The Death Penalty: Is There a Dispensable Mob Boss?

A small group, only three of us. We had no planned agenda. There was a question about Aristotle’s four causes, but I wanted to put off trying to talk about them until I had done some more research. So instead, we decided to discuss some ethical issue. On a whim, I suggested the death penalty. More specifically, I asked the question: is it ethical for a society to put to death one of its members, and if so, when?

To figure this out, we began by examining some of the common justifications for the death penalty. Turns out, the death penalty is cheaper than keeping someone alive for life in prison. However, the cheapest option is not always the “right” option. Lower cost does not justify something ethically.

We moved on to the use of the death penalty as a punishment. Is the death penalty a proper punishment for murder, and is it justified to carry out such punishment? (I separate these two questions because even if the death penalty is an appropriate punishment for murder, that does not necessarily justify a society to enact it.) “Punishment” seemed to suggest some different interpretations. One potential definition is that “punishment” is something that makes someone feel bad for their actions. Obviously, since the death penalty takes away one’s ability to feel entirely, it doesn’t really function to inspire guilt or create bad feelings for someone who has committed the action (other than, perhaps, their anguish in prison as they await the carrying out of their sentence–more like a torture technique).

Alternatively, it might be justified by its function as a deterrent: the threat of the impending punishment might be such that it causes an agent to alter his or her course of action. This had some issues. The strength of this particular threat, and thus its effectiveness as a deterrent, appears to come down to one’s personal beliefs about death. The more afraid one is of death, the more effective the threat of death should be as a deterrent. If you are afraid of going to hell, then you will not want to be sent there. However, if you believe that you will go to heaven, you might be less likely to fear death. Similarly, if you are an atheist and you view death as merely the cessation of biological activity, then you would have a lesser fear of death than if you were afraid you might go to hell. If you are a radical Islamist and you view the death penalty as a death in battle, or for a cause, you might even welcome it. Thus, its effectiveness as a deterrent is probably limited by a population’s beliefs about what happens after death.

The jury is still out on whether or not societies with the death penalty are statistically less likely to have murders. But even if the death penalty were shown to be an effective deterrent, would that necessarily justify it? More on that later…

Another potential function is as a settling of a score, a payment of a debt, a restoration of the balance of justice. But this also seemed inadequate. If I am a thief, and I steal money from someone, I can repay the debt. But if I am a murderer and I take someone’s life, I cannot give that life back. Furthermore, the taking of my life by capital punishment does not bring the scales back into balance, it simply adds to the body count. Capital punishment doesn’t seem to settle a score in the same way as other punishments or acts of retribution. (But even these have their problems. If I steal Steven’s car, I can return his car or pay him a sum of money equivalent to it–but if I steal Steven’s car on a day when Steven has a very important job interview, making him unable to go, I have not only robbed him of his car, but I have also robbed him of the opportunity to get a very important job. And there is no way to repay the debt that I owe him on that score, even if I return the car, or two cars, or three.)

Some would argue instead that it provides consolation for the victims, even if it is not a proper restoration of the balance of justice. Well, it might, but that isn’t necessarily an ethical justification. Just because something provides comfort or consolation, even if it did function as an effective restoration of the scales of justice, or as a deterrent, doesn’t mean it’s right. A common justification is “an eye for an eye”–you take a life, you lose your own. But we don’t do that for other crimes. We kill killers, but… we don’t rob robbers. We don’t rape rapists. How is it that we can say: killing is wrong for a citizen but okay for the government, while rape, for instance, is wrong for both the citizen and the government? Where does the double standard start and where does it end?

