step proofs, but formal logic was intended to exert an extra degree of control over the proofs, to ensure that all and only the desired results would obtain. Various reconstructions of mathematical reasoning were advanced.

One proposal was classical logic, pioneered by Giuseppe Peano, Gottlob Frege, and Bertrand Russell. Another was paraconsistent logic, arising out of the ideas of Jan Łukasiewicz and N. A. Vasil’év around 1910, and first realized in full by Jakowski in 1948. The first to suggest paraconsistency as a ground for inconsistent mathematics was Newton da Costa in Brazil in 1958. Since then, his school has carried on a study of paraconsistent mathematics. Another school, centered in Australia and most associated with the name of Graham Priest, has been active since the 1970s. Priest and Richard Routley have forwarded the thesis that some inconsistent theories are not only interesting, but true; this is dialetheism.

Like any branch of mathematics, inconsistent mathematics is the study of abstract structures using proofs. Paraconsistent logic offers an unusually exacting proof guide that makes sure inconsistency does not get out of hand. Paraconsistency is not a magic wand or panacea. It is a methodology for hard work. Paraconsistency only helps us from getting lost, or falling into holes, when navigating through rough terrain.
a. An Example

Consider a collection of objects. The collection has some size, the number of objects in the collection. Now consider all the ways that these objects could be recombined. For instance, if we are considering the collection {a, b}, then we have four possible recombinations: just a, just b, both a and b, or neither a nor b. In general, if a collection has κ members, it has 2κ recombinations. It is a theorem from the nineteenth century that, even if the collections in question are infinitely large, still κ < 2κ, that is, the number of recombinations is always strictly larger than the number of objects in the original collection. This is Georg Cantor’s theorem.

Now consider the collection of all objects, the universe, V. This collection has some size,
|V|, and quite clearly, being by definition the collection of everything, this size is the absolutely largest size any collection can be. (Any collection is contained in the universe by definition, and so is no bigger than the universe.) By Cantor’s theorem, though, the number of recombinations of all the objects exceeds the original number of objects. So the size of the recombinations is both larger than, and cannot be larger than, the universe,

This is Cantor’s paradox. Inconsistent mathematics is unique in that, if rigorously argued, Cantor’s paradox is a theorem.
2. Background
a. Motivations

There are at least two reasons to take an interest in inconsistent mathematics, which roughly fall under the headings of pure and applied. The pure reason is to study structure for its own sake. Whether or not it has anything to do with physics, for example, Reimann geometry is beautiful. If the ideas displayed in inconsistent mathematics are rich and elegant and support unexpected developments that make deep connections, then people will study it. G. H. Hardy’s A Mathematician’s Apology (1940) makes a stirring case that pure mathematics is inherently worth doing, and inconsistent mathematics provides some panoramic views not available anywhere else.

The applied reasons derive from a longstanding project at the foundations of mathematics. Around 1900, David Hilbert proposed a program to ensure mathematical security. Hilbert wanted:

    * to formalize all mathematical reasoning into an exact notation with algorithmic rules;
    * to provide axioms for all mathematical theories, such that no contradictions are provable (consistency), and all true facts are provable (completeness).

Hilbert’s program was (in part) a response to a series of conceptual crises and responses from ancient Greece through Issac Newton and G. W. Leibniz (see section 6 below) to Cantor. Each crisis arose due to the imposition of some objects that did not behave well in the theories of the day—most dramatically in Russell’s paradox, which seems to be about logic itself.

The inconsistency would not have been such trouble, except the logic employed at that time was explosive: From a contradiction, anything at all can be proved, so Russell’s paradox was a disaster. In 1931, Kurt Gödel’s theorems showed that consistency is incompatible with completeness, that any complete foundation for mathematics will be inconsistent. Hilbert’s program as stated is dead, and with it even more ambitious projects like Frege-Russell logicism.

The failure of completeness was hard to understand. Hilbert and many others had felt that any mathematical question should be amenable to a mathematical answer. The motive to inconsistency, then, is that an inconsistent theory can be complete. In light of Gödel’s result, an inconsistent foundation for mathematics is the only remaining candidate for completeness.
b. Perspectives

There are different ways to view the place of inconsistent mathematics, ranging from the ideological to the pragmatic.

The most extreme view is that inconsistent mathematics is a rival to, or replacement for, classical consistent mathematics. This seems to have been Routley’s intent. Routley wanted to perfect an “ultramodal universal logic,” which would be a flexible and powerful reasoning tool applicable to all subjects and in all situations. Routley argued that some subjects and situations are intractably inconsistent, and so the universal logic would be paraconsistent. He wanted such a logic to underly not only set theory and arithmetic, but metaphysics, ecology and economics. (For example, Routley and Meyer [1976] suggest that our economic woes are caused by using classical logic in economic theory.) Rotuley (1980, p.927) writes:

    There are whole mathematical cities that have been closed off and partially abandoned because of the outbreak of isolated contradictions. They have become like modern restorations of ancient cities, mostly just patched up ruins visited by tourists.

    In order to sustain the ultramodal challenge to classical logic it will have to be shown that even though leading features of classical logic and theories have been rejected, … by going ultramodal one does not lose great chunks of the modern mathematical megalopolis. … The strong ultramodal claim—not so far vindicated—is the expectedly brash one: we can do everything you can do, only better, and we can do more.

A more restrained, but still unorthodox, view is of inconsistency as a non-revisionary extension of classical theory. There is nothing wrong with the classical picture of mathematics, says a proponent of this position, except if we think that the classical picture exhausts all there is to know. A useful analogy is the extension of the rational numbers by the irrational numbers, to get the real numbers. Rational numbers are not wrong; they are just not all the numbers. This moderate line is found in Priest’s work. As articulated by da Costa (1974, p.498):

    It would be as interesting to study the inconsistent systems as, for instance, the non-euclidean geometries: we would obtain a better idea of the nature of certain paradoxes, could have a better insight on the connections amongst the various logical principles necessary to obtain determinate results, etc.

In a similar vein, Chris Mortensen argues that many important questions about mathematics are deeper than consistency or completeness.

A third view is even more open-minded. This is to see all theories (within some basic constraints) as genuine, interesting and useful for different purposes. Jc Beall and Greg Restall have articulated a version of this view at length, which they call logical pluralism.
c. Methods

There are at least two ways to go about mathematical research in this field. The first is axiomatic. The second is model theoretic. The axiomatic approach is very pure. We pick some axioms and inference rules, some starting assumptions and a logic, and try to prove some theorems, with the aim of producing something on the model of Euclid, or Russell and A. N. Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica. This would be a way of obtaining results in inconsistent mathematics independently, as if we were discovering mathematics for the first time. On the axiomatic approach there is no requirement that the same theorems as classical mathematics be proved. The hardest work goes into choosing a logic that is weak enough to be paraconsistent, but strong enough to get results, and formulating the definitions and starting assumptions in a way that is compatible with the logic. Little work has so far been done using axiomatics.

By far more attention has been given to the model theoretic approach, because it allows inconsistent theories to “ride on the backs” of already developed consistent theories. The idea here is to build up models—domains of discourse, along with some relations between the objects in the domain, and an interpretation—and to read off facts about the attached theory. A way to do this is to take a model from classical mathematics, and to tinker with the interpretation, as in collapsed models of arithmetic (section 5 below). The model theoretic approach shows how different logics interact with different mathematical structures. Mortensen has followed through on this in a wide array of subjects, from the differential calculus to vector spaces to topology to category theory, always asking: Under what conditions is identity well-behaved? Let Φ(a) be some sentence about an object a. Mortensen’s question is, if a = b holds in a theory, then is it the case that Φ(a) exactly when Φ(b)? It turns out that the answer to this question is extremely sensitive to small changes in logic and interpretations, and the answer can often be “no.”

Most of the results obtained to date have been through the model theoretic approach, which has the advantage of maintaining a connection with classical mathematics. The model theory approach has the same disadvantage, since it is unlikely that radically new or robustly inconsistent ideas will arise from always beginning at classical ideas.
d. Proofs

It is often thought that inconsistent mathematics faces a grave problem. A very common mathematical proof technique is reductio ad absurdum. The concern, then, is that if contradictions are not absurd—a fortiori, if a theory has contradictions in it—then reductio is not possible. How can mathematics be done without the most common sort of indirect proof?

The key to working inconsistent mathematics is its logic. Much hinges on which paraconsistent logic we are using. For instance, in da Costa’s systems, if a proposition is marked as “consistent,” then reductio is allowed. Similarly, in most relevance logics, contraposition holds. And so forth. The reader is recommended to the bibliography for information on paraconsistent logic. Independently of logic, the following may help.

In classical logic, all contradictions are absurd; in a paraconsistent logic this is not so. But some things are absurd nevertheless. Classically, contradiction and absurdity play the same role, of being a rejection device, a reason to rule out some possibility. In inconsistent mathematics, there are still rejection devices. Anything that leads to a trivial theory is to be rejected. More, suppose we are doing arithmetic and hypothesize that Φ. But we find that Φ has as a consequence that j=k for every number j, k. Now, we are looking for interesting inconsistent structure. This may not be full triviality, but 0 = 1 is nonsense. Reject Φ.

There are many consistent structures that mathematicians do not, and will never, investigate, not by force of pure logic but because they are not interesting. Inconsistent mathematicians, irrespective of formal proof procedures, do the same.
3. Geometry

Intuitively, M. C. Escher’s “Ascending, Descending” is a picture of an impossible structure—a staircase that, if you walked continuously along it, you would be going both up and down at the same time. Such a staircase may be called impossible. The structure as a whole seems to present us with an inconsistent situation; formally, defining down as not up, then a person walking the staircase would be going up and not up, at the same time, in the same way, a contradiction. Nevertheless, the picture is coherent and interesting. What sorts of mathematical properties does it have? The answers to this and more would be the start of an inconsistent geometry.

So far, the study has focused on the impossible pictures themselves. A systematic study of these pictures is being carried out by the Adelaide school. Two main results have been obtained. First, Bruno Ernst conjectured that one cannot rotate an impossible picture. This was refuted in 1999 by Mortensen; later, Quigley designed computer simulations of rotating impossible Necker cubes. Second, all impossible pictures have been given a preliminary classification of four basic forms: Necker cubes, Reutersvärd triangles, Schuster pipes or fork, and Ernst stairs. It is thought that these forms exhaust the universe of impossible pictures. If so, an important step towards a fuller geometry will have been taken, since, for example, a central theme in surface geometry is to classify surfaces as either convex, flat, or concave.

Most recently, Mortensen and Leishman (2009) have characterized Necker cubes, including chains of Neckers, using linear algebra. Otherwise, algebraic and analytic methods have not yet been applied in the same way they have been in classical geometry. Inconsistent equational expressions are not at the point where a robust answer can be given to questions of length, area, volume etc. On the other hand, as the Adelaide school is showing, the ancient Greeks do not have a monopoly on basic “circles drawn in sand” geometric discoveries.
4. Set Theory

Set theory is one of the most investigated areas in inconsistent mathematics, perhaps because there is the most consensus that the theories under study might be true. It is here we have perhaps the most important theorem for inconsistent mathematics, Ross Brady’s (2006) proof that inconsistent set theory is non-trivial.

Set theory begins with two basic assumptions, about the existence and uniqueness of sets:

    * A set is any collection of objects all sharing some property Φ;
    * Sets with exactly the same members are identical.

These are the principles of comprehension (a.k.a. abstraction) and extensionality, respectively. In symbols,

x ∈ {z : Φ(z)} ↔ Φ(x);
x = y ↔ ∀z (z ∈ x ↔ z ∈ y).

Again, these assumptions seem true. When the first assumption, the principle of comprehension, was proved to have inconsistent consequences, this was felt to be highly paradoxical. The inconsistent mathematician asserts that a theory implying an inconsistency is not automatically equivalent to a theory being wrong.

Newton da Costa was the first to develop an openly inconsistent set theory in the 1960s, based on Alonzo Church’s set theory with a universal set, or what is similar, W. V. O. Quine’s new foundations. In this system, axioms like those of standard set theory are assumed, along with the existence of a Russell set

R = {x : x ∉ x}

and a universal set

V = {x : x = x}.

Da Costa has defined “russell relations” and extended this foundation to model theory, arithmetic and analysis.

Note that V ∈ V, since V = V. This shows that some sets are self-membered. This also means that V ≠ R, by the axiom of extensionality. On the other hand, in perhaps the first truly combinatorial theorem of inconsistent mathematics, Arruda and Batens (1982) proved

where ∪R is the union of R, the set of all the members of members of R. This says that every set is a member of a non-self-membered set. The Arruda-Batens result was obtained with a very weak logic, and shows that there are real set theoretical theorems to be learned about inconsistent objects. Arruda further showed that

where P (X) denotes all the subsets of X and ⊆ is the subset relation.

Routley, meanwhile, in 1977 took up his own dialetheic logic and used it on a full comprehension principle. Routley went as far as to allow a comprehension principle where the set being defined could appear in its own definition. A more mundane example of a set appearing in its own defining condition could be the set of “critics who only criticize each other.” One of Routley’s examples is the ultimate inconsistent set,

x ∈ Z ↔ x ∉ Z.

Routley indicated that the usual axioms of classical set theory can be proven as theorems—including a version of the axiom of choice—and began work towards a full reconstruction of Cantorian set theory.