Human beings have a strong sense of justice, and the desire to see it done. Punishment can satisfy that desire. We watch TV programs like Game of Thrones and get wrapped up hating certain despicable characters, and then we feel catharsis when they are punished for their misdeeds. We all have a desire to see justice, almost to the point of bloodlust. But there is a problem. Steven used the example of a villain in Bad Boys II–an otherwise “disposable mob boss” who elicits no sympathy, but who has a daughter. When the villain is defeated, or killed (I don’t know, it’s been a long time since I’ve watched Bad Boys II), there is some lingering unease–what happens to the daughter? This raises the question if in real life there are any purely disposable people, like the deplorable characters in Game of Thrones, or if people always have mitigating factors that, if known, would make their death rest less easily with us, like the not-quite-disposable mob boss from Bad Boys II. Does everyone points of sympathy? As such, is it for us to say that they deserve death? We know that most murderers and likewise messed-up people usually have tortured pasts and histories, things that can make us sympathetic to their plight. At what point do we draw the line, and for what crimes, saying: we feel sorry for you, but not sorry enough that we won’t kill you–?

But this raises the broader question of to what extent anyone is responsible for their actions in general. We said that murderers and otherwise messed-up people almost always have some history of trauma, and this could potentially mitigate their responsibility for their actions in some way. But if that’s true, couldn’t it be argued for all of us? Aren’t we all, in not insignificant ways, the products of our upbringings and our backgrounds? And at what point do we stop saying “well, that’s just the way I was brought up” and start saying “yes, that was my fault”? Here it appears that we must either feel sorry for everyone or feel sorry for no one–unless we can identify a point at which someone is or is not responsible for certain actions.

This poses another problem though, because if someone’s action is often out of a person’s control, even more so is the result. For example, we discussed how murder and attempted murder are judged differently–but the problem is, the action was just the same, and the only reason that it turned out differently was likely due to some factor outside of the agent’s control: his lack of experience as a murderer, his clumsiness, accidents that conspired to keep his victim alive. We see fit to judge people on the results of their actions, which are just as much the results of accident as much as (or even more than) their intentions. (For more on this issue, see Thomas Nagel’s “Moral Luck”) Why do we judge someone differently for something that wasn’t their fault?

But the prospect of no longer saying that people are responsible for their actions does not seem like a viable option. (We all know people who shirk responsibility.) So perhaps we should judge someone by his intent, not by his actions. However, this is incredibly problematic for any serious system of justice in society. How do we know someone’s interior thoughts and intentions? “I didn’t mean to speed…”

We discussed negligence: when is not doing something doing something wrong? Here again, there seems to be a double standard. The law seems to indicate that some acts of neglect are reprehensible, while others are not. Neglecting to feed your child is illegal. Neglecting to intervene in a fight (which may lead to a murder) is not.

Somewhere in here, we also discussed the off-chance that a verdict is wrong. Is it excusable for a government to take the life of a citizen if there is a chance, no matter how slight, that its verdict was in error?

This was as far as we got. There is more to say on this issue, but so far we could not find an acceptable justification for the killing of another human being by a government unless it was preceded by a divine command–God ordering that the person should be killed. So many ethical issues seem to run afoul of the “moral luck” problem. And this I believe is where Aristotle’s ethics project led him, although instead of “moral luck” he might call it fate, or tragedy: no matter how virtuous a person’s character, intent, and actions, goodness may still be thwarted by factors outside of the control of human beings.

Next week: the four causes, and is institutional education social engineering?

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Addicted to Love (and Apologetics Continued)

We picked up essentially where we left off, launching right into the arguments for the existence of God. Steven had done some outside research, looking into Aquinas’ arguments. The one he found most compelling was the first cause argument: that everything has a cause, but there must have been something at first without a cause. This led into a discussion of Aristotle’s four causes, since many of these arguments rest on Aristotelian metaphysics. Aristotle’s efficient cause is what we normally think of to be “cause” in our contemporary understanding, but there were three others that are also used to frame arguments for God. Our understanding of these arguments is necessarily impoverished because we don’t subscribe to these metaphysics. I will post some resources on these later, since our discussion mostly consisted of me trying (badly) to remember them, and not really understanding them sufficiently.

We then discussed the problem of evil: if God is all-good and all-powerful, why is there suffering and evil? This is a common objection to the existence of God (at least a good God), but my assertion was that this actually doesn’t function as an argument against the existence of God, since it necessarily assumes that God already exists in order to be meaningful. It is essentially an “interior” issue within the belief system, not an objection from outside of it. In any case, it is a problem, and there are a couple of responses. A common response is the free-will argument: God is not ultimately responsible for evil–human beings are. It was good for God to give humans free will, but humans misuse that free will, and therefore evil exists. There are a couple of problems with this argument. First, it fails to explain natural evil and suffering–natural disasters, disease, etc. Second, a potential loophole is the question, well wasn’t it up to God to give people free will? And in doing so, didn’t he know that people would commit evil, and therefore isn’t he ultimately still responsible for evil? There are some responses to this. Greg Boyd argues a position called “open theism” in which case God is said, in a way, not to know. This view is obviously problematic with a lot of what we see in scripture and with much theology about God’s omniscience and foreknowledge, but it is one potential response. A second response to the problem of evil is to identify a couple other problems with the argument itself, and those are that it assumes: 1) the allowance for suffering is not good, and 2) we as humans have a viewpoint comprehensive and objective enough to know that the universe would have been better had it been created without the inclusion of or potentiality for evil. Both of these assumptions are contestable. If there is a God, we are not that God, therefore we have no grounds on which to judge the act of creation, nor do we therefore have grounds on which to say that the inclusion of suffering in its design is ultimately an evil thing. The Bible itself (see the Book of Job) seems to say as much. This response is disconcerting–it does not easily satisfy the cognitive and emotional dissonance we feel over this issue. But I find it compelling, and see that it is sufficient as a rebuttal to the argument.

We left off here, and revisited the topic of artificial intelligence. The question this time was whether or not artificial intelligence could be said to be conscious, and whether or not it could be said to act deliberately. Aristotle separates human beings from the animals using this as one of his criteria: that human beings are deliberate agents. As such, it seemed to us that artificial intelligence does not meet this criteria. Whatever “deliberation” occurs is predetermined by its programming, and so artificial intelligence is simply following its programming to a predetermined end. The goal of artificial intelligence is ultimately the execution of its code. Human beings have a different sort of end or goal (telos in Aristotelian language), and seem to have a different level of awareness of the sensory data taken in and analyzed. Artificial intelligence only responds to stimulus; human beings deliberate.

The final topic of interest was that of romantic love, and whether an addiction to romantic love might qualify as a type of disorder, such as might be categorized in the DSM. First we had to delineate what constitutes romantic love versus other types of love (such as long-term relational love, the love of beauty, or a love of ice cream, for example), and we seemed to settle on “romantic love” as defined by the chemical responses in the brain that create the emotional “high” that someone gets at the onset of a new romantic relationship, for example. Then we determined that such a chemical response is not properly called an addiction yet–the chemicals in themselves don’t necessitate addiction. Addiction is a response to the chemicals, not the chemicals themselves. We all seemed to agree that this is at least a possibility, though not a reality for some, if not most people who experience romantic love.

Then, we raised the larger question: what merits inclusion in the DSM? We wondered if the inclusion of something in the DSM, as a “disorder,” isn’t arbitrary. What is the gold standard, the “average” person against which all of these disorders are weighed? We pointed to the fact that many disorders have the potential to be constructive (such as ADD properly managed), and that some have been removed (homosexuality used to be classified in the DSM). How is it that we know a certain facet of human behavior is a dis-order? We also pointed to the problematic nature of diagnosis itself. Someone might exhibit the symptoms of a disorder, but yet not have that disorder. It seems that in some cases, it’s the assumption that the person has the disorder that leads to the later diagnosis–confirmation bias. Sara told the story of a man in prison exhibiting the signs of a psychopath who could not escape diagnosis.

This was a particularly rich discussion, and I’m missing some of the details. We left off with some suggestions of potential topics for next time: substance dualism, and the everlasting problem of morality and ethics, which is almost as big a problem as that there were still no snacks.

Hegel and History

What does philosophy have to do with history? Well, one might argue philosophy is necessary for any interpretation of history to be possible. How can we interpret the raw data of history without a framework for the interpretation of data? How are we to discern what constitutes data in the first place? Is history merely a succession of events, “one thing after another,” or is it a progression? If it is a progression, is it one of peoples, thoughts, ideas, or…?

Hegel argued, rather weirdly, that World History was a progression of the Idea of the World Spirit, the process of God coming to know himself via his expression of himself through the development of history.