The crucial step in the development of Routley’s set theory came in 1989 when Brady adapted an idea from 1971 to produce a model of dialetheic set theory, showing that it is not trivial. Brady proves that there is a model in which all the axioms and consequences of set theory are true, including some contradictions like Russell’s, but in which some sentences are not true. By the soundness of the semantics, then, some sentences are not provable, and the theory is decidedly paraconsistent. Since then Brady has considerably refined and expanded his result.

A stream of papers considering models for paraconsistent set theory has been coming out of Europe as well. Olivier Esser has determined under what conditions the axiom of choice is true, for example. See Hinnion and Libert (2008) for an opening into this work.

Classical set theory, it is well known, cannot answer some fundamental questions about infinity, Cantor’s continuum hypothesis being the most famous. The theory is incomplete, just as Gödel predicted it would be. Inconsistent set theory, on the other hand, appears to be able to answer some of these questions. For instance, consider a large cardinal hypothesis, that there are cardinals λ such that for any κ < λ, also 2κ < λ. The existence of large cardinals is undecidable by classical set theory. But recall the universe, as we did in the introduction (section 1), and its size |V|. Almost obviously, |V| is such large a cardinal, just because everything is smaller than it. Taking the full sweep of sets into account, the hypothesis is true.

Set theory is the lingua franca of mathematics and the home of mathematical study of infinity. Since Zeno’s paradoxes it has been obvious that there is something paradoxical about infinity. Since Russell’s paradox, it has been obvious that there is something paradoxical about set theory. So a rigorously developed paraconsistent set theory serves two purposes. First, it provides a reliable (inconsistent) foundation for mathematics, at least in the sense of providing the basic toolkit for expressing mathematical ideas. Second, the mathematics of infinity can be refined to cover the inconsistent cases like Cantor’s paradox, and cases that have yet to be considered. See the references for what has been done in inconsistent set theory so far; what can be still be done in remains one of the discipline’s most exciting open questions.
5. Arithmetic

An inconsistent arithmetic may be considered an alternative or variant on the standard theory, like a non-euclidean geometry. Like set theory, though, there are some who think that an inconsistent arithmetic may be true, for the following reason.

Gödel, in 1931, found a true sentence G about numbers such that, if G can be decided by arithmetic, then arithmetic is inconsistent. This means that any consistent theory of numbers will always be an incomplete fragment of the whole truth about numbers. Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem states that, if arithmetic is consistent, then that very fact is unprovable in arithmetic. Gödel’s incompleteness theorems state that all consistent theories are terminally unable to process everything that we know is true about the numbers. Priest has argued in a series of papers that this means that the whole truth about numbers is inconsistent.

The standard axioms of arithmetic are Peano’s, and their consequences—the standard theory of arithmetic—is called P A. The standard model of arithmetic is N = {0, 1, 2, …}, zero and its successors. N is a model of arithmetic because it makes all the right sentences true. In 1934 Skolem noticed that there are other (consistent) models that make all the same sentences true, but have a different shape—namely, the non-standard models include blocks of objects after all the standard members of N. The consistent non-standard models are all extensions of the standard model, models containing extra objects. Inconsistent models of arithmetic are the natural dual, where the standard model is itself an extension of a more basic structure, which also makes all the right sentences true.

Part of this idea goes back to C. F. Gauss, who first introduced the idea of a modular arithmetic, like that we use to tell the time on analog clocks: On a clock face, 11 + 2 = 1, since the hands of the clock revolve around 12. In this case we say that 11 + 2 is congruent to 1 modulo 12. An important discovery in the late 19th century was that arithmetic facts are reducible to facts about a successor relation starting from a base element. In modular arithmetic, a successor function is wrapped around itself. Gauss no doubt saw this as a useful technical device. Inconsistent number theorists have considered taking such congruences much more seriously.

Inconsistent arithmetic was first investigated by Robert Meyer in the 1970’s. There he took the paraconsistent logic R and added to it axioms governing successor, addition, multiplication, and induction, giving the system R#. In 1975 Meyer proved that his arithemtic is non-trivial, because R# has models. Most notably, R# has finite models with a two element domain {0, 1}, with the successor function moving in a very tight circle over the elements. Such models make all the theorems of R# true, but keep equations like 0 = 1 just false.

The importance of such finite models is just this: The models can be represented within the theory itself, showing that a paraconsistent arithmetic can prove its own non-triviality. In the case of Meyer’s arithemetic, R# has a finitary consistency proof, formalizable in R#. Thus, in non-classical contexts, Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem loses its bite. Since 1976 relevance logicians have studied the relationship between R# and PA. Their hope was that R# contains PA as a subtheory and could replace PA as a stronger, more genuine arithmetic. The outcome of that project for our purposes is the development of inconsistent models of arithmetic. Following Dunn, Meyer, Mortensen, and Friedman, these models have now been extensively studied by Priest, who bases his work not on the relevant logic R but on the more flexible logic LP.

Priest has found inconsistent arithmetic to have an elegant general structure. Rather than describe the details, here is an intuitive example. We imagine the standard model of arithmetic, up to an inconsistent element

n = n + 1.

This n is suspected to be a very, very large number, “without physical reality or psychological meaning.” Depending on your tastes, it is the greatest finite number or the least inconsistent number. We further imagine that for j, k > n, we have j=k. If in the classical model j≠ k, then this is true too; hence we have an inconsistency, j=k and j≠ k. Any fact true of numbers greater than n are true of n, too, because after n, all numbers are identical to n. No facts from the consistent model are lost. This technique gives a collapsed model of arithmetic.

Let T be all the sentences in the language of arithmetic that are true of N; then let T(n) similarly be all the sentences true of the numbers up to n, an inconsistent number theory. Since T(n) does not contradict T about any numbers below n, if n > 0 then T(n) is non-trivial. (It does not prove 0 = 1, for instance.) The sentences of T(n) are representable in T(n), and its language contains a truth predicate for T(n). The theory can prove itself sound. The Gödel sentence for T(n) is provable in T(n), as is its negation, so the theory is inconsistent. Yet as Meyer proved, the non-triviality of T(n) can be established in T(n) by a finite procedure.

Most striking with respect to Hilbert’s program, there is a way, in principle, to figure out for any arithmetic sentence Φ whether or not Φ holds, just by checking all the numbers up to n. This means that T(n) is decidable, and that there must be axioms guaranteed to deliver every truth about the collapsed model. This means that an inconsistent arithmetic is coherent and complete.
6. Analysis

Newton and Leibniz independently developed the calculus in the 17th century. They presented ingenious solutions to outstanding problems (rates of change, areas under curves) using infinitesimally small quantities. Consider a curve and a tangent to the curve. Where the tangent line and the curve intersect can be though of as a point. If the curve is the trajectory of some object in motion, this point is an instant of change. But a bit of thought shows that it must be a little more than a point—otherwise, as a measure a rate of change, there would be no change at all, any more than a photograph is in motion. There must be some smudge. On the other hand, the instant must be less than any finite quantity, because there are infinitely many such instants. An infinitesimal would respect both these concerns, and with these provided, a circle could be construed as infinitely many infinitesimal tangent segments.

Infinitesimals were essential, not only for building up the conceptual steps to inventing calculus, but in getting the right answers. Yet it was pointed out, most famously by Bishop George Berkeley, that infinitesimals were poorly understood and were being used inconsistently in equations. Calculus in its original form was outright inconsistent. Here is an example. Suppose we are differentiating the polynomial f(x) =ax2+bx+c. Using the original definition of a derivative,

In the example, ε is an infinitesimal. It marks a small but non-trivial neighborhood around x, and can be divided by, so it is not zero. Nevertheless, by the end ε has simply disappeared. This example suggests that paraconsistent logic is more than a useful technical device. The example shows that Leibniz was reasoning with contradictory information, and yet did not infer everything. On the contrary, he got the right answer. Nor is this an isolated incident. Mathematicians seem able to sort through “noise” and derive interesting truths, even out of contradictory data sets. To capture this, Brown and Priest (2004) have developed a method they call “chunk and permeate” to model reasoning in the early calculus. The idea is to take all the information, including say ε = 0 and ε ≠ 0, and break it into smaller chunks. Each chunk is consistent, without conflicting information, and one can reason using classical logic inside of a chunk. Then a permeation relation is defined which controls the information flow between chunks. As long as the permeation relation is carefully defined, conclusions reached in one chunk can flow to another chunk and enter into reasoning chains there. Brown and Priest propose this as a model, or rational reconstruction, of what Newton and Leibniz were doing.

Another, more direct tack for inconsistent mathematics is to work with infinitesimal numbers themselves. There are classical theories of infinitesimals due to Abraham Robinson (the hyperreals), and J. H. Conway (the surreals). Mortensen has worked with differential equations using hyperreals. Another approach is from category theory. Tiny line segments (“linelets”) of length ϵ are considered, such that ϵ2 = 0 but it is not the case that ϵ = 0. In this theory, it is also not the case that ϵ ≠ 0, so the logical law of excluded middle fails. The category theory approach is the most like inconsistent mathematics, then, since it involves a change in the logic. However, the most obvious way to use linelets with paraconsistent logics, to say that both ϵ = 0 and ϵ ≠ 0 are true, means we are dividing by 0 and so is probably too coarse to work.

In general the concept of continuity is rich for inconsistent developments. Moments of change, the flow of time, and the very boundaries that separate objects have all been considered from the standpoint of inconsistent mathematics.
7. Computer Science

The questions posed by David Hilbert can be stated in very modern language:

Is there a computer program to decide, for any arithmetic statement, whether or not the statement can be proven? Is there a program to decide, for any arithmetic statement, whether or not the statement is true? We have already seen that Gödel’s theorems devastated Hilbert’s program, answering these questions in the negative. However, we also saw that inconsistent arithmetic overcomes Gödel’s results and can give a positive answer to these questions. It is natural to extend these ideas into computer science.

Hilbert’s program demands certain algorithms—a step-by-step procedure that can be carried out without insight or creativity. A Turing machine runs programs, some of which halt after a finite number of steps, and some of which keep running forever. Is there a program E that can tell us in advance whether a given program will halt or not? If there is, then consider the program E*, which exists if E does by defining it as follows. When considering some program x, E* halts if and only if x keeps running when given input x. Then

E* halts for E*
if and only if
E* does not halt for E*,

which implies a contradiction. Turing concluded that there is no E*, and so there is no E—that there cannot be a general decision procedure.

Any program that can decide in advance the behavior of all other programs will be inconsistent.

A paraconsistent system can occasionally produce contradictions as an output, while its procedure remains completely deterministic. (It is not that the machine occasionally does and does not produce an output.) There is, in principle, no reason a decision program cannot exist. Richard Sylvan identifies as a central idea of paraconsistent computability theory the development of machines “to compute diagonal functions that are classically regarded as uncomputable.” He discusses a number of rich possibilities for a non-classical approach to algorithms, including a fixed-point result on the set of all algorithmic functions, and a prototype for dialetheic machines.

Important results have been obtained by the paraconsistent school in Brazil—da Costa and Doria in 1994, and Agudelo and Carnielli in 2006. Like quantum computation, though, at present the theory of paraconsistent machines outstrips the hardware. Machines that can compute more than Turing machines await advances in physics.
8. References and Further Reading
a. Further Reading

Priest’s In Contradiction (2006) is the best place to start. The second edition contains material on set theory, continuity, and inconsistent arithmetic (summarizing material previously published in papers). A critique of inconsistent arithmetic is in Shapiro (2002). Franz Berto’s book, How to Sell a Contradiction (2007), is harder to find, but also an excellent and perhaps more gentle introduction.

Some of da Costa’s paraconsistent mathematics is summarized in the interesting collection Frontiers of Paraconsistency (2000)—the proceedings of a world congress on paraconsistency edited by Batens et al. More details are in Jacquette’s Philosophy of Logic (2007) handbook; Beall’s paper in that volume covers issues about truth and inconsistency.

Those wanting more advanced mathematical topics should consult Mortensen’s Inconsistent Mathematics (1995). For impossible geometry, his recent pair of papers with Leishman are a promising advance. His school’s website is well worth a visit. Brady’s Universal Logic (2006) is the most worked-out paraconsistent set theory to date, but not for the faint of heart.

If you can find it, read Routley’s seminal paper, “Ultralogic as Universal?”, reprinted as an appendix to his magnum opus, Exploring Meinong’s Jungle (1980). Before too much confusion arises, note that Richard Routley and Richard Sylvan, whose posthumous work is collected by Hyde and Priest in Sociative Logics and their Applications (2000), in a selfless feat of inconsistency, are the same person.

For the how-to of paraconsistent logics, consult both the entry on relevance and paraconsistency in Gabbay & Günthner’s Handbook of Philosophical Logic volume 6 (2002), or Priest’s textbook An Introduction to Non-Classical Logic (2008). For paraconsistent logic and its philosophy more generally see Routley, Priest and Norman’s 1989 edited collection. The collection The Law of Non-Contradiction (Priest et al. 2004) discusses the philosophy of paraconsistency, as does Priest’s Doubt Truth be a Liar (2006).

For the broader philosophical issues associated with inconsistent mathematics, especially in applications (for example, consequences for realism and antirealism debates), see Mortensen’s recent entry in the Handbook of the Philosophy of Science (2009, volume 9).
b. References

    * Arruda, A. I. & Batens, D. (1982). “Russell’s set versus the universal set in paraconsistent set theory.” Logique et Analyse, 25, pp. 121-133.
    * Batens, D., Mortensen, C. , Priest, G., & van Bendegem, J-P., eds. (2000). Frontiers of Paraconsistency. Kluwer Academic Publishers.
    * Berto, Francesco (2007). How to Sell a Contradiction. Studies in Logic v. 6. College Publications.
    * Brady, Ross (2006). Universal Logic. CSLI Publications.
    * Brown, Bryson & Priest, G. (2004). “Chunk and permeate i: the infinitesimal calculus.” Journal of Philosophical Logic, 33, pp. 379–88.
    * Colyvan, Mark (2008). “The ontological commitments of inconsistent theories.” Philosophical Studies, 141(1):115 – 23, October.
    * da Costa, Newton C. A. (1974). “On the theory of inconsistent formal systems.” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic, 15, pp. 497– 510.
    * da Costa, Newton C. A. (2000). Paraconsistent mathematics. In Batens et al. 2000, pp. 165–180.
    * da Costa, Newton C. A., Sylvester, JJ., Krause, D´ecio & Bueno, Ot´avio (2004). “Paraconsistent logics and paraconsistency: Technical and philosophical developments.”
    * da Costa, Newton C.A., Krause, D´ecio & Bueno, Ot´avio (2007). “Paraconsistent logics and paraconsistency.” In Jacquette 2007, pp. 791 – 912.
    * Gabbay, Dov M. & Günthner, F. eds. (2002). Handbook of Philosophical Logic, 2nd Edition, volume 6, Kluwer.
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Incarnation



In the Bible’s fourth gospel, John tells us “the Word [God the Son] became flesh [incarnate] and dwelt among us” (John 1: 14). The central claim of Christianity is that Jesus of Nazareth was none other than God the Son, who while remaining fully divine, took on a human nature for the sake of our salvation. Philosophical puzzles and problems arise as soon as we begin to unpack these notions. The humans we know best, ourselves, make moral mistakes, have trouble bench pressing three hundred pounds, and lose their car keys. We are morally flawed beings lacking in both power and knowledge. God, on the other hand, is typically understood to be morally perfect, all-knowing and all-powerful. If being truly human includes moral failure and limitations in knowledge and power, and being truly divine requires moral perfection, along with perfect knowledge and power, then the incarnation runs afoul of the law of non-contradiction. This law, which Aristotle calls the most certain principle, states that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect (Metaphysics, Bk. IV, Part 3). And so, neither Jesus of Nazareth, nor anyone or anything else, can simultaneously have a property (e.g. be all-powerful) and lack it (e.g. be limited in power).

The apparent conflict between the law of non-contradiction and the metaphysical claim that one person, Jesus of Nazareth, is both human and divine is not news to philosophers of religion. Some of the best philosophical minds in the past and present have wrestled with this problem. Four approaches stand out. Beginning with the most radical approach, some simply reject the law of non-contradiction. If the incarnation runs afoul of the law non-contradiction, so much the worse for that law. Less radically, one might argue that identity is not an all-or-nothing affair, and hold that there is a significant sense in which Jesus of Nazareth and God the Son could be identical without having all of the same properties. In technical terms, making this move requires giving up a principle called the indiscernibility of identicals in favor of a relative account of identity. If, by affirming relative identity, one could hold that Jesus of Nazareth is identical to God the Son, even though they do not have all the same properties, one could affirm both the incarnation and the law of non-contradiction.

Many philosophers have argued that one need not appeal to relative identity to reconcile the incarnation with the law of non-contradiction. Here there are two approaches to consider. First, some argue that the incarnation appears to flout this law because we have misunderstood the kinds of properties required for being truly human and/or truly divine. Second, some hold that the incarnation seems to run afoul of the law of non-contradiction because we have failed to see the way in which God the Son Incarnate possesses properties and their complements. Only if the incarnation required that God the Son Incarnate both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect, would it be incompatible with the law of non-contradiction.  The doctrine does not require this, and therefore is completely compatible with the law of non-contradiction. This article considers these various responses to the philosophical problem of incarnation.

1. The Historical Framework

The word “Incarnation” derives from the Latin (in + carnis), which means “in the flesh.” Philosophers writing on the incarnation invariably refer to the classical or orthodox view of the incarnation, and here they have in mind the Chalcedonian Creed (451[MP1] ). Stephen T. Davis is typical: “This is the dogma (the Chalcedonian Creed) I have been calling the classical doctrine of the incarnation. It constituted something of a consensus in Christendom from the time of Chalcedon until recently” (Davis, 2006, 99). The creed defines what it means for God the Son to be incarnate, but does so in a way that allows for considerable metaphysical latitude. In the words of C. Stephen Evans, “This formulation at Chalcedon does not attempt a theoretical understanding of what it means for Jesus of Nazareth to be God Incarnate; it simply lays down some boundaries for what is to count as an orthodox Christian understanding of Jesus’ status” (Evans, 2006a,1 ).

In order to stay within the confines of orthodoxy, metaphysical accounts of the incarnation must preserve Jesus Christ’s divinity, humanity, and identity with God the Son. In other words, they must be compatible with three theses:

1) Jesus Christ is truly divine; in the language of Chalcedon: “. . . the same perfect in Godhead . . . truly God . . . consubstantial with the Father in Godhead” (Olson, 1999, 231).

2) Jesus Christ is truly human; in the words of the creed: “. . . the same in perfect manhood . . . truly man, the same of a rational soul and body. . .consubstantial with us in manhood; like us in all things except sin. . . ” (Olson, 1999, 231).

3) Jesus Christ is a single individual identical to God the Son; in the words of Chalcedon: “. . . made known in two natures without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the difference of the natures being by no means removed because of the union but rather the property of each nature being preserved, and coalescing in one person (prosopon) and one hypostasis, not parted or divided into two persons, but one and the same Son, only-begotten, the divine Word, the Lord Jesus Christ . . . ” (Olson, 1999, 231-232).

We would do well to keep these three theses in mind as we consider “Responses to the Incompatibility Problem.” Insofar as a response emphasizes the distinction between the human and divine, the third thesis will be most relevant for its evaluation. For responses that emphasize a reconsideration of the properties required for being truly human, the second thesis will be most pertinent for an assessment of it. And, as an approach focuses on a reconsideration of the constitutive properties of divinity, the first thesis is the most important one for its evaluation.

Finally, it is important to note some of the views these theses rule out. Arius (250-336), bishop of Alexandria, taught that the Son is “God’s perfect creature” (Olson, 146) and therefore a lesser being than God the Father. Arian views deny the full divinity of God the Son and therefore are incompatible with the first thesis. Apollinarius, a 4th-century bishop of Laodicea, denied that God the Son Incarnate possessed a human mind as well as a human body. Apollinarian views deny the full humanity of God the Son Incarnate and therefore are incompatible with the second thesis. Nestorianism, taking its name from Nestorius, a 5th-century bishop of Constantinople, holds that in God the Son Incarnate there are two persons, one human and one divine, and is therefore incompatible with the third thesis.
2. The Incompatibility Problem

According to the classical account of the incarnation, Jesus Christ is truly human, truly divine, and a single individual who is identical to God the Son. Suppose that, as a matter of fact, Jesus of Nazareth worked as a carpenter, went fishing on the Sea of Galilee, and was unpopular with some civil and religious leaders. Things could have gone differently. Conceivably, Jesus might have been a potter who never set foot on the beaches of Galilee, and was unknown to the movers and shakers of his time. Either way he would have been truly human.

Characteristics or properties relating to employment, popularity, trips to the sea, and the like are compatible with being human but not essential for having that status. Just what properties are essential for being truly human is, as we shall see, a topic of considerable debate.

John Hick counts limited power and knowledge among the plausible candidates and argues that this spells trouble for the adherent of the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation, for the complements of these properties, unlimited knowledge and power, are essential for being truly divine.

. . . there is an obvious puzzle as to how the same being can jointly
embody those attributes of God and of humanity that are apparently
incompatible. God is eternal, whilst humans have a beginning in time;
God is infinite, humans finite; God is the creator of the universe,
including humanity, whilst humans are part of God’s creation; God is
omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, whilst humans are limited in power
and knowledge and have a bounded location; and so on. Let us call this
the incompatible-attributes problem (Hick, 1993,102).

The worry, then, is that the classic account of the incarnation is flawed in the most fundamental sense; it runs counter to what Aristotle called the most certain principle: nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect (Metaphysics, Bk. IV, Part 3). If being truly human and being truly divine are indeed incompatible, then Jesus could no more have fulfilled the conditions of the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation than he could have been a spherical cube.
3. Responses to the Incompatibility Problem
a. Rejecting the Law of Non-contradiction

Toward the end of his journal, A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis asks “Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?” and readily replies in the affirmative.

Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable.
How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably
half of the questions we ask─half our great theological and metaphysical
problems─are like that (Lewis, 1961, 81).

Though there is no reason to think that Lewis had questions about the incarnation in mind, one could respond to the objection that the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation runs counter to the law of non-contradiction, by arguing that this law no more applies to the incarnation than geometric properties do to colors. Asking if God the Son’s human nature is compatible with his divine nature, would be like asking if purple is perpendicular. It is what philosophers call ‘a category mistake,’ the error of applying concepts and distinctions to subjects where they have no purchase. In this regard, Thomas V. Morris cites H. M. Relton as asserting that “the person of Christ is the bankruptcy of human logic;” Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) as holding that the incarnation is “a breach with all thinking,” and notes Gareth Moore’s reference to those for whom “The doctrine of the incarnation expressed a divine mystery which we mere mortals could not expect to understand, and it was bordering on the blasphemous for any feeble, logic-chopping human intellect to attack it” (Morris, 1986, 24-25).

To evaluate rejecting the law of non-contradiction, as a response to the charge that some essential human and divine properties are incompatible, let’s assume, for the sake of the argument, that the law does not apply to the incarnation. Since it tells us that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect, making our assumption amounts to holding that God the Son could possess any property (e.g. having unlimited power) and its complement (e.g. having limited power).

If this were so, there could not be any problem with God the Son being truly human and truly divine, no matter how we understand ‘humanity’ and ‘divinity.’ But the same problem-free possibility would also go for God the Son being truly divine and incarnate as a doorknob, the number seven or a piece of toast. Furthermore, apart from the law of non-contradiction, God the Son Incarnate could both have any property (e.g. being human) and its complement (e.g. not being human), at the same time and in the same respect.  However, if having a property does not rule out its absence, then all property distinctions (e.g. being incarnate and not being incarnate) break down. As such, doing away with the law of non-contradiction, in order to defend the doctrine of the incarnation, leads to the loss all meaningful property distinctions, and the significance of theological assertions. What we need is a way to work within the metaphysical constraints of Chalcedon, not a way to shake them off altogether.
b. Rejecting the All-or-Nothing Account of Identity in Favor of Relative Identity

Our first attempt to address the incompatibility problem plaguing the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation ─ rejecting the law of  non-contradiction ─ led to the breakdown of meaningful property distinctions. A less radical approach for responding to the incompatibility problem requires a fresh look at the concept of identity. So far, in our reasoning, we have assumed that Jesus of Nazareth could be identical to God the Son only if Jesus possessed every property had by God the Son, and vice versa. In doing so, we have supposed that identity is an all-or-nothing affair. This view of identity is expressed in a principle Leibniz called the indiscernibility of identicals:

For any property P and any persons X and Y, if X is identical with Y then X has P if and only if Y has P (cf. Plantinga, 1976, 15).

Given both the law of non-contradiction and the indiscernibility of identicals, it is difficult indeed to see how Jesus of Nazereth could be identical to God the Son. Suppose Jesus is limited in power and God the Son is essentially all-powerful. The law of non-contradiction rules out the possibility of Jesus having both unlimited and limited power, and also the possibility of God the Son having both limited and unlimited power. But, the indiscernibility of identicals requires Jesus to have unlimited power in order to be identical to God the Son, and God the Son to have limited power in order to be identical to Jesus. It seems, then, that an acceptance of both the law of non-contradiction and the indiscernibility of identicals rules out the Chalcedonian view that a single individual can be both truly divine and truly human. So, if we want to affirm Chalcedon and retain the law of non-contradiction, it makes sense to consider rejecting the all-or-nothing account of identity expressed by the indiscernibility of identicals.

Some suggest that instead of thinking of identity as sameness in all respects, as in the indiscernibility of identicals, we should think of it as sameness in just some respects. On this account of identity, relative identity, two things, X and Y, can be identical in some respects but not others. So, for example, Senator Barack Obama and President Barack Obama are the same person but not the same official. As an official, Senator Barack Obama is a member of the legislative branch of government, while President Barack Obama, as an official, is a member of the executive branch of government.

The qualifiers in the Obama example, “person” and “official,” are count nouns, nouns we can modify numerically. It makes sense to speak of two persons or officials, but not of two courages or honesties. It follows, then, that while “person” and “official” are count nouns, “courage” and “honesty” are not.

For our present purposes, let’s suppose that Jesus of Nazareth is the same person as God the Son, but the two differ relative to X, where X does duty for some count noun. Let’s suppose that, relative to this count noun, Jesus is limited in knowledge and power and the like, and therefore not all-powerful and all-knowing, while God the Son is all-powerful and all-knowing and the like, and so not limited in power and knowledge.