Regardless of what one believes about Hegel’s ideas, he had some interesting things to say about the field of history itself. Difficulties arise when we attempt to “learn” form history–to learn moral lessons, or to discern patterns. This is the realm of history, but it is also the realm of philosophy. The very transmission of history involves narration, selection, rationality.

When we have to deal with the Past, and occupy ourselves with a remote world, a Present rises into being for the mind – produced by its own activity, as the reward of its labor. The occurrences are, indeed, various; but the idea which pervades them – their deeper import and connection – is one. This takes the occurrence out of the category of the Past and makes it virtually Present. Pragmatical (didactic) reflections, though in their nature decidedly abstract, are truly and indefeasibly of the Present, and quicken the annals of the dead Past with the life of to-day. Whether, indeed, such reflections are truly interesting and enlivening, depends on the writer’s own spirit. Moral reflections must here be specially noticed – the moral teaching expected from history; which latter has not infrequently been treated with a direct view to the former. It may be allowed that examples of virtue elevate the soul, and are applicable in the moral instruction of children for impressing excellence upon their minds. But the destinies of peoples and states, their interests, relations, and the complicated tissue of their affairs, present quite another field. Rulers, Statesmen, Nations, are wont to be emphatically commended to the teaching which experience offers in history. But what experience and history teach is this – that peoples and governments never have learned anything from history, or acted on principles deduced from it. Each period is involved in such peculiar circumstances, exhibits a condition of things so strictly idiosyncratic, that its conduct must be regulated by considerations connected with itself, and itself alone. Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help. It is useless to revert to similar circumstances in the Past. The pallid shades of memory struggle in vain with the life and freedom of the Present. Looked at in this light, nothing can be shallower than the oft-repeated appeal to Greek and Roman examples during the French Revolution. Nothing is more diverse than the genius of those nations and that of our times.

Among us, the so-called “higher criticism,” which reigns supreme in the domain of philology, has also taken possession of our historical literature. This “higher criticism” has been the pretext for introducing all the anti-historical monstrosities that a vain imagination could suggest. Here we have the other method of making the past a living reality; putting subjective fancies in the place of historical data; fancies whose merit is measured by their boldness, that is, the scantiness of the particulars on which they are based, and the peremptoriness with which they contravene the best established facts of history. The last species of Reflective History announces its fragmentary character on the very face of it. It adopts an abstract position; yet, since it takes general points of view (e.g., as the History of Art, of Law, of Religion), it forms a transition to the Philosophical History of the World. In our time this form of the history of ideas has been more developed and brought into notice. Such branches of national life stand in close relation to the entire complex of a people’s annals; and the question of chief importance in relation to our subject is, whether the connection of the whole is exhibited in its truth and reality, or referred to merely external relations. In the latter case, these important phenomena (Art, Law, Religion, etc.) appear as purely accidental national peculiarities. It must be remarked that, when Reflective History has advanced to the adoption of general points of view, if the position taken is a true one, these are found to constitute – not a merely external thread, a superficial series – but are the inward guiding soul of the occurrences and actions that occupy a nation’s annals.

Even the ordinary, the “impartial” historiographer, who believes and professes that he maintains a simply receptive attitude; surrendering himself only to the data supplied him – is by no means passive as regards the exercise of his thinking powers. He brings his categories with him, and sees the phenomena presented to his mental vision, exclusively through these media. And, especially in all that pretends to the name of science, it is indispensable that Reason should not sleep – that reflection should be in full play. To him who looks upon the world rationally, the world in its turn presents a rational aspect. The relation is mutual.

From the introduction to Hegel’s Philosophy of History

https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/hegel/works/hi/introduction-lectures.htm

Flash Apologetics in Mary’s Room

People trickled in slowly today. As such, conversation began with fluidity and not much intentionality. We briefly touched upon the ills of modern technology, the legalization of all drugs, the influence of Puritanism on American society and government, and the contradictions of organized anarchy. All these are fruitful topics, and perhaps they may resurface later.