Such an interpretation seems to be necessary if an appeal to relative identity is to show that Jesus of Nazareth and God the Son can be identical, notwithstanding property differences. However, it requires attributing essential human properties, like limited power, to Jesus but not God the Son, and essential divine properties, like unlimited knowledge, to God the Son but not Jesus of Nazareth. As a result, it is hard to see how an appeal to relative identity can be compatible with Chalcedon’s requirement that the divine and human natures be “. . . without division, without separation . . . coalescing in one person (prosopon) and one hypostasis. . . “(Olson, 1999, 231), in keeping with the third Chalcedonian thesis.
c. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human and/or Truly Divine

It is easy to assume, along with John Hick, that to be truly human God the Son had to be limited in knowledge and power, and, in general, possess the complements of essential divine properties. However, if Hick’s assumptions were unwarranted, then the doctrine of the incarnation would be perfectly compatible with the law of non-contradiction. We should then at least entertain the possibility that incompatibility problems show that our assumptions about the essential properties of humanity and/or divinity are incorrect.
i. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human
1) Thomas V. Morris’s Distinctions Between Essential and Common Properties, and Full and Mere Humanity

Thomas V. Morris challenges our assumptions regarding the properties necessary for being truly human. He does so, by drawing our attention to two crucial─but commonly overlooked─distinctions. First, Morris asks us to consider the distinction between being fully but not merely X, and being fully and merely X. For example, a cube, like a two-dimensional square, is fully a rectangle, as each one of the cube’s faces is a parallelogram with four right angles. However, a cube is not merely a rectangle, for it possesses a higher-level property; it is three-dimensional. A diamond-backed rattlesnake, like a diamond, is fully physical; it has a spatiotemporal location. But, a rattlesnake is not merely physical for it possesses higher-level properties diamonds lack, for example, cellular composition and voluntary motion. Similarly, God the Son Incarnate is fully but not merely human. He has all of the properties individually necessary and jointly sufficient for being human, but also higher-level divine properties.

Second, Morris draws our attention to the distinction between properties commonly possessed by humans and properties essential to humanity. By definition, if a property is essential for being human, all humans must have it. So, essential human properties are necessarily common human properties. However, the reverse does not hold. A property can be common without being essential. Breaking promises is a common human property but is not thereby an essential human property. God the Son’s genuine humanity would not have been jeopardized by his faithfully fulfilling all of his promises.

Further, if we neglect these distinctions, we may incorrectly assume that properties commonly possessed by those who are merely human are necessary for being fully human. Morris thinks that this is exactly what we have done. We have assumed that the properties commonly possessed by mere humans, for example, limited knowledge and power, are necessary for being fully human. Once we see that this is not so, the incarnation is no longer an affront to the law of non-contradiction.

Morris’s approach is bold and intriguing. Whether or not it is ultimately satisfactory, depends upon the strength of responses to the concerns it raises. First, if we allow, for the sake of the argument, that properties like limited knowledge and power are not essential for being fully human, we might  well ask, “What are essential?” In response, Morris takes a wait-and-see approach, “What essentially constitutes a human body and a human mind we wait upon a perfected science or a more complete revelation to say. We have neither a very full-blown nor a very fine-grained understanding of either at this point” (Morris, 1991, 166).

Second, we might ask “if properties like limited power and knowledge are not essential for being fully human, why are they so common?” Morris suggests that what makes these properties so common is either that they are included in our individual human natures, or they are the result of being merely human, that is, not possessing some additional nature (Morris, 1991, 165). Thus, the reason why Thomas V. Morris ─ and the rest of us ─ is limited in power and knowledge is either that his human nature is not possessed along with some higher nature, or because his individual nature ─ the properties essential for being the particular human that is Thomas V. Morris ─ includes limitations in power and knowledge.

There is a third concern. Morris rightly recognizes that an internally consistent account of the incarnation is not the only desideratum; he also wants an account that squares with the New Testament portrait of Jesus of  Nazareth. Morris must explain how it is that God the Son Incarnate could be, as described in the gospels, limited in power and knowledge (e.g. Mark 13:32; John 4:6), even though he remained omnipotent and omniscient. Morris’s answer is that God the Son Incarnate had both a divine and human mind, and sometimes chose to rely only upon the resources of his human mind.

. . .  in the case of God Incarnate we must recognize something like two distinct minds or systems of mentality. There is first what we can call the eternal mind of God the Son, with its distinctively divine consciousness . . . encompassing the full scope of omniscience, empowered by the resources of  omnipotence, and present in power and knowledge throughout the entirety of the creation. And, in addition to this divine mind, there is a distinctly earthly mind with its consciousness that came into existence and developed with the conception, human birth and growth of Christ’s earthly form of   existence. . . . By living out his earthly life from on the resources of the human body and mind, he took on the form of our existence and shared the plight of our   condition (Morris, 1991, 169).

Talk of two minds inevitably raises the specter of two persons and Nestorianism. On a Cartesian view of persons, a human mind is a human person. From this perspective, if the incarnation required both a divine mind and human mind, then in God the Son Incarnate there were two persons, one human and one divine. Morris is aware of the concern and grants that in the case of mere humans, a human mind is a human person, “What we can refer to as my mental system was intended by God to define a person” (Morris, 1991, 174). However, for God incarnate, one who is fully human, but not merely human, having a human mind is not sufficient for being a human person. That individual’s personhood depends upon his ultimate metaphysical status, in this case divinity (Morris, 1991, 174).
2) Richard Swinburne’s Rejection of a Human Mind/Soul in Favor of a Human Range of Consciousness

At the core of Richard Swinburne’s account of the incarnation is the claim that God the Son Incarnate has both a human range of consciousness and a divine range of consciousness. In this way his view is akin to Thomas V. Morris’s. However, there is a crucial difference between their accounts. Morris holds that God the Son Incarnate has two minds, a divine mind and a human mind, each with its own range of consciousness.

Swinburne argues that God the Son Incarnate has a single mind with two ranges of consciousness. Instead of Morris’s two-minds view of the incarnation, Swinburne offers a divided-mind account of the incarnation.

To understand what Swinburne’s divided-mind view amounts to and why he prefers it to Morris’s two-minds view, we need to consider his understanding of humanity. In general, a mental substance, that is, a soul/mind, is human if it has a human body and is capable of “acting, acquiring beliefs, sensations and desires through it” (Swinburne, 1994, 196). Note that on this view, a mental substance is human only if it has a human body.

Richard Swinburne and the rest of us are human. But, by Swinburne’s reckoning, we are not essentially so. This follows from the fact that having a human body is a necessary condition for being human, and it is conceivable that we exist either without a body or with a very different sort of body. But, while no soul is essentially human, one soul became human by choice.

In taking on a human body and acquiring a human range of consciousness, God the Son did not lose omnipotence or omniscience. Indeed, he could not do so, for he is essentially divine, and omnipotence and omniscience belong to the divine nature. Instead, by becoming human, God the Son acquired additional ways of accessing the world; he took on “a way of operating which is limited and feels limited” (Swinburne, 1989, 66). So, we can explain references in the gospels to God the Son’s ignorance and powerlessness, as the results of the Son only relying on his human range of consciousness and abilities.

Because of his divided-mind account of the incarnation, Richard Swinburne steers clear of Nestorianism, for without two minds there cannot be two persons. That said, some may worry that without two minds, there cannot be two natures. If this is so, then Swinburne’s divided-mind view of the incarnation avoids Nestorianism only by taking an Apollinarian position in which God the Son incarnate has a human body but lacks a human mind.

Swinburne is well aware of the apparent problem and has a ready response. His view would be Apollinarian, if, in their talk about taking on a “reasonable soul,” the Fathers of Chalcedon had wished to affirm that God the Son took on an immaterial substance, a Cartesian soul so to speak. But that could not have been their view for then they would have been committed to a position they expressly denied, namely, that in the incarnation there are two beings. Instead, we should understand “soul” in the creed’s reference to “reasonable soul,” in an Aristotelian sense. So understood, to say that God the Son took on a human soul is to claim that he acquired “a human way of thinking and acting” (Swinburne, 1989, 61, note 12). If this reading of Chalcedon is correct, then Swinburne’s account does not entail Apollinarianism.
ii. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine: the Kenotic Approach

The counterpart to reconsidering what properties are essential to humanity is a reexamination of the properties essential to divinity. If we have reason to believe ─ contrary to Thomas V. Morris’s suggestion ─ that limited knowledge and power are not just common human properties but essential ones, consistency requires that we no longer count omnipotence and omniscience as essential divine properties. There is data in the New Testament that would support revising the list of essential divine properties. The New Testament records tell us that God the Son was sometimes tired (John 4:6) and that he grew in wisdom (Luke 2:52). When these descriptions are considered along side of Philippians 2:7, which tells us that God the Son “emptied himself” in order to become incarnate, it is reasonable to suppose that God the Son Incarnate relinquished properties such as omnipotence and omniscience. This approach to the incarnation is known as the kenotic view, in keeping with the Greek verb keneo, “to empty,” found in Philippians 2:7.

In order for God the Son to be able to give up properties like omnipotence and omniscience, two things need to be true. First, none of these properties could be essential properties of divinity, for God the Son is, by his very nature, divine, and no being can lose an essential property and continue to exist. Second, all of these properties, if possessed by God the Son, or another member of the Trinity, must be compatible with the essential properties of divinity, for God the Son can relinquish only what he can possess, and can possess only properties compatible with his divine nature.

It is important to distinguish God the Son’s relinquishing of properties like omniscience and omnipotence in the kenotic view, with the views of Morris and Swinburne on which God the Son chose not to avail himself of these properties for a period of time. For Morris and Swinburne, omnipotence and omniscience are essential divine properties and therefore ones that God the Son must always have. On the kenotic view these properties are accidental and therefore properties that God the Son can lose. On the kenotic view, there was a period of time during which God the Son could not possibly avail himself of omnipotence and omniscience (Evans, 2006b, 200).

If properties like omnipotence and omniscience are not essential divine properties, one might well ask: in what sense are power and knowledge essential to divinity? The kenotic response is that, it is not omnipotence but omnipotence unless freely given up, not omniscience but omniscience unless freely given up, that are essential properties of divinity. On the kenotic view, God the Son gives up the “omni properties” in order to become incarnate, while retaining the “unless properties.”

If “omni properties” are not essential for divinity, then God the Father and God the Holy Spirit could also give up omnipotence and omniscience. If all three persons of the Trinity did so simultaneously ─ and to the extent God the Son did at the beginning of the incarnation ─ there would be a time when many ordinary humans would surpass God in knowledge and power. This seems sufficient for a reductio ad absurdum of the kenotic view.

Ronald J. Feenstra sees the problematic nature of a complete Trinitarian kenosis, and so suggests a further refinement of essential divine properties, replacing omnipotence unless freely given up with omnipotence unless freely given up for the sake of reconciliation and omniscience unless freely given up with omniscience unless freely given up for the sake of reconciliation. Given this fine-tuning and an assumption that God the Son has accomplished the work of redemption, it would no longer be possible to have an absurd scenario in which many humans surpass all three members of the Trinity in knowledge and power (Feenstra, 2006, 153).

There would, however, be another problem: the kenotic approach would appear ad hoc, inviting the following question: “Apart from rescuing a Chalcedonian account of the incarnation, is there any reason to suppose that God has these fine-tuned kenotic properties?” In response, the kenotic theologian might argue, in keeping with Alvin Plantinga’s “Advice to Christian Philosophers” (Plantinga, 1984), that it is perfectly appropriate to begin with what we know about the incarnation and revise our concepts of God and humanity accordingly (Feenstra, 2006, 159).

By the same token, if there is a conflict between special revelation and the kenotic account of the incarnation, the latter must go. C. Stephen Evans, a defender of the kenotic approach, draws our attention to just such an apparent conflict concerning the glorification of God the Son Incarnate and expresses it in the form of a dilemma (Evans 2002, 263-264).

    * ŸEither the glorified God the Son Incarnate reassumes the properties he set aside or not.
    * ŸIf so, these properties are compatible with God the Son’s incarnation, contrary to the kenotic view.
    * ŸIf not, the kenotic view has a deficient account of the glorification of God the Son Incarnate.
    * ŸSo, either the kenotic approach is incorrect in supposing that God the Son’s incarnation requires setting aside certain properties or it is committed to a deficient account of God the Son’s glorification.

In response to this dilemma, a kenotic defender could distinguish between incarnation and kenosis, and argue that while kenosis entails incarnation, the reverse is not true. It may be that kenosis was the means by which God the Son became incarnate and subsequently shared our trials and temptations (Feenstra 1989, 148-150). However, kenosis and incarnation are not co-extensive for, while God the Son’s kenosis ends at his glorification, his incarnation does not. Evans suggests that “. . . Christ’s Incarnation in an ordinary body may have required a kenosis, but the kind of body he possesses in his glorified state may be compatible with the reassumption of all of the traditional theistic properties” (Evans 206b., 201-202). If this is right, then limited power and knowledge are not essential human properties after all. The relevant essential properties are more fine-grained: being limited in power while having an ordinary (unglorified) human body, being limited in knowledge while having an ordinary (ungloried) human body and so forth. So, God the Son gave up the properties like omnipotence and omniscience, not because he had to do so to be truly human─or else the glorified Son of God would not be truly human─but because our redemption required it.
iii. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine and  Truly Human: Marilyn Adams’ Qualified-Property Approach

Marilyn Adams holds that, barring a miracle, every human individual is  essentially human. In the miracle of the incarnation God the Son, who is essentially divine, acquires a human nature. As a result, God the Son is not only truly divine, but also truly human. However, since God the Son is not essentially human, none of the properties included in his human nature are among his essential properties.