The real discussion began with Steven introducing the Mary’s Room thought experiment: Mary is a girl who has studied the subject of color, and knows all there is to know about color. However, she has lived her whole life in a black and white room, can’t see herself, reads black and white books, and has a black and white computer screen, and therefore has never personally witnessed any color. Suddenly, one day, her computer screen malfunctions and displays a red apple. The question is: has she learned anything new?

The question seems to turn on epistemology. Is the experience of something different from the thing in itself, and is it distinct from other forms of knowledge, and does it count as “knowledge” to begin with?

Some of us said yes, and some of us said no. It seemed to me that to have something described to you, and then to actually experience that thing, are different. It also seems to me that experience could be classified as a form of knowledge, however subjective it may be. Mary now knows what it is like (for her) to see red.

This led back into our discussion about the forms. The form “red” exists separate from the objects that display it, but it is via those objects that we come to know the form through our senses. As in, when we look at a chair, we understand more about the chair than merely what we see–we have a sense of its structure, etc., we understand parts of the chair, we fill in the blanks of what we cannot see, which is ultimately the totality of our perception of it. Our perception is not limited only to the sensory data that we receive. The same is true of the forms. We cannot witness the forms in and of themselves, but we can come to know them through our perception of them as they are expressed by material objects.

As mentioned before, this flies in the face of the post-Hume empiricism which we’ve all more or less been indoctrinated with culturally. To my knowledge, Hume didn’t have solid “reasons” as such for why he denied transcendence (such as the forms, mind-body dualism), cause and effect, etc.– he just didn’t accept them.

In the midst of this discussion, I “came out” as a Christian, and Aramis pressed me on what the Christian perspective on the death penalty might be. I argued that an “eye for an eye” killing of a killer might be null under the covenant of grace. Additionally, ending a person’s life cuts short the potential, however slight, that they might repent and be redeemed.

This led naturally, if uncomfortably, into a discussion of the truth of Christianity in general, focusing mostly on the existence of God. This makes sense because, of course, if God can be disproved, Christianity crumbles. But the problem is, determining what constitutes “proof” or “evidence” for God is already to begin making statements about who or what God is in the first place. (At this point, I went about explaining what I understand to be the “presuppositional” apologetic. As before, I’m going to try to distill the argument, rather than trace its many twists and turns as they occurred in conversation.)

We all believe many sorts of different things, many of which are justified without the use of what we commonly refer to as “proof” or “evidence.” (And here I borrowed a little bit from Alvin Plantinga’s Warranted Christian Belief.) A scientific belief, such as that a certain substance changes from liquid to gas at a certain temperature at a certain air pressure, is one based on evidence. This belief depends on its repeatability, the soundness of the principle of induction, and rests on the assumptions of constancy in the universe and the existence of material causes. Another sort of belief, such as what you had for breakfast this morning, is based not on evidence, but on memory and perception. You don’t open your stomach and examine its contents or return home and examine the remnants on your unwashed plate–you just know, and what’s more, the knowledge is valid. It is a “properly basic” belief. Another sort of belief, for instance, is that the ad hominem fallacy is an invalid form of argument. How might that be proved true? Well, that’s difficult to do, because the classification of the ad hominem as a fallacy is part of the system that we use to determine truth in the first place!

So, there are some types of beliefs that could be said not to require “proof” or “evidence” in the conventional sense, but that are still nonetheless justified. So, saying that the belief in God requires a certain proof is to classify the belief in God into a certain category of beliefs–more along the lines of scientific knowledge. But is this categorization justified? Well, the only way to say so is to say something about God–if belief requires such-and-such, it can only do so on account of something about the nature of God himself. Therefore, since this belief determines what constitutes evidence and how you interpret that evidence, to say that you can’t believe in God because there is no evidence is really to say that you’ve already chosen not to believe in God at the outset.

If the beliefs in God and Christianity are more along the lines of those “properly basic” (as Plantinga argues at great length), not only would it be difficult to frame any sort of argument for them, but such an argument might not be justified. It would not be the case that belief in God could be validated by logical or scientific means, but rather that belief in logic and science are validated by the existence of God.