In virtue of possessing a divine nature, God the Son has the property of being uncreated, while in virtue of having a human nature, he possesses the property of being created. Possessing both of these properties appears to be a violation of the law of non-contradiction, which tells us that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect. Adams, however, taking her cue from Duns Scotus (1266-1308) (Adams, 2006, 133), argues that there is no incompatibility with the law of non-contradiction. As she sees it, strictly speaking, God the Son Incarnate does not possess the property pair: being created and being uncreated, but rather the pair: uncreated as (qua) divine and created as (qua) human. Further, since God the Son Incarnate is essentially divine and contingently human, he possesses the property of being uncreated, without qualification (simpliciter) and the property of being created, with qualification. Either way we choose to describe the difference between God the Son’s essential possession of his divine properties and contingent possession of his human properties, God the Son does not possess them in the same sense. Therefore there is no violation of the law of non-contradiction.

Adams goes on to note that Richard Cross (Cross, 2002, 204-205) “remains dubious” about this approach (Adams, 2006, 133). Chalcedon requires that God the Son Incarnate be “consubstantial with us in manhood; like us in all things except sin” (Olson, 1999, 231). However, what we possess is the property of being created, simpliciter, a property that God the Son Incarnate cannot possess as he has the property of being uncreated, simpliciter. It seems then that the distinction between properties God the Son Incarnate possesses with and without qualification, keeps the incarnation in line with the law of non-contradiction only by denying a core Chalcedonian claim – God the Son Incarnate is like us, save for sin. In response, Adams argues that the difficulty is only apparent, for the content of God the Son Incarnate’s human nature is the same as our nature; what differs is the way the content is attributed to him.

Commentators needlessly worry that if the Divine Word does not possess human nature in the way we do . . . in such a way that we could not exist without being human ─ then the Divine Word isn’t fully or perfectly human ─ i.e., doesn’t really possess all of what goes into being a human being. What the doctrine requires is that the Divine Word ─while essentially Divine ─ contingently come to possess human nature in such a way as to be characterized by such features. So far as I know, no one . . . has envisioned the Divine Word possessing human nature essentially in such a way that the Divine Word couldn’t exist without being human (Adams, 2006, 134).
d. Showing that God the Son Incarnate Does Not Possess Any Property and its Complement “in the same respect”: Eleonore Stump’s Borrowed-Property View

Given the law of non-contradiction, God the Son Incarnate cannot both have and lack a property at the same time and in the same respect. To see how God the Son might have a property in one respect, but lack it in another, it is helpful to consider some everyday examples of this sort of thing. An apple, with respect to its skin, has the property of being red, but, with respect to its whitish inside, lacks that property. So, the apple has and lacks the property of being red, but there is no incoherence here because the apple has that property in one respect and lacks it in another (Leftow, 1992, 288). Similarly, a knife, with respect to its cutting edge, has the property of being sharp, but with respect to its handle, lacks that property. So, the knife has and lacks the property of being sharp, but there is no incoherence here for the knife has this property in one respect, but lacks it in another.

On the classical view of the incarnation, God the Son Incarnate is truly human and truly divine. Some, John Hick for example, hold that there cannot be a truly human and truly divine individual because, for example, such a being would have to possess omnipotence, to be fully divine, and lack it, to be fully human. This would indeed be problematic if God the Son Incarnate had to have and lack omnipotence at the same time and in the same respect. However, given that God the Son Incarnate has two natures, he can have some properties with respect to one nature and lack them with respect to the other nature. God Incarnate, with respect to his divine nature, is omnipotent, but with respect to his human nature, is not. God Incarnate, with respect to his human nature, is ignorant of some things, but, with respect to his divine nature, is not.

There is a significant objection to this way of reconciling the classical account of the incarnation with the law of non-contradiction; it only avoids running afoul of the law of non-contradiction by, contrary to Chalcedon, “dividing the natures” of God Incarnate. If one must treat God Incarnate’s human and divine natures as watertight compartments in order to avoid contradiction, then one must also give up the Chalcedonian claim that the two natures combine in one person. Or, to put a positive spin on it, if one is going to appeal to God the Son’s natures to show that he can possess a property with respect to one nature but not another ─ and stay within the bounds of Chalcedon ─ one will need to show how a property can be had relative to a nature, without being had only by that nature. By way of example, one will need to show that God the Son himself, not just his divine nature, can have the property of omnipotence, even though he is omnipotent only because that property belongs to his divine nature. Also, one would need to show that God the Son himself, can have the property of lacking strength, even though he has that property only because it is a part of his human nature. Though this description of the requisite demonstration has the appearance of an impossibility, Eleonore Stump  argues that with the notion of a ”borrowed property” ─ a concept she finds implicit in Thomas Aquinas’s (1225-1274) work on the incarnation (Stump, 2002, 205-206) ─ it is possible to steer clear of contradiction and stay within the confines of Chalcedon.

For an explicit account of borrowed property, Eleonore Stump draws on the work of Lynne Rudder Baker:

Borrowing walks a fine line. On the one hand, if x borrows H from y, then x really has H-piggyback, so to speak . . . If I cut my hand, then I really bleed . . . I borrow the property of bleeding from my body, but I really bleed. But the fact that I am bleeding is none other than the fact that I am constituted by a body that is bleeding. So, not only does x really have H by borrowing it, but also ─ and this is the other hand ─ if x borrows H from y, there are not two independent instances of H: if x borrows H, then x’s having H is entirely a matter of having constitution elations to something that has H non-derivatively. [quoted in (Stump 2002), p. 205]

Stump provides an illustration of borrowed properties. She notes that Mark Twain’s Letters From the Earth is both comic and serious; as a biting critique of Christianity it is serious and as a satire it is comic. The work as a whole borrows the property of seriousness from its overall aim, while borrowing its comic property from Twain’s sarcasm and humor. So, Letters From the Earth is serious, with respect to its attack on Christianity, and comic, with respect to Twain’s use of humor. In a like manner, God the Son is omniscient with respect to his divine nature, and limited in knowledge with respect to his human nature. Just as the apparently incompatible properties, being comic and being serious, can be predicated of Letters From the Earth as a whole, when they are taken to be borrowed properties, so property pairs like unlimited knowledge and limited knowledge can be predicated of the person, God the Son, when they are understood as borrowed properties. The person, God the Son, borrows the property of omniscience from his divine nature and the property of limited knowledge from his human nature. As such, God the Son as (qua) divine is omniscient and as (qua) human is limited in knowledge.
4. Conclusion

The claim that God the Son Incarnate is truly human and truly divine appears to run afoul of the law of non-contradiction, which states that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect. Four approaches to this incompatibility problem stand out: giving up the law of non-contradiction; adopting a relative account of identity; reconsidering the properties required for being truly human and/or divine; showing that God Incarnate does not possess any property and its complement in the same respect. Versions of the third and fourth approaches include Thomas V. Morris’s two-minds view, Richard Swinburne’s divided-mind account, Ronald J. Feenstra’s kenotic view, Marilyn Adams’ qualified-property perspective, and Eleonore Stump’s borrowed-property account. Significantly, all of these philosophers argue that their positions are compatible with the Chalcedonian Creed.
5. References and Further Reading

    * Adams, Marilyn McCord. 2006. Christ and Horrors. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    * Cross, Richard. 2002. The Metaphysics of God Incarnate. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    * Davis, Stephen T. 2006. Christian Philosophical Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    * Evans, C. Stephen. 2002. “The Self-Emptying of Love: Some Thoughts on Kenotic Christology” in Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 246-272.
    * Evans, C. Stephen. 2006a. “Introduction” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 1-24.
    * Evans, C. Stephen. 2006b. “Kenotic Christology and the Nature of God” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 190-217.
    * Feenstra, Ronald J. 1989. “Reconsidering Kenotic Christology” in Feenstra, Ronald J. and Plantinga, Cornelius, Jr. eds. Trinity Incarnation and Atonement. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
    * Feenstra, Ronald J. 2006 “A Kenotic Christological Method for Understanding the Divine Attributes” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 139-164.
    * Hick, John. 1993. The Metaphor of God Incarnate. Louisville, KY: Westminster Press.
    * Leftow, Brian. 1992. “A Timeless God Incarnate ” in eds. Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 273-299.
    * Lewis, C.S. 1961. A Grief Observed. New York: Bantam Books.
    * Morris, Thomas V. 1986. The Logic of God Incarnate. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
    * Morris, Thomas V. 1991. Our Idea of God. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
    * Olson, Roger E. 1999. The Story of Christian Theology. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.
    * Plantinga, Alvin. 1976. The Nature of Necessity. Oxford, Oxford University Press.
    * Plantinga, Alvin. 1984. “Advice to Christian Philosophers” in Faith and Philosophy, Vol. 1, Number 3. pp. 253-271.
    * Stump, Eleonore. 2002. “Aquinas’ Metaphysics of Incarnation” in eds. Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 197-220.
    * Swinburne, Richard. 1989. “Could God Become Man?” in ed. Godfrey Vesey, The Philosophy in Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp.53-70.
    * Swinburne, Richard. 1994. The Christian God. Oxford: Clarendon Press

Imagery and Imagination

Both imagery and imagination play an important part in our mental lives. This article, which has three main sections, discusses both of these phenomena, and the connection between them. The first part discusses mental images and, in particular, the dispute about their representational nature that has become known as the imagery debate. The second part turns to the faculty of the imagination, discussing the long philosophical tradition linking mental imagery and the imagination—a tradition that came under attack in the early part of the twentieth century with the rise of behaviorism. Finally, the third part of this article examines modal epistemology, where the imagination has been thought to serve an important philosophical function, namely, as a guide to possibility.

1. The Imagery Debate

Consider the following list of questions:

    * What shape are a beagle’s ears?
    * How many windows are in your bedroom?
    * Which is a darker shade of green, a pine tree or a frozen pea?
    * When a person stands up straight, which is higher, her navel or her wrist?
    * If the letter D is turned on its back and put on top of a J, what does the combination remind you of?

When attempting to answer these questions, which are adapted from Pinker (1997) and Kosslyn (1995), you undoubtedly produced mental imagery—images of beagles, of windows, and of peas. For some of these questions, you probably had to produce two different images to compare to one another, while for some of the other questions, you probably had to rotate the image you produced from the orientation at which it started. These tasks probably also seemed routine—the production and manipulation of mental images are common aspects of our mental lives. But what are these mental images? What role do they play in our mental life? In attempting to answer these questions, philosophers and cognitive scientists have given two very different sorts of answer.
a. Two Views About Mental Images: Pictorialism vs. Descriptionalism

We are naturally inclined to think of mental images as analogous to non-mental images. Consider, for example, my mental image of the Grand Canyon and a photograph of the Grand Canyon. Intuitively, the two are similar sorts of representations. Both are pictures—only the latter is in a frame while the former is in my head.

This view of mental images, commonly referred to as pictorialism, is defended most prominently by Fodor (1975) and Kosslyn (1980). (See also Kosslyn and Pomerantz 1977.) In addition to its intuitive attractiveness, pictorialism derives support from various empirical experiments concerning mental image rotation and scanning (Shepard and Metzler 1971; Kosslyn 1973; Shepard and Cooper 1982). In one such experiment, subjects were asked to identify whether a pair of figures, such as letters, digits, or block formations, were identical or different. In each pair, the second figure had been rotated to an orientation different from the first. The experimenters discovered that subjects’ response times varied directly with the degree of rotation between the figures, a finding that suggests that the subjects were mentally rotating images of the objects.

Despite this intuitive and empirical support, however, pictorialism runs into trouble in its attempt to account for the mental pictures (or, at least, the quasi-pictures—see Kosslyn 1980) that it posits. If such pictures are non-physical, then they are not made of the right sort of “stuff” for use in a scientific conception of the mind. In order to avoid dualism, then, the pictorialist seems forced to suppose that these pictures in the head are located in the brain. Unfortunately, this supposition is also problematic, as it is not clear that there are any structures in the brain that could plausibly be construed as these physical pictures.

Motivated in large part by such worries, many philosophers and other researchers in contemporary cognitive science advocate an alternative view called descriptionalism. Among its most prominent defenders are Dennett (1969, 1979) and Pylyshyn (1973, 1978). While pictorialists claim that mental images represent roughly in the way that pictures represent, descriptionalists claim that they represent roughly in the way that language represents. Consider a state of affairs where George W. Bush is seated to the right of Dick Cheney. One way to represent this situation is by drawing a picture of Bush and Cheney with Bush sitting to Cheney’s right. As we have seen, pictorialists claim that this provides us with a model for the way that mental images represent. But another way to represent the same state of affairs is with a sentence such as, “George W. Bush is sitting to the right of Dick Cheney.” Descriptionalists claim that this provides a better model for the way that mental images represent.

Natural language descriptions, however, are by no means the only kind of representations that count as descriptional in the sense intended by descriptionalists. In fact, for the descriptionalists, a representation can count as descriptional even if it is not literally descriptive of the states of affairs represented. Consider one such representation: the binary language of a computer. In a computational system, a particular string of 0s and 1s might represent the above state of affairs. Alternatively, consider a representation of this state of affairs that proceeds by defining a certain operator, the “RIGHT-OF” operator, that takes an ordered argument pair: RIGHT-OF(George W. Bush, Dick Cheney). Like the sentence “George W. Bush is sitting to the right of Dick Cheney,” the binary representation and the operator representation are clearly not pictorial in nature. One important reason is that these representations do not look like what they represent. What sets pictorial representations apart from other representations is that they represent in virtue of having at least one visual characteristic (e.g., form, shape, or color) in common with what they represent. So, for example, though a black-and-white photograph can represent a pumpkin pictorially, a drawing of a purple triangle cannot.

The dispute between the pictorialists and the descriptionalists, known as the imagery debate, has generated considerable controversy and discussion in the last thirty years. As we have seen, the imagery debate concerns the representative nature of mental images. The descriptionalists challenge the pictorialists’ claim that mental images represent in a pictorial way. Unfortunately, the imagery debate is commonly mischaracterized as a debate over the existence of mental images. Descriptionalists are often taken to be denying the existence of mental images, while pictorialists are often taken to be defending their existence. (See Block 1981a for discussion of this mischaracterization.) The situation is exacerbated by the very participants in the debate, who themselves often obfuscate the issue between them. Dennett (1979) describes the debate as “a war between the believers and the skeptics, the lovers of mental images … and those who decry or deny them,” and he frequently puts his own position in terms of “abandoning” mental images. Likewise, Fodor (1975) cites empirical studies in an effort to “argue forcibly for the psychological reality of images.” The pictorialist, however, should really be seen as arguing for the psychological reality of pictorial representation, which is also what the descriptionalist should be seen as abandoning.
b. The Argument from Introspection

It is also important to note that the imagery debate is not a debate over whether we “think in words” or “think in images.” To see this, it will be useful to consider the argument from introspection that is directed at descriptionalism. When we introspect, it seems to us that our mental images look like what they represent. This introspective judgment is often taken as definitive support for pictorialism, since pictorial representations look like what they represent while descriptional representations do not.

Block (1983) and Tye (1991) each argue persuasively that this argument should be rejected. Properly understood, the evidence from introspection can be seen to be neutral with respect to the imagery debate. To see this, we need to distinguish the experience of imaging from the representation that underlies or accounts for this experience. Consider the following analogy: Suppose you were to come across a box on whose surface was displayed a crude black and white image of a rabbit in a meadow. You might then ask: What is going on inside this box to account for the rabbit-image? One possibility is that some sort of slide projector inside the box projects the rabbit-image onto the box’s surface. If this were the case, then what underlies the image would be a pictorial process. But another possibility is that a computer inside the box produces the rabbit-image by way of binary code – strings of 0s and 1s that turn certain pixels on the surface of the box to black, certain pixels to gray, and so on, such that the rabbit image appears. If this were the case, then what underlies the image would be a non-pictorial process.

As this analogy suggests, the pictorialists claim that underlying the experience of mental imagery is some sort of representation that is pictorial in nature while the descriptionalists claim that underlying the experience of mental imagery is some sort of representation that is descriptional or linguistic in nature. By distinguishing between experiences and the underlying representations, we undercut the force of the introspective judgment that lies at the heart of the argument from introspection, namely, that mental images look like what they represent.

Pictorialists and descriptionalists alike thus accept that we sometimes think in images. In other words, pictorialists and descriptionalists agree that we have certain imagistic experiences, that we experience what we would call “imaging.” When we introspect, when we look within, it seems to us as if we are experiencing mental pictures. But the experience is one thing, the representation that accounts for this experience another. The pictorialists think that the introspective data should be interpreted just as it seems—our mind manipulates representations that are pictorial in nature. The pictorialist view thus offers us a unified conception of our experiences and the representations that underlie them. In contrast, the descriptionalists think that the introspective data is misleading in a certain sense; our experiences are not quite as they seem. Insofar as it seems to us that we have certain mental representations that are pictorial in nature, we are the victims of an illusion.

In defending descriptionalism against the argument from introspection, Tye (1991) makes the further point that all that introspection really suggests is that imaging is like perception: “to assert that a mental image of my brother, say, looks to me like my brother is merely to assert that my imagistic experience is like the perceptual experience I undergo when I view my brother with my eyes.” Empirical experiments have tended to confirm introspective reports that imaging resembles perceiving. Perky (1910) placed a number of people in a room, facing a screen, and asked them to produce mental images of various ordinary objects on the screen. The subjects were not aware of the fact that, after they had reported that they were engaged in the requested imaging (of a banana, for example), an image of a banana was lightly projected onto the screen. The projected image was slowly increased in intensity until, eventually, it was visible to any newcomer entering the room. Nonetheless, the subjects never realized that they were seeing an image of a banana. The only differences that they noted in their subjective experiences were changes in the size and the orientation of the banana they had been imaging. In this highly controlled setting at least, seeing was mistaken for visual imaging.

Additional empirical evidence strongly suggests that the mechanisms underlying imagery and underlying perception are the same. (For an overview of some such experiments, see Finke and Shepard 1986.) One set of important results was generated by Kosslyn (1993), who demonstrated using positron emission tomography (PET) that areas of the brain activated when we engage in object recognition are also activated when we produce visual mental imagery. Other important results come from studies on patients who have suffered damage to parts of their visual system. Bisiach and Luzzatti (1978) studied patients who suffer from hemi-neglect, i.e., patients who ignore objects in one half of their visual field. These patients were discovered also to neglect objects in the same half when producing mental images. To give another example, prosopagnosiacs, who cannot recognize faces, have been shown to suffer from similar difficulties when interpreting mental imagery (Levine, Warach, and Farah 1985).

Given the totality of the evidence, both introspective and empirical, it seems reasonable to assume that the representations underlying the experience of imagery are like the representations that underlie the experience of perception. Importantly, however, the representations that underlie the experience of perception may themselves be descriptional in nature. Thus, without a theory of the nature of the representation underlying perceptual experience, evidence connecting mental imagery with perception cannot be taken as support for pictorialism.
c. Objections to Pictorialism

While the above considerations suggest that the argument from introspection should be rejected, they do not entail the truth of descriptionalism. So why would anyone embrace descriptionalism? One influential consideration, as noted earlier, comes from the seeming incompatibility of pictorialism and materialism. This problem, at least in part, is what Block (1983) has called the No Seeum Objection: when we look in the brain, we do not see any pictures.

Of course, when we look in the brain, we do not see any descriptions either. But, in contrast to the pictorialists, the descriptionalists seem to have an easy response to the No Seeum charge. Sterelny (1986) notes that, since sentences are not medium-dependent, accounting for descriptional representations in the brain is unproblematic: “Sentences can come as sound waves, marks on paper, electrical pulses, punched cards, and so on. Why not then as patterns of neural firings as well?”

Interestingly, Block (1983) argues that we can extend this sort of response to protect pictorialism from the No Seeum objection as well. To know whether you are looking at a descriptional representation, you must be familiar with the representational medium that is in use. Block proposes that the pictorialist can adopt this same line of reasoning. What makes something the sort of representation that it is, regardless of whether it is pictorial or descriptional, depends in large part on the system of representation in which it functions. Thus, until we know more about how the representational system of the brain works, we are unlikely even to be able to tell which structures in the brain are representations, let alone what sort of representations they are.

Descriptionalism has also been thought to gain support from the Paraphernalia Objection to pictorialism: even if we were to discover pictures in the brain, these pictures could not play a role in our cognitive processes unless there were an internal eye to see the pictures, and since there is no such internal eye, pictorialism must be false. (See Rey 1981, Block 1983 for discussion of this objection.) Dennett (1969) voices the Paraphernalia objection by way of an apt analogy:

    Imagine a fool putting a television camera on his car and connecting it to a small receiver under the bonnet so the engine could ‘see where it is going’. The madness in this is that although an image has been provided, no provision has been made for anyone or anything analogous to a perceiver to watch the image.

According to the Paraphernalia objection, the pictorialist is like this fool. Block (1983) and Kosslyn (1980) each suggest responses that the pictorialist can make to this objection; in short, the basic strategy is to invoke mechanistic explanation.

Finally, Dennett (1969) presents two examples that seem to cause trouble for pictorialism and provide support for descriptionalism. The first example involves a striped tiger. (See also Armstrong 1968 for a related example involving a speckled hen.) Form a mental image of a tiger and then try to answer the following question: How many stripes does that tiger have? Invariably, the question cannot be answered; the mental images that we form typically do not contain that information. However, just as all tigers have a definite number of stripes, so too do all pictures of tigers. Thus, if mental images were pictorial, a mental image of a tiger should reveal a definite number of stripes. More formally, the objection to pictorialism that the striped tiger example poses can be stated as follows:

   1. Mental images can be indeterminate with respect to visual properties (e.g., the number of stripes on a tiger).
   2. Pictorial representations cannot be indeterminate with respect to visual properties.
   3. So, mental images are not pictorial representations.

Dennett’s second example attempts to show that mental images can be noncommittal in a way in which pictorial representations generally cannot. (See also Shorter 1952. In what follows, I slightly modify Dennett’s example. See Block 1981a for a discussion of why the example needs modification.) Form a mental image of a tall woman wearing a hat and then try to answer the following questions: What kind of hat was it? Was she sitting or standing? Was she indoors or outdoors? Was she wearing shoes? Was she wearing a watch? Though you can undoubtedly answer some of these questions—probably you can tell what kind of hat the woman was wearing in your image, be it a beret or a cowboy hat or a baseball cap—you were probably unable to answer some of the others. When asked whether she was indoors or outdoors, or whether she was wearing a watch, you probably did not have enough information to answer the question. And this need not be because you imagined her only from the neck up. Even if you imagined her full-figure before you, your image likely did not go into sufficient detail to enable you to answer whether she was wearing a watch.

Consider next a picture of a tall woman wearing a hat. Dennett argues that in a pictorial representation of the woman, assuming that her wrists are in view, she must either be depicted wearing a watch or not wearing a watch. The only way for the picture to avoid addressing the issue would be to have something obscuring the woman’s wrists. This seems to differentiate the representational nature of a mental image from the representational nature of a picture. Your image can be inexplicitly noncommittal about whether she is wearing a watch, but a picture can only be explicitly noncommittal about it. (This terminology derives from Block 1981a.)

Finally, consider a written description of the woman. Clearly a description can be inexplicitly noncommittal. Your description might be very short, for example, which would make it impossible to tell whether the woman was wearing a watch or not. Dennett thus concludes that mental imagery has to be descriptional, and not pictorial, in nature.

In response to this example, Block (1981a), Fodor (1975), and Tye (1991) have each argued that Dennett is operating with too narrow a conception of pictorial representation, accusing him of committing the photographic fallacy. If we consider photographs, which are one kind of pictorial representation, then it might seem that Dennett is right: photographs are incapable of being inexplicitly noncommittal about visual features. But consideration of photographs does not show that pictorial representation in general lacks this option. In particular, consider children’s drawings or stick figures. In drawing a stick figure of a woman, you might simply fail to go into the matter of the woman’s wristwear. There are lots of different kinds of pictorial representation, and although both stick figure drawings and photographs represent pictorially, they do so in very different ways. The pictorialists’ claim that mental images represent pictorially should not force one to the position that mental images are like mental snapshots; they might be more like mental stick-figure drawings.

Interestingly, these points about the photographic fallacy do not protect the pictorialist from the striped tiger example. Since there is a difference between being inexplicitly noncommittal and being indeterminate, the fact that some pictorial representations, like stick figures, are able to be inexplicitly noncommittal about certain visual features does not show that they can be indeterminate about these visual features. The descriptionalist might argue that just as a photograph has to depict a determinate number of stripes on the tiger, so too does a stick-figure drawing.

Fodor (1975) suggests a way to deny the first premise of the above argument. It might be that there is some definite answer to the question, “how many stripes does my image-tiger have?” but that I cannot answer the question because images are labile (changing constantly, plastic); the problem is that we cannot hold onto our images long enough to count the stripes. Ultimately, however, Fodor rejects the second premise of the above argument, suggesting that on blurry or out-of-focus pictures there may not be a determinate answer to the question, “How many stripes are there on the photograph?” (See Hannay 1971 for a similar treatment of the problem.)

Alternatively, the pictorialist might reject the move that Dennett seems to make from the claim:

    (a) I cannot count the stripes on the tiger in my mental image

to the claim:

    (b)The mental image is indeterminate with respect to the number of stripes.

Your mental image might well be determinate without your being able to count the stripes. For example, if you only get a fleeting glance at an actual tiger, you are not going to be able to count his stripes. (See Lyons 1984 for a suggestion of this sort.) But that does not entail that the tiger has an indeterminate number of stripes.
d. A Remaining Question About Pictorial vs. Descriptional Representation

Above, in explaining the descriptionalist view, I noted that descriptional representations need not be literally descriptive. Descriptional representations are characterized primarily negatively, i.e., for the purposes of understanding the imagery debate, a representation will count as descriptional as long as it is not pictorial. This assumes, however, that we have a clear understanding of what makes a representation pictorial. Unfortunately, spelling out exactly what makes a representation a pictorial one—or, to put it another way, spelling out the nature of depiction—turns out to be rather difficult.

It is standardly noted that a pictorial representation must have at least one feature in common with what it is representing. Not just any feature will do, so we will have to limit ourselves to visual features. Suppose that we could specify, without begging any questions, what a visual feature is. In any case, we can surely identify some uncontroversial examples of visual features, such as color and shape, even if we cannot give a precise specification of what makes something a visual feature. Nonetheless, it soon becomes apparent that merely sharing the visual feature of color with the thing represented seems insufficient to make a representation pictorial. To take an obvious example, writing the noun “apple” in red ink does not make it a pictorial representation of an apple. (See Rey 1981 and Hopkins 1995 for further discussion of the nature of depiction.)