(As an aside: there are, of course, arguments for Christianity, most famously Aquinas’ proofs. But even those arguments turn on an Aristotelian understanding of metaphysics, something that is mostly in concord with the teachings of Christianity. Since Descartes, I think, Western philosophy no longer subscribes to that sort of metaphysic, which might be why many people find Aquinas’ proofs insufficient.)

There were also some other objections worth noting, including: why would God create some people only to send them to hell, why does he make people sick/sinful, why would he make creation with a plan for salvation that included the killing of his own son, etc. But I would consider these to be “internal” issues–they have to assume the existence of God at the outset in order to be meaningful. Furthermore, if you can’t think of a good reason for God’s doing something, that doesn’t necessarily mean that there isn’t one. Another question was, if humans are broken and sinful, doesn’t that mean they are worthless? The answer according to Christianity is no–the price paid by Jesus indicates the worth God finds in humanity. If something is broken, but can be restored, it doesn’t lose its worth. If I have a precious, rare vase that I break into a million pieces, it would be said to have lost its worth, but that’s because it can’t ever be restored to its original state. Christianity says that we can, through Jesus, be restored. The original worth can be recovered (and for the Christian, is in the process of being recovered by the sovereignty of God through sanctification).

The next question was, then, if belief is a choice, why should I choose to believe? My response here was sloppy. I tried to say something along these lines: Christianity would argue that its worldview encompasses and explains more than any other worldview. For example, a naturalistic worldview explains physical phenomenon very well, but it is at a loss to explain our sense of morality and justice. A humanistic worldview explains why morality is important, but it fails to provide an adequate response when humanity fails, or when suffering happens.

I used the example of Chesterton’s madman (from Orthodoxy). If Steven is a madman, and he believes that everyone is in a conspiracy against him, and I say to him, “We are not in a conspiracy against you,” Steven will interpret this as confirmation of his theory. “Of course you would deny it,” he will say. “You would never admit that you are in a conspiracy against me! That proves that you are, in fact, in a conspiracy against me!” But if Steven believed that everyone was not, in fact, in a conspiracy against him, this theory would explain the data as well: I am telling the truth. But unfortunately, there is no way to argue him out of it, and there is no way for him to reason himself out of the belief, since his reasoning is determined by the belief, and not the other way around.

All worldviews explain the world in closed, self-justifying systems, and therefore can’t be argued against per se, but some might be said to explain the world more completely than others. Why believe in Christianity? Well, why should the madman choose to stop believing that everyone is in a conspiracy against him?

There is, of course, more to say about why one might choose Christianity, but that was all we covered. The discussion ended there abruptly because we were over time. However, we pledged to continue it at the next meeting (as uncomfortable as I am playing amateur apologist). Perhaps we will look at some of the classical proofs for Christianity (i.e. Aquinas), or maybe we will pursue this presuppositional argument further and discuss the supposed benefits of Christianity as a worldview.

What is it like to be a bat?

Thomas Nagel’s now-famous article about the impossibility of using a reductionist approach to understanding human consciousness.

We appear to be faced with a general difficulty about psychophysical reduction. In other areas the process of reduction is a move in the direction of greater objectivity, toward a more, accurate view of the real nature of things. This is accomplished by reducing our dependence on individual or species-specific points of view toward the object of investigation. We describe it not in terms of the impressions it makes on our senses, but in terms of its more general effects and of properties detectable by means other than the human senses. The less it depends on a specifically human viewpoint, the more objective is our description. It is possible to follow this path because although the concepts and ideas we employ in thinking about the external world are initially applied from a point of view that involves our perceptual apparatus, they are used by us to refer to things beyond themselves—toward which we have the phenomenal point of view. Therefore we can abandon it in favor of another, and still be thinking about the same things.