In the absence of a clear characterization of pictorial representation, some recent accounts of mental images may seem difficult to classify as either pictorialist or descriptionalist. For example, Tye (1991) claims that his own view of mental imagery—which treats images as interpreted, symbol-filled arrays—is a “hybrid” one. Since these arrays are in some respects like pictures but in other respects like linguistic representations, Tye claims that his view cannot be easily classified as either pictorialist or descriptionalist.
2. Accounts of Imagination

Mental imagery clearly plays a role in many mental activities. For example, memory often proceeds by way of imagery. But no mental activity is more prominently linked with mental imagery than that of imagining. In this section, I will discuss different accounts of the imagination, paying particular attention to the connections between imagery and imagination.
a. Image-Based Theories

René Descartes’ treatment of the imagination (1642/1984) is representative of a long philosophical tradition that analyzes imagination in terms of mental imagery. As he says in his Meditations on First Philosophy:

    [I]f I want to think of a chiliagon, although I understand that it is a figure consisting of a thousand sides just as well as I understand the triangle to be a three-sided figure, I do not in the same way imagine the thousand sides or see them as if they were present before me. … But suppose I am dealing with a pentagon: I can of course understand the figure of a pentagon, just as I can the figure of a chiliagon, without the help of the imagination; but I can also imagine a pentagon, by applying the mind’s eye to its five sides and the area contained within them. And in doing this I notice quite clearly that imagination requires a peculiar effort of mind which is not required for understanding.

Presumably, what he means by this “peculiar effort of mind” is the effort to produce an image. In this way, Descartes sharply distinguishes the act of imagining from the related intellectual act of conceiving (or, in his terms, the act of understanding).

On this understanding of the imagination, imagining is thought of as importantly analogous to perception. This fits well with various experimental data (notably, Perky 1910) and corresponds to a long philosophical tradition of treating imagining as an inferior kind of perceiving. For example, Thomas Hobbes (1651/1968) refers to imagining as “decaying sense” and George Berkeley (1734/1965) claims that sense perceptions are “more strong, lively, and distinct” than our imaginings.

This analogy between imagining and perceiving makes it natural to consider imagination as a kind of perception with the “mind’s eye.” Again, Descartes’ discussion of the imagination in the Sixth Meditation provides a representative example of this:

    When I imagine a triangle, for example, I do not merely understand that it is a figure bounded by three lines, but at the same time I also see the three lines with my mind’s eye as if they were present before me; and this is what I call imagining. (1642/1984)

Of course, there are clear instances of imagining in which the mind’s “eye” is not doing any work at all, i.e., in which visual images are not involved. Vendler (1984) gives examples such as imagining the roar of the lion, imagining the smell of onions frying on a grill, imagining the heat of the sun, imagining the pain in one’s molar. The image-based account thus must extend the notion of image to encompass imagistic representations from other sensory modalities. Presumably, there are counterparts to visual images for each of the other senses—auditory images, olfactory images, and so on. The case of imagining the pain in one’s molar can be dealt with in a parallel way. Although pain is not perceived by one of the five traditional senses, there is an analogue to sensory images that comes into play in this case: what is often called an affective image.

Even with this broad understanding of the notion of image, however, there are instances of uses of the word “imagine” in everyday language that do not seem to involve mental imagery. Consider cases where “imagine” is used to signal supposition (or, even more commonly, false supposition), as when a parent who says, “I imagined that my daughter was in her room last night, when in fact I now learn that she snuck out her bedroom window.” Consider also cases where “imagine” is used as part of various idiomatic expressions, as when someone says, “Imagine that!” in response to some surprising news.

Fortunately for the proponent of an image-based account, such cases can be easily dismissed. Surely it is unreasonable to expect that we should have to accommodate every ordinary language use of “imagine” or its cognates when giving an account of the imagination. (But see White 1990 for a contrary view.) Rather, what we should focus on are the cases where the imagination is actually being exercised and attempt to explain the nature of such imaginative exercises. This is what the proponent of the image-based account attempts to do.

So let us focus on actual exercises of the imagination. Are there any such exercises in which there is no mental imagery? Ryle (1949) answers in the affirmative. Though he grants that acts commonly described as “having a mental picture” of something are instances of imagining, he argues that concentrating on these sorts of examples to the exclusion of others gives us a misleading picture of what the imagination is. Consider:

   1. a witness who lies when she takes the stand
   2. an inventor who contemplates the machine she is working on
   3. a novelist working out the plot of her next book
   4. a group of children who are pretending that they are bears.

In these cases, Ryle claims that the witness, the inventor, the novelist, and the children may be exercising their imaginations without accompanying imagery. (In fact, the exercises of the imagination that occur when the judge listens to the lying witness’ story, the inventor’s colleague comments on the new machine, someone reads the novel, and the mother ignores the growls emanating from the “bears,” also might well proceed without imagery.) Think about what is going on when a group of children “play bears.” They get down on their hands and knees, growl at each other, probably rearrange the sofa cushions to make dens for themselves, and so on—but while engaging in this activity, they need not produce mental imagery of, say, furry paws and the snowbound den.

In response to Ryle’s discussion, the proponent of an image-based conception of the imagination might argue that these cases conflate being imaginative with exercising the imagination. But even if this suggestion covers the above cases, there are additional examples for which the suggestion lacks plausibility. White (1990) suggests that “we can imagine, or be unable to imagine, what the neighbours will think or why someone should try to kill us, just as we can imagine that the neighbours envy us or that someone is trying to kill us. Yet none of these imagined situations is something picturable in visual, auditory or tangible terms and, therefore, none is something pertaining to imagery.” Likewise, although we can imagine George W. Bush playing the electric guitar, how (assuming that imagining requires imagery) can we imagine his having a secret desire to be a rock and roll musician? What image could we produce to imagine, as John Lennon exhorts us to do, that there’s no heaven?

In addition to dealing with counterexamples such as these, there are two questions that any proponent of an image-based account must answer:

    (1)What role does the image play in imagining?

    (2)What makes an imagining the imagining that it is?

Image-based theories have often been saddled with an unfortunate answer to the first of these questions. First, once someone invokes mental images in an account of imagination, she appears to commit herself to the claim that such images are the objects of our imaginings—a highly implausible claim. (For development of this argument, see Vendler 1984.) In brief, the problem with this view is that when I imagine something, say George W. Bush, my imagining is about George W. Bush, not about a mental image. The proponent of an image-based account thus must find some other way of answering question (1).

Interestingly, image-based theories have also often been saddled with an unfortunate answer to the second question, namely, that the image involved in an imagining serves to individuate the imagining from other imaginings. The problem, however, is that imagery seems neither necessary nor sufficient to make an imagining the imagining it is. The basic worry traces back to Wittgenstein (1953), who wrote, “What makes my image of him into an image of him? Not its looking like him.” (See also Tidman 1994.) Consider the following two examples from White (1990):

    One is imagining exactly the same thing when one imagines that, for example, a sailor is scrambling ashore on a desert island, however varied one’s imagery may be.

    The imagery of a sailor scrambling ashore could be exactly the same as that of his twin brother crawling backwards into the sea, yet to imagine one of these is quite different from imagining the other.

Although proponents of image-based theories have various options for answering both of these questions (see Kind 2001), the associated problems have often led to the abandonment of image-based accounts.
b. Non-Image-Based Theories

In response to the apparent problems besetting image-based accounts (particularly the apparent counterexamples discussed above), many theorists deemphasize the role and importance of mental imagery in imagination. While accepting that some exercises of the imagination involve imagery, they deny that the imagery plays any sort of essential role in making a mental act an act of the imagination; moreover, they also claim that there are other instances of imagining that do not involve imagery. Scruton (1974) and Walton (1990) both offer theories of this sort. Scruton claims that “imagining may, and often does, involve imagery” but that “neither [imagination nor imagery] is a necessary feature of the other.” Walton accepts that some exercises of the imagination “consist partly in having mental images,” but claims also that “imagining can occur without imagery.” Hidé Ishiguru (1966) deemphasizes the image even further. On Ishiguru’s view, imagery never plays an essential role in imagining: “mental images are, at most, necessary tools for a limited number of people in certain kinds of exercise of the imagination and are, for many people, merely psychological accompaniments which occur when they are engaged in imaginative work and not the essence of it.” Finally, another non-image-based account is offered by White (1990), who claims that to imagine a state of affairs is to think of it as possibly being so.

Perhaps the most important variety of non-image-based account, however, is the experiential theory. Lyons (1986), Peacocke (1985), and Vendler (1984) each offer a version of this theory. While there are significant differences between these three philosophers’ versions of the experiential theory, there are nonetheless important similarities, and I will here concentrate on Vendler’s version as representative of the tradition that analyzes imagining in terms of experience.

Vendler explicitly treats imagination as a kind of vicarious experience, claiming that “the materia ex qua of all imagination is imagined experience.” To motivate this account, Vendler contrasts two different kinds of imaginative exercises. First, imagine swimming in cold water. Next, imagine yourself swimming in cold water. In the first case, what you do is to imagine the salty taste of the water, the feel of the waves as they lap against you, and so on. You put yourself in the water from the inside. Vendler calls this subjective imagining. In the second case, one thing you might do is to picture yourself in the water, so you see your head bobbing in the waves, and so on. Once again, you put yourself in the water, but in this case you do it from the outside. Vendler calls this objective imagining.

Notice that I can adopt the same objective perspective in imagining someone else. I can just as easily imagine my sister or my husband swimming in the ocean as I can imagine myself swimming in the ocean. But subjective imagining works differently. There, I conjure up the experiences that I would be having if I were in certain circumstances, and it seems that I can do this only about myself. In objective imagining, I imagine what someone, myself included, would look like in a certain situation; in subjective imagining, I imagine what the situation itself would feel like.

Clearly, subjective imagining involves evoking experiences. When I imagine swimming in the ocean, I evoke experiences like feeling cold, being pulled by the current, and seeing the shoreline. Interestingly, however, Vendler argues that objective imagining also requires us to evoke experiences. When I imagine myself swimming in the water, I am essentially imagining the experience of seeing (or hearing, etc.) myself swimming in the water. Thus, objective imagination ultimately reduces to a specialized kind of subjective imagination. According to Vendler, the materials of both subjective and objective imagination are basically the same, namely, experiences. Both kinds of imagination are constructions out of experiences, but the constructions proceed in slightly different ways: “In the subjective case the aim is to represent a consciousness, one’s own, or someone else’s, at a given point of life-history. In the objective case the purpose is to represent a thing as it appears in the field of experience” (Vendler 1984).

Adopting an experiential account has interesting consequences for answering the question: What can we imagine? The basic form of subjective imagining is “I imagine φ-ing,” suggesting that we can substitute any activity for φ. But Vendler does not believe that we can. Consider being dead, or being sound asleep, or snoring while sound asleep. These are activities, or states of being, that lack experiential content. According to an experiential account of imagining, it is a necessary condition on imagining performing a certain action φ (or imagining being in a certain condition C) that there be an experiential content to φ-ing (or to being C). Thus these are activities that Vendler does not think we can imagine.

An interesting corollary of this necessary condition comes out in Thomas Nagel’s seminal paper, “What is it like to be a bat?” (1974). Bats are mammals, and most of us would probably share the intuition that they have conscious experiences, but bats perceive the external world in a way that is radically different from the way we perceive the external world: they use sonar, or echolocation. They emit high-pitched, subtly modulated noises and then detect objects that are in range on the basis of the reflections they detect. This raises an interesting question: can we know what it is like to be a bat? In attempting to answer this question, Nagel implicitly endorses the claim of an experiential account that we can only imagine what we can experience; as he notes, “Our own experience provides the basic material for our imagination, whose range is therefore limited.” Because Nagel thinks our imagination does not allow us to extrapolate to the experience of bats, he denies that we can imagine what it is like to be a bat. This shows that on an experiential account, not only must there be an experiential content to φ-ing (or to being C), but also it must be the case that the experiential content is in principle accessible to the imaginer.

Although the experiential account has some intuitive plausibility, the reduction of objective imagination to subjective imagination requires the proponent of the experiential analysis to do some fancy footwork in response to certain occurrences of the word “imagine” that come up in everyday speech. For example, it is quite common to say things like:

    * “Imagine that there is life on Mars.”
    * “I can pretty clearly imagine why she married him.”
    * “Imagine what would happen if the NAFTA treaty had not been signed.”

In each case, it seems as if we change the meaning of each of these mental exercises if we insert the word “seeing.” Imagining that there is life on Mars might not entail putting myself into the situation as observer, that is, it seems that it need not involve imagining seeing that there is life on Mars. Similar points can be made about the other two cases.

To deal with this problem, Vendler argues that the word “imagine” functions differently in these cases from the way it functions in the cases of objective and subjective imagination that we’ve been talking about. In essence, Vendler denies that these claims describe genuine exercises of the imagination. Just as one might say “I can pretty well see why she married him” without implying that one was doing something with one’s eyes, one can say “I can pretty well imagine why she married him” without implying that one is doing something with one’s imagination. In this case, it seems plausible to suppose that what is going on is an exercise of reasoning rather than a perceptual or imaginative exercise. (This recalls the strategy used by the image-based theorists to dismiss cases in which the word “imagining” seems to mean only supposition.)

There are, however, other cases that Vendler may not be able to dismiss as easily. Some of these are the sorts of cases that threaten image-based accounts—both image-based theories and experiential theories have trouble accounting for apparently non-perceptual imagining, as when someone imagines a solution to a problem. White (1990) suggests other examples as well; for example, one can imagine “sacrificing everything for one’s principles or selling one’s birthright for a mess of pottage, without giving oneself a representation of any experiences.” Or, to use another of White’s examples, suppose someone imagines giving up all she has for love. It is hard for the experiential theorist to dismiss this as an exercise of mere reasoning, but likewise, it is not plausible to suggest that in such an imagining what one is doing is imagining seeing oneself giving up all one has for love.

Interestingly, the fact that examples of the sort that threatened image-based accounts reappear in the context of experiential accounts suggests an important connection between these two types of accounts. Though image-based accounts and experiential accounts initially appear clearly different, in that they draw attention to different features that make an act an act of the imagination, it can be argued that the experiential analysis entails that acts of the imagination will involve mental imagery. If such an argument were to succeed, then the experiential account would ultimately collapse into an image-based account. Recall that Vendler claims that the material of the imagination is imagined experience. The image-based theorist might try to argue that these experiences can only be understood in terms of imagery. Similar points might be made about other experiential theories. For example, Lyons (1986) offers an experiential analysis according to which imagination is the “replay” of perception. For Lyons, when someone imagines something, she does not form a mental image but rather rehearses, reactivates, or replays the act of seeing that thing. But since, as we saw above, empirical evidence strongly suggests that the mechanisms underlying imagery and underlying perception are the same, the replay of perception will likely involve imagery as well.

As the foregoing suggests, even if experiential theories do not analyze imagination in terms of imagery, such theories may be thought at least implicitly to rely on imagery. Thus, insofar as mental imagery is ontologically problematic, such problems will likely confront experiential theories as well as image-based theories. Ontological worries about imagery began with the rise of behaviorism in the early twentieth century. As the mind-brain identity theory gained currency in the 1950s, worries about imagery grew, since the very existence of mental images has been thought to raise an ontological problem for such theories. To put the problem crudely, images are not the right sort of “stuff” for use in a scientific explanation of the mind. This problem has engendered a strong antipathy for mental images in the second half of the twentieth century. Correspondingly, many of the mid- to late-twentieth century theories of imagination, such as those offered by Ryle (1949), Shorter (1952), Armstrong (1968), and Dennett (1969), are imageless theories.

Ryle’s theory, which is probably the most developed of the imageless theories, was constructed in direct reaction to the Cartesian view of imagining. Ryle worries that once we think of imagining as a sort of seeing with the mind’s eye, we are inclined to suppose that there exist things, mental images, that are seen with the mind’s eye. His goal is to prevent this natural move: “the familiar truth that people are constantly seeing things in their minds’ eyes and hearing things in their heads is no proof that there exist things which they see and hear….” His defense of this claim relies in large part on an analogy: Just as the fact that a murder is staged as part of a play does not entail that there is a victim actually murdered, the fact that we see things with the mind’s eye does not entail that there are things actually seen. This analogy also leads Ryle to a positive theory of the imagination. Since an actor’s resemblance to a murderer can be explained by the fact that he is pretending to be a murderer, and pretending to murder, we can also explain the similarity between the imaginer and the observer by invoking the notion of pretense. More generally, Ryle claims that imagining is a species of pretending.

Ryle is clearly right that there are similarities between imagining and pretending; in particular, there is what we might call an “air of hypotheticality” to both activities. But despite such similarities, it seems a mistake to characterize the former sort of activity in terms of the latter. As Ryle characterizes it, pretending is typically a performance intended to convince, while imagining is the sort of pretending that typically aims at convincing oneself rather than others. But many cases of imagining involve no attempt at persuasion—even of oneself. Consider various different kinds of imagining: imagining one’s next dentist appointment, imagining the pain of having a tooth pulled, or imagining the tooth itself. In none of these imaginings must we suppose that the imaginer tries to convince herself of anything. White (1990) criticizes Ryle’s analogy between pretending and imagining in detail, elaborating numerous differences between these two types of activities. (See also Hamlyn 1994.)

Kind (2001), in addition to providing further criticism of Ryle’s account, argues more generally that any theory of imageless imagining is likely to be unsatisfactory. The argument rests on the inability of imageless theories to account sufficiently for three features of imagining: its directedness, its active nature, and its phenomenology. A theory which assimilates imagining to pretending, as Ryle’s did, can account for the active nature of imagining, and perhaps for its directedness, but not for its distinctive phenomenology. Another option available to the imageless theorist, such assimilating imagining to belief, will account for its directedness, but not for its active nature or its phenomenology. Likewise, if the imageless theorist were to assimilate imagining to sensation, he could account for its phenomenology, and perhaps for its directedness, but not for its active nature. Though Kind admits that there may be other options available to the imageless theorist, she takes her reflection on the above examples to suggest the basic difficulty that any imageless theory confronts: It seems that an adequate account of imagination must invoke some sort of mental representation in order to account for the directedness and active nature of imagining, but non-imagistic mental representations seem unable to account for imagining’s phenomenology. The invocation of imagery seems to be the only way to account for the three features of imagining in conjunction.
3. Imagination and Possibility

Now that we have reflected on the nature of the imagination, in this last section let us consider briefly the role that imagination plays in modal epistemology. Like David Hume (1739/1969), who wrote in the Treatise that “nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible,” contemporary philosophers have often associated the imaginable with the possible. Moreover, it is commonly supposed that the faculty of the imagination is an important tool in our acquisition of modal knowledge; the imagination, it is thought, serves as an epistemological guide to possibility.

Strictly speaking, the above quotation from Hume draws a connection between what we (in fact) imagine and what is possible, but philosophers have generally drawn the evidential link between what is imaginable and what is possible. Conversely, there has also been thought to be an evidential link between what is unimaginable and what is impossible; Hume claimed, for example, that our inability to imagine a mountain without a valley leads us to regard a valley-less mountain as impossible. The traditional conception of the link between imagination and possibility thus comprises the following two claims:

    Unimaginability claim: if something is unimaginable, then it is impossible.

    Imaginability claim: if something is imaginable, then it is possible.

Though these claims did not originate with Hume—Descartes (1642/1984), for example, famously relied on the imaginability claim in his argument for dualism, drawing the conclusion that disembodiment is possible from the premise that disembodiment is imaginable—he is the philosopher with whom they are most commonly associated. Thus, I will refer to them jointly as the Humean thesis.

Many different notions of possibility abound in contemporary philosophical discussion, so we should be clear that the possibility invoked by the Humean thesis is usually meant to be a very weak one, namely, logical possibility. Importantly, logical possibility far outstrips physical possibility; what is physically possible is governed by the laws of physics, but what is logically possible is governed only by the laws of logic. Were the imagination meant to be a guide to the physically possible, the imaginability claim would be immediately problematic. Many physical impossibilities seem easily imaginable: I might imagine a juggling pin remaining suspended in the air after having been thrown there, or I might imagine the eight ball remaining absolutely motionless after I hit it with the cue ball.

Ultimately, it seems that an analogy to perception motivates the Humean thesis: imagination is supposed to give rise to knowledge of possibility as perception gives rise to knowledge of the actual world. Our knowledge of the world in which we live is grounded largely in perception. But, since we have no sensory access to what is not actually the case, perception can afford us no real insight into non-actualized possibilities. In contrast, the imagination is not limited to what is actually the case. This feature of the imagination, in conjunction with the close connection between perception and imagination, is what seems to lead us to rely on the imagination for knowledge of possibility.

In fact, we need only to reflect briefly on how we typically form modal judgments to see the force of the Humean thesis. Presumably, we are convinced that it is possible for there to be purple cows, and for humans to fly unaided by machines, as a result of our imaginings: we can imagine a purple cow, and we can imagine humans flying without mechanical aid. Likewise, consider how we would determine whether round squares are possible, or whether it would have been possible for me to have been a fish. Our conviction that these are impossible states of affairs springs from our inability to imagine them. As Hart (1988) writes, “One’s own experience in settling modal questions seems to show that the imagination plays a fundamental role.”

But despite this intuitive support for the Humean thesis, there is legitimate reason to worry about it. The unimaginability claim in particular has been thought to be especially problematic. One problem derives from the fact that there is considerable variation among individuals’ imaginative capacities. Jill might be able to imagine many things that Jack cannot, in which case it would seem clear that we are by no means entitled to infer from the fact that Jack cannot imagine something that it is impossible. Fortunately, this problem can be fairly easily resolved by interpreting “unimaginable” as something like “unimaginable by any human.” Another problem is the fact that there might be features of human psychology that make certain states of affairs in principle unimaginable by any of us. But if the unimaginability of a state of affairs is due solely to some psychological limitation on our part, then we would not seem to be justified in inferring the impossibility of such a state. (See White 1990; Tidman 1994.)

Most problematic, however, is that the limitation of the possible to the imaginable, particularly on an image-based analysis of imagination, seems overly restrictive. Insofar as the imagination cannot extend to non-sensory objects and states of affairs, philosophers claim that we should not draw conclusions about impossibility based on unimaginability. For this reason, the Humean thesis is often interpreted as about conceivability rather than imaginability, where conception is supposed to be an intellectual faculty. (See Yablo 1993; Tidman 1994. But see Hart 1988 and Kind 2002 for arguments against this interpretation of the Humean thesis.)

The imaginability claim is generally thought to be less problematic than the unimaginability claim, and as such it (and/or the parallel conceivability claim) is often used in philosophical arguments. Modern-day philosophers of mind, in the tradition of the Cartesian argument mentioned above, argue that certain of our imaginings condemn type materialism. Type materialism is committed to the claim that pain, for example, is necessarily identical to a certain brain state, call it “S”. Insofar as we can imagine creatures who are in pain despite lacking biological brains (and thus S-states) altogether, it seems that it is possible for pain to be distinct from S-states. Related imaginings are brought to bear against functionalist theories of mind. To defend their theories, materialists and functionalists either argue directly against the imaginability claim, suggesting that imagining is not a reliable guide to possibility, or argue that in the imaginings in question we have not imagined what we think we have (Tye 1995). This latter point has led to a general cautionary tone in recent discussions of the connection between imagination and possibility, with many philosophers greatly restricting both the kind of imagining that can serve as an epistemic guide to modality and the kind of possibility to which imagining can serve as a guide (see Chalmers 2002 and Yablo 1993).
4. References and Further Reading

    * Armstrong, D. 1968. A Materialist Theory of the Mind. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
    * Berkeley, G. 1734/1965. “A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge” and “Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous.” In George Berkeley: Principles, Dialogues, and Philosophical Correspondence, edited with an introduction by C.M. Turbayne. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Educational Publishing.
    * Bisiach, E., and Luzzatti, C. 1978. “Unilateral Neglect of Representational Space.” Cortex 14: 129-33.
    * Block, N. 1981. Imagery. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
    * Block, N. 1981a. “What Is the Issue?” In Block 1981.
    * Block, N. 1981b. Readings in the Philosophy of Psychology, vol. 2. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
    * Block, N. 1983. “Mental Pictures and Cognitive Science.” In Lycan 1990. Casey, E. 1971. “Imagination: Imagining and the Image.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 31: 475-90.
    * Chalmers, D. 2002. “Does Conceivability Entail Possibility?” Imagination, Conceivability, and Possibility, edited by T. Gendler and J. Hawthorne. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    * Currie, G. 1995. “Visual Imagery as the Simulation of Vision.” Mind and Language 10: 25-44.
    * Dennett, D. 1969. “The Nature of Images and the Introspective Trap.” In Block 1981.
    * Dennett, D. 1979. “Two Approaches to Mental Images.” In Block 1981.
    * Descartes, R. 1642/1984. “Meditations on First Philosophy.” In The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 2, edited by J. Cottingham et al. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    * Finke, R.A., and Shepard, R.N. 1986. “Visual Function of Mental Imagery.” In Handbook of Perception and Human Performance, edited by K.R. Boff, L. Kaufman, and J.P. Thomas. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons (1986).
    * Flew, A. 1953. “Images, Supposing, and Imagining.” Philosophy 28: 246-254.
    * Fodor, J. 1975. “Imagistic Representation.” In Block 1981.
    * Hamlyn, D.W. 1994. “Imagination.” In A Companion to the Philosophy of Mind, edited by Samuel Guttenplan. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers (1994): 361-66.
    * Hannay, A. 1971. Mental Images: A Defence. London: George Allen and Urwin, Ltd.
    * Hart, W.D. 1988. The Engines of the Soul. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    * Heil, J. 1998. Philosophy of Mind. New York: Routledge.
    * Hobbes, T. 1651/1968. Leviathan. London: Penguin Books.
    * Hopkins, R. 1995. “Explaining Depiction.” Philosophical Review 104: 425-55.
    * Hume, D. 1739/1969. A Treatise of Human Nature. Edited by E.C. Mossner. London: Penguin Books.
    * Ishiguro, H. 1967. “Imagination.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary 41: 37-56.
    * Kind, A. 2001. “Putting the Image Back in Imagination,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 62: 85-109.
    * Kind, A. 2002 (unpublished). “Imagination and Possibility.”
    * Kosslyn, S.M. 1973. “Scanning Visual Images: Some Structural Implications.” Perception and Psychophysics 14: 90-94.
    * Kosslyn, S.M., and Pomerantz, J.R. 1977. “Imagery, Propositions, and the Form of Internal Representations.” Cognitive Psychology 9: 52-76.
    * Kosslyn, S.M. 1980. Image and Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
    * Kosslyn, S.M. 1993. Image and Brain: The Resolution of the Imagery Debate. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
    * Kosslyn, S.M., and Osherson, D.N. 1995. Visual Cognition, An Invitation to Cognitive Science, vol. 2. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    * Levine, D., Warach, J., and Farah, M. 1985. “Two Visual Systems in Mental Imagery.” Neurology 35: 1011-18.
    * Lycan, W.G. 1990. Mind and Cognition. Cambridge, Mass.: Basil Blackwell.
    * Lyons, W. 1984. “The Tiger and His Stripes.” Analysis 44: 93-93.
    * Lyons, W. 1986. “‘Introspection’ as the Replay of Perception.” The Disappearance of Introspection. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press/Bradford Books.
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