Experience itself however, does not seem to fit the pattern. The idea of moving from appearance to reality seems to make no sense here. What is the analogue in this case to pursuing a more objective understanding of the same phenomena by abandoning the initial subjective viewpoint toward them in favour of another that is more objective but concerns the same thing? Certainly it appears unlikely that we will get closer to the real nature of human experience by leaving behind the particularity of our human point of view and striving for a description in terms accessible to beings that could not imagine what it was like to be us. If the subjective character of experience is fully comprehensible only from one point of view, then any shift to greater objectivity—that is, less attachment to a specific viewpoint—does not take us nearer to the real nature of the phenomenon: it takes us farther away from it.

http://www.philosopher.eu/others-writings/nagel-what-is-it-like-to-be-a-bat/

Causal Determinism

Prompted by the group’s discussion, I did some brief reading about determinism and free will. We were trying to remember the various types of determinism, i.e., scientific determinism and theological determinism. So, according to the “Free Will” article at the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, here is what I’ve found.

First, there are other types of determinism–logical determinism, for instance, maintains that truth being contingent on premises is “determined” in a sense. We mentioned theological determinism, which is the idea that everything is determined by an all-powerful, all-present, all-controlling God. But for the most part, our conversation centered around causal determinism, which posits that in conjunction with certain laws, i.e., the laws of nature, the existence of the past means that the future is entirely determined.

According to the Encyclopedia, most philosophers agree that given what we know, there is no way for us to discover if determinism is necessarily true or false–we don’t know the future.

At the physical level, there is currently a debate in science involving quantum mechanics. At the quantum level, matter seems to behave in a probabilistic manner, not a deterministic one. But larger systems do seem to operate in a predictable, deterministic manner. So we haven’t figured out if the actual stuff of the universe seems to indicate if it’s determined or not. (The encyclopedia did not mention superdeterminism, the idea that while quantum physics generates probabilistic results, all experiments necessarily assume the free will of the experimenter–and if the experimenter is not free, but in fact determined, then the outcomes of the experiments were therefore also deterministic. Obviously, this doesn’t help scientists any to believe this… but it’s one solution to the problem.)

From what I can tell, there are at least three schools of thought on causal determinism:

  1. Compatibilism states that even if determinism is true, free will is still possible.
  2. Incompatibilism denies that determinism and free will can coexist.
    • Hard determinists believe that the universe is determined and deny that any agent in the real world has free will.
    • Libertarians believe that the universe is undetermined, and that some agents could exercise free will.
  3. Pessimism says that even if indeterminism is true, free will is not necessarily true.

Most interesting to me is the pessimistic view. Pessimists point out that if indeterminism is true, it raises the question of where and when the indeterminacy happens, and actually makes the issue more problematic.

But if determinism is false, then there will be indeterminacy at some point prior to her action. Exactly where one locates this indeterminacy will depend on one’s particular view of the nature of free will. Let us assume that that indeterminacy is located in which reasons occur to Allison. It is hard to see, the pessimist argues, how this indeterminacy could enhance Allison’s free will, for the occurrence of her reasons is indeterministic, then having those reasons is not within Allison’s control. But if Allison decides on the basis of whatever reasons she does have, then her volition is based upon something outside of her control. It is based instead on chance. Thus, pessimists think that the addition of indeterminism actually makes agents lack the kind of control needed for free will. … Not only do agents lack free will, there is no way that they could have it [see G. Strawson (1994)]. The only way to preserve moral responsibility, for the pessimist, is thus to deny that free will is a necessary condition for moral responsibility.

I find this last view very compelling. It reminds me of the problems posed by Thomas Nagel in Moral Luck: if the moral outcomes of events are outside of our control, to what extent should we be held responsible?

Plato’s Forms

For further reading on the forms. This seems pretty basic, but there are references to the works where he talks about this idea.

Scholars disagree about the scope of what is often called “the theory of Forms,” and question whether Plato began holding that there are only Forms for a small range of properties, such as tallness, equality, justice, beauty, and so on, and then widened the scope to include Forms corresponding to every term that can be applied to a multiplicity of instances.

http://www.iep.utm.edu/plato/#SH6b

The Wikipedia article goes much more in-depth, and includes criticism of the idea, from Plato himself. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theory_of_Forms

Finally, here is the Wikipedia article for Plato’s theory of knowledge, which I referenced in the last discussion. It contains reference to the Theory of Forms, but it doesn’t necessarily rely on it. I had confused the two during our discussion. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Platonic_epistemology